The ServiceGroup

This work is copyright of Charles E. Weindorf  (1991) and may not be
posted to other electronic forums or media, or placed in print without
                the written permission of the author.
                                  
                                  
Problem log entry, April 12, 2040.  Entry by Mark Davis.
     Although it's unusual for an automator to make an entry in the
ServiceGroup log, the managers thought that this problem and it's
resolution should be documented in detail.  Since I was involved from the
first hours of the crisis and followed through until the end, I can tell
the complete story.
     For a summary, if you already know the details of the problem,
there were several contributing factors.  The PIM (Personal Integration
Module) was suspect at first, but it only malfunctioned due to the
severity of the real problem.  Fraud was ruled out immediately, and the
use of the PIM by Home Office employees was correct.  Still, the
individuals using PIM became part of the problem unknowingly.  The
catalyst that snowballed the contributing factors was the Rakshasa Virus,
now called the Davis Variant in technical circles.  I'll refer to it here
as Rakshasa.
     Once we overcame the virus, more controls were put into place to
limit certain features of the PIM for the ServiceGroup.  I assure you,
this will not affect service to the agencies or policyholders.  We only
improved our own security to prevent another such infection.
     This problem is closed as of April 12, 2040, but it's safe to say
that we won't forget this one.
                   *               *               *
     It had been a slow day for the ServiceGroup.  It only took 10
minutes to review critical portions of the PIM logs and suggest
corrections to the nagging computer problems.   Corrupt software at one
agency.  Hardware failing on a policyholder's PC.  Simple stuff for our
Home Office ServiceGroup technicians to repair.
     "Can you stay a minute, Mark?" Ginny, the senior ServiceGroup tech
stopped me as I started to stand.  In a glance, I saw she was concerned
about something, and I checked the holographic time foil on the thumbnail
of my left hand.  The projected red numbers, larger than the foil itself,
showed me that I had time before my next meeting.
     "Sure," I sat back down heavily in the deep cushions of the chair. 
As I looked at her, I saw her small hands twist together in a worried
wring and her eyebrows draw down slightly.  Add to that her tightly
pressed lips and hesitant speech, and I knew that she wasn't going to
give me another technical problem.  Amazing how a personal problem could
make a 30-year-old seem far older.
     "I've heard some rumors, Mark," she started by turning her eyes
away and folding her memory pad and stylus.  "It's about PIM Intuitive."
     I ran my fingers over a part of my scalp that used to have hair: I
never did get rid of that habit.  It's a stalling tactic that I use when
I want to delay that inevitable question.  This question, one that an
automator faces every week, ranks right up there with my wife's no-win
question: "If I die will you get married again?"
     "Dave and Cindy have tried the Beta Test version, and PIM Intuitive
has fixed every problem without help from us," Ginny's hands were back
together, and her brown eyes were looking through me accusingly.  "Is PIM
Intuitive going to run the ServiceGroup without us?  Are we going to lose
our jobs?"
     There it was!  Will automation make me obsolete?  Will change take
away my job?  I was doing a good job, so why try to make things better? 
There are few personal questions that an automator must face, but these
are vital.  And, younger groups of people are asking this every year.  It
started in the Industrial Revolution with machines and assembly lines. 
The late 1900s saw computers and rudimentary robots.  Expert Systems
perfected logical choices.  Now Intuitive Software was knocking on the
door.  Free mankind from drudgery first.  Repetitive tasks next. 
Analysis of facts most recently.  Intuition was a solely human province,
but no longer.
     We survived the dawn of time, predators, plagues, wars, and
pollutants with assorted natural disasters between.  Yet, when our own
devices threaten to push us out of our niche, it's a different matter. 
The predators of our past didn't evolve to dominate the planet.  Now, a
functional subculture of computers and software improves to a new
evolutionary level every five years.  To be honest, I have this very
ghost of worry in my own mind.  In the future, I wonder if people will
continue to adapt to technology and add to the skills that machines don't
have.  I didn't know this now, but the problem that lurked a few hours
into the future would answer this question.
     "Ginny," I took a second to straighten my blue sweater and get more
comfortable, "There's no plan to eliminate the ServiceGroup.  You have to
look at the intent of automation.  The intent isn't to eliminate people,
it's to free people to do more human tasks.  Intuitive Software has been
made to magnify human intuition when searching for problems.  There's no
substitute for an agent or policyholder having a person to talk to."
     "This software puts ideas into your head before you think of them!"
her eyes flared with a bit of anger.  "I know my job, and I don't need
common sense help from your software.  I would have come up with the
right answer a split-second later!"
     I looked at her curly, dark-red hair and saw the telltale
indentation from the PIM-I headband.  Ginny must have been using PIM-I
right before this meeting.  The headband that was the PIM-I interface did
nasty things to fancy hair.
     "Alright," I leaned forward to put both elbows on the table, and I
spoke more softly.  "Let's look at our company's history and sum it up in
one word: service."
     "Go ahead," she gave me a quick nod.
     "In order to serve our policyholders and support our agencies, we
have spent the last 80 years improving automated systems," I decided it
would take a while to put Ginny at ease and started at the beginning. 
"The big push for automation started in the 1960s and the focus was to
use computers to store master files and rate our largest lines of
business.  That freed up people from having to rate and type policies by
hand!  Imagine the payback in productivity when those systems were
introduced."
     She nodded again.
     "The 70's ushered in on-line systems to give immediate access to
the database," I rushed ahead while she was willing to let me talk.  "We
could see policies on our major lines without running to get paper files. 
There was an enormous paper and microfilm filing system put in place to
hold manual lines and historical files.  Instead of filing and
retrieving, the personal lines departments could switch people to more
direct support roles for policyholders and agents."
     "Large commercial accounts were still kept solely on paper?" her
eyes widened a bit and lost some of their worried edge.
     "That's right," I gave her a look at my wrinkled smile.  "Imagine a
change to a policy coming in the same time as a claim.  Two different
departments would need to look at that paper file to verify coverage."
     "The 80s," I was glad to hear her dry laugh as I moved on, "were
used to integrate policies into a standard system.  All major lines of
business were automated for storage and access on-line.  The paper and
microfilm files were partially eliminated by a historical on-line print
image.  More people were taken from jobs like filing, fetching and typing
and moved to support of agents and policyholders."
     "I think I see where you're heading," Ginny relaxed slightly, "but
you'll have a tough time convincing me."
     "The 90's saw distributed systems," I accepted the challenge and
forged ahead.  "Agencies were sent all policies for personal computers
and given an on-line rating and application system.  That evolved into a
marketing and agency management tool that allowed agents to utilize over
50% of their time in sales and service to policyholders.  Less people
were required for data entry and changes to the database here.  More
people were moved to support the agent's use of this system.  All done
without one layoff, because automation fed the personal service areas of
the company."
     "Things kept accelerating in automation, so I'll keep it short,"
she looked like her patience was wearing thin.  "Around 2000, we
redesigned our mainframe systems to interact with the distributed
systems.  Instead of batch processing to produce a policy, changes and
applications appeared in both systems simultaneously.  Documents like
applications and changed declarations printed on agent's systems and
saved us a mint in postage and packaging.  Less people to work Home
Office machinery and haul paper and more to support the agent's office
operations."
     "2010 through 2030 was a blur for me," I smiled at the tough
projects and deadlines that I had been part of.  "We created the system
that integrated our database, the agent's database and the individual
policyholder's home computer system.  Once an agent made an initial sale
of a personal policy, our software was delivered with the policy.  This
package gave the insured an easy way to change their coverage to match
their needs without needing to contact their agent.  With the expert
system built in to ask the right questions for underwriting purposes, an
insured could make their own endorsements.  The agent's system was
immediately updated and notified so that the change could be approved or
bound.  And, the insured's system would follow up with suggestions to
purchase other lines of business, and the agent would still get full
commission.  Again, the agent needed less time for paper shuffling and
support and more time to sell to new prospects.  The staff in an agent's
office had more time to advise policyholders on the right coverage and
limits instead of filing, mailing and distributing paper."
     "And this last phase you know well," I saw Ginny nod as I
continued.  "First, we integrated our insured's software with all bank
and retail sales databases.  Anytime a purchase was made, all related
areas of their insurance policies were automatically updated.  Trade in
one car and buy another?  Our PC system detected the sale and changed the
auto policy before the insured could get out of the dealer's lot.  Buy a
new sofa?  The personal property amount on the homeowner's policy jumped
up that exact amount.  Do you realize how accurate our claims settlements
are now?  All of these repetitive and inexact functions are now
automated, but we still have over 6,000 employees.  Yet, we support over
8 million policyholders and have 22 million policies in force!  The
employee to policy ratio is far lower now.  We are more productive in
other areas."
     "And what are those areas?" I wanted to finish before she started
to speak.  "Any question a policyholder has, they call here.  They don't
want to speak directly to PIM-I, they want a person to tell them that
we'll fix their problem.  That's where automation stops in this very
personal business.  A machine won't calm an angry agent.  A machine won't
put a confused policyholder at ease.  PIM-I will make suggestions on how
to proceed technically, but it can't tell you how to smile and be
cheerful.  That's been the goal of automation all along: get our best
people out of managing the office and into the insurance service.  The
personal skills are even more vital today."
     "Alright, Mark," Ginny stood suddenly.  "I'll take your word for
it.  But could you get PIM-I to quit being so.... helpful.  Let it give
me a chance to make the right decision and have it tell me when I'm
wrong."
     "I'll look into that," I promised as I stood and heard my 50-year-
old knees creak from the effort.  "That's why it's still in Beta Test."
     Less than three hours later, Beta Test nearly bit my arm off.
              *          CONTINUED NEXT ISSUE          *

