Free Brain Storm by Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy Page A

if it proved to be as eventful as this day, well then, Curt Newton, physical cryptologist extraordi-naire, would sit back and enjoy the toboggan ride.
    Though he'd probably have to go on some of those new antidepressant drugs or something. What was that expression his father liked to use? High as a kite on goofballs? That's what Curt Newton felt like right now.
    He got off the elevator on the top floor. This corridor, as well as all the others at the New Jersey complex, was deserted. Everyone not connected with the Dynamic Interface System program had gone home at five. They would, therefore, have to wait until eight o'clock the next morning to find out that the project was finished.
    Successfully.
    Well, not finished exactly. That was overstating it.
    It would take some time to work out all of the reverse-engineering procedures.
    But they were already working on it, and Newton had already made more breakthroughs in a single day than he had in five years on this project.
    And he owed it all to one remarkable, remarkable man.
    There was a light coming from the foyer of one of the executive offices down the far end of the corridor. Newton steered for it.
    Of course, there was one other man whom he would have to thank. Reluctantly. Lothar Holz was a rather dim bulb, not given much to understanding the complex nuances of scientific thought. Newton suspected it was because the man didn't much care for the whole endeavor in itself. But whatever his motivations, Holz had come through with the money.
    And without the money, Curt Newton wouldn't be poised on the verge of introducing a technology that would revolutionize the world for centuries to come.
    When he rounded the corner into the foyer that was Holz's outer office, Newton was mildly surprised to find someone sitting in one of the alumi-num

    -and-cloth chairs set against the inner wall. The man looked up with unblinking blue eyes when Newton entered from the corridor.
    It was the young blond man who always seemed to hover near Holz. In the cafeteria. At the lab. In the bank this morning. And outside Holz's office at 12:30 a.m.
    In spite of the lateness of the hour, he didn't appear to be tired.
    Newton didn't even know the young man's name.
    Some at the lab speculated that the young man, who had no discernible job at PlattDeutsche, was kept on retainer as a perpetual "escort." Newton had decided to quash any speculation of this nature early on. As long as Holz continued to funnel funds into the interface project, he could have buggered a rabid skunk for all Curt Newton cared.
    The blond man rose wordlessly at Newton's approach. He swung open the office door labeled Lothar Holz: Vice President, Research And Development, and stepped back. Once Newton was ushered inside, the door was pulled closed behind him.
    Holz was at his desk. The blinds were drawn behind him. A small lamp bathed his face in an eerie incandescent light. The distinct smell of fresh cigarette smoke clung to the interior of the office. This always surprised Newton. Holz was a man of meticulous habits, and Newton could not remember once seeing him with a cigarette in his hand. Yet it was common for his office to reek of smoke. It was strange in this day and age for a man to be so secretive about his smoking habit.
    But Newton wasn't here to discuss the man's id-iosyncrasies. He fell into the chair across from Holz, weary yet triumphant.
    He dropped the computer printouts he had carried from the lab into his lap.
    "This is an incredible piece of luck," he said, shaking his head. He couldn't refrain from beaming.
    "As you've said."
    "You can't begin to grasp the importance of this, Lothar."
    Holz regarded Newton levelly. "It is just possible I can," he said, his words tinged with sarcasm.
    "No reflection on you," Newton said, raising his hands, defensively. "It's just that..." He stopped and scooped up the papers. "With this I have so far been able to program the computers with a sixty-eight percent accuracy of