Chapter 21

Friday, January 8 Washington, D.C.

As the hour is late, I am tempted to call a recess until tomorrow morning," Senator Merrill Rickfield said congenially from the center seat of the hearing room dais. His blow up with Nancy left him in a rage, but he ably disguised the anger by replacing it with overcompensated manners.

"However," he continued, "I understand that we scheduled someone to speak to us who has to catch a plane back to California?" Rickfield quickly glanced about the formal dais to espy someone who could help him fill in the details. Ken Boyers was engrossed in conversation and had to be prodded to respond. "Ken," Rick- field whispered while covering the microphone with his hand. He leaned over and behind his seat. "Is that right, this True Blue guy flew in for the day and he's out tonight?"

Ken nodded. "Yes, it was the only way we could get him."

"What makes him so bloody important?" Rickfield acted edgy.

"He's one of the software industry's leading spokesman. He owns dGraph," Ken said, making it sound like he was in on a private joke.

"So fucking what? What's he doing here?" Rickfield demanded. Keeping it to a whisper was hard.

"Industry perspective. We need to hear from all possible view- points in order to . . ." Ken explained.

"Oh, all right. Whatever. If this goes past five, have someone call my wife and tell her I'll see her tomorrow." Rickfield sat back and smiled a politician-hiding-something smile.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, a little scheduling confusion. I guess there's a first time for anything." Rickfield's chuckle told those-in-the-know that it was time to laugh now. If Rick- field saw someone not laughing at one of his arthritic jokes, he would remember. Might cost a future favor, so it was simpler to laugh. The mild titter throughout the hall that followed gave Rickfield the few seconds he needed to organize himself.

"Yes, yes. Page 239. Everyone there?" Rickfield scanned the other committee members and aides flipping pages frantically to find the proper place.

"We now have the pleasure of hearing from Pierre, now correct me if I say this wrong, Trewww-Blow?" Rickfield looked up over his glasses to see Pierre seated at the hearing table. "Is that right?" Scott had been able to keep his privileged location for the busier afternoon session by occupying several seats with his bags and coat. He figured correctly that he would be able to keep at least one as the room filled with more people than had been there for the morning session.

"Troubleaux, yes Senator. Very good." Pierre had turned on 110% charm. Cameras from the now busy press pool in front of the hearing tables strobe-lit the room until every photographer had his first quota of shots. Troubleaux was still the computer industry's Golden Boy; he could do no wrong. Watching the reac- tion to Pierre's mere presence, Senator Rickfield instantly realized that True Blue here was a public relations pro, and could be hard to control. What was he gonna say anyway? Indus- try perspective my ass. This hearing was as good as over before it started until the television people showed up, Rickfield thought to himself with disgust.

"Mr. Trew-Blow flew in extra special for this today," Rickfield orated. "And I'm sure we are all anxious to hear what he has to say." His Southern twang rang of boredom. Scott, who was sit- ting not 6 feet from where Pierre and the others testified, overheard Troubleaux's attorney whisper, "sarcastic bastard."

Rickfield continued. "He is here to give us an overview of the problems that software manufacturers face. So, unless anyone has any comments before Mr. Trew-Blow, I will ask him to read his opening statement."

"I do, Mr. Chairman," Senator Nancy Deere said. She said it with enough oomph to come across more dynamic on the sound system than did Rickfield. Political upstaging. Rickfield looked annoyed. He had had enough of her today. One thing after anoth- er, and all he wanted was to get through the hearings as fast as possible, make a "Take No Action" recommendation to the Committee and retire after election day. Mrs. Deere was making that goal increasingly difficult to reach.

"I recognize the Junior Senator." He said the word 'Junior' as if it was scrawled on a men's room wall. His point was lost on nobody, and privately, most would agree that it was a tasteless tactic.

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," Senator Nancy Deere said poising herself. "I, too, feel indeed grateful, and honored, to have Mr. Troubleaux here today. His accomplishments over the last few years, legendary in some circles I understand, have been in no way inconsequential to the way that America does business. By no means do I wish to embarrass Mr. Troubleaux, and I do hope he will forgive me." Pierre gave Nancy a forgiving smile when she glanced at him. "However, I do feel it incumbent upon this committee to enter into the record the significant contributions he has made to the computer industry. If there are no objec- tions, I have prepared a short biography." No one objected.

