May 26
In the Information Age, the first step to sanity is FILTERING. Filter the information; extract the knowledge.
—Zetetic Commentaries, Kira Evans
They held an early ceremony—early enough to discourage people from coming, early enough to complete quickly, early enough to catch the morning dew before it evaporated. Dampness still shimmered on the rocks and markers that dotted the cemetery.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saieth the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . ."the minister's voice droned on.
Leslie felt disconnected from the service, as though watching through a telescope the odd behavior of an alien culture. It left him calm—perhaps too calm. He had lost too many people to be overwhelmed by the loss of one more. He would not be overwhelmed this time, though this time he had lost the most wonderful woman he had ever known: his wife, Jan Evans.
His mind skipped briefly across the toll death had taken around him during the years. Leslie Evans had flown as an Air Force fighter pilot. Even in peacetime, one fourth of all fighter pilots never reached retirement age. How odd for him to be attending Jan's funeral, rather than the other way around. There had certainly been moments during the last agonizing days of her life that he wished he could have reversed their positions, if only to give her a few hours without pain.
Perhaps the crowning irony was that her impending death had caused her to save his life. He too had been a cigarette smoker, until Jan contracted lung cancer. Jan had used him as her first guinea pig in her efforts to develop better cures for smoking. His fingers twitched at the thought of the cigarettes he had not touched for two years.
". . . and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die . . ."
He could not have thanked her or loved her enough, had she lived a thousand years.
He heard a sniffle to his right. From the corner of his eye he watched his daughter, Kira, as she stared off to the horizon. Despite her sniffle, she seemed more angry than sad. Leslie knew the focus of her anger. He had watched her carefully during these last few days. Her attitudes reminded him of Jan in her youth. Kira had graduated from Virginia Tech just in time to witness the last throes of Jan's battle; now her graduation ceremony would seem stale and pointless. Leslie reached out and took her hand in his. She did not look at him, but her grip held surprising strength. Her nails dug into his hand. The pain seemed more real, more in tune with the grief battering his mind, than the words of the minister.
". . . Death will be swallowed up in victory . . ."
He saw Kira's face tighten with renewed anger. She was not a person to sit on her emotions without acting; Leslie worried about what she might do. She had engaged in long sessions with the Zetetic computers since coming home, searching for something. She had not tried to alter any of the data bases, but two days ago, she had mentioned that she had accepted a job with a small advertising firm. When Leslie did his own data base search, he found that this particular firm had just won a big contract with the largest tobacco company in the country. Leslie felt tired every time he thought about what that might mean. And of course, it wouldn't do him any good to confront her about it.
". . . When I consider thy Heaven, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained . . ."
Nathan might be able to talk to her about it. Kira and her uncle had always had a special understanding. Leslie shifted his head to look at Nathan Pilstrom.
Nathan gazed at the preacher with calm, clear eyes. Nathan had not seen so many deaths as Leslie; he did not share Leslie's numbness to human mortality. But Nathan had his own sort of protection, a way of accepting the immediate reality as the starting point for his thoughts. He never dwelled on might-have-beens.
Nathan himself seemed surprised at times by his own stolid acceptance of events gone by. Even more surprising, his acceptance did not dull his enthusiasm for changing things as they might be tomorrow—things over which he could still exercise control. He had a pragmatic, Zetetic way of thinking. Nathan himself attributed his perspective to Jan's influence, but Leslie knew that the seeds had always been there. It seemed natural for Nathan to devise new ways of viewing the world.
But it didn't seem quite as natural for him to run a world-famous Institute. Jan had thrust him into that position, her last and greatest effort. Leslie wondered if Nathan might not harbor a mild irritation with Jan for sticking him with that responsibility. Because of Jan, he now had to deal with politics, and with politicians.
". . . Almighty God, our Heavenly Father, in whose hands are the living and the dead: we give these thanks for all Thy servants who have laid down their lives in the service of our country . . ."
Leslie looked far to his right to see Senator Hilan Forstil. Forstil was the only politician he had met whom he hadn't disliked on sight. He didn't understand his own lack of hostility; Forstil seemed as phony as any of them. Jan had assured him that Forstil was a straight shooter. Leslie took her word for it as long as he didn't have to bet money.
In this moment, however, Leslie thought he saw what Jan had meant. Of all the people at this funeral, Forstil seemed most grief-stricken. He stood apart from the others, speaking to no one, grappling with some deep personal loss.
And another person he didn't know—a young, serious, dean-shaven man—also stood separate from the others. Leslie was pretty sure he was Kurt McKenna, a kid just out of Special Forces, recruited for the Institute by Jan. He wondered how the gung-ho attitude of a ranger would mesh with Zetetic philosophy; the Institute fought fanaticism with a zeal that itself bordered on the fanatical. Kurt would no doubt set off new kinds of fireworks within the ZI realm; Leslie hoped they would be healthy.
". . . grant to them Thy mercy, and the light of Thy presence; and give us such a lively sense of Thy righteous will, that the work which Thou hast begun in them may be perfected . . ."
The ceremony ended. Leslie hugged his daughter tightly. Nathan came up beside them, and Leslie and Kira opened their arms to him as well. For a while the three of them stood huddled by the grave. After an immeasurable time they separated, reluctantly, like the fibers of a rope being parted.
Until now, Leslie had kept his thoughts away from Jan with scrupulous success. But images of her, accumulated for almost twenty-five years, welled up in his mind. Amd despite all the funerals of friends and pilots he had attended, despite the calloused surface of his mind that should have been inured to the tragic losses, he turned away from everyone and slipped into the cemetery's groves to walk alone with his grief.
ROLL. He dashes past the Institute with a flurry of pleasure, confident in his strength. Bill is a runner, a marathoner. He understands the pain that accompanies an effort too great—a pain almost as great as the pleasure of making that effort. For now, there is only pleasure.
The air melts as he passes, carrying away his perspiration. A wind gusts against him, full in the face, twisting through the curls of his hair. He presses against it, exultant with the knowledge that the gust cannot obstruct his passage. He continues, several laps across the entrance to the Institute.
Thirty-five minutes. Five miles. A year before, he had made similar runs in 32 minutes. A year before that, he had made them in 30 minutes. The difference, he concludes, is statistically insignificant. He feels as strong as he has ever been. That is the truth, not to be confused with the fact.
