Mark Scott leafed through the documents while John Baker checked the latest values of the simulation.
“He will be thrilled,” said John, without taking his eyes off the screen.
“That’s the problem,” Mark replied. “Enthusiasm makes you careless.”
John looked up. "You don't trust him?"
Mark shrugged. "I don't trust anyone who talks too loudly about the future. The future is unpredictable. As an engineer, he should know that."
"He's not an engineer. He's the CEO."
"Exactly." Mark closed the documents. "And CEOs believe in miracles. Engineers believe in circuit diagrams."
Before John could answer, the door opened.
Thomas Mertens entered. He seemed calm, almost serene, but his eyes flashed – the adrenaline of the impending test. Without a word, he put on the VR headset.
The Gulf of Naples lay below him like a blue sheet, shattered into a thousand sparks by the sun. He spread his arms – and flew.
It wasn't an illusion. It was more than an illusion. The warmth of the west wind on his skin, the salt on his lips, the shadows of the clouds over the Phlegraean fields – all of it felt like a memory. And yet he had never been to Naples.
"Reduce speed," a voice in his ear said. It was the simulation itself reminding him that this flight, too, had rules.
He obeyed. He hovered above the port of Pompeii, saw the ships, the pack animals in the streets, the women standing on the balconies hanging laundry in the wind. Everything breathed. Everything was alive.
"Stop."
The water beneath him froze. The sounds ceased. He said, "Bye."
Darkness. Then the message: “Thank you for visiting Pompeii Archaeological Park.”
He took off the cyber glasses.
Mark Scott and John Baker looked at him. They smiled, but their eyes were watchful—especially Mark's. The brief conversation from earlier stood invisibly between them. They wanted his judgment.
"The farewell music is still missing," said Mertens. He forced himself not to sound like a schoolboy. But it was difficult. The product was good. Better than good.
Mark cleared his throat. "The funding from the EU framework program runs for another twelve months. The partners are expecting a workshop."
“The partners,” Mertens repeated. He stood up and went to the window. Outside, Milan glowed – city of algorithms, city of the future. “Rossi and Phillips.”
“Martina Rossi, archaeologist. Inexperienced, but solid,” said John. “Michael Phillips, Jesuit, is doing his PhD on dialogue grammars. He developed the model by which our agents communicate.”
"A Jesuit?" Mertens turned around. "Does he really believe in God?"
Mark shrugged. “He believes in something. But he’s clever. And he has access to the best linguistic data – the Gregorian University has archives we can only dream of.”
Mertens nodded slowly. He didn't like Jesuits. Too clever, too unpredictable, too many loyalties. But he needed them.
“Invite them both to Milan,” he said. “No online workshops. I want them here where we can see them. And one more thing—”
He looked at Mark and John. Intensely. Almost kindly.
"They mustn't learn anything about the quantum interface. Nothing about ARS. They think they're testing a simulation. They don't know that we're creating something that can think. And that's how it's going to stay."
Mark and John nodded. But Mark held the gaze perhaps a second longer than necessary. He was thinking about circuit diagrams. He was thinking about miracles. And he wondered if both had ever worked out well together.
Mertens turned back to the window. The lights of Milan flickered. He thought of the Omega Point – of Teilhard de Chardin, the Jesuit who had believed that evolution was heading towards a goal in which mind and matter would become one.
Perhaps, Mertens thought, the old priest was right. Perhaps we are closer to that point than he ever dared to dream.
And maybe I will be the one to open the door.
He smiled. Then he went back to his desk to write the next email.