“Naught for Hire” by John E. Stith (including “Naught Again”)
Copyright 1990 and 1992. Both works published in ANALOG.

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Naught for Hire by John E. Stith (Copyright 1990) 
From ANALOG, July 1990

     Prologue
     Late at night in a deserted Los Angeles office, a telephone
rang once.  The echoes died as a phone answerer sprang obediently
to life.
     The recorded voice spoke, baritone and slightly hoarse. 
"Nick Naught private investigations.  I'm not all here right now,
so please leave a message or a threat."
     A soft voice came from the speaker.  "Nick, this is Heather. 
I'm free next weekend, and I've got a neat new vid on massages. 
Call me if you're interested, okay?"  A high-pitched click gave
way to dial tone, then silence filled the Spartan office.
     In the phone answerer, the message waiting circuit turned
on.  Then, softer than the faint air conditioning whine, a small
voice said, "Nahhh."  
     The message waiting circuit turned off.
     An attentive listener, who by this time of night would have
been bored silly, could have heard an ever so faint laugh.

     Chapter 1
     In a one-bedroom L.A. apartment, faint gray light, nearly
exhausted from having traveled through thick smog, penetrated a
     window and illuminated a wall poster showing a South Seas
island.  The vivid blue water and the sparkling white beach,
backdropped with an array of greens, would for some people have
been almost enough to displace the sensations of thick air and
gritty streets.
     Next to the poster hung a framed quote.  Lettered in the
same mock-stitch style as folksy home-sweet-home signs, the words
read, "Nostradufus: I have seen the future and it sucks."
     The sound of a distant siren rose and fell like waves
lapping against the shore, and the noise mingled with Nick
Naught's relaxed breathing.  A faint smile on his lips said he
was dreaming he was on the island pictured near his bed, probably
lying back in a comfortable beach chair and sifting the sparkling
clean sand through his fingers.
     From near Nick's bed came a soft click.
     Ending the calm and untroubled atmosphere, the digital alarm
clock began to play the only song it knew: reveille.  Three
surfaces of the alarm clock showed cracks from having fallen to
the hard floor.  Two segments of the display were out, so the
eight looked like a three.  The alarm droned on, its tone more
like a kazoo than the bugle it had started life as.
     Nick snorted and squeezed his already closed eyes even more
tightly closed.  For an instant, he wished he was some kind of
mutant and could squeeze his ears closed.
     He fumbled for the alarm.  Almost immediately he knocked it
onto the floor.  The alarm bounced, and two final notes trailed
off into silence, as if an arrow had taken the life of a very
conscientious bugler.
     Nick made a feeble attempt to rise.  He imagined this was
how it felt to be just coming out of open-heart surgery.  He
touched his chest, to see if he could feel any stitches or
syntheskin.  Nope.
     After a deep breath, he hesitated, then grabbed for
something beside the bed.  His fingers made contact on the second
try, and he pulled it up to his level.
     A jumper cable.
     Still mostly asleep, he bent forward and after a couple of
tries managed to fasten the black cable to a band affixed around
his ankle.
     His fingers fumbled by the bed again and came up with a red
jumper cable, which he fastened to a band around his wrist.  His
wrist flopped back onto the bed, and the cable swayed but kept
its grip.  The other end of the cable led to a large, heavy
battery beside the bed.  On the side of the battery was a
colorful label saying, "Morning Jump Start."
     Nick yawned and sighed.  He fumbled again, near the head of
the bed.  His fingers found a large switch.  He patted it the way
a small child would pat a stuffed bear that had strayed too far
from reach.
     It was time.  If he quit now, he'd be fast asleep in
seconds.  He summoned strength, and he flicked the switch that
triggered a shrill electrical buzzing noise reminiscent of a
failing neon sign.  Nick was instantly galvanized.  His eyes
popped wide open, then promptly squeezed closed again.  He
screamed and writhed on the bed, like a snake with its tail
caught in a mouse trap.
     Barely able to muster a rational thought, he reached for the
switch to turn the current off.  Where was it?  He fumbled for
it.  His fingers touched it!  And he knocked it onto the floor. 
God, no, he must be wrong.
     He groaned agonizingly, like a patient in electroshock. 
Still writhing under the pain and struggling madly, he reached
for the floor and groped for the switch.  Sweat stood out on his
forehead.  Where was that switch?  This couldn't be happening. 
He searched to the left and searched to the right, and finally
his fingers reached the switch housing.  He maneuvered it so his
fingers found the switch itself, and he finally managed to turn
it off.
     Instant silence.  Nick fell back to the bed and resumed
breathing.  He rubbed his eyes and began to relax, feeling hardly
more energetic than when he had first woke.  After a long minute,
he finally dragged himself into a sitting position, legs over the
side of the bed and sighed.  He blinked hard several times.  Even
the dim light seemed bright.
     He said, to no one in particular, "Man, I hate Mondays."
     Nick pulled the jumper cable off his ankle and let it drop
to the floor.  He pulled the cable off his wrist.  He stared at
the one from his wrist for a long second, then looked back at the
switch.  He moved the jumper cable toward his wrist and away
again, and now that he could think clearly again, he realized he
had not needed to look for the switch.  He grimaced and got out
of bed.
     He managed to stub his toe on the way to the bathroom.
     Squinting in the brighter light at the bathroom mirror, Nick
sprayed a white foam into his hand.  He spread it over his
stubble, then rinsed his hands.  He rested his hands on the sink
until, moments later, he picked at the edge of the foam, which
had turned hard, like a rubbery mask.  With an abrupt, firm yank,
he ripped the whole thing off his face, and he screamed.  He
inspected his smooth cheeks as he dropped the foam mask into the
toilet and flushed.  As the mask swirled in the water, it
dissolved, leaving what was left of his stubble in the bubbling
remains.
     * * *
     Nick was feeling a little more awake by the time the
elevator reached his floor.  Bing.  The doors opened.  As Nick
entered the empty elevator, it said, "Good morning!" in a voice
inhumanly cheerful for this time of day.
     "Morning," Nick forced himself to say.
     "What floor please?"  The elevator's voice was copied from a
nerdy, bow-tied comic actor of a decade past.  Mixed in with the
overdone cheerfulness was a nasal twang.
     "One," Nick said softly.
     "Thank you!"  The elevator sounded as pleased as Pinocchio
had been at becoming a real boy.
     The door closed, and the elevator dropped two floors before
it had to stop for another rider.  The doors opened, and a
frowning, burly guy got on with Nick.  The man's coat sleeves
were so short, his digital watch showed on the arm with the
briefcase.
     "Good morning!" said the cheerful elevator.
     "Morning."  The man's nod took in Nick.  He turned around to
face the door and assumed standard elevator posture, dutifully
looking at the motionless floor indicator.
     "What floor please?"
     "Five," said the man.  His voice seemed to be naturally loud
thanks to the smooth walls all reflecting the sound so well.
     The elevator hesitated.  "What?"
     The man spoke louder.  "Five."
     "What?" asked the elevator, using exactly the same
intonation it had used the first time.
     Nick grimaced.  He tapped the man on the arm, about to say
something, but the man ignored him.
     "Five!" the man shouted.
     Nick winced.
     "What?"
     Nick sighed and put a hand over his eyes.  The high volume
made his head hurt.
     The man screamed, "Five!"
     "What?"
     The man's face colored.  He sucked a full load of air into
his chest and moved toward the microphone grill.
     Nick whispered quickly, "Five."  Experience had told him the
elevator's voice-sensitivity setting was out of whack.
     "Thank you!" said the elevator.
     The man, still with lungs bloated with air, looked at Nick,
amazed, as the elevator doors finally closed.  The two men
dropped in silence four more floors, and the elevator admitted a
woman wearing a green business suit.  In one hand, she held a
book-viewer that seemed to absorb most of her attention.
     "Good morning!" said the elevator.
     Apparently absorbed in her reading, the woman ignored it. 
The elevator doors stayed open.
     The elevator said, "I said good morning."
     The woman suddenly looked up from her display, and her eyes
opened wide in surprise.  "Morning."
     "What floor please?" the elevator asked, sounding much
happier.
     "Six."
     The burly guy looked like he was hoping the elevator would
give her a hard time, too, but the elevator merely said, "Thank
you!"
     The man looked disappointed as the elevator doors closed and
the elevator started to drop.
     It stopped at the sixth floor and the woman got off.
     "Have a nice day!" said the elevator.
     The elevator dropped to the fifth floor, where the burly guy
scowled at the speaker grill and got off.
     The elevator repeated its refrain.  "Have a nice day!"  As
the doors began to close, the elevator voice added, more softly,
"Dipstick."
     The burly guy hesitated, still facing away from the
elevator, probably trying to decide if his ears were playing
tricks on him, or if Nick had said it.  Before the guy could turn
around, the elevator doors closed very quickly.

     Chapter 2
     Nick nodded to the doorman as he stepped onto the sidewalk
and drew in a deep breath of stale morning air.  The sound of a
couple of distant sirens rose and fell almost in unison.  Nick
glanced around at the rows of parked cars along the sides of the
dirty street, feeling sad that he hadn't been somehow magically
transported to a South Sea island while he slept.
     Parked so closely to the car in front of it that there was
no space to squeeze through, sat a pickup truck with a gun rack
containing an AK-47 assault rifle and a bazooka.  The car next to
it was a bubbled three-wheeler with its front tire flat.  Nick
patted his pocket to make sure he still had his key, then walked
past two more cars and started across the street.  He saw only
one slow-moving car nearby, and he returned his attention to
looking at his own car as he approached it, wanting to make sure
nothing had happened to it overnight.
     That one slow-moving car, a fairly new Subarota Minx, held
one passenger, an old lady wearing a beige hat.
     The car was halfway down the block, cruising smoothly on
autopilot as the driver knitted.  Without warning, the car
abruptly lurched forward, accelerating fast.  The old woman
missed a stitch.
     The woman looked up in horror.  She started to bang on the
dash.  "Oh no!  Stop that!  Stop it!"
     The car barreled toward Nick, who walked in complete
oblivion, wondering if that scratch near his front fender was
new.  Finally, with less than two car lengths left to go, Nick
glanced toward the oncoming car, seeing its headlights flicker on
and off as the car hit bumps in the road.  He scrambled madly out
of the way, barely managing to throw himself between two parked
cars as the Subarota flashed past.  An instant later, the car
plowed into the string of parked cars.  Sound died, leaving only
the ticking of contracting metal and the dripping of fluid.
     Nick got to his feet and dusted himself off.  He trudged
toward the wreck and muttered under his breath, "Man, I hate it
when this happens."
     He reached the wreck and pulled open the passenger door.
     The old woman sagged forward, constrained by her seat belt. 
She seemed dazed, but fortunately the knitting needles had done
no damage.  Her eyes opened wider and she surveyed the view
ahead, then looked up at Nick.  "Oh no.  My brand new car.  It
just--took off.  I don't know what happened.  I'm terribly sorry. 
It was an accident."
     Nick glanced at the damaged cars.  "No harm done."  He
turned to the doorman and yelled, "Call the cops, will you? 
We've got another runaway."
     The doorman called back.  "I just did.  They're still on
delayed reporting."
     Nick nodded his understanding.  Just as he turned back to
the woman, the air bag controller belatedly activated, and the
bag blew up in the woman's face, hammering her body backward into
the seat.  The air bag reached a knitting needle, and suddenly
the bag exploded like an enormous balloon.
     Nick hadn't heard anything that loud since he'd forgotten
his earmuffs at the target practice range.  The woman looked like
she'd never heard anything that loud.
     * * *
     Several miles away, a midnight-blue van pulled out of an
alley garage which bore a sign saying, "Major Opportunity
Business."  The unmarked van knocked an old man and his shopping
cart out of the way as it pulled onto the street.
     * * *
     Across town, a switch activated, and the automatic garage
door on an expensive house rolled slowly upward.  Ed Taylor
walked forward, preoccupied, as the door rose.  He avoided the
bike lying in his path as he straightened his tie.  Ed was a big
man, with broad shoulders, a pot belly, and thinning hair.
     If the garage door had worked properly, his head would have
passed just under the bottom of the door.  Instead, the door
suddenly reversed just as Ed reached it, and his forehead smacked
soundly against the descending edge.
     "Damn it!" he said.
     Ed struggled, pushing up on the door to get it to quit
closing.  Finally the door responded and started up again,
resuming its interrupted path.  Ed muttered and rubbed his
forehead as he walked toward the rolled up newspaper lying near
the front hedge.  Behind him, the garage door continued rising
without stopping, until finally the wood began to splinter and
break under the constant pressure.  A window popped loose from
its surroundings and fell to the concrete, smashing thoroughly as
it hit.
     Oblivious, Ed stooped to grab his morning paper.  Just as
his fingers almost touched it, the paper jerked out of his reach. 
For the first time, Ed noticed that tied to the paper was a
string leading into the hedge.
     "Damn it, you kids.  That's not funny!"
     Watching from the window, Ed's son Alex grinned.
     Ed took another step and reached for the paper again.  It
jerked away again.  This time Ed moved faster, trying to reach it
before the string yanked it away again.  By now he was right next
to the hedge.
     Ed didn't get another chance to grab the paper.  Suddenly a
thick arm reached through the hedge and grabbed him, pulling him
off-balance into the hedge.
     On the other side of the hedge, Ed found no neighborhood
children.  Instead, two large, strong men met him.  One of them,
who sported large tattoos up and down both arms, had a small
aerosol can stuck in one pocket.  The other man had flaming red
hair cut tent style.  Ed's unsuccessful struggle lasted only
seconds before they had him pinned to the ground.  A second later
a sweet-smelling spray in the face rendered him unconscious.
     The two men manhandled him to a waiting midnight-blue van
and dumped him inside.  The tattooed man started the engine and
made a U-turn.
     The van's tires screeched as it lurched forward and sped
away, narrowly missing a kid on a bike, and forcing the kid into
a fence.
     The red-haired man took a time card from a slot over the sun
visor and looked at his digital watch before he filled in the
next entry.
     * * *
     Nick Naught pulled onto the street.  As he passed the next
intersection, he saw down the side street a scene much like the
one he had been in earlier.  A runaway car crashed into a parked
car as pedestrians scattered.  Several nearby witnesses started
to help, so Nick continued on his way.
     Nick put his little finger in the ear that had been closest
to the air bag explosion, and he wiggled the finger.  He pulled
the finger out, listened for a moment, and repeated the process.
     A police car flashed past, siren on, lights flashing.
     Nick turned his attention to the road ahead.  "Radio on."
     "Whatever you say," the car voice replied.  The voice was
feminine and sexy, with just a trace of huskiness.
     The radio started playing some classical selection Nick
didn't recognize.  He banged his fist on the dash and the station
switched to rock.
     * * *
     At a modest house in a different section of the city,
Annette Taylor came out her front door.  She was dressed for
work, looking trim, and moving confidently.  Today was going to
be a good day.  She had an appointment with her boss at the
agency about the possibility of taking on a large, valued client.
     In the front yard stood a very large tree.  On Annette's
side of the tree was a rolled up morning newspaper.  On the other
side of the tree were the two musclemen and the end of a string
tied to the newspaper.
     Annette spotted the paper.  "Go get it, boy!" she called,
and her collie raced out the front door and grabbed the
newspaper.  The string drew tight.  The dog growled through
clenched teeth.  It knew this game.  The dog shook its head from
side to side and lowered its hindquarters, pedaling backward. 
The tug of war lasted only seconds before the string broke, and
the dog rushed triumphantly inside with the paper, happy about
the battle it had won, and not too curious about who had been
defeated.  Annette closed the door and started for her car.
     One of the men pointed to the van.  "Quick!"
     The men raced to the van.  The tattooed man started it up as
Annette was starting her car.  They pulled the van forward
quickly, blocking the driveway, and the engine died.
     In her rear-view mirror, Annette saw the two large men
getting out of the midnight-blue van, guns in their hands. 
Without taking time to figure out why this was happening, and
what they were after, she knew this wasn't a typical Monday.  She
twisted the wheel and goosed the engine.  She almost mowed down
the red-headed man as she raced around the van, knocking trash
cans into the street.
     The two men hopped into the van as Annette's car sped away. 
The driver flooded the engine as he tried to start it.  The
engine just spun slower and slower as the smell of gasoline
filtered into the van and the squealing of Annette's car tires
faded into the background.
     * * *
     Nick pushed through the revolving door into his office
building lobby.
     "Wanna buy a paper?" asked the newspaper vending machine. 
The machine's tone of voice gave the impression of hawking some
illicit thrill.
     "Sure," Nick said.
     "That'll be six bucks."
     Nick ran his credit card through the slot on top of the box. 
The machine's face opened, and, with a practiced motion, Nick
snatched a paper just in time, as the lid snapped down very fast,
like a bear trap.
     "Have a nice day," said the vending machine.
     As Nick waited for the elevator, a teenage boy in a striped
shirt approached the coffee vending machine. 
     "I wouldn't bother, if I were you," Nick said.
     The teenager ignored him and said to the machine, "Coffee,
black."
     Nick shrugged.  As the elevator doors opened, the vending
machine squirted coffee all over the kid's shirt and pants.
     * * *
     In Nick's unoccupied office, the phone began to ring.  The
phone answerer clicked on, and Nick's voice said, "Nick Naught
private investigations.  Leave a message.  Unless you're with a
collection agency."  Beep.
     "This is the Internal Revenue Service, Mr. Naught. 
Yesterday you missed your third audit appointment.  Be in our
office at two today, or a warrant will be issued for your
arrest."
     The phone answerer clicked off only seconds before Nick
entered the office.  He put the paper down on the desk and looked
wistfully at the large South Seas island poster on his office
wall.  Finally he pressed a button on the phone answerer.
     "Sorry," the answerer said.  "No messages."
     Nick sat down at his desk.  The desk clock read 2:30 AM.  He
shook his head and pushed the clock slowly over the edge, where
it landed with a clunk in his wastebasket.
     * * *
     Annette watched the elevator floor indicator stop.  She
leaned forward, anticipating the opening of the doors, but they
stayed shut.  She looked around to see if the elevator had an
emergency bell switch.
     Suddenly, in a voice mimicking the voice of a short,
web-footed cartoon character almost always seen in a sailor suit
with large buttons, the elevator hummed.  It played the theme
from "Twilight Zone."  "Do do DO do.  Do do DO do."
     Annette banged on the control panel.
     Finally, as the doors opened, the elevator voice laughed. 
"Wahhh.  He he he he."
     * * *
     Annette knocked on the door saying "Nick Naught Private
Investigations," then, without waiting for an answer, entered the
office.  She patted her hair into place, and glanced over her
shoulder toward the elevator door in the hallway.
     "Hello, Nick," she said.
     Nick thought she looked sad, but she also looked determined,
businesslike.  Her hair was longer than he had seen it last, and
the change looked good on her.
     Nick got to his feet slowly, confused about why she would be
here after all that had gone on between them.  "Hello, Annette. 
I have to say I never really expected to see you here."  Nick
felt his insides start to churn, and he suddenly felt as forlorn
as he had four years ago.
     "I need your help," she said simply.
     "After four years?"
     Annette shook her head.  "Let's not start in on it, all
right?  What's done is done.  I wouldn't be here if I didn't
figure I needed someone like you."
     Nick was silent for a moment, considering.  Finally he
gestured at a chair.  They both sat.  "Okay.  Today's business. 
Let's hear it."
     Annette's calm facade crumbled a little, and she fidgeted. 
"Ed's been kidnapped.  And someone tried to get me, too."
     Nick leaned forward, concerned.  "Why?"
     "That's the worst part of all.  I have absolutely no idea."
     Nick caught his thoughts moving to the past, and he forced
himself to think about the present.  "I don't watch much
television.  Your brother's still a reporter for K-S-M-Y?"
     Annette looked at him directly.  Her eyes had a pained look
Nick had seen before.  "Yes.  I already told them about it.  Two
big guys grabbed him this morning.  One of the neighbors saw part
of it out his window.  They were probably the same two guys that
were after me.  Muscle guys I'd never seen before, one of them
with lots of tattoos."
     "I suppose you already called the police?"
     "Sure.  But they don't have time to do anything this month. 
They're too busy already."
     Nick nodded and went through a mental checklist.  "Did
anything unusual happen recently?  Did Ed meet a new woman, take
out a big loan, buy a gun, take out insurance?  Anything at all
out of the ordinary that you know about?"
     "Nothing.  It's just been business as usual."  She
hesitated.  "His wife is in the hospital, but I really don't see
how that would relate to Ed being kidnapped--or to anyone coming
after me."
     "Anything else you can think of?"
     "No, nothing.  I put some of the things you might need in
this envelope.  His home address, things like that.  And I wrote
down descriptions of the two guys.  Will you help?"
     Nick sighed softly, not asking any of the questions he most
wanted to ask.  "Yeah.  I've got a friend down at K-S-M-Y.  Maybe
he knows something that can get me started.  I'll call him as
soon as we're done talking."
     Annette nodded.  She seemed to have a hard time meeting
Nick's gaze now.  She glanced at the wall poster.  "It looks so
peaceful."
     "Yes, it does.  Which reminds me.  My fee is a thousand a
day, plus expenses.  How about if you give me a retainer for a
couple of days?"
     Annette nodded again.  She pulled out a credit card.
     Nick took a charge card setup from a desk drawer.  As he ran
his company card and her card through, the machine spit his card
across the room, where it landed in an in-box placed there to
catch it.  Nick walked over and retrieved the card.  He handed
her a receipt.  "You still save your carbons?"
     "Yes, please."
     Nick started tearing out the little sheets of carbon paper. 
There must have been nearly twenty of them in the stack.  Annette
put them in a small card file she kept in her purse.
     She managed to give him a level gaze.  "Thanks, Nick."
     "Where can I reach you?"
     "You can't.  I'm not about to go home now.  I'll find a
hotel and call you later."
     Nick nodded.  Annette rose and walked to the door.  As she
closed the door behind her, Nick looked up and sighed.
     He shook his head, as if doing that would clear away the old
thoughts, then picked up the phone.  He dialed a long number.  
     "Thank you for using AT&T," said a voice on the line.
     Then, "Thank you for using Sprint."
     "Thank you for using MCI."
     "Thank you for using U.S. West."
     "I'm sorry.  Your call cannot be completed.  Please check
the number and dial again."
     "It must be some problem with AT&T."
     "Correction.  It must be some problem with Sprint.
     Nick slapped his forehead.  He felt tired.  He put the
receiver down, and tried again.
     "Thank you for using AT&T."
     "Thank you for using Sprint."
     "Thank you for using MCI."
     "Thank you for using U.S. West."
     "Thank you for using Lucy's Phone Network."
     "Hello.  This is the President speaking."
     Nick's head jerked up.  "President of what?"
     "Of the United States.  Who is this?"
     "Ah, sorry, sir.  Wrong number."
     Nick hung up.  He rose and started for the door.