"Mr. Troubleaux, a native Frenchman, came to the United States at age 12 to attend Julliard School of Music on scholarship. Since founding dGraph, Inc. with the late Max Jones, dGraph and Mr. Troubleaux have received constant accolades from the business community, the software industry and Wall Street." It sounded more to Scott that she was reading past achievements before she handed out a Grammy.

"Entrepreneur of the Year, 1984, 1985, 1986, 1988, Cupertino Chamber of Commerce. Entrepreneur Year of the Year, California State Trade Association, 1987. Technical Achievement of the Year, IEEE, 1988 . . ."

Senator Deere read on about Pierre the Magnificent and the house that dGraph built. If this was an election for sainthood, Pierre would be a shoo-in. But considering the beating that Rickfield had inflicted on a couple of earlier speakers, it looked like Nancy was trying to bolster Pierre for the upcoming onslaught.

". . .and he has just been appointed to the President's Council on Competitive Excellence." She closed her folder. "With that number of awards and credentials, I dare say I expect to be inundated with insights. Thank you Mr. Chairman."

"And, we thank you," Rickfield barbed, "for that introduction. Now, if there are no further interruptions," he glared at Nancy, "Mr. Trew-Blow, would you care to read your prepared statement.

"No, Senator," Pierre came back. A hush descended over the entire room. He paused long enough to increase the tension in the room to the breaking point. "I never use prepared notes. I prefer to speak casually and honestly. Do you mind?" Pierre exaggerated his French accent for effect. After years of public appearances, he knew how to work and win a crowd. The cameras again flashed as Pierre had just won the first round of verbal gymnastics.

"It is a bit unusual, not to have an advanced copy of your state- ments, and then . . ." Rickfield stopped himself in mid sentence. "Never mind, I'm sorry. Please, Mr. Trew-Blow, proceed."

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman." Pierre scanned the room to see how much of it he commanded. How many people were actually listening to what he was going to say, or were they there for the experi- ence and another line item on a resume? This was his milieu. A live audience, and a TV audience as an extra added bonus. But he had planned it that way.

He never told anyone that he was the one who called the TV sta- tions to tell them that there would be a significant news devel- opment at the Rickfield hearings. If he concentrated, Pierre could speak like a native American with a Midwest twang. He gave CNN, NBC, CBS and ABC down home pitches on some of the dirt that might come out. Only CNN showed up. They sent a junior producer. So what, everyone has to start somewhere. And this might be his big break.

"Mr. Chairman, committee members," his eyes scanned the dais as he spoke. "Honored guests," he looked around the hall to insure as many people present felt as important as possible, "and inter- ested observers, I thank you for the opportunity to address you here today." In seconds he owned the room. Pierre was a capti- vating orator. "I must plead guilty to the overly kind remarks by Senator Deere, thank you very much. But, I am not feigning humility when I must lavish similar praises upon the many dedi- cated friends at dGraph, whom have made our successes possible."

Mutual admiration society, thought Scott. What a pile of D.C. horseshit, but this Pierre was playing the game better than the congressional denizens. As Pierre spoke, the corners of his mouth twitched, ever so slightly, but just enough for the observ- er to note that he took little of these formalities seriously. The lone TV camera rolled.

"My statement will be brief, Mr. Chairman, and I am sure, that after it is complete you will have many questions," Pierre said. His tone was kind, the words ominous.

"I am not a technical person, instead, I am a dreamer. I leave the bits and bytes to the wizards who can translate dreams into a reality. Software designers are the alchemists who can in fact turn silicon into gold. They skillfully navigate the development of thoughts from the amorphous to the tangible. Veritable art- ists, who like the painter, work from tabula rasa, a clean slate, and have a picture in mind. It is the efforts of tens of thou- sands of dedicated software pioneers who have pushed the fron- tiers of technology to such a degree that an entire generation has grown up in a society where software and digital interaction are assimilated from birth.

"We have come to think, perhaps incorrectly, in a discreet quan- tized, digital if you will, framework. To a certain extent we have lost the ability to make a good guess." Pierre paused. "Think about a watch, with a second hand. The analog type. When asked for the time, a response might be 'about three-thirty', or 'it's a quarter after ', or 'it's almost ten.' We approximate the time.

"With a digital watch, one's response will be more accurate; 'one- twenty-three," or '4 minutes before twelve,' or 'it's nine thirty-three.' We don't have to guess anymore. And that's a shame. When we lose the ability to make an educated guess, take a stab at, shoot from the hip, we cease using a valuable creative tool. Imagination!

