“In we go,” David said, authorizing the telecommunications link.
Matt stared at the gauges, but they told him nothing.
“The good news,” David told him, “is that nothing’s happened. Your veeyar hasn’t been nuked or anything.”
He pointed at a gauge. “But there are several outward energy leaks that wouldn’t occur in your garden- variety veeyar.”
“So it is bugged,” Matt said.
“Your guess was right.” David gave some orders to the probe. “Let’s see if we can get a better look—”
He broke off, pointing at another gauge. “Whoa! Self-destruct! Not enough to hurt, even if you’d been in the veeyar. I think this guy just doesn’t want people checking out his work.”
They spent some more time cleaning out a couple more of the Genius’s toys, including the Trojan Horse program that had allowed Caitlin Corrigan to come inside — and leave those little souvenirs behind.
“Only one more out-of-place item left,” David reported. “There’s an alien icon on your work surface — a program that doesn’t belong.”
“That’s the clue I was talking about,” Matt said. “Can your probe trigger it?”
David gave orders. A few seconds later, he shrugged. “Looks like a ten-second voice clip. A message for you, maybe.”
He continued to give Matt an odd look. “At least nothing blew up, buddy.”
Half an hour later, Matt felt a little foolish climbing back through the window into his room.
Stepping into the hallway, Matt went to the kitchen to get a glass of milk.
“Still working?” his father asked.
“Just about done, I hope,” Matt replied. He went back to his room and picked up the datascrip with everything he knew about the virtual vandals. Stepping to the door, he put it down in the hall. Then he went back inside and began giving orders to his computer. A scale model of his veeyar appeared over his desk. Matt moved over behind his bed, the only thing available to duck behind…just in case. Then he gave the order to trigger Cat Corrigan’s earring icon.
“Matt, I’ve got to see you.” Caitlin’s voice came through a little tinny from the reduced-scale model. “It has to be in the flesh. No computers, no phones…no holograms — and soon.”
Even with the substandard voice reproduction, she sounded scared.
Matt stood very still, looking at his carefully constructed veeyar. Then he ordered his computer to erase the whole thing. Not just to delete the file, but to destroy all records of his workspace — and everything that had happened in there.
The next morning, Matt took an earlier autobus to school. He knew that Cat Corrigan usually drove in, and she did this morning. Matt had to laugh to himself. He wondered if he’d stand out, changing his schedule. But Cat was much more attention-getting, swooping in to park in a classic Copperhead.
Matt knew his cars. This thing had to be a good thirty years old. But old or not, he had to admit it was one hot car. What was she doing, tooling around in a machine like that?
Well, one thing she did was distract anyone’s attention from Matt. But she also attracted about every car- crazy guy in the school. Matt had hoped for a couple of quick words with her before Prep period.
Instead, he wound up standing at the edge of an admiring crowd.
The whole class schedule seemed perversely set up to keep them from even bumping into one another. If Matt saw Caitlin in the mad dash between classes, it was usually at the far end of a hallway, heading in the opposite direction from where he had to go.
He was hoping for a chance to catch up with her in the lunchroom, but as she came in, so did Sandy Braxton. “Hey, Matt! Great news! My father has some friends who are into battle reenactments.”
In his research Matt had read about organizations where people got together, dressed in Civil War uniforms, and pretended to refight old battles. Since northern Virginia had seen major campaigns during the war, it wouldn’t be surprising that several of those clubs might exist in the Washington area.
At another time, he might have been more interested to hear what Sandy had to say.
Instead, Matt was wishing the floor would open up under the idiot. He was blocking the way to Cat Corrigan.
“Anyway, they’ve got holos of their battles. They were actually up in Pennsylvania, and did a reenactment of Pickett’s Charge. I’ll have a copy tomorrow. We both have a Library period right after lunch — suppose I set things up with Dr. Fairlie so we can view it then.”
“Yeah, fine,” Matt said in distraction, trying to step around Sandy. Caitlin was walking right by!
She was carrying a portfolio full of datascrips and written notes. As she passed, a piece of paper slid loose. A note?
Matt moved for it, but Sandy scooped up the paper in midair.
“Hey, Caitlin! You lost this!”
Cat turned and gave Matt an annoyed “get-with-the-program!” sort of look.
Sandy handed over the sheet, reading it. “A classical guitar concert! Who goes to those things?”
She rolled her eyes, every inch a Leet. “Oh, I know! I fouled up the printing menu on my computer, and this came out.”
As Cat spoke, she crumpled up the paper. But she gave Matt a sharp look.
Matt watched the balled-up wad fly into a garbage bin. He headed over that way, finally managing to get rid of Sandy Braxton.
He was in luck, retrieving the note before somebody dumped a tray of chili con mystery meat over it.
Throughout lunch, the little wad of paper seemed to weigh in his pocket as if it were made of lead. Outside later, Matt walked over to a tree, leaned back against the trunk, and un-scrunched the paper.
One side was a poster from the school’s music club, announcing a classical guitar recital for that afternoon.
The other side was empty.
Matt frowned. Was it a code? Could there be secret writing? He remembered reading something as a kid about lemon juice….
He rested his head against the rough bark. No, the message was right in front of him. What better place to meet? The recital would take place in the auditorium, a large, dark room. And classical guitars wouldn’t need electronic or computer enhancement. Just old-fashioned fingers, old-fashioned ears — perfect!
Matt arrived at the auditorium out of breath and slightly late. He slipped through the doors, standing in the rear of the seats, trying to let his eyes adjust. A serious girl sat on a chair in a pool of light, her fingers flying as a complicated rhythm filled the air.
Where was Caitlin?
The music ended, and golden hair suddenly flashed before Matt’s eyes as Caitlin rose from a back-row seat. She applauded, and as the girl left the stage, Caitlin brushed past Matt.
A deft hand tucked another note into his shirt pocket. Then, without even seeming to see him, Caitlin left the auditorium.
Matt sank into a seat, crossing his arms across his chest — and slipping out the note. He waited impatiently for the next piece of music to end — under the circumstances it seemed to take forever — and then left the auditorium, too.
He walked to his locker, opened the door, and spread the note on top of his books. It simply said:
SHERIDAN CIRCLE
3:30
He knew the place — it was one of the many traffic circles spread around Washington. It was a bit of a walk from Bradford. He checked his watch. He’d better move if he was supposed to be there by three-thirty!
Matt reached Sheridan Circle with about half a minute to spare. He glanced around the wealthy neighborhood. Quite a few countries had their embassies in this area. If one of the virtual vandals should spot him….
