Let the Great World Spin: A Novel by Mccann Colum

Author:Mccann, Colum [Mccann, Colum]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780812973990
Publisher: Random House Trade Paperbacks
Published: 2009-12-02T06:00:00+00:00

ETHERWEST

IT’S EARLY IN THE MORNING and the fluorescents are flickering. We’re taking a break from the graphics hack. Dennis gets the blue-box program running through the PDP-10 to see if we can catch a good hook.

It’s Dennis, Gareth, Compton, and me. Dennis is the oldest, almost thirty. We like to call him Grandpa—he did two tours in ’Nam. Compton graduated U.C. Davis. Gareth’s been programming for must be ten years. Me, I’m eighteen. They call me the Kid. I’ve been hanging out at the institute since I was twelve.

—How many rings, guys? says Compton.

—Three, says Dennis, like he’s already bored.

—Twenty, says Gareth.

—Eight, I say.

Compton flicks a look at me.

—The Kid speaks, he says.

True enough, most of the time I just let my hackwork do the talking. It’s been like that since I sneaked in the basement door of the institute, back in ′68. I was out skipping school, a kid in short pants and broken glasses. The computer was spitting out a line of ticker tape and the guys at the console let me watch it. The next morning they found me sleeping on the doorstep: Hey, look, it’s the Kid.

Nowadays I’m here all day, every day, and the truth is I’m the best hacker they got, the one who did all the patches for the blue-box program.

The line gets picked up on the ninth ring and Compton slaps my shoulder, leans into the microphone, and says to the guy in his smooth clip so as not to freak him out: Hi, yeah, don’t hang up, this is Compton here.

—Excuse me?

—Compton here, who’s this?

—Pay phone.

—Don’t hang up.

—This is a pay phone, sir.

—Who’s speaking?

—What number’re you looking for …?

—I have New York, right?

—I’m busy, man.

—Are you near the World Trade Center?

—Yeah, man, but…

—Don’t hang up.

—You must’ve got a wrong number, man.

The line goes dead. Compton hits the keyboard and the speed dial kicks in and there’s a pickup on the thirteenth ring.

—Please don’t hang up. I’m calling from California.

—Huh?

—Are you near the World Trade Center?

—Kiss my ass.

We can hear a half-chuckle as the phone gets slammed down. Compton pings six numbers all at once, waits.

—Hi, sir?

—Yes?

—Sir, are you in the vicinity of downtown New York?

—Who’s this?

—We’re just wondering if you could look up for us?

—Very funny, ha-ha.

The line goes dead again.

—Hello, ma’am?

—I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.

—Hello! Don’t hang up.

—I’m sorry, sir, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.

—Excuse me …

—Try the operator, please.

—Bite me, says Compton to the dead line.

We’re thinking that we should pack it all in and go back to the graphics hack. It’s four or five in the morning, and the sun’ll soon be coming up. I guess we could even go home if we wanted to, catch a few zees instead of sleeping under the desks like usual. Pizza boxes for pillows and sleeping bags among the wires.

But Compton hits the enter key again.

It’s a thing we do all the time for kicks, blue-boxing through the computer, to Dial-A-Disc in London, say, or

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