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Captain 80
The adventures of a software secret agent
I had just put away my Software Secret Agent disguise for the evening and settled down for a rousing half hour of Mork and Mindy when the tea kettle rang. It was for me.
"This is your fearless leader," snapped the voice on the other end of the line. Immediately, I stood at attention. Mustering my most dutiful voice, I responded calmly.
"Hi, Chief, what can I do for you?" I said smoothly in my best Bogie voice.
"This is an important assignment, so pay attention," he growled, "Professor Henton Megabyte has disappeared!"
I knew of this Professor Megabyte. He was the hardware genius who'd worked out the interface between the TRS-80 and the U.S. Air Force's top secret spy plane a few years ago. Now he was living in self-imposed exile right here in my home town of Peterborough, New Hampshire. As a matter of fact, his house had been rented back a few months ago by an H&E Computronics Software reviewer, who also had disappeared.
"I'll get right on it, Chief," I said, and hung up the tea pot lid.
Next morning, I drove by the ominous three-story Victorian structure belonging to the Professor. There was a "For Rent" sign in the window, so I stopped.
I was greeted at the door by a hawk-faced lady of sinister origins, who, after giving me a thorough scrutiny, accepted my first and last month's rent. When I asked about the Professor, she sighed and said simply that he was away. I got the same response when I asked about the journalist. She shrugged, saying she was only a twice-a-week housekeeper, and how would she
© 1982, Bob Liddil know about such comings and goings.
I moved in on Friday. It would be Monday before Mrs. Hawkface would return . . . more than enough time to discover the secret of the old house.
I explored the entire lower two floors. The decor was nothing to brag about. Then I found a big brass key. Obviously, this was the way to get past the huge oak door entranced the third floor. I made my way up the creaky old stairs and tried the lock. Sure enough, it opened. I reached for the light switch, but before I could flip it, the room exploded into light.
"Welcome home, Bob," came a voice. "It's good to see you again."
The voice was mechanical, votrax based, and seemed to be coming from a huge aluminum expansion interface that stretched from floor to ceiling, terminating in a Model I 48K four-drive TRS-80.
"Do I know you?" I asked tentatively, still not certain who I was dealing with.
"Of course you do!" came the response. "Put on the helmet you see on the accessory table and I will make everything clear."
Now the life of a Software Secret Agent is a strenuous one, and there are bound to be little gaps in one's memory. The REM-pak, which I had been instructed to wear, was a device designed by Professor Megabyte to restore such lapses. Placing it on my head, I relived an instant replay of three months last year when I had lived in this house and searched for the Professor. It all came back to me.
The machine's name was MAX. He was a sentient electronic entity created accidentally from a power surge while Professor Megabyte was experimenting with a device
NEC PC-8023A< Printer
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