     Chapter 3
     In another part of the city sat a large office complex with
a sign out front sporting block letters that said "Major
Opportunity Business."  Inside, two executives sat at a
conference room table.
     Mike McCormick, the company president, listened to the end
of the briefing.  He was a prematurely graying man with small
gold earrings.  The briefer was a senior company officer, Paula
Rosenberg.  She was about ten years his junior, and wore neither
makeup nor earrings.
     "That's fine," McCormick said when Rosenberg finished her
old-business briefing.  "Do it.  Any new business?"
     Rosenberg ran a finger down her list of notes.  "Only one
thing today.  You remember David Turvey, the accountant who
testified at the Williams trial?"  As she spoke, she opened a
notebook, extracted a photo, and slid it to McCormick.  The photo
was of a man in his sixties.  Underneath the picture, large
letters said, "David Turvey."  Rosenberg went on without waiting
for an answer.  "The Philadelphia branch has verified that Turvey
has definitely accepted a new identity and a disguise from the
witness protection program.  He's now here in town, using the
name Nick Knott."
     Rosenberg slid another photo to McCormick.  The second photo
was of the same man, but it showed an idiot mustache that looked
like it had been just scribbled onto the photo with a large black
marker.  Underneath in large letters was, "Nick Knott."
     "Your recommendation?" McCormick said.  He looked at his
watch.
     "Send out a dispatch team.  Have them do an analysis and
complete the task.  It should look like an accident."
     "Fine.  Is that it?  I need to get to that charity
luncheon."
     * * *
     Rosenberg leaned into Cynthia Willis's office door. 
"Willis, I need you to run a dispatch on a Nick Knott.  An
'accidental.'"
     "Can it wait 'til after break?" Willis asked.  She had been
just about to get up when Rosenberg arrived.
     "Do it now, will you?  It's for McCormick."  Rosenberg
started to leave.
     "Gotcha.  Is there a special charge number or just
overhead?"
     Too late.  Rosenberg was already gone.  Willis looked at her
clock, which read "09:55" then quickly turned to her computer
terminal.  She grabbed a form and filled in a couple of blanks as
she spoke to the terminal.  "Give me a file on Nick Knott."
     She rose impatiently, waiting on the machine.  A moment
later it spit a photograph out a slot in the side of the machine. 
The photo wasn't exactly like the one Rosenberg had had.  The
image was different, and below the photo were several lines of
small text headed in large letters with, "Nick Naught."
     Willis grabbed the photo before it could fall into the
wastebasket below the slot.  She stapled the form to the photo
and rushed out.
     Only a moment after she had left, the computer spit out a
different photo, the one for Nick Knott.  The photo fell into the
wastebasket.
     * * *
     Willis ran down the hall.  She passed sections labeled
"Accounts Terminating," "Numbers," "Security," "Laundry," and
"Protection."
     Don Lyeth was sitting at his desk when Willis rushed in and
dumped the paperwork in his in-basket.  Lyeth wore a bow-tie and
had his shirt sleeves rolled up.  His desk was perfectly neat,
and even the two pieces of paper on top were lined up precisely
parallel to the edge of the desk.
     Willis started to leave.  "Gotta run," she said.
     "Hey, hey, hey.  Not so fast," Lyeth said.  He examined the
form, then frowned like an auto mechanic with bad news.
     "What's the problem?"
     "What's this?" Lyeth asked.  He shook the paper in the air. 
"We haven't used a form fifty-six for months."
     "It's a dispatch.  That's what I've always used."
     "Not anymore.  Form two-twelve."  Lyeth slid a new form to
her.
     Willis scanned the paper and filled in a few of the blanks. 
"Okay.  Look, I really gotta run."
     "Not yet."
     "What now?"
     "You left the suspense date blank.  And you didn't check
'accidental' or 'doesn't matter.'"
     Willis filled in a date a week in the future and checked
"accidental," then handed the form back.  Lyeth examined the form
for a full twenty seconds before he dropped it into another
basket.  "Okay then."

     Chapter 4
     Nick waited impatiently in the KSMY lobby.  A receptionist
with a cubed hairdo sat behind a desk and chewed gum.  Next to
the desk, a TV monitor showed the current live feed from the
station, with news personalities Howard Darling and Connie
Costanza.  Through an adjacent glass wall, Nick could see the
studio with Howard and Connie on the air.  The red light on one
of the cameras went on.
     Howard started on cue.  "And now, the kiss-my twelve o'clock
news with Howard Darling and Connie Costanza."  Howard was
slightly pudgy, and his hair stuck out over his ears.
     Connie took over.  She was immaculately dressed and could
have passed for a glamorous vid star, her straight black hair
sparkling clean.  "In the news today, three more air crashes in
the United States and two abroad.  A train derailed in New
Jersey.  Here at home there were almost fifty car accidents since
this time yesterday.  And today makes the 500th straight day of
delayed accident reporting, nearing the record previously set
about three years ago."
     While Connie was talking, Howard was handed a note.  He read
it and was about to ask a question of someone off screen when he
saw the camera was back on him and Connie had finished.
     Howard stumbled.  "Er--I've just been handed a special
bulletin.  Please stand by."  Howard put on a nonchalant air and
showed the note to Connie as he pointed to a word.
     "Subpoena," Connie whispered.
     Howard brightened.  He took the note back and began to read. 
"In an unprecedented act, the Justice Department today issued
over twenty subpoenas to descendants of the group of
decision-makers originally responsible for the breakup of the
telephone company."
     During Howard's story, Connie seemed to have a sudden urge
to scratch her nose.  Nick was positive she was trying to
suppress a grin at Howard's mispronunciation.  Howard's gaze
flicked toward her, and a frown crinkled his forehead.  He
resumed the story and was almost finished when his watch alarm
sounded.  He tried to unobtrusively turn it off, but in the
process he knocked over his glass of water.  Instantly, like a
cat caught making an error, he assumed a blank expression that
said, "What's the problem?  I didn't do anything."
     Connie shook her head sadly.  Howard caught sight of the
motion from the corner of his eye.  He glanced at her, and she
abruptly stopped and smiled innocently.
     As Howard resumed, his wrist watch started to give off
smoke, but he didn't notice it.  "Also in the news today,
researchers at UCLA have been tracking the spread of a new
AIDS-like virus within the animal community.  So far, the deadly
virus has showed up only in cows, lambs, and sheep, but today it
was announced that the scientists have discovered the virus in
alligators." Howard hesitated before he capped the story with his
pronouncement.  "GatorAIDS."
     The news director looked incredulously at Howard, and he
smacked his palm against his forehead.
     Howard suddenly realized his watch was smoking.  He
panicked.  In the process of trying to get it off his wrist, he
fell over backward.
     As the station went promptly to a rat chow commercial, a
door opened, and Earle Thompson came in and greeted Nick.  "Sorry
to keep you waiting.  Come on in."  Earle's nose was large
enough, and his glasses rims dark enough, and his mustache black
enough, that from a distance he seemed to be wearing a Groucho
Marx disguise.
     Nick followed Earle past several news people at their desks
busily keying in stories.  From the computer terminals came
various video game noises.
     Past the bullpen, a corridor led into a walled area with
private offices.  From the room ahead, came a short, loud buzz.
     Nick glanced in as they passed the office.  Next to the door
was a name tag saying, "Jim Curtis."  Curtis looked like a fairly
normal guy in his thirties, but he was adjusting a collar with a
little black box stuck on it.  As they passed, Curtis shut his
office door.
     Nick and Earle took seats in the next office, which was
Earle's.  Earle was a real sportsman.  Hanging on his wall were
mementos: a tennis racquet with a broken head and a golf club
with a bent shaft.
     Nick tilted his head toward the Curtis's office.  "I feel
kinda wasted as a private eye.  I didn't know you vid guys got to
wear dog collars."
     "Cute.  But it's not a dog collar.  You ever drive a long
way on manual?  Get a little drowsy?  Your head tilts too far
forward, like you're going to sleep?  That's when those things
buzz real loud and wake you up."
     Nick shook his head.  "Boy, I could have used one of those
in school.  Listen, I won't take up much of your time.  I'm
trying to get a lead on who might have grabbed Ed Taylor, or
why."
     "A friend must have hired you.  I can't imagine the police
are getting too excited, or them finding the budget to hire
independents."
     "What can you tell me?"
     From the next room came the brief sound of a buzzer.  Earle
ignored it.  "I don't know.  Ed lived for work.  The little time
he did have free, he spent with his kid, Alex, or using his
computer.  I think he fancies himself a hacker."
     "What's he been working on lately?  Anything that could
account for someone grabbing him?"
     "I really doubt it.  He's been doing some routine funding
profiles.  Nothing special."
     From the office next door came another burst of the buzzer.
     Nick looked at his watch.  "Can I take a look at Ed's
office?"
     "Sure thing.  It's right down this way."
     As they left Earle's office, the buzzer next door started
again.  This time it just kept on going and going forever.
     Down the hall four doors, Earle said, "Here it is.  I'll
leave you to it.  Good luck."
     "Thanks.  I may need it."
     "You know, Nick, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but
you don't look too happy.  Is Ed a real good friend?"
     Nick hesitated.  "It's not that.  It's his sister, Annette. 
She hired me.  I hadn't seen her for about four years."  Nick
looked away.  "Since she walked out on me."
     Earle nodded.  "Well, best of luck on both counts."  He left
Nick in the office and closed the door behind him.
     Nick sat down at Ed's desk and opened the front drawer.  He
pulled out a sandwich that looked like it had been left there
when the building was built.  He dropped the sandwich into the
trash can.  He looked farther into the drawer, using a ruler to
move stuff aside.
     He flipped through a stack of paper on top of the desk and
found nothing obvious.
     Empty handed, Nick walked back toward the entrance.  As he
passed Jim Curtis's office, with its door closed, the buzzer was
still going.  Nick glanced around to see if anyone was looking. 
He rapped the door once with the tip of his shoe, hard.  The
buzzer stopped for a moment, then resumed.

     Chapter 5
     The air was muggy as Nick walked out of KSMY.  Just down the
street, a man parked in a luxury car with power seats was slowly
being crushed into the ceiling by the rising seat.  Nick moved to
help, but at the last minute, the man managed to get the seat to
stop rising, and he proceeded to crawl out the window.
     Nick started across the street, wondering which universal
law covered always having to park on the other side of the street
from where he was going, and wondering how all the people on this
side had somehow received exemptions.  He had just emerged
between two parked cars, when a sludge-brown Dodge truck with
yellow smog-lights just down the street suddenly began to
accelerate fast.  By this time of day, Nick was wide awake, and
he noticed the car while it was still several car lengths away. 
He scrambled.  He dived between two parked cars just before the
Dodge plowed into one of them.
     Nick picked himself off the ground and walked toward the
damaged car, thinking that maybe most cars should be named
"Dodge."
     Behind the wheel was a guy who needed a shave and possessed
a nose that looked red from too much alcohol or sunburn.  Before
Nick arrived, the man quickly switched a control on the dash, and
a dash sign changed from manual to autopilot engaged.
     Nick pulled open the driver-side door.  
     The driver looked up at Nick.  "Man, are you okay?  I'm
sorry.  This thing just went out of control.  What a mess."
     Nick looked down at his dusty pants.  "I'm fine.  This keeps
me in shape, and it's not nearly as annoying as jogging.  How
about you?"
     The driver looked at his face in the rear-view mirror and
touched his nose.  "I'll be okay.  I'm just a little dazed."
     "Aren't we all?" Nick muttered.  "Say, you'd probably better
get out of there pretty fast."
     "Why, what's the--"
     The man's words were cut off as the Dodge's air bag finally
blew up in his face.  This bag must have had the large,
economy-size gas canister, because it blew up so far that it
knocked Nick backward before it exploded.
     * * *
     Nick drove along a business street.  A bump in the road
switched the radio to classical.  Nick banged on the dash, and
the station switched back to rock.  He wiggled his finger inside
one ear, then hit the heel of his hand against the side of his
head.
     An ambulance flashed past, siren on, lights flashing.
     As Nick drove by an apartment building, a man on the
sidewalk in a powered wheelchair was suddenly accelerated to warp
speed and rammed into a collection of trash cans.
     He knew he was getting close to the school, because he
passed "Guns 'R' Us."  On the right, was a building with the
sign, "Hackers' Savings and Loan."
     A few blocks later, Nick pulled up in front of Burbank High
School.
     Nick's footsteps echoed as he walked down the hall and
passed by a silent large box with lights, a lens, and a speaker
grill on the front.  The box bore the legend, "Hall Monitor." 
The speaker grill suddenly came alive.  "May I see your hall
pass, please?"
     Nick stopped and patted his pockets.  "Sorry, I must have
left it in my other pants."  He started walking again.
     "No, no, no!  No one without a hall pass is allowed beyond
this checkpoint."
     "Sorry.  I'm in a hurry.  I'm not even a student."
     Suddenly the hallway was filled with the sound of a machine
gun spraying bullets everywhere, mixed with the sound of heavy
artillery.  Nick pulled his gun and crouched.  Only an instant
later, he realized the sounds came from the hall monitor, and
he'd been had.
     "Just kidding," said the hall monitor as Nick moved closer,
his gun still in his hand.
     "Boy, you sure got me on that one.  What a riot.  Ha ha ha."
     Nick started to walk away again, and, as he left, he kicked
the hall monitor wall-plug loose from the wall-socket.  The
machine gun noises started up again, but quickly dropped in pitch
and volume until the hall monitor was quiet.
     "Just kidding," Nick said, and he smiled.  That was probably
the best time he'd ever had in a school.
     Two corridors away, Nick stopped at a room bearing the sign,
"Room 156, Science."  He peeked around the corner into the room. 
A bunch of bored high-schoolers sat in desks, listening
inattentively to the science teacher, an old lady who could have
been teaching when Nixon was in school.  She wore black shoes
with large, raised heels.
     "All right," the science teacher said.  "Who can tell me why
mountain ranges exist?  Anyone."
     Several students scrutinized their desktops.  A pimply
overachiever raised his hand.
     "Yes, Danny?"
     "The--ah--mountain ranges were formed by the great flood. 
Noah's flood."
     A couple of the students looked vaguely skeptical.  Several
of the others looked comatose.  Nick cringed.
     "Danny, that's exactly right.  Now what else is the Genesis
flood responsible for?"  Before anyone could raise a hand, the
science teacher noticed Nick.  "Yes, may I help you?"
     "I hope so.  I need to talk to Alex Taylor."
     The science teacher hesitated.  "Are you a drug dealer?"
     Nick looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was behind
him.  He shook his head and held up one hand in a Boy Scout
salute.
     "All right, Alex.  But no more than five minutes."
     Alex Taylor rose and came out to the hall.  He was a gangly
kid, chewing gum.  His brown hair stuck straight out from his
skull at every point, as though his head contained a large static
generator instead of a brain nearly the size of a hamster's.
     Nick said, "I'm trying to find out where your father might
be, Alex."
     "Why, what's he done?"
     Nick frowned.  "He was kidnapped.  Didn't anyone tell you?"
     "Oh, yeah.  Right."  Alex looked around.  "Well, he ain't
here."  He jammed his hands into his pockets.
     "Uh--yeah.  Total agreement.  You got any idea at all where
he might be?"
     "Have you looked at kiss-my?  He works there.  Maybe they
took him there."
     "I've been there."
     "You know, you could just turn on the TV.  He's there a lot,
and you just might see him."
     Nick sighed.  "Yeah, well, Alex, you've been a very big
help.  Really.  Thanks very much"  He started to walk away, but
Alex called after him.
     "Hey, I got three more minutes."
     "That's great.  Probably you should lie down for a minute. 
I can imagine this has probably been a pretty grueling experience
for you."
     Nick left Alex behind and continued down the hall.  The next
room was labeled "Algebra," and the teacher was talking solemnly
to his class.  "We are gathered here together to talk about a
subject He would have wanted you all to learn well.  Yes, I'm
talking about algebra.  Yea verily, I say unto you..."
     Nick shook his head and kept on walking.  The next room,
labeled "Physics," was noisy even before he reached it.  Instead
of having desks, the students sat in pews.  The teacher was
shouting in a rich, pulpit voice.  "E equals M C squared!  Do you
believe?"
     The class shouted in unison, "We believe!"
     Nick wiggled a finger in one ear and tapped on the side of
his head.  If there was anything he believed in, it was
garbage-in, garbage-out.  He took the turn into the lobby.  There
a glass case held a picture of the school mascot, a penguin. 
Next to it sat a confessional booth.
     Through the glass walls to the principal's office, Nick saw
the principal pacing in a circle.  The rosy-cheeked man wore a
bishop's hat and a red robe, and held a scepter.
     Outside, the air felt clammy.  Nick walked down the
sidewalk, trying to decide what to do next.  He was almost to his
car when, down the street, a car exploded, and nearby people
started toward it.  Nick shook his head and got into his car.  He
sat there a minute before he finally put the key in the ignition.
     "Your seat belt is unfastened," the car said.  Its tone
seemed possessive and protective.
     Nick fastened his seat belt.
     "Your door isn't latched."
     Nick opened the door and slammed it shut.
     "Your fly is open."
     Nick looked down.
     "Made you look."
     * * *
     As Nick drove, a fire truck flashed passed him, siren on.
     Minutes later, as he sat stopped at a school crossing,
another runaway car, this one speeding straight through the
crossing, sent children running for safety in all directions.  A
youthful crossing guard gave the runaway car a rude gesture.
     A school bus parked on the street had its doors clamped
tight on a squirming school kid.  The kid frantically kicked his
legs, which dangled out the door.

     Chapter 6
     Nick pulled into a parking space in front of the hospital
across the street.  The parking meter read, "Violation" until
Nick banged the meter sideways with his fist.  The violation flag
went down, setting the meter to, "One Hour."
     Nick winced as a teenage girl with an incredibly loud boom
box passed the nearby "Quiet Zone" sign.  She walked by three
cars in a row, and the windows in each car shattered at the
sound.
     On the sidewalk sat a vending machine bearing the label,
"Malpractice Insurance."
     "Hey, buddy," said the machine.  "You got the right time?"
     "Yeah.  It's about one."
     "Thanks.  You going in for an operation?"
     "Nope."
     "Never mind."
     Inside, Nick was walking past the emergency desk when a
paramedic rolled in an injured woman.
     "I'm afraid this one's a croaker," the paramedic said to the
nurse.  He glanced around the room as though he had other things
on his mind.
     The nurse stood up fast and put her hands on her hips.  "Who
do you think you are?  God?  It's not for you to casually decide
if that patient lives or dies.  That's what doctors are for."
     As the paramedic wheeled the patient away, the patient
lifted her head up weakly and gave the paramedic an obscene
gesture.
     Nick approached the nurse.  "I'm looking for Carla Taylor."
     "Why?  What's she done?"  The nurse looked suspicious.
     "Nothing that I know of.  I'm just here to visit her."
     "Up the stairs around the corner that way.  Room 350."
     Nick started for the stairs.  All the way to the corner, he
could feel the nurse's stare in the middle of his back.  Feeling
more comfortable after he had left her sight, he peered into an
operating room.  A team of gowned people stood around the
operating table, watching the doctor as she held a scalpel and
she carefully cut into the patient.  The doctor's digital wrist
watch alarm went off, and she instinctively moved her hands to
turn it off.
     Blood spurted an amazing distance out of the patient's body,
and everyone got really busy, especially the guy who got squirted
in the face.
     Carla Taylor's room was a double.  According to the note
outside the door, she occupied the bed nearest the door.  Another
patient was apparently asleep in the other bed despite the
television being on.  Next to the far bed stood a man trying to
open a bottle of pills.  
     On the television was a newsbreak with Howard and Connie.
     Howard said, "Another offshore oil rig leak has been
detected at a Mogo platform in the Pacific.  It went unnoticed
for almost two weeks due to the already high levels of oil in
that region."  He was no longer wearing his digital watch.
     Connie continued, "OPEC, the Oil Producing and Extorting
Countries, issued a statement condemning the pollution.  Our
roving reporter, Melanie Wortham, is on the scene of the latest
spill."
     The view switched to Melanie.  She stood on a dark
substance.  "Mogo issued a public apology today, and have stated
that cleanup crews will be reaching the area you can see here as
soon as they finish the cleanup operations in the Potomac.  Like,
this is Melanie Wortham, speaking to you from four miles off the
coast of California.  Really."
     Melanie walked toward the camera.  Her smile tightened as
her feet came loose from the dark substance with a soft sucking
sound only after much resistance, and it became obvious that she
was standing on solidified oil sludge.  A small dirty child was
building a castle in the sludge.  Near the child, two sun-bathers
lay on towels that showed the oil seeping through.  Beyond them,
a sign said, "Keep off the water."
     Carla Taylor switched the television off with the remote
control.  The TV turned itself on again, so Carla had to turn it
off a second time.  She watched the set intently for a moment
before looking up.  She was a redhead, her hair done in the spiky
curls that was more fashionable among teenagers.  She looked
sleepy.
     "Carla Taylor?" Nick said.
     "Yes."
     "I'm Nick Naught.  Your husband's sister hired me to try to
find him since the police are so busy.  I thought perhaps you
could help me."
     Carla's attention was suddenly caught by the man standing
next to her roommate's bed.  He was still trying unsuccessfully
to open a prescription bottle, and the child-proof cap was really
getting to him.  He began to get really energetic, and finally he
shouted, "Damn it all!"
     As his face turned red, the man gave it one more tremendous
effort.  The cap suddenly came off the bottle, and pills went
flying.  In an effort to save a few of the pills, he lunged and
accidentally rammed the over-the-bed tray against the bed, where,
despite his efforts to save it, a pitcher of water flooded onto
the patient.  The patient, a young girl, sat up suddenly and was
caught in the forehead by the man's elbow as he swiveled.  The
girl was knocked out cold.
     "Who's that?" Nick asked.
     "That's Dr. Kennedy.  My surgeon."
     Nick took a deep breath, wishing he had read the fine print
on his health maintenance plan and wishing he knew where he would
be admitted if the occasion arose.  He asked, "What are you in
for?"
     "Well, at first I just wanted to have a wart removed.  But
we got to talking, and I signed up for this new procedure to
improve my memory.  It was just a twenty-minute operation, and
I'm almost fully recovered already.  It's supposed to improve my
short-term memory, my long-term memory, my learning rate,
and--did I mention short-term memory?"
     "Yes.  You did."
     "And did I mention short-term memory?"
     "Mrs. Taylor, I need to ask you--"
     "Why did you call me Mrs.?"
     Nick felt sick.  "This isn't going to work, is it?"
     "I don't think so.  Er--what isn't going to work?"
     "Just lie quietly.  I hope I didn't upset you."  Nick
started to leave.
     "Yes, I'm fine," Carla said.
     Dr. Kennedy, still cleaning up, dropped the pitcher on his
toe.  He used some words Nick had never heard before, and Nick
wondered if they were medical jargon.
     Nick retraced his path, feeling unproductive.  In another
operating room he passed, a medical team surrounded a patient on
the operating table.  The heart monitor was beeping at the right
interval, but suddenly it stopped.  The medical team began to
pack it in.
     The patient's head rose.  He looked panicked at seeing
everyone leaving.  He looked over at the heart monitor that said
he was dead.  His mouth worked soundlessly.  He clutched his
chest and fell back to the table, apparently dead.  The heart
monitor started beeping again.
     As Nick exited the hospital, a meterperson had just reached
his car.  The meter still said "One hour."  The meterperson
pulled out a small rubber mallet and whacked the meter lightly. 
The "Violation" flag came back up, and the meterperson proceeded
to write a ticket.  As Nick took the ticket and got into his car,
the meterperson grinned and made one hand into a gun, as though
to say gotcha.

