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In the late eighties and nineties, programmers had devised ways of storing data by printing it.Primitive UPC barcodes evolved into data structures that were read up-and-down as well as left-and-right.He took a deep drag from his hand-rolled, unfiltered cigarette.The cheap tobacco was harsh; the greasy blue smoke bit his throat and lungs when he inhaled. The cafe was small--tiny, really--only four tables, a family operation that catered to locals.Not that he would be there when it did, but it was an old habit to prepare for the sun when it came. Besides, if he had to, he could always do what Alex and Colonel Howard were doing: get another job somewhere else. A Turkish spy in Iran had died just after delivering the disk. He stood next to a cold and muddy stream, dressed in period Levi's, the pants held up by suspenders over a faded red-flannel shirt, a battered leather cap jammed tight onto his head.He lit the cigarette with a throw-away yellow plastic Bic and inhaled deeply. Kokmak was five minutes past the appointed meeting time, and Celik was ready to head for his truck. When he had been a young man, training under the old agent they called "Hard Ass," the need for punctuality had been indelibly impressed upon him. He could find another one, and for a lot more money, at the drop of a hat. Jay didn't think that the Turkish ambassador himself would be asking Net Force to dig around in it if all it held was tourist photos. Next to him was a gold sluice, water tricking over its riffled surface. Of course that wasn't what it was--but visual metaphors took on some serious substance in VR.
Anything short of a nuclear bomb is not an acceptable excuse for tardiness. There was a great satisfaction in being part of the solution to America's problems. There were some things more important than a job--any job--and his family was one of those things. Kids these days thought a command-line was some kind of military authority. Jay snapped his fingers and was suddenly in a brightly lit kitchen, wearing a huge chef's hat and the associated double-breasted white top. A crank turned a wire whisk in the device, brushing only the tiniest particles through a wire mesh set in the bottom and into the bowl, keeping anything else.The building was concrete block, the floor packed dirt, tamped hard over the years, and the furniture was clean but very old. "You came up with the basic VR interface most people still use. And it was also true he wasn't worried--he had run his own company until he sold it, and had been on the boards of several major corporations since. For computer stuff, you have Jay Gridley; he is the best there is.The people who owned the cafe were Turks, though they didn't wave that in anybody's face. Half of our high-end software packages here are systems you wrote, or based on those you did. How different was managing a government computer agency from running a private one? General John Howard will still be on board at military operations for another week or so, and his replacement, Colonel Abe Kent, is, by all accounts, a first-class military man.Swart, a thick black moustache, black hair going gray under a cap, clothes that were old, patched, dusty, but not too raggedy. Michaels, on his feet and apparently packing personal belongings into boxes, came from around his desk and extended his hand. A pleasure to finally meet you, sir." Michaels smiled, showing a lot of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Jay Gridley sat in his office and stared at the zip disk. Soon just about the only familiar face around here would be Jay's own. Either way, though, he was going to miss the old crew. Oh, they'd probably stay in contact, but it wouldn't be the same. It was really , too--blocky black-and-white dots portrayed a cartoonlike lion's head, with an even uglier-looking border surrounding it.Just another poor Turk on his way back to his dust farm or small shop, stopping in for coffee before he got back on the road. Outside, a twelve-year-old flatbed truck, a German machine with a hundred and fifty thousand kilometers on it, sat parked on the side of the building that would grow shady when the sun began its morning climb. When they shook, Michaels used his left as well, clasping Thorn's hand in a firm grip, but not a crusher. Which was odd--he had never thought of himself as the survivor type. New bosses sometimes cleaned out the cupboards when they came on board, re-shuffling the deck and dealing in their people. He was Jay people who could replace him--well, at least not on this side of the law. Arabic numerals and script proclaimed "Mosque-by-the-sea Tourist Photos disk 11." At least that was what the neat hand-written print in English underneath the script said.