Good luck. This message will be erased from memory in 30 seconds. As a certified member of ACT (the Ad­venture Connection Team) your job, as always, is to defend the cause of good against evil. It won’t be easy, because BRUTE (the Bureau of Random Unlawful Terror and Evil - an international organization bent on wreaking havoc throughout the world) will be fighting you every step of the way. Your computer expertise will be vital to this mission. So turn on your home system. Throughout this adventure you’ll be called upon to program it to get the ACT team out of some really tough spots. Warning: The following information is crucial to the success of your mission. Read it carefully. It may save your life. You look away for an instant ... and when you look back you scream in horror, "Oh, no, they’ve got us!” Because there, directly in front of you, is a solid brick wall! You’d like to close your eyes and think that this is all a bad dream. But you just can’t. You stare at the windshield in front of you - it’s almost like watching a movie. But this is a lot worse than 3D! Just then there is an explosion beneath you and a loud whoosh of air. At the same time the van swerves to the right, and the driver struggles to maintain control. “If we can make it to Tuttle Air Force Base before they hit our tires . . . "Do we have a chance?"you ask nervously. Will this mission end before it even starts? They must have sixth gear, too. And they have something else - machine guns! You hear the bullets pinging off the van’s armor plate. "Unfortunately, they’re interested in every­ thing we do,"the driver says as he shifts into sixth gear and the van roars away from your pursuers, You glance in the rearview mirror and see the hearse is still behind you. “That guy looked more like a BRUTE agent than a mortician,you comment, and then gasp as you realize what you’ve just said. "Are they involved in this mission?" "Hang on,your driver shouts. "The heck with our cover. I’m going to make a run for it.The van shoots forward like a speedboat. The bundles are heavier than you expected, but you manage to heave one onto the sidewalk. Three paper drops later, you see the driver glancing nervously into-the rearview mirror. What could scare a tough-looking guy like him? It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. A long black hearse has just pulled up where you dropped off your last bundle of papers. As you watch, a man in a black leather jacket hops out, snatches up your papers, and throws them inside. Somehow he doesn’t look as if he’s from the Eternal Peace Funeral Parlor. And you can’t figure out what he wants with a bunch of newspapers. With a lurch forward, the van is on its way. But not for long. In a few blocks it comes to a screeching halt in front of a newsstand. “We’ve got to make this look authentic. Open the door arid toss out one of those bundles of paper.” You see him slip a nasty-looking pistol back into its holster. "Just making sure, you know. Hop in," he continues in a more friendly voice. “Hope you don’t mind sitting on a pile of papers.” "Code name?" he rasps as you pull open the van door. If you know ACT, and you definitely do, a chauffeured vehicle - anything from a Maserati to a milk truck - will be arriving at once. As you step outside, a newspaper delivery van pulls up to your door. The driver’s massive shoulders are hunched over the wheel, and he’s wearing a cap with a visor pulled down over his eyes. You power down your home terminal and switch on the special portable unit that ACT has provided for field assignments. It’s state-of-the­ art hardware packed into a machine the size of a pocket radio. "Holy space shot!" you gasp. "In less than 12 hours I’ll be on my way to a secret U.S. space station orbiting the earth. The installation is in deep trouble, and only ACT has a chance to save it." As always, you’ll be the team’s computer expert. But who else will be along on the mission? And will you be in time? 10 INPUT "TYPE IN MESSAGE";M$ 20 L=LEN(M$) 30 FOR N=1 TO L 40 A=ASC(MID$(M$,N,1))-1 50 PRINT CHR$(A); 60 NEXT N 70 PRINT 80 PRINT "IS THERE ANOTHER MESSAGE TO DECODE?" 90 INPUT "ANSWER YES OR NO";B$ 100 IF B$="YES" THEN GOTO 10 110 END Type the program below into the emulator on the right. This will let you decode ACT's message. To run the program, type RUN. Unlocking the desk drawer, you bring out ACT’s latest code book - the most recent issue of X-Men Comics . To the untrained eye it looks quite ordinary. But once the special transparency has been slipped over the next to the last page, the lines of a BASIC program leap into view. It looks like gibberish. But you know better. The urgent message on your micro snaps you to attention! By the time you get there, the printer has already spewed out an eight-line message. This is not a drill. This is for real. Stand by for urgent communication from ACT Central. Drop whatever you’re doing and go immediately to your computer terminal. "I think I’ve got it," you say tentatively. Then, gritting your teeth, you type in your corrections and let the program run. 10 N = 10 20 IF N < = 0 THEN GOTO 90 30 PRINT "T MINUS ";N;" AND COUNTING" 40 N = N + 1 50 IF N >= 