                       The ServiceGroup, Part II

     In the first chapter, Mark Davis, a computer automator, and Ginny,
a senior ServiceGroup technician, discuss a new computer package PIM-I
(Personal Integration Module - Intuitive).  This package has the ability
to place ideas into the mind of the user.  Ginny fears that if the
software can predict the correct answer faster than a human technician,
the human technician will no longer be useful.  Mark tells her that PIM-I
is designed to find the technical answers while the human user is the
person to person interface with the agent and policyholder.  Mark tells
her there is no way to replace the human ServiceGroup team with PIM-I.

[Note to management from Mark Davis]
     In retrospect, the PIM-I module was too large a jump into the
future.  Once engineers fitted the PIM-I projector to read and write to
the short-term memory in the human brain, the software to drive it fell
into place quickly.  Still, a two-year-old electronic technology matched
to a biochemical unit that is ages old had one distinct problem.  PIM-I
and the brain were far too alike.  The two systems couldn't tell when the
other was having trouble.  Far worse, PIM-I never accounted for the human
imagination.  Add to that, PIM-I's Advanced Virtual Reality module
created fictional events that confused the human user.  This project will
have to be shelved until there is a more disciplined PIM-I software
version.  Either that, or wait ten thousand more years for the human
brain to naturally evolve.

     "Welcome to the noon time talk," I looked over the sparsely-filled
auditorium that held 90 employees.  Most were eating lunch and listening
with passing interest, but one group, the ServiceGroup contingent, was
different.  Twenty of them, all who were able to get this particular
lunch hour off, filled the first three rows of the auditorium and watched
my every move with nervous glances.  I must say, I didn't blame them.
     "This is the 586th talk in the series," I continued, eying the
potentially hostile front rows.  "The subject today is PIM-I, or  the
Personal Integration Module - Intuitive.  Let's start with a simple
definition.  PIM-I reads your thoughts and places answers back into your
mind to form a seamless, lightning-fast technical reference.  You think
about the problem and if PIM-I knows the answer, PIM-I makes a mental
suggestion."
     A hand went up in the back of the room, and I pointed in that
direction.
     "How do the messages go back and forth between the brain and PIM-
I?"
     "A good place to start," I clapped my hands together and walked in
front of the podium.  "The device that holds the interface hardware is
this headband."
     I took the headband from the table next to the podium and held it
aloft.  The band was a black, metallic knit of fabric with a quarter-
sized lump of black components near the front seam.  To demonstrate it's
fit, I placed the band over my head, and it covered all of my remaining
hair.  Since the band was only two inches wide, my shiny scalp was
clearly visible above the device, and a wave of laughs rippled through
the crowd.  Not a chuckle from the first three rows, though.  Tough
audience if slapstick didn't work.
     "Although this band looks better than some of the clothes my kids
wear to school," I paused to get a polite laugh or two, "this is the
bulkier test version.  It's the only one that fits my odd-sized head. 
The ServiceGroup people will tell you that the newer version is made of a
smaller, decorative pattern."
     "Now, to get to the original question," I clicked a button on the
table's projector control to bring a five-foot holographic image to life. 
The picture showed a human brain (mine by the way) surrounded by
thousands of flickering lights.  "The PIM-I headband is filled with micro
pulse-projectors, represented by the lights in this picture.  These serve
a dual function of sending and receiving tiny electrical pulses that
match your brain's own power output.  Those pulses are all interpreted by
microcomputer and fed into the PIM-I knowledge base.  The answers from
PIM-I are projected back into the brain."
     I paused for two reasons.  First, some faces showed total
confusion.  Second, the first three rows gave me looks of terror.  With
PIM-I, I knew I wouldn't have to keep talking for hours on end: there
would be lots of questions and possibly a lynching by the end of the
talk.
     "That thing shoots electrical pulses into your brain?" I picked out
that question from the sudden rush of words within the auditorium. 
Calmly, I unbuttoned my sweater to let some of the sudden heat rush away
from my body.
     "The PIM-I headband is matched directly to the user's thought
pattern," I spoke slowly and repeated the line as the noise died down. 
"PIM-I reads your thoughts without any sensation at all.  When an idea is
placed in the mind, PIM-I identifies itself and projects the idea into
your short-term memory."
     Dead silence.
     "Let me run through a simple demo," I poked a few buttons on the
PIM-I keyboard to start up the initialization procedure.  "The first time
you wear the headband, PIM-I must find where in my brain the short-term
memory is 'hot'.  Let me run this demo before you start asking a lot of
questions."
     I hit another button, and a second hologram jumped to life next to
the one of my brain.  The new image was a red square, one cubic meter in
diameter.
     "I will concentrate in the red block," I said, speaking more slowly
as I did concentrate.  "Watch the hologram of my brain while PIM-I
changes the colors of the cube."
     As I stared at the block, the colors changed rapidly from red to
green to yellow to blue to white to purple and back to red.  I heard a
gasp from the collective voice behind me as the brain hologram showed
small blurs of light dance beneath the cerebral cortex.
     "What you saw was my brain's reaction to different colors," I
explained after the test was completed.  "With each color, my short-term
memory showed a slight change in the number and array of memory cells
that were active.  PIM-I now knows the exact location of my short-term
memory and how I perceive colors.  PIM-I just looked for a change in my
brain's synapse pulses to match the change in the colors."
     "But the hologram of the brain didn't show a red cube, it just
showed a blur of electrical charges," another voice from the back.
     "That's how we all perceive things," I started the tough
explanation.  "All memories are a combination of firing axons and
receiving dendrites.  When thoughts are brought forth into your short-
term memory, those active brain cells form a sensation within your mind. 
That sensation matches some real event of your past.  This is a one-to-
one correlation.  Each memory is a specific mental sensation.  When I
want to remember the color red, that combination of cells is going to
fire in my short-term memory.  Although, in my mind it look like red,
it's only the sensation of red's memory that is there.  I'm not really
looking at red now."
     "And that's where your short-term memory is located?" another hand
pointed at the lit area of my brain's hologram.
     "Yes," I put my arm through my imaginary forehead and touched the
glimmering area.  "This clump of cells beneath the cerebral cortex and
two inches behind the back of my eyeballs is where my short-term memory,
or mental scratchpad, is located."
     "Then what's the rest of our brain for?" one of the worried faces
in the first row finally spoke.  "How come you only use that area of the
brain?"
     "Big question, big answer," I took a deep breath.  "The brain is an
amazing collection of integrated tools.  The short-term memory is only a
small part where we can focus our mental attention.  You are familiar
with other functions of the brain, such as the motor areas in the outer-
middle portion of the cortex; the visual area in the back; the memory and
thinking machinery in the frontal lobes; the environmental controls for
temperature circulation and respiration in the hypothalamus, and the
coordinator between the two sides of the brain, the cerebellum.  For PIM-
I to keep track of all of these areas at once would be an automation
project for the next hundred years.  PIM-I only looks at what you are
thinking about right now, in the short-term memory."
     "You say that all of our memories are sensations," a voice from the
back.  "At the risk of sounding really dumb, I don't feel these
sensations when I think."
     That got a bigger laugh than I could ever hope for, so I could let
a punch line slide by.
     "I understand what you're asking," I had to laugh myself.  "I think
you do have these sensations, but they aren't like the physical
sensations that our eyes, ears and skin can produce.  Let me give you an
example.  Has anyone ever heard the expression 'The idea hit me right
between the eyes?'"
     A few hands went up, and I saw several imaginary light bulbs go on
above those heads.
     "When an idea bursts into your short term memory," I saw some more
nods as I spoke, "you can get a very strong sensation of thought.  How
about 'If I wait, the idea will come to me?'  Your mind files things in a
reference library that is cross matched like the world's most complex
relational database.  You can wish to remember a name, yet the sensation
of that memory doesn't come back till later.  You can feel that lost
memory floating back in the recesses of your mind, but your mind's eye
doesn't see it yet.  When it first 'comes to mind,' the sensation is very
real."
     "Won't PIM-I's messages confuse your thoughts?" the young man at
the end of the first row asked.
     "The PIM-I won't place a suggestion in your short-term memory until
two conditions are met," I held up the right number of fingers and paced
over to his side of the auditorium.  "First, PIM-I monitors your thoughts
and looks for pertinent questions.  If it finds a pertinent question, it
will prepare the answer and wait.  Once the short term memory clears,
this signals PIM-I to place it's answer into your mind.  That's the
intuitive part: the answer is prepared based on the context of your
current line of thought."
     "Can you show me an example?" he followed up.
     "Sure," I paused a moment to command PIM-I.  A wisp of dancing
light appeared in the hologram of my brain.  "I just asked for PIM-I to
bring the red image into my memory.  Take this remote," I tossed it to
him, "and select a color without me seeing it."
     He pushed the buttons and looked at the hologram to see if there
was a change in the thought patterns.  He frowned when the color-pattern
didn't appear.
     "I'm thinking about what I will have for lunch," I told him as I
continued to pace.  "PIM-I won't place your suggested color in my mind
because it knows I'm busy.  Now, I'll clear my mind, and the color will
appear."
     I stopped pacing, and the image of an orange cube danced in my
mind's eye.  "Orange is the color.  But I was thinking of lunch, so PIM-I
spent the time when I was pacing to match the color orange to my thoughts
of food.  PIM-I just told me that an orange in the cafeteria costs $2.10
while the bottled juice is $3.00.  I didn't prompt for those answers, it
used your choice and my thoughts to begin the search for answers."
     "Will PIM-I wreck my older memories?" one of the young ladies from
the ServiceGroup spoke up.
     "Well, since you're not old enough to have a lot of memories, you
should be OK," I tried the humor bit and got the reaction you might
expect from statues.  I scrambled away from the dead joke as fast as
possible.  "Actually, PIM-I won't send messages to any other area of your
brain.  Only the short-term memory can accept these transmissions."
     "Why?" the guy in the back had simple, terrible questions.
     "In the old days of computers," I reached back in history to find
an apt analogy, "software could only talk to the hardware through a
standard set of interfaces.  If the software updated memory or storage
directly, it could destroy other programs or data that were attempting to
use the same area.  When a standard interface was used by all software,
memory and storage were handed out without conflict.  Short-term memory
is your brain's standard interface.  If PIM-I attempted to access other
areas of memory directly, it would run into real and imaginary thoughts,
real memory and the stuff of nightmares.  Conscious and Subconscious. 
All too complicated for PIM-I and too delicate to be tampered with.  Your
brain can digest thoughts in short-term memory just fine."
     "What right do you have to look into our thoughts?" Ron, the big
ServiceGroup technician in the second row, growled at me.
     I paced across the low stage to get a better look at Ron.  Damn
good question.  "The legal department has written a contract for this
purpose.  If you sign, PIM-I must not divulge your inner thoughts to
anyone.  Only your answers to the person you are talking to and the PIM-I
suggestions are kept in the running log.  Your thoughts and thought
processes remain private.  PIM-I reads the thoughts, assembles answers
and then discards your personal sections.  Believe me, I signed that
contract as soon as PIM-I got in the door.  My manager doesn't need to
know what I think."
     Ron frowned deeply enough to crack his lower jaw, but he didn't
follow up.
     "Time's up," I glanced at the dancing hologram above my left thumb. 
"Thanks for coming, and don't forget next month's talk about the new
version of PAC II."
              *          CONTINUED NEXT ISSUE          *
[Next, we look at PIM-I in Beta Test.]

