everything about it.'
'What's the point?' Griffith replied with a casual shrug of dismissal, continuing on toward their destination — the gleaming assembly building. 'Large, mainframe computers like we've got down in those pools are an increasingly outmoded form of computing. Miniaturization is the key. We've been very successful at downsizing the circuitry. You'll be impressed when I show you the Model Sevens. You'd just be wasting your time studying the main computer.'
Griffith's offhand comment stabbed right at the heart of her insecurity, which was never very far from the surface. Laura had only one truly deep-seated fear. Only one thing really mattered dearly to her. She wasn't insecure about her looks, or her personality, or the scanty number of suitors she'd brought home for her mother to meet.
The thing by which she rated herself was her mind.
Her intellect. Her intelligence.
In her prior life, that intelligence was measured by the papers she published, the discussions her ideas stimulated. By those measures, she'd already been judged a failure. She'd admitted as much when she climbed aboard Gray's plane. The offer to join Gray's 'dream team' had been her salvation. The others would talk about her selling out, but that was infinitely more palatable than what they'd have said after the department chairman had his 'We've been so privileged' speech with her. Gray had given her a rare opportunity — the chance to wave her middle finger right in the faces of the tenure committee.
But there was only one problem with her fantasy. It didn't involve beating an ignominious retreat from Gray's island — from his society of the mind.
'Mr. Gray doesn't seem to think the computer's obsolete,' Laura said. 'I mean' — she fumbled for words—'he did hire me to help fix it.'
Laura had tried not to betray her fear that her marginal role on the 'dream team' was fast becoming trivial.
Griffith shrugged. 'But he also shut down production on new boards with the annex only half full.'
Laura watched the concrete slide by under her feet. She had to will her chin up and her shoulders back. 'When did he do that?'
'Gave the order yesterday.'
'Why?'
Griffith shook his head and shrugged again. 'I'm only the head of a twenty-six-billion-dollar division. How the hell would I know?'
It was an attempt at humor, but the complaint was clear in Griffith's sarcasm. 'The future is in mobility, though. That's where we're headed. It's a natural progression, really. In twenty years, there'll be no difference between computers and robots. They'll be one and the same.'
They walked on in silence, Laura pondering the implications of Griffith's comment.
It boggled her mind, and she heaved a deep sigh. She [garbled] the insecurity — the urge to give up, to admit she was in over her head. She gritted her teeth and resolved to take it slow — one step at a time.
'Does the computer open the doors automatically or something? Like the door into the conference room where we met, and the one in the gymnasium that guy walked into after having a fight with his wife?'
'Pneumatic doors are part of my department,' Griffith said. 'Robotics. But the error was in the computer, I can assure you, not the servo controls in that door.'
'But why go to all the trouble of having the computer open your doors for you? I mean, supermarkets get by with, like, motion detectors or whatever.'
Griffith unexpectedly loosed a hearty laugh, grabbing his paunchy stomach like some slimmed-down version of St. Nick. He was laughing at her joke, but Laura had been serious. Laura's mood was rapidly deteriorating, but she doggedly pursued her question.
She was determined to understand at least one thing in the first chapter of her instruction manual before rejoining Griffith on page four hundred.
'So, how does the computer know to open a door? I mean, when Mr. Gray and I walked up to the door of the conference room, it opened before we even got there. Now how did the computer know to open that door, but leave the door across the hall from it closed?'
'Well,' Griffith said with a chuckle that didn't quite materialize — a hint of confusion on his face as if the answer were obvious—'why would it think you were going into a utility room? There's nothing but mops and brooms and buckets in there.'
It was now Laura's turn to be confused. 'You mean… the computer knew where we were headed?' she asked, and Griffith nodded and looked at her as if it were the most elementary observation in the world. 'But then… it had to know who we were.'
'Well, of course,' Griffith said, again turning to look at her, clearly gauging for the first time how truly far behind Laura was.
How unprepared she was for life in Gray's century… and for the task she'd been assigned on Gray's team. Laura realized just then that Gray had told them nothing about her credentials when she'd been introduced.
They had no idea how little she knew about computer technology — about any technology, for that matter.
'The pneumatic doors are for security, not convenience,' Griffith said. The tone of his lecture turned suddenly remedial. 'If someone who wasn't authorized to interrupt our meeting had walked up to that door, he'd have had to use the intercom to request entry. But if the computer knew why he was headed there — if he was delivering a printed copy of an E-mail or if there was a fire in the control room or something — then it would've opened the door right up. It's very good at guessing. That's why the error in the gym was so hard to fathom. It almost never makes mistakes like that.'
Laura was so filled with questions she didn't know what to ask next. She didn't want to betray her stupidity by asking something that seemed obvious to all but her, and so she chose her next inquiry carefully.
'Are all the doors controlled by the computer?'
'In the public buildings, yes,' Griffith replied. 'Not in people's homes, of course.'
His tone was annoyingly patronizing, as if the answer was so obvious that her question barely merited a response.
That irritated Laura. 'Look, this may all be old hat to you, but in the real world doors don't decide whether or not to open! You have to turn something called a 'knob,' okay?' She made certain she got an apologetic nod of acknowledgment before continuing. 'So,' she said in a pleasant voice, putting that little episode behind her, 'why does the computer open and close doors in public buildings, but not in people's homes?'
Griffith opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated — shooting her a look out of the corner of his eyes and clearly rethinking his response.
'Because,' he said in a measured tone, 'there is a question of privacy, you see. Gray's a stickler for privacy — it's one of his pet peeves. In order for the computer to open the door for you, it's got to know who you are and what you're doing. To know those things, it maintains a real-time model of the world — who and what everybody and everything is, and what it is that they're doing right at this very moment. It builds that model by processing the data it receives from its sensors. Visual, auditory, thermal, motion — it melds all those senses together to form a picture of the world and everything in it. If we were to allow it to extend that world into people's homes — into their bedrooms and bathrooms and… Well, you get the picture,' Griffith snorted, 'but the computer doesn't!' He elbowed Laura, winking and laughing. 'Get it.' Laura nodded. 'Do you get it? It was a joke.' She nodded again. 'It was a pun. Do you get it?'
'Yes!'
Griffith winced and made a face like he'd again stumbled innocently into Laura's hair-trigger temper.
'Sorry,' Laura said, and they walked on in silence. Laura looked around the empty lawns — growing increasingly uncomfortable. 'So there are cameras constantly watching you when you're in public?' she asked.
'And infrared, thermal, low-light, microphones, ground motion detectors, pressure sensors, feedback from things like light switches—'
'I understand,' Laura interrupted.
'That's the only way for the computer to build a world model. It has to use every sensor available to get a feel for the place. If its senses are significantly impeded — if you hide behind a bush or something to scratch
