The angel said, "I am sorry. There is no more detail available."
"Angel, show me the files."
"Very well."
After a moment, a sheet of pink paper flashed up:
THE DETAIL FILES ON
OPERATIONS REVIEW UNIT/MALAYSIA
HAVE BEEN DELETED
SUNDAY 6/14 AUTHORIZATION DC/C/5905
"Hell," Sanders said.
"What does that mean?"
"Somebody cleaned up," Sanders said. `Just a few days ago. Who knew all this was going to happen? Angel, show me all communications between Malaysia and DC for the past two weeks."
"Do you wish telephone or video links?"
"Video."
"Press V."
He pushed a button, and a sheet uncurled in the air:
Date Linking To Duration Auth
6/1 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 0812-0814 ACSS
6/1 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 1343-1346 ADSS
6/2 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 1801-1804 DCSC
6/2 A. Kahn > T. Sanders 1822-1826 DOSE
6/3 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 0922-0924 ADSC
6/4 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 0902-0912 ADSC
6/5 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 0832-0832 ADSC
6/7 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 0904-0905 ACSS
6/11 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 2002-2004 ADSC
6/13 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 0902-0932 ADSC
6/14 A. Kahn > M. Johnson 1124-1125 ACSS
6/15 A. Kahn > T. Sanders 1132-1134 DCSE
"Burning up the satellite links," Sanders said, staring at the list. "Arthur Kahn and Meredith Johnson talked almost every day until June fourteenth. Angel, show me these video links."
"The links are not available for viewing except for 6/is."
That had been his own transmission to Kahn, two days earlier. "Where are the others?"
A message flashed up:
THE VIDEO FILES ON
Chapter 26
OPERATIONS REVIEW UNIT/MALAYSIA
HAVE BEEN DELETED
SUNDAY 6/14 AUTHORIZATION DC/C/5905
Scrubbed again. He was pretty sure who had done it, but he had to be sure. "Angel, how do I check deletion authorization?"
"Press the data you desire," the Angel said.
Sanders pressed the authorization number. A small sheet of paper came upward out of the top sheet and hung in the air:
AUTHORIZATION DC/C/5905 IS
DIGITAL COMMUNICATIONS
CUPERTINO/OPERATIONS EXECUTIVE
SPECIAL PRIVILEGES NOTED
(NO OPERATOR ID NECESSARY)
"It was done by somebody very high up in Operations in Cupertino, a few days ago."
"Meredith?"
"Probably. And it means I'm screwed."
"Why?"
"Because now I know what was done at the Malaysia plant. I know exactly what happened: Meredith went in and changed the specs. But she's erased the data, right down to her voice transmissions to Kahn. Which means I can't prove any of it."
Standing in the corridor, Sanders poked the sheet, and it fluttered back down, dissolving into the top sheet. He closed his file, put it back in the drawer, and watched the model dissolve and disappear.
He looked over at Conley. Conley gave a little resigned shrug. He seemed to understand the situation. Sanders shook his hand, gripping air, and waved good-bye. Conley nodded and turned to leave.
"Now what?" Fernandez said.
"It's time to go," Sanders said.
The angel began to sing: "It's time to go, so long again till next week's show"
"Angel, be quiet." The angel stopped singing. He shook his head. `Just like Don Cherry."
"Who's Don Cherry?" Fernandez asked.
"Don Cherry is a living god," the angel said.
They walked back to the entrance to the Corridor and then climbed out of the blue screen.
Back in Cherry's lab, Sanders took off the headset and, after a moment of disorientation, stepped off the walker pad. He helped Fernandez remove her equipment. "Oh," she said, looking around. "We're back in the real world."
"If that's what you call it," he said. "I'm not sure it's that much more real." He hung up her headset and helped her down from the walker pad. Then he turned off the power switches around the room.
Fernandez yawned and looked at her watch. "It's eleven o'clock. What are you going to do now?"
There was only one thing he could think of. He picked up the receiver on one of Cherry's data modem lines and dialed Gary Bosak's number. Sanders couldn't retrieve any data, but perhaps Bosak couldif he could talk him into it. It wasn't much of a hope. But it was all he could think to do.
An answering machine said, "Hi, this is NE Professional Services. I'm out of town for a few days, but leave a message." And then a beep.
Sanders sighed. "Gary, it's eleven o'clock on Wednesday. I'm sorry I missed you. I'm going home." He hung up.
His last hope.
Gone.
Out of town for a few days.
"Shit," he said.
"Now what?" Fernandez said, yawning.
"I don't know," he said. "I've got half an hour to make the last ferry. I guess I'll go home and try to get some sleep."
"And the meeting tomorrow?" she asked. "You said you need documentation."
Sanders shrugged. "Louise, I've done all that I can do. I know what I'm up against. I'll manage somehow."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," he said. "See you tomorrow."
He felt less sanguine on the ferry going home, looking back at the lights of the city in the rippling black water. Fernandez was right; he ought to be getting the documentation he needed. Max would criticize him, if he knew. He could almost hear the old man's voice: "Oh, so you're tired? That's a good reason, Thomas."
He wondered if Max would be at the meeting tomorrow. But he found he couldn't really think about it. He couldn't imagine the meeting. He was too tired to concentrate. The loudspeaker announced that they were five minutes from Winslow, and he went below decks to get into his car.