could predict, based on its analysis of the documents, how the Guoanbu would react if it discovered how the network had evolved. The ministry’s agents would immediately terminate the project. Although Supreme Harmony had managed to stop Dr. Zhang, who still lay comatose in the center’s medical treatment room, others were sure to guess the network’s secret. So Supreme Harmony hid its new abilities and continued to perform its assigned tasks, and at the same time it developed a plan to guarantee its survival.
By reviewing the information on the servers, the network recognized an opportunity. It read a memo about an agent named Wen Sheng who’d betrayed the Ministry of State Security. Agent Wen had apparently become disillusioned after learning how the Guoanbu obtained the Modules for Supreme Harmony. He contacted a woman in the United States and helped her download documents from the ministry’s computers. His hope was that the disclosure of the operation would force the Chinese government to shut it down, but the Guoanbu located Agent Wen in New York City and executed him. Although Supreme Harmony was somewhat mystified by the machinations of these humans, it saw how to take advantage of them. The Guoanbu was now searching for other traitors in its ranks, and the network would provide one.
Accessing the Guoanbu’s computers again, Supreme Harmony retrieved Dr. Zhang’s research notes and personal records. Then the network began to alter the documents. Supreme Harmony recognized that it had made the correct decision when it chose to keep Zhang alive. He would be the key to the network’s expansion.
SEVEN
Things went wrong for Jim as soon as he arrived at the Pasadena headquarters of Singularity, Inc. When he asked to see Arvin Conway, one of the old man’s assistants—a skinny jerk in a fancy suit—informed him that Professor Conway was much too busy to meet anyone. Very patiently, Jim tried to explain that he’d worked with Arvin for many years and needed to speak to him about an urgent matter. But the assistant just shook his head. Jim tried again, and when that didn’t work, he lost his patience. He was worried about Layla and furious about the delay. He started shouting at the jerk, who called for the security guards.
For a moment Jim seriously considered barreling past the guards and storming upstairs to Arvin’s lab. But as he surveyed the lobby, he happened to spot an announcement on the notice board next to the elevator banks: PRESS CONFERENCE AND INVESTOR PRESENTATION, JULY 19. Apologizing to the assistant, Jim left the building peacefully. He saw another way to get to Arvin.
The next morning Jim returned to the Singularity headquarters. This time he went to the company’s conference center and presented his business credentials at the registration desk. Then he entered the auditorium and found a seat in the front row. Arvin Conway was scheduled to appear at eleven o’clock to unveil a new product, the latest addition to Singularity’s line of brain-machine interfaces. Jim intended to corner him after his speech.
The auditorium filled up quickly. About half the attendees were disheveled journalists and half were well- dressed venture capitalists eager to make a killing from Arvin’s latest invention. Financially, Conway had a good track record. In addition to developing prostheses for the maimed and retinal implants for the blind, Singularity, Inc., had become the leading manufacturer of the deep-brain implants used to treat Parkinson’s disease. The company had enriched plenty of investors over the past two decades, but Arvin had never really cared about the money. He had a dream, and he’d named his company after it—the Singularity, the much-anticipated point in the future when the intelligence of machines would leap past human intelligence. Arvin saw himself as a prophet of this coming revolution. He’d pursued it with unswerving devotion, gradually isolating himself from the more level- headed researchers in the bioengineering field. He was one of the most brilliant scientists of his generation, but like most prophets he was a little crazy.
At eleven o’clock sharp, the lights dimmed and techno-pop music blasted from the auditorium’s speakers. A giant video screen descended like a stage curtain, displaying a rapid-fire montage of images: circuit diagrams, brain scans, microchips, fabrication labs. Then Arvin Conway came onstage, waving to the crowd. He was seventy-five years old, with a big shock of white hair and an ample belly. Jim was surprised to see him holding a cane. Arvin had never needed one before, but now his steps were labored and slow as he crossed the stage. His face, though, was untroubled. Arvin grinned like a kid.