"By depending upon them so completely, we fall hostage to the machines of our creation; we maintain a constant reliance upon their accuracy and infallibility. I am aware of the admitted parallel to many science fiction stories where the scientists' machines take over the world. Those tales are, thankfully, the products of vivid imaginations. The technology does not yet exist to worry about a renegade computer. HAL-9000 series com- puters are still far in the future. As long as we, as humans, tell the computer to open the pod bay doors, the pod bay doors will open." Pierre elicited a respectful giggle from the stand- ing room only crowd, many of whom came solely to hear him speak. Rickfield doodled.

"Yet, there is another viewpoint. It is few people, indeed, who can honestly claim to doubt the answer displayed on their calcu- lator. They have been with us for over 20 years and we instinc- tively trust in their reliability. We assume the computing machine to be flawless. In many ways, theoretically it is per- fect. But when man gets involved he fouls it up. Our fingers are too big for the digital key pad on our wristwatch-calculator- timer-TV. Since we can't approximate the answer, we have lost that skill, we can't guess, it becomes nearly impossible to know if we're getting the right answer.

"We trust our computers. We believe it when our spreadsheet tells us that we will experience 50% annual growth for five years. We believe the automatic bank teller that tells us we are overdrawn. We don't question it. We trust the computer at the supermarket. As far as I know, only my mother adds up her gro- ceries by hand while still at the check-out counter."

While the image sank in for his audience, Pierre picked up the glass of ice water in front of him and sipped enough to wet his whistle. The crowd ate him up. He was weaving a web, drawing a picture, and only the artist knew what the climax would be.

"Excuse me." Pierre cleared his throat. "We as a people believe a computer printout is the closest thing to God on earth. Di- vinely accurate, piously error-free. Computerized bank state- ments, credit card reports, phone bills, our life is stored away in computer memories, and we trust that the information residing there is accurate. We want, we need to believe, that the ma- chines that switch the street lights, the ones that run the elevator, the one that tells us we have to go to traffic court, we want to believe that they are right.

"Then on yet another hand, we all experience the frustration of the omnipresent complaint, 'I'm sorry the computer is down. Can you call back?'" Again the audience emotionally related to what Pierre was saying. They nodded at each other and in Pierre's direction to indicate concurrence.

"I, as many of us have I am sure, arrived at a hotel, or an airport, or a car rental agency and been told that we don't have a reservation. For me there is an initial embarrassment of having my hand slapped by the computer terminal via the clerk. Then, I react strongly. I will raise my voice and say that I made a reservation, two days ago. I did it myself. Then the clerk will say something like, 'It's not in the computer'. How do you react to that statement?

"Suddenly your integrity is being questioned by an agglomeration of wire and silicon. Your veracity comes into immediate doubt. The clerk might think that you never even made a reservation. You become a liar because the computer disagrees with you. And to argue about it is an exercise in futility. The computer cannot reason. The computer has no ability to make a judgment about you, or me. It is a case of being totally black or white. And for the human of the species, that value system is unfathoma- ble, paradoxical. Nothing is black and white. Yes, the computer is black and white. Herein again, the mind prefers the analog, the continuous, rather than the digitally discreet.

"In these cases, the role is reversed, we blame the computer for making errors. We tend to be verbally graphic in the comments we make about computers when they don't appear to work the way we expect them to. We distrust them." Pierre gestured with his arms to emphasize his point. The crescendo had begun.

"The sociological implications are incredible. As a people we have an inherent distrust of computers; they become an easy scapegoat for modern irritations. However, the balancing side of the scale is an implicit trust in their abilities. The inherent trust we maintain in computers is a deeply emotional one, much as a helpless infant trusts the warmth of contact with his parents. Such is the trust that we have in our computers, because, like the baby, without that trust, we could not survive."

He let the words sink in. A low rumbling began throughout the gallery and hall. Pierre couldn't hear any of the comments, but he was sure he was starting a stink.

"It is our faith in computers that lets us continue. The reli- gious parallels are obvious. The evangelical computer is also the subject of fiction, but trust and faith are inextricably meshed into flavors and degrees. A brief sampling of common everyday items and events that are dependent on computers might prove enlightening.

