Chapter 6

3 Years Ago Sunnyvale, California.

Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell was this disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage? Then why put it on the dGraph disks and programs? Did I just agree? What did I say? I don't remember what I said. Maybe I said maybe.

Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat. No, it was another one of those cultural differences. Like calisthenics before work at those Japanese companies that satu- rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded like a threat, but this is OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be like the head of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He called Max.

"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood, was 'I need you. Get your ass up here now.'

"On my way Amigo."

The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex- hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both sides of the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it, or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the translation. He prayed for the latter.

"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock- ing.

"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's large physique.

Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good start. Yes, a good start." Max grinned.

Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had to be completed before anything serious was discussed. Max brought the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder bulged in the middle. Max pulled out the disk and pretended to read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the mood, but then he had no love for lawyers.

"Max! Please."

"Hey, just trying new material...."

" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.

"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT. Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents. The screen scrolled and stopped.

C:\a: A:\dir

FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704 FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013 FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900 FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567 FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981 FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324 FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280 FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395 FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374 FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912

93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining A:\

"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.

"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What kind of programs?"

"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have you used them yet?"

"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier- re's nervousness betrayed him.

"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93. That would run the program.

A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to its natural state, that of the C:\. "That one didn't work. Let's try 92. H'mmmm. That's curious, it doesn't do anything either. Looks like a bunch of crap to me. What are they sup- posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.

Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't know, really. Maybe it's just a joke."

"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn, nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette from the machine.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."

At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.

"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.

Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real soon. He meant that part. He would call back.

"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.

"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.

"Viruses. Lots of 'em."

"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.

"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."

"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."

"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.

"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded silent agreement.

"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a theme."

"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone knows that. What about these?"

"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa- bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations, but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an executable which is designed to copy itself onto another program."

"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our- selves into the application."

"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk- ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now, the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him that a program could be harmful.

"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some- thing new."

"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth- ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3 years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak, goes too."

"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with antidotes?"

"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it- self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation; in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses. Can't be done."

"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to grasp the importance of what he was hearing.

"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro- gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool- ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi- ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani- gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get them?"

Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I? He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can tell Max. Anything.

"Homosoto."

"What?" asked Max incredulously.

"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.

"Why? What for?"

"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."

"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3 years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to absorb what he was saying.

"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi- ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov- ered power.

"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de- stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi- dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."

"V-Day?"

"Virus Day."

"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"

"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro- grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once. It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act. And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What exactly did Homosoto say?"

Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't mind. He really doesn't.

The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn- apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre the luxury of a respite of calm.

"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden- ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.

"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from Pierre.

"Well what?"

"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."

"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."

"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the international politic that usually was second nature. He called Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.

"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto hung up.

Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso- to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not be coming until the following morning.

In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with the same shit eating grin he had left with the day before. Pierre hated that worse than being called amigo.

"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con- cerns a matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a monotone as he sat stiffly.

"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from his desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible. You know what's here, you know what kind of damage it can cause and you have the gall, the nerve to come in here and ask me, no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these along with dGraph? You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage. "If you think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you have another thing coming."

Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.

"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're going? I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I don't want the goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for someone honest to come along." Pierre was speaking just as loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures. While not all of the gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.

Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you some time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the door in Pierre's bright red face.

Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon the public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed to vast amounts of it, leaving precious little for the small investor before driving the price up. That morning Pierre was looking for Max. They had a few last minute details to iron out for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare two types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected, sold out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and another to explain the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't sell. Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them to learn both positions, just in case.

His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's financial media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like a happy camper.

"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could burst," Pierre pretended.

"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."

Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem, Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.

"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."

"What about Max?"

"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"

Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead? Not possible. Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.

"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is some kind of joke, right?"

"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on it. They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a ravine on I280. Looks like he went through a barrier and down the, well . . .I . . ."

"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.

"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents. He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel, oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you've been through . . ."

"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling up in his eyes.

"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put off the offering until . . ."

"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.

"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street will be kind on this . . ."

"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions. He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories, stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course. But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You can't do this to me.

His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang. He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The caller persisted.

"Yes," he breathed into the phone.

"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.

"What?"

"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help you in this time of personal grief." Classic Japanese manners oozed over the phone wire.

"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self gratification." Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped Royal British snobbery at their best.

"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly. "I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you agree Mr. Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light had been extinguished.

"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.

"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation."

"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I won't do it."

"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your decision." There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled threat.

"Why should I?"

"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you murdered your partner for profit."

"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal clear visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur- dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.

"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence, enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your- self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?"

"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now. There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?

"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the impact resistant plastic cracked.

At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully opened the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry. What can I do?" She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked with emotional distress.

"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the arrangements . . .?" The helpless look on his face brought out the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.

"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"

"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me advised . . ."

"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is waiting. Should I get rid of him?"

"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"

"I don't know. He's from personnel."

"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"

"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next week . . ." she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of an unnecessary burden that could wait.

"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."

"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure, Pierre, I'll send him in."

An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about 30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he grasped Pierre's hand.

"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr. Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. "I am a software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD's from Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy- rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages fluently . . ."

Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and your clothes. What may I do for you."

"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement. Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"

* * * * *

The financial section of the New York City Times included two pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents, and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper- cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci- dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.

The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max, though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.

* * * * *

Wednesday, September 1 New York City

Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not his strong point.

"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he should function socially before noon. If they didn't take the hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.

Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.

Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re- porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.

"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott sounded officious.

"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded accommodating.

"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most useful and I am sure that they will be used. But I have other questions." Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.

"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to give the press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.

"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that you inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree that, if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will earn almost one million dollars in extra fees. However, the figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC. Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound accusatory, but it was difficult not to play the adversary.

Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at the revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that information?"

"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.

"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with the appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else, then I suggest you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone wires conveyed his agitation.

"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why files from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?" Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.

"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer figures?"

"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures for Second Boston are substantially below those stated in your filings. Simple and dry. Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck with the game plan.

"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ." Henson hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive. "You have nothing. Nothing. It's a trap," Henson affirmed.

"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson repeatedly denied any improprieties.

"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the New York City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation with Washington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's over spending.

"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male secretary matter of factly asked.

"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young and Credit Suisse."

"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.

"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from the press.

"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak on hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up the call. He was belligerent.

"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.

"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.

"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim- idate me. I am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave away nervousness.

"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about political compromise. Very simple. I have information that you and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you have helped pass legislation that gave you both what you wanted. General Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account in Geneva. Comments, Senator?"

Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan- derous at least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to back up these preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in the Senator's voice.

"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments," Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person who spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until Rickfield spoke.

"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper right into bankruptcy. Do you copy?"

"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that would piss off Rickfield. The line went dead.

Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he continued to be amazed.

From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get that?" "Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know that." "I was the only one who had access to that . . ." "That was in my private files . . ."

Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the Nuclear Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known faulty parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum. He especially upset the Department of Defense when he asked them how Senors Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.

The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the thought of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the newspaper. Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their files had been penetrated or any of the names on the list. Useless.

Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and beyond the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory claims which were universally denied for a wide variety of rea- sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly shocked that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.

Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in which everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.

Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was. He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous source, with, thus far, no way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed that for the next time he got lawyered.

When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears were confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in the making. Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order. Keep digging.

"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father teasing his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead- line."

Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.

"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on his desk. "I'm up to my ass in . . ."

"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.

"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."

"Then say so. But say something."

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