100 THEN GOTO 110 60 FOR I = 1 TO 300 70 NEXT I 80 GOTO 20 90 PRINT "BLAST-OFF" 100 END 110 PRINT "ROCKET HAS OVERHEATED ON THE LAUNCH PAD" 120 PRINT "THIS HAS BEEN YOUR FIRST AND FINAL ACT" 130 END Type the following program in your computer and run it. Line 30 must be typed as one line on your computer. The same is true for lines 110 and 120. Then it’s up to you to find the bug that keeps the rocket from getting off the ground. You don’t answer. You’re already punching in the command to get a listing of the program. "Do you think you can fix it?" the pilot presses, leaning nervously on your shoulder. "What is it?" the pilot questions tensely. "I don’t know yet," you answer, wishing you had a few hours rather than a few minutes to isolate the problem. You check the status of the system. It’s running the countdown program. But there’s definitely something screwy going on. "Is this the panel that controls the on-board computer?" you ask, pointing to a keyboard and monitor. "Great! See what you can do with this pro­ gram," the pilot exclaims, nearly ripping you off your couch and slamming you into the empty copilot ’s seat. In the back of your mind you’re wondering just how this could have happened. Is it sabotage? But you’ve got more important things to think right now - like saving everybody’s hide. It’s probably a bug in the software, and you’re the only one aboard who could isolate it fast enough to do any good. "I’m a computer ex­ pert," you volunteer. "Let me have a go at it." "Oh great," the pilot mutters. "Mission Control, we’ve got a problem. The countdown program’s gone haywire. If someone doesn’t stop it, we’re liable to fry right here on the launchpad." In a millisecond you size up the situation: You wait tensely for the old familiar count­ down that you’ve seen so many times on TV newscasts. But this time, something is wrong - really wrong. "Stand by for countdown sequence," the pilot’s voice echoes through your earphones. You know this is a life-or-death mission you’re on, but walking into the control room is the biggest thrill of your life. "Beam me up, Scotty," is on the tip of your tongue, but you control yourself. You get a quick look at the other silver-suited bodies as someone straps you into a padded recliner. In an instant, so are you. First you take the long elevator up the gigantic rocket gantry. Then it’s through the hatch and into the ship. "Where’s the rest of the team?" you want to know. An Air Force sergeant stands you up and tells you to take off your clothes-right down to your underwear. Another sergeant hands you a silver-colored space suit that fits as if it was made especially for you. And it probably was. Over the zippered pocket is a red ACT emblem. At least you’ll be able to tell the good guys from the bad. You’re fully awake now! The plane has landed at Cape Canaveral, and you ’re being dragged off the plane and hustled to the launch site. "Hey, wait a minute - what about the mission briefing?" you ask. The sound of your code name wakes you. "Get Orion to the launchpad immediately," someone shouts. "We only have a 30-minute window for this shot. Otherwise it’s 24 hours before the space station comes around again." That figures, you think as you drift off to sleep. You start to close your eyes but they snap open again. "By the way, what’s your name?" you ask the driver as he starts to climb out of the van. "Go ahead and get some sleep,"he advises. "You’re probably going to need it before all this is over." The driver, turns to you and says nonchalantly, "Right on schedule." "Yeah,"you agree, trying to sound as calm as he does. Ahead you can see a huge cargo plane waiting for you with its front open like the jaws of a gigantic shark.. To your amazement, the newspaper van speeds right inside. And this time, the jaws snap closed before your pursuers can follow. The van has barely stopped before you feel the plane speeding down the runway and rising into the air. You throw your arms up over your head and tense yourself for the impact. But just as you ’re about to smash into the wall, a section of it slides up and you zip underneath. Unfortunately, so does the hearse! You can hardly believe your eyes, but instead of putting on the brakes, the driver is heading straight at the brick wall! "Here we go!"he yells. "There’s a problem with the automated locking system. I’m going to have to handle this manually," the captain reports calmly. But when the ship overshoots the port, you can hear him mumbling under his breath, "I’ll dock this sucker if it’s the last thing I do." His warning is a chilling reminder of exactly why you’re here. But you can’t help watching in fascination as your craft fires its retrorockets and maneuvers under the wide brim. There you see several slots that must be moorings for space­ craft. "... But remember, this is highly classified information. No one can know of the existence of this station after the mission - that is, if the station exists after the mission." "About the size of a football stadium," the pilot answers. He pauses and shakes his head. "I didn’t know we had anything this large in space," Professor Lowell admits. "How big is that thing?" All