Accelerating Returns

By Peter Anthony
 

Copyright © 2011 Peter Anthony
All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition


Front Jacket Photograph by Ernesto Jara
www.flickr.com/photos/viernest/



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


Books written by Peter Anthony can be obtained either through the author’s official website:
www.peteranthonybooks.com
or through select, online book retailers.

 


Inspired by Ray Kurzweil's Law of Accelerating Returns, Bill Joy's Why the Future Doesn't Need Us, and Hugo de Garis' The Coming Artilect War.  

 

Chapter 1. Respirocytes - 2008


In a stolen Chevy Silverado, Judith shadowed an unmarked delivery truck that was hauling chimpanzees through Portland en route to Seattle, where Brio-Nano, Incorporated would carry out testing on a new drug in development.
She guided the Silverado toward downtown Portland.  She and her husband had scouted the Sunset Highway to find the ideal location for the crash.  Near downtown, where the highway emerged from a tunnel and entered the city, stood a short concrete barrier that would buttress an impact.  On the other side of the barrier were the resources for terror: apartment complexes, civilians, public parks.  
The Brio-Nano delivery truck traveled in the right lane. Two lanes to the left, Judith mirrored the truck, leaving a gap between the vehicles.  She rehearsed the plan in her head one last time.  She could not miss.  It required terrible precision.  
Groans came from the back seat.  Behind her, the owner of the Silverado sat bound and gagged on the seat.  Judith smiled at the man over her shoulder.
"Don't worry.  This will be over soon.  You know, you should be happy.  To me, you'll be a hero.  Even after what you did to those kids.  All you have to do is lay there and wait.  It's quite a feeling to be helpless, isn't it?"  She shook her head and put a mouth-guard over her teeth.  She chomped down on the molded rubber.  "Awful feeling."  
The previous day, while the man was dozing at home, Judith darted him with sedatives and thereby hired him as a stooge for her cause.  The man was a sex-offender who evaded prison on an appeal, but his despicable status in the public eye made him a fine scapegoat.  Already reviled, the man was a placeholder, a body to be found at the scene to stir up the media and confuse police.  Her only concern was respirocytes.  The first few minutes of media coverage delivered the truth, or a version of the truth.  For Judith, the perfect accidental terrorist was the pariah of modern times: the pedophile.  The public accepted this as a unanimous object of scorn.  He was positioned in the back seat with his neck pinned to a block of wood, so that the whiplash upon impact would break him.  Gauze covered his mouth to catch any superfluous evidence.  
The tunnel neared.  
Coming from the west, both vehicles descended the steep hill that led into downtown Portland.  Judith looked over at the driver of the Brio-Nano truck, who was slumped over his steering wheel and singing along with the radio.  The poor hump did not deserve this.  His downfall was his reliability.  Every day, he kept a perfect schedule, hitting the tunnel at 4:45 AM, enjoying the vacant highway, making his Brio-Nano deliveries of specimens and equipment.  Today's payload was unique. A tip from the Broker notified Judith and Isaac two weeks ahead of time.  Still, the delivery driver was innocent.  Judith forced herself to look away from the man before he became a human being instead of collateral damage.  
She put on a crash helmet, pulled a dark plastic shield down over her eyes, and gripped the steering wheel with gloved hands just as both vehicles entered the quarter-mile concrete tunnel where the yellow, incandescent light permeated the air.  Judith felt an adrenaline cocktail filling her bloodstream.  A ray of dawn shined through the other side of the tunnel.  Soon she would see the signal to turn the steering wheel.  Mount Hood would appear, followed by the Portland skyline, and when the top of the Wells Fargo bank tower came into view, that was her signal to turn a hard right.  
Her muscles tensed when the first glimpse of skyline became visible.  The concrete curtain started to lift, unveiling the world to Judith as her Silverado neared the exit of the tunnel.  
A gray morning sky came into view and she waited to see the top of the Wells Fargo building.  Her pulse bounded as the tower rose to meet her eyes.  
 
She cranked the one-ton Silverado ninety degrees, crossed three lanes of empty highway, and aimed for the delivery truck.  The man in the back seat wailed as the tires of the pickup squealed.  Judith gunned the engine to six thousand RPMs.  The Silverado hurtled like a bull into the side of the delivery truck.  Before the impact, Judith saw fear in the face of the delivery driver, and the reflection of the leaping Silverado in his driver-side window.  
The collision jarred Judith's jaw, but the airbags and the seatbelt kept her in place.  The Silverado gored the side of the delivery truck, stopping both vehicles, pinning them against the barricade in a T-bone collision.  Judith unfastened her seatbelt as the airbag deflated.  As expected, the man in the back seat now was now the man in the front seat, prone in the Silverado windshield.  She grabbed his head.  In one quick movement, she rammed the man's face upward, into the windshield, slamming him hard enough to ensure that blood stuck to the broken glass.  The body slumped back onto the console.  Phase one complete - Judith abandoned the Silverado.  
On the pavement outside, her boots crunched on broken glass, she noticed the delivery driver, but then looked away.  Wild screaming came from the chimpanzees trapped inside the truck body.  
Without hesitating, Judith ripped open a Velcro pocket on her vest.  She pulled out a veterinarian's intravenous gun and a custom tool made for the job - a handheld plasma torch - shipped to her from the Broker.  The beam of the plasma torch cut through the padlock on the rear door, making butter of the steel.  She put the padlock into her pocket, taking it with her.  When she opened the doors of the truck, a chimpanzee jumped out, into her arms and scratched at her face, but with her helmet on she was impervious to the assault.  To subdue the chimpanzee, she squeezed and twisted its testicles, which took the fight out of it.  She set the chimpanzee on the pavement, turned his head to the side, and jabbed the intravenous gun into his neck.  After pumping the liquid into the bloodstream, Judith grabbed the chimpanzee by the arm and threw him over the barricade, down the embankment, toward the apartment complexes.  In a one-step leap, Judith was inside.
The body of the truck contained square cages bolted directly to the walls, like a poultry hauler.  Inside, the cages raged with scared and screaming apes.  Some of the chimpanzees died from the impact, but most hopped around with excitement or nursed minor wounds.  Judith operated quickly, thoroughly, without emotion, moving from cage to cage and inserting the needle into each animal's neck.  She administered to each one hundred milligrams of a new Brazilian street-drug, Hallucaline.  The drug was known as God's Creator due to the incredible strength it delivered to its users.  The mix of hallucinogens and adrenaline pumped Herculean strength and delusions of infallibility into the body and mind.  A growing number of murders in the favelas, the slums of Rio, were directly connected to the drug Hallucaline.  Judith added sedative to stall the instantaneous effects of the drug.  The chimpanzees screamed and raked the cage walls as Judith stabbed them with the needle.  Stick and move, stick and move.  Twenty-six chimpanzees had been riding in the Brio-Nano truck.  The twenty-two chimpanzees that were still alive all received a taste of God's Creator.  
Before Judith jumped out of the truck, she opened all of the cages.  The sedative took effect immediately.  The chimpanzees did not react to their freedom, but licked their wounds.  With languid eyes they watched Judith as she moved around them.  
A car passed the scene without stopping.  While she waited for the road to clear, she grabbed four chimpanzees by the arms, two in each hand, and carried them outside of the truck.  She heaved each of the chimpanzees over the barricade into the residential area.  She shut the rest of the animals inside the truck, even snapping a new padlock onto the door, to keep the drowsy chimpanzees from escaping until police arrived.  
As she closed the door, a motorcycle screamed down the highway toward her, skidding to a stop at the scene of the accident.  The motorcyclist waved to Judith.  It was her husband, Isaac.  She jumped on the seat behind him and the Honda fled the scene, into downtown Portland.

Isaac drove only a few blocks past the exit ramp before turning left into an underground residential parking garage.  He accessed the ramp using a stolen entrance pass and parked the motorcycle in a handicapped parking spot, where they stripped their outer layer of clothing off, except for the leather gloves.  Judith removed the tear-away Velcro pocket from the vest she had on.  The pocket of evidence contained the padlock, the gag, and assorted incriminating evidence.  Isaac collected the clothing and deposited it down a garbage chute, which fell to a large dumpster on another level of the parking garage.  The two of them walked, did not run, toward a parked Acura SUV with tinted windows.  They wore black pants, long-sleeve shirts, and had not yet removed the motorcycle helmets, wearing them in case they had missed a closed-caption camera during their scouting.   
Isaac said, "Care to drive?"
Judith did not answer as she opened the passenger-side door, indicating she was riding.  Once they were both inside the vehicle, Isaac dimmed the windows to full-tint with the touch of a button.  Only then did Judith remove her helmet.  
"You look tired," Isaac said.
"You'd be tired too if you did anything," answered Judith.  
"If I had done anything?" Isaac scoffed.  "Please."  
The Acura crawled out of the parking garage and drove back onto Highway 26, in the opposite direction of the accident.  They drove slowly down the Sunset highway to gawk at the crash.  Only one police car and a news van from Good Day, Oregon! had arrived on the scene so far.  
The sight of twisted steel on the road made their ride to the coast a quiet one.  
Judith said, "Let's take it slow getting out there.  Follow the speed limit the whole way."  
	"Yes, sir," said Isaac.  

Before they reached the coast, Judith and Isaac switched cars and changed clothing again.  The ocean came into view, and they turned down a wooded dirt road toward a beach house tucked away in the bluffs near Depoe Bay, a small town on the overcast coast.  They entered the house and walked out onto the balcony, and only then did they speak.   
On a small balcony that faced the Pacific Ocean, Judith and Isaac watched a gray whale surface in the morning light.  
"There's another one," said Judith, pointing her finger.
"Where?  I missed it."
"You have to be quick."
Isaac laughed.  "I was quick today."
"Keep your voice down."
Isaac argued, "Oh for God sakes, Judith, we're out in the middle of nowhere."  
She ignored his argument and remained silent for a moment.  Looking out at the water she said, "Let's say no more about it.  We have no need to bring up the topic.  It is out of our hands now."
"Fine," Isaac said.  "Well, can we at least watch the news and see how it's being handled?"
"Let's watch."
"Are you ok?"
"I keep thinking about the delivery driver."
"Casualties are part of the deal," Isaac said.  "It's bound to happen."
"I know."
"Longstreet warned us.  About these...regrets."
"It's kind of hard the first time."
"I understand."  Isaac put his hand on her shoulder.
"Leave me alone."
Isaac left, departing the balcony and going inside the house to watch the network news.  After a while, Judith changed her clothing again and returned outside in the cool air, wearing only a sports bra and dark pants.  To ease her mind, she watched the ocean closely, hoping to catch another glimpse of a whale breaching.  She felt tightly wrapped.  When she moved her elbows on the railing, her back and arms flexed but never relaxed.
Isaac changed channels, making sure that all of them were reporting on the events in Portland as they unfolded.  After iterating through the channels and confirming that every major news organization was talking about Brio-Nano, he put up his feet and settled on CNN.  The breaking news came in haphazard bits, thrown together as the program cut from one correspondent to the next, with each frantically reporting whatever byte they managed to glean from policemen or excited Portlanders.  
The news program cut to the studio where the CNN anchor wore a stern face.  
"In the last few minutes, correspondent Andrea Sampson has learned more about events unfolding at the scene of the accident."
Judith turned away from her whale-watching and entered the house.  Isaac said nothing more to Judith as they absorbed the breaking news.  
"Yes, James, this is a live shot from the scene of the accident on Highway twenty-six, just outside of downtown Portland.  You can see detectives and forensics teams are combing the area where twenty-two animals escaped from an overturned Brio-Nano delivery truck.  So far we have learned that both drivers are dead.  As far as injuries to police and fire personnel, two firefighters and one paramedic are severely injured.  A Brio-Nano spokesperson has just issued a statement to the press regarding what was being transported inside the truck.  We also have footage from NBC that we will now play for the first time.  The scenes you are about to see were recorded by a camera mounted in one of the first police cruisers to arrive on the scene."
"Thank you, Andrea."  The footage began to roll as the anchor narrated.  His voice wavered at certain points as the firefighters secured the scene surrounding the wreckage of the Chevy Silverado and the Brio-Nano truck.  
"As you can see, the firemen approach the accident and first check for bodies in the vehicles.  One body was found in the delivery truck, and one body found in the Chevy Silverado.  The pickup is registered to a man named Arne Calderon, as we mentioned a moment ago, who is known to many in Portland from his trial and acquittal last year.  At the outset, the accident appears to be a routine cleanup for the firefighters.  But if you listen to the background noise, there is wild screaming and thuds coming from inside the body of the delivery truck.  At this point the firefighters call for additional police support.  Two additional police cars are then dispatched.  Here you can see the EMS staff gathering around while one firefighter prepares to cut the padlock on the rear door of the truck to look for other victims of the accident."
Isaac said, "They only sent three squad cars to the scene?"
"Shh!" 
The anchor paused for a moment as the firefighter cut the lock.  The rear door of the truck flew open and a pile of chimpanzees lunged out, exposing to the world the research being conducted by Brio-Nano on non-human primates.  Five chimpanzees swarmed and tackled the firefighter who cut the lock.  The other chimpanzees scattered, climbing on and attacking the other police officers and firefighters.  A chimpanzee tore and ripped through one firefighter's clothing.  Some of the firefighters and paramedics stood stunned, frozen in their shoes, until the chimpanzees came after them.  They turned to run, but fleeing only encouraged pursuit.  Two firefighters tried to free the tackled firefighter who had cut the lock, but he fell down.  Bright red arterial blood spilled onto the pavement.  The screams of the chimpanzees grew more shrill and vicious.  Another firefighter toppled under the weight of several animals.  The firefighters knocked chimpanzees to the ground with pipes and the butt-end of axes, but the animals bounced back to their feet and took another hit, and did it again.  
	The footage continued, the news anchor cleared his throat several times as he was overcome with distress watching the maniacal horror.  As the melee overwhelmed a third paramedic, the police officer in command ordered weapons to be drawn.  Thirty round clips were emptied into the chimpanzees.  Tasers and pepper spray were employed.  Everything in the standard-issue police arsenal was used on the animals.  In a matter of two minutes, all of the chimpanzees lay dead, wounded, or beaten to submission.  
	The injured firefighters and the paramedic gasped on the ground.  The bleeding paramedic, who wore the least amount of protective clothing, sprayed red onto the street and rolled in lacerated agony.  In the aftermath, the firefighters and paramedics attended to the wounded.  Two paramedics who never left the ambulance rushed out into the highway to give emergency care.  
Police officers moved toward the door of the truck to ensure that no more chimpanzees waited inside.  The door had swung shut again.  They had to pull it open once more to look inside.  Police officers reloaded their weapons and counted to three.  The officer with his hand on the door tossed a tear-gas container inside.  The door slammed shut again, letting the tear gas steam the truck body.  Officers stood with their weapons at the ready position, nervously waiting for another animal to emerge.  The first officer yelled, "I hear something wheezing."  The two other officers on the scene stopped assisting the wounded momentarily, and drew their sidearms.  
"Let's waste the rest," an officer said, his jaw set tight, eyes begging for revenge.  With another count to three, the officers gathered in a firing line and waited.  
The officer threw the door open.  
Three bloodied chimpanzees limped out of the truck and fell gasping to the pavement.  Sixty rounds entered the three animals.  The officers fired with reckless abandon, sounding like popcorn.  One of the officers said, "Cease fire!"  He waved an open hand in front of his face.  "Let's get a head count of these things.  Get on the radio."
The CNN anchor said, "As you heard the policeman say, 'Let's get a count of these animals.'  The company who owned the truck, Brio-Nano, has told us that the truck carried twenty-six chimpanzees.  It appears that four chimpanzees died in the crash.  Eighteen were killed in the shootout with the police, leaving four unaccounted for.  As you've heard from our reports over the last hour, all but one of those chimpanzees have been captured or killed, but in the process three dogs and a child have fallen prey to these animals."
Isaac looked at Judith, "Necessary casualties, Judith."
"Do you enjoy knowing that they were hurt?"
"What do you want me to say?" asked Isaac.  "This is it, baby, this is what we signed up for.  You talked me into this life."
She looked at the TV and folded her arms.  
The anchorman continued.  "The Brio-Nano spokesperson confirmed that the chimpanzees were being tested with a new technology called respirocytes.  From our own science department, we've been told that respirocytes are manufactured molecules refined by Brio-Nano, Inc.  These molecules are injected into the blood stream to increase the body's effective usage of oxygen.  It is said that a respirocyte molecule can use oxygen two hundred percent more efficiently than natural blood cells.  Preliminary speculation from our science team believes that these molecules, when combined with the natural adrenaline produced by the crash, gave the chimpanzees strength well beyond that of an untreated chimpanzee.  We will have more on this from our chief science correspondent over the next hour, and to be sure, for quite some time to come, since this topic appears to be much larger than what we've seen in this tragedy this morning."
"Exactly as planned," said Isaac.  "A perfect block.  Everyone will be talking about manufactured molecules now."
"Enough.  Not another word about it," Judith chastised.  "This is just the beginning.  And we need to start studying for the next job."
Isaac leaned back in his chair, "Oh come on.  Can't we relax for one day?"
Judith glared at Isaac.  "Don't ever tell me to relax."
"Damn it, we should be celebrating." 
She stood rigid but gradually softened as his words sunk in.  "You're right."  She lifted her hands up and then let them fall to her sides.  "You're right."  Easing, she breathed slowly to quit her racing thoughts, but then remembered the face of the driver.  "Yes, everything went well.  Except for the dead."
"For whom the bell tolls.  Don't think about it."  
"Now, see," Judith said, putting her hands up, "it's comments like that.  It's just..."
"What?"  
"It just makes me wonder about your seriousness in this project."
Isaac said, "Oh, you've got to be joking."
"I'm not."
"Well, I feel like joking.  I feel like celebrating.  Let's pop the champagne."
He jumped off the couch and ran to the refrigerator in the kitchen, fished out a cold bottle of champagne, and aimed the cork at Judith. 
"Watch out!"  The cork popped, and she barely dodged it.  
Isaac took a long drink.  "Breakfast of champions."  Champagne bubbled over onto the floor as he drank directly from the bottle.
"I married an idiot."
"You have another husband?"  He grabbed Judith, threw his arms around her, picked her up, and spilled champagne on her tattoo.  He kissed her, and finally, she relented.
 


Chapter 2. Pelius Research
 
 
 A graph shined on the wall of a conference room. 
The new Pelius logo occupied the upper right corner of the slide and next to it were the words, "Fifteen Year Projected Patent Count."  Two data series ran in jagged lines across the grid in the center, one series for Pelius Research and one series for Talbot Labs.  On the left side of the chart, Pelius hugged the bottom for the current year, while Talbot towered high on the Y-axis.  Talbot's line plateaued and remained steady, but the Pelius line increased every two years until the end of the grid, where in 2023, Pelius expected to have nearly twice as many patents as Talbot.
 A director attending the meeting said, "I admire the optimism of whoever made this graph, truly, but these numbers are ridiculous.  We don't have the funding, the manpower, the facilities, and...I don't know where to begin with poking holes in this chart.  The whole thing is a hole."
 "That's why we begin today," Lucas Perth said.  "In the past two years we've already doubled our performance.  Stockholders love it, and Arrica thinks we can set these kind of expectations as the norm.  It's not a hunch, or a whim, or a delusion of grandeur driving these numbers.  It's our power as an idea company.  If we turn Pelius into a black box that churns out ideas, we can recruit the best scientists in the world.  Even now, scientists want to work here because we let our people do what they do best.  We give them freedom."
 "We give them too much freedom," the director argued.  "Carte blanche.  It's too much already."
 "No, we don't give them enough," Arrica Pelius said.  "We need to start thinking of Pelius as a top company.  No more mid-tier thinking.  We can turn Pelius into the greatest idea box in the world.  Thirty years ago, Talbot did the same thing.  They changed the whole corporate mindset and started cutting the lines of their competitors.  It starts today in this room."
 Lucas stood with his arms folded in front of the chart.  
"But we don't have the capacity," the director said.
 Lucas threw his arms out and interrupted.  "When we bought out Brio-Nano after their fall, you made the same argument, but we bought it anyway.  When we set up recruitment offices in India, you said we weren't ready to become multinational.  When we built the research park, you said the traffic to get out there would be too much.  We appreciate your caution, but too much caution impedes our progress.  Conrado Pelius encouraged Arrica to make Pelius a visionary company, not a dividend-doling industry lapdog.  With calculated risks - and it's going to take some major risks - we can fulfill the old man's dying wish.  Unless you think Conrado isn't relevant anymore?"
 The director said nothing but showed his irritation at the mention of Conrado.  "It's easy for you to say.  I have to convey the risks to the stockholders."
 "They will appreciate it," Arrica said.  "If old stockholders don't, new stockholders will.  Now, before we examine this graph anymore, let me explain the plan that Lucas and I came up with.  There's a way to achieve the results on this graph.  Mark my words.  Over the past month, we've hardly slept because we've been hammering at ideas about how to make Pelius a juggernaut.  Let's begin.  Next slide please."
 The next slide had a single word on it. "GRAIN."  
 "We're going to make GRAIN," Lucas said.  
 "GRAIN," Arrica repeated.  "Get ready for the next evolution of science."
 The directors furrowed their brows but listened intently.  The presence of Arrica and Lucas in a meeting dominated the atmosphere, and Lucas knew that together they intimidated the older generation of directors.  Too long they had collected checks without any risk, these salary men.  Arrica owned the majority of the stock, and her decision to discontinue dividends and reinvest the money in the company jarred the old boys' club.    
 Lucas folded his arms and stood behind Arrica as she described what GRAIN meant.  While she spoke, Lucas glared at the dissenting director.  
 After ten rehearsals, Arrica did one final run-through before the meeting, and commanded Lucas to refill her coffee cup five times.  Her passion was wired.  
 "GRAIN is an acronym.  It's not wheat or corn, although we will find ways to work commodities into the equation.  G - Genomics.  R - Robotics.  AI - Artificial Intelligence.  N - Nanotechnology.  This is the holy quad of the 21st century, and we are going to make GRAIN like loaves and fishes.  Already we focus on Genomics and Nanotechnology, but no research outfit in the world does all four.  The trends in technology are begging someone to take a chance, to be the first to create a multi-disciplinary type of scientist that can walk across the spectrum of the great sciences of this century.  Last century we focused on NBC - nuclear, biological, and chemical.  The new century requires a new paradigm.  The very nature of modern technology is multi-disciplinary, and the power curve of advancement is poised to spike.  This is the knee of the curve, right here, right now, and tomorrow we can put an exponent at the end of our logo as we lift off.  The Law of Accelerating Returns waits for a breakthrough from an ambitious company.  Pelius is that company.  I paraphrase Ray Kurzweil, and let this be your mission statement: 'Technological progress in the twenty-first century will be equivalent to what would require two hundred centuries at past rates of progress.  We have been speeding up.  The twenty-first century will see about a thousand times greater technological change than its predecessor.'"  
"Ok," the director said, "this is all very motivating.  Certainly knowledge is progressing, Arrica, and like you, I also find it irresistible, but we don't need to break our necks to move ahead.  Yes, it progresses at an accelerating speed, but what is there to praise in that?  Under your umbrella of progress, I see decline occurring just as fast in our potential earnings."
Arrica interrupted him.  "Then you may want to update your CV and start applying elsewhere.  In other words, get ready for a speed that blows the doors off.  It's already happening.  We have genetic profiling, cloning is down to a basic protocol, and you can't take a bite of food without tasting a Genetically Modified Organism.  Improvements in targeted drug delivery treat illnesses more accurately, with minimal harm done to the body as a whole.  We are starting to see organic tissue, like the 'flesh vats' predicted by Aldous Huxley.  Who would have thought?  Ladies and gentlemen, we are at the cusp of the exponential explosion.  Bionics, cryogenics, biomimetics, MEMS - micro-electro-mechanical motors.  Biomechanical diagnostics.  And materials!  Where do I even begin?  Materials are getting smart.  Polymers and ceramics have gone way beyond fishing poles and pottery.  We have buckyballs and carbon nanotubes, quantum dots, nanoshells, and the grail of science fiction: self-assembly.  Techniques and improvements in process management increase the possibility of project turnaround time.  Rapid prototyping of bio-molecular devices is possible.  The software development lifecycle has been distilled to its very essence.  Aging bureaucrats are stuck in the pace of the 1980s, crying out at shortened project plans because they want to spend full weekends away from work.  My advice for them is that they can go work for the government.  Gentlemen, we have programmers going from whitepaper to shipment in three months.  We can put application development on steroids, rationally.  By synergizing disciplines at Pelius Research, the only bottleneck left will be patent paperwork.  Patents, patents, patents!  I want poor perfomers to suffocate under them.  Feeders will find motivation by writing patents for producers.  Producers will not be forced to pause for paperwork.  Patents.  The ramifications of the advances at Pelius Research will affect not only technology, but also the world economy, global politics, the environment, and health care.  
"Ask yourself where the labor will come from.  You'll wonder how can we possibly motivate employees to produce like this.  The answer is the Triton approach.  We'll put two team on the same project and let them race to completion.  Whoever gets the results enjoys the glory.  The loser gets scooped and dumped.  We are going to do this, and in some cases, we will put three groups on a project, hence, Triton.  Call it cutthroat, call it crazy, what you will, but when a triton spears a fish, only one prong comes out holding the trophy.  The losers will get a laptop, a lawyer as a friend, and a patent application to fill out for the winner.  Losers get cleanup duty, while the winner goes to the next phase of rapid prototyping, or they start another contest.  Talent will get rolled into another contest quickly.  Also, to speed up collaboration and reduce information loss, all results are shared across Pelius, posted in sandbox sites, and immediately available to any lab.  We will not repeat experiments.  The competition can look up each others' ongoing results.  This is part of the idea box, the ambiance required for Pelius to succeed.  Shared information will be the norm.  
"Manpower is an issue, yes, but Lucas and I have already made contacts at UC-Davis to keep a fresh artery of graduate students supplying us with life blood: cheap and eager labor.  I have no doubt that Berkeley and Stanford will come to us hat-in-hand once they witness what Davis graduates are writing for theses.  But even with that, we will need to hire more high-profile primary investigators, but they will not be cheap, nor should they be.  Not only will we pay them top-dollar, but every time they complete a project first, we will also pay instant bonuses in Pelius stock that they can sell that same day if they choose."
The argumentative director winced.  "No, that's not..."
"Henry Ford, Microsoft, Google," Arrica continued, "they knew the value of compensation paired with innovation.  To join the pantheon of successful businesses, you must motivate and keep talent.  Money will attract the best, ideas will motivate them.  In order to free up money in the budget, executive salaries will be capped at two hundred thousand dollars for now - tighten your belts boys - this will open up millions for our pursuit of the top scientists.  The days of fat and happy are over.  It's time to get lean and hungry.  The sacrifice of executives will not be permanent, but right now, frankly I'm willing to work for food.  So is Lucas.  With good salaries and minimum red tape, competent researchers will come running, bursting with the creative energy other employers suppressed.  We don't want thirty-year desk jockeys cluttering office space, standing around the water-cooler discussing the Giants and 49ers, or religion or politics or sitcoms or kids or cats.  Let Talbot and the rest of the economy provide the ergonomic cushions for those couch potatoes.  We want young, wild-eyed go-getters.  If employees leave Pelius after three to five productive years, that's great.  That's fine with us.  Once that creative burst is spent, once they've made their big splash in the science world, they'll be getting lots of offers to work elsewhere where they can relax, and we don't want a moment of downtime here.  We want their best years, not the years when they are sneaking out of the office to go boating.  As for those employees that burn out, unless they like writing patents and hanging out with lawyers all day - and this may sound brash - they will get their walking papers.  
"You have to understand one thing.  The combination of components, from optical to electrical to molecular, tosses the disciplines into the same pot, and these shrunken components can have dynamic algorithms programmed into them.  The language of Pelius must extend across disciplines.  The division of labor between engineer, programmer, and researcher must converge.  As managers and salespeople we must recognize this.  The new Renaissance man will be a GRAINer.  Some pessimists claim that nanobots are strictly a source of entertaining fiction, but somebody write this down: if the human species ever produces a self-replicating nanobot, it will come from Pelius Research in San Francisco, California."
 Arrica stopped talking and breathed heavily.  All but one of the directors and managers sat on the edge of their chairs.  After a pause, they burst into applause and shouts of praise.  Lucas clapped and smiled.  He slapped a hand on Arrica's shoulder.  She turned to him.  There in her eyes, daggers threatened the world without.   
 
 Instructions went out to the managers detailing how to inform employees about the new direction of Pelius Research.  Using no uncertain terms, they were to sell the idea in the same manner that Arrica did.  Documents that Lucas penned travelled around the room.  He wrote the document with the intent to scare off the dead weight in the company, which included many of the managers themselves.  As they read the first page, he watched those company anchors sink in their chairs.  He knew that some only applauded to appear enthusiastic, but their shelf-life expired the minute Arrica started speaking.  The internal interview process for upper level managers and primary investigators had already started a month earlier.  
 The Chief Operating Officer stood up and started handing out new project outline plans with truncated deadlines.  The meeting continued for the directors and managers, but Arrica and Lucas left the room to start spreading the flame into other parts of the building.  
When they exited the conference room, Lucas squeezed Arrica's hand.  
 "Arrica, you sold it.  Did you see their faces?  Business as usual is dead.  We suffered it for too long already, now we're under way."
 "I'm so hyper right now," Arrica said, wiping her forehead.  "What's next?"
 "You're scheduled to sit in on some interviews.  Sales interviews."
 "Good.  Let's light up Nancy - poor girl.  She sets the tone for all of the other interviewers."
 They walked down the hall and passed four job seekers waiting for their turn to be called into the interview room.  Three of them wore a suit and tie, but one wore only a wrinkled shirt and tie.  Arrica took one look at him slouched in his seat and told him to leave.  
She said, "Re-apply to Pelius when you're ready to look professional."
 The applicant sneered at her, but before the sneer cleared his face, Lucas reiterated what Arrica said and bulldogged him out the door.  
"Didn't anyone tell you to iron before an interview?"  Lucas laughed but stared hard into the kid's face.  "You look like you were pulled out of a laundry bag." 
Arrica entered the meeting room, but Lucas stayed behind to point the candidate toward the exit.  
The other candidates could not hide their astonishment, and Lucas nearly laughed at their expressions.  He calmed them by saying, "You guys look fantastic.  See you in a few minutes."
 In the interviewing room, Arrica and Lucas took seats on the flanks of a fifty-year-old human resources woman named Nancy Pallock, a veteran interviewer of bright young things.  
 Arrica said, "Ms. Pallock, we're going to assist you with the interviews this morning.  We're implementing a new hiring policy, starting today.  The order of questions, the way you've conducted interviews in the past, we're turning it all on its head in order to find out how aggressive the applicants are.  We don't want doves nesting in here, especially on our sales team."
 "I'm not sure I understand," Nancy said.  "You don't want doves.  Does that mean you want hawks, Ms. Pelius?"
 "No, I don't want hawks.  I want wolves."
 Nancy's eyes widened.  She recoiled with a tone of condescension.  "Excuse me, but those types don't last. If we hire those types, this place will be a zoo.  I've interviewed people for many years now and..."
 "Give me wolves, Ms. Pallock.  I'm not concerned with life-spans or expiration dates.  I want the ones that can't sleep at night unless they are selling.  I want percentage jockeys who obsess and brag about a tenth, a hundredth.  I want the ones that take it personal, the ones that are ruthless enough to sell product at cost just to burn off competition and colleagues."  
 Nancy looked at Lucas for relief, but finding none, shook her head in disgust. 
"Ms. Pallock: give me sharks, give me jackals.  Nancy - don't you shake your head at me.  Listen to me: give me wolves."
 Nancy paled and leaned back in her seat. 
 Lucas said, "Let's call the first applicant in.  Let the pressure mount during the interview.  We want to flush out weak personalities.  Let them perceive comfort, then ambush them."
 Nancy pushed a button and called in the first candidate, Tatum Blanchett, a graduate from San Diego State, who entered the room walking with stiff swagger, exuding sorority-learned charms, but for all her propriety, she seemed nervous after witnessing the ejection of the disheveled candidate.  
 Nancy said, "Hello Miss Blanchett.  May I offer you something to drink?" 
 Arrica retracted the offer.  "That's not necessary, Nancy."  Arrica turned to Tatum and then softened her eyes, smiled, and arranged her body into a friendly position.  "Miss Blanchett, we are so glad you came in today.  All the way from San Diego, too.  Well, let's hope it's worth your while.  We make an effort to get to know our employees.  No, we talk about life outside of work.  Tell us, Tatum, what are your hobbies?"  
 Tatum exhaled.  She seemed to relax upon hearing the opening question.  Lucas stared at her, reading her movements.  Before she opened her mouth, he had decided that she was no good.
 "Hobbies, let's see."
 Lucas said, "Sure, tell us what takes up your nights and weekends.  What do you see yourself doing over the next ten years, not at work, but while you are away from work."  
 "Well, I love backpacking.  And hiking and camping.  I'm an outdoors person, always have been.  At San Diego State, I camped every other weekend, and one of the reasons I want to move up to Northern California is for the endless camping available from here to British Columbia."
 Lucas said, "Oh, you will find it here.  Absolutely."
 "I'm also a film buff.  I love movies, independent films, foreign films, you name it.  Anything but traditional Hollywood garbage."
 Arrica said, "Between going out to the theater and renting DVDs, how many films do you watch a week?"
 "I usually go to one or two movies a week, and I watch several on Netflix."  
Lucas saw how Tatum was getting comfortable with the questions.  He said, "Netflix, yes.  Well, you'll find lots of independent theaters here in San Francisco."
"However," Arrica said while folding Tatum's résumé in half, "you won't find a job at Pelius Research.  Thank you for coming in."  She handed the résumé to Tatum.
For a moment, Tatum sat silent in her chair, smiling, unaware that the interview was over.  
Arrica ignored Tatum and spoke directly to Nancy. "You see, Ms. Pallock, how much time you can save in the interview by starting from the bottom of your list of questions."  
"Tatum, thank you so much for coming in," Lucas said.  "You may go now."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Not at all," said Lucas, acting surprised.  "No, you did great.  We'll be in touch.  Please tell the next candidate to come in on your way out."
As if the breath had been knocked out of her, Tatum's mouth hung open but emitted no sound.  She gathered her things and left.  
"That's not very nice."  Nancy shook her head.  "That's not the way to treat people."
"Well," Arrica said, "this is not the United Way, Nancy."  
"A candidate like that doesn't want to work," Lucas said.  "She wants to play."
"That's ridiculous," Nancy scoffed. 
Lucas said, "She was a coffee-shop dweller."
"No question about it," Arrica said.
"She might as well have a Starbucks tattoo on her forehead."
 
The second candidate entered the room, with more swagger than Tatum, and stepped right up to the trio of interviewers to shake their hands.  Arrica shook her hand and asked her to sit down.  
"Ms. Tagore, where are you from?"
"I grew up in Hyderabad, India."
 Lucas smiled when he heard a thick accent, because he preferred immigrants, and envisioned a staff full of employees with H1-B visas.  They reasoned that it was easier to find a motivated Indian than an American.
 "What are your hobbies?"
 She said, "My hobbies?"
 Arrica said, "What do you do in your spare time?"
 She shifted in her chair.  "I usually don't have that much spare time.  I suppose my home network is a hobby.  I'm Cisco certified, even though I'm in sales.  I set up networks for friends.  On weekends, I teach a community education class on networking."
"Great!" Arrica said.  "That's great.  We have offices in India now.  Not in Hyderabad yet, but in Bangalore and Chennai, and we need agents to operate between here and there.  We're going to hire you, Ms. Tagore."  Arrica highlighted the applicant's name on her resume and handed it to Nancy, who accepted the paper with a stunned face.
Ms. Tagore said, "Thank you!"
Arrica ushered her out the door, and then said to Nancy.  "That résumé has all the necessary ticket punches on it, and she's Indian.  That's like a having a gold star.  It's hardly worth asking about the education anymore.  As long as they graduated with honors, joined a bunch of business-oriented clubs, and wear pressed clothes but look starving, then you can go straight to the hobbies, story problems, and then the sales questions.  Does that make sense?  Oh!  And they also have to speak perfect English plus a second language.  There can be no communication breakdowns."
 Nancy grumbled.  
Lucas said, "I know it seems like a lot of changes all at once, Nancy, but we're on a 'hearts and minds' campaign today.  You probably haven't read your email yet, but you will find exciting changes coming to Pelius described in a company email."
Nancy nodded but said nothing.
Lucas said, "Let's bring in the third candidate."
A handsome man entered the room, thirty years old, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a notebook in the other.  The movements he made, smooth and certain, made him seem like a regular employee already.  His past experience included seven years of Big Pharma sales.
Arrica started the interview. "Basil Jackson.  So you have sales experience at Pfizer?  Ever been under pressure?"  
"They set strict deadlines for me at Pfizer."
"Ever missed a deadline?"
"I don't miss deadlines."
Arrica laughed.  "You think so?"
"I know so."  Basil did not laugh.  
Arrica said, "Cross your heart and hope to die?"
"Miss Pelius, you can stick this pen in my eye."
Everyone but Nancy laughed.  
Lucas said, "How did you know this is Arrica Pelius?"
Basil smiled.  "Research, of course.  I know Arrica from The Wall Street Journal."
Lucas said, "You read that far back in the paper?"
"Ahem."  Arrica cleared her throat and crossed her legs.  "Let me point out, Lucas, we are moving up.  Last time we were on page nine of the third section."
"I saw that," Basil said. "I read it cover to cover every morning.  I must say, the stipple portrait they printed was pretty accurate, because I recognized you immediately."
"Oh?" Arrica smiled.  "Thank you. What are your hobbies, Mr. Jackson?"
"The only hobby I have is spending time with my wife," Basil said.  "She's my best friend.  My true companion."
Arrica looked at Lucas to get a read on the statement.  However, Lucas didn't know what to make of it.  Arrica fished for a non-work-oriented quality in Basil.  "Do you and your wife go on a lot of vacations together?"
"No.  Not really.  We go out on dates with each other every weekend.  When I have time off, we go on walks, make dinner, sit in the same room and read.  Nothing exotic, although I think she would like a bit more adventure."
Lucas asked, "What's her name?"
"Caprice."
"Interesting."  Arrica tapped a pen against her teeth.  "I'm curious to know, Basil.  Where did you grow up?"
"Chicago."  
Lucas said, "Are you looking to move from Chicago?"
"I want to work in a small company that is growing," Basil said.  "I want to be there for it all."
Arrica stopped tapping her teeth.  "What part of Chicago?"
"Cabrini-Green."
"Was it difficult growing up there?"
Basil looked down for a second, then up again at Arrica.  "Yeah.  Yes, it was.  And when I was ten years old, I swore I'd get out."
"You grew up poor?"  
"You could say that."
"You grew up tough, then," Arrica said, brightening her eyes.  "Yet you are a lover, not a fighter?  How is that possible?  You must have had to fight somewhere along the way."
"I found a way not to fight," Basil said.  "I see the nuances.  There's always a way to solve a problem without a fight."
Arrica looked at Lucas once again and this time she smiled.  Then she turned back to face Basil.  "Mr. Jackson, I hope you don't get shredded here, but I think you are the type of employee I want.  Yes, I can see it in your face."
"What can you see?"
"That you're hired." 
 
 At noon, Lucas and Arrica left the interview room.  The Pelius company headquarters was located on the tenth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid, in the center of the financial district of downtown San Francisco.  They stepped out of the front door of the building and Lucas nearly tripped over a homeless man who was lying on the sidewalk next to an empty bottle of Boone's.  The same man camped out in front of the Pyramid every day, begging and rambling.  
 "Can't you move to another stoop?" said Lucas, while unbuttoning his suit jacket.  "I nearly tripped over you."
 "Can't you spare a dime or a minute?" the bum railed.  "Can't you slow down?  Do you have to rush around corners so fast?  Wait!"  The bum held his palms up, and like a movie director framed Lucas between his index fingers and thumbs.  "I can see you.  You're not a Nazi, but you're as mean as one, that's clear enough.  You'd step on your own mother to grab the next rung of the ladder.  I can see your father in your face.  He is you, and you are him."
 The comment irritated Lucas.  Underneath a ratty leather jacket, the bum wore a ruffled tuxedo shirt.  His chin had a shaggy goatee.  On his head was an umbrella hat, a ridiculous souvenir that shaded him from the sun.  
 Arrica said, "Come on, Lucas.  Let's go."
 "Lucas, you say?"  The bum swiveled around them.  "Luke.  Is that really your name?"  The bum moved in front of Lucas and sniffed at his neck.  "That's not your name, is it?"
 Lucas asked the bum, "How the hell would you know?  What's your name?"
 "Isaiah.  What's yours?"
 "Get out of my way."
 "She called you Lucas," the bum said, "but you're not a Lucas.  No - it's too clean for you.  A better name would be Judas.  You are empty, a hollow man, and on your way to a furnace.  Traitor!  Watch yourself, young lady."
 "God damn raving lunatics in this city."  Lucas pushed past the bum.  
The bum tipped his ridiculous multi-colored parasol at them as they walked past. He raved on, "Don't let me slow down the path to hell.  Off you go now, off you go, burning already and can't wait to jump into the lake of fire.  Ha ha!  You burning bastard!  Burn hot, and don't stop.  You could stop, drop, and roll, but you won't.  I can see you.  Hey!  Listen to me, you liar, Mr. pseudo-Lucas.  Don't let him stoke you, too, lady.  He's got the plague.  He's diseased.  He'll give the sickness to you.  I'd suggest washing!" 
The bum finally stopped following them, and Arrica said, "It never ceases to amaze me.  We're in the financial district, some of the biggest banks in the world, and right on our doorstep these people rot.  I don't know why the city doesn't do something about it."
 Lucas said, "Too many handouts in this city.  They flock here like pigeons under a tourist's table.  People think these bums are saints, too. Like they are all hard-luck cases instead of degenerates."
 Arrica said, "Well, I'm sure some of them are."
 "We need a big hose," Lucas said.  "The sidewalks are America's Augean stables.  All the water in the bay wouldn't wash them away."
 
At lunch, Lucas spoke continuously in a monologue about the direction of Pelius.  Arrica nodded and believed everything Lucas told her, but he continued to drive the point home, day after day, year after year.  He coached Arrica about how to play the game and about what she needed to remember: that Talbot was the enemy.  The evil empire of Talbot needed to keep a dark cloud overhead.  Associating Talbot with all that was cold and calculating created a distraction for Pelius, not to mention pity.  
"Always remember, Arrica, that we are a little company in a growth industry just trying to make ends meet."
Because Talbot was the biggest pharmaceutical company in North America, it was a physical singularity to protest against, a focal point, and the more the public roasted Talbot, the more freedom Pelius had to operate.  Using metaphors, images, and parables, Lucas tried to make Arrica conceptualize the truth in different ways. 
"Everyone watches the top dog - take Wal-Mart - and while the focus stays on that dog, the little dogs grow up."  
The underdog, Lucas convinced her, engages in the exact same practices as the big dog, but no one notices the little dog until it is too big to control.  Those puppies, they yap and bite at the big dog, pull on its ears, trip it up, yank its tail, and steal its food, but no one calls them vicious.  The mature dog, too tired, too big, and too slow to swat the pups away, sits quietly for the most part, only pushing when it needs to maintain stasis.  The trick was to make the public believe that the motivation at Pelius was for progress and the common welfare, for competition, while Talbot worked strictly in the interest of money.  
To focus blame on Talbot kept the eye of disdain away from Pelius, which spared the system as a whole.  He convinced her that the collapse of a large company would provide food for the little company.  When Enron plummeted like a brick, the public screamed, and the little companies decried bad business while in the same breath they picked up the standard and carried on, trampling each other, showing their teeth, and fighting over the remains.  No one balks at the less powerful, although they are growing into equally enormous firms.  
Sometimes Arrica did not care to face the fact that Talbot needed to be the target, but Lucas did not give up until she had hate for Talbot in her gray eyes.
"That's how this little dog will become a big dog."
Arrica nodded, and then paid for lunch.
 
 


Chapter 3. Talbot Labs - 2016

 "Bobby, sometimes I suspect that you have a mistress," said Rachel.
 "You caught me," said Robert Lopez, dryly.  "It's been going on for twenty-five years."
 "As I suspected.  What's her name?"
 "Her name is the lab."  He said it with a half-hearted smile while leaning toward his wife for a parting kiss.
 Rachel smiled, "Love you.  Have a good day, Bobby."
 As soon as his wife could no longer see his face, Robert's forced smile rebounded into a dull expression.  Over his years of office and laboratory politics, Robert had mastered the facade of perpetual happiness, an essential career skill, facilitated by anti-depressants.  After taking the pills for four years, he wondered about their efficacy.  He envied his strict father, who seemed to cope with everything using a military adage when motivation was lacking.  The advice was simple: "Fake it until you make it."  Although many days Robert felt like he couldn't go one step further, he knew better than to allow emotions to interfere with his career and the real world.  The sadness, however, at this point in his career, made him fake every emotion, including love.  Passive and bored, he surrendered to anyone with an alternative to silence.  During this mid-life crisis, he became a mannequin of false levity, while inside he rotted under a compost of discarded emotions.  
After the kiss goodbye, on his way to Talbot, Robert pulled into a McDonalds drive-thru and ordered two low-fat breakfasts.  His method of dealing with depression was by putting food and alcohol in his mouth.  On multiple occasions, he resolved to lose weight, but never resolved to forgo snacks during his commute.  At night he often stopped at a martini bar, where he stood out like a sore thumb.   
The Illinois roads had only been partially thawed.  While driving, he listened to a radio pundit complain about China.  The popular radio personality raved about the event.  The incident jarred Americans, patriot or otherwise, and the pundit reminded the citizens to be skittish, angry, and fearful.  
Robert laughed and turned the satellite radio to another show, one produced by Nature, the venerable science magazine.  Work distracted him from his sorrows, and although the level of his self-disgust fluctuated from day-to-day, week-to-week, hour-to-hour, he droned on dutifully.
 Depression didn't interfere with his career progress.  He worked on projects at Talbot Laboratories in Chicago, put out many scientific papers, and spearheaded research programs.  He continued volunteering, assisting, and mentoring the people in his lab, yet found little to no joy in what once was his source of undying fascination.  He was a biologist by education, re-christened as a nanotechnologist in 2009 when Talbot updated its corporate titles to stay en vogue with the science of job marketing.  
The only impediment to his professional advancement came through his peer and fellow lab manager, Marshall Ploof, who seemed to consider Robert as nothing more than a pack mule and cash cow.  Whenever the time came for writing grants, or when the lab grew desperate for a paper to get published, Robert put in the extra hours and supplied the ideas.  When a new software application needed to be studied and put into production, Robert studied the manuals on the weekends and instructed others on how to use it.  Ploof was his peer, yet Robert felt exploited.  
 Since his undergraduate days at Baylor University, Robert had found in science his calling and escape.  Good discipline held his tongue in check, and his upbringing in a strong-handed family made him more of a diligent follower than a leader.  Robert remembered sore cheeks as the result of excess confidence.  However, bookish facts and data analysis served him well in the art of persuasion.  Because of his ability to think critically, the outspoken members of the lab like Marshall Ploof still needed to heed Robert.  He could poke a hole in any pie chart, topple a faulty graph, or decipher a blurry Western Blot.  When Robert felt that the current goals of the lab were misdirected, rather than confront Ploof, he simply negated the hypotheses with research and proofs, arguments of contradiction.  This quiet dissent, proof by negation, came off as subversive and passive-aggressive to Ploof, especially because Robert often harassed Ploof's pet projects.  The tension between them, although stressful, improved the quality of the lab.  Robert was the lab alchemist, a magical logician, and one of the primary workhorses that strained to build and maintain the great towers of Talbot Labs. 
 Because of Robert's extraordinary attention to lab details, Marshall Ploof tended to focus his work on public relations.  A shameless self-promoter, he was short-listed to win a Nobel Prize, but Robert considered Ploof's findings to be somewhat plagiaristic from a Korean scientist.  Ploof and Lopez, so often at odds, stayed paired together at Talbot for many years, even through a disaster concerning a drug test that killed a Talbot research subject.  This death they shared.  It solidified their lines of contention.  The failed experiment joined them into a frigid career marriage.
 The death occurred when Robert was forty-five years old.  By that time, his curriculum vitae included a PhD from DePaul, twelve patents, numerous papers, and exceptional respect in the industry.  He'd earned enough to retire, but science was his spiritual outlet, his contribution to the search for truth that philosophy and religion did not deliver for him.  He considered scientific discovery the highest art of modernity, the new religion.  For the first twenty years at Talbot he never questioned his research, but ever since the death, a chronic regret ate at his conscience as Talbot used his discoveries and life's work for indelicate uses.  The myth of altruism faded into relief behind a graying reality. 
 In 2013, Robert Lopez observed and assisted in the lab experiment that altered his life view and ruined all that he held sacred.  The experiment involved a self-replicating molecule, one of the first, a free radical designed to combat a rare but mild strain of psoriasis.  Traditional drugs did not cure the disorder, so when a wealthy patient donated several million dollars to Talbot to find a cure for the mild disease, upper management contracted Robert Lopez and Marshall Ploof to use nanotechnology as a potential solution.  Talbot swallowed the windfall, and used it as an opportunity to get creative with some of its top scientists.  They designed a drug, and a series of clinical tests using mice proved successful.  Software models indicated that injecting the molecule into humans had a ninety-five percent probability of achieving the expected result.  Hence, the schedule went forward to test on voluntary human subjects, and Robert Lopez, confident from the software models, gave the thumbs up to the first volunteer, a research technician with psoriasis.  The research technician came to the trial-run with pride, knowing that he would to be the first recipient of a groundbreaking 'nano-drug.'  Upon delivery, the molecule repaired the psoriatic skin as expected, but the drug didn't stop at the skin.  The molecules were supposed to work for forty-five minutes before undergoing apoptosis, or self-death.  The molecules did cure the psoriatic condition, but they recognized other cells as targets for disassembly.  Bone cells, osteocytes, were attacked and broken down in the same manner.  From injection, it took thirty minutes of cell disassembly to kill the researcher.  The physician in charge of the trial attempted a massive blood transfusion on the patient, but the technician turned glass-eyed, and breathed his last.  
 In horror, Robert Lopez watched the procedure.  The results did not make sense.  None of the models suggested even moderate risk.  Before the trial, Robert had his best researcher, Isaac, check and double-check the software probability algorithms and results.  
Robert tried to resign from his job, but Talbot Laboratories effectively forced him to remain.  The company kept the story out of the public eye.  Never one to rock the boat, Robert did his duty to the company by signing a document that disallowed any further discussion about the incident.  To the families of the technician, Talbot offered them a tale about overexposure to anesthetic and the researcher's family settled out of court for a quiet heap of money.  At first, Robert only mourned the loss of his dedicated researcher, but eventually his belief in the aims of science began to crumble.  Particularly his faith in numbers, and where he once saw only the brighter side of science, he now saw the randomness and chaos and harrowing endings.
 Nine months after the death of the technician, Robert attended an elite scientific convention in Las Vegas where a prominent geneticist made grave warnings about the direction of certain sciences.  The geneticist quoted Bill Joy, the great inventor from Sun Microsystems who outlined warnings about the coming transhuman science.  The crowd listened to the speaker only because of the geneticist's reputation, but some attendees could not scuttle their laughter.  The media called him a KillJoy and a neo-Luddite.  But Robert unconsciously nodded along with words coming from the podium.  The geneticist echoed Robert's thoughts.  After the convention, the geneticist became a pariah, had fifteen minutes of infamy, and donned the cover of Wired magazine as a cartoon dunce. He made negative headlines in major newspapers, but one month after his notorious speech, the stories migrated to page ten.  Within a year, the geneticist died peacefully in his sleep and was forgotten, almost unknown.  The news of the death stunned Robert Lopez because the man seemed the picture of health, broad-shouldered and lean.  When that voice of protest disappeared, Robert felt alone with his mounting doubts about his profession.  
 In the following years, Lopez continued to work for Talbot Laboratories against his better judgment.  His accomplishments and family life suffered due to long bouts of depression, and for awhile he refused to take anti-depressants, but to fight his wild thoughts he eventually agreed to a prescription.  He gained weight beyond the level that he could safely blame on his bone-structure, and by 2015, he weighed three hundred pounds.  His hygiene suffered and he became borderline diabetic.
 
