near a premier law school and watch them, in their lawyer costumes, strut their stuff, twenty-five-year-olds, a few so self-impressed you want to stick a pin in and watch them blow around the room. Jesus. "I got this guy's bank card statement in discovery,- I said, "and I'm trying to figure what he was spending money on. What's Infomode?" Amid the library's lavish surroundings, the three listened to me with the studied solemnity reserved to the young and ambitious. This was a comfortable, old-fashioned place with club chairs and oak bookcases and tables, and a second-floor balcony rimmed with gold-trimmed volumes that ran the circumference of the room. Leotis Criswell, the firm's late founder, had spent generously here, sort of on the same theory by which Catholics like to glorify their churches.
It was Lena Holtz who knew about Infomode.
"It's a modem information service. You know. You dial up and can go shopping or get stock-market quotes, the wire services. Anything.-
"You dial up what?"
"Here." She walked me over to a laptop computer in one of the carrels. Lena was my touchdown for the year, law revie w a t the U., from a rich family out in the West Bank suburbs. She'd had some rough times prior to law school and they left her with an appealing determination to use herself well. Five feet tall, with those teensy thin limbs so there always seems to he extra room in her clothes, she's not much to look at, not when you looked closely, but the pieces fit well. Hair, cosmetics, clothes--Lena has what is generally called style.
I had given her Kam Roberts's bill and she was already punching at the computer. A phone was ringing inside.
-See?" she said as the screen brightened with color proclaiming Info mode !
-And what kind of information can you get?" I asked.
"You name it--flight schedules, the prices of antiques, weather reports. They have two thousand different libraries." "So how do I figure out what he was doing?"
-You could look at his billing information. It would come right up on the screen."
-Great!"
"But you'd need his password," she told me.
Naturally I was blank.
"See, this isn't free," she said. "They charge your credit card every time you enter a library. Like now, I logged on into his account.
"How?"
"The account number's right here on the bank card statement. But to make sure that I'm really authorized to use it, we need his password."
"What's the password? 'Rosebud'?"
-A kid's name. Birthday. Anniversary."
"Great," I said again. I sat hunched, watching little iridescent squiggles radiate on the screen, as if the letters were burning, fascinated as ever by the thought of fire. This might be why Bert had the card, so he could rack up Infomode charges in another name. I grabbed her arm.
"Try Kam Roberts." I spelled it.
The screen lit up again: WELCOME TO INFOMODE! "Whoa," I said. Once an art student, always an art student. How I love color.
"Do Billing," she typed. The listing that scrolled up looked like the bank card statement, a log of charges incurred every day or two, which included the length of use and the cost. It was just what you'd expect of Bert. It was all for something called "Sportsline," or for another service they referred to as "Mailbox." I figured Sportsline reported the scores of games. I asked about Mailbox.
"It's what it sounds like. Get messages from people who are on-line. Like electronic mail."
Or, it turned out, you could leave messages behind, little memos to yourself or to someone who logged into your account with your permission. That was what Bert had done. The note we found was dated three weeks ago and seemed to make no sense.
It read:
Hey Arch--
SPRINGFIELD
Kam's Special 1.12--U. five, five Cleveland. 1.3--Seton five, three Franklin.
1.5--SJ five, three Grant.
NEW BRUNSWICK
1.2--S. F. eleven, five Grant.
Lena grabbed a yellow pad out of another carrel and wrote it down.
"Does this mean anything to you?" she asked.
Not a thing. Baseball scores in
It was Lena Holtz who knew about Infomode.
"It's a modem information service. You know. You dial up and can go shopping or get stock-market quotes, the wire services. Anything.-
"You dial up what?"
"Here." She walked me over to a laptop computer in one of the carrels. Lena was my touchdown for the year, law revie w a t the U., from a rich family out in the West Bank suburbs. She'd had some rough times prior to law school and they left her with an appealing determination to use herself well. Five feet tall, with those teensy thin limbs so there always seems to he extra room in her clothes, she's not much to look at, not when you looked closely, but the pieces fit well. Hair, cosmetics, clothes--Lena has what is generally called style.
I had given her Kam Roberts's bill and she was already punching at the computer. A phone was ringing inside.
-See?" she said as the screen brightened with color proclaiming Info mode !
-And what kind of information can you get?" I asked.
"You name it--flight schedules, the prices of antiques, weather reports. They have two thousand different libraries." "So how do I figure out what he was doing?"
-You could look at his billing information. It would come right up on the screen."
-Great!"
"But you'd need his password," she told me.
Naturally I was blank.
"See, this isn't free," she said. "They charge your credit card every time you enter a library. Like now, I logged on into his account.
"How?"
"The account number's right here on the bank card statement. But to make sure that I'm really authorized to use it, we need his password."
"What's the password? 'Rosebud'?"
-A kid's name. Birthday. Anniversary."
"Great," I said again. I sat hunched, watching little iridescent squiggles radiate on the screen, as if the letters were burning, fascinated as ever by the thought of fire. This might be why Bert had the card, so he could rack up Infomode charges in another name. I grabbed her arm.
"Try Kam Roberts." I spelled it.
The screen lit up again: WELCOME TO INFOMODE! "Whoa," I said. Once an art student, always an art student. How I love color.
"Do Billing," she typed. The listing that scrolled up looked like the bank card statement, a log of charges incurred every day or two, which included the length of use and the cost. It was just what you'd expect of Bert. It was all for something called "Sportsline," or for another service they referred to as "Mailbox." I figured Sportsline reported the scores of games. I asked about Mailbox.
"It's what it sounds like. Get messages from people who are on-line. Like electronic mail."
Or, it turned out, you could leave messages behind, little memos to yourself or to someone who logged into your account with your permission. That was what Bert had done. The note we found was dated three weeks ago and seemed to make no sense.
It read:
Hey Arch--
SPRINGFIELD
Kam's Special 1.12--U. five, five Cleveland. 1.3--Seton five, three Franklin.
1.5--SJ five, three Grant.
NEW BRUNSWICK
1.2--S. F. eleven, five Grant.
Lena grabbed a yellow pad out of another carrel and wrote it down.
"Does this mean anything to you?" she asked.
Not a thing. Baseball scores in
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