Bill showers and dresses. Invigorated, he returns to the Institute.
The Institute building shares no architectural theme with the other structures in this industrial park. In the late morning light the building glows a soft salmon color, its gentle contours reaching out warmly to those who pass by. The soft-gray windows contrast with the glaring mirrored portals of other nearby buildings, suggesting that quality can nonetheless be quiet. This building seems somehow friendlier than the others. Bill shakes his head and remembers that this building houses his target.
To the left of the driveway stands a small bronze sign with a curious emblem. An arrow points up at a 45 degree angle, soaring over a pair of embellished steps. After a moment of squinting in the brightness, Bill realizes the two steps form the letters "ZI" in a script almost completely lost in the design.
A shadow falls across him. He is not yet psyched up for confrontation; he steps to the side and looks at the man who stopped next to him.
The man smiles and points at the sign. "The Zetetic Institute invites you to take the next step."
Bill stares, his mouth suddenly dry. The man seems familiar. He is tall, though not so tall as Bill. A relaxed alertness sets the lines of his body, similar to the lines of the building itself. The man's smile is sincere; his gray eyes probe the wide-eyed awareness in Bill's own eyes. The honesty in those eyes strikes a chord of guilt in Bill's mind.
The man raises an eyebrow. "Sorry if I surprised you. It's just that you looked so unhappy, staring at our sign."
Bill frowns.
The man puts out his hand. "I'm Nathan Pilstrom,"
Nathan Pilstrom—Bill knows the name. He knows he will remember why in a moment. Nathan Pilstrom grips his hand firmly. The man seems disgustingly natural, the caricature that gives the term nice a bad reputation. Bill has never encountered a better facade.
Nathan leads him down through the courtyard, where a pair of earth-colored toy robots hum to and fro. They seem silly, hovering among the well-trimmed trees and shrubs. Then he realizes that the robots are doing the trimming.
"So what's your interest in the Institute?"
Bill snaps back to awareness of the man beside him. His throat still feels parched. His cover story resembles his news stories: at its heart lies a vague form of the facts, richly articulated, with statements that are not false. "I saw one of your Zetetic engineers at a meeting near Hanford recently. He really carved the audience to shreds, and so I figured I should come and see if I can learn how he did it."
Nathan stops; Bill turns to him. Nathan speaks with distress, "You say he carved up the audience? Who was it—do you remember?"
Bill stares, then shakes his head. A gust of wind.sweeps the street, throwing grit in Bill's eyes. He squints. "No, I don't remember his name. But he sure won the argument."
"I'll have to find out who it was," Nathan mutters. "Believe me, carving people up and winning arguments is not what Zeteticism is all about. Zeteticism has more in common with the martial arts—the true master avoids confrontation; he does not seek it out."
Bill shrugs. "Well, the ZI guy seemed like a winner, anyway." He grins, adding, "And the way your cult is growing, I figure I'm better off on the inside than on the outside."
"Our cult, hm? You've gotten too much of your information from the television news people."
Bill's breathing halts—the bastard dares to defame Bill's own profession! It takes a moment to find words that are polite. He shakes his head. "Well, 'cult' might be the wrong term. But you are the people who run the no-smoking courses, right? And you're the ones who talk about how the cosmetic industry makes people think they need more specialized products just so they can sell more junk. Right?
Nathan winces. "The press has a breathtaking capacity for oversimplifying. You know that, right? Everyone knows that. Then why does everyone forget it every time the press says something?" Nathan's voice suggests frustration. Yet his tone remains lighthearted. He accepts this oddity of human behavior without cynicism or anger. "In answer, we do run clinics on advertising and media manipulation, and we do discuss the cosmetics industry. As for the question of human wants and desires, we might ask a question like this: Do people want more cosmetics, which persuades the companies to invent more of them? Or do the companies invent more of them, and persuade the people they want more? Anyone who thinks the persuasions flow strictly one way or the other is not fully connected to reality. There's a feedback loop here, almost as delicately balanced as a regional ecology." His arms sweep as he declares, "We teach people to deal with the best approximations of reality they can construct—and reality is always far more complicated than the press coverage suggests."
Watching that theatrical sweep of the arms, Bill remembers why he knows the name Nathan Pilstrom. He stares for a moment at the man smiling at him: Nathan Pilstrom is the founder of the Zetetic Institute. Bill almost stumbles as they step across the threshold into the Institute.
Meeting the founder so unexpectedly leaves him surprised, yet the surprise drowns in the shock of his view in this entranceway. His thoughts of Nathan swirl away, swept aside as the walls now surrounding him imprint themselves upon him. Bill gasps.
He has seen pictures of the Jewel Hall, but no picture can capture it. Clusters of the world's finest gems blaze across the walls, forming starry galaxies beyond price. Bill's mouth hangs wide as he traces a series of emerald droplets across the arching ceiling.
Nathan leads him to a central section of the wall. "Take one," he offers.
"What?!"
Nathan rubs his hand across the wall. "Take one."
Bill reaches for a black opal: could it be the Flame Queen? His fingers close around it. He clutches it tight—and his fingers close through the lustrous stone until they touch. A feint sensation of electricity tingles through his hand.
Nathan chuckles. "As you apparently know, the Zetetic Institute gives seminars and training on a wide variety of topics. What you haven't seen yet is the connecting theme behind all those topics." Nathan leads him forward again, toward a far door. "The Zetetic theme is that in the Information Age, correct information is the key resource. Men must act in harmony with the best information they have. We strive to develop ever better methods for coping with the vast quantities of information that inundate us every day." He spreads his arms to encompass the room. "The Jewel Hall is encrusted not with jewels, but with holograms. The holograms embody all the visual information, all the beauty, of the jewels they pretend to be. " He laughed the deep, pleasant laugh of a grandfather who has just passed a secret down two generations. "And the information that describes those jewels is all that's really important about them, isn't it? Would this display be any more spectacular if the jewels contained minerals as well as information?''
Bill shakes his head. "I guess not. It's incredible." A thrill runs through his mind. This Zetetic comparison of truth and materials makes the deepest sense to him—the truth, as Bill creates it for his audiences, is more valuable than any possible jewel.
