Page 25 - Tales the Maggid Never Told Me
P. 25

The Golem of NASA

          Gabe  Solomon  read  the  headline  and  lead  paragraph  twice
        before he could snap the looping input trance it had induced. Then
        he was out the door of his apartment, leaving breakfast and sports
        pages behind. It was raining lightly, as it had been doing for days in
        northern  Virginia,  but  Gabe  noticed  nothing  as  he  ran  to  the
        Metro  station.  General  Khazak  was  dead,  stricken  by  cerebral
        hemorrhage  on  a  private  tennis  court  in  Tel  Aviv.  No  autopsy,
        no  forensic  investigation,  no  microscopic  tissue  analysis  could
        arrive  at  a  different  conclusion.  But  Gabe  Solomon  suspected
        murder;  and,  if  that  were  the  case,  then  responsibility  for  the
        crime would be his.
          On  the  platform  and  in  the  subway  train  between  stops  he
        paced  nervously  back  and  forth,  then  dashed  through  the  car’s
        doors  the  instant  they  slid  apart  at  his  station.  He  continued  at
        breakneck  speed  up  an  escalator,  through  the  turnstile,  up  another
        escalator and down two blocks to a nondescript office  building. In
        the lobby he composed himself; a series of security posts had to be
        crossed before he could get to his office. The Agency operated here
        as a commercial cable television service, justifying the odd array of
        satellite dishes on the roof. The last officer in clerk’s clothing let him
        pass unmolested through the metal detector masquerading as modern
        sculpture,  and  he  entered  the  rabbit  warren  of  offices  where  he
        worked.  His  arrival  time  was  early,  and  would  be  noted,  but
        occasional  dedication  to  one’s  assignment  was  not  a  cause  for
        demerit.
          He  unlocked  a  door  marked  ‘G.  Solomon,  Customer  Service’,
        casually  observing  the  presence  or  absence  of  other  laborers  in
        the  vineyards  of  Uncle  Sam.  None  of  the  usual  kibitzers  and
        clock-watchers  was  in  sight;  the  coffee  machine  at  the  end  of  the
        corridor was cold and silent. Gabe slipped into his office and closed
        the door. As he approached the terminal on his desk, his anxiety rose
        again.  Oh, my  God! he moaned internally; I’ve  really done  it now!
        I’ve got to reprogram this thing fast!



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