"Greg Egan - Distress (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

machines, jet-black conveyor belts moving incandescent silver nuggets of "data" from subprocess to
subprocess. Molecular schematics of interacting proteins were shrouded with delicately beautiful-
and utterly gratuitous-electron-density maps, veils of pink and blue aurorae melting and merging,
transforming the humblest chemical wedding into a microcosmic fantasia. I could have set it all to
Wagner-or Blake-and flogged it to members of Mystical Renaissance, to play on a loop whenever they
wanted to go slack-jawed with numinous incomprehension.
I slogged my way through the whole morass, though-and it finally paid off. Buried amongst all the
technoporn and science-as-psychedelia were a few shots worth salvaging.
The HealthGuard implant employed the latest programmable assay chip: an array of elaborate
proteins bound to silicon, in many respects like a pharm's synthesizer, but designed to count
molecules, not make them. The previous generation of chips had used a multitude of highly specific
antibodies, Y-shaped proteins planted in the semiconductor in a checkerboard pattern, like
adjoining fields of a hundred different crops. When a molecule of cholesterol, or insulin, or
whatever, happened to strike exactly the right field and collide with a matching antibody, it
bound to it long enough for the tiny change in capacitance to be detected, and logged in a
microprocessor. Over time, this record of serendipitous collisions yielded the amount of each
substance in the blood.
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The new sensors used a protein which was more like a Venus flytrap with brains than an antibody's
passive, single-purpose template. "Assayin" in its receptive state was a long, bell-shaped
molecule, a tube opening out into a broad funnel. This conformation was metastable; the charge
distribution on the molecule rendered it exquisitely sensitive, spring-loaded. Anything large
enough colliding with the inner surface of the funnel caused a lightning-fast wave of deformation,
engulfing and shrink-wrapping the intruder. The microprocessor, noting the sprung trap, could then
probe the captive molecule by searching for a shape of the assayin which imprisoned it even more
snugly. There were no more wasted, mismatched collisions-no more insulin molecules striking
cholesterol antibodies, yielding no information at all. Assayin always knew what had hit it.
It was a technical advance worth communicating, worth explaining, worth demystifying. Whatever the
social implications of the HealthGuard implant, they could no more be presented in a vacuum,
divorced from the technology which made the device possible, than vice versa. Once people ceased
to understand how the machines around them actually functioned, the world they inhabited began to
dissolve into an incomprehensible dreamscape. Technology moved beyond control, beyond discussion,
evoking only worship or loathing, dependence or alienation. Arthur C. Clarke had suggested that
any sufficiently advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic-referring to a possible
encounter with an alien civilization-but if a science journalist had one responsibility above all
else, it was to keep Clarke s Law from applying to human technology in human eyes.
(Lofty sentiments . . . and here I was peddling frankenscience, because that was the niche that
had needed filling. I salved my conscience-or numbed it for a while-with platitudes about Trojan
horses, and changing the system from within.)
I took the Delphic Biosystems graphics of assayin in action, and had the console strip away the
excessive decoration so it was possible to see clearly what was going on. I threw out the gushing


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commentary and wrote my own. The console delivered it in the diction profile I'd chosen for all of
Junk DNA's narration, cloned from samples of an English actor named Juliet Stevenson. The long-
vanished "Standard English" pronunciation-unlike any contemporary UK accent-remained easily
comprehensible across the vast Anglophone world. Any viewer who wished to