"Congratulations on passing your first Zetetic test. Many people feel tricked when we acquaint them with this room. Actually, we offer just the opposite of a trick. We offer a lesson—a lesson that does not hurt, that is valuable, and that is not too expensive."
"I guess so." Bill still feels on the defensive. Yet he begins to feel the thrill of the hunt as well. Nathan Pilstrom makes a challenging target for his next report.
But Nathan steps through another door. Bill follows, tense and excited. What lesson lies in the room beyond the Jewel Hall?
He breathes a sigh of relief. A comfortingly normal room greets him. Its shape suggests the gentle contours of the overall building. A receptionist looks up at them.
Nathan taps a terminal on the side. "Take a look through our catalog of offerings. I think you'll be surprised at the number of ways that discriminating information can alter your life. Do you smoke?"
Bill shakes his head.
"Perhaps you would be interested in . . . no, probably not. How about a seminar on separating fact from fluff in newscasting?"
Damn this man! Bill frowns. "I don't think I need it."
Nathan stops. "My apologies. I don't mean to be pushy." He shrugs. "Sometimes I'm as bad as the car salesman we use as an example."
The receptionist, fielding a buzz from the intercom, interrupts. "Nathan, Senator Forstil has arrived."
He smiles at her warmly. "Thanks." He turns back to Bill with a final comment. "If you don't have specific needs for Zetetic methods, you should take the Sampler.
It'll give you some idea of how we apply surprising ideas to everyday problems."
"That sounds great." Yes, this is what Bill needs. Only with a broad view of the Institute can he find the most striking defects of the organization. The Sampler will be perfect.
Bill watches Nathan depart with cruel amusement. So Senator Forstil is involved with the Institute! He'll get some mileage out of that.
Only an expert could have discerned the quiet struggle in the soft-lit office. Nathan leaned against the edge of his desk, his arms folded. His head drooped, as if he might nod off at any moment. He seemed so casual, so cool.
But the expert would have spotted his twitch every time a stray sound rattled down the hall. The expert would have seen Nathan's lips draw to a short smile following each twitch. It was a smile of forgiving laughter—Nathan laughed at himself. He was very, very nervous about this meeting with Senator Forstil.
How annoying Nathan found it, to be the founder and president of an Institute dedicated to helping people overome unsanity, and still be subject himself to such irrational anxiety!
Still, denial of that anxiety would mark an even lower level of sanity. Nathan smiled at the anxiety and jumped at every sound.
He let his eyes roam across the walls of his office. People who associated him with the Information Age often felt surprise at his choice of decorations. A number of mementos seemed appropriate: a flow chart hung in one corner, describing the first PEP program developed by the Zetetic Corporation. The signatures of the PEP development team members filled one corner of the chart. A long, narrow, Escher print snaked across the wall behind his desk.
But the works that dominated the room were the maps. Age had broken off their edges, had yellowed the paper and cracked the ink, but they were still readable.
Worse than the mars of aging were the defects in their basic structure. All the maps had serious flaws; not one of them accurately represented the terrain it tried to depict. The maps always reminded Nathan to remain hopeful for, flawed as the maps were, men had achieved numerous victories using them. Those who used maps wisely always remembered the differences between the maps and their terrains.
The old maps held no more flaws than the internal maps modem men used to navigate through life—maps of inferred deductions about other people's motives and plans. The differences between those internal maps and external realities contained lethal potentialities; yet wisdom could prevail now as in the past.
Nathan jerked at a new sound. A light tread paused briefly just outside his office. Nathan shifted forward as the senator entered the room, and stared for a moment in surprise. The senator had been one of the silent mourners at Jan's funeral that morning, but the grief and mourning had peeled away, like a molted skin. His expression now belonged to a completely different person.
First analysis: short but snappy. His silvery gray hair was swept back in precise curves. His mustache was neatly trimmed, and his mouth gave no hint of pleasure or pain. His expressionless gray suit fit him with the precision of custom tailoring. A sharp streak of yellow crossed the face of an otherwise somber silk tie, and a tiny gold pin with a single diamond chip glinted on his lapel.
He gazed calmly at Nathan, as he analyzed Nathan in turn.
First synthesis: Forstil projected an image of controlled power—a power channeled to sharply defined purposes. The illusion carried through to each detail of his appearance with a perfection too great to be unintended—so great it could partly fulfill its own prophecy.
The senator's meticulous illusion frustrated Nathan's need for insight. What motivated this man? What were his ethics? Would Nathan have to manipulate him, or would education be enough? In this first meeting, Nathan didn't have a choice: his own ethics demanded crisp honesty, unless the senator himself revealed manipulative behavior. Nathan had to try education.
Meanwhile, Nathan was sure the senator's calm blue eyes had seen more of him than he had seen of the senator. Hilan had seen that Nathan was a soft touch for truth. He knew Nathan preferred simple, open dealings. Nathan smiled, and though the smile felt foolish, he continued. "Senator," he greeted the projection of power with an outstretched hand, "what do you think of the Institute?"
They shook hands: again, nothing revealed. Senator Forstil's face broke into a half-smile. "The Zetetic Institute," he rolled the words off his tongue, toying with the sounds. "Ive seen your building. Jan and I have discussed some parts of Zetetic philosophy. But I know nothing about your organization. What is a Zetetic Institute?"
Was there sarcasm there? Forstil gave no hint. "A good question," Nathan replied, "but it has a difficult answer." He pointed to the low table across from his desk. "Chair?"
Four chairs encircled the smoke-gray glass table. Two of the chairs slunk low into the carpet; the other two displayed more austere lines, encouraging one to lean forward into the conversation. The senator took one of these.
Nathan had at times taken a low seat when faced with dangerous people, to give them a false sense of security. He sighed, thinking about the number of times he had had to use manipulative techniques, just to avoid being harmed by other people's manipulations. He took the high seat opposite the senator. Nathan suspected the senator was not easily manipulated.
The senator's probable immunity was more surprising than most people realized. The typical manipulator succeeds because he believes his own propaganda, and thus becomes vulnerable to the propaganda of others. Jan's analysis said this man doubted his own illusions.