                      The ServiceGroup, Part III

     In the last chapter, automator Mark Davis presented PIM-I (Personal
Integration Module - Intuitive) in a noon time talk.  He demonstrated how
PIM-I can project mental images into the short-term memory of the brain. 
Mark also showed PIM-I's ability to anticipate answers using a
progression of thoughts.  The ServiceGroup workers, who will be using
PIM-I to support agency and policyholder computer systems, are nervous
about the new technology.  The year is 2040.

     Ginny, the senior ServiceGroup technician, led Ron into the
conference room.  I noticed that Ginny's cheeks were reddened slightly,
and Ron's scowl showed who her anger had been directed at.  Without
glancing at me, the five-foot girl pulled a chair away from the table and
sat down.
     "You wanted the toughest one to convince, Mark," Ginny's thumb
pointed to Ron.  "If you can get him to like PIM-I, you should be selling
insurance, not supporting it."
     I nodded to Ginny and looked up at the young, lanky man.  He was a
couple of inches over six foot and, as I remembered from past dealings,
Ron was stubborn as a badger.  Although his job involved high-tech
equipment, he was a curious combination of modern conflicts.  Ron liked
the personal part of support in the ServiceGroup, yet he hated the new
technology that would let him use his personal skills more often.  While
being intelligent, he clung to older procedures and refused to learn or
keep an open mind.  I glanced at the mechanical, analog watch on his
wrist; it  stressed his devotion to the past.  Ginny didn't do me any
favors in bringing me this guy.
     "Before we get started," I straightened my tie and managed a decent
smile in the face of Ron's stony expression, "do you have any questions?"
     "Do I get a cigarette and blindfold?" Ron eyed the ServiceGroup
workstation that I had installed in the conference room.  "Or are you
just going to let that thing trample my mind without following protocol?"
     My smile gave up as I backtracked and decided the frontal assault
wouldn't work.  I had to bait Ron and get him to take stock in PIM-I.
     "What's your favorite period in history?" I rode to the flank and
swept back unexpectedly.
     "I...." Ron's scowl gave way to a raised eyebrow and a crack in his
resolve.
     "Ron is a military nut," Ginny smiled at Ron's sudden silence.  "He
can tell you everything about America's air power."
     "Ah," I knew how to get him now.  "Ron, what if I gave you the
opportunity to fly any US fighter plane in history?  The Mustang?  The
Lightning?  The Sabre?  The Eagle?  The Phoenix?  The Spectre?"
     "There's no way you can promise me that," Ron took a step back
defensively.
     "Let me explain," my smile was back.  "What do you know about
Virtual Reality?"
     "Virtually nothing," Ron stayed back on his heels, trying to
marshal his frown.
     "I'll tell you about its development," I pulled up a chair next to
Ginny's and was surprised to see Ron take a seat at the workstation. 
"Virtual Reality sought to create a computer-controlled, entirely
artificial environment.  The goal was to manipulate human senses with
specially-designed hardware that could be driven by exotic software
packages.  Multimedia was a crude forerunner of Virtual Reality. 
Multimedia was an integration of computer graphics, live or recorded
video and digital sound.  Combining these features brought together the
previously diverse technologies of video and sound in a digital format. 
And, being computer driven, the resources could be used interactively in
software packages for presentations, education and simulations."
     "The next step was to integrate more senses, and this is where
Virtual Reality begins to come to life.  Special chambers were designed
to hold one person and shut them off from the outside world.  These
chambers contained specially constructed floors of flexible metal mail. 
The floor could be tilted, contoured and rotated to simulate uneven,
rolling ground.  The person in the chamber wore a special suit of
sensors, conductors and pulse-motors.  With the skin covered in this
flexible array of technology, the person donned a complicated helmet and
goggles."
     "Why would anyone need to create an artificial environment like
that?" Ron leaned forward and seemed to lose some of his anger.
     "The designers wanted to create a more complete and seamless
integration between a human and a computer simulation," I leaned back and
relaxed.  "The computer could be used to recreate complex situations over
and over again.  Meanwhile, even if the computer simulation seemed
dangerous to the user, the person stayed safe."
     "You mean like training fire fighters?" Ginny lifted a finger as
the idea took root.  "They could walk through a simulated fire over and
over again, but never be hurt."
     "Exactly.  Now, where was I?" I reflected for a moment before
continuing.  "Here's another example of what the cylinder could do:
emulate an entire snowball fight.  First, the person in the suit would
see an open, snow-covered field, complete with pine trees in the
distance.  If the person decided to bend down and pick up some snow, the
computer commanded the gloves to go to work.  Then, the gloves grew
colder, and slight amounts of water were passed through the gloves to
simulate melting snow.  As the fighter molded the imaginary snow into a
ball, the pulse-motors in the palm and fingers tightened to resist the
grip slightly.  Now armed, the person would walk over the field's ground
and hear the crunch of each footstep.  While walking on the cylinder's
moving floor, the contour of the imaginary ground changed to match the
passing scenery in the video.  If the person walked nearer to a pine
tree, a slight spray of pine tree scent was released into the chamber. 
The helmet could present several different video images from digital
sources.  For example, one CD-ROM held all of the images for the field
and trees, while a second CD had the images of the computer opponents. 
The software controlled both images through separate projectors within
the helmet.  When the person saw one of the opponents, he could throw his
snowball, and the computer would analyze the data sent back from the
suit.  If the throw was accurate, the computer image would show the
snowball hit the image.  The image would throw also, and the person would
hear the imaginary snowball hit.  The pulse-motors in the suit contracted
in the area to give the person the sensation of being pelted with an icy
one."
     "There you have it," I tried to brush back hair that used to grow
on my head: my brain's own form of Virtual Reality.  "The cylinder
emulated all sorts of visual, olfactory, tactile and auditory sensations. 
It was a computer-controlled, artificial environment designed to match
human senses."
     "I understand now," Ron's frown started to creep back.  "What's
this have to do with PIM-I and Air Force jets?"
     "PIM-I has a Virtual Reality module," I pointed to the workstation. 
"This one is far better that the old mechanical Virtual Reality chambers,
because PIM-I can put the simulation directly into your short-term
memory.  There are thousands of simulations available, including flying
military jets."
     "Why would we have such.... toys?" Ginny broke in.
     "It's a productivity tool," I turned to talk to her directly. 
"You've used PIM-I to answer questions from policyholders and agents.  If
PIM-I knows the answer, it places the words in your short-term memory. 
However, if you have to diagnose a problem with corrupt files, programs
or hardware problems, you don't want PIM-I putting all sorts of
diagnostic information into your mind.  Instead of having you talk to the
computer on the technical level, you can select a Virtual Reality mode to
replace the drawn-out technical steps of diagnosing problems."
     "Can you give me an example?" Ginny now looked as skeptical as Ron.
     "Sure," I dove right in.  "You love ballet, don't you?"
     "I was never much good at it," Ginny nodded, "but I never pass up
the chance to see my favorites performed."
     "Finding the problem in hardware or software is much like the
