About the story: Computers can be our best friends -- or our worst enemies -- depending on timing and your perspective. Writer One explores both sides of the coin.

Douglas Weatherby had reason to be cocky. Fresh out of college with a degree in journalism and the new kid at the Times, he accomplished the impossible. He landed an interview with Thomas Fairbanks. The Thomas Fairbanks. Until now, Fairbanks had shunned all forms of publicity and ignored the press (and his overwhelming popularity) at every turn. He was a writing phenomenon who virtually came out of nowhere, racking up four New York Times bestsellers to his name in less than three years. His reputation as a hermit added an air of mysticism to his literary genius. Doug would take the oohs and ahhs from his fellow staff reporters. What he would never admit to was how easy the interview was to acquire. Just one call. Who would have figured it could be so easy?

You would think Fairbanks would have neon signs leading the way to his home, it was much the opposite. Taking over an hour to find the house, a reconditioned warehouse in the industrial section of the city, Doug was thirty minutes late. As he reached to press the intercom call button, the security door buzzed to life. A man waited for him at the top of the stairs, cup of coffee in hand.

"You're late, Mr. Weatherby."

"Please, call me Doug," and he extended a nervous hand to greet Thomas Fairbanks. The entire stairway reeked with the stench of body odor. The sight of the man at the top of the stairs was not at all what he expected.

"I'm here to see Thomas Fairbanks."

"Don't let your eyes deceive you, Doug. I'm Tom Fairbanks."

Fairbanks was a slob. At five four and about one eighty, Doug found it impossible to believe this was the same man that enthralled millions with his works. Writers are known to be a strange lot, but this was pushing it. He wore a dirty pair of corduroy bellbottoms and a torn flannel shirt, open and untucked revealing a dirty white T-shirt stained with splashes of dried food. It looked (and smelled) as though he hadn't changed in over a week.

"Don't take this too personal, Mr. Fairbanks, but you need a bath."

Fairbanks ignored the comment, turned and motioned for Doug to follow. His loft looked much like the front of his shirt. The smell of stale food and garbage assaulted Doug's nostrils. Doug followed Fairbanks through a huge open living room littered with discarded pizza boxes and rumpled fast food bags. He could see why Fairbanks granted the interview under the conditions that he come alone, without photographers. No one would ever believe this. Tom Fairbanks' novel "Born to the Son" practically redefined the new American family values. What would the American people think if they knew the man that wrote it couldn't even dedicate an hour a week to personal hygiene? This day was definitely full of surprises. Nothing added up, and Doug was beginning to believe that he had been set up for a practical joke of Biblical proportions. The new kid + big story + impossible to reach writer all added up to BIG SETUP. The crew back at the office must be laughing their asses off over how gullible he was. He'd put an end to this without losing another chunk of face.

"Excuse me, Tom."

Tom turned to the query.

"Could I see some ID please," Doug said.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Doug. I'm Tom Fairbanks. Didn't your father ever tell you that it's not polite to ask a man for I.D. in his own home unless you're a cop or a coroner?" Without saying another word, he walked into the next room, a den with one wall dedicated to computer equipment and a beat up sofa bed nested in the center. He pointed to the wall and waited for Doug to catch up.

Literary awards from various press groups and plaques from his publisher acknowledging record sales of his novels covered the wall. In the center of the melee was a framed and bronzed magazine article comparing his works to the likes of Hemmingway and Steinbeck, with a hint of King thrown in. This was the man

"You came here for an interview, let's get started."

"Do you have any objection to being recorded?"

"Do you, Doug?"

Doug took the sarcasm as a no and turned on his minicassette recorder. He moved aside a food plate vying for science project status and sat across from Tom.

"Let me begin by offering my apologies. I was surprised to see--"

"That my home is a pig sty?" Fairbanks cut in.

"No, not that at all"

"To see that I'm not what you expected?"

"No, not that either." Doug was beginning to wonder who was interviewing whom.

"Nothing is as it appears to be, Doug. Nothing. My name for instance. Thomas Fairbanks. They don't come any more American than that do they?" He didn't give Doug a chance to answer before he continued, "And take my books, they're perfect. Every title, every word, every grammatical rule followed to the last detail. Why do you suppose that is Doug?"

The query caught Doug off guard. He had either gotten himself invited into the home of a famous writer with a monumental ego or the home of a rabid lunatic. He thought it better to stroke the ego than antagonize the lunatic.

"It seems obvious to me. You're a great writer. The best."

"You're placating me Doug. It doesn't sit well."

