O+F Part 32

Let me show you the computer room." He took Oliver into an air-conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line printer. "We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been modified a lot."

"Sure," Oliver said.

"Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here's what he wants." Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. "Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here." He circled the numbers and underlined the messages.

"O.K.," Oliver said. "Where's the doc.u.mentation?"

"We don't have much," Dan said. "The original stuff is on that shelf over there."

"Ah," Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. "What language are we talking?"

"RPG II."

"O.K." Oliver groaned inwardly. He'd have to get a book. RPG was supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything.

"No problem." That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he could do it. "Might take a while to get started . . ."

"Good! Good! We want it done right." Dan rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium-sized, balding, energetic. "Let me know if you have any questions. We don't work on Sat.u.r.days. Did Gifford tell you that?"

"Yes."

"Good! I'll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after hours. We lock the computer room at night."

"Dan, could you come here a moment?"

"Be right there," he called to someone in the corridor. "This is Oliver, everybody." The women had all been watching them. "Ruth, Edna, Lillian, Vi." He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times.

"O.K. gang, let's get to it." Dan walked quickly out of the room, intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and wrote names on the final page where they wouldn't be seen: Ruth, short blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, gla.s.ses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne.

What a pro, he bragged to himself.

He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system.

The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry--billing information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a different department.

The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked him for a pa.s.sword. Once inside the system, he found the source code for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably hard-coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He couldn't get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the Maine Mall.

There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot left to figure out.

There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep and comforting, as long as he didn't think of Jennifer and the baby at the same time.

Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Sh.e.l.l, Pfizer, Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. "Keeping powder dry," Myron wrote. "These blue chips will grow with the economy.

We'll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry points on some growth companies." What was Pfizer? He'd ask Jennifer.

On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet about this account--at least for now. He put the statement in his pocket and walked down to the Old Port.

"What's Pfizer?" he asked Myron.

"Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug industry is good." Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on the statement. "Right," Myron said. "It's a safe place to park cash--government securities only, decent return."

"I was wondering," Oliver said, "if you could hold my statements here--not send them."

"We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem."

"Thanks," Oliver said. "I'll check in from time to time."

"Or call me," Myron said. "I've got my eye on some companies--domestic natural gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology."

"I've heard of fuel cells. What are they?"

"They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat, and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza market, but there are engineering problems to solve first--to make the cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential power. Industrial power."

"Wowzir!"

"It's a ways off," Myron said. "The people who develop a technology aren't always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a business takes a different kind of skill." Myron shook his head. "I've been burnt," he said. "You put a winning technology together with winning management--_then_ you've got something."

"It's interesting. Well--do what you think best. I'll start following these companies."

"No statement?" Myron inquired, making sure.

"Save a tree," Oliver confirmed.

"Right." A twinkle quickly disappeared. "Right."

Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There weren't any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.

Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.

"Hey, Arlen, how are you?"

"Just fine, Oliver."

"Developments, Arlen!"

"I noticed--with a Volvo."

"Jennifer. We must get together soon. She's great. She's going to have a baby. We're going to have a baby."

"Congratulations! I'm happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well."

"I wondered," Oliver said.

"Porter," Arlen said simply.

"Excellent! The House of Happy Endings."

"Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?"

"April."

"Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there's the phone." He waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something at his feet.

"Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn't it?" He closed the front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste.

Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn't matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.