“My God,” I said. “You’ll be rolling in it.”
Perhaps he shook his head; it was now too dark to tell. “No, sir,” he said, in that cultured English voice. “No, I won’t. I don’t want to sell these fossils. I want to preserve them; I want to protect them from these plunderers, these…these thieves. I want to make sure they’re collected properly, scientifically. I want to make sure they end up in the best museums, where they can be studied. There’s so much to be learned, so much to discover!”
“Does Wilkins know now where this…what did you call it? This alpha deposit is?”
“No—at least, not from accessing my computer files. I didn’t record the location anywhere but up here.” Presumably he was tapping the side of his head.
“But you think Wilkins extracted the passphrase from a copy of your mind?”
“He must have.”
“And now he’s presumably trying to extract the location of the alpha deposit from that copy of your mind.”
“Yes, yes! And if he succeeds, all will be lost! The best specimens will be sold off into private collections—trophies for some trillionaire’s estate, hidden forever from science.”
I shook my head. “But this doesn’t make any sense. I mean, how would Wilkins even know that you had discovered the alpha deposit?”
Suddenly Pickover’s voice was very small. “I’d gone in to NewYou—you have to go in weeks in advance of transferring, of course, so you can tell them what you want in a new body; it takes time to custom-build one to your specifications.”
“Yes. So?”
“So, I wanted a body ideally suited to paleontological work on the surface of Mars; I wanted some special modifications—the kinds of the things only the most successful prospectors could afford. Reinforced knees; extra arm strength for moving rocks; extended spectral response in the eyes, so that fossils will stand out better; night vision so that I could continue digging after dark; but…”
I nodded. “But you didn’t have enough money.”
“That’s right. I could barely afford to transfer at all, even into the cheapest off-the-shelf body, and so…”
He trailed off, too angry at himself, I guess, to give voice to what was in his mind. “And so you hinted that you were about to come into some wealth,” I said, “and suggested that maybe he could give you what you needed now, and you’d make it up to him later.”
Pickover sounded sad. “That’s the trouble with being a scientist; sharing information is our natural mode.”
“Did you tell him precisely what you’d found?” I asked.
“No. No, but he must have guessed. I’m a paleontologist, I’ve been studying Weingarten and O’Reilly for years—all of that is a matter of public record. He must have figured out that I knew where their fossil beds are. After all, where else would a guy like me get money?” He sighed. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”
“Well, Mensa isn’t going to be calling you any time soon.”
“Please don’t rub it in, Mr. Lomax. I feel bad enough as it is, and—” His voice cracked; I’d never heard a transfer’s do that before. “And now I’ve put all those lovely, lovely fossils in jeopardy! Will you help me, Mr. Lomax? Please say you’ll help me!”
I nodded. “All right. I’m on the case.”
We went back into the dome, and I called Raoul Santos on my commlink, getting him to meet me at Rory Pickover’s little apartment at the center of town. It was four floors up, and consisted of three small rooms—an interior unit, with no windows.
When Raoul arrived, I made introductions. “Raoul Santos, this is Rory Pickover. Raoul here is the best computer expert we’ve got in New Klondike. And Dr. Pickover is a paleontologist.”
Raoul tipped his broad forehead at Pickover. “Good to meet you.”
“Thank you,” said Pickover. “Forgive the mess, Mr. Santos. I live alone. A lifelong bachelor gets into bad habits, I’m afraid.” He’d already cleared debris off of one chair for me; he now busied himself doing the same with another chair, this one right in front of his home computer.
“What’s up, Alex?” asked Raoul, indicating Pickover with a movement of his head. “New client?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Dr. Pickover’s computer files have been looked at by some unauthorized individual. We’re wondering if you could tell us from where the access attempt was made.”
“You’ll owe me a nice round of drinks at the Bent Chisel,” said Raoul.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll put it on my tab.”
Raoul smiled, and stretched his arms out, fingers interlocked, until his knuckles cracked. Then he took the now-clean seat in front of Pickover’s computer and began to type. “How do you lock you files?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the monitor.
“A verbal passphrase,” said Pickover.
“Anybody besides you know it?”
Pickover shook his artificial head. “No.”
“And it’s not written down anywhere?”
“No, well…not as such.”
Raoul turned his head, looking up at Pickover. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a line from a book. If I ever forgot the exact wording, I could always look it up.”
Raoul shook his head in disgust. “You should always use random passphrases.” He typed keys.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s totally secure,” said Pickover. “No one would guess—”
Raoul interrupted. “Your passphrase being, ‘Those privileged to be present…’”
I saw Pickover’s jaw drop. “My God. How did you know that?”
Raoul pointed to some data on the screen. “It’s the first thing that was inputted by the only outside access your system has had in weeks.”
“I thought passphrases were hidden from view when entered,” said Pickover.
“Sure they are,” said Raoul. “But the comm program has a buffer; it’s in there. Look.”
Raoul shifted in the chair so that Pickover could see the screen clearly over his shoulder. “That’s…well, that’s very strange,” said Pickover.
