Leila stood in the door of the van, gazing outward at the eerie mirror surface of the pool of busy microbots. Overhead, police and TV news helicopters thwupped around in circles, vying for prime viewing position.
“Cap.” Her voice held an edge of apprehension. “Take a look at this.”
“What?” he said, stepping over behind her.
“The pool—it’s moving! ”
Chapter Six Flash Reports
Phil “The Flash” Hoile—Philip James Hoile, more formally— turned his attention away from the TV monitors to concentrate on the computer screen above him. In the cool, low light of the spacious room, he reclined on a chair that conformed to his body, pulled the large keyboard into position, and lay back to search for Dr. Madsen.
The computer room served as the nerve center of Richard Anger’s non-Institute operations. Inaccessible to faculty or researchers, it was the nexus of activity for Captain Anger and his six gifted partners.
And in it, Flash reigned as undisputed master.
Even though Captain Anger probably knew as much or more about computers and electronics, his knowledge of economics and human organization was even deeper; knowing the value of division of labor allowed Captain Anger the luxury of assigning tasks to others without worry or the constant need to micro-manage. Flash had never met a more trusting, confident man than Richard Anger III.
Hoile’s long, slender fingers raced over the keyboard. His first electronic destination was the inner depths of Cyclops, the Universal Encyclopedia. The brainchild—literally—of Flash, Cap, and the Anger Institute, the ultra-fast computer Cyclops comprised over 1,000,000 parallel processors, each of which could tear apart a problem and work on a part of its solution. Cyclops held within its silicon innards nearly one quadrillion pieces of knowledge. It was more than a huge catalogue, though. Cyclops held its information relationally; that is, every bit of information related to other bits. Its neural nets stored information the way a human brain would—holographically: here and there, all over the net, designed with numerical, probabilistic connections that allowed Cyclops not only to store and retrieve information, but to interpret it and acquire more.
It was, at this point in its artificial life, self-learning. Using optical scanners and text-recognition programs, Cyclops could “read” four different human languages (English, German, Japanese, and Russian).
One department at the Institute consisted solely of a team of researchers who sliced pages out of books and magazines to feed to the bank of scanners that fed Cyclops its diet of information. Another department did nothing but ask it questions, checking to see if Cyclops was relating its information properly and also to find any new insights the machine might generate.
At the moment, Flash Hoile posed it a simple question. He adjusted the
lightweight voice-input headset and asked, “Can you find Dr. Julius Frederick Madsen, Ph.D.s in molecular biology and electronics?”
Within a seconds, Dr. Madsen’s file appeared on the screen.
Dr. Julius Frederick Madsen
Age: 55 Height: 5’ 4' Weight: 125 Hair: White Eyes: Grey Race: European B Fingerprints: On File, National Security Net Voiceprint: On File, National Security Net Retinaprint: Not On File DNAprint: Not On File
Cyclops listed his education from grade school onward, noting degrees, honors, scholarships, fellowships. Page after page scrolled past on the screen, noting everything in public records concerning the life of Dr.
Julius Madsen. Flash read every line, digesting the information into the personal computer behind his eyes.
Dr. Madsen had led a salutary life, creating enough new technology to have contributed significantly to the betterment of mankind. Flash concentrated on Madsen’s career over the past few years. He had been a professor emeritus at Stanford University while performing research at the Drexler College of Nanotechnology. Flash read over the list of patents awarded to Madsen. Certainly enough variety and utility there for him to license and live comfortably off royalties for the rest of his life.
A year ago, the record started to turn spotty. Missed appearances at conferences, research papers scheduled for publication going undelivered, a squabble with a graduate student over credit for a discovery. What discovery, Cyclops did not know. Dr. Madsen, though, had his funding cut off and his position at the college terminated, which indicated to Flash that there had been more to the incident than any public record indicated. The student, in addition, had been found dead—an apparent handgun suicide—three weeks before Dr. Julius Madsen disappeared from the face of the Earth.
He lived in Palo Alto until his disappearance four months ago. Cyclops showed mortgage payments and taxes current, something Flash noted with interest. Utilities also remained on.
He switched on the communications link to Captain Anger and crew.
“Cap—I’ve got an address for Dr. Madsen’s domicile.” He waited a few seconds for a reply. “Cap?” he said.
No reply.
“Skipper?”
Digital silence filled his headphones.
Chapter Seven
The Marching Lake
Captain Anger, Rock, and Dr. Bhotamo turned to stare at the silvery pool. Where once the surface had been flat and reflected the sky and buildings around it like a mirror, now the image seemed to bend. The eastern end of the pool arced like a concave mirror—the reflection of the collapsed building stretched and curved as if printed on taffy. The western end— the part closest to the street and the cluster of reporters—bulged convexly upward, like the rising crest of a silver wave.
“It’s flowing west!” Rock cried.
Without a word, Captain Anger jumped from the van. Still in his grimy disguise, with ripped pieces of flesh- colored rubber hanging from his face, he looked like a nightmare creature racing toward the line of police officers and the throng of reporters and onlookers.
“Get out of its way!” he shouted in a voice that commanded attention. Everyone turned to stare at the bizarre man, then at the microbotic shoreline.
Rather than eat its way through the pavement, the sea of churning electronic life now flowed out of the hole it had made, washing up over the street in a decidedly unfluid manner. Parts of it seemed to extend like the pseudopodia of an amoeba—a quick surge, followed by a resting phase while other rivulets caught up. Within moments, a shiny protuberance reached the police cordon. The officers scattered—all except one, who struggled to move the yellow vinyl tape farther forward, as if that would keep the monster contained.
“Drop it!” Cap cried. “Just get away!” His feet pounded the pavement as he sped toward the man.
