Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

He talked like this for a while, pivoting the cylinders, admiring it. Finally I said, "Can you copy the tapes?"

"Sure," Theresa said. "From the converter, we can run a signal out of this machine and lay it down on whatever media you like. You want three-quarter? Optical master? VHS?"

"VHS," I said.

"That's easy," she said.

"But will it be an accurate copy? The people at JPL said they couldn't guarantee the copy would be accurate."

"Oh, hell, JPL," Sanders said. "They just talk like that because they work for the government. We get things done here. Right Theresa?"

But Theresa wasn't listening. I watched her plugging cables and wires, moving swiftly with her good hand, using her stump to stabilize and hold the box. Like many disabled people, her movements were so fluid it was hardly noticeable that her right hand was missing. Soon she had the small playback machine hooked to a second recorder, and several different monitors.

"What're all these?"

"To check the signal."

"You mean for playback?"

"No. The big monitor there will show the image. The others let me look at the signal characteristics, and the data map: how the image has been laid down on the tape."

I said, "You need to do that?"

"No. I just want to snoop. I'm curious about how they've set up this high-density format."

Sanders said to me, "What is the actual source material?"

"It's from an office security camera."

"And this tape is original?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Well, if it's original material we want to be extra careful with it," Sanders said. He was talking to Theresa, instructing her. "We don't want to set up any feedback loops scrambling the media surface. Or signal leaks off the heads that will compromise the integrity of the data stream."

"Don't worry," she said. "I got it handled." She pointed to her setup. "See that? It'll warn of an impedance shift. And I'm monitoring the central processor too."

"Okay," Sanders said. He was beaming like a proud parent.

"How long will this take?" I said.

"Not long. We can lay down the signal at very high speed. The rate limit is a function of the playback device, and it seems to have a fast-forward scan. So, maybe two or three minutes per tape."

I glanced at my watch. "I have a ten-thirty appointment I can't be late for, and I don't want to leave these . . ."

"You need all of them done?"

"Actually, just five are critical."

"Then let's do those first."

We ran the first few seconds of each tape, one after another, looking for the five that came from the cameras on the forty-sixth floor. As each tape started, I saw the camera image on the central monitor of Theresa's table. On the side monitors, signal traces bounced and jiggled like an intensive care unit. I mentioned it.

"That's just about right," she said. "Intensive care for video." She ejected one tape, stuck in another, and started it up. "Oops. Did you say this material was original? It's not. These tapes are copies."

"How do you know?"

"Because we got a windup signature." Theresa bent over the equipment, staring at the signal traces, making fine adjustments with her knobs and dials.

"I think that's what you got, yes," Sanders said. He turned to me. "You see, with video it's difficult to detect a copy in the image itself. The older analog video shows some degradation in successive generations, but in a digital system like this, there is no difference at all. Each copy is literally identical to the master."

"Then how can you say the tapes are copies?"

"Theresa isn't looking at the picture," Sanders said. "She's looking at the signal. Even though we can't detect a copy from the image, sometimes we can determine the image came from another video playback, instead of a camera."

I shook my head. "How?"

Theresa said, "It has to do with how the signal is laid down in the first half-second of taping. If the recording video is started before the playback video, there is sometimes a slight fluctuation in the signal output as the playback machine starts up. It's a mechanical function: the playback motors can't get up to speed instantaneously. There are electronic circuits in the playback machine to minimize the effect, but there's always an interval of getting up to speed."

"And that's what you detected?"

She nodded. "It's called a windup signature."

Sanders said, "And that never happens if the signal is coming direct from a camera, because a camera has no moving parts. A camera is instantaneously up to speed at all times."

I frowned. "So these tapes are copies."

"Is that bad?" Sanders said.

"I don't know. If they were copied, they might also be changed, right?"

"In theory, yes," Sanders said. "In practice, we'd have to look carefully. And it would be very hard to know for certain. These tapes come from a Japanese company?"

"Yes."

"Nakamoto?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Frankly I'm not surprised they gave you copies," Sanders said. "The Japanese are extremely cautious. They're not very trusting of outsiders. And Japanese corporations in America feel the way we would feel doing business in Nigeria: they think they're surrounded by savages."

"Hey," Theresa said.

"Sorry," Sanders said, "but you know what I mean. The Japanese feel they have to put up with us. With our ineptitude, our slowness, our stupidity, our incompetence. That makes them self-protective. So if these tapes have any legal significance, the last thing they'd do is turn the originals over to a barbarian policeman like you. No, no, they'd give you a copy and keep the original in case they need it for their defense. Fully confident that with your inferior American video technology, you'd never be able to detect that it was a copy, anyway."

I frowned. "How long would it take to make copies?"

"Not long," Sanders said, shaking his head. "The way Theresa is scanning now, five minutes a tape. I imagine the Japanese can do it much faster. Say, two minutes a tape."

"In that case, they had plenty of time to make copies last night."

As we talked, Theresa was continuing to shuffle the tapes, looking at the first portions of each. As each image came up, she'd glance at me. I would shake my head. I was seeing all the different security cameras. Finally, the first of the tapes from the forty-sixth floor appeared, the familiar office image I had seen before.

"That's one."

"Okay. Here we go. Laying it onto VHS." Theresa started the first copy. She ran the tape forward at high speed, the images streaky and quick. On the side monitors, the signals bounced and jittered nervously.

She said, "Does this have something to do with the murder last night?"

"Yes. You know about that?"

She shrugged. "I saw it on the news. The killer died in a car crash?"

"That's right," I said.

She was turned away. The three-quarter profile of her face was strikingly beautiful, the high curve of her cheekbone. I thought of what a playboy Eddie Sakamura was known to be. I said, "Did you know him?"

"No," she said. After a moment she added, "He was Japanese."

Another moment of awkwardness descended on our little group. There was something that both Theresa and Sanders seemed to know that I did not. But I didn't know how to ask. So I watched the video.

Once again, I saw the sunlight moving across the floor. Then the room lights came up as the office personnel thinned. Now the floor was empty. And then, at high speed, Cheryl Austin appeared, followed by the man. They kissed passionately.

"Ah ha," Sanders said. "Is this it?"

"Yes."

He frowned as he watched the action progress. "You mean the murder is recorded ?"

"Yes," I said. "On multiple cameras."

"You're kidding."

Sanders fell silent, watching events proceed. With the streaky high-speed image, it was difficult to see more than the basic events. The two people moving to the conference room. The sudden struggle. Forcing her back on the table. Stepping away suddenly. Leaving the room in haste.