The Voice, by Paul Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Gould

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                           - 18 -

"Bloody hell!" The guard yelled as all the little squares
disappeared indicating a power overload had whited-out the
security system. "Not again."

He grimaced and moaned as his hands attacked the keyboard
to his computer, vainly trying to bring the images back to
life. But it was not to be. For some reason, at the same
moment I'd seen my image, something had triggered the entire
system to crash.

"You're cleared," he muttered as he manually extracted my
license from the dead scanner. "But I'll be watching you."

I picked my license from the security desk and walked
toward the elevators, past the huge company logo which
spanned the lobby in six foot letters. After what I'd just
witnessed, it seemed an ominous message:


Transitron brings it through you was probably more to the
point. "Transitron," the whole idea was in the name. Most
scientists wouldn't admit to the esoteric side of their
business, to the darker under workings, not to mention
networkings that produced the so called electronic marvels
of the twentieth century. On Wall Street it appeared all
hard work, capital investment and research and development.
And that was how it was sold to the public.

Few, if any, could recall that the origins of their
"research" had emerged from ancient religious texts,
secretly studied by social outcasts called heretics long
before there had been anything formally considered as
science at all.

In fact, the founder of Transitron himself, Lord
Archibald De Clare had been an avid collector of such
ancient obscurata. He'd actually come to believe that the
long sought after goal of perfection through alchemical
transformation desired by Renaissance men like John Dee, Sir
Isaac Newton and Giordano Bruno could finally be achieved
through the powers of the newly developing electronics.