“It’s impressive, all right,” Ed admitted. “But take it from me: Controls are complex relative to how much they control, and they’re simple relative to how much they control you.”
“What is that thing, then?” Rosemary asked, equal quantities of curiosity and suspicion playing across her cherubic features as she watched the pill-shaped indicator ascend the ghostly projection of the tower.
“Well, obviously some kind of interface,” Ed shrugged.
Abigail looked down at the metal box in her hands, its twin antennas pointed toward the hovering sphere. “It’s emitting a very strong electromagnetic field,” She observed.
Lamont made a small effort to pull his hands away from his sides, lifting his recorder to snap a photograph of the device.
“The image appears to be made of real particles,” Clifford noted. “Not just photons. I think that what we’re seeing is made of the metallic particles that are, well, sort of electroplated to the surface of the sphere. Then it uses a magnetic field to direct the particles.”
Ed nodded, a distorted reflection of the translucent image shimmering in the lenses of his thick glasses. “Theoretically, it could read distortions in the field to send signals back to the sphere for interpretation. Simple enough in concept, but way ahead of us in execution.”
“Imagine if we had something like this on Westward,” Lamont marveled. “No confusing instrument panels or computer banks. Steering the ship would be as easy as playing with a toy boat.”
Spratt made a scoffing sound. “Does that sound better to you?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Lamont asked.
“If we wanted to, we could put a big green ‘Go’ button on the pilot console, next to a red ‘Stop’ one and some kind of, I don’t know, gyroscopic globe for steering. I’ve seen plans for ideas like that. But an interface should be overt in proportion to its consequence. The fact is that there’s nothing to stop Joe the farmer from coming down to the command deck. But he can’t take over the ship unless he’s actually been trained to fly it.”
It was uncommon in Lamont’s experience for Ed to have so much to say. He must have touched a nerve of some kind, he supposed. “So you’re saying that the controls on Westward are, what, purposefully obfuscated?” He asked.
Spratt sighed. “You could say that. Or you could say that the controls are designed to be opaque relative to their importance. How long did it take you to learn to use the coffee dispenser on the command deck?”
“About five minutes,” Lamont admitted.
“Right,” Ed agreed. “And the average computer technician could grasp it in thirty seconds. That’s because the worst case scenario, if you do something wrong, is that you get tea instead of coffee. The drink dispenser is harmless, but the pilot’s console could be used to kill everybody onboard. This—” And here he gestured toward the shimmering projection, “—is an interface for children.”
“You don’t sound very thrilled about that,” Abigail pointed out, “even though it’s taking us where we want to go.”
“It’s impressive, all right,” Ed admitted. “But take it from me: Controls are complex relative to how much they control, and they’re simple relative to how much they control you.”
Rico, who’s expression had become increasingly agitated as the conversation progressed, suddenly pulled himself away from the wall to move toward the floating sphere. “I think that we ought to…” He began to say.
“Don’t!” Rosemary exclaimed.
In the space of mere seconds, the projection collapsed back to the surface of the sphere, which quickly returned to its place near the ceiling, its surface once again like that of polished chrome.
“We’ve stopped,” Lamont pointed out.
Rico looked at the rest of the party sheepishly, standing in the center of the lift near where the sphere had been. Before he could say anything, the doors snapped open.
All eyes looked past the security specialist at the astounding view beyond.
“Hello,” Rosemary muttered. “What’s all this, then?”
Ed doesn't want any noobs flying his ship basically