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As Langdon drew even with the piece, however, he stopped short, startled to see that the surface was utterly smooth, with no visible brush-strokes. “It’s a reproduction?”
“No, that’s the original,” Winston replied.
Langdon looked closer. The work had clearly been printed by a large-format printer. “Winston, this is a print. It’s not even on canvas.”
“I don’t work on canvas,” Winston replied. “I create art virtually, and then Edmond prints it for me.”
“Hold on,” Langdon said in disbelief. “This is yours?”
“Yes, I tried to mimic the style of Joan Miró.”
“I can see that,” Langdon said. “You even signed it—Miró.”
“No,” Winston said. “Look again. I signed it Miro—with no accent. In Spanish, the word miro means ‘I look at.’”
Clever, Langdon had to admit, seeing the single Miró-style eye looking at the viewer from the center of Winston’s piece.
“Edmond asked me to create a self-portrait, and this is what I came up with.”
This is your self-portrait? Langdon glanced again at the collection of uneven squiggles. You must be a very strange-looking computer.
Langdon had recently read about Edmond’s growing excitement for teaching computers to create algorithmic art—that is, art generated by highly complex computer programs. It raised an uncomfortable question: When a computer creates art, who is the artist—the computer or the programmer? At MIT, a recent exhibit of highly accomplished algorithmic art had put an awkward spin on the Harvard humanities course: Is Art What Makes Us Human?
“I compose music too,” Winston chimed. “You should ask Edmond to play some for you later, should you be curious. At the moment, however, you do need to hurry. The presentation is starting shortly.”
Langdon left the gallery and found himself on a high catwalk overlooking the main atrium. On the opposite side of the cavernous space, docents were hustling the last few straggling guests out of the elevators, herding them in Langdon’s direction toward a doorway up ahead.
“Tonight’s program is scheduled to begin in just a few minutes,” Winston said. “Do you see the entrance to the presentation space?”
“I do. It’s just ahead.”
“Excellent. One final point. As you enter, you will see collection bins for headsets. Edmond asked that you not return your unit, but rather keep it. This way, after the program, I will be able to guide you out of the museum through a back door, where you’ll avoid the crowds and be sure to find a taxi.”
Langdon pictured the strange series of letters and numbers that Edmond had scrawled on the business card, telling him to give it to the taxi driver. “Winston, all Edmond wrote was ‘BIO-EC346.’ He called it a painfully simple code.”
“He speaks the truth,” Winston replied quickly. “Now, Professor, the program is about to begin. I do hope you enjoy Mr. Kirsch’s presentation, and I look forward to assisting you afterward.”
With an abrupt click, Winston was gone.
Langdon neared the entry doors, removed his headset, and slipped the tiny device into his jacket pocket. Then he hurried through the entrance with the last few guests just as the doors closed behind him.
Once again, he found himself in an unexpected space.
We’re standing up for the presentation?
Langdon had imagined the crowd gathering in a comfortable sit-down auditorium to hear Edmond’s announcement, but instead, hundreds of guests stood packed into a cramped, whitewashed gallery space. The room contained no visible artwork and no seating—just a podium at the far wall, flanked by a large LCD screen that read:
Live program begins in 2 minutes 07 seconds
Langdon felt a surge of anticipation, and his eyes continued down the LCD screen to a second line of text, which he needed to read twice:
Current remote attendees: 1,953,694
Two million people?
Kirsch had told Langdon he would be live-streaming his announcement, but these numbers seemed unfathomable, and the ticker was climbing faster with each passing moment.
A smile crossed Langdon’s face. His former student had certainly done well for himself. The question now was: What in the world was Edmond about to say?
CHAPTER 13
IN A MOONLIT desert just east of Dubai, a Sand Viper 1100 dune buggy veered hard to the left and skidded to a stop, sending a veil of sand billowing out in front of the blazing headlights.
The teenager behind the wheel ripped off his goggles and stared down at the object he had almost run over. Apprehensive, he climbed out of the vehicle and approached the dark form in the sand.
Sure enough, it was exactly what it had appeared to be.
There in his headlights, sprawled facedown on the sand, lay a motionless human body.
“Marhaba?” the kid called out. “Hello?”
No response.
The boy could tell it was a man from his clothing—a traditional chechia hat and loose-fitting thawb—and the man looked well fed and squat. His footprints had long since blown away, as had any tire tracks or hints as to how he might have gotten this far out into the open desert.
“Marhaba?” the kid repeated.
Nothing.
Uncertain what else to do, the boy reached out with his foot and gently nudged the man’s side. Although his body was plump, his flesh felt taut and hard, already desiccated by the wind and sun.
Definitely dead.
The boy reached down, grasped the man’s shoulder, and heaved him onto his back. The man’s lifeless eyes stared up at the heavens. His face and beard were covered in sand, but even dirty, he looked friendly somehow, even familiar, like a favorite uncle or grandfather.
