“But the ads don't mean anything,” Greg sputtered. “I get ads for Ann Coulter ringtones whenever I get email from my friend in Coulter, Iowa!”
The man nodded. “I understand, sir. And that's just why I'm here talking to you. Why do you suppose model rocket ads show up so frequently?”
Greg racked his brain. “Okay, just do this. Search for âcoffee fanatics.'” He'd been very active in the group, helping them build out the site for their coffee-of-the-month subscription service. The blend they were going to launch with was called Jet Fuel. “Jet Fuel” and “launch”âthat would probably make Google barf up some model rocket ads.
They were in the home stretch when the carved man found the Halloween photos. They were buried three screens deep in the search results for “Greg Lupinski.”
“It was a Gulf Warâthemed party,” he said. “In the Castro.”
“And you're dressed as . . . ?”
“A suicide bomber,” he replied sheepishly. Just saying the words made him wince.
“Come with me, Mr. Lupinski,” the man said.
By the time he was released, it was past 3:00 a.m. His suitcases stood forlornly by the baggage carousel. He picked them up and saw they had been opened and carelessly closed. Clothes stuck out from around the edges.
W
HEN HE RETURNED
home, he discovered that all of his fake pre-Columbian statues had been broken, and his brand-new white cotton Mexican shirt had an ominous boot print in the middle of it. His clothes no longer smelled of Mexico. They smelled like airport.
He wasn't going to sleep. No way. He needed to talk about this. There was only one person who would get it. Luckily, she was usually awake around this hour.
Maya had started working at Google two years after Greg had. It was she who'd convinced him to go to Mexico after he cashed out: anywhere, she'd said, that he could reboot his existence.
Maya had two giant chocolate labs and a very, very patient girlfriend named Laurie who'd put up with anything except being dragged around Dolores Park at 6:00 a.m. by 350 pounds of drooling canine.
Maya reached for her Mace as Greg jogged toward her, then did a double take and threw her arms open, dropping the leashes and trapping them under her sneaker. “Where's the rest of you? Dude, you look hot!”
He hugged her back, suddenly conscious of the way he smelled after a night of invasive Googling. “Maya,” he said, “what do you know about Google and the DHS?”
She stiffened as soon as he asked the question. One of the dogs began to whine. She looked around, then nodded up at the tennis courts. “Top of the light pole there; don't look,” she said. “That's one of our muni Wi-Fi access points. Wide-angle webcam. Face away from it when you talk.”
In the grand scheme of things, it hadn't cost Google much to wire the city with webcams. Especially when measured against the ability to serve ads to people based on where they were sitting. Greg hadn't paid much attention when the cameras on all those access points went public; there'd been a day's worth of blogstorm while people played with the new all-seeing toy, zooming in on various prostitute cruising areas, but after a while the excitement blew over.
Feeling silly, Greg mumbled, “You're joking.”
“Come with me,” she said, turning away from the pole.
The dogs weren't happy about cutting their walk short, and expressed their displeasure in the kitchen as Maya made coffee.
“We brokered a compromise with the DHS,” she said, reaching for the milk. “They agreed to stop fishing through our search records, and we agreed to let them see what ads got displayed for users.”
Greg felt sick. “Why? Don't tell me Yahoo was doing it already . . .”
“No, no. Well, yes. Sure. Yahoo was doing it. But that wasn't the reason Google went along. You know, Republicans hate Google. We're overwhelmingly registered Democratic, so we're doing what we can to make peace with them before they clobber us. This isn't PII.” Personally Identifying Information, the toxic smog of the information age. “It's just metadata. So it's only slightly evil.”
“Why all the intrigue, then?”
Maya sighed and hugged the lab that was butting her knee with its huge head. “The spooks are like lice. They get everywhere. They show up at our meetings. It's like being in some Soviet ministry. And at the security clearance we're divided into these two camps: the cleared and the suspect. We all know who isn't cleared, but no one knows why. I'm cleared. Lucky for me, being a dyke no longer disqualifies you. No cleared person would deign to eat lunch with an unclearable.”
