Текст книги "Relic"
Автор книги: Lincoln Child
Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
= 26 =
D’Agosta was all the way on the other side of the Museum when yet another call came in. Emergency sighting, Section 18, Computer Room.
He sighed, shoving his radio back into its holster, thinking of his tired feet. Everyone in the damn place was seeing bogeymen.
A dozen people were crowding the hall outside the Computer Room, joking nervously. Two uniformed officers were standing by the closed door. “Okay,” said D’Agosta, unwrapping a cigar. “Who saw it?”
A young man edged forward. White lab coat, slope-shouldered, Coke bottle glasses, calculator and pager dangling off the belt. Cripes, thought D’Agosta, where did they get these guys?He was perfect.
“I didn’t actually seeanything,” he said, “but there was this loud thumping noise in the Electrical Systems Room. It sounded like banging, someone trying to get through the door—”
[172] D’Agosta turned to the two cops. “Let’s check it out.”
He fumbled at the door knob and someone produced a key, explaining, “We locked it. We didn’t want anything coming out—”
D’Agosta waved his hand. This was getting ridiculous. Everyone was spooked. How the hell could they be planning a big opening party for the following night? They should have shut the damn place down after the first murders.
The room was large, circular, and spotless. In the center, standing on a large pedestal and bathed in bright neon lights, was a five-foot-tall white cylinder that D’Agosta supposed was the Museum’s mainframe. It hummed softly, surrounded by terminals, workstations, tables, and bookcases. Two closed doors were visible on the far walls.
“You guys poke around,” he told his men, popping the unlit cigar in his mouth. “I wanna talk to this guy, do the paperwork.”
He went back outside. “Name?” he asked.
“Roger Thrumcap. I’m the Shift Supervisor.”
“Okay,” D’Agosta said wearily, making notations. “You’re reporting noises in Data Processing.”
“No, sir, Data Processing’s upstairs. This is the Computer Room. We monitor the hardware, do systems work.”
“The Computer Room, then.” He scribbled some more. “You first noticed these noises when?”
“A few minutes after ten. We were just finishing up our journals.”
“You were reading the paper when you heard the noises?”
“No, sir. The journal tapes. We were just finishing our daily backup.”
“I see. You were just finishingat ten o’clock?”
“The backups can’t be done during peak hours, sir. [173] We have special permission to come in at six in the morning.”
“Lucky you. And you heard these noises where?”
“They were coming from the Electrical Room.”
“And that is—?”
“The door to the left of the MP-3. That’s the computer, sir.”
“I saw two doors in there.” D’Agosta said. “What’s behind the other one?”
“Oh, that’s just the lights-out room. It’s on a carded-entry system, nobody can get in there.”
D’Agosta gave the man a strange look.
“It contains the diskpacks, things like that. You know, the storage devices. It’s called a lights-out room because everything’s automated, nobody goes in there except for maintenance.” He nodded proudly. “We’re in a zero-operator environment. Compared to us, DP’s still in the Stone Age. They still have operators manually mounting tapes, no silos or anything.”
D’Agosta went back inside. “They heard the noises on the other side of that door to the left, there in the back. Let’s take a look.” He turned around. “Keep them out here,” he said to Thrumcap.
The door to the electrical room swung open, releasing a smell of hot wiring and ozone. D’Agosta fumbled along the wall, found the light and snapped it on.
He did a visual first, by the book. Transformers. Grillwork covering ventilation ducts. Cables. Several large air-conditioning units. A lot of hot air. But nothing else.
“Take a look behind that equipment,” D’Agosta said.
The officers nosed around thoroughly. One looked back and shrugged.
“All right,” said D’Agosta, walking out into the computer room. “Looks clean to me. Mr. Thrumcap?”
“Yes?” He poked his head in.
“You can tell your people to come back in. Looks okay, but we’re gonna post a man for the next thirty-six hours.” He turned to one of the policemen emerging [174] from the electrical room. “Waters, I want you here till the end of your shift. Pro forma, all right? I’ll send your relief.” A few more sightings and I’ll be fresh out of officers.
“Right,” said Waters.
