The Fear Index

Hoffmann’s apartment.
    He had not wanted to let them in, but Quarry had pretended he needed to use the loo – ‘honestly, it was like trying to get off with a girl at the end of a bad evening’ – and so reluctantly Hoffmann had led them up to the landing and unlocked his door on to a vivarium of noise and tropical heat: motherboards whirring everywhere, red and green eyes winking out from under the sofa, behind the table, stacked on the bookshelves, bunches of black cables festooned from the walls like vines. It reminded Quarry of a story he had read just before Christmas about a man in Maidenhead who kept a crocodile in his garage. In the corner was a Bloomberg terminal for online home traders. On his return from the bathroom, Quarry had looked in at the bedroom – more computers taking up half the bed.
    He had come back into the living room to find that Gabrielle had made room for herself on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. He said, ‘So what’s the deal here, Alex? It looks like Mission Control.’
    At first Hoffmann had not wanted to talk about it, but gradually he had begun to open up. The object, he said, was autonomous machine-learning – to create an algorithm which, once given a task, would be able to operate independently and teach itself at a rate far beyond the capacity of human beings. Hoffmann was leaving CERN to pursue his research alone, which meant he would no longer have access to the experimental data emanating from the Large Electron–Positron Collider. For the past six months, therefore, he had been using data streams from the financial markets instead. Quarry had said it looked an expensive business. Hoffmann had agreed, although the main cost to him was not in microprocessors – many of which he had been able to salvage from scrap – or the cost of the Bloomberg service, so much as in electricity: he was having to find two thousand francs a week simply to bring in sufficient power; he had twice blacked out the neighbourhood. The other problem, of course, was bandwidth.
    Quarry had said cautiously, ‘I could help you out with the cost, if you’d let me.’
    ‘No need. I’m using the algorithm to pay for itself.’
    It had taken an effort for Quarry to stifle his gasp of excitement. ‘Really? That’s a neat concept. And is it?’
    ‘Sure. It’s just a bunch of extrapolations drawn from basic pattern analysis.’ Hoffmann had shown him the screen. ‘These are the stocks it’s suggested since December first, based on price comparisons using data from the past five years. Then I just email a broker and tell him to buy or sell.’
    Quarry had studied the trades. They were good, if small: nickel-and-dime stuff. ‘Could it do more than cover costs? Could it make a profit?’
    ‘Yeah, in theory, but that would need a lot of investment.’
    ‘Maybe I could get you the investment.’
    ‘You know what? I’m not actually interested in making money. No offence, but I don’t see the point of it.’
    Quarry couldn’t believe what he was hearing: he didn’t see the point!
    Hoffmann had not offered him a drink, or even a seat – not that there was room to sit now that Gabrielle had taken the only available space. Quarry was left standing sweating in his ski jacket.
    He said, ‘But surely if you did make money then you could use the profits to pay for more research? It would be what you’re trying to do now, only on a vastly bigger scale. I don’t want to be rude, man, but look around. You need to get some proper premises, more reliable utilities, fibre optics …’
    ‘Perhaps a cleaner?’ Gabrielle had added.
    ‘She’s right, you know – a cleaner wouldn’t hurt. Look, Alex – here’s my card. I’m going to be in the area for the next week or so. Why don’t we meet up and talk this through?’
    Hoffmann had taken the card and put it in his pocket without looking at it. ‘Maybe.’
    At the door Quarry had bent down and whispered to Gabrielle, ‘Do you need a ride? I’m driving back to Chamonix. I can drop you in town somewhere.’
    ‘It’s all right, thanks.’ A smile as sweet as acid. ‘I thought I might stay here for a while and settle your bet.’
    ‘Suit yourself, darling, but have you seen the bedroom? Best of bloody luck.’

    QUARRY HAD PUT up the seed money himself, used his annual bonus to move Hoffmann and his computers into an office in Geneva: he needed a place where he could bring prospective clients and impress them with the hardware. His wife