Blasphemy

If the end of the universe was present in its beginning—if we are merely in the middle of the deterministic unfolding of a set of initial conditions—then the universe would be a pointless exercise.

Explain.

If you’re at your destination, why make the journey? If you know the answer, why ask the question? That is why the future is—and must be—profoundly hidden, even from God. Otherwise, life would have no meaning.

That’s a metaphysical argument, not a physical argument.

The physical argument is that no part of the universe can calculate things faster than the universe itself. The universe is “predicting the future” as fast as it can.

What is the universe? Who are we? What are we doing here?

The universe is one vast, irreducible, ongoing computation, which is working toward a state that I do not and cannot know. The purpose of existence is to reach that final state. But that final state is a mystery to me, as it must be, for if I knew the answer, what would be the point of it all?

What do you mean by computation? We’re all inside a computer?

By computation I mean thinking. All of existence, everything that happens—a falling leaf, a wave upon the beach, the collapse of a star—it is all just me, thinking.

What are you thinking?

Hazelius lowered the paper. “And that’s all she wrote.”

Edelstein murmured, “That is truly extraordinary.”

“It strikes me as being a lot of New Age claptrap,” said Innes. “It is all just me, thinking. I find the sentiments to be puerile. They are just what you might expect from a socially underdeveloped computer hacker.”

“You think so?” Edelstein said.

“I certainly do.”

“Then may I point out that this malware has—at least so far—passed the Turing test?”

“The Turing test?”

Edelstein squinted at him. “Surely you’re aware of it.”

“I apologize for being a mere psychologist.”

“The seminal paper on the Turing test was published in the psychological journal Mind.”

Innes’s face shifted into professional blandness. “Perhaps you should consider, Alan, why it is that you feel such a strong need for self-validation.”

“Turing,” said Edelstein, “was one of the great geniuses of the twentieth century. He invented the idea of the computer back in the thirties. During World War Two he cracked Germany’s Enigma code. After the war, he was horribly mistreated for being a homosexual and committed suicide by eating a poisoned apple.”

Innes frowned. “A seriously unstable individual.”

“You’re saying homosexuals are unstable?”

“No, not at all, of course not,” Innes said hastily. “I was referring to his method of suicide.”

“Turing saved England from the Nazis—the British would have lost the war otherwise—and England thanked him with ruthless persecution. Under the circumstances, I should think suicide would not be . . . illogical . As for his method, it was clean, efficient, and eloquent in its symbolism.”

Innes’s face flushed. “I’m sure we would all appreciate it, Alan, if you would get to the point.”

Edelstein continued smoothly. “The Turing test was an attempt to answer the question, ‘Can a machine think?’ Turing’s proposal was this: a human judge engages in a written conversation with two entities he can’t see—one human and the other machine. If, after a long exchange, the judge can’t tell the human from the machine, then the machine is said to be ‘intelligent.’ The Turing test became the standard definition of artificial intelligence.”

“All very interesting,” said Innes, “but what does that have to do with our problem?”

“Since we haven’t achieved anything close to artificial intelligence, even with the most powerful supercomputers, I find it astonishing that a mere piece of malware—a few thousand lines of slag code, presumably—could pass the Turing test. And on such an abstract subject as God and the meaning of life.” He pointed at the transcript. “That is why this is not puerile—not at all.” He folded his arms and looked around.

“Which is why we have to do another run,” said Hazelius. “We have to keep it talking so Rae can trace it back to its source.”

People sagged in their chairs. No one spoke.

“Well?” said Hazelius. “I’ve made a proposal. We’ve talked about it. Let’s take a vote: Tomorrow, do we run this logic bomb to ground or not?”

Halfhearted nods and sounds of vague assent went around the room.

Ford said, “Tomorrow is the day of the protest ride.”

“There’s no way we can delay this any longer,” said Hazelius. He looked fiercely from face to face. “Well? Raise your hands!”

One by one, the hands rose. After a hesitation, Ford raised his with the others. Only Dolby’s remained down.

“We can’t do it without you, Ken,” Hazelius said quietly. “Isabella’s your baby.”

A pause, then Dolby swore. “All right, damn it, I’m in.”

“Unanimous,” said Hazelius. “We’ll begin the run at noon tomorrow. If all goes well, by nightfall we’ll be at one hundred percent power. Then we’ll have all night to track down and kill this malware. And now—let’s get some sleep.”

As Ford headed back across the field, Kate’s phrase kept ringing through his head: It knew. It knew.

29

AS FORD WALKED TOWARD HIS CASITA, he heard someone speak his name and turned. The short, slim figure of Hazelius came striding across the field toward him.

“The events of last night must have been quite a shock to you,” the director said, falling into step next to him.

“They were.”

“What do you think?” Hazelius tilted his head slightly and looked at Ford sideways. His gaze was like a microscope.

“I think by not reporting it right away, you painted yourselves into a corner.”

“What’s done is done. I’m relieved that Kate told you about it. I didn’t like deceiving you. I hope you understand why we didn’t level with you before.”

Ford nodded.

“I know you assured Kate you would keep this to yourself.” He paused significantly.

Ford didn’t dare speak. He no longer trusted himself to be a good liar.

“Do you have a moment?” Hazelius asked. “I’d like to show you the Indian ruin up the valley that’s causing the controversy. It would give us a chance to chat.”

They crossed the road and followed a path through the cottonwoods, moving rapidly up the dry bed of an arroyo that branched off from Nakai Wash. Ford could feel his body and his senses revving up after the exhausting night. The sandstone walls on either side of the wash narrowed, until the ripples and twists carved in the soft stone by ancient floods were close enough to touch. A golden eagle came gliding over the rim, its wingspan as wide as Ford was tall, and they paused to watch it. After it spiraled out of sight, Hazelius touched his shoulder and pointed upcanyon. About fifty feet up the canyon’s sloping sandstone wall stood a small Anasazi ruin, wedged into an alcove. An ancient trail, pecked into the rock, led to it.

“When I was younger,” Hazelius said, speaking softly, “I was an arrogant little prick. I thought I was smarter than everyone else. I believed that made me a better person, more worthy than those born with normal intelligence. I didn’t know what I believed in and I didn’t care. I churned along with my life, collecting proofs of my worth—a Nobel, the Fields, honorary degrees, accolades, buckets of money. I saw other people as props in the