THE PHOSPHORESCENT GLOW of the cathode ray tube flitted about the darkened room, changing slightly with the click of each key. Pearce stared into the computer terminal like a surgeon searching for a tiny, hemorrhaging vein to tie off. He shook his head angrily, removed the floppy disk from its drive, and inserted the next disk—a thin wheel of mylar plastic held rigid by a paper envelope.
It had taken weeks to be allowed to stay in the computer room after hours, but finally enough accounting work had piled up so that his offer to toil late had been received with enthusiasm instead of suspicion. Each night for nearly two weeks he had spent an hour rapidly posting figures into the computer’s general ledger program and two hours searching the magnetic storage records. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it.
Now he thought he saw it. Since the labels on the disks were coded and the codebook locked away, he had had to view each one individually to have an idea of its contents. The title of the disk now in the drive made him stop breathing for a moment.
FOREIGN EXCHANGE APPLICATIONS LEDGER, 1968-69
Pearce scrolled quickly through the figures and almost immediately began to see his opportunity. He found the operating systems manual in a desk drawer and referred quickly to its index. Then he went to the supplies cupboard, found a blank disk, inserted it into the number two drive, and carefully following the instructions in the manual, imaged the data from the original disk to the new one. Now he had what he needed. He returned the original to its storage envelope and replaced it in the file drawer.
He inserted the new disk, invoked the systems editor and began to scroll slowly, carefully, through the columns of figures. Every fourth or fifth line, he changed a number, doubling or tripling it. Pearce glanced at his watch. He wouldn’t be able to finish this in one evening or two, but he had made a start. He switched on the printer and instructed the computer to make a hard copy of the first ledger. As the machine rapidly spat the eighty-column paper, he flipped through the continuous-form pages, viewing his handiwork. He began to grow excited; it was going to work. A few more evenings of this and he would have a cooked ledger that would be devastating.
When the printout was complete, Pearce put the new disk into its envelope and taped it to the bottom of his center desk drawer, working it a couple of times to be sure the envelope did not foul as the drawer slide in and out. He gathered the printout into its original accordion folds, loosened his belt, tucked the sheaf of papers under his shirt and into his trousers and buckled up again. With his coat and mackintosh on and left unbuttoned there was no noticeable bulge.
Still, on his way out of the building, he approached the security desk with some trepidation. He need not have feared. The guard was by now accustomed to his late hours.
“Still burning the midnight oil, Mr. Pearce?” the man asked.
“Yes, but I think I’ll be done in a few days’ time. All done.”
“Good night, then. Mind how you go; wet out tonight.”
“Good night.” Pearce walked quickly from the building toward the car park, his heart pounding joyfully. He hoped his mother could feel his happiness, his triumph. After what she had gone through, it would be sweet satisfaction.