Fool's Experiments Read Online Free Page A

drew AJ's eye. Seated next to the nodder was a mesmerized-looking fellow, who looked very familiar, frantically typing notes into his laptop.
    "Life, in even the simplest bacterium, is a mechanism of incredible intricacy. It's just too hard to study or manipulate in its natural environment. That's why biology became a quantifiable science only very recently, centuries after physics and chemistry.
    We will be dealing in this class with entities that lack any physical existence. As the course progresses, our studies will progress from counterfeit bacteria growing in an imaginary Petri dish to flocks of simulated birds swarming in an imaginary sky. In doing so, we'll discover that a handful of principles govern seemingly complex behavior.
    "And who knows? Maybe each of us will even learn a little something about ourselves."
     
    Why, Jeff Ferris wondered, was the consummate test of salesmanship supposedly selling ice to Eskimos? His fingers twitched economically as he mused, surreptitiously playing Tetris on his laptop as the lecturer droned. Eskimos understood ice and its uses. What was the big deal in selling it to them? Now selling suntan lotion or a spice rack in England—there was a challenge.
    Jeff knew all about salesmanship. He'd tucked away a bundle in elementary and high schools, starting out by hawking gift wrap and greeting cards from catalogues and working his way up to used cars on weekends. He could sell anything, and the future looked promising.
    The distant future, that was. A college degree was, alas, expected for a broker job at any securities firm. Sure, he'd only been a kid during the nineties. He hadn't been asleep. Selling slock in dot-coms: Now there was a line of work worth getting into—until the bubble burst. By choosing courses with great care, Jeff meant to pocket a liberal-arts degree with relatively little pain—in time, he hoped, for the next wave ... whatever that turned out to be.
    Tap tap. Twitch tap, tap, tap. The falling, L-shaped cluster of video squares rotated and jogged left as it sank, before settling into a matching gap in the structure of colored blocks at the bottom of the screen. Three newly completed rows brightened, then disappeared. Suddenly unsupported squares dropped into the open space.
    Subterfuge, like sales, was an art. Jeff had long ago mastered gaming with his keyboard, avoiding the trackball that more easily maneuvered objects on-screen. Constantly rolling the trackball in class was a dead giveaway, while continuously keyboarding passed as enthusiastic, if inefficient, note taking. Another important rule: Wear contact lenses in school, since video games might reflect revealingly from regular glasses.
    He much preferred any first-person-shooter game, but without sound effects, those basically sucked. Earbuds were no good, since profs expected to be listened to. It didn't matter if they thought the buds were for a game or an iPod. So: Tetris.
    A new shape entered the game window and started its fall. On the wall-sized flat screen at the front of the auditorium, Dr. Rosenberg, larger than life and twice as ugly, prattled on about artificial life.
    This whole course seemed pretty artificial, but the Smith- field Student Association web guide—indispensable research material for the prepared slacker—said Rosenberg gave over 80 percent As and Bs. Tapitty tap, twitch. That information and the reported essay final exam had sold Jeff. He needed only one science class in the liberal-arts curriculum, and he could surely bullshit his way through an easy grader's essay test. Meanwhile, Jeff made a point of getting to the lectures on time and logging in—good attendance often earned the benefit of the doubt on borderline grades. Attendance didn't mean that he had to listen to—
    An Alert box suddenly filled the middle of the laptop's screen. Behind the pop-up, Tetris pieces piled up relentlessly. Nervously, Jeff clicked the Accept button.
    Another window, this one text filled,