 As Robert built a wall around himself, Marshall Ploof became more public in his endeavors and started laying claim to every breakthrough in the lab.  Throughout Robert's career, Marshall had been a scene stealer on several unwarranted occasions, but it was getting worse.  Ploof thrived during this period, from 2015 to 2016, taking full credit for Robert's work at conferences and meetings.  In his dejected state, Robert felt defeated and broken, a loser despite his winnings, pathetic despite his relevance.
 
 On the icy sidewalk leading up to the grand entrance of Talbot, Robert walked like a duck to keep his balance.  He passed underneath an enormous Talbot sign.  
He mumbled his sarcastic daily affirmation, quoting Dante. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
He swiped his authentication badge in the door and took an elevator to his office.  The guards and receptionists at the front desk offered cheery hellos.  At work he kept up a solid front for everyone he came into contact with, in order to avoid appearing too timid or cowardly.  Like an addict, he spent more time acting than simply being.
 Once inside his office, he immediately locked the door behind him.  He left his jacket on and slumped into his chair.  Thinking nothing, desiring an intangible something, for a few minutes he rubbed his forehead and stared out the window at the snowy landscape beyond the Talbot facility.  But soon his gnawing work-ethic spurned him into action, slowly and surely, goading him into another full twelve hour day, starting with reading through forty emails and replying to half of them.  The morning email flush itself took nearly three hours of his day, and following that, he had to read and respond to the lab collaboration forum, where his name was flagged to follow-up on ten different threaded discussions.  The administrative tasks, necessary to his understudies' research, consumed most of the morning.  The afternoon consisted of meetings and one-on-one conversations with researchers and technicians, leaving only the late afternoon hours to work on his personal projects.  Still, he never complained.  Instead he bore the duress of his chosen lifestyle, like a silent martyr of hours, curiously content to be without any kind of pleasure.
 Halfway through reading his emails, he came across one from Marshall Ploof reminding all lab members to attend the Christmas party that Friday evening.  Robert groaned, imagining himself incredibly bored and frustrated with having to go over the same conversations that went on at every Christmas party, ones with family members of grad students and post-docs, who always wanted to hear Robert tell a fascinating piece of dumbed-down science.  He assumed they listened only for ideas on stock investments.  The party ended up as an exercise in portfolio sniffing, no different than the interactions of a dog park.   
 Thus, his day in the office and the lab carried forth with the same malaise, until eight o'clock in the evening when he gathered his handbag and started his car in the parking lot with his remote key.  But instead of going home, he detoured to the martini bar, had two vodkas, and sat all alone staring at a plasma TV while poseurs of high society pranced around him in suits and skirts.  His disheveled appearance and weight hardly suited the bar's regular clientele.  Robert weathered the perceived snickering that went on at his expense, and he ogled the slender, loud-laughing women from his corner of the bar, knowing that his chance of having anything beautiful happen outside of the science world was as dead as cold fusion.  Sex didn't even interest him anymore.  His libido mirrored his attitude.  
 He arrived at home at ten o'clock and crawled into bed with Rachel.  He kissed her on the cheek and stared at the ceiling.  His mind wandered through a well-traveled path of self-critical stepping stones.  In the quiet of his bedroom he arrived at the same conclusions that led him to abhor his occupation.  His thoughts hammered on an isolated conscience until he drowned in an exhausted sleep that seemed to end as soon as it began.
 
 Friday morning, the alarm sounded, causing Robert to immediately turn his feet over the side of the bed and begin his daily routine.  Rachel slept for an additional hour while Robert prepared for work.  She offered unbounded support and love for Robert in all of his efforts, which he had come to take for granted over the years.  Caught up in work and depression, he hardly acknowledged her cheerfulness that once brought so much joy to the relationship.  Before he left that morning, she packed his lunch and saw him out the door, like she did every day.  
 "Don't eat too much today, Bobby.  We have the Christmas party tonight."
 "Damn," he thought, and then smiled.  "I won't, dear."
 "Have a good day of work."
 "See you tonight."  They leaned toward each other for a parting kiss.
  
 At the office, Robert went past the guard with his usual greeting and walked to his office.  Before he put his key into the lock on his office door, down the hall he heard a woman's voice say "Congratulations."  He paused to eavesdrop on the conversation, and quickly realized that Marshall Ploof was the recipient of the praise.  
 Ploof said to the woman, "Oh, thank you, Dr. Gwinn."
 Dr. Gwinn said, "You scooped Japan!"
 "Well, we are just happy to have published it so quickly.  But don't congratulate me - it's the people in my lab that really did the work on S24."
 "Oh, don't be so modest.  Everybody knows your lab is superb, and congratulations go to the top.  I'm going to announce the findings to my staff today.  This is a very big deal.  I'd like to meet with you and go over the details behind the design."
 Robert's jaw fell open upon hearing 'S24,' a code name for a novel post-transcriptional gene silencing technique.  His cheeks flushed with the blood of disbelief.  He checked an urge to race down the hallway to unleash a tirade on Ploof for his audacity.  The S24 research had been Robert's focus for nearly two months, and Ploof's contributions were negligible.  Swearing under his breath, Robert unlocked his office door and walked inside.  He sat down at his computer with a sullen face and opened his email, quickly scanning the subject lines for something on the S24 paper.  There in middle of his email was the message that made Robert's blood boil.  Ploof and a few of his loyal underlings had worked on a paper behind Robert's back, even while Robert assisted the backstabbers with every facet of the study.  His eyes poured over the email three times, and his head grew hot.  Ploof had gone too far.  But instead confronting Ploof right away, he stewed in anger for an hour, with his head in his hands.  In his haste to read the email, he forgot to shut and lock his door behind him, and the open door indicated to passers-by that he was available for discussion.  
One of the research technicians popped his head into the door and said, "Good news on a Friday for once, huh?"
 Robert glared at his computer monitor before turning with a smile to the technician.  "You said it."
 The technician said, "We sure got S24 published fast.  I didn't even know that paper was ready to go out."
 Robert said, "Things happen fast around here, I guess."
 "We couldn't have done it without you.  Have a good day, Dr. Lopez."
 As soon as the technician left the doorway, Robert quietly closed the door and locked himself inside.  For the rest of the morning, his mind went over different alternatives to deal with the situation.  The rancor set deep in his stomach.  At noon, a pair of knuckles rapped loudly on his door.  He drew a deep breath and unlocked the door.
 Marshall Ploof stood in the doorway wearing a wide grin.
 "Good morning Robert.  Just wanted to stop by and thank you for your contributions to the paper."
 Robert nodded and said, "It's a big accomplishment."
 "To say the least.  I hope you don't mind, I encouraged Saul, Isaac, and Cheryl to write a paper, and they did a very good job putting together an excellent draft in a short time.  It was imperative that we get the results out first, before anyone else did."
 "Yes, to be first," Robert said, inflecting negatively, "but S24 needs more testing.  Sure we have results, but there are ramifications to this that we've not gone over yet.  The results could be a lot more concrete..."
 Ploof waved off Robert's concern, saying, "This could have gone out a month earlier.  And sorry to say, Robert, I had them work on the paper without telling you because I knew you'd be opposed.  But time is of the essence.  This will guarantee a bigger budget for next year."
 "This is haste, Marshall."  He pushed his hands through his uneven hair.  "And it's short-term thinking."
 "Well, your long-term thinking would keep us a year behind Kyoto and Boston, not to mention Singapore.  We needed a breakthrough, and this is one that required a little haste, if that's what you prefer to call it.  I call it progress, Robert."
 Quickly becoming docile, Robert's arguments failed him, and all that he could muster in rebuttal was a weak, "Haste makes waste."  
  "Oh, and an ounce of prevention?  Should we discuss this in proverbs?"  
 Robert shook his head in disgust and turned away from Ploof's eyes.
 Ploof spoke to Robert's back.  "You know, your pessimism about this will only divide lab morale.  I don't mean to be rude, Robert, but this is an optimistic period of time, and you need to see it for what it is."
 "It's practically dry-labbing."  He mumbled and turned around.  "The data was not ready for publication."
 "Well, the research continues, and we'll produce the data."
 "That's an assumption.  Ethics, Ploof."  Referring to the CEO, Robert added, "Mr. Jovan agrees with me.  He doesn't admire rushed results." 
 "You know Robert, I really admire you and Mr. Jovan for being so ethical, but with your way, we'd be the last to publish anything."
 "And with your mania for fame, we have questionable science that takes years to correct if its wrong.  It's like turning around a supertanker.  I should mention this to Marcus Jovan."
 Ploof called Robert's bluff.  "Well, he'll be at the party on Friday.  Take it up with him then."  Ploof said nothing further, but sighed and walked away from Robert's office door.
 


Chapter 4. KillJoy's Manifesto
 
"Are you ready to go?" asked Rachel.
 Robert said, "When the news is over."
 "Which tie do you want to wear?"         
 As the news droned, Robert got up from the couch and tried to connect the top buttons on his shirt, but had difficulty bringing them together.  The fat of his neck bulged around the collar.  He forced the buttons together and tied his tie.  The lab Christmas party required semi-formal attire, which Robert generally avoided in favor of loose-fitting clothes.  The notion of going on a diet came to him as his shirt collar chafed the skin beneath.  
 He said to his wife, "Christ, I'm fatter than ever."
 "Oh you look handsome, Bobby."  She put her arms around his waist.  "You should wear a tie more often."
 They drove to Marshall Ploof's lavish house in Highland Park, north of Chicago.  Because his conversation with Ploof was still fresh in his mind, Robert loathed the idea of listening to more praise for Ploof.  Every chance he had, Ploof regaled the staff with his affluence, another one of his attempts to impress the world and collect followers.  The house overlooked a large portion of Highland Park, which drew compliments from the staff - particularly from the new members of the lab who had not yet seen it.  Robert's wife shared the fascination, leaving Robert as the only malcontent among the party-goers.  
 When they arrived, Ploof's wife greeted Robert and Rachel at the door and took their coats.  The two women kissed each other on the cheek and expressed great pleasure in seeing one another.  She offered a drink to Robert and champagne to Rachel.  An attractive young housemaid prepared the first of several gin-and-tonics for Robert.  From the center of the spacious dining room, Ploof looked at the door, but when his eyes landed on the Lopez couple, he barely paused in his conversation and made no attempt to greet them at the door as he did with everyone else, and Robert appreciated his lack of hospitality after what had occurred in the lab that week.  
 A symphony of Christmas music played in the house, covering a few familiar carols and many alternative, non-religious, non-controversial ditties.  The immaculate house and lavish furnishings gleamed from a legion of maids that had whisked away every imperfection that afternoon.  Robert's eyes glanced throughout the visible living room and dining room, searching for something to secretly mock, but found nothing, and so he mocked perfection.
 Ornate hors d'oeurves, chandeliers and champagne, post-modern artwork and oversized picture windows made Robert think of Ploof as the poster-boy for conspicuous consumption and ostentatious display.  In the center of it all, near the banquet on the table, stood Ploof pointing at a helpless platter.  A young researcher and his date listened to Ploof's dissertation on the food.  They nodded along with his words with cow-eyed stares, wowed by the extravagance.  Another person on the other side of the table filled his plate and poured out compliments on Ploof and his home, which pained Robert's ears.  The same compliments spilled out at every Christmas party.  The young couple standing next to Ploof, however, did not pay the same compliments, but instead simply thanked him for the invitation.  
 Five years before, Robert and Rachel had hosted the Christmas party in their modest house, with less exotic foods.  The parties Robert and Rachel hosted, even with hired chefs, paled in comparison to Ploof's buffet of delicacies.  Ploof lobbied among members of the lab to have the party at his house, and turned the hosting of the Christmas party into a point of contention.  Oddly enough, Robert observed, the well-educated members of the lab became rather simple when faced with exotic food.  They congregated like suppliants at sophistication under any guise.  
 Dressed in a black vest with a blue pin-stripe shirt and complimentary tie, Ploof met with each guest, spewing anecdotes and wit wherever he went, never staying too long in a dialogue, but moving on quickly, charismatically, leaving smiles behind, like a good politician.  What Robert lacked, Ploof had, and with it he thrived.   
 Despite his curdling disgust, Robert moved toward the table, unable to resist the food.  As he approached, Ploof continued describing certain foods to the young couple, whose backs were turned to Robert.  Ploof seemed to notice Robert and wrapped up his description of cucumber root quickly so he could avoid an exchange with Robert.  
 "It's not a cucumber.  It's actually an herb, a member of the lily family.  The Native Americans ate it.  But, I won't bore you any longer.  Enjoy.  Bon appetite." Ploof turned and walked in the opposite direction.  
The couple remained in place with their backs turned, oblivious to Robert.  He picked up a plate and started picking at the food, but then he heard the young woman whisper to the young man in a low voice, clearly not meant for anyone but her date to hear.  
"Wow," the woman said, "Talk about needing the approval of everybody.  Can you imagine, Isaac, needing this much shit?"
 Robert smiled.  He looked at the young woman and noticed a tattoo painted symmetrically in the middle of her upper back.  He recognized the shape as a graphic of a mathematical set, more specifically, a spiral shape known as a Seahorse Valley.  Seeing this symbol emblazoned on the beautiful brown skin of the woman raised Robert's intrigue.  
 The woman started whispering again, and sneered at the food on the table.
 "It's pathetic..."
 She stopped talking when she noticed Robert, but he was smiling at her last comment, which somehow made him feel vindicated for Ploof's getting credit for the S24 research.
 Her face turned red, and she said bashfully, "Oh, I didn't know anyone was listening."
 Isaac apologized, "Sorry about that Dr.  Lopez."
 The woman looked surprised.  "Oh God - you're Dr. Lopez?  Now I'm doubly sorry.  I was looking forward to meeting you tonight, and now," she threw up her hands, "what can I say, I have my foot in my mouth already."
 Robert laughed out loud, and genuinely for once.  Isaac and the woman stood stone-still waiting to hear what Robert would say when he regained his composure.  He said, "Believe me, both of you, nothing you've said bothered me in the least.  In fact, to tell you a secret, I was afraid you were reading my mind!"
 The woman sighed.  "That's a relief.  I didn't want to meet Isaac's co-workers and make a terrible first impression."
 "Not at all," Robert laughed.  "I'm impressed.  It's refreshing.  Let me introduce myself. Robert Lopez.  And I insist, none of this 'Doctor Lopez' business tonight."
 Isaac said, "This is my fiancé, Julia."  
 Robert smiled upon hearing her name.  "Julia," he said, "as in 'Julia Sets.'  As in, non-computable.  I saw the tattoo and wondered, but now it all makes sense."
"You see?" said Isaac.  "I wasn't kidding.  This man knows everything, I swear.  She had to explain to me what her tattoo meant, Dr. Lopez."
 "I'm not that smart, Isaac, but thank you for the compliment.  As you may or may not know, in this line of work, flattery gets you everywhere."  He took a drink.  "If you need proof, just take a look around this house.  Flattery is the cornerstone."
 Forgetting about food, Robert became engrossed in conversation with the couple, feeling the rare kind of connection that occurs between people with similar opinions, the connection that allows for almost immediate candor.  During Robert's career among the intellectual elite, the opportunities for long-term life-affirming friendships had been few.  His own introverted qualities limited his opportunities, but so did the diverse personalities and opinions of the intellectuals in the labs.  Due to years of conversational attrition, Robert stuck to safe topics of discussion rather than risk delving into anything interesting.  By clinging to safe topics, it usually meant asking questions about pets and children, and more often pets than children.  Pets offered an avenue out of uncomfortable silences so often that his private motto became: "When in doubt, pets."  Politics, social classes, religion, literature - even movies were controversial.  Avoiding any potentially offensive discourse kept politics out of the lab.  But for once Robert felt comfortable among his company, particularly when talking to Isaac's dynamic fiancé.
 The three of them moved out of the dining room onto an outdoor patio.  The deck overlooked the shimmering lights of Highland Park.  Fresh snow and twinkling lights blanketed the rooftops, giving the city below a snow-globe look and feel.  The patio had heat vents that poured out warmth into the night air, so that Ploof's guests might have every chance to explore his spacious home.  The Christmas music from the inside of the house wafted gently onto the patio.  The setting put Robert at ease, at last, after the thoroughly unenjoyable workweek.  
 Rachel delivered a fresh gin-and-tonic to Robert.  He introduced Rachel to Isaac and Julia, but Rachel returned to mingling inside the house.  Though somewhat sad to see Rachel make such a quick turnaround, Robert felt pleased to have the full privacy of the patio for a real conversation with his new friends.
 In the discussion, Robert learned that Julia also worked at Talbot Labs, but in a different field.  She said that she had recently finished the masters program in artificial intelligence at the University of Illinois.  Her grasp of emerging technologies was crisp.  She was as cutting edge as her tattoo.  Lean like a sprinter, she had jet-black hair with two white swatches folded in.  Her dark skin and unique hair contrasted with Isaac, who looked and talked like a Norwegian.  Together they were a handsome couple, who appeared superficially as yuppies, but as Robert learned, they were almost militant about consumerism as the true opiate of the people.  As for pets, none, and Robert could not remember a petless and childless couple in his many years of pet and child dialogues.  Isaac and Julia seemed unlike anyone Robert had met during his tenure at Talbot because they were immediately forthcoming, humble, and anything but careerists.  They told Robert about their Spartan household.  Both modest, Julia and Isaac seemed uncondescending, progressive, new-age - and more.  He gained respect for them as the stars clicked over Highland Park.
 Julia said, "If anything attracted me to apply to work at Talbot, it was the ethics they stand by.  Mr. Jovan made a believer out of me."
 "Ethics, really?"  The word piqued Robert. 
 "Well, I hope I don't offend you," she continued, "but I believe there is lack of a serious dialogue about ethics in science."
"Oh?"
"Yes, when now more than ever before, we need to be conscious of our work.  It's the way we think that needs changing, especially now that the Western ways are global.  The whole world is Anglo-Saxon at this point, all going for the win, losers be damned."  
"When I started on the path to becoming a scientist," she continued, "I was hoping to make a big splash, but one day I woke up and realized that my goal wasn't knowledge.  No, I just wanted fame.  In fact, from the beginning, that might have been my goal.  It makes me wonder. Are we working for knowledge or just the status of getting our name in a textbook?  I've developed a love-hate relationship with technology.  Maybe every scientist does at some point, I don't know.  Even so, I am still drawn toward progress like a lodestone rock. I can't avoid helping the cause.  The jobs of the general population become increasingly routine and sequestered in cubicles and standing in assembly lines, only until software can replace them all.  We have the elite knowledge workforce and the trailing masses.  Frankly, I'm surprised the suicide rate isn't higher.  We produce cold numbers and statistics with our breakthroughs that sometimes we don't even understand.  We are a few short years from vacations in space, for goodness sakes.  I should be excited, but what does all of it mean?  What will hindsight look like?"
 "The machines are taking over," Isaac said.  "Drink up!"
Julia ignored him.  "I feel like all the heroes are gone.  We need some science heroes.  How many frontiers we can cross before the losses outweigh the gains?  And there's no going back."
"What Judith means," Isaac said, then stopped and corrected himself, "What Julia is getting at is better summed up by a quote from Emerson, who said 'We do not ride the railroad.  The railroad rides upon us.'  We can never go back to the era before the railroads, just like we cannot return to the era before the factory, just as we cannot return to the era before we stole fire.  Whatever is lost in each advance is gone forever.  Of course, we sure as hell don't want to go back to the era before the railroad.  Once cancer is cured, once AIDS is cured, once we have lightweight carbon steel, hydrogen engines, clean nuclear plants...then what?  Machine integration.  Look at Pelius Research, shouting from the rooftops that knowledge is at the knee of an accelerating curve.  They want to see an end to human life as we know it.  The new apocalypse literature is equal parts science and religion.  This compulsive move forward, even in the face of annihilation, would not hold back the seekers, yet who am I to complain when I am helping build this new railroad?"
 Robert listened intently, feeling a strange sensation in hearing his own quiet thoughts put into words.  He said, "I wonder about the same things."
 "I should mention," Julia said, "that working at Talbot attracted me, and equally repelled me.  Without question, having the ability to work on the latest breakthroughs appeals to me.  Immensely.  I have a strange relationship with my work.  The progress we are making is exciting, but at the same time...you know, if the endgame is the replacement of ourselves with modified bodies, then I'm swapping the essence of life for answers that will make me obsolete.  I already know the ending: I will miss the essence of today, and tomorrow's answer won't satisfy me.  For comfort and ease of life, we will subtract all that's human from our descendents."
After a silence, Robert said, "Maybe this is relevant.  Maybe not.  It's one of Aesop's fables - the one about the wolf and the dog.  Do you know it?"
 Julia and Isaac shook their heads.
 "Bear with me."  He paused and set his drink on the railing. "The wolf met up with his second-cousin, the dog.  They swapped stories about life, what they had been up to, how are things?  Et cetera.  After all, they had been apart for a thousand generations.  The wolf said to the dog, 'Life is pretty much the same.  I'm often hungry, my bones hurt in the winter, and I'm always on the move.  Life's a bitch.'  The healthy dog laughed and said to the wolf, 'Oh, you're really missing out.  Life is great!  I get fed twice a day, I live in a warm little house, a doctor can fix whatever is wrong with me, and at night, I get to go outside for five minutes.  Wolf, you should come live with me.'  The wolf was stunned at the dog's good fortune and agreed to go live with the dog and the humans.  But when the two animals were walking toward the house, the wolf noticed a collar around the dog's neck and underneath the collar, the fur was worn away.  The wolf asked the dog about the collar, and the dog replied, 'This thing here? Oh, this is just my collar.  My master uses it to tie me up during the day while he's gone.'  Hearing this, the wolf stopped in his tracks and turned back into the woods.  He said to the dog, 'No thanks, not interested.'"  Robert paused and added, "That's the end of the fable.  And of course, the moral of the story is..."
 Julia interrupted, "Better to be starving and free than to be a comfortable slave."
 "Exactly," Robert said.  "Like your quote from Emerson, what is lost and what is gained?  Maybe it's simply a matter of perspective from the 'user.'"
 "Users," Julia said.  "We're all users."
 Robert paused and sipped on his drink before continuing.  "Progress is not really anything, though.  It's just the current condition.  Wherever we are right now - that's what we think of as progress.  From flour mills to steamboats to factories to the atomic bomb to nanotechnology.  I doubt that it will slow down anytime soon."
 Julia said, "Unless a KillJoy can change the public's mind."
 "Oh, God, here we go."  Isaac laughed.
 Robert asked, "What's a KillJoy?"
"A progress killer," Julia said.
 "Excuse me?"  The idea seized Robert's attention.  
 "An underground writer coined the term," Julia explained.  "Rather, he was a writer.  No one seems to know what happened to him, but he wrote KillJoy's Manifesto.  It's about how to be a 'Blocker.'  You could say a KillJoy is the prototype for uncivil disobedience, a lifestyle dedicated to startling the general public out of their complacency."
"He writes about the responsibilities of scientists," Isaac said, "and how they can expose the impact of technologies before they enter the world.  The great example from history is nuclear technology. Its introduction to the world rudely displayed the worst-case scenario."  
"He wants scientists to expose the railroad before it gets built," Julia said, "and to do so, in the end, the scientists must destroy their own work, if necessary.  Kind of like Kafka asking for his writing to be destroyed."  She stopped and frowned.  "Of course, if he really wanted it destroyed, he would have burned it himself."
 "The writer's name is Ben Longstreet," Isaac said.  "He was a postmodern-Romanticist, whatever that is, and he was probably insane.  When he published the Manifesto on the internet, his state of mind had already come into question.  What he did do, however, was organize a disconnected movement.  You can still find copies of his manifesto online, but they are rare and only in the old command-line IRC chat rooms."
 Julia said, "The FBI supposedly tracks the IP addresses whenever the book gets downloaded."
 "Imagine the idea of destroying your own project," Isaac said and laughed at the idea.  "Who would work for twenty to thirty years only to become a terrorist at the end of the game?  Now that's insane."
 Robert pursed his lips and felt his back muscles tighten as the cold air permeated his shirt.
 "To be human is to be insane," Julia rebutted.
 Robert smiled at his subordinates, even though his mind raced with questions provoked by the ideas Julia had mentioned.  "Wow," he said, shaking his head.  "That sounds like something out of Asimov or Arthur Clarke.  But interesting.  Very interesting.  I've always enjoyed science-fiction, but that's chilling.  Speaking of which, it's getting cold out here.  Should we go back inside?"
 The expression on Julia's face indicated that she felt foolish for bringing up the topic to such a recognized researcher.  Quite the contrary, Robert walked away with great interest.  As the three of them went back into the living room to join the other guests, Robert excused himself from Julia and Isaac to use the restroom.  
 Once Julia and Isaac were out of sight, Robert descended a staircase to the basement of Ploof's house and turned on a hallway light.  He walked down the hallway and peeked into each open door.  Finding nothing but empty bedrooms and storage closets, he almost turned around before checking the final doorway at the end of the hall, which happened to be Ploof's home office, where a laptop and open browser session awaited.  Robert entered the room without turning on the light, and sat quietly on a leather chair.  He listened for noise in the basement to assure himself that he was alone.  Hearing nothing, he began searching for a copy of KillJoy's Manifesto.  
 First he tried the popular search engines, but his searches came back with no hits, almost as if the topic did not exist anywhere on the internet.  Robert decided to take Isaac's advice - to try the chat rooms.  Robert hadn't been in a chat room since his college days, but he still recalled the archaic Internet Relay Chat commands.  Expecting to find ghost towns in the IRC rooms, he found the old chatting grounds filled with users, but now they typed faster than ever.  Robert could hardly read the streaming lines, let alone respond.  
 Feeling unsure of how to ask someone about acquiring a copy of a banned book, he decided to try something slightly cryptic, in hopes that it would invoke the right user to respond.  
 At the cursor, Robert removed the vowels and typed, "lngstrt mnfsto."
 Before hitting Enter, Robert deleted what he had written and then decided to just type the keywords. 
"KillJoy."  
 When he hit enter, his contribution to the chat room flashed on the screen and scrolled out of view almost immediately.  He tried to read the streaming chat, but the buffer scrolled away.  Much of the content came from bots, small scripted parsing-programs, and not actual people.  The presence of these bots also meant that the bots parsed for patterns in every string entered into the domain.   
 As the text continued to stream by, Robert scrolled back and forth through the lines of output, searching in vain for a valid response, but only waded through the techno-babble of old programmers and IRC chat junkies.  After a few minutes of scanning the text, Robert realized that several users had started playing an old command line game and their bots had virtually overthrown the chat room.  The text began coming faster and faster, to a point where Robert decided that his feeble attempt at finding a copy of the manifesto had not worked, and he decided to go back upstairs and rejoin the party.  He typed 'quit' and his pinky finger hovered over the enter key, but a private message addressed to Robert popped up from a user named "k8r_w8r_4_life." 
 The message asked, "u want klljy?"
 Robert pulled his finger away from the enter key.  Feeling somewhat thrilled, he nervously typed a response to indicate he was interested.  
"Yes."
 "r u sure?"
 "y"
 
 As soon as Robert sent the message, a pop-up interface appeared on the monitor asking him to accept a secure socket connection along with the text: "Prepare to download certificate and file."  Robert accepted the download and the transfer completed instantaneously.  The file itself was only a one hundred kilobyte XML file, meaning that the Manifesto couldn't be more than fifty pages.  
 Robert started to type a message of thanks to the sender, but before doing so another private message came up carrying a set of zany instructions that read, "now, b a gud boi!  offline 4 u.  & b advised: un-suggest yor mind.  eyes lurk inside 128-bit strings.  Trust me, trust nada.  CIAO."
 Suddenly the user disappeared from the chat room and in doing so also sliced Robert's connection.  The user on the other end had somehow kept the secure socket open and twined their sessions so that he had control over Robert, leaving him staring at the text "Broken Pipe Error."  Somewhat disabused by the chat room drama, Robert disabled the wireless adapter to be certain that the user could not remain connected to Ploof's computer.  
A new file icon flashed on the desktop and Robert opened KillJoy's Manifesto, thinking that he might print the file and then delete it.  With the strange warning from the sender of the file already fading in Robert's mind, his excitement grew when he saw plain, dry text, with no viruses or nude photos or any other blight of the immature technorati.  Fe felt the creeping invisible hand of government security reaching out toward him as he read the first lines of the Manifesto.  
 
"Today, it is no longer the revolutionary who succeeds in forcing change; it is the radical conformist.  Revolutionaries and protesters, with their flare-ups and cardboard placards, only manage to stoke the power they want to bring down.  They slap at the windows of a moving bus, thinking that it will stop, when they should be on board, driving, increasing its speed, running signs over, and sending the bus over the tallest cliff possible.  Only a fool throws stones at the bus.  A sensible activist gets on it before it starts moving.  Traditional violence and nonviolent protest lead to temporary, unsustainable change and is attempted by reactive, pusillanimous outcasts who read too much and partake too little.  These masses of malcontents are necessary and can be motivated, but only by the work of an effective, proactive KillJoy, called a Blocker.  Effective violence in the new economy involves the promotion of fear, accomplished by two distinguished methods: divide-and-conquer, distract-and-destroy.  To kill the beast from inside, you must be the cancer.  The hero will be a silent betrayer, and the most effective way to betray is as it was in Caesar's day: to stab..."
 
 A noise came from the hallway.  After holding his breath to listen, Robert turned back to the computer screen and scrolled down to the middle of the manifesto, hoping to get a feel for the overall tone of the document, one that he expected to read from beginning to end at a later date.  He scrolled through the text until he came to a bulleted list.  He read a random item: 
 
 "Rule 7: A Blocker does not operate underground; he participates in a group; he is mainstream.  His piety and stability must be integral, including a family, kids, proven membership in uncontroversial volunteer organizations, church groups, and other habits consistent with highly regarded leaders and individuals.  A Blocker cannot demonstrate against society in any way, ever.  He must assist in turning the status quo into a tyrant.  Conformity to public norms should be engaged in with enthusiasm.  All things anathema to him, he must embrace and make central to his life.  The only way to give fuel to your side is to join the other side.  Imagine, there is no better war protestor than the officer who orders the massacre of a peaceful village, and thus repulses his own war machine so much that the soldiers and general population quit their support.  The Blocker is the officer, the social martyr, and in the end, he is happily reviled because by becoming a scapegoat he has motivated action to bring social change.  Reputation is the ultimate sacrifice in the modern world."
 
 A light came on in the hallway outside of the room.  Robert's heart raced.  He fumbled for his cell phone to download a copy of the Manifesto before being discovered.  He plugged his cell into a port on the hard drive and copied the file.  After the file was safely stored on his phone, he disconnected the cord.  
 The sound of soft footsteps neared the room.  Robert quickly put his cell phone up to his ear and feigned a conversation, realizing that getting caught talking on his cell phone promised a better outcome than being caught sitting quietly in the dark while alone in the basement.  Such a situation could be a waterfall upon the rumor mill.
 He spoke into the dead phone, "Ok, that's fine.  I can deal with that in the morning.  But I would like to go over that estimate with you one more time...ok, sounds good.  See you tomorrow."  Robert flipped his phone shut just as Marshall Ploof flipped on the office light.
 "Robert?" Ploof said.  "What are you doing down here?"
 "Oh, Rachel and I are just having some work done on the house.  I had to call the carpenter about tomorrow.  How is the party going?"
 Ploof maintained a stiff tone. "It's going fine.  Various people are looking for you.  I know we had our bad moments this week, but there are many people here who I'm sure would like to say hello to you."
 "Well, you know me - the social butterfly."  
 Ploof laughed as he sat down in another chair.  "I think this might be the best place to be."
 They laughed together for once.
 "Want a beer or some scotch?" Ploof asked.  "Let me show you this little hideaway.  I usually have one drink every night before I go to bed."  Ploof pushed a button on an old CPU tower to reveal that inside was a fully stocked mini-refrigerator.  Robert laughed as Ploof handed him a bottle.  
 "Now that's putting a computer to a good use," Robert said.  
 The two men raised their arms and clinked the bottles together.  Ploof said, "Truce?"  
"For ten minutes." 
 Another set of footsteps came down the stairs.  Ploof looked down the hallway and saw Mr. Jovan coming through the darkness.  
 Ploof whispered to Robert, "It's Marcus."
 "Jovan?  He actually showed up?"
 They both straightened in their chairs to meet with the CEO and founder of Talbot Labs. 
Ploof said, "Mr. Jovan, so glad you could make it."
"What is this down here," Mr. Jovan asked, "members only?"
Jovan sat on a file cabinet and surveyed Ploof's office.  His eyes seemed encapsulated in parentheses, wrinkled from forty years of incessant reading.  The heart and soul of Talbot, Jovan founded the most powerful research company in North America, and willed it into existence.  Once the greatest risk-taker in science, he softened with maturity and wealth, and as leader of a pharmaceutical giant, insisted on serious, ethical, and productive science.  As a younger man, he was the company tyrant, a womanizer, bold, brash, and full of sap - until he turned fifty-five.  He still looked and acted young, but something had softened him or had knocked the wind out of him.  Employees suspected a family issue, but no one asked.  His fiery past followed him and employees revered him as their alpha, no matter how gentle he seemed now.  
"Well, Marshall, I'll ask you first."  He leaned forward and smiled.  "How's your family?"  
Ploof stammered, surprised at such a mundane question.  Hardly the family type, Ploof gave a short answer.   
Robert had watched Jovan change over the years.  Something happened that made him more interested in personal connections.  He had a son that used to visit the lab, a bright, likable boy who dressed like a hippie and, unsurprisingly, showed signs of rebellion against the paternal icon.  When the boy was fifteen, he disappeared.  Ideas about the son circulated Talbot, with speculations on the Peace Corps, a sex change, suicide, and other wild hypotheses.  All of this seemed to focus Jovan on people more than business.  The inquiries he made into his employees' personal lives became downright annoying to the Ploofs of Talbot.
"And you Robert?  How's my Rachel?"
"Your Rachel?" Robert laughed.  "Let's keep this civil, Marcus."
"What grade is Hannah in now?  Seventh?"
"Close.  Eighth grade.  She hates it."
"Smart girl."
During five minutes of small talk, Robert noticed how uncomfortable Ploof appeared.  This was not his element.  But eventually, the conversation returned to science.
"So," Jovan said, shifting his tone, "what's all this I hear about S24?  That came out quick.  I heard from some of my Japanese friends.  They were not too happy with our success."
Robert looked at Ploof and smiled sarcastically.  For once he controlled Ploof, and the chance for tattling presented itself.  
Ploof deferred to Robert, offering him a free shot.  "Robert, do you want to tell him?" 
They locked eyes for a moment, and from twenty years of stepping on each other's toes for sixty hours a week on the same projects, they read each other, loved and hated each other like an old married couple.  Robert caved and presented a united front.  "Well, we have a couple outstanding grad students who really pushed, and they produced the data.  We're really proud of them."
"Great.  What are their names?"
"Saul March, Cheryl O'Leary...and Isaac Blackwell - did you see Isaac upstairs?  "
"I didn't," Jovan said, "but that's terrific news.  I know that your lab always exhausts the data before trying to publish.  I have some labs that tend to push things out the door too fast.  I commend you guys for your efforts.  I'm calmer now than I used to be, but let me tell you, we uncovered a data incident this week in another lab.  Falsified data, published under the mantle of Talbot..."
 "That's terrible," Ploof said.
 Jovan took a drink and said with intensity, "I'll let you guys be the first to know that come Monday, if our internal investigation team finds out that the accusation is true, that lab will be closed.  Funding and all."  He chomped on ice, as if it soothed him.  "It's not going to be a happy new year for that lab, if what I suspect is true turns out to be fact."
 "Mr. Jovan, you're kind of making me nervous," Robert said.  "Are you talking about our lab?"
 "No."  He spit a piece of ice into the cup.  "What gave you that idea?  I'm talking about Spiro Ling's lab."  He looked up, squinted, and scanned their faces for lies. 
 "Why, should I be concerned about you guys?"  
 "Not at all."
 "Nothing to worry about with us, Marcus."
 "Good."  He resumed rolling ice in his mouth.  "Just thinking about it pisses me off.  Forty years building this company.  The early years were different, we could get away with some things then, but now everybody is watching.  I recruited Dr. Ling, paid a bundle to get him.  The guy is so sharp, probably the best we have at Talbot.  But I'm locked into the commitment that we do clean work here, and if need be, I'll sacrifice him to purify and scare the hell out of anyone else considering false results.  It's not like he won't get hired somewhere else, either back in China or somewhere else - what's the name of that San Francisco sweatshop - Puliax?  They would hire him, I have no doubt about that.."
Ploof said, "Pelius."
"Yeah, Pelius."  He tipped his glass back for more ice but none was left.  "They are something out there.  Talk about unscrupulous bastards.  I met that little CEO at this year's PharmaCon.  You'll never believe what she asked me.  I nearly fell out of my shoes."
Robert leaned forward.  "What did she ask?"
"She asked if I was ready to sell Talbot to her."
Ploof said, "You've got to be joking." 
"No.  Little Arrica Puli..."
"Pelius," Robert said.
"I won't forget the name again.  We have some small contracts with them, but she's got my attention.  She can't be much older than twenty-five.  What the hell does she think she'd do with Talbot anyway?" 
"Pardon my saying so," Robert said, "but from the stories I've heard, when you were twenty-five, you were the same way."
Jovan raised his eyebrows and sat up straight in his chair.  "That's absolutely true."  Jovan stood up to leave.  "That's exactly how I was," and leaving the room, he said, "I guess we had better bulldoze that little shack before she starts taking herself seriously." 
 


Chapter 5. Hatter House

Special Agent Valerio Pazzo drove through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, through the vast woods, toward a snow-covered log cabin in the brush called Hatter House, where there lived an unlikely trio of highly educated people, two men and one woman.  The two men were considered dead by their professional peers, but the woman maintained her status as a professor.  She took a sabbatical from her post at the University of Michigan to babysit the two men.  She was the daughter of one of the men: the infamous writer, Ben Longstreet.
 Pazzo's cell phone played a real-time broadcast from a surveillance bug planted in a living room lamp at Hatter House.  Pazzo drove slowly in the dark, listening to the prattle coming from Longstreet and the Doctor.  In the daily affairs of Hatter House, a constant volley of banter occurred in the living room where the Doctor and the writer hashed over every topic they could stumble upon.  Between the Doctor's negative insolence and Longstreet's absurd enthusiasm, the flailing conversations stalled for weeks at a time on new types of science.  However, due to the distractions each of them brought to the dialogue, the two men often dove into unrelated tangents, and hence rarely ever accomplished anything or drew any conclusions.  For Longstreet, the arrival at results did not seem to matter as much as incessant verbal stimuli, through his scientific method of drivel.  Even if his career had ended in general infamy, he seemed pleased, and often voiced his pleasure about being untethered to publishing contracts.  
To these undying conversations, Pazzo listened with suspicion.  He listened carefully to the recordings coming from the house and knew more about Hatter House than anyone else at the FBI.
 In the passenger seat next to Pazzo laid a newspaper with the headline, "Another Scientist Disappears."  His objective for the visit to Michigan involved getting a feel for the inside of the house.  A series of kidnappings involving scientists started in India, but migrated to the United States, and Pazzo, with twenty years of experience from flatfoot cop to lead investigator, was tasked with finding out who was behind the kidnappings.
 From surveillance photographs, Pazzo knew that Longstreet's daughter, Marie, worked in an office upstairs, presumably on grant writing for the University of Michigan's math department.  Although he had no evidence against Marie, her absence from the conversation interested Pazzo more than the two washed-up fools on the main floor.  Occasionally on the recordings, he could hear the sound of footsteps, but seldom did he hear her voice.   
 Marie Longstreet claimed to disagree with her father's terrorist views.  To anyone who ever met Ben Longstreet, he came off as erratic, and because of it her career goals came under scrutiny several times.  Ben rarely stopped speaking, but she rarely started, making her doubly questionable to Pazzo.  
For awhile the house remained silent.  Pazzo knew that Longstreet often quieted only to refuel with words and he never had to wait long.  On this occasion, Longstreet burst into his first sentence, causing Pazzo to laugh as if he was listening to a radio show.  
"Ants and robots, Doctor, I would like to talk about ants and robots now," Longstreet began.  "You've heard of Hans Moravec, I hope.  He was one of the great pioneers of robotics."
 "Please," Gaveston replied.
 "Please, indeed.  You might note his words.  It is certain, Doctor, that every individual organism has a desire to breed, a desire for self-continuation.  Each organism has an instinctual interest for the survival of the members of its species.  Mr. Hans Moravec pointed it out, quite well, I believe, in a brief statement about ants.  You understand, Doctor, that ants have sometimes been observed as an altruistic species, giving up personal gain for the common good.  In a sense, they are the apotheosis of communism, perfect socialists, if you like.  The anthill is a concerted effort by one and all for the good of the colony - musketeers to the end!  They have a profound sense of duty.  You can call up the reserves by simply kicking at their little hill.  You'll see a flurry of unselfishness pour out topside, all hands on deck.  Kind of reminds me of Pearl Harbor when they start scrambling.  They are an admirable lot, ants, aren't they, Doctor?"
 "They are better than humans," Doctor Gaveston said, "but horribly uniform and live very unexciting lives.  All work and no play.  Come to think of it, I wish I had a magnifying glass so I could relive some childhood memories."
 "Yes, a cherub you were," Longstreet said, "but truly, these ants - when not being tortured - represent conformity at its finest.  But I put it to you that the ants are not being unselfish at all.  On the contrary, they are engaging in the same act that any father would over a child, or a bird would over its nest.  The ants are simply being selfish on a different scale.  The queen is their only mother.  One mother for all the ants, and as the only vessel of genes, she is the DNA of the colony.  Without her, another colony of ants may never break ground.  If the colony doesn't survive, the genes die.  Do you believe in the selfish gene, Doctor Gaveston?"
"No more than Santa Claus."
"I disagree.  A reproductive fury burns inside every living cell.  From the bottom up, we are ambitious buggers.  We must divide ourselves to create something new, just like cells.  Our bodies, these cathedrals of mitosis, grow from greed.  Our cells are the ants in the colony, guiding us Queens to find a mate and divide.  Try this analogy: an ant is to a cell, as a colony is to your body.  Cells protect the body, they build the body, and they even willingly impose death on themselves for the good of the body: they fall on their sword, Brutus, apoptosis!  Only bad seeds, cancer cells, decide to live past the due date and thus screw it up for the rest of the stoics."  
 
 Pazzo drove slowly on the icy county roads, but not for safety reasons.  He wanted to listen to Longstreet.  Pazzo sipped on a large coffee and chuckled to himself.  If nothing else, the surveillance bug in the house provided him with entertainment.  Even on his few days off, he turned on his cell phone or connected to a secure website to listen to Longstreet and Gaveston argue.  Longstreet's overeducation and overmedication made him a natural lunatic.  In his younger days, he enjoyed the status of being a Pulitzer winner for a book on 'Magical Romanticism.'  Later on, as a self-proclaimed futurist, Longstreet obtained his doctorate in biomedical physics and after his dissertation began writing bitter entreaties against science, which caught the FBI's attention.  His name became a source of laughter in literary circles, except for the anarchists, who requested the writer to become their 'leader,' so to speak.  Longstreet didn't accept the request of the anarchists.  Instead, he derided them by saying they were "chained to their happy manacles of loitering non-participation, and therefore useless."  
The file on the failed Doctor, Jeremy Gaveston, contained more comedy than tragedy.  He ended his medical practice in 2011, along with his marriage, his mortgage, his credentials, and his association memberships.  An ongoing affair with whiskey and Vicodin replaced it all.  He stayed buzzed throughout the waking hours of life.  Before his crash, the addiction had gone on for two decades, until his nurses and secretaries became overwhelmed, particularly when patients began asking about the Doctor's psychological health.  Gaveston assured them all of his sound constitution by giving bonuses to everyone in his employment.  For a long time, generosity allowed for his continuation of drinking.  His appetites never caught up to him until his last patient.  In the final day at the office, he consumed more than he intended.  Then again, an alcoholic has no intention beyond getting drunk.  Dr. Gaveston was discovered in an examination room, unconscious, and surrounded by broken glass.  The scene alone was enough to have his practice closed down, but to make matters worse, the redheaded college lad in the room with him was as high as the good Doctor, and equally naked.  
 Longstreet and Gaveston met in a rehabilitation center and became partners.  Upon release, they moved their public problems to a private location.  Longstreet invited the Doctor to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Gaveston, fully alienated from his professional and personal acquaintances, readily accepted.  Because he drank so heavily, Gaveston provided the perfect blank slate for Longstreet's endless wordstream.  Every evening Gaveston drank himself into a blackout and listened to Longstreet repeat some of the same ideas, yet Gaveston always reacted like it was the first time.
 
 Longstreet continued, "This makes me consider my divisions of life.  Clearly, I should want to reproduce myself as often as possible, yet I have only one daughter.  In this respect, I have disappointed my cells.  Or perhaps, again like ants, the cells inside me can sense that the world is becoming overpopulated and therefore do not want me to reproduce any more than I already have."
 "I raise my glass to your cells," Gaveston said, "and may Zeus strike you impotent."
 "Were you a Toastmaster, sir?" Longstreet mocked.  "Now, at some point, as our population becomes too much for this little planet, if Thomas Malthus was at all correct with his theories about overpopulation, perhaps our cells will realize the overcrowding.  Once enough bodies gather on earth, perhaps an electromagnetic impulse will bring our desire to reproduce under control, wilt the doodles, jar the ovums, and then offspring will come only by government control.  Imagine if one species of ants conquered the entire planet so that they permeated all land and soil.  If they kept growing in size, other species would die off and then, and then, and then what?  Would the ants stop to think of other species?"
 Pazzo heard the sound of ice jingling in an empty glass.  
Gaveston said, "They would turn to cannibalism much like any other species.  They already eat each other.  Those little fiends are as vicious as anything else.  Altruism!  Only humans could come up with that kind of bullshit.  Altruism is an abomination to nature.  No predator stops to think about the good of another species.  That shows you where humans are at - we're in decline.  The war of nature is unending, continuous.  Do you think bears stop eating salmon because they worry about population control?  They stop because they are full to the eyeballs.  If you want to see ruthless competition, watch a patch of prairie grasses choke, tear, and strangle each other for a place in the sun.  I remember one of your poems about cottonwoods, Ben, those falling seeds, so beautiful to you at the time.  Let me tell you, that's not a peaceful offering to the earth.  It's the cottonwoods version of sprawl, a carpet bombing, imperialism.  Nature is a vicious project all the way down to the leaves of grass.  Even moss wants to dominate the world.  Moss crawls like a parasite up any static object, to steal the sun for itself.  Moss is a great opportunist, like a venereal disease.  There is nothing beautiful about nature, unless you enjoy pain.  Trust me on this, Longstreet: if humans become the only living species on earth, and all has gone the way of the Dodo, we'll begin canning and eating Soylent Green.  Read the history of Ireland sometime.  It's full of homo culinary, if you get my drift."
 "Doctor, your drift," Longstreet said, "is as elusive as a Michigan snowbank.  Allusion has never been a strong suit for you.  But listen..." 
 
 Pazzo heard their voices waning as Gaveston and Longstreet moved toward the kitchen.  To hear them more clearly, Pazzo turned up the volume on his phone.
 
 Gaveston said, "I need a refill."
"Listen now," Longstreet said, "you'll see I'm getting somewhere."
 "You said that yesterday."
 "But you'll see that I have come up with some new ideas regarding why the mind is pushing us so hard.  As the old religious platitude goes: 'Everything happens for a reason.'  Well, perhaps it does.  Everything happens for reproduction.  Humans have two unquenchable desires: power and knowledge.  The drive for power is a means of facilitating reproduction, and the thirst for knowledge is for efficient reproduction.  If humans had only a thirst for power, then once the earth became populated, a tyrannical slaughtering would be the only means for resource management.  War isn't doing enough for us anymore.  Disease is losing its battle against modern health care.  I have no doubt that power is pushing knowledge right now toward an idea - and that idea is this: to colonize the galaxy." 
 "Stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Yes."  Longstreet paused.  "Yes!"
 "Ridiculous."
"Yes, I'm telling you, and yes, I said yes.  Physicists and theologians believe they are searching and learning about the cosmos for benign reasons, but it is nothing more than an instinct from within that wants us to reproduce."
 "You're obsessed with reproduction," Gaveston said.  "You should visit Match.com instead of your usual smutty websites."
 "Better yet," Longstreet replied, "better than a date, I need a method, a vessel, a cosmic thermos to convey my genes into outer space, into the deepest corners of the universe.  I've long wondered if in fact a seed was not the first cell on earth.  A seed sent from another planet."
 The Doctor shuddered.  "You think the first bacterium came from a seed? Goodness, man, this argument has been dead for fifty years.  Lab experiments can reproduce the conditions necessary for life to spring forth.  All you need is a few variables: water, ultraviolet light, nitrogen, oxygen.  It's not a matter of 'how the first one got here.'  It's a natural process.  You sound like a creationist."
 "I am a creationist!  But not that kind.  I'm a Panspermian creationist.  I believe that a seed with intergalactic microbes reached earth eons before we saw the first paramecium or wiggling flagellum.  These microbes acted like a molecular assembler.  I'm going to write a letter to NASA, the Center for Disease Control, Congress, and the Weekly World News.  We need to start thinking about this now, because if the apocalypse comes, we need to have our pods ready to deliver DNA far, far away.  Here's my vision of stellar colonization: when human inhabitance of the earth is no longer viable, a jar of nanoscopic cells will be launched into space and exploded, sending billions of these seeds on well-defined vectors toward every known star and region of space.  These microscopic seeds will guide themselves toward their destination.  While in flight through space the seeds will self-replicate, spawning an identical seed to travel on a new vector.  This way, each seed will send out thousands of its own replications to every visible body in the universe.  Once a seed lands, if it isn't burned up, if it is not crushed by gravity, the seed will lay dormant on the host planet, and remain dormant until the conditions for life are met.  As you've said, Doctor, we already know the conditions that must exist for sustaining life as we know it, thus our seed will have a built-in recognition device, much like an insect that stays in the ground.  It will emerge after years of incubation when the temperature gets to be sixty-eight degrees.  The seed will start assembling cells from the elements available in its surroundings.  Yes, the seed will assemble one man and one woman."
 
 Pazzo turned off the lights on his car and pulled into the driveway of Hatter House.  He got out of the vehicle quietly, crept up to a window and looked in at Longstreet and Gaveston.  He held the cell phone to his ear and kept listening as he watched.
 
 Gaveston paused.  "Like a second Genesis."
 "Yes," Longtreet said, "another page in 'The Chicken and the Egg' argument!  Perhaps the chicken was first because it was self-assembled.  We are probably the descendants of another species that preserved itself in this manner, some intelligent life form that directed their cells here to Earth."
"That's not going to happen, nor did it ever," Gaveston said. "I see something much more rational happening, something dull.  When we render this piece of floating dirt uninhabitable, we will probably just load up a spacecraft and orbit this planet.  We'll orbit long enough for the planet to fix itself, at which time we will return to Earth and start destroying it again."
 "That's boring," Longstreet said, "but I expected nothing more from you.  However, one thing intrigues me about that.  It would be a terrific religious experiment.  On Earth we look up to the heavens and yearn for heaven; Zion; paradise.  But if we end up in your orbiting spaceship, wouldn't the opposite be true?  Those poor souls on the orbiting spaceship would look down at Earth and think of heaven.  Heaven will become a place on Earth.  Fantastic idea, Doctor.  If that's true, Belinda Carlisle will become a new-age hymnstress.  Remember the song, 'Heaven is a place on Earth'?"  
Longstreet began to sing. 
 
