It took Scott some time to convince the network managers that Kirk posed no threat, but they felt that any breach was poten- tially a serious threat to journalistic privilege.
Reporters kept their notes on the computer. Sources, addresses, phone numbers, high level anonymous contacts and identities, all stored within a computer that is presumably protected and secure. In reality, the New York City Times computer, like most comput- ers. is as open as a sieve.
Scott could live with it. He merely didn't keep any notes on the computer. He stuck with the old tried and true method of hand written notes.
His E-Mail this time contained a surprise.
IF YOU WANT TO FIND OUT HOW I DID IT, CALL ME TONIGHT. 9PM. 416-555-3165. THE SPOOK.
A pit suddenly developed in Scott's stomach. The last time he remembered having that feeling was when he watched Bernard Shaw broadcast the bombing of Baghdad. The sense of sudden helpless- ness, the foreboding of the unknown. Or perhaps the shock of metamorphosis when one's thoughts enter the realm of the unreal.
Then came the doubt.
"Ty," Scott asked after calling him at his office. "What hap- pened to Foster?" He spoke seriously.
"True to his word," Tyrone laughed with frustration, "he was out in an hour. He said he was coming back to your party . . ."
"Never showed up." Scott paused to think. "How did he get out so fast?"