     Chapter 7
     Nick kept a frequent watch on the rear-view mirror as he
drove, not wanting to be rear-ended by an emergency vehicle.  He
passed First Chapel of Elvis.  For a weekday, it looked fairly
busy.  A group of four people in white pants with sequins were
just going inside.
     Nick caught the flashing light in the rear-view mirror in
time to pull to the right.  A car flashed past, red lights
spinning, its siren on.  On the side of the car was a sign
saying, "Pizza."
     Nick gained on a tanker truck bearing a sign saying,
"Caution, Nuclear Waste."  From the back of the truck leaked a
steady stream of brown fluid.  Nick pulled out far enough to see
the reflected view of the driver, who wore a gas mask and
headphones.  Nick slowed down to give the truck lots of space and
tried to keep his wheels straddling the flow.
     Minutes later, as he neared the office, he approached an
intersection showing a green light.
     Approaching the same intersection, from the cross street,
was a large truck.  The traffic light for the truck was green
also.  Nick's car grew closer and closer to the intersection,
maintaining full speed.  Finally it was obvious to the truck
driver that Nick's car was not stopping for the light.  The
driver gave the horn a long blast.
     At the sound of the horn, Nick took his eyes away from the
rear-view mirror, and suddenly realized the truck was about to
broadside him.  He jammed on the brakes.  His car skidded
sideways, and the truck sped past, just missing Nick's bumper.
     Nick yelled, "Idiot!"  As he yelled, he heard the truck
driver call him something even less flattering.
     The car said, "Take it easy, big boy."
     Nick pulled over to assess the damage.  From where he
parked, he could see the light from both directions.  It was
green in both.  As he watched, one direction went instantly from
green to red, and a pick-up truck had to slam on its brakes.
     In a van parked in a near-by parking lot, Dennis Cotton, the
red-nosed man who had almost hit Nick earlier in the day, watched
as Nick got out of his car and walked around it.  Dennis raised a
car phone to his mouth.  "Damn it!  I thought we had him."
     Dennis hung up, started the van engine, and headed toward
the exit.  On his way out of the parking lot, he saw a shiny car
parked diagonally and taking up two parking spots.  With only the
barest hesitation, Dennis deliberately veered close and creased
the car door with his bumper.  Satisfied at having done something
productive this time, he said, "I always wanted to do that."
     * * *
     On the way through his building lobby, Nick passed a man
with his hand stuck in the newspaper vending machine.  The guy
tried unsuccessfully to get loose, as the doorman looked for the
right tool to fix the problem.  Nick waited for the elevator, the
lobby too noisy for his taste because a customer was banging on
the coffee machine.
     * * *
     In Nick's empty office, the phone rang, and the phone
answerer clicked on.  "Nick Naught private investigations.  Mr.
Naught is out of the office, making the world safe for capitalism
and the IRS, so please leave a message."  Beep.
     "Nick Naught.  Nick Naught, who's there?  Sorry.  I
shouldn't do that.  Mr. Naught, this is the lottery commission. 
Our records show you have a winning ticket.  You need to produce
it by five today to claim the five million dollars.  Please call
us."
     Not five seconds after the phone answerer clicked off, Nick
entered the office.  He pressed a button on the phone answerer,
and the machine said, "Sorry.  No messages."
     Nick sat down at his desk.  He picked the clock out of the
wastebasket.  It still read 2:30 AM.  He dropped it back in.
     The phone rang, and he picked it up.  "Hello."
     The phone answerer message started up again.  "Nick Naught
private--"
     "I've got it," Nick said.
     "Sorry.  You don't have to yell."
     Annette's voice came on the line.  "I'm glad I caught you,
Nick.  I wondered if you'd found out anything yet."
     Nick looked at his watch.  "To tell you the truth, this case
is going a little slower than normal.  I've checked at the office
and with his wife and son.  They both must have had a few knots
in the old umbilical cord."
     "Maybe there's something at the house that would help.  I
could meet you there."
     "All right.  But I'm starved, so I'm going to swing by Big
Burger.  Meet you at the house in an hour and a half?"
     "Right."
     A moment after Nick hung up, the phone rang again.  Nick
picked it up.  "Hello."
     The phone answerer message started up again.  "Nick Naught
private--"
     "I've got it."
     The answerer said, "I knew that."
     "Mr. Naught, this is G. David Chamness.  I've been trying to
establish contact with you for days.  We communicated last week
regarding my client's impending suit identifying you as the
defendant."  In the lawyer's office, his desk stretched almost
the full width of his office.  Behind him was a wall-to-wall,
floor-to-ceiling bookcase entirely filled with books with
identical bindings.
     "Hang on a minute, okay?"  Nick opened a desk drawer and
retrieved an auto translator with one knob and a screen on it. 
The screen currently said, "French."  Nick set the device on top
of the desk, attached a cord to the phone, and turned the knob.  
The screen changed rapidly to "German," then to "Doctor,"
"Politician," "Punk," and finally to "Lawyer."
     Nick said, "Don't you think 'impending suit' is a little
strong?  'Petty harassment' would be closer."
     "I don't think you fully appreciate the enormous gravity of
the circumstances in which you find yourself enveloped."
     The auto-translator screen said, "I'm serious."
     Nick leaned back.  "Can you speak up?  The connection is
fading."
     "My client proposes to prosecute to the maximum extent of
the pertinent statutes."
     The auto-translator screen said, "He wants everything he can
get."
     "I'm having trouble taking this whole thing seriously.  I
mean the guy was holding up a convenience store.  He had a gun. 
The owner and a customer can back up my story.  And can you speak
louder?  This connection is terrible."
     The lawyer's raised his voice to nearly a shout.  "In actual
point of fact, the weapon in question was a facsimile, one
fabricated from molded plastic and acquired at a K-Mart.
     The auto-translator screen said, "The gun was fake."
     "Sure.  But how was I to know that?  And can you speak
louder?"
     The lawyer was actually shouting by now.  "That's precisely
my contention.  You were not appraised of the full extent of the
situation.  Yet you proceeded to wound the plaintiff with a
projectile weapon."
     The auto-translator screen said, "You shot him."
     "What?  Louder."
     The lawyer sounded near apoplexy from shouting so loud. 
"You willfully caused my client substantial pain and suffering by
your wanton disregard for his unalienable rights."
     The auto-translator screen said, "He missed a hot date.  His
toe hurts.  And he didn't get the money."
     Nick was enjoying himself.  He had the telephone receiver
held at arm's length.  He brought the mouthpiece closer and
muffled his voice with his hand.  "I'm having a devil of a time
hearing you.  Maybe you should call back on another line."
     "All right.  I will do just that."
     Nick hung up the phone and walked out the door.  Behind him
the phone began to ring.

     Chapter 8
     The sun had almost broken through the smog as Nick drove.  A
police car overtook him and flashed past with its siren on.  Not
five seconds later, another police car flashed past, siren on,
going the opposite direction.
     Nick drove through a neighborhood so poor that all the
houses had satellite dishes in the front yards.
     Nick was on schedule when he pulled into the restaurant
parking.  In a car next to the drive-in speaker, a customer
screamed, "Burger and fries!"
     From the speaker grill came a heavily garbled, "What?"
     The customer burned rubber leaving the drive-in window.
     Nick parked well away from the drive-in exit and went
inside.
     He was examining the menu on the table when a disturbing
shadow fell over the table top.  The shadow seemed to be a person
with a gun in one hand.  Nick flinched.  He looked up and saw
Annette with her handbag.  The gun shadow had just been a trick
of the light.  Annette's gaze took in the shadow and Nick's
reaction.  She maneuvered her fingers and made a shadow of an
AK-47 assault rifle. 
     Annette said, "I had to go this same way, so I thought I'd
join you.  Is that all right?"
     "It's still a free country."  Nick traced a line with one
finger on the counter top.  "And I suppose company wouldn't hurt. 
These fast food places always seem so sterile to me."
     Behind Nick a waiter dropped a sandwich on the floor, picked
it up, dusted it off, and continued nonchalantly on his way.
     Annette looked at the menu.  "I know what you mean.  It's
like you could eat off the floor."
     "You know what you want?"
     Annette looked at Nick just a little too long before she
glanced back at the menu.  "Sure.  Do you?"
     "Yeah."  Nick pressed a button near the speaker grill.  He
wondered if Annette's hesitation might have meant she had some
second thoughts about leaving him.  They had argued more than he
had liked, but when things were going smoothly he had felt more
comfortable than he ever had, before or after.  He said nothing,
and tried to suppress the thoughts.  Why torment himself? 
Probably she had just been deciding between the Golden Bun and
the Biggie Burgie.
     A moment later the order taker replied in a voice garbled
almost beyond recognition.  "Are you ready to order?"
     "Yes.  We'd like one--" he looked where Annette pointed on
the menu "--number twelve and a coffee.  And one number eight and
a glass of water."
     The order taker hesitated.  "What?"
     Nick faced the microphone and spoke slowly.  "One number
twelve and a coffee.  And one number eight and a glass of water."
     "What?"
     Nick sighed.  "Never mind."  To Annette he said, "I'll be
back."
     Nick rolled up his sleeves and rose.  He walked back to the
counter where sign said, "Manual Orders."  There was a line.
     A few minutes later, Nick carried a tray back to the table. 
As he passed a teenager at the serve-yourself drink refill
station, the machine shot a couple of ice cubes in an arc.  The
teenager backed up, trying to catch them in the cup, and ran into
a restaurant employee carrying a large stack of trays.  The
employee was knocked off balance.  He staggered toward a nearby
swinging door, struggling to keep the trays from falling.  Just
as everything appeared under control, another employee came
through the swinging doors fast enough to knock the trays over. 
The trays fell and spread out over half the area of the floor.
     A customer at an automatic coffee dispenser paid no
attention to the clatter, but instead stared at the brown sludge
oozing into his cup.
     Nick reached the table and sat down.  "All taken care of. 
This sure is a noisy place."
     "A lot noisier than some South Seas island would be, huh?"
     "Oh, the poster in my office?"
     "Yes.  I take it you'd rather be there?"
     "What, rather be in my office?" Nick asked.  "No, I know you
mean on an island.  There are times when the idea's really
appealing.  I've started to have this recurring dream about a
sailboat in water so clean you can put your hand in it."
     "That does sound nice."  Annette inspected her meal.  "Where
did we go wrong, Nick?"
     "I really wish I knew."  He looked at her, but she wouldn't
meet his gaze.
     From a speaker at a nearby table the order taker's loud
voice said, "What?"  The person at that table got up and started
toward the manual order counter.
     * * *
     Dusk was coming on as Nick and Annette exited the
restaurant.  The sun no longer had the energy to punch through
the smog, but it made a brownish-yellow glow in the west.
     "We could just take my car to your brother's house," Nick
said.
     "Sure."
     Nick walked in silence, irritated at himself for letting his
mind drift to the way things had been before she walked out.
     Nick tried his key in the lock, but it didn't work.  He
frowned and looked up.
     He had stopped at the wrong car.  This one, although the
identical model, belonged to someone else.  His car was right
next to it.
     After opening the right door, Nick held it for Annette, then
walked around to his side.  The engine stared smoothly.
     The breathy car voice said, "Your headlights are off."
     Nick turned on the headlights.
     "You're low on gas."
     Nick tapped the digital gauge.
     "So.  Who's the bimbo?"
     Annette gave Nick a slow, hard stare.
     Moments after they had driven away, the owner of the car
next to Nick's returned.  He got in and turned his key in the
ignition.  The engine didn't start, but instead the car began to
fill with blue slime.  The man banged on the car door and
windows, but he couldn't get out.

     Chapter 9
     Nick finished pumping gas, and pulled out the self-serve
pump nozzle.  The price per gallon on the pump read $7.50, and he
had put over $200 into the car.  As Nick hung up the nozzle, he
thumped the gas pump dial, and it dropped to $150.
     He put the gas cap back on as the car voice belched. 
"Excuse me."
     Nick shook his head and fed his credit card into the machine
next to the pump.
     Two stations down from Nick, a young guy with a digital
watch pumped gas into a General Nippon Tracer.  His watch beeped,
and he reflexively pulled his arm toward him, pumping gas all
over himself in the process.
     Nick got back in the car and drove off.  Ten seconds later,
a van pulled through in his wake.  Driving the van was the
tattooed strong guy who had been after Annette.  As he began to
accelerate after Nick, the driver flipped a lit cigarette out his
window.  From behind him came a whoomp!  Dazzling light reflected
off the shiny surfaces, and from somewhere in the brilliance came
a startled Yelp!
     * * *
     Street lights were lit as Nick and Annette traveled along a
residential street.  Darkness had brought little relief from the
heat.
     Annette took a deep breath.  "What a beautiful night."
     Down a side street, a car careened out of control.
     The car said, "It's thirty-one degrees Celsius."
     Nick looked over at Annette.  "Yeah, it sure is."
     "A light wind is out of the southwest," said the car.
     Annette raised her eyebrows.  "Am I imagining things, or
does your car seem a little jealous?"
     "An automobile?  Don't be silly."
     The car said, "That's telling her, Nick."
     * * *
     Nick and Annette pulled up near Ed Taylor's house.  Nick
couldn't park directly in front of the house because the
automatic, overwatering-proof sprinkler system was busily
spraying the street.  Not a drop was going on the grass.  Nick
and Annette got out and started up the driveway.
     Annette said, "I should be able to get us by the security
system.  I made arrangements for their son to stay with friends
until Carla gets out of the hospital or we find Ed."
     "Probably not in that order."
     A lighted panel next to the front door held a keypad.  Above
it was a speaker grille for the voice-operated house-security
system.
     "Hello," said the gravel-voiced security system.
     "Hello," said Annette.  To Nick, she said, "First you have
to key in the right sequence.  Then it will ask for a password." 
She typed in a five-digit number.
     The security system said, "Sorry.  Try it again."
     Annette looked puzzled.  She tried the number again.
     "No.  Try it again."  The security system sounded testy.
     Annette tried the number again.
     Irritated this time, the security system said, "Come on. 
Try it again."
     Annette tried the number again.
     "Give me a bugging break!  It's five eight five one four."
     Annette tried the new number.
     "Very good!  Now what's the blasted password?"
     Annette whispered, "Film at eleven."
     "What?"
     Annette raised her voice slightly.  "Film at eleven."
     "What?'
     Annette looked flustered at the idea of yelling the secret
password into the quiet night air.  She looked around.
     Nick nudged her aside and hit his flattened palm hard
against the speaker grill.
     "Welcome!" said the security system.  The door latch clicked
and the door swung open.
     Nick and Annette walked slowly into the dark foyer.
     "I just had a thought," Nick said.  "They don't have a dog,
do they?"
     "No.  Just a cat."
     Even while Annette spoke, the cat cried out as Nick stepped
on its tail.
     By the time Annette flicked on a light switch, the cat had
already scampered to safety.
     They walked cautiously into the tidy kitchen and flipped on
the light switch.  A sudden whir from a blender near the sink
came on with the light.
     Nick flipped the light off.  The blender went off.  
     Nick flipped the light on.  The blender whir started again.
     Nick and Annette relaxed a little.  Nick went over to the
blender.  He turned it off and simultaneously the toaster ejected
two burned pieces of toast.
     In the living room, Annette flipped on the light switch.  At
the phone answerer, Nick paused and pushed the button.
     "Four messages," The answerer said.
     Beep.
     "Hey, Alex, this is Richard.  I've got a problem with number
eight on the geometry homework.  When you worked it out, how many
angels did you think could dance on the head of a pin?"
     Beep.
     "Mr. Taylor, this is Michelle Clark at the library.  I've
had to reshelve the computer books you've been working with.  If
you need them again, just ask."
     Beep.
     "Alex, I just wanted to remind you to do your homework. 
I'll be home soon.  Love, Mom."
     Beep.
     "Alex, I just wanted to remind you to do your homework. 
I'll be home soon.  Love, Mom."
     Nick shook his head.
     Nick and Annette moved into another room and approached a
table covered with computer equipment, including a modem and a
telephone.  The computer was off.
     Nick said, "This looks like an expensive collection of
equipment."
     "He's serious about his hobby."
     They searched the stacks of printouts on the table, finding
nothing that looked like it could help.
     As they continued the search in another room, Annette said,
"I've heard Ed talk about a wall safe.  I wonder where it might
be."
     "We could try there."  Nick pointed at a wall adorned with
several small paintings.  All but one were reasonably positioned. 
The odd one was over-large.  It hung right in the upper corner of
the room and featured a picture of a wall safe.
     They swung the picture aside and exposed a wall safe!
     "Well, well," Nick said.  "What do we have here?"
     "A wall safe," the safe said.
     Nick turned to Annette.  "Any idea of the combination?"
     "Sorry," she said.
     "What's your brother's birthday?"
     "July 30, 1975."
     Nick tried 7-30-75.
     "Sorry," said the safe.  "Try again."
     Nick said, "What's Carla's birthday?"
     "Uh, March 26, same year."
     Nick tried the new combination.
     "Missed it by that much," the safe said.
     "Which number was wrong?"
     "You don't think I'm so stupid that I'm going to tell you
the combination is seventy-five, three, twenty-six do you?"
     Nick and Annette grinned at each other.  Nick tried the new
combination and the safe opened.
     Nick pulled out the contents.  The safe contained nothing
but issues of 1990's comic books.  "Mom isn't going to throw
these babies out, huh?"
     In the kitchen on the way out, Annette said, "I can't
believe it.  We couldn't even find the cat.  And we know it's
here."
     "Maybe we can learn something at the library.  And forget
the cat.  I'm sure it's just fine.
     They moved into the foyer and turned out the light.  As they
walked the two feet to the front door, something slid under
Nick's foot, and the cat cried out again.
     * * *
     Nick and Annette pulled away from the Taylor house.  The
sprinkler was still watering the street.  Little sensors stuck
into the soil were undoubtedly sending the message that the lawn
hadn't had enough water yet.
     In the distance, an engine started up and headlights flicked
on.  The van from the gas station reversed direction and started
to follow, but just as the van was going in the right direction,
a dog walked into the street and sat down right in front of the
van's headlights.
     The van stopped suddenly, and the driver honked the horn. 
The dog stayed right where it was.

