those posterity brats would find in the attic of their great-grandma. Of all that you were completely unaware while performing actions you had been manipulated into.
Ya dig how the land lays now, eh? Crime is only what slips thru 2-s-V.’
‘Ah, I see. If they hack my email box where you call me to put President on ice but they can’t present the record of your frivolous thought, like, ‘Why not sending this trash to V?,' you are immune and sinless as the Holy Virgin?’
‘Attaboy! Exactly! My nose stays as clean as that of a 20-year-old nepo baby of a billionaire running a multinational corporation. And let the hackers fuck each other’s ass in your email-box. Pardon my unorthodox lexica.’
‘That’s why you shy sending the file to me?’
‘Clear as day. The file in your box plus a plain record of my thought while sending it makes me utterly vulnerable to incrimination.’
‘Record of your thought? Are there any pills to mitigate the alcoholic delirium, I wonder?’
‘Man, that’s what I’m doing at my workplace. Not pills I mean but thought recording. Ever heard anything about the noosphere?’
‘?’
‘In addition to the athmo- and stratosphere the eggheads have turned out one more – the noosphere. The thing consists of thoughts ever thought by those capable of thinking. Any thought, however secret and hidden, flits there openly, like radio signals. But it’s a lame analogy because a radio signal tends to fade and die away while a thought becomes a part to the noosphere forever and a day. Ineffaceable. Indestructible. Undisguised. True, the technology is not developed to the full potential as of yet, however, with the threshold overstepped the rest is just the question of time. Theoretically, you’re able to zero on in and read the thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci while he was doing his Mona Lisa.’
‘How about the thoughts of your dad at the moment of spilling you out in the crowd of your doubles, obviously not as zippy, spermatozoids?’
‘A problem of a higher level. You have to sieve his contemplation out from those by other males in the like phase, and by bigger apes too both in zoos and in the wild—the shifty bastards conceal their wit so as no to get harnessed into the mutual labor efforts. They’re all alike, the orgasmic thoughts of men for the last five million years wrapping the planet with innumerable layers, reaching the altitude of the Everest. You certainly will need assistance of AI yet, in principle, the problem looks rather trivial.’
‘Bullshit! The legends, myths, and fairy tales by a group of anonymous alcoholics in a marathon session!’
‘A well-grounded heat, yours is. The idea looks as weired as mobile communication would seem to Chinguiz-khan’s granny. Yet the public is readily trained to never give a bean. One more wrapper around the planet? So what? Aren’t we taught about the atmosphere containing the oxygen atoms? Have you ever seen an oxygen atom? Nope. Still you use them for breathing. Noosphere? Just an immense bulk of thoughts of any kind both precisely defined, and laxly dropped halfway, and lost and popped up again…’
‘They are really squeezed in there, ain’t they?’
‘In the head?’
‘No, in your announced noosphere. The thoughts must have been flagged off by the incantation “Let be light!” and since then there’ve been thought up such a magnitude of thoughts that all the ware-houses, dumps, and canyons should get inundated by the surface in rising deluge.’
‘Looks like it started dawning on you, good friend, which is a welcome news, yet you still apply the obsolete square-nested approach. Of course, it might seem tight for all kinds of thoughts starting with the “Where’s mom? I wanna tit, and pee, and poop!” up to the “Damn nurse! I need the bedpan! Now I’ll wet the pajamas to spite her!”. They are born to never disappear, millions upon billions thoughts every moment, wreathing, meandering, swiping thru each other. The buggers don’t give an eff about the grim warning by Malthus.
A-and there is a well substantiated suspicion that any living thing is capable of thinking, from the unicellular to stalagmites. Another host of contributors… The good news is they are intangible, floating thru one another, anyone’s thought withing whoever else’s thought. Just like radio waves do or maverick quant effluence and so forth doo-doo that no normal dude can ever understand. Do you follow, student? Beware, I am strict and demand details at the term examination’.
‘As long as they are so intangible, I don’t care about their Gulf Streams and Maelstroms made up of immaterial matryoshkas sitting in each other or wherever they hang out.’
‘Everywhere, buddy! Everywhere – in you, in me, in this here table. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…’
‘You’ve screwed the cite, “Words, words, words, words…”, says Hamlet’.
‘Words are not for storage. They’re too fragile, unstable, often broken, forgotten, lost irretrievably. Thoughts are another kettle of fish, they are always there. Accruing parts in the noosphere’.
‘Thanks for your entertaining tale, yet as an inveterate mountaineer I can’t believe a thing without grabbing it first’.
‘How many times have you groped a radio wave?'
‘Somehow missed the experience. Yet I can switch on the receiver thrown together by my Dad in the past millennium and listen to the weathercast’.
‘The announcer reads the forecast and you, piehole open, believe in the maneuvers of the clouds which you cannot grab. By the by, some guys earn a good living from thought reading’.
‘Come on! No medium has ever managed to cheat the guys from AIP neither to pass SPR or ASSAP checks’.
‘Who talks of mediums? I meant the guys who work with me in the Firm. Turning the knobs to tune to a thought in the noosphere. Easy as cake’.
‘A kinda radio receiver?’
‘A sort of’.
V gave his pal a closer look. To give out such a yarn you should be pretty high. But no echo of pipe dreams in his eyes, neither the purplish circles about them, and none of the uncontrolled sipping whiffs at nothing. The guy broadcasts not from under influence. Hmm. And leaves no loose ends, a kinda Second Coming of Isaac Newton for you’.
‘Okay,' began V thoughtfully, ‘if for a split second we suppose all this blither to be not a sham spilled by hostile aliens from Tau Ceti as a mock Trojan Horse, then I can’t even remotely see how…’
‘But are you ready to hand over twenty years of your precious life to see closer yet dimly?’ interrupted Lex. ‘The learn curve is pretty steep. Some nutty field of science. And all of that fundamental brainbreaker is based on a certain Algorithm of Chaos. Which is about all I know’.
3
In the most ruthlessly devastating of her gait styles, waitress Sally neared their stall. So it was announced in the badge on her magnificent breast, the left one, pinned over the dazzling white blouse (for the folks who tend to read in fits and starts, like, for instance, me at times, when not sufficiently concentrated—that was said about the badge, the damn thing was pinned and nothing else whatsoever, so as to remove any groundless expectations and keep staying on the safe side)…
As always in his intercourse with the fair sex, V gave free rein to his habitual instinct or, which also possible, to his instinctive habit, notably aggravating at the instances of communication with the distaff segment in personnel of both budget organizations and private business (the time of day, it might be mentioned, had no effect on his deep-rooted habit or, maybe, ingrained instinct).
At times he gave it a shot at reckoning location of tattoos in private nooks of their anatomy, for intimate exposure besides those on the show at their working hours.
However, the imaginative detours were merely spells of an aside activity and for the most part V stayed unobtrusively keen on intercepting the flickers of the random signals emitted by female