Part 3 (2/2)

'For that,' I said, 'I'll need your help.'

Moody has a devilish smile. 'All right,' he said. let me get a few things together.'

I listened in while Moody coaxed the cable-and-pair number he needed out of an innocent worker somewhere in the telco. It was easy as pie: he picked a phone box at random (at least, I a.s.sume it was random), flipped open one of his collection of pocket-sized notebooks, and dialled up a number at the line a.s.signment office. His voice became gruff 'Hi. This is Danny Heap from Repairs. I'm up a pole...' A few moments later he had the info he needed. 'Thank you kindly, ma'am.'

The phriendly phone phreak made me wait in the car while he did whatever he did to the bridging box outside Salmon's small house. It was for my own protection, he claimed, but I think he just didn't want me to get a look inside his little black bag of goodies. He dressed the part, with denim overalls, a well-stocked tool belt, and what looked suspiciously like a Ma Bell ID badge.

We'd parked where we could get a view through the study window. The venetian blinds were down, but half-open, giving me an occasional glimpse of silhouettes in the dull light of the computer screen. The glove box of the Escort was always well-supplied with junk foods, guaranteed kosher. I munched on a dark chocolate bar, my eyes scanning the suburban street.

A couple of cars went by, but nothing suggested anyone had taken an interest in Mondy or his accomplice.

At last Mondy slid back into the driver's seat. He reached into the back and grabbed the handle of a large black tapedeck, hauling it into his lap. Up went the aerial. He fiddled with the dial until he heard the tone he wanted. 'Hear that? That means the phone's off the hook right now,' he said. He pushed in a ca.s.sette.

We sat in companionable silence for a long time. I stared at the little yellow spots on the back of his head. Mondy gave me a 'What?' glance. 'The embroidery around your yarmulkah,' I said. 'Is that Pac-Man?'

'Did it myself,' he murmured. 'Aha!'

The sound issuing from the tapedeck had changed. Ian thwunked down the 'record' b.u.t.ton. My first ever wiretap had begun.

Two.

Bob said, 'So what's the Doctor after?' Peri shrugged. 'Oh, come on. He told you, I know he did. I know he did.'

'No, really,' said Peri. 'If I knew, I'd tell you. You'd probably have a better chance of understanding it than me.'

Bob's apartment was small and spartan. Other than a few tidy bookshelves Peri was sure the books were alphabetised and another shelf for record alb.u.ms, there wasn't much in the place. A single Dali print hung over the sofa. She couldn't see a TV anywhere. The kitchen was pristine, but Peri suspected that Bob never cooked.

You would have thought Bob's study would be just as much a disaster area as his office at work. You'd have been wrong. It was squeaky-clean he even dusted behind the computer with a cloth before he sat down and switched it on.

A home-made shelf over the desk held a row of computer manuals lined up like soldiers. They were alphabetised, Peri saw. Another shelf held a row of books on the occult. A mandala postcard hung from the bottom of the shelf by a yellowing square of Scotch tape.

Bob said, 'I wonder what it is... a satellite-based laser?'

'A stolen s.p.a.ce shuttle computer.'

'A suitcase-sized nuclear bomb.'

'Whatever it is,' said Peri, 'it must be something pretty major for him to just vanish like that.'

'And stay vanished,' said Bob. 'I don't remember the Doctor being so paranoid. He was more likely to charge in and make a bunch of noise. He didn't care what anybody thought.'

'Maybe it's not just him. Maybe there's somebody with him that he's got to protect.'

'Maybe he's in jail,' said Bob. 'Sneaking into the guard's offices to borrow the phone.' Peri had to smile.

Bob logged on to check his electronic mail while Peri flipped through a computer magazine. It was full of circuit diagrams and listings of programs, excited ads for a dozen brands of home computer, and pictures of barbarians rescuing damsels. She couldn't find anything about the new network Bob seemed to find so exciting.

'Why is the net such a big deal, anyway? It's just a bunch of scientists and generals sending each other computer messages, isn't it? Why don't they just phone one another up?'

'One day you'll be able to order a pizza over the net,' said Bob, his back to her. 'It won't just be businesses that have modems.'

'You've got one.'

'If they knew I had one, the telco would charge me business rates. But one day soon, owning a modem will be just as normal as owning a phone. This year some people did their Christmas shopping online. You don't just get information from computers now, you interact with other people. Email and Usenet are going to completely change the way human beings communicate.' Bob was getting so enthusiastic he was actually looking at her. 'The written word is far more precise than speech. Imagine conversation without the mumbling, the false starts, the half-chewed ideas. Imagine a world of people talking in sentences that they've actually thought about first.

The net is gonna change how we think think.'

Peri was impressed. 'Is that what it's really like online?'

'Ah, we're still getting the hang of it. It'll work as long as everyone in the world doesn't get a computer.'

'But isn't that kind of the idea? To make computers like TVs, or toasters?'

Bob looked miffed. 'It's not going to make the net a better place if everybody in the world climbs aboard. College professors and scientists talking to one another is one thing.

But garbage collectors? Housewives?'

'College students?' snapped Peri.

Bob looked at her sideways. 'H. G. Wells used to talk about creating a World Brain. Bringing all the world's experts, all their knowledge, into one place. That's what the net is gonna be: a World Encyclopaedia. Pure information from the best minds on the planet.'

'And pizza.'

'Lemme show you something here; said Bob. He fired up a brand-new IBM PC and pushed a diskette into the drive.

'Same technology as the Columbia Columbia. Why don't you have a look at the demo programs?'

What a way to spend Christmas Eve: watching a computer draw spirals. You would never have known the time of year from Bob's house: there was no tree, no cards. No matter where they had happened to be, her parents always arranged something. A bit of tinsel on a twig, carols in the tent. They could make Christmas out of virtually nothing. To Bob, it seemed, it was virtually nothing.

What a relief to be interrupted by the jarring ring of the phone. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it up before Bob could get his hands on it.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'h.e.l.lo, Peri. I trust you're well.'

'Fine, Doctor. Are you OK?'

'Never better. How did things go with your little expedition?'

Peri sighed. 'All I know is that whatever you're looking for, it's not in their computer room. I got to check the whole place before Swan scared us off, and there aren't any locked rooms or secret labs that I could see.' Her voice grew small 'I'm sorry we couldn't find out more.'

'Given the circ.u.mstances,' said the Doctor, 'you've done remarkably well!' Peri relaxed a little. Bob was practically jumping up and down, making 'give me the phone' gestures, but she held on. 'And you've confirmed something I suspected: Swan's project is a private one, not to be shared with her workmates. Even the government is not aware of what one of its contractors has hold of.'

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