For someone who's so gung ho about the future, Guy Whitman was sure behind the times when it came to the current thinking on what constitutes sexual harassment. Tess thought about reprimanding him, but he had ducked through a narrow space between two plastic dividers covered with soiled, once-blue fabric-the systems manager's "office."

Behind the dingy dividers, all was order-a severe, meticulous order. The metal cabinets shone, as did the desk, giving the alcove the high-tech, unused look of an office in an Ikea catalog. With the exception of a Georgia O'Keefe wall calendar and one Post-It note on the computer terminal, there was not a single scrap of paper in this office. Not even a newspaper, Tess noticed.

"So, where's the computer geek who presides over this electronic kingdom?" she asked Whitman.

A scratchy female voice came from somewhere around their ankles. "The geek is under her desk, unplugging a laptop whose batteries she was recharging because the prima donna reporter who had it last couldn't be bothered with such a mundane task."

A plump woman in her late thirties crawled out and stood up, brushing off her jeans. Of medium height, with flyaway brown hair that had long ago surrendered to a nest of cowlicks, she was as soft and disarrayed as her office was hard and sleek.

Tess held out her hand. "Tess Monaghan, vicious purveyor of stereotypes."

"Dorie Starnes. And I don't mind being called a geek. It's a promotion for someone who started in circulation. Who'da guessed I had a natural gift for computers? Not the teachers at Merganthaler Vo-Tech, that's for sure. They kept trying to steer me toward the commercial baking classes."

Dorie was not someone to do one thing when she could be doing two or three. As she spoke, she settled into her ergonomically perfect chair, complete with tie-on backrest, and rolled another chair to her side, patting it in invitation even as she began to type a series of mysterious codes into the computer.

"Move on, Mr. Whitman. You'll just be in the way. Go make a news decision, or convene a focus group on box scores. Aren't you going to run a reader's contest to name the new basketball team? Oh, I forgot, that was a promotion marketing worked out with Wynkowski. Guess that's no longer a go."

Whitman forced a hearty laugh. "That's a good one. Of course, Dorie doesn't even read the paper, do you, Dorie? Who's the prime minister of Israel, Dorie? Is the state legislature currently in session? Who's the President of the United States? What's NAFTA stand for?"

"I try to read the newspaper, Mr. Whitman, I really do. But all I see are the computer commands that make it possible to put black stuff on white stuff. Sometimes the arrangements turn into stories I want to read, but most of the time they just look like those crazy paintings in that new wing at the Baltimore Museum of Art. Black stuff on white stuff."

Dorie stared at her computer monitor as she spoke, running her fingers rapidly across the keys like a pianist warming up. As far as Tess could tell, she wasn't really doing anything, but it looked impressive, blocks of copy appearing and disappearing on her screen.

"Very clever, Dorie. When you're through taking Ms. Monaghan through the system, ask my secretary to take her to the office we've set up for her. Jean also has a list of the workers you need to interview, Terry." Terry! That was worse than Theresa. "By the way, would you like to have lunch with me today? I find myself unexpectedly without plans."

"What happened?" Dorie asked, all sweet innocence. "Was there a fire at your favorite motel?"

This time, Whitman's fake chuckle was not so robust.

"Now, Dorie, Miss Monaghan will have the wrong impression of me if you keep this up."

"I'm afraid I couldn't join you today, anyway. I have plans." Dorie might have been kidding about the motel room, but Whitney had warned her that the very married Whitman felt honor bound to make a pass at virtually every woman who passed through the office.

Dorie kept her eyes trained on the monitor, fingers tapping away. "NAFTA is the North American Free Trade Agreement," she said softly to herself. "The Maryland legislature convenes on the second Wednesday in January and meets for exactly ninety days. Is he gone?"

"Yes," Tess said, glancing over her shoulder. "Is he always such a jerk?"

"Actually, he's generally harmless, which is saying something around here. He was only trying to impress you. But I don't love him. And Whitman needs to be loved, and not just in the boy-girl way. He needs complete, unconditional adoration, something I reserve for Johnny Unitas."

"Hey, I grew up in a house where the Colts were the only theology my parents could agree on."

Dorie allowed a small, crooked smile at that. She was typing rapidly again, with some purpose now. A copy of Feeney and Rosita's Wink Wynkowski story appeared on the screen.

"Okay, this is a story, or a 'take,' which is stored in a directory. The Wynkowski piece was assigned to CITY HOLD, a directory for stories that have been edited, but are waiting clearance, sort of like jets ready to take off. Some are evergreens-stories that can run anytime there's space, but it's not urgent. Others are hot potatoes, designated WFP-Wait For Permission. The Wynkowski piece had an WFP on it-Wait For Permission. Only three people, Mabry, Reganhart, and Sterling, can move one of those."

"Does an WFP have limited access, then? I mean, can only those editors call it up?"

"Good question." Dorie's tone suggested she had not expected Tess to ask good questions. "WFP is a policy, not a program; the computer doesn't make any distinctions. Anyone could pull a story out of this directory and make changes, but they'd better not. The computer keeps a history, and if Colleen found someone messing with a WFP, that person would be history."

Tess studied the words on the screen. "Is this the story, or a copy?

"It's the original. The one in the paper was a copy of an earlier version, before Colleen had edited it last. But there's still a trail. The computer tells us someone sat down at computer number 637, the classical music critic's terminal, a little before eleven-fifteen P.M., the time the story was sent to composing. Everyone in the building knows the critic never remembers to shut his machine off. He's legendary for it."

"So you can use his sign-on, knowing you won't get caught."

"Yeah, but even with the guaranteed anonymity of working under the critic's user name, this person was real, real careful. Watch."

Dorie tapped another key and Tess saw a form, which showed when the story had been created-almost six weeks ago, by Rosita Ruiz-and who had made changes to the story since: Ruiz, Feeney, Sterling, Reganhart, Hailey, Whitman, Mabry. Too many cooks, she thought. No wonder Feeney's usually clean writing had broken down into clichés and chest-thumping hyperbole.

"Here's my working hypothesis." Dorie said the word as if it were two words, hypo thesis. "He/she called up the old version on ‘Browse' and saved all of the text-" Nimbly, Dorie demonstrated how to define a large block of copy and store it with just three keystrokes. "Then he/she went into the set directory and picked out a Page One story already set into type. A tidal wetlands story in this case, which the paper probably could live without. You see, the coding is already there, so all our unofficial editor had to do was erase the wetlands text and put the Wink text in its place."

"What about the headline?"

"Wrote a new one-not a very good one, but it was the same number of characters as the tidal wetlands head, so it fit. Probably didn't want to take the time to make it good. Now watch this." Dorie hit one key, and the body of the Wink Wynkowski story appeared. "I hit justify-" she stroked another key "and the computer tells me I'm over by six lines. I cut from the bottom-" She deleted the last graph with two keystrokes. "I justify again. Perfect. Now all I have to do is change the bylines and I'm ready to roll.