"Without computers, many of lifes' simple pleasures and conven- iences would disappear. Cable television. Movies like Star Wars. Special effects by computer. Magic Money Cards. Imagine life without them." A nervous giggle met Pierre's social slam. "Call holding. Remember dial phones? No computers needed. CD's? The staple diet of teenage America is the bread and butter of the music industry. Mail. Let's not forget the Post Office and other shippers. Without computers Federal Express would be no better than the Honest-We'll-Be-Here-Tomorrow Cargo Company."

"Oh, and yes," Pierre said dramatically. "Let's get rid of the microwave ovens, the VCR's and video cameras. I think I've made my point."

"I wish you would, Mr. Trew-Blow," Senator Rickfield caustically interjected. "What is the point?" Rickfield was making no points taking on Pierre Troubleaux. He was too popular.

"Thank you, Senator, I am glad you asked. I was just getting there." Pierre's sugary treatment was an appropriate slap in Rickfield's face.

"Please continue." The Senator had difficulty saying the word 'please'.

"Yes sir. So, the prognostications made over a decade ago by the likes of Steve Jobs, that computers would alter the way we play, work and think have been completely fulfilled. Now, if we look at those years, we see a multi-billion dollar industry that has made extraordinary promises to the world of business. Computer- ize they say! Modernize! Get with the times! Make your opera- tion efficient! Stay ahead of the competition! And we listened and we bought.

"With a projected life cycle of between only three and five years, technology progresses that fast, once computerized, forev- er computerized. To keep up with the competitive Jones', main- taining technical advantages requires upgrading to subsequent generations of computers. The computer salespeople told us to run our businesses on computers, send out Social Security checks by computer, replace typewriters with word processors and bank at home. Yet, somewhere in the heady days of phenomenal growth during the early 1980's, someone forgot. Someone, or more than likely most of Silicon Valley forgot, that people were putting their trust in these machines and we gave them no reason to. I include myself and my firm among the guilty.

"Very simply, we have built a culture, an economic base, the largest GNP in the world on a system of inter-connected comput- ers. We have placed the wealths of our nations, the backbone of the fabric of our way of life, we have placed our trust in com- puters that do not warrant that trust. It is incredible to me that major financial institutions do not protect their computer assets as well as they protect their cash on hand.

"I find it unbelievable that the computers responsible in part for the defense of this country appear to have more open doors than a thousand churches on Sunday. It is incomprehensible to me that privacy, one of the founding principles of this nation, has been ignored during the information revolution. The massive data bases that contain vast amounts of personal data on us all have been amply shown to be not worthy of trust. All it takes is a home computer and elbow grease and you, or I, or he," Pierre pointed at various people seated around the room, "can have a field day and change anybody's life history. What happens if the computer disagrees with you then?

"It staggers the imagination that we have not attempted any coherent strategy to protect the lifeblood of our society. That, ladies and gentlemen is a crime. We spend $3 trillion on weapons in one decade, yet we do not have the foresight to protect our computers? It is a crime of indifference by business leaders. A crime against common sense by Congress who passes laws and then refuses to fund their enactment. Staggeringly idiotic. Pardon me." Pierre drained the water from his glass as the tension in the hearing room thickened.

"We live the paradox of simultaneously distrusting computers and being required to trust them and live with them. We are all criminals in this disgrace. Maybe dGraph more than most. Permit me to explain my involvement." The electricity in the room crackled and the novice CNN producer instructed the cameraman to get it right.

"Troubleaux!" A man's gruff accented voice elongated the sylla- bles as he shouted from the balcony in the rear. A thousands eyes jerked to the source of the sound up above. Troubleaux himself turned in his seat to see a middle aged dark man, wearing a turban, pointing a handgun in his direction. Scott saw the weapon and wondered which politician was the target. Who was too pro-Israel this week? He immediately thought of Rickfield. No, he didn't have a commitment either way. He only rode the wave of popular sentiment.

Pierre too, wondered who was the target of a madman's suicide attack. It had to be suicide, there was no escape.

Scott's mind raced through a thousand thoughts during that first tenth of a second, not the endless minutes he later remembered. In the next split second, Scott realized, more accurately he knew, that Pierre was the target. The would-be victim.

As the first report from the handgun echoed through the cavernous chamber Scott was mid-leap at Pierre. Hell of a way to grab an exclusive, he thought. He fell into Pierre as the second shot exploded. Scott painfully caught the edge of the chair with his shoulder while pushing Pierre over sideways. They crumpled into a heap on the floor when the third shot fired.