     Chapter 10
     Nick passed a parked police car.
     Only seconds later, the police car came to life, lights on,
motor racing, and it started to follow.  Its siren came on.
     Nick's car said, "Fuzz at six o'clock."
     Nick looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the flashing
lights.  "What now?"  He looked at Annette and pulled over.
     The police car stopped three car lengths back.
     The cop driving got out of his door, and crouched behind it,
gun drawn.
     The second cop looked over from the passenger seat.  He
finished munching a donut and threw the box in the back seat with
the rest of the boxes.  He looked over at his partner and said,
"You know, he can still shoot your feet."  He licked his fingers.
     The first cop climbed back in the car and angled his gun out
the window left-handedly.  He pulled a bullhorn out and tried to
use it at the same time, sticking his head out the window
awkwardly.  "This is the police.  Get out of the car.  Lean
against it with your hands spread."
     Nick and Annette opened their respective doors and got out. 
They leaned against Nick's car, hands spread obediently.
     The cops cautiously approached, weapons drawn.  One cop
covered each of them.
     "I need to see your driver's license, sir," the first cop
said.
     "It's in my wallet in my back pocket.  What's this all
about, officer?"
     "Our database shows your car as a stolen vehicle.  Suspects
armed and dangerous.  The database said to shoot on sight, so
don't test your luck."
     "There's got to be some mistake.  Does she look dangerous to
you?"  Nick hesitated.  "Okay, don't answer that."
     The cop retrieved the wallet, and looked at the license. 
"Just a minute, please."  He gestured for the other cop to cover
them both while he went back to their car to use the police
radio.
     He picked up the mike, then rubbed it on his pants leg to
remove the donut sugar.  "This is car fifty-four.  We've got a
ten twenty-six here.  I need a ten twenty-eight on a Mr. Nick
Naught."
     A voice came over the air from headquarters, heavily
garbled.  "What?"
     "I said this is car fifty-four.  We've got a ten twenty-six
here.  I need a ten twenty-eight on a Nick Naught."
     "What?"
     "I have a suspect in custody.  I need vehicle registration
information on a Nick Naught."
     "Why didn't you say so?"
     As Nick leaned against the car, he wondered if he knew
anyone who would pull a practical joke like this, or if the
police database really was that messed up.
     Moments later the cop returned from the police car.  "All
right, you two.  You can stand up straight.  Goddamn database."
     Nick and Annette glanced at each other and relaxed.
     The cop wrote out a ticket and handed it to Nick along with
his wallet.
     "What's this?" Nick asked.
     "A ticket.  Your driver's license expired last week."
     * * *
     The library parking lot was mostly empty by the time Nick
and Annette parked and started walking toward the entrance.
     "What a day," Nick said.  He rubbed the back of his neck.
     "It's been like this all day?"
     "What a year."
     Nick held back at the turnstile inside to let Annette go
first.  As she passed through the turnstile, it popped into the
next rotation so quickly that it snapped her on the rear.
     Annette looked back suspiciously, and Nick spread his hands
in an "I'm innocent" gesture.
     The reference section was as quiet as the parking lot.  Nick
looked for the computer books, while Annette took a detour to
talk to a librarian.
     Minutes later, Annette found Nick trying to decide what to
look at first.  She said, "Here's the list of the books he had
checked out.  What are we looking for?"
     "I don't know," Nick said.  "Dog-eared pages, underlining,
whatever."
     They opened book after book.  Nick pulled an issue of Mad
Magazine off the shelf, puzzled by its presence there, and put it
back.
     "Nick, look at this."  Annette held a book, inside which
were almost a dozen sheets of paper, each with apparently random
sets of widely spaced letters on them.
     Nick said, "Looks like a clue to me.  But what do you make
of it?"
     "No idea."
     A pronounced footfall sounded in the otherwise silent
library.
     "Let's get out of here," Nick said.  "That can't be the
cat."
     On the way out, Nick again let Annette go first through the
turnstile.  This time, the turnstile operated normally, but Nick
indulged an impulse and patted her on the rear.
     Annette looked around quickly, and Nick spread his hands in
the "I'm innocent" gesture.  He pointed at the turnstile.
     Nick walked two more steps before he saw a turnstile
reflection in a glass door, and he realized Annette must have
been able to see him then.  He slapped his palm against his
forehead.
     As they exited the library, Annette had a wry smile on her
lips.
     From the distance came the sound of a siren.  Another noise,
a softer sound, accompanied the siren, but it took Nick a second
to realize where it was coming from.  He grabbed Annette's hand
and pulled her along, just as an incoming whistle increased in
volume, and a baby grand piano crashed to the ground exactly
where they had stood seconds earlier.  Sheet music fluttered away
in the breeze.
     "Holy Scheherazade!" Nick said, looking at the rubble.
     "Oh, my God!"
     "You have any enemies in the L.A. Philharmonic?"
     "No."
     "Well, we missed death by piano by that much.  Let's get out
of here."
     After they were safely in the car and a block away, Annette
said, "No chance that was an accident?"
     "Maybe with an upright, but a baby grand?  No way."
     * * *
     Nick let Annette out next to her car in the restaurant
parking lot.  "I can follow you to wherever you're staying, just
in case," he said.  "Somehow they followed us there."
     "I'm staying at the Red Moon Inn, but I'll be all right. 
You take care of yourself."
     "Right.  I'll call you tomorrow.  And, Annette--you be
careful, too.  I don't want anything to happen to you."
     Annette reached over and touched Nick's hand.  Tenderly she
said, "Me, neither."
     * * *
     As Nick watched her tail lights recede, he sighed.  He
didn't turn to get into his car until the tiny red lights were
lost in the smog.

     Chapter 11
     The elevator in Nick's apartment building was silent except
for a soft hiss of ventilation.  Nick leaned against the wall and
watched the floor indicator rise to his floor.  The elevator
stopped.
     For a long moment the doors remained closed.  The
ventilation hiss seemed to increase in volume.
     "You going to open the doors?" Nick asked finally.
     The elevator's voice was ultra-calm.  "I'm sorry, Dave.  I'm
afraid I can't do that."
     Nick sighed.  "Oh, come on,  I'm tired."
     The doors opened.
     * * *
     Nick entered his apartment, exhausted.  He locked three
separate locks on the inside of the door and pressed a button.  A
panel lit up, saying, "Alarm engaged."
     On the living room wall was another large poster of a South
Seas island.  This one was twice as large as the poster in his
bedroom.
     Nick turned out the light and stumbled into the bedroom
where he crashed onto the bed, clothes still on.  It took him
only moments to fall asleep.
     Approximately an hour later, Nick was sleeping soundly, his
breath a series of sighs.  A door squeaked softly as it opened,
then the sound of muted whispering filtered into the bedroom.
     Suddenly a light flashed on, exposing Nick lying on the bed. 

     While Nick was still groggy, a pair of hands grabbed and
restrained him while another pair of hands sprayed an aerosol can
in his face.
     * * *
     Nick's arms hurt, as he woke up uncomfortably.  He couldn't
see much because of the bright light hanging near his face, but
he could see various instruments of torture against the dungeon
walls.
     He sat in a straight-backed chair, bound with thick ropes.
     From the shadows, two business-suited men approached.  Both
had mean, pinched faces with dark eyes and dark stubble showing. 
Both wore white shirts.
     The taller man said, "You have the right to remain silent--"
     "Cut that nonsense," said the other.  "You forget who we
are?"
     "Sorry."
     "Mr. Naught, you've caused us a lot of trouble."
     "Who the hell are you guys?" Nick demanded.
     "We see thousands of people like you every year.  You think
you're so great, above it all.  Well, you're not.  And we're
going to get what's coming to us, one way or another."  The man
showed what he had in his hands: a thumbscrew.  The taller man
brandished a whip.
     "Get what?" Nick asked.  "What have you got coming?"
     "Sure, Mr. Naught.  Pretend you don't know.  We expected
nothing less from you."
     "Who the hell are you guys anyway?  Just tell me what's
going on."
     "Oh, go on," said the taller one.  "Tell him, Dan."
     The other man pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to a
badge.  "We're the Internal Revenue Service, Mr. Naught.  And
we're going to get what you owe us, one way or another."
     "The IRS?  You've got to be kidding me."
     "We never kid, Mr. Naught.  About anything."
     Nick looked at the ceiling.  "Is this revolting, or what?"
     The agents moved closer, menacingly.
     Nick said, "Wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  How much do I
owe you anyway?"
     The taller man looked at his companion.  "I don't know.  I'd
have to look it up."
     "Well, do it.  We've got all the time in the world."
     The IRS agent moved to a computer terminal and punched a few
keys.  The video terminal made the mechanical sound a huge line
printer would make as the screen scrolled.
     "It says here on your return from four years ago you
illegally rounded your office supplies deductions from $156.24 up
to $157.  Your check was therefore short by one dollar."
     Nick was astonished.  He said, "A dollar?  One Goddamn
dollar?  I'll give you a Goddamn dollar.  Let me get to my
wallet.  I'll give you a Goddamn ten dollars."
     "Bad mistake, Mr. Naught.  Never, ever, try to bribe an
official of the IRS."
     "I'm sorry.  I lost my head.  Just let me get to my wallet,
and I'll give you the dollar.  All right?"
     The shorter agent asked his partner, "Is there anything in
the rules about this?"
     "No.  I think it's permissible to pay a balance due amount
in cash."
     "Damn."
     The taller agent smiled and said, "As long as you're here,
would you care to contribute to the presidential campaign fund?"
     * * *
     The front door to Nick's apartment opened, and Nick was
shoved through.  He managed to catch his balance without falling
on the floor, but he jammed one shin hard into the coffee table,
and he winced.
     The shorter IRS agent straightened his collar and said,
"Just you watch your step, Mr. Naught.  You miss another audit,
and we'll be on your case.  You bleeding-heart long-form scum
make me sick."

     Chapter 12
     In Nick's empty office, the phone rang.  The phone answerer
clicked on.  "Nick Naught private investigations.  Mr. Naught is
sleeping late, so please leave a message."
     Beep.
     "Are you the Nick Naught who's the cousin of George Bauman? 
If you are, I've got a very large inheritance for you.  Give me a
call at 555-1212."
     Just as the phone answerer clicked off, Nick entered the
office.  He pressed a button on the answerer.
     "Sorry.  No messages," it said.
     Nick looked suspicious for a moment.  Then he shook his head
and said, "Nah."
     He picked up the phone and dialed a very long number.
     "Hey, Ron," he said when the call was answered.  "Nick here. 
You still owe me a favor."
     "Sure.  Name it."
     "There's a chance that someone's trying to cause a little
trouble for me.  Would you find out if Mike Johannson is still in
the coop?  He's the only person I can think of that holds a
grudge."
     "When do you want the answer?"
     "Just leave a message if I'm not here.  I've got an errand
to run."
     * * *
     Nick waited in line while a bored woman license clerk waited
on people ahead of him.  He wondered which one of them owned the
car out front that had bent over a parking meter.
     When he finally reached the head of the line, he said, "I
want to renew my license."
     "All right.  Let me just check this out."  The blond clerk
ran the license through a slot of the top of her terminal.  As
she looked at the screen, her dark eyes widened, and she made
"tsk tsk" sounds.  "It says here you had a moving violation last
February."
     "Yeah, I did, kind of.  You see, I was chasing an escaped
murderer."
     "It also says here that in the eighth grade you dumped Rita
Archibald."
     Nick craned his neck to see the screen, but the clerk
swiveled it so he couldn't.
     She went on.  "Since your license has expired, you're going
to have to retake the test."
     Nick sighed.  "God.  Not the test again."
     * * *
     Nick walked past a test taker standing at what looked like a
voting booth with no privacy curtain.  Jumper cables from the
machine ran to bands on both of the test taker's wrists.
     The machine asked, "Are parking lights used while your car
is in motion?"
     "Er--Yes."
     Buzz!  The test taker convulsed under the electrical shock.
     The next station Nick passed was similar.  
     The machine asked, "Are you always supposed to use your turn
signals when making turns or changing lanes?"
     "Er--No."
     Buzz!  The test taker convulsed under the electrical shock.
     At the third machine the test taker wore flowing robes and
wore a pointed hat.
     The machine asked, "At the present rate of population
growth, by the year 2050 we will have only one square foot of
land area per person.  Does that make you want to reevaluate your
stance on birth control?"
     "Er--No."
     Buzz! The test taker convulsed under the electrical shock.
     * * *
     Nick stood at a testing station with the jumper cables from
the testing machine hanging from his wrists.
     The machine asked, "What is the capitol of West Virginia?"
     "Er--I don't know."
     Buzz!  Nick turned around casually to see if anyone was
watching.  The jumper cable on his right wrist hung from his
shirt sleeve instead of from the strap on his wrist.
     * * *
     Nick sat before the camera.  He brought up his hand to deal
with an irresistible itch on his nose, and the flash went off.
     "Next!" called the photographer before he laughed.

     Chapter 13
     Back in his office, Nick pressed the button on the phone
answerer.
     "Two messages waiting."  Beep.
     The first caller said, "I saw that article about how you
saved that old man who was about to get hit by a car.  Well, that
old man was my inheritance money.  So now I'm stuck here that
much longer.  I think you stink."
     Beep.
     The second message was Nick's voice.  "Ah, this is me.  Just
testing."
     Nick raised his eyebrows, surprised that the messages got
through.
     The phone rang, and he picked it up.  He opened his mouth as
if to talk but didn't say anything.  The phone answerer remained
silent.  "Hello," he said finally.
     "Nick, Ron.  I just ran a check on Mike Johannson.  He's
still in Leavenworth, but he just has a couple of months left on
his year.  He was only in for those murders."
     "Thanks for checking.  I guess I must have been wrong."
     "Sorry not to be more help.  Now we're even, right?"
     "Right.  Thanks."  Nick hung up.
     The phone rang again.  Nick picked it up, waited a second
before saying, "Nick Naught."
     "Hello.  I'm calling from the air freight desk at the
airport.  We've got a package here for you to pick up."
     "All right.  I wasn't expecting anything, but I'll be out to
get it."
     Nick hung up, then picked up the phone and dialed a long
number.  "Can I speak to Annette Taylor?" he asked when the call
completed.  As he waited, he picked the clock out of the trash
can.  It still said 2:30 AM.  He dropped it back in.
     "Hello," Annette said.
     "This is Nick.  I think we need to get back together
and--ah--get caught up on paperwork."
     "I agree.  What's a good time for you?"
     "Maybe in a couple of hours.  I've got to go out to the
airport."
     "Why don't I join you?"
     "Fine.  Pick you up in twenty minutes?"
     "Okay."
     Nick hung up.  He started out of the office, but the phone
rang again.  He picked it up.  "Nick Naught."
     The phone answerer started up.  "Nick Naught private--"
     "I'm on the line," said Nick
     "You don't have to be so testy," said the answerer.
     "Mr. Naught, G. David Chamness here.  You're a hard man to
get hold of.  I tried to get back to you yesterday, but the phone
system just wouldn't cooperate."
     "Yeah, I know what you mean.  Say, could I put you on hold
for just a moment?"
     "Well, I suppose I would have to say that would be
acceptable."
     The auto-translator screen said, "Yes."
     "Thanks," Nick said.  He put the receiver back on the hook
and walked out the door.
     * * *
     The airport was busy as Nick and Annette walked toward the
entrance.  The whine from a huge airliner taking off suddenly
shifted in pitch and volume as it had to avoid a second plane.
     Annette wore a tan skirt.  Over her shoulder, hung a large
purse on a long strap.  "You okay?" she asked.  "You seem a
little tired."
     "Yeah, I'm fine.  I just had a nightmare last night."
     Annette raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
     Near the doors was a newspaper vending machine.
     "Yo!  Wanna buy a paper?" it called.
     Nick ignored it.
     "Paper, man?  Lady?"
     Nick ignored it some more.
     "Hey, I'm talkin' to you, mofo!"
     Nick and Annette reached the sliding glass doors and found a
middle-aged woman having trouble.  She approached the open doors,
and the doors promptly closed.
     The woman backed up, and the doors opened.
     She came closer.  The doors closed.
     The woman backed up.  The doors opened.
     Nick touched the woman's arm.  "I think I've got this
figured out.  Can you stay here for just a moment?"
     The woman nodded.
     Nick took a running start and sped toward the gap between
the doors.  The doors started to close as they sensed him coming,
but he managed to barely beat them as they pounded together hard
enough to crush carbon into diamonds.  As soon as he was through,
they opened again.
     Nick stayed far enough from the doors for them to stay open,
and he gestured to Annette.
     She imitated him, and got a running start.  She sped through
the doors safely, but this time when they pounded closed, they
caught some material at the back of her skirt, and she was stuck.
     Nick approached and saw what had happened.  He gave a quick,
hard pull on the material stuck in the door.
     Rip.
     "Sorry about that," Nick said.
     As they walked away from the doors, Annette tried to see how
much damage was done.  Her skirt was missing a narrow vertical
strip.  Once they got far enough away, the doors opened once
again.
     Seconds later, the sudden sound of a horrendous crash
reminded Nick about the older woman trying to get through.  She
screamed as Nick looked back and grimaced.
     * * *
     Occasionally as Nick and Annette walked, an airport P.A.
system announcement sounded.  Without exception the voices were
all totally garbled.
     They passed an attractive young woman of Japanese descent
wearing a t-shirt that said, "Made in Japan," as a man on a
motorized cart sped past fast enough for them to hear the Doppler
shift.
     They passed another newspaper vending machine, this one
selling the Bermuda Triangle Inquirer.  It gave a loud wolf
whistle.  Annette looked around, saw no one, but clutched the
torn material at her back.
     Nick said, "Just a minute.  I've got an idea."
     Moments later, he returned with an electric cart, and
Annette joined him.
     * * *
     The air freight counter had no one waiting in line.
     "Here you are, sir," said the clerk.  "Can I get you to sign
for it?"
     "Sure," Nick said.
     The package was about the size of a paperback book, securely
sealed with strong tape.  Nick tried to open it, but his
fingernails weren't sharp enough.  He looked at the return
address without recognizing it.  He put the package in his jacket
pocket and got back on the cart with Annette.
     Threading through the crowd on the way back, they passed a
woman who had set up a small table bearing the sign, "Citizens
for Clean Books."
     Nick swerved close enough to be heard and said, "So.  Burned
any good books lately?"
     He heard no reaction from Annette, and he realized she had
been fairly quiet for the past few minutes.  He looked over at
her questioningly.
     Annette said, "You know, I must have thought about calling
you a thousand times.  Pretty masochistic, huh?"
     Nick looked at the pedestrians ahead.  "I wish you'd have
called at least once.  So I knew you were all right.  I had to
find out from Diana that you were still in town."
     "Why should you care what happened to me?  You deserted me."
     They passed a teenage girl trying to get a drink from the
water fountain.  She pressed the button and water splattered all
over her face.  She gave it a second try, keeping her head clear. 
A jet of water flew twenty feet through the air and doused the
newspaper being read by a seated man.
     Nick frowned and said, "What the hell are you talking about? 
You're the one who walked out on me."
     "The hell I did!  You walked out of the apartment that day
and you didn't come back.  I waited two weeks and decided you
were never coming back so I moved in with Diana."
     "I was in the hospital for Pete's sake!  I called and left
you five messages on the answering machine."
     Annette looked uncertain.  "You did?  I never got them." 
More firmly she added, "Besides, I left you a bunch of messages
on the answerer.  You could have called me."
     Nick said slowly, "I never got any messages.  After all
those fights I figured you'd had enough.  I mean we had both
threatened to move out, and I guess I decided your threats had
actually been serious."
     As they continued in silence, and Nick's stomach churned
madly, they passed by the tattooed van driver, who smiled broadly
when he saw Annette.  The man began to run after Nick's cart, but
changed his mind.  He altered his course and raced toward an
occupied cart, where he knocked the rider off, spilling the
contents of the rider's shopping bag in a heap.
     Nick and Annette passed a customer standing in front of a
coffee machine.  The cup didn't drop into the slot, so the coffee
just flowed into the drain.
     Annette finally said, "You really left mes--"
     Nick started speaking simultaneously.  "You didn't really
walk--"
     From behind them came a yelp, and Annette looked back.  She
saw the van driver on a cart that had just knocked over a kid. 
"Nick!  Step on it!  We're being followed by one of the guys who
tried to kidnap me.  If he has that knockout stuff they used on
Ed--"
     Nick looked back, then started to accelerate.  Their cart
sped faster, darting into holes that opened in the crowd.
     The van driver followed in his cart, gaining because Nick's
cart opened holes for both of the carts.  The driver knocked a
matronly lady sprawling.  From a seated position, she turned,
and, for someone who looked as refined as she did, gave the man a
surprisingly rude gesture.
     Suddenly, a man tall enough to be a formidable basketball
player, riding another cart, appeared right in front of the van
driver's cart, and the two carts crashed.
     "Watch where you're going!" shouted the van driver.
     "Why don't you?" said the jock.  "I had the right of way!"
     "And how do you figure that, toad face?"
     Nick looked back and saw the confrontation interrupted by an
approaching siren.  The two cart drivers looked irritated when a
third cart pulled up.  This one sported red and blue flashing
lights and was driven by a cart cop, a pot-bellied man wearing
sunglasses and a hat.  The cart logo said "L.A.X.P.D."
     The cart cop got off his cart as the two drivers sat
transfixed.  The cart cop came over to the van driver's cart and
rested one foot on the fender.  "Looks like we've got a heap of
trouble here, boys."
     The jock said, "This idiot ran right into my side."
     The van driver said, "Yeah, well, this idiot was going too
fast."
     The cart cop pulled out a pad of tickets and began to write. 
"Well, it looks like we got us a 'doin ten in a five zone,' a
'drivin without seat belts,' and a 'failure to yield right of
way' just for starts.  Lemme see your licenses."  He hesitated. 
"You fellas insured for this?"
     Nick circled the accident scene and came up behind the
crashed carts.  He drove slowly past the confrontation.
     "That's the one who was driving the van," Annette said
softly.  "I'm absolutely certain of it."
     Nick raised his voice and pointed to the van driver. 
"That's the guy, Officer.  Back there a ways we passed a woman
who was running to catch up with this guy.  Apparently he was
trying to molest her son in the restroom."
     As Nick accelerated away, the van driver glared murderously,
and the cart cop began to smile.
     Nick and Annette were both silent in thought as they passed
a news stand where a man was reading a copy of Digital Science
Fiction.
     They rolled through the baggage claim area as the conveyer
spewed pieces of luggage, most of which were smoking, falling
open, and gashed.
     The main doors were still malfunctioning when they got back. 
One door now had a big hole in the glass.
     As they watched, a husky guy who looked like he played a lot
of football tried the same trick Nick and Annette had used to get
in.  He ran, but he wasn't quite fast enough, and the doors
clamped shut, catching him and trapping him between them.  He
dropped his bag, and it slid a couple of feet before it stopped.
     As muscles stood out in cords on his arms, he pushed the
doors slowly apart.
     Nick said, "What do you want to bet his luggage is
Sampsonite?"
     As the man stood there, struggling against the pressure,
obviously wanting to jump aside and let the doors snap shut,
three people used the opportunity to get through the door.  The
last one turned around and took the beefy guy's wallet from his
back pocket.
     The guy lasted another couple of seconds, then jumped away
and let the doors snap shut.  He grabbed his luggage and began to
run fast, obviously looking for another door out, so he could
track down his wallet.  The doors opened.
     Nick looked at the doors a moment.  Since no one else was
near them, the doors stayed open.  Nick walked over and pulled
out the wall-plug.  A second later, a guy in a jogging outfit
raced through the open doors.  The doors made no move to close. 
The jogger realized they hadn't reacted, and he moved slowly
closer to investigate.  He moved still closer to the doors, wary
of being caught by them.  As Nick and Annette moved past him,
Nick touched the guy's arm, and the guy jumped.
     Innocently Nick said, "What's the problem?"
     Outside, the newspaper vending machine said, "Cheapskate!"
     Nick hesitated, glanced around to see if anyone was looking,
then pulled his gun and walked over to the vending machine.
     "Er, nice day, isn't it?" said the machine.

