“This.”
Strange took the disk between his thumb and forefinger and peered at it curiously.
“Most of the data is encrypted,” Tech said, “except for one phrase. The phrase says that Mystery Notes will know what to do.”
Strange's eyes darted from the disk to Tech. “Who's doing the talking?”
“We're hoping you can tell us,” Tech said. “Do you believe in Network legends?”
“Legends of what sort?” Strange inquired, his eyes sparkling. “Spooks? Spies? Aliens? Mad, gray-haired hackers?”
“Ghosts in the machine,” Tech said. “Program gremlins, in this case. A gremlin that knows you.”
“A… program gremlin actually mentions me by name—Mystery Notes?”
“Actually, what it says is ‘m-s-t-r-n-t-s.’ ” Marz explained.
“We ran hundreds of possible combinations,” Tech said. “Mystery Notes was the only phrase that made sense because of the link to you.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Author of
The Strange Manifesto,
” Tech said.
“Legendary cyberflyer,” Marshall added almost breathlessly. “Freeware radical. Musical genius.
Mystery Notes
is awesome sound.”
“Well, I can see that you boys have good taste.” Strange sniffed in playful derision and stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
The tiny, two-room apartment was crawling with cats, many of whom came running to rub themselves against Tech's and Marz's legs. The shabby, cat fur–covered furniture and woven rugs looked as if they had come from great distances and been made by people who lived in a different century. The place was also filled with instruments of endless variety—reed, stringed, keyed, and skinned. Obsolete computer processors, boxy monitors, peculiar keyboards, and laser printers took up an entire wall. Elsewhere were piles of hardcover books, graphic novels, videotapes, CDs, minidiscs, and DVDs—libraries of information that were now accessible with a few quick keystrokes or could be amassed electronically in individual rental-storage facilities in the Network.
Strange planted himself in a padded swivel chair before a large, dust-covered monitor and slipped the minidisk into an ancient reader that lacked a cover. For a long moment, he studied the jumble of numbers and letters that resolved on-screen, then he sat back, tugging on his beard.
“I know this code,” he said at last, poising his crooked fingers over the keyboard. “Let's see if we can't get this critter to tell us in plain speak what it's after.”
Strange's fingers began to fly across the keys, all of which were apparently linked to a music synthesizer, so that each phrase of input constituted a musical composition. He crossed his hands overone another and expanded his reach to cover the entire keyboard. When he struck the enter key for the final time he might as well have been playing the last chord of a piece of classical music. Throwing his hands up, he leaned back from the keyboard like a piano virtuoso waiting for applause—which Marz, unable to contain his excitement, provided.
An instant later, the voice of the program gremlin issued through the room's untold number of speakers.
“My name is Cyrus Bulkroad,” the gremlin began. “I'm trapped, MSTRNTS. I need your help.”
Strange didn't say anything for a long while. He simply stared at the monitor screen while the boys continued to stare at him.
“Who's Cyrus Bulkroad?” Tech asked at last.
Strange, looking as if he had seen a ghost, swiveled to face him and Marz. “Cyrus is the only son of Skander Bulkroad—founder, president, and chief executive officer of Peerless Engineering.”
“Do you know him?”
“Cyrus was my friend,” Strange said. “He vanished ten years ago.”
“Just fifteen more minutes,” Felix mumbled, reaching out blindly to shut off the alarm clock. Instead of finding the clock, however, his hand made contact with something soft and yielding. Felix smiled and a woman squealed in unhappy surprise. Meanwhile, the alarm clock
Strange took the disk between his thumb and forefinger and peered at it curiously.
“Most of the data is encrypted,” Tech said, “except for one phrase. The phrase says that Mystery Notes will know what to do.”
Strange's eyes darted from the disk to Tech. “Who's doing the talking?”
“We're hoping you can tell us,” Tech said. “Do you believe in Network legends?”
“Legends of what sort?” Strange inquired, his eyes sparkling. “Spooks? Spies? Aliens? Mad, gray-haired hackers?”
“Ghosts in the machine,” Tech said. “Program gremlins, in this case. A gremlin that knows you.”
“A… program gremlin actually mentions me by name—Mystery Notes?”
“Actually, what it says is ‘m-s-t-r-n-t-s.’ ” Marz explained.
“We ran hundreds of possible combinations,” Tech said. “Mystery Notes was the only phrase that made sense because of the link to you.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Author of
The Strange Manifesto,
” Tech said.
“Legendary cyberflyer,” Marshall added almost breathlessly. “Freeware radical. Musical genius.
Mystery Notes
is awesome sound.”
“Well, I can see that you boys have good taste.” Strange sniffed in playful derision and stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
The tiny, two-room apartment was crawling with cats, many of whom came running to rub themselves against Tech's and Marz's legs. The shabby, cat fur–covered furniture and woven rugs looked as if they had come from great distances and been made by people who lived in a different century. The place was also filled with instruments of endless variety—reed, stringed, keyed, and skinned. Obsolete computer processors, boxy monitors, peculiar keyboards, and laser printers took up an entire wall. Elsewhere were piles of hardcover books, graphic novels, videotapes, CDs, minidiscs, and DVDs—libraries of information that were now accessible with a few quick keystrokes or could be amassed electronically in individual rental-storage facilities in the Network.
Strange planted himself in a padded swivel chair before a large, dust-covered monitor and slipped the minidisk into an ancient reader that lacked a cover. For a long moment, he studied the jumble of numbers and letters that resolved on-screen, then he sat back, tugging on his beard.
“I know this code,” he said at last, poising his crooked fingers over the keyboard. “Let's see if we can't get this critter to tell us in plain speak what it's after.”
Strange's fingers began to fly across the keys, all of which were apparently linked to a music synthesizer, so that each phrase of input constituted a musical composition. He crossed his hands overone another and expanded his reach to cover the entire keyboard. When he struck the enter key for the final time he might as well have been playing the last chord of a piece of classical music. Throwing his hands up, he leaned back from the keyboard like a piano virtuoso waiting for applause—which Marz, unable to contain his excitement, provided.
An instant later, the voice of the program gremlin issued through the room's untold number of speakers.
“My name is Cyrus Bulkroad,” the gremlin began. “I'm trapped, MSTRNTS. I need your help.”
Strange didn't say anything for a long while. He simply stared at the monitor screen while the boys continued to stare at him.
“Who's Cyrus Bulkroad?” Tech asked at last.
Strange, looking as if he had seen a ghost, swiveled to face him and Marz. “Cyrus is the only son of Skander Bulkroad—founder, president, and chief executive officer of Peerless Engineering.”
“Do you know him?”
“Cyrus was my friend,” Strange said. “He vanished ten years ago.”
“Just fifteen more minutes,” Felix mumbled, reaching out blindly to shut off the alarm clock. Instead of finding the clock, however, his hand made contact with something soft and yielding. Felix smiled and a woman squealed in unhappy surprise. Meanwhile, the alarm clock
Similar Books