eyes turn toward the opening. Looming up ahead is the space station. It looks like an immense metallic 10-gallon hat. So that’s why they call it Rodeo I. "I thought you’d like to see the docking operation," the pilot explains. Funny how time flies when you’re having fun, you think ironically. It seems like only a few moments later when you hear Professor Lowell exclaim, "Look!" as she points toward a starboard bulkhead. Suddenly, what used to be a curving blank wall bas become a porthole. The story breaks the ice and everybody - even the pilot - jumps in with recollections of close calls. The whole team is talking at once, and nobody is really listening to anybody else. Everyone has a story of danger and intrigue to tell, except for Dr. Macron. He keeps repeating "I remember the time when…" But he’s never quite able to remember what it was he wanted to remember. To your amazement, the colonel launches into a story about the time she was lowered by crane and tackle into an ICBM missile silo to disarm the warhead. She pulled it off with seconds to spare. Colonel Grace seems to read your thoughts. "Listen, it can’t be hopeless. ACT wouldn’t send a crack team_ on a suicide mission. We’ll get.to work on the problem the minute we dock. But meanwhile, let’s not panic. I’ve been in spots that were just as tight as this - and I’m still here to tell the tales." This time there’s a unanimous gasp from the ACT team. You can feel your chest tighten and your heart begin to pound. You were prepared for. danger and adventure when you joined up, but not for certain death. "- and we’re going to be on it when it does," Professor Lowell finishes for her. "Not exactly," the colonel admits, drumming her fingers against the bulkhead. "Unfortunately, when the big guns are out, the station goes into a self-destruct mode. It’s going to blow itself up in 36 hours." "Is that the worst of it?" Tinker asks tensely. Colonel Grace nods. "The situation is Code Red. We’re getting some desperate messages from the station, but they keep asking us to retransmit because everything they’re getting back from us is garbled. As far as we can tell, some sort of alien force has the station under partial control. And they’ve deactivated the weaponry;"" "Of course you haven’t," the colonel shoots back. "It’s secret. In fact, it’s the U.S.-staffed. eye-in-the-sky station. And it’s so hush-hush that most of the military doesn’t even know it exists." You’d almost forgotten why you’re here. But Colonel Grace has brought the team down to earth, so to speak. "Hey, this is neat!" you say, echoing Tinker’s sentiments. The only problem is that you can’t control where you’re going. After knocking your elbow on a bulkhead, you’re a little relieved when Colonel Grace snags you back to your seat. "All right, everybody!" she snaps. "Enough foolishness. We only have 63 minutes and 32 seconds before we dock at Rodeo I. Let’s get down to business." "Hang on, I’ll be right there," you tell him, reaching for your own release latch. All too soon you’ve joined him. But her attempt at discipline doesn’t work. Dr. Macron has inadvertently unsnapped his buckle, too. You watch as he starts floating slowly upward: She turns to the young woman who shouted the warning. "Thank you, Professor Lowell. Your code name’s certainly appropriate. For those of you who don’t know, Lowell was a famous astronomer in the early part of this century. Our Professor Lowell is also an astronomer - and you," the colonel says as she snaps the wayward floater back into his seat, "you must be Tinker. Why ACT sent someone from Astro Toys is be­ yond me. This ship is not a toy. And we’re not here to play!" But it’s too late. The guy is already out of his seat and floating around the cabin like a gold­ fish in a tank of water. "Whee!" he exclaims just before Colonel Grace’s huge ham-like hand whips out and nabs him by the heel. Just then you see that someone else has not only taken off his helmet but unfastened his seat belt. Everyone is shooting him puzzled looks. Is this guy for real? they seem to be saying. You’d be wondering, too, except that you’ve seen "this guy" in action. He knows 128 natural languages and can translate from any one to any other at 40 words per minute. So what if he doesn’t re­ member whether he had lunch or not. In a thin but very precise voice he introduces himself to the group. "I don’t know how ACT snatched me off the subway between 157th and 158th Streets, but I think I’m glad to be here, even though I didn’t eat lunch - or did I?" "Why don’t the rest of you introduce your­ selves so we can start getting acquainted?" the colonel continues, all business again. "You bet your sweet K rations," she shoots back. "Ballistics are my field. I designed the weaponry on that hummer we’re headed for. That’s why I’m here," She pauses and favors you with what almost looks like a motherly smile. "And Orion here is our computer expert - and not half bad at that." "All right, I’m Colonel Helen Grace," she barks, removing her helmet, "military liaison for this mission. And I’ll have you ACT recruits in shape before you know it. " While you ’re still recovering, one of the passengers unstraps the safety harness and sits up. Through his faceplate you catch a glimpse of his features. He looks like a giant bulldog. Gee, I’m glad that guy’s on our side; you think, noting that his physique would make the Dallas Cowboys’ front line nervous. But this character doesn’t play for the NFL. Instead of your ACT insignia, you see a colonel’s oak-leaf cluster. ... 