complex steps of a ballerina," I spoke slowly and leaned back in the
chair.  "PIM-I's Virtual Reality can put you within Swan Lake, and you
can dance various steps to command PIM-I diagnosis.  Instead of referring
to PIM-I to find complicated technical information, PIM-I can translate
the dance steps into what you want it to do.  The learning curve is far
shorter for two reasons.  First, you are already familiar with your dance
steps, and your mind quickly learns the relationship between the dance
and the diagnosis procedures.  Second, you like to dance, therefore you
like to solve technical problems."
     "Do you mean," a hopeful look shone in her eyes at the thought,
"that instead of telling the agent to run a molecular memory diagnostic,
I would dance a few steps from a famous ballet?  Then PIM-I would know I
wanted to check the storage and complete all of the technical tasks."
     "Yes," I nodded.  "And even more.  You still have access to PIM-I's
database, so it will place suggestions within your mind if you get
stuck."
     "And what about the fighter planes?" Ron was nearly leaning out of
his chair.  It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn he
was drooling.
     "You are the pilot of the plane, and the flying skills relate to
the search for the problem," I smiled at the anxious young man.  "Your
weapons systems are your tools to fix or eliminate the problem.  Use them
correctly, just as a pilot would, and you will fix the problem through
PIM-I's Virtual Reality Module."
     "Let's try it!" Ron swung around to face the workstation and Ginny
slid her chair close to his.
     All three of us put on our PIM-I headbands, and I requested PIM-I
to test Ron's headband configuration.  It took nearly an hour to run
through the color tests and another half to teach Ron to clear his mind
and "listen" for the PIM-I advice.  Since Ginny and I had already been
configured, we used the monitor mode to keep track of how Ron was doing. 
The whole process is tricky to master, because you need some discipline
and a good attention span to clear your mind and let PIM-I talk.  Ron,
since he was so anxious to use Virtual Reality, flew through the
configuring.  For me, it was a nice pat on the back because Ron had hated
the idea until PIM-I promised to make his job fun.  Now, we were about to
illustrate a fringe benefit of Virtual Reality.  The tougher the problem
was, the more time a ServiceGroup tech would spend in Virtual Reality. 
Since Virtual Reality was now aligned with the tech's personal interests,
the hardest problems would be the most fun, and therefore would get done
first!
     "I'm going to start a simulated problem through PIM-I, Ron," I told
the young man.  "Ginny and I won't be interacting at all, but we will
hear PIM-I's mental help."
     "Let's go!," Ron patted one hand on the armchair and tapped the
opposite foot on the ground.
     The new ServiceGroup workstation was a cubicle with blue walls, and
no devices or controls.  Since all of the functions were mentally managed
through PIM-I, there was no need for mundane, manual manipulation.
     "Incoming call through ServiceGroup network from Norti Agency,"
PIM-I's calm male voice spoke in our thoughts.  Although there were
dozens of different voices to choose from, I decided not distract Ron
with one of the more sultry feminine voices.  He could configure that for
himself later.
     "Good afternoon, ServiceGroup tech Ron speaking, how may I help
you?" Ron spoke aloud to the hologram of the agent.
     "Ron, this is Doyle at Norti Agency," the face of a middle-aged,
graying man looked out from within the cubicle.  "I can't get my
holographic vehicle identification scanner to work."
     As Ron paused to think about this, PIM-I spoke in our minds.  "Look
at the communications link to the national VIS database."
     "Doyle," Ron used PIM-I's advice, "does your system still have
access to the VIS database?"
     "My holo-screen shows the link is still good," the simulated Doyle
responded.
     "I suggest going to Virtual Reality to run a diagnostic," PIM-I
told Ron as he paused again.  "Tell Doyle we will call back when we have
found the problem."
     Ron told Doyle this, and after Doyle broke the connection, Ron
turned to me.  "What's next?"
     "Next, you choose a plane to fly," I couldn't resist my own smile
as his spread.
     "I want the F-117A Stealth," Ron's swung back to the cubicle.
     "Alright, one Stealth fighter," I told his back.  "Ginny, you won't
be able to interact, but I can have PIM-I place you in Swan Lake to get
the feel of the steps.  Every time Ron makes a move with his plane, it
will match up to a portion of that ballet."
     "Fantastic," Ginny stretched her arms and legs as if she really
were going to dance.
     Suddenly, I was in a F-117A Stealth fighter and watched Ron take
the controls.   He banked the plane in a left turn over a darkened city.
     "Fly to the radar station on the edge of the city," PIM-I told Ron. 
"This target represents the communications link between the VIS database
and our VIS scanner."
     Ron looked at the programmed flight plan on the fighter and
selected the air-to-ground attack mode to scan for targets.  The Head-up
Display showed the altitude at 500 feet and airspeed at 250 kilometers
per hour.  At PIM-I's instruction, Ron flew low over the white satellite
dishes and snapped off several reconnaissance pictures.
     "The pictures have pinpointed the problem," PIM-I told Ron. 
"Another piece of software is inhibiting our access to VIS data.  Destroy
the enemy communication building to the East of our communications
dishes.  I suggest using laser-guided CBU-72 Fuel-Air Explosives in a
toss-bombing run after climbing from 500 feet."
     "Right," Ron remembered the capabilities of the old weapons. 
Pulling his black fighter around in a tight turn, his targeting camera
placed cross hairs on the enemy building.  With PIM-I's mental advice,
Ron activated the bay doors and targeting system for the FAE bombs.  At
five kilometers, he pulled up and the laser targeting system got a good
lock on the building.  Again listening to PIM-I, Ron released the FAE and
watched the camera track the bomb to its target.  With the destruction of
the building, the Virtual Reality scene faded from our minds.
     "Problem corrected," PIM-I spoke again.  "Total correction time, 1
minute, 32 seconds.  Previous manual debugging techniques averaged 14
minutes."
     "That was great!" Ron turned back to Ginny.  "How was your ballet?"
     "I danced some of the third act," Ginny looked relaxed and happy. 
"No cramps or pulled muscles."
     "Back to business everybody," I stepped closer to get into the
conversation.  "Ron, PIM-I presented all of the information to you in the
form of an F-117A mission.  Everything from the type of target, to the
laser guided bomb, to the attack approach is carefully matched to PIM-I
debugging utilities.  Because you know these old planes and weapons, you
were able to detect and eliminate the conflict in the computer memory. 
Although PIM-I did all of the computer-related debugging, you still
control the decision to correct the system, or to 'Drop the bomb.' 
Ginny, your steps in the third act were matched to the same functions. 
You might dance some of the first act to fix a corrupted program or
deleted rate file."
     "I want to fix something else," Ron turned back to the blank
cubicle.
     "We are in Beta Test, so we can try a live call from the
ServiceGroup," I, the foolish mortal, spoke confidently.  The wrath of
the computer gods prepared to smite the unprepared.
[Next, Virtual Reality versus real problems]

                       The ServiceGroup, Part IV

     In the last chapter, automator Mark Davis convinced two
ServiceGroup technicians to try PIM-I's (Personal Integration Module -
Intuitive) Virtual Reality feature.  Ginny and Ron find that PIM-I
reduces the amount of time required to solve problems by using Virtual
Reality.  The Virtual Reality Module in PIM-I replaces confusing,
technical procedures with hobbies that are familiar to the user.  Ron
chooses to fly a Stealth fighter while Ginny uses the ballet of Swan
Lake.

