`What is your code, sir?' The operator asked.
`Yes, well, this is Mr Baker. I have a sheet with a lot of numbers here. I am new to the company. Not sure which one it is.' Anthrax shuffled papers on top of the pay phone, near the receiver. `How many digits is it?'
`Seven.'
That was helpful. Now to find seven digits. Anthrax looked across the street at the fish and chips shop. No numbers there. Then a car licence plate caught his eye. He read off the first three digits, then plucked the last four numbers from another car's plate.
`Thank you. Putting your call through, Mr Baker.'
A valid number! What amazing luck. Anthrax milked that number for all it was worth. Called party lines. Called phreakers' bridges. Access fed the obsession.
Then he gave the number to a friend in Adelaide, to call overseas. But when that friend read off the code, the operator jumped in.
`YOU'RE NOT MR BAKER!'
Huh? `Yes I am. You have my code.'
`You are definitely not him. I know his voice.'