Bova, Ben - Cyberbooks

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CYBERBOOKS

by BEN BOVA

MURDER ONE

The first murder took place in a driving April rainstorm, at the corner of

Twenty-first Street and Gramercy Park West.

Mrs. Agatha Marple, eighty-three years of age, came tottering uncertainly down

the brownstone steps of her town house, the wind tugging at her ancient red

umbrella. She had telephoned for a taxi to take her downtown to meet her

nephew for lunch, as she had every Monday afternoon for the past fourteen

years.

The Yellow Cab was waiting at the curb, its driver imperturbably watching the

old lady struggle with the wind and her umbrella from the dry comfort of his

armored seat behind the bulletproof partition that separated him from the

potential homicidal maniacs who were his customers. The meter was humming to

itself, a sound that counterbalanced nicely the drumming of rain on the cab's

roof; the fare was already well past ten dollars. He had punched the

destination into the cab's guidance computer: Webb Press, just off Washington

Square. A lousy five-minute drive; the computer, estimating the traffic at

this time of day and the weather conditions, predicted the fare would be no

more than forty-nine fifty.

Briefly he thought about taking the old bat for the scenic tour along the

river; plenty of traffic there to slow them down and run up the meter. Manny

at the garage had bypassed the automated alarm systems in all the cab's

meters, so the fares never knew when the drivers deviated from the computer's

optimum guidance calculations. But this old bitch was too smart for that; she

would refuse to pay and insist on complaining to the hack bureau on the two-

way. He had driven her before, and she was no fool, despite her age. She was a

lousy tipper, too.

She finally got to the cab and tried to close the umbrella and open the door

at the same time. The driver grinned to himself. One of his little revenges on

the human race: keep the doors locked until after they try to get in. They

break their fingernails, at least. One guy sprained his wrist so bad he had to

go to the hospital.

Finally the cabbie pecked the touchpad that unlocked the right rear door. It

flew open and nearly knocked the old broad on her backside. A gust of wet wind

flapped her gray old raincoat.

"Hey, c'mon, you're gettin' rain inside my cab," the driver hollered into his

intercom microphone.

Before the old lady could reply, a man in a dark blue trenchcoat and matching

fedora pulled down low over his face splashed through the curbside puddles and

grabbed for the door.

"I'm in a hurry," he muttered, trying to push the old woman out of the taxi's

doorway.

"How dare you!" cried Mrs. Marple, with righteous anger.

"Go find a garbage can to pick in," snarled the man, and he twisted Mrs.

Marple's hand off the door handle.

She yelped with pain, then swatted at the man with her umbrella,

ineffectually. The man blocked her feeble swing, yanked the umbrella out of

her grasp, and knocked her to the pavement. She lay there in a puddle, rain

pelting her, gasping for breath.

The man raised her red umbrella high over his head, grasping it in both his

gloved hands. The old woman's eyes went wide, her mouth opened to scream but

no sound came out. Then the man drove the umbrella smashingly into her chest

like someone would pound a stake through a vampire's heart.

The old lady twitched once and then lay still, the umbrella sticking out of

her withered chest like a sword. The man looked down at her, nodded once as if

satisfied with his work, and then stalked away into the gray windswept rain.

True to the finest traditions of New York's hack drivers, the cabbie put his

taxi in gear and drove away, leaving the old woman dead on the sidewalk. He

never said a word about the incident to anyone.

ONE

IT was a Hemingway kind of day: clean and bright and fine, sky achingly blue,

sun warm enough to make a man sweat. A good day for facing the bulls or

hunting rhino.

Carl Lewis was doing neither. In the air-conditioned comfort of the Amtrak

Levitrain, he was fast asleep and dreaming of books that sang to their

readers.

The noise of the train plunging into a long, dark tunnel startled him from his

drowse. He had begun the ride that morning in Boston feeling excited, eager.

But as the train glided almost silently along the New England countryside,

levitated on its magnetic guideway, the warm sunshine of May streaming through

the coach's window combined with the slight swaying motion almost

hypnotically. Carl dozed off, only to be startled awake by the sudden roar of

entering the tunnel.

