Crisis!

by James Gunn

Johnson's first stop was the building that housed the state department of probation and parole. There he learned that paperwork on recent parolees was a month behind, but he got a nearly illegible mimeographed list of local parole offices. He bought a cheap ballpoint pen at a discount drugstore and went through the list slowly, meditatively, checking locations in blue upon occasion. He ended up with thirteen marks. Methodically he began visiting offices.

  Only one in three parole officers were in their office when he asked for them. Secretaries made excuses. “He'll be in later.” “He's on a case.” “She's on vacation.” But some said sourly. “He's never in before noon” or “Stick around and we'll both be surprised.” But everyone, secretaries and parole officers alike, shook their heads when he mentioned the name of Tom Logan. Finally, at the twelfth office, a perky, dark-haired secretary said, “I think the bum's skipped town, but he might have told me.” And then, “Yeah, I remember Tom Logan. He reported here about a week ago. I noticed him particularly because he was too young-looking—too young to be a con, you know? Like a kid. No, the jerk locked up the files and took the keys. Like how am I supposed to get the work done around here?” After a thoughtful pause in which she appraised the figure and face of the man standing in front of her, she said quickly. “I do remember one thing. He had a job with a computer firm. I don't remember which one."

  “But that's why he was sent to prison,” Johnson said.

  “I guess he was. Well, they don't give me reasons."

  “Thanks, anyway,” Johnson said and turned to walk away.

  “I get off work about five,” the secretary called after him. “Earlier if the jerk never returns."

  “Thanks for the information,” Johnson said, “but I'm going to be busy."

  He found a telephone booth with directories still present in their holders. The yellow pages, though, looked as if they had been attacked by gypsy moths. Listings for computer firms, computer repairs, computer retail stores, and computer service were intact, however, and with a quick glance to both sides Johnson ripped those pages free. He settled on a park bench behind the public library to study them. Some he marked out immediately: computer repairs and computer service. Computer retail stores he studied a bit longer and then marked a few; he marked more of the computer firms. Afterward he pulled from his pocket a small photograph and looked at it speculatively before he went back to the lists and crossed out a few more addresses.

  Finally he stood up and walked purposefully along the Avenue of the Americas for a few blocks, staring into windows filled with keyboards and display screens, frequently passing by with only a glance, sometimes venturing into the store and looking around quickly before leaving, once in a while asking a question of the clerk on duty. He returned toward Forty-second Street on Fifth Avenue, occasionally stepping into the lobbies of office buildings to scan their directories before returning to the street. He made a similar fruitless search up Madison Avenue and started back on Park. It was there, in the lobby of a tall office building, gleaming with freshly mopped marble and polished stainless steel, that he stood for a long time, staring at the directory, looking at the picture, and finally finding a spot near a newsstand where he could buy a newspaper and stand reading it unobtrusively while he watched the bank of elevators that served the top ten floors. A radio at the newsstand nearby was tuned to an all-news station that kept broadcasting hysterical bulletins, but occasionally, as if for change of pace, a cleverly worded human-interest item from an eastern European country was inserted into the sequence of prewar news. The first time it happened, Johnson heard the vendor mutter angrily, the second time he said, “Would you listen to that?” and the third time, “Well, what do you know about that."

  The elevators kept opening and shutting down the line that Johnson was watching. Sometimes people got on, but often they left empty. Sometimes people got off, but often the doors opened to an empty car and closed on emptiness as it answered a distant summons. There was something eerie about it, as if these machines were haunted by contemporary ghosts. Finally, after an hour, just before noon, the process speeded up, like a silent Hollywood comedy. Everybody was coming down. In the midst of one group Johnson spotted a short young man with a clean-shaven face and close-cropped red hair. He didn't look more than eighteen. Johnson followed him through the revolving door onto the sidewalk and caught up with him halfway down the block. “Tom Logan?"

  Logan gave him a quick, sidelong look as if he were accustomed to sizing up people in a single wary glance. He frowned. “You're not police,” he said, but there was apprehension in his voice. “I've been staying clean."

  “I'm not police."

  “I don't want to go back,” Logan said.

  “I understand. I'm a private citizen. I need your help."

  “I've got only an hour for lunch. You know, I've got to be punctual. I won't do anything dishonest. I'm through with that."

  They were walking side by side. Johnson had fallen into Logan's hushed, sidelong way of speaking that no one near could overhear. “Why did they let you work for a computer firm?"

  “You mean after I transferred ten million dollars to my own account?” Logan made a right turn toward Lexington. “They never caught on to that. It was when I started investing in old masters, and even that wouldn't have raised suspicion. I was paying for them out of secret Luxembourg accounts. No, it was when I had to go see them. It wasn't the computers that did it; it was the human element. Now, well, what better job for me than to train them to detect computer crime? Even the cops call me when they come across something suspicious."

  They had reached a small, dingy Italian restaurant on Lexington, and Logan led the way into the dark interior, his shoulders twitching as if he wished Johnson would walk on past the entrance or disappear. But Johnson still was behind him when Logan stopped at a table with a red-checkered tablecloth and sat down. He sighed. “Okay, who are you, and what's your problem?"