Pazzo laughed and covered his mouth.  He moved toward the front door, where he rapped sharply three times.  Through a small window on the door, he saw Longstreet jump in the air, giving Pazzo reason to believe that Longstreet's self-declared agoraphobia, his fear of the outdoors, was credible.  Until that moment, Pazzo thought Longstreet was using the condition as an alibi.  Pazzo kept the phone to his ear as he watched the two men argue.  
  
"Go answer the door," Longstreet said to Gaveston.  "Don't be rude and stand there swirling that slop.  Go on."
 Gaveston did not move.  
 "Go on now, you old donkey," Longstreet admonished.  "You can lead an ass to whiskey, and all he'll do is drink.  You've become a sot, old man, completely disheveled and broken.  What type of man are you?  Look at yourself.  You look like shit.  Your hair is a mess, your stomach round, your t-shirt stained."  Longstreet groomed Gaveston.  "Good God, did you take the Hippocratic Oath or the Hippo's?  Jesus, man.  Let me fix your collar.  You look awful.  Try to be presentable when you answer the door, you sullen nag of a wench."
 
 Pazzo rapped on the door again.  
 
 Longstreet switched subjects.  He moved around the kitchen in baby steps.  "Well, at least turn down the lights if you've killed your brain with that slurry.  At least help me turn the lamps down."
 "Whoever it is," Gaveston said, "they've already seen the lamps, Ben."  
 "Well!" Longstreet jerked backwards at Gaveston's reply, as if someone shot him.  "The Great Obviator speaks!  Do you think I didn't know that the visitor saw the lamps?  Have you considered that he might be an old friend who has come to return a favor?"
 
Again, Pazzo knocked three times.
 
 "You see?" Longstreet said.  "He's not going away. He's standing out there with the deer and black bears.  For all we know he's being chased and seeks refuge, yet you sit here in your pompous glory, grogged to the eyeballs with that slag, standing as if your zeroed rank exceeds mine and the rest of mankind, when in reality you've been stripped of all rank, save your breath."
 
 Another knock.
 
 The Doctor shrugged and took a drink.  "Fuck it."
 "A shrug and a fuckit for all things, says you, spore of Michigan.  You know that my medical condition disallows me from answering that door."  Longstreet's voice rose in volume.  "Is this house nothing but a place for you to wipe your feet and ass, you liter of black bile?  Does the protection of my daughter mean nothing to you?  A serial rapist may be on the other side of that door, and will you not, at the very least, look out the window to see what he looks like?" 
Gaveston did not move. 
"Just let the killer in!  I would rather die than wonder any longer."  He picked up a corkscrew and put it in Gaveston's hand before presenting his vulnerable neck.  "I implore you!"  
 
Through the window, Pazzo saw a pair of white-socked feet come skipping down the staircase into the living room.  
 
 Longstreet screamed, "Who's there?!"
 "Don't worry, Dad," said Marie Longstreet.  "I'll get the door.  You two are unbelievable.  Honestly, how pathetic."
 "Now you see," said Longstreet, as he poked Gaveston in the shoulder.  "She has more balls than you do.  Pardon the sexism, dear.  It's reverse sexism, I promise.  Perhaps I should say, she has more bowels than you.  But then that's very gassy.  There must be a better word..."
 The Doctor said, "Try asinine."
 "Try strychnine," Longstreet shouted.  "You punning booze-muffin!"
 Marie opened the door.  The Doctor and the writer stayed hidden in the kitchen.  The Doctor continued to drink while Longstreet curled his neck around the corner of the pantry to catch a glimpse of the visitor.
 "I'm sorry," Marie said, "I don't recognize you.  Should I?"
 "I'm Agent Pazzo, FBI."
 
 Longstreet jumped out from the kitchen.  "Agent Pazzo, Mamma mia! What brings you to the U.P.?  It's been so long; I thought you might never come back to see me.  I was worried that my name had been erased from the files of the FBI."
"Sorry to disappoint you."  Agent Pazzo smiled at Ben, and then squared his police jaw.  "For your information, Ben, your name will never, ever be out of our files.  In fact, all of you in this house are in the files, and you all know why."
 "I'm on file?" Marie asked.  "Just because I'm his daughter?"
 "That's right," Pazzo said.  "Your brilliant father here, with his adaptation of life to..." Pazzo paused to look around Hatter House before continuing, "...whatever you call this, he has indicted all of you for connections with a potential terrorist."  He drew out his words, pronouncing everything with a Marine Corps inflection.  "Unfortunately, since I had the privilege of seeing Mr. Longstreet in action around the rehab center, I know that he is no more of a threat to national security than abstract artwork."
 Marie nodded.  "You are right about that.  He just likes to make things up."
 "Yes he does," Pazzo said.  "He's a first-class bullshitter.  That's good, because we have some talking to do.  May I sit down for a moment?"
Longstreet ran over to clear off the living room table and chairs.  Even while running toward Pazzo, he started talking.  "I believe you are referring to my sanity.  That's fine.  It's true that my sanity is limited.  For me to function on this side of the frontier of reason is an impossibility.  Reality does not appeal to me at all.  I find no excitement in what is already known.  To spend a life refining facts that have already been discovered by someone else's mind, that holds no excitement for me.  If I were to place myself in history, a Greek is what I'd be, because I am a malcontent for what is known.  Like the great Thales of Miletus looking at the eclipse.  He didn't just want to know when the eclipse was coming, he wanted to know why.  'Why' is so much better than 'when.'  'How' is better than 'what.'  I live only in concepts, theories, and explanations.  Nonsense to some - essential to me.  Lucidity is not my field.  I once considered suicide when I had to pay an electric bill.  I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  Pay the bill, that is.  Frankly, it frightens me to take the time to write out a check, because during the entire exercise, I wonder how many thoughts I wasted in worrying about the bill.  You could say I'm a glamour hound, always sniffing."
 "Sniffing at zippers," said Gaveston.
 "Well, love is my other vice," Longstreet said, "but I never touch the stuff."  He wagged his finger in the air.  "It's dangerous to me.  Love thieves my thoughts.  Think of the history of the love poem, the volumes composed, all the thought and emotion poured into bad sonnets and weepy lyrics.  What has that effort accomplished, other than a sexual response?  Every love poem, or passion poem, goes something like this: 'Have I distracted you enough yet?  Ok, now lie down.' (Once again, Doctor Gaveston, love poetry is a reproductive act, a power urge.)  Sex is the fruit of the love poem, which of course is a very sweet fruit, not to be downplayed by any great lover.  And I am a great lover, although only by proxy: I do all my loving from afar."
 "Afar, online, and after midnight," Gaveston said.  "What Ben means by 'love' is clicking the refresh button on Craigslist - Detroit personal ads.  He's addicted to casual encounters of the nerd kind."
"Never mind him, Pazzo.  So I dabble online.  So what?  It's harmless fun, a victimless crime.  My orgasm is in the foreplay.  I have a relationship disability.  The brief pleasure of intercourse doesn't thrill me enough to follow through on anything.  To combine sex with my physical and mental condition, no, that would be cruel to anyone because I'm too swollen with ideas."
 From the kitchen, Gaveston shouted. "Coitus Elephantiasis Psychosis."
 The writer turned and yelled.  "Thank you, Doctor Bubbles."  He said to Pazzo, "Apparently my condition has a medical name.  Agent Pazzo, surely you are not a love poet.  You are far too stern.  You have the soldier's look, or that of a weathered stone."
 Again, Gaveston yelled.  "His face looks like the surface of the moon.  Did you have acne as a teenager?"
 Before Pazzo could respond, Longstreet spoke.  "You have a Samuel Beckett face, but without the psychotic glow.  You're like Mount Rushmore at night.  There's also something beaverish about your mouth.  It's almost like a short snout."
 "Such compliments," said Agent Pazzo dryly as he straightened up in his chair.  "Do all of your guests receive such hospitality?"
 "We don't have many visitors at Hatter House," Marie said.  "The Doctor gets abusively drunk at times.  Don't you, Jeremy?"
 "That's correct," Gaveston said.  "As for you, Longstreet the Younger, with your unwelcome comments, you will be glad to know that I'm pouring myself another glass of abuse right now."
 Longstreet pulled up a chair next to Pazzo.  "Am I a suspect in the kidnappings?"  His eyes brightened.  "Is that why you've made this unannounced late-night visit?"
 "No, you're not a suspect," said Pazzo, as he simultaneously cased the living room.  "But I do want to hear your thoughts on it.  You are the creator of this type of terrorism."
 "Terrorism?" exclaimed Longstreet, shifting in his seat.  "I've never considered it to be terrorism."
 "Maybe you don't call it that, but the FBI does."
 "Well, the label is inappropriate.  A misnomer.  A spin.  A malapropist's catachresis.  Of course, it makes sense that you call it that.  Everything is terrorism to you these days.  A legitimate casualty of war is called terrorism these days.  Any death not sponsored by the US government - terrorism!  We need to create a new term for terrorism, since you've hijacked it.  Pardon the joke. Puns and Freudian slips are normally Gaveston's bag, not mine.  I told you before, Mr. Pazzo, writing about 'terrorism' is nothing compared to carrying it out.  You can't blame me for writing.  Everyone is a writer these days.  Anyone can drag a pen across a page, just like any dog can drag his ass across a carpet...and...and...as a sidebar, let me point out that a dog does that in order to..."
 "I don't need the image."  Pazzo interrupted with a wave of his hand.  "Use whatever term you like: terrorist, KillJoy, Blocker, freedom-fighter.  I'm a cop on duty.  A kidnapping is a kidnapping, whether done by a bully or bleeding-edge technology.  Ideologies don't concern me."
 "Liar!" Gaveston said.  "Except for the American way.  That's your ideology, copper.  If you haven't figured out that you work for big business yet, then your head is so far up your crack that you don't deserve..."  
 Longstreet raised his voice and spoke over Gaveston, to save Pazzo from the insult.  "Yes, the word is Blocker!  So nice to hear a public official use it.  Thank you, sir.  My opinion of law enforcement is restored to respectability whenever I see you."  Longstreet turned to Gaveston, who was now leaning against the kitchen doorway, and said, "Notice, Doctor, how the cut and dry sense of duty gleams off of Agent Pazzo like chrome."  Longstreet looked back at Pazzo.  "I admire the hell out of it."  He paused.  "Yet it disturbs me.  He dedicates himself to a cause without worrying about the underlying reason.  He's like a classic character for our cynical times, almost as if he walked right out of a Hoplite phalanx to spend some time with us here today.  Did you bring your shield along with you, Agent Pazzo?  May I see your spear?"
 "I brought my gun."
 "Oh, a gun," Longstreet said with disappointment.  "You brought your bang-bang.  I wish that you carried a broadsword or a cutlass.  Guns are so abrupt and inglorious.  Boom!  You're dead.  A sword, on the other hand, is artful.  A swordfight looks like music and dying takes some time.  It gives you a moment for famous last words.  Imagine Hamlet ending in a shotgun blast: GSW to the chest!  We got a tragic hero down!  A gunfight, blech, it's just geometry.  Come to think of it, gunpowder and math killed the classics.  But I won't go into that now.  Here we are, Agent Pazzo.  You've come all this way to discuss kidnappings and Blockers.  You know, when I wrote the Manifesto, everyone laughed."
 "Some of us are still laughing," Gaveston said.
 "Well," Pazzo said, "Some of us aren't laughing anymore."
 Longstreet brought his legs up onto his chair.  "I knew the minute I read the article about the kidnappings that something strange had started.  The anti-science movement is underway.  On one hand, I want to see technological Armageddon, but I'm not as mad as when I wrote it anymore.  I enjoy my evenings on Craigslist, not to mention popping Xanax.  I'm still cheering for Earth to win, to shake us off like fleas, but I'm not yelling as loud anymore."
 "So many life-improving inventions," Gaveston mumbled, "so many anti-depressants."
 Pazzo said, "The Brio-Nano accident was over eight years ago now.  I'm not happy to admit that we never found out who did it.  What I want to know from you is pretty simple.  Do you think there is a connection between Brio-Nano and the kidnappings?"
 "Yes," Longstreet laughed, "I think the monkeys are the kidnappers."  
 "I wish that were true," said Pazzo.  
 "The Brio-Nano block was so clean that I wouldn't be surprised if there was a connection," Longstreet said.  "That outfit knew what they were doing."
 Pazzo asked, "And what was your first impression on hearing about the kidnappings?"
 "Pleasure.  In a sense.  Along with horror.  I mean, it's distasteful, but mostly I had an odd sense of pleasure, because my idea has come to life.  Someone has set the stage for the great play.  These are interesting times to be living in.  The next war will be over public opinion.  The public is going to be molded like clay, by governments, by scientists, and by 'terrorists,' as you call them.  The public is a toy, more than ever, to be manipulated by corporate giants and anonymous rebels.  Those that have done the kidnappings, they are the only opposition to unbridled progress.  We will have runaway Artilects built in two decades.  Forget about Global Warming as the issue that threatens our species.  Strong artificial intelligence coupled with human mania, Agent Pazzo, will be here long before the heat."
 "Those that did it?" Pazzo interjected.  "How many Killjoys do you think it would take to do something like this?  In your manifesto, you said that these Blockers act alone."
 "Did I say that?"  Longstreet looked down at his thumbs and up again.  "I never remember exactly what I said.  A figure of speech I suppose.  Really, I can only assume that more than one Blocker exists in the world, because so far we have only seen the Brio-Nano instance and now the kidnappings.  But we're talking about multiple kidnappings, from all over the world, right?  They have to be funded pretty well.  It's either a government or a business doing it."
 "You don't have to tell me what I already know, Mr. Longstreet.  I want to know if you have any ideas on suspects for this type of attack, and I want to know what targets could be following this.  I know that you have your own ideas in that squirrelly brain of yours.  I am only half as concerned about the previous kidnappings as I am about the next one."
 Pazzo observed the writer swell with pride at the comment. 
"Well, you know what they say," Longstreet said, "the busy bee has no time for sorrow.  Of course I have ideas, Agent Pazzo, but my brain can't query databases like your police computers can."
 "Humor me."
 "Well...for starters, these kidnappers aren't going to have any criminal records.  If you think the Brio-Nano criminals are the kidnappers, you might as well start looking for chemical engineers who worked at Brio or had a friend working there.  The angriest people at an industry are usually within the industry itself.  The key is to find the Broker of these kidnappings, who will be a respected individual, not some stoner with a grudge against the world.  Those eco-terrorists you try to wrangle: they can't even spray paint a straight line on a Humvee, let alone carry out multiple kidnappings.  Think Unabomber, only imagine the Unabomber as functional in society rather than holed up in some cabin, like I am out here at Hatter House."
 In a nonchalant stagger, Gaveston entered the living room.  He said to Agent Pazzo, "A good man is hard to find, sir."
"If you don't have any hard ideas, then I'll be in touch, rather often."  Leaning forward in his seat, Pazzo extended a business card to Longstreet.  "I would like you to think about this and get back to me.  Here's my new contact card.  And this time, don't make any midnight phone calls to tell me about dolphins."
 "I dreamed that dolphins would evolve quickly and soon.  I swear to Moses, I just thought that you should know."
"A dream, Ben.  Don't tell me about your dreams."  Pazzo pointed at Longstreet.  "If - and only if - you have an epiphany about what's possible, call me..."
 "Possible!" chortled Gaveston.  "Possible?  Why bother with the word 'possible' at all anymore?  Listen up, Agent Crazy: anything is possible.  You've lived nearly as long as I have.  You should have learned that by now.  Reality is not what it used to be.  Tomorrow morning I could set up a lab to tweak embryos so that babies expressed two heads at birth.  That's the type of world we live in today."
 Agent Pazzo gave a curt nod to the Doctor and remained calm on the surface, although Gaveston was beginning to irritate him.
 "Pazzo.  Pazzo," Longstreet said, tapping on his chin.  "Yes, that means 'Crazy' in Italian, is that correct?  Perhaps you would fit in very well here!  My daughter loves fruits and nuts."
 "Yes," Marie nodded at Pazzo.  "I love wasting the best years of my career waiting for two insane men to die."
 "But what's the alternative, dear?" Longstreet asked.  "Would you rather assist in the destruction of mankind along with the other scientists that are making human beings obsolete?"
 "Do you hear that, Mr. Pazzo?" Marie asked.  "That's the sloshing sound that comes from the washed-up and weathered.  My father, who has already concluded his career, mocks those of us midstream in our own careers, but he can only do so because he has lost sight of what originally made him want to learn literature and physics.  His thirst for knowledge has been quenched.  Now, he makes idle chit-chat and feels superior to the rest of us.  He preaches all day about how important learning is, yet half the time he argues that progress is a destructive force, when in fact progress as we know it and the education system are inseparable."
 "Oh, now...dear girl," Longstreet said, as if beginning a rebuttal, but he stopped.  "Yes, I suppose that's true."
 
 Longstreet continued talking about pulse vectors, dimensional ranges, and various other pseudo-sciences, conjurations, and rantings.  In the end, he suggested to Pazzo that a company was running a slave-based research facility, a kind of PhD sweatshop.  
For another hour, Pazzo remained inside Hatter House and listened, feeling certain that an element of guilt made its home among them.  As time went on, Pazzo's fuse got shorter.  Gaveston kept needling him.  Marie Longstreet made several caustic remarks toward Agent Pazzo, to which he returned a steely glare.  As soon as the writer and the Doctor became fully sidetracked away from the kidnappings, Pazzo stood up and said goodbye.  
"I'll show myself out."
 "Allow me to show you the way," Marie said.  "Anyone who endures these two, even for an hour, should be sent away with a goodbye from a normal person."
 "Normal!" Gaveston chortled.
 Marie said, "That's enough from you for tonight."
 "I appreciate your hospitality," said Agent Pazzo.  
 Marie opened the door and followed Pazzo outside.  
 "I'll turn the light on for you," she said. 
 "Thank you."
 "You know," Marie said with her arms folded, "I respect the fact that you have a case to solve, but my father is here to get well, and your visit will only rattle his cage.  Now he won't sleep for several days and will become totally paranoid over what the government wants from him.  If you need to see him again, please call in advance, or contact me discreetly."
 Pazzo sighed.  "Fine, Miss Longstreet.  Just know that your father is partially responsible for this brand of terrorism.  I could easily hold him as a material witness for as long as I want."
"Oh yes, the Patriot Act."  She rolled her eyes.  "Spare me.  If you want a copy of the Manifesto, I can get you one.  We have a whole box of them in the house.  That's all you're going to get out of my father at this point in his life."
 Pazzo took a step toward Marie and spoke softly.  "I can't help but wonder what effect having a Luddite for a father has had on you.  Having to listen to views of anti-science your entire life, and from a respected person of society, no less.  And then, oddly enough, you end up in science.  Almost seems a little too much like the Blocker he describes in the Manifesto, doesn't it?  So tell me, Marie, what 'Block' have you dedicated your life to?  When can I expect to hunt you down?"
 "Oh, I see," she said.  "You're investigating me, not my father."
 Pazzo smirked and took several steps away from Marie as if leaving, but then he turned back toward her.  "Oh, one other thing.  How's your old boyfriend, Marcus Jovan?"
 "I knew him.  So what?"
 "Have you always preferred older men?"
 Marie stood without moving a muscle.  She smiled defiantly.  "Agent Pazzo, my sex life is none of your business.  I'm sure if you check with your boys, you'll find out that Marcus Jovan gets around.  Don't waste your time on me.  I'm a dead-end.  If it helps you get off the property any faster, I will tell you this: Marcus and I had a one-night-stand.  Now go kick around in someone else's closet."  
 "Was he a KillJoy in the sack?"  Pazzo smiled.  
 "Next time you come here, you'd better have a warrant."
 Agent Pazzo walked to his car with a smug expression.  At the time, Pazzo was somewhat young and still sure-footed.  He was certain that he would solve the case quickly. 
His cell phone hummed in his pocket.  He took it out and looked at the incoming text message:
 
Search Initiated: December 20, 2016 21:13 CST
Name: Marshall Ploof, MD, PhD
Keywords: Blocker, Manifesto, Longstreet
Location: Highland Park, IL
IP Address: 12.161.135.142



 

Chapter 6. Suffering Talbot

 "Fuck ethics!"
 "Arrica!" Lucas said.  "Control yourself.  If you go back into that meeting and fly off the handle, you will be sent back out like a tomahawk." 
 "Don't tell me about negotiating with these Talbot hacks."
 "Arrica, listen to me.  Your father spent a long time building this partnership between Pelius and Talbot.  You can't toss it away over a single patent.  We have lots of other things going on right now.  This is a small fish."
 "But it's a loose fish.  And we had it first."
 "We caught it, but they had rights to it, so we move on. It's a sunk cost."
 She threw a stack of papers against the wall.  "We'll take them to court."
 "And lose."
 "We'll draw it out."
 "And bankrupt ourselves. Arrica!"
 "Don't Arrica me!  I know my own name.  Don't you tell me to back down.  I'll light a flame from here to Chicago and douse Marcus Jovan in kerosene."
 Lucas grabbed her by the sleeve and yanked her toward him.  "You can put down the flamethrower, little Pelius, before you hurt yourself.  You think you can go head-to-head with Talbot?  Get a grip. You can't.  Not yet.  And you want to try to hurt me, call me names.  Go ahead, I'm an easy target.  You want to talk about burning bridges?  I'll tell you about burning bridges."
 She freed her sleeve from his grasp, and paced the room, spinning chairs with her hand as she passed them.
 "I'll tell you a story about unchecked anger, Arrica."
 "I don't want to hear any human interest stories, thank you very much."
 "Well, listen anyway!  Dammit, get some scope on things.  This will be a lesson for you.  Before I met you in San Francisco, I was on the same track as you, set to inherit a company.  I came out here to hide."
 Arrica sneered.  "What?  What does this have to do with..."
"Your father."  He interrupted her by speaking loudly.  "Conrado reminded me of my father, except Conrado was a much better man than my own.  Mine, he and I had a falling out, one that can never be undone.  I was young, eighteen.  My father spent most of his time on the road, and I grew up hating him for never being around.  Because of it, Mom and I had a special bond.  She had my trust.  When I wasn't with her, I spent time with my friends, hanging out, racing cars, bumming, chasing girls, whatever kids do.  I tried to ignore my father.  My mother, too.  I have no respect for either of them after what they did.  They tried to make up for something that was missing from their life, but they didn't tell me until I was used up.  
"Dad had a secretary.  She was my age, a beautiful girl named Ione.  I'm sure you can guess where this is going.  Well, he had a lot of secretaries and girlfriends over the years.  But this particular girl, he fast-tracked her to be his executive assistant.  Apparently, he saw her walk into work one day and he just had to have her.  By the end of the week, I'm certain of it, he'd already tried to seduce her, quid-pro-quo, in exchange for the promotion.  Not long after that, he started coming home wearing a strange perfume.  My Mom, she was not a slow-witted woman.  It didn't take long for her to suspect that Dad had a mistress, but she had no proof, so one day she stormed into Dad's office.  He was there, and so was Ione, dressed in tight clothing and leaning over Dad's desk, exposing the strings of her thong.  Mom played it cool, suppressed her anger, and then introduced herself to Ione.  Dad claimed that Ione was a temp, with a contract ending in four days.  Mom hooked onto that lie and said, 'Well, she is just darling! She can work for me.'  With that, Ione was hired on the spot to assist with Mom's charity work and event coordination.  Prior to Ione, Mom had hired people on a temporary basis, so the request was legitimate and Dad was between a rock and a hard place.  'Sure, she's yours at the end of the week,' he said.  That was a small victory for Mom, but then, that was only the first battle.  It turned into an all-out war after that, during which time I was told nothing - not a damn thing.  I was a pawn to the King and Queen, just waiting to get played."
 
Lucas moved to the window of the meeting room and put a hand on the window frame.  
 
"One thing is for sure: my parents knew how to turn the screws on one another.  Some of this I didn't find out until later when I looked at the financial statements of my father's company.  That was after the fact, of course.  Anyway, Mom kept Ione working at home during the day, but at night Mom couldn't watch Ione.  If you can believe it, she hired a surveillance company named Argus to watch Ione during non-work hours and weekends.  These Argus guys were small, a startup company with no scruples, maybe one hundred employees, and all ex-military from a psychological operations unit. 
"As for Ione, she was a poor girl and lived in a tiny apartment.  The Argus employees watched her through the cheap blinds of that sketchy place and recorded everything that happened.  Before all this, poor Ione, she was innocent, I know it."
 Arrica sat down in one of the chairs in the room.  Lucas felt his voice getting shaky, so he cleared his throat.
 "I shouldn't tell this story right now."  Lucas raised and lowered the blinds on the window, in a failed attempt to control his emotion.  "We'll be called back into the meeting soon."
 "No, go on," Arrica said.  
 Lucas looked out the window and moved nervously.  He felt unbalanced as he spoke, jarred by his story, too close to the truth for comfort.  "You've never met a man as shrewd as my father.  Dad couldn't stand being apart from Ione, so he figured out a way to outgun Mom.  I don't know how he found out about Argus, but I do know that he found a way to continue sleeping with Ione.  He solved problems in ways that no one else could even imagine.  My father purchased Argus, the whole company - lock, stock, and barrel.  He sang them a sweet song, and put them to sleep - promised them permanent contracts, I imagine.  The deal must have happened quickly, but before the ink dried on the papers, Argus was dissolved.  They were bought on a Tuesday and liquidated by Friday.  He put them out of business.  It was a hostile takeover for the express purpose of sex.  When Mom found out that the company had gone out of business, she knew that my father must be involved.  That's where I come into the story."
 Arrica put her hand over her mouth.  
 He looked over his shoulder at Arrica.  "Don't worry, I'm fine."  He dropped the mini-blinds and turned to face her.  "I've never told anyone about this before.  I'm not sure I want to tell it to you now, either, but I've made it this far.  Well, guess what?  Mom arranged a date for me with Ione and we hit it off.  I fell in love with Ione.  Those were the best days of my life.  We spent every moment together, and I forgot about my friends.  At first I didn't notice, but both of my parents suddenly took a real interest in my life.  Mom asked me all kinds of things, how things were going, if I liked Ione.  She even asked about our sex-life, multiple times, until I told her that, yes, we were sleeping together.  It seemed bizarre at the time, because she lit up with delight when I told her.  Her eyes dazzled.  Soon afterward, Dad became very interested in my future.  He claimed to be tired of my 'staying out all hours with that girl' and thought the time had come for me to grow up.  Since I was in love, I took offense.  He had not cared about me for eighteen years, and suddenly he wanted control of my life.  He suggested that I not forget my friends.  It didn't make sense, because my friends did destructive things that he despised.  Just to burn him up, I spent several days away from home, at Ione's apartment.  It worked.  He hated me.  My own father hated me for the sake of a fling.  Hated his son, dishonored his wife, and still dishonors us both to this day.  
"But Mom was guilty, too.  One night, she invited me to be her guest at a company party.  As I later learned, she wasn't even invited.  This was a sales meeting for men only.  Arrica, to let you know what kind of a company my father ran, this was a party for married men and their girlfriends."  
Arrica said, "You're kidding."
"I wish.  At a Marriott Hotel, Mom and I sat on a balcony near one of the convention rooms.  She made sure we sat in a spot with a good view of the lobby.  For an hour, she acted strange, kept looking down at the entrance to the hotel, until finally Dad showed up.  Mom said, 'Oh, there's your father!'  After how he'd been treating me, I didn't want to look at him, but Mom insisted that I look.  Then she played dumb: 'Who is that with him?'  I turned and I saw Ione in a swaying dress, sparkling in jewels from the feet up, hanging onto Dad's arm, and both of them were dressed to the nines.  I was stunned.  Mom said, 'That's not...that's not Ione, is it?  It looks like Ione.  What would she be doing here?' 
"That vacant stare from my mother - that's a face I'll never forgive as long as I live.  Mom and I walked downstairs and spied on Dad's party in the hotel bar.  His hands wandered all over Ione, and I felt rage.  It seized me before I could think.  Had Mom not interceded, I might have killed him.  She grabbed me and said, 'Don't jump to conclusions, dear.'  She pulled me outside and said, 'If you love her, you will keep seeing her.'  Ione didn't know that I was my father's son.  She had no idea and was being pulled apart by a lecher and his jealous wife.  For the next nine days - it makes me sick to remember - I scheduled dates around my own father.  I had sex with her and tried to convince her to run away with me, and..."
 He wiped his eyes.  Arrica stood up and hugged Lucas.  "I'm sorry."
"I waited for Ione to decide, but after nine days I could stand no more.  I bought a gun to use on someone in that incestuous triangle.  But I didn't know who to kill first.  The grime from those nine days, even to this day, I can't wash it off.  I will never be clean of it.  It's a stain that won't bleach.  Time does not heal all things, it worsens some.  With my gun, I thought I could solve the problem.  I started prowling at night, spying on my father.  One night I tailed him after work to Ione's apartment, where he picked her up in the company limo.  I loaded bullets into the clip.  In tears, I followed them to a restaurant."  Lucas stopped and covered his eyes.  "I double-parked my car, stepped out with the gun in my hand.  God knows I would have shot my father in the face that night.  But Dad's chauffeur was waiting outside to intercept me.  Somehow he knew about my motives, but then again, Dad had a personal staff of Pinkertons working for him.  Those unincorporated Argus boys became private spies, hitmen.  An investigator and a policeman arrested me, not for intent to kill, but for intent to sell methamphetamines.  They planted a small bag of drugs on me, stuffed a gram into my pocket and the investigator vouched for him, but neither of them worked for the government.  It was all a show.  I went to a mock jail for a night and they threatened me for eight hours straight.  When I left the jail, I went home to Mom, who cried crocodile tears.  She apologized and admitted setting me up with Ione to hurt my father, to cuckold him, so to speak.  And she tried to kiss me!  Bah!"  Lucas spit on the floor.  "The taste is unforgettable.  I didn't know who to be more disgusted with, her or Dad.  A vile night.  The next morning, I withdrew my bank accounts and left town.  I came to San Francisco to start over.  It was the shame of my life.  Betrayed by my own family."
"Oh my God, that's awful, Lucas."  Arrica hugged him and patted his back.  "It's beyond awful, it's...appalling."  She leaned back.  "What happened to Ione?"  
 "She killed herself.  It was an overdose."
Arrica sighed.  "Jesus."
"I haven't seen either of my parents since, and never plan to.  That's the result of anger and envy, Arrica.  It gets ugly.  It tears things apart.  You and Conrado, you've been like family to me, and I don't ever want to see you cross a line, especially in business, that we can't retreat from."
 Arrica smiled and softened her gray eyes.  "I won't cross any lines."
 "Liar."  Lucas wiped tears from his nose.  Seeing Arrica yield made him relax.  
They laughed together.  
"I feel like...you're like my kid sister," Lucas said, "and I know you, Arrica.  You have some fiery days ahead of you."
"No, I've given up my temper." She held up two fingers.  "I swear.  I'm at peace now.  You've convinced me."
"I'm not convinced that you're convinced."  He laughed and put his hand on her neck, his thumb on her cheek.  "Just take that extra five seconds to breathe, Arrica.  Keep your kerosene for another day.  We'll need it later.  In honor of Conrado, we are going to take Pelius Research to the top.  And someday, soon, we'll cut down Talbot, light their fire, and then we'll smoke a fat cigar over their ashes, I promise."
 They laughed and then held each other a little too long.  They slowly separated, letting their cheeks graze each other.  Lucas felt her nearing him, almost as if she wanted him to kiss her.  
A knock sounded on the door, causing them to jump apart.  
Basil peeked in and said, "They're ready for you again."
 "We'll be right there."  Arrica smiled at Basil.  
 Basil walked in and looked at their faces.  "Marcus Jovan just showed up."
 "What?"  Lucas jumped.
 "Yeah, he just got here, with full entourage," Basil said, exhaling loudly.  "Frankly, it's a little intimidating."
"It's for effect."  Arrica moved her arms wildly.  "Not only unannounced, but he's fashionably late, too, that creep." 
"He's trying to catch us off guard," Basil said.  "Or he wants to steamroll us."
"You're right.  It's game time."  Lucas rubbed his hands together.  "We need to catch him off guard.  Get him turned around and yank his pants down.  Basil," Lucas pointed his finger, "you bring a dove into that room.  Be the peacekeeper, no matter what is going on.  Load your pockets with olive branches and talk compromise.  We'll renege on all of it tomorrow."
"Basil doesn't know how to play any other role than the dove," Arrica said.
"Right.  That's why I'll stay out of the meeting, but while I'm out, I'll light Jovan's shoelaces on fire under the table.  We know that they won't budge on this patent, so instead we take the loss here.  Let them have the victory.  Don't worry - their smiles won't last long.  I've got something prepared that will hit them hard, where it hurts.  I was saving it, but, no, it has to be now.  In the past two weeks, we've won three contracts that used to be Talbot's.  I'll have the press releases sent out while the meeting is going on. By the time old Jovan gets back to his Chicago mansion, he will hear all about it.  Arrica - you play bad cop.  Focus on how they have endangered future collaboration, and browbeat them with that point.  Just don't go overboard, understand?  Remember what we just talked about.  Don't throw flames.  And Basil - you temper her remarks with your usual waffling."
"Oh, thanks."  Basil looked at the papers scattered on the floor.  "Arrica, is that the meeting notes?"  Basil shook his head and started picking up the mess of papers.
"Yes.  Don't worry, Basil.  I don't need them.  And by the way, about your waffling - it's a compliment, Basil."  
"Oh, really?  So surrendering is a good quality?"  He dropped the papers again.  "That makes me the resident doormat.  I'm flattered."
Lucas smiled.  He grabbed Basil by the shoulders.  "You are the nuance man, Basil, just like you said in your interview.  And sometimes, yes, you surrender to win." 
Smoothing her suit with her hands, Arrica asked Lucas, "Ok, how do I look?"
 Lucas looked her up and down.  "You look like a stone-cold bitch."
 "Perfect."
Lucas commanded her.  "You're going to play it cool."
"Cool?" She raised her eyebrows. "I'm going to play it ice fucking cold."  Her gray eyes froze.
 Lucas said, "God, I admire you."
Basil added, "If only Conrado could see you now, Arrica..."
"He'd cover his eyes.  Let's go."
 
In the evening, after the press releases went out, after Marcus Jovan and Talbot flew out of San Francisco, Lucas and Arrica watched the late breaking headlines on CNBC business news.  In her office, Lucas and Arrica passed a single glass of champagne back and forth between them as the diving California sun slowly dimmed her office.  They sat close together and rubbed shoulders.
Arrica saw the tagline come up on the screen.  
"Talbot Labs is making late news today," a newswoman said, "with an ethics scandal concerning a member of the board.  More on this coming up.  The scandal comes at a difficult time for Talbot, as we have also learned today that Pelius Research, a San Francisco bio-tech, has pulled the rug out on Talbot's sterile injectables production line.  In addition, Pelius has weakened Talbot's stronghold in the manufacture of oncology products."
"Oh, wow," Arrica said, "I love it."
Lucas put his hand around her waist and pulled her toward him.  He said, "I love it more.  I can hardly take it."  He turned her head toward his face and then kissed her without asking. 
 Arrica put her hand on his chest and let him kiss her.  She paused to find the remote and turn off the TV.  
"No, let's leave it on," Lucas grabbed her hand.  "I want to hear it."
Arrica leaned back for a moment.  "You had better be good at this.  Don't waste my time."
Lucas lunged and started ravishing her neck.
The sun went all the way down.   
The two Type-A personalities grappled with one another over Arrica's desk.  For Lucas, it was not love-making in any sense of the word, but an exorcism.  Halfway through, he started to imagine Ione underneath him.  Arrica acted equally aggressive.  Devils were purged.  Lucas didn't care if Arrica enjoyed it or hated it.  Like every waking moment of his life, even during sex, he thought about revenge, and with the market news playing like music, the sound of Talbot suffering brought him to a maniacal ecstasy. 
 

Chapter 7. Cadiz

 Judith had been in Cadiz, Spain for over a month, in a coastal paradise where the forecast showed infinite yellow suns.  Isaac took a vacation from Talbot for a week to meet with his wife and discuss projects.  Every afternoon they enjoyed a siesta at a bar called the Marimba, along with a drink or two before resuming their studies.
"Look at that dude out there."  Isaac set his drink down on the table.  "Trying to catch a two-foot wave."  He yelled, "Hang ten, dude!"  He looked at Judith.  "Why?  I mean, seriously."
 Judith shrugged.  "Maybe the surf's down."
 "That's what I'm saying.  Why?  Why try to surf now?  He's better off splashing in the bathtub."
 She rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses.  "It's called practice.  Study.  Pursuit of a goal.  Like we should be doing right now."
 "The four hours we studied this morning wasn't enough?" said Isaac.
 "Studying?  You were nursing a hangover and watching a Spanish cartoon."
 "Actually, yes," Isaac said defensively.  "Language study."
 "Useless for our trade."
 "You never know."
 "Isaac, the language of science is English, not Spanish.  And put some more lotion on, paleface, you're going to burn."
 "I'm already there, baby."  He fanned himself while looking up at the tiki umbrella over his head.  "Don't worry, I'm in the shade."
 "Just put some lotion on.  You can't go back to work looking like a beach bum."
 He put his arms behind his head. 
 "Fine, burn.  I don't care how tan you get, you're still the whitest man alive."
 With no definite orders coming from their anonymous superior, the Broker, they spent most of their time updating their knowledge on current events, reading journals - Science, Nature - and digging into the trends on SlashDot, all things cogsci, Wired News, The Wall Street Journal.  They ran bots on IRC to catch secrets flitting through the buffers.  They parsed myriad science publications, twenty to thirty RSS news feeds from around the world, on topics from neurology to pseudoscience.  After their first mission, the Brio-Nano truck, the orders issued to them became less violent and public.  The new Blocks were more targeted.  As if promoted by the Broker, they started performing propaganda jobs and elaborate con games, online theft, credit card scams, phishing for PayPal account numbers, and planting evidence.  To prepare for these strange jobs, they glossed every topic that could come up in a meeting or impress a mark.  They needed the ability to discuss agriculture, biology, energy, counterfeiting money and prescription medicine, IT, chemistry, banking, real estate, law enforcement, and environmental science.  They studied across the spectrum, covering what they called the play factor, arming themselves with terminology that might get them out of a jam, and ultimately, hopefully, kill the progress of Western science.  
 "Woah," Isaac said.  "There goes another."  He nodded at a topless Spanish woman passing by in front of him. 
 "A weeks of breasts," Judith said, "and you're still fascinated."
 "Well, maybe if you took your top off, I would be smitten by you instead of these Spaniards."
 Judith laughed.  "Is that what you want?"
 "I do."
 She looked out at the water, saw the surfer paddling around, and then said to Isaac, "You got it."  She undid her bikini top, pulled it off, and set it on the table.  Isaac whistled and clapped, raised his glass, lowered his shades, and drank.  "That's terrific.  Thank you.  At last, some that I can touch."
 Judith leaned back in her chair, away from his hand.  "Oh, wow," she said mockingly, "I feel so liberated.  You know what?  I'm going for a walk and a swim."
 "The sand is hot as hell out there.  Just stay here and let me admire."
 "I'm going to learn how to surf.  Maybe he'll teach me a few tricks."
 Isaac waved goodbye.  "Enjoy!"  
 She walked toward the water, with her back tattoo facing Isaac.  She knew the sight of her bare skin burned him worse than the sun.  The last thing she heard was him ordering another drink.  
"Camarero!  Para beber, quiero otros mojito!"  
 She waded out into the water until she neared the surfer, holding her arms out as she walked, letting the waves climb her body slowly, and jumping with them to keep the chilled water from rising too quickly.  She gasped at the cold strike of each wave.  In a few minutes she flagged down the surfer, who did a double-take and merrily abandoned his pursuit of a wave in favor of Judith.  He paddled to her until she could grab the side of his board.  
She asked him, "¿Usted habla inglés?"  
The surfer shook his head.  
"No English?  Oh, too bad.  Hablo poco español."  
The surfer nodded and smiled.  Judith laughed and grabbed his arm.  His smile increased.  
"You poor men," she said, tossing her head back into the water.  "Scientist, surfer, spouse, you're all the same.  You make it so easy."   
 She turned to look back at the beach and the Marimba bar, where Isaac sat.  She touched the Spanish man's face and said, "This is eating him alive."  Tussling the surfer's wet hair, she added, "But, then, this is what he wanted, right, baby?  Wouldn't you say?  Damn, you are a handsome boy, too.  If Isaac weren't here I wouldn't mind..."  She looked down into the water.  "Oh my, and by the looks of it, it's a perfect day for bananafish."  
The surfer returned her nod and patted the surfboard with his hand, inviting her to lay on it.  When she got onto the surfboard, the surfer got off and swam alongside.  Judith took a look back at the beach.  Isaac stood up.  He was agitated, that was obvious.  For ten minutes, Judith paddled around with the surfer, attempted a few stands on the board, and then she swam back to shore where jealous Isaac stood, waiting near the water with his arms folded.  
 "Muy bien!"  He clapped for Judith.  "A fine show."
 She emerged from the water, shining in the sun, with her arms behind her head, twisting her hair.  
 "You know what?"  Isaac said, ending his applause.  "I feel like going for a jog."  He pulled his shorts down, kicked them off, and went for a naked run on the beach, past every sunbather in the area.
 Judith didn't bother to watch, but picked up his shorts and walked back to their table at the Marimba.  She put her bikini top back on and waited.  No more than two minutes later, Isaac returned.  
 "My shorts please."
 She tossed them behind her head toward the bar and laughed as the bartenders heckled him.
 "¿Fria, señor?"  
 Isaac said, "What?"
 Before he came back to the table, Judith finished his drink.  Isaac watched her drain the glass.  
 "Very mature," Isaac said. 
 "What?" Judith said with sarcasm.  "I did what you wanted."  She couldn't stop laughing and kept repeating, "¿Fria, señor?"  
 "Whatever," Isaac said.  "I don't know what that means, and I don't care."
 
 Later, in the hotel room, they booted up two laptops and resumed studying.  The fun and games on the beach each afternoon did not reflect their general attitude.  Rather, it served a purpose of looking like an average American couple, careless and self-interested, educated but fully ignorant.  This presentation of stereotypes invited no suspicion, yet they suspected the world was spying on them.  Not only in San Francisco and Portland were investigators seeking them, but also Atlanta, Chicago, and London.
In private, they shared their misgivings and wondered about the ultimate goal of their work.  They talked about Longstreet's book, KillJoy's Manifesto, the purpose of it, and more than once they second-guessed their chosen path.  However, the daily gush of news fortified their resolve by disgusting them with the status quo.  The propaganda of progress, technology, advertising, and marketing blared from the subtext of the media, in disregard for the coming species domination.  Now and then, when disasters occurred, they sensed that another group of Blockers were working somewhere in the world, but they could never be certain.
 Of course, that was the point - to perform and slip away, like cat burglars.  They were assassins without bullets, planting diseases into the media, sparking cataclysms that invited ambitious reporters to spout sound bytes that outraged the average Joe.  The system required manipulation, to startle the public into understanding what they valued most, before the artificial intelligence revolution surpassed them and rendered all human history dead.  Judith read the news with one question in her mind: "Where is progress happening that endangers humanity?"  The most hated institutions, acts, crimes, and realities of modern society that angered people became the focal points for her and Isaac.  If she heard someone on the news using the phrase, "The world is going to hell," then she knew that pushing that button would drive the general population to action.  Like Longstreet said, don't slap at the windows of a moving bus, hoping it will stop...be on board, driving, increasing its speed, and send yourself and the bus over the tallest cliff.  Longstreet's cloak and dagger tactics slowly filled up their entire frame of life, until they could no longer separate daily life from acting.  
 But in these doldrums between jobs, however beautiful the beaches, Judith grew restless in Europe, and considered pulling off a few jobs without the consent of the Broker.  It bothered her, this inability to relax, and seemed to tug at something deeper, a fundamental problem rooted in her culture, the American culture, something that urged her to never sit still, to never stop.  She suffered from restlessness, the genetic defect that seemed to come with those huddled masses and adventure-seekers that reached the New World.  She had African and European ancestry, but stronger than either of those ancestries was the work ethic of Franklin and Jefferson.  She tried to figure out why she felt that way all the time, and decided that surely no other outcome could have come from that icon, our father, Columbus.  She felt like she knew him.  After wrecking himself on so many beachheads and with so much Carib blood on his hands, he wished others would stop coming to the New World.  He could not see that those following were only younger versions of himself, trying to catch up.  That too was a kind of progress, and once let out of the bag, the course could not be altered.  
 Like the oxygen in her lungs, Judith needed media feeding her.  Her cells failed to fire unless she was consuming information.  She was fragmenting on data overload, with the splinters cleaving her brain.  Everything she read seemed written in code, and she wondered if she would ever see fifty or have early heart failure.  Every day by noon, while scouring the news feeds and pondering her next shape-shifting, she downed three grandé coffees.  
Just to keep up, Isaac and Judith agreed that stillness was an impossibility.  To be still at all was to fail.  The consuming media consumed them both, but they grew up in the XBox generation, leaning over consoles of all sizes before they could stand on their feet.  They joked about sleep, calling it a Romantic's dream.  The last time either of them slept eight hours in one night was 2007.
 
 Isaac had to catch a train to Seville and then a plane back to Chicago.  Before he left Cadiz, they discussed several works-in-progress, one being Robert Lopez at Talbot.
 "Keep your contact with him brief," Judith said.  "Send me his cell phone number."
 Isaac asked, "You're not going to call him from the hotel phone, are you?"  
 "No, I'll phreak," Judith said, referring to a method of stealing telephone services, a trick to mask a caller's location.  She said, "Now you're certain that he is converting?" 
 "That man is obsessed with ethics," Isaac said.  "But he is crashing, I can see it.  He's disgruntled and a perfect mark.  When I left Chicago, he was still attending the martini bar on a regular basis.  And Ploof and Lopez - those two are like oil and water these days.  Ploof cuts every corner he can, and I purposefully mention those shortcuts to get a reaction from Robert.  He's verging."
 "He doesn't even know that he could be a hero, does he?"
 "He doesn't need to know," Isaac said.  "I caught him reading the Manifesto one day.  It's getting in his head.  But I'm not sure that he gets it yet."
 "That's why I'm going to become his Broker," Judith said, smiling.  "That way we will have a cell operating underneath us.  I'm getting a little irritated with our Broker."
 "Why?"
 "Three of the companies we've hit have been bought by the same company.  Pelius.  They bought Brio-Nano, and I didn't think anything of it, but now I'm starting to wonder what the hell is going on."
 "Maybe," Isaac said, "it's part of the bigger picture."
 "Maybe."  Judith nodded.  "Yeah, only maybe.  I hate this anonymous shit, but there is no other way."  
 "It works both ways," Isaac said.  "We don't know the Broker, and he doesn't know us."
 "I know his face.  I remember it from the stadium job."
 "We don't know if that was him."
"I can still see his face," said Judith.
"Well, I don't remember it," Isaac said.  "You have to admit, he has a lot of inside information."
"Regardless, I'm going to become a Broker, too.  To protect us." 
 "You could just get a dog." 
 "I just feel that we need to get some of our own hooks out in the water, in case we get screwed somewhere along the line.  Right now, we are someone else's dragline."
 Isaac waved his hands.  "I don't even want to know the plan.  Tell me when I need to know."  He looked over his shoulder and sighed.  "Ok, I gotta go, that's my train.  Back to Talbot.  I'll see you soon.  Love you."
 Judith waved goodbye but did not wait to see the train depart.  Instead she walked swiftly toward the exit of the train station, on to her hotel room, where she sat at the table and brainstormed, wracked her mind, stared at the wall, and forced herself to think of a breakthrough.
 

Chapter 8. Fortune - 2020
 
On the cover of Fortune magazine, the June issue of the year 2020, Arrica stood with folded arms looking down at the camera.  The caption read, "Not America's Sweetheart: How Arrica Pelius and her GRAINers are changing the rules for everyone."
Standing in front of a podium, Arrica held the magazine in one hand, a champagne flute in the other.
 Holding his glass, Lucas smiled back at Arrica.  They were at the annual stockholder's meeting, which doubled as the company picnic, since every employee owned stock.  Like Arrica's fame, the price of Pelius had climbed for the past decade.  Analysts compared her to other tech icons of the past - Watson, Venter, Gates, Ellison, Jobs - but with more bite, aptly put because Arrica kept two rottweilers by her bedside.  
 The Pelius picnic, as untraditional as the Pelius corporate culture, was held on the infield of Giants stadium, to commemorate Conrado.  His image never died.  Conrado became the George Washington of Pelius, the venerable icon of the company's humble, noble beginning, and the image became highly romanticized.  The company knitted its own narrative to sell an image of persevering and winning, against all odds.
 Lucas observed his boss and considered her rise to power, recalling many victories of the past ten years, including several over Talbot.  
 The first acquisitions proved profitable, with Brio-Nano in Portland being the first company Pelius swallowed whole.  Then they took over two companies in India, a British biotech, and three artificial intelligence and robotics startups bursting with creativity but suffering from wretched financial management - engineers trying to play bankers.  The connections with the universities Berkeley and UC-Davis became integral to staffing.  Bright young graduate students submitted "idea-box" applications to Pelius for consideration, and the east coast Ivy Leaguers started to drop out of school to come work for Pelius.  Students from abroad flooded human resources with unsolicited "idea-box" applications, which Lucas poached, even if the applicant didn't get hired.  All tech tycoons in Silicon Valley wanted to play with Pelius, and because of joint efforts, the turnaround time on projects soared.  In the early years, firings occurred on a daily basis, but layoffs never happened.  Roving auditors, like company police, constantly searched for fat to trim from the company payroll.  People were rearranged like puzzle pieces, and those that couldn't shift shape, the square peg that couldn't fit into a round hole, fit just fine through the exit.  
It was a hive of activity, of internal shouting matches governed by a company policy of open politics.  Arrica encouraged any employee to notify her about any bottlenecks created by grudges.  Whenever someone saw her marching down the hall with a scowl on, the path parted before her as if she wielded an assault rifle.  Her worst tirades came down on condescenders and prima donnas.  Whether the recipient of snobbery was a peer or a night janitor, she corrected the snobbery or fired its owner and sent a recommendation, overnight Fed-Ex, to Talbot in Chicago, suggesting a good employee for their firm, with the sole intentions of irritating the CEO, Marcus Jovan.  
 Even with all the creative input, industry insiders wondered how Pelius managed to keep up its amazing output.  Stockholders did not care, did not wonder where it came from, just so long as it continued - they did not ask questions.  A Business Week article asked, "Where does Pelius get those wonderful ideas?"  Press requests to shadow projects were generally denied, except in low-profile cases and late-stage, established products.  Security clearances for most projects were required, barring all outsiders.  
 The company took a hit in 2016 when a chemical engineer wrote a scathing attack on Pelius practices, calling Arrica a dictator, but Pelius performed damage control, swamping the airwaves with denials and attacks on the character of the malcontent author until he disappeared like a puff of smoke.  The blog community and techies loved Pelius and derided naysayers.  Likewise, politicians doted on Pelius, seeing the company as a research leader for the 21st century, therefore an economic savior, a symbol of American ingenuity and the ability of a nation to re-invent itself.  The narratives of Pelius and the nation followed a similar story grammar.  
 Because of the status Pelius enjoyed in 2018, funding became less of a problem, although with every dollar they received in grants, the sought fifteen dollars in loans.  A massive facility went up in Dublin, California, right next to the smaller building they had built in Fremont a few years prior.  The facilities had nicknames: Fat Man and Little Boy, named after the first two atomic bombs, a homage to the Manhattan Project.  Even the Japanese employees used the nicknames, as if they had forgotten about the immolation of their countrymen.  Sections of the buildings took on related names, like Bloch, Rainwater, Rickover, Fermi, Reines, and Fitch, to honor the lesser known scientists of Los Alamos.  They consciously avoided using famous names, like Einstein and Oppenheimer.  
 Basil Jackson, Arrica's nuance man, became a major player in Pelius's success.  He managed the largest accounts.  As gracious as he was tactful, he rarely let down a customer and became the first face any incoming CEO would see at Pelius.  Unlike Lucas in the shadows, Basil could gladhand all day without ever losing the softness in his eyes.  His dovish personality provided hospitality all the way to Arrica's office, where Basil often stood in the corner like a sentry while she negotiated deals.  The other sentry was Lucas Perth.  Oddly enough, Basil's gentle spirit seemed to calm Arrica, and during meetings she often deferred to him, asking for his opinion, which irritated Lucas.  Despite her affinity for Basil, she showed him no mercy and ignored his advice as often as she accepted it.    
 
