Program for a Puppet (4 page)

“And when it's not his day?”

“His method breaks down. Tends to be too aggressive…. He rushes things….”

Oil sheiks in their flowing white robes stood out among the heads of state, businessmen and diplomats from many nations who had answered the invitation to attend the unveiling of a “super computer.” It was Lasercomp's biggest machine in the Cheetah series. The location was the corporation's headquarters at Black Flats, high on a hilltop in a former apple grove, near New York City. The six hundred or so guests were wending their way from the high pillared entrance hall up a rich carpeted stairway, through an oak-paneled corridor, into the reception room. One wall was almost completely glassed to catch the sunlight and display an exquisite Japanese garden.

Most people attending knew of Cheetah. It had been on the market for the last ten months. But this was the first time the corporation had considered it opportune for a lavish function to announce it officially. Alan Huntsman, Lasercomp's corpulent and cherub-faced chief PR man, had won the internal battle to show it off now rather than later. As perhaps the organization's shrewdest tactician, he had argued that the corporation should demonstrate its development of superior technology before a decision in a six-year-old court case between it and the U.S. Government, expected in a few months' time. In this legal battle, the biggest and most expensive in America's history, the government's legal arm, the Justice Department, had charged the corporation with a long list of illegal activities which had been designed to give Lasercomp complete control of the American computer market. A win for the government would be a tremendous
blow to the corporation's secret long-term master program. It could mean being split up into smaller separate corporations.

Guests stood in small groups as they arrived, rather than sitting on the inviting chairs and sofas, upholstered in shades of brown. A portrait of George Washington stared unsmilingly across the room. The buzz of conversation heightened perceptibly with the arrival of important guests, most of whom made their way to the center of the room to pay their respects to Clifford Brogan, Sr. Immaculately dressed in a navy mohair suit, the old man appeared in an easygoing, avuncular mood. He was showing a rare deference to people outside Lasercomp—a mood reserved for heads of states and others of similar standing.

He greeted the newly nominated candidate for the American presidency, Senator Ronald MacGregor, and his running mate, former Nevada Governor Paul Mineva.

“Congratulations to you both,” Brogan Senior said, his large wrinkled features cracking into a smile as he wrung their hands. “I'm betting you two give the White House one helluva shake-up.”

“More than that,” MacGregor rejoined, “we'll break in there after November fourth.”

“Well, I wish you luck. We need a change down there.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mineva said, as he flashed a toothy grin and swept a wisp of graying fair hair from his forehead. “It's going to be a rough run home and we need every little break we can get.”

As he spoke, an announcement from PR man Huntsman that the unveiling was about to take place moved the milling guests toward the four doors that led to an adjoining auditorium—a vast imposing hall glowing from ceiling to walls with diffused light. At the edge of a raised area at the rear end of the auditorium a curtain created by holographic patterns representing computer circuitry screened the Cheetah from view.

Brogan Senior, in a vigorous shuffling action, led the corporation's senior management to seats on the raised area. As a digital clock high in the auditorium registered 2:30
P.M
., Alan Huntsman waddled over to a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our senior vice-president, Clifford I. Brogan, Jr.”

Tall, with a healthy head of silver hair that contrasted with his suntanned, outstandingly handsome features, Brogan Junior
looked cool, even serene. When polite applause had died, he looked up confidently and nodded to the audience. “Thank you for coming to what we here at Lasercomp consider to be a historic day, the unveiling of a super computer—the Cheetah.” He paused to clear his throat. “It will revolutionize man's very existence in the organizational environment. It is, we believe, the greatest expansion of the human mind since writing….” He was reveling in the moment as he looked out over the sea of attentive faces. “What, you may ask, gives us at Lasercomp the confidence to make such grandiose pronouncements? Well, why don't we let Cheetah itself tell you why it's a ‘revolutionary' super computer?” With a sweeping gesture, he pushed a button on a lectern. The holographic patterns seemed to dissolve back into the machine itself, exposing the flashing lights and revolving disks of a bright red computer system, surrounded by television display units. On the wall at the back, a large screen began to display words that also boomed from the Cheetah's sound unit in a chilling staccato monotone:
“Hello
and welcome. I am Cheetah. Like my namesake, I am the fastest and most powerful of my species. Let me tell you about my special new features
.…”

The machine drummed on and emphasized its speed, “infinite” memory capacity and the ability to perform more functions simultaneously than any previous computer. All through the monologue there was a return to a central theme: Cheetah represented progress. It promised to be of great benefit to mankind as it
“fought its way on the short and tortuous route to the twenty-first century
.…”

This benefit would be progress in the so-called social areas—education, resources, food allocation, pollution, medicine. The words had been carefully selected to help lobby support in the corporation's legal battle with the federal government's Justice Department.

While the computer spoke, thirty Teletype machines placed around the auditorium printed the speech as the words were heard, until 2:45
P.M
., when it finished with: “I
am Cheetah … I am the future now
.…”

As Lasercomp personnel darted around distributing the speech to the guests, Brogan Junior beaming with pleasure, got up once more and nodded to the cluster of media people to his right.

“I would now like to invite members of the press and other
media to ask Cheetah some questions,” he said. “Take note of those cards you've been issued, please. They have a simple code.”

The press studied their cards as he added, “Start with one of the words on the card: What, Can, Will, etcetera, and continue with one of the alternative phrases listed. Let me start the ball rolling.”

He stepped up to the computer's control panel, flicked a switch marked
Control
, and said, “Cheetah. What will be the value of computers Lasercomp will sell outside America in three years from now?” He then turned the knob marked Voice.

“Thank you, I understand,”
the machine replied.
“The answer to your question is, ten billion dollars. Repeat. Ten billion dollars.”