  “My name is Bill Johnson,” Johnson said patiently, gripping the edge of the table with both hands as if to demonstrate that he was without guile or subterfuge, “and I want to stop the war that is going to happen in a few days now if we don't do something about it."

  “We?” Logan echoed.

  “You, me, everybody."

  “Not me,” Logan said. “I don't owe this world anything.” He brushed away the waiter who appeared with water glasses and menus.

  “How about ten million dollars?"

  Logan shrugged. “That was just numbers in a computer."

  “You've got more to lose than most people,” Johnson said. “You're younger than most. You have a lot of living left."

  “I've already done a lot of living, and most of it I didn't like. Besides,” he said skeptically, “how could we stop a war?"

  Johnson leaned forward and put his right elbow on the table to gesture with his right hand. “You and I can't, not all alone. And me—I'm helpless without you. But you and me and a bunch of others... ?"

  “Get together?” Logan scoffed. “Get up and say, ‘Stop this bad thing you're doing!’ like the ban-the-bombers?"

  “Nothing like that."

  “Like what, then?” The waiter returned, but Logan gestured impatiently for him to go away when the man was still two tables away.

  “If you had the right equipment, could you tap into the Pentagon computers?"

  “You're talking espionage!” Logan said, jerking back. “Maybe treason!"

  “Isn't there a difference between war secrets and peace secrets?” Johnson asked.

  “Not to them guys. They're all secrets.” Logan shivered.

  “How about the Russian military computer, the big one in Moscow?"

  “Wait a minute! I haven't answered about the Pentagon yet!"

  “You haven't said you couldn't."

  “There isn't a computer anywhere I couldn't sneak into given enough time and good equipment, and the equipment doesn't have to be that good. But I haven't said I'd do it. This could get us killed."


  “No one ever caught on to your financial manipulations. Besides, if we don't do it we're going to be killed anyway."

  “There's that,” Logan admitted. “But how do I know your plan has a chance?"

  “How do you know it hasn't? You have to trust me. I could explain it, but we don't have the time. In any case, wouldn't it be better than simply waiting for the world to explode?"

  “Maybe,” Logan said. He had looked at his watch when Johnson had mentioned time. His watch was a complicated computer model. “I've got to go."

  “You haven't had lunch."

  “I've lost my appetite."

  “Will you help?"

  Logan hesitated. “Meet me at five. Where you picked me up when I stepped off the elevator. By the way, how did you know where—Oh, never mind! I'll tell you then.” Johnson watched Logan's narrow shoulders until they passed through the door. They didn't seem to be twitching any more.

  * * * *

  When Logan emerged from the elevator, his face was calm and confident. It was totally different from the look of scared cynicism he had turned to Johnson at noon. Now he looked no older than fifteen. “Okay,” he said as Johnson moved up beside him, “when do we start?"

  “Now."

  “Good. But let's pick up some sandwiches. I'm starved. Where are we gonna do it?"

  They were on the street now. A few people, having emerged from the building, were looking up at the sky as if seeing an ICBM would help them. New threats had been hurled as if they blazed trails in the sky for missiles to follow.

  “Not here?” Johnson asked, waving his hand at the skyscraper behind them.

  “Everything is sewed up tight,” Logan said, looking up as if he could see the seams from here. “I showed them how. Maybe I could open things up again, but they've got heat sensors after hours, and they won't let me have a home computer. Conditions of parole."

  “I have an idea,” Johnson said.

  With a sack of sandwiches and a carton of coffee, they walked into the Associated Press Building. “Wait here!” Johnson said as they reached the reception area. The receptionist was gone and the pace of activity had slowed, though reporters were scattered at desks around the big news room, and Frances Miller was still at work in her office. She came back to the reception area with Johnson.

  “I've got a spare office with a computer terminal, but I don't know why I let you talk me into these things. Him?” she said.

  “Computer experts mature early. Like mathematicians,” Johnson said. He smiled at Logan. “Tom has been telling me that kids are born today with computer skills, the way they used to be born knowing how to fix automobiles."

  She sighed. “Follow me,” she said, and led them to an office not far from hers, and left them alone.

  Logan settled behind the terminal like a concert pianist easing himself into position behind a concert grand. For the first time since Johnson had seen him, he looked comfortable. Logan stretched his fingers in front of him and then wriggled them as if loosening them for a performance.

  “Will it do?” Johnson asked.

  Logan let his fingers rest lightly on the keyboard and pressed the “on” switch with one little finger. “All terminals are basically alike. The important thing is what they're hooked into. This one has connections all over the world, including, in one way or another, every computer that isn't self-contained, that has telephone or microwave links with other computers. If any of them anywhere is tied into the Internet or the Worldwide Web, they can be breached."

  “Does that describe the Pentagon computer and its counterpart in Moscow?"

  “It should. You can't have a computer of the size and complexity they have to be that doesn't have to communicate with other computers and somewhere along the line pick up information from outside the network. It's just a matter of figuring out the weak points, the access keys, and the information codes."

  “How long will that take?"

