text: Caitlin harvested another set of cellular-automata data from webspace and ran a Shannonentropy calculation on it.
  
  Holy shit.
  
  It was now showing something between fifth-and sixth-order entropy. It really did seem that whatever was lurking in the background of the Web was getting more complex.
  
  More sophisticated.
  
  More intelligent.
  
  But even at fifth or sixth order, it was still lagging behind human communication, at least in English, which Kuroda had said had eighth-or ninth-order entropy.
  
  But, then again, introducing the phantom to Cyc was merely the beginning …
  
  Prime, in its wisdom, must have recognized that although I could learn much from Cyc, I still needed more help to understand it all. And so it directed my attention to another website. This new site yielded the information that an apple was a fruit (confirming something I now knew from Cyc); "apple of one's eye" was an idiom; an idiom was a figure of speech; speech was words spoken aloud; aloud was vocally as opposed to mentally, as in a book read aloud; a book was a bound volume; volume was the amount of space something occupies but also a single book, especially one from a series …
  
  I recognized what this new site was. Cyc had contained the assertion "a dictionary is a database defining words with other words." This dictionary contained entries for 315,000 words. I absorbed them all. But many of them were still baffling, and some of the definitions led me in circles—a word defined as a synonym for another word that was defined as a synonym of the original word.
  
  But Prime wasn't finished showing me things yet. Next stop: the WordNet database at Princeton University, which (as it described itself) was a "large lexical database" in which "nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs are grouped into over 150,000 sets of cognitive synonyms (synsets), each expressing a distinct concept; synsets are interlinked by means of conceptual-semantic and lexical relations."
  
  One such synset was "Good, right, ripe (most suitable or right for a particular purpose): 'a good time to plant tomatoes'; 'the right time to act'; 'the time is ripe for great sociological changes.' " And that synset was distinct from many others, including "Good, just, upright (of moral excellence): 'a genuinely good person'; 'a just cause'; 'an upright and respectable man.'"
  
  More than that, WordNet organized terms hierarchically. My old friend CAT it turned out was at the end of this chain: animal, chordate, vertebrate, mammal, placental, carnivore, feline, cat.
  
  The pieces were finally starting to fall into place …
  
  The sky above the island was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel—which is to say it was a bright, cheery blue. Shoshana had her hands in the pockets of her cutoff jeans as she walked along. She was whistling "Feeling Groovy." Feist's cover of it was topping the charts this week; Sho was aware that there'd been a much earlier version by Simon and Garfunkel, but she only knew their names because of the chimp at Yerkes known as Simian Garfinkle. Dr. Marcuse was walking behind her, and, yes, she knew he was probably looking at her hips sway, but, hey, primates will be primates.
  
  Hobo was up ahead, just outside the gazebo, staring off into the distance. He did that frequently these days, as if lost in thought, visualizing things that weren't present instead of looking at things that were. The gentle wind happened to be blowing in a way that let him catch their scents, and suddenly he turned and grinned and started running on all fours toward them.
  
  He hugged Shoshana and then he hugged Marcuse—you needed a chimp's arms to be able to reach all the way around the Silverback's body.
  
  Hobo been good? Shoshana signed.
  
  Good good, Hobo signed back, figuratively—and probably literally—smelling a reward. Shoshana smiled and handed him some raisins, which he gobbled down.
  
  The YouTube video of Hobo painting had been a great hit—and not just in YouTube star rankings and Digg and del.icio.us tagging. Marcuse and Shoshana had been on many talk shows now, and eBay bidding on the original portrait of her was up to $477,000 last time she looked.
  
  Do another painting? Marcuse signed.
  
  Maybe, Hobo signed back. He seemed to be in an agreeable mood.
  
  Paint Dillon? Marcuse asked.
  
  Maybe, Hobo signed. But then he bared his teeth. Who? Who?
  
  Shoshana turned around to see what Hobo was looking at. Dillon was coming their way, accompanied by a very tall, burly man with a shaved head. They were crossing the wide lawn and heading toward the bridge to the island.
  
  "Were we expecting anyone?" Marcuse asked Shoshana. She shook her head. Hobo needed to be prepared for visitors; he didn't like them, and, truth be told, had been getting increasingly ornery about it of late. The ape made a hissing sound as Dillon and the big man crossed over the bridge.
  
  "I'm sorry, Dr. Marcuse," Dillon said as they closed the distance. "This man insisted that—"
  
  "Are you Harl Pieter Marcuse?" asked the man.
  
  Marcuse's gray eyebrows went up. "Yes."
  
  "And who are you?" the man said, looking now at Shoshana.
  
  "Um, I'm Shoshana Glick. I'm his grad student."
  
  He nodded. "You may be called upon to attest to the fact that I have indeed delivered this." He turned to Marcuse again, and stuck out his hand, which was holding a thick envelope.
  
  "What's that?" said Marcuse.
  
  "Please take it, sir," the man said, and, after a moment, Marcuse did just that. He opened the envelope, swapped his sunglasses for his reading glasses, and, squinting in the bright light, started to read. "Christ," he said. "They can't be serious! Listen, tell your people—"
  
  But the bald man had already turned and was walking toward the bridge.
  
  "What is it?" Dillon said moving close to Marcuse and trying to read the document, too. Shoshana could see they were legal papers of some sort.
  
  "It's a lawsuit," Marcuse said. "From the Georgia Zoo. They're seeking full custody of Hobo, and—" He was looking down, reading some more. "And, shit, shit, shit, they can't! They fucking can't!"
  
  "What?" said Shoshana and Dillon simultaneously.
  
  Hobo was cowering next to Shoshana's legs; he didn't like it when Dr. Marcuse got angry.
  
  The Silverback was struggling to read in the bright sunlight. He thrust the papers at Shoshana. "Halfway down the page," he said.
  
  She looked down at the document through her mirrored shades. " 'Best interests of the animal …' 'Standard protocol in such cases to—'"
  
  "Farther down," snapped Marcuse.
  
  "Ah, okay, um, oh—oh! '… and since the animal is exhibiting clear evidence of atypical behavior for a member of either P. troglodytes or P. paniscus, and in view of the extraordinary ecological urgency of preserving the bloodlines of endangered species, will immediately perform a dual …' " She struggled with the strange word: " 'orchiectomy.' " She looked up. "What's that?"
  
  "It's castration," Dillon said, sounding horrified. "They're not just going to make sure that there's nothing that can be undone later."
  
  Shoshana tasted bile at the back of her throat. Hobo could tell something was up. He was reaching toward her, hoping for a hug.
  
  "But … but how can they?" Shoshana said. "I mean, why would they want to?"
  
  Marcuse lifted his giant shoulders. "Who the hell knows?"
  
  Dillon spread his arms a bit. "They're frightened," he said. "They're scared. An accident occurred—years ago, when the bonobos and chimps were put together overnight at the Georgia Zoo—and now they're seeing that something … we might as well say it: something more intelligent has unexpectedly arisen because of it." He shook his head sadly. "Christ, we were naïve to think the world would welcome anything like this with open arms."