Received: from hplms26.hpl.hp.com by opus.hpl.hp.com with ESMTP (1.37.109.18/15.5+ECS 3.3+HPL1.1) id AA057937812; Fri, 25 Jul 1997 23:16:52 -0700 Return-Path: <luigi@nsun10.lbl.gov-DeleteThis> Received: from nsun10.lbl.gov by hplms26.hpl.hp.com with ESMTP (1.37.109.16/15.5+ECS 3.3+HPL1.1S) id AA028597813; Fri, 25 Jul 1997 23:16:53 -0700 Received: from nsun10.lbl.gov (localhost [127.0.0.1]) by nsun10.lbl.gov (8.7.3/8.7.3/NERSC-Feb96) with SMTP id XAA28133 for <wind_talk@opus.hpl.hp.com-DeleteThis>; Fri, 25 Jul 1997 23:06:58 -0700 (PDT) Message-Id: <199707260606.XAA28133@nsun10.lbl.gov-DeleteThis> To: wind_talk@opus.hpl.hp.com-DeleteThis Subject: The Windsurfing Package Date: Fri, 25 Jul 1997 23:06:58 -0700 From: Luigi Semenzato <luigi@Nersc.GOV-DeleteThis>
I am no longer working at a start-up, so I have time for extravagant
self-entertainment, like cleaning up this short piece of windsurfing
fiction I wrote two years ago. Hope you like it. ---Luigi
P.S. Ken Poulton gave me good suggestions for improvements.
-------------------------------------------------------------
THE WINDSURFING PACKAGE
Copyright (C) Luigi Semenzato, 1995. Not for commercial or wide
redistribution. OK to copy for friends.
San Francisco, 2095 A.D.
`This looks okay, but don't you have anything better?'
The clerk's eyes gleamed.
The clerk was happy. It had been a slow morning, but this customer
was making up for it plenty. He was a man in his late thirties or
early forties, tanned and athletic. He was buying from scratch, not
just upgrading or replacing some component. He was getting the whole
thing and had already picked a bunch of expensive gear. `The rule of
thumb is that you want to spend about the same on software as you do
on hardware.'
The man was reading the large print on the shrink-wrapped box he held.
`Yes, but I was hoping to reuse some software. I've got a lot of good
stuff already loaded. For instance I have Mogul King.'
`Oh yes, I use it too. It's great.' In the winter, the store
specialized in skiing equipment. `But we don't recommend mixing skill
packages. There are too many compatibility problems. And it doesn't
save you much.'
`I'm not worried about cost.' The clerk had guessed that much. `I
have a finely tuned Basic Balance driver that I want to keep using.'
`Oh... is it SOMA compliant?'
`Yes, SOMA 2.3.'
`Sir, I'm quite sure TurboWind can handle that. And if you have any
problem we'll give you an exchange or a full refund.'
`Excellent. I'll get TurboWind then. Can you install it?'
`Sure, we'll do that. Have a seat here while I fetch the PortaZapper.
Are you going to sail this afternoon?'
`That's the plan. A friend is taking me to Crissy. He sails there
all the time.'
`Tell you what, we'll download a Crissy guide for free.'
`Thank you.'
`OK, I'm probing now. Oh-oh, looks like you are getting a call.'
`Yes, I think it's my friend. Please hold one second.'
`John?' The voice came from no direction in particular, but it was
loud and clear, as it was being fed directly into John's auditory
nerve.
`Hi Roger, what's up?'
`I was wondering, how's the shopping? Are you done yet?'
`Almost, why?'
`Oh, not much. The wind is averaging twenty-eight knots.' Roger
succeeded in saying that nonchalantly.
`Ah. Is that good?'
`What! GOOD? You are kidding me. It's fantastic. It's not been
this good for two years. You don't have the software yet, eh?'
`Just about to download it. See you at the beach, and save some
energies to show me around.'
`Over.'
`OK, I'm done' said John to the clerk.
`Have you turned the neurophone off?'
`Yes. Let's do it.'
The clerk placed on John's head a U-shaped piece of plastic, decorated
with a row of red and green blinking lights. Then he went behind the
sales desk and looked at a screen. `Oh. You have never windsurfed
before?' he asked.
`No, why?'
`Well, usually people want to give it a try it before they go out and
buy top-of-the-line equipment.'
`Oh, I am not worried. I know I'll like it.'
`You'll love it for sure. OK... almost done... two more
terabytes... done.'
`Whoa! How big is it?'
`Pretty big. It's years of experience from top-class racers, plus
precise models for board and sail dynamics. You'll be surprised at
how much you'll be able to do. Let's see... your rig is in your
car... payment's done... all set. Have fun, sir.'
----------
John parked next to Roger's yellow van at Crissy Field. Roger wasn't
there. The view was magnificent: the three-tiered Golden Gate Bridge,
the green Marin Headlands, the skyscrapers of Sausalito. The wind
lifted dust and rocked John's car. He unloaded it and started
rigging. It came naturally, even though he had never done it before.