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, IGNITION, BLAST OFF! The roar of the rocket engines is deafening. And the G force presses you back against the couch, making you feel like a bug being squashed under a giant’s heel. Fortunately, it’s over pretty quickly. "Quick, strap yourself in!" the pilot shouts. "This mission is go." As the countdown goes 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 ..., you hear six simultaneous sighs of relief. You’d like to think about this objectively in a logical fashion - just the way you’d tackle any other routine problem. But it’s almost impossible to concentrate. As you stare at the bits of the message, you keep seeing something else - a picture of the space station being blown to bits, and you along with it. Unlike Tinker, you’re not really sure wherc to start. Then a message starts coming across over the Earth-station link. As you tear off the printout, you see that it is indeed garbled. In fact, it looks as if it could have been typed by a chicken pecking for corn on the keys. Sitting back in your chair, you scratch your head and study the unreadable text for a moment. A mischievous grin plays around his lips, and you realize the pun you’ve just made. "Stay on your side of the system," you warn. "If you tinker with mine, I’ll never be able to get a listing." You tum to Tinker and see that he’s whipped a screwdriver out of a pocket in his suit. You can see his eyes light up as though he’s itching to dismantle the works. "In plain English, you mean neither of them is working?" Tinker prompts. "’I didn’t realize you had two identical sets of hardware," you call to Baker. The Communications Center is small, but designed for maximum efficiency. You enter by a ladder in the ceiling. And as you climb down, you feel as though you ’re descending into a two­ person diving bell. There’s instrumentation over every square inch of the curved interior surface. In the center are two empty chairs, each facing identical semicircles of communications equipment. "Anyway," she adds, "we don’t have time to do anything about it right now. I have to get you to the COMMS Center ASAP." "That’s probably it," Baker agrees, but there’s still a note of uncertainty in her voice. "Well, maybe someone was repairing them," you suggest. "I guess it’s my eye for details," he remarks offhandedly. "What’s up there, anyway?" The lieutenant stares at Tinker with new respect. "You know, I’ve walked this corridor hundreds of times and never seen that," she says. Tinker shakes his head. "This isn’t a stress­ related fault. It must have been slit and seamed back together. Look at where the glue has leaked." "I guess this stuff isn’t as tough as you thought," you observe. The two of you study the area of the ceiling he’s pointing to. There’s a hairline crack in the plastic material. "What’s wrong?" you ask. "Come here and look at this." You and Baker are a few paces down the corridor when you realize Tinker isn’t with you. Turning, you see him rubbing his fingers on the accordion pleat above his head. "This material was developed for one of our combat action toys. It had to withstand 20 tons of pressure or two hours with a seven-year­old - whichever provided the most stress. And all for fifty cents a square foot." The lieutenant laughs. "Everybody does that the first time. It looks like a vacuum cleaner hose, but of course the sides have to be rigid!", she adds. You and Tinker follow the lieutenant down a metal ladder that leads to a long, tube-like corridor. It looks just like the inside of a vacuum cleaner hose. Reaching up, you stop and push at one of the accordion pleats. But to your surprise, it’s rigid. "Let me show you to the COMMS Center," Lieutenant Baker offers. "Well, at least one of your problems is easy to solve. A gross of toilet paper was included in the requisitions we brought," Colonel Grace notes. "But let’s go back to your original list." She pauses and looks around at the ACT team members. "We don’t know whether the communications malfunction is a hardware or software problem. So why doesn’t Orion get busy testing the programs while Tinker checks out the equipment?" Her words are phrased like a question, but they’re definitely an order. "Not quite. We’ve been out of toilet paper for the past week." "Oh, if anything, Lieutenant Baker is being optimistic," the captain assures her. "All our communications from Earth are still garbled. The alien signals we’re intercepting are getting stronger, which undoubtedly means they’re get­ ting closer. Our weaponry is still out." He stops and looks at his watch. "And now we only have 30 hours before the station self-destructs." Colonel Grace shoots her a disapproving look. "I hardly think that’s an accurate assessment of the situation." "Two out in the bottom of the