251 lines
9.9 KiB
Plaintext
251 lines
9.9 KiB
Plaintext
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"The Adventures of Lone Wolf Scientific"
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An electronically syndicated series that
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follows the exploits of two madcap
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afficianadoes of high-technology.
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Copyright 1991 Michy Peshota.
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May not be distributed without
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accompanying WELCOME.LWS and
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EPISOD.LWS files.
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EPISODE #3
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When Men of Destiny Meet
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>>Robbed of the last vestiges of his engineering school
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idealism, the dimpled young software engineer's spirits
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improve when he befriends another man who also failed to get
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a job on the space shuttle.<<
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By M. Peshota
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During the seventeenth month of Andrew.BAS's wait for
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his government security clearance, he was joined by another
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new employee who also appeared to be waiting for a security
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clearance. The man was so big that he made the security
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guards at the door nervous whenever he walked in. As
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he moved, he jingled as though his pockets were filled with
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thirty pounds of broken screwdrivers. He had a perpetual
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brooding scowl and his nose leafed out in various
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anatomically non-standard directions, prompting Andrew.BAS
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to speculate that he had probably been in a lot of fights in
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dark, seedy computer rooms. A pair of smashed safety
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goggles poked ominously from his army jacket pocket.
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Each day, the man would slump in a chair in a
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corner of the aerospace company's lobby opposite the corner
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where Andrew.BAS sat, either fiddling with a walkie-talkie
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or snorting and grunting loudly as he read the engineering
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magazines on the coffee table. After cautiously observing
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him for several days, Andrew.BAS summoned the nerve to walk
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over and introduce himself. To his surprise, he found the
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man not only affable, but once introductions were made, he
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never stopped talking.
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His name was S-max, a name he had chosen, he explained,
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to replace the poetastic affliction of Sherwood Franklin
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Maxwell that he had suffered from birth.
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When Andrew.BAS volunteered that his name--Andrew.BAS--
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was actually a derivative of "Andrew Sebastian" and a
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nickname given him by engineering school pals because he
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used to write all his programs in compiled BASIC, S-max
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gasped. "You're a programmer!"
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"Yes, that's right." Andrew.BAS said this proudly for
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he felt that being a computer programmer was something to be
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truly proud of.
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"I don't like programmers," S-max scowled.
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"No? Why not?"
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"They're bothersome. They use up all the computer
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paper. They're always doing something irresponsible with an
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EEPROM. You have to watch them every minute because they
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get underfoot and they leave their program editors where
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you're bound to step on them. Well, you should know, you're
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a programmer."
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Andrew.BAS raised his brows. This was the most bizarre
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thing he had ever heard. "You don't program?"
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"No, I don't program! I would never debase myself in
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such a vile and horrible fashion. I have more respect for
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myself than that!"
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"Then what do you do?"
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"I build things--amazing things, marvelous things,
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things that pop and spark and fizzle, and have lots and lots
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of cables and connectors hanging off the back, and bright
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buttons that you can push, and levers that you can turn, and
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that use up incredible amounts of electricity--"
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"You build computers?"
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"Yes, that's right." S-max smirked pompously.
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Andrew.BAS decided to change the subject. He asked the
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computer builder how he had ended up at Dingready &
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Derringdo Aerospace.
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"I was traded," came the bitter reply.
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"Traded?"
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"Yes, traded."
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"You mean, like, what happens to quarterbacks and
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baseball players?"
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"Yes, that is correct."
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"But, umm, I thought that only happened to,
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like...quarterbacks and baseball players."
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"Well, it happens to computer geniuses, too." The man
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grunted. "I was traded by SRI International for two COBOL
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programmers, a keypunch machine, and a $3,000 wastebasket."
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"I'm sorry." Beyond that, Andrew.BAS truly did not
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know what to say.
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When the traded computer builder asked Andrew.BAS how
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he had ended up at the defense contractor, the programmer
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woefully explained that he didn't get the job he wanted
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most--the one he had studied for all his life, the one he
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had worked for, dreamed of, and suffered for all through
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engineering school, the only job that would ever make him
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happy--that of mission commander on the space shuttle.
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S-max gasped. "You applied for that job too?! I
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thought fer sure that I was going to get it. I am in top
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physical condition, you know. I'd be very good in non-
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gravity environments. I have experience with exercycles.
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And I don't know anyone who'd be better at taking care of
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payload than me. Do <<you>> know of anyone who'd be better
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at taking care of payload?"