“That’s a good idea,” said Thrumcap. “This room is the heart of the Museum, you know. Or rather, the brain. We run the telephones, physical plant, network, mini-printing, electronic mail, security system—”
“Sure,” said D’Agosta. He wondered if this was the same security that didn’t have an accurate blueprint of the subbasement.
The staff began filing back into the room and taking up their places at the terminals. D’Agosta mopped his brow. Hot as balls in here. He turned to leave.
“Rog,” he heard a voice behind him. “We got a problem.”
D’Agosta hesitated a moment.
“Oh, my God,” said Thrumcap, staring at a monitor. “The system’s doing a hex dump. What the hell—?”
“Was the master terminal still in backup mode when you left it, Rog?” a short guy with buck teeth was asking. “If it finished and got no response, it might have gone into a low-level dump.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Roger. “Abort the dump and make sure the regions are all up.”
“It’s not responding.”
“Is the OS down?” Thrumcap asked, bending over bucktooth’s CRT. “Lemme see this.”
An alarm went off in the room, not loud, but high-pitched and insistent. D’Agosta saw a red light in a ceiling panel above the sleek mainframe. Maybe he’d better stick around.
“Now what?” said Thrumcap.
Jesus, it’s hot, D’Agosta thought. How can these people stand it?
“What’s this code we’re getting?”
“I don’t know. Look it up.”
[175] “Where?”
“In the manual, fool! It’s right behind your terminal. Here, I’ve got it.”
Thrumcap started flipping pages. “2291, 2291 ... here it is. It’s a heat alarm. Oh, Lord, the machine’s overheating! Get maintenance up here right away.”
D’Agosta shrugged. The thumping noise they’d heard was probably air-conditioner compressors failing. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. It must be ninety degrees in here. As he began moving down the hall, he passed two maintenance men hurrying in the opposite direction.
Like most modern supercomputers, the Museum’s MP-3 was better able to withstand heat than the “big iron” mainframes of ten or twenty years before. Its silicon brain, unlike the older vacuum tubes and transistors, could function above recommended temperatures for longer periods of time without damage or loss of data. However; the hardwired interface to the Museum’s security system had been installed by a third party, outside the operating specifications of the computer manufacturer. When the temperature in the computer room reached ninety-four degrees, the tolerances of the ROM chips governing the Automatic Disaster Control System were exceeded. Failure occurred ninety seconds later.
Waters stood in a corner and glanced around the room. The maintenance men had left over an hour before, and the room was pleasantly chilly. Everything was back to normal, and the only sounds were the hum of the computer and the zombies clicking thousands of keys. He idly glanced at an unoccupied terminal screen and saw a blinking message.
EXTERNAL ARRAY FAILURE
AT ROM ADDRESS 33 B1 4A 0E
It was like Chinese. Whatever it was, why couldn’t they just say it in English? He hated computers. He couldn’t think of one damn thing computers had done for him except leave the s off his last name on bills. He hated those smart-ass computer nerds, too. If there was anything wrong here, let themtake care of it.
= 27 =
Smithback dumped his notebooks beside one of his favorite library carrels. Sighing heavily, he squeezed himself into the cramped space, placed his laptop on the desk, and turned on the small overhead light. He was only a stone’s throw from the oak-panelled reading room, with its red leather chairs and marble fireplace that hadn’t seen use in a century. But Smithback preferred the narrow, scuffed carrels. He especially liked the ones that were hidden deep in the stacks, where he could examine documents and manuscripts he’d temporarily liberated—or catch forty winks—in privacy and relative comfort.
The Museum’s collection of new, old, and rare books on all aspects of natural history was unrivalled. It had received so many bequests and privately donated collections over the years that its card catalogue was always hopelessly behind. Yet Smithback knew the library better even than most of the librarians. He could find a buried factoid in record time.
[178] Now he pursed his lips, thinking. Moriarty was a stubborn bureaucrat, and Smithback himself had come up empty with Kawakita. He didn’t know anyone else who could get him into the accession database. But there was more than one way to approach this puzzle.
At the microfilm card file, he started flipping through the New York Timesindex. He backtracked as far as 1975. Nothing there—or, as he soon discovered, in the relevant natural history and anthropological journals.
