The Hammer of God by Tom Avitabile Page B

accent.
    Peter did a slow pan and to his relief saw that the arm was in a white shirt and not a uniform. Doing the fastest thinking of his life he said, “I am here to sell you something.”
    â€œYou are?”
    â€œYes. You see, I built a computer and, in it, I use a sequential access tape drive. And I figured you could use it to put all your news stories on and then you can play them back in any order you want to… here at NBC.”
    For a moment, the man took in the kid holding the attaché case. “We don’t need that.”
    â€œOh.” Peter feigned disappointment and was ready to exit quickly with a line like, “Well, Sorry to bother you, bye,” when the man surprised him.
    â€œCome on; I’ll show you.”
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    Brodenchy met his fellow political refugees at the Thames Coffee shop on 44th Street, just east of Madison Ave. Hellerman, who was always a sickly sort back in Europe, looked good and healthy. He was now a consultant for Fairchild Corporation working on missile guidance packages. To the degree that he could, Brodenchy explained the unexplainable to his compatriot. Hellerman agreed to lend his name, sight unseen, if Brodenchy thought it was legitimate enough. Brodenchy thanked him for the proxy and they discussed the issue of security. It was Hellerman’s feeling that if the committee was going to be dealing with top-secret matters, it should have a core of security to protect not only its findings but also its members. Only one name came up, only one person they had both trusted and would trust again with their lives. Kasiko Halman. Like Brodenchy, Hellerman had heard he was working in New York. He had an idea where.
    âˆžÂ§âˆž
    There were three radio studios all behind glass. Peter and the man entered the one on the far end. He saw rows of tape recorders and racks of equipment. There was a huge console with big knobs and meters. Two huge record turntables and more tape machines book-ended a man working the controls, but that wasn’t what caught Peter’s attention and had him riveted. Behind two panes of tilted glass, wearing an open collared, white, short-sleeved shirt, looking down at a piece of paper in his hands through thick glasses, was Chet Huntley! The NBC microphone poised by the bridge of his nose wasn’t necessary for Peter to know that he was the anchorman for NBC. Well, half the anchorman. The other guy was David Brinkley. But here he was twenty feet away from Peter. The man operating the big console pointed his finger at Huntley as a light went on that read ON-AIR over the doorway and then Peter heard the famous voice.
    â€œThis is NBC Monitor News on the Hour. I’m Chet Huntley reporting.”
    â€œWow!” was all Peter could muster.
    His host, not phased one iota by all this, said, “So you see we put every story on these carts.” The man held up a grey plastic Fidel-a-Pac cartridge that looked just like an eight-track tape. Only this one had a clear top and you could see the tape spooling around in a loop inside.
    Peter caught on quickly. “Oh, so that’s actually Random Access. Much better than Sequential Access.”
    There was a pause and Peter figured “the tour” was over.
    â€œYou hungry?” the man said.
    â€œMe? Sure!”
    â€œOkay, come back to my office for a second then we’ll go up to the commissary and grab a bite.”
    Peter tried hard to remain cool, but the Commissary was the place that Johnny Carson made jokes about almost every night. Now Peter was going to have lunch there. First, he saw Chet Huntley, now he was going to have lunch with Johnny Carson! This was turning into one incredible day. He stole one last peek at Chet behind the glass as they left.
    It was about to get even better.
    It was a short walk down the hall to the place where the man worked. Peter noticed the room number 523 and another big glass window. In this room, there was no