  On the Monday morning after the annual meeting, Lucas answered the phone in Arrica's office.  Lucas heard a shattered voice coming over the line.  Basil maintained a tactful tone and even apologized for having bad news before mentioning what happened.  The day was significant to Lucas, not because he felt bad for Basil, but because it was a day that altered Arrica's demeanor.
 Lucas hung up the phone and said to Arrica, "That was Basil."
 "Where the hell is he?" Arrica asked. "It's seven thirty already."
 "Last night his wife..."
 "Oh right, something with Caprice.  The baby.  His wife.  The baby.  I'm tired of hearing about his life at home."  Under her business suit, Arrica moved her shoulders sarcastically.  "You can't talk to him without hearing about Caprice.  Unfortunately, here in the real world we have a meeting with Axon this morning.  But I suppose he has to spend time with her.  All his time.  Nice as she is, I'm sorry.  She's really pissing me off lately."
 "Well, she won't anymore," Lucas said. "She's...ah...well, she's gone."
 "What do you mean, gone?"  Arrica sneered.  
 "Caprice died last night."
 "Oh, Jesus Christ.  That's just fucking great.  So he won't be here today," Arrica said, and threw up her hands.  "Well, call my secretary and send some flowers.  Send him a e-greeting."
 "Will do."  Lucas smiled.  "Should we prep for the meeting..."
Arrica was not listening.  "Send Hallmark to his house, but God dammit, we need him at this meeting..."  
When she raged near the window in her office, perhaps she saw her reflection, but something stopped Arrica in her tracks.  Suddenly she stopped speaking, covered her mouth, and gasped.  
 
Lucas saw a change of mind conquer Arrica's face.
 
"Oh God," Arrica said.  She turned and looked at Lucas like he was a mirror.  "Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that."  Leaning forward, she propped herself on her desk.  "Oh my God, what is wrong with me?  The real world?  What do I know about that?"  Moving her hands from her hips to her face and back again, Arrica could not stand still.  "Poor Basil.  Oh my God, Caprice.  What am I doing?"
As she paced the room, she pushed back her hair with both hands.  Lucas flipped through the meeting brief.  
"What am I doing standing here?" Arrica asked herself, and added, "I'm going to see Basil."
Lucas looked up.  "What?  Arrica, this is Axon..."
She threw her hands down, palms facing out.  Her gray eyes flashed as her hair swung over her face.  
"No, this is Basil, my friend."  
She grabbed her jacket and rushed out the door, yelling back to her secretary as she walked.  "Call me a car.  Cancel all my appointments."  
Down the carpeted corridor, Lucas watched her walk fast, with her briefcase in hand and heels clicking like a metronome.  After ten steps Arrica broke out into a sprint toward the elevators, dropping her briefcase in the middle of the hallway.  
 
 For the meeting with Axon, Lucas recruited a few managers to flank him, solely for their presence in the conference room.  The meeting required stoic faces, and Lucas asked the managers to sit like stone statues, instructing them to stare at the Axon faces, but not at their eyes.  "Stare at the forehead, between the eyes, like you are about to put a bullet hole in it."  
Axon sent its brass to discuss contracts.  They were angry and wanted to discontinue doing business with Pelius altogether.  When they arrived, Lucas tried to keep things gentle for as long as possible, but after the greetings, Axon hurdled niceties and rushed straight to the finish line.  
 An Axon man said, "We want to know what the hell is going on in this research park.  The last three projects you declared finished were half-done.  Half-assed.  We don't deal with pseudo-science and you're sending us this...what do you call it?  Memetic Calculus?  Is that what they called it?"
 The other Axon representatives nodded.
 "Something's foul out here," the man said.  "I think Pelius is hiding something."
 Lucas asked, "Like what?"
 "Like everything.  Where is this junk science coming from?  We didn't ask for theory or for mathematical whims that can't be proven."
 "Can't be proven?"  Lucas clicked his pen up and down and stared hard at the man's forehead.  "How do you know that?  We might have just handed you the keys to the revolution in neuroscience.  Maybe we just don't understand it yet.  Especially as business people.  In this type of research, we have to trust our GRAINers."
 "Don't understand it?"  The man moved uncomfortably in his seat and unbuttoned his suit jacket.  "Memetic Calculus.  Memes.  Oh, you're right, we don't understand the science of memes.  But then again, who does?  No, we don't get it.  We get nothing.  Twenty million dollars, we don't get that back.  The other thing we don't get is a return on investment.  We asked for research on neurotoxins, does that ring a bell?  A study on effective drugs to combat brain damage from smoke inhalation in firefighters and burn victims - you know, people that can use help.  What you gave us was a science paper that sounds like an undergrad on an acid trip, talking about pathways and mathematics that don't exist.  Memes.  I'm still waiting to find out that this is a practical joke."  The Axon people around him stifled a laugh.  He continued, "If we wanted a visionary to wax futuristic, we would have contracted Wired Magazine, or maybe High Times.  What we want to know is this: where is this stuff...I'm sorry...this shit coming from?"
 Lucas set his pen on the table.  "It's confidential."
 "Unsatisfactory.  Completely unsatisfactory.  Every other client we work with has an open door.  We can go into the labs and speak with the scientists, stick our fingers in a beaker, pipette our morning coffee into our mugs if we want.  In other words, we have accountability and oversight on our investments."
 "And you have it with us, too."  Lucas held out his palm.  "You always have access to Dr. Nguyen and his team..."
 "Not him."  The man waved his hand.  "We've talked to him.  He's useless.  He's as clueless as we are on this meme business."
"I beg your pardon," Lucas said, "but Dr. Nguyen is a very accomplished researcher and physician, sir."
"He's a front man, Mr. Perth!  I don't care what he's done in the past.  I'm sure he's a gem, but there's another door behind him somewhere.  He told us what he knows.  He said that the ideas come in from...from somewhere!  His exact words were 'somewhere else.'  It sounded like he had a tooth fairy working for him.  'Somewhere else.'  Like it was Manna from heaven.  He wakes up in the morning, checks his inbox, and lo and behold, there's a design document of an experiment, a theory, an idea, plus sixty gigagbytes of tested data on an FTP server.  Well, guess what, Mr. Perth, we want to know where somewhere is.  We want to see behind the curtain, where the wizard pulls the levers.  Otherwise, we are walking on this and every other contract.  Right now, our investment in Pelius is a money pit."
 One of the other men took off his glasses and said, "More like a black hole, actually."
 Lucas looked at his stony sidekicks, who occasionally pretended to write something quietly on a notepad between staring at the Axon foreheads.  
Lucas inhaled and began to speak.  
"Do you think, sir, that Axon is the first client of ours to walk in here and ask about our process, to ask about our ideas?  Every newspaper reporter and college tour that enters this facility asks the same question and we give them all the same response.  Now as an important client - a very important client - I don't blame you for feeling kept outside, in the dark about our internal affairs.  But those firms that stick with us can attest that we deliver.  I wish I could tell you how many times we've sat here, Arrica especially, fielding similar complaints from clients.  A year later, down the road and ten patents later, we sit down again with them in quite a different mood, counting our blessings, and rolling in cash.  Carbon nanotubes.  Remember that cover story?  Well, that, gentleman, was our Alamo.  Before you saw the glossy photos, there was a meeting just like this one, the one we are having right now.  Our client stormed in here like a typhoon accusing us of 'scientific wet dreams,' but in the end they stuck with their contract.  We promised that client that we could make polar and covalent bonds as light as feathers, yet incredibly strong.  And we did: stout as Golden Gate pig-iron and lighter than pumice.  Because they stayed with us, we'll all be lining up to buy lightweight Chevy starships in twenty years, mark my words.  The problem is the suits like you and me, sir.  We can't see what the engineers can.  In the tiny world of atoms where our GRAINers play, there's plenty of room in there, much more than you and I can dream of with our business philosophy.  We hire visionaries, ones with credentials, who can rearrange Xenon to spell their names just for fun.  The pursuit of nanotechnology, and possibly memes, will make Pelius and Axon business prophets of the next golden age of science.  When we fully map memory and the brain, the applications will be endless.  Take your hand out of your pocket for one year more and then you'll see.  If we map the brain, you will be able to wire an on-demand internet into everyone's head.  Right now, gentlemen, you see the sand, not the castle.  Businessmen like you and I, we point at the balance sheet and worry.  Fortunately, Pelius scientists see the macro in the micro.  Those geniuses in our back rooms, they have a saying posted on the wall: 'The quark has got the whole world in its hands.'  I swear these guys say nanotech prayers at night before bed, and sometimes I wonder if they aren't already cyborgs.
"I admit, Pelius has made mistakes."  Lucas stood and picked up his pen in his hand.  He pointed it at the Axon men.  "We've almost gone broke ten times because of this breakneck pace.  But our interests are yours.  We share the same goal.  Being in the red, to Pelius, is a disgrace.  That's why we never stop working.  Because the stakes are high, ours and yours.  This meme business," he tapped the pen on the table, "it will pay off or I will lay my head down on the block.  Some of our most ambitious contracts have died off or strayed, but the project, no matter how insane it sounds to us accountants and MBAs, has hit paydirt seventy percent of the time.  I know that some of you folks own shares in Pelius.  Tell me, did you not buy the shares without knowing that we push the envelope, always, always, always?  The Pelius shares you own, you took a big chance, but then you knew that already and you wouldn't have bought them unless we did.  We strike oil.  Over and over again, we find success.  We take the risk, we shove off where others won't venture, and when the gas runs out we row on, without looking back.  Truth be told, when I started here at Pelius, I half-expected the whole plan to fail.  The day Arrica came out of her office declaring a state of perpetual emergency, I knew that we might be in for a quick death.  But years of urgency and look around."  Lucas pointed at the wall behind him, which was decorated like a General's left breast, with J.D. Power trophies and every international business accolade the world awarded.  "Gentlemen, temporary suffering like this is how we earned our acumen.  This is where we feel the squeeze.  This is where the squeamish jump overboard.  These are the crossroad moments when a company takes a chance on a great idea or becomes a footnote in history.  Remember the graphical user interface and Xerox?  Some executive didn't like the idea of a computer mouse and they missed out on a trillion dollars.  Right now, if you cancel on us, I can imagine the history of Pelius having a footnote that states: 'Axon, Inc turned down a chance to work with Pelius on Memetic Calculus.'  That will be mentioned in a passing line of a documentary on the Discovery Channel, and viewers will snigger at your luck.  If Memetic Calculus turns into a proof, I'm sure you'll want to be back on board with Pelius, but then it will be too late, because every Glaxo, Smith-Kline, and Beecham in the nation will come with flowers and candy to our doorstep.  If you don't want it, Talbot will, or some other giant.  Here at Pelius, we've learned the business of risk so well that we can laugh when we fall.  We are a risk culture, like Goldman Sachs standing on Teflon, but knocked down, we rise, stand up, and strike out again.  This is how we do it at Pelius."
 
 The contract with Axon survived the meeting.  At lunch, Lucas entertained the Axon men with industry anecdotes, mostly lies, but he found that they enjoyed talking about their younger days when they were new to the business world.  Every story reminded them of a moment in time, a boss, their first contract, a mishap, or when they dropped the ball and caught hell for it.  
 "I was a spreadsheet babysitter for the longest time," Lucas lied. "It was a manual data-entry system for garbage truck parts on a production line in Ohio." 
 One of the Axon gentleman frowned.  
 "My sentiments exactly," Lucas said and laughed.  "Do you guys remember when you finished your master's degree, when you came out all hot and bothered, with so much energy, ready to start a business bonfire?  Well, my fire didn't last long.  Mine was smothered by dead trees, snuffed under a flattened forest of Collier paper reams.  I tried very hard to marry my expectations with my job, but I couldn't do it.  One day, sitting among the stacks of paper, I thought to myself, 'Does a kid growing up today know what's out here?  Does he have dreams to grow up and be the caretaker of an Excel spreadsheet?'  Of course, that was my motivation for upward movement, to get up the ladder.  I thought about teaching accounting at a small college."  
The Axon men scoffed.  
"Yeah, right, I know," Lucas said.  "I couldn't leave the paycheck.  How could I go back to academia?  I remember sitting in my cube, rubbing at the numbers on my paycheck, trying to push out an extra zero until the ink smeared onto my hands.  To make a long story short, one day I looked at the stacks of paper around me.  The piles had nearly reached my ears, and I said, 'I've got to escape this dead triple-canopy.'  It was a family company.  I never would have made executive.  That was the first problem.  My other problem was being drugged by lattes and reading blogs.  All day I stayed high on double mocha newsfeeds, but without realizing it, I was aging fast.  I already took Tums and had signs of an ulcer.  Guys, I was thirty years old, with gray hair!  So I said: that's it - back to square one, back to the cruel world.  That's when I moved to San Francisco.  I couldn't find a job out here, so I ended up selling hot dogs at Giants Stadium.  Of course, that's where I met Conrado Pelius, and the rest is history."
 One of the Axon men who had been quiet all day said, "I swear I've seen you somewhere before."  
 "What?"  Lucas said, shifting his weight.  "Maybe in a magazine."
 "No.  I've only read about you, Lucas.  You're notorious for being absent from photos.  In fact, every time I open a newspaper or read about Pelius, the only person I see is Arrica, or possibly one of her GRAINers.  But now that I see you, I know I've seen you somewhere.  We've met before."
 Lucas gripped the napkin on his lap, twisting it around his knuckles.  The din of the restaurant, the spoons clinking on plates and the low conversations, filled the silence as Lucas considered a response.  All eight Axon eyes focused on him, examining his face.  For the first time, he realized that age was catching up with him, that his face was changing into a fully matured adult.  
 He broke up the awkward moment using a joke.  
"Oh, I know where you saw me.  Ever watch America's Most Wanted?"  
The Axon men laughed and didn't push the issue further.  However, the comment was enough to send Lucas underground, deeper into the company and away from meetings with external clients.  The snowball effect of Pelius could take care of itself now.  
 
A week later, Lucas talked to Arrica about becoming a private consultant for Pelius Research.  Arrica flatly refused the request, forcing Lucas to remain in charge of research and development. 
"I don't care what you do," Arrica said, "just keep the ideas flowing."
"You don't care what I do?  Are you sure?" Lucas said.  "Can I get that on paper?"
"Never."   
"Arrica, I need to know one other thing."
"What?"
"I know that your time spent with Basil has affected you a great deal.  Over the past few weeks, I've started to worry about you.  I'm worried about your focus."
"No, Lucas, you're worried about Talbot, as usual."  Arrica fell into her chair and exhaled.  "And you know what?  I don't want to think about Talbot as the ultimate goal anymore.  I mean, we're better off where we are, right now, out of the spotlight."
Anxiety, like rising water, filled Lucas's chest and throat.  "I disagree, Arrica.  I think we need to undercut them a few additional times before the playing field is level.  Injure them, just once or twice more."
"Well, that's a nice segueway toward something I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Perth.  I've heard you've been applying grease to a propaganda machine outside of Pelius.  I was told that someone saw you, Lucas, making a little drop-off one night.  Anything you want to tell me about that?"
Lucas shook his head.  "No."
"Fine.  Then Talbot will remain a non-issue.  If I hear anything else about your side-projects, I will put an end to it.  Understood?"
Wrong, Lucas thought, but smiled and nodded.  He said, "Maybe I could buy you dinner and we could talk about it."
"Dinner sounds fine, but two things will no longer be discussed," she said.  "The first is Talbot.  The second is that night in my office.  If you ever say anything about that night, I will feed you your tongue.  That night was a mistake, but I hold no grudge toward you regarding it.  Just know: it will never happen again."
"Sure thing, mum's the word."  Lucas smiled.  
The friendship between Lucas and Arrica was over, but the business relationship kept up appearances.  As time went on, Lucas separated from her, but she still accepted advice from him and he offered more than she solicited.  The softer version of Arrica was still a bulldog.  She never backed down from any challenge, just as Lucas expected of her.  That was the reason he selected her.  She kept things in shape, always had a plan, and stayed terribly proactive through it all.  When she seemed defeated by a media attack or a bad business deal, she knew how to cry on demand.  She mastered the art of acting, learned how to win friends and influence people, and exercised the seven effective habits without seeming cutthroat to the world outside.  She took what was available, using defeats to stage an angle to recovery, and never became dirty in skirmishes.  She kept her hands bloodless and clean.
Lucas kept the knife at the ready.  With Arrica providing sound bytes for the public, he kept a master inventory of employee and competitor weaknesses.  He found it a terrifying joy to watch his opponents fall into formations of mutual annihilation.  Rather than spark the fuses, Lucas wired the bridge and told his enemies how to destroy it.  He knew how to hold his tongue when provoked, to stoop in false subordination when helpless, and to attack along the appropriate avenue when the hour was ripe.  
Even if Arrica knew about the seedy side of Pelius - and Lucas saw in her gray eyes that she understood - she pretended to keep her head in the sand, only pulling it out to look fierce for the cameras.  Her strength was in her silly beliefs about Conrado, justice, the American way, hard work, the Lone Ranger, baseball and apple pie.  For Lucas that was fine, as long as she wanted power, and as long as the Pelius comet kept moving, so that one day Lucas could slay the old boss, take the reigns from the cold, dead hands, and rise like twice the juggernaut.
 


Chapter 9. Dry Labbing - 2022
 During the sweetheart days of Pelius, quite the opposite occurred within the halls of Talbot.  The image of Talbot as an evil corporation darkened with every passing week of 2020.  Several incidents involving accounting, harassment, and racism made them a corporate pariah.  
Robert Lopez took the defamation of his company to heart, despite his crescendo of doubts about the florid Talbot mission statement.  Along with that, his heart suffered various inputs: anti-depressants, large meals, martinis, and pain killers for his back.  Anxiety drove him to consume excess amounts of almost everything.  He could tell the time of day by what was in his mouth.  Liquids marked his day like a clock, with milk in the morning, coffee at nine, wine at dinner, liquor at dusk, and water before bed.  Once he opened a box or a bottle, he found it difficult to stop until the container was empty.  The intake became problematic for his balance, his emotions, and the roller coaster did his anxiety no favors.  If he brought a small bag of M&M candies to work, he swallowed them in handfuls and once finished with the bag, he would march to the nearest vending machine to purchase more chocolate.  His nerves were shot.  He over-caffeinated, then tried to quell his nerves with sugar, excess salt, and at night he became thirsty and drank a bucket of water, so much that he could not complete three continuous hours of sleep without needing to use the bathroom.  Whether popping a cork, tearing a box-top, or twisting a lid, once he opened up a container, he could not suspend his appetite.  
A younger colleague, Isaac, encouraged him to exercise at lunch, but Robert found the time outside did not relax him.  The lower lumbar in his back suffered from too many years of sitting on his wallet, and even though the solution was no further than his front pocket, he continued to sit on the lump of credit cards, receipts, and coupons.  The exercise consisted of walking with periods of shuffling.  Isaac encouraged Robert to jog in a manner that felt like continuously falling forward, orbiting the earth at his feet in a shuffle-walk.  The aerobics seemed a bit lackadaisical to Robert.  Isaac kept telling Robert that the next day they would increase the tempo, but they never did.  They shuffled and walked at regular intervals, marking their distance by the telephone poles that lined the road.  While Robert shuffled, he struggled to speak, so Isaac spoke most of the time.  Actually, Isaac spoke all of the time, almost ceaselessly, discussing the far-reaching ramifications of their work, making interesting but outlandish connections between scientific progress and visions of apocalypse in the form of extropians, transhumanists, and the coming societal division of Cosmists and Terrans.  Robert listened to the eschatology with some doubt, but the more he heard, the more some of it began to make sense.  He listened without rebutting, offering no volley to Isaac.  Perhaps if he caught his breath at the end, he might have replied, but a few hundred yards from the office Isaac always said goodbye and ran ahead to stretch his legs out, and that ended their dialogue.  For the final portion of the walk, almost unfailingly, Marshall Ploof and his running partners sailed past Robert as he plodded along the sidewalk.  Ploof, a marathoner, usually put up his left hand as he passed, as if signaling a right turn.  The image of Ploof running ahead gave Robert food for thought, and along with the post-shuffle pain in his throat, a bit of vitriol piled up behind his molars and trickled down under his tongue.  

  Beyond health issues, Robert had to deal with company problems.  After so many years of success, he became a Talbot Fellow, a senior figure in the company, generally powerless, but his suggestions now had weight among the upper classes of Talbot, including Marcus Jovan.  However, another incident happened in a research experiment, under Ploof's direction, that nearly ended Robert's tenure at Talbot.   
 The experiment, a potentially high-profile press release, involved a controversial technique for post-transcriptional gene-silencing, which was expected to work on hemophiliac patients.  Like the infamous failed psoriatic drug test, the preparations and results looked good prior to the day of surgery.  All of the mouse-models surpassed expectations, or succeeded enough that the data argued for the next stage of trials.  
 Robert toured Jovan through the lab to show the equipment and the mice in action.
 Several mice ran on treadmills.  The sight caught Jovan's eye.
 "Are these mice overweight?" Jovan joked.
 "It's a fatigue test," Robert stated.  "They walk until they can walk no more.  Mice with the green ear tag do not have the drug.  The ones with the red tag have received the drug."
 A mouse with the green tag lumbered on the treadmill, unable to keep up with the speed.  
 Jovan said, "Looks like that one is near fatigue."
 "Probably, but not really," Robert said.
 "How do you know when he's done?"
 The mouse stopped running and let the treadmill carry him backwards to the end of the line, where he was dumped onto a flat metal plate.  The mouse squeaked and jumped back onto the treadmill.
 Robert said, "He's fatigued when the shock no longer motivates him."
 "I see," Jovan said.  "Now I remember why I don't visit the animal labs very often.  These contraptions were never my favorite."
 "I'd love it if we didn't have to use them," Robert said.
 Isaac worked under a nearby hood, wearing rubber gloves and holding a needle and a syringe.  Isaac said, "Just don't let PETA down here.  They'll call us killers."
 "They will anyway."  Robert introduced Jovan to Isaac.  Jovan asked, "And what are you doing, Isaac?"
 "Administering the drug."  Isaac reached into a plastic container and lifted out a mouse by the tail.  With the syringe between two fingers, Isaac maneuvered the mouse between his hands to get a grip on the small torso and head.  Robert watched the injection with Jovan, who was fascinated.  
Isaac squeezed the mouse's head between his thumb and forefinger, causing the eyeball to lift outward from the socket.  A thin needle went in behind the eyeball, deep inside, and Isaac slowly pushed the plunger on the syringe forward, inserting the drug into the rodent's brain.  
Jovan said, "I see what you mean about PETA."
"It's either Mickey here," Isaac said with a shrug, "or we test on humans."
Jovan said, "Sad but true."
"If people want drugs," Isaac said, without finishing his thought.
Robert added, "I suspect some companies are still finding their 'mice' in the Third World."
Jovan turned to Robert.  "Like Pelius."
"Absolutely."
Jovan lowered his voice.  "If they are, that's a hell of a competitive advantage.  That would explain their breakthroughs."
Isaac said, "I know I'm out of my league here, Mr. Jovan, but I'm a fan of spy fiction and James Bond.  If we don't trust Pelius, why don't we send some people to work at Pelius, to spy?"
"Who said we're not doing that already?"  Jovan smiled.  
"Oh?  Yes, of course.  Like I said, I'm out of my league.  Anyhow, if such a program does exist, I would like to offer my services."
"Isaac!" Robert scolded, "Do you think Mr. Jovan runs that kind of business, like some kind of government?"
Jovan put his hand on Robert's shoulder and said to Isaac, "Thank you for the offer, but we are not in need of any spies.  But I'll keep you in mind if the need arises.  In fact, I know Pelius has hooks in us.  They repeatedly have inside information on us."
 
Later that day, as Robert walked with his boss down the hall, Jovan turned serious.  
"I'm concerned that your lab is moving a little too fast," Jovan said.  "This human trial.  I need to know that you are completely certain about this." 
Again Robert faced the option of exposing Ploof's continuous push for results.  "I'm one hundred percent on this, Marcus."  He caved in and lied.  "I think the data is there."
"You're not just saying that to fall in line?  To present a united front?"
 Robert said, "Of course not."
 Jovan stared Robert in the eye and then laughed.  "There is no honest answer to that question."
 
 The day of the trial came.  Jovan spent the morning battling with the press over violations found at Talbot by the Joint Council on Accreditation, as well as the NAACP and NOW over personnel issues.  Jovan left behind enough sound bytes to satisfy the hoardes, and then he observed the operation on the first hemophiliac patient, which could make or break the research of Ploof and Lopez.  The patient was a terminal case who had signed his life over to Talbot, scribed and initialed his soul to the company, not in blood, but even worse, in ink.  
The seasoned surgeons and nurses lined up to begin the operation.  They took great care in the preparations, but no matter how flawlessly the surgeons and assistants moved, Robert chewed his fingernails and cuticles down to the nerve endings.  The amount of coffee he drank that morning made his stomach slosh, and his neck felt like vulcanized rubber, stiff from his collar bone to his ear lobes.  His body felt pitted, without a core, and he wanted sugar to fill it.  He wanted chocolate and lipids to restore whatever was missing, but because he opted to observe the surgery within the sterile suite, he wore scrubs and could not leave.  He panicked, like he always did when one of his projects left the bench and entered the game.  Were it possible, he preferred all of his research to never reach human flesh, but to stay safely sealed inside liquid nitrogen and harmless journal articles.  
The operation went according to plan.  The patient even responded well.  However, the fallout came in the follow-up.  The patient lived for another six weeks, making the drug something of a success, but also suggesting that the S24 data presented by Ploof and Lopez was not entirely true.  
The results published by Ploof and Lopez could not be reproduced, and the worst kind of accusation went out across the science wires: dry-labbing.  
The success of the surgery made Ploof's leap of faith an arguable success, but the falsified data from years earlier came back to haunt Talbot.  
Enraged about the data, Marcus Jovan summarily killed the project, giving a death-blow to the relationship between Ploof and Lopez, who could not stand in the same room any longer without wanting to attack each other like wildcats.  
 
There was a meeting.  Jovan wanted both of their heads.  He also wanted the head of Spiro Ling, the most talented but incorrigible scientist at Talbot.  The meeting was a private affair, with no secretary to record minutes.  
 
Jovan spoke in quiet accusations throughout the meeting.  
"There's nothing quite like being lied to by your staff.  Don't think I don't remember the night at your house, Ploof, when both you and Robert looked me in the eye and claimed the results were for real.  But you hustled me, and I defended you.  Now look at us.  The worst part is, it's not you who suffers.  It's the whole company.  Thousands of employees share the burden, all for a single lie to get a paper published."
Ploof said, "We did what we had to do."
Robert seethed. 
Ploof added, "We would do it again if the moment were here right now."
"You would," Robert pounded the table.  "You!  Not me.  I protested, but you brushed it off.  Do not say 'we' when it was 'you.'"
"Don't try to point the finger at me."
Robert pointed at Ploof.  "I will point my finger at you.  I've earned the right to at least have that pleasure.  This is one thing I can do after being trampled for a decade."
"Is that true, Marshall?" Jovan asked.  "Did he object to going forward with the data?"
"Why would it matter now?" Ploof said.  "His silence was a passive yes.  Not once in ten years has he stuck his neck out in the lab.  It's always me that encourages forward progress.  But Robert Lopez is always glad to accept authorship on every paper that goes out.  Make no mistake, Marcus, the lamb sitting next to you enjoys his list of accolades on PubMed.  So tell me, why reward his passive agreements of the past twenty years?  His 'I told you so' doesn't change the fact that we are where we are..."
Jovan interrupted, and let his voice crescendo.  "...we are where we are because of lack of restraint, pursuit of self-interest, putting individuals over the good of the whole.  And it matters because it tells me where the cracks are in this place, where the rats are getting in, where the supplies are leaking out.  It tells me who sets a negative ethic from the top, so that we look second-rate, like shit, and that's why the name Talbot is in the mud!  The ethics training was meant to indoctrinate good practices into the company, but you spit on it.  What kind of example can be instilled into the younger generation if my senior researchers blow it off?"
Spiro Ling said, "I don't think we've blown it off."
"Oh?  Ling - you've blown it all off, point-blank."  Jovan stared Ling in the face.  "You are so far out of bounds right now...I don't even know where to begin, other than strangling you.  You've got balls, I'll give you that.  Your lab is like a God damn chop-shop in some alley.  Your employees flat out appall me.  I'd like to arrange a bus to take them all straight down to the Lincoln Park ape house."
Ling said, "My employees don't need to be insulted."
"No, actually they do.  They do need to be put down, like dogs."  Jovan lowered his voice.  "I've never met or heard of anyone, other than Kevin Warwick, so willing to hook electronics up to his body.  Your employees will probably all die of cancer."
 "So did Marie Curie's," Ling said.  "The employees know the risks of what they are doing.  They are well aware of all that.  Everything is done to further the project."
 "There is no project anymore.  Your project is done, understand?  There is no project."
 Ling laughed and pushed a piece of paper across the mahogany table toward Jovan.  
 "What's this?" 
 Ling said, "A job offer."
 Jovan's eyes widened.  "From Pelius."
 Ploof leaned over to look at the sheet.  He whistled.  "That's a lot of zeroes."  He smiled and Ling nodded.
 Jovan slowly pushed the paper back toward Ling.  For a moment, he did not breathe, but sat silently with his hands folded and covering his nose.  
 "Good," Jovan said.  "Get the fuck out of here, Ling."
 "There's the old Marcus Jovan!" Ploof said.  "Where have you been these past years?"
 Jovan jerked Ploof's chair away from the table.  "You too, Ploof.  I want both of you gone. Go to Pelius.  I'm tired of cleaning up your mess."
 "That's ridiculous, Marcus.  So you're giving Robert a free pass?" Ploof looked stunned.  "Unbelievable."
 "It is, yes, I know.  This is very tacky.  And so is this."  Jovan shoved his chair back and walked to the corner of the room toward an empty Xerox box.  He tossed the box onto the table, where it rolled once and came to a stop on its side.  "There's a box for one of you.  Get packing, and get out of Talbot.  We can take care of loose ends via email, but after today, I will have your badges revoked and notify security to bar access.  Don't worry, I will have severance checks cut by the end of the day."
 Ploof said, "I will be taking this up with legal."
 "Wait," Jovan said.  "Hold on, Ploof.  I have an idea.  Even better than a lawsuit."  
Leaning over the table, Jovan pushed a button on the conferencing phone in the center of the table.  The speaker on the phone emitted one ring, and his executive assistant answered.  The room was silent as they waited to find out what Jovan was doing.  
 "Yes, Cheryl, get me Arrica Pelius on the phone."
 "Arrica Pelius, sir?"
 "That's right."
 The secretary said, "I don't have her number on file..."
 "I have it right here."  Jovan reached for the piece of paper in front of Ling, who tried to grab it away but failed to reach it before Jovan did.  Jovan read the phone number to the assistant, and an assistant on the other end of the line answered.  
 "Hello," Jovan said, "Who am I speaking to?"
 "This is Aaron.  How can I..."
 "Listen Aaron, I need you to notify Arrica Pelius that Marcus Jovan is on the phone calling from Talbot in Chicago.  She knows who I am.  I don't have an appointment, but..."
 Aaron said, "We've been expecting your call, Mr. Jovan."
 Jovan's jaw dropped.  "What?"
 "It's part of the training here, sir.  We've been expecting your call, ever since I started working here."
 All four men in the meeting room looked at each other.  Jovan said, "I don't understand.  How long have you been working there?"
 "For five years, sir."
"What do you mean, 'part of the training'?"
 "It's part of the practice sessions.  I always thought it was a joke, that there was no such person.  It's an ongoing thing here.  If Marcus Jovan of Talbot calls, forward it to the CEO." 
Jovan said, "I'm flattered."  He looked sick.  He sighed and put his hand on his forehead.  "Do you know if Arrica is available?"
 "I will find out right now, sir.  Will you please hold?"
 "Yes, I will."
 Easy-listening music played over the phone speaker, a modern jazz remake of a recent pop hit.  The soft sounds only strengthened the tension in the room.  
 "The gall of Pelius," Jovan said.  "I simply cannot..."  He paused to push mute on the phone.  "I cannot believe that...fucking shrimp."
 "They are forward thinking," Ploof said.  "They're one step ahead of Talbot."
 "Quiet Ploof.  You no longer work here."
 "Then I can say what I want..."
 "And I could murder you," Jovan barked, "and go to prison happy."
 Ploof started to rebut, and tempers flared, but before madness arrested the grown men, the soft jazz ended abruptly and a voice came strong over the phone.  
 "Hello, Marcus?"  
 "Arrica," Jovan said sarcastically.  "At last."
 "Hello?" Arrica said.  "Mr. Jovan?  Are you there?"
 "Hello?" Jovan yelled.
 Robert pushed the mute button to save Jovan any further embarrassment.  
Ling laughed. "That might help."  
 Jovan gave the middle finger to Ling and said, "Arrica Pelius.  It's been a while.  Is this being recorded?"
 "It's been too long, Marcus.  No, I wouldn't dare record your voice.  That would be like recording the voice of God.  To what do I owe this occasion?"
 "Two pimples on my ass, Arrica.  That's why I called.  Two pimples looking for a new home."
 Robert heard the voices of two men laughing along with Arrica.  
 "Oh dear," Arrica said.  "You should see a doctor."
 "Believe it or not, they are both doctors, these pimples.  Both are causing a great discomfort for me.  From what I understand, you already took an interest in one of these whiteheads."
 Spiro Ling said, "Hello, Arrica."
 "Dr. Ling, is that you?  Will you be joining us?"
 "He will," Jovan spoke before Ling could reply.  "He's leaving on the next thing smokin', I assure you.  However, I also have another to offer you.  Marshall Ploof."
 "I might be interested."  Arrica paused.  "Is...Dr. Ploof, is he there?"
 "I'm here."
 Arrica said, "Give me one moment."  
 "Please hurry," Jovan said.  "The irritation is distressing."  
 The voices in the room with Arrica laughed again and then the line fell silent.  
 Ploof said, "Even though this is degrading, Jovan, to be honest, I hope Pelius hires me."
 Robert said, "That's where you belong."
 The line came alive again.  "I'll hire Ploof," Arrica offered, "on one condition."
 "Anything.  You name it."
 "That you consider a buyout option at seventy-two dollars a share."
 "That doesn't make sense." Jovan laughed.  "Better check your math.  Isn't Pelius trading around one hundred?"  
 "I'm talking about Pelius buying Talbot."
 The voices behind Arrica laughed again.  Even Robert had difficulty not smiling at the insult, until he saw how quickly Jovan's face turned red.   
 "Yeah, that's funny," Jovan said with his face flexed.  "So do you want Ploof or not?"
"We'll take him," Arrica said, maintaining composure in her voice.
 "He's yours."  Jovan paused.  "And one other thing, Arrica.  That's the second time you talked about buying Talbot.  You might be wise to be a little more careful with your baby rattle.  You are leveraged debt-heavy right now.  Changes happen quickly.  You could come down with a case of Sarbanes-Oxley or Chapter 11 in a hurry.  Don't think you are immune to the jackals, just because they're currently dining on my carcass.  Make enough noise over there, and they will find you."
 "I doubt it," Arrica said, "but don't worry, Marcus, someday you and I will take down that Talbot sign together."
 "Someday," Jovan scoffed.  "That's right.  Someday over the rainbow.  Talbot will be here long after your office is leased out as a call center."
 "Anything else, Marcus?"  Arrica spoke in a childish voice, pinning another insult on Jovan.
 "No, that's all," he answered bitterly.
 Jovan ended the call, and then told Ling and Ploof to leave the room.  They walked out without saying another word.  On his way out, Ling took the empty Xerox box with him.
 
In silence, Robert remained in the room, sitting next to Jovan and waiting for him to clear the air.  
After several minutes, Jovan mumbled, "What's the name of that young guy who thinks he's James Bond?  The one who works in your lab?"
 "Pardon me?" Robert asked.
 "The one I saw shooting up the mouse."
 "You mean Isaac?"
 "Yeah, Isaac."  Jovan rolled his chair backwards, away from the table.  He stood up.  "Isaac."  Without explaining himself, Jovan ambled toward the door, as if dazed.  He exited the room.
  
Robert sat at the table alone, feeling wind-burnt from the speed of the meeting, and he mulled the words exchanged.  The old boys' club sounded more like a clubhouse of schoolboys than a business of professionals.  
For five minutes, Robert sat there with his hands folded, trying to figure out where to go from here.  Then he heard footsteps coming back into the room.  It was Jovan again.  He pulled the door shut behind him.  
When Jovan turned, his face looked necrotic, gray as ashes.  Robert studied the face of the old man.  Beyond gray, it was whitened, no longer sanguine and bouncy but pallid, shriveled, and wrinkled.  In five minutes, after seeming quite alive in the exchange with Arrica Pelius, he had aged ten years.
"I'm sorry Robert, I..." Jovan looked down at the table.  "I need to be near an honest man for a moment, before I can go back out there.  They were waiting for me.  The press."
"If you are looking for an honest man, then you've come to the wrong room, Marcus."
"No, no, you are."  He sat down and patted Robert's hand.  "You are, Robert.  I've spent enough time reading people to know.  And if I'm wrong, then don't tell me."
Robert asked, "I'm sorry about all of this."
"They are out there again.  I can't handle it right now.  They want to eat me alive.  They never get enough and I just can't feed them any more today."
"Then don't do it," Robert said.  "You have the right to sit it out.  You're in charge here, right?  Where's your publicist?"
Jovan laughed, but his voice sounded raspy.  "I'm in charge.  I'm charged with being in charge, and all that comes with it.  Lessons come hard when they come late."  He laughed, but the wrinkled smile seemed to shatter his face.  
"Did I ever tell you that I was once an idealist?"  Jovan said and smiled.
"No," Robert said, "but to create a company this big, you would have to be some sort of idealist."
"Ha!  That's not true, but it starts with that misconception.  I was a young humanist.  A utilitarian, with the belief that entrepeneurs create the greatest good for the greatest number of people.  I remember my ideals.  I was carrying them in my arms like they were parcels, with them stacked high, and in those days I was walking steady.  I knew I could keep them level, at least on even ground.  But then you take your first step into the gauntlet - say you get your first loan, or charter, expense report, whatever - and that's when the first box topples.  The highest box, the one easiest to drop, falls to the curb.  Then you go a little further, on a low budget, go into the cities, down longer corridors, to better hotels.  Then you go a long ways further, to better-looking wives and girlfriends, the finest dinners and parties, travel three quarters of the year, speaking in data and statistics, subtracting costs from gross income - and then you stop one day and look up, and you don't have to strain your neck to see the top anymore, because you're only holding two or three parcels.  And you wonder: where did they all go?  Where did I drop them?  I don't even remember.  Do you know why, Robert?"
Robert shook his head.
"Because the only way I can live with myself today is exactly because I forgot where I dropped them.  I dropped one the first time I screwed a customer, when it came down to him or me.  That's maybe the hardest lesson for your idea about business, life, fairness.  Whether you are an investment banker or a carpenter building a deck, after getting screwed once, you learn - ideals are for adolescents.  When you can see it coming down to you or him losing, you make your move.  Do you see what I'm saying?"
Robert nodded.  "Maybe."
"Maybe."  Marcus inhaled.  "Me too, maybe.  The parcels I am still holding, or more like clutching, are the ones that have what's left of my soul.  Yes, soul, I've gone from humanist to soul searcher.  The only thing I can say that I've never done is kill a man.  Maybe I can't even say that.  If I have, it hasn't been on purpose.  Everything else on this earth, I've done it, wearing a smile.  I never thought I would be able to say this, but only when I reached the top did I understand dictators and despots.  Never thought I would understand Lenin or Franco, but I do now. I know what thoughts passed through their heads.  Before they took that last step, they must have sat on the fence, but when they let go, they had to forget their past, just to live with what they were doing.  That's the price of reaching the top.  A winner in life has more of a chance to be hated than to be loved.  By common perception, I'm a winner, yet for my victories, I now have reporters outside who cannot wait to rub my name in the dirt.  And then I have someone like young Arrica Pelius mocking my every move.  On top of that, a hundred auditors and bureaucrats crawl up my pant legs like snakes.  Just yesterday a documentary came out with a cartoon image of me.  They had me wearing a bib, eating poison, and spreading evil to children in Africa.  My name is reviled.  I ask myself, why?  Because I took chances.  No, not for that.  I'm reviled because I succeeded!  My American dream, fulfilled, but with me drawn and quartered.  On his fishing boat one day, Dad told me, Take chances, Marcus. Don't ever look back.  I should have stayed in that town in Maine, the middle of nowhere, but I made it to the top, only to be polluted by everyone who can hurl garbage in my direction.  I am the oppressor.  Like I said, I understand the Stalins now, but I feel like Kenneth Lay or Nixon.  A guy works a lifetime to get somewhere and dies miserable."
Robert cleared his throat and patted Marcus on the shoulder.  "You should consider retirement, Marcus.  Why kill yourself with stress any longer?  You've done enough for Talbot."
"Yes, why kill myself."  Marcus tapped his knuckles against the desk.  "I'll tell you why.  For the company.  It's my life.  Ever since my wife and my son left me."  He stared at the wall.  "He's been gone a long time now."
"Do you ever hear from either of them?" Robert asked.
"Oh, I talk to June quite often.  We get together for lunch sometimes.  Believe it or not - she's moved into a house on my block.  She calls on Christmas and my birthday.  She was a good woman.  I made the mistakes."
"Mistakes?"
"Cheating."  Marcus cleared his throat.  "A ten-minute mistake - of great pleasure, to be sure - but an expensive one.  Cheating is the joy that taketh all away.  I wish I could say I was faithful to her, Robert, but being on the road got the best of me.  Oh, why bullshit now?  The road didn't get the best of me.  I got the best of road.  I had a large appetite for women back then.  Obviously, I've had time to get over it, but when my family left, I quit screwing around.  There's one of the great jokes of life - now that I can have everything, I just want my ex and my family.  When I had a wife and family, I wanted everything else."
Robert watched the old man's eyes rise and fall.  Marcus had a doggish look as he spoke about his wife.  Robert said, "I have heard the stories.  You used to be the ladies' man, the story goes."
"For a while," Jovan laughed and then became still.  "But the last one caught me.  She was young.  I drank a bit then, too, but like a European - buzzed throughout the day - not drunk all at once like an American.  It's strange what moments define a man's life.  It's not the ten thousand days you washed the window, it's the one time that you crashed through it.  A few hours define a lifetime in the end.  I was looking for the devil when I met that young woman.  She sat down beside me in a pub and I hired her.  She wasn't the devil, but I turned her into one.  Bartered one of my parcels for a drink and I enjoyed her company in secret long enough to have my fill.  Then June and my son got involved, but I won't tell you about all that.  I remember the morning I woke up to find them both gone.  I woke up lighter that day and scared of my shadow, I think because my shadow knew the betrayal of myself, my son, my wife - my holy trinity that I had neglected.  I hope you never have to know, Robert, how to explain betrayal to your family.  I had unstrung every vow during that time.  I wandered with that parasite for a long time.  It's still eating me.  I tried to believe I was a decent man instead of how I felt - like a fiend, a ghoul, a passionate beast.  Losing control meant losing everything.  I don't blame Jude for leaving and I don't blame the girl.  Her name was Ione.  I was educated about revenge."
Robert said, "What happened?"
"You know, it's one of those things, Robert.  Life is long, I was still kind of young.  Well, I was forty, but that was still young to me then.  I had two loves: my wife and other women.  For a short time, both can be maintained, but two loves never resolve their inconsistencies of pleasures and needs.  In the end, the lasting love lost out.  I had to pick between Hera and Aphrodite.  And when one love finds the other, you lose both.  Ever since then, I've put all of my energy into this company."
"I understand," Robert said.  "That was one of those parcels."
"That was a big parcel."  Marcus nodded.  "Yes sir.  A bad one to drop."
"But you've still got the company."
"Yeah, but the company isn't the same anymore.  All the original plankowners from the early days are gone, replaced.  They took bigger jobs at better companies, and now that Talbot is the biggest, I steal guys from smaller companies.  It's too fickle now.  I sometimes wonder what lives on in a company, other than the name, beyond the common pursuit of science, or rather, money and retirement.  Isn't that the only real common goal of the company, Robert?  Layers upon layers of people at different ages, pushing each other onward in the great scheme for something beyond money, for one goal.  Do you know what the goal of all this work really is? 
"What?"
"To rest," Marcus said.  "The goal is to relax.  That's my ultimate goal.  I want a rest at the end of this ride.  The only problem is that in the end, I will learn that I can't rest.  I still feel like one of the newbies that start fresh each year, charging out of college.  I'm exhausted, but I can't sit still.  Even with my retirement on the foreseeable horizon, no more than five years away, I already know that I can never rest, never, not as long as my mind stays sharp.  A man cannot spend forty years racing to the bank and suddenly be content because the box is full.  No, when you work like a dog, you want to be with the dogs.  It's confusing.  Rest is my dream, but it will be an adaptation I cannot conform to.  If I get into heaven, I hope it's just a place of rest, with special decompression tanks for the ragged souls of businessmen."
Robert sat with Marcus in silence, as if in a spell or drugged, with only a clock ticking on the wall to indicate the world and its markets continued as usual.  Robert did not know what to say.  He had no advice to offer the old man, because his own demons had yet to be exorcised.  The stiff neck, anxiety, poor diet, and ideas about his future - nothing was settled, and the sadness of old Jovan, unfortunately, Robert translated to fit his own disenchantment. 
Marcus said, "I'm going to diversify the business.  I need something new.  You might not believe this, but the board and I have decided to invest in a service industry."
"Service?  What kind of service?"
"Either I'm crazy or on the cusp again, the cusp of something new."  Marcus smiled.
"What kind of service?"
"Restaurants."  
"Restaurants?"
"We're getting hammered right now in biotech.  A stable restaurant franchise is steady money in this economy.  And I want something new, and I'll do something new before I'm done.  Something entirely new.  One more time, something different, something that people will notice."
"Restaurants!" Robert said.  He shook his head.  "That will surprise people.  I'll be damned."
"You won't, but I might be." 
"Or you'll be the sage of Chicago," Robert said. 
"Or the stockholders will tie me to the stake."
Marcus's smile faded into the movements of his weathered and sandpapered skin.  He had divots and spots forming, like old wounds from punctured experiences.  Robert admired him for still fighting in the world.  The old entrepreneur had maybe one more trick up his sleeve.  The longer he looked at the old man, Robert felt pity.  Jovan had just poured his heart out to Robert, who was not much more than an acquaintance.  Robert observed the powerful man rubbing his hands together and staring at the floor.  It became obvious to Robert that Jovan, for all the celebrities, scientists, politicians, businessmen, and foreign VIPs he had met throughout the years, was lonely and without anyone close enough to be his confessor.  Marcus had poured his heart out to a man who was even more lost.
 

Chapter 10. Recon

"Julia?  Is that you?" 
 Standing with her back to the voice, Judith slowly turned around.  She squinted to see across the bar, through the cool blue neon lights that provided the martini-bar ambiance.  
"Dr. Lopez?" she said, pretending to be surprised.
 Robert Lopez smiled back at her, with drooping eyes from martini consumption.  Judith looked up at him in disbelief.  "Robert, what are you doing here?"
 "Having a drink...like you."  Robert bobbed his head and looked away every few seconds, into his glass or the corner of the room.  Because of this shyness, Judith maintained a direct stare to establish a precedent for the night, like a master to her dog.
"Do you mind," he stammered, "if I join you for a bit?"
 "Not at all.  Please do."
 Robert beamed as he rounded the bar.  In his tight brown pants, now two sizes too small, he resembled a sugar cone with an oversized scoop of ice cream.  Sloven Robert, he poured out the sides of his button-down shirt, his tie was crooked, and he looked wrung out and un-ironed, much worse than at the last lab picnic she attended.  
He said, "So good to see you again.  I haven't seen you in a long time, but I remembered the tattoo!  How is Chase Manhattan?"
 "Wonderful."  She laughed at Isaac's final lie to Robert about her career.  "I'm in IT though, you know.  I'm not a banker."
 "Oh, my apologies."  Robert laughed and used his hand wiped some sweat from his brow.  "And how is Isaac these days?"
 "Oh yes.  Isaac."  She paused.  "That seems like a long time ago." 
 "Why?  He only left Talbot a few months ago."
 "Well, he and I..."  Judith looked away.  "We kind of fell apart."  
 "No!"
 "The divorce was finalized six months ago."
 "I'm so sorry.  He never mentioned that you guys were having problems."
 "Well Robert," Judith said, leaning toward him so that he could see her cleavage, "it's not something we shared with many people."  She bit her lower lip and shifted the weight on her hips.  She had tight black pants on and high heels, both of which she made sure Robert could see.  
 "I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry to hear that."
 "Why?"  She nudged him.  "I'm not.  Buy me a drink and help me forget about it."
 For the next few hours, money almost leaped out of Robert's wallet.  He kept her drink full.  They sat together at the end of the bar, away from the crowd and the piano, and reminisced about the past, about their gains and losses.  Judith laughed at all of his jokes.  She put her hand on his shoulder or his knee, just for emphasis.  When Robert drank too much he began talking about his family and his job, which he described as an ongoing crisis.  She took up his hand, once, two times, and held it like a bird between her palms.  
"Oh, Bobby, it's hard, I know!"
 "It is."  He nodded and bowed his head.  
Judith let him take a long look at the V in her shirt while she caressed his bruised ego.  "It's too bad.  At least you know you still have some friends, Robert."  She touched his hair and his neck.
"Thank you," he said.  
They drank until the lights came on, and then tippled their way toward the door.  In the foyer, they bumped into one another, and Judith, hapless, fell toward him, caught herself on his shirt and waited for him to react with his arms, so that he would think he caught her, and producing the desired state, she looked up at Robert's chubby cheeks and his ruddy, untrimmed nose.  For a moment she made no expression, other than giving him a hero gaze, but then she slowly smiled and bit her lip again.  
 She said, "These damn heels," and then pulled herself upward, near his face, staring into his eyes during the approach, and she felt his pulse quicken as she performed a near-miss of his lips.  
He said, "That was close."
"Good thing you caught me."
She hugged him, pressed herself against him, and then leaned her head over his ear and haunted him.  "I owe you one, Bobby."  She looked at his neck.  Below his ear lobe, Robert Lopez had gone from light Hispanic to chicken skin.  She touched his forearm and felt goose-bumps.  
 Robert started to speak but stopped.  "Do you want to..."  
 "Do I want to what, Bobby?"  She suspected crossing the first threshold might be hard for him.  He needed a prompt.
 "I was going to ask if you, ah, need a lift.  A ride somewhere?"
 "Oh, I'm glad you asked, but I don't need one.  Actually, I'm staying at the Best Western all week."
 "Really?  Which one?"
 A yellow light shined in the street behind Robert.  Judith turned his chin with one index finger, and with the other index finger she pointed into the night, tapping as gently as a fairy, showing Robert the Best Western sign.  
 "I'm in town on business."  She laughed and leaned toward him.  "But business is slow, hence the Best Western and not downtown.  I don't have to be anywhere until eleven o'clock tomorrow."
 Robert laughed and leaned toward her.  
She said, "I should go.  I'll be back here tomorrow night."
 "Wait!"  Robert stepped over the threshold.  "Maybe we could hang out yet tonight.  For a bit."
 "I don't know."  She had to end the night prematurely before he did.  "Let's just meet here again tomorrow night."
 "Are you sure?"  He adjusted his pants with one of the side loops.  "Don't you need someone to...walk you home?"
 "Hmm..." she wondered.  "Oh, why not?"  
They walked toward the sign.  She took his hand in hers and asked questions about Talbot, all of which he answered half-heartedly.  When they reached the hotel, he stood like a puppy at the entrance.  
He said, "I should go."  
"Yes, you should," Judith said.  "But meet me tomorrow night at the bar again, ok?"  She leaned forward and kissed him, slowly and on the lips, which shattered whatever willpower remained in poor Robert Lopez.
"Ok."
 As Judith walked away, she imagined Robert rushing home, high and confident as a twenty-year-old, crawling into bed to seduce Rachel.
  
