"The computer is the center of everything we do. Not just on this island, but worldwide. From that satellite coverage pattern I was describing to you earlier to a hundred and fifty million accounts, each of which can log pay-per-view requests, do on-line shopping or banking, answer polls, call plays for high school football teams, download software, play video games, send V-mail, or take advantage of any of the other interactive services we offer. And that's only a small fraction of what we have the computer doing."
The car flew downhill at what had to be close to a hundred miles per hour, veering smoothly one way or the other at forks in the road that were widened and banked like a concrete bobsled course. Laura was on edge. She had no means of guessing which way the driverless vehicle would turn, and the result was a constant fear of impending demise.
"We use the computer, of course," Gray continued, completely unconcerned, "for our manufacturing. We've been able to build what you see here because the productivity of the fifteen hundred workers on this island is phenomenal. Productivity is a function of capital investment, and I've invested heavily in the island's infrastructure."
Buildings of various sizes and shapes but no discernible purpose flew by in the darkness, but Laura kept her eyes peeled out of the windshield — straight ahead along the road down which they hurtled.
Her ears popped, and the backs of her hands hurt from her grip on the armrests. "The gross product of this island is greater than that of a majority of the members of the United Nations. Mile-per-square-mile and man-for-man, this is the most productive place on the face of the planet. The most productive place in the history of the planet, for that matter."
"What?" Laura asked distractedly, taking her eyes briefly off the road to glance at Gray as he sat there — supremely confident and relaxed in his seat.
"We produce products here every year whose value on the open market, if they were available for sale, would be in the hundreds of billions. Productivity per worker is a deceptive statistic, of course. With such a high degree of automation, it's losing its meaning. A lot of things are losing their meanings," he mumbled.
Laura was beginning to calm down — slightly. They had yet to pass another vehicle. Maybe there were only one or two cars on these special roads. Maybe the driverless cars were only for Gray and his top henchmen. That comforting thought was ripped from her when in a blur and a brief buffeting of disturbed air first one, and then several cars identical to theirs rocketed by. Laura noticed that the previously sloppy driving of their vehicle had changed. It had slowed, and they hugged the right-hand side of the road as did the cars they passed headed in the opposite direction. It was all under control, Laura realized. Under the control of the computer. But hadn't Gray said the computer was malfunctioning? She thought.
Laura heaved a deep sigh — exhausted by the return of her anxiety.
Gray had fallen silent — his eyes, reflected in the dark window, looking off into the distance.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Laura asked.
"I said a lot of things are losing their meanings."
She turned to him. From the tone of his voice, it appeared, all was not well in the Workers' Paradise. They continued down the mountain in silence.
When the car entered the outskirts of the Village, it slowed to more responsible speeds. "Mr. Gray," Laura said, rolling her [unclear] shoulders and flexing her stiff hands, "you still haven't explained how I can help you with a computer. I'm afraid there might have been some misunderstanding. I'm a psychologist. If someone on your staff has misinformed you about my credentials, I think it would be appropriate for me to return my fee and—"
"The computer is suffering from depression," Gray interrupted, turning from the window to meet her stare and hold it. "At least, that's what it says. Chronic depression."
After letting what he'd said sink in, Laura expelled a short huff that would have been a laugh but for her inability to muster a smile to go along with it. "You've gotta be kidding."
He not only didn't look as though he were kidding, he looked pained. His eyes — the same eyes as in the newspaper photo from his childhood — expressed sadness as conspicuously as any emotion could be conveyed without words.
Laura's head spun with the absurdity of the suggestion. Her eyes drifted off, reporting the sights of Village life to a mind that was lost deep in thought. Despite the absence of any traffic ahead, the car pulled to a full stop at an intersection. The streets of the Village were laid out in a grid like any normal town's. Their driverless car, however, and others like it that they passed seemed to navigate them with the same ease that they handled the banked and gently forking high-speed roads crisscrossing the island.
"What I have built here, Dr. Aldridge, is the first-ever sixth-generation computer. Do you know what that means?"
Laura shrugged, then shook her head. Her attention was drawn to a lone statue on her left, and then to the long boulevard which the statue dominated. The broad street with its grassy median descended gently through the center of the Village away from the mountain. The car turned right onto the boulevard, and Gray craned his neck to look out the clear Plexiglas windshield at the rear. Laura, however, was enthralled with the sights of the bustling Village ahead.
The car proceeded slowly down the well-lit boulevard, which teemed with a vibrant and seemingly well-behaved nightlife. The place really was sort of like a Village, Laura thought. People strolled down paths past street side cafés. There were warmly lit stores filled with luxury goods. A movie theater that was obviously the teen hangout. Some of the island's inhabitants, Laura noticed, saw Gray through the window of the car. There were pointed fingers, nudges of dinner companions in curbside seating, a wave. Gray appeared to be oblivious to such manifestations of his celebrity. He was focused instead on her.
"The first generation," he continued relentlessly, "was made of vacuum-tube switches and mercury delay lines like the Sperry Univac in the early fifties. The second, like the Honeywell 800 in the late fifties and early sixties, used discrete transistors." The road grew darker as the car passed from the Village. "Restricted Area" was clearly marked in large, block letters on a sign beside a raised traffic sign. The jungle closed in, and the car accelerated again through the black canyon of leaves. "The third generation was built around small-scale integrated circuits and dominated the market from the mid-sixties to the mid-seventies. The IBM System 36 was a third-generation computer. The late seventies brought the large-scale and very-large-scale integrated circuits of the fourth generation."
The car broke out onto an open field, the massive assembly building dominating the scene ahead filling the windshield. Laura was awestruck by the size of it. "In the early eighties, experimental work began on fifth-generation computers, and the first came on line in the mid-nineties. They're massively parallel — thousands of digital processors crushing data all at once."
The car slowed and turned into a circular drive. All around lay the treeless lawns she had seen from high above. The quiet electric car pulled to a stop in front of a mammoth bunker. Both Gray's and Laura's doors opened automatically, rising straight into the air with their faint whoosh.
Once they were outside, the doors closed and the car headed off.
Gray led Laura along a path toward the low-slung concrete structure that looked to be half buried in the flat and open fields.
The humid air was thick with the foul, acrid smell from some chemical.
Laura crinkled her nose. "Exhaust fumes," Gray said, "from Launchpad A."
She realized he'd been watching her again.
Laura paused atop steps that led deep into the ground. At the bottom lay a heavy metal door to the subterranean entrance. She didn't want to go down those steps without knowing more. She had an unsettled feeling in her stomach and couldn't tell whether it was from the ride or from something else. From something vaguely… sinister.