He checked the back issues of the Museum’s internal periodicals for information on the expedition. Nothing. In the 1985 Who’s Who At NYMNH, a two-line bio of Whittlesey told him nothing he didn’t already know.
He cursed under his breath. This guy’s hidden deeper than the Oak Island treasure.
Smithback slowly put the volumes back on their racks, looking around. Then, taking some sheets from a notebook, he strolled nonchalantly up to the desk of a reference librarian, first making sure he hadn’t seen her before.
“Gotta put these back in the archives,” he told the librarian.
She blinked up at him severely. “Are you new around here?”
“I’m from the science library, just got transferred up last week. On rotation, you know.” He gave her a smile, hoped it looked bright and genuine.
She frowned at him, uncertain, as the phone on her desk began to ring. She hesitated, then answered it, distractedly handing him a clipboard and a key on a long, blue cord. “Sign in,” she said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.
The library archives lay behind an unmarked gray door in a remote corner of the library stacks. It was a gamble in more ways than one. Smithback had been [179] inside once before, on legitimate business. He knew that the bulk of the Museum’s archives were stored elsewhere, and that the library’s files were very specific. But something was nagging him. He closed the door and moved forward, scanning the shelves and the stacks of labeled boxes.
He had progressed down one side of the room and was starting up the other when he stopped. Carefully, he reached up and brought down a box labeled CENTRAL RECVG/SHPG: AIR CARGO RECEIPTS. Squatting down, he rustled quickly through the papers.
Once again, he went back as far as 1975. Disappointed, he rustled through them again. Nothing.
As he returned the box to its high perch, his eye caught another label: BILLS OF LADING, 1970-1990. He couldn’t risk more than another five minutes, tops.
His finger stopped near the end of the pile. “Gotcha,” he whispered, pulling a smudged sheet free of the box. From his pocket, he extracted his microcassette recorder and quietly spoke the pertinent words, dates, and places: Belém; Port of New Orleans; Brooklyn. The Strella de Venezuela—Star of Venezuela. Odd, he thought. Awfully long layover in New Orleans.
“You seem pretty pleased with yourself,” the librarian said as she stowed the key back in the desk.
“Have a nice day,” Smithback said. He finished the entry on the archives clipboard: Sebastian Melmoth, in 11:10, out 11:25.
Back at the microfilm catalog, Smithback paused. He knew the New Orleans newspaper had a strange name, very antebellum-sounding– Times-Picayune, that was it.
He scanned the catalog quickly. There it was: Times-Picayune, 1840-present.
He snapped the 1988 reel into the machine. As he neared October, he slowed, then stopped completely. A [180] large, 72-point banner headline stared at him out of the microfilm viewer.
“Oh, God,” he breathed.
He now knew, without a shred of doubt, why the Whittlesey crates had spent so long in New Orleans.
= 28 =
“I’m sorry, Miss Green, but his door is still closed. I’ll give him your message as soon as possible.”
“Thanks,” Margo said, hanging up her phone with frustration. How could she be Frock’s eyes and ears if she couldn’t even talk to him?
When Frock was deeply involved in a project, he often locked himself in his office. His secretary knew better than to disturb him. Margo had tried to reach him twice already that morning, and there was no telling when he’d re-emerge:
Margo glanced at her watch. 11:20 A.M.—the morning was almost gone. She turned to her terminal and tried logging on to the Museum’s computer.
HELLO MARGO GREEN@BIOTECH@STF
WELCOME BACK TO MUSENET
DISTRIBUTED NETWORKING SYSTEM,
RELEASE 15-5
COPYRIGHT © 1989-1995 NYMNH AND CEREBRAL SYSTEMS INC.
CONNECTING AT 11:20:45 03-30-95
PRINT SERVICE ROUTED TO LJ56
***ALL USERS-IMPORTANT NOTICE***
DUE TO THIS MORNING’S SYSTEM OUTAGE, A RESTORE WILL BE PERFORMED AT NOON. EXPECT DEGRADED PERFORMANCE. REPORT ANY MISSING OR CORRUPTED FILES TO SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR ASAP.