It took him only fractions of a second to recognize grommets, pulleys,
hooks, and levers. In a few minutes the board was ready, its sail
taut and eager to fly. He put his drysuit on and carried his rig to
the beach, balancing against the gusts, pleasantly surprised by its
lightness. Whitecaps decorated every swell, and he felt a rush of
anticipation along with a twinge of fear.
Several sailors rested on the beach, but Roger was not among them.
John decided not to wait. He was too eager to join the crowd of
speeding sailors among the swell. He was going to be a Windsurfer.
He walked into the water, stepped on the board, and took off. He held
his breath for two long seconds, then he laughed and screamed.
John was a Windsurfer. And a good one too. He played around a bit,
adjusted his harness, then decided to go for speed. He became one
with sail and board. His eyes scanned the water for the smoothest
path, his hands sensed tiny variations in wind speed and corrected for
it. He passed many other windsurfers, and was still accelerating when
his fin hit.
What it hit, he never knew. It was large enough to bring the board to
a dead stop. He had the scant consolation of knowing exactly what was
happening to him as it happened. His body was traveling at forty
miles per hour, and certain physical laws dictated that it should
continue to do so. His feet were pulled from the footstraps and he
was launched in a curved path, the centripetal force courtesy of the
harness line. He hit the water so hard that he thought he was going
to reboot. As he flew, he carried the mast along, and both mast and
boom broke in several parts. He found himself in an unfamiliar liquid
environment, the remains of his equipment several feet away, and he
realized he no longer knew how to swim.
How could that happen? He had installed SwimWare 1.0 many years
before and it had always worked fine. He had thought about
hard-learning it; but these days, the only people who had the time to
hard-learn were the super-rich and the bums. He frantically flapped
his arms around, trying to keep his head out of the water and as high
as he could. The board floated: he needed to get to the board. He
figured that if he flapped in a certain way he might move towards it.
The strategy was ineffective, but the wind pushed the board his way,
and soon he was able to grasp it. He was exhausted and clung to the
board panting and coughing. Five minutes later he lifted his head
again, looked up towards the bridge, and saw the looming bow of a
hovertanker coming straight at him.
He scanned his memory enhancement looking for the help file. It
wasn't there! What kind of lousy installation did the frikken frakken
shop... He had a hunch and checked the free space: zero. No wonder.
It was SOMA's fault, that hog. How could it let the extended memory
overflow without even a single warning? Curse it and curse the bunch
of idiots at Neurosoft; it was their fault, solely their fault, that
John Lanzinger was going to be run over by a hovertanker at the young
age of forty-two.
He looked around and noticed that many windsurfers were headed in his
direction. Had they seen him? Were they coming to help him? Would
they make it in time? Then he remember the Crissy guide. He was
surprised to find it. He thought `hovertanker' and found the entry.
The ship was getting closer, a huge roaring foam-spraying black bow.
John figured out why the sailors were coming his way: the
turbine-induced wind near the skirt made for a fun ride. And as the
screaming monster was almost upon him, and he was preparing to die, he
also knew that it had no submerged parts, and he would be safe, except
he should go under the surface and stay there for thirty seconds to
protect his hearing.
With the swimming software gone, no way was he going under the
surface. Never mind the hearing, he would just get microphone
implants. Probably better quality than his ears anyhow. There was a
brief maelstrom of wind and spray and then utter blackness and
horrible noise which seemed to last forever. But eventually he was
out in the sunlight again, apparently with some hearing left, and a
much simpler problem to solve.
The problem solved itself when Roger arrived a little while later. `I
saw you earlier, and tried to chase you but you were going out real
fast and I had no chance of catching up. I saw you crash. I figured
you knew about the hovertanker.'
`Well, sort of.'
`Here, tie this to your mast base and I'll tow you to shore... what's
the matter, can't you let go of the board?'
`Uhm, I better not, I can't swim.'
`You can't swim?' John explained the situation. `Have you tried
rebooting?' suggested Roger.
`I didn't dare, but now that you're here...'
`Go for it.'
`OK'. John rebooted. He found himself in the middle of the San
Francisco Bay, near the Golden Gate Bridge. It took him a minute to
figure how he got there. His jaw ached.
`Man, you're seriously messed up' said Roger. `You were stuck in an
infinite reboot loop. I had to punch you twice.'
`Oh. Thank you.'
`Does it work now?'
`I don't know. I'm afraid to try.'
`Try with your legs only.' John took a few, regular strokes with his
legs. `Seems to work' he said. He let go, and was able to swim.
They tied the line, ditched the broken gear, and Roger towed his
friend to shore.
`I think I'll go home now and run some diagnostics' John told Roger.
`I can't blame you. See you tomorrow?'
`OK, tomorrow.' John went to his car, loaded the board, got in,
settled in the driver seat, sighed, and looked down.
Now what in the world were those pedals for?
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