Scott glanced up at the turbanned man vehemently mouthing words to an invisible entity skyward. The din from the panic in the room made it impossible to hear. Still brandishing the pistol, the assailant began to take aim again, at Scott and Pierre. Scott attempted to wiggle free from the tangle of Pierre's limbs and the chairs around them. He struggled to extricate himself but found it impossible.

A fourth shot discharged. Scott cringed, awaiting the worst but instead heard the bullet ricochet off a metal object above him. Scott's adrenal relief was punctuated by a loud and heavy sigh. He noticed that the assailant's shooting arm had been knocked upwards by a quick moving Capital policeman who violently threw himself at the turbanned man so hard that they both careened forward to the edge of the balcony. The policeman grabbed onto a bench which kept him from plummeting twenty feet below. His target was hurtled over the edge and landed prone on two wooden chairs which collapsed under the force. The shooting stopped.

Scott groaned from discomfort and pain as he slowly began to pull away from Pierre. Then he noticed the blood. A lot of blood. He looked down at himself to see that his white pullover shirt, the one with Mickey Mouse instead of an alligator over the breast pocket, was wet with red. As was his jacket. His left hand had been on the floor, in a pool of blood that was oozing out of the back of Pierre's head. Scott tried to consciously control his physical revulsion to the body beneath him and the overwhelming urge to regurgitate.

Then Pierre's body moved. His chest heaved heavily and Scott pulled himself away completely. Pierre had been hit with at least two bullets, one exiting from the front of his chest and one stripping away a piece of skull exposing the brain. Grue- some.

"He's alive! Get a doctor!" Scott shouted. He lifted himself up to see over the tables. The mad shuffle to the exits continued. No one seemed to pay attention.

"Hey! Is there a doctor in the house?"

Scott looked down at Pierre and touched the veins in his neck. They were pulsing, but not with all of life's vigor. "Hey," Scott said quietly, "you're gonna be all right. We got a doctor coming. Don't worry. Just hang in there." Scott lied, but 40 years of movies and television had preprogrammed the sentiments.

"Drtppheeough . . ." Scott heard Pierre gurgle.

"What? What did you say?" Scott leaned his ear down closer to Pierre's mouth.

"DGOEROUGH."

"Take it easy," Scott said to comfort the badly injured Pierre Troubleaux.

"Nooo . . ." Pierre's limp body made a futile attempt at move- ment. Scott held him back.

"Hey, Pierre . . .you don't mind if I call you Pierre?" Scott adapted a mock French accent.

"Noo, DNGRAAAAPHJG . . ."

"Good. Why don't you just lay back and wait. The doctor'll be here in a second . . ."

"Sick . . ." Pierre managed to get out one word.

"Sick? Sick? Yeah, yeah, you're sick," Scott agreed sympathet- ically.

"DGRAF, sick." The effort caused Pierre to pant quickly.

"Dgraf, sick? What does that mean?" Scott asked.

"Sick. DGraph sick." Pierre's voice began to fade. "Sick. Don't use it. Don't use . . ."

"What do you mean don't use it? DGraph? Hey!" Scott lightly shook Pierre. "You still with us? C'mon, what'd you say? Tell me again? Sick?"

Pierre's body was still.

* * * * *

The bullshit put out by the Government was beyond belief, thought Miles. How could they sit there and claim that all was well? It was common knowledge that computer security was dismal at best throughout both the civilian and military agencies. With the years he spent at NSA he knew that security was a political compromise and not a fiscal or technical reality. And these guys lied through their teeth. Oh, well, he thought, that would all change soon.

The report issued by the National Research Council in November of 1990 concurred with Miles' assessment. Security in the govern- ment was a disaster, a laughable travesty if it weren't for the danger to national security. The report castigated the results of decades of political in-fighting between agencies competing for survival and power.

He and Perky spent the day watching the hearings at Miles' high rise apartment. They had become an item in certain circles that Miles traveled and now they spent a great deal of time together. After several on-again off-again attempts at a relationship consisting of more than just sex, they decided not to see each other for over a year. That was fine by Miles; he had missed the freedom of no commitments.

At an embassy Christmas party months later, they ran into each other and the old animal attraction between them was re-released. They spent the weekend in bed letting their hormones loose to run rampant on each other. The two had been inseparable since. She was the first girl, woman, who was able to tolerate Miles' in- flated egoand his constant need for emotional gratification.

