Can't Touch This

His parents scrimped and saved to send him to the Dalton School, an elite private high school on Manhattan's Upper East Side, then Cornell University, where he studied electrical engineering and computer science. Han skipped out on his senior year without graduating to join a startup that bought a videoconferencing technology he developed while a student. A decade later, he's poised to change the face of computing.

Until now, the touch screen has been limited to the uninspiring sort found at an ATM or an airport ticket kiosk--basically screens with electronic buttons that recognize one finger at a time. Han's touch display, by contrast, redefines the way commands are given to a computer: It uses both movement and pressure--from multiple inputs, whether 2 fingers or 20--to convey information to the silicon brain under the display. Already, industries and companies as diverse as defense contractor Lockheed Martin, CBS News, Pixar, and unnameable government intelligence agencies have approached Han to get hold of his invention. And, no surprise, he has formed a startup company to market it, Perceptive Pixel.

"Touch is one of the most intuitive things in the world," Han says. "Instead of being one step removed, like you are with a mouse and keyboard, you have direct manipulation. It's a completely natural reaction--to see an object and want to touch it."

On a recent Tuesday afternoon, Han gives me a private demonstration at NYU. The 36-inch-wide drafting table he used at TED has since evolved into a giant screen: two 8-foot-by-3-foot panels. I notice the screen is not only smudge resistant but durable--or as Han says, "peanut butter--proof," a phrase he didn't invent but liked enough to co-opt.

In this Googly age, it only takes a random genius to conceive a technology so powerful that it plows under the landscape and remakes it in its own image.

Han teaches me the one pattern I need to know--a circular motion akin to a proofreader's delete symbol, which brings up a pie-chart menu of applications. I poke at it, and suddenly I'm inside the mapping software, overlooking an arid mountain range. Spread two fingers apart, and I'm zooming through canyons. Push them together, and I'm skying thousands of feet above. I'm not just looking at three-dimensional terrain, I'm living in it: I'm wherever I want to be, instantly, in any scale, hurdling whole ridgelines with a single gesture, or free-falling down to any rooftop in any city on earth. This ain't no MapQuest. Han's machine is faster--much faster--because there's nothing between me and the data: no mouse, no cursor, no pull-down windows. It's seamless, immediate, ridiculously easy. No manual required.

An NYU colleague pokes his head in (Han greets him like he does most everyone: "Dude!") and tells him that a producer from the Ellen DeGeneres Show called. Han is amused but declines the invitation to appear. Ever since he became a Web phenomenon, he has been receiving all sorts of offers, come-ons, lecture requests. An official from SPAWAR, a subdivision of the Navy focused on space and naval warfare planning, queried Han about collaborating. A producer from CBS News wondered how to make use of Han's touch screen for special events like election coverage. A dance deejay asked if he had a product to spin music at clubs. A teenager asked how he could become a computer engineer too (answer: "Study math").

Meanwhile, I get back to playing with Han's über tech. "Jesus," I say under my breath. "He's gonna get rich."

Han overhears me and laughs. The thought has occurred to him.

Before reinventing the touch screen, Han was just another dotcom refugee at a crossroads. BoxTop Interactive, an e-services firm he worked for in Los Angeles, had just flamed out with everything else (he calls the whole boom-bust era a "collusion of bulls--t"). With his father ill, and ready for a change himself, Han returned to New York.