noticed or cared. Small scams like that were hardly worth his attention; let the driver make off with a couple of bucks if it made him happy. He moved the cursor to Jeremy Schneiderâs name and punched up the file.
He stared at the tiny screen, scrolling down the file and scanning its contents. Now here was an identity which was not only complete, but which had potential for adventure in it.â¦
Jeremy Schneider. Age: 25. Birthplace: Brooklyn, New York. Occupation: communications specialist. Education: B.A. in communications, Columbia University, with a minor in space sciences. Complete birth and credit records, natch. But the most interesting part was that Schneider had recently applied to Skycorp for employment in one of its off-world operations ⦠and his application had been accepted. Here was a letter from the companyâs personnel director, Kathleen Barry, inviting Schneider down to its Cape Canaveral office for interviews. If accepted, Schneider would be enrolled in Skycorpâs six-week training program, with a possible job at Descartes Station, the lunar mining facility. The letter was only a week old; Jeremy Schneider had not yet responded.
DeWitt absently rubbed his forefinger across his chin. To be truthful, to himselfâthe only person, in fact, to whom Willard DeWitt had probably ever told the truthâthe Jeremy Schneider persona had been created as a last-ditch getaway plan. DeWitt had no genuine interest in space; the prospect of living on the Moon was as remote and unimaginable as taking up residence on Tierra del Fuego.
However, Schneiderâs identity had been expressly created for a worst-case scenario: one of Willardâs scams blowing apart so thoroughly that the only sure escape lay in getting off Earth entirely. It was the ultimate bailout; Jeremy Schneider existed for the sole purpose of extracting Willard DeWitt from the reach of the law. In that sense, it was a perfect trapdoor: The feds could literally search to the ends of the earth without finding him.
But it was also a dangerous passage. Escaping to space was not like heading for some remote island with a suitcase full of cash. The Moon was, after all, still a frontierâand DeWitt knew that frontiers were not always the kindest of places.
He gazed out the window as the cab soared through the sleek, echoing tube of the Callahan Tunnel. But, he had to admit to himself, his present situation was more perilous than anything he had encountered before. Ripping off gullible pensioners and overeager investors was not in the same league as stealing from the Alpha Beta Epsilon beer-kitty. He had gone after big game with the phony-stock scam, and that had meant taking greater risks. Although much of his system of dummy corporations and spectral credit-files was still intact in other parts of the financial communityâs computer network, the SEC might still be able to track him down if they were tenacious enough. Indeed, they might still be able to link Willard DeWitt to Peter Jurgenson.
And he still had his own face; the idea of undergoing cosmetic surgery was unnerving to him, and he viewed the prospect as a true act of desperation. Yet, on Earth, it was the face staring back at him from the cab window which might land him in prison. And the next time he went in, it wouldnât be to a minimum-security country club like New Braintree.
DeWitt pulled Kent Llewellynâs airline ticket out of his jacket pocket and stared at it. Perhaps he had subconsciously known where he was going, long before he had reached this loggerhead, when he had selected this particular ticket. Orlando was only a short drive from Cape Canaveral. By morning Kent Llewellyn would metamorphose into Jeremy Schneider, and Schneider would report to Skycorpâs Florida office for an interview with the hiring office. And in six weeks â¦
The cab emerged from Callahan Tunnel and raced past the toll booths, zipping up the causeway leading to
He stared at the tiny screen, scrolling down the file and scanning its contents. Now here was an identity which was not only complete, but which had potential for adventure in it.â¦
Jeremy Schneider. Age: 25. Birthplace: Brooklyn, New York. Occupation: communications specialist. Education: B.A. in communications, Columbia University, with a minor in space sciences. Complete birth and credit records, natch. But the most interesting part was that Schneider had recently applied to Skycorp for employment in one of its off-world operations ⦠and his application had been accepted. Here was a letter from the companyâs personnel director, Kathleen Barry, inviting Schneider down to its Cape Canaveral office for interviews. If accepted, Schneider would be enrolled in Skycorpâs six-week training program, with a possible job at Descartes Station, the lunar mining facility. The letter was only a week old; Jeremy Schneider had not yet responded.
DeWitt absently rubbed his forefinger across his chin. To be truthful, to himselfâthe only person, in fact, to whom Willard DeWitt had probably ever told the truthâthe Jeremy Schneider persona had been created as a last-ditch getaway plan. DeWitt had no genuine interest in space; the prospect of living on the Moon was as remote and unimaginable as taking up residence on Tierra del Fuego.
However, Schneiderâs identity had been expressly created for a worst-case scenario: one of Willardâs scams blowing apart so thoroughly that the only sure escape lay in getting off Earth entirely. It was the ultimate bailout; Jeremy Schneider existed for the sole purpose of extracting Willard DeWitt from the reach of the law. In that sense, it was a perfect trapdoor: The feds could literally search to the ends of the earth without finding him.
But it was also a dangerous passage. Escaping to space was not like heading for some remote island with a suitcase full of cash. The Moon was, after all, still a frontierâand DeWitt knew that frontiers were not always the kindest of places.
He gazed out the window as the cab soared through the sleek, echoing tube of the Callahan Tunnel. But, he had to admit to himself, his present situation was more perilous than anything he had encountered before. Ripping off gullible pensioners and overeager investors was not in the same league as stealing from the Alpha Beta Epsilon beer-kitty. He had gone after big game with the phony-stock scam, and that had meant taking greater risks. Although much of his system of dummy corporations and spectral credit-files was still intact in other parts of the financial communityâs computer network, the SEC might still be able to track him down if they were tenacious enough. Indeed, they might still be able to link Willard DeWitt to Peter Jurgenson.
And he still had his own face; the idea of undergoing cosmetic surgery was unnerving to him, and he viewed the prospect as a true act of desperation. Yet, on Earth, it was the face staring back at him from the cab window which might land him in prison. And the next time he went in, it wouldnât be to a minimum-security country club like New Braintree.
DeWitt pulled Kent Llewellynâs airline ticket out of his jacket pocket and stared at it. Perhaps he had subconsciously known where he was going, long before he had reached this loggerhead, when he had selected this particular ticket. Orlando was only a short drive from Cape Canaveral. By morning Kent Llewellyn would metamorphose into Jeremy Schneider, and Schneider would report to Skycorpâs Florida office for an interview with the hiring office. And in six weeks â¦
The cab emerged from Callahan Tunnel and raced past the toll booths, zipping up the causeway leading to
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