Forstil watched him patiently. Nathan returned to the senator's question: what is a Zetetic Institute? Jan had surely described the Institute for him before, so this question undoubtedly had qualities of a test, as well as a request for information. His only possible response was indirect—as unsatisfying as the description Jan herself had surely given. "Let me describe the Institute in terms of what it is not," Nathan began. "First, it is not a building, or a collection of buildings. Most of the people who work with the Institute work at home, wherever home may be—from a condo around the corner in the Hunter Woods complex in Reston, Virginia, to an earth shelter outside Bozeman, Montana.
"The Institute should not be viewed as a corporation, though legally it is incorporated in the state of Virginia. Only a handful of people work for the Institute full-time. The others come and go, depending on particular contracts and projects that interest them.
"The Institute is not a cult—" Nathan felt some deja vu, having discussed this with the tall, angry man on the way in "—though the people of the Institute share many attitudes, behaviors, and slang expressions. It would be more accurate to say we share a common meta-philosophy—a philosophy about building your own philosophies. We are eclectics, taking the best or most useful ideas we find, wherever we find them, and weaving them into cloths of many colors."
"Sounds like a quick way to mental breakdown," Forstil observed. "Grabbing bits and pieces of ideas and lifestyles without a consistent framework."
"Only if it becomes an obsession," Nathan replied easily. "Only if you grab bits and pieces indiscriminately. The term 'zetetic' comes from the Greek word for 'skeptic.' A healthy dose of skepticism is the first thing we teach people who come here." Nathan frowned. He had not yet communicated the ethos of the Institute. But what more could he say? The Zetetic Institute could not be described using Industrial Age terminology, any more than quantum mechanics could be described with Aristotle's concepts of waves and particles, or any more than the Tao could be defined in terms of Western civilization.
But he had to answer, quickly and succinctly, for this man. "If I were to be so foolish as to sum up what the Institute is, rather than what it is not, I would say it is an Information Age resource pool for solving Industrial Age problems. Once the country makes the transition to a full-fledged Information Age society, the Institute will hopefully become a place to solve Information Age problems. For the moment, however, the Industrial Age and its institutions represent the important dangers to human progress."
Forstil gave him a barely perceptible nod." And Industrial Age problems include everything from cigarette smoke to nuclear weapons."
Nathan relaxed. "Exactly."
"Very well." Hilan seemed to accept the basic idea of the Zetetic Institute, despite the ambiguities. "Now, what is a Sling?"
Nathan smiled; Forstil had moved to the central topic with bracing efficiency. "The Sling is an Information Age weapon for defeating Industrial Age armies. It may be the only chance free societies have in a world where they must compete with leaders of subjugated societies—leaders who can be far more ruthless because they aren't shackled by fickle popular opinion."
"That's fine rhetoric, Mr. Pilstrom. But what does it mean?"
"Let me demonstrate." Nathan whirled out of his chair and retrieved a keyboard from his desk. A color display in the wall next to Hilan glowed with a three-dimensional, skeletal, layout of an airplane. Forstil squinted at it. "Is it a glider?"
"Almost." As Nathan spoke, a set of arrows highlighted critical features. "The overall design comes from glider technology, most distinctively in the wing shape. The frame is built with high-strength composite fibers.
"That's where the resemblance to gliders ends, however. The tops of the wings are covered with amorphous semiconductor solar cells for power, which drive the tail prop as well as the on-board electronics. By optimal use of wind currents and solar power, the SkyHunter can stay airborne for months—until it wears out, in fact." Nathan smiled, concentrating on his keyboard. The skeletal aircraft grew skin; the background clarified into a mountain-lined horizon; and the craft lifted into the air, until it disappeared. "The SkyHunter contains no metal, so it is radar-invisible. It has no engine flare, so it is infrared-invisible. Paint it sky blue and cruise it at 30,000 feet, and it is lightwave-invisible—a completely undetectable platform."
The senator's voice sounded strained. "Is this room a secure facility?"
Nathan looked baffled for a moment, then laughed. "None of this is classified, senator. This is a picture of the WeatherWatch recon plane. It was designed by Lightcraft Corporation and manufactured by Lockheed for meteorologists. They collect high-altitude weather data in the Arctic for forecasting climate."
"You mean they built a stealth patrol plane by accident?"
"Yes," Nathan chuckled. "More or less. We have made some substitutions to heighten the effect, such as the materials for the solar arrays. The important mods, however, are down here." The view changed again, to the underbelly, which sprouted clumps of thin fibers. "We replaced the normal weather sensors with down-looking optical and infrared detectors. And there is an anchor point for bombs."
"How many bombs can a glider carry—two or three? Hardly the killing power of a battleship." The senator turned away from the screen to critique Nathan. "I'd overlooked that problem. You'd need thousands of these to stop an armored division."
Nathan shook his head. "Actually, we think it'd take three or four SkyHunters to stop a division." As Forstil objected, Nathan held up his hand to interrupt. "Remember, this is an Information Age weapon. The most critical part of the weapon cannot be seen in any picture. The critical part is the information processing, the intelligence."
The wall display changed again—to an aerial scene of forests, threaded by a delicate web of narrow roads. The picture changed hue. The forest became a ghostly orange, and bright dots of blue now stood out as they lumbered along the gray streaks of road. 'This is an infrared image," Nathan explained. "The blue dots are tanks. " The view zoomed in on a patch of green. Forms with the outlines of human beings hustled, or paused, or lay on the ground. "The division command post," Nathan explained. The view zoomed one more time, on a particular figure. He was surrounded by other figures that came, listened for a time, then hurried away again. The scene brought to mind a queen bee groomed by her court of drones. "The commanding general."
The brilliant oranges and yellows of an explosion obliterated the scene, making the senator jump back in his seat.
Nathan spoke quietly, confidently. "The SkyHunter will not drop its pitiful load of bombs on just anything, senator. It will cruise patiently in the sky, hunting only the choicest prey. It does not hunt for the frail creatures of blood and bone sent by the enemy to die in battle. It hunts for the minds that command them. Senator, what does a division do when it loses its commander?"
Hilan thought for a moment. "The soldiers continue on to meet their current objectives."
"And then?"
