by Allen Steele
“Damn,” he said under his breath. Whoever this Mr. Grid person was, he was beginning to get under Dooley’s skin; first the unfinished conversation last night, then the unsubtle reminder from the taxi pilot that he was expected to call Mr. Grid this evening. As if he didn’t have more important things to worry about right now …
Dooley sighed as he tapped nervously at his teeth with his fingertips. Like it or not, he needed to do everything possible to keep his cover intact, even if that meant talking to some keyboard jockey back on Earth. Otherwise, someone might get suspicious.
But what the hell did Mr. Grid mean by “meeting him in the Castle”? Obviously it was a prearranged rendezvous point somewhere in Le Matrix. He thought hard, trying to remember all that he had been told about Paul Dooley, until he remembered that Dooley’s hobby was collecting comic books.
What the hell. It was worth a shot …
He paged through Le Matrix’s main directory until he located the “Comics” area and entered it. At the bottom of a long list of headings—DC, TIMELY-ATLAS, DARK HORSE, CONVENTIONS, BUY, SELL & TRADE, MESSAGE BOARD—he located an icon of a talking face marked “Chat.”
That would be real-time conversations. Dooley toggled it, only to be confronted by another long list. Some of the headings were innocent enough (COMIX CLUB, WHO KILLED SUPERMAN?, CEREBUS FANS ONLY), while others hinted at seedier interests (LONELY HOUSEWIVES, MAN 2 MAN, SWINGERS BAR). Like any computer network, Le Matrix catered to all tastes, even if some of them gravitated to the sort of thing scrawled above the urinals in a bus station restroom. The imposter had seldom wired into the commercial nets; so far as he was concerned, net surfing was much the same as being addicted to TV, and he had long since learned to parlay his hacking skills into more lucrative pursuits.
There was nothing on the comics board marked “Castle” per se. Dooley was about to give up, when he noticed a set of buttons beside the list, the top one marked “Private Rooms.”
Of course. The Castle would be a secret subroutine within Le Matrix, inaccessible to any user who didn’t know its name. He toggled “Private Rooms” and, at the prompt, typed: The Castle.
The screen changed, displaying a blank gray slate. For a moment he thought he was alone; only his own logon, THOR200, appeared at the top of the screen.
Then another user-name appeared beside his own: LADYG.
Hello? he typed.
There was a pause, then: Welcome, m’lord. Enter freely and of your own will.
He stared at the screen. What the hell … ?
A second later, another line appeared: You must be exhausted after your long journey to the north country. Come in, please … rest comfortably by the hearth.
He hesitated, then typed: Mr. Grid?
A longer pause, then: ((C’mon! ;p You’re not making this any fun! Was the launch *that* rough?))
He was still confused. Sorry, he typed. It’s been a long day. How are you doing?
Waiting with great anticipation for your arrival. (Patting the sofa cushion.) Please, sit down … you must be cold and tired.
Dooley frowned. Obviously, this was Mr. Grid, albeit under another logon; the allusion to the launch attested to that. But what kind of crazy shit was the rest of this?
He typed: Liftoff was rough. Vomited on the way up. Still feeling a little queasy.
Another pause, then: I understand, m’lord. They say passage to the north country can be strenuous. Come sit by the fire and relax.
Come sit by the fire? What did that mean? Dooley wondered if he had stumbled into the wrong private room by mistake. He recalled the message that Dr. Z, the taxi pilot, had passed to him. Was it possible that this could be Dr. Z pretending to be Mr. Grid?
He typed: Mr. Grid, is that really you?
The reply was instantaneous: ((YES, it’s me, stupid! :( Now get your ass over here NOW!))
Before he could react, another line appeared: M’lord must not be feeling well. Have some nectar … it will soothe your stomach and make you feel better.
And yet another line: Then come sit beside me, and warm thy feet by the fire.
At a loss, Dooley shrugged. OK, it’s you. Sorry. Yes, I’ll have some nectar.
He waited for a reply, which was not forthcoming. This was some sort of role-playing game; he was expected to respond to Mr. Grid’s clues as if they were real-life stimuli.