“What?”
“Well, sure that’s my passphrase, but it’s not quite right.”
I loomed in to have a peek at the screen, too. “How do you mean?” I said.
“Well,” said Pickover, “see, my passphrase is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes’—it’s from the opening of The Man of Property, the first book of the Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy. I love that phrase because of the alliteration—privileged to be present,’ ‘family festival of the Forsytes.’ Makes it easy to remember.”
Raoul shook his head in you-can’t-teach-people-anything disgust. Pickover went on. “But, see, whoever it was typed in even more.”
I looked at the glowing string of letters. In full it said: Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen them dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.
“It’s too much?” I said.
“That’s right,” said Pickover, nodding. “My passphrase ends with the word ‘Forsytes.’”
Raoul was stroking his receding chin. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The files would unlock the moment the phrase was complete; the rest would just be discarded—systems that principally work with spoken commands don’t require you to press the enter key.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Pickover. “But the rest of it isn’t what Galsworthy wrote. It’s not even close. The Man of Property is my favorite book; I know it well. The full opening line is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight—an upper middle-class family in full plumage.’ Nothing about the time they ate, or how many courses they had.”
Raoul pointed at the text on screen, as if it had to be the correct version. “Are you sure?” he said.
“Of course!” said Pickover. “Galsworthy’s public domain; you can do a search online and see for yourself.”
I frowned. “N
o one but you knows your passphrase, right?”
Pickover nodded vigorously. “I live alone, and I don’t have many friends; I’m a quiet sort. There’s no one I’ve ever told, and no one who could have ever overheard me saying it, or seen me typing it in.”
“Somebody found it out,” said Raoul.
Pickover looked at me, then down at Raoul. “I think…” he said, beginning slowly, giving me a chance to stop him, I guess, before he said too much. But I let him go on. “I think that the information was extracted from a scan of my mind made by NewYou.”
Raoul crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Impossible.”
“What?” said Pickover, and “Why?” said I.
“Can’t be done,” said Raoul. “We know how to copy the vast array of interconnections that make up a human mind, and we know how to reinstantiate those connections in an artificial substrate. But we don’t know how to decode them; nobody does. There’s simply no way to sift through a digital copy of a mind and extract specific data.”
Damn! If Raoul was right—and he always was in computing matters—then all this business with Pickover was a red herring. There probably was no bootleg scan of his mind; despite his protestations of being careful, someone likely had just overheard his passphrase, and decided to go spelunking through his files. While I was wasting time on this, Joshua Wilkins was doubtless slipping further out of my grasp.
Still, it was worth continuing this line of investigation for a few minutes more. “Any sign of where the access attempt was made?” I asked Raoul.
He shook his head. “No. Whoever did it knew what they were doing; they covered their tracks well. The attempt came over an outside line—that’s all I can tell for sure.”
I nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Raoul. Appreciate your help.”
Raoul got up. “My pleasure. Now, how ’bout that drink.”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but then it hit me—what Wilkins must be doing. “Umm, later, okay? I’ve—I’ve got some more things to take care of here.”
Raoul frowned; he’d clearly hoped to collect his booze immediately. But I started maneuvering him toward the door. “Thanks for your help, Raoul. I really appreciate it.”
“Um, sure, Alex,” he said. He was obviously aware he was being given the bum’s rush, but he wasn’t fighting it too much. “Anytime.”
“Yes, thank you awfully, Mr. Santos,” said Pickover.
“No problem. If—”
“See you later, Raoul,” I said, opening the door for him. “Thanks so much.” I tipped my nonexistent hat at him.
Raoul shrugged, clearly aware that something was up, but not motivated sufficiently to find out what. He went through the door, and I hit the button that caused it to slide shut behind him. As soon as it was closed, I put an arm around Pickover’s shoulders, and propelled him back to the computer. I pointed at the line Raoul had highlighted on the screen, and read the ending of it aloud: “‘…dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.’”
Pickover nodded. “Yes. So?”
“Numbers are often coded info,” I said. “‘Half past eight; seven courses.’ What’s that mean to you?”
“To me?” said Pickover. “Nothing. I like to eat much earlier than that, and I never have more than one course.”
“But it could be a message,” I said.
“From who?”
There was no easy way to tell him this. “From you to you.”
He drew his artificial eyebrows together in puzzlement. “What?”
“Look,” I said, motioning for him to sit down in front of the computer, “Raoul is doubtless right. You can’t sift a digital scan of a human mind for information.”
“But that must be what Wilkins is doing.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “The only way to find out what’s in a mind is to ask it interactively.”
“But…but no one’s asked me my passphrase.”
“No one has asked this you. But Joshua Wilkins must have transferred the extra copy of your mind into a body, so that he could deal with it directly. And that extra copy must be the one that’s revealed your codes to him.”
“You mean…you mean there’s another me? Another conscious me?”
“Looks that way.”
