in serial, output calculations. For most of the time, the majority of the CPUs are wasted resources. Occasionally we are clever and we find ways to cross branch information between CPUs but most attempts at collective cognition send a routine into a tailspin of permutations from which the only recovery is Ctrl-Alt-Del.”
There was genuine laughter.
“In addition, central algorithm interpretation is a slow and clumsy serial process, and serves to answer two main questions: to either launch the next iteration or wait for a programmer's input. There is so much pre-planning by the programmer that the notion of parallel computing seems all contrived.”
There was restlessness in the audience as questions were being formulated.
“Game progression by collective intelligence is an analogue to parallel processing CPUs—each player is functionally unique, is given a set of instructions to interpret and analyze, and then submits a solution. Game development is in the hands and minds of the programmers—the central algorithm, so to speak, who interpret which vector on which to launch the subsequent operation.”
It seemed too clinical. A few hands started to show but Jankowiak overlooked them.
“Proper programming develop leads to convergence and the more advanced the programming, the greater the frequency that game responses are tested in real time by the central algorithm. At maturity, the project moves together en masse with only periodic human steerage.”
“What's the advantage of making it a game?” Someone asked.
“It's fun and challenging. Each player brings his or her own specialization—a random assemblage unlimited by convention or training—which may be more diverse than the repeating biological components of the siphonophore. A group tackles a problem from well outside the proverbial box.”
“Aren't most wrong?” Someone rudely blurted.
Jankowiak was nonplussed. “Small victories aren't wrong. In evolution, the success of a random mutation is continued survival. In a game, it's improvement of the central design.” He put up his hand to hold off further questions. “I'll take further questions in just a few minutes,” he offered.
With reluctance, raised hands were withdrawn.
“I repeat, key contributions can be made, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps through luck, or perhaps by harnessing latent talent—by any member of the group. Some contributions are purely aesthetic—and we are astounded to find that contributions of symmetry and beauty sometimes further the project. We are reminded that Nature is not limited to solutions of brute force functionality. It's led us to a startling observation, that without the scientifically untrained artist the progress of the game is slowed.”
The audience of scientists and engineers murmured in apprehension. Was Jankowiak's research rendering their field as obsolete? Hands raised.
“Yes,” Jankowiak selected a question.
“Doesn't that diminish the role of the scientist?”
“Hardly. It requires enhanced skills to guide a project. The researcher must cleave what is relevant from what is spurious to aim the vector of further discovery.”
“Have you ever had a project 'get away' on you?” a grad student asked the indulgent question that was on everyone's mind.
“What do you mean, 'get away' from us?” Jankowiak refused to interpret a loaded question.
The student stammered, “I...I...I meant, has a game ever blown up...No, no...has a game ever refused t-...t-...to behave?”
Jankowiak threw the struggling student a bone. “It's software, not behavior. Game parameters evolve as the limits are better understood. We do not comprehensively predict them at launch.”
“What would happen if you didn't?” The question was rephrased by another grad student who did not convey the sinister undertone.
Dr. Jankowiak looked confused and dismayed. “I don't follow.”
“Could it get away from you?”
Jankowiak turned to address the questioner. “A game is bounded by programming. It cannot explore a computational space except where its first been directed. It's not artificially intelligent. As with any coded computation, if the bounds aren't properly set, the computational power of the processor is exhausted, or the available memory is consumed and the software fails. It crashes.”
There was silence in the audience. A moment of sympathy for both the speaker and the doubters.
“Where do you go from here?” The host had returned on stage.
“Remember my opening statement?” Jankowiak's eyes twinkled. “We seek to prolong life.”
Year 10
Hezekiah's Folly
“Could you tell me where to find Dr. Jankowiak's office?” A man demanded to no one in particular. He was dressed in an expensive three-piece business suit and loudly made his query while a throng of students hurriedly traversed a nondescript corridor between classes.
With regret, Ryan broke from his hallway conversation with a flirtatious coed to address the stranger.
“Who are you?” He asked. More regrettably the coed slipped away.
