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I went right to it； and all my symbols were there…circles； triangles； japps； mirks； rhomboids； bews； smims； fouders； hundreds more。 Thousands more。 Maybe millions more。 It's sort of like Mr。 Sharpton said： a new world； and I'm on the coastline of the first continent。
All I know is that all at once it was there for me； I had a great big Macintosh puter to work with instead of a little piece of pink chalk； and all I had to do was type the words for the symbols and the symbols would appear。 I was jacked to the max。 I mean my God。 It was like a river of fire burning in the middle of my head。 I wrote； I called up symbols； I used the mouse to drag everything where it was supposed to be。 And when it was done； I had a letter。 One of the special letters。
But a letter to who？
A letter to where？
Then I realized it didn't matter。 Make a few minor customizing touches； and there were many people the letter could go to although this one had been written for a man rather than a woman。 I don't know how I knew that； I just did。 I decided to start with Cincinnati； only because Cincinnati was the first city to e into my mind。 It could as easily have been Zurich； Switzerland； or Waterville； Maine。
I tried to open a TOOLS program titled DINKYMAIL。 Before the puter would let me in there； it prompted me to wake up my modem。 Once the modem was running； the puter wanted a 312 area code。 312's Chicago； and I imagine that； as far as the phone pany is concerned； my pu…calls all e from TransCorp's headquarters。 I didn't care one way or another； that was their business。 I had found my business and was taking care of it。
With the modem awake and linked to Chicago； the puter flashed
DINKYMAIL READY。
I clicked on LOCALE。 I'd been in the study almost three hours by then； with only one break to take a quick piss； and I could smell myself； sweating and stinking like a monkey in a greenhouse。 I didn't mind。 I liked the smell。 I was having the time of my life。 I was fucking delirious。
I typed CINCINNATI and hit EXECUTE。
NO LISTINGS CINCINNATI
the puter said。 Okay； not a problem。 Try Columbus…closer to home； anyway。 And yes； folks！ We have a Bingo。
TWO LISTINGS COLUMBUS
There were two telephone numbers。 I clicked on the top one； curious and a little afraid of what might pop out。 But it wasn't a dossier； a profile； or…God forbid…a photograph。 There was one single word：
MUFFIN。
Say what？
But then I knew。 Muffin was Mr。 Columbus's pet。 Very likely a cat。 I called up my special letter again； transposed two symbols and deleted a third。 Then I added MUFFIN to the top； with an arrow pointing down。 There。 Perfect。
Did I wonder who Muffin's owner was； or what he had done to warrant TransCorp's attention； or exactly what was going to happen to him？ I did not。 The idea that my conditioning at Peoria might have been partially responsible for this disinterest never crossed my mind； either。 I was doing my thing； that was all。 Just doing my thing； and as happy as a clam at high tide。
I called the number on the screen。 I had the puter's speaker on； but there was no hello； only the screechy mating…call of another puter。 Just as well； really。 Life's easier when you subtract the human element。 Then it's like that movie； Twelve O'Clock High； cruising over Berlin in your trusty B…25； looking through your trusty Norden bombsight and waiting for just the right moment to push your trusty button。 You might see smokestacks； or factory roofs； but no people。 The guys who dropped the bombs from their B…25s didn't have to hear the screams of mothers whose children had just been reduced to guts； and I didn't even have to hear anyone say hello。 A very good deal。
After a little bit； I turned off the speaker anyway。 I found it distracting。
MODEM FOUND；
the puter flashed； and then
SEARCH FOR E…MAIL ADDRESS Y/N。
I typed Y and waited。 This time the wait was longer。 I think the puter was going back to Chicago again； and getting what it needed to unlock the e…mail address of Mr。 Columbus。 Still； it was less than thirty seconds before the puter was right back at me with
E…MAIL ADDRESS FOUND SEND DINKYMAIL Y/N。
I typed Y with absolutely no hesitation。 The puter flashed
SENDING DINKYMAIL
and then
DINKYMAIL SENT。
That was all。 No fireworks。
I wonder what happened to Muffin； though。
You know。 After。
XVI
That night I called Mr。 Sharpton and said； 'I'm working。'