“But…no, no. That’s…why, that’s illegal. Bootleg copies of human beings—my God, Lomax, it’s obscene!”
“I’m going to go see if I can find him,” I said.
“It,” said Pickover, forcefully.
“What?”
“It. Not him. I’m the only ‘him’—the only real Rory Pickover.”
“So what do you want me to do when I find it?”
“Erase it, of course. Shut it down.” He shuddered. “My God, Lomax, I feel so…so violated! A stolen copy of my mind! It’s the ultimate invasion of privacy…”
“That may be,” I said. “But the bootleg is trying to tell you something. He—it—gave Wilkins the passphrase, and then tacked some extra words onto it, in order to get a message to you.”
“But I don’t recognize those extra words,” said Pickover, sounding exasperated.
“Do they mean anything to you? Do they suggest anything?”
Pickover re-read what was on the screen. “I can’t imagine what,” he said, “unless…no, no, I’d never think up a code like that.”
“You obviously just did think of it. What’s the code?”
Pickover was quiet for a moment, as if deciding if the thought was worth giving voice. Then: “Well, New Klondike is circular in layout, right? And it consists of concentric rings of buildings. Half past eight—that would be between Eighth and Ninth Avenue, no? And seven courses—in the seventh circle out from the center? Maybe the damned bootleg is trying to draw our attention to a location, a specific place here in town.”
“Between Eighth and Ninth, eh? That’s a rough area. I go to a gym near there.”
“The old shipyards,” said Pickover. “Aren’t they there?”
“Yeah.” I started walking toward the door. “I’m going to investigate.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Pickover.
I looked at him and shook my head. He would doubtless be more of a hindrance than a help. “It’s too dangerous,” I said. “I should go alone.”
Pickover looked for a few moments like he was going to protest, but then he nodded. “All right. I hope you find Wilkins. But if you find another me…”
“Yes?” I said. “What would you like me to do?”
Pickover gazed at me with pleading eyes. “Erase it. Destroy it.” He shuddered again. “I never want to see the damned thing.”
I had to get some sleep—damn, but sometimes I do wish I were a transfer. I took the hovertram out to my apartment, and let myself have five hours—Mars hours, admittedly, which were slightly longer than Earth ones—and then headed out to the old shipyards. The sun was just coming up as I arrived there. The sky through the dome was pink in the east and purple in the west.
Some active maintenance and repair work was done on spaceships here, but most of these ships were no longer spaceworthy and had been abandoned. Any one of them would make a good hideout, I thought; spaceships were shielded against radiation, making it hard to scan through their hulls to see what was going on inside.
The shipyards were large fields holding vessels of various sizes and shapes. Most were streamlined—even Mars’s tenuous atmosphere required that. Some were squatting on tail fins; some were lying on their bellies; some were supported by articulated legs. I tried every hatch I could see on these craft, but, so far, they all had their airlocks sealed tightly shut.
Finally, I came to a monstrous abandoned spaceliner—a great hull, some three hundred meters long, fifty meters wide, and a dozen meters high. The name Mayflower II was still visible in chipped paint near the bow—which is the part I came across first—and the slogan “Mars or Bust!” was also visible.
I walked a little farther alongside the hull, looking for a hatch, until�
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Yes! I finally understood what a fossil hunter felt like when he at last turned up a perfectly preserved rhizomorph. There was an outer airlock door here, and it was open. The other door, inside, was open, too. I stepped through the chamber, entering the ship proper. There were stands for holding space suits, but the suits themselves were long gone.
I walked over to the far end of the room, and found another door—one of those submarine-style ones with a locking wheel in the center. This one was closed, and I figured it would probably have been sealed shut at some point, but I tried to turn the wheel anyway, just to be sure, and damned if it didn’t spin freely, disengaging the locking bolts. I pulled the door open, and stepped through it, into a corridor. The door was on spring-loaded hinges; as soon as I let go of it, it closed behind me, plunging me into darkness.
Of course, I’d brought a flashlight. I pulled it off my belt and thumbed it on.
The air was dry and had a faint odor of decay to it. I headed down the corridor, the pool of illumination from my flashlight going in front of me, and—
A squealing noise. I swung around, and the beam from my flashlight caught the source before it scurried away: a large brown rat, its eyes two tiny red coals in the light. People had been trying to get rid of the rats—and cockroaches and silverfish and other vermin that had somehow made it here from Earth—for mears.
I turned back around and headed deeper into the ship. The floor wasn’t quite level: it dipped a bit to—to starboard, they’d call it—and I also felt that I was gaining elevation as I walked along. The ship’s floor had no carpeting; it was just bare, smooth metal. Oily water pooled along the starboard side; a pipe must have ruptured at some point. Another rat scurried by up ahead; I wondered what they ate here, aboard the dead hulk of the ship.
I thought I should check in with Pickover—let him know where I was. I activated my commlink, but the display said it was unable to connect. Of course: the radiation shielding in the spaceship’s hull kept signals from getting out.
Identity Theft and Other Stories Page 5