Programming facts into Fat Boy was the constant work of an army of mechanics and technicians, but getting useful information out of Him was a task for an artist, a person with training, touch, and inspiration. The problem lay in the fact that Fat Boy knew too much. If one scanned a given subject too shallowly he might not discover what he wanted to know. If he scanned too deeply, he would be overwhelmed with an unreadable mass of minutia: results of former urine tests, boy scout merit badges won, predictions in high school annuals, preference in brand of toilet paper. The First Assistant’s unique gift was his delicate touch in asking just the right questions of Fat Boy, and of demanding response at just the right depth of scan. Experience and instinct combined to send him after the right indices, the right permutations, the right rubrics, the right depths. He played the instrument of the computer masterfully, and he loved it. Working at his console was to him what sex was to other men—that is to say, what he assumed sex was to other men.
Diamond spoke over his shoulder to Miss Swivven. “When I’m ready, I’ll want to talk to this Starr person, and to the Arab they call Mr. Haman. Have them kept on tap.”
Under the First Assistant’s manipulation, the console was warming and humming. The first responses were coming in; fragments were being stored in the local memory bank; the dialogue had begun. No two conversations with Fat Boy were alike; each took on its own patois, and the delights of the problem were beginning to stroke the First Assistant’s considerable, if exclusively frontal, intellect.
It would be twenty minutes before a full picture was available. Diamond decided not to waste this time. He would take a little exercise and sun, tune up his body and clear his mind for the long haul to come. He gestured with a fingertip for Miss Swivven to follow him into the small exercise room off the principal work area.
As he stripped down to his abbreviated shorts, Miss Swivven put on a pair of round, dark eyecups, handed him a similar pair, and turned on the bank of sunlamps installed along the walls. Diamond began doing sit-ups on an inclined platform, his ankles held by a loop of velvet-covered rope, while Miss Swivven pressed against the wall, keeping her vulnerably pale skin as far away from the intense glare of ultraviolet as possible. Diamond did his sit-ups slowly, getting the most work out of the fewest repetitions. He was in excellent shape for a man of his age, but the stomach required constant attention. “Listen,” he said, his voice tight with a withheld grunt as he rose and touched his right knee with his left elbow, “I’ll have to bring some CIA clout in on this. Alert whoever is left at the top after that last round of cosmetic administrative shakeups.”
The highest-ranking administrator below the political shills that came and went as sacrificial lambs to outraged public opinion was the Deputy International Liaison Duty Officer, who was typically referred to by his acronym. Miss Swivven informed her superior that he was still in the building.
“He’ll do. Order him to keep himself on tap. Oh—and cancel my tennis date for this weekend.”
Miss Swivven’s eyebrows lifted above her dark eyecups. This must be something very serious indeed.
Diamond began to work with the weights. “I’ll also want a 0-jump priority on Fat Boy for the rest of the afternoon, maybe longer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. What do you have on your pad?”
“High protein input in liquid form. Alert and freeze Mr. Starr and Mr. Haman. Alert and freeze the Deputy. Request 0-jump priority on Fat Boy.”
“Good. Precede all that with a message to the Chairman.” Diamond was breathing heavily with the effort of exercise. “Message: Possible that Rome International spoiling raid was imperfect. Will seek, sort, and report alternatives.”
When Miss Swivven returned seven minutes later, she was carrying a large glass of thick, foamy, purplish liquid, the color lent by the pulverized raw liver. Diamond was in the last phase of his exercise routine, working isometrically against a fixed steel pipe. He stopped and accepted his dinner, as she pressed close to the wall, avoiding the sunlamps as best she could, but knowing perfectly well that she had already had enough exposure to burn her delicate skin. Although there were many advantages of her job with the Mother Company—overtime, good retirement plan, medical benefits, company vacation resort in the Canadian Rockies, Christmas parties—Miss Swivven regretted two aspects of her career: this getting sunburnt every week or so, and the occasional impersonal use Mr. Diamond made of her to relieve his tensions. Still, she was philosophic. No job is perfect.
“Note pad cleared?” Diamond asked, shuddering slightly as he finished his drink.
“Yes, sir.”
Disregarding her presence, Diamond stepped out of his shorts and into a glass-fronted shower stall, where he turned on a full spray of bracing cold water, over the noise of which he asked, “Did the Chairman respond to my message?”
“Yes, sir.”
After a short silence, Diamond said, “Please feel free to tell me what the response was, Miss Swivven.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
Diamond turned off the shower, stepped out, and began to dry off on the rough towels designed to heighten circulation.
“Do you want me to read the Chairman’s message to you, sir?”
Diamond sighed deeply. If this twit had not been the only attractive one in the over-100 wpm pool… “That would be nice, Miss Swivven.”
She referred to her note pad, squinting against the glare of the sunlamps. “Response: Chairman to Diamond, J.O.: ‘Failure in this matter not acceptable.’”
Diamond nodded as he dried his crotch meditatively. It was as he had expected.
When he returned to the work area, he was crispminded and prepared for decision-making, having changed into his working clothes, a jumpsuit of pale yellow that was loose and comfortable, and set his rotisserie tan off to advantage.
The First Assistant was working at the console with narrow concentration and physical exhilaration, as he tickled a cogent printout of data on the Munich Five out of Fat Boy.
Diamond sat in his swivel chair above the milky etched glass tabletop. “Punch up the RP,” he instructed. “Give me a roll-down rate of five hundred WPM.” He could not absorb information faster than this because the data came from half a dozen international sources, and Fat Boy’s mechanical translations into English were as stilted and unrefined of idiom as a Clint Eastwood film.
MUNICH FIVE, THE…
ORGANIZATION… UNOFFICIAL… SPLINTER… GOAL EQUALS TERMINATION OF BLACK SEPTEMBRISTS INVOLVED IN KILLING ISRAELI ATHLETES IN MUNICH OLYMPICS…
LEADER AND KEYMAN EQUALS STERN, ASA…
MEMBERS AND SATELLITES EQUAL LEVITSON, YOEL… YARIV, CHAIM… ZARMI, NEHEMIAH… STERN, HANNAH…
“Hold it,” Diamond said. “Let’s take a look at them one at a time. Just give me sketches.”
STERN, ASA
BORN APRIL 13, 1909… BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, USA… 1352 CLINTON AVENUE… APARTMENT 3B…
The First Assistant clenched his teeth. “Sorry, sir.” He was probing just a shade too deeply. No one wanted to know the number of the apartment in which Asa Stern was born. Not yet, anyway. He shallowed the probe a micron.
STERN EMIGRATES TO PALESTINE PROTECTORATE… 1931…
PROFESSION AND/OR COVER… FARMER, JOURNALIST, POET, HISTORIAN…
INVOLVED IN STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE… 1945-1947 (details available)…
IMPRISONED BY BRITISH OCCUPATION FORCES (details available)…
UPON RELEASE BECOMES CONTACT POINT FOR STERN ORGANIZATION AND OUTSIDE SYMPATHETIC GROUPS (details available)…
RETIRES TO FARM… 1956…
REACTIVATES WITH MUNICH OLYMPICS AFFAIR (details available)…
CURRENT IRRITANT POTENTIAL TO MOTHER COMPANY EQUALS COEFFICIENT.001…
REASON FOR LOW COEFFICIENT EQUALS:
THISMAN NOW DEAD, sub CANCER, sub THROAT
“That’s a surface scratch, sir,” the First Assistant said. “Shall I probe a little deeper? He’s obviously the pivot man.”