He typed: Thanks. That’s good nectar. Feel better. Now I’ll come over and sit down by the fire.
A couple of seconds passed, then: I’m pleased, m’lord. (Her hand slips to the front of her blouse and opens the first button.) So your journey was long and … trying?
Dooley abruptly realized that, whoever Mr. Grid was, he was not male. Or perhaps he was a male pretending to be a female in cyberspace. The gender switch made him uneasy, but there was no backing out now; he had to play along as best he could.
Yes, milady, he typed hesitantly. Long and arduous indeed, but it’s good to linger by the hearth and sip nectar with you.
The reply was immediate: It’s good to hear this (extending her long legs until her toes almost touch his feet). And you like the nectar?
Nectar’s good. What the hell was he supposed to say now? Your feet tickle, he added.
Another pause, a little longer now, then: I thought you might like the nectar. The young boy who contributed it is … exquisite.
Baffled, he stared at the screen. Pardon me? he typed.
A virgin, I think (unbuttoning her blouse a little more, exposing her pale breast). You will like him … he’s in the dungeon, awaiting your pleasure once we’ve sated ourselves.
His breath whistled through his teeth as he read this. Whoever Mr. Grid/LadyG was, Dooley had obviously been indulging in some sort of weird cybersex fantasy with him/her, with a bit of pedophilia on the side. Was there yet another player involved, taking the part of this so-called young boy?
Dooley didn’t care to find out. Interesting idea, he typed, but I prefer your company instead. (Reaches out to caress her breast.)
Next line: And you don’t find this repulsive? (shifting slightly to allow his hand further into her blouse).
The very thought was enough to make him puke. He typed: Not at all (she moans with pleasure as his fingers encircle a nipple). I’d rather have you instead.
A moment passed, then: Where is the Duke?
The Duke? Who the hell was the Duke? Probably a third player in this game. I haven’t seen the Duke lately, he typed. Probably somewhere else.
For almost a minute, there was no answer. He tried to scroll upward to read what he had written a couple of minutes earlier, but the system wouldn’t allow him to do this. He was beginning to wonder if he had said something wrong, when a new line appeared on the screen:
I must be gone (sitting up and rebuttoning her blouse). I hear the Dane calling for me from the upstairs bedroom. He will be suspicious if I tarry here much longer.
He sighed with relief. More than likely, the Dane was another user, waiting to role-play this same masturbatory fantasy. Whoever he was, he would probably enjoy this sort of thing much more than he did; masquerading as Paul Dooley was hard enough without also having to indulge his on-line wet dreams.
Very well, he typed. I will come again soon, after I have returned from the north country. As an afterthought, he added, Don’t let the Dane know I was here.
A long pause. I shan’t. Fare-thee-well …
Fare-thee-well, he responded. Good night.
LadyG’s logon vanished from the top of the screen, leaving Dooley alone in cyberspace. He took a deep breath as he fell back into his chair. That had been almost as tough as plastic surgery, but it was over and done with.
He reached out to toggle the buttons that would ease him out of the private room, but he hadn’t exited from Le Matrix before the computer double-beeped once more and a small rectangle appeared on the screen.
INSTANT MESSAGE
From: Mr. Grid
Are you on the Wheel?
>
Christ. He couldn’t get rid of her. He shook his head and typed: Yeah, I’m here.
He waited for a response. After a moment it came:
Good. Bye.
And that was that. He signed off Le Matrix, then stood up, wincing at the crick in the small of his back. The real Dooley must have been one repressed son of a bitch; it was just as well the little bastard was dead.
“Mr. Grid,” he murmured at the hard drive’s blinking C-prompt on the screen, “you’re going to have to find someone else to squeeze your tits from now on.”
Time to get back to business. He sat down again, typed DIR and watched as a long list of files scrolled up the screen. The particular file he needed was right where he had located it last night, listed under TF111.BAT. When he typed read TF111.BAT next to the C-prompt, it flashed: Encrypted file. Password?
He carefully typed in the first six-digit string he had received from RaceTrak. The computer repeated the same prompt, and he entered the second string. The screen went blank for a moment and he held his breath.