     Chapter 14
     Nick and Annette rode without speaking for the first few
minutes in the car.  A light rain was falling, so the windshield
wipers were on.  The radio played rock music, and the wipers
moved from side to side in perfect step with the music beat.  The
car hit a bump, and the station switched to classical.  The
wipers slowed down to match the tempo of the classical music. 
Annette banged the dash, and the station changed back to rock. 
The wipers sped up again to match the rock beat.
     They drove past a parking lot with the sign in front, "Soon,
a new office building on this spot.  Your tax dollars at work."
     A block later, they passed an office building with the sign
in front, "Soon, a new parking lot on this spot.  Your tax
dollars at work."
     Annette finally asked, "Have you ever seen the guy who was
chasing us in the airport?"
     "Nope.  But if anyone else tries to follow us, I'll spot
him."
     Three car lengths behind, was a van following Nick's car. 
On the dash, a light blinked, as though the driver was tracking
the car ahead.  The van driver was Dennis Cotton, the red-nosed
man who had nearly killed Nick in front of the hospital.
     Nick and Annette passed through the rain, and the sun
started coming out.  They drove by a theater with the marquee
sign saying, "Aliens 9 -- In space no one can hear you vomit."
     A police car flashed past, lights and siren on.
     Nick took the package out of his coat pocket and handed it
to Annette.  "You got anything to open this with?"
     "Maybe."  Annette opened her purse and glanced through it. 
She looked back at the package and frowned.  "What is it?"
     "No idea."
     The driver of the van behind them flipped open a compartment
on the dash.  He pressed a button.  Numbers started to count down
from thirty.
     Annette said, "You get stuff you can't identify very often?"
     "No.  Not really.  Why?  Are you suggesting--"
     "Maybe I'm just paranoid."
     The numbers on the panel in the van kept counting down.
     Nick said, "You know, this is starting to bother me a whole
lot."
     "It's about time."
     The digits got down to five and suddenly started repeating. 
Five.  Five.  Five...  The van driver noticed and pounded on the
box.
     Nick shouted, "Let's get rid of it!"
     "Right!"
     Nick tried to roll down his power window.  Nothing happened. 
"It's stuck!"
     Annette tried her window control.  Nothing happened.  "Mine,
too!"
     The van driver banged on the box again.
     Nick and Annette simultaneously hit their car doors, and
both windows started down.  Nick threw the package up and out,
arcing it into the road behind them.
     The numbers on the van driver's box finally resumed their
count.  Four.  Three.
     "Finally!" the driver said.  He looked back at the road, and
was just realizing something lay on the pavement ahead when the
numbers reached One.
     He cried out and yanked the wheel as the counter reached
Zero, and the small bomb exploded right under his van.  Two tires
instantly blew, and the back of the van nearly disintegrated. 
The driver lost control and crashed at the side of the road.
     Nick watched in the rear-view mirror.  "I've seen that van
before.  I'm sure of it."
     "Let's get out of here," Annette said.
     At Dennis's van, the smoke began to clear.  Dennis struggled
upright, opened the door, and fell out, mashing his already hurt
shoulder.  "I hate this Goddamn job!"
     At the sound of an approaching siren, Dennis looked hopeful. 
The ambulance pulled even with his van, without slowing down, and
sped away, going wherever it was already going.
     Annette frowned.  "That bomb was meant for us, you realize
that?"
     "I sure do."  Nick turned a corner.  "You might even say it
had my name on it."
     "I'm not joking!  Someone just tried to kill us."
     "Not to mention me," said the car.
     They passed a huge building with an animated sign saying,
"Hackers' Military Secrets."
     Nick hesitated.  "I'm sorry.  I guess I'm a little punchy
and confused.  It's like whoever's after you is psychotic.  One
time they try to kidnap you, the next time they try to kill.  And
that package could easily have just gotten me without hurting
you."
     "Well, what do we do?"
     A police car flashed past, siren on.
     "Well, we could call the police."
     They passed a stalled car with its hood open.  A man in a
business suit was bent over the engine compartment, working on
it.  A black, ugly part of the engine flew out of the engine
compartment and bounced on the ground several yards away.
     Annette shook her head.  "We should live so long.  That
desert island of yours is looking better and better all the
time."
     Nick checked the rear-view mirror.  "First things first. 
We've got to work fast and get this figured out.  And I've got an
idea." 

     Chapter 15
     Nick and Annette pulled up in front of KSMY in Nick's car. 
Nick squeezed into a parking space and killed the engine.
     The car said, "Can I come, too?"
     Nick raised his eyebrows.  "Wait here, will you?  You can
listen to the radio."
     While Nick and Annette waited in the lobby, Connie and
Howard were live on the TV monitor.  Howard moved to a new story. 
"In a bizarre shoot out at the Beverly Hilton this morning, the
last surviving Blood and the last surviving Crip killed each
other."
     Connie took her turn.  "On a bitter note, four young
moviegoers were gunned down in a multiplex theater last night. 
Larry Costa is in custody after a group of survivors kept him at
bay for six hours until the police arrived.  The feature was last
year's remake of Old Yeller.  Allegedly, at an intensely
emotional and very quiet point in the film, the four victims'
hourly watch chimes went off."
     A door opened and Earle Thompson came in.  "Sorry to keep
you waiting.  Come on in."
     "Thanks," Nick said.
     Nick introduced Annette as they walked down the hall.  They
passed Curtis's closed office door, and Nick could hear the
buzzer.
     At the end of the corridor, Earle pointed into a room off
the hallway.  "There you are.  Help yourselves."
     Nick thanked him, and Earle went back to work.
     The small room contained two photocopiers.  On the wall was
a framed photocopy labeled, "Posterior of the Month."
     Nick turned to Annette.  "Let's see those papers."
     She got the stack of papers from her purse and handed the
sheets to him.
     Nick put an original on the glass of the first copier.  "One
copy."
     The copier said, "Okay."  Light flashed, the mechanism
whirred, and a totally blank page fell into the hopper.
     "Darker," Nick said.  "One copy."
     "Okay."  The copier worked and a totally black page came
out.
     Nick frowned.  "You got anything in between?"
     The copier flashed, and a half-white, half-black page came
out.
     Nick sighed.  He pulled up the cover to get the original
back, but the paper was gone.  "Where the hell's my paper?"  Nick
kicked the machine, and it spit out the original.
     "Can't take a joke, huh?" the copier said.
     Nick shook his head, moved to the second copier, and put in
the original.  "One copy."
     The copier mechanism did nothing, but it said, "Take a hike. 
I saw what you did to Tommy."
     Nick hesitated.  "I'm going to count to three.  If you're
not running by then, I'm going to take--"  He glanced at the
first copier.  "Tommy--apart piece by piece.  And then I'm going
to replace him with a different model."
     After a short silence the copier said, "What model?"
     Instantly the first copier said, "Dickie, you jerk!"
     "Just kidding," said the second copier.  Its light flashed,
the mechanism whirred, and a good copy came out.
     "That's more like it," Nick said.  He fed the copy back into
the blank paper tray and put the second original on the glass. 
"One copy."
     The copier worked properly again.  The ejected copy looked
denser because it had letters from both pages on it.  Nick again
put the copy in the blank paper bin and inserted the third
original.  The next copy contained partial words.  Moments later,
the final cycle completed and a full-looking page of text came
out.
     Nick and Annette examined the completed text.
     Nick frowned.  "I don't understand.  This makes it seem like
Ed's been using a computer virus to steal from someone."
     "Ed wouldn't do anything like that.  There's got to be some
mistake."
     "Maybe we should go back to the house and look at his
computer more closely."
     Annette shrugged.
     On their way out, they again passed the closed door to Jim
Curtis's office, and the buzzer was still going.
     Nick stopped, glanced around, and kicked the door once with
the side of his shoe.  The buzzer stopped.  Nick grinned.
     Annette had stopped when Nick did.  She looked puzzled, but
Nick was already moving again.
     Outside, a "while you were out" note stuck under Nick's
windshield wiper fluttered in the breeze.
     Nick read the note aloud.  "We've got Ed Taylor.  If you
want to talk to him, be at Knowlton's Repair Works at ten
tonight."  He glanced around but saw no one who looked like an
obvious candidate for having left the note.
     "Nick, that sounds like a trap," Annette said as they got
into the car.  She had to raise her voice until Nick turned down
the volume on the radio.
     "Sure it does.  I watch movies, too.  But they are going to
be there, whoever they are.  This might be the only way to find
out what's going on."
     As Nick pulled out into the street, they passed a man taking
a sledgehammer to his car.
     Annette looked over at Nick and said resolutely, "Well, Ed's
my brother, so I'm going, too."
     "No way.  It would be too dangerous."
     The car said, "Oh, come on, Nick.  What's the harm?"

     Chapter 16
     Nick's car cruised slowly down the dark, rain-slick street
as the windshield wiper kept clearing the drizzle.  The
neighborhood did not look affluent.  Warehouses with broken
windows lined the street, and half of the street lights were
burned out.
     Nick pointed.  "Isn't that it over there?"
     A flash of lightning illuminated the dark street and the
sign, "Knowlton's Repair Works."  Thunder echoed.
     "Yeah," Annette said.  "It looks creepy."
     "We're early, but I'd better go in now anyway."  Lightning
flashed, and loud thunder sounded.
     "Well, creepy or not, I'm coming."
     "I still think you should wait in the car."  Just as Nick
spoke, lightning flashed, and thunder crashed again.
     "Not on your life," said Annette.
     "It's your life I'm --"  As he spoke, lightning flashed, and
thunder boomed again, and Nick realized the same thing had
happened the last several times he spoke.  "What a coincidence--" 
More lightning and thunder.
     Nick said, "Every time I say something--"  More lightning
and thunder.
     "Hey, this is fun."  More lightning and thunder.
     Annette and the car spoke simultaneously.  "Men!"

     Chapter 17
     Nick and Annette dashed across the dark street in the rain,
amid the thunder and lightning, trying to avoid the deepest oily
puddles.
     The door squeaked loudly as they entered the warehouse.  The
interior was poorly lit by naked light bulbs that revealed a
freight elevator ahead of them.  Old packing boxes filled to
overflowing with trash littered the room.
     They walked forward cautiously, seeing no one.  Grit
crunched beneath their shoes.  Nick could smell dust.  They
followed a path through the boxes that lead toward the elevator. 
Stuck to the elevator cage was a note, which Nick grabbed.  "All
it says is 'fourth floor,'" he whispered.
     Annette whispered back, "The idea of going up in that thing
makes me nervous."
     "Me, too.  That's what they'll be expecting."  Through the
walls, thunder rumbled.  Nick whispered to the freight elevator,
"Go to the fourth floor."
     "You talkin' to me?"  The voice used for the elevator had a
Bronx accent.
     "Shhh.  Yes."
     "What?"
     Nick slapped his palm against his forehead.  "Go to the
fourth floor."
     "By myself?" asked the elevator.
     "Yes."
     "Why should I do that?"
     "Because I told you to.  Because of the second law of
robotics."
     "Say what?"
     "Just do it, will you?"
     "Gimme ten bucks?"
     "What?"
     Suddenly Annette said softly but emphatically, "Go up to the
fourth floor, or I'll cut your cable off."
     Silently the elevator started to rise.
     Nick looked at Annette incredulously.  
     "I used to have a temperamental microwave," she said.
     Nick shook his head.  "We'd better find the stairs."
     They saw two stairwells each about thirty yards away on
opposite sides of the building.  Nick pointed to one and they
walked as softly as they could toward it.  The one Nick chose was
even darker than the room they had walked through.  Nick drew his
gun as he led the way up the dark stairwell.  "Shhh."
     Only two seconds later, Nick stepped on a squeaky dog's toy. 
They both jumped.  Nick's heart began to slow down, and he picked
up the toy.
     "Great work," said Annette.  "Do you think they have a dog?"
     "Pets in a place like this?"  Nick tossed the toy away and
moved up a step.  A cat cried loudly, and something moved under
Nick's foot.  From the darkness came a diminishing pitter-patter
sound.
     Annette said dryly, "Maybe we should split up."
     "Very funny.  Now be quiet."
     * * *
     Upstairs on the fourth floor, near the freight elevator
shaft, Jerry Pershing and Skid Peck, the two musclemen who had
been following Annette, waited impatiently.  The elevator
approached.  The two men drew their guns, and Skid glanced at his
digital watch.  Beyond them sat Ed Taylor, bound in a chair, tape
across his mouth.
     The elevator arrived, empty.
     "What the hell's going on?" Jerry asked.
     "You talkin' to me?" said the elevator.
     "Shut up," Jerry said.
     Skid said, "Where are they?"
     "You talkin' to me?" said the elevator.
     "Shut up," Skid said.
     Jerry took a deep breath.  "All right.  No need to panic." 
He pushed a switch on a small box.
     Around the warehouse, a series of locks clicked closed and
bolts slid home, securing the building.
     "Okay," Jerry said.  "No one's going anywhere."  He pushed
another switch on the box.
     On the first floor, Gizmo, a small robot that looked a lot
like a canister vacuum cleaner with a gun muzzle added came to
life downstairs.  Gizmo rolled forward silently.
     Jerry said, "Gizmo should be on duty now.  You go
downstairs.  I'll wait here."
     * * *
     On the first floor, Gizmo rolled through a darkened area of
the room.  The cat cried out again.
     Gizmo instantly swiveled, and the gun muzzle tilted down,
scanning, searching.  "Damn cat."  Gizmo's voice had been cloned
from a macho action-film star, resonant bass, with a noticeable
accent.  Presumably, the designers felt the voice was compelling
in those situations where no one could see Gizmo.  When Gizmo was
in sight, the voice gave the impression that a ventriloquist must
have been part of the team.
     * * *
     Upstairs, Skid swung the elevator gate aside, got in, and
swung it closed again.  "First floor," he said.
     "First floor what?" the elevator said.
     Skid hit himself on the forehead.  "First floor, please."
     The elevator suddenly dropped about two feet.  Skid
panicked, then caught himself as he realized he was no longer
falling.
     The elevator said, "Just kidding."
     * * *
     Nick and Annette crept up the stairs and reached the second
floor.  They stayed closed together and spoke in ultra-soft
whispers.
     Nick said, "Let's stay on this floor for a few minutes.  By
now they've seen the elevator.  It's easier if they're looking
for us than if we're looking for them."
     "Okay by me," said Annette.
     They walked along a wide corridor with darkened rooms off
each side.  They hadn't gone two meters when they passed a
full-length mirror.  Annette jumped at the moving reflection,
then relaxed.  Not far from the mirror, was a faded "Rambo 8"
poster showing an old Stallone with an automatic rifle.  Below
the poster a sign said, "The wars in Argentina, Brazil, Cuba,
Denmark, Egypt, and elsewhere need a few good men."
     * * *
     Little levers extended from Gizmo's body, and he started
climbing the stairs.  "Damn stairs."
     * * *
     Nick and Annette continued down the corridor, turning
occasionally as it made turns around odd-sized rooms.  They came
to a corner and hesitated, not able to see if anyone might be
waiting around the bend.  Nick readied his gun and popped around
the corner, but no one was there.  They kept walking.
     Halfway down the hall sat a trio of soft drink machines, two
Coca Colas and a Pepsi.
     "Thirsty?" Nick asked, joking.
     Annette shook her head, but the Pepsi machine responded.
     "A drink sure would hit the spot right now.  What is life
without Pepsi?" said the Pepsi machine, its voice cloned from an
I-don't-get-no-respect comedian.
     One of the Coca Cola machines said, "Get real.  Be Real. 
Don't touch that inferior stuff, hoser, eh?"
     The second Coca Cola machine said, "Yeah.  I mean really,
eh?  Beauty."
     "Well at least talk to me," the Pepsi machine pleaded.  "I'm
bored as hell, and these two dorks won't even talk to me."
     Nick and Annette shook their heads in wonderment.  They
moved on.
     "Wait!  Don't go.  I'll give you a free Pepsi.  I'll give
you both a free Pepsi."
     * * *
     Gizmo reached the second floor.  "Phew!"  He rolled down the
corridor, following Nick and Annette.
     Gizmo reached the Rambo poster.  Instantly he swiveled and
pointed the muzzle toward the poster.  "You've got ten seconds to
put down the gun."
     Gizmo's gun muzzle took aim on Rambo's chest.
     Silence.
     "You've got five seconds to put down the gun."
     Silence.
     Time ran out.  Gizmo fired at the poster.  The wall exploded
and crashed down.
     The cat cried out, and the pitter-patter of running feet
sounded in the darkness.
     Gizmo swiveled and fired at where he thought the cat sounds
had come from.  The firing was like machine gun fire.  "Damn
cat."
     * * *
     Nick and Annette neared another stairwell.
     "What was that?" Annette asked.
     "I don't want to know.  Let's go up another floor."
     * * *
     The collapsed wall had torn a hole in the corridor floor, so
Gizmo couldn't get past.  He swiveled, examined the situation for
a moment, and then retreated.  "I'll be back."
     * * *
     Skid got out of the elevator.  He scanned the surroundings
for signs of Nick and Annette, and saw nothing.
     He walked toward the stairwell.
     * * *
     Nick and Annette reached the third floor, and they started
along the corridor.
     From ahead of them came a constant murmuring, like the
distant sound of a giant cocktail party.
     They moved along the corridor and cautiously approached the
door to a very large room.  They peeked around the corner. 
Inside was an enormous collection of appliances including
washer/dryers, televisions, old vending machines, phone answerers
and other electronic equipment.  They were all talking to each
other.  About the only word heard clearly was a frequent "What?"
     Nick said, "If you know me when I'm old, don't ever send me
to a rest home."
     "You should live so long."
     They continued along the corridor.  Suddenly Gizmo was
visible in the distance.
     "What's that ahead?" Nick asked.
     "No idea.  Unless it's vacuuming."
     As Gizmo approached, Nick and Annette ducked into a room to
hide.
     Gizmo went by the door to the room, continuing on toward the
noises down the hall.  Nick gestured toward the direction Gizmo
had come from.
     They tiptoed into the hallway and started their getaway. 
They had almost reached the stairwell, when Gizmo's voice sounded
loudly.  "You've got ten seconds to put down the gun."
     Nick and Annette turned slowly to face Gizmo, who was now
very close.  Suddenly Nick grabbed Annette's hand and pulled her
toward the stairwell.
     They hit the stairwell just as Gizmo said, "You've got five
seconds to put down the gun."
     Gizmo saw them vanish into the stairwell.  "Crap."
     Gizmo rolled to the stairs in time to hear the pair's
downward footsteps echoing.  "Damn stairs."
     Nick and Annette dashed out of the stairwell onto the second
floor, running as quietly as they could.  They passed the mirror
again and reached the hole in the hallway floor.
     "Come on," Nick said.  He made a running start and jumped
over the hole.  He gestured to Annette to follow.
     She hesitated, looking down into the darkness.  Finally she
got a firm grip on the large purse, and she jumped, too.  Her
feet skidded on the floor for an instant before Nick steadied
her.
     Nick looked back at the corridor and narrowed his gaze. 
"Just a minute."
     He jumped back over the hole.  Not knowing how much time
they had, he raced to the mirror on the wall, struggled briefly,
and yanked it free.
     Near the edge of the hole, he knelt and positioned the
mirror lengthwise on the floor, diagonally across the hallway
just in front of the hole.  He angled it so Gizmo would see
neither the hole nor his own reflection as he approached.
     Satisfied with his handiwork, Nick backed up for another
running start.  He jumped over the mirror and just cleared the
hole.  He teetered on the edge for a second before Annette yanked
him forward.
     Nick felt her hand on his wrist, and he felt like he'd just
almost lost her again.  Or vice versa.  He said softly, "Damn
that answering machine anyway."
     Annette reached up and touched his cheek.  Her eyes looked
larger than normal.  Nick's cheek tingled.
     The mood was suddenly broken as Gizmo rolled quickly along
the hallway.  They ran a few yards and stopped just around a
corner, looking back at Gizmo.
     Gizmo sensors twitched, and he said very quickly, "You've
got one second to put down the gun!"
     Nick called out, "Get serious!"
     Gizmo raced forward, firing at the same time.  From their
position, ducked behind the corner, Nick and Annette could hear
Gizmo as he crashed through the mirror and fell into the hole. 
As he dropped, Gizmo said, "Damn hole!"

