Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  She entered another command, and six names flashed on the screen. “Well, let's start with the simplest approach. How long has it been since the Roosevelt returned to Earth?”

  “Eleven weeks, I think,” said Becker. “Maybe twelve.”

  Jaimie punched the information in.

  “Okay, Counselor,” she announced. “We're down to two candidates. The other four have been in the hospital for more than three months.” She paused. “What else can we use?”

  “You must have Montoya's height and weight on his personnel file,” suggested Becker.

  “But not on the hospital file,” replied Jaimie. She shrugged. “Well, let's see what's wrong with them.” She hit another command. “Damn! They're both contagious. I was hoping for a pair of broken legs.”

  “What do they have?”

  “One's got Asian flu, the other's got something akin to cholera, only more exotic.”

  “Let's hope it's the one with the flu,” said Becker.

  Suddenly Jaimie began running her fingers over the keyboard.

  “What is it?”

  “Damned clever system,” she announced. “Someone just found out that we're online.”

  She hit two more keys, then sat back and smiled at her handiwork as a long column of words appeared on the screen:

  WHIRLAWAY

  PENSIVE

  PILOT JET

  MIDDLEGROUND

  STAR DARK

  NEEDLES

  LEE TOMY

  DECIDEDLY

  DEBONAIR LUCKY

  IMAGE DANCER'S

  COMMANDER DUST

  CANNONADE

  SLEW SEATTLE

  RISK GENUINE

  HALO'S SUNNY

  FERDINAND

  “What's that all about?” asked Becker, as 26 more names scrolled down the screen.

  “Code.”

  “Code? What kind of code?”

  Jaimie grinned. “Damned if I know. It's an old standby I programmed a couple of years ago: the computer lists every third Kentucky Derby winner starting in 1941, and if the name has two words it lists them in reverse order.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Nothing,” answered Jaimie. “But if they were expecting a code, now they've got one. I always have this ready to insert, just in case I get discovered infiltrating a system. And it's got a beautiful twist, too—I listed Dancer's Image as the 1966 Derby winner, but he was disqualified; the real winner was Forward Pass. That'll drive ’em crazy, trying to figure out what the list represents, and especially why he's on it.”

  “How will they know this wasn't meant for Montoya?”

  “They won't, initially—but they can either take his word for it or give him a shot of sodium-p or scapalomine or some other truth serum, and they'll know that he doesn't have any idea what the hell it's about. That's the beauty of having five other guys in hiding there: not only won't they dope out the code, but if even one of those guys is a spy—and probably most of ’em are—no one'll ever know we were looking for Montoya.”

  Becker stared at the slight black woman for a long moment.

  “Jaimie,” he said at last, “you have qualities.”

  “Thank you for noticing.”

  “How the hell did you get to be so good with a computer?”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded.

  “I was a very bright girl,” she said. “I still am, for that matter.”

  “I know.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Well, sexual equality notwithstanding, most boys are afraid of bright girls, and most men are afraid of bright women—which means that I've always had a lot of time on my hands. Somewhere along the way I found out that I was interested in computers, and the rest, like they say, is history.”

  “Criminal history, for the most part,” Becker added dryly.

  “Even a computer's no fun without a challenge.” Suddenly she smiled at him. “Want me to transfer a quick two million or so to your Swiss account? Chase Manhattan'll never miss it.”

  “I don't have a Swiss account.”

  “You can borrow one of mine.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She sighed. “Just as well. I really ought to leave Chase alone for a while.”

  “I'm glad you're on my side,” he said earnestly.

  “You could do worse,” she agreed.

  “Modest, too,” said Becker. He returned to his chair. “Well, now that they've spotted you, I assume they'll be waiting for you to sneak back in, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Can you get past them anyway?”

  “Probably, but not without their knowing it.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Now we get a good night's sleep and fly to Chicago tomorrow to see what kind of security they've really got before we break in,” replied Jaimie. “Separate planes, of course, just in case they're watching you.”

  “I suppose so,” said Becker wearily. “I can't believe that I'm actually contemplating breaking into a heavily-guarded military installation.”

  “Relax and have another drink, Counselor,” said Jaimie with a reassuring smile. “That's what you've got me for.” She paused. “Besides, it's not an installation. It's a hospital.”

  “Whatever we call it, getting past armed guards isn't quite the same thing as breaking into a computer.”

  “Actually, it's easier.”

  “Sure it is,” replied Becker sarcastically.

  “Did I ever tell you that I used to be a cat burglar?” said Jaimie innocently.

  7.

  Becker woke up at 6:00 A.M., shaved and showered, and drove to the airport. While waiting for his flight, he phoned ahead and reserved a single room at the suburban motel he and Jaimie had selected the previous evening.

  Then he called Karla.

  “Yes, Mr. Becker?” she said as soon as she recognized his face on the vidphone screen.

  “Just called to tell you that I'm not going to be in the office today,” he said.

