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LANGDON’S THOUGHTS SWIRLED as he emerged from the spiral structure. His conversation with Kirsch had been both exciting and alarming. Whether or not Kirsch’s claims were exaggerated, the computer scientist clearly had discovered something that he believed would cause a paradigm shift in the world.

A discovery as important as the findings of Copernicus?

When Langdon finally emerged from the coiled sculpture, he felt slightly dizzy. He retrieved the headset he had left on the floor earlier.

“Winston?” he said, pulling on the device. “Hello?”

A faint click, and the computerized British docent was back. “Hello, Professor. Yes, I’m here. Mr. Kirsch asked me to take you up the service elevator because time is too short to return to the atrium. He also thought you would appreciate our oversized service elevator.”

“Nice of him. He knows I’m claustrophobic.”

“Now I do too. And I will not forget it.”

Winston guided Langdon through the side door into a cement hallway and elevator bay. As promised, the elevator carriage was enormous, clearly designed to transport oversized artwork.

“Top button,” Winston said as Langdon stepped inside. “Third floor.”

When they arrived at their destination, Langdon stepped out.

“Righto,” Winston’s cheery voice chimed in Langdon’s head. “We’ll go through the gallery on your left. It’s the most direct way to the auditorium.”

Langdon followed Winston’s directions through an expansive gallery displaying a series of bizarre art installations: a steel cannon that apparently shot gooey globs of red wax at a white wall; a wire-mesh canoe that clearly would not float; an entire miniature city made of burnished metal blocks.

As they crossed the gallery toward the exit, Langdon found himself staring in utter bewilderment at a massive piece that dominated the space.

It’s official, he decided, I’ve found the strangest piece in this museum.

Spanning the width of the entire room, a multitude of timber wolves were dynamically posed, sprinting in a long line across the gallery where they leaped high in the air and collided violently with a transparent glass wall, resulting in a mounting pile of dead wolves.

“It’s called Head On,” Winston offered, unprompted. “Ninety-nine wolves racing blindly into a wall to symbolize a herd mentality, a lack of courage in diverging from the norm.”

The irony of the symbolism struck Langdon. I suspect Edmond will be diverging dramatically from the norm this evening.

“Now, if you’ll continue straight ahead,” Winston said, “you’ll find the exit to the left of that colorful diamond-shaped piece. The artist is one of Edmond’s favorites.”

Langdon spotted the brightly colored painting up ahead and instantly recognized the trademark squiggles, primary colors, and playful floating eye.

Joan Miró, Langdon thought, having always liked the famous Barcelonan’s playful work, which felt like a cross between a child’s coloring book and a surrealist stained-glass window.

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?

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