sureness of a touch-typist. He had long slender fingers, spoilt only by the fact that he bit his nails. “I have a little program here that will keep bombarding it with seven-letter words until we hit the right one. All I have to do now is let it get to work.”
He leant back in his chair, looking smug and reaching for his coffee cup. We talked about something and nothing while his program ran, making the little computer buzz and hum to itself. Sam might have sounded confident, but I noticed he kept one eye on the screen all the time.
“Thanks for taking so much trouble over this,” I said.
He waved a negligent hand. “No sweat. Besides, this is kiddies' stuff, really.”
“I'm sorry if the challenge isn't up to your usual standard. What do you normally do for laughs – hack your way into the Bank of England?” I said in a sarky voice.
He grinned in such a way that I realised he probably did.
“So, where did you get it, this password program?” I asked.
“All my own work,” he admitted modestly.
“You ought to market it.”
He snorted into his cup as he took another slug of coffee. “Yeah, and the profits might just pay enough to keep me one step ahead of the serious fraud squad. Think about it, Charlie, if you need to get into a password-protected computer without the password, you're not exactly on the level, now are you?”
I raised my eyebrows, but was saved from having to think of a reply by the computer itself, which had stopped making noises and was displaying a single seven-letter word on the screen.
“Ah-ha, here we are. Bacchus,” Sam read. “Bacchus? Mean anything to you?”
I trawled through my mental vocabulary and shook my head. “Not a thing.”
“OK, pick a new seven-letter word and I'll over-write it.”
“Pervert,” I said immediately, almost without thinking. He raised his eyebrows, but typed it in anyway. “OK, now let's see just what he's got on here that he didn't want us to see. Hmm, that's odd.”
“What?” I asked.
“There's nothing here to protect,” Sam said. “Of course, he could just have been trying to make life awkward for your pal.”
“What are all those?” There seemed to be a list of files available.
“They're just the system files, the ones that tell this lump of plastic that it's a computer to start off with,” he explained. “I meant there are no actual data files on here. He must have wiped them all off before he handed the machine over.”
“That's a pity,” I said. It could either mean that the guy was perfectly legit, and just didn't want Terry reading his private correspondence, or it could mean that he didn't want anyone to be able to prove the machine had originally belonged to someone else – the New Adelphi Club, for instance.
“Of course,” Sam said slowly, “It just so happens that I can probably retrieve whatever it is that was on there.” I realised by his smug expression that he'd been playing me along, waiting to see my reaction.
“Go on,” I said.
“I've got a utilities program that can un-delete files. I can even retrieve data off floppy disks that have been re-formatted.”
This didn't mean too much to me, but it was obviously an impressive feat. I looked impressed. I was about to thank him for his trouble, but it was clear he loved the challenge of this sort of thing, so I just said, “I just hope when you've done all this there's something interesting on the damn machine to read.”
He drained his coffee cup and stood up. “If you're not busy I'll nip round tomorrow after work and we'll see what we can come up with,” he suggested with studied casualness.
“I'm teaching tomorrow evening, and I've got an interview for a new job sometime this week,” I improvised quickly, “but Wednesday would be OK.” I didn't like the light that had come on in his eyes and I really didn't want the guy getting ideas
He leant back in his chair, looking smug and reaching for his coffee cup. We talked about something and nothing while his program ran, making the little computer buzz and hum to itself. Sam might have sounded confident, but I noticed he kept one eye on the screen all the time.
“Thanks for taking so much trouble over this,” I said.
He waved a negligent hand. “No sweat. Besides, this is kiddies' stuff, really.”
“I'm sorry if the challenge isn't up to your usual standard. What do you normally do for laughs – hack your way into the Bank of England?” I said in a sarky voice.
He grinned in such a way that I realised he probably did.
“So, where did you get it, this password program?” I asked.
“All my own work,” he admitted modestly.
“You ought to market it.”
He snorted into his cup as he took another slug of coffee. “Yeah, and the profits might just pay enough to keep me one step ahead of the serious fraud squad. Think about it, Charlie, if you need to get into a password-protected computer without the password, you're not exactly on the level, now are you?”
I raised my eyebrows, but was saved from having to think of a reply by the computer itself, which had stopped making noises and was displaying a single seven-letter word on the screen.
“Ah-ha, here we are. Bacchus,” Sam read. “Bacchus? Mean anything to you?”
I trawled through my mental vocabulary and shook my head. “Not a thing.”
“OK, pick a new seven-letter word and I'll over-write it.”
“Pervert,” I said immediately, almost without thinking. He raised his eyebrows, but typed it in anyway. “OK, now let's see just what he's got on here that he didn't want us to see. Hmm, that's odd.”
“What?” I asked.
“There's nothing here to protect,” Sam said. “Of course, he could just have been trying to make life awkward for your pal.”
“What are all those?” There seemed to be a list of files available.
“They're just the system files, the ones that tell this lump of plastic that it's a computer to start off with,” he explained. “I meant there are no actual data files on here. He must have wiped them all off before he handed the machine over.”
“That's a pity,” I said. It could either mean that the guy was perfectly legit, and just didn't want Terry reading his private correspondence, or it could mean that he didn't want anyone to be able to prove the machine had originally belonged to someone else – the New Adelphi Club, for instance.
“Of course,” Sam said slowly, “It just so happens that I can probably retrieve whatever it is that was on there.” I realised by his smug expression that he'd been playing me along, waiting to see my reaction.
“Go on,” I said.
“I've got a utilities program that can un-delete files. I can even retrieve data off floppy disks that have been re-formatted.”
This didn't mean too much to me, but it was obviously an impressive feat. I looked impressed. I was about to thank him for his trouble, but it was clear he loved the challenge of this sort of thing, so I just said, “I just hope when you've done all this there's something interesting on the damn machine to read.”
He drained his coffee cup and stood up. “If you're not busy I'll nip round tomorrow after work and we'll see what we can come up with,” he suggested with studied casualness.
“I'm teaching tomorrow evening, and I've got an interview for a new job sometime this week,” I improvised quickly, “but Wednesday would be OK.” I didn't like the light that had come on in his eyes and I really didn't want the guy getting ideas
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