"That's not my intent. I mean it. You're good and the public knows it. So why all the secrecy? Why wait four years to grant an interview?" Doug attempted to guide the interview back on track.

"My name is not Thomas Fairbanks. It's Tom Ornikowski," he replied, ignoring Doug's question. Doug checked to make sure his recorder was still working. He couldn't believe his ears. This was getting bigger all the time.

Doug asked, "If Fairbanks is your pen name, do you have any works published under your real name, Ornikowski?"

"It's all a fantasy. My name, the books, the fame. I've given all the money away. You're going to give the fame away for me. Neither ever belonged to me. It belongs to the real writers," Ornikowski stared blankly in Doug's direction, his eyes devoid of emotion.

Doug couldn't believe his ears. He was torn between ending the interview and prying just a little deeper. Who were the real writers? Was the Thomas Fairbanks a ruse? A succession of ghost writers paid well for their silence? The public had the right to know. This story was the break every young writer dreamed of.

Tom reached down next to the sofa bed and picked up a hard cover book. It was his first novel, "Right Alignment," the publishing phenomenon that made it to number one on the Times bestseller list in less than two weeks. This was unheard of for a first novel. He stared at Doug and opened the book, reading by memory from chapter two:

Doug knew the verse. The overzealous team leader led an entire squad of soldiers to their death. The bands of light were flashes from explosions shining through the jungle. The team leader knew they were going to die, but he led them nevertheless.

"Does that paragraph sound like it came from the mind of a computer programmer from Cleveland?" A spark returned to his eyes. Not giving Doug the chance to reply, he continued, "I've got something to show you."

Tom walked over to the wall of computer equipment and tapped the keyboard. Brightly colored icons filled the screen. He clicked one with the mouse and a program titled "Writer One" painted the screen, with opening credits dedicated to the software genius of Thomas Ornikowski.

"Do you know much about computers, Doug?"

He nodded an obligatory yes and stared intently at the screen. The monitor displayed a number of smaller windows, each with a literary title. Tom clicked on the "Classics" window and a list of famous authors appeared. He clicked once each on "Poe", "Hemingway" and "Tolstoy" and moved to the next window. He chose "Short Story, Action" and clicked on the "Print Now" icon. A couple of moments later five fully printed pages emerged from the printer. Tom handed the story to Doug. He read it quickly, an impeccable adventure ready for print.

"I'm finished with this game," Tom said. "I venture out into the world and all I hear is how great Thomas Fairbanks is. A computer program created Thomas Fairbanks. My computer program. The same program is responsible for all my works. Ten years ago I attempted my first novel. After a year and a half it was finished, trash heap bad. I guess I only had one story inside me, and a lousy story at that. I gave up."

Doug stared into the screen, his mind reeling from Ornikowski's revelation.

"I decided to create a program to help writers improve their work, after all, those who can't do, teach. Four years later my software masterpiece was finished. A relational database so complex that it not only improved upon, but also created complete literary works. The program contained all the works of the masters, every form of fiction known to man. With it I wrote my first novel to use as advertising for my program. I never expected it to reach number one. When the money and recognition poured in, the program wasn't so important anymore."

Doug was in shock, but moving fast. The best selling author for three years in a row was a fake, using a computer program to write his masterpieces. The break of the century and he had it all on tape. Doug gathered his things to beat a hasty retreat. He slipped the story under his arm and put his hand out to thank Mr. Ornikowski for his time.

Tom reached down into the trash beside him and picked up a snub-nosed revolver. Before Doug realized what was happening, Tom placed the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger.

"It's good to see you Doug. I'm glad you could meet me. We were wondering if you were ever planning on coming back to work?"

"What happened at Fairbanks' really shook me up. I never equated journalism with so much in-your-face pain. Shows you how naive the college grad can be." Doug glanced nervously at his watch. "You in a hurry Doug? You just got here."

"I have an appointment this afternoon, " he replied.

"Doug, for what it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened at Fairbanks'. It was a tough break. First you get the story, then in the middle of your interview the bastard kills himself. Most people would kill to be famous, it was just too much for him. It's a shame you didn't get any of it on tape.

"I'll get over it," Doug shrugged matter of factly. "I don't mean to cut you off, but I really have to run. I don't want to be late."

"Sure Doug, it was good seeing you."

Doug grabbed a cab and headed across town.

* * *

J. Phillip Morain, one of the top literary agents in the business smiled expansively as he spoke, "Doug, my boy, you've done the right thing signing with me. "Bleeding Sun" is going to be a best seller, I can feel it. If you keep putting out work like this, you'll be the next Thomas Fairbanks."

Doug smiled and sipped his wine.