“Does Wilkins know now where this …what did you call it? This alpha deposit is?”
“No—at least, not from accessing my computer files. I didn’t record the location anywhere but up here.” Presumably he was tapping the side of his head.
“But you think Wilkins extracted the passphrase from a copy of your mind?”
“He must have.”
“And now he’s presumably trying to extract the location of the alpha deposit from that copy of your mind.”
“Yes, yes! And if he succeeds, all will be lost! The best specimens will be sold off into private collections—trophies for some trillionaire’s estate, hidden forever from science.”
I shook my head. “But this doesn’t make any sense. I mean, how would Wilkins even know that you had discovered the alpha deposit?”
Suddenly Pickover’s voice was very small. “I’d gone in to NewYou— you have to go in weeks in advance of transferring, of course, so you can tell them what you want in a new body; it takes time to custom-build one to your specifications.”
“Yes. So?”
“So, I wanted a body ideally suited to paleontological work on the surface of Mars; I wanted some special modifications—the kinds of the things only the most successful prospectors could afford. Reinforced knees; extra arm strength for moving rocks; extended spectral response in the eyes, so that fossils will stand out better; night vision so that I could continue digging after dark; but …”
I nodded. “But you didn’t have enough money.”
“That’s right. I could barely afford to transfer at all, even into the cheapest off-the-shelf body, and so …”
He trailed off, too angry at himself, I guess, to give voice to what was in his mind. “And so you hinted that you were about to come into some wealth,” I said, “and suggested that maybe he could give you what you needed now, and you’d make it up to him later.”
Pickover sounded sad. “That’s the trouble with being a scientist; sharing information is our natural mode.”
“Did you tell him precisely what you’d found?” I asked.
“No. No, but he must have guessed. I’m a paleontologist, I’ve been studying Weingarten and O’Reilly for years—all of that is a matter of public record. He must have figured out that I knew where their fossil beds are. After all, where else would a guy like me get money?” He sighed. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”
“Well, Mensa isn’t going to be calling you any time soon.”
“Please don’t rub it in, Mr. Lomax. I feel bad enough as it is, and—” His voice cracked; I’d never heard a transfer’s do that before. “And now I’ve put all those lovely, lovely fossils in jeopardy! Will you help me, Mr. Lomax? Please say you’ll help me!”
I nodded. “All right. I’m on the case.”
We went back into the dome, and I called Raoul Santos on my comm-link, getting him to meet me at Rory Pickover’s little apartment at the center of town. It was four floors up, and consisted of three small rooms—an interior unit, with no windows.
When Raoul arrived, I made introductions. “Raoul Santos, this is Rory Pickover. Raoul here is the best computer expert we’ve got in New Klondike. And Dr. Pickover is a paleontologist.”
Raoul tipped his broad forehead at Pickover. “Good to meet you.”
“Thank you,” said Pickover. “Forgive the mess, Mr. Santos. I live alone. A lifelong bachelor gets into bad habits, I’m afraid.” He’d already cleared debris off of one chair for me; he now busied himself doing the same with another chair, this one right in front of his home computer.
“What’s up, Alex?” asked Raoul, indicating Pickover with a movement of his head. “New client?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Dr. Pickover’s computer files have been looked at by some unauthorized individual. We’re wondering if you could tell us from where the access attempt was made.”
“You’ll owe me a nice round of drinks at the Bent Chisel,” said Raoul.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll put it on my tab.”
Raoul smiled, and stretched his arms out, fingers interlocked, until his knuckles cracked. Then he took the now-clean seat in front of Pickover’s computer and began to type. “How do you lock you files?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the monitor.
“A verbal passphrase,” said Pickover.
“Anybody besides you know it?”
Pickover shook his artificial head. “No.”
“And it’s not written down anywhere?”
“No, well … not as such.”
Raoul turned his head, looking up at Pickover. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a line from a book. If I ever forgot the exact wording, I could always look it up.”
Raoul shook his head in disgust. “You should always use random passphrases.” He typed keys.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s totally secure,” said Pickover. “No one would guess—”
Raoul interrupted. “Your passphrase being, ‘Those privileged to be present …’ ”
I saw Pickover’s jaw drop. “My God. How did you know that?”
Raoul pointed to some data on the screen. “It’s the first thing that was inputted by the only outside access your system has had in weeks.”
“I thought passphrases were hidden from view when entered,” said Pickover.
“Sure they are,” said Raoul. “But the comm program has a buffer; it’s in there. Look.”
Raoul shifted in the chair so that Pickover could see the screen clearly over his shoulder. “That’s … well, that’s very strange,” said Pickover. “What?”
“Well, sure that’s my passphrase, but it’s not quite right.”
I loomed in to have a peek at the screen, too. “How do you mean?” I said.
“Well,” said Pickover, “see, my passphrase is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes’—it s from the opening of The Man of Property, the first book of the Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy. I love that phrase because of the alliteration—‘privileged to be present,’ ‘family festival of the Forsytes.’ Makes it easy to remember.”
Raoul shook his head in you-can’t-teach-people-anything disgust. Pickover went on. “But, see, whoever it was typed in even more.”
I looked at the glowing string of letters. In full it said: Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen them dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.
“It’s too much?” I said.
“That’s right,” said Pickover, nodding. “My passphrase ends with the word ‘Forsytes.’ ”
Raoul was stroking his receding chin. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The files would unlock the moment the phrase was complete; the rest would just be discarded—systems that principally work with spoken commands don’t require you to press the enter key.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Pickover. “But the rest of it isn’t what Galsworthy wrote. It’s not even close. The Man of Property is my favorite book; I know it well. The full opening line is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight—an upper middle-class family in full plumage.’ Nothing about the time they ate, or how many courses they had.”
Raoul pointed at the text on screen, as if it had to be the correct version. “Are you sure?” he said.
“Of course!” said Pickover. “Galsworthy’s public domain; you can do a search online and see for yourself.”
I frowned. “No one but you knows your passphrase, right?”