The Scarab by Scott Rhine Read Free Book Online Page B

rosettes and even the security cameras had tasteful gold trim. I
wasn’t certain, but the painting behind the front desk looked like El Greco.
The brass plaque beneath it proclaimed it to be a gift of gratitude from some
sultan.
    Although there were twelve people
waiting, the six clerks served us promptly, and it was soon my turn in line.
After showing my passport and photo badge, the clerk handed me a copy of the
schedule for the week’s festivities, and a small plastic credit card. It had a
DeClerk logo on it, and the legend “Team Lead.”
    “That will serve as your room key
as well as your expense account during your stay here. Please type your
pre-selected password into this console for confirmation, sir,” said the man
who looked and sounded like David Niven playing the butler in an old Disney
movie. I typed CINDERELLA, trying to block the camera’s view of the key pad.
    When the green light came on, Mr.
Niven handed me a black matchbox with prongs on the end. “This is your personal
encryption device, courtesy of the Windsor. It attaches to your terminal and
guarantees secure communication with the Sandia network. Do know how this
device works?”
    I shook my head.
    Niven explained. “There are two
large prime numbers on this device—a public one which you share with everyone,
and a private one which not even you get to look at. Messages encoded using the
private key may be read by anyone using the public key. This device also
affixes a unique digital signature to the end of all transactions. You will be
held responsible to honor anything signed with it.”
    “What if someone steals my box?”
    “The private key is activated only
by the password you just typed. If you wish, we can arrange for fingerprint or
voiceprint verification instead,” he said, trying to be accommodating. Perhaps
he mistook my ignorance for dissatisfaction. “We have a duplicate of each key
in our vault in the event your key becomes lost or damaged, but require a 2000
dollar deposit and approval from a race judge before we may issue a
replacement.”
    “This will be sufficient,” I
muttered, pocketing the gizmo.
    “Do you understand and agree to
these conditions under the authority of the SimCon Racing Consortium?”
    I looked at the pile of paperwork.
Hell, too late to back out now. They’ve already got the money. “Sure.” I signed
the authorization for SimCon to kick me out at any time for reasons specified
within their charter. Now it was real. I was in THE race.
    “What if I want other people to be
able to use my key, other members of my team?”
    “Normally, a team rents a unit for
each member. The first one is provided as a courtesy.”
    I grimaced at the thought of two
thousand plus per unit. “We just have the one terminal. Only differing
passwords will be necessary, I think.”
    “Very good, sir,” he said, sounding
like someone who had just stepped in dog droppings. “We can fit up to three
additional pilots on the unit at no cost.”
    While I signed another paper to add
Mary Ann, Foxworthy, and Ghedra itself (the remote control and autopilot) up to
the access list, Mr. Niven plugged my unit into the security console. “Please
type a unique password for each, and affix your digital signature at the
bottom.”
    I chose “Fast_Lady” for Mare in
view of her history of high-speed chases, “Phi|adelphia” for Foxworthy, and “the
Scarab” for Ghedra.
    Mr. Niven explained apologetically
that since I had signed on so late, all they had left was a puny three-room
palace on the shady side of the building on the twentieth story. He raised an
eyebrow when I refused a bellhop for my bags, but continued his well-rehearsed
speech without skipping a beat.
    “Sir, welcome to the Windsor. We hope you enjoy your stay. Your interface station has been connected in the den.
The hospitality suite is number 215”
    The bellhop went with me up the
elevator anyway. Whether to make sure I found my way or so I wouldn’t