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “You can't,” he said. “Save all my messages, and I'll answer them when I come in tomorrow.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” she asked solicitously.

  “I'm fine.” He forced a guilty smile to his face. “There isn't likely to be any movement on the Jennings case, so I'm going to get in one last round of golf before the trial begins.”

  “Then you'll be at your country club?”

  “No. I'm joining a friend at his club. See you tomorrow.”

  He broke the connection before she could say anything more, feeling rather proud of his cover story. There were more than forty private country clubs in the area, and there was every possibility that he'd be back from Chicago before anyone tapping his office line had checked them all out.

  He walked around the airport for half an hour, trying without success to spot someone, anyone, who might be following him. Finally his flight was called for boarding, and he proceeded immediately to the gate. He was among the first to be seated, and he scrutinized each passenger that entered, wondering which of them had business in Chicago and which had business only with him. There was one, a small, wiry man dressed in a well-tailored brown suit, who met his gaze for a moment, smiled at him, and then proceeded to the back of the cabin. Another, built like an athlete, passed him so quickly that Becker was sure he was hiding something. Finally a young blond man sat down next to him, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. He snored gently for the entire trip, his hands clasped tightly around a magazine featuring three of the newest superstar singers on the cover.

  When Becker landed in Chicago, he immediately summoned a cab and spent the next half hour taking it out to the Inn By The Lake, a sprawling, half-century-old Lake Forest hostelry that had been added onto at least three times and somewhere along the way had given up all hope of ever appearing to be a unified structure. His own room—considerably more elegant than it appeared from the outside—was on a bluff overlooking a b
road expanse of Lake Michigan beachfront. He tossed his suitcase onto the bed, rinsed his face, memorized the combination to his door, and walked out into the corridor, which was lined with old English sporting prints. It conveyed him to the lobby, where he found the oak-paneled lounge and entered it.

  There were two dowagers sitting at a table by the window, each with a pair of binoculars slung over the arms of their chairs, avidly comparing notes and drawings of birds they had seen during their morning walk.

  A whiskey salesman, his case full of bottles, was standing at the bar, attempting to interest the bored bartender in his wares, while the bartender kept explaining patiently that he really had to speak to the day manager, who was on sick leave and wouldn't be back for another three or four days.

  The only other patron was a small, wiry black woman, clad in an expensive-looking green-and-white dress. Jaimie had her nose buried in a Chicago newspaper, and didn't even give him a glance as he walked past her and sat down a few tables away.

  He lit a small cigar, looked around for an ashtray, found one on the next table, reached over, and appropriated it. The lone waitress managed to tear herself away from the game show on the holovision long enough to approach Becker and ask what he wanted.

  “Whatever that young lady is drinking,” he replied, gesturing toward Jaimie. “And bring her another one, and put it on my bill.”

  The waitress nodded, and a moment later presented Jaimie with her drink. She whispered something to the waitress, who indicated Becker, and she stood up and brought her drink over to his table.

  “Thank you very much, whoever you are,” she said with a smile.

  “Smith,” he replied, half-rising. “John Smith.”

  “I hope you showed a little more creativity at the hotel desk,” she said softly.

  “What's wrong with Smith?”

  “You've been dealing with the criminal elements in our society for years,” she said. “Hasn't anything rubbed off?”

  “I was trained as a lawyer, not a spy,” he responded irritably. “Are you sure this charade is necessary?”

  “Are you sure it isn't?” she shot back. “Can you swear that you weren't followed?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then let's get down to business.”

  “Fine.” He paused uneasily. “Do you have to smile at me like that?”

  “Yes. And if you can't smile back, at least try to produce something resembling a lean and hungry look. You're supposed to be a lonely guy who's talking his way into my bedroom.”

  “I'll do my best,” he said.

  “Good. And loosen up. We're not gonna get to the naval hospital for at least two hours.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Because we have to sneak off to my room to use my computer, and unless you want your sexual reputation to suffer, we're gonna have to spend at least ninety minutes there.”

  “What do I care about my sexual reputation in Lake Forest, Illinois?”

  “Because if we have to stay an extra day or two, I'd be more likely to invite you back to my room again if you didn't break any track records the first time.”

  He nodded. “You win. Why do I get the feeling you've done this before?” he asked wryly.

  “I haven't,” she replied. Suddenly she grinned. “But I have a duplicitous nature.”

  “I'll vouch for that,” he said. “Have we talked long enough, do you think?”

  She shook her head. “I'm not that easy, Counselor. Order us each another drink, and tell me a couple of dirty jokes. That ought to loosen you up and get you laughing.”

  “My store of dirty jokes is extremely limited, I warn you.”

  Fifteen minutes later she decided that they had put on a good enough show, and they left the bar and headed off to her room, which was much smaller and less elaborate than his.

  “Where's your computer?” he asked, looking around the neat, empty room.