'That's good； Dink。 Great news。 Feel better？' Calm as ever。 Mr。 Sharpton is like the weather in Tahiti。
'Yeah；' I said。 The fact was； I felt blissful。 It was the best day of my life。 Doubts or no doubts； worries or no worries； I still say that。 The most eventual day of my life。 It was like a river of fire in my head； a fucking river of fire； can you get that？ 'Do you feel better； Mr。 Sharpton？ Relieved？'
'I'm happy for you； but I can't say I'm relieved； because…'
'…you were never worried in the first place。'
'Got it in one；' he said。
'Everything's eventual； in other words。'
He laughed at that。 He always laughs when I say that。 'That's right； Dink。 Everything's eventual。'
'Mr。 Sharpton？'
'Yes？'
'E…mail's not exactly private； you know。 Anybody who's really dedicated can hack into it。'
'Part of what you send is a suggestion that the recipient delete the message from all files； is it not？'
'Yes； but I can't absolutely guarantee that he'll do it。 Or she。'
'Even if they don't； nothing can happen to someone else who chances on such a message； am I correct？ Because it's 。 。 。 personalized。'
'Well； it might give someone a headache； but that would be about all。'
'And the munication itself would look like so much gibberish。'
'Or a code。'
He laughed heartily at that。 'Let them try to break it； Dinky； eh？ Just let them try！'
I sighed。 'I suppose。'
'Let's discuss something more important； Dink 。 。 。 how did it feel？'
'Fucking wonderful。'
'Good。 Don't question wonder； Dink。 Don't ever question wonder。'
And he hung up。
XVII
Sometimes I have to send actual letters…print out the stuff I whomp up in DINKY'S NOTEBOOK； stick it in an envelope； lick stamps； and mail it off to somebody somewhere。 Professor Ann Tevitch； University of New Mexico at Las Cruces。 Mr。 Andrew Neff； c/o The New York Post； New York； New York。 Billy Unger； General Delivery； Stovington； Vermont。 Only names； but they were still more upsetting than the phone numbers。 More personal than the phone numbers。 It was like seeing faces swim up at you for a second inside your Norden bomb…sight。 I mean； what a freak…out； right？ You're up there at twenty…five thousand feet； no faces allowed up there； but sometimes one shows up for a second or two； just the same。
I wondered how a University Professor could get along without a modem （or a guy whose address was a fucking New York newspaper； for that matter）； but I never wondered too much。 I didn't have to。 We live in a modern world； but letters don't have to be sent by puter； after all。 There's still snail…mail。 And the stuff I really needed was always in the database。 The fact that Unger had a 1957 Thunderbird； for instance。 Or that Ann Tevitch had a loved one…perhaps her husband； perhaps her son； perhaps her father…named Simon。
And people like Tevitch and Unger were exceptions。 Most of the folks I reach out and touch are like that first one in Columbus…fully equipped for the twenty…first century。 SENDING DINKYMAIL； DINKYMAIL SENT； velly good； so long； Cholly。
I could have gone on like that for a long time； maybe forever…browsing the database （there's no schedule to follow； no list of primary cities and targets； I'm pletely on my own 。 。 。 unless all that shit is also in my subconscious； down there on the hard disk）； going to afternoon movies； enjoying the Ma…less silence of my little house； and dreaming of my next step up the ladder； except I woke up feeling horny one day。 I worked for an hour or so； browsing around in Australia； but it was no good…my dick kept trespassing on my brain； so to speak。 I shut off the puter and went down to News Plus to see if I could find a magazine featuring pretty ladies in frothy lingerie。
As I got there； a guy was ing out； reading the Columbus Dispatch。 I never read the paper myself。 Why bother？ It's the same old shit day in and day out； dictators beating the ching…chong out of people weaker than they are； men in uniforms beating the ching…chong out of soccer balls or footballs； politicians kissing babies and kissing ass。 Mostly stories about the Skipper Brannigans of the world； in other words。 And I wouldn't have seen this story even if I'd happened to look at the newspaper display rack once I got inside； because it was on the bottom half of the front page； below the fold。 But this fucking dimbulb es out with the paper hanging open and his face buried inside it。
In the lower right corner was a picture of a white…haired guy smoking a pipe and smiling。 He looked like a good…humored fuck； probably Irish； ey