A note about April 8, 2040 by Mark Davis:  The Rakshasa virus was
perfectly designed to subvert Virtual Reality modules.  It could look
through the Virtual Reality environment and tap into the very mind of the
computer user.  Therefore, not only did PIM-I become infected with the
virus, the user's mind felt the effects as well.  PIM-I and its Virtual
Reality code was not nearly sophisticated enough to protect the person in
this respect.  The user's emotional reaction to the virus's attack
compounded the problem in Virtual Reality, because the scenario fell away
from PIM-I control.  That left the user in an environment controlled by a
hostile computer virus.
                   *               *               *
     "I'm ready to take the call," Ron still faced the cubicle walls and
tapped his feet.  "The one time I want a serious problem, and the
ServiceGroup network is quiet!"
     "While we're waiting for the call, Mark," Ginny slid her chair a
little closer to the cubicle, "what other simulations are available
through Virtual Reality?"
     "There are more than you will be able to learn in several years," I
told her as I crossed my legs.  "The subjects were carefully chosen to be
interesting and fun.  Still, the simulations have to be complex enough to
match up with the many problems that can be encountered by the
ServiceGroup."
     "What wouldn't be complicated enough?" Ginny pursed her lips in
thought.
     "For example," I saw Ron twist in his chair to listen in, "most
sports simulations just aren't complicated enough to fit all of the
ServiceGroup scenarios.  Take solo sports like tennis, bowling, track and
swimming.  There are a few skills that are taken to the extreme in those
sports, but there is not a lot of variety there.  Therefore, you couldn't
use different swimming strokes to command PIM-I to fix the hundreds of
system problems, because there aren't enough strokes to match the
problems.  Team sports, like baseball and football, have an infinite
number of plays and situations to relate to the PIM-I procedures."
     "What about hobbies?" Ginny changed the subject before Ron could
continue on sports.  "Such as collecting or craft work."
     "If there are procedures and variety involved, you can use it in
Virtual Reality," I didn't want to launch into a full discussion about
the modules.  "With collecting for example, PIM-I might present you with
a rare coin, and you must track down its origin and original price, much
like searching for the source of a problem."
     "A call!" Ron swung around in his seat as PIM-I spoke to him
through the headband.  "I can't wait to fix it."
     Ginny snapped to attention and quickly slipped the PIM-I headband
over her red curls.  I followed suit and cleared my mind to listen in on
PIM-I's advice to Ron.
     "Good afternoon, ServiceGroup tech Ron speaking, how may I help you
Mr. Springer?"  Ron smiled honestly at the holographic image in the
cubicle.  The policyholder's name had appeared at the bottom of the image
when PIM-I matched the incoming phone number to our database.
     "I can't seem to make changes to my auto policy, sir," the young
man's voice carried a hint of frustration.  He was young, perhaps 20
years old and his hair was cut down to nearly a stubble.  With the
haircut making his ears seem too large and his jaw more pronounced, he
looked even younger.  "All I want to do is increase my collision
deductible."
     "We'll fix you up right away," Ron's smile seemed to put Springer
at ease.  As PIM-I fed some mental suggestions to Ron, Ron kept up some
small talk with the policyholder.  "How is the weather in Bethesda?"
     "Too hot to work," Springer looked out of some distant window to
check.  "Nearly 95 in the shade."
     "Connect to his system to view the problem first," the soft voice
of PIM-I sounded in our ServiceGroup minds.  "Replay the log of
keystrokes so that I can duplicate the problem here."
     "I'd like to see how you tried to change the policy," Ron told the
young man.  "Your system will start running some commands on its own. 
Don't worry, we just need to recreate the problem."
     "Yes, sir," Springer's hands extended beneath his holographic
image, and we saw him watch his monitor.
     A second image appeared in the holographic viewing cubicle: it was
an image of Springer's video screen.  We watched as PIM-I patched all of
the remote keystrokes onto our local view of the system.  The young man
had brought up his policy, went to the coverage information and changed
the collision deductible to $20,000.  Although this deductible was still
a bit low, it was valid, and there should have been no problem.  However,
when Springer had tried to leave the screen, all of the numbers scrambled
into letters!
     "Oh, oh," I spoke softly as I saw the weird problem.  This was not
going to appear in the PIM-I database, and Virtual Reality would get a
real test.  This sure looked like some sort of virus to me.
     "Go to Virtual Reality," PIM-I's soft voice suggested to Ron's
cleared mind.  "This problem is not documented, and you will have to
search for the trouble."
     "Mr. Springer, I'll have to look into your problem with our
troubleshooting software," Ron told the serious-looking young man. 
"Leave the computer link open, and I'll call you back when I'm finished."
     "Thank you, sir," Springer's image faded away.
     "Now I go to Virtual Reality and fly another mission?" Ron looked
hopeful and tapped a finger impatiently.
     "Right," his new-found enthusiasm nearly made me laugh.  "I'll
watch you, and Ginny can use the monitor mode within her ballet."
     As I cleared my mind, the cockpit of the F-117A jet fighter burst
into view.  We flew over a winding river, between tall cliffs that rose
above both sides of the racing plane.  Since it was a typical Stealth
scenario, Ron flew at night with the help of computer-controlled
navigation.
     "Watch out," Ron exclaimed as the fighter lurched violently and
nearly careened into the unyielding rock.
     I was asking a similar question myself when PIM-I's voice sounded
over the plane's radio.
     "There is some sort of failure in the computer navigation system. 
Please take manual control.  I have identified our target.  It is a
computer virus of unknown origin, and it is represented here as three MiG
31 fighters.  These planes are 20 kilometers to the east and their radar
has not been able to detect the Stealth.  I suggest you approach without
using electronic countermeasures and fire with Sidewinder heat-seeking
missiles.  They'll never know what hit them."
     Ron pulled the plane out of the rolling canyon and banked hard to
get an angle on the radar images of the enemy fighters.  Arming his
Sidewinders and targeting the trailing plane in the formation, Ron pushed
the throttle to its limit.  Then, I saw the distant images of the enemy
planes.  They were oddly deformed and seemed to fluctuate into different
shapes.  As I stared intently thorough the night-sites of the plane, they
seemed to change to.... a praying mantis?
     Suddenly, my image from Virtual Reality froze and faded away.  I
quickly pulled my headband off and checked the connections for any
possible problems.  After trying the headband again, I found that I
couldn't re-establish the contact with PIM-I.  Instead I looked at Ginny
and Ron to make sure that they still had a good connection to PIM-I. 
Sure enough, the two sat motionless and intent, looking as if they were
still working within the imaginary world.  If I had been paying more
attention, I would have noticed the fine beads of sweat that began to
form on Ginny's brow and neck and seen Ron's whitening knuckles
strangling the arms of his chair.  Still confident in Virtual Reality and
PIM-I, I began to test for problems in my headband.
                   *               *               *
     Within Virtual Reality, Ron's Stealth fighter accelerated to
intercept the patrolling MiG 31 planes.  Checking that his ordinance was
locked on target, Ron glanced back to the head-up-display.  In the night,
the fixed-winged planes suddenly merged to form one huge, gliding shape.
     "What is that, PIM-I?" Ron muttered and cleared his mind to accept
an answer.  For some reason, his infrared targeting site was now out.
     "Fly above it and drop an array of flares in order to see," PIM-I's
voice was lower and more commanding now.  There was a hint of a smile in
its once neutral tone.  "The glow will illuminate the target."
     "That's not right," Ron disagreed with PIM-I.  "The flares are
never used to illuminate airborne targets.  They should be used to
confuse heat-seeking missiles, not for visual targeting!"
     After a few seconds of silence in the cockpit, Ron shrugged and
climbed to get above the ghostly blot.  Releasing the flares far in front
of the target, Ron's tracking camera locked on the image and magnified to
three power.  As the drifting flares crossed near the target's path, Ron
gasped and held out one hand as if to ward off the evil.
     From the flickering glow of the falling lights, a horrible face
stared out at the Stealthy plane.  Sharp fangs hung down from a long jaw,
and scaly horns swept back from a narrow head.  Coiling it's serpentine,
red neck near a second flare, the beast's forked tongue sprang into the
wind as if to taste the scent of the Stealth's exhaust.  The yellow glow
of the dragon's unblinking eyes aimed hungrily at the fleeing plane.
     "A dragon...." a chill ran down Ron's spine as some long-buried
memory crept into his mind.  He had been only five years old when his
uncle had given him a poster of a dragon.  Once hung on his bedroom wall,
the poster came to life in the shifting moonlight through the trees next
to his window.  One night, he lay in bed, too terrified to call for help,
as the beast seemed to swoop after him.  The next day, his mother took
the poster down, but pictures of dragons had frightened him since.  "PIM-
I, what's a dragon doing in this simulation?"
     "Your target is a red dragon," the baritone laugh followed the
words.  "It is approximately two hundred feet long and can fly at three
hundred kilometers per hour.  It's armament is a fire-breathing cannon
and hurricane gusts from its wings.  If you like to have a personal
hatred for your enemies, I will tell you its name: Zortipyth."
     "There are no dragons in the 1900s," Ron complained to PIM-I.  He
banked the plane sharply as the infrared alarms blared.  A jet of flame
swept over the plane's canopy, and the technician yelled in fright. 
"PIM-I stop this simulation.  Davis, get me out of here right now."
     With another bolt of flame lighting the sky, Ron saw that the beast
had spread its wings to slow to a stall in his path.  Hearing the lock
tone from the Sidewinder targeting system, the frightened man turned
loose both of his heat-seeking missiles.  Zortipyth's jaws opened wide,
and its howling laugh shook the plane.
     "Fool!" the dragon's voice was the same as PIM-I's.  "Look how easy
it is for a dragon to decoy a heat-seeking missile!"
     With that, Zortipyth led the speeding missiles with a hot, short
breath.  The missiles screamed off into the night to chase the ball of
flame.  Ron's fighter sped over Zortipyth's shoulder and was immediately
caught in the vortices of a flapping wing.  As the plane violently turned
violently, the pilot was crushed by heavy G forces.
     "Where's the selection for the radar-guided missiles?" Ron's left
hand poked at the ordinance selector as his right fought the bucking
plane.  He screamed as a fiery blast tore the canopy open.  All of the
plane's avionics went dark, and Ron knew he was merely a projectile
tumbling toward the ground.  Grabbing the ejection handles behind the
pilot's seat and bracing for the explosion, Ron was thrown clear of the
drunken, dancing fighter.  The plane turned belly-up in a slow,
meandering arc before accelerating to its resting place on the canyon
floor.  The deafening explosion sounded after its crash lit the skies,
and the lesser glow of the fires gave the night an eerie glow.  Ron hung
from his parachute, still two thousand feet in the air.  His eyes darted
from shadow to shadow, as he expected to see the dragon at any moment.
     And it did come, parting the spent smoke of the fighter with great
sweeps of its bat's wings.  Zortipyth saw the hapless man dangling in
space and with jaws agape, dove toward the pilot.
     "Don't come back here!" the dragon bellowed as Ron felt the
slamming fangs of the enemy.
                   *               *               *
     "Nothing wrong with the headband," I looked at the darn thing and
unplugged the diagnostic module.  "I should be getting lots of data."
     Without warning, Ron kicked out with his legs and pushed away from
the PIM-I work station.  He tumbled from his chair and onto the floor
before ripping his headband off and throwing it far away.  Ginny cried
out suddenly and pulled away her headband, along with many strands of her
red hair.
     "I broke my leg," Ginny's hands grasped near her left ankle.  "The
pain was terrible!"
     "What?" I stammered after a second.  I stopped as a saw the wild
look in Ron's eyes.
     "A dragon ate me," was all he could force through tight lips.
     "What?" I was not nearly at my best when confronted with the
unexpected.
     "Mark Davis, please answer," the tinny voice from the holographic
foil on my thumb clamored for attention.
     "What?" I yelled at my foil pager.  I hated redundancy, but the
word seemed to keep fitting the situation.
     "Systems are going down all over the Home Office," the diagnostic
computer announced.  "I require authorization to shut down all automated
systems.  There seems to be a serious viral infection in the online
system.  Repeated attempts to eradicate it have failed."
     "The system's possessed," Ron said slowly as his eyes stared off
into space.
     "Permission granted for the shutdown," my stomach began to churn as
the problems seemed to spiral out of control.  With all of the automated
systems linked together, nearly every person in the company would be
down.  If I didn't fix this quick, we would be back to manuals and
calculators.
[Next: Battling the Virtual Virus: Rakshasa]

