Warren Murphy: Shock Value

Smith waited for the machines to begin, drinking in their mechanical noises as if they were a lover's words. The screen changed color. And on it appeared: "DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000."

He stared at it in disbelief. Every single function of the computers, including the self-destruct mechanism, had been overridden by one directive from outside.

Clenching his teeth, he dialed the number.

"This is a recording," the tiny computer voice on the other end of the line said.

"Oh, for God's sake..."

"Thank you for your interest in this worthwhile project. Your participation will help to serve the highest ends of humanity. Be assured that nothing harmful or distasteful to you will occur as a result of your willingness to further the future of mankind."

"Do get on with it," Smith muttered. He had already been through the sales pitch.

"Listen carefully, Dr. Smith."

He blinked, staring at the receiver.

"Are you listening?"

"Y-yes," he murmured.

"You are to go directly to Sandley Airport, twelve miles due southwest from your present location. A charter plane bearing the registration TL-516 will take you to a destination where you will receive further instructions. Please note this information, as your call will not be accepted a second time. That is Sandley Airport, twelve miles due southwest."

Smith jotted down the information.

"By car, your traveling time should be approximately 14.6 minutes. The timetable for your journey has been activated by this telephone call. In exactly eighteen minutes, the plane bearing the registration number TL-516 will be airborne. If you are not present on the craft at that time, the functions of your computer will not be restored. Also, you are strongly advised not to reveal your agreement to participate in this project, as we cannot be responsible for any harm that may come to those not specifically invited. We hope we make ourselves perfectly clear, Dr. Smith."

There was a short pause, followed by a beep. "You have seventeen minutes. Have a pleasant trip." The line went dead.

He clicked the cradle buttons. There was nothing, not even a dial tone. He pressed the intercom connecting him with his secretary. It, too, was dead.

"Mrs. Mikulka, are your phones working?" he called from the doorway.

"No, sir," came the unruffled reply. "All of the lines have been dead since I arrived."

"But I made a call."

"Yes, sir. Quite peculiar. Shall I walk to a pay phone and call the telephone company?"

He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes left.

"Sir?"

"Er... whatever you think," he said absently.

Well, he thought, he didn't have much choice in the matter now. If he were killed, the president's voice could still activate the self-destruct mechanism. That was on a separate circuit. But before he died, he would find out who had broken into the Folcroft computer banks— and how.

One other thing tugged at the back of his mind. The recording on the phone— so accurate, so organized— had said, quite clearly, that if he wasn't on the plane in time, his computer would not regain function. Computer, in the singular. It may have been a simple error, but Smith doubted that whoever was behind this scheme made simple errors. What was more likely was that the organizing force was not fully aware of the Folcroft Four.

A small ray of hope sprang up in him. Memorizing the instructions he had written down, he stuffed the note into an envelope and sealed it.

"This is for a person named Remo," he said, handing it to Mrs. Mikulka on his way out.

"How do I reach him, Dr. Smith?"

"He'll reach you."

"How will I know him?"

"You'll know him." Smith said.

?Chapter Four

TL-516 was a forty-year-old DC-3 piloted by a man who appeared to have a considerable drinking problem. Smith, sitting ramrod straight in the copilot's seat with his attaché case clutched over his lap, mentioned it as civilly as possible as the pilot slogged down two inches from a fifth of Jack Daniels.

"Don't worry about nothin'," the pilot said. He exhaled a breath that smelled as if it could launch the Columbia. "Drinking's not my problem."

"No?" Smith asked archly.

"Nope. Not drinking's the problem. Once I quit, I start getting the shakes. Anything can happen then. Nosedive, fly into a mountain, you name it."

"I see," Smith said, feeling faint.

"Long as I got some fuel in the old tank, though, we're fine." He patted his stomach and took another swig.

Smith eyed the level of the bottle's contents. At the rate the pilot was consuming it, emptiness was imminent and the shakes inevitable.

"How far are we going?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"Near Miami," the pilot said proudly.

"Oh." It was almost a sob.

"Got another," the old man said with a wink. He reached under his seat and hoisted a second bottle aloft.

Smith permitted himself to exhale.

"Want a blast?"

"Er... a what?"

"A blast," the pilot said, louder.

"No, thank you."

"Do you good. From the looks of you, something's got you wound up tighter'n a popcorn fart. Why, when you—"

"Thank you for your concern," Smith said, cutting him off. "Do you know who I'm meeting?"

"Lear jet," the pilot said.

"Excuse me?"

"A Lear jet," the pilot shouted, annoyed. "Old turkey can't hear nothing."

Smith harumphed. "I meant, do you know the person I'm meeting," Smith explained.

"Why? Don't you know who you're going to see?"

"No."

"Well, then, why should I?"

"Who authorized you to make this flight?" Smith asked testily.

"Telephone."

Smith steeled himself. "Was there by any chance a person talking to you on the telephone?"

" 'Course there was. What do you think, phones talk by themselves? It was the base operator down at the airport."

Smith continued doggedly. "And who called him?"

"How the hell do I know?" He poured the equivalent of four or five doubles down his throat, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "Some woman. Got piles of money, I guess."

"A woman?"

"Can't hear nothing, can you?" the pilot screeched.

The Lear jet was waiting at the end of the landing strip. The place seemed oddly deserted for a good-sized airport.

"Home of the wackos," the pilot said cryptically as he touched down with a bone-shattering thud.

"I'm sure you'd know," Smith said.

The passenger door of the sleek little jet was open. Inside, in the captain's seat, sat a strikingly beautiful woman with a fragrant mane of long brown-gold hair.

"Welcome, Dr. Smith," she said. Her voice was as rich as velvet.

"The woman," Smith said quietly, remembering what the drunken pilot had said. "So you're behind this."

"Not exactly," she said with a faint Mediterranean accent. "My name is Circe." She turned to face him. The long scar on her face came as a shock.

"I recommend that you get used to my disfigurement," she said. "You'll be seeing quite a bit of me."

"I'd like to know where you're taking me."

"To Greater Abaco Island, in the Bahamas chain," she said. "A small white population, made up mostly of transient boaters. Sun, surf, and solitude."

"For how long?" Smith asked acidly.

The girl laughed. "Don't be afraid. You won't be held prisoner for long. A week, perhaps."

"May I ask the purpose of my visit?"

"I was hoping you would. Your presence is required at a conference to be attended by a hundred of the best minds in the world. You have been selected to represent the computer arts."

"There must be some mistake," Smith began.

"No mistake." She took a deep, bored breath. "In 1944, while on active duty in the OSS, you helped to design plans for a military data-storage machine that eventually became what is known as UNIVAC, the first computer. Since then, despite your obsessive quest for anonymity, the sporadic papers you wrote on every facet of computer operations from the earliest digital models to the first non-binomial language have made history. The fact that you received your doctorate after you were already established as a leading authority in your field came as no surprise to anyone aware of your abilities."