 The next night played out calmer, with more talk about real topics.  Judith led him down the garden path into relationship talk, letting him think she was interested, and then she drilled him with questions about Talbot and the projects going on within its walls, siphoning as much insider information as she could. 
 "Restaurants," Robert said.  
 "Restaurants?"
 "From the mouth of Marcus Jovan himself," Robert said.
 "What the hell would Talbot want with restaurants?"
 "He's a wily old man yet.  It's a venture capital thing.  He wants a high-tech restaurant, to be built from the ground up.  In two months, there's a committee gathering at Talbot.  Everyone in the restaurant business will be there to sell an idea."
 Judith touched Robert's leg.  "Is there...a list of requirements?  A goal sheet?  Maybe a format for submission?"
 "Why, do you have an idea?"
 "Hey!  Are you saying I can't run a restaurant?  I'm just curious.  It sounds interesting."
 "I'll send you the info.  I have access."
 "You have access to everything, don't you, Robert?"
 He looked at Judith's legs.  "Not everything."
 "Is that right?"  She invited him to come back to the hotel for one half-hour.  
He loped alongside her like a Saint Bernard.
 
 Every night of that week, he stayed at the hotel a little longer.  Judith plied him with liquor, asked about Spiro Ling, Marshall Ploof, and learned details about the defection to Pelius.  Night after night, Robert reiterated his hatred for Marshall Ploof, calling him a grandstanding buffoon, and Judith noted that hot energy for future plans.  The only mission of the week was to hook Robert without killing him, to bleed him without eating him.  Everything Robert knew about Talbot, he divulged to Judith, all without ever reaching third base.  Of course he tried, but was called out both times.  At two o'clock in the morning, she sent him away from her door with kisses, like a mother sending her toddler off to school.  
 
 Judith returned to Spain to rendezvous with Isaac, where they could regroup and process the latest information.  
After a morning of study, she went to her favorite location on the beach for lunch.  While she ate, a bearded man walked up and down the beach, drowning in baggy clothing, wearing sunglasses, trudging through the sands of Cadiz in dirty old tennis shoes.  He was a strange sight for such a beautiful day, looking more like an American bum than any Spanish wreck that Judith had seen pass by the tiki bar.  She looked up several times at the vagrant and returned her attention to a book in her lap.  She was reading a light topic, an e-book about gaming foreign exchange currency markets.  But she was not able to read for very long because the shadow of the bum fell over the book, and the aura of fear hovered over her.  
She did not look up, but became hyper-alert and slowly squeezed her hotel keys between her fingers, making herself a set of metal claws ready to lash out, should the bum make a move.  The fear of getting nabbed by an undercover agent gripped her, although she expected that someday it would happen.  It was too soon for someday.
The bum lifted one of his layers of clothing, reached inside, and moved his hand around.  Judith did not wait to find out what his hand searched for.
She lunged forward, swinging her keyed fist toward the man's crotch.  Before the keys could strike, he stopped her hand, but she pressed the threat further against him.  
"Don't move your hand another inch," she commanded, "or I'll puncture you."
"Ay de mi!  Tengo un mensaje, Señorita!"
Judith asked, "You have a message?"
"Si!  Yes.  Por favor, no!"
"Ok, move slow.  Keep your free arm straight out, with your palm facing me, or I'll cut your balls off."
From under his clothes, the bum pulled out a dirty envelope.  He handed the message to Judith.  She snatched it from him and removed the keys from his midsection.  She kept the keys in her hand at the ready position.  
"Puedo salir?  I go away?"
"No, don't leave yet.  Sit down.  I'll buy you a drink."  
The bum sat down at the table.
She tore open the envelope and read the message.
  
"Recall your Longstreet: 'An old man's leg goes bad, and he begins to lean on the other leg.  From overuse, the good leg gets worse, so he seeks an artificial prop - a cane.  He intends to lean on the cane to restore his balance.  Now this old man deserves to suffer; he has led a sinful life.  Although he is weak and is now an easy target, the best way to hurt him is to help him.  Earn his trust.  Sell him the cane.  He will lean heavily on your ware.  Help him fall.  It will snap where you have filed the wood away, and he will fall on his face - all because of his own carelessness.' 
"Dear associates: old Talbot is shopping for its cane right now, in a venture cap, one that is not yet defined.  This is an expensive cane, and your commission is 10%.  Find some enterprising friends.  Then afterward, dissolve, disappear.  Goodbye."
 
It was a job from the Broker with a ten percent tip for a Block, plus retirement orders, all in a single paragraph.  
Judith said, "Is this a joke?"
"Man just say I give you."  The bum shrugged.  He showed Judith a one hundred Euro note, indicating that he received the money for the delivery.  
"What man?"
"Yesterday, strange man.  I go now.  Adios."
The bum stood up and turned to go.  Lost in her thoughts, Judith ignored him.  After going only five steps, the bearded vagrant turned around and said, "Jesus, Judith, didn't you even recognize me?"
She shook out of a daze.  "What?"
Isaac pulled the beard off.  "For crying out loud.  I can't believe that worked.  You're getting soft."
"Isaac?  You moron.  What are you dressed up like that for?" 
 While peeling off layers of clothing, Isaac said, "You've had one too many days in the sun.  Listen, I'm only here for a few days.  Pelius Research is a murderhole.  There's something strange going on there.  And this restaurant thing..."
 Judith said, "I already know about it."
 "What?"  Isaac stopped undressing.  "How could that even be possible?  It's inside information that I gave to the Broker after Robert told me about it."
Judith said, "And I told you I was starting my own network.  I don't know what the restaurant has to do with us, other than retirement.  Sounds like a lot of money."
"More like a crap shoot."  Isaac shook his head and pulled his wig off.  "I don't know about this.  The motives are getting weird.  I pulled two jobs alone over the past three months and they both had to do with Talbot."
 "And now this," Judith said.  "Why does everything have something to do with Talbot?"
 "That's what I don't understand."  Isaac looked out at the water and smiled.  "Don't even tell me."  He stood up and shielded his eyes.  "Is that really the same surfer dude?"
 Judith sighed.  "Yes, it is."
 Isaac laughed and sat down again on the edge of a chair.  "Holy shit.  Look at him.  Look at him out there."  Isaac laughed, clucking his tongue.  
The surfer rode on a tiny wave until it lulled and flattened.  When he fell into the water, Isaac giggled.  
"A Smurf would have trouble with a wave that small."
 "I'm glad that you enjoy the surfer," Judith said.  "I have to read this note again."
 Isaac asked, "Did you have to sleep with Robert Lopez to get the information?"
 "No."
 "Hey, it's cool with me.   Just thought I'd ask."  
 "I didn't, thanks so much for asking."
"No need to get defensive."  He laughed and complimented himself.  "Where did my girlfriend go?  The topless one?  That's why I was asking.  Just wondering if we had an open relationship now."  
Judith ignored him.
Getting no answer, Isaac yelled out, "Waiter, mojito!" and then watched the surfer. 
"The little surfer that could. God am I glad to be out of the Bay Area..."  
He continued rambling, and it became obvious to Judith that Isaac had been working far too much.  He could not stop talking.  
In the few days they had together, Judith and Isaac managed to outline several plans and cancel others.  They agreed to stop communicating for a while, that he should keep working inside Pelius while she took on the restaurant job.  Isaac went back to San Francisco.  Judith decided to start in Manhattan.
 
 Pinned and hemmed in a New York shop, Judith stood on a stepstool and looked down at a notebook in her hand.  The tailor, kneeling at her feet, measured fabric for business suits.  The shop was her last stop on a busy first day.  In preparation for her campaign, she spent the afternoon in a salon getting a new hair style and a manicure.  By nightfall, she was flawless, lint-free, without a wrinkle on her skin or clothes, shining from her hair to her shoes. 
 The notebook in her hands contained the rough draft of a proposal, one that she expected to commit to memory by the time her plane landed in Chicago, and when she arrived, she needed to look sharp, successful, impeccable.  She needed everything to be in order for hobnobbing with the venture capitalists.  Her first goal was to find a supporting cast to help her run the greatest pigeon-drop con in history.  Down to the buttons on the shirts, she insisted on finalizing the selection for every item that she and her team would use in the campaign.
 But having no team, buttons mattered little.  She had two months to prepare a presentation for Talbot, to glom onto an aspiring company, to get estimates on construction contracts, and to make partners with key firms to back up her proposal.  Then she also needed to verify a fence for moving the money safely, even though the Broker usually worked those things out for her.  However, this would be the largest transaction of her life and she used extra caution.  
 The itinerary for the next sixty days included hitting every venture capital meeting and restaurateurs' convention in North America.  It meant flying cross-country every day, doing business on the plane, recruiting and selling an idea, all without her usual sidekick, Isaac, who could not find time to escape the drumbeat of the Pelius laboratories.  She contracted others to work with her instead, business headhunters who located chefs and industry insiders with big dreams of becoming dining magnates.  Most importantly, she needed to partner up with the tech firms to supply the networking and display equipment, which meant making six trips to Austin, Texas to pump the ego of a small company, work them into a fever pitch.  From them, she got a signature on a tentative contract for a few thousand initial units, pending success in winning the deal, as well as the phone number of a bright-eyed executive who was passionate to answer any technical questions that Talbot might have.  
 The entire project amounted to herding cats, chasing diverse persons down and convincing them to do something they would otherwise rather not, persuading them that an opportunity existed beyond working nine-to-five and rushing home to space out in from of the home entertainment system.  She put dollar signs in their eyes.  They had to be wooed, and then flipped over and dominated by an ultimatum.  "Unfortunately, I need an answer by tomorrow," she would say.  "I have other interested vendors, parties, clients, bankers, etc."  She winced, "No, I'm sorry, Thursday will be too late."  
Before Judith left the hotel each morning, she practiced her sincerest expressions while applying her make-up.  Her father wore that face every day of his life.  He was one of them, the greatest of actors, the natural type, who could not wake up without something to sell, born to smile and offer tilt, cruise, and up-sell the protective undercoating for just a little extra.  Judith wasn't certain that she was a salesman.  She had to work at it, practice her comebacks, her parting shots, how to show restraint, and how to smile at "no" and keep selling.  
 Twenty-hour workdays were boosted by ephedrine and nootropics, milder brands of speed, and it strung her out.  After thirty days she started feeling haggard, and finally had to crash on a Saturday night for a full day of recuperation.  She woke up at midnight on Sunday, shocked by the time, and went back to work, making notes for Monday morning, calling Europe, securing bogus references for her work history, and reading leads handed to her from headhunters.  One of her references was the esteemed Robert Lopez, who gladly vouched for "Julia Bentley-Blackwell," her operating pseudonym.  Along with her pseudonym, she practiced speaking intensely articulate sentences, creating her own American version of the Queen's English.  During several anonymous phone calls, she leaned on an accent to impress less-traveled Americans who considered England exotic, and she would introduce herself in an English accent, then pause, and use her actual voice, as if Ms. Bentley-Blackwell has just joined the call, and as if it was an honor to be on a call with Ms. Bentley-Blackwell.  
 When her team seemed to be coalescing, it fell apart before congealing.  At a convention she met a couple, a husband and wife, who ran a restaurant on Long Island with a unique business plan.  The husband was the chef, the wife the financial whiz.  Judith struck up a conversation with them by lying about growing up in Niantic, directly across Long Island Sound from where the diner sat.  
"Small world, huh?"  
By the time Judith unveiled her addition to their plan, the couple didn't know what to say.  The spikes in her charts sloped too sharply for their taste.  They wanted to go big, but stay home.  They were thinking ten or twenty restaurants, and Judith added three zeroes to everything, sometimes nine.  She scared off the small fish, but in some ways admired their cowardice because it saved their lives.
 The next group she gathered together hoped to ramp up a coffee franchise called Pippin's Kona.  Initially, the bankers couldn't hide their excitement at what Judith offered, but in a backroom, through a window she watched them huddle up in a counting room.  They flicked off earnings percentages with their long fingers.  Watching their lips, Judith swore she saw one of them say, "We can patent that ourselves..."  That's when she pounded on the glass, startling them, and shook her head.  The three men looked at Judith and she saw their answer.  It was no good. 
 An offer always lurked in her email from some small-timer, a dreamer who had caught the scent from one of her headhunters.  Wide-eyed pitchmen contacted Judith with a grandiose plan, but never explored anything beyond their single poorly constructed paragraph sent from a cubicle on a whim.  These dreamers were cast out, but now and then she spent several hours reading a business plan from a seemingly responsible source, only to run a background check on the owners' names and find out how much baggage came with them.  Her frustration with her fellow countrymen became a real problem, as not one of them in the younger generation seemed to have a clean past.  Then again, neither did she.
 
 Nor did Ben Longstreet.  On a Sunday, Judith was in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan, at a restaurant chain called The Raclette, which had five impressive locations.  The company had existed for thirty years.  With a terrific and easy menu, they ran their operation like a Fortune 500 company.  Their inventory and accounting practices in place that rivaled the efficiency of Wal-Mart.  Using the Six-Sigma management approach designed by Motorola, they streamlined the restaurant, improving service times, customer throughput, and still managed to give everyone an enjoyable eating experience.  They had plans drawn for expansion, including distribution centers, trucking, and real estate.  The instant rapport between Julia and the owners made a partnership seem imminent, but no promises were made, despite her dire need for an agreement.  She was three days away from the vital preliminary meeting at Talbot, which she was starting to think of as her arraignment.  As the day neared, if there was no contract with anyone, she would be forced to entice the Talbot brass with pure fiction.  
She dined with the Michigan men and women at The Raclette restaurant in Sault Saint Marie.  Halfway through the meal, Judith noticed several pictures hanging on the wall.  
 She asked, "Are these celebrity photos?"
"Sort of," one of the owners said.  "Local celebrities.  Mostly hockey players.  There's Phil Esposito and his brother, Tony.  Gretzky ate here once.  There's our skier, Brigitte Acton, who went to the Olympics.  They were all born across the border, but you know...we think it's close enough to claim.  We talk the same, ya know?" 
 Judith said, "Yoopers."
 "Proud to be Yoopers."
 Judith looked around.  "And who's that over there?  Edmund Fitzgerald?"
 "I wish," the man nearest the picture said.  "Probably nobody you've heard of.  He used to come in here from time to time, but we haven't seen him in years.  He's a writer.  Ben Longstreet?"
 "Oh?"  Her heart jumped.  "You mean, he lives nearby?"
 "He lives about thirty klicks into the woods, southwest of here.  Pardon my saying so, but he's off his rocker.  The last time we saw him, he came in wearing a surgeon's mask, worried about the SARS virus.  Supposedly he has some germ phobia, or fear of the outdoors, one of those deals."
 "Interesting."  Judith stirred her Coke with a straw.  "Does anyone ever go see him?  I mean, like reporters, or...fans?"
 "I don't think he has any fans.  Did he ever?  I don't think he's published anything for a long time...fifteen years or more.  Maybe he has, but he is more of an embarrassment around here after he turned radical."
 Judith nodded.  
 "He's our U.P. Unabomber," another owner said.  "I wouldn't want to go into his house.  They call his house Hatter House.  He named it that."
During the remainder of the meal, Judith itched to leave and drive out into the woods to find Hatter House and Ben Longstreet.  After parting from the entrepreneurs on good terms, she drove her rented Lexus southwest from the diner as far as the roads took her.  She stopped at a country gas station for directions, where she got the third degree and confused looks before getting an answer.  Clearly, Longstreet hadn't hit it off with the locals, nor would Judith, nor did she care to, because they, like everyone and everything else in her path, were stepping stones for the cause.   The people did not understand anything yet, which is why she dedicated her life to helping them realize the stakes.  
 
 In the deep woods, where mosquitoes thickened, Judith parked the car in front of a dingy cabin.  Bugs swarmed the light bulb that hung over the door, but through the darting shadows she read a wooden placard that had the word "Hatter" crudely chiseled on it.  She approached with caution and knocked three times.  A loud stumbling sound came from inside, but was followed by silence.  A long silence.  When she pressed her ear to the door, she heard a clicking, a whirring, even a two-toned hooting that sounded like a toy train or an intermittent tea kettle, all coming from inside the house.  Standing on her tip-toes, she tried to look in through the small window on the door, but a curtain blocked her view.  Voices started to murmur, and soon they rose in volume until it sounded like a full-blown argument had erupted inside.  She started backing away from the door, when suddenly it burst open, and there stood a grizzled man in a bathrobe, holding a drink, and scratching his rear.
 She said, "Are you...Ben Longstreet?"
 "Jeremy Gaveston.  Who the hell are you?  What government agency?"  
Before she could answer, another head appeared in the door, peeking underneath Gaveston.  A hand appeared with a Popsicle and it went into the head's mouth.
"I'm Longstreet.  Are you with the FBI?"  He looked into the yard.  "No, you're dressed too nice and driving too nice of a vehicle for that.  You're someone else.  Lost, perhaps?"
"I'm KillJoy," Judith said.
"Ow."  The Popsicle fell onto the dirty stoop.  Longstreet's tongue lolled out of his mouth.  "Ow.  Oh Jesus.  I bit my tongue."
"Who's this?" Gaveston asked.  "One of your casual encounters?  Wrong sex, no?"
"What?"  Holding his tongue, Longstreet mumbled, "Who's she!"  He let go of his tongue.  "Get out of the way, Gaveston, you bag of waters.  Have you read nothing I've written?"  Then to Judith, he said, "Come in, my dear.  Oh, you must be a spy, no?  Did Pazzo send you?"
"Pazzo?" 
"Yes, he's a strange-looking fellow.  Looks like a beaver.  Every time I see him I want to put a piece of wood in his mouth and take a picture.  Sound familiar?"
"I don't know," Judith stammered, unsure about how to reply.  "I've never seen a beaver..."
"Well, that sounded convincing!" Longstreet said.  "Good enough for me.  Maybe you aren't a spy."
 Entering Hatter House, Judith looked around like she had entered St. Peter's church, in awe because this man wrote the most influential book of her life. But awe quickly degenerated into confusion.  The whirring and hooting she heard through the door came from an overabundance of cuckoo clocks that covered every wall from floor to ceiling. The clocks made a maddening sound within the house, as one bird cuckooed every ten or fifteen seconds.  None of the clocks appeared set to the correct time, nor specific to any time zone.  
 Longstreet said to Judith, "You've noticed the clocks.  eBay.  I love that site." 
 She asked, "You collect them?"
 "That's right.  I bought every one that I could.  Careful!  There's broken glass on the floor over there.  Gaveston refuses to clean up his errant tosses.  I refuse to clean it up, and so does he.  It's been a year since that bottle broke.  Yes, my clock collection grew slowly at first, but then a German souvenir collector sold all of his clocks in a Dutch auction on eBay.  I didn't know that I was supposed to wait to bid because the price falls until some sucker jumps in.  I bought everything at the opening price.  Gaveston keeps reminding me of the royal screw, but look at this place now.  Isn't it fantastic?"
 Judith nodded.
 Longstreet said, "It's done wonders for my anxiety.  I can't even think while these clocks are running.  My daughter said I needed to stop thinking.  Now I can't concentrate on anything."  A cuckoo sprung out near Longstreet's face.  "Bless your little wooden heart, friend."  He stroked the bird twice before it was sucked back into the clock.  "Can I get you something to drink?"
 Not wanting to consume anything in the house, Judith said politely.  "No thank you." 
 "Popsicle?  I only have grape flavor at the moment."
 "Tempting, but I'll pass."
 Gaveston sat down in front of a small black and white TV.  Whatever he watched, the reception was terrible.  Wavy black lines blocked most of the screen, but he sat in front of the TV unbothered by the static.
 Longstreet offered Judith a chair at the table.  "Let's talk.  Speak quietly, dear Blocker.  Are you a real-life Blocker?  I've never met one, you know."
 She whispered, "I've memorized and followed the book my entire adult life, Mr. Longstreet.  My partner and I."
 "You work with someone?"
 "Usually.  Not now."
 Longstreet grabbed her hands.  "Are you the ones?"
 "What do you mean?"
 "I won't make you say anything.  You have enough regret by now, I'm sure."
 "Not really," Judith said.  "Regret has never been a problem for me.  Not since the first time."
 "Spoken like protocol.  Amazing."  Longstreet squeezed her hands.  "To think that you exist at all is like watching a cartoon character come alive.  And you look so nice, just like you should.  What kind of Blocker are you?  You're an operator, yes?"  He looked her up and down.  "Obviously not the familial Blocker.  I know you don't have any replicants with that figure."
 They sat at the table and spoke for several hours, amid the cacophony of clocks and Gaveston's snoring.  The answers she gave to Longstreet's questions skirted the truth, but she could tell he read between the lines.  In subtle ways, he mentioned San Francisco, Brio-Nano, and other places where she carried out jobs, but she held off from admitting her involvement.
 At the end of the third hour, Longstreet asked, "And what are you working on now?  You could just whisper it to me."
 "I'm not sure I can do that."  The invitation to talk tempted her.  With only three days to go before the first meeting at Talbot, she still had no entourage enlisted to present to the panel.  She thought that maybe the old man had his own network of contacts, something for her to tap into for the project.  Perhaps the cuckoo clocks affected her, but she began to tell Longstreet about the plan, all of the details, from start to finish.  While she spoke, he looked like a child hearing his favorite storybook.  Not once did he interrupt or show any expression but listened with utter fascination.  She almost laughed at his wide-eyed gaze.
 "You can practice your pitch on me."  He nodded with bright, moist eyes.  "I would love to hear it.  I would love to. You can speak here - we just had the house cleared of bugs and microphones.  But do it quietly."
 At the table, she performed her entire pitch to him, and when she finished she realized that she now had the entire speech memorized.  Longstreet stood up and applauded, hooted along with the cuckoo birds, and sat back down with his hand on his head.  
 "It's brilliant.  It's terrific!  I think you can get them to bite.  It will be a headline, a shameful, shameful headline.  What a way to retire.  It's brilliant."
 Judith nodded half-heartedly.  "Thank you.  But there's a problem."
 "Of course.  Of course there is."
 "I need people to go with me on Wednesday.  I need a presence in the room.  If I go alone, I'll feel like I'm going to my own execution.  The Raclette might be my best shot..."
 Longstreet again grabbed her hands.  "The Raclette?  You mean...the one up the road?"
 "The same.  But they are not on board yet.  I have two days to convince them."
 Longstreet rocked in his chair.  He looked determined, or perhaps like he was passing a stone.  "I will help you."  He peered over his shoulder at Gaveston, now passed out in the chair.  "The Doctor will help, too."
 Judith looked at Gaveston.  "Mr. Longstreet, no disrespect, but I'm not sure that you..."
 "Tut!"  He waved a hand around wildly.  "Contact us as a last resort.  We can be what a politician might call a stop-gap solution.  Just in case, I will book tickets to Chicago."
 Judith said, "I thought you never left the house anymore."
 He stood up, looking regal in pajama bottoms and a frayed t-shirt.  With a bare Popsicle stick waving in his hands, he said, "For the cause, I will go outside."  He threw the stick at Gaveston, where it struck his forehead.  
 Gaveston woke up and turned his head.  The coaster that served as his pillow was stuck to his face.  "Wha...?"
 "You can count on us."  Longstreet extended his hand to Judith.  
 "Thank you."  She shook his hand.  "If I can't get The Raclette to sign, I will call."
 
 In the following two days, she did everything but offer her body to the owners of the Raclette.  They were gracious businesspeople, good people, too good and too prudent to rush in.  They were cautious, sensible, hard-working people, not quick to sign anything, happy to discuss things for too long, and get approvals from spouses and kids before taking on anything big.  The whole culture of Sault Sainte Marie had this reasonableness that made Judith twice as desperate to get them in the room with her at Talbot.  They were the perfect background wallpaper for her pitch, especially once she dressed them in the suits she expected them to wear.  Were it not for the accent, they spoke well, and she considered training them to say a few words without the northern concavity.  It was a nice accent, fine for conversation, but she knew that some people would reject it on first sampling, simply because of its flavor.  
 But they did not sign.  
 
They said, "There is always time," and told Judith about how their parents started the restaurant and took time to raise the business properly.  Judith smiled at their polite way of declining.  The answer was still no, which forced her to contact her last resort, the woodland freaks of Hatter House. 
 

Chapter 11. Pitch
 

 In downtown Chicago, in a waiting room, Judith tapped her shiny shoe and looked at her silver watch as she waited with Ben Longstreet for Dr. Gaveston to arrive.  Over her head hung a sign, one that said simply everything: Talbot.  
"What the hell is he doing?  Where is he?" she hissed.
 "He's in the bathroom," Longstreet said, cowering and trying to settle Judith with his hands.  "He's still changing.  He'll be out in a minute.  Ah!"  Gaveston emerged from a door down the hall.  "There is our chef now!"
 Judith regretted turning around.  Gaveston wore a puffy chef's hat and had a strange scarf tied around his neck.  Gaveston looked like a mix of the Pillsbury Dough-Boy and Chef Boyardee.  Judith closed her eyes and opened them again.  
 "What is this?" she asked, with rising anger.  "What are you wearing?"
 Longstreet covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.  
 "My grill attire, of course," Gaveston said with flair.  "I'm a chef."
 "You're not a chef, Dr. Gaveston.  You are only acting like a chef for the next thirty minutes."  
When Gaveston walked toward her, he tripped on a piece of uneven carpet.  
"Oh my God," Judith said. "Oh-my-God.  Have you been drinking?"
 "A little."
 "It's nine o' clock in the morning!" 
 Gaveston waved a hand in front of his nose.  "Merely vodka."
 In disbelief, Judith said, "Merely!"
 "Merrily!" Gaveston snorted.  "Yes, the same unscented ambrosia that propelled me through the world of medicine for so long.  It's the liquor that incurs no prejudice for my handicap.  The world reviles my terrible disease, this watery joy.  I am a liquid leper.  A modern pariah, all for the afterglow of ethanol.  But quite seriously, vodka keeps my breath from stinking and brings me closer to my fellow man."
 Longstreet corrected Gaveston.  "It's called chronic halitosis."
 "Alas, it's true," Gaveston added in histrionics.  "I suffer that malady, along with mine bouts of ketoacidosis."
 "When he wants to be," Longstreet said, hoping to assure Judith, "he can be quite an artist.  A thespian, if you will.  He wrote a poem once.  It was very short.  Four lines.  Recite it for her, Gaveston."
 Gaveston nodded. "It's an uplifting ditty, to say the least.  Here goes:
 
Ignorance is bliss.
Let's burn all the books.
Solitude is bliss.
Kill everyone."
 
 Gaveston bowed. 
 "And there it is!" Ben said, applauding.  "Gaveston's overdose of hope for everyone."
"Oh shit," Judith panicked.  "This isn't going to work.  I'm going to have to go in alone.  I made a mistake.  Oh my God."  She rubbed the sides of her pants and folded her arms nervously.  "I'm going to have to make up an excuse."  
 "No excuses," Gaveston said.  "I am le chef today!  I minored in drama."
 "He did," Longstreet said, nodding.  "He acted in a play once."
 "Minored in drama?"  She looked Gaveston up and down.  "And majored in consumption."
 "Summa kahlua latte."
 "Very nice, Doctor," Longstreet said.  "You are nearly a white Russian.  You should drink vodka more often.  You look good today, or better then usual anyway."  Ben fixed Gaveston by adjusting the chef's scarf.
 "Looks good?"  Judith ripped the silly hat off Gaveston's head and held it at Longstreet's nose.  "He's wearing a puffy hat!"
 "Oh, I meant his complexion," Longstreet said, tying off the scarf.  "He's usually puffy all over, particularly in the nose.  If you look closely, Julia, those burst vessels in the tip of his schnozz will remind you of a Manhattan transit map."
 Gaveston asked, "May I have my hat, please?"
 "Do you really think," Judith said, squeezing the puffy hat in her hand, "that a chef dresses like this when he's not cooking?  Even if he is cooking?"
 Longstreet and Gaveston looked at each other.  
Gaveston shrugged.  "I would."
 "I just cannot - cannot believe you drank before you came here today," Judith said in disgust.  "Are you under the control of alcohol so much that you can't refrain for one hour of your life?"
 "You don't understand, Miss Bentley."  Gaveston cleared his throat.  "Drinking doesn't control my life.  My life is controlled by drinking."
 She squinted.  "What the hell are you talking about?"
 "I'm saying," he repeated, "that my life is not controlled by drinking.  No, my life is controlled by drinking."
 "Isn't that the same thing said backwards?  Never mind!  Christ, I'm getting sucked into his vortex."  Judith threw the hat to Gaveston and placed her hands on her hips.  "Ok."  She sighed.  "Fine, put your clown suit back on.  Here's what we'll do.  You're coming in with me, Gaveston, but you don't speak English, understand?"
 "Oui."
 "And you don't speak French either, so don't try.  Please, don't try to speak French."
 "Actually," Ben popped up between the two of them and said, "he does speak some French."
 "Well, so do I," Judith said, whirling her neck violently between the two fools, "but we're not going to pitch American businessmen in French, are we now?"
 "She's right," Longstreet said, nodding like a schoolboy rebuked.  He whispered to Gaveston, "Maybe just a light French accent...nothing too strong."
 Judith sighed and held her breath.  "I am not taking a fake frog into that room, do you understand me, Dr. Gaveston?"
 "Ja."
 "That better not be German."  
 "Nyet."
 "I will hurt you...do you copy?  Have I made myself clear?"
 She stopped talking when the doors to the conference room suddenly opened behind her.  
 
A panel of Talbot employees and consultants covered the entire rear wall of the room.  As the previous presenters filed into the hall, all with a dejected look, Judith picked up her stack of glossy booklets that were printed that morning with updated facts, graphs, and diagrams.  The only point missing from her presentation was the most important thing: the name of a restaurant.  
 She inhaled deeply as she reached into her pocket and pressed a button to begin recording the meeting, hoping to make a tape of her pitch and use it to convince The Raclette owners to sign on with her.  In the door frame, she felt somewhat hopeless entering the conference room with the noxious Gaveston.  
 Fifteen pairs of eyes looked up at her, eyes surrounded by taut skin, fresh haircuts, power ties, silk suits, pitchers of water with beads of sweat running into pools beside heaps of glossy presentations already pitched, black leather chairs, dark walnut tables, and fifteen feet of lush purple carpet between her and those steadfast eyes.   
 The pile of paper in her hands felt heavy, but for a fleeting moment she froze.  The weight in her hands grew heavy and she feared dropping the stack.  Were it not for Gaveston saving her, she might have lost them. 
"Madama, may I azzist yoo with these?  J'aiderai." 
 A French accent after all!  The buffoon!  
She answered him, "Yes, Pierre, please hand these out."  When he took the stack from her, he said, "Merci."  However, now cornered in the room, she had no choice but to play along with Gaveston's fantasy, and the decision to work with the fool instead of against him actually eased her tension.  The weight of paper passed from her arms to Gaveston, and before the first presentation touched a desk, she started warming up the crowd.
 "I understand that I have thirty minutes, is that correct?"
 "That's correct," the moderator said.  "Do you need PowerPoint?"
 "No, thank you.  I never use it."  She tugged on the sides of her suit jacket.  
 "Really?  Everyone else today has used it."
 The unscripted question heated her neckline as she tried to decide whether to answer sternly, jokingly, or both.  The time for hesitation and options had ended when she entered the room.  
"I'm a minority on this one," Judith said, "but I find PowerPoint is a distraction.  I always feel like we look too much at the screen instead of each other.  I prefer facing customers, clients, and colleagues.  With PowerPoint, I end up standing sideways.  I can't tell if I am getting my point across."
 At least a few of them smiled, which encouraged her to keep going.  
 "Let me get started.  Page 1.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am Julia Bentley-Blackwell, and this is the representative of my restaurant, Mr. Pierre Gobbo dans la Pâte."
 Gaveston bowed and returned to a proud standing position.  "Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs."  
 "The company is called Grams.  We have spent the last several months coordinating a business opportunity specifically for this day and no other, seeking to match your profit expectations with a viable investment.  In other words, we are not out pitching every venture capitalist in the country, listing toward every open ear and hoping to score the next big thing.  We're not calling retired uncles and college buddies at credit unions looking for a loan.  We are looking for this opportunity.  Only this one, or none.
 "With that background, you are sure to wonder why.  Why would a restaurant business care where the money comes from?  I'll tell you why.  In fact, everything I'm about to tell you answers that single why.  For starters, Talbot is the right company for this idea, because when Talbot does something, they do it differently.  They don't produce what others produce, simply because it is en vogue.  No, they take a good stance, a methodical approach, and knock the ball out of the park.  Now, restaurants have enjoyed a period of steady growth over the past twenty years.  This demand is due to many factors, which I will not repeat, since I suspect my predecessors have hammered that point home already.  But given the trends in increasing amounts of both diners and restaurants, uniqueness is an absolute essential to success, thus we find this idea suits Talbot, a place of ingenuity.  If we wanted any overseer who projected earnings using nothing more than an Excel spreadsheet, taking 'earnings times two' at the end of each year, we might have pursued a place like Pelius."
 Eyebrows went up around the room, and several people laughed out loud before catching themselves.  Judith did not smile at all, but waited for them to regain composure.  
 "I would love to stand up here and tell you all about the restaurant, the good people, the great menu.  Yes, our restaurant has thirty years in service.  Yes, we have top-notch management.  But believe me - you will hear all of that later.  My concern is how many times you have heard that same pitch today."  She walked to an edge of the panel and measured a stack of presentations using her fingers.  "How many times?  One, two, three, four...how many centimeters tall is this stack of presentations, Mr. Sampson?"
 The eyes on the panel followed Judith and she saw several of them shifting in their seats, which was a good sign. 
 "I brought only one representative from the restaurant with me today, because we know that today makes or breaks the pitch next week, and we have one idea to get across today.  No, it is not Pierre's outfit.  I tried to talk him out of that costume, but Gobbo is Gobbo.  No, I'm here to talk about a new paradigm.  We formed Grams as a corporation in this year in Chicago, Illinois in response to the following market conditions.  One."  She held up a finger.  "Lifestyles in North America have become increasingly transient, separating friends, family, and business associates at greater intervals and distances.  I would bet not a soul in this room lives in the same town he or she grew up in.  Two.  Emerging technologies and high-speed internet have allowed for three-dimensional image transmission over long distances.  Three.  A new segment of the restaurant market will be created in the 21st century using advanced imaging techniques.  Four.  The standards set forth by the Internet II consortium have enabled massive transmission and videoconferencing capabilities, and the equipment for it is already available.  Five.  For the past thirty years, North Americans have dined outside of the home more every year, and the trend is likely to continue with social networks becoming increasingly extended.  Ladies and gentlemen: Grams and its associates are intent on inventing, seizing, and owning the virtual dining industry, in effect driving a new market segment. Over the past few years we've spent time studying designs to bring the long-distance dining experience to life. This presentation is a result of that study."  She paused.  "I would expect to see some eyes roll at this point."
 The crowd chuckled quietly.  She took a quick inventory of faces.  A few leaned forward, a few back, but she clearly had the attention of everyone in the room.  
A man asked, "Can you repeat that?  Did you say 'virtual dining'?"
 "Yes.  The restaurant market is ready for a new experience.  The main goal of Grams is to create a restaurant experience for diners using available three-dimensional conferencing, to give an unparalleled connection between separated family and friends in the major cities of North America, for starters anyway. Through the use of emerging technologies currently not being exploited, we will accomplish this goal.
 "I say again, Grams intends to offer three-dimensional conferencing for diners.  Let me explain that statement.  This concept offers our customers something that has never been offered before.  We call it holographic dining or virtual dining, interchangeably.  We are seeking a service mark and rights for this idea.  I will now tell you why Talbot might take an interest in the idea.  Holographic dining is available nowhere else in the world.  It is technically superior to any other restaurant experience.  It is a visionary idea that will appeal to everyone who grew up with a smart phone.  It offers a near-flesh link to friends and family, and beats the pants off a phone call.  It saves customers time, saves money, saves space, saves travel.  It doesn't save the airlines, but it makes Talbot money.  It will enrich the bonds of separated associates and unite people.  It will excite the media and keep customers wanting a repeat experience.  Over the past two decades, there has been a continuous increase for connectivity in people's lives. The advent of cell phones, picture phones, social networks, digital images and instant uploads has given the public a higher capacity to be closer to home, so to speak. To us, naturally the next step in the evolution of this connecting process is real-time imaging. Moreover, the venue of a restaurant supersedes other locations as the optimal application for this imaging. A restaurant offers intimacy that cell phones, static pictures, and flat video do not.
"So now you are wondering just what is holographic dining?  Another way to describe it is three-dimensional dining, since a true hologram has not yet come to fruition in our world of rapidly advancing digital imaging.  For all intents and purposes in the public eye, a hologram is a three-dimensional image transferred from one node in space to another.  A hologram is the image of classic science-fiction, Star Trek, and we feel the technical distinction need not be made of the difference between true holograms and three-dimensional video.  We expect the public to be disinterested in the tedious technical debate about what a hologram is and what a hologram is not.  As long as the customer feels like his family member is nearly-in-the-flesh, sitting across from him, as far as he knows, it's a hologram.
"I will now describe how we intend to accomplish this task of holographic dining."  She tugged her suit flat once again and resumed.
"As far back as 1996, companies have created methods of transmitting video images over large-pipe internet connections in real time.  In addition to this remarkable technology, several companies in the imaging industry have created transparent screens that can display images in multiple dimensions.  In proper lighting, the setup will allow a person sitting across from the screen to view the image in three dimensions, as if the projected person was actually sitting across the table.  The screen is not visible; only the image of the person can be seen.  Please open your books to page two and you will see an example of this.  Also, in the appendix, you will find many more pictures of working prototypes.  If you are like me, they will amaze you.
 "While this seems like science fiction, it is certainly not. Companies in Texas and California accomplished this years ago. The possibilities of this technology are clear to us at Grams. There is a virtual need for this to be used in restaurants, in an intimate environment. There will soon be an expectation from customers that restaurants offer this option to diners, such that Grams and its associates will set the standard, right out of the gate.  
"Now, in addition to the basic transmission of video images that will be displayed in 3D to the viewer, we have conceived various other goals for holographic dining to be researched and plugged into the working model over time. Some examples of preliminary alternatives for this technology include not only virtual dining but also the following items.
 "We have the ability to project clothing onto your virtual image. If you arrive at Grams in a simple button-down shirt and slacks, your image in the connecting restaurant can be fitted for a black-tie ball using video technology that responds to every movement. 
"Dining with your favorite celebrity is now possible. We plan to seek agreements with popular personalities for Grams to store their personal digital images on file so that fans and admirers can go out to dinner with their idols, for a fee, with royalties for the performer based on their hit count at dinners. In addition, we would seek clips of classic stars that can be retrofitted to Grams video for the adoring public to enjoy, so that diners, to use an example, could possibly have a night out with Marilyn Monroe and Frank Sinatra. 
 "We can hire one musician for many venues. From a single live performance in one Grams restaurant, every restaurant in the Grams network will have the same transmission being piped in visually and musically, giving the diners a consistent atmosphere for their moods, conversations, and overall experience. 
"Holographic menus are a reality. Using Holotouch technology, patented, Grams will have a menu that appears to float over the table. This will also have interactive capabilities through infrared sensors so that orders or requests can be placed when a waiter or waitress is not immediately available. 
 "Grams believes very strongly in technical, financial, business and moral excellence.  To secure a stable future for all those connected with Grams we have set a series of goals.  In the beginning, our market segment share will be one hundred percent  The present market for virtual dining is zero.  It does not yet exist.  The advantage will be ours to lose.  How can we keep it?  By decreasing costs for equipment through large vendor contracts that others cannot currently achieve.  Also, we can increase productivity by using intelligent reservation system and adhere to schedule to keep customers moving in at designated times.  Along with this, we will maintain state-of-the-art accounting system for careful tracking, produce daily reports on financial status against the industry and community, support company involvement in various local and national charity events, and celebrate promotional events on all holidays, festivals, and major sporting tournaments.  The possibilities can be endless with a creative staff."
For another twenty minutes she spoke, setting her hook in the panel.   She paused and looked at the faces of the panel and witnessed a very different ensemble from when she entered the room.  Stony no more, the faces smiled and nodded, bobbed up and down the line, save a few who appeared to be taking notes.  The moderator started to applaud.  The rest followed his lead, ensuring a callback for the second meeting.  Over the clapping she heard someone ask, "What's the name of the existing restaurant that you will use for the business model?"
 Before Judith could answer, she heard the chef speak.  
"Zee name of zee restaurant?  Zee name eess...Za Raclette!"  
 Judith gave a warm expression and a nod to the panel, but in her mind she was dicing and boiling the glib Gaveston.  
 

Chapter 12. Broker and Blocker
 
 Lucas convened an impromptu hallway meeting with Marshall Ploof and Spiro Ling, the Talbot defectors.  
"Gentlemen," Lucas said, gripping each man's hand, "you have access to the databases and the Memetic Calculus files are on your desks."  He added, "Pelius Research is at your disposal.  Whatever ideas you need explored, pushed to their logical conclusion, run into the ground, believe me, we can speed it all up for you."
 "Terrific," Ploof said.  "That's what was lacking at Talbot.  Management with vision.  They didn't believe in our work."
 "If I were to hire people," Spiro Ling said, fishing for the right words, "who want to partake in the experiments..."
 "Are you referring to implants, Dr. Ling?" asked Lucas.
 Ling nodded.
 "You will be pleased to know that we have volunteers for that sort of work."
 "Fantastic," Ling said, and his face brightened.  "And it's cleared with legal?"
 "Of course," Lucas answered.  "The Feds won't catch us napping, not on paperwork.  It's all well defined in our volunteers' contracts.  We have signed documents, initialed by fair witnesses."   
 "I feel like a weight has been lifted off me," Ploof said.  "Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened.  Mr. Perth, I have one other question.  I have a young researcher who I worked with at Talbot, a good fellow named Isaac.  He's expressed interest in coming to work with me here."
 "If you want him, he's hired.  Just say the word.  The accountants may cringe, but the Pelius wallet is open for you both, but of course that's because we expect great achievements from you.  Your reputations precede you, but we want to see them become a legacy."  
 
 The two plunged into their work, just as Lucas expected they would.  He visited them often, without micromanaging their labs.  It was not his role to oversee the daily activities, but Lucas noticed eyes in adjacent labs staring out at him like dogs in car windows.  They seemed to wonder why there was special treatment for the new lab.  In the mornings, Lucas stopped by Ploof and Ling's growing lab and took coffee orders.  He sent one of his secretaries to Seattle's Best and sometimes for lunch as well, all to keep the lab at work.  During the day, he corralled other scientists into the lab to meet the amazing Ling and the charismatic Ploof, hoping to funnel ideas into aggressive minds, minds that Talbot had swaddled and smothered for too long.  
 Special briefings occurred every evening for the members of the new lab, briefings that introduced Ling and Ploof to every outlandish GRAINer theory under exploration at Pelius.  Secretarial trips to the coffee shop occurred late into the afternoon as well, with Ling drinking coffee right up until he left the office at ten o'clock in the evening.  Ploof and Isaac stayed almost as late as Ling, but no one worked as late as Lucas.  He sometimes never left his office because he could not sleep in his quiet apartment.  
The nearness of Lucas's goal inflamed his motivation, but none of his actions were done with enjoyment.  He had a anxious compulsion that urged him to keep pushing.  When he did sleep, in the small hours of the morning, he went to bed grinding his teeth about Talbot, and the alarm that woke him was the same thing: hatred of Talbot.  Time, ticking time, the bane of his existence, reminded him of lost opportunity, and never of where he was but where he expected to be, wanted to be.  The goals he planned to accomplish each month took lifetimes, and therefore he pinned himself down in an unstable, miserable process of forever catching up to his plans, racing after the deadlines, making daily, weekly, monthly, five, ten, and fifteen year project plans on the Gantt charts engraved inside his skull.  An ordinary project manager rarely has time to live in the moment, because every release piles new issues on the old ones, but Lucas's soul was already standing at the end of his larger goal, looking down with red-hot disdain at the steps his body still needed to take.
 His management of the research and development made Pelius a global name.  Moreover, he somehow managed to keep R&D under budget, which, given the breakthroughs and inventions, amazed everyone inside the company and on Wall Street.  Even with all the success, he stayed out of the public eye, letting Arrica own the spotlight.  He enjoyed his autonomy because he and Arrica spoke only when business demanded it.  Other than the weekly meetings and the mandatory reports he made directly to her, she did not invite him into her office any longer.  She nicknamed him "Gollum" because he stayed away from natural light, stayed holed up in either his office or in the Pelius labyrinth of top-secret research labs.  A rumor also reached Arrica that Lucas never looked in mirrors.  She asked Lucas if it was true. 
 She asked, "Are you a ghoul?"
 "I think you mean vampire."  Lucas laughed.
 "Are you a vampire?"  She smirked.  "Is that why you grew the beard?  To hide your fangs?  Will you be recognized?"
Lucas laughed at it all, not caring because he knew that, yes, he was looking for the precious, that one discovery that would make them the Apple, the Microsoft of the age.  That was why he focused on the lab of Ploof and Ling.  In Spiro Ling, Lucas saw his own personal Newton, his Einstein, his rope for the final climb into the ivory towers of history.  Still on the rise, he foresaw no fall, no impediment to his ultimate victory.  Potentially, Ling meant the demise of Talbot. 
One of Lucas's only stumbling blocks came from straight-laced Basil Jackson, the nuisance of progress, who continually demanded the same things that customers sought: to look inside the back rooms of Pelius.  Basil went to bat for disgruntled customers, and rather than simply pay lip service and offer to "look into it" for the customer, he actually followed through.  And he was deaf, deaf to what Lucas told him.  Basil came back time and again, requesting the same thing, once for Axon, then IBM, then Johns Hopkins, then Genentech.  
"They want more information," Basil would say.  "The feedback is unsatisfactory," he would complain.  "They are not a happy client and it's my job to make them happy, to satisfy their requirements."
Now the most powerful account manager at Pelius and Arrica's lapdog, Basil enjoyed a certain amount of clout, and with a squeaky-clean background, Lucas saw no end in sight to Basil's climb.  One of the executive secretaries alluded to the idea that Arrica might step aside as CEO and insert Basil into the top position, which would be a devastating blow to the progress of Pelius.  He would have rules stuck into every nook and cranny within the first week.  In his spare time, Basil sat on a board for the definition of Artificial Ethics, a cause that intended to instill ground rules for future artificial intelligence systems.  Basil, that earthy dolt, would be pleased to satisfy every dissatisfied client, and thus employ the bureaucracy that would be the death of Pelius.  If Arrica knew nothing else, she understood the need for the buffer between the clients and the magic behind the curtain.  
 
A day spent in the lab of Ploof and Ling was like a day at an insane asylum.  Whenever Lucas walked in, it was like he caught a bunch of kids torturing small animals.  But it wasn't animals they abused.  It was their own minds and bodies.  One day he walked in and saw three lab techs drooling and walking into walls, as if lobotomized, drugged, or mentally handicapped.  When he looked at the employees' arms, he suddenly understood why the lab policy required long sleeves.  On the three zombies' forearms, Lucas noticed several USB ports sticking out.  They bumped into the walls, slurred their words, and shuddered from shocks, while attempting to describe what they were feeling to other lab members who observed and took notes.  After witnessing it, Lucas isolated the lab, posted additional security guards around the building, and kept it all quiet.  More times than he could count, Lucas reminded Ling that human tests could be done in another location, secretly, yet Ling's people continued testing on their own bodies.  They outsourced a few of the crudest experiments, but some of the most galling tests they still did right there in Dublin, California.  
Lucas understood why Talbot fired Ling.  He was equal parts genius and madman, and appropriately, Ling's idol was the famous inventor, Nikola Tesla.  Ling kept a poster of Tesla in his office and also named the project "Tesla."  Perhaps Mr. Tesla would have approved of Ling's adaptation of the Memetic Calculus theory into a full-blown application.  
Ploof hung around Ling like a vulture, and Lucas enjoyed watching how Ploof started adopting Ling's characteristics.  One week after Ling put up his Tesla poster, Ploof bought one, too.  
 
