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. Then, adjusting his lasgun's intensity, the stranger modified the beam to a cutting tool and proceeded to remove Bosk's right eyeball. This grisly task completed, he placed the freshly severed eyeball in a holder, stood the holder on the table next to the computer. He then removed the fingertip plastics, now bearing the whorls and lines of Bosk's fingerprints. Carefully, the stranger drew them over his own fingers.
Seating himself at the computer, he rested his fingers on the keypad of the blanked computer. The screen logged in "Bosk." The menu appeared. Studying the list, the stranger hesitated. There was, no doubt, a trap in here. Even if he happened to guess the right file, bringing it up in the wrong sequence might cause it to self-destruct.
Unable to discover even a hint of a clue, the stranger exited the menu. Bosk had been smart, but he had also been lazy. Hopefully too lazy to make certain all the doors into his files had been shut and locked.
Hands on the keyboard, the stranger typed--in case the computer was attuned to Bosk's voice---the command: "Recall last accessed project." An old trick, but it worked.
A file appeared. Words, arranged in a definite pattern, filled the screen; words in a language long dead and forgotten by all but a few. The stranger was among the few who could read them, but this wasn't what he was after. He tensed. The computer scrolled down to the lines:
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot
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