"Same to you, fella. Are you bluffing again?"
"No, I just enjoy English orthography."
Solo sighed and leaned back. "I'll challenge anyway. I can't top that."
"I could have given you y-P-N-O-T-H, for that matter, if I could add two letters. Hypnotherapy"
"I thought we'd agreed not to mention that."
"You spelled half of it."
"Uh – forty percent. And I didn't know what I was spelling at the time. Do you think that set of phoney memories Dr. Grayson set up for Harry will really satisfy Thrush?"
"If it satisfies Harry, it'll satisfy Thrush. But I'm not sure how satisfied Harry will be."
"I got the impression he isn't going to want to think about it much."
"No. Dr. Grayson planted blocks and suppressions all around it."
"The same kind of suppressions you'd have to pay a shrink seventy- five dollars an hour to dig out?"
"Identical, but artificial rather than natural."
"It doesn't sound healthy."
"It isn't," said Illya. "But when that sort of thing occurs naturally, it's in response to something in the environment – like a scab forming over a wound, or your white-cell count multiplying against an infection. The difference is that it doesn't go away. It's a learned reaction pattern to something. And in Dr. Grayson's technique, since she knows exactly where all his buttons are, she "will theoretically be able to take them all out again when he no longer needs them, and leave not a wraith behind."
"Theoretically. He didn't seem very sharp when we put him on the bus for home at 4:30 this morning."
"A few hours' sleep will do him all the good in the world."
"I wouldn't mind some myself. I've been a busy boy. You don't suppose -" He answered the intercom in the middle of its first beep. "Solo here. Are you open to the public yet?"
He covered the mouthpiece and said, "They've got it going. It's not ready for general exhibit, but we're invited to a demonstration of the progress they've made in the last twelve hours. Downstairs, right now."
Illya was at the elevator and signalling for a car as his partner said, "Thanks, we'll be right down," and hung up. The doors opened; Illya stepped in just ahead of him and punched the bottom button.
Downstairs nearly everybody in the world who knew about the kidnapped terminal stood in professional silence around the small room watching an operator test the keyboard. Neat green block letters glowed on the screen as Napoleon and Illya entered quietly and stood next to Mr. Simpson.
After a few seconds Napoleon whispered, "On behalf of everyone who doesn't know, what's going on?"
"They've achieved re-synchronisation, and they're working on Net Reconciliation at the moment." Mr. Simpson indicated a slender young man with curly black sideburns and quick nervous movements, standing uneasily behind the operator. "Mr. Gold is our chief systems programmer directing this operation. He'll handle the terminal himself once NetRec is verified, which should be shortly."
Napoleon peered at two six-letter groups on the screen. "And what does that mean?"
"SYNLOC / TESTOK means that synchronisation has been locked and will be maintained continuously until the unit is unplugged; and that the unit is ready to be tested without any danger from the integral destruct mechanisms. There wasn't anyway, since we disconnected them, of course."
Mr. Gold looked up, recognised them and came over. "Hi there," he said. "Thanks for all this – looks like it'll be worth it. Did anybody tell you what we're going to be doing?"
"Only vaguely," said Illya.
"Once we get all the access lines straightened out, I have to try and convince UlComp that this unit is supposed to be undergoing certain modifications in its top secret data access channel, and so naturally we have to keep testing this facility. For the same reason, we can put in an order that any faulty signals coming from this unit are to be reported only to this unit instead of setting off all sorts of alarms."
"That seems perfectly reasonable," said Napoleon.
"It's stupid," said Mr. Gold. "I could've written them a system that would have prevented this – at the very least they should have a human guard to clear top secret access."
"Overconfidence," said Illya.
"Overcomputerization," said Mr. Simpson.
"Mr. Gold, it's ready for you now," said the operator, looking back over her shoulder and starting up from the chair. The screen now showed an additional legend:
ULCOMP NETREC had a line to itself and below it, in case there was any doubt, green glowing block capitals said UNIT CLEAR.
"Thank you, Miss Klingstein." He held the chair as she rose, and then took her place. He drew a pad of data sheets from a thin folder and opened it to the first page of illegible pencil notes, then laid it on the desk beside the keyboard, flexed his fingers and wiped his palms on his shirt, then glanced up at Mr. Simpson and grinned quickly before starting to tap out a series of meaningless numbers and letters. The screen reacted with gibberish of its own.
Mr. Gold studied it for several seconds, and nodded. There wasn't a sound in the room above the soft endless rush of the air conditioner and the subliminal hum of cooling fans in the equipment rack. He spent another second studying his notes and nodded again, then blanked the screen and typed something else.
"How long does this go on?" Napoleon whispered to Mr. Simpson, who shrugged.
"A day," he said. "A week."
A month, a year?" Illya quoted under his breath.
"I hope not."
"But we aren't likely to see anything more exciting if we stick around now."
"Not unless we overlooked an infernal device and the terminal blows up."
Napoleon looked at his partner. "It's not the sort of thing I'd care to wait for." Illya nodded, and glanced inquiringly towards the door.
Outside the Russian said, "I should have realised it would take some time to actually get into it. After all, stupid as the Ultimate Computer basically is, you could hardly expect to walk up to it and say, 'Good afternoon, I'm the new janitor – would you tell me where the top secret files are kept and let me clean them out?' It takes a certain amount of lock-picking, even if you can convince anyone who finds you that you are a janitor, and just by being a janitor the alarm systems ignore you while you're picking the lock."
"Because they have such a great alarm system, they use cheap locks," Napoleon suggested.
"That's a good analogy. Offer it to Mr. Gold when he comes back to earth."
"Okay. Which leaves us with one problem: while half the technicians in the United Network Command are taking apart the gamma laser we brought them and the other half are invading the nervous system of Thrush through a door we brought them with a key we brought them – what do we. do to keep busy in the next day, or week, or month or however long it will be until something definite happens? You're a nice guy, Illya, but if I have to spend another three days sitting around looking at you I'm going to start climbing walls. If I could just get out and wander around San Francisco for six hours a day I'd be happy – but here we are, under effective house arrest except for special occasions because nobody's supposed to have any idea anything's happening."
"Napoleon, I'm quite surprised at you. Weren't you and that Korean code clerk rather a pair? And what about Jennifer, down in Translations?"
"Kim was new here and hadn't heard, and Jennifer was just curious because she'd heard so much."
"Heard?"
"It's been – what? Four or five years? since that DAGGER Affair, but every now and then somebody remembers to tell all the new girls about what happened to us. And after that they tend to giggle at me."
"Well, Napoleon, you knew the job was dangerous when you took it. Have you thought of talking Mr. Waverly into allowing you a few hours a day outside on your own? If you went between, say, ten in the evening and four in the morning – and maybe a false moustache and glasses would help…"