Nathalie Quinlan walked over and sat in Xavier Rabenstein’s seat. Her slender, pale fingers tapped on the keyboard as she gazed intently at the computer screen.
Wallace Radcliff and the others held their breath, waiting for her results.
After three minutes, Wallace Radcliff grew sowhat impatient. He moved closer and asked in a low voice, "Ms. Quinlan, how is it going? Can it be fixed?"
"It’s infected with a virus."
Nathalie Quinlan took her hands off the keyboard and leaned back in her chair with broad, decisive movents, radiating an aura of convincing authority.
Her diagnosis was the sa as Xavier Rabenstein’s—they both said it was a virus.
When the second team heard the word ’virus’, they scoffed dismissively, unconvinced.
"What virus? It’s clearly a problem with the programming in the USB flash drive you provided. Always trying to bla it on a virus."
The person speaking was one of Phoebe Hoffman’s team mbers.
As soon as Alfred Garland heard this, his eyebrows shot up, and he was about to explode.
The girl leaning back in her chair raised her eyebrows in a wild manner, glanced at him with her black pupils, and spoke in a soothing, nonchalant tone, "If dogs had intelligence, they couldn’t make the statent you just did."
If dogs had intelligence...
At first, the people in the room didn’t catch on, but as they pondered the aning, they couldn’t help but stifle their laughter.
Especially the mbers of the first team, who laughed unabashedly loud.
The man who was put in his place was initially too stunned to respond. It was only after he heard the ’snorting’ of laughter around him that he realized Nathalie Quinlan had insulted him. His face turned a mix of ashen and pale anger as he pointed at her indignantly, "You..."
Before he could finish, Wallace Radcliff’s face darkened, and he gave him a cold look, chastising him sharply, "What ti do you think it is to be arguing here? If you’re so competent, why don’t you do it?"
Xavier Rabenstein’s technical skills were only slightly inferior to Phoebe Hoffman’s, but far superior to everyone else’s.
If Xavier Rabenstein couldn’t fix the BUG, there was no way he could.
Wallace Radcliff’s gaze swept over his frozen face, as cold as the bone-chilling ice of winter, "If you can’t do it, then shut your mouth. Cut the damn chit-chat!"
After speaking, he didn’t care whether he’d allowed Phoebe Hoffman’s team to save face or not, and turned his head, his expression anxious, to look at the girl sitting there. He asked in a low voice, "Ms. Quinlan, can the virus be fixed?"
"Wait a bit, let have a look."
Nathalie Quinlan took out the encoder, connected it to the computer, and began tapping on the keyboard again, trying out different programs.
Wallace Radcliff, Alfred Garland, and the others waited beside her, holding their breath.
Three minutes later, she looked up, her skin porcelain and smooth, her pupils deep and bright, strangely comforting, "It can be fixed."
"Phew..." Wallace Radcliff took a deep breath, his tense face relaxed a bit, and he asked her again, "That’s good. How long will it take?"
Nathalie Quinlan’s slender fingertips moved over the keyboard, her eyelashes slightly upturned, her gaze wild and free, "About half an hour."
"Half an hour?"
Wallace Radcliff’s heart, which had just settled, was lifted again as he glanced at the phone by his hand. Ti was pressing; they simply didn’t have half an hour to wait.
"Can it be done any faster?"
They had less than fifteen minutes until their turn; he couldn’t wait half an hour.
Nathalie Quinlan noticed his anxious look, remained silent, and tried again. Her brows slightly furrowed as her hands rested on the keyboard. She then looked up at him, "It can’t be done. The fastest I can manage is half an hour."
Soone from the first team couldn’t hold back their impatience, stomping around and pacing back and forth. They ca up to Wallace Radcliff, clenching their fists tightly and said anxiously, "Boss, what do we do now? There are only 15 minutes until our turn, and we can’t possibly go up there with the USB flash drive like this..."
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