it was joined together in a Möbius strip. Countless cilia ran along the edges of the ribbon—I was stunned to see that such fine detail had been preserved—and the strip was perforated at intervals by diamond-shaped openings with serrated edges.
I looked at Pickover, who was chuffed, to use the word he himself might have, to show off his specimens, and I half listened as he went on about their incredible scientific value. But all I could think about was how much money they must be worth—and the fact that there were countless more like them out there of this same quality.
When Juan finally buzzed from the lobby, Rory covered his specimens with cloth sheets. The elevator was out of order, but that was no problem in this gravity; Juan wasn’t breathing hard when he reached the apartment door.
“Juan Santos,” I said, as he came in, “this is Rory Pickover. Juan here is the best computer expert we’ve got in New Klondike. And Dr. Pickover is a paleontologist.”
Juan dipped his broad forehead toward 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 one chair for me; he now busied himself doing the same with another, this one right in front of his computer, a silver-and-blue cube about the size of a grapefruit.
“What’s up, Alex?” asked Juan, indicating Pickover with a movement of his head. “New client?”
“Yeah. Dr. Pickover’s computer files have been looked at by some unauthorized individual. We’re wondering if you could tell us where the access attempt was made from.”
“You’ll owe me a nice round of drinks at The Bent Chisel,” said Juan.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll put it on my tab.”
Juan smiled and stretched his arms out in front of him, fingers interlocked, and cracked his knuckles, like a safecracker preparing to get down to work. Then he took the now-clean seat in front of Pickover’s computer cube, tilted the nearby monitor up a bit, pulled a keyboard into place, and began to type. “How do you lock your files?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the monitor.
“A verbal passphrase,” said Pickover.
“Anybody besides you know it?”
“No.”
“And it’s not written down anywhere?”
“No, well . . . not as such.”
Juan turned his head, looking up at Pickover. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a line from a book. If I ever forget the exact wording, I can always look it up.”
Juan 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—”
Juan interrupted. “—that your passphrase is ‘Those privileged to be present—’”
I saw Pickover’s artificial jaw drop. “My God. How did you know that?”
Juan 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 Juan. “But the comm program has a buffer; it’s in there. Look.”
Juan shifted in the chair so that Pickover could see the screen clearly over his shoulder. “That’s . . . well, that’s very strange,” Pickover said.
“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?”
“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.”
Juan shook his head in you-can’t-teach-people-anything disgust. Pickover went on. “But, see, whoever it was typed 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 asked.
“That’s right,” said Pickover, nodding. “My passphrase ends with the word ‘Forsytes.’”
Juan 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