His ears popped. The ride had seemed dreamily slow when it started, but now

that he was actually approaching Penn Station it suddenly felt as if things

were happening too fast. Carl felt a faint inner unease, a mounting

nervousness, butterflies trembling in his middle. He put it down to the

excitement of starting a new job, maybe a whole new career.

Now, as the train roared through the dark tunnel and his ears hurt with the

change in air pressure, Carl realized that what he felt was not mere

excitement. It was apprehension. Anxiety. Damned close to outright fear. He

stared at the reflection of his face in the train window: clear of eye, firm

of jaw, sandy hair neatly combed, crisp new shirt with its blue MIT necktie

painted down its front, proper tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches. He

looked exactly as a brilliant young software composer should look. Yet he felt

like a scared little kid.

The darkness of the tunnel changed abruptly to the glaring lights of the

station. The train glided toward a crowded platform, then screeched

horrifyingly down the last few hundred yards of its journey on old-fashioned

steel wheels that struck blazing sparks against old-fashioned steel rails. A

lurch, a blinking of the light strips along the ceiling, and the train came to

a halt.

With the hesitancy known only to New Englanders visiting Manhattan for the

first time, Carl Lewis slid his garment bag from the rack over his seat and

swung his courier case onto his shoulder. The other passengers pushed past

him, muttering and grumbling their way off the train. They shoved Carl this

way and that until he felt like a tumbleweed caught in a cattle stampede.

Welcome to New York, he said to himself as the stream of detraining passengers

dumped him impersonally, indignantly, demeaningly, on the concrete platform.

The station was so big that Carl felt as if he had shrunk to the size of an

insect. People elbowed and stamped their way through the throngs milling

around; the huge cavern buzzed like a beehive. Carl felt tension in the air,

the supercharged crackling high-stress electricity of the Big Apple.

Panhandlers in their traditional grubby rags shambled along, each of them

displaying the official city begging permit badge. Grimy bag ladies screamed

insults at the empty air. Teenaged thugs in military fatigues eyed the crowds

like predators looking for easy prey. Religious zealots in saffron robes, in

severe black suits and string ties, even in mock space suits complete with

bubble helmets, sought alms and converts. Mostly alms. Police robots stood

immobile, like fat little blue fireplugs, while the tides of noisy, smelly,

angry, scampering humanity flowed in every direction at once. The noise was a

bedlam of a million individual voices acting out their private dramas. The

station crackled with fierce, hostile anxiety.

Carl took a deep breath, clutched his garment bag tighter, and clamped his arm

closely over the courier case hanging from his shoulder. He avoided other

people's eyes almost as well as a native Manhattanite, and threaded his way

through the throngs toward the taxi stand outside, successfully evading the

evangelists, the beggars, the would-be muggers, and the flowing tide of

perfectly ordinary citizens who would knock him down and mash him flat under

their scurrying shoes if he so much as missed a single step.

There were no cabs, only a curbside line of complaining jostling men and women

waiting for taxis. A robot dispatcher, not unlike the robot cops inside the

station, stood impassively at the head of the line. While the police robots

were blue, the taxi dispatcher's aluminum skin was anodized yellow, faded and

chipped, spattered here and there with mud and other substances Carl preferred

not to think about.

Every few minutes a taxi swerved around the corner on two wheels and pulled up

to the dispatcher's post with a squeal of brakes. One person would get in and

the line would inch forward. Finally Carl was at the head of the line.

"I beg your pardon, sir. Are you going uptown or downtown?" asked the man

behind Carl.

"Uh, uptown-no, downtown." Carl had to think about Manhattan's geography.

"Excellent! Would you mind if I shared a cab with you? I'm late for an

important appointment. I'll pay the entire fare."

The man was tiny, much shorter than Carl, and quite slim. He was the kind of

delicate middle-aged man for whom the word dapper had been coined. He wore a

conservative silver-gray business suit; the tie painted down the front of his

shirt looked hand done and expensive. He was carrying a blue trenchcoat over

one arm despite the gloriously sunny spring morning. Silver-gray hair clipped

short, a toothy smile that seemed a bit forced on his round, wrinkled face.

