The Turing Option

“What is it all about?” Bill McCrory asked, puzzled. He was a whiz at electronics, but found the arcane lore of the stock market a complete mystery.

J. J. Beckworth shrugged. “Don’t know — may never know. Perhaps it was some high-flying broker out for a quick profit, or a big bank changing its mind. In any case it is not important — now. I think we can see what your resident genius has come up with. Brian, you said his name was?”

“Brian Delaney, sir. But I’ll have to phone first, it’s getting late.” It was dark outside; the first stars were appearing and the office lights had automatically come on.

Beckworth nodded agreement and pointed to the telephone on the table across the room. While the engineer made his call, J. J. punched his appointment book up on the screen and cleared away his work for the day, then checked the engagements for tomorrow. It was going to be a busy one — just like every other day — and he pushed his memory watch against the terminal. The screen said WAIT and an instant later read FINISHED as it downloaded his next day’s appointments into the watch. That was that.

Every evening at this time, before he left, he usually had a fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie Scotch malt whisky. He glanced in the direction of the hidden bar and smiled slightly. Not quite yet. It would wait.

Bill McCrory pressed the mute button on the phone before he spoke. “Excuse me, J. J., but the labs are closed. It’s going to take a few minutes to set up our visit.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Beckworth said — and meant it. There had been a number of good reasons for building the research center here in the desert. Lack of pollution and low humidity had been two considerations — but the sheer emptiness of the desert had been much more important. Security had been a primary consideration. As far back as the 1940s, when industrial espionage had been in its infancy, unscrupulous corporations had discovered that it was far easier to steal another company’s secrets than spend the time, energy — and money — developing something for oneself. With the growth of computer technology and electronic surveillance, industrial espionage had been one of the really big growth industries. The first and biggest problem that Megalobe had faced was the secure construction of this new facility. This meant that as soon as the few farms and empty desert had been purchased for the site, an impenetrable fence was built around the entire area. Not really a fence — and not really impenetrable, nothing could be. It was a series of fences and walls that were topped with razor wire and hung with detectors — detectors buried in the ground as well — and blanketed by holographic change detectors, the surface sprinkled with strain gauges, vibration sensors and other devices. It established a perimeter that said “No go!” Next to impossible to penetrate, but if any person or device did get through, why then lights, cameras, dogs — and armed guards were certain to be waiting.

Even after this had been completed, construction of the building had not begun until every existing wire, cable and drainpipe had been dug up, examined, then discarded. One surprising find was a prehistoric Yuman Indian burial site. Construction had been delayed while this had been carefully excavated by archaeologists and turned over to the Yuman and Shoshonean Indian museum in San Diego. Then, and only then, had the carefully supervised construction begun. Most of the buildings had been prefabricated on closely guarded and controlled locations. Sealed electronically, examined, then sealed again. After being trucked to the site in locked containers the entire inspection process had been done yet one more time. J. J. Beckworth had personally supervised this part of the construction. Without the absolutely best security the entire operation would have been rendered useless.

Bill McCrory looked up nervously from the phone. “I’m sorry, J.J., but the time locks have been activated. It’s going to take a half an hour at least to arrange a visit. We could put it off until tomorrow.”

“Not possible.” He punched up the next day’s appointments on his watch. “My schedule is full, including lunch in the office, and I have a flight out at four. It’s now or never. Get Toth. Tell him to arrange it.”

“He may be gone by now.”

“Not him. First in and last out.”

Arpad Toth was head of security. More than that, he had supervised the implementation of all the security measures; these seemed to be his only interest in life. While McCrory made the call J.J. decided that the time had come. He opened the drinks cabinet and poured out three fingers of the malt whisky. He added the same amount of uncarbonated Malvern water — no ice of course! — sipped and sighed gratefully.

“Help yourself, Bill. Toth was in, wasn’t he?”

“I will, thank you, just some Ballygowan water. Not only was he in but he will be supervising the visit personally.”

“He has to do that. In fact, both he and I together have to encode an after-hours entry. And if either of us punches in a wrong number, accidentally or deliberately, all hell breaks loose.”

“I never realized that security was so tight.”

“That’s good. You’re not supposed to. Everyone who enters those labs is monitored ten ways from Sunday. Exactly at five o’clock the doors are sealed tighter than the bank vaults in Fort Knox. After that time it’s still easy to get out, since scientists are prone to work late, or even all night. You must have done that yourself. Now you are going to find out that it is next to impossible to get back in. You’ll see what I mean when Toth gets here.”

This would be a good chance to catch the satellite news. J.J. touched the controls on his desk. The wallpaper — and the painting — on the far wall disappeared to be replaced by the news service logo. The sixteen-thousand-line high-resolution TV that had been developed in the laboratories here was sensationally realistic and so successful that it had captured a large share of the world TV, Virtual Reality and computer workstation market.

This screen contained tens of millions of microscopic mechanical shutters, a product of the developing science of nanotechnology. The definition and color of Beckworth’s screen were so good that, to date, no one had noticed that the wallpaper and picture were just digital images — until he had turned them off. He sipped his drink and watched the news.

And that was all that he watched — and only those news items he was interested in. No sports, commercials, no cutesy animals or pop-singer scandals. The TV’s computer sought out and recorded, in order of priority, just those reports that he wanted. International finance, stock market report, television shares, currency exchange rates, only news related to commercial relations. All of this done continuously, upgraded instantly, twenty-four hours a day.

When the head of security arrived the wallpaper and painting reappeared and they finished their drinks. Arpad Toth’s iron-gray hair was still as close-cropped as it had been during all the years he had been a marine D.I. On that traumatic day when he had finally been forcefully retired from the Marine Corps he had gone right over to the CIA — who had welcomed him with open arms. A number of years had passed after that, as well as a number of covert operations, before he had a major difference of opinion with his new employers. It had taken all of J.J.’s industrial clout, helped by the firm’s military co