Programmed for Peril

him a shot of brandy to help get him together. He had to be alert to appreciate...
    The Big Finish!
    He activated the communications software. At his command the modem dialed. He entered passwords pirated only after the expenditure of much sweat and energy. The screen shifted as he responded to distant system prompts. “Look,” he said. “What’s this?”
    His guest’s dulled eyes narrowed with recognition. Now he was alert. “That’s one of my accounts!”
    “Napoleon Expeditionary Mutual Fund. It had rather a good year, didn’t it? Good years, I should say. You’re up to nine hundred K there, a healthy piece of change.”
    “How did you—”
    “Great technical skill. Genius level.”
    His guest’s lips tightened. There was still a little fight left in him. The last of it would be hoarded to protect his money, wouldn’t it? “So you know what my account is worth. What of it?”
    “We do a transfer.”
    “So? Any funds go into one of my other Napoleon accounts. Checks from liquidations are sent to my address.”
    “You’re dealing with Carson Thomas, chump. Surely by now you must believe a lot of what your love told you about him.” Champ read down Carson’s software from the connected tape drive into the PC’s expanded memory. One of his master’s most exquisite programs. He cued it. It spoke with the fund’s computer. “A meeting of the minds,” Champ tittered.
    He responded to menu prompts. “Ahh! The machines are dancing cheek-to-cheek.” The screen filled with a list of numbers. “Want to make a choice, chump?” Champ said. “What choice? What are those?”
    “Computer codes for various charities around the world. Go ahead, pick.”
    His guest sat upright, as though a rod had been shoved up his spine. “What are you doing? Turning over my assets to a
    charity?”
    “Not just to one,” Champ said. “That would be too easy to trace. Say to a couple hundred.”
    “You can’t do that. It’s impossible!”
    “It isn’t. Robin Hood lives!”
    Champ busied himself at the keyboard. Nine hundred thousand and change flew to legions of the deserving. Champ the one-man Marxist band. “To each according to his need.”
    “The assets will be recoverable,” the Loathed One said. “Maybe. In time. Maybe not. Take years, likely.” Champ angled his masked face to look his guest in the eye. “That was your biggest account, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Liar, liar.” Champ brushed index fingers toward the bespectacled face. “Shame, shame!”
    In fact there were thirteen other accounts, three of which held a million or more. Champ sweated over the keyboard. He was interrupted only once, when his guest attempted an unannounced departure. “Bad manners!” Champ chided, tightening his full nelson to pound the point. The Loathed One’s scream sang of a full evening’s worth of obedience. Champ returned to his task. The modem kept busy, dialing, transferring, dialing, transferring. “I-O, I-O! To the poor-house chump will go!” he sang. He queued up jobs. Even at high speed Carson’s program would be busy all night.
    Champ sat back from a job well done. “I left you your real estate,” he said. “Everything else is gone.”
    “I’ll recover it, you madman!”
    “Maybe, maybe. Do you know how many charities there are across the world? Ever try to get money back from one? Until you do, you’re flat cash broke.” Champ chuckled.
    His guest covered face with palms, drew in deep breath. It caught in his chest. “You’ve killed my dogs, destroyed the Emerald Lady, and sent my capital to the four winds. Are you quite through?”
    “No.”
    The Loathed One lowered his hands. “What’s left?” Champ rose slowly. He had been a long time at the tube. He took his guest by the shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Do you want to take your pants off, or would you rather I do it?”
     

23
     
    TRISH HAPPENED TO BE LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW when the Palmer limo pulled up in front of her house. She saw it held Foster. A surge of relief passed through her. She had tried unsuccessfully over the last two days to reach him by phone. His unavailability had made her anxious. Not hard to do. Recently all her emotions floated just beneath the surface.
    The chauffeur got out, opened the rear door. Trish smiled. Yes, there was Foster! He unfolded himself slowly and stood. He turned back toward the limo and put out his hand toward the woman still inside. Trish groaned. She clutched her apron and