ENCOM’s province was the world itself, and much of the sky above it. That province was never quiet. Many floors below Dillinger’s sanctum, popcorn was snapping in a popper. The popper was situated in one of the myriad cubicles in which human beings labored on the machine-network, a cubicle that its occupant himself could only locate because he knew the floor, hall and partition numbers necessary. The occupant’s desk was extremely messy; he had little time or inclination for housekeeping. It held a half-full coffee cup and part of an egg-salad sandwich, which rested atop a computer console. There was also a sign that told a great deal about the occupant’s attitude toward the artificial intelligences with which he worked. GORT, KLAATU BARADA NIKTO! Alan Bradley, red-eyed from fatigue, took another bite from the soggy sandwich and didn’t taste it. He grimaced at the computer keyboard before him. He was not quite thirty, brown-haired, classically handsome in a serious, reserved way behind gold-rimmed glasses.
