Read Online The Fear Index by Robert Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Harris
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floor they required (the voice-recognition system could differentiate between regional accents in twenty-four languages): Hoffmann, who made a fetish of privacy and loathed small talk, rather liked that.
The fifth floor was a kingdom within a kingdom. A wall of opaque and bubbled turquoise glass blocked off access from the elevators. To gain entry, as downstairs, it was necessary to present one’s relaxed countenance to a scanner. Facial recognition activated a sliding panel, the glass vibrating slightly as it rolled back to reveal Hoffmann’s own reception area: low cubes of black and grey upholstery stacked and arranged like child’s bricks to form chairs and sofas, a coffee table of chrome and glass, and adjustable consoles containing touch-screen computers on which visitors could browse the web while waiting for their appointments. Each had a screensaver stating the company’s rubric in red letters on a white background:
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE WILL HAVE NO PAPER
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE WILL CARRY NO INVENTORY
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE WILL BE ENTIRELY DIGITAL
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE HAS ARRIVED
There were no magazines or newspapers in the reception area: it was company policy that, as far as possible, no printed material or writing paper of any sort should pass the threshold. Of course, the rule could not be imposed on guests, but employees, including the senior partners, were required to pay a fine of ten Swiss francs, and have their names posted on the company’s intranet, each time they were caught in possession of ink and wood pulp rather than silicon and plastic. It was astonishing how quickly people’s habits, even Quarry’s, were changed by this simple rule. Ten years after Bill Gates had first preached the gospel of the paperless office in Business at the Speed of Light , Hoffmann had more or less brought it about. In a strange way he was almost as proud of this achievement as he was of any of his others.
It was embarrassing, therefore, for him to have to pass through reception with his first edition of The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals . If he had caught anyone else with a copy he would have pointed out that the text was readily available online via Project Gutenberg or Darwin.online.org, and asked sarcastically whether they considered themselves to be a quicker reader than the VIXAL-4 algorithm, or had trained their brains to do word search. He saw no paradox in his zeal to ban the book at work and to display it in rare first editions at home. Books were antiques, just like any other artefacts from the past. One might just as well reprimand a collector of Venetian candelabra or Regency commodes for using an electric light or a flush lavatory. Nevertheless he slipped the volume under his coat and glanced up guiltily at one of the tiny security cameras that monitored the floor.
‘Breaking your own rules, Professor?’ said Quarry, loosening his scarf. ‘Bit bloody rich.’
‘Forgot I had it with me.’
‘Like hell. Your place or mine?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter? Okay – yours.’
To reach Quarry’s office it was necessary to cross the trading floor. The Japanese stock market would close in fifteen minutes, the European exchanges would open at nine, and already four dozen quantitative analysts – quants, in the dismissive jargon of the trade – were hard at work. None talked above a whisper. Most stared silently at their six-screen arrays. Giant plasma televisions with muted sound carried CNBC and Bloomberg, while beneath the TVs a glowing red line of digital clocks noiselessly recorded time’s relentless passage in Tokyo, Beijing, Moscow, Geneva, London and New York. This was the sound that money made in the second decade of the twenty-first century. The occasional soft clatter of strokes on a keyboard was the only indication that humans were present at all.
Hoffmann raised his hand to the back of his head and touched the hard puckered smile
The fifth floor was a kingdom within a kingdom. A wall of opaque and bubbled turquoise glass blocked off access from the elevators. To gain entry, as downstairs, it was necessary to present one’s relaxed countenance to a scanner. Facial recognition activated a sliding panel, the glass vibrating slightly as it rolled back to reveal Hoffmann’s own reception area: low cubes of black and grey upholstery stacked and arranged like child’s bricks to form chairs and sofas, a coffee table of chrome and glass, and adjustable consoles containing touch-screen computers on which visitors could browse the web while waiting for their appointments. Each had a screensaver stating the company’s rubric in red letters on a white background:
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE WILL HAVE NO PAPER
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE WILL CARRY NO INVENTORY
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE WILL BE ENTIRELY DIGITAL
THE COMPANY OF THE FUTURE HAS ARRIVED
There were no magazines or newspapers in the reception area: it was company policy that, as far as possible, no printed material or writing paper of any sort should pass the threshold. Of course, the rule could not be imposed on guests, but employees, including the senior partners, were required to pay a fine of ten Swiss francs, and have their names posted on the company’s intranet, each time they were caught in possession of ink and wood pulp rather than silicon and plastic. It was astonishing how quickly people’s habits, even Quarry’s, were changed by this simple rule. Ten years after Bill Gates had first preached the gospel of the paperless office in Business at the Speed of Light , Hoffmann had more or less brought it about. In a strange way he was almost as proud of this achievement as he was of any of his others.
It was embarrassing, therefore, for him to have to pass through reception with his first edition of The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals . If he had caught anyone else with a copy he would have pointed out that the text was readily available online via Project Gutenberg or Darwin.online.org, and asked sarcastically whether they considered themselves to be a quicker reader than the VIXAL-4 algorithm, or had trained their brains to do word search. He saw no paradox in his zeal to ban the book at work and to display it in rare first editions at home. Books were antiques, just like any other artefacts from the past. One might just as well reprimand a collector of Venetian candelabra or Regency commodes for using an electric light or a flush lavatory. Nevertheless he slipped the volume under his coat and glanced up guiltily at one of the tiny security cameras that monitored the floor.
‘Breaking your own rules, Professor?’ said Quarry, loosening his scarf. ‘Bit bloody rich.’
‘Forgot I had it with me.’
‘Like hell. Your place or mine?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter? Okay – yours.’
To reach Quarry’s office it was necessary to cross the trading floor. The Japanese stock market would close in fifteen minutes, the European exchanges would open at nine, and already four dozen quantitative analysts – quants, in the dismissive jargon of the trade – were hard at work. None talked above a whisper. Most stared silently at their six-screen arrays. Giant plasma televisions with muted sound carried CNBC and Bloomberg, while beneath the TVs a glowing red line of digital clocks noiselessly recorded time’s relentless passage in Tokyo, Beijing, Moscow, Geneva, London and New York. This was the sound that money made in the second decade of the twenty-first century. The occasional soft clatter of strokes on a keyboard was the only indication that humans were present at all.
Hoffmann raised his hand to the back of his head and touched the hard puckered smile
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