ROGER THRUMCAP@ADMIN@SYSTEMS
YOU HAVE 1 MESSAGE(S) WAITING
[182] She brought up the electronic mail menu and read the waiting message.
MAIL FROM GEORGE MORIARTY@EXHIB@STF SENT 10:14:07 03-30-95
THANKS FOR THE LABEL COPY—LOOKS PERFECT, NO CHANGES NECESSARY. WE’LL PUT IT IN WITH OTHER FINISHING TOUCHES BEFORE OPENING TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC.
CARE TO HAVE LUNCH TODAY?
—GEORGE
REPLY, DELETE, FILE (R/D/F)?
Her telephone rang, shattering the silence. “Hello?” she said.
[183] “Margo’? Hi. It’s George,” came Moriarty’s voice.
“Hi,” she replied. “Sorry, just got your message now.’
“I figured as much,” he responded cheerfully. “Thanks again for helping out.”
“Glad to,” replied Margo.
Moriarty paused. “So...” he began hesitantly. “How about that lunch?”
“Sorry,” Margo said. “I’d like to, but I’m waiting for a call back from Dr. Frock. Could be five minutes, could be next week.”
She could tell by the silence that Moriarty was disappointed.
“Tell you what, though,” she said. “You could swing by for me on your way to the cafeteria. If Frock’s called by then, maybe I’ll be free. If he hasn’t ... well, perhaps you could hang out for a couple of minutes while I wait, help me with the Timescrossword or something.”
“Sure!” Moriarty replied. “I know every three-letter Australian mammal there is.”
Margo hesitated. “And perhaps while you’re down here, we can take a peek into the accession database, see about the Whittlesey crates ... ?”
There was a silence. Finally, Moriarty sighed. “Well, if it’s that important to you, I guess it couldn’t hurt anything. I’ll stop by around twelve.”
Half an hour later, a knock sounded. “Come in,” she called out.
“The damn thing’s locked.” The voice was not Moriarty’s.
She opened the door. “I didn’t expect to see youhere.”
“Do you suppose it’s luck or fate?” Smithback said, coming in quickly and shutting the door behind him. “Listen, Lotus Blossom, I’ve been a busy man since last night.”
[184] “So have I,” she said. “Moriarty will be here any minute to get us into the accession database.”
“How did you—”
“Never mind,” Margo replied smugly.
The door opened, and Moriarty peered in. “Margo?” he asked. Then he caught sight of Smithback.
“Don’t fret, professor, it’s safe,” the writer said. “I’m not in a biting mood today.”
“Don’t mind him,” Margo said. “He has this annoying habit of popping up unannounced. Come on in.”
“Yes, and make yourself comfortable,” Smithback said, pointedly gesturing to the chair in front of Margo’s terminal.
Moriarty sat down slowly, looking at Smithback, then at Margo, then at Smithback again. “I guess you want me to check the accession records,” he said.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Margo said quietly. Smithback’s presence made the whole thing seem like a setup.
“Okay, Margo.” Moriarty put his fingers on the keyboard. “Smithback, turn around. The password, you know.”
The Museum’s accession database contained information on all the millions of catalogued items in the Museum’s collections. Initially, the database had been accessible to all employees. However, someone on the fifth floor had gotten nervous at having the artifacts’ detailed descriptions and storage locations available to anyone. Now, access was limited to senior staff—Assistant Curators, such as Moriarty, and above.
Moriarty was sullenly tapping keys. “I could be given a reprimand for this, you know,” he said. “Dr. Cuthbert’s very strict. Why didn’t you just get Frock to do it for you?”
“Like I said, I can’t get in to see him,” Margo replied.
Moriarty gave the ENTER key a final jab. “Here it is,” [185] he said. “Take a quick look., I’m not going to bring it up again.”