Prominent ears, watery brownish eyes. He appeared harmless enough.

The big brown eyes were pleading silently. Carl did not know how to refuse.

"Uh, yeah, sure, okay."

"Oh, thank you! I'm late already." The man glanced at his wristwatch, then

stared down the street as if he could make a cab appear by sheer willpower.

A taxi finally did come, and they both got into it.

"Bunker Books," said Carl.

The taxi driver said something that sounded like Chinese. Or maybe Sanskrit.

"Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street," said Carl's companion, very slowly and

loudly. "The Synthoil Tower."

The cabbie muttered to himself and punched the address into his dashboard

computer. The electronic map on the taxi's control board showed a route in

bright green that seemed direct enough. Carl sat back and tried to relax.

But that was impossible. He was sitting in a Manhattan taxicab with a total

stranger who obviously knew the city well. Carl looked out the window on his

side of the cab. The sheer emotional energy level out there in the streets was

incredible. Manhattan vibrated. It hummed and crackled with tension and

excitement. It made Boston seem like a placid country retreat. Hordes of

people swarmed along the sidewalks and streamed across every intersection.

Taxis by the hundreds weaved through the traffic like an endless yellow snake,

writhing and coiling around the big blue steam buses that huffed and chuffed

along the broad avenue.

The women walking along the sidewalks were very different from Boston women.

Their clothes were the absolutely latest style, tiny hip-hugging skirts and

high leather boots, leather motorcycle jackets heavy with chains and lovingly

contrived sweat stains. Most of the women wore their biker helmets with the

visor down, a protection against mugging and smog as well as the latest

fashion. The helmets had radios built into them, Carl guessed from the small

whip antennas bobbing up from them. A few women went boldly bareheaded,

exposing their long hair and lovely faces to Carl's rapt gaze.

The cab stopped for a red light and a swarm of earnest-looking men and women

boiled out of the crowd on the sidewalk to begin washing the windshield,

polishing the grillwork, waxing the fenders. Strangely, they wore well-pressed

business suits and starched formal shirts with corporate logos on their

painted ties. The taxi driver screamed at them through his closed windows, but

they ignored his Asian imprecations and, just as the light turned green again,

affixed a green sticker to the lower left-hand corner of the windshield.

"Unemployed executives," explained Carl's companion, "thrown out of work by

automation in their offices."

"Washing cars at street corners?" Carl marvelled.

"It's a form of unemployment benefit. The city allows them to earn money this

way, rather than paying them a dole. They each get a franchise at a specific

street corner, and the cabbie must pay their charge or lose his license."

Carl shook his head in wonderment. In Boston you just stood in line all day

for a welfare check.

"Bunker Books," mused his companion. "What a coincidence."

Carl turned his attention to the gray-haired man sitting beside him.

"Imagine the statistical chance that two people standing next to one another

in line waiting for a taxi would have the same destination," the dapper older

man said.

"You're going to Bunker Books, too?" Carl could not hide his surprise.

"To the same address," said the older man. "My destination is in the same

building: the Synthoil Tower." He glanced worriedly at the gleaming gold band

of his wristwatch. "And if we don't get through this traffic I am going to be

late for a very important appointment."

The taxi driver apparently could hear their every word despite the bulletproof

partition between him and the rear seat. He hunched over his wheel, muttering

in some foreign language, and lurched the cab across an intersection despite a

clearly red traffic light and the shrill whistling of a brown-uniformed

auxiliary traffic policewoman. They swerved around an oncoming delivery truck

and scattered half a dozen pedestrians scampering across the intersection.

Carl and his companion were tossed against one another on the backseat. The

man's blue trenchcoat slid to the filthy floor of the cab with an odd thunking

sound.

"Who's your appointment with?" Carl asked, inwardly surprised at questioning a

total stranger so brazenly and with poor grammar, at that.

The older man seemed unperturbed by either gaffe as he retrieved his

trenchcoat. "Tarantula Enterprises, Limited. Among other things, Tarantula

owns Webb Press, a competitor of Bunker's, I should think."

Carl shrugged. "I don't know much about the publishing business."

"Ahh. You must be a writer."

"Nosir. I'm a software composer."