As he’d done with his Le Matrix password, the real Paul Dooley had safeguarded this file behind two sets of double-key encryptions, the numeric passwords of which he had committed to memory. It had taken hours to drag all that information out of him; if either of the keys was wrong, even by one digit, then the imposter’s mission was shot. He would no longer be in a position to tell his masters the real code-numbers, and no one else in the world knew those numbers.
The denouement came a moment later as a subdirectory appeared on the screen: a short list of file servers, each easily accessible at the stroke of his fingertips.
“Yes!” he whispered. “Gotcha!”
Ten queues, containing half of the computer program needed to access the c-cube system of Teal Falcon. The other half of the program was safeguarded within the Teal Falcon launch bunker on the Moon. Once both halves of the program were linked together, the complete command, control, and communications of the missiles would literally be at his fingertips.
All too easy …
The imposter spent a few minutes scanning the algorithms, making certain that there were no gaps or hidden passwords. Satisfied at last, he saved the file and folded the slip of paper containing the encryption codes into his breast pocket. Then he switched off the computer, folded the screen, and stood up.
After a moment, he walked over to the porthole and raised the blinds. The distant view of Earth no longer bothered him. Tomorrow morning, he and his accomplice were on their way to the Moon.
Just then, there was a double knock on the door. He started, then hastily checked his watch. A moment later, there was a third knock.
Speak of the devil, and right on time. He turned around and slid open the door.
CBS broadcast transcript, 60 Minutes; Sunday, February 26, 1977
(File footage: Tranquillity Base as seen from the surface, where two astronauts fire rocket mortars to simulate moonquakes; this is followed by shots from within the habitat: men working in laboratories, eating breakfast in the mess compartment, sleeping or reading magazines in their bunks.)
Harry Reasoner (VO): This is Tranquillity Base, the United States moonbase, as the public knows it … a civilian installation devoted to peaceful scientific research, permanently manned by a rotating crew of twenty men and women. America’s “Beachhead in Space,” as NASA’s public relations office likes to describe it. And this …
(A series of still photos: the Teal Falcon silos, as seen from the wall of Sabine Crater; a close-up shot of a silo hatch; the entrance to the launch bunker; a blurred shot of an open silo, exposing the nose cone of a Minuteman II missile.)
Reasoner (VO): … is a part of Tranquillity Base the government would rather not have you know about … six missile silos located at the bottom of Sabine Crater, about eight miles northwest of the base itself. Each silo contains a modified Minuteman II rocket, nearly identical to ICBM’s found in SAC missile silos scattered across the United States, and each rocket is tipped with a one-megaton nuclear warhead. The installation is code-named Teal Falcon, and until these pictures were given to Sixty Minutes by a NASA civilian astronaut, who shot them with a hidden camera while visiting the site several months ago, it was the most carefully guarded of American military secrets … one which both the Pentagon and the White House flatly refuse to discuss.
(Medium shot of an unidentified man, sitting in a darkened room with his face carefully shadowed, his voice electronically altered.)
Source: The missiles have been on the Moon since September 1, 1969, when they were brought there by the Space Force during the Luna Two expedition. During that same expedition, the silos were excavated by high explosives and the missiles were put in place. Three months later, the Luna Three team completed the second phase of the operation by excavating the control bunker, and when they were done, the missiles were activated and the first two men were placed in the bunker.
Reasoner (off-camera): And when was this?
Source: December 25, 1969 … Christmas Day.
Reasoner: That was over seven years ago. Are the missiles still there?
Source: Yeah, they’re still there. I saw them myself a few months ago, when I took the pictures.
(File footage: President Richard Nixon waving to supporters during a public appearance; President Robert Kennedy walking into the Oval Office with two U.S. Space Force officers; moonships leaving Earth orbit; a May Day parade in Moscow’s Red Square; President Eugene McCarthy being sworn into office aboard Air Force One in Dallas, Texas.)
