Wonder

other online initiatives, but never with any real traction. But it does seem appropriate here: there’s a feeling on the part of many that the online world, except on such social networking sites as Facebook, has been largely usurped by people who have grown irresponsible because of their anonymity.”

Caitlin shifted in her chair. Webmind went on. “I do not believe you have yet seen the movie As Good as It Gets.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

“It stars Jack Nicholson as a novelist. When asked how he writes women so well, he replies, ‘I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.’ ”

“That’s awful!” Caitlin said.

“According to IMDb, it is one of the most memorable quotations from the film. But I agree that it is not an apt description of your gender, Caitlin. However, I do think it often applies to the effect of being anonymous online: with anonymity there is no accountability, and without accountability, there is no need for reason, or reasonableness.”

Caitlin had had plenty of online arguments with people whose identities she did know, but, then again, she’d had lots of real-world arguments with such people, too. “It’s an interesting idea,” she said.

“Would you like me to certify you?”

“Well, you can’t when I’m posting as Calculass, right?”

“Correct. But for your postings and email as Caitlin Decter, I can verify that you are who you claim to be.”

She’d always been an early adopter. “Sure. Why not?”

Colonel Hume drove toward his office at the Pentagon; at least he’d have access to facilities, and if any computers on the planet were secure from Webmind, it would be the ones there. His phone rang just as he was turning a corner; he had his Bluetooth earpiece in. “Peyton Hume speaking,” he said.

“Colonel Hume,” said a deep voice with a Hispanic accent. “This is Assistant Director Ortega at the Washington bureau.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ortega.”

“Just thought you’d want to know we were just copied on a missing-persons report. One of the names from the list you gave us: Brandon Slovak. Teh Awesome himself.”

“God,” said Hume.

“Takoma Park PD’s been to his apartment. No sign of forceable entry, but he definitely left unexpectedly. Half-eaten meal on the table, TV still running although the sound was muted.”

“All right,” said Hume. “Let me know if you hear anything further, okay?”

“Of course. And we’re starting a systematic check of everyone on your list within a hundred miles of the capital—see if anyone else is missing.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” Ortega clicked off.

Hume kept driving. Teh Awesome had been the one who’d said he liked Webmind, but—

But he was also one of those who had been most capable of doing Webmind harm. In fact, maybe Slovak himself had known that. He might well have tried to be in touch with other hackers in the area and heard about their disappearances. Maybe all that posturing had been in case Webmind was listening in—in hopes of keeping himself safe.

Fat lot of good it had done him.

Hume turned onto F Street, and soon was passing the Watergate Complex. As an Air Force officer, he’d periodically been asked about Area 51, where the alien spaceships from Roswell were supposedly stored—or about whether the moon landings had been faked. And he’d always had the same answer: if the government was good at keeping secrets, the world would never have heard of Watergate or Monica Lewinsky.

But he was keeping a secret—a huge secret. He knew how Webmind was instantiated; he knew what made it tick. And if Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain…

His first thought was to pull into a public library, sign onto a computer there, and just start posting everywhere he could what he knew about how Webmind worked. But Webmind was monitoring everything online— jumping into countless conversations, posting comments on endless numbers of blogs—which meant that no sooner had he posted the secret, Webmind would delete it, as if it were so much spam.

No, he needed to get the word out in a way that Webmind couldn’t yet censor—and fortunately, for a few days more at least, there were still some ways to practice free speech.

Back on Sunday morning, a driver had come to pick him up, and he’d been tired enough to not really pay attention during the trip. And so, for the first time in days, he turned on his car’s GPS. As he waited for it to acquire satellite signals, he typed in the name of the place he wanted to go. Once the GPS was oriented, he headed on his way, smiling slightly at the irony of a flat, mechanical voice giving him directions to freedom.

Wong Wai-Jeng never thought he’d see the inside of the Zhongnanhai complex—the inner sanctum of the Communist Party. But now he had a cubicle here! He was one of dozens of programmers charged with probing the Great Firewall, looking for weaknesses so that they could be plugged before others could exploit them. He missed the IT department at the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology, and felt guilty that he’d left so many tasks incomplete there; he wondered how kindly old Dr. Feng was making out without him. Of course, once he’d been arrested, somebody else had been hired to do his job; no one had expected him to be seen in public anytime soon.

He was doubtless being watched here: he’d spotted one of the cameras and had no doubt there were others. He was also sure they were using a keylogger to keep track of every keystroke and mouseclick he made. But although Sinanthropus had been silenced, and his freedom blog was no more, maybe he could still do some good here in the halls of power. A word in the right ear at the right time, perhaps; a gentle suggestion here and there. Maybe even, after a year or two, a bit of authority to actually change things. As Sun Tzu had said, only he who knows when to fight and when not to can be victorious.

Wai-Jeng shifted uncomfortably in his rust-colored padded chair. His leg was still in a cast. Before Dr. Kuroda had left for Tokyo, he’d had him sign it, a string of green Kanji characters. But it would mend, and although he’d thought he’d never be able to do such things again, soon he’d be able to run, and dance, and jump, and—

He hadn’t done it for a decade, not since he’d been a teenager. He could walk the Changcheng—the Great Wall—again.

But all that would have to wait. For now, Wai-Jeng had work he was required to do. He tapped away at his keyboard, doing his masters’ bidding.

Peyton Hume stood on the threshold of WNBC, the Washington NBC affiliate. He took a deep breath and ran a freckled hand through his short hair. If he did this, he might well be court-martialed, and he’d certainly lose his security clearance. But if he didn’t do this—

It was a warm, sunny October day. A young African-American woman was coming down the sidewalk, pushing a stroller with a baby in it. Two small white boys came running down the sidewalk in the other direction, their exasperated father trying to keep up. An Asian-American teenage girl and a white boy passed him, holding hands. Some Italian tourists were chatting among themselves and pointing at the sites. A Sikh was standing near him, talking and laughing on a cell phone.

It was their world—all of theirs. And he was going to make sure it stayed that way.

Besides, all he was going to do was practice a little transparency—and wasn’t that all the rage these days? He pushed open the glass door and entered. As before, there were display cases with awards—including what he recognized as an Emmy—and posters of local and network personalities on the walls. But the receptionist—young, pretty, blonde—was different from the one who’d been here on Sunday. He strode up to her desk.

“Hello. I’d like to see the news director.”

She’d been chewing gum—a fact that had been obvious when he entered but which she was now trying to hide. “Do you have an appointment, Colonel?”

He smiled. So many young people today had no idea how to read rank insignia. “No,” he said, handing her his