The senator pursed his lips grudgingly. "They stop. They wait for further instructions." He shook his head. "But eventually, someone will get them organized again."
"By which time other SkyHunters will have destroyed the regimental command posts that would receive the orders, and the army headquarters that sent orders to the division." Nathan leaned forward. "But you're right. One SkyHunter cannot destroy a division, but it can stop one. It can transform that division from a brutally effective offensive machine into a frightened clutch of defenders, who would be easy pickings for a conventional brigade one fourth their size." Nathan could see the recognition in Hilan's eyes. Hilan's own subcommittee had recently estimated the Russian advantage along the German border to be four to one.
After a long pause, Nathan continued. "We also have two other Hunter platforms—one a ground-effect vehicle, the other an orbital munitions dispenser. I can show you those as well."
The senator shook his head. "Another time perhaps." He frowned. "More important, I need to know why you have to be the developers. Why not use the normal military acquisition system?"
"Because the normal military acquisition system wouldn't just acquire one—they'd build one, from scratch. They'd use military contractors to build a customized system that might be twice as good, but which would take ten times as long to develop and cost ten times as much to produce. It would be so good that by the time they could field it, it would be obsolete. They would not use commercially available systems, like the WeatherWatch airplane."
As Nathan spoke, he grew more forcefal. No matter how often he addressed this topic, he could never approach it with complete Zetetic composure. "Do you know the story of the TACFIRE computer? It was designed to control artillery barrages. Unfortunately, it took 25 years to build. When they finally deployed it in the late 70s and early '80s, TACFIRE computers cost six million dollars apiece. During those 25 years, the technology changed to the point where TACFIRE could hardly be called a computer: it had the processing power of a six hundred dollar Apple II computer. And TACFIRE could not even operate with some of the artillery systems that had evolved during its 25-year development period." Nathan felt his voice rising, took a deep breath for control. "Senator, the state of the world scares me. The United States is in the throes of confronting the end of the Industrial Age culture it created. Meanwhile, the Russians grow more aggressive. Senator, I don't think we can wait twenty years for the American military to catch up with the civilian revolution in technology. We need to be able to protect ourselves better this year." Nathan stopped speaking, filled with sodden futility. After all, Senator Forstil belonged to the same party as President Mayfield.
But a shadow of tense worry broke through the senator s projected image. "You're right," he replied quietly. A long pause ensued; Nathan wondered if he should speak.
At last, Forstil continued. "I think I know why you wanted to talk with me, why Jan wanted me to talk with you. You've heard that various powerful people in the military want this project taken away from the Defense Nuclear Agency because they've given you a free hand. They want the Sling put under FIREFORS, where it can be controlled more effectively."
Nathan nodded.
"I'll give it serious consideration. For the moment my subcommittee will recommend against a transition to FIREFORS control. But if the army decides to enforce such a move itself, I cannot stop them. However," he smiled, and for another moment his image of controlled power relaxed, this time because his shark's smile seemed uncontrolled, "if the army decides to move on its own, I shall counsel them."
Nathan chuckled. "Thank you." They stood up, shook hands, and Forstil turned to depart. As he reached the door, he turned, puzzled. "One last thing."
"Yes?"
"Why do you call it the Sling?"
"Because David of Israel was the forerunner of the Information Age warrior." Nathan leaned back against his desk, returning to the position from which he had started this encounter. "Senator, when David stood against the Philistines, he faced the most heavily armed and armored enemy of his day. David himself was unarmored, and virtually unarmed. Yet, by the application of just a tiny amount of force, precisely applied, he defeated Goliath."
"Defeated him with nothing but his sling," the senator finished the analogy. "Moreover, he defeated the enemy by striking at his command center." He touched his forehead, as if he could feel the blow of a slingshot stone against his temple. "May our Sling work as well," was Hilan's parting prayer.
"May we never need to test it," was Nathan's.
Far beneath Daniel Wilcox's office, the cherry blossoms along the George Washington Parkway fluttered in a frenzy of color. From here, high in the Wilcox-Morris Building that dominated Rosslyn, the view took panoramic proportions—two sheer walls of glass, floor to ceiling, enclosed half the office. The sweeping view overcame the sense of enclosure with the sense of open sky. Daniel's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched the new advertising executive, Kira Evans. She tried to shift her chair to look across that panorama. Her efforts amused him because the room had been designed so that he had the pleasure of that view from his desk. Kira could turn her back on the view, or she could turn her back on him; she could not face both at the same time.
He considered shifting to the conference table to accommodate her, but it was more fun to watch her cope with the problem. Besides, she had not earned such a view yet. If she wanted the use of an office such as this, she would have to take command of a corporate empire, as he had done.
Even as he watched, Kira resolved the dilemma, leaning forward, focusing her whole concentration on the job at hand. Daniel returned his attention to the layouts she had brought him, shuffling through to his favorite advertisement. This one ad suggested that Kira might indeed get an office of her own with panoramic windows. The ad was a beautifully crafted full-page paste-up, carefully explaining why the tobacco industry wasn't at fault for the rising incidence of smoking among children. He took a drag off his cigarette, and blew the smoke into the faint blue haze that swirled around him on its way to the air conditioning vent. "This is great stuff," he congratulated her. "An excellent utilization of our reborn plain-talk advertising strategy at work." He smiled. "I particularly like your point about advertisements saying that cigarettes are strictly for grown-ups, not for kids."
Kira fumbled with her cigarette, showing the same skill a thirteen-year-old girl might show in handling a snake, but she continued gamely. Clearly, she had gotten the word: if you worked with the Wilcox-Morris Tobacco Company, you had to smoke with them as well. That policy was strictly, strictly unofficial, of course. It would have been technically legal to hire, fire, and promote on the basis of smoking habits, but Daniel knew the consequences if he started such a policy: the news media would flay him alive, and legislation would follow. It was better to leave it unstated. Kira was a good example of how effective such unstated policies could be. She would get used to the cigarette between her lips; she would get hooked on the rush; she would become a good member of the team.
But not yet. His compliment on her advertisement had not pleased her; she seemed disturbed with the explanation that cigarette advertisements were strictly for adults. "Thank you for the compliment," she said, with a sincere smile that turned quickly to a frown. "But I'm afraid this ad may not work the way we intended. Our adults-only advertising may be the most effective kind of children's advertising possible. After all, what could possibly be a better way to get children started than telling them it's for grown-ups?"