Perky had little idea, by design, of the work that Miles was doing for Homosoto. She knew he was a computer and communica- tions wizard, but that was all. Prying was not her concern. During his angry outbursts venting frustration with Homosoto's pettiness, Perky supported him fully, unaware of his ultimate goal.

Perky found the testimony by Dr. Sternman to be educational; she actually began to understand some of the complicated issues surrounding security and privacy. In many ways it was scary, she told Miles. He agreed, saying if were up to him, things would get a lot worse before they get any better. She responded to his ominous comment with silence until Pierre Troubleaux began his testimony.

As well known as Bill Gates, as charismatic as Steve Jobs, Pierre Troubleaux was regarded as a sexy, rich and eligible bachelor ready for the taking. Stephanie Perkins was more stirred by his appearance and bearing than his words, so she joined Miles in rapt attention to watch his orations on live television.

When the first shot rang out their stunned confusion echoed the camera's erratic framing. As the second shot came across the TV, Perky sprang up and shouted, "No!" Tears dripped from the cor- ners of her eyes.

"Miles! What's happening? They're shooting him . . ."

"I don't know ." A third shot and then the image of Scott and Pierre crumbling. "Holy shit, it's an assassination!"

"Miles, what's going on here?" Stephanie cried.

"This is fucking nuts . . .he's killing him . . ." Miles stared at the screen and spoke in a dull monotone. "I can't believe this is happening, it's not part of the plan . . ."

"Miles, Miles!" She screamed, desperately trying to get his attention. "Who? Miles! Who's killing him? What plan?"

"Fucking Homosoto, that yellow skinned prick . . ."

"Homosoto?" She stopped upon hearing the name.

Miles leapt up from the couch and raced over to the corner of the room with his computers. He pounced on the keyboard of the NipCom computer and told it to dial Homosoto's number in Japan. That son of a bitch better be there. Answer, damn it.

<<<<< >>>>>

Homosoto!!!!!

The delay seemed interminable as Miles waited for him to get on line. Perky followed him over to the computer and watched as he made contact. She knew that Miles and Homosoto spoke often over the computer, too often for Miles' taste. Homosoto whined to Miles almost every day, about one thing or another, and Miles complained to her about how irritating his childish interference was. But throughout it all, Perky had never been privy to their conversations. She had stayed her distance, until this time.

Miles had been in rages before; she had become unwillingly accus- tomed to his furious outbursts. Generally they were unfocused eruptions; a sophomoric way of releasing pent up energy and frus- tration. But this time, Miles' face clearly showed fear. Steph- anie saw the dread. "Miles! What does Homosoto have to do with this? Miles, please!" She pleaded with him to include her. The screen finally responded.

MR. FOSTER. AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE.

You imperial mother fucker.

EXPLAINATION, PLEASE.

You're a fucking murderer.

I TAKE EXCEPTION TO THAT.

Take exception to this, Jack! What the hell did you kill him for?

I ASSUME YOU HAVE BEEN WATCHING TELEVISION.

Aren't we the Einstein of Sushi land.

YOUR MANNERS.

You killed him! Why?

Stephanie read the monitor and wept quietly as the conversation scrolled before her. She placed her hands on Miles' shoulders in an effort to feel less alone.

IT WAS A NECESSARY EVIL. HE COULD NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK. NOT YET.

So you killed him?

ONE OF MY PEOPLE GOT A LITTLE OVER ZEALOUS. IT IS REGRETTABLE, BUT NECESSARY.

It is not necessary to kill anyone. Nowhere in the plan does it call for murder! That was part of our deal.

THE WINDS BLOW. CONDITIONS CHANGE.

The wind blows up your ass!

THAT DOES NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT HE WAS GOING TO TELL WHAT HE KNEW.

What the hell does he know?

DGRAPH. THAT'S THE PROGRAM WE INFECTED.

DGraph? That's impossible. That's the most popular program in the world. How did you infect it?

I BOUGHT IT.

You own dGraph? I thought that Data Tech owned them.

OSO OWNS DATA TECH. YOU DID NOT LISTEN TO YOUR OWN ADVICE. I BOUGHT IT AFTER YOU VISITED ME FOR THE SECOND TIME. IT SEEMED PRUDENT. WE ALSO BOUGHT A HALF DOZEN OTHER SMALL, PROMISING SOFTWARE COMPANIES, JUST AS YOU SUGGESTED. VERY GOOD PLAN.