On a Wednesday morning, the day of the weekly staff meeting, Lucas sat in Arrica's office with the rest of the Pelius upper management.  Arrica arrived at her office ten minutes late.  Lucas and other managers waited impatiently for her.  Basil walked in directly behind her. 
"Sorry I'm late," she said, "but the charity auction began this morning.  I expect you all to make an appearance today."
An account manager said, "That's going to be tough with meetings all day."
"No, you must pop in, if only for a minute.  And buy something, too.  It's for preemies..."
"Crack babies," a salesman joked.  
"Yes, them too."  Arrica chuckled politely.  "Ok, let's get started.  Let's look at the reports.  Let's keep it crisp."  
A slideshow started to run, showing six different charts on the first page.  
"Those look the same as last week," Arrica said, "am I right?"
"Very slight changes," Basil said, "hardly worth mentioning.  It was a steady week."
"Next slide.  I see a spike in South America.  What's going on there?  Who is rocking the boat this time - Venezuela, Bolivia?"
"Strikes in Ecuador."  A woman in the corner of the room piped up, holding a pencil in the air.  "A slight disruption in contracts.  Too many lefties."
The members of the meeting began to speak freely.
"What happened to big oil?  Can't they control that?"
"Not like they used to."
"They've lost their edge."
"You mean they can no longer assassinate whomever they please."
"Mercs are harder to come by these days."
"That's what you think!"
"Mercs?"
"Mercenaries."
"Nothing wrong with mercenaries.  They are the cornerstone of modern warfare."
"Let's stay on track, people," Arrica said.  "Next slide."
"Cash flow is going to be a problem soon."  
"What's the story there?  Finance?"
A financial analyst pushed up his glasses.  "It's hard to find cash when we are buying up every company on five continents.  We're running dry.  You said six months ago that we'd stop borrowing or issue more stock.  It hasn't happened, and my hands are tied with the banks."
"Fine.  Fine, we'll get an infusion from somewhere."
"From where?  We keep getting infusions.  Is this a business or a hospital?"
"Is there a difference?"
"Unless you have a billionaire dying to donate, times are getting tight."
"Basil - find us a Howard Hughes."
 "Why haven't the stock analysts devalued us yet?"
"Good question.  Lucas?"
"Why would I know?"
"We're still riding the wave of late adopters who invested.  The Google effect."
"Next slide.  Major accounts.  Who torpedoed Hitachi?"
"Ms. Pelius, I regret to report a major issue in the account.  They are, to say the least, very upset."
"Has the relationship gone sour?"
"Hmm...well..."
"If you're still speaking to them, it's salvageable.  Basil - you help her on it."
"It's pretty sour."
"Sour milk or sour grapes?"
"Grapes."
"No big deal.  It's raisins instead of wine."
"What's the issue?"
"They are getting hammered on steel, and global construction isn't what it used to be."
"I miss the good old days."  
"Slide. Slide.  Next one.  Next.  Stop.  Something looks different here."
"I know what you are going to ask.  This chart is in Euros, not Dollars."
"Since when do we show numbers in Euros?"
"To satisfy our Paris office.  They want to assert that they have some power, but rest assured, they don't.  I put up a fight and let them think I'm irked about it.  But they want to speak Euro."
"Good cop, bad cop?"
"Pretty much.  That's a good way to describe it.  I fought it, and then I recruited a mediator that owed me a favor.  They wanted more, and for all I care they can have the victory.  But now I have a nice compromise in my pocket for when something comes along worth fighting for."
 "Good work."
 "If you just go to the next slide, that one is presented in dollars."
 "Fine.  Fine.  That looks normal."
 "It's the right slope anyway.  Straight up."
 "That's beautiful."
 "Slide."
 "Recruiting."
"Wow."
 "Grad students are knocking the doors down.  The enrollment lists are fat.  We even have volunteers."
 "What a change.  I remember when you were waiting outside of professors' doors at office hours."
 "Don't remind us."
 "That's just great sales."  
A round of applause echoed into the skylight over Arrica's office.
"FYI: drinks tonight on Sara's houseboat.  Don't bring anything, she already has drinks and catering.  Right, Sara?"
"You're all invited."  
"Slide."
"Risk management.  Dismal as ever."
"It's unfortunate that you guys always follow the recruitment slide."
"Several new lawsuits have been initiated."
"A sign of success."
"Hyenas always want the lion's scraps."  
 "Let's not discuss these lawsuits right now.  Let's take them offline.  Do you have time tonight?"
 "We'll be working here until around seven o'clock."
 "That's it?  You go home at seven o'clock?"
 "I'll stop by.  Lucas, you'll need to go over this stuff, too.  Let's get together around 6:30."
 "I can't.  Not until after eight o'clock."
 "Eight-oh-one, then.  Figure out amongst yourselves who's doing the briefing."
 "Then we'll go to Sara's."
 "Let's just meet on Sara's boat?"
 "Great idea.  We'll crash the party with legalese."
 "Do you have a pontoon we can use for meetings?"
 "I have a thirty-foot sailboat."
 "Only thirty?"
 "Slide.  Project plans.  Is the box full?"
 "Yes and no.  It's getting rearranged today.  The auditors found two dead-end projects and we have to reorganize.  That means re-slotting a few projects.  But our XP guys are picking up the slack.  They have ideas for the next six years."
 "XP?"  
"The 'extreme programmers.'"
"What a name.  Fuckin' geeks."
"Am I the only one that suspects that there is a meth-lab somewhere down in that basement?"
"They don't know the first thing about lab equipment.  Otherwise, I would suspect it.  I think it's just plain old coffee.  Bad coffee, too."
 "Do they ever sleep?"
 "Do you?"
 
 
The Ploof and Ling lab was in full operation, and the new kid, Isaac proved a key player in several high-test situations.  Several months passed before Lucas managed to meet Isaac.  The laugh lines on Isaac's young face made him amiable, a pleasure to speak with, but Lucas tried to get under his skin and find out more about him.  During his third meeting with Isaac, Lucas asked about Talbot.  
"They are slow, sluggish.  Past their prime," Isaac said.  "The idea-well is running dry over there."  
Lucas said, "They are feudal.  Old fashioned."
"Is that feudal or futile?"
 "Both."  Lucas laughed.  "But now tell me, did you ever get to meet the old man?"
 "Who?"
Before he could say the name, Lucas had to clear his throat.  "Jovan.  Marcus Jovan."
"Once.  Once he came through our lab, making a rare appearance.  I never saw him other than that.  It's the worst job in the company - CEO.  Who would want to be CEO?  You'd have to hate yourself just to pursue it."
Lucas gritted his teeth and smiled.
 "It's thankless," Isaac added.  "They always say shit rolls downhill, but it starts at the top.  The CEO has to dole out the shit, meaning he touches it all.  He's a shit broker.  Kind of like another Broker I know."
 "Oh?  What kind of Broker?"
 "Jobs.  He's a technical headhunter, so to speak."
 "A headhunter?"  
 Isaac stared at Lucas, and Lucas looked away.  Isaac continued, "But I'm happy to be away from Talbot.  I would like nothing more than to see that company crumble.  To me they represent the old military-industrial complex.  I'm not some bleeding-heart.  I just don't like making people like Marcus Jovan rich."
 "Amen."  Lucas smiled.  "If we could only extract the greed gene."
 "Sorry," Isaac scoffed, "but that's kind of funny."  He leaned forward, "That's like saying, 'Let's undo Western Civilization.'  Greed is our way of life.  We've got to impress our parents, starting with Achilles and Aeneas - that's our pedigree.  God forbid we learn to relax." 
 Lucas said nothing.  
 Isaac stared at Lucas and continued.  "It's like saying, 'Let's stop doing research.'  And then where would we be?"
 "I'm not sure," Lucas mused.  "Happy?  Content?"
 "Is that a word?  Never."  Isaac crossed his legs.  "Contentment would kill us all.  Comfort is only a break between wars."
 Lucas squeezed his thigh upon hearing the quote.  Even though he knew the source, he asked Isaac, "Is that a saying from somewhere?"
 "It's a quote," Isaac said, raising his eyebrows.  "Yes, from an old book, now almost unknown."
 "Try me."
 "A writer named Longstreet."
 Lucas hesitated and looked away.  He could not read Isaac or the context.  It was a first in a long time where Lucas felt at a disadvantage, but he gambled.  
"I know that saying, too." 
 Isaac seemed surprised.  "You've read it?"
 Lucas leaned forward on the table and whispered.  
"Are you testing me, Isaac?"
 "Excuse me?"  Isaac straightened up. 
 "Who do you work for?"
 "I don't understand."
 "No?"  Lucas gambled further.  "KillJoy."
 They stared at each other.
 Lucas reached to a radio behind him, turned it on and increased the volume.  A disc jockey spoke and introduced the next song.  Lucas put his arms on his desk.  "Isaac, I have to ask you something.  Have you ever driven a Chevy Silverado?"
 "Have you, Lucas," Isaac said, with his face solidifying, "ever popped into the IRC Artilect Terran Room?"
"I might have," Lucas said, laughing and then becoming sarcastic.  "I might have.  But before you get too cozy, let me quiz you with a story problem."
"Please do," Isaac said. 
"Imagine," Lucas said, stretching his arms and acting disinterested, "that you live in a place where a street gang - better yet - a neo-Nazi organization is on the rise.  As an upright citizen, of course, you oppose the skinheads out of principle, as do a gross majority of your neighbors, yet nothing is really being done to stop them.  Sure, a few people have started a movement against these thugs who bully and intimidate everyone, but it's only a few wimpy intellectuals, who make good arguments, but can't quite articulate the problem to the masses.  Are you with me so far, Isaac?"
"I am."
"Now one day, on a drive home from the grocery store, you witness an incident.  An innocent father is walking down the sidewalk.  A group of skinheads steps into the street and starts harassing him.  They block the street, forcing you to park.  Even though you can't believe your eyes, they start beating the man.  This is unprovoked violence and ostensibly an outrage to decency.  One of the skinheads swings a chain.  One punches with brass knuckles.  It's awful, vicious, unwarranted.  It's an abomination to justice.  While you sit there in your car, gripping the steering wheel, you see the man crying out, fighting back but unable to stop the barrage of blows. His shirt is torn.  They drag him around on the blacktop.  You can see his back covered in abrasions.  Red lines circle his neck, leaving marks where the chain struck.  His voice cries out, 'Help!'  Now, Isaac, seeing all of this, what would you do?"
Isaac sighed and itched his nose.  He looked out the window and then back at Lucas.  "I'd finish it," Isaac said.
 "You would break up the fight?" Lucas asked.
 "No.  What good would that do?  You said that I dislike the skinheads, correct?"
 "You abhor them," Lucas said, acting disgusted.
"Then I would finish off the innocent man by driving over him.  Then I would go home and shave my head and tip off the police with a skinhead threat.  At that point, the police would arrive and I would be shouting and making a scene when the cameras arrived."
 "Good God!" Lucas said, holding his mouth open.  "Why on earth would you do that, Isaac?"
 "Because I am opposed to the skinhead movement."
 "That seems counter-intuitive," Lucas said, now smiling at Isaac's response.
 "It's quite simple, but I think you already know, Lucas.  My side, the anti-skinhead side, needs something to rally around.  There is no rally point like atrocity.  Consider the alternative.  Breaking up the fight and tattling to the press?  The only thing that stopping the fight would accomplish is to prolong the skinheads' time-in-service.  If the only thing on the news is a beating, then the gang could keep intimidating people for years.  No one cares about a streetfight in a rough neighborhood.  No, people need to see bright red in order to be outraged.  They need a martyr for motivation, a Christ figure, a Saint Stephen, a Matthew Shepard to jump-start the movement.  If your enemy is an extremist, then you become the enemy, sacrificing yourself.  You do something that sickens even them and puts a spotlight on their camp.  It takes a martyr and a villain to boil the political emotion and turn the tide toward righteousness."
 Lucas could not hide his enjoyment of hearing the answer.  "But the police..."
"They must catch me for the act to succeed.  Of course, I would provide defiant drama.  And once caught, I would claim to be the leader of the skinheads and they would deny me.  I would make incendiary remarks to the media at every opportunity, calling on all skinheads to do more violence.  Then my side, the masses crying for justice, would oust the skinheads in my city within a week.  They would become a blip in time, ruined by their violence against decent people.  If you wait for the skinheads to perform a truly brutal act, it might take forever, and then you sit in a perpetual state of fear over a small group, a ridiculous group that controls your streets.  Living in fear of a few bullies, who rule with their ideology and reduce human beings to mice.  That's what's unacceptable.  There is no shame like the shame of living in fear on your own street.  Letting thugs have control - that is the real atrocity.  Unfortunately, the skinheads don't want any real power and therefore they are nothing to be concerned about.  They've been Blocked since 1945.  They are nothing to worry about.  They can now be easily Blocked."
 They sat looking at each other in silence.  
"Yes, I've read the Manifesto," Lucas said.  "Just a couple of times.  Do you recognize this?"  Quoting Longstreet verbatim, Lucas recited, "'In a spiritual sense, we are in a mess.  Our minds have drawn us away from God's breast.  If he made us in his Image, then perhaps it was his plan, for the son to grow up and look like the Man.  Now we are studying the cosmic and the quantum, journeying toward the end of our labored quest.  In these final days, with all the years smoking behind us, these Anno Dominoes in fumes, we are nearing the dregs of all that's left; thank you very much, sirs Einstein, da Vinci, and Hume. Solving for all unknowns and satisfying your need to explain the magic to those of us who were still in awe, we have lost the essence of life, the uncertainty that makes the human alive and not a machine.  Yet once you finalize the ending, once you stand on your unified holodeck, please do not share the 'meaning' of life with the rest of us before your transcending - just leave.  Just go transhuman silently.  Find your domain on whatever plane.  Because for us, when all that's left is answers and reasons, when we have gotten our girl at last, I fear that we will soon become bored with how dry her mystique is, once we have made nude her past.'"
 Isaac showed no expression.  
"Yes," Lucas said, "I know Longstreet."
 "Very nice," said Isaac.  "That's impressive."
 "You've done a lot of work for me, Isaac.  You and your partner.  What's her name?  She's a she, right?"
 "No comment."
"I assume she will remain anonymous."
 "Most definitely."
 "That's good."  With his teeth firmly set, Lucas nodded.  "Very wise of you.  Yet it concerns me that you've come searching for me."
 "But I haven't, Lucas.  This meeting is merely serendipity."
 "Serendipity," Lucas said, smiling, but then leaning in toward Isaac, he spoke with intense placidity.  "Don't play me for a fool, Isaac.  You broke the rule."
 "I broke the Broker.  By accident, Lucas, you can be sure," Isaac said, adding a short laugh, apparently not intimidated.  
 "It would be advisable," Lucas sneered, "to never speak of this."
 "Oh?"  Isaac said in disbelief.  "This is too good.  Too good.  Are you really threatening me about consequences?  Do you actually believe that I need instructions on silence, after all the jobs I've done?"  
 "That's very true," Lucas said, relenting now that Isaac had taken the bait.  He was aware of a threat.  "How true.  Don't get me wrong: I'm not threatening you.  I'm just making sure we read each other.  Of course, any mishaps and, well, then we have some issues..."
 "I read just fine, Lucas.  But now that I'm here, I might as well ask you about something.  My partner and I would like to know the big picture."
 "I'm sure that you would," said Lucas, folding and unfolding his hands, "but it's not for you to know."
 "No?"  Isaac scratched his chin.  "You don't think so?  We've made you a lot of money.  Some of the jobs were strictly money jobs."
 "Venture capital.  I had to give you operating expenses."
 "I understand that, but not all of that money was earmarked for Blocker operations.  The last few jobs were expressly against Talbot.  I'm starting to wonder, now that I know who you are, if the objective is merely a corporate grudge.  If you used my partner and I for anything other than the plan outlined by Ben Longstreet, we will be displeased.  Then we will have a grudge.  And this final job you have us working on.  Restaurants?"  Isaac held out his hands in disgust.  "It's a lot of work.  And we'll both be burned for it.  Everyone will know who we are.  We won't be safe."
 "Unsafe?" Lucas scoffed.  "You'll be rich and retired on an island of your selection."  Lucas brushed off one of his sleeves with his hand.  "Like you've ever been safe.  That's funny.  We've been on the run for almost twenty years.  I can tell you this, Isaac..."
 "Please do."
"Surely this will interest you.  We are going to make the collapse of Enron look like babycakes."
"That's hard to imagine.  Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling are two of the greatest Blockers of all time."
"Yes, but they didn't know it.  So was Harry Truman.  The difference is that we know it and they didn't."
"Lucas, just tell me one thing: is the goal to take down Talbot?"
"Partially.  There is more to it.  Believe me, the books are cooking, but there will be more to it than that."
"Well," Isaac said, holding up his hands, "that's the type of thing we'd like to know.  It's nice to get a little feedback, that's all."  
 "I know what you mean."  Lucas smiled.  "It's a hard business we've chosen."
 "I think we'd have an easier time crashing Pelius," Isaac offered.  "I mean, this Ling operation is just the type of freak show the media would love.  This thing could be presented in a terrifying manner, I am talking anarchy.  One major spill here and we'd have a thousand TV tomcats lapping it up..."
 "No!" Lucas snapped, hitting the desk with his knee.  "Talbot goes down first.  Then Pelius.  One at a time."  He smiled and regained his composure.  "You're bright, Isaac.  I admire your work and your ambition.  But one at a time.  You've done so much for the cause already.  One at a time.  Let's not rush like a bunch of burning savages.  We'll bleed them quietly, one at a time, tire them out, watch them get dizzy...and lead them to the cliff."
 "Of course, the proverbial cliff."
 "Don't worry.  While they fall, they will feel the knife in their back, but they won't know where it came from."
 "Nice."
 

Chapter 13. The Wretched Bliss
 
 A silver Cross pen poured out royal blue ink, slowly, elegantly, and in large strokes on a contract printed on cardstock paper.  The signature spelled out the Treasurer's name, Judith's operating name.  
 Julia Bentley-Blackwell.
 After she signed, Judith stood up and handed the pen to the next person in line: Marcus Jovan.  One lawyer stood behind the desk and watched every person sign.  On his left was another lawyer.  The grandeur of the moment in the Sault Sainte Marie restaurant made Judith think of the Pennsylvania State House on a hot day in 1776.  
 Jovan signed the paper and handed the pen to the next person in line, one of the owners of The Raclette restaurant, which would be rebranded as Grams.
 At a table in the rear of the restaurant sat Ben Longstreet, Dr. Gaveston, and Ben's daughter, Marie.  The owners of the Raclette organized a free party to celebrate the marriage of companies into a long-term agreement under Talbot's supervision.  Grams, meaning Julia, would act as the the medium of exchange and comptroller of all funds.  Accounts were arranged with Credit Suisse.  One account, however, Judith failed to mention to her partners, and that was the one she setup in Uruguay.  
 After Judith's initial pitch to Talbot, she brought the audio recording of her presentation back to Michigan and played it for the owners of The Raclette.  The speech conveyed to the owners the excitement of the panel at Talbot.  By the end of the presentation, the owners were ready to sign.  Judith did not let them listen to Gaveston's comment at the end of her pitch.  The great chef, Gaveston, retired after the meeting, before Judith could fire him.
 When she found a minute, after the signing ceremony concluded, Judith worked her way over to the corner table.  As she approached, she heard the tail end of their conversation.
 "I think this mug looks a little dirty," Ben Longstreet said.  "Don't you think this mug looks dirty, Marie?"
 "Dad, it's supposed to look that way."
 "Then I like my mugs like my evenings.  Dirty."  
"Like your tobacco and boys," said Gaveston.  
"Damn you, viper of - oh, hello, Julia!"  Ben ignored Gaveston when he saw Judith approaching.  "Ms. Bentley-Blackwell, so nice of you to drop in.  I'll ask you.  Do you think this mug is dirty?"
"If it is, don't worry."  Judith sat down in a vacant chair at the table.  "They will have all new equipment, including mugs, at the grand openings in New York and Los Angeles."  Judith winked at Ben.
"Oh, yes, the grand opening."  He laughed at her comment and smiled.  "Yes, of course!"
"Nice to see you out of the house again, Ben.  And Gaveston - is that merely vodka in front of you?"
Gaveston picked up the glass and in one slug, drank it all.  Judith watched in amazement.
"Water," Gaveston admitted.  "Ben took up the outdoors, and I quit drinking.  Marie finally got her way."
"No, it was your choice."  Marie laughed and nudged Gaveston.  "The only thing I did was help dump out the liquor on the lawn."
"There never was such a consecration of earth," said Gaveston.
"We now live on hallowed ground," Ben commented.  "A ninety-proof Gettysburg."
 Judith noticed Ben looking over her shoulder at the ensemble of Talbot men, the owners, and the city administrators of Sault Sainte Marie, who mingled over the table where the signing occurred.  
"A historic moment, eh?  A turning of tables.  Bankrupting a Dow Stock, that's impressive."
Judith rolled her eyes.  "That's not my motivation, Ben.  Have some discretion, please."
"Maybe a little?" Ben prodded.  He held his thumb and index finger one inch apart.  
"Maybe a little," she admitted, "but not really.  I'm long past the stage of feeling disadvantaged."
"I bet."  Ben rubbed his hands together.  "Oh, this is rich.  Another beautifully worded legal pile of paper, but this time for a new kind of extermination, one to foist the foister, to trick the trickster, and pull the rug out from unbridled science.  There is that old bull, Jovan, eating from the trough of the world.  But then, he's already been snuffed."
Judith looked over at Jovan.  "Why do you say that?"
"Ask Marie."
"I went on one date with Jovan," Marie said.  "No one ever asks me about my research, just that one stupid date with Marcus Jovan.  I was working as a consultant at Talbot on a few projects and he and I got along.  I had to meet with him for business purposes and then we went on one date.  He's a decent enough guy."  She looked around at the doubting faces.  "Really, he is!"
"Why do you say he's 'been snuffed'?" asked Judith.
"It's a strange story."  Ben answered for Marie.  "I used to get emails and letters from anonymous people telling me strange things about industry information, as if I were the Blocker or the Broker to solve all their problems.  One letter came in with a story about Jovan's son.  Allegedly, Marcus and Junior were sleeping with the same woman."
"Really?" said Judith.
"That's what I heard, too," Marie agreed.  "Then the kid disappeared.  Well, he was eighteen.  Not exactly a kid."
"That's the story," Ben said.  "Imagine, a man like Marcus Jovan being peeled like that.  That must have been a mess."  Ben laughed.  "Look at the old bugger's face.  Those wrinkles didn't all come from business deals gone bad and market fluctuations."
Along with the others, Judith looked at Jovan.  Earlier she had been face to face with him, but now that she looked again, his eyes seemed sad.  Throughout the day, Jovan acted terribly polite, to a fault nearly, but always like a gentleman.  He had a grandfather quality to him.  What seemed before as dancing eyes now looked doggish and lost, moist from some kind of pain.  She could not look away from him, even as Ben continued to speak.   
"What a story.  The son also rises, you know what I'm saying?  The son apparently goes down, too, on daddy's mistress."
"Dad," said Marie.
"I'm sorry," Ben said.  "I apologize to you, too, Ms. Blackwell, you modern Squanto, translating between the whites and natives here today."  
"Oh goodness.  Dad," Marie scolded, "I can see you are starting to get excited and silly.  I think it's time to take your pills."  Marie looked at Judith.  "He gets like this, just saying whatever comes to mind."
Marie produced a prescription bottle from her purse, but could not get her father to sit still.  She put her finger in his mouth and tossed the soothers onto his tongue.  
"The ice is breaking up."  He swallowed and then said, "This flotilla of wretched bliss.  Julia, you are the jackhammer."
"And you are a jackass," said Gaveston.
 "To hell with you sober, Gaveston."  Longstreet threw his napkin into the Doctor's face.  As he grew excited, Ben's hair became a mess, although he did not touch it at all.  He became electric.
 "Wretched bliss," said Marie.  "How nice." 
 "It is!  That's what life is," Ben said, vibrating in his seat.  "Awake or asleep, we're always under the ready fangs of wolves.  We were once helpless and perfect until they made us run.  We are dumb in a dark and jumbled deep woods, entangled among burdocks of misery, brambles of rent, canopies of debt, sloughs of age, and weeds of expectations, always, always being hunted for what we owe, sniffed out by our fear, stared down until we pay and turn away.  To survive it, we run, we flap wildly in an old pursuit that keeps innocence permanently endangered.  And time goes by, degenerating our minds.  Time!"
 "Dad," said Marie, "stop talking while you swallow the pills or you'll choke."
"By attrition.  No, perforce," yelled Ben.  "We begin to believe the stories set forth by our rulers, mutating what as innocents we knew was true, blinding ourselves with a coerced fiction.  Even if we know another way, in the woods, we someday relent and come to believe what is shoved into our face like a...a..."
"Sausage?" said Gaveston.
"No.  Like a telescreen.  Only a few, like you Judith," said Ben, ignoring his detractors, "can cut through the jungle and show us another way.  Because of you, now and then a new idea sinks in its teeth into the old guard, and whatever you hold as the truth today, will become tomorrow's apostasy.  The world is a cool quicksand.  I tell you it is a wretched bliss!"  He banged his fork and knife on the table.
 "For goodness sakes, why are you so agitated?"  Marie grabbed her father's wrists and held his hands down on the table.  "This is not a Munich beer hall, this is Michigan."
 Ben asked, "Are you comparing me to Adolf?"
 "Yes, Dad.  You are an extremist and a nut."
 "All you need," Gaveston said, tapping his upper-lip, "is a little moustache."
 "It would be better if we kept it quiet here," Judith said nervously.  "Don't scare off the investors."
 After a moment, Ben calmed and leaned back into his chair.  A waitress walked by, and Ben said to her, "More coffee, please."
 "Decaf, please," Marie whispered to the waitress. 
 "Decaf keeps the old man quiet, is that it?" Ben fumed.  "Damn the decaf!" 
 "I think maybe you need a walk," Marie said.  "Let's go walk along the locks."
 "Time to walk the writer."  Gaveston laughed.  
 "I will not be quieted when I can see you stifling me.  That's the only truth I see."
 "You can't handle the truth," Gaveston needled.
Ben's face became outraged.  He paused and leered at Gaveston, like an alien species sat across from him.  "I know less about truth," Ben said in low voice, with a constant crescendo, "than any man, deservedly, since I went seeking for it, with conviction, doggedly, to tame truth, to nail it down.  For truth, I was dying of a thirst and being offered nothing but a life of dry oatmeal and bad whiskey."
"That sounds delicious," said Gaveston.
"Let's not provoke him," said Marie, "please."  
"But I'm not provoking him," Gaveston argued.  "After ten days of delirium tremens, I would love to have oatmeal and whiskey.  Unfortunately, my head is starting to clear."
Ben was in a faraway place, talking to no one, and loudly.  
"Ok, it's time to go," said Marie, frowning.  
Judith nodded at Marie.  
The dysfunctional family began to push Ben out of the booth and strongly encouraged him toward the rear exit.  Before Ben raised his voice any further, Judith distanced herself from the members of Hatter House.  As they dragged the old man to the door, he continued snarling and snapping.  
"From these stakes of truth I could never rip free, and after some time I stopped wanting to be free, as the leather of my skin..."  He paused to grab his coffee from the waitress, which the waitress had poured into a paper to-go cup.  "Thank you, dear."  He slurped quickly and yelled again.  "These layers of gristle on my neck quelled me, quieted me, and - wow, this is delicious, and decaf?  A hint of vanilla and biscotti.  Now where was I?  Oh yes, gristle...quieted...let me think."
"This is nonsense."  Marie apologized to everyone in the room.  
Gaveston yelled as he left the building, "Vive La Raclette!" 
The scene brought a laugh and a shout from the investors and businessmen.  The owners took the blame for Ben Longstreet.  Judith overheard descriptions of Longstreet as "our resident madman" and "the worst-kept secret in Sault Sainte Marie."  The outburst entertained the Talbot men, and drew no suspicion toward Judith.
 
She moved toward the center of the room, toward Marcus Jovan, who smiled and spoke with a few of the locals who were dining at The Raclette.  She approached him, eavesdropping as she mingled with other members of the ribbon-cutting party.  She began to admire the old man the more she watched him.  Like a politician - one of the rare ones - Jovan sat and talked with people, leading Judith to wonder what the future might have brought to Jovan, had his family not fallen to pieces.  She wondered if it was the loss of his family that made him likable, brought him down a notch, and turned his nose downward, toward the earth instead of the sky.  The reputation of Talbot soared under Jovan for many years, despite recent setbacks, which all dealt with accounting and ethics issues.  
When he stood up and said goodbye to the locals, Judith noticed a natural look of nobility, if there is such a thing, rising with him.  Obviously, based on his accomplishments, Jovan had talent and charisma, but she wondered if he had virtue.  Judith broke away from a conversation to intercept Jovan.  On her way to catch him, she doubted her right to judge the virtue of any person who bore forty years of changes, hardships, family fallout, and business.  It was one of the first doubts she had ever experienced, but after that one came a flood.
Her conversation with Jovan began easily.  She did not feel the need to sell anything, because she knew that he had dealt with salesmen most of his life.  His face was deep with lifelines.  The confident and cocky man buried underneath those lines had a kind of wisdom, humble instead of bitter.  Jovan was shrinking in height, but still stood straight.  Judith spoke to him for several hours and afterward, her plan to rob Talbot, so solid at the beginning of the day, felt tattered and pointed at the wrong mark.  Was this really the man to be left holding the empty bag?  
They discussed past deals, risks taken, and his life at Talbot, all of which seemed legitimate - aggressive - but overall, legal and in the spirit of competition and social improvement.  She struggled to decide if old Jovan was merely indoctrinated with moralspeak or really did seek a better world through pharmaceuticals. 
"No offense, Julia," he said cautiously, "but this branching into restaurants is a whole new arena for me.  It rattles my nerves.  I must tell you though, you give me confidence.  When I can see what a sharp and principled person you are, I have no doubt we will have success with this adventure and improve every city that we do business in.  I love the idea of bringing family and friends closer together."
She bit her lip as he extolled the merits of community, which, he claimed, had disappeared with consumerism.  
"It's way to reconnect with family," he said, "and that's a great business to be in." 
If the conversation had occurred over the phone, she might have rolled her eyes, but Jovan was serious.  
"It's very important," he added.
"What about you, Mr. Jovan?  Will your family be there on the opening night of Grams?"
Nodding, he replied, "I will be there."
"With your family?"
"I will be there with some friends.  My family is small and doesn't get together anymore."
"That's too bad."
"It is, Julia.  A terrible thing."  
"Where are they now?"
He didn't answer, but she could see the truth.  She didn't doubt the awful story about his son and his wife.  They were not a part of his life anymore.  
 
 Shortly after the meeting, when the day finally rested, Judith returned to her hotel room and opened the mini-bar.  She uncorked a small bottle of pinot noir, flopped onto the bed, and read the parts of The Wall Street Journal that she didn't get to that morning.  
 Before she could relax, she checked her messages on the phone.  The only message was from Isaac, but his voice concerned her.  The message was short, but every word contained vital information.  
"The Broker's name is Lucas Perth." 
She went back to reading, and sipped the wine right from the bottle, without giving to much thought to Isaac's message until she turned to the front page of the Marketplace section.  She nearly spit red wine onto the white bed sheets.  Staring up at her was a face, one that would have meant nothing to her if she had read the paper that morning, yet now it meant everything, and her stomach twisted as she read the story.  The many jobs she worked in the past suddenly pained her shoulders.  She looked at the date on the newspaper and felt the years pile onto her, from 2005 to 2022, the hours of toil that were the hope of a revolution now felt like a rucksack full of useless bricks.  
That face haunted her by bringing back the memory of every crime she had committed for the KillJoy cause: robbing the cash room at the stadium, smashing the Brio-Nano delivery truck, creeping through hospitals to spoil cell cultures, defaming innocent people by planting drugs and money.  Her life's work furthered an act of revenge rather than the KillJoy cause.  The blood on her hands was from a dirty game of distract-and-conquer.  The face in the picture was the same one that she saw at the stadium that day.  It was obvious now, after meeting with Jovan, that Lucas Perth was Marcus Jovan's missing son.  The money, soon to be piled in her fraudulent bank accounts, amounted to no more than thirty pieces of silver.  
 
 Without getting any rest, Judith set the wine down and got up to leave.  She needed some advice, some company.  She turned the light off in the room, but paused, and flipped the light back on.  Leaving the bottle was not an option. 
 In her rented Lexus SUV, Judith bounced along the back roads of the Upper Peninsula toward Hatter House.  Bugs swarmed her headlights and dashed their bodies against her windshield.  It was a muggy August night.  
 
 Marie opened the door and invited Judith inside.  Marie whispered, "I hate to greet you like this..."       
"I think you should know my real name..."
"Don't say it!"  Marie covered Judith's mouth and continued to whisper.  "You never know who's listening anymore.  But right now, please move your car behind the house.  Someone is on his way here.  He just called and whenever this happens he's not far."
 "Who?"
 "FBI.  Agent Pazzo."
 "An agent?" Judith said.  "A federal agent?"
"Yes."  Marie spun Judith around.  "Now, move the car and I'll open the back door." 
 Judith followed the orders.  After she moved the car, Marie hid Judith in the cellar of the house, beneath the shabby floorboards, and while waiting for the agent to walk in, she wondered if this would be her final betrayal. 
 
 Five minutes later, the agent entered the house.
 "Pazzo!" Ben yelled.  "You crazy Guinea, come on in!"
 She heard the agent's shoes over her head.  Wherever the floorboards creaked, she cringed.  Cracks in the hardwood floor allowed for small shafts of light to come through, but she could not see the face of the agent.  
 The footsteps stopped and Pazzo asked, "What happened to all the clocks?"
 "I'm cured!" Ben said.  "Sort of.  And Dr. Gaveston has given up the sauce.  I could entertain you with a story about his final days in the bag..."
 "Sorry, no time," Pazzo said.  "No bullshitting tonight, Ben.  I need Marie and Gaveston to go upstairs.  I have to talk to you about something.  And I'm going to arrest you afterward.  I need to detain you."
 "Arrest me?"
 "I'm afraid so," Pazzo said.
"That's terrific!"  Ben said to Marie and Gaveston.  "Go upstairs honeys.  Daddy needs to get arrested now."  Then to Pazzo he said, "I can't thank you enough, Agent Pazzo.  I knew you would come around."
 "You are a strange person.  But I'm only taking you in as a decoy."
 "Better a decoy than dead.  At least I'll be in the water again."  Ben waited until Marie and Gaveston ascended the steps.  "So what's going on?  Are you on a new case?"
 Pazzo paused.  Judith heard him sigh.  "Same case.  The same case I've been on for most of my career."
 She barely breathed as Pazzo told his story.  
"Ben, listen up.  I need to talk to you about some options for ending this problem once and for all.  A major operation is in place to take the organization down, including four teams of Special Forces on 24-hour standby.  However, I am here to speak with an expert," Pazzo cleared his throat, "who knows the Blocker mindset.  Trust me, there is no way I would be here speaking to you unless it was for information on the theory."
"That's me," said Ben with pride.  "All theory and no balls."
"I won't mince words.  We are planning a death blow on these monsters you've created."
"Wow,"  Ben shivered.  "So what are you saying?  You want to make a Block on the Blockers?  You want to whack the KillJoys?"
"Exactly.  I want to spin the KillJoy's work into something less...controversial."
"Foof!"  Ben raised his eyebrows.  "If I knew any disgruntled Blockers, I could help, but..."
"Oh, I've got a boatload full of Blockers, don't worry.  But I am not going to let them play the outcome like they want to.  That's what Blocking is all about, correct?  Stealing public opinion with shocking events?"
Ben said, "Very much so."
Judith strained to hear every word.  
"Mr. Longstreet, before I arrest you, let me tell you about what I saw.  Three days ago I broke the case.  I can tell you this because you're going to be muzzled and cuffed for the next week." 
 

Chapter 14. Kidnappings
 
The kidnapping of scientists had continued for years, confounding law enforcement officials in every interested nation.  For most of his career as a detective, Agent Pazzo pursued only a handful of cases, and, to his regret, apprehended no suspects.  Every year, humbled by his annual review, he resolved to make no excuses for the coming year.  Age added to the seams on his pocked face, but he kept the faith, despite many inclinations and encouragements from family and friends to stop chasing ghosts.  But his persistence paid off in the year 2022, a year when so much happened for Agent Pazzo, starting with Fooman and the strangest report he ever had to write.  
 "Fooman," the codename given to a victim by his assailants, showed Pazzo a light at the end of the tunnel.  He could see a finish to the investigation, so in hot pursuit of kidnapped Fooman, he broke various laws, both land and maritime, and did so without remorse after logging thousands of hours and sitting in on several hundred stake-outs that discovered nothing.  His career could not sit in the car any longer.  Once confident as a younger man, on the border of arrogant, he remembered being brash with people, but he now understood the long path of a life in law-enforcement, and how the unending waves of criminals smoothed and beveled the rock of morality.  Not an edge remained, not on his shoulder or his visage.
 
 Fortune finally stopped spinning for Pazzo.  One morning he was in New Hampshire scouting a potential victim.  A young graduate student, a genius named William Versey, was on his way to an interview in Seattle.  After that day, Mr. Versey was known as Fooman by the cadets at Quantico, Virginia.  
Someone followed Mr. Versey from Dartmouth University, and even ate pretzels on the same airplane.  But Pazzo also followed Versey and booked a seat on the same flight.  While Mr. Versey sipped on a cappuccino, a pair of eyes in the seat behind him watched closely, and Pazzo, also sitting behind Mr. Versey, took note of his neighbor's spying. 
Mr. Versey was shanghaied after his interview.  
The interview went well.  Boeing saw Mr. Versey as a potential star.  The abductor saw the potential, too.  Perhaps the abductor saw him as a supernova.  Mr. Versey wooed Boeing with his thesis: "Corrections to Turbulence in Quaternary Protein Transversals," and then Boeing wowed Mr. Versey with an aggressive signing bonus and a giant salary.  On the way to the interview Mr. Versey didn't bother to practice his thesis speech because he knew that his reputation as a Systems Scientist with a focus on Proteomics preceded his arrival.  The only mystery for Pazzo was why Boeing had an interest in him.  Modesty had never been a stumbling block for Mr. Versey and Boeing foresaw a great future for him as a research and development superstar, particularly in the area of molecular turbines.  
After the interview, Mr. Versey had time to kill.  He spent the post-interview hours at a bar near the stadiums, where fashionable twenty-somethings gathered.  On the barstool next to Mr. Versey a beautiful University of Washington wonk with fake everything cozied up and batted her eyes at every word he said, despite his nervous stuttering.  Unaware of the shadows in the booth behind him, he drank in whatever the wonk said and he knew that she was out of his league but couldn't help himself.  Pazzo listened intently while Mr. Versey got played.  He knew too much about science and too little about love.    
At 3 a.m., Mr. Versey staggered to the exit with the plasticized sweetheart.  She practically led him by the nose to a van parked outside of the bar.  All that was missing was a halter.  Another pair of footsteps tapped the wet pavement behind Mr. Versey but he didn't notice.  It was a gentle abduction, really, until the taze.  When the van door slid open, the prongs lunged out at Mr. Versey's breast and a flash flood of electricity poured into his torso until he crumpled into the arms of his captor, almost romantically.  The shock knocked Mr. Versey out for the night.  The van driver paid the wonk, who turned out to be an escort girl.  A wad of money changed hands.  The van took Mr. Versey away to his new career.  Pazzo hailed a cab and simultaneously made a phone call to the Seattle FBI office to locate the escort.  While Pazzo followed the kidnapping to the end, the girl was brought in for questioning.
Following the van became difficult in the downtown traffic, but the cab driver, a calm Iranian who had mastered the game of car-chicken, never batted an eye when death shone through the wet windshield.  Pazzo yelled several times, but the Iranian assured him: "Not to worry, they'll move."  He laughed as the cars swerved away from his yellow Chevrolet. 
The van reached a pier on Puget Sound, unloaded quickly, and on a pushcart wheeled a large box across a ramp onto a red cargo ship.  The van drove away immediately.  Certain that the box contained Mr. Versey, Pazzo waited until the platform cleared before he ran across it and stowed away on the boat.  Pazzo reported the make and model of the van to the Seattle office, who tailed it to a suburban address and encircled the driver, ripping him out of the window by his neck before he could send his distress signal.   
The boat ferried William Versey to a ship in the bay.  Slipping from the boat to the ship, Pazzo stayed low and sent text messages of his location, activating a transponder on his phone.  On the ship, Pazzo wormed his way through pipes and people, ducking and dodging the ship's crew, until he discovered a strange operation set up underneath the main deck of the grain-hauling ship.  Modifications made to the internal structure in one of the cargo areas created an underground office building.  When he entered a clean hallway, with carpet, he took a picture with his cell phone, which automatically uploaded pictures to his FBI account.  The engine of the ship started to gurgle, and were it not for that guttural sound reminding him of the location, the office could have been confused with any typical space in a business park.
Pazzo walked through the office space like a cat-burglar.  Breathing heavy with anxiety, he reached into his jacket to take a nitroglycerin tablet that dilated his veins and slowed his heart rate.  In the hallway, he looked up at the fluorescent lights, and although outside it was night, in the office it felt like day.  
Voices came from the office doors that lined the hallway.  He passed a few doors and looked sideways to see a man or woman sitting in front of six or seven monitors, some showing video, others graphs and statistics.  The people in the offices wore headsets.  Some of them spoke, some watched the displays.  All of the office doors were closed, but each door had a light to indicate whether or not someone was inside.  Acting casual, Pazzo strolled down the hall and jiggled the handles of the empty office doors.  One door was not locked, so Pazzo slipped inside and sat in the dark.  By flipping open his cell phone, the display brightened enough to act as a weak flashlight for snooping around.
Not knowing where to begin, not knowing what to touch, he did nothing but bump the mouse with his hand, which activated the displays.  The data and images in front of him disturbed him enough that he required a second nitroglycerin tablet.  On one screen he saw a man leaning on a desk, either unconscious or dead.  The screen below showed his breathing, pulse, and other signs, meaning at least the man appeared alive.  In the lower right-hand corner of the screen was a name: "Truckee."  Pazzo tried to identify the man, but he lay silent, with his face down on the desk.  Only his gray hair and his bald spot were visible from the camera angle.
The other screens had information relating to Truckee, and Pazzo started to read the first screen, but it was mostly science lingo that he failed to comprehend.  Gently, Pazzo placed his hand over the mouse and tried to scroll down, but when he clicked a down arrow, all of the displays switched at once, and suddenly Pazzo no longer saw Truckee, he saw a woman in her early-thirties, frantically reading a sheet of paper while performing a lab experiment of some kind.  From the headphones lying on the keyboard, Pazzo heard a tinny voice.  He picked up the headphones and put them on.  
"Use your resources," a male voice said.  "Learn to delegate.  Send the data to us.  You don't have time to read and write reports.  Now what do you need to know?"
"I need to know the signaling pathway!" The woman yelled.  "And I need more B-Box protein."
"Is that all?" The male voice answered.  "Copy that.  It's on its way.  What else?  Think!"  
Pazzo heard a click in the connection.  The male voice changed its tone.  "Lab, this is Charlie here.  Did you hear what Cutter needs?"
"She's got B-Box protein in her freezer," a woman's voice said, as if in disbelief that Cutter requested it.  "It's right behind the Pyrin."
"What about the pathway?"
"Josie's sending the existing signaling pathway information to Cutter right now."
The male voice said, "Thanks.  I'll log it."
The connection clicked again.  Pazzo heard the male voice.  "B-Box is in your freezer, Cutter.  Behind the Pyrin.  Please use your resources and delegate!  We are here to help you."
Cutter hustled over to the freezer and pulled out a vial.  
The way the woman moved, like a small nervous animal, horrified Pazzo.  Her eyes were sunk back into her head, as if she hadn't slept in a week, yet she moved with energy and finesse, and seemed motivated, crazed with her work.  Only on close examination did Pazzo realize that he knew the woman, or knew of her, quite well actually, because he wrote a good portion of her dossier after her kidnapping five years before.  
It turned his stomach to see the woman's emaciated face.  He realized that he'd found the prison that held all of the captives.  He needed to turn the channel to learn more, but feared losing the evidence of poor Thuy Trang, who they now called Cutter.  Before he tried to change channels, he held up his cell phone and took a picture of the display.  As the picture uploaded to the FBI server, he gritted his teeth and clicked the mouse button again, and another frantic soul entered the main display, typing on a computer like a concert pianist on fire.  The man paused and pulled at the hair on his scalp.  As he looked up in mad ecstasy, Pazzo recognized him, too.  The man tore out a handful of his hair.  Apparently oblivious to any pain, the man started typing again - with a smile on his face.  
Pazzo clicked the scroll bar again and saw a new face.  He clicked again.  And again.  The voices on each channel changed along with the faces, as each victim seemed to have a different set of overseers.  He clicked faster and stopped clicking when he saw the name "Fooman" appear.  Above the name on the screen sat a disheveled Mr. Versey, rubbing his eyes and looking around in a daze.  
 A female voice on the headset spoke.  "This is your new prodigy?"
 "This is him," said the man.  "Finally.  I don't know why they waited so long to bring him in."
 "Because he's an American."
 "He's the hope of a nation," said the man.
 "You know how they usually end up," the female said and laughed.  "They're too soft."
"Have you read his file?  Here - I'll punch it up.  You'll be impressed."  
On one of the monitors, Pazzo saw a suite of documents appear.  Mr. Versey's selection as an abductee did not come at random.  In some respects, being kidnapped was a mark of high achievement.  A committee of bots strained Mr. Versey's name out of various data dumps, peer-reviewed journals, zines, science blogs, and Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory scores.  Not that there was a mold, but Mr. Versey's curriculum vitae fit the objective.  His background matched the needs of a project.  Using the same parameters, the program apparently found Cutter.  The kidnappers did not discriminate against age.  Cutter got shanghaied.  Truckee got shanghaied, too.  
Pazzo watched Mr. Versey, Fooman, look around at his room of whirring computers and silent lab equipment.  The equipment in the room was new, meticulously arranged.  Centrifuges and hoods, pipettes and refrigerators.  Every device was on a wheeled base or a wall extension that could be raised, lowered, or extended.  The electricity in the air seemed to make Mr. Versey edgy.  Once blasted with a Tazer himself, Pazzo immediately developed a phobia of electricity.  The look on Mr. Versey's face reminded Pazzo of the sensation.  
The room was a shoebox.  The only window to the world came through a slim web browser growing out of a black, graphite-topped desk.  Mr. Versey tried to use the browser but the connection was dead.  In a room with all that juice there was no internet connection, and the browser kept returning 404 errors when he tried to punch up a site, presumably to send out an SOS via e-mail or tweet.  
Ticking and clicking noises surrounded Mr. Versey, along with the engine sounds from the ship.  Pazzo felt his body swaying slightly and wondered if Mr. Versey knew that he was on water, stowed as cargo in the hull of a seagoing vessel.  
Mr. Versey's outstanding career made him a new recruit, and he would soon learn his fate. 
A plate of hot food came into the room and Mr. Versey began to eat ravenously.  The meal was intricate.  
The male voice said, "Just like his nanny used to make."  
Another voice asked, "What did you feed him?"
"For soup we have crab bisque with crème fraîche.  Then there is the main course: sautéed red snapper with braised pancetta, fava beans and saffron.  There is also asparagus." 
Mr. Versey pushed aside the asparagus.  
"I guess he doesn't care for asparagus.  I bet he doesn't like saltpeter and Ex-Lax, either, but he's eating it anyway." 
He shoveled the food into his mouth on an oversized spoon. 
 Pazzo heard a click in the connection.  The voice came over a hidden speaker.  "Hello, Fooman."
 "Fooman?" he said.  "My name is William."
 "Your first assignment begins now."
 "Assignment?" he scoffed.  "What assignment?"
 "You have forty-five minutes."
The browser in front of Fooman activated.  A document appeared on the screen. Pazzo examined it at the same time as Fooman.  
Fooman asked, "A whitepaper?"
 Fooman looked around the corners of the room with an air of insubordination, not appreciating his situation yet.  He crossed his arms and bounced his legs on the floor.  Pazzo could see the fear on his face, despite his efforts to appear at ease.  Questions bothered Pazzo, a thousand questions, so he tried to record everything with his cell phone camera, streaming it to the headquarters.  
 Fooman's face turned sour.  
 "Your assignment has begun," said the voice.  "Is there a problem, Fooman?"
 Fooman said out loud, "I need to use the bathroom."
The room wasn't equipped with a commode.  He looked at the glowing monitor for answers, but only saw his assignment.
The connection clicked again.  The voice said, "It almost makes me sad to see him this way."
"Oh, aren't you sensitive," said the female.
"I'm kidding.  This is the best part."
"You're a toddler."  
"There he goes.  He's got a little fear-fire going now.  Let's stoke him a bit."
As Fooman lost control of his intestines, his face frowned and he started to cry.
"Who are you?!" cried Fooman.  
For the first time in his life, Pazzo felt truly afraid for another man and even had an impulse to pray, but still he watched the display.  
Five minutes passed and Fooman sat down in the chair, completely silent and still, like a rabbit in the grass after its killer had already spotted it.
The voice came again.  
"You have thirty-three minutes.  It is advisable to begin."
The voice.  Pazzo almost spoke into the headset, but held back.  He grasped the side of his chair, and watched Fooman cave in.  
Fooman stood up and leaned over the web browser.  He read the title of the assignment.
"Perfusion of Capillaries by Blood Cells with conjoined Flagellabots: A Derivative of the Traveling Salesman Algorithm."  
The browser suddenly stopped working, went blank, and nothing happened when Fooman tried to reactivate the browser.  He slapped at the screen like a freshman who forgot to save a report.  After a minute Fooman stopped trying and sat down, leaned back in his chair with a false defiance, but he was obviously scared, frustrated, and already going mad.  The browser did not turn on again.  The Ex-Lax took effect, and Fooman's face turned red with embarrassment.  
 The voices on the headsets had a nice chuckle at his shame.  
Pazzo quickly switched through the channels again to see what else was happening in this madhouse.  In comparison to some of the other rooms, Fooman's room was relative serenity.  The other subjects worked frantically on their assignments and raked the sides of their heads and struck their foreheads with their frenzied palms.  The subjects moved back and forth between the browser with their instructions and atomic force microscopes, chemical hoods, freezers and more, like ants in forage.  When Pazzo came back to Fooman's channel, he heard the male voice speaking about "The Creative Process."  
"The key to creativity," the voice said, "is two parts Kava and one part Coca.  The balance of urgency is important for longevity.  Unfortunately, the project manager wants to use Fooman as a stress test."
"A stress test.  That's funny.  I give him six weeks."
"No, no," the male voice argued.  "I have faith in Fooman."
"Then you better give him two parts Coca, no Kava.  He was born with a silver spoon.  He won't last."
With pity Pazzo watched Fooman struggling to keep his mind together.  He looked up at the ceiling as tears streamed down his face.  
The female clucked her tongue and seemed to feel sympathy for Fooman.  A camera in the ceiling caught the raw emotion on Fooman's face. 
"This will be his easiest day," said the female, "and already he's blubbering."
 "He will start producing.  This reluctance to begin is simply impeding his progress as a great scientist.  It said on his resume that he expects to be a great scientist.  He seems like a nice guy."
"You're a damn liar."
"What?  He does!  Oh Jesus, but now look at him, sitting there, rocking his ego like a hushed infant."  The connection clicked again, and the male voice startled Fooman.  "This is a great opportunity for you, Fooman.  Act!  Act now!  Otherwise you may be excused.  Understand the assignment and start creating!"  
Fooman whimpered, and then shouted.  "Create what?  For who?"
 
 Pazzo remained close to the screen until time ran out.  When the assignment ended, the male voice said, "Goodnight Fooman.  I'm marking this down as your first loss."
 "Loss?  What loss?" Fooman shouted.  "I didn't do anything!"
 "That's correct."
  
 A feeling of urgency ran through Pazzo's veins as he listened to a series of yelps come from Fooman, who was being shocked and flinching, jumping from spot to spot on the floor.  
 "These are motivating microshocks, Fooman.  When you win, this electric rain will not enter your suite, do you understand?  Nod if you understand?"
Even when Fooman curled his body into a tight fetal position, he jolted and shuddered with each microshock.  The room lit up with minute bursts, like little falling stars mixed in with the room dust.  With every tweak, Fooman jumped.  It drove him over the edge.  He got up from the floor and ran around the room, screaming and jumping, accruing shock after shock. 
The voices on the headset went into hysterics.  "This is great.  Looks like Fooman go crazy."  
"Holy shit, Fooman go wild,"  They laughed.  
"He just became Fooman.  Yeah, he's ours now.  Some crack so quickly."
When the shocks stopped, the male voice instructed Fooman.  "Pride will never impede your work again.  Urgency is very important to your every movement.  You must act like no one is watching you.  Think about moving, doing, thinking, compiling, ligating, dissecting, mixing, blotting, destroying, mutating, creating.  I hope you comprehend.  Unless you want to be shocked again?"
Again he curled into a ball, this time in the corner of the room.  Fooman shook his head and sobbed, "No."  The connection clicked.  "The power of electricity.  Remarkable.  This is so much nicer than Gitmo.  It's nice to work with people that have never read the Manchester Document.  This is even easier than when we were at Argus."  
"Oh God, so much easier," the woman said.  "These academics aren't used to being strong-armed like soldiers and criminals."
The man said, "I love doctors.  They all come around.  Their survival instinct is amazing."
"It's because they have so much to lose."
The comments told Pazzo that these were military men, but he scribbled down Gitmo and Argus for the FBI to research.  He listened hard at their voices for details in their diction or tone that might give away whatever branch of service they had served in.  The screen flashed and Pazzo stopped writing.
The browser came on again in Fooman's room.  He crawled over to the screen to watch.
The screen showed a muted video of a man standing on a plank wearing only a pair of underwear.  The man appeared to have star-shaped cuts on the back of his thighs, calves, arms, and upper back.  Blood oozed out of the wounds.  One sailor shook the man's hand and the bleeding man smiled.  The sailor put a medal around the man's neck.  They were speaking about something but no sound came through.  The wounded man turned around to face the sea, lifted his hands as if he greeted some kind of crowd.  Suddenly the sailor lifted his foot and kicked the man square in the back.  This sent the man tumbling overboard, and down he flipped, forty feet, into the sea below.
As the man made his splash, Pazzo wondered why they sliced up the man's flesh before sending him over the plank, and more so, why the man seemed so happy about the occasion.  Perhaps he was happy to die.  Perhaps they played some final game with the kidnapped scientists.  But still, why the wounds and the blood?
It took only a minute before the answer surfaced and started circling the man in the water.  
Pazzo took the headset off, with disgust, and stopped recording the display.  "This is madness."  The scene disgusted him so much that he had to look away, so he looked down at the desk, and the paperwork staring back at him made him do a double-take.  Seizing the pages in his hands, he looked closely at the letterhead.
Talbot Labs
The glaring admission of guilt was emblazoned on every page in the office.  In file drawers and on the wall, the more Pazzo looked around the office, the more he saw the word Talbot.  He needed to get back to headquarters.  On his cell phone, he dialed his colleagues in San Francisco and arranged an escape.  As much as he wanted to free Fooman and the other kidnapped scientists, he needed to enlist the whole bureau, because alone Pazzo could not take the ship.
 