Daniel waved the objection aside. "Nonsense. We're just being up-front and honest. Nobody can get angry at us for that." From time to time, similar thoughts disturbed Daniel himself. He would have to help Kira overcome the sense of guilt, as he had himself. He would have to help her look beyond the intellectual questions if she were to mold herself into a useful tool.
Kira leaned forward in her chair as if to refresh the argument, thought better of it, then sank glumly back. "I suppose you're right."
"Of course I'm right." Daniel sought for something to distract her from further contemplation of her guilt.
Kira had great talent, and, God knew, the tobacco companies needed to cultivate every ounce of talent they could find these days. The enemies were so numerous, the fields of opportunities from which they needed to clear opponents were so vast, he needed to find a way to get Kira involved as rapidly as possible. A little bit of quiet conspiracy might be just the ticket. People loved to work together in conspiracies, to strike against great enemies, and Daniel had need for a new conspiracy. "Do you fully understand why we've recruited your agency?"
As Kira gave him a blank stare, Daniel came around his desk to take a chair close to her. He sat inside the range of the air conditioner; dry, cool air swished against his face.
"We recruited you because we have such a continuing problem with the media. They're constantly accusing us of brainwashing people. We're looking to you, with your young organization, for new ideas to combat this. The media is very effective at brainwashing people into thinking that we are the ones who do the brainwashing." He shook his head. "How can we make people realize that the media is more dangerous than the tobacco industry could ever be?" He leaned closer. "The news media is a continuing problem, but we've been dealing with them successfully for decades. However, a new problem's come up, and this one could really destroy us."
He paused to let the tension build. Her eyes narrowed. Finally she responded, in a whisper that matched his own. "What?"
"The Zetetic Institute."
A dozen little shifts showed her surprise. His hand pressed against the tabletop, her breathing paused. "What?" she asked for explanation in a low voice that pitched up in a final question mark.
"The Zetetic Institute is our new problem." He waved at a report sitting on his desk. "It's a network of project group organizers and information salesmen. They're more a cult than a corporation, but they've got their fingers in just about every pie in America. And two years ago they put their fingers into our pie."
Kira nodded. "I've heard of them. But I can't believe they're dangerous to the Wilcox-Morris Corporation."
"So you've heard of them. Excellent." Her reaction to the mention of the Institute didn't match up with just a passing familiarity. She must have friends there. That could be useful. "Do you know about the Zetetic anti-smoking clinics? Those information salesmen have collected all the anti-smoking techniques ever devised into a single, consistent framework. Individually, those techniques are all pretty ineffective. But the Institute developed a method for matching techniques with individual strengths and weaknesses. After the Institute gets done tailoring a set for a particular person . . ."
Kira had recovered her composure. She now seemed eager, though puzzled. "But the Institute is a tiny organization! How can they threaten Wilcox-Morris?"
"They can threaten us with their growth rate." Daniel turned to his computer work station, tapped rapidly across the keys, and spun the display so Kira could see it. "They've shown exponential growth in the number of smoking clinics they've run for the last two years. If we wait until they're big enough to be a noticeable force, they'll be within one year of destroying our cigarette sales in the United States."
"What makes you think their growth curve won t flatten out?"
Daniel took a last heady drag off his menthol, ground out the stub, and fit a new one. He rose and started pacing across the room. "Eventually it will. But we need to flatten out their growth curve now, while they're still just a wiggle in the market research. If we wait, they'll surely cut into our bottom line." He turned at the end of the room to come back. The glowing tip of his second smoke left a contrail that defined his previous path.
Kira pursed her lips. ''Do you want to run an advertising campaign against them? I can't believe it would be effective. That would be like the Hershey Company running advertisements against dietitians who tell overweight people to give up chocolate."
''Exactly. We can't use straightforward advertising. A frontal confrontation is inappropriate in this situation. It's similar to our problem with beating referenda. We should probably build an organization like the Citizens For Freedom—we used them to beat down legislation on no smoking in public buildings. We need somebody who seems unbiased—somebody who can complain about those ZI kooks messing with the minds of our children."
Daniel saw from the look in Kira's eyes that he had been too blunt in his analysis. He was not surprised when she responded badly. "The Zetetics are a bit cultish, but they aren't exactly kooks."
He backed off. We might not need to go all the way to building an organization to counter them. First, we should try to exploit the media; after all, that's cheaper, and it's at least as effective when it works."
Kira nodded. "Yes, that seems like a sensible approach. " Daniel could see that she still held distaste for the idea of fighting the Zetetic Institute, but he could also see that she was challenged by the problems of manipulating the media. "First, we need to find sharp newsmen who already distrust the Institute. That shouldn't be a problem; there are newsmen who distrust everything. Then we need to cultivate them and make sure they're successful, without letting them know they're being helped."
Daniel gave her a satisfied clap of his hands. "Yes! And we have some great ways of helping them. We have inside information on just about every dark corner of society—politicians, in particular. Our selected reporters wifi receive leaks to help them build their careers. And, of course, the magazines and cable channels that depend on Wilcox-Morris for advertising support will be particularly eager to ran their pieces."
These thoughts were obviously new to Kira; her eyes looked beyond him at the broad ramifications. She had an open look, her face filled with an emotion he dimly recalled from his childhood. It was the emotion that came with a sense of wonder. "Of course. You have leverage all over the country." Her wonder turned into a moment's revelation, as she realized how much easier her job would be, working with the tobacco industry.
Daniel shrugged. "Well, for what it's worth, we have all the power that money can buy. There are limitations, of course, on the power that money can buy, but there aren't many things that can buy more power than money."
"So, would you like a list of candidate reporters?" Excitement filled her voice. She clearly relished the idea of using the media as much as Daniel did himself.
"Excellent." He stood up, concluding the meeting. "I think we can do lots of business together."
Kira also stood up. "I agree. I'm quite confident that both of our companies will profit from this link-up. " She paused at the door, and turned to him. "I still can't believe you think the Zetetic Institute is worth bothering with."