  “Maybe a few hours. Maybe a few days."

  “We haven't got a few days."

  “I sure haven't,” Logan said. “If I'm not back on the job at nine in the morning, I'd better be in the hospital or it's back in the slammer. Now, what is it I'm supposed to get out—or put in?"

  “I'll tell you when I get back."

  Johnson stuck his head into Frances Miller's office.

  “Come on,” he said, “I'm going to take you to dinner."

  “I've got too much to do,” she protested, but the weariness that had begun to tug at her face and paint purple shadows beneath her eyes lifted for a moment.

  “No excuses,” Johnson said. He pulled her to her feet and marched her to the door. She went, laughing.

  When they were outside, she asked more seriously, “How is it going?"

  “The flames have receded a little,” he said, “but they're still blazing in the background, waiting to return if we fail. Do you have a favorite restaurant?"

  “There's a little French place that's open in the evening, just around the corner."

  Over dinner she told him about her early life in Kansas City, her education at the University of Kansas, her experiences as a reporter on a series of newspapers, her marriage and its breakup, her first job with the Associated Press and the slow climb to her present position....He listened attentively, interrupting only to ask questions at the right places.

  “My second marriage was even shorter than my first,” she said. “It is very difficult for a woman who has a satisfying career to achieve intimacy—” She broke off. “But you know all about that, don't you?"

  But he had no stories to tell about himself.

  When they returned to the office, Logan was sitting in front of the computer terminal, staring at the screen intently as his fingers played across the keys, green lines of information marching across his face.

  “We're back,” Johnson said. Miller nodded and returned to her office.

  Logan looked up reluctantly and smiled. “I haven't had this much fun since I ripped off the Chase Manhattan,” he said. “I've got the Pentagon connection and a line on the Moscow computer. What do I do now?"

  “What I want you to get for me is the U.S. diplomatic fallback position."

  “What?"

  “The final compromise we'd be willing to make to stop a nuclear war—if we got something in exchange from the Russians."

  “And?"

  “And feed it to the Russian computer in such a way that it looks accidental but calls attention to itself. As a last resort, put it on a cassette and we'll mail it to the Soviet embassy."

  “What good will that do?"

  “What you don't know you can't testify about if anything should go wrong—don't worry, nothing will go wrong. Then I want you to get the same information from the Russian computer—the ultimate compromise they'd be willing to make to keep the missiles from going off—and plant it in the Pentagon computer."

  “What if I leave evidence?"

  “Good,” Johnson said. “It will help if they know their ultimate compromises have been compromised. We don't want to leave them thinking they know the secrets of the enemy and the enemy doesn't know theirs. They'll think they can take advantage."

  “I get it.” Logan said, his expression brightening and then darkening almost immediately. “I think."

  “It doesn't matter, if you can get it done.” When Logan turned back to the screen, Johnson stood for a moment with his forehead clasped in his right hand, leaning against the door frame.

  * * * *

  At fifteen minutes past midnight, Logan, flushed and pleased, emerged from the office with two cassettes in his hand. “This one,” he said, handing Johnson a cassette with a green label, “contains the Russian material. And this one"—he handed over a cassette with a red label—"contains the U.S. position. I guess I got the colors mixed up,” he said apologetically.

  “I'll remember,” Johnson said. “Are you all done?"

  “Complete. Wiped clean. Just a couple of false trails th
at suggest an accidental transfer of information to the enemy.

  “That's great,” Johnson said. “People feel better about bad luck than about espionage. Nevertheless, we can't trust them to discover the exchange on their own. I'll mail these in the morning. Tom, you've done a marvelous job. I don't think there's anyone else in the world who could have done it."

  “I ought to thank you—I don't even know your name."

  “Bill Johnson."

  “Mr. Johnson. This was an opportunity to really have fun—and sort of make up for the kind of selfish use I made before of what I can do.” He walked toward the elevators, his hands in his pockets, whistling, like Huck Finn heading for the frontier.

  Johnson turned to follow him and saw Miller standing in the shadows. “Is that it?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Not the end of the world but the end of the war?"

  “Hope for the future,” Johnson said. “In my head the explosions are stopping one by one. The flames are dying down. The screams and shrieks are fading away. When I get these mailed off, maybe I can rest again."

  “Won't there always be a new crisis?"

  “Maybe I'll run out of them.” But he smiled ruefully as if in recognition that he would never run out of them, not as long as there were people.

  “Can I come with you? Back to the hotel?"

  “Why would you want to?"

  “You're more lonely—more alone—than any man I've ever met. And....I'm alone, too. Maybe, for a moment, we might not feel so isolated.” She waited as if for a gift she did not deserve but wanted just as much.

  “I might not know who you are in the morning,” he said.

  She smiled. “Oh, I think you will."

  * * * *

  In the night she spoke his name. “Bill,” she said. “Are you awake?"

  “Yes."

  “In case you do forget, I want to tell you now that if everything works out you have done something greater than—well, there's nothing to compare it with, except maybe the creation of the world."

  “I didn't do anything—just gave people the opportunity to make the right decisions."