conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book about British, Brain, Newbegin entitled Billion-Dollar Brain?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Billion-Dollar Brain: The unnamed protagonist is ordered to Helsinki by Dawlish, his boss, to suppress a newspaper article, potentially embarrassing to theK.\ngovernment, about to be published by a Finnish journalist.\nHe finds the journalist murdered and coincidentally meets a young woman who attempts to recruit him into the British Intelligence.\nThis woman, Signe Lane, is both romantically connected to and working for the protagonist's old American friend Harvey Newbegin (who also appeared in Funeral in Berlin).\nNewbegin in turn attempts to recruit him into a private intelligence outfit, whose network is operated by 'The Brain', a billion dollar super-computer owned by eccentric Texan billionaire General Midwinter.\nMidwinter is using his agency and private army to start an uprising in Latvia, at the time a part of the USSR, in an attempt to end Communism in the Eastern bloc and tip the balance of the Cold War in favour of the West.\nAfter discovering this and also the fact that a package Newbegin wants delivered from England to Finland contains virus-contaminated eggs, stolen from a British research institute, the protagonist treks from Finland through Riga, Leningrad, New York City, Texas and back to London.\nHe infiltrates Midwinter's organization, braving unforgiving environments, violence and shifting loyalties, eventually to return to the Baltic to stop the virus from falling into the hands of the Soviets and the madman billionaire and protect British reputations in the process.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first three paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Billion-Dollar Brain
  The train stopped and started many times all the way to the border. Harvey stared moodily out of the window as a long freight train went by.
  The Russian conductor looked up from his stove and grinned. Harvey spoke to him in Russian and said something about not letting the train go without him and we will have more tea and biscuits when we come back. I said, 'What do we want tea and biscuits for? We are getting off the train now to go to the buffet.'
  We had coffee in the large station buffet. It was clean, warm and bright and had that hygienic Scandinavian atmosphere that goes so well with the Christmas-card landscape outside. We stood in the falling snow and watched the locomotive: a huge green toy with bright red wheels and a red star on its navel. It clanked gently against the train which now had shed its Finnish coaches.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I said, 'Ross can't hold him longer than a month. Can't hold him at all if he's a voluntary patient.'
  We collected a file of flimsies from RAMC records at Lower Barracks, Winchester, and stopped in Stockbridge for lunch. From there it's only a short journey.
  The fingers of winter pressed deep into the white throat of the land. The trees showed no sign of leaf and the soil was brown and polished shiny by the damp winds. Farms were still and silent and the villages deserted as though spring was not expected to return. The prison is sited on a narrow ridge on the extreme edge of the plain. It's the only Psychiatric (Maximum Security) Prison that is run entirely by the Army. The buildings are modern and light and in the grounds there is a huge piece of abstract sculpture and two fountains that are switched on when someone important is coming. Along the drive, flowerbeds – now brown and bare – were the size and shape of newly filled-in graves. The Governor's secretary was waiting for us in the main entrance. It was a Kafka-ish place that looked a little too big for humans and smelled of ether. The Governor's secretary brandished a large manilla file at us. He was a small, beautiful man who looked as though he had been assembled from a plastic kit, and his fingertips were in ceaseless movement as though he had got sticky stuff on them and was trying to remove it. He extended one of the flickering little hands to me and let me shake it. Then he saluted Jean and went into an on-guard with a copy of the prison rules which I signed. Jean parried with the RAMC documents and a straight thrust with Pike's passport. The man did a cut-at-flank with a Governor's memo that we hadn't seen. Jean lost ground initialling this but did some criss-cross high-cuts with a War Office file from Ross. The man was signing it with a flourish when Jean lunged with a photostat of some Cabinet minutes that had nothing to do with this case at all. She had judged her opponent well, for he surrendered before reading it all through.
  Three wing is used for the prisoners who need constant attention, and is set apart from the other buildings. The grass was beaten into mud by winter and the grounds were silent and devoid of any sign of gardeners or guards. The Psychiatric Prison was like a very modern primary school from which all the breakables have been removed. The gates were designed in modern patterns to avoid the feeling of being behind bars. But the patterns weren't large enough to squeeze a man through. There was a constant clang and clatter of keys, everywhere was much too clean. As we passed each door Jenkins sang out the name of it: dining-room, association room, quiet room, classroom, library, physiotherapy, electro-convulsive therapy. Obviously Jenkins was kept specially for visitors. In the highly polished corridor leading to Pike's cell there were prints by the better adjusted of the Impressionists. Outside his cell in a wooden frame were slotted cards bearing his name, number, a coloured one for his religion so that the chaplain could spot it, and special diet – none – but I noticed that there were no cards in the space that said sentence and classification.
