"Now that's a story," said Doug approvingly. "Important, fun, human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral. Confirmed?"
"Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive."
"Why? What did you have to do . . ?"
"Nothing. He likes the work we've been doing on the computer capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair coverage. I think they're handling it like absolute gentlemen."
"How fast do you type?"
"Forty mistakes a minute. Why?"
"You got 40 minutes to deadline."
* * * * *
Friday, December 11
Washington, D.C.
Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu- rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours he had to work during his association with Homosoto were irritating and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki- ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work- ing nights wasn't much to his liking. It interfered with his social responsibilities to the women.