The rabbity older man made a puzzled frown. "You're in the clothing business?"

"I'm a computer engineer. I design software programs."

"Computers! That is interesting. Is Bunker revamping its inventory control

system? Or its royalty accounting system?"

With a shake of his head, Carl replied, "Something completely different."

"Oh?"

In all of Carl's many telephone conversations with his one friend at Bunker

Books a single point had been emphasized over and over. Tell no one about this

project, the woman had whispered urgently. Whispered, as though they were

standing in a crowded room rather than speaking through a scrambled, private,

secure fiberoptic link. If word about this gets out to the industry-don't say

a word to anybody!

"It's, uh, got to do with the editorial side of the business," he generalized.

"I see," said his companion, smiling toothily. "A computer program to replace

editors. Not a very difficult task, I should imagine."

Stung to his professional core, Carl replied before he could think of what he

was saying, "Nothing like that!_There've been editing programs for twenty

years, just about. Using a computer to edit manuscripts is easy. You don't

need a human being to edit a manuscript."

"So? And what you are going to do is difficult?"

"Nobody's done it before."

"But you will succeed where others have failed?"

"Nobody's even tried to do this before," Carl said, with some pride.

"I wonder what it could be?"

Carl forced himself to remain silent, despite the voice inside his head urging

him to reach into the courier case lying on the seat between them and pull

out.the marvel that he was bringing to Bunker Books. A slim case of plastic

and metal, about the size of a paperback novel. With a display screen on its

face that could show any page of any book in the history of printing. The

first prototype of the electronic book. Carl's very own invention. His

offspring, the pride of his genius.

The taxi lurched around a corner, then stopped so hard that Carl was thrown

almost against the heavy steel-and-glass partition. His companion seemed to

hold his place better, almost as if he had braced himself in advance. His

trenchcoat flopped over Carl's courier bag with a heavy thunking sound that

was lost in the squeal of the taxi's brakes.

"Synthoil Tower," announced the cab driver. "That's eightytwo even, with th'

tip."

True to his word, the dapper gray-haired man slid his credit card into the

slot in the bulletproof partition, patted Carl's arm briefly by way of

farewell, then scampered to the imposing glassand-bronze doors of the Synthoil

building. It took a few moments for Carl to gather his two bags and extricate

himself from the backseat of the taxi. The cabbie drummed his fingers on his

steering wheel impatiently. As soon as Carl was clear of the cab, the driver

pulled away from the curb, the rear door swinging shut with a heavy slam.

Carl gaped at the rapidly disappearing taxi. For a wild instant a flash of

panic surged through him. Clutching at his courier case, though, he felt the

comforting solidity of his prototype. It was still there, safely inside his

case.

So he thought. Reader's Report

Title: The Terror from Beyond Hell

Author: Sheldon Stoker

Category: Blockbuster horror

Reader: Priscilla Alice Symmonds

Synopsis: What's to synopsize? Still yet another trashy piece of horror that

will sell a million copies hardcover. Stoker is awful, but he sells books.

Recommendation: Hold our noses and buy it.

TWO

LORI Tashkajian's almond-shaped eyes were filled with tears. She was sitting

at her desk in the cubbyhole that passed for an editor's office at Bunker

Books, staring out the half window at the slowly disappearing view of the

stately Chrysler Building.

Her tiny office was awash with paper. Manuscripts lay everywhere, some of them

stacked in professional gray cartons with the printed labels of literary

agents affixed to them, others in battered cardboard boxes that had once

contained shoes or typing paper or even children's toys. Still others sat

unboxed, thick wads of paper bound by sturdy elastic bands. Everywhere. On

Lori's desk, stuffing the bookshelves along the cheap plastic partition that

divided the window and separated her cubicle from the next, strewn across the

floor between the partition and gray metal desk, piled high along the window

ledge.

One of management's strict edicts at Bunker Books was that editors were not

allowed to read on the job. "Reading is done by readers," said the faded memo

tacked to the wall above Lori's desk. "Readers are paid to read. Editors are

paid to package books that readers have read. If an editor finds it necessary

to read a manuscript, it is the editor's responsibility to do the reading on

her or his own time. Office hours are much too valuable to be wasted in

reading manuscripts."