Daniel's voice grew stem. "I've made my career out of seeing where trouble will appear before anyone else could see it. There're other sources of trouble for our business, too—plenty of them. But this is one we have to nip in the bud. Believe me." He watched her depart, then snuffed out the remains of his second cigarette with methodical care. The ventilation sucked away the odor of tobacco with equally methodical efficiency—at least, it sucked away enough of the odor so that a smoker could no longer detect its presence.
Daniel stepped up to the great wall of glass, to look outside and luxuriate in the gentle springtime. For a moment, his mind flashed over the years of his life—from his childhood on a tiny farm, to his first deals in the commodities market, to his successes in stocks, and finally, his takeover of one of the biggest companies in the world. At each step, he had been involved with the tobacco industry— first, because he had been bom there; then, because tobacco was such a volatile commodity; and finally, because the companies that controlled the world s cigarette industry were such cash cows.
At each step he had lived the harrowing life of a man whose survival depends on his interpretation of tiny indicators of the future. He had lived that life brilliantly. Consequently, it did not surprise him that Kira failed to see inevitable dangers. Not even the corporate directors of the huge conglomerates had seen thee future as clearly as he. Had they been able to, they would have prevented his conquest of their companies.
And now his alarms pounded with every new bit of information he received on the Zetetic Institute. Politicians, he could control. Crowds of voters, he could manipulate. News media, he could redirect. But an organization dedicated to enhancing human rationality might be beyond his influence.
He was playing with lightning here in other ways as well. Kira might hold divided loyalties if she had friends in the Institute. Even more frightening was the danger that his attack on the Institute could backfire. The Zetetic Institute was, as Kira had noted, a tiny thing today. By bringing media attention to bear on it, he could be fueling its growth, even if all the attention were directed at its oddities. A certain percentage of the people who enjoyed going against the conventional wisdom would seek the Institute out because of such notoriety. He frowned, wondering about Kira's failure to comment on this danger.
But he knew that inaction led down a short path to disaster. And whatever the truth or falsehood behind the allegations that cigarettes killed, Daniel knew a more important truth.
He remembered his mother, on her broken-down farm in West Virginia, discing the soil with her broken-down tractor. That tractor had already taken two of her fingers in payment during half-successful attempts at repair. He remembered the hardness of living poor. He remembered how old she had looked at the age of 35—older than Kira Evans would look when she was 50.
Cigarettes were a minor part of the dangers of life. Poverty was the real horror. Poverty killed. Looking down upon the world from his steel-and-glass fortress, Daniel swore that never again would one he loved suffer from that land of poverty.
The Zetetic Institute would fall before him, as the others had fallen in the past. As for the uncertainties of Kira, he felt little concern. He had already set in motion some of the types of plans they had discussed. His reporters were already on the job.
As he watched, the snarl of traffic on the parkway broke free, and started to flow as easily as the gentle Potomac River that paralleled its course. The bright wall of cherry blossoms was all that divided the flow of belching metal from the flow of quiet water.
Major Vorontsov. The title sounded good when it preceded his name. It was quite a victory. Major Ivan Vorontsov.
Ivan wondered why his victory tasted like the bitter steel of a Kalashnikov; why his mood matched the gunmetal gray of the weather outside his window, rather than the bright sunshine that the weather bureau—his weather bureau—had predicted for this day a week ago.
He had just received the promotion to major, making him one of the youngest majors in the army. He had also received an assignment—one that might well end his career.
They had ordered him to re-evaluate the predictions of global consequences of a nuclear war. The purpose of the re-evaluation was to ''perform an analysis that allows the Soviet Union to maintain an advantage in confrontations with the United States."
Ivan was a good Russian. He was also pure Russian, born in Kursk as the only child of wholly Russian parents. As often happened with single children, he had learned early how to talk with adults, though he had never quite learned how to play with other children his own age. Also like many single children, he believed his parents' beliefs even more fiercely than his parents did. He loved his homeland. He disliked Americans. And he hated Germans.
So when his time had come to serve in the army, to protect the children of Russia and of the whole Soviet Union from her enemies, he had accepted the duty proudly.
He stepped out of his office, quickly marched down the hallway of the Military Meteorology building, and pushed through the massive door into the streets of Novosibirsk. Bitter wind swept around him. He clenched his teeth against the cold and headed for the officers' quarters.
The gunmetal sky showed no hint of sun. Would the climatic effects of a nuclear war even be noticed here? He could imagine that the sunbathers along the Black Sea would be most affected, though he knew better.
Certainly, radioactive fallout from a war would affect all the people he cared about. That included his childhood friend Anna, and her three children, living so close to the strategic targets in Sevastopol.
He remembered the day his parents had brought Anna to stay. Her mother, Ivan knew, was always drunk, and her father was . . . different. He remembered how helpless Anna had been, yet how hopeful, despite her helplessness. Ivan's parents loved her as they loved all children—almost as much as they loved Ivan himself. And though Ivan never did learn how to be friends with his peers, he had learned from his parents the love of children.
How wasted their efforts would prove if Ivan let some damn fool—either American or Russian—initiate a nuclear exchange. Though Ivan loved his country's children, he worried that Russia's leaders might not share that feeling.
He thought again of the sunny skies predicted for today. How could men be so foolish as to think they could know the impact of a nuclear war on the fragile atmosphere! The work of climatology contained too much magic and too little science for categorical assertions.
Within that guaranteed uncertainty lurked the great danger. Ivan knew he could make the outcome of his re-analysis match any result they wanted him to report.
With too-crisp clarity, he saw why they had chosen him for this job. He was bright, ambitious, patriotic, and impressionable. And he had a knack for technology—a knack that compensated for his loner's attitude. He had the credentials, and presumably, the malleability to give them what they wanted.
He felt like a scientist in the days before the telescope, instructed by the Church to prove that the Sun circled the Earth. The truth could not be changed. But without instruments, truth could be distorted whenever convenient for the leaders—or when necessary for the followers.
Still, none of these games of distortion could change the truth. And in the nuclear age, distorting the truth about nuclear war endangered all the children, including the adult children playing the game.
Ivan squeezed his eyes closed. Another gust of wind slapped his face. His nostrils flared as he inhaled; the deep breath of sharp, chilled air helped him make his decision.