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"Umm, no."
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"See? It just goes to show how far the job
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qualifications of our nation's space program have slipped!"
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S-max scowled darkly. "I was absolutely shocked when I
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didn't get that job. Truly shocked. I was going to write
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an expose on it for national distribution in newspapers,
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because it is shocking you know, and someone should write an
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expose on it."
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"I guess so."
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"No wonder the space program has been experiencing such
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dire calamities." S-max grunted indignantly. "It is a dark
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day indeed when sensible people refuse to hire capable
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computer geniuses like me."
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S-max went on to explain how, following his
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disappointing visit to the employment office at NASA (a very
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hasty visit, as it turned out, for he was led to the door
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shortly after being asked how, as an engineering genius, he
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would fasten inside the shuttle's cargo bay a twenty ton
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satellite, and he had replied "Duct tape--lots of it!"), he
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was fired from his job at another government defense
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contractor for living over the false ceiling in the computer
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room.
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"Where else is a computer builder like me supposed to
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live!?" he howled. "It's not like I can just go rent a $25-
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a-night room in a downtown men's hotel and move in a couple
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of Cray Y-MP-Z80s, is it?"
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"Umm, no, I suppose not."
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Shortly after that, he explained, he was suspended
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without pay from his next job, at a Dutch electronics firm,
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for blowing up the company's research and development labs.
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"Now, you would think," he began indignantly, wagging a
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finger, "that an employer, especially one in the high-tech
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industry, would be more sensitive to their employee's grief
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at having blown up all forty-two research labs. But no!
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They had to completely exacerbate the situation by
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threatening to cut off my dental insurance and have the
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government stamp funny things on my passport!" The computer
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builder again scowled fiercely.
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Upon his return to the United States, a very hasty
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return, he explained, for his plane ticket was paid for in
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full by the State Department as part of an emergency high-
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tech trade diplomacy measure, he procurred a job at a
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California mainframe computer manufacturer. Unfortunately,
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that job ended in tragedy too, for the company insisted that
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he remove the satellite dish from the top of his car before
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driving it into the company parking garage, an experience,
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he claimed, that had caused him to grow increasingly bitter
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and withdrawn over the years.
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When they finally received their government security
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clearances several days later and were told that they could
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start work, Andrew.BAS was quite relieved, for he feared
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these tales of woe would never end.
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Their new boss was a frenetically indecisive man with
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his hair cropped in a military buzzcut. His name was Gus
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Farwick. As he presented them with employee i.d. badges, he
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congratulated S-max on the fact that the FBI's background
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check had revealed him to be trustworthy enough to be given
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total, unlimited access to every top secret government
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computer network in the world. "You must be a great asset to
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our country's high-tech research efforts, Citizen S-max," he
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cooed with an oozy admiration.
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The computer builder merely grunted as he clipped the
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badge to his dirty t-shirt.
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He then turned to the Cub Scoutish Andrew.BAS. He
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frowned. He explained that because of the programmer's
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kooky "nom de guerre"--Andrew.BAS--and because of a certain
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program editor he owned that had been written by an
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immigrant from an Eastern bloc country that appeared, to the
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FBI, to be overly friendly to certain cable TV comics,
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he would be permitted only limited access to a payphone
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outside the employee washroom and a weekly trip to the
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cellophane tape dispenser on Farwick's desk.
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"You're telling me that I've just wasted the past
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seventeen months of my life waiting to get access to a tape
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dispenser?!" Andrew.BAS cried.
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Farwick twittered in a blithely ineffectual way.
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"Funny how that works."
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As the engineer-manager led the two new "recruits," as
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he called them, down a crooked, spooky hallway, S-max
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whispered to the bereaved Andrew.BAS, "Don't worry about it,
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kid. I'll get you all the long-range intercontinental
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missiles that you need. Did you know that I once had access
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to a nuclear submarine?"
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When they rounded a corner, Andrew.BAS thought he saw,
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in the darkness, a ghostly apparition pantomining the demise
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of his once lofty software engineering ambitions, but it
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turned out to be only the shadow of the humungous computer
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builder swatting at a bat with a rolled up engineering
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magazine.
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<Finis>
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<<<<In the next installment, "Abandon Hope Ye Who Enter
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Here," Gus Farwick shows Andrew.BAS and S-max their new
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office. They are sobered to discover that they must share
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it, not only with each other, but with a mentally frayed
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assembly language programming prodigy who's advanced psychic
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burn out at times makes him dangerous.<<<<
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