And Troubleaux knows?

OF COURSE. HE HAD INCENTIVE.

So you try to kill him?

HE LOST HIS INCENTIVE. IT WAS NECESSARY. HE WAS GOING TO TELL AND, AS YOU SAID, SECRECY IS PARAMOUNT. YOUR WORDS.

Yes, secrecy, but not murder. I can't be part of that.

BUT YOU ARE MR. FOSTER. I HOPE THAT THIS IS AN ISOLATED INCIDENT THAT WILL NOT BE REPEATED.

It had damn well better be.

DO NOT FORGET MR. FOSTER THAT YOU HAVE A SIZABLE PAYMENT COMING. I WOULD HATE TO SEE YOU LOSE THAT WHEN THINGS ARE SO CLOSE.

<<<<< >>>>>

"Son of a bitch," Miles said out loud. "Son of a bitch."

"What's going on? Miles?" Perky followed him back to the couch in front of the TV and sat close with her arm around him. She was still crying softly.

"It's gonna start. That's amazing." He blankly stared forward.

"What's gonna start? Miles, did you kill someone?"

"Oh, no!" He turned to her in sincerity. "That bastard Homosoto did. Jesus, I can't believe it."

"What are you involved in? I thought you were a consultant."

"I was. Tomorrow I will be a very rich retired consultant." He pulled her hands into his and spoke warmly. "Listen, it's better that your don't know what's going on, much better. But I promise you, I promise you, that Homosoto is behind it, not me. I couldn't ever kill anyone. You need to believe that."

"Miles, I do, but you seem to know more than . . ."

"I do, and I can't say anything. Trust me," he said as he brought her close to him. "This will all work out for the best. I promise you. Look at me," he said and pulled up her chin so she gazed directly into his eyes. "I have a lot invested in you, and this project. More than you could ever know, and now that it is nearly over, I can put more time into you. After all, you bear some of the responsibility." Miles' loving attitude was a contradiction from his usual self centered pre-occupation.

"Me?" She asked.

"Who got me involved with Homosoto in the first place?" he said glaring at her.

"I guess I did, but . . ."

"I know, I'm kidding," he said squeezing her closer. "I'm not blaming you for anything. I didn't know he could resort to murder, and if I did, I never would have gotten involved in the first place."

"Miles, I love you." That was the first time in their years of on-again off-again contact that she told him how she felt. Now she had to decide if she would tell him that he was just another assignment, and that in all likelihood she had just lost her job, too. "I really do love you."

* * * * *

"The last goddamned time this happened was in the 1950's when Puerto Rican revolutionaries started a shoot-em-up in the old gallery," the President shouted.

Phil Musgrave and Quinton Chambers listened to the angry Presi- dent. His tirade began minutes after he summoned them both to his office. They were as frustrated and upset as he was, but it was their job to listen until the President had blown off enough steam.

"I am well aware a democracy, a true democracy is subject to extremist activists, but," the President sighed, "this is getting entirely out of hand. What is it about this computer stuff that stirs up so much emotion?" He waited for an answer.

"I'm not sure that computers are to blame, sir," said Phil. "First of all, the assailant used a ceramic pistol. No way for our security to detect it without a physical search and that wouldn't go over well with anyone." The brilliant Musgrave was making a case for calm rationality in the light of the live assassination attempt. "Second, at this point there is no con- nection between Troubleaux and his attacker. We're not even 100% sure that Troubleaux was the target."

"That's a crock Phil," asserted the President. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that there is an obvious connection be- tween this computer crap and the Rickfield incident. I want to know what it is, and I want to know fast."

"Sir," Chambers said quietly. "We have the FBI and the CIA investigating, but until the perpetrator regains consciousness, which may be doubtful because his spine was snapped in the fall, we won't know too much."

The President frowned. "Does it seem odd to you that Mason, the Times reporter was there with Troubleaux at the exact time he got shot?"

"No sir, just a coincidence. It seems that computer crime has been his hot button for a while," Musgrave said. "I don't think he's involved at all."

"I'm not suggesting that," the President interrupted. "But he does seem to be where the action is. I think it would be prudent if we knew a bit more of his activities. Do I need to say more?"

"No sir. Consider it done."

****************************************************************