ninth," a female lieutenant quips. "We’re losing 12 to zip and you’re up." Her words are an attempt at humor; but there’s desperation in her voice. The colonel nods. "I suggest you keep him sedated until we can get to the bottom of what’s going on up here. Now, let’s get down to business. Give us a recap of your situation, Captain." "Grab him," the captain orders. As they carry him out, Garrety turns to the ACT team. "Sorry," he apologizes, turning to Colonel Grace. "We’ve all been under a lot of pressure, but it’s been particularly hard on Peterson." You stare wide-eyed at the scene. If Peterson is one of the good guys – boy. is ACT in trouble. But before Garrety can call for reinforcements, the demented COMMS operator slumps over on the console. "You’ll never get it on him," someone warns. "Peterson’s got his black belt in karate. He can turn you to mashed fruit with those hands." "His mind must have snapped from the pressure," says a lieutenant. "Get a strait jacket." The two ensigns try to restrain him, but he jumps up on the operations console. "Please transmit! Please transmit!" he shouts. "Hilieee ya!" he screams, slicing the side of the stretcher with his hand. It breaks in two, and he falls to the floor. With that, Peterson’s eyes snap open. And in the next second, he’s pushed the captain out of the way and is sitting bolt upright. Garrety leans down and takes Peterson’s slack jaw in his hand. "It’s all right, man. Your messages got through. Help has arrived. Can you understand me?" "Peterson, our communications officer," the captain explains sadly. "He’s been on watch for 64 continuous hours trying to decode the Earthside messages. But the last thing he gasped before he collapsed was that he wanted to be there if help arrived." At that moment, two ensigns hurry in carrying a stretcher. The rest of the crew looked bad enough. But at least they were on their feet. But things get deadly serious again when everybody has assembled in the Operations Center and you take a look at the haggard crew. They look beaten - slumped shoulders, bloodshot eyes, tired and grim expressions on their faces. This is a life-or-death situation. And they know it. A tall, uniformed man with a three-day growth of beard and deep circles under his eyes makes an effort to square his shoulders before shaking hands with Colonel Grace. "Thank goodness you’re here, ma’am. I’m Captain Garrety. We didn’t know whether anyone had received our distress call." No one wants to think about the "if not" as you walk through the air lock into the space­ ship. The gravity is less than Earth normal, you note, surprised at the springiness of your steps. If this weren’t so dangerous, it could be fun. "No. I’m not being paid for hazardous duty. Besides, I have to take the station’s nonessential personnel back to Earth. If everything tums out okay, I’ll be back to pick you up. If not... " "What do you mean? Aren’t you going to stay to take us back?" Professor Lowell questions. "Whew!" the pilot exclaims. And then he turns to the ACT team. "Well, it’s been nice knowing you," he says. Luckily, on the next pass, the pilot edges up to an empty berth, and your ship comes to rest with only a slight clank. The horror of what’s just happened and what’s going to happen hits you at once: In 60 seconds all the air is going to be pumped out of that room. And you can’t do anything about it. It takes a minute for you to climb to your feet and get your breath back. You try the door handle, but it’s locked tight. And through the glass plate in the door you can see Dr. Macron slumped in the corner of a small room. A red light above his head is flashing: Warning. Six seconds till automatic air lock evacuation. The assailant swivels around, and you get a quick glimpse of his rather ordinary-looking features. Somehow that puts your muscles in motion, and you run forward. You hear the attacker growl deep in his throat. With lightning speed he pulls open a heavy door, shoves Dr. Macron inside, and slams it shut. Everything is happening so fast now that you don’t have time to panic. You reach the guy’s side just as the door clangs shut. Desperately, you ram him in the stomach with your head. But, without comment, he pushes you aside and holds you out of the way with a long arm. He seems to be holding you impossibly far away from his body. All you can do is keep flailing at him while he fiddles with a key pad next to the door. Finished, he drops you on the floor and runs off. You try to come to his rescue. But somehow your feet are glued to the corrugated metal floor. "Hey, Dr. Macron, wait up!" you shout. But he’s already turned the corner and can’t hear you. Speeding up, you round the bend and then stop. You see him talking to a crew member and assume the guy is going to set him straight. But just as you’re about to turn back to the wardroom, Macron slumps to the floor. The crew member has hit him with some kind of club! For an old guy, Macron is surprisingly spry. By the time you get out in the corridor, he’s already 100 meters away and, just as you suspected, heading in the wrong direction. "I think there’s trouble now," you mumble under your breath as you start