Chapter 15. Conversion

 Once betrayed, Judith struggled every morning to find a reason. 
Along with the stress of getting Talbot to enter into the contract, the new information about Lucas Perth overwhelmed her, and the money would soon be transferred into her Grams account, where she was expected to distribute amounts accordingly as construction began on the restaurants.  The initial deposit would be thirty million dollars.  One week later, she would receive another two hundred million.  
The avenues she needed for expatriating and repatriating the money were already in place.  The usual gambit, arranged by Lucas, had never failed before, but for such a large amount of money, the critical path for liquidation required an extra layer of complexity.  The method she planned to use was a technique popular in real estate circles for avoiding taxes.  For this she had dummy accounts in Dubai, Montevideo, Tokyo, and Geneva.  She knew that the money would be tracked down, regardless of her movements, but the Broker would move the money to a final resting place.  She only needed to get the bulk of the money into an account in Geneva.  By the time it reached his account, her percentage would already be withdrawn and volleyed between the United States and Uruguay via falsified gambling winnings.  Using temporary casino accounts, she could liquefy the money instantaneously by receiving the money in gambling chips.  Once drawing the chips, she would spend one sleepless night at the hotel guarding the chips, and then in the morning, she would cash out.  The money could then be repatriated into other accounts.  That would be her jackpot and lucky day.  The post 9-11 security measures tightened the loopholes, but still left a few needle-eyes through which to pass money.  The original plan was to wash her hands of the life and retire to an unsoiled, island paradise in the Maldives.  
The idea of a happy ending did not console Judith, not now that she knew that the son of Marcus Jovan had used her for personal revenge.  She began reconsidering her role in the game.  After listening to the sickening story told by Agent Pazzo about the kidnapped scientists, she lost her stomach for the cause.  She did not believe that Talbot did the kidnappings, but she also did not know who to trust.  Questions, like weeds, permeated her thinking on the cause.  She underwent a deconstruction of priorities. 
Other than Lucas, another catalyst for her waffling about the plan came from a senseless act of kindness.  The morning after the signing of contracts, the owners of The Raclette delivered breakfast-in-bed to Judith's hotel room.  They came in with red balloons and each one of the owners congratulated and thanked her for making their dreams come true.  At six o'clock, before she had showered, these ten Yoopers filled her room with bright smiles.  These good-hearted people made it difficult for her to take their dream away, although she knew that it wouldn't be their money she was robbing.  Still, it was their credentials she would rob, their respect, and their trust in others.  One at a time, she looked at their faces and absorbed the hope of their small company.  
"We rushed the pancakes over.  They get cold so fast."
Judith nodded, "Thank you. This is absolutely wonderful."  She beamed at the owners, marveled at them.  The act was not a small thing, it was nearly incredible, simply that someone still took the time, paused in their rush to surprise a friend and make a day memorable for something beyond the self.  
The previous day's newspaper was still on the bed, next to Judith.  The last thing she saw before falling asleep was the face of Lucas Perth.  When she looked down at the mussed pages, she saw the Marketplace section once again, and felt like she stood in a doorway like a statue of Janus, between two worlds.  In one direction, she could see a wealthy, solitary life on the run from the law.  In the other direction, she saw the restaurant, hard work and earned rewards, backyards and conversation, Sunday gatherings, laughter, and golden years with friends to share all the joy and pain with until the end.  
If she stole the money, she would be running until the end of her life - and then there was always the possibly of being arrested for previous crimes committed.  Some of the past jobs she considered necessary crimes, but nevertheless, those acts would follow her long after she had gone mainstream, just like Sarah Jane Olson of the Symbionese Liberation Army, the infamous robber-bomber turned soccer-mom.  
Later that day, Judith flew to Chicago and completed the first transfer of funds at the Chase Tower along with the Talbot bankers.  Suddenly she had thirty million dollars - the amount allocated for the construction of the first restaurants.  The backhoes and bulldozers had already started digging the foundations.  The bricks and mortar rolled down the interstate highways on flatbed trucks.  The networking and imaging wizards of Holographix International began building custom hologram-enabled tables for the Raclette.  In five cities that first morning, signatures stained paper and were followed by invoices exchanging hands.  Work orders were delivered to union laborers.  Uniform orders processed at the warehouse.  Deliveries of flatware options came in by FedEx.  Many small businesses waited for the trickle to begin from the money dammed in Judith's procurement account.  
She needed to talk to Isaac.  Outside of the Chase Tower, she found a phone booth and dialed his cell.  
"I need to talk about something important.  Are you in the lab?"
Isaac answered, "Yes sir, he is here.  Would you like to speak to him?"
"Can you call me back?"
"Absolutely.  I'll just take a message and give it to him."
Judith laughed.  "It's good to hear your voice."
"Ok.  Thank you."
 While she waited for him to call back, she walked the streets of Chicago, passing under the shadows in the downtown canyons of steel and glass.  A man walked by her so fast that his tie blew over his shoulder.  A group of business people rushed down the sidewalk, downing coffee as they moved.  
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
 "Isaac.  I need to know everything that you know."
 "Over the phone?"
"You don't have to be vague, just tell me," Judith said.
"Since when?"
"Since now!  I'm losing the objective."
"After all this work?"  Isaac laughed.  "You had better not.  We are poised."  
 "We are poisoned!"
 "What?"
 "Did the Broker speak about Talbot?"
 "It's all about Talbot.  And after they fall-down go-boom, then Pelius does the same."
 Judith said, "I don't think so."
 "How in the hell would you know?  The Broker knows what he's doing.  I saw it in his face."
 "So did I, Isaac.  He's not Lucas Perth."  She paused.  "He's Marcus Jovan's son."
 "What?  You know what, I don't care who he is," Isaac said, "Listen to me, Judith.  After all the years you wanted this, you want me to quit now?  Have you lost your mind?"  Isaac laughed.  "No, I'm on board, right to the end.  I didn't work this hard, attend a million meetings and smile like a mannequin for my entire career just to back out now and fall in line.  You're getting sucked into the mainstream."
 "But we were lied to!"
 "For God's sake, Judith, you're the one that talked me into all of this.  From the start.  I'm ready for it all to come together.  I'll go down in a blaze just to get the point across."  He paused, "I am standing here like a freak, with a USB port hanging out of my arm.  I'm destroying my mind for this Block.  This lab is a Blocker's dream.  Marshall Ploof and Spiro Ling have no compunction.  They are practically doing the job for us..."
 Judith listened with pursed lips.  "I understand that you don't want to stop, Isaac.  You're right.  But we need to find a way out before Lucas ruins us.  Think about it.  He's used us for everything.  Everything!  We're like his...whores."
 "Well who isn't a whore?"  Isaac said and then paused.  "This project will make us all whores.  We are creating a memetic implant for the brain, Judith."
 She was stunned. "What?"
 "It's done and it works and I intend to see it through to the end.  But we can run a Block.  Damn, I need more time to think," he said, sighing.  "I'm fried.  I'm fragged, Judith.  Just watch for the press release.  It should be coming out today or tomorrow.  I'll leave a message for you on the IRC."
 "Ok.  Will the product affect Talbot?"
 "Not really.  It will make Pelius a lot of money.  They are planning a public unveiling for this thing.  The more I think about it, this could be the greatest Block we've ever done, but that's not the Broker's plan.  Look, I gotta hang up.  I can see Lucas at the end of the hall.  Talk to you later."
 "Isaac!"
 "You just get the money."
 "I already have it.  Isaac, think about it.  We've been betrayed.  We need to act."
 Isaac ignored her.  "Your role is key, Judith.  The way Lucas talks, what you are doing is the most important task of all."
"I don't care what he says.  Listen..."  
 "Talk to you later."
 "Think about it, Isaac!"
 The conversation ended abruptly.  Judith put her hand on her forehead and stood on the street without a plan for what to do next.  
 
A vagrant approached Judith when she hung up the phone.  He was a short man who looked like the product of years of malnutrition and bad decisions, with a loose jaw and hardly a tooth left in his mouth.  
He asked, "Do you have any part of one dollar and thirty-five cents?  I need to catch a bus."
 She fished in her pocket for loose change but came up holding nothing but lint.  
"Sorry."  
 As the vagrant moved on, she said quietly, "All I have is millions." 
 
 The week passed and Judith became the centerpiece in a busy office, making calls, settling issues between The Raclette owners and various vendors, and confirming payments to creditors.  Some payments would have to be made, at least in the first week.  
 On the following Monday morning, she returned to Chicago to receive the bigger transfer - the two hundred million dollar lump.  After the money transferred, she spent the remainder of the day at Talbot.  
 Marcus Jovan invited her into his office for a morning one-on-one.  She walked past an array of executive assistants to get to his door, where she found him seated at a large desk that made him look small, as small as the vagrant on the street.  His face looked whiter than when she met him at The Raclette.  
 "Julia," he said, opening his arms to grasp her hands, "so good to see you again."
 "You too, Mr. Jovan."
 "How did this morning go?  Did the money get pushed over?"
 "It required a cart to move it."
 "I bet."  He chuckled quietly.  "More like a pallet-jack."
 "Yes sir."
He got up from his chair and came around the desk.  With a subtle grunt, he sat down on the front corner of his desk.  He said, "I'm glad the money got to you in time.  Another few days, and we might have had to keep it for ourselves."
 Judith turned her head sideways.  "I don't understand."
 "Talbot is taking hits from everywhere.  I don't want to scare you, or you might think you are doing business with a bunch of rats.  But we just got slapped with nearly a dozen lawsuits."
 "Over what?"
 "Everything.  You name it.  Someone is trying to smear the Talbot logo.  Unfortunately, it's working.  And I'm too old for this racket, so I'm stepping down.  This is my final year."
 Judith cleared her throat.  "Stepping down?  Now?  But so much is going on."
 "So much is going out, too.  My knees, my back, my mind."
 "I doubt it."
 "I'm going to gracefully exit before things get worse.  My only regret is not knowing why some people hate us, hate Talbot so much.  It's like we've done nothing for this city, for this country, for anyone.  If the mood was different, I'd work for peanuts.  It's never been about the money for me.  Even in the beginning, it was about progress in science.  Medicine.  It was about improving lives - to me anyway, that's what it was about.  Now you try to distribute a drug to Africa and they accuse you of finding guinea pigs.  You don't distribute it, and they call you greedy."
 Judith picked at the arm of the chair.  "So what will you do now?"
 "I'm going to work in hospice care as a volunteer."
 "Hospice?"
 Jovan smirked.  "You act like it's a dirty word."
 "No.  It's just surprising."
 "That way I can scout out different facilities before I need to check in myself."  He smiled at Judith but she didn't return the gesture.  "Ah, I never was a good joker."  He adjusted his position on the desk.  "It's challenging work, consoling the inconsolable, but that's been my plan all along, more or less.  Well, almost.  I also planned on handing the company over to my son, but...that's not likely to happen."
 "What's his name?"
 "Jude.  Named after the Beatles' song."  He sang a line.  "Take a sad song, and make it better."  His voice trailed off and his white face turned briefly pink.  
 Judith smiled.  "Do you know where he is?"
 "No.  I don't think I'll ever find out.  I ran him off."  
 "Ran him off?"
 Jovan sighed.  "I made a mistake, Julia."  He turned his head away.  "A big one."  He paused.  "I can't talk about that subject.  I apologize for bringing it up."
 "I'm sorry."  She wanted to tell him where he could find his son, but couldn't open her mouth, not before she finished sifting through her own questions.  They sat talking for thirty minutes and by the end she appreciated and admired Marcus Jovan's life and career.  This man, she decided, did not deserve to be robbed.  The hurt showed in his face.  He'd had enough in this life and didn't deserve another cheap shot.  The whiteness of his face, the wrinkles, the scraggly eyebrows, the divots and spots - all of his features reminded her of an old maple tree that grew in the park near her childhood home in Cincinnati, where a troupe of Boy Scouts sapped it for a month every spring, jabbing twenty spigots in the trunk and filling pails until it dried out.  She wondered how many feeders drained Marcus Jovan, how many times he stood strong through highs and lows, recessions and bull markets, lean and roaring times, and what a treasure of knowledge he must have gained - and lost - in the process of living.  
 
Judith took a late lunch break in the Talbot cafeteria, where she searched online for a press release containing the words "implant" and "memetic" but found nothing.  Eventually she went to the Pelius website and discovered a headline that described what Isaac had mentioned.  
A bold font shouted: "Pelius Maps the Brain: The New Network Revolution."
 In the cafeteria, hunched over her bowl of soup and her laptop, she read the story carefully.  The article hyped the new discovery, promising everything but utopia.  She did another search for the press release and discovered that the major news outlets did not take long to start hyping it as well, meaning that Pelius meant to make this exhibition a major event.  CNN quoted an insider who compared the find to the Manhattan Project, only more useful.  Fox News lauded Pelius with praises for their ingenuity, calling them the saviors of the domestic economy.  Stock analysts and tech gurus started discussing the product, but one thing was clear to Judith: no one knew what the product did, and no one knew what it was.  Not one site mentioned an actual product, but it was clear who would get the glory.  One name stood out in every article.  The genius behind the design was not Spiro Ling, but Marshall Ploof.
 Engrossed in the news, she didn't look up when a portly man sat down across from her.  Even after he spoke, it took a moment for her to break away from the screen.
 "Sorry to interrupt."
 It was Robert Lopez, in front of a full plate of roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy.  She hadn't contacted him for some time, and therefore she quickly reeled through the rolodex in her head to recall their last contact.  
 She pointed at his plate.  "No carrots?  No peas?"
 "None."  He took a bite.
 "Not even a strawberry or a grape?"
 "My vegetable is the potato."
 "Ah.  And to drink?"
 "Chocolate milk."
 She shrugged and put her chin on her shoulder.  "What the hell - why not?"  She reached across the table and touched his arm.  "How have you been, Robert?"
 "Better.  I've been better."
 Judith pushed aside her soup.  "What's wrong?"
 "Any reason you stopped calling and emailing?"
 "Oh, I've been so busy, Robert."
 He wiped his mouth.  "That's what I hear.  You're into restaurants now.  Don't worry, I won't tell anyone what you're really up to."
 She flexed her toes against the soles of her shoes.  "What do you mean by that?"
 Sawing with his knife and fork, he cut the roast beef, and smiled at her.  
 She scoffed in disbelief and laughed.  "What are you talking about?"
 "I'm not a complete idiot, Julia."
 "I never said you were."  She looked around.  "Are you ok, Robert?"  She laughed again.  "Or are you losing it?"
 "Bingo."  
 "Ok."  She paused and leaned forward on the table.  "Is there something you want to ask me?" 
 He pointed his knife at her laptop.  "Reading anything interesting?"
 "Yeah, actually.  Something about Pelius and a new invention.  Your old partner, too.  Marshall Ploof..."
 "Miscreant."  Robert took a bite of meat and inhaled loudly while he chewed.  "His paws are all over this."
 Judith suddenly felt afraid of Robert and listened in stillness.  His hatred for Marshall Ploof had clearly worsened.  Now fully inflamed with ire, unkempt, and bloated, Robert looked like a ripe boil ready to explode.   
 "The whole thing was Spiro Ling's idea, and now Ploof is going to win a Nobel Prize for it. You watch.  I know he will.  His name is splattered across every news channel right now.  Something needs to be done to stop it.  Something."
 "Like what?"
 He spoke with his mouth full.  "Like your little book.  You and Isaac preached to me a hundred times about ethics, told me about the Blocker book.  That's why you are here, isn't it?  By the way, Julia, I found out that you never even worked at Talbot."
 "What?  Of course I did."
 Robert slapped his fork at his plate and then pointed it at Judith.  "Don't you lie to me.  I've been here long enough to know people in HR and payroll.  You never worked here."
 "I'm sorry if you don't think so."  
While he was worked up, he breathed hard and sweat formed on his forehead.  His angry expression turned into a wry smile.  He continued eating.  Judith looked at him and saw a monster, one that she had created.  
"Don't worry," he said, "I've got this one.  I'll fix it."  His tone became sarcastic.  "For the cause."  
"The cause?"  
Robert looked down at his plate and continued eating.  
She said, "Robert, what cause?  What are you going to do?"
He looked at her.  "Something.  It's what you want anyway.  You're the one that recruited me."  He got up to leave.
When he was turned halfway, Judith reached across the table and grabbed a pocket on his jeans.  "Robert, stay.  Please!"
He stopped and looked down at Judith. 
"Rachel left me," he said.  "She took the kids to her mother's house."
Judith said, "I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
"Still, I'm sorry about everything."
 "I'm not sorry," Robert said.  "I'm angry.  Angry about everything."
"You don't have to be..."  
"Shut up, Julia.  Without my family, I have nothing to lose, physically or spiritually.  I no longer belong to anything.  My work means nothing to me, and I was a pawn even to you.  I rejected my father's religion a long time ago, and I don't want to find it now.  I believed that through science I would come to possess freedom, but I now know that it is an impossible possession."
"Robert.  Let's talk."  
"No, Julia.  No.  I have exiled myself from everything I once loved, and I have nothing to lose.  All I have to be is close."
He looked down at Judith one last time and then walked away, toward the tray return counter.  She yelled after him, "Robert, you call me if you need help.  For anything."  She sat quietly at the table, trying to make sense of his last statement.
 Once Robert was gone, she looked at the updated headlines on her laptop.  The top story regarded Pelius.  A second press release came out.  
 
Pelius to demo new product this Friday.
 
 Her appetite disappeared and she pushed the bowl of soup away.  She picked up her cell phone and dialed one of the owners of The Raclette at the office in Sault Sainte Marie.  
 "Sorry to bother you," Judith said, "but I want to take a look at one of the construction sites.  In San Francisco."
"You could just go to the site in Chicago."
"No.  The San Francisco one has different specs and I want to meet with the contractor.  I'll need Thursday and Friday to get a good look."
 "That sounds great, Julia.  Do you need any company?"
 "Not this time."
 

Chapter 16. Preparations

 At two o'clock in the afternoon on Thursday - the day before Ploof would show the world the new invention - Lucas Perth called Isaac into his office.  Isaac took forty minutes to get there.  When he finally walked in, Lucas wasted no time with greetings.
"You took your sweet time getting here."
"The BART train only moves a certain speed.  I was downtown, working on the project.  In fact, this is cutting into precious prep time."
Lucas stood by his window.  "I called you here to talk about tomorrow.  I need to reassure myself of...what should I call it...your allegiance to the plan."
About to sit down, Isaac stopped, dropped his backpack into the chair, and stood rigidly.  "Excuse me?"
"I want to know if you have any side-projects planned for tomorrow."
"You really want me to answer that question?"
Lucas turned around and said, "I asked it, didn't I?"
 "After all the things I've done for you."
 "Don't act like we're married.  Just tell me what I need to know."
 Isaac said, "I guess now is a good time to tell you, that you are becoming a difficult man to trust.  You give no information, yet expect to receive everything."
 "What can I say?"
 "You can say something profound.  At least that would keep me believing."
 Lucas lifted his hands and quoted the New Testament.  "Well how about this then: I am the vine, and you are the branches.  Happy?"
 Isaac said, "No.  You call me and question my integrity.  I'm not helpless without your management.  I admit that you have organized some good jobs in the past, but recently you've slipped a notch."
 Lucas interrupted Isaac.  "That's why you're the Blocker and I'm the Broker.  I know the larger aim."
 Isaac bit his lower lip.  "You know, I've taken more risk as an operator than you have ever taken sitting behind that desk.  By the way," Isaac said, while unzipping his backpack on the chair.  "I ran a little background check on you."
 Using his foot, Lucas opened a drawer on his desk, and then he sat down in the chair beside the drawer.  
 Isaac continued.  "Remember that story you told me about doing six years in the Navy as a nuclear engineer.  Bullshit.  I talked to a guy from Axon one day in the food court.  Apparently, you told him about the years you spent, quote, babysitting a spreadsheet on a garbage truck production line."
 Lucas smiled.  "White lies.  I'm sure that you and you're partner don't tell the truth.  How can we afford to?"
 "Of course we don't.  But it made me curious enough about your past, so I chatted it up a bit with some of the other employees.  You tell a lot of different lies."
 "Well, thank you.  Every ear requires a custom plug." 
 Isaac said, "No.  One plug works for every ear.  I have been telling the same lie for a long, long time.  You could say that it satisfies certain group norms within the corporate culture.  It's called trust.  That's why I had to look you up, to find out who the hell I'm working for."
 Lucas put his hand into the drawer and wrapped his hand around a nine millimeter pistol.  He invited Isaac to keep talking.  "So, did you find anything out, Isaac, or is this just for fun?"
 "I have the report right here."  Isaac reached into the backpack.  
Lucas seized the gun and prepared to draw on Isaac, but instead of a weapon, Isaac produced a sealed manila envelope, and Lucas let the gun rest in the drawer. 
 Isaac said, "This is an unopened report that I received yesterday from a private investigator.  I say again: this is unopened.  Now, for me to come into your office, on the day before my boss will reveal a product that I believe offers the greatest Block opportunity we have ever seen, and to stand here and listen to accusations from you?  Well, Lucas, that really, really makes me want to bury you." 
 Lucas closed the drawer with his foot and folded his hands on the desk.
 Isaac ran his finger along the top of the envelope.  "It's almost enough for me to open this document, find out who you really are, and if needed, expose you."
 Lucas laughed.  "Almost?"
 "Almost.  But since I've been at Pelius, I've really come to believe in the cause, possibly more than I ever have before.  In fact, it was not me but my partner who never, not once, wavered through all the years of this dirty career.  Every time I was ready to throw in the towel, she kept the faith."
 Lucas nodded.  "That's good to know.  It makes me confident that your partner will do the right thing."
 "And now," Lucas said, walking to the window, "when I can see a great possibility for mayhem in the street, a public spectacle, a Block worthy of the greatest respect and admiration, you hold back and say to me, 'Wait, Isaac.  Wait for the greater plan to unfold.'  I will tell you one thing: I am deeply concerned for the direction of your management.  We could turn Pelius into a public travesty, a news bomb, with the kind of media scrutiny that...that would bring a deluge of public inquiry, months of Congressional hearings, years in court, and a full ethical rebalance of the whole system.  It could prevent the progress of artificial intelligence for many years, and preserve human life as we know it."
 Lucas said, "Very true."
 "But I can see by the look on your face, Mr. Perth, how badly you want to go after Talbot.  Makes me wonder what this is all about.  This is perfect timing to become the animals that Longstreet wrote about.  Or have you started to lose your memory.  Remember the saying, 'Once exposed, horrify'?  I know you remember it."
 "I do."
 "Then maybe you can explain to me why this public spectacle doesn't excite you like it excites me."
 Lucas said, "Because I want to see both companies fail at once.  Talbot is the biggest kid in the schoolyard and Pelius is the new bully."
 Isaac said, "But the mess we could create here at Pelius would have ramifications across the industry.  The entire culture!"
 "It would, Isaac, but not nearly enough.  If one company falls, then every other company tightens its belt, stands up straight, and cleans house.  They unify.  They will only gain strength by singling out the freak and pointing everyone's attention to it.  In the end, it will be business as usual.  Now if you have two major companies crashing simultaneously, collapsing like twin pillars, then no one can escape.  Everyone will watch the industry, as a whole, instead of just a company."
"You'd better be right."
 "Oh, I'm right."
 "For your sake, I pray that you are.  I still have a good name at Talbot and can find my way back in there if I have to."
 Isaac set the manila envelope on the edge of the desk.  
 "And after tomorrow, that's what I want you to do."  
 "Go back to Talbot?"
 "Absolutely.  Go find a place inside and find another weak spot in the marble of that pillar.  We want it to cave in on its own weight."
 Isaac paused and then nodded at the floor.  "I'll contact my references this afternoon."
 They looked at each other for a moment.
 Isaac said, "Is that it then?"
 "No."  Lucas drummed his fingers on his desk.  "I need your partner to move that money immediately.  I need it yesterday.  It was supposed to be moved the day she received it.  I'm not sure what the holdup is.  That's infusion money for Pelius.  I can tell you one thing - this company is already bleeding as badly as Talbot, but so far we've managed to keep finance high enough to feel no pain."
 "I'll pass the word."
 "Thank you, Isaac.  And thank you for trusting me."
 Isaac said, "If you are going to expose me, let me know so I can prepare to horrify.  And remember this - if I find out you lied about anything, all bets are off."
 "Oh, absolutely," Lucas said.  "I appreciate the notion."  
 When Isaac turned to leave, Lucas saw a smirk that concerned him, as if Isaac had a secret.  His nerves suddenly felt steely in his arms.  
 
 The office door closed, and when he heard the click of the latch, Lucas tore open the envelope and poured its contents onto his desk.  He thumbed through the pages of his background report and looked for details about his past.  Under many of the subcategories on the pages, the line beneath the heading said, "No information available."  One page contained every passport and drivers license photograph ever taken of him, and he was shocked when he saw the freckled photo that was taken at the Chicago DMV when he turned sixteen.  He could not believe that a background check dug up his earliest identification, because he had paid a lot of money to have his life erased.
Sixteen was the last year of his life, according to government records.  The drivers license shocked him further when his eyes scrolled down to his personal information.  Below the picture was his childhood address in Chicago, and worst of all, his childhood name.  
Jude Jovan. 
 His phone rang, scaring him away from the background report.   
He touched the speaker button.  
A woman's voice said, "Mr. Perth?"
"Yes?"
"I need to meet with you."
 "Who's calling?"
 "An important donor.  Meet me at 1199 Valencia Street.  It's noisy there."
 "Oh?"  He fumbled with the phone while he grabbed a pen and wrote directly on the wood of his desktop.  "Who's calling, please?"
 "This is a two with eight zeroes.  If you're still interested."
"Of course."  Lucas underlined the address on the wood, gouging deep into the walnut.  He said, "What time do you want to meet?"  
 "How about an early happy hour.  4:30."
 "Sure.  How will I know who you are?..."  
 The dial tone hummed in his ear.  He marveled at how quickly Isaac contacted his partner.  Their organization impressed him, but instead of feeling nervous to meet the woman, he simply reached into his desk drawer and packed the pistol into his briefcase, along with his background information.
 
 The appointment with the mysterious woman made Lucas nervous as the clock neared 4:30.  Wrapping things up in his office, Lucas stepped outside and told his secretary to forward all messages to his answering machine at home.  
 An executive assistant asked, "You're leaving early?"  
 Lucas said, "Tomorrow is going to happen whether I stay late or not.  I'll see you all at the party tomorrow afternoon."
 A limousine at the front door waited for Lucas, who rode to downtown San Francisco and 1199 Valencia Street.  During the ride he looked out the window and wondered how to approach this anonymous, ruthless Blocker.
 
 At the restaurant he stepped up to the waiter captain and told her his name.
 "Yes, Mr. Perth, please follow your waitress, Griffin.  She will take you back to your table."
 The waitress led Lucas to the rear of the restaurant, toward the exit, and finally to a small table hiding from the view of the large crowd.  He turned a corner and there sat a strikingly beautiful woman, dressed casually.  
 "Hi Lucas."  She got up from her seat and kissed Lucas on the cheek.
 "Hello."
 She kissed him on the other cheek.
 "Thank you," Lucas said, surprised from the personal greeting.  "Kisses, wow.  I didn't expect that."
 "I think we've known each other long enough for any type of greeting imaginable, Lucas."
 He nodded and tried to read the situation in front of him, not fully trusting her.  This was his first planned meeting with a Blocker, since only by chance he had met Isaac.
 She asked, "How many years have we been together now?"
 He said, "I think it's been twelve years."
 "Oh, I think more than that."  
 "Maybe so."
She said, "You look different than I would have expected."
 He tilted his head.  "I am pleasantly surprised.  I had no idea you were so attractive.  What can I call you?"
 "Julia."
 The waitress came to the table and placed a glass of water in front of them both.
 Lucas waited for the waitress to leave.  "So.  To what do I owe your company?"
She said, "Let me get to the point.  Does that suit you?"
 Again, he nodded, making a conscious effort to keep his answers short and laconic.
 "What if," she said with a narrow smile, "I delivered the cash to you right now, in a briefcase."
 Lucas said quietly, "No way.  I can't take it."
 "No?"  She pulled a briefcase onto her lap.
 "I hope you're joking."
 "You don't want it anymore?"
 Lucas scoffed.  "Of course I want it."
 "Then take it."
 "Not like this."
 "What's the problem?"
 Lucas leaned down close to her ear.  "The system I set up is meant to manipulate the location.  Not like this.  I'm not carrying that much cash into a bank.  Do you want me to go to jail?"
 She said, "I went to a lot of trouble to liquefy the funds.  What's the problem?"
 "Listen, I don't even need to explain that to you."  Lucas sighed.  "I'm not going to let it play out this way.  There is a proper channel.  This is the wrong channel.  No, I can't take this.  I'm sorry.  No."  He shook his head and smiled, "But please - take your percent in cash.  Absolutely, take your cut out.  Deposit the rest into the account I asked you to deposit it in.  You need to move that money now.  Today."
 She said, "I understand.  Yes.  I understand.  I just really wanted my last job to end cleanly, that's all."
 "Ok, Julia.  You get that money into my account by this afternoon, and I will give you another five percent.  Is that what this is?  Are you trying to negotiate more money?"
"Not at all, but I'll take it.  I'll need at least a full business day to get the money moved." 
"Tomorrow afternoon then."  Lucas pushed his chair back and pulled out a business card from his coat.  While he wrote his address and cell phone number down on the back of the card, he said, "Contact me as soon as it's done.  I'll be waiting to hear from you."  He stood up to leave.
"You don't want to sit and talk for a bit?"
"Sorry.  Not much of a chatter."  He smiled.  "If only I could take you as my date tomorrow.  You would be great company."
"I don't need to see Marshall Ploof usurp Spiro Ling's invention."  She winked.
 Lucas laughed.  "Exactly."  He admired her while he placed his business card into her hand.  He asked, "Is Isaac on the level about tomorrow?  He seems a little edgy."  He waved his hand in front of his face.  "Forget it.  No, don't tell me.  All I need to know is that your work is done.  You both have amazing talent.  Longstreet would be proud."
 After taking a drink of water, she said, "I just want to say thank you, Lucas, for helping the cause all of these years."
 "That's very kind.  Don't think about it that way.  We are all in it together."  He turned to leave.  "Good luck."  
"Luck," she said, "has nothing to do with it.  It's about trust."  She lugged the briefcase off the table and onto her lap.
 "True," Lucas agreed.  "Very true.  Call me when the money is moved."
 
 The next morning, before the unveiling of Ploof's great invention, Lucas had to attend a morning meeting with Arrica and ten other managers, including Basil, who had become cozy with Arrica.  The gray daggers in her eyes rarely came out anymore as her incendiary nature cooled.  Because of it, Lucas disclosed less information to her with every passing month, but kept handing her glossy, rosy reports that kept her away from the research and development department.  
 Although he disliked her soft attitude, she treated Lucas well and sometimes invited him over for summer barbecues on the porch, and even took him to an occasional Giants game.  When they went to see a game, Lucas sat in Conrado's seat, a place of honor for anyone, as if a king had frequented it at one time.  Arrica even acted like her father while they attended the game, getting to know the new hot dog man, and Lucas played along, feigning interest behind his sunglasses and a snug, black Giants cap.  Her good will made him wonder if she was working a scheme against him.  No one behaved nicely without a motive.  
 His own relationships were strictly for show.  At company picnics, Lucas called an escort service or asked a young woman to accompany him, and he found it easy to keep the focus of conversation away from himself, since he always made sure he picked an aggressive social climbing escort as his date.  Ultimately, his dates ended up as good networking opportunities for the woman, which suited him fine.  Very seldom did he pursue a date after the initial outing, making his appearances as asexual as possible and letting rumors to his orientation roam from one end of the spectrum to the other.  Whenever by chance a rumor reached him, sometimes occurring when he rounded a hallway corner into the middle of a conversation among his employees, he looked sternly at the speaker and walked past with an angry stare, causing a stir among the group.  However, as soon as they could not see his face, he smirked, knowing that the rumor mill harmed nothing.  Rumors gone unanswered served him best, because the fictions made him into a caricature, and therefore ultimately left his own history, home, and preferences untouched.  
Relationship talk was the last thing he expected to hear from Arrica that afternoon, but toward the end of the meeting, she singled him out by asking him who he intended to bring to the ceremony on Friday, for Marshall Ploof's big moment and the post-party.  
 Arrica said, "Who is your date for tomorrow, Lucas?"
 Lucas said, "Excuse me?"
 "You seem kind of distracted," Arrica said, making the other members of the meeting laugh lightly.  "I know you're not nervous about the product, so it must be your date."
 Every pair of eyes in the room found him and waited for a response.  
 Arrica said, "Is this finally a girl you can take home to mom?"
 Going with what had worked in the past, Lucas said nothing.  To defuse the stares, he put his elbow on the table, shielded his eyes, and groaned.  The people around him laughed, and one woman patted him on the shoulder, showing good-natured pity for Lucas.  He pulled his hand away from his eyes and said to Arrica, "I thought you were my date." 
 Arrica laughed.  "Are you asking me out?"
 Lucas drew nervously on the table with his finger, acting like a teenager.  
 "You mean to say that I'm the type of girl you want to take home to mom?"
 At least Arrica knew how to end an uncomfortable moment.  He laughed louder than anyone.
 Smiling in the corner and staring off into space, Basil listened to the discussion, and rather than letting it politely die, scared it up again.  
 Basil said, "Lucas, forgive me for asking.  I had the day off yesterday - my sister was in town - I took her out for an early dinner.  We were downtown.  I know the odds are slim," Basil said, "but I swore that I heard your voice."
 Lucas said, "Oh?"
 "Yes, and I didn't say anything because it seemed like you were talking to someone...and it sounded kind of important, maybe like a date.  Like someone special."
 Lucas laughed.  "That's news to me.  No.  Wasn't me."  Lucas scratched his ear.  "Must have been someone else."  Playing it cool, Lucas shrugged and shook his head, but Basil's comment irked him, and he wished the fool would go deaf and mute.   
 Basil said, "Good thing I didn't yell then."
 "Good thing."
 Basil said, "I thought she might have been your date for tomorrow."
 Lucas killed the conversation.  "Can we drop the fucking subject, please?  Who are you bringing, Basil?  Your wife?"
 No one said anything more about dates.  Everyone looked at Lucas in disbelief.  
 Basil stammered.  "Good one, Lucas."  His voice wavered with embarrassment.  "I didn't mean to pry.  If you'll excuse me."  Basil got up to leave, insulted at the outburst. 
 Arrica said, "No, Basil, please."  She reached for his arm, but Basil pulled it away from her. 
 When the door shut, Arrica said with disgust, "Lucas, I hope something terrible happens to you someday.  I can't believe you. I can't even begin to tell you how inappropriate that was, and if it weren't for the product release, I would ask for your resignation right now."
 Regardless of the impact of Lucas's comment, he knew that the rumor of Lucas dating a woman would spread after the meeting concluded, and that was a potential problem for his goals.  Even among the top tier of professionals at Pelius, they passed notes like high school cheerleaders, and Lucas considered them all slightly inbred after so many years of late nights working together on intense projects.  Everyone at Pelius in the same pay grade seemed to end up sleeping with one another at some point.  Perhaps that fact alone made promotion additionally inviting at Pelius, offering a fresh set of people to undress.  With most of the upper classmen at Pelius divorced or suffering through a third or fourth marriage, Lucas felt that Arrica's pack of wolves would be the perfect bundle of hides to get nailed to the wall of the Senate, when the investigations started.  The assembly at Pelius, a terrific cast of cutthroats, took a long time to nurture.  In another year, they would be a collective body that the world could join together in feeling unanimously ashamed about.  
The fall of Pelius was merely a contingency plan.  Lucas kept his focus on the main goal, which was to raze everything that his father had ever built. 
 

Chapter 17. Product Demo
 
Robert aimed a rifle through the storm drain.  He aimed across the street, toward the doorway where the thief, Marshall Ploof, would emerge.  The beads of sweat on Robert's forehead dropped into rivulets and streamed down his face and his spine.  A nervous finger squirmed on the trigger.  He lined up the sights and quickly wiped his brow using his shoulder, and once again he cursed the man who had brought him to this depravity.  
 Draped over the doorway was a sign that read, "Pelius: Free Your Mind."  The doorway itself was framed with a digital display of blooming roses, in lieu of the main attraction.  A large crowd gathered on both sides of the sidewalk in front of the building.  Every rooftop within viewing distance contained rapt observers and the doorway was guarded by intense police security.  
 Only members of the press were allowed to stand on the sidewalk directly in front of the doorway.  Between two of the reporters was a slight opening for Robert to aim at the heart of Marshall Ploof.  
 He came to San Francisco to save the world from Marshall Ploof.  Roert's alibi was anchored in a bay north of Seattle, and no one knew that he had driven south to San Francisco.  Everyone at Talbot believed that Robert was fishing off the Olympic Peninsula, taking a break from research.  
Although it was his hatred for Marshall Ploof that brought him to California, fortuitously, Robert also took great offense at Pelius for producing a product long stifled and ignored by Talbot because of its gross ethical problems.  To Robert, all that made mankind alive, all that made the human spirit spiritual, all that had matured and evolved over the eons was about to come to a crashing halt with the unveiling of this product.  Yet, unlike Robert, the media around the world were unanimously celebrating the moment, waiting with bated breath to see what Marshall Ploof would look like.  In the press releases, Pelius promised a virtual utopia and clearly paid the media markets millions of dollars to assure complete coverage.  A few religious groups opposed the progress of Pelius, but every media pundit and public statesman weighed in on the topic of innovation with favorable opinions.  As American research tightened around itself and grew stagnant, India and China threatened to win the patent wars, thus Pelius seemed like a savior for the xenophobic.  America had fallen in status.  For many Americans who had always lived under the swagger of the empire, the feeling of being second-best burned at their egos, as if the undulations of the world economy attacked them personally.  So this promise of Pelius and their unbelievable product could not come soon enough for some.  
The newspapers said Marshall Ploof was a man of unquestionable genius, but the accomplishments attributed to Ploof were hijacked wholesale from the life of Spiro Ling.  A few suspicious errors in the press release gave Ploof skills beyond his ability.
Ploof was not originally trained as a neurosurgeon.  Ploof had not taken secondary degrees in electrical engineering and the floundering field of memetics.  But the press said he was all this and more.  Few had taken notice of the errors outside of Pelius.  But Robert Lopez assumed that Ploof had managed to elbow his way past Ling, just like he had Robert at Talbot.  
Journalists quickly fell over themselves to compliment the career of Ploof.  They wrote that by the time Ploof began to study memetics, the entire field of 'meme research' had failed to prove a single theorem in the decade of its existence, and the memetic community was viewed by many as a group of 'funding fops,' or scientists seeking money to pursue absurd ideas.  As if he had nursed a broken-winged bird back to health, Ploof's unearthly math skills took memetics from pseudo-science to bleeding-edge.  Just as Sir Isaac Newton and Gottfried Liebniz discovered the mathematics of calculus in nature, Marshall Ploof discovered the math inside our brains: the algorithms of memes.  He had essentially broken through the final frontier of the human body with memetics, proving in his lab work that ideas can be put into the brain using fairly simple clustering algorithms of electrical impulses.  The math proved to be sensible, just as Einstein showed us the universe - simple, immutable, beautiful.  
 Upon this rock of math findings, Ploof's lab built a device that he had implanted into his own body in order to showcase the safety and effectiveness.  In the public marketing campaign, Pelius took early and effective measures to assure the public that the device did not make 'cyborgs' out of normal men and women, but was simply the next step in tech advancement, like an extension of the smart phone, but directly in the head and wired to the synapses.  
Over the entire previous year, Pelius broadcasted a nationwide campaign promising American prosperity.  The deluge of promises put forth by Pelius piqued the interest of people everywhere, and this invention crowned the marketing effort.  The memetic implant promised solutions: it would enlighten the mind, be the end of medical coverage, the end of education spending, the end of hating your job, the end of all things negative, and to Robert, all things hogwash.  
 In the doorway of Pelius, armed guards mingled with the waiting crowd and bumped shoulders with members of the press.  The mayor of San Francisco spoke to the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to witness an event that history will always remember." 
The TV networks were live on the scene, and Robert saw the reporters straining to hear every word.
 Robert wiped his drenched face again and peered down the rifle sights.  His bloodshot eyes stung from the sweat.  He wore all black clothing, including black gloves and black polish on his face to mesh with the look and feel of the sewer.  
 The mayor continued.  "May I introduce to you a great teacher and friend, our local hero, our embodiment of the American dream.  I give to you, Dr. Marshall Ploof."
 Robert flipped the safety switch of his rifle and took aim at the doorway for the hundredth time.  
Suddenly Dr. Ploof emerged to make his historical exit from the building and his great entrance into the world as a phenomenon, a hero, a genius.  He was a mastermind greater now than any pioneers of electricity.  Ploof's name joined the pantheon of Western Civilization's most amazing minds - Euclid, Galileo, Newton, Einstein, et al.
He crossed the threshold of the doorway.  The crowd surged to get a glimpse of Ploof, and in doing so the cadre of media cameramen tightened up so that Robert's clear shot at Ploof disappeared.  Robert clenched the rifle and started to shake.  He held his breath and attempted to remain steady while he waited for the reporters to move out of his firing angle.  
 Confetti rained out of the windows of the Pelius buildings, as employees took part in watching from their offices.  They yelled Marshall Ploof's name.  The sky of San Francisco was blue as robins' eggs and the summer heat made the crowd electric and sanguine.  The audience members that couldn't directly see Dr. Ploof watched him on large flat screens, set out at intervals in the Pelius parking lot.  There was hope in the air, excepting the struggling assassin, Robert, who after ninety seconds let go of his lungs and exhaled loudly.  When he did, he found the stress of the moment exhausting him, and the barrel of the rifle wobbled in his clammy hands.
The crowd continued to cheer for two minutes upon first sight of Dr. Ploof, during which the mayor stammered onward with accolades for Ploof and his team.  The reporters did not sway, and showed no signs of giving Robert a clear shot, until suddenly one reporter in front of Robert dropped down to her knees to adjust her equipment, giving Robert a window for a clear shot at Ploof's right shoulder, but before Robert had time to steady his aim, the reporter stood up, and once again became an obstacle to the hollow-point bullet.  
 Ploof waved at the crowd and said modestly, "This is too much.  Thank you.  I really appreciate it." 
 After applause, Ploof said, "Let me tell you briefly about why you have all gathered today.  Let me tell you about the good things to come for this company and this country.  Today we have good fortune.  Not my good fortune, but ours as a collective whole."
 Robert listened with disgust.      
Ploof went on, "What my team here at Pelius has done is unprecedented.  We have found a way to unlock the treasures of the mind, and soon every man, woman, and child of this country will be able to harness the full ability of the finest thinkers of all time.  We will have thousands of tinkerers that can take their ideas to the next level, thousands of housewives able to discuss quantum physics, and thousands of philosophers exploring the deepest insights of mankind.  We will be enriched with knowledge.  But we will be rich, too.  The thousands of great entrepreneurs we have today, perhaps tentative because of knowledge, will be as full of business and legal knowledge as the Library of Congress."  
Robert heard a cheer and saw a bit of confetti fall in front of the storm drain.  
 Ploof continued, "There is a profound saying by William Blake that I have often pondered and had mixed feelings about.  If you'll bear with me, I'd like to preface this occasion with this great poet's verse, which states simply enough, 'The cut worm forgives the plow.'  I say again, 'The cut worm...forgives the plow.'  This is a verse often pondered by great minds.  Given Blake's penchant for religion, the saying is usually interpreted in a Christian sense.  I interpret it in a spiritual sense, as in the human spirit.  To me the saying is about progress.  Progress is the plow.  Of course, that makes you and me the worms, unfortunately."  Ploof paused and laughed.  
"The plow of progress is yet again upon us, moving us toward a better life, a better world.  Historically, we have always forgiven the plow after it cuts us, because progress eventually gives something back to us.  Although at first the progress may seem threatening, it promises a new day.  When the invention of the wheel first came about, those men, women, and beasts of burden that carried everything on their backs had to face progress.  When the aqueducts of Rome were built, the water bearers lost their jobs.  When the light bulb first illuminated a room, candle-makers suffered.  When the Internet created an office economy, we found out the power of immense information at our fingertips.  Today, you will see this power increased exponentially.
"Today, for the first time in human history, the worm will become the plow, with a simple attachment of a harmless device to our bodies.  With this invention, no one will be left behind due to lack of knowledge or maladjustment.  Knowledge will be readily available, downloadable, and memorize-able by the entire population.  Progress will no longer be a divisive and cutting misfortune separating Americans into groups of haves and have-nots, but instead it will be a uniting and self-liberating, self-actualizing force."
 The crowd remained silent as Ploof turned to face a different section.   
 "If you've ever wondered how to do calculus or differential equations - you will know it in a matter of minutes.  Not only will you know how to solve the problems, but you will also comprehend it.  For anyone interested in the legal system, you will have encyclopedic, instantaneous case-by-case knowledge of any state or area of law.  If you are religious and want to memorize the Bible, thy will be done.  If you want to write poetry like William Blake, the study of all the Romantics can be accomplished in minutes.  We can all have PhDs in multiple subjects.  Depression, dyslexia, addictions, and attention deficits are soon to be artifacts of our culture.  Medical problems, such as infection and insulin regulation, can all be managed by this powerful device that harnesses the vast power of the brain.  Our limitations, set by our brains, will now be liberated by this device.  We have mapped a new universe."  
Pointing to his head, Ploof said, "My fellow citizens, let me give you a demonstration of the power of the Pelius device, a device that we have named 'Nikolai' in honor of Nikolai Tesla, the great inventor and my personal inspiration for learning and discovery."
 
 Robert adjusted his position in the hammock and noticed that his arm supporting the rifle stock had fallen asleep.  He swore under his breath and attempted to steady the aim, but even when he lined up the sights with the storm drain, the reporters stood like statues in front of him.  The longer the speech continued, the more doubt he had of accomplishing the assassination, and he started to wonder how he had ever come to hide out in a sewer without planning for the contingency of TV crews.  
 
 Ploof continued, "For an example, I'm going to display the power of Nikolai.  Prior to our meeting here today, I asked the mayor of San Francisco to select several topics of any subject matter, so long as the topic is knowledge that is in the public or academic domain.  Nikolai does not do one thing, and that is read the personal thoughts of others.  Telekinesis and ESP are still outside the realm of modern science, to be sure.  At least for now."  Ploof placed his hand behind his ear.  
The crowd waited in silence.
 "I'm now powering up Nikolai.  With the flip of a switch, Nikolai goes to work," Ploof smiled.  "And even though I can't tell the difference in my head, I now have the memory of trillions of pieces of data, as if I've always known these things.  All I have to do is be posed with a question or think about a topic and the answers come pouring forward.  So I now ask you, mayor, to fire away with your questioning of myself and Nikolai."
 The mayor came to a podium that faced Ploof and said, "Here is the first topic I came up with.  Recite the 29th through the 31st amendments to the United States Constitution, and please recite them word-for-word."  The mayor beamed at Ploof.   
 In front of Robert, the same reporter that squatted earlier shifted her weight once again, allowing Robert a glimpse of Ploof.  It occurred to Robert that the woman holding the camera seemed agitated.  Hher hands shook nervously, much like his own, as she manipulated the buttons of her camera.  
The reporter stood up, squatted down, and stood up one last time, allowing Robert fleeting glimpses of Marshall Ploof each time.  Robert had Ploof lined up in the gun sights, but the reporter continued to move, and Robert could not pull the trigger with any guarantee of hitting Ploof.  Finally the reporter stopped moving, hoisted the camera on her shoulder, and aimed it at Marshall Ploof.
 Posed with the question from the mayor, Ploof inhaled, smiled at the cameras, and opened his mouth to speak.  The reporter suddenly stood still in front of Robert, blocking his chance at a shot.  Robert heard an electrical hum, like the sound of an X-ray machine, for one second, and then the sound stopped.
The left side of Ploof's face drooped.  Drops of blood started dribbling out of his nose and ran down to his lips.  Ploof's expression flattened on both sides.  His head fell backwards, and his knees buckled underneath the weight of his body.
 The great scientist fell on the ground in a violent seizure.  
The horrified crowd gasped and cried out for doctors to make their way to Ploof, who twisted and contorted into awful positions, jerking so violently that Robert heard the sound of bones cracking.  Red foam formed on Ploof's mouth and slid onto the hot pavement.  The mayor attempted to assist Ploof, but the convulsive strength of the flailing body threw the mayor to the ground.  
 The cadre of cameramen continued to record the moment, except for the agitated reporter who had been blocking Robert's view.  She walked away, seemingly distraught by the horror as he fled the scene, but the rest of the media stayed put.  
 Ploof's body wrenched backwards and forwards, flopping as if possessed.  People from the audience attempted to stop the seizure to protect Ploof from himself, but it was to no avail.  After thirty seconds, Ploof's body became limp.  A crew of San Francisco paramedics pushed through the crowd and carted Ploof's body away.  From Robert's view, Ploof already appeared dead.
 