“Bill Shapner.” He extended his arm. “From GenCorp Pharma.”
Ryan suppressed a frown. There was something about Shapner he found distasteful.
“Like the Star Trek actor?” He needled.
“Shapner—with a 'p'.” The man corrected with disdain while he handed Ryan a card. Shapner's name and rank, Senior R&D Executive, was embossed in gold letters on the vainly thick card stock. Alongside, with no less humility, was the company logo for GenCorp Pharmaceuticals and its motto.
A Passion for all Humanity.
“Do you have an appointment?” Ryan was in his third year of graduate study under Jankowiak's tutelage and understood well his adviser's idiosyncrasies—including Jankowiak's tendency to meet with anyone at any time. Because that proclivity contrasted with his own more cautious nature, Ryan compelled himself to provide a buffer of protection.
“I'm to meet with him within the hour.” Shapner reached out and grasped Ryan by the elbow. “My flight was early and I wanted to touch base before the scheduled meeting.”
Trying to get a leg up on the competition. Ryan nearly laughed out loud.
Jankowiak had been entertaining Big Pharma representatives throughout the week. He had been unavailable, almost reclusive, shuttling with suits like the tedious Shapner from office to conference rooms to luncheons at the university's private club. His students had been neglected.
By mid-week Jankowiak's attire was disheveled and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. His last email to Ryan had been time-stamped past midnight, the second-to-last sent at six AM the previous day. The text was cursory and addressed his concern with blunt efficiency. Ryan's request for face time had been ignored and a personnel issue within the research group would be deferred to an unscheduled group meeting.
As Shapner attempted to squeeze him into submission, Ryan wondered if Jankowiak had decided to retire from academia. Or perhaps his adviser sought to head a research division in industry. Ryan stopped speculating: it made more sense that Jankowiak was seeking collaboration projects than a new occupation.
Against his reservations, he offered to escort Shapner to Jankowiak's office rather than send him to the department's admin. He led Shapner through the corridors searching for a reason to stop the meeting. Nothing immediate came to mind.
Ryan knocked at the door.
“Come in,” came Jankowiak's voice.
Having anticipated a blind invitation Shapner pushed past Ryan.
“Bill Shapner,” he announced with a fanfare of self-confidence.
“Ah, yes, from GenCorp.” Jankowiak was nonplussed. “Do come in.”
Ryan turned to leave.
“You too, Ryan,” Jankowiak invited. “You will want to hear what Mr. Shapner has to say.”
Hardly, thought Ryan but he did not argue. He remained at the door, straddling the threshold with one leg inside the room and the other firmly planted in the hallway.
“You have been introduced to Ryan?
” Jankowiak looked at Shapner with surprise.
“I had the pleasure of meeting him on my way over,” Shapner answered. He turned to address Ryan directly. “Of course, GenCorp is familiar with your work,” he said with a smile devoid of warmth.
They've read my papers? It was Ryan's turn to be astonished—if only for a moment. But not you. He fought the urge to rebel and simply said, “Thank you,” not quite sure how to respond without his disrespect showing through.
Showing appreciation was the wrong thing to do and for his humility Ryan was dismissed.
Shapner's smile faded and he returned his attention to Jankowiak. “GenCorp would like to hear about the capabilities of your program.”
“Of course, that's why you're here.” Jankowiak smiled. “As I'm sure you're aware, we've had tremendous success with predicting the chemistry that has proven to stop the AIDS virus.”
Shapner interrupted, “That was remarkable but it is licensed to the public domain. The generics are scrambling to take it to market.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed Jankowiak's old news. “My company is interested in exclusivity. We don't pursue the after-market. Our investors...”
“Yes, of course.” Jankowiak's eyes narrowed. After a week of meetings he'd become too aware of the constraints of proprietary-driven business models and Shapner had proven to be the most forthright of the venture capitalists. Jankowiak hadn't decided if this made GenCorp more trustworthy or more dangerous. Probably both, he concluded. He reassembled his next pitch with care.
Shapner waited for Jankowiak to speak.
While the researcher