for switches and electrical plugs, beat-up old computers and monitors,
steel desks and press-board filing cabinets. Not what you thought of
as cutting edge.
Still, impressing Ventura was not the point. Running the next test
was.
Which was what he was about to do. He had another target, and the
conditions were as good as they were going to get this time of year, so
he was ready to begin.
Ventura stood behind him, wearing a disguise that ought to fool anybody
here into thinking he belonged-black polyester slacks over brown
loafers, a white shirt with a pen protector in the pocket, an ugly
vest, uglier tie, and dark plastic rimmed glasses. A perfect geek.
There was a gun tucked under the vest, Morrison was certain, but even
though he knew it was there, he couldn't see it.
The controls in the auxiliary trailer worked as well as the main ones,
but they were less likely to have unexpected visitors here, and
unexpected they would be if any showed up.
Morrison said, 'With our computers up, and if the sunspot activity
isn't too bad, we can hit the mark ninety-eight times out of a
hundred.' He adjusted a control, and a liquid crystal display of
numbers flashed new digits.
He and Ventura were alone in the HAARP auxiliary control room. The ACR
was where Morrison usually conducted his calibrations and, in this
case, an unauthorized use of the equipment. The thing was, you
couldn't tell by looking where the energy generated by the array was
going.
Since the project was shut down for the summer, except for maintenance
and calibrations, no real scientists would be looking over his
shoulder--and the guards wouldn't have a clue what he was really
doing.
In his guise as a geek scientist, Ventura chuckled.
Morrison frowned.
'Something funny about that?'
Ventura said, 'In some circles, ninety-eight percent accuracy is
considered failure.'
Morrison adjusted another dial, then turned to look at Ventura, the
question apparent in his raised eyebrows.
'In the late 1800s, there was a trick shooter named Adolph 'Ad'
Topperwein. In December of 1906, he decided to try for a record. He
had a sawmill in San Antonio, Texas, make up a bunch of wooden cubes,
two-and-a-quarter-inches square.'
'A bunch? There's a scientific term.'
'Give me a minute, I'll get there.'
Ventura held his thumb and forefinger apart, about the thickness of a
modestly fat reference book.
'Blocks were about so, a little bigger than a golf ball.'
Morrison glanced at his control board, tapped a key.
The computer screen scrolled more numbers.
'Fine. So?'
