The Interview

The Interview

“Good morning, it's nice to meet you. I’ve been trying to interview you for years.” He doesn’t shake hands and says, “Make yourself comfortable. I only have twenty minutes, so let's get on topic.” I say, “Great. Can I call you Mark, or Mister Z? I don’t mean to be disrespectful. We just met.” He answers, “That’s fine, I've read some of your work, I agree with much of it.” “Well, thank you. That’s quite a compliment coming from the world's richest man.”

“You move in circles I have never dreamed of. Kings and princes from foreign lands and world leaders ask for your advice. Why, even that leader from North Korea respects you, not enough to let his people see you or your inventions.” Mark says, "Isn't that a shame? He’s got millions of people who starve not only for food and nutrition, and information.”

As I watch him, I notice a slight tic. There’s a small delay in answering the questions. My subconscious says that’s normal, protecting his company. At least that’s what I thought when I started the interview.

His eyes aren’t focused as he answers. Is it the lighting here, I ask myself? We wanted our studio, but with his time constraints, we settled for his video production suite and equipment.

I say, nodding to him, “Okay, let's jump right in.”

“So, you started this when you were in college, at Harvard, right?” He snickers and says, “Well, we're not going to go over all that again, are we?”

I say, "No, it's just a lead-in for our video article." As fickle as the media is, we never know which story will be picked up first, video or written.

He answers, “Yes, don’t I know it.”

What we really want to know is where the inspiration came from. Was it insight into human nature or a feeling that it might work and be worth taking the chance? So many successful companies started with an idea, a conversation, and no capital.

Again, I saw the tic. Now, I notice that his eyes dilated slightly before answering. It seems like he's looking past me, over my shoulder, when he answers. Now that I notice, his eyes never stop moving, sweeping back and forth across the room. They stop on me momentarily, then sweep across again.

He turns to an assistant and asks, "Coffee, please," then asks me, "How do you like yours?" I smile, thinking, I don’t drink coffee, but I'm not going to insult the wealthiest man, even the richest American on the planet. Maybe his coffee is laced with something that'll make me smarter or more intuitive. I answer, "Light and sweet, please." The assistant, a pretty woman in her mid-twenties, turns crisply on her heel and walks out the paneled doors. She has that same hesitancy in her eyes. Her light colored sea foam green uniform is the same as everyone else that I've met here, doormen, front desk, and security at the elevators. Untucked blouse, straight leg pants and black low heel leather shoes. Her walk was almost mechanical. If I weren’t daydreaming about the coffee, I would have thought I could hear gears clicking when she moved.

He takes a cell phone from his pocket, and I look around the studio and notice the air conditioning makes a low hiss in the room, like a white noise machine that doctors and lawyers use when they don’t want anyone outside the office to hear the conversation. He presses a few keys without speaking and pockets the phone.

His assistant brought a tray with a small coffee pot, cups, sugar, cream, and even some almond Sandies on what my Aunt Beverly would call a tea cart. Everything is made of silver with fancy engraving. The coffee pot sat on a single candle warmer, the creamer in a chilled matching filigreed urn. White China coffee cups on saucers with fancy doilies. Although I don’t ask, it looks like his family coat of arms is etched on the settee and service.

I look at cookies on a dish and wonder, how did he know those sandies were my favorite? My mom made for me all through childhood, and now I rely on Mr. Keebler and his elves.

Now, I’ts clear that he’s done his homework on me before agreeing to the interview.

While the coffee was poured, I looked around the studio once more. The bright blue drapes along the back wall, an elegant wooden desk, and expensive boardroom high-back leather chairs. Behind me are cameras on tripods, speakers and microphones on stands, movable lighting, and cases of cables, all stacked orderly. The walls were covered in a woven beige-looking cloth for sound quality, and removable industrial-grade squares of carpet on the flooring. Everything was new and spotless. I could tell that only the latest equipment and technologies were used here. I was impressed to put it mildly.

He was trying hard to appear casual, especially with his clothes. A three-button sky blue golf pullover shirt, and slate blue chinos. Docksider shoes without socks. The Patek Phillipe watch was the only sign of luxury. I can't imagine the price of that watch.

The clothing worked for him, appearing easy to talk to, but I knew better. His mind and business acumen were razor-sharp and legendary. Others had called him ruthless. But this interview wasn’t a hit piece; it was more of an article to inspire entrepreneurs. I guess that’s the only reason he agreed.

The assistant finished pouring and walked back several steps. I thanked her, but she didn't respond. Again, I looked at her, noticing the movement of her eyes—the constant sweeping back and forth. Her face turned slightly towards Mark. It looked almost casual, but there was something there, something odd. It clicked in my mind that his eyes did the same thing. Searching, but for what?