     Chapter 18
     Gun in hand, Skid moved quietly along the corridor and
cautiously approached a corner he couldn't see around.  A
floorboard creaked somewhere in front of him, and he became even
more cautious.  The very next floorboard he stepped on squeaked.
     Nick and Annette crept along the same corridor, moving
toward the same corner.  They, too, heard a noise ahead.
     "Quiet!" Annette whispered.
     As they approached the blind corner from the side opposite
Skid, they moved even more quietly.
     They crept closer and closer to the corner.  Nick was trying
to decide whether to stick his head around the bend, when the
sound of Skid's digital watch chime came from just around the
corner.
     Nick grinned.  Quickly he grabbed Annette's purse, held it
by the top of the long strap, and whipped it as hard as he could
around the corner.  The purse clunked loudly as it connected with
Skid.
     Nick stepped around the corner.  Skid was sagging.  His gun
fell from his hand.  Nick caught him as he started to fall to the
floor.  To Annette he said, "Help me with this guy."
     Annette helped him drag Skid's unconscious body into a
nearby room.  Using the man's shirt and pants for bindings, they
muffled his mouth and made sure he wasn't going anywhere anytime
soon.  And now Annette had a gun, too.
     As they finished, Nick said, "This isn't the guy we saw
before.  He must still be in here somewhere."
     "Upstairs?"
     "Let's go.  If your brother really is in the building,
that's probably where."
     Nick and Annette stealthily went to the end of the corridor
and crept up the stairs.  Now and then Annette's purse made soft
tinkling sounds.
     They reached the fourth floor without encountering anyone
else and started creeping down the corridor.
     They slowly approached the elevator shaft.  The elevator was
there, but it was empty.
     They moved a little farther down the corridor, and
encountered a brightly lit room.  Against the back wall, still
roped into his chair, sat Ed Taylor.
     Annette cried "Ed!" and ran toward his chair, using no
caution.
     "Shhh," Nick said, following quickly, surveying as he went. 
One wall of the room was broken by a small hallway leading to
another room.  Nick tried to keep watch on the small hallway and
the way they had come.
     Annette had started to take the tape off Ed's mouth, but
Nick grabbed her arm.  "I don't like this."
     Annette hesitated.  Nick could see she was worried, but that
she was also concerned about how Ed was.  Ed was not reacting to
their presence.
     Nick suddenly glanced back down the small corridor, unsure
if he had heard some noise from there or not.
     In a room at the other end of the short corridor, Jerry
Pershing pressed a button on a hockey-puck-sized device.  An
inset display flipped to ten and started counting down. 
Satisfied, Jerry slid the device down the hall.
     A half-second later, Nick saw the canister sliding toward
him and Annette.  "Let's get out of here!"
     Nick grabbed the chair Ed was tied to and started pulling
him out of the room.  Too slow.  The combination was so heavy and
awkward, it was hernia time.
     Annette saw the canister approaching.  She swung her purse
off her shoulder and, holding the strap, easily batted the
canister back the way it had come.
     On seeing Nick's astonished expression, she said, "I used to
play hockey."
     Jerry saw the canister reverse its path.  "Damn it!  I hate
this Goddamn job!"
     Nick and Annette stood petrified, watching the canister
slide back to the room it had come from.  A second passed.
     Poof!  The canister exploded, releasing an enormous cloud of
dense smoke.
     In a nasal tone, like in the old Roadrunner cartoons, Nick
said, "Beep beep."
     Nick and Annette moved down the corridor cautiously as the
smoke began to thin.
     Wisps of smoke still lingered in the air when they found
Jerry sprawled on the floor, unconscious.
     Nick said, "Now this guy we recognize."
     "The guy from the airport.  Now we can find out who he is."
     Jerry had a computer diskette and a pencil in his shirt
pocket.  Nick took the disk and rolled Jerry's body over to
expose his wallet, which he also took.  Nick flipped through the
wallet, and he began to frown.  "Oh oh.  This is not really good
news.  This says his name is Jerry Pershing.  And he works for
Major Opportunity Business."
     "We've been fighting a company?  That doesn't make any
sense."
     Nick started back toward Ed's chair.  "Not just any company. 
M.O.B. is to business what a switch-blade is to a letter opener."
     Annette grimaced.  "Let's get Ed and get out of here.  Or do
you think there might be more of them around?"
     "I don't know.  Maybe Ed knows."
     Ed stared just as blankly as he had before.
     Annette slapped him lightly.  "Ed.  Ed.  Wake up."
     Nick began to untie Ed.  "I don't think it's any use.  He's
comatose."
     Moments later they again moved forward cautiously.  Nick
staggered beside Annette as he carried Ed.  Ed was heavy.
     Annette whispered, "Take the elevator?"
     "Thanks anyway.  I've already had enough abuse today."
     They reached the stairwell unchallenged.  Nick pulled his
gun as he tried to keep Ed balanced.  "Cover the rear, and be
careful," he whispered.
     "Right."  Annette pointed her gun back down the corridor.
     Nick stepped into the darkened stairwell.  He took a couple
of steps down.  Suddenly the cat cried out, and something moved
under Nick's foot.  He lurched forward into the darkness.  The
next step wasn't where it should be, and Nick tipped forward,
Ed's weight now moving fast enough that Nick passed the point of
no return.  He and Ed fell down nearly the whole flight of
stairs.  
     Annette scrambled down the stairs, rushing to catch up with
them.  At the next floor landing, Ed and Nick lay in a heap.
     Nick picked himself up, found his gun, and assumed a
stealthy posture, gun extended.  He took a couple of steps
forward, listening intently.  He called out softly, "Here, kitty,
kitty, kitty."
     "Stop that!" said Annette.
     Nick looked sheepish.  "Just kidding," he said
unconvincingly.
     * * *
     Nick carried Ed as he and Annette crept across the floor
toward the front door.  They passed Gizmo, who lay flat on his
head, surrounded by rubble from the hole in the ceiling.  The
wheels and levers on his base couldn't help him right himself.
     As they watched, a dog approached Gizmo and started to
sniff.  Gizmo yelled, "Get away!  Get away from me!  You've got
one second to put down that leg."
     Nick and Annette left Gizmo where he was and moved toward
the front door.  Annette tried the door.  "It's locked," she
said.
     Nick shifted his weight and aimed a solid kick at the door. 
The door, together with the door frame, fell slowly outward and
crashed onto the ground, spreading a cloud of dust into the night
air.  "No problem."
     Annette led the way.  As Nick walked through the doorway, he
clunked Ed's head hard against the wall.
     Annette turned quickly.  "What was that?  Did Ed say
something?"
     Nick looked down at Ed's head and said, "I really doubt it."
 
     Chapter 19
     "Ed!  Are you all right?" Annette asked.  She and Nick sat
in front seat of the car.
     Ed sat the back seat and groaned.  "What's going on?"
     "You tell us," Nick said.  "We just got you back from a
couple of M.O.B. guys."
     Ed put both hands to his head.
     Nick didn't feel he should interrupt to explain the bruise.
     Ed said.  "Oh yeah.  Boy, those people were angry.  I--"  He
hesitated.  "I found out that M.O.B. made a computer virus.  It's
been siphoning off money from everywhere.  Anyway, I managed to
break into their computer system and get their passwords.  I had
just finished modifying the virus to reverse it--to take money
out of M.O.B.  Somehow they must have tracked me down, and they
grabbed me."  He patted his pockets.  "Damn.  I had it on a
diskette, but they must have it now."
     "A diskette like this?" Nick asked, showing what he had
taken from Jerry.
     "Yeah.  That's it!" Ed said.  "All I need to do is run it on
their computer, and it'll reverse the damage."
     "But why did they try to get Annette?" Nick asked.
     Ed looked at Annette.  "I was using a borrowed disk with
your name on it.  They wouldn't believe me when I told them you
had nothing to do with this."
     "What now?" Annette asked.
     Nick started the car.  "Now we find a phone booth and do
some bargaining with M.O.B.  Or try.  This'll probably be like
taking candy from a pit bull."
     * * *
     Nick stood impatiently at the phone booth as his call
connected.
     "Major Opportunity Business," said the voice on the phone.
     Nick took a deep breath.  "One of your people has been
trying to kill me.  His name is Jerry Pershing.  You'd better
call off anyone else who's after me, or you'll never see him and
his partner again."
     "And who am I speaking to, please?"  The voice was bored, as
though Nick had just asked for the time.
     "Nick Naught.  I'm a private detective."
     "Please stand by, while I get more information."
     "All right.  But hurry."
     Annette called out from the car, "What's happening?"
     "He's getting more information.  At M.O.B., they're probably
up to their buns in it."  Nick fidgeted as he waited.  He looked
at his watch.
     A moment later he looked at his watch again.  "What's the
holdup?"
     "Please just stand by," said the voice.  "I'll have the
information in just a minute."
     Nick was growing suspicious and nervous.  "No.  Let's talk
now."
     "It will be just another minute, sir."
     "All right.  But hurry."  Nick dropped the receiver so it
hung from the cord.  He ran to the car.
     Nick got in and started the car.  As he pulled away from the
curb, he said, "I don't like this.  I bet they're figuring out
where this number is.  I'll have to call them back from someplace
else."
     They had traveled less than a third of a block when the
phone booth Nick had just left exploded in a luminous orange ball
of flame.
     Nick looked at the red and yellow destruction, and said
under his breath, "Hold all my calls."
     A police car flashed past, siren on, without slowing down.
     "That's incredible," said Annette.  "What are we up
against?"
     "I don't know.  This is even worse than breaking up the
phone company."  Nick had another thought.  "I'm glad I didn't
call from home."
     * * *
     Nick retrieved a stack of coins from his pocket.  When he
had deposited enough of them, the phone played video game winning
sounds.  Nick dialed a long number.
     "Thank you for using AT&T," said a voice.  "The charge will
be $10.00 for the first three minutes."
     "If you use Sprint," said another, "the charge will be only
$9.50."
     "If you use MCI, the charge will be only $9.40."
     "AT&T here.  Did I say $10.00?  I meant $9.35."
     "Sprint will do it for $9.00."
     One of the other voices softly said, "Slut."
     "MCI $8.90."
     Nick asked, "Do I hear $8.85?"
     "AT&T here.  $8.87.  That's our final offer."
     "Going once.  Twice.  Three times.  Now will you put me
through?"
     "Very well, sir," said the AT&T voice.  "For each additional
minute that will be $20."
     The phone began to ring at the other end.  When it was
answered, a voice said, "McCormick residence."
     Nick said, "I need to talk to Mr. McCormick.  This is a
major emergency."
     "I'm very sorry, sir.  It's past Mr. McCormick's bedtime."
     "Didn't you hear me?  I said this is an emergency."
     "I heard you, sir.  Maybe if you call back next Wednesday
he'll have more time."
     "I'm not making myself clear.  I'm--"
     Click.  The connection was broken.
     "Damn it.  I didn't even get my $8.87 worth."  Nick flipped
open the coin return.  There was nothing there.  He banged the
phone, and it made a rude noise.

     Chapter 20
     Nick and Annette and Ed drove along a dark street.  Ed was
still a slow conversationalist.
     "That's it.  We're doomed," said Nick.
     Annette turned in her seat.  "We can't just give up now.  We
got Ed back.  They can't just kill us."
     "No?  What happened to that phone booth?  Sorry, wrong
number?"
     "But we can't quit now.  Not while they could find us any
time.  And it won't help to retreat to your island.  They'd find
us there just as easily."
     "'Us?'"
     "'Us' if you and I are still alive."
     Nick glanced over at her and even in the darkness could see
her gaze on him.  He drove in silence for half a block, thinking
about how much he had missed her, then suddenly made a hard right
turn.  "Call me crazy, but I think it's time we paid a personal
visit to Mr. McCormick.  Just as soon as we make a stop or two. 
Is that an autoteller ahead?  We could use some money."
     It was indeed an autoteller.  A minute later Nick entered
the brightly lit chamber.  Annette and Ed waited in the car.
     Nick fed his card into the slot.  "I need five hundred
cash."
     The autoteller sounded like an old traveler's check
advertiser.  "Very well, sir.  Please enter your personal code
letters."
     Nick entered the letters on a small keyboard.
     "I'm sorry, but your account has a balance of only two
hundred and fifty dollars."
     Nick hesitated.  "Look, I'm going to toss a coin.  If you
call it correctly, I'll give you five hundred.  If you're wrong,
you give me the extra two fifty.  How about those odds?"
     "Well--all right."
     Nick flipped a coin and held it against the back of his
hand.  "All right.  Call it."
     "Heads," said the autoteller.
     Nick rolled his hand forward, so he showed the machine the
coin tails up on his palm, instead of heads up on the back of his
hand.  "Tails.  Sorry, you lose."
     "Crap!  Okay.  Here you are."  The drawer opened, and Nick
took out the $500.
     "Thanks.  But look, I can't take your money like this.  Just
to show I'm a good sport, I'm going to even things up.  I have
another account here, under my pen name.  I'm a writer.  You have
a record of that account?  For Jerry Pershing?"
     "Yes."
     "Fine.  Just transfer two fifty over to cover this."
     There was a short delay.  "Completed.  Thank you, sir!  That
leaves six hundred and forty-two thousand in your Pershing
account."
     Nick tried to conceal a sudden grin.  He glanced around,
then turned back to the autoteller camera lens.  "You know, I
just realized.  I've got a tax payment coming up.  Would you go
ahead and transfer over the whole account?"
     After another short delay, the autoteller said, "Certainly,
sir.  All finished.  Anything else?"
     "No, thanks.  Maybe tomorrow."
     * * *
     "You sure seem happy," Annette said when Nick got back into
the car.
     "Sometimes I just love my job," Nick said.  "Maybe it's the
danger."
     * * *
     In a department store, Nick and Annette walked down an
aisle.
     "What exactly are we looking for?" she asked.
     "I'll know when I see it.  Something to make it easier to
get in without attracting a lot of attention."
     "Something like this?"  Annette pointed to a large box on
the shelf.  It was labeled, "Acme All-Purpose Break-In Kit."
     "Yeah!  That's terrific.  And this is even better."  Nick
pointed next to it, at a similar package, but larger, labeled,
"Acme All-Purpose Break-In Kit.  Economy size.  Enough for two
people."
     The sales clerk who rang up the sale wore a name tag saying,
"N. KNOTT."  His mustache looked as if it had been scribbled
above his upper lip.

     Chapter 21
     Nick's car was parked beside a tall stone fence.  In the
weak light spilling from the interior of the car, Nick and
Annette finished pulling stuff out of the break-in kit and
loading it into small pockets in the multi-pocket hunters' vests
they now wore.
     A sign on the fence said, "No trespassing, no stopping, no
loitering, no kidding."
     Nick leaned into the car and said, "How about if you stay
here, Ed?  You've had enough for one day."
     Ed nodded, then rubbed the bruise on his head.  Nick
grimaced.
     Annette put the gun they had confiscated in the warehouse in
the back seat with Ed.  "You probably need this more than I do,"
she said.  Ed nodded and left the gun where it was.
     Nick pulled out an ugly gun designed for shooting a
grappling hook attached to a rope.
     Annette said, "This is crazy, you know."
     "You said that already."  Nick readied the gun.  "I always
wanted to do this."
     He aimed for the top of the fence and pulled the trigger. 
Instead of shooting the grappling hook up just a few yards, the
grapple shot up like a rocket, as if it were trying to reach the
top of Mount Everest.  Rope kept coming and coming out of the
supply reel.
     Annette said, "Maybe this is the high-rise kit."
     Nick pulled on the cord to draw it tight.  He drew and drew
and drew.
     * * *
     Inside the fence, Nick and Annette sneaked from tree to tree
in the moonlight.  Ahead an M.O.B. guard paced near a pool of
light spreading from a floodlamp mounted on the building wall.
     "What do we do now?" Annette asked.  "Do I try to seduce
him?"
     "Don't be silly."
     "What exactly do you mean by that?"  Annette looked frostily
at him.
     "Nothing.  Nothing.  I just mean it's not appropriate just
now.  Maybe later."  Nick winked at her and wiggled his eyebrows. 
"I've got the tranquilizer dart gun.  I'll shoot him.  Simple."
     "You got a small tranquilizer dart to shoot me with?"
     Nick took aim and shot the guard.
     The guard twitched, then apparently decided he had just
gotten bit by a mosquito.  A long second passed.  Finally in
mid-step the guard keeled over.
     Nick and Annette started forward.  Suddenly Nick stopped.
     "What's wrong?" Annette asked.
     Nick lifted the heel of his shoe to examine it.  "They must
have a dog."
     A half-minute later, they passed a large electronic bug
zapper.  Underneath it, on a pile of dead insects, lay several
dead squirrels and birds.
     Nick stopped suddenly.  "You see that?" he asked, pointing.
     In the distance, a security camera panned back and forth.
     "Yeah," she said  "Maybe the paint gun would work here?"
     "Sounds good.  How's your aim."
     "We'll see."
     Annette aimed her gun, held her breath, and gently squeezed
the trigger.  A blossom of black paint formed on the camera lens. 
Not even trying to contain her satisfaction, Annette blew across
the gun muzzle.
     In the monitoring room inside the house, two M.O.B. guards
were leaning back in chairs, paying more attention to their card
game than to the bank of video monitors.  A monitor showing an
expanse of grass and trees in the yard suddenly went dark.
     "Not another one," said one of the guards.
     In the vast bank of video monitors, about half of them no
longer worked.
     "Where's the trouble log?" asked the other guard.  "I'll
make a note of it."  A huge volume, the size of the braille
edition of the New York state phone book, crashed onto the desk
in front of him.
     Nick and Annette worked their way closer to the building.
     "So far so good," Annette said.  "Where do we go next?"
     "This may tell us."  Nick used a flashlight to illuminate a
map on the wall.  One label said, "You are here."  One of the
doors was labeled, "West entrance."  The keypad adjacent to the
door looked like a touch-tone phone pad.
     Nick looked at his notes, then typed in a number, and the
door lock clicked.  "Thank you, Ed," he said softly.
     They opened the door and moved slowly through, into the
building.  Annette touched Nick's arm and pointed.
     Down the hall was another monitoring camera panning slowly
toward their location.  Annette aimed her paint gun and shot at
it.
     Another monitor went dark.
     They walked stealthily down the hall.  At the next corner
they peered around and saw another guard approaching a coffee
vending machine.  "Coffee, black," the guard said.  He sounded
bored and half asleep.
     The machine dropped a cup into the front slot, and then
squirted the man with coffee.  The coffee did the trick; he was
awake instantly.  He kicked the machine.
     As if the machine was retaliating, it squirted him again.
     The guard's face turned mean.  He carefully moved to one
side of the machine and gave it a good hard kick.
     The machine changed its aim and squirted him again.
     The guard pulled out his gun.  "That's it!  That's the last
bugging time!"
     Nick reached around the corner and shot the guard with a
tranquilizer dart.  The guard keeled over.
     Nick and Annette moved around the corner.  They dragged the
guard over to a door and stuffed his body into a closet with an
automatic vacuuming machine that looked uncomfortably like Gizmo.
     They continued along the corridor, until stopping at an
elevator next to another you-are-here map.  Beside the map was a
sign that said, "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."
     Nick looked long and hard at the elevator button.  As he was
about to push it, Annette grabbed his hand.
     "Look."  She pointed to a sign saying, "Stairs."
     "Excellent idea."
     At the next level up, they peeked through the doorway crack
and saw no one.
     They moved along a carpeted corridor and came to a closed
door bearing the sign, "Computer."   They cautiously opened the
door, entered, and shut the door behind them.  Lights came on
automatically, and Nick moved forward.  A large console with
several computer screens and keyboards lay darkened.  Nick
flicked a switch, and the consoles came to life.  "Let's see how
good the rest of Ed's information is, shall we?"
     Nick sat down at the console and typed a few characters on
the keyboard.
     "Hello," said the computer.  "Would you be wanting to log
on?"
     "Yes," said Nick.
     "Very well, sir.  What is the password?"
     Nick took a deep breath.  "Submarine hamster."
     "Access permitted."
     Nick began to breath again, and put a diskette into a disk
drive.  "Okay.  Read that and execute."
     The disk drive activity indicator came on.
     To Annette, Nick said, "That should start Ed's, er,
program."
     "Completed," said the computer a moment later.  "Any other
requests?"
     Nick and Annette looked at each other blankly for a moment. 
Nick shrugged and turned back to the computer.  "Change
password."
     "Very well, sir.  Please confirm the old password."
     "Submarine hamster."
     "Very well, sir.  What is the new password?"
     Nick thought for a moment.  "McCormick sucks."
     "Please repeat for confirmation."
     "McCormick sucks."
     "Completed.  Any other request?"
     "No.  Log off."
     "Very well, sir.  Goodbye."
     Nick retrieved the diskette and went back to the door with
Annette.  Nick opened it just a crack and peered out.  They
exited stealthily.
     One floor up, they stopped and again pulled a stairwell door
open a crack.  This level opened onto a hallway much like the
last.  Lounging near a closed hallway door were three more
guards.  Nick let the door close lightly.
     "What now?" Annette whispered.
     Nick pulled a pellet out of a pocket.  "This is the only
thing we've haven't used so far, so it must be what we need."
     "What is it?"
     "A smoke bomb.  I've got a couple of them, but one should be
enough.  Once it goes off and confuses them, I should be able to
shoot them with tranquilizer darts."
     "Well, we can't stop now."
     They pulled the door open again, just a crack.  When the
guards were looking the other way, Nick quickly opened the door
farther and threw the pellet along the floor.
     The pellet came to rest right next to the trio of guards.
     One of the guards cocked his head, looked around near his
feet, and noticed the pellet.  "What the hell is--"
     The pellet exploded in a burst of smoke.
     Nick opened the door all the way and shot each guard.
     The smoke was dissipating already as Nick and Annette
arrived.  Nick pulled his real gun from behind his back,
reconsidered, then kept his tranquilizer gun ready as he slowly
opened the door to the room that had been under guard, a bedroom.
     The room was dark.  They crept into the room, stopping next
to the bed where Mr. McCormick and presumably Mrs. Mccormick lay
asleep.  Annette switched on a small lamp.  Nick kept the
tranquilizer gun ready, and he nudged Mr. McCormick's shoulder.
     Mike McCormick jolted awake.  "No, not OSHA!  Not that!"
     "Calm down, Mr. McCormick.  It's just a dream."
     "Thank God."  McCormick blinked.  "Who are you?  And why are
you in my bedroom, holding that gun?  Damn it, I hate it when
this happens!"
     Downstairs in the monitoring room, a guard said, "Oh, God. 
We have a hell of a problem here."
     The other guard joined him in looking at the monitor showing
Nick holding a gun on Mr. McCormick.  "Damn.  Do we ignore it or
tell him we've got a camera in there?"
     Nick said, "We're not here to harm you, Mr. McCormick.  We
just want some answers, and we want to be left alone."
     Mrs. McCormick stirred.  Half asleep, she said, "Not again,
Larry.  Wait 'til Christmas."
     McCormick said, "Go back to sleep, Cathy."  To Nick and
Annette he said, "What's this all about?"
     There was a knock at the door.
     "Get rid of them," Nick said.  "Or you'll have more trouble
on your hands."  Nick held his tranquilizer gun on McCormick as
McCormick went to the door and peeked through a privacy spy eye. 
He opened the door.
     The guard at the door said, "I'm sorry to wake you, Mr.
McCormick, but we have intruders.  Several of the staff have been
found unconscious."
     "All right, Ellis.  I'll stay right here."  McCormick closed
the door.  "Now.  Who the hell are you people?"
     "My name is Nick Naught.  This is Annette Taylor.  Your
goons kidnaped her brother.  We've got him back, and we want you
to lay off.  Otherwise, a lawyer who's got the whole story will
make it public."
     "You're not Nick Knott."
     "Why do you say that?"
     "He's much older."
     "So you're not after me?  You're after someone else?  Well
that should simply things a little."
     As Nick finished speaking, the door burst open and four
heavily armed guards piled into the room.  Nick looked at his
tranquilizer gun and sighed.  He put the weapon on the table.
     As the guards led Nick and Annette out at gunpoint, Mrs.
McCormick stirred in bed.  Sleepily she said, "Not again, Larry."
     "Great work," said McCormick.  "But how did you know they
were in here?"
     One of the guards said, "Can we talk about that a little
later, sir?"

