A Touch of Infinity by Howard Fast Page B

President looked at Billy.
    â€œIt’s up to you, sir,” Billy said.
    The President moved slowly toward the machine, tore off the six inches of tape that protruded from it, read it, then turned to Billy and handed it to him silently.
    On the tape was printed: “Harvey Titterson.”
    â€œHarvey Titterson,” Billy said.
    The Attorney General came over and took the tape from Billy. “Harvey Titterson,” he repeated.
    â€œHarvey Titterson,” the President said. “A billion dollars into the biggest computer project the world ever saw, and what do we have?”
    â€œHarvey Titterson,” said the Secretary of State.
    â€œWho is Harvey Titterson?” asked the British Ambassador.
    Who indeed? Two hours later the President of the United States and his friend, Billy, sat in the White House, facing the bulldog visage of the aging director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    â€œHarvey Titterson,” said the President. “We want you to find him.”
    â€œWho is he?” asked the aging director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    â€œIf we knew who he was, you would not have to find him,” the President explained slowly and respectfully, for he was always respectful when he exchanged ideas with the aging director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    â€œIs he dangerous? Do we take him alive or dead?”
    â€œYou don’t take him, sir,” Billy explained respectfully, for like everyone else, he was always respectful when he spoke to the aging director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “We simply want to know where he is. If possible, we don’t want him to be alarmed or disturbed in any way; as a matter of fact, we would prefer that he should be unaware of any special supervision. We only desire to know who he is and where he is.”
    â€œHave you looked in the telephone book?”
    â€œWe’ve been in touch with the telephone company,” the President replied. “You must understand, we had no intention of bypassing you. But knowing the heavy load of work your department carries, we thought the telephone company might be able to simplify our task. Harvey Titterson does not have a telephone.”
    â€œIt might be an unlisted number.”
    â€œNo. The telephone company was very cooperative. It’s not even an unlisted number.”
    â€œYou’ll have results, Mr. President,” said the aging director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “I’ll put two hundred of my best agents on it.”
    â€œTime is of the essence.”
    â€œYes, sir. Time is of the essence.”
    It is a tribute to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and to the acumen of its aging director that in three days a report was placed upon the President’s desk. The folder was marked “Confidential, top secret, restricted and special to the President of the United States.”
    The President called Billy into his office before he even opened the folder. “Billy,” he said grimly, “this is your dish of tea. I’ve dealt with Russia and with Red China, but this is a piece of diplomacy you have to make your own. We’ll read it together.”
    Then he opened the folder, and they read:
    â€œSpecial secret report on Harvey Titterson, age twenty-two, son of Frank Titterson and Mary (Bently) Titterson. Born in Plainfield, New Jersey. Educated at Plainfield High School and at the University of California at Berkeley. Majored in Philosophy. Arrested twice for possession of marijuana. Sentence suspended in the first instance. Thirty days in jail in the second instance. Presently living at 921 East Eighth Street in New York City. Present occupation unknown.”
    â€œSo that’s Harvey Titterson,” the President said. “He works in strange ways.”
    â€œI wouldn’t blame Him,” said Billy. “Harvey Titterson came out of the IBM machine.”
    â€œI want you to take