The streets of Tokyo were filled with cell-phone vendors; his fellow Japanese, he knew, kept cell phones for an average of only nine months before acquiring a newer and better model. He had a top-of-the-line Sony touchscreen phone, but he couldn’t use that; he had no doubt his own phone was tapped by his government now, and he’d read that the American government had few qualms about tapping phones in the States—but Caitlin was in Canada. With luck, the Decters’ phones weren’t yet tapped.
He found a street vendor who had a cheap-enough pay-as-you-go cell phone that didn’t have exorbitant long-distance rates. After buying the phone and some talk time—paying cash, and giving no personal details—he tucked the Bluetooth headset he normally used with his Sony into his ear, and fiddled with the one-piece dark green handset to get it working with the earpiece. He then pulled the Post-it out of his pocket and did the rigmarole required to place an international call.
He was walking briskly. Tokyo sidewalks were too crowded for conversations not to be overheard, but if you walked quickly enough and moved against the flow of pedestrian traffic, you could at least ensure that consecutive sentences weren’t heard by the same people. And, besides, he’d be speaking English, which would be gibberish to a goodly percentage of those he passed.
A female voice answered—but it wasn’t Caitlin, it was her mother. “Hello, Barbara. It’s Masayuki.”
There was the typical delay of long-distance calls. “Masa! What a pleasant surprise!”
“Is Miss Caitlin home? And Malcolm?”
“Malcolm just came in the door, and Caitlin’s here.”
“Please, can you get them to pick up, too?”
“Um, sure—just a sec.”
He heard Barbara calling out to the two of them, and after a moment, he heard the sound of another handset picking up, but nothing being said; doubtless that was Malcolm. And a few seconds later, a third handset picked up, as well. “Dr. Kuroda!” said Caitlin’s bubbly voice.
“Miss Caitlin, hello!”
“All right, Masa,” Barb said. “We’re all here.” Her voice had attenuated now that the others were on as well.
He took a deep breath. “The Japanese government knows about Webmind,” he said.
“Them, too?” said Caitlin. “Sorry—we should have guessed; we should have warned you. The Canadians are on to it, as well. How did the Japanese find out?”
“The American government told them,” Masayuki said.
“That’s probably who tipped off the Canadians,” said Barb.
“We should have been more circumspect,” Masayuki said. “But what’s done is done. Still, we have to assume that all our calls and web traffic are being monitored now. I just came back from a meeting with the Japanese intelligence agency. They told me what you’d told them, Malcolm. I confirmed that that was my understanding of how Webmind worked, too.” He paused, then: “But my government isn’t just interested in how Webmind came into being, but also in its strategic significance.”
“What strategic significance?” demanded Caitlin.
“Well, no one is quite sure,” he said. “But they figure there’s got to be some. And—well, this China situation is a powder keg.”
“Still, that’s better in a way than what the Americans want,” Caitlin said. “I think they want to try to wipe Webmind out.”
“Actually, I think that’s my government’s first choice, too—but the official I spoke to questions whether the Americans can pull it off.”
“I hope not!” said Caitlin.
“So, what should we do?” he asked.
“Caitlin and I have been discussing that,” Barb said. “But, as you say, our communications may not be secure. You’re just going to have to trust us, Masayuki.”
“Of course,” he said, without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
thirty-two
I had started my experiment by connecting to a website that taught American Sign Language. The site had thousands of short videos of a black woman wearing a red blouse making signs. The video files each had appropriate names: the word or phrase they were intended to convey. There were several such services, but only this one had the very specific signs I needed.
I’m not sure what avatar I would have chosen to represent myself online. Caitlin had decided I was male, though, so this one likely wouldn’t have been it. Of course, this wasn’t a made-up graphic of a woman; it was a real expert in ASL. I tied into Google’s beta-test face-recognition database, and waited while it searched through its index of photos that had been posted elsewhere online, matching the basic physical features, rather than ephemeral qualities such as hair color or clothing, and—
Ah. Her name was Wanda Davies-Latner; she was forty-seven, and she taught sign language at an institution in Chicago.
I downloaded the clips I needed, buffering them for speedy access, and strung them together in the order I wanted. And then I took over the webcam feed that was going from Miami to San Diego, replacing the views of the now-sleeping Virgil with Wanda’s dancing hands.
What are you? I asked.
It was dark out. Hobo had been sitting in the gazebo, leaning against the wooden baseboards. But he wasn’t sleeping. I could see him through the webcam feed going to Miami; his eyes were open.
He was apparently startled to see a human woman replace Virgil on his monitor. He scrambled to a more upright position.
I sent the same sequence of video clips again: What are you?
Hobo, he signed. Hobo. Hobo.
No, I replied. Not who. What?
Hobo frowned, as if the distinction was lost on him. I tried another tack. Hobo human? I asked.
No, no! he signed vigorously. Hobo ape.
Good, yes, I replied. But what kind of ape?
Boy ape, said Hobo.
Yes, true. I triggered video of Virgil, taken from YouTube. But are you this kind of ape?
No, no, no, signed Hobo. Orange ape! Hobo not orange.
Orange ape, I signed. That kind of ape is called orangutan.
Hobo frowned, perhaps considering whether to try mimicking the complex sign. He opted for something simpler. Not Hobo.
What about this ape? I said, showing footage now of a gorilla. I was pleased that Hobo was able to follow along; there was a jump-cut between the end of one sign and the beginning of the next as each successive clip began.
Hobo moved backward as the gorilla thumped its chest. There was little in the footage to give a sense of scale, but during his time at the Georgia Zoo, he had perhaps seen gorillas and knew they were large; maybe that frightened him. No, Hobo signed. Not Hobo. And then, after a pause, perhaps while he recalled a sign he hadn’t used for a long time, he added, Gorilla.
Yes, I signed. Hobo not gorilla. What about this type of ape? Footage of a bonobo started to play—leaner than a chimp, with relatively shorter limbs, a longer face, and hair distinctively parted in the middle.
Bonobo, replied Hobo at once. Hobo bonobo, he signed; the words rhymed in English, but the ASL gestures looked nothing alike.