Greg felt very tired. “So I guess I'm lucky I got out of the airport alive. I might have ended up âdisappeared' if it had gone badly, huh?”
Maya stared at him intently. He waited for an answer.
“What?”
“I'm about to tell you something, but you can't ever repeat it, okay?”
“Um . . . you're not in a terrorist cell, are you?”
“Nothing so simple. Here's the deal: airport DHS scrutiny is a gating function. It lets the spooks narrow down their search criteria. Once you get pulled aside for secondary at the border, you become a âperson of interest' and they never, ever let up. They'll scan webcams for your face and gait. Read your mail. Monitor your searches.”
“I thought you said the courts wouldn't let them . . .”
“The courts won't let them indiscriminately Google you. But after you're in the system, it becomes a selective search. All legal. And once they start Googling you, they always find something. All your data is fed into a big hopper that checks for âsuspicious patterns,' using deviation from statistical norms to nail you.”
Greg felt like he was going to throw up. “How the hell did this happen? Google was a good place. âDon't be evil,' right?” That was the corporate motto, and for Greg, it had been a huge part of why he'd taken his computer science PhD from Stanford directly to Mountain View.
Maya replied with a hard-edged laugh. “âDon't be evil'? Come on, Greg. Our lobbying group is that same bunch of crypto-fascists that tried to swift-boat Kerry. We popped our evil cherry a long time ago.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“It started in China,” she went on, finally. “Once we moved our servers onto the mainland, they went under Chinese jurisdiction.”
Greg sighed. He knew Google's reach all too well: every time you visited a page with Google ads on it, or used Google Maps or Google mail, even if you sent mail to a Gmail account, the company diligently collected your info. Recently, the site's search-optimization software had begun using the data to tailor Web searches to individual users. It proved to be a revolutionary tool for advertisers. An authoritarian government would have other purposes in mind.
“They were using us to build profiles of people,” she went on. “When they had someone they wanted to arrest, they'd come to us and find a reason to bust them. There's hardly anything you can do on the Net that isn't illegal in China.”
Greg shook his head. “Why did they have to put the servers in China?”
“The government said they'd block us otherwise. And Yahoo was there.” They both made faces. Somewhere along the way, employees at Google had become obsessed with Yahoo, more concerned with what the competition was doing than how their own company was performing. “So we did it. But a lot of us didn't like the idea.”
Maya sipped her coffee and lowered her voice. One of her dogs sniffed insistently under Greg's chair.
“Almost immediately, the Chinese asked us to start censoring search results,” Maya said. “Google agreed. The company line was hilarious: âWe're not doing evil, we're giving consumers access to a better search tool! If we showed them search results they couldn't get to, that would just frustrate them. It would be a
bad user experience.
'”
“Now what?” Greg pushed a dog away from him. Maya looked hurt.
“Now you're a person of interest, Greg. You're Googlestalked. Now you live your life with someone constantly looking over your shoulder. You know the mission statement, right? âOrganize the world's information.' Everything. Give it five years, we'll know how many turds were in the bowl before you flushed. Combine that with automated suspicion of anyone who matches a statistical picture of a bad guy and you'reâ”
“Scroogled.”
“Totally.” She nodded.
Maya took both labs down the hall to the bedroom. He heard a muffled argument with her girlfriend, and she came back alone.
“I can fix this,” she said in an urgent whisper. “After the Chinese started rounding up people, my podmates and I made it our 20 percent project to fuck with them.” (Among Google's business innovations was a rule that required every employee to devote 20 percent of his or her time to high-minded pet projects.) “We call it the Googlecleaner. It goes deep into the database and statistically normalizes you. Your searches, your Gmail histograms, your browsing patterns. All of it. Greg, I can Googleclean you. It's the only way.”
“I don't want you to get into trouble.”
She shook her head. “I'm already doomed. Every day since I built the damn thing has been borrowed time. Now it's just a matter of waiting for someone to point out my expertise and history to the DHS and, oh, I don't know. Whatever it is they do to people like me in the war on abstract nouns.”
