IT all started with a quick trip to Tokyo to pick up a friendly virtual pet,
which I understand is to be this season鈥檚 essential accessory. Sadly, the shops
had sold out of my first choice, the Tamagotchi 鈥渃ute eggy鈥�. This is a
blue-and-pink plastic bobble with a liquid-crystal screen, on which a virtual
chick is programmed to be hatched and to die. In between, it eats, chirrups and
shits just like the real thing. The challenge is to see how quickly it鈥檚
possible to kill off the bird by failing to press the right buttons.
I consider mugging a local schoolchild to obtain a sample, but rule it out:
these burly beef-fed children of the Nakasone years are not to be trifled with.
In any case, I suspect that the real culprits are not Japanese schoolgirls but
foreign correspondents who, desperate to find something to write about, have
snapped up 3 million Tamagotchi from the shops.
I console myself with a less demanding electronic companion, NEC鈥檚 virtual
FishClub Aquarium. It鈥檚 a high-definition television set cunningly disguised as
a big glass box. The result is more passive than Tamagotchi鈥攜ou don鈥檛 even
pretend to feed the fish鈥攂ut there鈥檚 a choice of 21 laser discs with
different piscine populations. For some reason number 3, 鈥淩ed-Bellied Piranha鈥�,
is popular with lawyers. The shop assistant warns me that the aquarium is not
designed for export. Apart from anything else, it weighs 130 kilograms. That鈥檚
OK, I explain, I can always remove the electronics and fill it with water and
real fish when I get home.
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But really, how splendid to see that earthquakes, economic slump and
poison-gas terrorism haven鈥檛 dampened the Japanese faith in high technology.
Last month, Toshiba, the nuclear-power-to-laptop-computer conglomerate, as
the financial pages put it, opened its vision of the digital future with an
exhibition 鈥淭omorrow 21: Pointers to the Future鈥�. Its unadulterated aim is to
give visitors a foretaste of what the 21st century has in store for us all . .
.
Anyone who grew up in Britain in the 1950s and remembers the Eagle
comic will get the idea: a world in which we zip around in maglev trains,
reading newspapers downloaded by satellite onto personal digital assistants. You
almost expect a hologram of Tony Blair talking about the Britain that will be
forged in the white heat of this revolution. Perhaps the most sinister idea at
the exhibition is a smart TV, which learns what you enjoy watching and then
feeds you a constant diet of the same. The finale is a 鈥淗uman-Friendly Robot鈥�
which obeys instructions like 鈥減ick up blue ball鈥� or 鈥減ick up red ball鈥�. Now
that鈥檚 what I really want in an electronic companion.
My flight home is delayed for an hour as the fly-by-wire Airbus A340 stews on
the tarmac. The captain explains that engineers are trying to reboot the
flight-control software. This is not the most reassuring announcement I鈥檝e ever
heard. No one asks what would happen if the software goes down during the flight
. . .
An extravagantly coiffured cabin attendant shakes me awake with an invitation
to visit the flight deck. The captain has recognised me as the 1980 Morden Space
Invaders Champion. As soon as the door closes, I know something鈥檚 wrong. The
captain鈥檚 Ray-Banned face is grim. 鈥淭hank God you鈥檙e on board, Cross. You鈥檙e the
only one who can save us鈥攍ook.鈥� Two control columns swing uselessly. Every
video screen in the cockpit is blank but for the words 鈥淓rror/Retry/Abort鈥�.
鈥淎ll the systems are down. We鈥檙e losing height fast. Only someone with your
keyboard speeds can reboot before we hit the ground,鈥� pleads the captain. I try
to protest, holding up a right hand crippled with RSI. 鈥淏ut I鈥檓 burnt out,鈥� I
stammer, 鈥渆ver since the first Doom craze. I haven鈥檛 flown anything bigger than
a Psion Organiser in years.鈥� The captain removes his Ray-Bans, revealing another
pair underneath. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 too bad, Cross. Looks like a lot of people gonna die
today. Shirley, do we have anyone else on board who might be able to program
this crate?鈥� She scans the passenger list. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a long shot, but we have a
William H. Gates in 56F. Shall I ask him up here?鈥�
Gates! My old nemesis, in the cheap seats as usual. For a moment, I鈥檓 tempted
to let him take over, to see him tackle the crisis by holding a press conference
to announce the imminent release of a bug-free version of Flight Control 97. My
death is surely a small thing if it means Gates goes, too. Then I think of all
those innocent faces back there in the main cabin. Decisively, I roll up my
sleeves. 鈥淢ove over, I鈥檓 taking over.鈥� Defying stabs of pain from shredded
tendons, my fingers flit over the flight controls. One video screen comes alive,
then another, then another. The roar of four Rolls-Royce Goshawk engines rises
to a crescendo and the plane鈥檚 nose begins to lift. 鈥淪trap yourselves in,鈥� I
mutter through gritted teeth, 鈥渢his could be a little bumpy . . . 鈥�
A more plausibly coiffured cabin attendant taps my shoulder. 鈥淔asten your
seat belt for landing, please sir.鈥� The Space Invaders champion fades and a
flabby hack tries to buckle in a belly distended by 14 hours at high altitude.
Through the cabin window, the sewage farms of Middlesex welcome me home.