                       The ServiceGroup, Part V

     In the last chapter, Ron and Ginny, two ServiceGroup technicians,
use PIM-I (Personal Integration Module - Intuitive) and Virtual Reality
to attempt to fix a production problem.  The first caller is a
policyholder who cannot change the deductible on a vehicle.  Ron enters
Virtual Reality to fly his Stealth fighter against the virus, while Ginny
observes in a Virtual Reality ballet.  Mark Davis views Ron's progress. 
The virus takes over the simulation and knocks Mark's headband off-line. 
Instead of his fighter attacking enemy planes, Ron finds himself being
chased by a dragon, Zortipyth.  His plane is hit by the dragon, and as he
dangles from his parachute, Zortipyth attacks him and frightens him out
of Virtual Reality.  Ginny returns from PIM-I and cries out, thinking her
leg is broken.  Mark gets a report from the diagnostic computer that the
virus now infects the entire network.  Mark shuts down all automated
systems.

A note from Mark Davis to the night shift:   Bad day?  No.  Napoleon
had a bad day at Waterloo.  The stock market had a bad day in 1929. 
Today was a catastrophe.  Somehow, I lost every automated system.  Just
let everyone on the night shift know that I will be in my office while
all of the system restores are going on.  DON'T use any systems that have
not been verified as clean.  I will let you know when the full is
operational.  I know some of you are superstitious, so try not to walk
under any ladders or spill salt tonight.  I need all the help I can get.