 Robert watched with amazement from his perch in the sewer.  His immediate thought was that his gun had gone off by accident, but when he looked into the chamber, the bullet was still locked and loaded.  Not sure what to do next, Robert pulled out his jack-knife to cut himself loose from the hammock.  When he cut through the ropes in the first corner, Robert's obese body fell six feet onto the filthy sewer floor in a painful belly-flop, which knocked the wind out of him.  He lay supine with his mouth gaping for air, thinking perhaps he'd stabbed himself, and terrified between the equally bad outcomes of suffocating to death or being spotted in the sewer by the police.  His tongue rolled out of his mouth as he pathetically tried to taste the air.  After thirty seconds of this gaping, his airway opened again, gradually, and he made no attempt to be quiet with his lustful and gasping inhalations of fresh sewer air.  
 His escape plan involved cleanup and recovery of evidence, but in his nervous state, he opted for a new plan: he ran in terror.  Leaving the rifle, hammock, knife and all, Robert took only his crowbar and fled down the pathway of the sewer tunnel.  Since Robert weighed two hundred fifty pounds, his run soon lapsed into a jog, and then became a walk.  He scrapped all his plans.  In fact, everything about his plan to stop Marshall Ploof had been scrapped due to the incredible event that had taken place right in front of his eyes.  For a brief moment he wondered what went wrong with Ploof's invention, but then forced himself to consider his situation, and he ran until his chubby legs pumped lactic acid through his muscles.  
The manhole that Robert had used to descend into the sewer wasn't the same place he intended to escape from, but given the proximity and his growing paranoia about staying in the sewer, he had no qualms with going out the same way he came in.  When he reached the ladder to climb out, he leapt up to the second rung and climbed.  At the top of the ladder, Robert stabbed the crowbar into the manhole grommet and lifted with all his remaining strength.  The manhole lid lifted up a few inches and fell back into its groove.  Robert's arm, still asleep, barely had enough blood circulating to be of any use.  Robert climbed another rung of the ladder and threw his shoulder into the manhole lid, lifting it up halfway.  He brought his other foot one rung higher and grunted and pushed until the manhole cover flipped noisily onto the street and wobbled in circles until it clattered flat on the pavement.  Without concern for being quiet or stealthy, Robert climbed out of the sewer and stood petrified in the street looking around in confusion.  His heart thumped in his ears along with his fear as he turned his head around in all directions, expecting to see the San Francisco police waiting for him, but instead the street was empty.  
  The street was too quiet, allowing paranoia to flood his head.  His black outfit clung to his body from so much sweat.  He took off one if his black gloves and wiped his bloodshot eyes.  After wiping his face, his hand wore the black polish he had smeared on every bit of his pasty white skin.  Robert's impressive capacity to think in normal circumstances failed him.  From side to side he swiveled his head, looking for an answer to his dire need to find a place to hide.  The manhole cover stayed flipped over in the street.  He ran to the edge of a building and peered down the adjacent street.  A handful of people going home from the death of Ploof were walking in his direction.  Robert's entire body shivered.  He held the crowbar in his hand and considered beating the people with it.  How many were there? Six of them - way too many.  
 Pinning his back to the wall of the building, he closed his eyes, hoping for an epiphany to arrest his thought.  When he opened his eyes, he turned his head toward an alley near the manhole and saw his salvation - a Waste Management dumpster sitting outside the back door of a Thai restaurant.  Robert heaved his body into a plodding run toward the dumpster, but halfway there, he froze in the street.  A motorcycle drove directly toward Robert.  
As the motorcycle approached, his rubbery legs turned rigid.  Frozen, he could not even blink as the motorcycle swerved deftly around him.  As the motorcycle passed, Robert turned to look at the driver.  Suddenly Robert realized that the driver of the motorcycle was the same agitated reporter who had obstructed his view of Ploof.  
It was Julia.
Now he did not have time to think about her.
As the group of people rounded the corner and caught sight of Robert, he flipped the lid of the dumpster and jumped inside.  He pulled the lid down on himself and waited in fear, clutching the crowbar in his sweaty, shaking palms.
 Two of the approaching people were San Francisco teenagers who switched their conversation from the violent seizure of Marshall Ploof to the dumpster-diving bum.  Robert listened in silence as they passed by him.  
 A voice said, "Oh my God!  Mom, did you see that?"
 "See what?"
 "That dude who just dove into the trash headfirst?  It was hilarious."
 "How can you even talk about a bum at a time like this?" the mother scolded.  "Is that the first bum you've ever seen?"
 "No, but you're the biggest bi..."
 She slapped the side of her son's head.  "You know what?"
 "Ow!"
 "You're going to church with grandma this weekend."
 "Bullshit I am!"
 "Bullshit you're not."
 The family crossed to the other side of the street, away from the dumpster.  Robert's nerves were slightly abated by their waning voices.  He leaned backwards onto the trash with a sigh, not bothered by the smell of hot, rotting Thai leftovers.  One of the trash bags split open as Robert's large body pressed into it.  A wet box sagged open and spilled onto Robert's legs.  This brought Robert's olfactory sense into working order, followed quickly by his gastrointestinal system.  Inside the dumpster, Robert added to the mess by vomiting and cursing himself for not having an alternative plan of escape.  He searched for used napkins in the trash bags and wiped his face, feverishly trying to remove the black polish.
 "Idiot, idiot," he whispered, "Oh, what a damn idiot you are.  What are you gonna do now?  What now?  What am I gonna do now?"
 Robert's breathing quickened until he started to hyperventilate, and he became dizzy from the heat and the stress.  Like a drowning man, he took one last breath, and then swooned into a heavy-dark slumber, there in the garbage on the San Francisco street, on the date of Marshall Ploof's unfortunate demise.  His last thought before passing out was of his wife, Rachel. 

 He did not wake again until dusk, when police noises surrounded the street.  The faint barking of dogs, German Shepherds, echoed through the street, and he knew immediately that the dogs were underground, in the sewer.  The dogs and the reality of his situation touched him like electricity and his lips tingled.  His bones felt like crackers, and wherever he moved, however he repositioned his spine, some sinew within threatened to snap.  The barking continued, scaring him enough that, in order to cover his scent from the dogs, he smeared some of the rotting Thai food onto his face, his armpits, and in the crotch of his pants.  Flies buzzed by his ears before landing on his face to suck at the sloppy garbage, but Robert dared not make a sound by swatting them away.  Thus he sat with the insects buzzing, landing, feeding, taking off, buzzing louder, and landing for more feeding.  He felt something crawling on his hand.  Through the rusty holes in the sheet metal, beams of light shined inside, and Robert managed to lift his hand up into one of the shafts to see what the creepy feeling was.  He'd rather not have looked at all.  Maggots squirmed on the back of his hand.  He covered his mouth with his other hand to choke back his disgust.
 One of the rusted-out holes in the metal dumpster was near enough that by elevating his head a few inches, he could view the street.  Yellow police tape cordoned the area surrounding the manhole.  Guards stood watch with determined looks on their faces.  Robert heard some of the police radios sound off with updates on the sewer search.  
 "It's clear.  Nothing in here, Detective."
 A detective in a drab suit paced back and forth over the manhole, eagerly listening to the radio and taking notes on his phone.  
 An officer standing guard polled the detective with questions.  The detective ignored him.  
 Another officer approached the detective and said, "Something just came over the radio about a major sting in the Pacific Ocean - some cargo ship.  I guess they found the kidnapped scientists."
 The detective said, "That's terrific news.  It's about time."
 The officer said, "Yeah.  That's your case, right?"
 "It is."
 Robert felt a strong urge to weep.  He began to question the feasibility of escaping.  The police would clearly remain staked out on the manhole long after the first day.  Even if he tried to crawl out, the suspicious nature of his appearance incriminated him beyond doubt.  He also doubted that his ability to pass as a vagrant would succeed twice.  Even worse, Robert needed to be back in Seattle by the following afternoon to catch his flight home to Chicago.  His deep-sea fishing alibi came closer to shore with each passing moment.  The chartered boat was scheduled to return to dock by 9 AM.  His entire plan fell through, on every level - a complete failure in every sense.  Robert considered himself a pathetic embarrassment.   
 The hours passed.  He remained frozen in his fearful state.  Nightfall crept inside and Robert knew that falling asleep would be a mistake.  If he snored or rolled around at all, the police might take notice.  The dumpster sat no more than thirty yards from the manhole.  Perhaps the only positive aspect of his situation was that the cover of the dumpster opened away from the police.  If he decided to attempt a getaway, opening the lid of the dumpster at least provided him brief concealment from the watching eyes.  But whatever scenario where he imagined himself escaping, the only conclusion he arrived at was imminent capture.  His overweight body hampered any chances of a quick and noiseless rush from the scene.  His crowbar stood no chance against police pistols.  He decided to wait until the early morning hours to consider a run for it.  
 The passage of time allowed Robert to mull his dubious decision to come to San Francisco in the first place.  The 'whys' of his rationale to assassinate Marshall Ploof spurred his brain.  Why had he thought himself a Blocker? Why was he laying among putrid trash bags when he could be in Chicago watching the San Francisco catastrophe on the television with his wife? His goals suddenly seemed juvenile.  
 It dawned on Robert that perhaps Ploof's neurological invention had failed on its own.  Perhaps his sins culminated in his own demise, or Spiro Ling had his revenge.  
 Local news vans crowded the street near the manhole cover, giving Robert even less hope for a chance to escape.  The noise in the street allowed him to shift his body around in the trash.  The time on Robert's digital watch read 4:00 AM.  The sun was still an hour or two under the horizon.  Still on his back, Robert looked up at the top of the dumpster and tried to imagine scenarios that could aid his exit.  A sharp element of doubt punctured any hope, though he knew that somehow he had to make an attempt, and make use of what he had in his favor.  The crowbar was his only tool.  If he'd at least brought the knife or the rifle, he'd have a glimmer of hope in crawling out, or perhaps taking a hostage.  He wondered how long he could lay there before someone came to discover him.  He wondered when the restaurant opened up.  He wondered everything and solved nothing.  
 The detective on the street left the scene for some time, but returned at 5:30 in the morning.  A forensics team blanketed the manhole under the detective's direction.  After only ten minutes of searching with their equipment, a voice yelled out to the detective, "Found a hair right here.  Looks to be a sandy brown."
 The detective said, "Maybe we can find this guy in the database."
 "Well, it's definitely a man.  A white man.  A white man with sandy brown hair.  We won't be able to piece together a likeness for a little while."
 "Pass it here," The detective said, referring to the capsule that contained the newfound hair.  "I want the evidence in my hand to take to the station myself." 
 Robert grimaced at the words and watched the young officer hand over the capsule.  On the other side of the dumpster, he heard a voice speaking Thai.  He grabbed the crowbar in his fist.  A door slammed shut and footsteps neared.  Robert prepared himself to swing at whoever opened the lid.  The sound of someone rummaging through boxes permeated the metal walls.  The rustling sound grew louder.  
 "Stop!" a policeman yelled.  "Who are you?"
 The voice spoke English with an Asian accent.  He stood very close and spoke to the policeman in confusion.  "Are you talking to me, officer?"
 The policeman's voice became aggressive as he approached.  Inside, Robert clenched the crowbar and held his breath.  A fresh sweat started on his forehead as he heard the policeman's footsteps crescendo with the voice.  "What's your name?  What are you doing out here at this time?"
 The young man said, "I get here every day this time, to prepare food with my Dad."
 The cop asked, "You own this place?"
 "No sir, my father owns it."
 "Did you see anything happen in the street yesterday?"
 "We were closed for yesterday.  We haven't been at the restaurant since the night before."
 "All right."  The officer softened his tone.  "If you hear or see anything suspicious, let me know."
 "I will."
 The footsteps of the police officer moved away.  Robert exhaled slowly, quietly, waiting for the next phase of the encounter to ensue.  The first light of morning beamed through the rusty holes in the wall.  The lid opened away from the police, so Robert knew they would not be able to see him, initially at least.
 The young man lifted the lid to throw in the morning garbage.  Robert gripped the handle of the crowbar tightly.  An arm propped up the lid, and Robert waited for a face to come into view.  
 The boy lifted the bags of garbage with his face turned away from Robert, and Robert sat up and swung the iron rod's curved end into the young man's cheek, and he crumpled to the ground as silent as his dropped bags.  Robert caught the falling lid with his outstretched arm and rolled himself out of the dumpster so that he fell to the ground on top of the unconscious man.  Upon getting a closer look, the man was a skinny teen, causing Robert to pause.  He lifted the lid, using it as a shield from the police and peeked around the corner of the dumpster.  Two police officers stood in the street, but neither moved.  Tucking the crowbar down the front of his pants, Robert let out a nervous sigh and mustered whatever courage he had left.  He stepped over the boy on the ground, softly placed the lid down on the dumpster, and moved away from it, attempting to act nonchalant.  He walked toward the back door of the restaurant, praying that it would be unlocked.  He expected to hear the dogs at any second.  One glance from a cop is all it would take.  When he reached out for the door handle and pulled, he did not turn to look back into the alley behind him.  
 The back door of the restaurant swung shut behind Robert and he stood quietly in a dark hallway.  
 A voice from another room started giving orders in Thai.  The owner of the voice thought that his son had come back inside.  Hearing the foreign language, Robert pulled the crowbar out from the front of his pants and held it at the ready once again.  The voice came from the kitchen and Robert hoped to avoid contact with the father at all costs.  Robert noticed the restaurant bathroom door on his right side, so Robert pushed open the door and locked himself inside.  He carefully set the crowbar on the sink, turned on the hot water, and scrubbed his face wildly until most of the black polish was gone.  No matter how he scrubbed, the polish and stench clung to him.  The smell of his armpits nearly gagged him.  The body sweat, bacteria, and Pad Thai noodles had combined into a synergistic stench.  He scrubbed until he felt moderately clean, and then he quietly unlocked the door and went back into the hallway of the restaurant, near the kitchen.  He shut off the bathroom light before exiting the door to hide his face in the dark restaurant.  With the crowbar firmly in his grip, he knew that his only avenue to independence was with the crude steel and more violence.  
 In the kitchen, an old man mumbled with a Thai accent, saying, "Stop dawdling out there.  I know what boys your age do in the bathroom.  You think you can turn the water on and I will assume nothing is going on.  Ha!  I was a boy once, too, you know."
 The man continued rambling as he prepared the kitchen for the work day, and Robert took slow steps toward the door from which the voice emanated.
 "'Idle hands do the devil's work.'  That's what they say in America, and it is a good saying.  They also say you can go blind from it."  
 Robert looked toward the front of the restaurant, hoping to escape without having to use any more violence.  The man continued talking in the kitchen, and Robert decided to make his move.  He took two big steps past the open kitchen doorway and walked toward the front entrance of the building.  
 "Oh, you should know I'm only kidding you.  You're too sensitive.  I like to tease you.  Now come help your father, would you?  You wash your hands, didn't you?  No, I'm teasing, just teasing."
 Down the sidewalk Robert ran, away from his misery, toward the first bus stop and a chance to restore his marriage and his life with Rachel and their children.  As swiftly as his chubby pins could move, he pounded the pavement with the dream of a clean getaway, until he passed a store window and saw a reflection of his attire and guilty outfit.  He might as well have wore black and white stripes.  Feeling at a loss, he ran to a pay phone, ducked into an alleyway, and called Julia Bentley-Blackwell.
 He asked for her help.
 "Where the hell have you been?" she answered, making him feel like a small boy.  "Why didn't you call earlier?"
 Robert blubbered into the phone.  "I didn't have my phone.  How did you know I would call?"
 "I've been worried sick about you," she said.  "Isaac and I have been up all night.  Are you in trouble?"
 "Yes."
 "Where are you?"
 "I don't know." He observed the street signs and mentioned the names.
"Ok, I'll come get you," Judith said sharply.  "Just hang on.  Do not move.  Robert, do not move from that spot."
 
In a nearby alley he sat against the wall and folded his arms.  Tipping his head back, he prayed at the heavens and drops rolled out from the corners of his shut eyes.  A wave of memories came back to him, as it does in a contrite person, all at once, in racing thoughts, one upon the other, crashing the mind with too many requests.  The snapshots of his life reeling in his lobes, all the wholesome days with Rachel forsaken for a single act of malice.  Every vacation that he and Rachel took together before their marriage, every elementary school concert, the birthday parties and sleepovers, the camping trips, the funny moments at the breakfast and dinner tables, the spasmodic pets they kept, the weekends of watching movies and keeping the shades drawn, and most of all, the simple constancy of Rachel and her kisses goodbye, every morning for as long as he could remember.  
A buzzing sound started in his head, and he thought that soon he would pass out again. However, it was not his head that was vibrating, but the sound of a motorcycle, which tore around the corner with a reckless driver leaning, who slammed on the brakes and squealed to a halt.  Startled, Robert stood up in the alley and braced himself against the wall.  At the end of the street, the driver spun the rear wheel around in a sharp turn and the bike lunged forward again.  Shrinking against the wall, he cringed as the motorcycle aimed straight at him, and as the engine roared upon him, he cowered in a ball.  
The motorcycle screeched to a halt.  The driver flipped up the helmet shade, and Judith stared down at him with a cruel mouth.  
"Get your ass up, or I'll let the pigs eat you."
 He jumped to his feet and climbed on the back of the motorcycle.  Before he clasped his hands together around Judith's waist, she hit the gas.  He nearly tumbled off the back of the bike. 
 Robert hugged Judith and started to cry.  He said, "I'm sorry."  
Judith yelled over her shoulder. "You smell awful.  And don't be sorry.  You just don't understand the war or the stakes."
"I'm so sorry."  He hyperventilated, smiled, and cried all at once.  "I owe you everything," he said, as images of his family, Rachel and the kids, resumed dominating his thoughts.  
"Robert, you owe me nothing.  That was my last Block."  
"You did that?" said Robert.  "How?  What did you use?"
"Me and Isaac.  Never mind how.  Just hold on."
 

Chapter 18. Scramble
 
As soon as Ploof started to flop, Lucas called Isaac.  He doubted Isaac's fealty, and wondered if the scrapper had lied.  If Isaac was in fact guilty, then the only option for Lucas was to get blood money to compensate for the act.  The death of Ploof marred the entire plan to sack Talbot.  A difficult decision lay before Lucas: one of cut-and-run or stay the course.  He called Isaac into the office to read his mind.
The first thing Lucas said made their conversation a rude interaction.  "Where was your partner today, Isaac?  Did you pulse Ploof somehow?  What did you do?"
 "Me?  I'm raking up the money for your master plan, which apparently is broken now, or you wouldn't be acting like this."  Isaac scratched at the USB ports sticking out of his forearms.  
 Lucas said, "Look at you.  You're a freak.  Where's your partner?  Did you..."
 "Don't yell at me.  I didn't kill Ploof."  Isaac smiled.  "But you have to admit, it was a perfect Block."
 "Yes, it was," Lucas said.  "That's why I suspect you had a hand in it.  Who else would know the technology well enough to figure out when and how to shock Ploof to death...using electro-magnetic - whatever the hell it was."
 Isaac said, "It wasn't me."
 "Then why don't you know where your partner is?  She was in town just yesterday."
 He shrugged.  "We never know where the other is operating."
 Lucas paused and turned the radio on in his office, flipping the volume knob to the maximum tick mark.  He grabbed Isaac's neck and whispered harshly into his ear.  "I met her, and she was lugging around a suitcase full of money, like it was no big deal.  Like she was some kind of amateur."
 Isaac pulled the hand off his neck.  "I think you need some fresh air, Lucas.  Back off, or you'll get no money.  We have checkins with one another, and if I don't checkin, then she's gone, with the briefcase of money."
 Lucas moved behind his desk.  He packed the gun in his briefcase and said, "Yeah, I think you're right.  I think you're right.  I'm getting out of here for a while."  After putting on his sunglasses and his baseball cap, Lucas snatched his briefcase with a violent jerk and walked to his office door.  "And God dammit!  Get that money moved!"
 On his way out the door, Lucas did not send for his usual company car.  Instead, he ran to the cab stand outside of the main entrance and hopped in the back seat of the first available cab.  A sudden yearning to get home stretched his chest.  He said to the driver, "An extra hundred dollars for every traffic law you break."  He stuffed two C-notes through the seat to the cabbie.  
 "Hey man, relax.  We'll get there fast enough."
 "Faster."
 After a half-hour of dodging through traffic, Lucas fondled the gun inside his briefcase.  During the ride, his phone kept ringing.  
 The driver said, "Ain't you gonna answer it one of these times?"
 Lucas said, "Just drive."
When the cab stopped, Lucas handed the driver the wad of money while simultaneously muttering epithets. 
 The offended driver got out of the cab to face Lucas.  He threw the money at Lucas's chest.  "Hey, keep your money asshole.  Who the hell do you think you are, calling me..."  
 Lucas pointed the gun to the cab driver's chest.  The driver put up his hands and backed away.  
 "Woah.  I'm cool," the driver said.  "No need for that."
 "Don't say another word," Lucas said, waving the gun around at the money.  "Take your money and drive."  
 The driver moved toward the car.  
 "I said take the money.  Are you deaf or just stupid?  I already know you're stupid given your occupation, so really only your hearing is in question."
 Keeping an eye on Lucas and the gun, the driver picked up a few of the hundred dollar bills and jumped when Lucas's phone started to ring again.  He jumped into his cab and departed with squealing tires.  
 
Lucas felt himself losing control, but he lowered the gun to his side because hope of revenge still remained.  Pelius could weather the death of Ploof and move forward, but only with the money stolen from Talbot.  
Lucas rushed up to his apartment, fumbled with his keys to unlock the door, but when he grabbed the knob to go inside, he looked down at his feet, at a briefcase that was pressed neatly against the base of the door.  Seeing the case, he nearly broke down and cried.  On his knees, he picked up the heavy briefcase and laid it flat on its side.  The latches popped and he lifted the cover, expecting to see stacks of green, but instead he saw red.  
There was no money.  Twelve red bricks filled the briefcase.  On top of the bricks sat a small piece of paper, a receipt.  Lucas picked up the receipt and read it.
"Home Depot.  Four dollars and twenty-five cents."
The receipt floated to the floor. 
 
In a trance, he opened the door, walked inside his apartment, and left the door swinging open behind him.  He sat on the couch and turned on his TV, an enormous monstrosity that filled much of his small apartment.  Alone, with gun in hand, he watched the scrolling headlines that pronounced Marshall Ploof dead.  Every channel replayed the death of Ploof and aired Arrica Pelius making her emotional explanation for the tragedy.  
 Arrica spoke on MSNBC.  "The product apparently malfunctioned when Dr. Ploof tried to use it.  We will carry out a full investigation in our quality assurance areas.  Marshall Ploof was a dear, dear friend to so many of us..."
 "A dear friend."  Lucas laughed.  He swore and threw the remote control at the TV, where it smashed and the plastic pieces ricocheted off the screen.  Arrica kept talking.  Lucas managed a smile, a fake one, because he knew the necessity of wearing the smile through this unexpected downturn.  
As he sat there watching the replay of Ploof's death, he looked closely and saw a face in the crowd that announced his betrayal.  Near Ploof, in a row of reporters, stood the woman with the briefcase, the one he had just met with the day before.  
"Julia."
 
Again, his phone started to ring.  He looked down at the phone.  It was four o'clock in the afternoon.  It continued to ring.  The calls were coming from Arrica, Basil, and the media, but he ignored them all.  Now that he knew the call would not be about money, he decided to turn the phone off.  Sooner or later, he knew that someone would find him.  Going home offered no more asylum than the office, and now that he was at home, the place looked foreign to him - empty and sickening.  
He watched the replay on TV once again.  From another angle, he watched Julia run away from the scene, as if horrified by the seizure, but Lucas knew the truth.  Isaac and Julia had orchestrated the death of Ploof.  There was no money coming.  
The loaded gun rested between his knees.  The insubordinate Blockers needed to make restitution.  Several options came to mind, but the best way to correct their mistake was a simple action.  With his Argus hit men still on the GRAIN ship, he could arrange payback.
Like an empty pan sitting too long on a hot stove, his mind felt like it was cracking, fragmenting, as sharp pains lanced between his ears.  To get a grip he tried to think of what he still had working in his favor.  He still had the ship.  He still had Argus, who understood loyalty down to the last man.  
 The answer to these types of problems was always Argus, the company that ran the GRAIN ship.  Lucas had reorganized the surveillance company after his father discarded it.  They were always more than happy to receive work orders.  Whoever he wanted to undermine or ruin, they would do it.  The only problem was that Lucas could not have everyone killed.  
 His contemplation was interrupted when he heard footsteps coming toward his door.  The door was open and he lowered the gun quickly so that the person entering would not see it.  
 
 Arrica Pelius rushed in and raised her voice.  
 "Care to answer your phone?  What happened, Lucas?  Or should I call you Jude, you lying piece of shit.  Guess what?  I got tipped off.  I know who you are."  
 "Have you mentioned this to anyone?" Lucas asked solemnly.
 "Not yet," Arrica said breathlessly.  "I wanted to give you a chance to tell me the truth.  You're Marcus Jovan's son?"
That was all he needed to hear.  Unless he could clean up this mess, all was lost.  
 
He lifted the gun, pulled the trigger, and shot Arrica.  
 
The bullet drove her backwards.  Arrica reeled and fell onto the floor, where she slid almost all the way back to the front door.  For a moment, she sat wide-eyed and stunned, trying to catch her breath.  The bullet landed in the upper right side of her chest.  Near her shoulder, the white shirt slowly turned red.  She put one hand on her shoulder and with her other hand tried to lift herself back to her feet.
With the gun hanging at his side, Lucas approached her.  "Who tipped you?"
Arrica gasped at him and shook her head.  "How..."  She tried to speak but couldn't draw enough breath.  "How..."  The rest of her question never came.
"Don't hurt yourself, Arrica.  Just bleed, you little bitch.  See if you can last longer than your old man.  Yeah, that's right.  I had the pleasure of watching him die, too."  
Lucas pulled out his cell phone and dialed his Argus contact.  The phone rang ten times and Lucas was about to hang up when someone answered.  
Lucas said, "Vindico?"
A man said, "Yes?"
"This is Tectus.  Are you experiencing any problems?"
"None."
"Just to be safe, prepare for code orange.  It might be time to sink the operation."
"Yes?"
"Also, I need you to write down some names for me.  For disposal.  Ready?"
"Go ahead."
"Isaac Blackwell.  Basil Jackson.  Julia."
The man waited.  "What's her last name?"
"I don't know her last name.  I'll get her picture to you."
"Ok."
"And Marcus Jovan."
"Marcus Jovan.  Really?"
Lucas paused to think about the project.  "Yeah, bring him in alive.  He won't do any work, but we'll waterboard him for a few years.  The other names I gave you can be zeroed."
The man paused.  
Lucas asked, "Are you still there?"
"I am," the man said.  "Anything else I can do?"
The voice did not sound right.  This was not Vindico, he suddenly realized.  Something was different.  Lucas hung up the phone and paced around the couch.  He set the phone and the gun down on the coffee table.  
Lucas said to Arrica, "Pelius is in trouble."
Arrica wheezed and mouthed at Lucas for help. 
After two trips around his couch, Lucas picked up the gun and stuffed it down the front of his pants.  He decided to try calling Argus one more time.  
As the connection was being made, he walked over to Arrica and squatted beside her.  
"I think your company is done for, Arrica."  He pushed his fingers through her hair.  "You really fucked up.  The media is going to burn you alive.  You're a KillJoy and a Blocker now.  I'm going to make sure of that."
After two rings, the man answered again.  "Tectus?"
Lucas said, "Who is this?"
"Vindico," the man stammered.
"No, it's not.  Who am I speaking to?"
"Excuse me?"
Lucas screamed into the phone.  "Tell me now!"
The man paused.  When he spoke again, his voice changed.  "This is Agent Riggins, FBI.  Your ship is a little out of order at the moment, if you can imagine.  You won't need that code orange after all."
Lucas felt his jaw fall.  From his squatting position, Lucas put one knee on the floor and turned to look at the front door, which was still wide open.  He saw a man come into the doorway.  Lucas went to reach for the gun in his belt, but another hand beat him to it.  Arrica reached for the gun.  Before Lucas could react, he heard the gun go off, smelled gunpowder fumes, and then felt a warm flow of blood running down his legs.  
With her uninjured arm, Arrica had grabbed the handle of the gun.  When Lucas heard the hammer click, he wanted to scream before the pain started.  A single shot was fired.
Lucas wailed and rolled onto his back.  Closing his eyes, he forgot about the image he saw in the doorway, but when he opened them, he wished Arrica had shot him in the face.
A man in full police gear and a bullet-proof vest stood in the doorway with his gun drawn.  He moved inside the room with his elbows in the shape of a spearhead.  "Don't move!"  When he was close enough, Pazzo changed shape and pistol-whipped Lucas in the forehead, knocking Lucas backwards.  Pazzo ripped the gun away from Lucas's belt and then tossed it toward the corner of the room.  
Looking down at the wound on Lucas, Pazzo said to Arrica, "Hell of a shot, Miss Pelius."  
As if time didn't matter, Pazzo casually pulled out a set of handcuffs.  Because Lucas had both hands pressed against his wounded crotch, his wrists were situated just right for the cuffing.  
Once the cuffs were on, Pazzo turned to inspect Arrica.  
"Looks like he got you in the shoulder.  Sorry about that.  You got here too fast, Miss Pelius.  I was right behind you."  He touched a radio that hung on his shoulder and spoke.  "This is Pazzo.  Perth's room is clear, but we have two wounded." 
A scratchy voice of a dispatcher replied.  "We're sending two ambulances right now."
"Miss Pelius," Pazzo said, "we're going to get you on the first stretcher."  He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped the sweat away from Arrica's eyes.  After drying her face, he looked at her shoulder and said, "You'll be ok, Arrica."
Two teams of paramedics arrived.  One team assembled Arrica onto a gurney, the other team manhandled Lucas.  In less than a minute, the first team of paramedics had Arrica transported out of the room.  The second team took more time with Lucas because of the location of the gunshot wound.  He screamed in pain several times, until one of the paramedics gave him a shot of morphine.  His muscles relaxed, but with the pain gone, Lucas became aware of a strange quiet in the room.  The paramedics stopped working on his midsection and took off his handcuffs.
"Feels good, huh?" Agent Pazzo said.  "Yes, it does.  I had some morphine when I was in the Marine Corps.  It was a good learning experience.  Made me understand why junkies do what they do.  Ok, are you listening, Lucas?  Now that you are listening, on behalf of the FBI, let me be the first to tell you that your GRAIN ship has been, shall we say, reaped by US Marshals.  You are a blessing to me.  I got a tip about you and suddenly everything, I mean everything, came together.  It's like someone rolled a rock over and showed me where the bugs were."  He whispered into Lucas's ear, "Right, Mr. Jovan?  The Talbot letterheads on the ship didn't throw me off-track either, because your Argus sap, alias Vindico, told us all about your Pelius arrangement."
Lucas felt a strap on his right arm.  The paramedics tied him down to the stretcher.  He felt a sudden jerk as the stretcher was lifted.  
"Sir," said one of the paramedics, "we are putting straps on you to keep your hands away from the wound."  
Lucas nodded.
Ignoring the paramedics, Pazzo whispered into Lucas's ear.  "I know that you are not only a degenerate, but also a Blocker.  Therefore, Mr. Jovan, it is in everyone's best interest that I disallow you to horrify the public.  I know the drill.  Once exposed, horrify. Not going to happen for you.  But before I put you back underneath a rock, I am going to hear the details from you.  One thing is for sure, I can't wait to hear about you and your dear old Dad."
Lucas screamed and convulsed until he freed his arms from the straps and leaped off the stretcher.  Standing in the room and bleeding, he put one hand on his belt to ease the pain and used his other to brandish Pazzo and the paramedics.  He looked around frantically for an escape route, but saw none.  Under his feet, he felt something crunch.  The shattered TV remote lay in pieces under his feet.  He looked at the TV and then at Pazzo.
"You have nowhere to run."  Pazzo drew his gun and pointed it at Lucas's face.  "It's over, Jude.  Unless you want your knee to look like your dick, I'd suggest kissing the floor and putting your hands on your head."
Lucas disagreed.  Like a rabid dog, he bawled and lunged toward his enormous TV.  With each step toward the big screen, he lowered his face toward the floor, and in a furious final burst of speed, he dashed his head against the TV screen, crowning himself on the picture tube.  Sparks flew out of the display, glass landed around him, and right before he lost consciousness he felt shards enter the subdural space near his brain. 
 

Chapter 19. Reunion
 
The scandal rocked the business and science world.  Ploof's death became the subject of national scorn, and his celebrated name became reviled.  The media declared Marshall Ploof to be a Blocker.  The term KillJoy became known to all who watched the nightly news.  Testifying at a Senate hearing, Pazzo produced evidence that Ploof had downloaded KillJoy's Manifesto years before.  The political parties pounced on the statement, questioning why Ploof wasn't reigned in earlier, and both left and right wingnuts deemed Blockers to be public enemy number one, replacing Muslims as the primary threat to baseball, apple pie, and Wall Street.  
Aware of the far-reaching effect of the scandal, Agent Pazzo saved the economy from further fallout by not disclosing the true identity of Lucas Perth, which he had learned from an anonymous tip.  He considered it his patriotic duty to maintain the balance of the country by keeping this a secret.  Even while the investigation team tried to figure out why every piece of paper on the GRAIN ship was marked with the Talbot logo, only Agent Pazzo knew the actual connection between Perth and Jovan.  For the sake of his country, its economy, its decency, Pazzo expunged the background of Lucas Perth so that no junior investigator would stumble across the link to Talbot.  

For twelve days, Pelius Research was looted by employees.  Stockholders dumped their shares on the exchanges.  During the scandal, Agent Pazzo and his crew guarded two hospital rooms where Lucas Perth and Arrica Pelius stayed.  The media hovered around the hospital, hoping to get a picture and a comment from the bedridden villain who shot Arrica Pelius "when she reproached him upon finding out about the kidnappings and Ploof's Block," as the official story told it.  Still, even with the spin favoring Arrica, her fortune would be wasted on legal battles.  Pazzo and his agency only pressed charges against Lucas Perth, who was supine in intensive care.  Having a mute, brain-damaged villain made it simple to tailor the tale to the media. 
At times, holding the media mob back required Pazzo to bare his teeth at them.  Not only the media wanted in the room, but also angry employees of Pelius, who suspected Lucas for the kidnapped scientists and, worse yet, the falling stock price.   
 
After three days in the hospital, Arrica was released.  She returned home under bandages and heavy security.  Lucas stayed in the hospital under constant guard.  
 
As the media frenzy started to settle, Lucas recovered in the brain trauma rehabilitation center.  One night while Pazzo guarded the door, the two people who knew the real name of Lucas Perth showed up without an appointment. 
Marcus Jovan arrived first.  
Down the hall, the old man shuffled toward Pazzo with his head down.  He wore a quiet suit jacket and a black fedora that covered his face.  He walked up to Agent Pazzo and tipped his hat back.  
"I thought you might show up."  Pazzo stood in front of the door.  "But no visitors are allowed."
Jovan said, "Please, just ten minutes."
"I'm sorry, sir," Pazzo said, "but he's not healthy."
"How can he be, after all that's happened?"  Jovan's wrinkled forehead quivered.  "Nor am I healthy.  How much would it take for you to let me in?  Is it money you want?"  Jovan reached into his inner suit pocket.
Pazzo replied, "Don't even show me a dollar bill so I don't have to deny it, sir.  Please don't provoke me."
Jovan pleaded.  "Think of your own father, Mr. Pazzo.  Think of how many times you get to see him.  Do his eyes light up when you come home?  Does he look forward to your visits?  Does he tell you that he's proud of you?  Please, Mr. Pazzo.  Ten minutes."
"I understand, Mr. Jovan.  But it's policy.  My father would understand, even though he is poor man, not at all like yourself."
"Richer than me, your father is."  Jovan's eyes begged between a parenthetic visage.  "At least your father had the wisdom to keep what was most valuable.  I've been waiting for years to say I'm sorry.  Twenty-five years."  His voice rasped.  "The one chance that my wealth could never purchase, that time could not relieve - my chance is in that room.  And now that I know where he is, and I am here, how can you bar me, how can you send me away to live longer with this knot?"  Jovan pressed his fist against his stomach.
The old man's lower lip bounced.  Although Pazzo didn't usually care to hear the problems of others, he could see Marcus Jovan rattling to pieces.  The short breaths of anxiety, the quivering lips and eyes, the bouncing Adam's Apple, and the shaking hands, all of it made Pazzo pity him.  
"Please.  Ten minutes."  
Looking down the corridor, Pazzo saw that it was empty.  He put his hand on his forehead and rubbed his temples, trying to massage into his head the idea of disobeying a policy.  While he continued to rub, he put his other hand in his pocket and brought out a single key on a string.
"Ok, old man.  But I'm leaving the door cracked so I can see what's going on in there."
"Thank you, sir.  Thank you."
"I have to warn you, though.  He's in rough shape."
"Yes, I thought so."
The key went into the lock and Pazzo opened the door.  Lucas was sitting on the bed, facing away from the door.  As Jovan entered the room, he squeezed Pazzo's hand and took his hat off.  
Watching Marcus Jovan nearly brought emotions to the surface of Pazzo's barren face, but he stifled the lump in his throat.  Marcus sat on the same side of the bed as his son, but on the opposite end.  
At his post, Pazzo kept one eye on the corridor and one on the reunion.  He could hear the rasping, wavering voice ruining the beginning of a rehearsed apology.  
"I'm sorry, Jude."  He broke down and cried after looking at his son's face.  Pazzo couldn't help but watch.  He forgot about guarding the corridor.  
Even with the warning about Lucas being in "rough shape," nothing could have prepared Jovan for seeing his child so wildly altered.  Lucas's face had electrical burns and scars from shattered glass.  A stream of drool ran down his chin and dangled to his hospital gown.  The expression of blank emotion hung off of his mouth.
"I'm sorry, that I lost you, Jude," Jovan said.  "When you left, I lost myself.  I forgot what it meant to trust.  Your mom and I once knew what it was, believe it or not.  When love was new to us, we understood, even if only for a year or two.  But then we let it rust and started blaming each other.  In the middle years of my life, I thought enough wrong turns could get back to right, but I was driven by some ambition.  I thought I was held together by virtues, could do no wrong, but I saw how weak I was once you had gone away.  Your mother and I, we both wanted everything for ourselves.  That's what we liked about each other at first.  Now we both have lost pride along with everything else.  We lost focus.  We used you to find out for ourselves, used you up.  I haven't had a good night of sleep in twenty-five years, son, because I couldn't tell you that I'm sorry."
Pazzo listened so closely that he failed to notice a second person coming down the corridor until she touched him on the arm.  He jumped and looked down at a short, elderly woman.  
"Hello, sir.  Do you mind if I go in and say hello to my son and my husband?  It's been a long time."
Pazzo nodded.   
He watched the old woman enter the room and put her hand on her son's shoulder.  The woman grabbed the hands of Jude into her own and then sat next to him, nudged him over into the middle of the bed so she could sit, and then wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.  Marcus moved closer to the middle, put his arm around his son.
Pazzo closed the door of the room and took up his watch of the hallway once again.  A man dressed in scrubs appeared at the end of the hallway and approached the room.  The two men made eye contact and Pazzo moved to stop the man.  
"Not now."
"I have my orders," said the man.  
"Come back in fifteen minutes."
The man shook his head.  "Are you cancelling the job?"
"No," said Pazzo.  "Just give it fifteen minutes."
"I need a place to hide then.  I'm supposed to be in and out in five minutes."
Pazzo moved across the hall, to an empty room, and motioned to the man.  "Over here.  Go in the bathroom.  I'll notify you when it's time."
"I don't like this change of plans.  It's not how I work."
"I don't like it either," said Pazzo.  "Fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen, no more."
The man entered the empty hospital room and sat in a chair in the dark, waiting for the moment.  And Pazzo stood guard again, knowing that both Jude Jovan and Lucas Perth would be dead in the morning, forever silenced about his role in the infamous fall of Pelius. 
 

Chapter 20. Recovery

 In Sault Sainte Marie, there was a celebration for the grand opening of Grams.  One of the owners stood on a chair, with his tie loosened and collar wrinkled.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, the day after tomorrow we open in five major cities.  Finally, our dreams begin, and we can find out if business will make fools of us all.  Some say, 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained.'  I think at this point, on the eve of our venture, now that I'm vested in the company down to my last penny, that quote scares the hell out of me.  To tomorrow!"  
Hands went up in the air and glasses clinked together.  Throughout the entire night, one, two, and sometimes three pairs of arms at a time squeezed Judith, or rather Julia.  
Men from Talbot shared in the party via three-dimensional broadcast.  With projected images at every table, the real-time images of people in Chicago spoke with the people in Michigan, and in each city the friends and colleagues swapped tables whenever they wanted to speak to another group of people.  From the restaurant in Austin, Texas, the employees of Holographix International took part in the party, as did the employees of every restaurant in the budding Grams franchise.  More than just a party between friends, the night was a trial run, a dress rehearsal, and quality assurance test for Talbot's big investment.  Members of the media mingled with the businessmen, drank for free, and went home to write articles that praised the foresight of old Marcus Jovan in the virtual dining market.  Moreover, the bloggers and attack journalists forgot about Talbot's failings when the Pelius scandal broke.  Once again, Talbot appeared to uphold ethical standards that exceeded others.  Several guerilla bloggers had confessed to working for payola, singing songs of accusation for payment.  The sexism and racism charges against Talbot started to wither and die, one at a time. 

On the eve of the grand opening, Marcus Jovan did not attend the party.  He only sent a statement, wishing Julia and the other owners good luck.  
Isaac stayed near Julia all night, almost doggishly.  Fritzing one too many times in the lab of Ploof and Ling, his demeanor changed from jovial to solemn.  Longstreet attended the event, and told Julia, "You can't uncook a noodle," and Issac did not laugh, but only observed the restaurant with contempt.   
Isaac and Julia sat in a booth, connected virtually to Chicago.  She was a celebrity that evening, with her picture on the wall of the Sault Ste. Marie restaurant to prove it. 
A 3D couple appeared to sit across from Isaac and Julia.  The holograms of Robert and Rachel Lopez showed such detail that the fabric of Robert's Lacoste polo shirt showed every pore.  
Across the room in a table in the corner, Dr. Gaveston, Ben Longstreet, and Marie sipped on coffee and water.  Longstreet bounced in his seat like a jazz drummer's high-hat, apparently delivering one of his rants.  Gaveston noticed Julia and raised his glass of water toward her.  

From her first look at Robert, Julia could tell he had regained his footing and no longer careened toward personal destruction.  Even through the projected image, Julia could tell that his neck was thinner than before.  His eyes were bright for once.
Isaac said, "You two are back together?  That's good, Robert.  Good to keep life together at home for the job."
Robert said, "Exercise and Lexapro have helped.  And I'm not interested in the jobs you're talking about Isaac."
Julia said, "Exactly, Isaac.  As far as I'm concerned, there are no more jobs to do."
Isaac said nothing.
 
 Six months later, the Pelius investigations started to quiet once the news hounds found new meat to tear.  On an ordinary morning of rushing to get ready for work, Julia read in The Wall Street Journal that Arrica Pelius had closed the final door of Pelius Research.  The company no longer existed.
 The article covered the firm's story from the moment Ploof hit the pavement.  From then forward, the wolves raised at Pelius turned on each other.  Laptops and memory sticks, packed with proprietary information, walked out the door and blew to the seven continents of the world, taking bits of knowledge with them.  Most importantly, the design for how to reproduce the memetic chip traveled off in rogue hands.  Thus, the Block on Ploof did not stop the machine-man integration.  Rather, the math for linking brain to information engine had been cracked, and now the details permeated the atmosphere.  The applications would still come, despite the public's growing disgust over far-reaching technology.  A picture in the article showed patent applications lying in hallways, office furniture overturned, and angry graffiti sprayed onto the Pelius Research sign.  After reading the story, Julia cut out one of the pictures, a black-and-white photo of Arrica Pelius wearing a sling over her arm, standing behind her desk, looking down at the floor like she was contemplating the Forum in Rome.  
 
While Arrica plummeted, Julia worked relentlessly for the success of Grams.  As part of her job, she toured and audited the worldwide operation of the restaurants, with a new location opening every two weeks, with reservations already scheduled two years ahead of time.  Virtual dining was the new Pet Rock, the fad of the age.
One Friday night, she was in San Francisco, politely teaching a staff member about bettering her personal customer service metrics, as all employees were scored on thirty series of data.  Near the entryway of the restaurant, Julia described to the employee the importance of the moment when a person pulls the door handle of a business and transforms from a pedestrian into a customer.  In the middle of her speech, she stopped abruptly.
 A casually dressed woman entered the restaurant and started to peer around inside the seating area.  Seeing the woman, Julia rushed over and grabbed the reservation log, and scanned it quickly before accosting the woman.  
 Julia said, "Ms. Pelius?  Arrica Pelius?"
 "Yes?"
 "It's a pleasure to have you here.  When I saw you I just had to say hello.  Right this way please.  I saved the best seat in the house for you."
 Arrica said, "Please, I don't need any special treatment."
 "Of course you do."  Julia pushed a button on her cell phone.  "And I'll see to it that your connection on the other side gets the same treatment."   
 A waitress came by to take Arrica's drink order.  
"Drinks are on the house," Julia said, and touched Arrica's hand.  "It is really an honor, Ms. Pelius.  You've been an inspiration to me for a long time."
 "Thank you.  I appreciate it."  Arrica smiled half-heartedly.  "I'm retired now, you know."
 "Yes, after all that," Julia interrupted.  "But let's not talk about that.  None of it was your fault, by the way."
 "Oh?"  Arrica laughed.  "Well, usually I hear otherwise."
 "The accusations are ridiculous.  At least they figured out who was guilty."
 Arrica said, "I'm just glad it's all behind me now."
 "You deserve to relax, Ms. Pelius.  To have peace."
 Arrica laughed again.  "You are too kind."  She beckoned Julia to lean closer.  "I'll tell you a secret," Arrica said.  "You can call me Mrs. Jackson from now on.  I'm getting married this weekend."
 Julia felt a kindred spirit between them, with their shared ghosts of the past.  After Julia fawned with excitement over the upcoming wedding plans, she slipped away and told the waitress to give Arrica and Mr. Basil Jackson anything that they wanted.  Then, rather than let Arrica enjoy her fiancé alone, Julia could not resist the opportunity to eavesdrop - just for a moment - to hear a little more from the fallen Titan, Arrica Pelius.  On her phone, she plugged into a control panel that allowed her to listen to any conversation going on in any Grams restaurant.  
 The image of Basil reached toward Arrica's hand, who connected to San Francisco from the Grams location in Chicago.  
 Basil asked, "Are you ready for this weekend?"
 "I will be landing and standing in the baggage area at three o'clock sharp."
 Basil said, "I just have to ask one last time.  Is this what you really want?  To live in Chicago."
 "Yes, Basil."
 "You know it gets cold here."
 "Yes."
 "And you have to hate the Cubs."
 "Oh, I hate them.  Hate the Cubs!"
He laughed.  "No you don't."  
 "I've already bought a White Sox hat, Basil."
 "And you'll have me for a husband.  Have you thought about that?"
 "Yes,"  Arrica said.
 Basil smiled.  "Just wanted to make sure."
Arrica's voice, scarlet lips, and gray eyes all softened for Basil.  "This is what I want, Basil.  More than anything else."  
"Me too."
"You know, today, after the house sold, and all the paperwork was done, I took a long drive.  I was noticing things that I've never stopped to look at before.  Actually, they are things I have seen, maybe every day, but I've never paused to think about any of it.  For once I took my time, the whole way.  I don't think I've ever felt so calm.  Never like this.  I stopped running.  Instead of looking at everything outside of my car as an obstacle, I didn't rush by and take in the world in a blur.  I drove way out in the countryside, where I saw some animals in a field.  Then I passed through a little town and I saw two people holding hands, and both of them were in wheelchairs.  Then more of the California countryside, and I drove slowly, the same speed as a hawk that was flying outside of my window.  In the next town, at a stoplight, I saw a puppy pawing at a old man's shoe.  And somewhere on the road, I just had to take a break."
Basil said, "You had a moment."
"Yes.  A real moment.  A whole day of moments.  It was too much to take in all at once.  So I stopped my car to think of you, Basil, and all that came to my mind was love."
 Basil leaned forward and smiled.  "I can't wait to see you."
"After all that's happened," she said, "I'm ruined, and I've never been happier."
Arrica touched the image of Basil, where his lips appeared to be.  
 
From where she eavesdropped, Julia smiled and quietly slunk away, into the darkness of Grams, into the current of the mainstream, and into the manager's office.  The time had come for a clean break from the past.  
She dialed Issac and waited for him to answer.  A seismic shift occurred in her as she yearned the connection to be made.
Isaac said, "About time you called me back." 
"Isaac," said Julia.  "We need to talk."
"Yes we do.  So here's where we are at," said Isaac.  "I'll fill you in.  I've got a new Broker and two new Blocks in the works, both worth dying for.  The first is a financial block.  It's one of those foreign exchange plays that we talked about making, to upset the world economy.  We need to start thinking bigger than small blocks on individual labs.  I mean we need to take out the funding, pull the rug out, from the entire system - that's the scope we need to consider from now on.  Oh, and I have leads on where new Memetic labs are springing up.  It's big, Julia.  My contacts are authentic.  The intelligence is real.  We can make huge steps this year, but we need to move while the info is still hot."
Julia, no longer calling herself Judith, said, "I'm out, Isaac."
"This financial thing could be the big one, one that slows science for a decade if done right.  No one would have money for anything if we can trigger a depression.  Not a war, because we know that will bump military research a thousand-fold, but a depression."
"No," she said.  "You didn't hear me.  I'm out for good.  No more of it.  We were duped by a book.  Think of it, Isaac.  We were wrong."
"Wrong?" Isaac laughed.  "Oh, so you changed your mind now?  Don't tell me you are still drinking Talbot's Kool-Aid?"
"I am ashamed of it now, Isaac.  And the advances are not going to stop, no matter what we do.  What's coming is coming, and honestly, all we did was accelerate the change.  We caused it to go faster, we didn't stop anything."
Isaac stalled on the other end, but she could hear him breathing with anger.  
"Isaac, did you hear me?" 
"You're not out," he said.  "I'll run your name to that agent faster than you can bus a table at your ridiculous restaurant."
She said, "Go ahead, and I'll run yours to Pazzo.  It works both ways."
"There are others out here now, doing jobs.  The Pelius Block jumpstarted the Terrans into organizing.  It's all happening as predicted in the book."  
"I'm done."
"You started me on this life.  Now you are suddenly advocating for circuits in brains?  Don't you see what's happening?  The Pelius Block was the event.  That was the turning point.  Are you even watching the news lately?  Legislation on artificial ethics is going to sail through the House of Representatives.  You know what Longstreet said about that.  The arms race is starting.  China, Russia, Brazil and the United States - they are all stumping at the United Nations decrying runaway technology, but at the same time they are all building new Los Alamos to do exactly that."
"I'm out, Isaac."
"Listen to me.  Spiro Ling has defected to Taiwan and is working on a new implant.  His blueprints for the Tesla machine are already leaked to a dozen other countries, all of whom have their own replicas of Ling.  Everyone knows that the theory works, even if we did destroy the first demonstration of the implant.  Like you said, we didn't stop anything.  Julia, we want change to go faster, until the people are fed up.  If we ever needed to act, it's now."
"No," she said.  "Now I have a business to run.  The idealism in the book didn't pan out in the real world.  We only tried to force-fulfill the prophecies of a lunatic.  I'm sorry, Isaac."
"I'm not sorry," said Issac.  "And I'm not done with this yet.  I'm just getting started."


###


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to the editors who have read and made contributions to this novel.  First, thanks to Khalid Adad, for being the first to read the novel and give suggestions.  To my Zurich writing trio (Emily Lacika, Rebecca Squires, and me) for the good editing times we had at ETH.  Also, thanks to my brothers for giving me feedback on the story.  They helped me trim twenty thousand words from the final product.  

I don't know Ray Kurzweil or Bill Joy, but their ideas hooked me on tech futurism.  Their differing assessments of the coming century sparked this story, and I suspect we are headed for neither utopia nor dystopia, but something between those two poles.  I discovered Hugo de Garis after the first draft.  His idea of the Artilect War is spot on with what I imagined for this story, but this story is set in pre-Artilect times.  

I should also mention the RAND Corporation for their excellent report: The  Global Technology Revolution: Bio/Nano/Materials Trends and Their Synergies with Information Technology by 2015. This proved an excellent read about possibilities, and truly stoked the fires for this novel. 

And lastly, thanks to my wife, Denise, for listening to monologues about holograms, nanotechnology, and assorted pipe dreams.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Anthony is the author of A Town Called Immaculate and Drill & Sanctimony.  He has worked as a sports writer, magazine contributor, and software engineer.  He lives in Minnesota. 

www.peteranthonybooks.com
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