He would gather the best scientists he could find. They would study the consequences of nuclear war again. If the earlier analysis had been provably hysterical, wonderful. But the new Major Vorontsov would introduce no bias to force the decision.
Ivan tramped onward against the last gusts of Siberian winter, unswerving in his purpose.
Kira stepped from the elevator into the antiseptic beauty of the Oeschlager Art Museum. She forced herself to slow down as her high heels clicked across the slippery marble floor. She turned, to step into the quiet elegance of the displays. Soon she was surrounded by works that cost thousands of hours of loving labor to construct. She needed these moments, in this museum, to remember why she had come to Wilcox-Morris. She needed these moments to fuel her anger.
Her whole body itched from the taint of the Wilcox-Morris Corporation. She wanted to run home to the shower, to cleanse herself of it; yet she knew that that would not help. Only her anger enabled her to continue.
The Oeschlager Museum sprawled over the first two floors of the Wilcox Building. All costs of maintaining it, and for collecting new works, came out of the advertising budget of Wilcox-Morris. Thousands of people had died of lung cancer, emphysema, and heart disease to support this museum.
Kira stopped before a sculpture in silver and gold. In the curves of the reflection she saw her mother's face—her own face. Older people sometimes called her by her mother's name, so strong was the resemblance. And despite her fierce defense of herself as a separate person, Kira could not deny the similarity. They shared the same cheekbones when seen in profile, the same pout when angry, the same quick smile that puzzled people who missed the subtler points of human comedy.
They had not shared the dark anger seething behind Kira's eyes as she watched her reflection snake across the surface of the silvery sculpture. Perhaps that was a difference in age more than anything else. Her mother had not blamed the tobacco companies for her own death. In keeping with her other views of human responsibility, Jan had blamed herself for taking chances that might lead to suicide. Kira had a different point of view.
Uncle Nathan had the most complex view of blame, though in some sense, it was also the simplest. Blame, Uncle Nathan contended, was a concept without value in either Industrial Age or Information Age societies. The key question was not whom to blame, but rather, whose behavior to modify so that the problem did not arise again.
All that analysis had led him to Jan's answer to smoking, however; they agreed that the best solution lay in educating people to the danger and in teaching them how to quit. Uncle Nathan further contended that this was the only solution a free society could tolerate. Kira still felt uncertain about whether he was right. Certainly, it would not hurt to investigate other possibilities. Know your enemy; he probably does not know himself, the Zetetic commentary went. People did not usually pursue evil purposes with thoughtful intent, though they might pursue evil purposes while fiercely avoiding thoughts about intentions. The key lay in cultural engineering. Non-Zetetic cultures were always designed to give men rationalizations for not thinking about the inconsistencies of that culture. Given the right cultural environment, you could shape the adaptable human being to profoundly unsane purposes.
Like other creators of evil, Daniel Wilcox was not an evil man. The tobacco culture had engineered him; now, he was himself the chief engineer for the tobacco culture. Still, he was not evil, though he was undoubtedly quite ruthless. He was not evil, though his hands were covered with blood.
Kira looked about the room at the works of inspired genius, at the painfully detailed craftsmanship, that were also now covered with blood.
And she looked back at her own reflection. She too was now covered with blood. She had used her own mind in the creation of advertising that would attract children to their deaths. She had done it in order to get close to the source of power that drove the tobacco companies, so that she might find some way of destroying them. She had done it for a good cause.
And she could rationalize that, had she not created those ads, someone else would have, and they probably would have done just as good a job. But rationalization was not her purpose. She accepted her share of responsibility for the deaths that might result from her action, as surely as she accepted responsibility for the lives that might be saved, if she found a way to destroy the cigarette empire. That was her purpose in coming to Wileox-Morris—to find some weakness, or set of weaknesses, with which she could destroy the industry.
Based on her first meeting with Daniel Wilcox, she questioned her ability to destroy him. He was too insightful; surely he recognized her revulsion at cigarette smoking, and her shock at the idea of attacking the Institute. She had recovered fairly well at the end. She could even get excited about using the news media, after having watched them take periodic shots at her mother and her uncle for years. She would certainly have no trouble composing a list of potentially useful reporters—she could get them from the Institute data base. She allowed herself a small smile, thinking about how easily she could mold them with the subtle power Wilcox afforded her.
Better yet, she realized that Wilcox's attack could be turned to the Institute's benefit. Wilcox could give Uncle Nathan a level of notoriety that poor Uncle Nathan would never bring upon himself. Perhaps this was the key to Wilcox's downfall.
And perhaps it was the key to her own downfall. Should she have highlighted this possible backfire with Wilcox? On impulse, she had concealed the thought from him, for fear that he would then discard the whole plan. Now she wasn't sure that had been wise. Surely he would think of that on his own, and he would expect her to think of it as well. She would have to be careful the next time she saw him.
She stepped carefully across museum floors toward the exit; her feet hurt in her new shoes. Two kinds of people went by. Dawdlers drifted here, either for the art or for the excuse it offered for not getting back to work. And urgent men in business suits rushed by, heading for the upper floors of the skyscraper.
The similarities between the Wilcox Building here in Rosslyn and the ZI headquarters in Reston fascinated and repelled her. Both structures projected images carefully designed for public consumption—images of elegant respectability, trustworthiness. The only real difference was the ultimate purpose: the tobacco companies projected trustworthiness so that they could betray the believers. The Institute projected trustworthiness so that they could teach the more malleable people how to be less malleable, how to separate that image from the substance. One of the most gratifying revelations in a Zetetic education was the moment when you looked at the Institute itself and, clear-eyed and laughing, separated the Institute's internal facts from its projected fantasies. To achieve that moment of revelation, Uncle Nathan said, the end justified the means.
Did the end justify the means? Kira didn't know. Uncle Nathan had a pat answer to that, too, of course: the end justifies the means as long as the end is moral, and as long as you account for all the side effects as parts of that end. Somehow, the side effects in her efforts to penetrate the Wilcox-Morris Corporation seemed too complicated to calculate.
This was why she lingered in the museum. She could not tell if her purpose here was moral or not. Until she figured it out, her anger was all that could sustain her as she plunged her hands into her work, defending the salesmen of death.