     Chapter 22
     In the computer room once again, Annette and Nick stood,
covered by guns held by M.O.B. guards.  The door to the room
opened.  McCormick looked away from Nick as Paula Rosenberg and
Dennis Cotton entered.  Both looked sleepy.  Rosenberg had her
coat on inside out.
     McCormick said, "What the hell's going on here, Rosenberg? 
This guy says he's Nick Knott."
     "He can't be," Rosenberg said.  "He's not old enough.  You
saw the picture, too."
     "Sure, he is," Dennis said.  "That's the guy on my form
two-twelve."  He took a folder from his pocket and withdrew his
paperwork with Nick Naught's photo.
     Rosenberg grabbed the photo and examined it.  She turned to
Dennis.  "That's not the right Knott.  This thing says Nick
Naught.  You idiot!"
     "I'm an idiot?  What are you talking about?" Dennis asked. 
"I can't help it if there was a screw-up.  That's the guy I was
told to get."
     Jerry and Skid entered and joined the crowd.  Jerry glared
at Nick.
     "What are you two doing here?" Rosenberg demanded.
     Jerry said, "We found Ed Taylor sleeping in a car outside. 
We gave him another sedative and left him --"  He did a
double-take at Annette.  "You got her already!  Why didn't you
tell us?"
     "Got who?" Rosenberg asked.
     "Annette Taylor.  The guy's sister."
     McCormick threw up his hands.  "Wait a minute.  Wait a
minute!  Things are getting way too confused.  Let's start at the
beginning."  To Rosenberg, he said, "Where's your file photo on
Nick Knott?"
     "I don't have it with me.  But the computer should have
one."
     "We'll see.  At the rate things are going tonight, it'll be
screwed up, too."  McCormick turned to the computer terminal. 
"Log on."
     "What is the password?" asked the computer.
     "Submarine hamster," McCormick said confidently.
     "What?"
     "Submarine hamster," said McCormick more loudly.
     "What?"
     "Submarine hamster!"  McCormick's cheeks turned pink.
     "Warning!  Warning!  Unauthorized intruder alert.  Password
authorization failure."  The computer paused.  "One last chance. 
What is the password?"
     Ultra calmly, between deep breaths, McCormick said,
"Submarine hamster."
     "Final warning!  Final warning!  Unauthorized intruder
alert.  Password authorization failure.  Hostile takeover alert." 
A siren warble started up.  "Destruction countdown commencing. 
One hundred.  Ninety-nine--"
     Pandemonium began.
     "This can't be happening!" McCormick said.
     The guards began to edge toward the door.  "Stay right
here," Rosenberg demanded.
     The M.O.B. computer continued counting down.
     McCormick pointed to a large panel.  "The computer itself is
through there!  It's got its own power, and it's supposed to
protect against a hostile takeover.  We've got to switch it off
before it blows up the bugging building!"
     A guard rushed toward the panel and tried the handle.  No
luck.  Another guard started to ram his shoulder against the
panel.  He was ineffective.
     Jerry and Skid looked extremely nervous.  They focused their
attention on McCormick.  A third guard rushed toward the panel to
help, leaving only one guard to watch Nick and Annette.  The
remaining guard was so engrossed in watching the commotion near
the panel and looking nervously at his watch that Nick was able
to take a short step while the guy was looking the other way.
     Nick bashed the back of his fist into the guard's face.  The
guard slumped in Nick's arms, and Nick let him settle on the
floor.
     Nick grabbed the guard's gun.  Together he and Annette
slipped out the door they had come in through.
     As Nick gently closed the door to the computer room behind
them, he said, "You don't mind leaving the party early, do you?"
     Annette said, "As long as you don't tell my parents."
     They ran down the carpeted corridor and into the stairwell.
     McCormick and his employees continued their attempts to
break down the panel to get at the computer.  The three guards
ran in a group toward the panel, their shoulders together.  They
bounced off.
     "Seventy-four.  Seventy-three--"
     Nick and Annette reached the first floor.
     McCormick pleaded.  "I'm a reasonable man.  Now you be
reasonable.  I gave you the correct password."
     "Sixty-eight.  Sixty-seven--"
     Nick and Annette ran along another corridor.  They whipped
around a corner and slammed into a guard who had been bringing Ed
inside.  The M.O.B. guard's head hit the wall, and he was out. 
Nick grabbed Ed, who was groggy again, and they continued their
escape, a little more slowly.
     McCormick's employees took another run at the panel.  It
seemed to give a little, but it held.
     "Forty-two.  Forty-two.  Forty-two," said the computer. 
"Just kidding.  Thirty-eight.  Thirty-seven--"
     Nick and Annette and Ed ran out the door and started across
the street.
     "Twenty-six.  Twenty-five--"
     Rosenberg said, "Boss, we'd better get out of here!"
     "No!  Keep at it!"  To the computer, McCormick said, "Now
listen to me very carefully.  This is a mistake.  I gave the
correct password.  Submarine hamster.  Stop this right now!"
     "Twenty-two.  Twenty-one--"
     "You stupid son of a bitch!"  McCormick slammed his hand
against the computer monitor.
     Suddenly the computer countdown changed.  The computer had
been counting one number per second, like a shuttle launch.  Now
its voice was a blur as it counted down much more rapidly. 
"Fifteen twelve ten eight six four two one."
     In the half second of agonizing silence following the
completion of the countdown, Rosenberg gave McCormick a rude
gesture and mouthed a very unflattering word.
     The room they were in exploded.
     Safely outside, Nick, Annette, and Ed watched as McCormick's
house turned into a mass of light.  Every room in the huge house
was destroyed in a rippling series of explosions.  The three
survivors stumbled as the blasts shook the ground under their
feet, but they were far enough away to survive.  They got to
their feet and looked back at the destruction.  Nick and Annette
put an arm around each other's waist.
     A fire truck and an ambulance approached, sirens wailing,
lights flashing.  They sped past without stopping, already on
their way to some other emergency.
     Nick took a deep breath.  "I think I could use a drink."

     Chapter 23
     The drink in Nick's hand sloshed gently from side to side,
and the ice tinkled against the glass.  The dull roar of a plane
in flight muffled conversations elsewhere in the passenger cabin. 
Next to Nick, Annette sat in the window seat.
     A flight attendant handed Annette a drink and continued
walking down the aisle, checking on passengers.
     Out the window Nick could see the wing.  A gaping hole
showed where the main jet on that side used to be.
     Annette took a sip of her drink, then sighed.  "I think I'm
really going to enjoy relaxing for a while."
     "Me, too.  Think of it as a gift from Jerry Pershing."
     Annette looked puzzled, but before she could ask Nick to
explain, the plane lurched and the pilot's voice came over the
P.A.  "Don't panic, ladies and gentlemen.  We've developed a spot
of engine trouble.  I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'm afraid we're
going to have to ditch."
     In the sudden silence, Nick shook his head.  "I hate it when
this happens."
     As the passengers panicked, the overhead compartments opened
automatically, and oxygen masks dropped.  The masks all looked
like funny animal snouts, and the passengers didn't look at all
dignified as they put their masks on.
     Suddenly the vibration stopped, and the plane resumed normal
flight.
     The pilot's voice said, "Just kidding."
     * * *
     As the passengers deplaned, the stewardess was saying
good-bye to everyone.  Young native women gave leis to the
arriving passengers.
     Annette passed the cockpit and made the turn to exit the
plane.
     As Nick followed her past the cockpit, he pulled from his
shirt pocket one of the unused smoke bomb pellets.  He casually
flipped it, Bogart style, into the cockpit and pulled the door
closed.  The door latched.
     Nick exited the plane smiling, as the pellet exploded and
smoke started to ooze through the seam next to the door.  The
view through the cockpit window was solid black.
     Nick said, "Just kidding."
     Nick and Annette walked down the ramp, arm in arm.

     Chapter 24
     Annette reclined in a beach chair, wearing a lei.
     Far away in the water, a police boat cut through the waves,
running its siren.  A cop's megaphoned voice was too far away to
hear clearly.  The gray beach extended in all directions from
Annette's chair.  If any remaining spots between occupied beach
towels and chairs were larger than a square meter, they certainly
weren't visible from where Annette sat.  The beach looked
endlessly crowded.
     Next to Annette's chair, Nick bent over and balanced on one
foot while he inspected his heel for evidence of dog.
     As he did, Annette pinched him on the rear.  She smiled with
satisfaction at his startled expression.

     Epilogue
     Late at night in a deserted Los Angeles office, a telephone
rang once.  It rang again.  And again.  Finally the caller's
attention span elapsed, and the phone stopped ringing.
     The call would have been answered, but the phone answerer
sat in the wastebasket, in even more tiny pieces than it had
begun life with.

