#technology

The Pocket Cosmos  

A Special Dispatch on the Coming Smartphone  

Filed for December 1999 from the not-too-distant future

Imagine a device about the size of a deck of cards.

It fits in your pocket.  

It weighs less than a paperback.  

Its front is almost entirely made of glass.

Tap that glass, and you can:

• call anyone in the world  
• send them a message  
• look up a word in any major language  
• check a street map for a city you’ve never visited  
• read today’s headlines from five different countries  
• listen to almost any song that has ever been recorded  
• take a photograph and send it instantly across an ocean  

This device is real. It is coming. And very soon, almost everyone you know will carry one.

We will call it the smartphone.

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A Library Without Walls

To understand what the smartphone represents, start with the most familiar tool of the serious mind: the library.

Today, in 1999, reaching serious knowledge requires movement. You go to the stacks. You search a card catalog (or, if you’re lucky, a web terminal on a shared computer). You wait for interlibrary loans. Information lives in buildings, on shelves, in limited copies.

The smartphone dissolves that geography.

Inside this small object is a permanent, portable ticket into something larger than any single library: a networked collection of encyclopedias, dictionaries, textbooks, lecture notes, research summaries, and how-to guides on almost any topic that human beings have bothered to write about.

Imagine a car company with an unusual product strategy: it makes one car.

Not one car at a time, or one car until the next model year. One car, as a continuing design. The company improves individual components when technology advances, but it treats the underlying vehicle almost as an industrial standard rather than a fashion product. A door made fifteen years from now still fits the mounting points on a car built today. Suspension assemblies can be replaced without redesigning half the vehicle. Body panels are available individually. Engines, motors, batteries, computers, seats, lights, switches, and interior pieces can be removed and replaced without turning a repair into an archaeological expedition through discontinued part numbers. Technical documentation is public. Independent companies are encouraged to manufacture compatible components. Junkyards accumulate an enormous supply of interchangeable originals. Owners learn the architecture because the architecture stays put.

The result would be something like the automotive equivalent of the Fender Stratocaster. A Stratocaster made today is not literally the same object Fender sold in 1954, and musicians have spent seventy years changing pickups, bridges, necks, electronics, finishes, and virtually everything else attached to it. Yet the basic design has become less a particular year's product than a durable platform. Its longevity creates its own ecosystem. Parts manufacturers can confidently build for it; repair knowledge accumulates instead of expiring; secondhand components remain useful; and an old instrument need not become technologically orphaned simply because its manufacturer would prefer to sell another one.