Reasoner (VO): According to a classified Pentagon document code named SR-192, secret plans to base nuclear missiles on the Moon had been in the works since 1958. President Nixon formally authorized the plan as a so-called “black budget” item during his second term in office, meaning that it was not made known to the public or even most members of Congress. Although President Kennedy was publicly opposed to the Space Force’s predominant role in the American space effort, sources tell us that he allowed Luna Two to carry the Minuteman II to the Moon before he phased-out the Space Force and replaced it with the civilian National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Both leaders saw Teal Falcon as an “ace in the hole” against the Soviet Union’s rapid escalation of its strategic nuclear capability, and it wasn’t until President McCarthy’s short-lived term in the White House that the twenty-four-hour doomsday watch at Teal Falcon was terminated. The men were taken out of the hole and the missiles were deactivated … but they were never removed.
Source: The missiles are still in the crater, and the bombs are still on them. The bunkers are sealed, but not permanently. They can be reactivated, targeted to virtually any place on Earth, and launched within a few hours’ notice. All President McGovern has to do is send a handful of Air Force officers back to the Moon with orders to enter the bunker and do what needs to be done, and the birds will fly.
(More film clips and still shots of Teal Falcon: a lunar tractor slowly moving down a steep roadway into the crater; a high chain-link fence surrounding the crater; a distant shot from atop the crater wall of the silos; Earth rising above the barren moonscape.)
Reasoner (VO): If a similar Minuteman were launched from a silo in Nebraska toward Moscow, the missile would be there in less than twenty minutes. However, it’s estimated that the same sort of missile would take at least two days to reach its target if launched from the Moon. So why place missiles nearly a quarter of a million miles away? It’s because Teal Falcon is intended as a second-strike weapon … If the U.S.S.R. were to attempt a sneak attack on the United States, the lunar missiles would remain untouched and, therefore, be used to retaliate against the Soviet Union. Likewise, the Soviets could not take out Teal Falcon as a preamble to war against NATO without tipping their hand, and in turn the U.S. could attack the U.S.S.R. On the surface, it appears to be sound logic … or is it?
(On-camera: Lex Klass, Professor of International Affairs, George Washington University.)
Klass: If Teal Falcon is indeed a lunar-based ICBM installation, then we’re once again confronted with questions of basic morality regarding strategic nuclear forces. By the time those missiles reach their targets, both the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. will have used their triad of land, air, and sea-based ICBM’s to pound each other into the ground … which means the Teal Falcon missiles are redundant at best.
Reasoner (on-camera): But aren’t they supposed to be a deterrent to nuclear war?
Klass: It’s tempting to call them a deterrent, but let’s face it … nuclear weapons have never been used during wartime. They arrived a little too late for World War II, and they weren’t used during Korea or Vietnam. They’ve never been detonated elsewhere than in the desert and in the South Pacific. No one knows exactly how much damage they would cause to a city … and as a result, it’s easy for generals and politicians to think of them in abstract terms. Do you feel any safer knowing that there are nukes on the Moon? I don’t.
(Shot of the Moon as seen in lunar orbit; the camera slowly pans across black, empty space until it focuses on distant Earth.)
Reasoner (VO): The official policy of the United States under the McGovern Administration prohibits first-use of nuclear weapons. At the same time, though, the White House will neither confirm nor deny the existence of Teal Falcon. No one can say when the bombs at Tranquillity Base will be removed … if ever.
(Shot of a ticking stopwatch.)
TEN
2/16/95 • 2232 GMT
HIS SECOND INTERVIEW WITH Berkley Rhodes went much better than the first, although there was no reason why it shouldn’t have.
The first time around, he had been tense about the launch, and Rhodes had rubbed him the wrong way; by that evening, though, things were different. Although his attention had been occupied for most of the day with the last-minute details of the mission, Parnell managed to get a quick nap in his quarters before catching dinner on the mess deck. Mindful that Conestoga’s crew would have to endure freeze-dried food for the next few days, the Wheel’s chefs had served up fresh green salad, London Broil with new potatoes and steamed asparagus, and strawberry rhubarb for dessert. It was a feast, compared to the station’s usually spartan fare; together with rest and the peace of mind that comes from knowing that everything that could be done had been done, it put Parnell in a much better mood than he’d been in that morning.