“That’s dishonest. You’re telling me you’d work with a publisher you knew was dishonest?”
He left without answering the question.
He had only morning classes today and spent the afternoon, until nearly 3:00, working on his commercial programming contract. The bank routines were proving problematic. Continental wanted some of the same safeguards he had incorporated into the DOD software, but national security dictated against his using the same code or anything remotely like it. As a result, he had to come up with new approaches to old problems—a nice enough challenge, but Beck was soon frustrated with the number of times he had to pull himself up short, realizing he was on too familiar ground.
At 3:15, he kept an appointment with Bourbon in his Sheraton suite, bringing along his edited pages to show. Bourbon read them in complete silence—not so much as a “hmm” or a nod or a throat clearing to mark his progress. Beck sipped a virgin daiquiri and wriggled like a middle-school kid at his first dance.
In the end, the editor raised his head and smiled. “Good edits, Beckett. I especially like the rougher edges you’ve put on Martin James.” He paused, nodded. “I think we can work together.” He rubbed his palms together in some sort of symbolic gesture, then reached out to shake Beck’s hand. “Now, about contracts. I’ll have them downloaded from Sefton so you can go over them tonight, review the terms and sign them at your leisure. I’m going to be in town a few more days, as it happens.”
Beck nodded. “Uh. Terms?”
“Well, in view of your other work—your scientific publications, et al, I’ve been authorized to offer you an advance of twenty thousand against royalties.”
Beck was still nodding. “Twenty that’s… that’s great.” Damn Marian, anyway, he swore silently. He should have been savoring this and wasn’t, because she and Ruby had raised the shade of Conscience. “Um, I was curious. Sefton published Voice from a Burning Bush, didn’t they?”
Bourbon’s eyebrows rose delicately. “Yes, we did.”
“You wouldn’t have been the editor to handle that property, would you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“My wife was… curious about how that sort of thing is handled. I mean with the author being… who he is and all.” He offered up a halfhearted smile. “I think she fancies I might get into writing spy novels or something.”
Bourbon’s mouth tilted wryly. “I’m afraid I’m just a science fiction editor. Mr. X did not enter Sefton through the servant’s quarters, I assure you. He had an editor from the non-fiction side of the aisle.”
Beck shook his head. “Servant’s quarters? I don’t get it.”
“Inside joke of the genre ghetto, Beckett. Finish your drink. I’ll get those contracts going.”
Beck glanced at his watch. “How long will it take to download them? My wife…” He broke off, clearing his throat. He was relieved when Bourbon didn’t react.
“I understand. It will take but a moment.” During that moment, Bourbon came back to the table and seated himself, pouring Beck a fresh, cold refill of creamy, pink crushed ice. “You know, Beckett, I really hoped we’d have an opportunity to talk programming. I’ve got this little AI project I’m working on for Sefton—” He broke off with a self-deprecatory smile. “Well, I’m only coordinating it, actually. I’ll probably hire a real programmer to do it, but I’d like to at least help design it.”
Beck was immediately interested. “Oh? A maintenance system, security—which?”
“A little of both, actually. You’d be surprised at the type of security problems we have in the publishing industry. Especially a house like Sefton which has a number of celebrity authors.”
Beck sipped at the daiquiri, trying to hide behind it. “Like Ibrahim X?”
“Yes, like that. Like J.R. Koenig. I can’t tell you the number of times our system has been hacked into and his manuscripts downloaded and distributed over the Net before we can get them to press. There’s a lot of money lost there for our cyber-press division, as you can imagine. Koenig even tried downloading a manuscript to us under his wife’s name and e-mail account. The hackers still got to it before we could publish it.”
“Sounds like it could be an inside job,” Beck said. “Are you sure you can trust everyone who’s working for you?”
Bourbon grimaced. “You may be right. And no, I’m not certain of everyone in our employ. But I thought, perhaps with your advice… I’m, em, not above taking advantage of this situation. I hope you don’t mind.” His smile betrayed embarrassment.
Beck flushed, smiling. “Of course not. I’d be happy to talk shop with you.”
“Tomorrow night, perhaps? A late dinner here?”
“Ah… how late?”
“Ninish?”
“I don’t know if I can, on such short notice, but I’ll try.” For the first time, Beck felt a spark of resentment for Marian’s possessiveness. It was embarrassing to seem so… well, henpecked. He had the absurd desire to puff out his chest and proclaim adamantly that he most certainly would be there for dinner the next evening. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’d appreciate it. I’m really quite stumped by our hacker/thief.”
When Beckett left the Sheraton, he was surprised to find himself standing on a lamp-lit street. Somehow it had grown dark while he chatted with Laurence Bourbon. Puzzling, but not distractingly so. He drove home in a haze of buoyant cheer, ready to reconcile with Marian. But, though her car was parked in the curving drive when he arrived home, the house was dark.
Out with Ruby, no doubt, who would commiserate with her about having a husband who stood her up for dinner without notice. The aroma of Kung Pao still hung in the kitchen, making Beck salivate. Guilt warred with irritation and hunger. He grabbed a white carton from the refrigerator and headed for his office, deciding he’d work on the First Continental program while he waited Marian out. He would save the contracts for later, when he could savor them. He slipped the memory core into the computer, put on VR half-helm and gloves and let himself into the program.
It was a bigger mess than he remembered—a crazy-quilt of mismatched security fail-safes. He was deep into it, working on a lock for one of the bank’s massive data vaults, when a blinding flash of light all but knocked him from his chair. His head felt suddenly cool and light, as if—
“Beckett Hodge, what the hell are you doing?” Marian emerged from the haze of light wearing a rumpled, over-large Red Sox T-shirt, her short hair an auburn riot. She held his half-helm in one white-knuckled hand.
“I… was waiting for you.”
“To do what? Take up sleepwalking? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? First I thought you’d mutated into a prick, and then I thought maybe you’d been kidnapped by corporate spies or aliens or something, and then I started having these visions of you lying in a ditch somewhere. Where were you?”
“I had a meeting with Laurence Bourbon—you knew that. He’s given me a contract to sign.”
“And that took until one A.M.?”
Beck felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of the room. “One… ? That’s impossible.”
“You wear a watch. Use it.”
He did wear a watch, when he remembered to put it on. He pulled up his sleeve. Evidently this morning he had not remembered. He tilted the naked wrist so Marian could see it.
“The world is full of clocks, Beckett. Your car has a clock. Your computer has a clock. Your pager has a clock. This office has a clock although it’s damned hard to see in the dark. Are you telling me you didn’t glance at any of them?”