off after Dr. Macron. Luckily, you passed the Media Center on your way back from the COMMS Center. So you should be able to find it again. "Not right now. Just be on alert in case there’s trouble." "Do you have an assignment for me?" you ask Colonel Grace quickly. Uh-oh, you think as you see Macron toddling out the door with a big stack of messages under each arm. He may be a crackerjack linguist, but you remember the time he went across the street for a pastrami sandwich and didn’t reappear till three days later. However, it’s the captain’s directions to Dr. Macron that make you a little queasy. "I know you can’t miss the Media Center," you hear him conclude. Colonel Grace goes on with the assignments, noting that she and Tinker will be going on a space walk outside the station to inspect the weaponry firsthand. Tinker looks a little green around the gills at the prospect. The captain takes him aside and begins ex­ plaining how to get there. The colonel turns to Dr. Macron. "We’re all counting on you to translate these alien messages." Dr. Lowell pales. "Yes, well, I’d better make - the most of the time I have." She’s out the door before she finishes the sentence. "Dr. Lowell, I’d like you to check out the station’s observatory. You may be able to pick up some leads on the alien presence up there." The astronomer looks excited at the prospect. "I never dreamed I’d be this close to the stars," she confesses excitedly. "I wish I had a month up here and not just...?" Luckily, Baker is good at giving directions. After getting lost only twice, you and Tinker arrive just as Colonel Grace is making assignments. "Good work!" Captain Garrety booms. "Baker, you start decoding that stack of back­ logged messages. Orion and Tinker, report to the wardroom immediately." Baker is too relieved to quibble over credit. She pulls out her communicator and calls the captain. "Sir, good news from the COMMS Cen­ter. The ACT team members have restored communications with Earth." "We did it," Tinker bubbles and then looks at you. "Or rather, Orion did it. But if it had been a hardware problem, I would have fixed it," he adds under his breath. The little dog laughed to see such sport and the dish ran away with the spoon. You type the next part of the rhyme into the system. "I guess because they got tired of trans­ mitting real dispatches that weren’t being received. We’d better let them know that we read them loud and clear." Type in the garbled message below and see if you’ve finally got the decoder on the right track. The words are hardly out of his mouth before your efforts are put to the acid test. Beep. Beep. Beep. The I/O channel signals an incoming communique. "That’s great, because I’ve checked this baby over and there’s nothing wrong." "Wow, I think I’ve got it," you call over your shoulder to Tinker. After carefully comparing the two pro­ grams, you spot the problem. Compare the program on page 27 to the BASIC program on page 3, and see if you can change the COMMS Center’s software to make it run correctly . Sure enough, it’s there - the same issueI of X-Men Comics where you used to read ACT’s original communique. "Hey up there!" you shout to Baker. "Where do you keep your manual copy of the code book?" "I think it’s in the bottom left-hand drawer of the operator’s console." Type the above program into your system and list it. Line 80 must be typed as one line. 10 INPUT "TYPE IN MESSAGE";M$ 20 L = LEN(M$) 30 FOR N = 1 TO L 40 A = ASC(MID$(M$,N,1)) + 1 50 PRINT CHR$(A); 60 NEXT N 70 PRINT 80 PRINT "IS THERE ANOTHER MESSAGE TO DECODE?" 90 INPUT "ANSWER YES OR NO";B$ 100 IF B$ = "YES" THEN GOTO 10 110 END The first thing to do is get a listing of the routines in question. Studying the screen, you see the following program: Come to think of it, the format of this stuff looks a lot like the coded messages ACT sends to you. Could the station be using the same decoder program? And more to the point, could it be that someone’s disabled the automatic decryption software? There’s only one way to know for sure. Listen here, dummy! you scold yourself. If you don’t solve this problem, your nightmares are going to be reality. Resolutely you force yourself to look at the garbled characters once more. And then, suddenly, that old light bulb goes off in your head. Chapter 6 There’s got to be some way to save Dr. Macron! The door is protected by a computer combination. Maybe you can figure out how to get it open. You look at the key pad the crew member programmed and see a button marked PAUSE. That’s worth a try, you think. You push it, activating the speaker. "Your last command has been delayed for three minutes," a mechanical voice announces. "Enter cancel code or command will be executed in two minutes 50 seconds." Well, that bought you some time, you think, but not much. However, you have broken pass­ word schemes before. With a little luck, maybe you can get into this one. "Two minutes 45 seconds," the dispassionate voice reminds you. What kind of code are they using? You study the numeric pad, which looks like a calculator. The cancel sequence or the door combination could be anything from the captain’s birthday to a telephone