Greg remembered the airport. The search. His shirt, the boot print in the middle of it.
“Do it,” he said.
T
HE GOOGLECLEANER WORKED
wonders. Greg could tell by the ads that popped up alongside his searches, ads clearly meant for someone else: “Intelligent Design Facts,” “Online Seminary Degree,” “Terror Free Tomorrow,” “Porn Blocker Software,” “The Homosexual Agenda,” “Cheap Toby Keith Tickets.” This was Maya's program at work. Clearly Google's new personalized search had him pegged as someone else entirely, a God-fearing right-winger with a thing for hat acts.
Which was fine by him.
Then he clicked on his address book, and found that half of his contacts were missing. His Gmail in-box was hollowed out like a termite-ridden stump. His Orkut profile, normalized. His calendar, family photos, bookmarks: all empty. He hadn't quite realized before how much of him had migrated onto the Web and worked its way into Google's server farms. His entire online identity. Maya had scrubbed him to a high gloss; he'd become the invisible man.
Greg sleepily mashed the keys on the laptop next to his bed, bringing the screen to life. He squinted at the flashing toolbar clock: 4:13 a.m.! Christ, who was pounding on his door at this hour?
He shouted, “Coming!” in a muzzy voice and pulled on a robe and slippers. He shuffled down the hallway, turning on lights as he went. At the door, he squinted through the peephole to find Maya staring glumly back at him.
He undid the chains and dead bolt and yanked the door open. Maya rushed in past him, followed by the dogs and her girlfriend.
She was sheened in sweat, her usually combed hair clinging in clumps to her forehead. She rubbed at her eyes, which were red and lined. “Pack a bag,” she croaked hoarsely.
“What?”
She took him by the shoulders. “Do it,” she said.
“Where do you want to . . . ?”
“Mexico, probably. Don't know yet. Pack, dammit.” She pushed past him into his bedroom and started yanking open drawers.
“Maya,” he said sharply, “I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on.”
She glared at him and pushed her hair away from her face. “The Googlecleaner lives. After I cleaned you, I shut it down and walked away. It was too dangerous to use anymore. But it's still set to send me email confirmations whenever it runs. Someone's used it six times to scrub three very specific accounts all of which happen to belong to members of the Senate Commerce Committee up for reelection.”
“Googlers are blackwashing senators?”
“Not Googlers. This is coming from off-site. The IP block is registered in DC. And the IPs are all used by Gmail users. Guess who the accounts belong to?”
“You spied on Gmail accounts?”
“Okay. Yes. I did look through their email. Everyone does it, now and again, and for a lot worse reasons than I did. But check it out. Turns out all this activity is being directed by our lobbying firm. Just doing their job, defending the company's interests.”
Greg felt his pulse beating in his temples. “We should tell someone.”
“It won't do any good. They know everything about us. They can see every search. Every email. Every time we've been caught on the webcams. Who is in our social network . . . did you know if you have fifteen Orkut buddies, it's statistically certain that you're no more than three steps to someone who's contributed money to a âterrorist' cause? Remember the airport? You'll be in for a lot more of that.”
“Maya,” Greg said, getting his bearings. “Isn't heading to Mexico overreacting? Just quit. We can do a start-up or something. This is crazy.”
“They came to see me today,” she said. “Two of the political officers from DHS. They didn't leave for hours. And they asked me a lot of very heavy questions.”
“About the Googlecleaner?”
“About my friends and family. My search history. My personal history.”
“Jesus.”
“They were sending a message to me. They're watching every click and every search. It's time to go. Time to get out of range.”
“There's a Google office in Mexico, you know.”
“We've got to go,” she said, firmly.
“Laurie, what do you think of this?” Greg asked.
Laurie thumped the dogs between the shoulders. “My parents left East Germany in '65. They used to tell me about the Stasi. The secret police would put everything about you in your file, if you told an unpatriotic joke, whatever. Whether they meant it or not, what Google has created is no different.”