Mark cleared his throat and looked at his watch, signaling me to get on with it. So, I repeat the question: “Was it insight or something else?”

He looks at the floor and speaks. “It all started with a discussion in the dorm at college about meeting girls. We were a bunch of hormone-enraged teenage boys with typical desires: women, wealth, fame, and fortune. Most of the time, alcohol was involved, and it was never a complete process.”

“I had been learning code writing. We practiced with the typical stuff, bouncing ball, and ping pong. Then I developed a short messaging platform, and it took off from there.”

“One of our biggest goals here: managing technologies that change daily. It's hard to staying ahead of the curve.”

Then I noticed the voice flattened on the last syllable when he said, “Staying.” It was almost mechanical. It reminded me of an old church organ missing a reed. A flat sound without emotion. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, I was uncomfortable. I slid back to adjust my position. Mark and his assistant looked at me carefully, not concerned, but more interested. As I noticed their stare, they both turned away in unison. More mechanical than alive. Now I've got the willies; something is going on here.

I sat there, running through possibilities. "It’s a trick of the soundproofing; everything here is designed to stop noises from echoing. It has to be something that I'm not picking up on." I doubted myself and ignored my gut feeling but pushed through with the interview. I know I won't get another chance. Do it now or never.

So, you propose the website to the group, which falls flat. Everyone has their own idea of what they want to do with it, from the silly to the mundane. Yet you persist.

I remember reading that eventually, you quit college to chase this dream. He says, "You're right." I saw the potential for it. A few guys tagged along, but I was the driving force.

As I watch his face, I’m intrigued by his ability to grasp all the credit for the invention of the website—another tic in his skin.

The muscles don’t seem to match his mouth when he talks, not in a usual human way.

I've been studying people my whole life, looking for signs that they're lying about one thing or another. There's no head tilt or nod in him when he starts to explain, almost like he's a robot. Then it hit me: Maybe he is.

Well, how can I prove that he's a mechanical being? With all this talk of Artificial Intelligence, he might be a cyborg.

This thought makes me straighten up in the chair. My mind explodes with the improbability of that entire scheme.

I shake off the feelings and ask the next question. “How about building capital for ideas. How did you do it?” He answered simply, “A good salesman with a good product. In my case, I had family who saw the possibilities. In short, it grew from campus to campus. Luckily, we started before government regulations, so it was easier. Uncle Sam is sitting on everyone's shoulder. But that’s not a bad thing. Guardrails keep society civilized.”

“We also had some early advertising dollars, but it took a while. By the way, it became a full-time job, more than two full-time jobs. The larger it grew, the more problems we faced. Along the way, other sites popped up that became direct competition. I struggled with how to answer the threats. Fortunately, at that point, we had surplus working capital. I decided to purchase other companies and further our innovation.

I’m on edge with what I've seen between Mr. Z, and the assistant. I can tell something isn’t right.

What did I miss? Something keeps nagging in my mind. I saw or heard something I can't place right now. I try not to think about it. I need to slow down, take a break, and let my thoughts crystallize.

Coffee. I looked over to the assistant and asked for more coffee. I turned to Mr. Z and said, "I'm not usually a coffee drinker, but this is excellent. Is it imported or made for you?"

Mark turns his head and stares at me, as if he understands the delayed movement. I give him a subservient smile and nod, to make him believe. He looks over at the assistant, raises his eyebrows, giving her the signal to pour more into my cup.

I noticed his cup was still full. I saw him take a sip, and she poured equal amounts into each cup, but his was the same. He faked drinking the coffee, which is a strange behavior.

I try not to stare as she refills my cup.

I notice her hands are perfect. There are no worry lines, old cuts, chipped fingernails, or blue veins on the back of her hands. She could be a hand model; they are perfect—too perfect.

Naturally, I look at Mr. Z’s hands to discover that his are perfect, too. There are no scratches, scars, or veins. I look at my hands; there are old scars and scratches, and my nails have ridges where the cuticle has been torn in the past. Now I'm freaked out. I think that I've been interviewing a robot. But they must be more than robots, probably some type of android using artificial intelligence.

But how can I be sure? I need a question that isn't about mechanics or algorithms; it can't be entirely logic. I need to craft a question that involves logic but also requires human feelings to understand.

Computers are great at figuring out problems, but fall flat concerning human emotions.

So Mark, can you tell me about your early life? Did you grow up in Dobbs Ferry? Did you ever go fishing on the Hudson? What kind of dog did you have? How about your grandparents?

