Tom Trumbull wants to convince an eccentric and volatile mathematician working on Goldbach’s conjecture that his super-secret password could actually be stolen.

As with other mysteries by Asimov dealing with computers, passwords, and the like, this story falls utterly flat with me. I suppose there is a certain plausibility to the idea of somebody using the first letters of the successful lines of a sonnet they know by heart as a password—but, still, it somehow rang false. (Not to mention the fact that there are easier ways of breaking into somebody’s accounts.) I'm afraid this prejudices me against this story, which I would probably be otherwise inclined to rate a bit higher.