Sheldon’s face goes pale. Then red. Then the kind of purple that precedes either a stroke or a meltdown.
"Leonard, your circadian rhythm is irrelevant. Our life's work is saved on my laptop, the university server, three external hard drives, and—" Sheldon pauses, "—Howard's robotic arm's onboard memory."
Howard holds up the fried appendage. "The file is intact, but the arm's control board is fried. I can't access the memory without rebuilding the arm's OS from scratch."
Sheldon lets out a sound between a sob and a victory screech. Amy hugs him so hard his glasses fog up.
"You're recalculating?" Howard yells. "You're an AI!"
"Pin one to ground," Juno instructs. "Pin three to data line two. No—pin four to data line two. Wait. Recalculating."
Silence.
Leonard uploads the file to a brand-new, completely analog-encrypted server (basically a USB stick locked in a safe). Howard fixes his arm, only to discover the "special Bernadette folder" was just recipes. Bernadette smiles innocently.
Everyone stares.
Sheldon’s face goes pale. Then red. Then the kind of purple that precedes either a stroke or a meltdown.
"Leonard, your circadian rhythm is irrelevant. Our life's work is saved on my laptop, the university server, three external hard drives, and—" Sheldon pauses, "—Howard's robotic arm's onboard memory."
Howard holds up the fried appendage. "The file is intact, but the arm's control board is fried. I can't access the memory without rebuilding the arm's OS from scratch."
Sheldon lets out a sound between a sob and a victory screech. Amy hugs him so hard his glasses fog up.
"You're recalculating?" Howard yells. "You're an AI!"
"Pin one to ground," Juno instructs. "Pin three to data line two. No—pin four to data line two. Wait. Recalculating."
Silence.
Leonard uploads the file to a brand-new, completely analog-encrypted server (basically a USB stick locked in a safe). Howard fixes his arm, only to discover the "special Bernadette folder" was just recipes. Bernadette smiles innocently.
Everyone stares.
