“Unfortunately not. What are the titles?” Congreve asked, pulling out his notepad and pencil.
“ The Fabric of Infinity was the first. Followed by The Fallacy of Reality. Published by Cambridge University Press. Available on Amazon where they languish in well-deserved obscurity. Never seen a nickel in royalties.”
“I would say we’ve come to the right door,” Congreve said, smiling. “Quite impressive. Although I must tell you, sir, that I’m afraid all I know about mathematics is that two plus two equals four.”
Partridge regarded Ambrose above his tented fingers, thought for a bit, and said, “Hmm. I’ve often wondered.”
Hawke laughed at the obvious joke, glanced at Congreve, and could see his friend was uncomfortable, not quite sure whether to laugh or not. But before he could say anything, Partridge looked at Hawke, unsmiling.
“No, I’m quite serious,” he said. “As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain, and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality. If you take my point.”
“Precisely,” Congreve said with a bit of a smirk at his friend. “I was thinking along those very lines myself, Professor.”
“Like you, Chief Inspector, I am merely a detective. And a devotee of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, as are you, I believe, according to Mr. Google.”
“Devotee is putting it mildly,” Congreve said.
“As you know, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never liked detective stories that built their drama by deploying clues over time. Conan Doyle wanted to write stories in which all the ingredients for solving the crime were there from the beginning, and that the drama per se would be in the mental workings of his ideal ratiocinator. The story of quantum computing follows a Holmesian arc, since all the clues for developing a quantum computer have been there essentially since the discovery of quantum mechanics, waiting patiently for the right mind to properly decode them.”
“And that man was Waldo Cohen?”
“It was indeed.”
Hawke said, “Professor Partridge, we would very much appreciate hearing your thoughts on Dr. Cohen and his protege, Darius.”
“Of course. There are two distinct issues here: the Darius File, as we call it, and Dr. Cohen’s progress, or as much of it as we shall determine by delving further into what we might glean from his workstation. Where would you like to begin?”
“Cohen’s progress,” Hawke said, shifting in his chair. “We know that he was very secretive.”
Partridge laughed. “Oh, you have no idea. There is a level of encryption in his files the likes of which we’ve never seen. We were simply unable to break through here at Cambridge, I’m sorry to say. You’re aware of prime factorization, of course, for centuries the holy grail of mathematics. It’s the basis of much current cryptography. It’s easy to take two large prime numbers and multiply them. But it’s very difficult to take a large number that is the product of two primes and then deduce what the original prime factors are. Prime factorization is an example of a process that is very easy one way, and very difficult the other. Do you follow?”
“Not really,” Ambrose said, covering another incipient sneeze.
“Well. How to put it? It’s very easy to scramble eggs, isn’t it? But nearly impossible to unscramble them.”
“Ah,” Congreve said, nodding vigorously, as if all manner of lights had suddenly popped on in his brain.
“In Dr. Cohen’s cryptography, two large prime numbers were multiplied to create a security key. Unlocking that key would be the equivalent of unscrambling an egg.”
“We’re back to square one, then?” Ambrose asked.
“No, no. I’m saying my colleagues and I here at Magdalene couldn’t crack it. So we had to take it to a higher power. I’m speaking of the new quantum supercomputer at the U.K. Machine Intelligence Research Center in Leeds. It’s the most powerful thing we’ve got at the moment. Classical computers use bits, while quantum computers use qubits, pronounced ‘Q-bits.’ Hold vastly more information than bits. Very difficult rascals to create, mind, very delicate to maintain, but we’re getting there. Can’t give you a precise number. National security.”
“But the quantum computer was able to unscramble Dr. Cohen’s eggs?” Hawke asked with a smile, earning a stern look from Congreve, who seemed to be taking all this mumbo jumbo frightfully seriously.
“Yes, we were successful.”
“And?”
“I can tell you that Cohen was quite right in his desire for secrecy. He had entered vast, uncharted realms in the world of AI. He had, on paper at any rate, come dangerously close to creating a machine capable of achieving the Singularity. And well beyond in other classified areas, to be perfectly honest.”
“Dangerously close?” Congreve said.
“Yes. He stopped short, well shy of the algorithmic finish line. And I’d be less than honest if I said anyone but Cohen was capable of reaching that line.”
Hawke thought a moment and said, “Dr. Partridge, you used the word dangerously. Do you believe Dr. Cohen’s work was, in some way or other, dangerous?”
“I certainly do. No one on earth has any idea what will happen when we actually achieve the Singularity. Superintelligent machines, like the men who create them, will be capable of good. Or evil. But in ways we can’t even begin to imagine. Or control.”
“Runaway technology?” Congreve said.
“Exactly so. Technology that, in the wrong hands, could have a catastrophic effect on the entire world. My greatest fear is a bioengineered disease created by machines that mankind is incapable of stopping. That’s why Project Perseus was shut down. And why Cohen never revealed his progress to a soul-not willingly at least.”
“Meaning what?” Congreve said.
“Meaning the chaps up at Leeds discovered that Dr. Cohen’s computer had been hacked before you got your hands on it. Hacked and gnawed on like a bone.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“Yes. The quantum computer made short work of backtracking and identifying the hacker, you can be sure.”
“Wrong hands or right hands, Professor?” Hawke asked.
“I have no idea,” he said, handing the large manila file that was on his desk to Congreve. “Cohen’s work is now in the hands of the man whose work at Stanford resides inside this folder provided by Cohen’s widow.”
“Darius,” Hawke said.
“Indeed. Darius Saffari. We had quantum run his name. Last known address was Boston when he was a student at MIT. After that he disappears. Nothing out there, I’m afraid.”
“And before Stanford?” Congreve asked.
“Nothing at all. No birth record, prior education, driver’s license, social security, medical records. Odd, isn’t it?”
“It’s not his real name. He entered the United States and enrolled at Stanford using false identification papers,” Congreve said.
“I would advise you gentlemen to find this Saffari as quickly as humanly possible. Because if he has taken Cohen’s work and proceeded toward the Singularity with any success, then he is already without a doubt the most dangerous man on the planet.”
Hawke and Congreve sat back and regarded Partridge, letting his words of warning sink in.
“And why is that?” Hawke finally asked.
“Because he entered America illegally to steal Cohen’s secrets. Because he succeeded. Because he’s erased all traces of his existence. That makes him foe, not friend. A foe who will, or perhaps already does, wield a power that could alter life on this planet. And, believe me, it will not be for the better.”
“A question, if I may?” Ambrose said.
“Certainly.”
“Have you lost a good many AI colleagues in the last year or so?”
“Why, yes, I suppose I have, now that you mention it. Montebello, for instance, was an old and dear friend.”
“An unusually high number, then?”
“Yes, perhaps, I’m not sure, really. The top guys are all getting on, you know. We’re all too old to be boy wonders, believe me. But there have been a number of younger scientists, even students who-Why do you ask?”