  The warder said, 'Vis'ter f'yer Pike on y'er ft nat erper sission nerve tenshun.' Pike obviously understood this strange language for he stood rigidly at attention. He was dressed in army fatigue uniform. The warder walked close to Pike and inspected him. There was nothing threatening in the way he did it. He did it like a mother who had cleaned a bowlful of porridge off her child and wants to be sure he is now quite tidy. The warder turned back to me and spoke in a different voice. 'Two teas for you and the lady. I'll put sugar on the tray. Do you want tea for the prisoner?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Do you want tea for the prisoner?'. I'll put sugar on the tray. 'Two teas for you and the lady. The warder turned back to me and spoke in a different voice. He did it like a mother who had cleaned a bowlful of porridge off her child and wants to be sure he is now quite tidy. There was nothing threatening in the way he did it. The warder walked close to Pike and inspected him. He was dressed in army fatigue uniform.' Pike obviously understood this strange language for he stood rigidly at attention.
  The warder said, 'Vis'ter f'yer Pike on y'er ft nat erper sission nerve tenshun. Outside his cell in a wooden frame were slotted cards bearing his name, number, a coloured one for his religion so that the chaplain could spot it, and special diet – none – but I noticed that there were no cards in the space that said sentence and classification. In the highly polished corridor leading to Pike's cell there were prints by the better adjusted of the Impressionists. Obviously Jenkins was kept specially for visitors. As we passed each door Jenkins sang out the name of it: dining-room, association room, quiet room, classroom, library, physiotherapy, electro-convulsive therapy. There was a constant clang and clatter of keys, everywhere was much too clean. But the patterns weren't large enough to squeeze a man through. The gates were designed in modern patterns to avoid the feeling of being behind bars. The Psychiatric Prison was like a very modern primary school from which all the breakables have been removed. The grass was beaten into mud by winter and the grounds were silent and devoid of any sign of gardeners or guards.
  Three wing is used for the prisoners who need constant attention, and is set apart from the other buildings. She had judged her opponent well, for he surrendered before reading it all through. The man was signing it with a flourish when Jean lunged with a photostat of some Cabinet minutes that had nothing to do with this case at all. Jean lost ground initialling this but did some criss-cross high-cuts with a War Office file from Ross. The man did a cut-at-flank with a Governor's memo that we hadn't seen. Jean parried with the RAMC documents and a straight thrust with Pike's passport. Then he saluted Jean and went into an on-guard with a copy of the prison rules which I signed. He extended one of the flickering little hands to me and let me shake it. He was a small, beautiful man who looked as though he had been assembled from a plastic kit, and his fingertips were in ceaseless movement as though he had got sticky stuff on them and was trying to remove it. The Governor's secretary brandished a large manilla file at us. It was a Kafka-ish place that looked a little too big for humans and smelled of ether. The Governor's secretary was waiting for us in the main entrance. Along the drive, flowerbeds – now brown and bare – were the size and shape of newly filled-in graves. The buildings are modern and light and in the grounds there is a huge piece of abstract sculpture and two fountains that are switched on when someone important is coming. It's the only Psychiatric (Maximum Security) Prison that is run entirely by the Army. The prison is sited on a narrow ridge on the extreme edge of the plain. Farms were still and silent and the villages deserted as though spring was not expected to return. The trees showed no sign of leaf and the soil was brown and polished shiny by the damp winds.
  The fingers of winter pressed deep into the white throat of the land. From there it's only a short journey.'
  We collected a file of flimsies from RAMC records at Lower Barracks, Winchester, and stopped in Stockbridge for lunch. Can't hold him at all if he's a voluntary patient.I said, 'Ross can't hold him longer than a month
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In this second "secret file" bombshell, diving, drug trafficking, and blackmail lie at the heart of this exhilarating story. The unnamed agent is sent to salvage a sunken German sub, but there's more under the waves than he bargained for. He must use all his abilities, good and bad, when plunged into a plot as murky as the waters where the answers he seeks lie hidden.
  The unnamed spy is Berlin-bound in the third thrilling installment of the "secret file" series. Once in the divided city, he must buy an important Russian scientist from Red Army Security. Everything seems in order, but behind the facade of an elaborate mock funeral lies a game of deadly maneuvers and ruthless tactics where the legacy of Nazi Germany is enmeshed in Cold War espionage.
  In Deighton's only collection of short stories, he explores the experience of soldiery and the effects of war on human nature. The stories span twenty-three centuries, from Hannibal's march on Rome to a bonus story—new to this edition—that reveals a very different kind of war waged in the modern-day Mexican borderlands.
  This evocative work of historical fiction follows a group of American fighter pilots in the winter of 1943–44. Centered around the deeply reserved Captain Jamie Farebrother and the cocky flying ace Lieutenant Mickey Morse, this is a gripping story about the bonds of friendship that are forged in battle and their unpredictably far-reaching influences.
  Marshall Stone, a member of Hollywood's elite, thinks he's getting his wish for eternal youth when an eminent writer begins a biography on him, but he's afraid his fortunes may change if his real story is exposed. Dazzled by flattery and numbed by threats, the biographer gets caught up in the rituals, politics, and back-stabbing tactics that are the daily sport of the cutthroat movie industry.