Margo and Smithback crowded around the terminal as the green letters crawled slowly up the screen:
ACCESSION FILE NUMBER 1989-2006
DATE: APRIL 4, 1989
COLLECTOR: JOHN WHITTLESEY, EDWARD MAXWELL, ET AL
CATALOGUER: HUGO C. MONTAGUE
SOURCE: WHITTLESEY/MAXWELL AMAZON BASIN EXPEDITION
LOCATION: BUILDING 2, LEVEL 3, SECTION 6, VAULT 144
NOTE: THE FOLLOWING CATALOGUED ITEMS WERE RECEIVED ON FEBRUARY 1, 1989 IN SEVEN CRATES SENT BACK BY THE WHITTLESEY/MAXWELL EXPEDITION FROM THE UPPER XINGU RIVER SYSTEM. SIX OF THE CRATES WERE PACKAGED BY MAXWELL, ONE BY WHITTLESEY. WHITTLESEY AND THOMAS R. CROCKER JR. DID NOT RETURN FROM THE EXPEDITION AND ARE PRESUMED DEAD. MAXWELL AND THE REST OF THE PARTY PERISHED IN A PLANE CRASH EN ROUTE TO THE UNITED STATES. ONLY WHITTLESEY’S CRATE HAS BEEN PARTIALLY CATALOGUED HERE; THIS NOTE WILL BE SUPERCEDED AS THIS CRATE AND THE MAXWELL CRATES ARE FULLY CATALOGUED. DESCRIPTIONS ARE TAKEN FROM JOURNAL WHEREVER POSSIBLE.
HCM 4/89
[186] “Did you see that?” Smithback said. “I wonder why the cataloguing was never finished.”
“Shh!” Margo hissed. “I’m trying to get all this.”
NO. 1989-2006.1
BLOW GUN AND DART, NO DATA
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.2
PERSONAL JOURNAL OF J. WHITTLESEY, JULY 22 [1987] TO SEPTEMBER 17 [1987]
STATUS: T.R.
NO. 1989-2006.3
2 GRASS BUNDLES, TIED WITH PARROT FEATHERS, USED AS SHAMAN’S FETISH, FROM DESERTED HUT
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.4
FINELY CARVED FIGURINE OF BEAST. SUPPOSED REPRESENTATION OF “MBWUN” CF. WHITTLESEY JOURNAL, P. 56-59
STATUS: O.E.
NO. 1989-2006.5
WOODEN PLANT PRESS, ORIGIN UNKNOWN, FROM VICINITY OF DESERTED HUT.
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.6
DISK INCISED WITH DESIGNS.
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.7
SPEAR POINTS, ASSORTED SIZES AND CONDITION.
STATUS: C.
NOTE: ALL CRATES TEMPORARILY MOVED TO SECURE VAULT, LEVEL 2B, PER IAN CUTHBERT 3/20/95.
D. ALVAREZ, SEC’Y
[187] “What do all those codes mean?” Smithback asked.
“They tell the current status of the artifact,” Moriarty said. “ Cmeans it’s still crated up, hasn’t been curated yet. O.E.means ‘on exhibit.’ T.R.means ‘temporarily removed.’ There are others—”
“Temporarily removed?” Margo asked. “That’s all you need to put down? No wonder the journal got lost.”
“Of course that’s not all,” Moriarty said. “Whoever removes an object has to sign it out. The database is hierarchical. We can see more detail on any entry just by stepping down a level. Here, I’ll show you.” He tapped a few keys.
His expression changed. “That’s odd.” The message on the screen read:
INVALID RECORD OR RELATION
PROCESS HALTED
Moriarty frowned. “There’s nothing attached to this record for the Whittlesey journal.” He cleared the screen [188] and started typing again. “Nothing wrong with the others. See? Here’s the detail record for the figurine.”
Margo examined the screen.
**DETAIL LISTING**
Item: 1989-2006.4
###################################
Removed By: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 3/17/95
Removal To: SuperstitionExhibition
Case 415, Item 1004
Reason: Display
Return Date:
###################################
Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 10/1/90
Removal To: Anthropology Lab 2
Reason: Initial curating
Return Date: 10/5/90
###################################
END LISTING
=:?
“So what does that mean? We know the journal’s lost,” Margo said.
“Even if it’s lost, there should still be a detail record for it,” Moriarty said.
“Is there a restricted flag on the record?”
Moriarty shook his head and hit a few more keys.
“Here’s why,” he said at length, pointing at the screen. “The detail record’s been erased.”
