history of that era.
Bobby was deep into music. But he was also acutely aware of the
activity on the display terminals. The one on the right was linked, via
microwave with the computer system at the Decodyne Corporation, in front
of which his van was parked. It revealed what Tom Rasmussen was up to
in those offices at 1:10 Thursday morning, no good.
One by one, Rasmussen was accessing and copying the files of the
software-design team that had recently completed Decodyne’s new and
revolutionary word-processing program “Wizard.”
The Wizard files carried out instructions of electronic draw bridges,
moats, and other parts. Tom Rasmussen was an expert in computer
security, however, and there was no fortress that he could not
penetrate, given enough time. Indeed, if Wizard had not been developed
on a secure in-house computer system with no links to the outside world,
Rasmussen would have slipped into the files from beyond the walls of
Decodyne, via a modern and telephone line.
Ironically, he had been working as the night security guard at Decodyne
for five weeks, having been hired on the basis of elaborate-and nearly
convincing-false papers. Tonight he had breached Wizard’s final
defenses. In a while he would walk out of Decodyne with a packet of
floppy diskettes worth a fortune to the company’s competitors.
“One O’Clock Jump” ended.
Into the microphone Bobby said, “Music stop.”
That vocal command cued his computerized compact-disc system to switch
off, opening the headset for communication with Julie, his wife and
business partner.
“You there, babe?”
From her surveillance position in a car at the farthest end of the
parking lot behind Decodyne, she had been listening to the same music
through her own headset. She sighed. “Did Vernon Brown ever play
better trombone than the night of the Carnegie concert?”
“What about Krupa on the drums?”
“Auditory ambrosia. And an aphrodisiac. The music makes me want to go
to bed with you.”
“Can’t. Not sleepy. Besides, we’re being private detectives,
remember?”
“I like being lovers better.”
“We don’t earn our daily bread by making love.”
“I’d pay you,” she said.
“Yeah? How much?”
“Oh, in daily-bread terms… half a loaf.”
“I’m worth a whole loaf.”
Julie said, “Actually, you’re worth a whole loaf, two croissants, and a
bran muffin.”
She had a pleasing, throaty, and altogether sexy voice that he loved to
listen to, especially through headphones, when she sounded like an angel
whispering in his ears.
She would have been a marvelous big-band singer if she had been around
in the 1930s and ’40s-and if she had been able to carry a tune. She was
a great swing dancer, but she couldn’t croon worth a damn; when she was
in the mood to sing along with old recordings by Margaret Whiting or the
Andrews Sisters or Rose mary Clooney or Marion Hutton, Bobby had to
leave the room out of respect for the music.
She said, “What’s Rasmussen doing?”
Bobby checked the second video display, to his left, which was linked to
Decodyne’s interior security cameras. Rasmussen thought he had
over-ridden the cameras and was uncertain; but they had been watching
him for the last few weeks, night after night, and recording his every
treachery on video tape.
“Old Tom’s still in George Ackroyd’s office, at the computer there.”
Ackroyd was project director for Wizard.
Bob glanced at the other display, which duplicated what Rasmussen was
seeing on Ackroyd’s computer screen. “He just copied the last Wizard
file onto diskette.”
Rasmussen switched off the computer in Ackroyd’s office. Simultaneously
the linked VDT in front of Bobby went blank.
Bobby said, “He’s finished. He’s got it all now.”
Julie said, “The worm. He must be feeling smug.”
Bobby turned to the display on his left, leaned forward, and watched the
black-and-white image of Rasmussen at Ackroyd’s terminal.
“I think he’s grinning.”
“We’ll wipe that grin off his face.”
“Let’s see what he does next. Want to make a bet? On whether he’ll
stay in there, finish his shift, and waltz out in the morning or leave
right now?”
“Now,” Julie said.
“Or soon. He won’t risk getting caught with the floppies. He’ll leave
while no one else is there.”
“No bet. I think you’re right.”