There was a ripple of excitement from the audience. One by one the press edged its way up to the machine.

Questions were restricted to those that would elicit responses that had been carefully prepared. This time the propaganda was to show how important, economically, a prosperous and intact Lasercomp was to the American nation. It was all part of the lobbying campaign for the court battle.

It was hardly a penetrating press conference. Even if it had been thrown open, very little would have been revealed about Lasercomp's seemingly impregnable domain. Probing, inquisitive journalists would not have been invited. They were anathema to the corporation.

Graham arrived at Vienna's Schwechat airport at midday on August 3. The weather was warm, and the sky a cloudless blue as he took a taxi to an inconspicuous little hotel on Graben Street, opposite OESC, the Vienna States Savings Bank. He took a creaking elevator to the second floor, where the manager, a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman, Frau Schiller, greeted him cheerfully and showed him to his room. When he had unpacked, he walked a few hundred yards to a café, the Hermit, on Naglerstrasse.

The sun had lured many people to the sidewalk chairs and tables under a canopy. Inside the café, middle-aged Viennese read papers and magazines strewn on tables, sipping coffee and eating pastries. Outside, young students chatted loudly about Austrian politics. Graham, casually dressed in a light blue open-necked shirt, light slacks and sneakers, sat at the only available seat outside
at the same table as three female students.

A white-coated waiter addressed Graham with the customary “Herr Baron.” The Australian ordered coffee and sandwiches in faulty German, much to the amusement of the girls, and settled down to work out his strategy for the next few days.

Graham had little to go on. Jane had not been to Vienna herself, and while she had left transcripts of telephone conversations, there were no specific comments except on a mysterious international computer-using organization called IOSWOP—an acronym for International Organization for Solutions to World Problems. There was a list of several people to see, mostly connected with computer companies. Graham considered one as top of the list, a trucking contractor called Joachim Kruntz.

In thirteen years of journalism Graham had had some tough, sometimes dangerous experiences, ranging from covering murders on Melbourne's notorious waterfront to war on several African fronts. But there were always rules. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your head down. If you worked within the rules and kept your wits about you the risks were few.

In this investigation there were no given parameters of caution. No rules. It put Graham on edge. If he proceeded on the assumption that Jane had been murdered, he would have to follow those rules.

He walked back to his hotel and decided to call the trucking contractor. He found Kruntz's number in Jane's notes, lit a cigarette, and dialed. The telephone at the other end rang several times. Just as Graham was about to put the receiver down, a man answered.

“Ja?”

“Mr. Kruntz?”

“Ja?”

“You speak English?”

“Yes. Who is this?” His voice was deep.

“My name is Graham. I'm a friend of Jane Ryder.”

The Australian forced himself to keep his voice steady when he mentioned her name.

“Who?”

“Jane Ryder. She rang you earlier this year about …”

“I remember,” the man said; “she was an English journalist.”

“That's right,” Graham said, pleased he had got that far.

“What do you want?” the man asked bluntly.

“Some information.” Graham was thinking quickly. He had no idea if Kruntz knew of Jane's death. He thought that if he mentioned it, and the man did not know, it might frighten him off.

“Who are you? Another journalist?”

Graham bit his lip. “Yes—I was wondering if we could meet.”

“What information do you want?”

“It's about your work,” Graham said. He was feeling in the dark. Kruntz fell silent. The Australian thought he might lose him. “I'm willing to pay for information.”

“I don't know if I want to speak to the press again,” said Kruntz. “They are of no value to me.”

“I'll make it worth your while.”

There was another pause.

“Do you know the district of Heurige?”

“Not well.”

“Do you know the district of Jeurige?”

“Yes.”

“I meet you there tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Go to Klosterneuberg. As you enter the village square there is an abbey on the left. Go to the closest wine cellar to it. In the basement is a seventeenth-century map of the area. Sit near it at ten.”

“How will I know you?”

“Don't worry. I will recognize you. No tourists normally go there.”

Graham walked to a nearby garage, picked up the Mercedes coupé he had reserved from London, and dined alone at the Budavar, a Hungarian restaurant opposite his hotel. Just after 9:00
P.M
. he drove to Klosterneuberg village, north of Vienna in the rustic wine valley district. He parked the car in the village square and, finding he was half an hour early, decided to wander around. He found an old house converted into an art gallery and
spent about twenty minutes there admiring the local art.

Right at ten o'clock he made his way to the abbey with its dignified spire, and entered the thick oak door of the nearest wine cellar. He moved downstairs toward a steady hum of conversation from a mixture of locals of all ages. They were sitting at wooden trestle tables enjoying the locally grown wines. He spotted the map Kruntz had mentioned, found a seat near it, and ordered white wine from a sturdy waitress dressed in a mock-peasant costume.

Twenty minutes later, a brawny, square-shouldered man well over six feet entered and sat down two tables away from Graham. Fingering thick stubble on his lantern jaw, the man glanced around and ordered wine. When the waitress brought it to him, he looked around at Graham, picked up his glass, and moved to a seat opposite him.

The Australian looked up. “Mr. Kruntz?” he asked.

The big man nodded. “I suppose you want the same information as the girl?” he said cautiously.

“Basically, yes.”

The big man took some wine. “How do I know you are not here for another reason?” he asked, his dark, deep-set eyes narrowing.

“I don't know what you mean,” Graham said, producing his identification and press cards.

Kruntz looked at them and handed them back. He didn't appear completely satisfied. “Can you get information published easily?”

“My contacts are good.”

“Where?”

“Mainly in Britain. But elsewhere, if I want.”

The big man took more wine and considered Graham. “Your friend promised publicity for certain information,” he said skeptically, “but she did not even send me evidence of it.”