“You mean the information about the journal’s [189] location has been deleted?” Smithback asked. “Can they do that?”
Moriarty shrugged. “It takes a high-security ID.”
“More importantly, why should somebody do that?” Margo asked. “Did the mainframe problem this morning have anything to do with it?”
“No.” Moriarty said. “This file compare dump I’ve just done implies the file was deleted sometime before last night’s backup. I can’t be more specific than that.”
“Deleted, eh?” Smithback said. “Gone forever. How clean, how neat. How coincidental. I’m beginning to see a pattern here—a nasty one.”
Moriarty switched off the terminal and pushed himself back from the desk. “I’m not interested in your conspiracy theories,” he said.
“Could it have been an accident? Or a malfunction?” Margo asked.
“Doubtful. The database has all sorts of referential integrity checks built-in. I’d see an error message.”
“So what, then?” Smithback pressed.
“I haven’t a clue.” Moriarty shrugged. “But it’s a trivial issue, at best.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Smithback snorted. “Some computer genius.”
Moriarty, offended, pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up. “I really don’t need this,” he said. “I think I’ll get some lunch.” He headed for the door. “Margo, I’ll take a rain check on that crossword puzzle.”
“Nice going,” Margo said as the door closed. “You’ve got a really subtle touch, you know that, Smithback? George was good enough to get us into the database.”
“Yeah, and what did we learn from it?” Smithback asked. “Diddly-squat. Only one of the crates was ever accessioned. Whittlesey’s journal is still missing.” He looked at her smugly. “I, on the other hand, have struck oil.”
[190] “Put it in your book,” Margo yawned. “I’ll read it then. Assuming I can find a copy in the library.”
“Et tu, Brute?”Smithback grinned and handed her a folded sheet of paper. “Well, take a look at this.”
The sheet was a photocopy reproduction of an article from the New Orleans Times-Picayunedated October 17, 1988.
GHOST FREIGHTER FOUND BEACHED
NEAR NEW ORLEANS
By Antony Anastasia
Special to the Times-Picayune
BAYOU GROVE, October 16 (AP)-A small freighter bound for New Orleans ran aground last night near this small coastal town. Details remain sketchy, but preliminary reports indicate that all crew members had been brutally slain while at sea. The Coast Guard first reported the grounding at 11:45 Monday night.
The ship, the Strella de Venezuela, was an 18,000-ton freighter, currently of Haitian registry, that plied the waters of the Caribbean and the main trade routes between South America and the United States. Damage was limited, and the vessel’s cargo appeared to be intact.
It is not presently known how the crew members met their deaths, or whether any of the crew were able to escape the ship. Henry La Plage, a private helicopter pilot who observed the beached vessel, reported that “corpses were strewn across the foredeck like some wild animal had gotten at them. I seen one guy hanging out a bridge porthole, his head all smashed up. It was like a slaughterhouse, ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
Local and federal authorities are cooperating [191] in an attempt to understand the slayings, easily one of the most brutal massacres in recent maritime history. “We are currently looking into several theories, but we’ve come to no conclusions as of yet,” said Nick Lea, a police spokesman. Although there was no official comment, federal sources said that mutiny, vengeance killings by rival Caribbean shippers, and sea piracy were all being considered as possible motives.
“Jesus,” Margo breathed. “The wounds described here—”
“—sound just like those on the three bodies found here this week,” Smithback nodded grimly.
Margo frowned. “This happened almost seven years ago. It has to be coincidental.”
“Does it?” Smithback asked. “I might be forced to agree with you—if it wasn’t for the fact that the Whittlesey crates were on board that ship.”
“What?”
“It’s true. I tracked down the bills of lading. The crates were shipped from Brazil in August of 1988—almost a year after the expedition broke up, as I understand it. After this business in New Orleans, the crates sat in customs while the investigation was being conducted. It took them almost a year and a half to reach the Museum.”
“The ritualized murders have followed the crates all the way from the Amazon!” Margo said. “But that means—”
“It means,” Smithback said grimly, “that I’m going to stop laughing now when I hear talk about a curse on that expedition. And it means you should keep locking this door.”
The phone rang, startling them both.
“Margo, my dear.” Frock’s voice rumbled to her. “What news?”
