Kilometre 14, at three in the morning

1. The scene

   It is three in the morning. The perimeter fence runs for eighteen kilometres and almost none of it is lit. In the control room the lights are dimmed so they do not bounce off the screens, and one operator sits in front of a mosaic of forty flickering images. He is five hours into his shift. In the last hour the system has gone off four times: two gusts of wind shaking the fence, and two foxes.

2. Where it breaks

   Nobody looks at forty images at once. You look at them one at a time, and while you look at one, the other thirty-nine are on their own. That is not his failing: no human eye holds forty scenes for eight hours. And when the system has cried wolf four times in a row, the brain trusts the fifth one a little less.

3. What happens

   At kilometre 14 there is a stretch with no lamp post. Someone walks up to the fence on that side, slowly, hugging the embankment. The scene is on screen: in a small tile, bottom right, on the secondary monitor.

4. With IRIS

   IRIS watches all forty at once, always, without tiring. It can tell a person from a gust of wind and from a fox, so the wind and the fox interrupt nobody. When it sees someone approaching the fence, it pulls that camera onto the main monitor and says what it saw, where, and since when. The operator discards nothing any more: he looks at one scene and decides. He is still the one who calls the patrol; what changed is that he does it while it is happening.

The camera was already seeing it. All that was missing was someone looking at that screen.