Not that she had time for reading, anyway. Lori ignored all the piled-up

manuscripts and, sighing, watched the construction crew weld another I-beam

into the steel skeleton that was growing like Jack's beanstalk between her

window and her view of the distinctive art-deco spike of the Chrysler

Building. In another week they would blot out the view altogether. The one

beautiful thing in her daily grind was being taken away from her, inches at a

time, erased from her sight even while she watched. Coming to New York had

been a mistake. Her glamorous life in the publishing industry was a dead end;

there were no men she would consider dating more than once; and now they were

even taking the Chrysler Building away from her.

She was a strikingly comely young woman, with the finely chiselled aquiline

nose, the flaring cheekbones, the full lips, the dark almond eyes and lustrous

black hair of distant romantic desert lands. Her figure was a trifle lush for

modern New York tastes, a touch too much bosom and hips for the vassals of

Seventh Avenue and their cadaverous models. Her life was a constant struggle

against junk food. Instead of this week's fashionable biker image, which would

have made her look even more padded than she was naturally, Lori wore a simple

sweater and denim skirt.

She sighed again, deeply. There was nothing left except the novel, and no one

would publish it. Unless.

The novel. It was a work of pure art, and therefore would be totally rejected

by the editorial board. Unless she could gain a position of power for herself.

If only Carl

The desk phone chimed. Lori blinked away her tears and said softly, "Answer

answer." The command to the phone had to be given twice, as a precaution

against setting off its voice-actuated computer during the course of a normal

conversation.

"A Mr. Lewis to see you," said the phone. "He claims he has an appointment."

Whoever had programmed the communications computer had built in the hard-nosed

suspicion of the true New Yorker. Even its voice sounded nasty and nasal.

"Show him in," commanded Lori. Softly. On second thought she added, "No, wait.

I'll come out and get him."

Carl could be the answer to all her problems. He was brilliant. His invention

could propel Bunker Books to the top of the industry. And, having dated him

more than once in Boston, Lori was willing to try for more. But Carl would

never find his way through this rabbit warren of offices and corridors, Lori

told herself as she made the three steps it took to get through the only clear

path between her desk and her door. Carl could design electronic software that

made MIT professors blink with pleasured surprise, but he got lost trying to

cross the street. She hurried down the narrow corridor toward the reception

area.

Sure enough, Carl stood blinking uncertainly at the first crosshallway, trying

to figure out the computer display screen on the wall that supposedly showed

even the most obtuse visitor the precise directions to the office he or she

was seeking. True to his engineering nature, Carl was peering at the wall

fixture with its complex code of colored paths rather than asking any of the

people scurrying along the corridors.

He looked exactly as she remembered him: tall, trim, handsome in a boyish sort

of way. He carried a garment bag and a smaller one both slung over the same

shoulder, rumpling his tweed jacket unmercifully and making him look like an

ill-clothed hunchback.

"Carl! Hi!"

He looked up toward Lori, blinked, and his smile of recognition sent a thrill

through her.

"Hi yourself," he replied, just as he had in the old days when they had both

been students: he at MIT and she at Boston University.

Carl put out his right hand toward her, and Lori took it in hers. Instead of a

businesslike handshake she stepped close enough to peck at his cheek in the

traditional gushy, phony manner of the publishing industry. But the heavy bags

started to slip off Carl's shoulder and somehow wrapped themselves around her.

Lori found herself pressed against Carl, and the traditional peck became a

full, warm-blooded kiss on his lips. Definitely not phony, at least on her

part.

Somebody snickered. She heard a wolf whistle from down the hail. As they

untangled, she saw that Carl's face was red as a May Day banner. She felt

flustered herself.

"I..I'm sorry," Carl stammered, trying to straighten out the twisted shoulder

straps of his bags.

Lori smiled and said nothing. She took him by the free arm and led him back

toward her office.

"Did you bring it?" she asked as they strode down the corridor. It was barely

wide enough for the two of them to pass through side by side. Lori had to

press close to his tweed-sleeved arm.

He nodded. "It's right here."

"Wonderful."