number. Just to see how the system reacts, you type in today’s date. Buzz. The harsh sound makes you jump backward. Thank goodness the connection works and you’re into the system. Obviously you don’t have time to reprogram the door. The best you can hope for is to look at the control program and find out what code it’s looking for. You call for a listing, knowing that if you make a wrong move, you’re dead, and so is Dr. Macron. Type in this program and list it. Line 10 must be typed as a sin e line on your computer. The same is true for lines 40, 60, 80, and 130. Find the three-number combination buried in the software. Then run the program on your computer and enter the appropriate combination to unlock the door. Keep this program handy. You may need it again soon. If you need help, see page 109 of the Reference Manual. I’m sorry, you have entered an illegal code," the computer voice informs you. "Due to security alert, phase two protection has been installed." You feel a bead of sweat form at your hairline and slowly trickle down your face. Wiping it away with the back of your hand, you look at the phase two operating instructions posted beside the door. The small print explains that you’re going to get zapped if you enter another illegal code. "One minute 50 seconds." Perspiration begins to run down your face. And suddenly your fingers feel cramped. As you flex them, you notice an outlet next to the key pad. It looks like a serial port. Luckily, you have a serial interface cable that just might let you tap into this microprocessor. Pulling out your portable computer, you quickly make the connections and wait. "1 minute 20 seconds." PROGRAM 4 10 INPUT "ENTER FIRST NUMBER OF COMBINATION";N 20 IF N = 99 THEN GOTO 130 30 IF N <> 32 THEN GOTO 100 40 INPUT "ENTER SECOND NUMBER OF COMBINATION";N 50 IF N <> 48 THEN GOTO 100 60 INPUT "ENTER THIRD NUMBER OF COMBINATION";N 70 IF N <> 61 THEN GOTO 100 80 PRINT "AIR LOCK IS OPEN. YOU MAY PROCEED." 90 END 100 PRINT "SECURITY VIOLATION!" 110 PRINT "INTRUDER IS TERMINATED" 120 END 130 PRINT "S.O.S. SENT TO CONTROL CENTER" 140 END The red light inside. the air lock chamber stops flashing and the door clicks. It worked! Rushing inside, you grab Dr. Macron by the shoulders and drag him into the corridor. In the back of your mind you realize that moving him might be taking a chance. But so would staying inside that air lock. You can see the linguist is in really bad shape. He’s breathing, but just barely. There’s a bright red gash on the top of his head. And his face is as white as his beard. What are you going to do? You can’t leave him here alone, but you need to get help. If only there were a way to signal for aid. Maybe there is. Now that you have the listing of the door controller program you see that there’s one function that will turn on the alarm in the control room. Run the program again and enter the alarm key. In less than a minute, the corridor is full of armed reinforcements, led by Captain Garrety himself. Suddenly, a dozen lethal-looking laser guns are pointed in your direction. "Don’t shoot - it’s me, Orion!" you cry out. "I set off the alarm to get help." "Hold your fire," the captain orders. "Orion is a member of the ACT team. What happened here?" he asks. "Sir, there’s a traitor aboard this station. He ambushed Dr. Macron and stuffed him in the air lock." The captain sucks in his breath. "What do you mean, a traitor! We’ll discuss the details in my quarters. But first, let’s get Macron to sick bay." Two medics arrive and take the unconscious old man away. It makes your chest tighten to see how small and frail he looks. You want to go along to make sure he’s all right. But the captain puts a restraining hand on your shoulder. "I need a full report from you right away." Mission Day 01 2100 hours You sink into a chair in the captain’s quarters and wait while he calls the rest of the ACT team together. "Sorry we don’t have more room. But this may be the only place we can talk freely." You look around the tiny room. Colonel Grace and Tinker, who have been practicing for their space walk, are in bulky space suits. They look like miniature versions of the Goodyear blimp. Barely able to bend at the waist, they perch on the edge of the captain’s bunk while he and Professor Lowell sit on the desk. You’ve got the only chair. "Exactly what happened?" Colonel Grace prompts. You wouldn’t think a blimp could look businesslike, but she manages. You’re about to answer when Captain Garrety holds up his hand. "Much as I want to get on with the problem at hand, I think we’d better take a lunch break first. Do you realize you’ve been aboard the station for 15 hours now and you haven’t had anything to eat?" You’d been too caught up in the action up here to think about food. But the captain’s words make your stomach growl. "So what’s for lunch?" Tinker asks. "I could go for a chili dog." Captain Garrety grins and presses a panel in the wall near his desk. It slides up to reveal a computer key pad. "I can order anythink from a steak and baked potato to bean soup right here - in my quarters," he explains. "Steak and baked potato! That sounds great - cancel the chili dog," Tinker