[192] “Dr. Frock! I wonder if I could come by your office for a few minutes. At your earliest convenience.”
“Splendid!” Frock said. “Give me a little time to shuffle some of this paper off my desk and into the wastebasket. Shall we say one o’clock?”
“Thank you,” Margo said. “Smithback,” she said, turning around, “we’ve got to—”
But the writer was gone.
At ten minutes to one, another knock sounded.
“Who’s there?” Margo said through the locked door.
“It’s me, Moriarty. Can I come in, Margo?”
“I just wanted to apologize for walking out earlier,” Moriarty said, declining a chair. “It’s just that Bill wears on me sometimes. He never seems to let up.”
“George, I’m the one who should apologize,” Margo said. “I didn’t know he was going to appear like that.” She thought of telling him about the newspaper article, but decided against it and began to pack up her carryall.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Moriarty went on. “While I was eating lunch, I realized there may be some way we can find out more about that deleted database record, after all. The one for Whittlesey’s journal.”
Margo abruptly put down the carryall and looked at Moriarty, who took a seat in front of her terminal. “Did you see that sign-on message when you logged into the network earlier?” he asked.
“The one about the computer going down? Big surprise. I got locked out twice this morning.”
Moriarty nodded. “The message also said they were going to restore from the backup tapes at noon. A full restore takes about thirty minutes. That means they should be done by now.”
“So?”
“Well, a backup tape holds about two to three months’ worth of archives. If the detail record for the Whittlesey journal was deleted in the last two months– [193] andif the backup tape is still on the hub up in data processing—I should be able to resurrect it.”
“Really?”
Moriarty nodded.
“Then do it!” Margo urged.
“There’s a certain element of risk,” Moriarty replied. “If a system operator notices that the tape is being accessed ... well, he could trace it to your terminal ID.”
“I’ll risk it,” Margo said. “George,” she added, “I know you feel this is all a wild goose chase, and I can’t really blame you for that. But I’m convinced those crates from the Whittlesey expedition are connected to these killings. I don’t know what the connection is, but maybe the journal could have told us something. And I don’t know what we’re dealing with—a serial killer, some animal, some creature. And not knowing scares me.” She gently took Moriarty’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “But maybe we’re in a position here to be of some help. We have to try.”
When she noticed Moriarty blushing, she withdrew her hand.
Smiling shyly, Moriarty moved to the keyboard.
“Here goes,” he said.
Margo paced the room as Moriarty worked. “Any luck?” she asked finally, moving closer to the terminal.
“Don’t know yet,” said Moriarty, squinting at the screen and typing commands. “I’ve got the tape, but the protocol’s messed up or something, the CRC checks are failing. We may get garbled data, if we get anything. I’m going in the back door, so to speak, hoping to avoid attention. The seek rate is really slow this way.”
Then the keytaps stopped. “Margo,” Moriarty said quietly. “I’ve got it.”
The screen filled. [194]
**DETAIL LISTING**
Item: 1989-2006.2
###################################
Removed By: Rickman, L. 53210
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 3/15/95
Removal To: Personal supervision
Reason:
Return Date:
###################################
Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
RemLW/@;oval Date: 10/1/90
Remov~DS*-~@2e34 5WIFU
=++ET2 34 h34!~
DB ERROR
=:?
“Hell!” Moriarty exclaimed. “I was afraid of that. It’s been partially overwritten, corrupted. See that? It just trails off into garbage.”
“Yes, but look!” Margo said excitedly.
Moriarty examined the screen. “The journal was removed by Mrs. Rickman two weeks ago, with Dr. Cuthbert’s permission. No return date.”
Margo snorted. “Cuthbert said the journal had been lost.”
“So why was this record deleted? And by whom?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, Lord, I have to release my lock on the tape before somebody notices us.” His fingers danced over the keys.
“George,” Margo said. “Do you know what this means? They took the journal out of the crates before [195] the killings started. Around the time Cuthbert had the crates put in the Secure Area. Now they’re concealing evidence from the police. Why?”
Moriarty frowned. “You’re starting to sound like Smithback,” he said. “There could be a thousand explanations.”
