Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

Raoul shifted in the chair so that Pickover could see the screen clearly over his shoulder. “That’s … well, that’s very strange,” said Pickover. “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?” I said.

“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.”

Raoul shook his head in you-can’t-teach-people-anything disgust. Pickover went on. “But, see, whoever it was typed in 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 said.

“That’s right,” said Pickover, nodding. “My passphrase ends with the word ‘Forsytes.’ ”

Raoul 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 line is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight—an upper middle-class family in full plumage.’ Nothing about the time they ate, or how many courses they had.”

Raoul pointed at the text on screen, as if it had to be the correct version. “Are you sure?” he said.

“Of course!” said Pickover. “Galsworthy’s public domain; you can do a search online and see for yourself.”

I frowned. “No one but you knows your passphrase, right?”

Pickover nodded vigorously. “I live alone, and I don’t have many friends; I’m a quiet sort. There’s no one I’ve ever told, and no one who could have ever overheard me saying it, or seen me typing it in.”

“Somebody found it out,” said Raoul.

Pickover looked at me, then down at Raoul. “I think …” he said, beginning slowly, giving me a chance to stop him, I guess, before he said too much. But I let him go on. “I think that the information was extracted from a scan of my mind made by NewYou.”

Raoul crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Impossible.”

“What?” said Pickover, and “Why?” said I.

“Can’t be done,” said Raoul. “We know how to copy the vast array of interconnections that make up a human mind, and we know how to reinstantiate those connections in an artificial substrate. But we don’t know how to decode them; nobody does. There’s simply no way to sift through a digital copy of a mind and extract specific data.”

Damn! If Raoul was right—and he always was in computing matters— then all this business with Pickover was a red herring. There probably was no bootleg scan of his mind; despite his protestations of being careful, someone likely had just overheard his passphrase, and decided to go spelunking through his files. While I was wasting time on this, Joshua Wilkins was doubtless slipping further out of my grasp.

Still, it was worth continuing this line of investigation for a few minutes more. “Any sign of where the access attempt was made ?” I asked Raoul.

He shook his head. “No. Whoever did it knew what they were doing; they covered their tracks well. The attempt came over an outside line— that’s all I can tell for sure.”

I nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Raoul. Appreciate your help.”

Raoul got up. “My pleasure. Now, how ’bout that drink.”

I opened my mouth to say yes, but then it hit me—what Wilkins must be doing. “Umm, later, okay? I’ve—I’ve got some more things to take care of here.”

Raoul frowned; he’d clearly hoped to collect his booze immediately. But I started maneuvering him toward the door. “Thanks for your help, Raoul. I really appreciate it.”

“Um, sure, Alex,” he said. He was obviously aware he was being given the bum’s rush, but he wasn’t fighting it too much. “Anytime.”

“Yes, thank you awfully, Mr. Santos,” said Pickover.

“No problem. If—”

“See you later, Raoul,” I said, opening the door for him. “Thanks so much.” I tipped my nonexistent hat at him.

Raoul shrugged, clearly aware that something was up, but not motivated sufficiently to find out what. He went through the door, and I hit the button that caused it to slide shut behind him. As soon as it was closed, I put an arm around Pickover’s shoulders, and propelled him back to the computer. I pointed at the line Raoul had highlighted on the screen, and read the ending of it aloud: “ ‘… dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.’ ”