"Really?" I say it's just background information that we will use while shifting between events or scenes on the video. It won't be in your voice; we’ll do voice-over narration.

My mind is going a hundred miles an hour trying to figure out a gotcha question. I need to ask about business; this article is to help entrepreneurs. It will probably end up in the self-help section.

"No dogs. We had two cats, one upstairs and one downstairs. The yellow tabby stayed on the first floor, and the Persian lived upstairs. There were separate feeding bowls and all." My grandparents were from Europe. My parents and I were born here.

Well, Mr. Z, is there any one piece of advice you would give young entrepreneurs, builders, coders, or game designers?

He leans back in the chair, almost lifelike, while I stare at him. Then again, I see the skin on his neck doesn't stretch like a human's. I'm freaked out now. I know they're not human. They're something else—very good copies, but not real.

He says, “Our time is almost up.” His eyes bore into mine now, like he knows that I know something is wrong.

I’m thinking through the possibilities of a question. I finally decide to ask, “What were your feeling when you started this empire, and as you achieved each goal throughout your rise?

He looks down, puzzled. He stutters, “I, ahh, I ahh, was happy that everything unfolded the way it worked out.

As he stands to end the interview, I know I've failed at anything worthwhile in this interview.

I’ll never get the chance to do this again “Mr. Z, Mark, How long have you been experimenting with androids? You and your assistant are quite possibly the best robots, or androids, I've ever seen. Are you connected to a mainframe, is each machine independent?

His body stiffens as he turns to me. “Please stop,” he says. He tells the assistant, “Notify Security. Have him searched for any devices, then escort him from the building. Your items will be returned.”

I'm not hurt, but I'm intrigued now, so I ask: “Is it all Artificial intelligence? Is there any biological component? When did you start this?” You almost had me fooled.

The android Mr. Z stops in the doorway and turns to me. You signed an NDA covering anything you saw here. You are not permitted to publish the interview—nothing else. You and your associates will be monitored completely. Any violation of the nondisclosure agreement will put your future in jeopardy.

He walked casually out of the studio with the assistant in lockstep.

As I’m pushed into an elevator, I wonder at the beefy security officers who don’t speak or smile.

They're efficient, but I can feel the danger. I’m pushed through the front door hearing a loud click of the locks. The final insult.

On the sidewalk in front of the building, I checked my pockets. No wallet, money, or cell phone, even the loose change was taken.

A second later, a voice crackles from an intercom beside the front door. “Your items will be returned shortly, after sanitation.”

I think, Wow, what an article this will make. This is Pulitzer material. While I wait, I run through all the accolades, the awards, the interviews on TV and cable. How I broke the story.

A few minutes later, a security guard opens the door and hands me a plastic bag containing all of my belongings: my wallet, coins, cell phone, and my work ID card. He locks the door without comment.

First, power up the phone, and the initial startup logo appears. “Damn.” I say out loud. “Its been scrubbed.” As is walk to my car, I remember the cloud, I can access everything from the cloud. No problem.

Back at my desk, I plug into my laptop and enter the commands to repopulate all of the missing information. Again, there's nothing. Even the cloud is wiped.

My boss walks out of her office and asks, “What were you doing this morning? There's nothing on my calendar.” I stare blankly at her as she walks away. Finally, I understand the power and authority that the man or machine has. His company can adjust every platform and memory bank, whether trivial or small.

I realize there will be no accolades, no glory. If I try, I’ll be shot down, not in cold blood but in spirit. I'll be ruined financially and in reputation. My credibility will be destroyed. As an investigative writer, that’s everything.

I tell the boss's assistant I’m taking the rest of the day off and wander into the corner bar. Cheap beer and old songs on the jukebox. The barman draws a draft and asks, “Tab or cash, no credit.”

I take my wallet out to pay, and tucked inside is a fancy business card. It feels like linen, something smooth and expensive. The letters print two words: “Don’t ever.”

As I look at the card, the letters fade completely. Turning the card over, then back to the front, nothing. Blank.

The barkeep stares at me and asks, “Did you see a ghost? You’re pale, are you okay?”

I don’t touch the beer, toss a fin on the bar, and walk out.

Driving home, I think there has to be a way around this. It needs to be reported. It has to be in the news. Who knows if he's still alive? Maybe the man who testified before Congress a few weeks ago was really a machine. The L. Ron Hubbard story pops into my mind. He was dead long before reported it to the public.

“I can do this,” I say out loud. I’ll beat them at their own game. This isn't over.

The traffic lights are all green ahead of me as I enter the intersection, as the speeding concrete truck slams into the side of my car.