exclaims. "Sorry, you don’t have time for anything quite so elaborate," Garrety points out. He punches in an order, and a few seconds later a small, covered bowl appears in the slot under the keyboard. You’re suddenly starving! Maybe it’s cheeseburgers. Or ice cream. That would be good, too. But when he takes the cover off with a flourish, the eager look vanishes from your face. There in the bowl is a bunch of pills "That’s lunch?" Tinker wails, echoing your disappointment. "What did yon expect?" Colonel Grace asks. "We’ve only got time for emergency rations. But I assure you they’re quite satisfying. We tested them at Camp Roberts in a NASA exchange program." Professor Lowell reaches out and takes a small yellow sphere. Holding it up, she looks at it for a moment and then pops it into her mouth and starts to chew. Professor Lowell reaches out and takes a small yellow sphere. Holding it up, she looks at it for a moment and then pops it into her mouth and starts to chew. "Not bad," she concedes. "It’s lemon- flavored." You select a red one it tastes a little like a plum. "These won’t do for long periods of time," Captain Garrety points out. "Not enough bulk. But in the short run, they provide plenty of energy along with essential vitamins and minerals." The lunch break is over almost before it starts. As she chews her last pill, Colonel Grace says, "All right, why don’t you tell us what happened to Dr. Macron?" Quickly you fill in the members of the ACT team. When you finish, Garrety shakes his head sadly. "I can’t believe it was a member of my crew. The personnel for Rodeo I were hand-picked. But there’s no other explanation." "Right," Colonel Grace agrees. "Orion, do you think you can identify the assailant?" "I got only a quick look at his face." You pause for a moment trying to remember some distinguishing mark, like a scar or a wart. But nothing comes to mind. Finally, you shake your head. "He looked pretty ordinary. But maybe if I saw him again, I could identify him." "Let me call up our personnel records," the captain suggests. "I’ll put it on the big screen so everyone can see." Above your head, a star map of the galaxy slides aside; revealing a large TV screen. In seconds, a profile and front view of Sergeant James Able fills the screen. You shake your head. "It’s not him. Go on." It takes only a few minutes for you to review digitized photographs of every person on the station all the way down to Stephen Zakar. None of the faces looks familiar. "Sorry," you mumble. "I don’t understand it. That guy’s just not here." The captain sighs, "It’s not your fault, Orion. I guess the intruder isn’t a member of the crew. But how could there be anyone else aboard this station without our knowing about it?" There’s an eerie silence as the implications of his words sink in. "Do you think there’s an alien aboard disguised as a crew member?" says Professor Lowell. Garrety turns in her direction. "I suppose it’s possible. I’m going to put phase three of our security protection into action, just in case." "What does that mean?" Tinker inquires. "Everyone is going to have to wear a special identification badge. It will automatically be scanned whenever anyone passes a security station. That way, at least we’ll know if anyone’s moving around in unauthorized areas." At that moment, a red light flashes above the screen. "Yes?" the captain asks, pushing a button on his deck. The face of a medic appears on the screen. "Sir, Dr. Macron has regained consciousness and is asking for Orion." The news perks up everyone’s spirits. Colonel Grace looks at you. "Don’t just stand there with a grin on your face. Get to sick bay." "Yes, sir!" You’re halfway out the door when you realize you don’t have any idea how to get there. "Say, Captain, you wouldn’t happen to have a map I could - " Before you can complete the sentence, he hands you a clear plastic disk about the size of a coaster. "I should have thought of this before," he admits. "But everybody on board knows the station so well that we haven’t used them since orientation." "What are they, anyway?" Tinker asks, practically snatching the disk out of your hand. "A map of the station." As the captain speaks he distributes disks to everyone on the ACT team. "I don’t want to sound dumb," Professor Lowell admits, "but how do you use it?" "Were you all issued space watches?" Garrety continues. Everyone nods. "Well, if you push the function key with the # sign, that will activate the disk. It will then evaluate your position and display a lighted point where you are. Notice that the names of the major rooms are around the edge in alphabetical order. Press the one you want, and a lighted line will lead you to its location..." "Hey, neat," Tinker exclaims. "What’s the chance of Astro Toys marketing this baby?" "Less than zero," the captain answers. "Next question." Disk in hand, you hurry down the corridor toward sick bay. With the help of this super map, you make it on the first try. Inside the sterile white room, Dr. Macron is stretched out on a high, narrow bed. He has a big bandage on his head and he looks very pale. He moves slightly. And to your amazement, the mattress gurgles.