     I looked at the vending machine and smacked my lips in hopes of
finding substantial food.  The chicken soup looked like it had some
potential, so I fed my five into the cash slot.  After the soup appeared
in the niche, I grabbed the cup and anxiously sipped at the broth.  It
tasted like hot water with ten salt tablets and flavoring from a tea bag
filled with chicken parts.  But, I shouldn't complain.  At least one
automated system was working here.
     "A fool and his memory are soon parted," I told the vending
machine.  One of my teachers had coined the phrase years ago.  Back then,
there were a legion of viruses, but they were less sophisticated than
today's strains.  Old common sense dictated that if you didn't share
programs or connect to a network, your work station couldn't become
infected.  The only problem is that computers can stand alone;
information can't.  You had to connect to networks and exchange data. 
The "just say no" method to connectivity was a foolish hermit's solution
to the problem.  So that's exactly what I did.
     Mr. Springer's system, the one we suspected of infecting PIM-I was
locked out of the network.  We wouldn't accept any data connection from
that station until we had a good antidote to this virus.  When faced with
an incurable disease, run away.
     As I nursed my broth, I returned to my office and slumped into my
chair.  There, the network's holographic icons floating above the desk
top and showed that the restore was right on schedule.  With the
excellent backup procedures in place, our automated systems would recover
from the virus.  But, with our on-line devices having access to nearly
900 trillion bytes of data, a restore would take a couple of hours.  If
it hadn't been for those stupid Einstein rules about exceeding the speed
of light, the engineers would have designed something faster.  As I dozed
off, I thought that my grandchildren would laugh at this amount of
storage.  Game systems would have that much disk in 20 years....
     Awaking with a start, I saw that all systems were restored and
ready for access.  After notifying the third shift tech, my blurry vision
focused on my watch-foil, and I gritted my teeth through a yawn.  Ginny
and Ron would be arriving in my office in a few minutes.
     I had sent them home after their traumatic tangle with Virtual
Reality, but they both promised to come in early.  Since the network was
whole and virus-free once more, I had the envious task of figuring out
how the virus had invaded PIM-I and Virtual Reality.  The clues might be
hidden in Ron and Ginny's adventure.  They were the eye-witnesses to the
system crash: perhaps they could point out the attacker!
     Looking down at the singular mass of wrinkles that had once been my
suit, I frowned and imagined what the rest of me looked like.  Circles
under my eyes?  Stubble like sandpaper?  Wisps of hair in a waving
corona?  On the bright side, my boss might feel sorry for me.
     Ron and Ginny entered my office a few minutes later.  Forget any
pity that I might get from them, because they looked like they hadn't
slept all night.  In tandem, the ServiceGroup techs crashed into the
cushions of my chairs.
     "Davis," Ron summoned some anger through his fatigue.  "You ought
to be shot."
     "You don't look like you've slept at all," I ignored the threat but
felt worse about PIM-I's failure.  "Ginny, you don't either."
     "Ron and I had the same trouble last night," Ginny squinted at me
through puffy eyes.  "Every time we got near sleep, we started dreaming
about our Virtual Reality session.  My leg...."
     "My dragon...." Ron suddenly interrupted.  "It came after me time
and time again."
     "Let's start from the beginning," I held up a hand and leaned both
elbows on my desk.  "Ron, tell me exactly what happened in Virtual
Reality."
     Ron told me all right.  Although the whole thing seemed pretty far-
fetched, Ron was convinced that a red dragon named Zortipyth (of all
things) roasted his plane and chased him from the simulation. 
Zortipyth's low growl had replaced the normal Virtual Reality voice.
     "And he told me not to come back," Ron finished his animated
description with a fist pounding my desk.  Coffee cups bounced like
bowling pins from the impact.
     "Ginny," I rubbed tired eyes.  "What happened in your ballet."
     Immediately, her right hand dropped down to her ankle.  "Well, I
started dancing a portion of the first act in Swan Lake.  After a few
seconds, the curtain fell, and the director's voice told me that I had to
dance without the rest of the cast.  This made me pretty nervous, even
though I knew it was only a simulation.  When I started dancing again,
all of the Virtual Reality knowledge left my mind.  I was there on the
stage alone, and I couldn't remember any of the steps.  I heard the
director whispering to me to improvise and keep dancing.  After trying
and failing to do the simplest moves, I knew that I no longer had the
talent to dance in the ballet.  In desperation, I tried one last
combination and heard a bone in my ankle snap.  The pain was terrible and
I fell over in a heap.  Behind me, I could feel the thousands of eyes in
the audience staring at me.  They started to boo as the curtain fell. 
The angry director walked over to me and told me that I'd never dance on
this stage again."
     Ginny actually had tears in her eyes.  Like Ron's Virtual Reality
adventure, Ginny's had been frightening and corrupted by the presence of
the virus.  I thanked both of them and told them I'd get the program
fixed.  Neither of them thought I could do it.
     For the rest of the morning, I ran diagnostic after diagnostic to
make sure the virus had been completely eradicated from our systems.  It
was gone, alright, and our ServiceGroup software seemed to be working
fine.  PIM-I made correct answers and didn't as much as mention dragons. 
I decided to put the PIM-I headband on and do some interactive testing.
     "PIM-I," I prompted in the short-term memory in my mind.  "Bring up
the Virtual Reality simulation for baseball.  Randomly generate defensive
situations.  Do not connect to actual ServiceGroup problems."
     "Situation one is at the shortstop position," PIM-I's male voice
was benign and friendly.
     "Go," I thought.
     Suddenly, I was standing at shortstop in a simulated stadium.  I
glanced at the scoreboard: we were in the eighth inning and the visitors
were up.  They had two outs and a runner on second.  I was playing for
the home team, and we had a two run lead.  Before facing our pitcher, the
hitter dug his cleats into the dirt while tapping home plate with his
bat.
     "Two away," the catcher yell out to the infield.  "Knock the
grounder down and keep the runner from scoring."
     The batter's first swing lifted a short flair over the third
baseman's head.  As I chased after the hanging fly ball, I thought about
the runners.  With two outs, the guy at second would be going for home,
so we didn't have much of a play on him.  The batter would be digging for
second all the way, because the fly was in the air a long time.
     "Mark, Mark!" the left fielder yelled, letting me know he wasn't
going to catch the ball.
     I could see the third baseman wasn't going to catch it either, and
I was going to come up one step short.  I decided to try to get the guy
at second.  This late in the game, I didn't want the tying run to get
into scoring position.
     The ball fell to the outfield grass and took a good hop up to eye
level.  Snatching the ball with my bare hand, I planted my right foot and
turned instantly, snapping my strongest throw to second.  The second
baseman put the tag down, and we were out of the inning.
     "Nice play, rookie," the first baseman growled at me.  "If you had
some speed, you would have caught that ball."
     I smiled at the comment and threw my mit onto the bench.  After
sitting down, I admired Virtual Reality's simulation mode.  When it
wasn't matching the plays of the game to problem-solving procedures,
Virtual Reality was free to liven up the other characters.
     Some movement on the ground caught my attention, and I nearly
jumped out of my cleats.  There was a praying mantis not two feet from
me.  Although I don't know why, these bugs made me nervous.  Ants, fine. 
Bees, OK.  Spiders, great.  Anything but a mantis.
     "Davis," the grizzly, old manager pointed his crumpled line-up card
at the ground.  "Squash that bug and get on deck."
     "Wait a minute," I suddenly wondered what a bug was doing in a
simulation about baseball.  "PIM-I, generate another defensive scenario. 
I specifically ordered defense only."
     "Davis, what are we paying you for?" the manager got up from his
seat near the front corner of the dugout.  "Step on that bug.  Hurry up!"
     "This is different," I wrinkled my nose as I jumped on the mantis
with both cleats.  I decided the simulation was really different when the
insect lifted me and threw me back to the bench.
     "Davis, for heaven's sake!  Just hit it with a bat."
     Seeing the praying mantis crawling my way, I grabbed the first bat
out of the rack and swung down hard.  The bat seemed to do the trick as
the bug scattered in a hundred pieces.  I was about to talk to PIM-I once
more when I froze.  Suddenly there were hundreds of praying mantises
crawling from every crevice in the dugout.  Thousands more ran from the
infield grass and hopped down the steps.
     "Can't you do anything right, Davis?"
     I was so paralyzed at the sight of the army of bugs that I stood
there and watched the multitude crawl up my legs.  As the wave of green
and brown insects reached higher and higher, the manager threw down his
card and pointed his finger at me.
     "That's it Davis!  You and all of your pets are going back to the
minors."
     As the first of the bugs fought to get under my cap, I felt someone
yank off my PIM-I headband.  I gratefully looked up and saw Ginny's
tired, worried eyes.
     "It's happening again," she told me.  "Systems are going down all
over the company."
     "That's impossible!" I ran both hands through my sparse hair.  "We
took all of the backups from the previous day.  There can't be any
infection in our systems."
     Now that we were back to square one, I had three problems.  First,
the network would be down another day.  Second, I had no idea how the
virus reinfected PIM-I.  Third, I was now scared to death of Virtual
Reality.
[Next: finding the hidden virus]

                     The ServiceGroup, Conclusion

     In the last chapter, Mark Davis restores the computer network and
verifies that the virus is gone.  He makes sure the connection to the
policyholder's infected PC is locked out to prevent another infection. 
Ginny and Ron, the ServiceGroup techs who were connected to PIM-I
(Personal Integration Module - Intuitive), told Mark about their
nightmare-filled night.  After the virus frightened them out of Virtual
Reality, the memories continued to haunt them.  Mark went into Virtual
Reality to do some interactive tests.  Selecting a baseball simulation,
Davis plays the part of a rookie infielder.  All goes well until Davis
comes across a praying mantis: a bug that frightens him.  After killing
the mantis, thousands more crawl over him and scare him from virtual
reality.  The virus takes down all automated systems a second time.