As she pushed open the door to her cubbyhole, Lori's heart sank. It was such a

tiny office, so shabby, so sloppy with all those damned manuscripts all over

the place, schedules and cover proofs tacked to the walls. It seemed even

smaller with Carl in it; he looked like a giant wading through a sea of paper.

But he said, "Wow, you've got an office all to yourself!"

"It's a little on the small side," she replied.

"I'm still sharing that telephone booth with Thompson and two freshmen."

Lori had not the slightest doubt that Carl was being sincere. There was not a

dissembling bone in his body, she knew. That was his strength. And his

weakness. She would have to protect him from the sharks and snakes, she knew.

"You can hang your garment bag on the back of the door," Lori told him as she

picked a double armload of manuscripts off the only other chair in the office

and plopped them onto the window ledge, atop the six dozen already there. What

the hell, she thought. I can't see much out of the window now anyway.

"We don't have much time before the meeting starts," she said as she slid

behind her desk and sat down.

"Meeting?" Carl felt alarmed. "What meeting? I thought.."

"The editorial board meeting. It's mandatory for all the editors. Every

Tuesday and Thursday. Be there on time, or else. One of the silly rules around

here."

Carl muttered, "I'm going to have to show this to your entire board of

editors?"

Lori moved her shoulders in a semishrug that somehow stirred Carl's blood. He

had not seen her in nearly two years; until just now he had not realized how

much he had missed her.

"I wanted you to show it to me first," she was saying, "and then we'd go in

and show the Boss. But now it's time for the drippy meeting, and I have to

attend."

"It's my own fault," said Carl. "The train was late, and it took me longer to

get a cab than I thought it would. I should have taken an earlier train."

"Can you show me how it works? Real quick, before the meeting starts?"

"Sure." Carl took the emptied chair and unzipped his courier case. From it he

pulled a gray oblong box, about five inches by nine and less than an inch

thick. Its front was almost entirely a dark display screen. There was a row of

fingertip-sized touchpads beneath the screen.

"This is just the prototype," Carl said almost apologetically. "The production

model will be slightly smaller, around four by seven, just about the size of a

regular paperback book."

Lori nodded and reached out her hands to take the electronic book from its

inventor.

The phone chimed. "Editorial board meeting starts in one minute," said the

snappish computer voice. "All editors are required to attend."

With a sigh, Lori said, "Come on, you can show the whole editorial board."

"This'll only take a few seconds."

"I can't be late for the meeting. They count it against you when your next

salary review comes up."

"They take attendance and mark you tardy?"

"You bet!"

Stuffing his invention back in the black case and getting to his feet. Carl

said, "Sounds like kindergarten."

With a rueful smile, Lori agreed, "What do you mean, 'sounds like'?"

Twenty floors higher in the Synthoil Tower sprawled the offices of Webb Press,

a wholly owned subsidiary of Tarantula Enterprises (Ltd.). The reception area

was larger than the entire set of grubby editorial cubicles down at Bunker

Books. Sweeping picture windows looked out on the majestic panorama of lower

Manhattan: the financial district, the twin Trade Towers, the magnificent new

Disneydome that covered most of what had once been the slums and tenements of

the Lower East Side. Farther away stood the Statue of Liberty and the

sparkling harbor.

Harold D. Lapin sat patiently on one of the many deep soft leather chairs

arranged tastefully across the richly soft silk carpeting of the reception

area. His blue trenchcoat lay neatly folded across the chair's gleaming chrome

arm. Being the man he was, Lapin's interest was focused not on the stunningly

beautiful redhaired receptionist sitting behind her glass desk, microskirted

legs demurely crossed, nor even on the splendid view to be seen through the

picture windows. Rather, he studied the intricate floral pattern of the heavy

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CYBERBOOKSbyBENBOVAMURDERONEThefirstmurdertookplaceinadrivingAprilrainstorm,atthecornerofTwenty-firstStreetandGramercyParkWest.Mrs.AgathaMarple,eighty-threeyearsofage,cametotteringuncertainlydownthebrownstonestepsofhertownhouse,thewindtuggingatherancientredumbrella.Shehadtelephonedforataxitotakeherd...

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