Part 4 (1/2)
I read the file to the end, but understand less than a third of it. The gist of it, however, is all too clear.
”Let me get this straight: cutting through the technical mumbo jumbo, this means you can make a biological quantum computer from ingredients that are available everywhere in the tropics? You can build computers without the technological infrastructure?”
”Yes, and it's quite easy, too.”
”Jesus; that's just too good to be true.”
”It's happening. You're seeing it with your own eyes.”
This is absurd: totally and absolutely crazy. But I can't deny what's happening with her cla.s.s. She smiles benignly at my puzzled expression and gently strokes my chest hair. I have problems grasping these events, and more.
”But why? In Holland you were the tunnel-visioned researcher, and here you suddenly become a crossover between Florence Nightingale and Albert Schweitzer.”
”You're exaggerating. I did care about broader issues, but in smaller ways. Imagine this: you try to do the right thing. You donate to Medicins Sans Frontieres, Greenpeace and Amnesty International, you vote for the green party, you buy Fair Trade products, you even work weekends in an Oxfam store, and you hope it's enough. And then you meet a guy, fall in love and find out he's actually going to work as a volunteer in Africa, and you feel...how do I say...lacking.”
”But I came here because I must, not to spite you.”
”I know, darling. But I was torn: I love my work, especially the purely scientific part, but I love you as well. And I do share your concerns. Please don't get me wrong: if something bothers you, you're always itching to do something immediately. Me, well, I'm trying to look for deeper causes and long term solutions.”
”Me too, Liona. But long term solutions need great changes like breaking down the trade barriers, sharing wealth and knowledge with the Third World. Most westerners are not willing to do that.”
”I agree. And it had me stumped. Until, one night, I suddenly saw a different way.”
III: Morning, somewhere in Zambia.
Meanwhilst, Liona's cla.s.s is getting weirder and weirder. The kids have mounted small mirrors in the cla.s.sroom in such a way that all the BIKOs have contact with each other through their infrared gates. So much is happening at the same time that in the ensuing pandemonium it is unclear who is teaching whom. But one thing's for sure: there's a whole lotta interaction goin' on.
The worn out blackboard is left in a corner, abandoned. The whole shabby environment of the cla.s.sroom seems forgotten; Liona and the kids are happily and actively living in a small bubble of their own.
It's a fragile sh.e.l.l, though, pierced by reality time and again. Like now, as Timmy comes back from lunch with his parents.
”Miiiiiissss, Dad won't listen to meeeee!” he says with tears rolling down his cheeks.
Liona picks him up, cuddles him, and kisses his forehead. ”Shush, Timmy, easy-peasy.” As I watch her hugging this hurt child I suddenly see the mother instead of the seductress, and I think crazy thoughts of marriage. She puts him down after he's calmed, and asks what's up.
”I tried to tell him he was doing it wrong, the way he's doing the farming--”
”Uh-oh,” Liona tries to interrupt.
”--but he says that it is the only way to do it. Grandpa taught him, and Grandpa's dad taught Grandpa, and--”
”Uh-oh!”
”--whilst we found out a much better way with our long term simulation programs, but he just--”
”AHEM!” Liona's loud throat-clearing finally breaks through Timmy's rant.
”Yes, Miss?”
”Has it not occurred to you, Timmy, that you're going just a little bit too fast for your poor old dad?”
”He's not old! And not dumb. Just so...stubborn.”
”Like you, you mean?”
Timmy tries his best pout, but draws his out-thrust lower lip back in when the rest of the cla.s.s begins to laugh. His semi-hurt look only lasts a fleeting moment as he receives friendly pokes from his mates and a fond stroke through his thick hair from Liona. A spark of defiance remains, though.
”But what good is all this running best-choice scenarios when we don't use them?”
”You're right, Timmy,” Liona says, ”but first people need to be convinced. And often that is the most difficult part of the job.”
”Oh. But how?”
”Well, I may have a little idea. Let's throw it into the group.”
I can't follow what happens next as my work is calling me. In the evening, however, I try to get more information straight from the horse's mouth. In our typically untypical way, she wants to have s.e.x whilst I just want to talk. Fortunately, she indulges me for the moment.
”What's with this simulation program, this long-term scenario thing?”
”Well, that's a thing our BIKOs do extremely well.”
”What?”
”Because they're quantum computers: biological quantum computers--”
”Like the experimental set-up you were working on back in Holland? But I thought your team was the first to achieve quantum computing, and now you tell me those BIKOs can do it, too?”
”Yes. BIQCO is my acronym for biological quantum computer. And quantum computers are very apt at ma.s.sive parallel calculations.”
”So?”
”You feed them all the known parameters of an existing situation. Then you apply several choices for changing that situation. Then the BIKOs compute a near-infinite number of likely scenarios and give you a statistical breakdown of the most probable outcomes.”
”A future predictor? A quantum crystal ball?”
”Sort of. It gives you a good projection as to which solutions are most likely to work best in certain situations.”
”Like a hugely advanced version of SimCity. And what about the software you put in the BIKOs: I've never seen such interactive programs. Where did you get those?”
”Those are not dead software programs, darling. They're AIs.”
b): Very early morning, four months ago, somewhere in The Netherlands.