  “Right here,” she said, patting her purse. She withdrew a small leather packet, about four inches on a side and half an inch thick, and opened it up.

  “There's no keyboard,” he noted.

  “You're so observant, Counselor,” she said dryly. “I brought this little baby because it doesn't set off any alarms at the airport. Ever since that hijacking in Buenos Aires two years ago, they haven't been allowing even laptops on airplanes.”

  “How does it work?” he asked.

  “You'll see,” she replied. “Wheel the holovision over, will you, please?”

  While he was following her instructions, she disconnected the vidphone on the night table, did something to its interior with a small pin, attached the wire to her tiny computer, and pulled another wire out of her purse, which she used to connect the computer to the phone.

  “Thanks,” she said when she noticed Becker standing beside her. “Disconnect the cable in the back of the set, please.”

  He did so, and let it drop to the floor.

  She pulled another wire out of her purse. “Now take this and connect it where the cable was.”

  While he worked on his end, she worked on hers, attaching it to the computer.

  “Well, so much for the preliminaries, Counselor,” she announced a moment later. “We're ready to roll.”

  “Call me Max,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don't want you to get in the habit of calling me Counselor once we get inside the hospital.”

  “Then why don't I call you John, since that's the name you're using?”

  “Because I probably won't respond to it,” he answered. “I'm used to Max.”

  “Then you shouldn't have used John Smith.”

  “I can be Max Smith when we go to the hospital.”

  “You're probably better off being Max Becker, since you're wearing a military uniform that can probably be traced to him,” she replied.

  “I've packed a suit,” he noted.

  “The uniform will probably do you more good. First, though,” she continued, pressing a button on the computer that brought the holo screen to life, “we'd better find out if you can get into the hospital under any name at all.”

  She picked up the vidphone and keyed the front desk.

  “Yes?” said the clerk a moment later.

  “I've had a very tiring trip,” she said, “and I'm going to take a nap. Please give me a wake-up call at six this evening.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  She hung up the phone. “I hope he got a good look at you, Max.”

  “Why?”

  “For the money this joint charges, they should know enough to be discreet, which means they won't bother us with maid service or anything else for a few hours.”

  “They'll know you're using the phone,” he replied. “It'll show up on the hotel's switchboard.”

  She look at him, smiling and shaking her head. “Sweet, innocent child.”

  He sighed. “You have a way around that, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She pressed two buttons on the computer, then dialed a number on the vidphone. Another button was pressed, she dialed again, there was a wait of perhaps ten seconds, and suddenly the holovision screen came completely to life, displaying a complex mathematical readout that was incomprehensible to Becker.

  “Nothing to it,” Jaimie announced.

  “What did you do?”

  “I had the pay phone in the ladies’ room make our call for us,” she replied. “It bypasses the hotel switchboard that way.”

  “You can do that?” he asked incredulously.

  “I just did.”

  “What if someone tries to use it?”

  “I rigged it so they won't get a dial tone, and eventually they'll go use some other phone. By the time they get a repairman out here to see what's wrong, I'll be disconnected and it'll be working fine again.”

  “And what's all this stuff on the holo screen?”

  “Pay no attention to it,” she said. “I haven't got a keyboard, so we'r
e going to talk English to it.”

  “I thought you told me keyboards were better than speaking.”

  “True,” she agreed. “But not getting stopped at the airport is even better than keyboards.” She paused. “Now, if you're ready to be quiet, we can get started.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I mean it, Max. You say one word and you can screw up the works. I have to speak very precisely to this machine, and it can't differentiate between your voice and mine.”

  “I understand.”

  She turned back to the screen. “Computer, access all patient records.”

  “Accessed,” said a metallic voice emanating from the holovision set.

  “Display.”

  “Displayed,” was the response, as some six hundred names scrolled down the screen.

  “Display all data on patients Jones and Benares.”

  “Displayed,” replied the voice, as two medical biographies appeared on the screen.

  “Go to pause mode.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  She turned to Becker. “You can speak now. As you can see, Jones is the one with the cholera, and Benares has the flu.”

  “And Montoya is definitely one of the two?”

  “Right.” She paused. “Do you see anything in the medical biographies that would lead you to choose one over the other?”

  Becker studied the screen. “No,” he said at last. “Montoya is an Hispanic name, but both of these guys have black hair and dark eyes. Is there any way you can call up their prior medical histories? If one of them was in the hospital while we know the other was aboard the Roosevelt, then we've got our man.”

  “Computer?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Display all previous medical histories of patients Jones and Benares.”

  Further data was added, but neither man had been treated for any illness during the Roosevelt's most recent deep space mission.

  Becker signaled her that he wished to ask another question.

  “Go to pause mode,” she commanded.

  “Acknowledged.”

  “What is it, Max?”

  “Nobody knew I was interested in Montoya until yesterday morning. Can you see if there's been any change in their status in the past 30 hours—new name, armed guard, transfer of rooms, anything like that?”