Identity Theft by Robert J. Sawyer Read Free Book Online

prospectors could afford. Reinforced knees; extra arm strength for moving rocks; extended spectral response in the eyes, so that fossils will stand out better; night vision so that I could continue digging after dark; but…”
    I nodded. “But you didn’t have enough money.”
    “That’s right. I could barely afford to transfer at all, even into the cheapest off-the-shelf body, and so…”
    He trailed off, too angry at himself, I guess, to give voice to what was in his mind. “And so you hinted that you were about to come into some wealth,” I said, “and suggested that maybe he could give you what you needed now, and you’d make it up to him later.”
    Pickover sounded sad. “That’s the trouble with being a scientist; sharing information is our natural mode.”
    “Did you tell him precisely what you’d found?” I asked.
    “No. No, but he must have guessed. I’m a paleontologist, I’ve been studying Weingarten and O’Reilly for years — all of that is a matter of public record. He must have figured out that I knew where their fossil beds are. After all, where else would a guy like me get money?” He sighed. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”
    “Well, Mensa isn’t going to be calling you any time soon.”
    “Please don’t rub it in, Mr. Lomax. I feel bad enough as it is, and—” His voice cracked; I’d never heard a transfer’s do that before. “And now I’ve put all those lovely, lovely fossils in jeopardy! Will you help me, Mr. Lomax? Please say you’ll help me!”
    I nodded. “All right. I’m on the case.”
* * *
    We went back into the dome, and I called Raoul Santos on my commlink, getting him to meet me at Rory Pickover’s little apartment at the center of town. It was four floors up, and consisted of three small rooms — an interior unit, with no windows.
    When Raoul arrived, I made introductions. “Raoul Santos, this is Rory Pickover. Raoul here is the best computer expert we’ve got in New Klondike. And Dr. Pickover is a paleontologist.”
    Raoul tipped his broad forehead at Pickover. “Good to meet you.”
    “Thank you,” said Pickover. “Forgive the mess, Mr. Santos. I live alone. A lifelong bachelor gets into bad habits, I’m afraid.” He’d already cleared debris off of one chair for me; he now busied himself doing the same with another chair, this one right in front of his home computer.
    “What’s up, Alex?” asked Raoul, indicating Pickover with a movement of his head. “New client?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Dr. Pickover’s computer files have been looked at by some unauthorized individual. We’re wondering if you could tell us from where the access attempt was made.”
    “You’ll owe me a nice round of drinks at the Bent Chisel,” said Raoul.
    “No problem,” I said. “I’ll put it on my tab.”
    Raoul smiled, and stretched his arms out, fingers interlocked, until his knuckles cracked. Then he took the now-clean seat in front of Pickover’s computer and began to type. “How do you lock you files?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the monitor.
    “A verbal passphrase,” said Pickover.
    “Anybody besides you know it?”
    Pickover shook his artificial head. “No.”
    “And it’s not written down anywhere?”
    “No, well… not as such.”
    Raoul turned his head, looking up at Pickover. “What do you mean?”
    “It’s a line from a book. If I ever forgot the exact wording, I could always look it up.”
    Raoul shook his head in disgust. “You should always use random passphrases.” He typed keys.
    “Oh, I’m sure it’s totally secure,” said Pickover. “No one would guess—”
    Raoul interrupted. “Your passphrase being, ‘Those privileged to be present… ’ ”
    I saw Pickover’s jaw drop. “My God. How did you know that?”
    Raoul pointed to some data on the screen. “It’s the first thing that was inputted by the only outside access your system has had in weeks.”
    “I thought passphrases were hidden from view when