Tron (25 page)

Access History:

Flynn snatched up the copy with a whoop and a laugh, and dashed off to find Alan and Lora.

In the aerie of the ENCOM tower, early-morning light grayed the windows of Edward Dillinger’s office. He’d spent the night in the sumptuous private suite that adjoined his office, too tired for a limousine or helicopter ride home, only to be awakened in the predawn by an alarm squeal from his desk.

Now he sat before it and watched as one of the desk’s many screens showed him the same information that had been printed out for Flynn. There would be no way to hide it now, he knew, nor any way to refile it under limited access. The Master Control Program was no longer running, as if it had been utterly destroyed—by what means, he had no idea. And Bradley’s Tron program was running.

Dillinger’s superdesk told him that Flynn and the others were already manipulating the ENCOM system. Soon enough, Gibbs and the rest would be down on Dillinger’s neck. His career over, the criminal implications of what he’d done only now coming through to him, he ignored the coming of daylight in the moribund silence of his office.

The black executive helicopter circled down from the blue sky toward the landing pad on the roof of the ENCOM building. Lora and Alan squinted into the blades’ backwash as a ground crewman held the chopper’s door open.

Out jumped Flynn; grinning broadly, he’d just returned from concluding a major multinational agreement much in ENCOM’s favor. He had on a natty double-breasted suit, but had chosen to wear his running shoes.

Y’know, those two don’t look too bad together,
he thought, as Alan and Lora ran to meet him. He hoisted his attaché case in triumph. When they’d exchanged greetings, Alan said, “Dillinger wants to talk to you; he says it’s all a mistake.” He had to yell to be heard over turning rotors.

ENCOM’s new Senior Operating Officer smirked. A number of lettered agencies were lined up, indictments in hand, for a crack at Edward Dillinger. Flynn shook his head. “Can’t; bad for the corporate image.” Alan smiled, somewhat like a wolf.

They fell in behind him as Flynn headed for the elevator. “Besides,” he finished, “I’m beat.”

“Hey,” Lora protested, “you’ve got an executive board meeting.”

Flynn turned his smile on them both again; Alan’s arm around her shoulders seemed the most appropriate thing in the world. He slipped them a wink. “This
is
the executive board meeting!”

High over the System soared the Solar Sailer, cruising above the glittering beauty of the radiant Domains and the phosphorescent tides of the Game Sea.

Tron stood on the bridge with his arm around Yori. The Sailer changed transmission beams and came onto another tack as the Bit shot past them, playing and cutting figure eights, zipping along next to the graceful Sailer, over a System ablaze, a free System.