     I'm Mark Davis.  I think.
     My eyes are made of sandpaper, and my eyelids are sticky rubber. 
Fatigue that bends my spine and slumps my shoulders threatens to make me
topple.  Noises seem louder, more annoying than they should.  My
attention wanders; the mind's eye moving from thought to memory to
fantasy to dream....
     And they are there.  The green army of antennas, claws and
mandibles marches toward me, fills me with terror.  Again, the shock of
seeing the mantises brought me back to life.  I have not slept in nearly
two days.
     On the brighter side, our systems were up and running again.  The
virus in PIM-I had once more been banished, but no one was allowed to use
the software.  I had to prove how the infection kept breaking down PIM-I,
and shortly later, the rest of the company.  For now, the ServiceGroup
used the more traditional resources of experience, memory and
documentation: the same tools used 50 years ago.
     My boss had taken one look at me this morning and sent me home. 
Knowing my sleep-deprived brain wasn't going to figure out the problem,
he told me to rest and forget about the past two days.  Ron and Ginny had
told me about the sleep problem yesterday, but I hadn't realized how
strong and persistent the Virtual Reality session was.  Just the thought
of putting on the PIM-I headband peeled back my eyelids and kept me going
for another hour.
     My mom told me that if I felt sorry for myself, I should look at
someone who wasn't as fortunate as me.  This would shame me into feeling
better.  Although guilty happiness doesn't sound too appealing, it was
about all I had.  So, I found a group of people who were worse off than
me: our softball team.
     I sat in the bleachers and watched a fine bunch of technical minds
play the geometric game.  Not only was there a constant, cool drizzle
chilling the player's spirits and talents, the other team was way ahead. 
After watching one particularly bad inning, I felt relieved that I wasn't
out there making a fool of myself.  Thanks mom.
      "Your team's terrible," the old guy behind me poked me in the
shoulder of my company jacket.  "I've seen you at these games before. 
Why do you keep coming to watch this bunch?"
     I half-turned to look at him and couldn't help thinking I should
know him.  "I like the game.  It hasn't changed in nearly 100 years. 
It's nice to see something constant that doesn't change.  Not like
computers.  Why do you come?"
     "To see Bolla pitch."
     I nodded.
     "The game has changed, though," the guy crawled down one level of
bleachers so he could sit next to me.  "When I played for this team, it
was good."
     I looked at him more closely.  He was small in stature but seemed
to have plenty of energy.  His head was bald on the top, with only wisps
of hair remaining above his ears.  There was still something familiar
about the large nose, thick eyebrows and lop-sided smile.
     "You used to work for our company?"
     "You bet," he grinned.  "Name's Ernie White.  I played in
softball's golden age."
     That's it!  I remembered him now.  He had been with the company
when I started, although he retired two years after I started.  I had
gone to his retirement party nearly 20 years ago.
     "Yes sir, we won the cham-peen-chip in 90...."
     While he bored on, I tried to remember something about his career. 
He had been in automation, I think.
     "Big rainstorm.  Destroyed half the block.  But we won that
game...."
     At his dinner, they went over the technology he used at the start
of his career.  Gee, this guy was ancient!  I think he started when the
company used only mainframes.
     "Kicked the tar out of 'em that last game.  Beat 'em 37 to
nothin'."
     Ah, I remembered!  He was involved with that first distributed
system.  It let agents look at their client's data and send changes
through electronically.  It was primitive but popular, and it evolved. 
My system was a direct descendant of that COBOL code.
     "Then this 40 foot snake ate our outfielder," he shook his finger
at my blank stare.
     "Ernie," I stopped him before he could start another tall tale.  I
was desperate enough to ask for help from anyone with a fresh
perspective.  "You used to work with DataLink, didn't you?"
     "You bet!" the old guy was able to perk up even more.  "Put the
information right into the hands of the agents.  Tough project.  Limited
disk.  No standard hardware.  Slow transmission speed.  Inexperienced
users.  The first year was like running down hill and going too fast for
your feet."
     "I run the great-grand child of your DataLink," I jumped in.  "And
I'm having problems.  What would you suspect if your mainframe and the
remote computers were failing from the same system problem."
     "The same problem on both?" the old guy puzzled.  "Well, the
problem shouldn't exist with the software.  The mainframe ran one
program, while the personal computers ran another.  Right?"
     I nodded.  In some respects, that was still true.  Although we
coded once, and that software ran on any number of hardware platforms,
each system still had base code that was hardware specific.
     "In DataLink, it was normally the data," he gave a quick nod. 
"Since we didn't have the fancy high-speed connections that you have now,
we kept the data in both places at the same time.  Once bad data was
passed from PC to mainframe, both systems had the same trouble.  Now,
pipe down junior and let me watch the game!"
     I sat and thought about his guess.  I had forgotten that the older
distributed systems used the nasty practice of duplicating data.  That
shouldn't have any bearing on my problem, because our data existed on the
central computer, and all other systems manipulated that one database. 
Still, I couldn't get that idea out of my head.  It was in two places...
two places.
     I stood up as if I had been hit by lightning.  I had an idea, and
if Ernie was right, I had better call in some outside help immediately. 
After a quick goodbye to the old guy, I raced home and attached to the
national systems round table.  I described the problems to the artificial
intelligence researcher and found no matches for my specific virus. 
Then, I opened up a formal request for the virus scientists to review the
case.  Since the turn of the century, the government had taken computer
virus attacks seriously.  So seriously that they paid good FBI money to
hunt down and arrest hackers. I settled back in my chair to wait for a
formal response to come back.
     The formal response showed up at my front door less than two hours
later.  Three large men in suits pushed their way into my place, showed
me something that looked like a warrant and offered me a plane ride to
Washington.  My idea had been too right.
                   *               *               *
     After the boys in the suits finished with me, I went to a hotel and
tried to hold off sleep for one last hour.  I set up a holo-conference
with my boss and his superiors to explain the solution to the problem.
     "Go ahead Mark," my boss told me as the managers looked on.  "Let's
hear the story."
     "You all know about the virus so I'll skip to the events of the
past day," I fought to stay awake though I knew I would have a peaceful,
dreamless sleep.  "I was taken into custody by federal agents.  Our virus
was no ordinary hacker's project: it was a government military virus."
     After a blur of questions from the holographic managers, I held up
a hand.  "Let me tell you about this virus.  When military systems began
using Virtual Reality to train and assist the modern warrior, the
Pentagon decided that Virtual Reality counter-measures were a defense
priority.  If a virus could penetrate a Virtual Reality interface, it
could attack both the hardware and the human user simultaneously -
without costly missiles or messy thermonuclear explosions.  One virus
could cripple the human interface for an entire military complex.  The
Chiefs of Staff wanted to be prepared for such an attack.  They
commissioned Rakshasa."
     I anticipated the next question and rushed on.  "The Rakshasa was a
mythical beast that read the mind of its victim.  Once it knew what
person its victim trusted most, it would change into that trusted person
and get close to its prey.  This virus worked much the same way.  It used
the familiar, comfortable Virtual Reality interface to jump into our
minds and destroy the simulation.  To be effective, Rakshasa's priority
was to frighten the users first before taking down the systems.  It
searched our minds to find what we feared most and then invaded the
simulation.  For me, it was a mantis.  For Ginny, it was ridicule and for
Ron it was the dragon."
     After rubbing my eyes, I continued.  "Here's how we caught the
virus in the first place.  A policyholder, Mr. Springer, called from
Bethesda MD.  As you now suspect, Springer was calling from the military
base and using a computer protected by Rakshasa.  When Ron switched to
Virtual Reality, he chose to fly a Stealth Fighter to attack the virus. 
This was like holding the red cape in front of the bull.  Rakshasa
recognized Ron as a hostile military user and proceeded to jump into our
network and scare us to death.  Ron faced his dragon while Ginny broke
her leg."
     "But you weren't affected," my boss prompted.
     I shook my head.  "That's what I thought.  The Rakshasa searches
out the user with the highest security clearance.  That was me.  I had no
bad experience in that first session because the virus locked me out.  If
you remember, I didn't have my fright until all of the systems were
restored.  I was sure there was no way the virus could get back into the
system, but I was wrong.  Ernie White gave me the clue to finding the
answer to this puzzle.  His DataLink system had problems because the
policy data existed in two places at the same time.  Though the virus was
cleaned from PIM-I, there was a second copy of this virus hiding within
our system."
     "And where was that?" my boss prompted when I paused.
     "It was within my mind," I suppressed a shiver at the invasion of
my privacy.  "Rakshasa knew I had high security clearance and placed the
very code of the virus into unused portions of my brain's memory.  Since
our minds have enormous capacity, it isn't hard to find the space.  The
next time I went into Virtual Reality, my subconscious fed commands to
PIM-I that loaded Rakshasa once more.  My mantises appeared moments
later."
     "So every time you tried to fix the problem and test it," my boss
nodded, "you would reinfect the system.  Your security rights gave the
virus complete access."
     "Right," my nods brought my head close to the tabletop.  "Once I
posed my problem to the artificial intelligence researcher on the
national network, it routed the description directly to FBI systems.  In
seconds, the boys in the suits knew all about my case and jumped on the
first flight.  They knew how dangerous their virus was.  If this thing
had gotten out of control, it could have spread across the nation and
crippled private industry.  The Rakshasa Virus/Davis Variant would line
them up for lots of lawsuits."
     "How can we let you use the system again, Mark?" my boss asked the
tough question.
     "The virus has been purged from my mind," I shivered again.  "I
don't know what they did, but the Feds tell me that I am no longer a
carrier of the virus.  They put a PIM-I headband on me, and after a few
minutes, pronounced me cured.  Ron and Ginny are not infected, and their
fears should fade after three days."
     "How can we prevent this from happening again?" my boss frowned.
     "Our systems and minds will become more integrated and more
inseparable," I didn't have a good answer.  "Although there have been few
occupational hazards in our profession over the years, that has changed. 
As computers help us do our jobs by becoming part of every decision, we
need to realize their limitations.  This has been good advice for years,
but it's vital now.  We can't take automation problems too personally."