Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [33]
He had authorized the buy and was in the process of plotting another when the middle screen declared, calmly and without emotion, “Purchase confirmed: twenty-two point three million zwebagls.”
He blinked. At first he thought there was a keyboarding error. Then he realized it was a joke. There was, of course, no such unit of currency as the zwebagl. It did sound vaguely like an issue from one of the old Eastern European communist governments, though he knew that could not be so. Geoffrey Parker-Piggott knew the names and denominations of every currency on the planet, from Peruvian inti to Israeli shekel. The zwebagl did not exist. Therefore, someone was pulling an elaborate gag on him.
He ran a systems check. Expensive firewall and second-line-of-defense software assured him that neither office intranet nor his personal units had been compromised. He had not been hacked, whacked, or sacked. Who had the necessary skill to break into his private network without activating security? More importantly, who had the chutzpah? Even if the initial intent was humorous and the final goal amusement, serious damage could result.
Well, no harm done. Undoubtedly he would find out at some future date who was responsible, when the joker chose to reveal himself. Or herself, he mused, allowing himself to recall the face and figure of the exotic and lovely Jennifer Lowen. Ignoring the readout he continued with his work, reentering the order for Philippine pesos. He was gratified to see it confirmed within a few minutes.
Later that afternoon the relevant screen, as it was programmed to do, blinked for attention.
“Your recent zwebagl purchase is up five point two percent. Do you wish to initiate a correction or a transfer of assets? There appears to be a good opening in gyflings.”
His software was programmed to alert him anytime a holding he had authorized rose or fell by 5 percent or more. But according to the machines, he had purchased the twenty-two million zwebagls less than two hours ago! The upward surge was incredible, and without knowing what was going on he had apparently made the right decision. About nothing.
Parker-Piggott licked his lower lip. A wonderful joke, yes. One so sophisticated and adept that few could enjoy its ramifications. All right—no one enjoyed a good joke more than he did. Hesitating only briefly, he entered the necessary commands to sell. Furthermore, a smile playing about his pale lips, he added additional instructions that he felt were wholly in keeping with the tone of the gag. Who said he had no sense of humor?
“Selling twenty-two million plus accumulated five point two percent profit zwebagls. As per request, recommend one-day forward option to purchase three hundred fifty thousand gyflings.”
He left it at that, finishing the day with more ups than downs, and making a game as he left the office of trying to guess who was behind the goofy hoax. Whoever it was did not give themselves away in the crowded hall.
By morning of the next day he had forgotten all about it. He was deep into trying to decide what to do with half a billion new Brazilian reals when a note popped up on one screen indicating that on his authorization the computer had purchased, in addition to his slowly but steadily appreciating gyflings, 2.5 million worth of Posmoo schmerkels.
Enough was enough, he decided. But no matter how hard he tried to purge his system of the intrusion, every piece of software, including his supposedly inviolable backups, insisted that he was committed to acquiring the indicated quantity of schmerkels. Meanwhile, his gyflings continued to do well. The computer also assured him that now was the time to sell any other zwebagls he might be holding, and that there was a new opportunity to grab some Umutu weesfirks before word got out that the Umutun government was going to issue equivalent bonds at an admirable premium.
Furthermore, his commissions on all relevant transactions were substantial. The only trouble was, they were in zwebagls.