Intensive googling reveals no website and no address for the Festina Lente Company. There are no mentions in newspapers, magazines, or classified ads going back a century. These guys don’t just fly under the radar; they’re subterranean.
But it has to be a real place, right? — a place with a front door. Is it marked? I’m thinking about the bookstore. On the front windows, there’s Penumbra’s name, and there’s that symbol, the same one that’s on the logbook and ledger. Two hands, open like a book. I have a picture of it on my phone.
“Good idea,” Kat says. “If a building has that symbol anywhere — on a window, carved into stone — we can find it.”
“What, by conducting a complete sidewalk survey of Manhattan? That would take, like, five years.”
“Twenty-three, actually,” Kat says. “If we did it the old-fashioned way.”
She pulls her laptop across the sheets and shakes it to life. “But guess what we have in Google Street View? Pictures of every building in Manhattan.”
“So subtract the walking time, and now it’ll only take us — thirteen years?”
“You’ve got to start thinking differently,” Kat clucks, shaking her head. “This is one of the things you learn at Google. Stuff that used to be hard … just isn’t hard anymore.”
I still don’t understand how computers can help us with this particular species of problem.
“Well, what about hu-mans-and-com-pu-ters,” Kat says, her voice pitched like a cartoon robot, “work-ing-to-ge-ther?” Her fingers fly across the keyboard and there are commands I recognize: King Hadoop’s army is on the march again. She switches her voice back to normaclass="underline" “We can use Hadoop to read pages in a book, right? So we can use it to read signs on buildings, too.”
Of course.
“But it will make mistakes,” she says. “Hadoop will probably get us from a hundred thousand buildings down to, like, five thousand.”
“So we’re down to five days instead of five years.”
“Wrong!” Kat says. “Because guess what — we have ten thousand friends. It’s called”—she clicks a tab triumphantly and fat yellow letters appear on the screen—“Mechanical Turk. Instead of sending jobs to computers, like Hadoop, it sends jobs to real people. Lots of them. Mostly Estonians.”
She commands King Hadoop and ten thousand Estonian footmen. She is unstoppable.
“What do I keep telling you?” Kat says. “We have these new capabilities now — nobody gets it.” She shakes her head and says it again: “Nobody gets it.”
Now I make my voice into a cartoon robot, too: “The-Sin-gu-la-ri-ty-is-near!”
Kat laughs and moves symbols around on her screen. A big red number in the corner tells us that 30,347 workers are waiting to do our bidding.
“Hu-man-girl-very-beau-ti-ful!” I tickle Kat’s ribs and make her click the wrong box; she shoves me with her elbow and keeps working. While I watch, she queues up thousands of photos of Manhattan addresses. There are brownstones, skyscrapers, parking structures, public schools, storefronts — all captured by the Google Street View trucks, all flagged by a computer as maybe, possibly, containing a book made from two hands, although in most cases (actually, in all but one) it’s just something that the computer has mistaken for the Unbroken Spine’s symboclass="underline" two hands in prayer, an ornate Gothic letter, a cartoon drawing of a twisty brown pretzel.
Then she sends the images off to Mechanical Turk — a whole army of eager souls lined up at laptops around the world — along with my reference photo and a simple question: Do these match? Yes or no?
On her screen, a little yellow timer says the task will take twenty-three minutes.
I can see what Kat is talking about: this really is intoxicating. I mean, King Hadoop’s computer army was one thing, but this is real people. Lots of them. Mostly Estonians.
“Oh, hey, guess what?” Kat says suddenly, a jolt of excitement animating her face. “They’re going to announce the new Product Management soon.”
“Wow. Good luck?”
“Well, you know, it’s not completely random. I mean, it’s partially random. But there’s also, like — it’s an algorithm. And I asked Raj to put in a good word for me. With the algorithm.”
Of course. So this means two things: (1) Pepper the chef will, in fact, never be chosen to lead the company; and (2) if Google doesn’t put this girl in charge, I’m going to switch to some other search engine.
We stretch out side by side on Kat’s squishy spaceship bed, our legs interlaced, commanding more people now than there are in the town where I was born. She is Queen Kat Potente with her instant empire and I am her loyal consort. We won’t command them all for long, but hey: nothing lasts long. We all come to life and gather allies and build empires and die, all in a single moment — maybe a single pulse of some giant processor somewhere.
The laptop makes a low chime, and Kat rolls over to tap at the keyboard. Still breathing hard, she grins and lifts the laptop onto her belly to show me the result of this great human-computer concord, this collaboration between a thousand machines, ten times as many humans, and one very smart girclass="underline"
It is a washed-out picture of a low stone building, not really more than a big house. Blurry figures are caught crossing the sidewalk in front of it; one of them has a pink fanny pack. The house has iron bars over small windows and a dark shadowed entryway under a black awning. And etched into the stone, gray against gray, there it is: two hands, open like a book.
It’s tiny — they aren’t any bigger than real hands. You’d probably miss it, just walking by on the sidewalk. The building is on Fifth Avenue, facing Central Park, just down the street from the Guggenheim.
The Unbroken Spine is hiding in plain sight.
THE LIBRARY
THE STRANGEST CLERK IN FIVE HUNDRED YEARS
I AM LOOKING through a pair of white Stormtrooper binoculars. I am looking at that same tiny gray symbol, two hands spread open like a book, etched into darker gray stone. I’m perched on a bench on Fifth Avenue, my back to Central Park, flanked by a newspaper dispenser and a falafel cart. We’re in New York City. I borrowed the binoculars from Mat before we left. He warned me not to lose them.
“What do you see?” Kat asks.
“Nothing yet.” There are small windows set high up on the walls, all guarded by heavy bars. It’s a boring little fortress.
The Unbroken Spine. It sounds like a band of assassins, not a bunch of book lovers. What’s going on in that building? Are there sexual fetishes that involve books? There must be. I try not to imagine how they might work. Do you have to pay money to be a member of the Unbroken Spine? You probably have to pay a lot of money. There are probably expensive cruises. I’m worried about Penumbra. He’s in so deep that he can’t even see how strange it all is.
It’s early in the morning. We came straight from the airport. Neel visits Manhattan all the time for business and I used to take the train down from Providence, but Kat is a New York neophyte. She gawked at the city’s predawn glitter as our plane curled down into JFK, her fingertips on the window’s clear plastic, and she breathed, “I didn’t realize it was so skinny.”
Now we are sitting quietly on a bench in the skinny city. The sky is getting light, but we’re cloaked in shadows, breakfasting on perfectly imperfect bagels and black coffee, trying to look normal. The air smells wet, like it’s going to rain, and there’s a cold wind whipping up the street. Neel is sketching on a little notepad, drawing curvy babes with curvy swords. Kat bought a New York Times but couldn’t figure out how to operate it, so now she’s fiddling with her phone.