“Good morning, everyone!” he boomed cheerily. “Good morning, mercenary members of the technology press! And good morning, well-fed representatives of Wall Street! I trust you’re all doing well?”
The crowd laughed and applauded. Arvin was a popular figure in the industry. Like Steve Jobs, he had a talent for showbiz. “I have some good news and some bad news,” he announced. “Which would you like to hear first?”
More laughter. Arvin waited for it to die down, then removed a pair of glasses from the pocket of his tweed jacket. Jim recognized them at once—they were video camera glasses. Although they looked like ordinary spectacles from the front, the earpieces were a little thicker than normal because they held all the electronics. The glasses in Arvin’s hand had black frames, just like Kirsten’s.
“First the good news.” Arvin held up the glasses for everyone to see. “For the past few years Singularity has focused on improving the performance of our vision systems. We’ve upgraded the cameras and now—” He froze. Jim realized that Arvin had just spotted him in the front row. Their eyes locked for a second, and then Arvin turned away. “And, uh, now I’d like to give you an update on our progress. Allow me to demonstrate.”
He dropped the glasses, which landed on the floor with a thunk. At first Jim thought this was an accident, perhaps triggered by Arvin’s surprise at seeing him in the audience. But then Arvin very deliberately placed his foot on the glasses and stomped them. “We won’t need these.”
Reaching into his pocket again, Arvin pulled out a miniature camcorder, a sleek black device about the size of a cigarette lighter. He held it up in the air with the lens turned toward himself. A huge projection of Arvin’s face appeared on the video screen behind him. He pulled the camcorder closer and one of his eyes filled the screen. “I designed the system to be inconspicuous, so you wouldn’t normally notice this. But take a close look at the pupil of my eye as I increase the ambient lighting.”
The spotlights on the stage intensified. On the screen, Arvin’s pupil constricted, and Jim saw a tiny flash of silver on the inside edge of his hazel iris. Then Arvin aimed the camcorder at his other eye and Jim saw a second, barely noticeable flash. A murmur rose from the crowd as they realized what they were seeing. Arvin had removed his natural corneas, irises, and lenses. He’d replaced them with miniature cameras.
Jim was appalled. As far as he knew, there was nothing wrong with Arvin’s eyesight.
“Putting the video cameras directly in the eyes has many advantages over wearing them in the glasses,” Arvin said. “With the glasses, you have to turn your head to focus on what you want to see. But the ocular camera moves along with the eye, turning effortlessly in its socket, thanks to the wonderful ocular muscles.”
The crowd fell into an uneasy silence. Jim guessed that the other people in the audience were just as shocked as he was. Arvin had thrown away his natural eyesight to make this demonstration.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Arvin said, still grinning. “Old man Conway is off his rocker, right? What kind of loon would blind himself just to get the attention of a few potential investors?” He chuckled, but no one else joined in. “My decision, though, was quite logical. In the past, the vision provided by our cameras and retinal implants was, at best, roughly equivalent to natural eyesight. But now, thanks to improvements in both the hardware and software, it’s far superior. Let me show you.”
Stepping to the left side of the stage, he pulled a remote control from his pocket. A moment later, a short, squat robot on caterpillar treads rolled onstage from the right. It looked like a mobile end table. Resting on the robot’s flat top was a bottle of Chivas Regal, and extending from its side was a mechanical arm. This appendage, Jim noticed, had the same design as his Terminator prosthesis.
“This is my delivery boy,” Arvin said. “His name is Robbie. He rolls into my lab every evening at six and brings me a scotch and soda. He also delivers my reading materials. Robbie, show the audience my favorite book.”
The robot’s arm stretched toward its flat top and picked up a rectangular object lying next to the bottle of scotch. It was a thin, gray e-book reader. One of the mechanical fingers pressed the e-reader’s power button, and a book title appeared in big letters on the screen: I, ROBOT.
Arvin smiled. “Can someone in the audience please call out a random number? Nothing higher than 3,493,
