Once in a while Thome has doubts about whether it is such a brilliant idea to give machines the authority to decide about every area of life. From employee hires to stock trades to the cooling of nuclear reactors, but any unease must also calculate in the fact that the rate of human error is many times higher than that of AI. And besides: the markets never err. He has listened often enough to his father during his debates and lectures, his speeches and his citations of his role models. Hayek, von Mises, Rothbard, Adam Smith, the young Hegelians—markets are always right. If something doesn’t take hold, it disappears. Like nature, for instance: gone, animals, the climate, hilarious. Thome is hilarious. But the situation is out of control. If information were to leak that the system entrusted with all functions of the state doesn’t work, it could cause unrest. Mass unrest, due to people’s fear of robots. Which nearly everyone pictures as the fearsome Boston Dynamics beasts, though most of the truly dangerous things are just boxes, aren’t they. People fear what they don’t understand. People are stupid, and uprisings need to be prevented, and now, when the goal seems so close—the AI people have lost control of their offspring. More and more programmers are being let go or reassigned to unimportant tasks, because artificial intelligence, after all, programs itself. Thome fails to consider whether the programmers could have purposefully sabotaged their own work in order not to land in the Bitcoin department.

To avoid further considerations, he dictates a memo to PR. Something with progress and breakthrough, and then,

Finally,

With a slight delay,

He slips into the retro paternoster. He sees Peter at reception and calls “Hello, Peter,” and thinks: brilliant and original greeting. Thome starts to sweat and begins talking without any further thought.

“Since the automation of reception, every employee works two extra hours per month. Two hours! That would otherwise be wasted on passing the time of day and useless chitchat with the receptionists. Had been.” Thome feels streams of sweat flowing from his armpits toward his belly button, where it will pool. Thome, who despises people. Without exception. All of them. Is in love. It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to him. It makes him weak. Stupid. Agitated. Although. He has his life otherwise well under control. Ever since he’s had a career. Through the not insignificant influence of his father, of whom he has plenty of recordings with a child prostitute, he got this job, which was created just for him and his limited abilities.