     THE END of "Naught for Hire" by John E. Stith
 
*************************************************************

"Naught Again" by John E. Stith (Copyright 1992)
From November 1992 ANALOG

     Nick Naught drove north on Central Boulevard, cruising
smoothly through the night air like a glider sailing through the
clouds.  The evening was quiet; Nick hadn't heard a siren for
more than five minutes.  He passed a sign saying, "Can't read? 
Literacy for All can help."
     Ahead the light turned yellow, then red.  Beside him a dark
red Flashfire slowed to a stop.  The car was the same model as
his, and Nick wondered if the driver had the same problems Nick
did.
     The silky sexy voice of his car computer spoke.  "Wanna
drag?"
     "Get out of here."  Nick shook his head.
     In response, the engine revved.  Nick's foot was an inch off
the accelerator.
     "Cut that out!"
     "Oh, come on, Nick.  What's the harm?"
     God, Nick thought.  Why couldn't I have just gotten one of
the models with bad grammar?  "Stop that, will you?"  The car had
been payment for a case, and with his current workload he
couldn't afford to trade it in or get the AI replaced.
     The engine revved again.  Worse, the deep-throated throbbing
from the car next to him suddenly revved into soprano.
     "Dammit!" Nick said.  "That guy's looking at me.  Stop it."
     Nick's engine revved again.  "Oh, Nicky.  Don't be such a
spoil sport."
     The Flashfire beside him revved in response, and Nick could
see the other driver pounding on the dash.  Why me, Lord?  The
other guy's car must have some of the same quirks.
     "I absolutely refuse," Nick said.  He would have put his
foot down, but that was exactly what the car wanted.
     Nick's engine revved again, and the engine in the red
Flashfire revved in reply.
     "I'm not kidding," Nick said.  "I'll go out and buy a
manual--"
     The light changed.  Tires screamed.  The red Flashfire
surged forward, and Nick's engine sucked all the gas it could
through that tiny little fuel line.  He was off.  The pair of
automobiles zoomed into the intersection.
     "Watch it!" Nick cried as he almost clipped a yellow-jabbing
Jeep that sped through after the light had turned.  "Dammit,
stop!"  Nick jammed his foot on the brake, but the car computer
had obviously played some trick with the antiskid system to tell
the brakes they weren't needed right at the moment.
     "Come on," Nick said as they flashed past a string of parked
cars and the other Flashfire started to pull ahead.  "My PI
license is already in trouble.  I can't afford to lose my
driver's license.  Do you know how long I had to wait in line for
that sucker?"
     The car was silent, no doubt devoting all its energy to the
race.  The other Flashfire shifted, lost a few meters in the
process, and Nick's car topped sixty.  Nick began concentrating
on the steering wheel.
     The other Flashfire hit its stride and began to pull ahead
slowly now, the driver still pounding on the dash.
     A slow-moving street-cleaner ahead finally decided it was
dark enough to turn on its lights.  Twin red running lights
flared in the Flashfire's path.  The car didn't slow down.
     The driver hunched up his shoulder, and a moment later
sparks flew near the steering wheel.  The guy had fired a shot
into the dash.
     As the red Flashfire swerved around the street cleaner,
another car began to back onto the road ahead.  The Flashfire
swerved again.  
     The Flashfire driver nearly made it, but at the last instant
clipped the car backing onto the boulevard.  The red automobile
started a spin straight down the center of the road.  The
Flashfire skidded through almost 360 degrees.  While the car was
moving sideways, still turning so that in another three seconds
it would be pointed straight down the road again, it hit a big
pothole.
     In apparent slow motion, the red Flashfire flipped.  It was
probably still moving at near a hundred, and it tumbled at least
a half-dozen times as it gradually slowed down.  Nick's car
finally relinquished control and reacted to Nick's foot holding
the brake pedal to the floor.  "I hope you're happy now," Nick
said as the car began to slow down.
     Nick pulled to a stop fifty feet from the red Flashfire,
which had come to rest on its crinkled roof.  He was nervous
about the possibility of an explosion, but he ran to the car and
managed to force open a door.  Inside the wreck, the car voice
was saying over and over, "I told you, you should have put your
seat belt on."
     The driver's body had been thrown into the back seat, but
apparently not before it had been smashed against the steering
column.  Blood oozed from a huge bloody hole in the driver's
chest.  Nick felt sick.  From force of habit rather than hope, he
reached for the guy's wrist, trying to avoid getting blood on
himself.  No pulse.  Nick finally realized nothing was going to
revive this guy.
     The man's silencer-equipped gun lay on the bloody roof of
the car.  Nick pulled the body from the car and carried it far
enough away that he should be safe if the car exploded.  By this
time porch lights had come on in front of several of the nearby
houses.
     The driver wore a mummy shirt, a long strip of narrow cloth
wound around his torso until the top end was tucked in at his
neck.  Over the shirt he wore a light jacket that no longer
adequately concealed the shoulder holster.  Nick set the body on
the sidewalk and propped it up long enough to dig out the man's
wallet.  A loud explosion suddenly sounded from the upturned
wreck, but it was only the air-bag finally letting go.
     Nick went back to his search, having no real reason except
his latent PI tendencies and unmanageable curiosity, this time
activated by the silencer on the guy's gun.  The man's ID said he
was Evan Jiffon, birth date 20 July 1982, and gave an address on
Harper Lane.  He had more teeth in his picture than he did now. 
Nick automatically checked the "secret compartment," still
curious about why, if all men bought wallets with "secret
compartments," how anyone would think it was safe.  From the
compartment, Nick pulled a dark piece of paper.
     He unfolded the paper and read the words, but they made no
sense to him.  A suicide note?  He read farther.  Something was
definitely wrong.  This guy hadn't died of the drug overdose
referenced in the note.  And Nick had real trouble picturing this
guy with a name like Sylvia.
     Nick kept the note, returned the wallet, and let the body
flop onto its back.  He closed the jacket over the worst of the
chest wound, and noticed something stuck between mummy-shirt
layers.  Nick pulled out a parking receipt from a local garage.
     "Is he all right?" asked someone over Nick's shoulder.  The
first neighbor had arrived, a bearded guy wearing a t-shirt over
his beer gut.  Not too far behind him, the driver of the car that
had been clipped was finally on his way.
     "Shouldn't you be calling nine-one-one?" Nick asked.  He put
the parking receipt back where he had found it.
     "Already got a claim number.  The recording said it would be
about two hours."
     "Great," Nick said as he palmed the note.  "At least this
guy isn't going to be impatient."
     "You mean he's--"
     "He's firing fewer neurons than a member of congress.  He's
dead."
     "God.  He looks so lifelike."
     Nick looked up at the man.  He stood up and got blood
flowing through his legs again.  Nick looked down at the driver,
then back at the neighbor and said, "As a matter of fact, so do
you."
     As the man scratched his head, Nick took a card from his
wallet and handed it to the man.  "If the nine-one-one recording
says two hours, it'll be more like four.  Have the police call
me.  All I can tell them is that the guy was speeding and took a
bad turn."
     Back in Nick's car, he slid the key into the ignition, and
the car voice said, "Ohhh, Nicky.  Do that again."
     * * *
     Nick pulled to a stop on Harper Lane, about four houses down
from the address on Evan Jiffon's driver's license.  The narrow
road wound up into trees so thick that from where he sat he could
see five mailboxes, but only one house.  Down the street, a car
anti-theft alarm began to whoop-whoop-whoop with no indication
that anyone was even near the car.  Nick wondered if he should
get stickers for his car that said, "No alarm on board," and
start leaving the key in the ignition.  In fact, maybe he should
leave some money on the dash.
     The alarm from the parked car kept going, and the loud noise
apparently triggered the alarm in the car next to it.  The pair
of cars wailed back and forth like animals in heat.  Nick pulled
back onto the street and drove until he was about five houses
past his destination.  He parked.  He was about to open his door
when he suddenly stopped and said, "Don't listen to the radio
while I'm gone, all right?  I don't want to attract attention."
     The car voice was silent for a moment.  "If I don't, can we
listen to what I want to next time?"
     Nick pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead. 
"Yes."
     "What was that?"
     Nick clenched his teeth.  "Yes."  He got so damn tired of
those old Jan and Dean and Beach Boys hot rod songs.
     The night was quiet except for a few very distant sirens.  A
gentle breeze came from the north, carrying the smell of rain and
just a hint of cordite.  Nick walked casually down the road,
turned in at Jiffon's mailbox, and walked halfway up the sidewalk
before scooting off into the darkness, heading toward the side of
the house.
     Houses in this neighborhood might have silent alarms hooked
to the police department, but if the nine-one-one recording said
two hours to respond to a traffic death, Nick could probably move
in and never see a cop for the first three months.
     Between Jiffon's house and his neighbor's were enough trees
and bushes to make Nick feel fairly comfortable.  He reached a
ground-floor window and found it locked.  He backed away from the
house, looking up, and backed into a tree limb.  On the second
floor, just above the narrow ledge of a roof, a window was open a
couple of inches.
     Nick pulled himself up to the top of the wooden fence
surrounding the back yard, and from there scrambled to the narrow
section of roof.  He crept forward, leaning against the side of
the house, listening for noise coming from inside.  He heard
nothing.
     He pulled the window slowly open.  Fortunately it had no
screen.  Still hearing nothing from inside, Nick stepped through
the opening and onto a hardwood floor.  Even in the dim light,
Nick could see the room was empty.  He stayed where he was,
letting his ears adjust to the inside noises.  He still heard
nothing that made him think the house was occupied.
     He crept around the perimeter of the room, wanting to avoid
any creaking floorboards, and at the door, he listened again. 
Nothing.
     On this floor was a bathroom right across the hall, and two
more bedrooms.  Stairs led down to the main floor.  Nick moved to
the closest bedroom and found a sparsely furnished room
containing only a bed and a chair.  The other bedroom was as
empty as the one he had come in through.
     The stairs presented a problem.  If he crept down the
stairs, there was nothing to prevent someone from getting a nice
long look at his feet and blowing him away when he came even
lower.  Nick lay on his stomach and lowered his head to the top
step.  From there he could see a little of the kitchen floor and
an empty hallway.  He was especially happy that he didn't see any
dog dishes.  Being a private eye meant having an appreciation for
the small things in life.
     He inched down a step, like an awkward snake.  He saw more
kitchen floor, still unoccupied.  He moved another step, suddenly
afraid he would accidentally slide the rest of the way down,
hitting his head on each step and then slamming his head against
the wall.  He tried to back up the stairs.
     No leverage.  He had already come down too far.  He twisted
and grabbed one of the bannister supports.  It creaked.
     Nick froze.  His ears cranked up to maximum sensitivity, and
the hairs on the back of his neck extended until they seemed to
be perfectly straight.
     He really had to get a grip on his curiosity.  Instead of
sneaking around here, he could have been happily cruising
Muholland, listening to the melodic strains of "Drag City."
     Still no sounds came from the downstairs.  Nick pulled
himself around into sitting position and crept down the stairs
that way.
     The kitchen really was deserted.  Nick moved carefully down
the hall and found a dark and deserted living room and an
unoccupied bathroom.  Adjacent to the bathroom was an empty
bedroom and an empty den.  The house was unoccupied, unless
someone was hiding in a closet, and Nick wasn't going to spend
his time looking.
     The den was sparsely furnished, too.  A desk, a chair, and a
wastebasket were the only blemishes on the hardwood floor.  On
top of the desk were a few bills and a letter opener.  Inside the
top desk drawer was the front section of a recent newspaper.
     Nick opened the newspaper and set it on the desk top.  The
headline said, "Bridge Collapses--Design Error Blamed."  In the
lower right corner was the story of Ted Harley's death.  Harley
had been a rich developer whose last physical said he was in good
health, but the heart attack made the diagnosis seem
questionable.  Nick scanned the other stories and was about to
put the newspaper back when he spotted a name in the Harley
story.  Ted Harley's daughter's name was Sylvia.  According to
the story, at least when it had come out a week ago, Sylvia was
alive.
     "Pssst!"  The sound came from behind him.
     Nick jumped a foot.  As soon as he hit the ground, he looked
around wildly.  He saw no one.
     "Pssst!"  The sound came again.
     Nick finally realized it was the telephone.  Damn.
     "Pssst!"
     Nick's curiosity went into overdrive, and he picked up the
receiver.  "Yeah."
     "You done already?" asked a smooth voice.
     Nick hesitated.  "Yeah."
     "Why didn't you call?"
     "I was going to."
     This time the caller hesitated.  "If this is really you,
call me back."  Click.
     Damn.  For all Nick knew, the voice on the phone could
belong to the next door neighbor.  He had to get out of there.
     Nick left by the front door.  He grimaced as he realized it
had been unlocked.
     * * *
     A phone booth in a mini-mall a mile away held a phone book
with half its pages missing, but the book still contained the one
page Nick needed.
     Nick drove south on Lincoln, the cool night air blowing in
through the open window.  He clenched his teeth as for the third
time in a row the radio began to play "Little Deuce Coupe."
     Nick pulled up to the curb a couple of houses down from the
address the phone book had shown for Sylvia Harley.  He got out
of the car and approached the house, a house much more expensive
than Jiffon's place.  This one sported a high, peaked ceiling,
with an expanse of windows in the triangle formed by the eaves. 
The front door was a double door, the kind that made him unsure
which side to knock on.
     Nick found the bell and heard it chime faintly somewhere
inside.
     He heard the click click click of heels inside before the
door opened and revealed an attractive blonde about two inches
taller than Nick.  Her eyes were dark, her lipstick bright, and
she was dressed in a business suit.  Just to the left of her
mouth was a small mole, not quite covered with makeup.
     "I'm glad you're here," she said.  "I was afraid I'd gotten
the night wrong.  Can we take your car?  Normally I'd offer, but
mine's in the shop again."
     Nick hesitated.  "Sure."  He knew so little about what was
going on, the woman was about his only hope.  Perhaps she'd let a
few clues drop before she realized Nick wasn't the person she'd
been expecting.
     He backed up as the woman came through the door and locked
it behind her.  The moving door pushed some of her perfume toward
him.  He couldn't remember the name, but it was the same
fragrance his date for the senior prom had worn.  He was sure of
it.
     "I'm down this way, er, my car is.  I must have read the
street numbers wrong."
     As they reached the car, it was playing "Sting Ray."
     Nick held the door open for the woman he assumed was Sylvia
Harley.
     As he got around to his door, opened it, and got in, the
feminine car voice said, "Bimbo alert at three o'clock."
     The woman opened her lips and started to say something when
Nick interrupted.  "Just ignore the car, okay?  It was in the
shop a couple of months ago, and the AI system has been even
flakier than normal ever since."
     "I understand.  So, which one do you want to see first?"
     Nick hesitated.  "You decide."
     "Let's go up to Evans then."
     Nick nodded.  To the car he said, "Can you play something
else?"
     The car started "Drag City."
     Nick looked at the woman.  "It's a long story."
     "It's all right.  I like it."
     Nick bit his tongue as the radio volume shot up.
     * * *
     The car cut through the night as Nick wondered what to say
next.  Now that she couldn't easily retreat to her house if he'd
made an identity mistake, he said, "Which way now, Sylvia?"
     "Left, then take a right two blocks up."
     Good.  She must in fact be Sylvia Harley.
     Nick pulled up in front of a house that was probably eighty
years old.  It was dark but for the single yellow porch lamp.
     At the door, Sylvia unlocked a lock-box and withdrew a key
that opened the front door.  Inside she flipped on the foyer
light, and Nick followed her in.
     "Living room," she said.  "The floors have just been
resurfaced.  I love hardwood floors."
     By now Nick had a pretty good idea that this house wasn't
going to offer any clues, and it would be only minutes before
Sylvia figured out he wasn't who he was pretending to be, whoever
that was.
     "All new appliances in the kitchen two years ago," she said.
     "Sylvia, can we stop for just a second?"
     "Yes?"
     "Look, I've got to ask you a question.  This is maybe going
to scare you a little, but I'm no threat to you.  Honestly."
     Sylvia squinted at him and retreated a couple of steps. 
"You're not really interested in buying, are you?"
     "I'm not the guy who scheduled this appointment.  And I
think there's something you should know."
     Sylvia started edging toward to the front door.  "Who the
hell are you?"
     "I'm Nick Naught.  I'm a private eye."
     Sylvia looked at him for a long moment.  "You don't mind if
we talk on the sidewalk out front, do you?"
     "That would be fine," Nick said, understanding her fears
completely.
     A street lamp half a block away assisted the moonlight, and
Sylvia seemed to relax.
     "I'm going to take a note from my pocket," Nick said.  "I
didn't write this, but I'd like to know a little more about the
note.  What it says may upset you, but I didn't write it."
     "I got it.  You didn't write it."
     "Exactly."
     Nick retrieved the suicide note, unfolded it, and handed it
to her.
     "I can't read it in this light.  What does it say?"  She
gave the note back to him.
     "It, ah, says, 'I can't take it anymore.'  It goes on to say
the writer would rather be dead than to go on living with the
humiliation.  And not to bother with revival attempts, because
the dose is ten times higher than a fatal dose.  It's signed,
'Sylvia.'"
     Sylvia sucked in her breath.  She grabbed the note, moved to
the car, and opened the door.  "Stay away from me.  I'll scream."
     Nick backed up a couple of paces.  "I didn't write that--"
     Sylvia read the note in the glow of the dome light.  "Well,
I sure as hell didn't, either.  But it looks like my handwriting. 
What's going on?"
     "I'll tell you all I know.  I found that note on a dead man
earlier tonight.  I searched his house and I found a newspaper
article about your dad's death.  It mentioned your name, so I put
two and two together."
     "This isn't making any sense."  Sylvia's voice was pinched,
nervous.
     "I know.  I thought maybe you could help me understand
what's going on.  It seems maybe you're in trouble."
     "I don't intend to kill myself."
     "I know that.  Relax a minute and think things through. 
Someone else may want you dead.  That note would be what the
killer left behind."
     "No one would want me dead.  That's idiotic."
     "Who did you have an appointment with tonight?"
     "A guy named Max Jericho."
     "Ever see him?"
     "No.  He called me up a couple of days ago."
     "That could be the guy who wrote that note."
     "A guy who's dead now?  How did that happen?"
     Nick spread his hands.  "It's kind of a long boring story."
     "But you came across his body and you found this note on
him?"
     "Right.  He didn't look like a Sylvia, so I got curious."
     "And if that guy hadn't died tonight, I might be dead right
now?"
     "It's a possibility."
     Sylvia sagged against the car.  "God."
     "So, no one you know of has a reason to want you dead?"
     "No!  For that matter, did you kill this guy?"
     "No.  He, uh, died in a traffic accident."
     "God, first my father dies, and now someone wants me dead?"
     "I know.  Really a rotten month.  Do you know an Evan
Jiffon?"
     "No.  That's the name of the guy who died?"
     "Yeah."
     "Never heard of him."
     "Anything unusual about this last month or two?"
     "You mean other than having my father die and finding out he
paid for one of those meat lockers?"
     "Meat locker?  You mean a cryo-crypt?"
     "Yeah.  Evergreen Deep Freeze."
     "Evergreen?  I thought if you froze hamburger, having it
turn green was a bad sign."
     "I don't think that's exactly the image they had in mind." 
She hesitated.  "I went up to see him.  He had even paid for a
contract for me."
     "So when you die, you wind up in the freezer, too?"
     "You'd make a charming undertaker."
     "Sorry.  I'm preoccupied.  None of this is making much sense
to me."
     Sylvia shivered.  "Take me home, will you?"
     "You trust me?"
     "409" blared from the car as Sylvia looked at it and said,
"No killer would have a car like this."
     Nick wasn't too sure about that.
     * * *
     Nick slowed to a stop in front of Sylvia's home.  "I really
do think you'd be better off with some kind of protection."
     Sylvia shook her head again.  "I know you mean well, but I
can't just bring a detective along on whenever I show a house. 
I'll be more careful about making sure someone else always knows
when I'm going out, and I'll make sure anyone I show a house to
knows that a friend is keeping track."
     "At least let someone guard your house.  If not me, pick
someone from the book, or I can recommend a couple of people."
     "The house is secure.  I've got very good locks, and an
expensive alarm system."  Sylvia hesitated.  "You wouldn't go
through such an elaborate con job just to get business, would
you?"
     "It's no con job," Nick said.  He looked straight at her.
     Sylvia opened the car door.  "All right.  I believe you. 
Look, I'll be careful, and if anything funny happens, I'll call
you."
     "Okay."  Nick didn't like it, but he couldn't really force
protection on her.
     "Good night," she said.
     "Good night," said Nick.
     "Close the door, will you?" said the car.
     Nick watched Sylvia enter her house safely, then drove away
slowly.  The car said, "I could have won that race if I had good
tires.  How about some new HR-15s, Nicky?"
     * * *
     Two days later, Nick scanned the morning paper.
     "Uh oh."  He leaned closer to the paper and felt sick. 
"Damn it!"
     Sylvia Harley was dead.  The paper said her body had been
discovered by the maid.  Apparently Sylvia had slipped in the
bath and hit her head hard enough to knock her unconscious, and
she had drowned.  Sure, and General Motors management donated to
the union strike fund.
     So despite Sylvia taking more precautions, they had gotten
to her.  The frustration built up in Nick until he couldn't
ignore it.  He had to do something.
     He'd visit Evergreen.  He might not learn anything, but he
had to make the attempt.
     Nick rinsed his coffee cup, and water swirled down the drain
as he briefly considered taking a cab.
     * * *
     As Nick drove past Fundamentally High School, a lone
protester paced before the main doors.  The old woman's placard
read, "Put science back in education."  Last week a letter on the
editorial page had suggested that things wouldn't be so bad if
the schools weren't turning out so many uneducated idiots. 
Today, probably in sympathy with the letter, someone had posted a
large sign saying, "School Zone--75 MPH."
     Nick pulled up in front of Evergreen Deep Freeze.  The
building looked more like a big old mansion than a public meat
locker.  The tasteful and subdued letters EDF were all Nick saw
at first that told him he was in the right place.  And not a
block away was the parking garage the dead man had a receipt
from.
     At the end of a long trek up a carefully edged sidewalk
slicing through a putting-green lawn, Nick saw the script
lettering next to the door saying EDF did indeed stand for what
he thought it stood for.
     He opened the door and walked in.  The carpet felt as thick
as the grass had looked.  The music was soft and apparently meant
to be soothing, a musak version of "In my Room" by the Beach
Boys.
     A tall man with hollow cheeks appeared through a curtain
formed of tapestry strips.  "May I help you, sir?"  In another
century, he could well have been a butler.  His nose hairs made
his mustache fuller.  His voice reminded Nick of the voice on
Jiffon's phone.
     "Yes.  I came to see Sylvia Harley."
     "I'm sorry, sir.  Only immediate family members are
allowed."
     "Well, I'm almost immediate family.  We were engaged."
     "I'm sorry, sir--"
     "And I was thinking of paying for storage for myself in the
event that something should happen to me."
     "Well, sir, seeing as how you were so close to Ms. Sylvia. 
I'm Alvin Hodges."
     Alvin led Nick through a doorway at the back of the house
and along a corridor angling toward the rear of the lot, where a
more modern building lay.  Framed pictures lined the corridor
wall, presumably all of them "befores."  Nick recognized at least
four people he'd seen on the society pages.  At one of the
picture, he paused.  "So Bentley Parsons is a client, too?"
     "Yes, sir.  His body was fairly badly crushed by a
hit-and-run driver, but his brain is in tip-top shape.  As soon
as medical science is ready for brain transplants, Mr. Parsons
will be ready to come in out of the cold."  Alvin chuckled at
what he must have thought was a joke.
     "But Sylvia won't have to wait that long, will she?"
     "I'm afraid she will, sir.  You no doubt know that she
drowned.  As it turns out, she was found before her brain
suffered irreversible damage.  Unfortunately, when the rescue
team attempted open heart massage, they did enough damage to her
heart and lungs that, even if she were alive, she'd need
transplants.  Besides that, all we at Evergreen preserve is the
head along with the brain stem and the upper section of the
spinal cord.  None of these people will be revived until medical
science can replace most of the rest of the body, and until we
know much more about the aging process.  I hope that with the
progress they're making today, they'll be revived and up and
around in perhaps twenty years."
     "That's seems like a long time."
     Alvin nodded.
     They walked in silence a few paces and Nick said, "So, how
long have you folks been in business?  I sure wish you'd been
around when my brother--"
     "About a year, sir.  When your brother--"
     "I'd rather not talk about it."
     "Certainly, sir.  Ah, here we are."
     Alvin led Nick through another door, this one considerably
more sturdy than the first door.  The room beyond was a little
like a laundromat, but much colder and with no coin slots.  Rows
of cabinets lined the floor, and Nick could see his breath in the
air.
     Nick stopped in front of the first cabinet and peered
through the slanting oval window at the top.  "I can't see
anything."
     "That's where we keep the Popsicles, sir."
     "That's what you call them?"
     "No."  The man snapped the latch and opened the front of the
cabinet.  He withdrew a fudgesicle and offered it to Nick.
     "Oh, I see.  All right.  Thanks."
     Nick tore open the wrapper and started nibbling on the
fudgesicle as they walked down the aisle.  Dead faces stared
through the frosty windows.
     "Miss Sylvia is right here," said Alvin.  He rested his
fingers on top of a cabinet, and Nick moved closer.  As Nick
neared the glass, Alvin started to remove his hand from the
frosty sheen on the cold cabinet top.  He couldn't; his fingers
were stuck.
     Nick saw the man's dilemma and winced.  "Here, let me help." 
He gave Alvin's hand a sharp pull, and the fingers came loose
from the cabinet with a pitiful ripping noise.  Two patches of
skin stayed on the ice.
     "Ah, sorry about that," Nick said.
     Nick moved back to Sylvia's cabinet and noticed her name on
a tag just under the oval window.  The window was slightly
frosty.  Nick wiped away some frost and condensation and peered
through the window.  He sucked in a deep breath as he saw
Sylvia's face, small mole and all, her eyes closed, her skin
tinged lightly blue.
     Nick stood up.  "Why does she look so far away from the
window?  The cabinet doesn't even look that deep."
     "For safety, the head is placed well away from the
observation port.  Ms. Harley's head is actually about halfway
between the floor and the window, facing the rear of the cabinet. 
A mirror at the rear lets us see her face.  We have numerous
sensors installed in each cabinet, but the observation port lets
the family see their loved one, and lets us make occasional
visual checks."
     "Could I see her father, too?  We were friends."
     "Surely, sir."
     As Alvin escorted Nick along the aisle, Nick glanced at more
of the faces and memorized several of the other names.  "What
happens in the case of someone with a severe head wound?"
     "Typically such victims are not candidates for Evergreen. 
But the lucky ones, the ones whose brains are intact, will no
doubt be forever grateful to Evergreen.  When they finally awake,
they may well be immortal."
     Nick didn't comment on the choice of the word "lucky." 
Seconds later they arrived at Ted Harley's cabinet.  Nick saw the
face from the newspaper photo, hair combed just the same way,
with Harley looking as though he were just taking a quick nap. 
Nick wondered if sutures inside Harley's lips held them closed as
if the body were at a funeral.
     "God, I just can't believe they're both gone," Nick said
finally.
     "I know exactly how you feel, sir."
     Right, thought Nick.  The musak had switched to Simon and
Garfunkle's "Sounds of Silence."
     Alvin went on.  "But when they awake, they will have the
last laugh.  They will never have felt better."
     "Well, thanks for letting me see them."
     "You're quite welcome.  As long as you're here, you said
you'd like to take a brochure that explains our services?"
     "Yes, of course."
     Back in the lobby, Alvin handed Nick a letter-sized file
folder full of sales literature.  "Here you are, Mr.--"
     "Rice.  Edgar Rice."
     * * *
     "Nick Naught Private Investigations," Nick said into the
phone.
     "Jeez, Nick.  Why don't you get an answering machine?  I
tried to get you all afternoon," said Ricardo, a buddy of Nick's
who did computer searches for him.  Nick often did enough legwork
that he didn't need Ricardo as much, but for the last few days he
hadn't felt much like driving.
     "It's a long story.  What do you have?"
     "I got answers back on all those names."  Ricardo was a
terrific researcher.  Nick wouldn't have minded having Ricardo
helping him with some of the actual field work, too, but
Ricardo's idea of living dangerously was buying a car with a side
mirror that didn't say, "Objects in the mirror are closer than
they appear."
     "And?  Anything in common?"
     "A little.  They're all A-plus ratings or better."
     "Makes sense.  Evergreen's probably not cheap.  What else?"
     "They all checked out during the last year."
     "Okay.  Evergreen's probably fairly new, so that's not
suspicious."
     "Their credit ratings are zilched out."
     "They're all dead.  What did you expect?"
     "I know that.  But credit reports usually take a while to
wind down.  The accounts go into an estate fund, and creditors
wait in line to get fed.  These folks all had major accounts at
Rock Solid S&L, and as soon as they died the account balances
went into century trust funds set up for when they thaw.  They're
leaving enough behind to pay bills, but these people found a way
to take it with them.  There's no law saying a dead guy can't
make money in the bank."
     "Now that's interesting," said Nick.  "I bet if they stay
frozen long enough, they'll all be billionaires when they get
out."
     "If you were sure you'd come back healthy and young and
rich, I can see where some people might volunteer--not even wait
for an accident.  I remember the days when I was a kid, and the
cops would come in an hour or two if you called them.  It would
be nice to think that someday in the future things won't be quite
so messed up.  Maybe these folks thought the same thing."
     Nick hesitated.  "What kind of health were they in?"
     The line was silent for a moment.  "They're dead, Nick. 
Think about it."
     "I know that.  I mean in general were they old people near
death, or people with terminal illnesses, or what?"
     "Oh.  Just a sec."  Moments later Ricardo was back on the
line.  "That's funny.  If their medical-insurance premiums are
any guide, aside from a few people who knew they were dying, the
rest were all in perfect health."
     * * *
     Nick did some more checking from his office that evening. 
Evergreen was ten months old and financially very stable.  Nick
tried to get info on the trust funds set up for the Evergreen
residents in deep freeze, but couldn't.  
     He sat at his desk feeling confused.  Often when he was
working on a case, at some point he'd finally latch onto the key
fact that made everything else start to make sense, and so far
with this case he hadn't.  He picked up the newspaper with the
story about Sylvia and stared at her picture.  She looked just
like she had at Evergreen except that in the newspaper photo her
eyes were open.
     Nick put the paper back on the desk and thought some more. 
And then suddenly he was up and moving, out of the office and
toward the elevator.
     His car greeted him as he slid behind the wheel.  "Where
have you been, Nicky?  It's lonely out here."
     "I've been busy, okay?"
     "Okay," said the car.  It was silent a moment.  "You know,
new tires would increase your gas mileage and make me a lot safer
on wet streets."
     * * *
     Nick had to park several blocks away from Evergreen, just in
case the sound from the radio carried.  On the walk from the car,
even though he stayed on the sidewalks, he set off a half-dozen
overly sensitive car alarms that cried "Stand back from the car!"
and "Stop, thief!" in his trail.  A block later he passed an
unoccupied Cadillac playing Wagner.
     At the back of the group of Evergreen buildings was an
idling hearse with no driver.  Nick cautiously moved closer to
the rear door of the building.  It was propped open with a rock. 
Nick peered through the gap and saw movement.  Instead of going
inside, he peeled a strip of tape from a small roll in his pocket
and hastily taped the latch bolt so it couldn't extend into the
striker plate when the door closed.  He moved back along the side
of the building until he reached some shrubbery that would
provide adequate concealment.
     Minutes later the hearse driver came back out.  She kicked
the rock way and let the door fall closed.  Twin red taillights
disappeared into the darkening night, and Nick decided he'd
better play safe and wait for a while.  He was pretty sure he
still knew how to recognize poison ivy, and he was reasonably
sure this wasn't it.
     * * *
     Nick woke with a start, almost like he was back in one of
the boring classes he'd had in any number of schools.  An ant had
just bitten him on the nose.  He squashed the ant between finger
and thumb and didn't feel guilty in the slightest.  His back was
sore, and his wallet and tool kit pressed into his rear like twin
tumors.
     The night was dark and still, and the air smelled of the
plants nearby.  Nick stretched and yawned.
     A single flood light illuminated the small parking lot,
which was fortunately empty.  Nick reached the back door, and it
opened easily.
     A vacant corridor awaited.  It had been thoughtfully
carpeted to keep the noise down.  Nick moved quietly inside and
let the door close gently behind him.  He could smell one of his
least pleasant odors of high school: formaldehyde.
     The first door Nick came to was locked, but he got it open
with a credit card.  Too bad the room turned out to be just a
bathroom.  These people must lock everything.
     The next door was locked, too.  Fortunately this lock, also,
was a blue-light special.  Beyond the door lay a doctor's office,
or at least it looked vaguely like one, but for the power tools
near the coffin-sized operating table with gutters along the
sides.  A large refrigerator stood near one corner.  Inside were
a number of beakers, each with a different specimen floating
inside.  Nick was pretty sure one was a heart, but he couldn't
tell a spleen from a kidney or a thyroid gland.  As he closed the
door, he suddenly remembered the recent Global Inquirer article
about the woman who'd received an appendix transplant.
     So, if his gut reaction were correct, Evergreen made some
pocket change by selling organs retrieved before they finished
with the bodies.  Nick wondered if that money went into the
victims' trust funds, but he suspected the answer was no.  Or, as
Alvin would probably say, assuredly not.
     At the next door, Nick decided Evergreen must have gotten a
quantity discount on locks.  This room felt warmer than the
others.  On the far wall was the explanation.  Heavy iron doors
with well-insulated handles opened onto a crematorium furnace. 
That explained where the unused parts of the bodies went.  Nick
wondered if they had to abide by pollution-alert no-burn days. 
Lately there had been at least twenty-seven of them a month, so
on the occasional approved burning day, the sun usually
disappeared by noon.
     The corridor was as quiet as ever when Nick eased back into
it.  The door across the hall yielded to his efforts, and beyond
it lay the rear of the large room Nick had visited with Alvin. 
Evergreen must shut off the visitors' heat at night, because the
room felt even colder than it had earlier.  His breath fogged the
air.  He kept his head low as he moved down a couple of rows so
he could sit on the floor and be out of sight of both doors.
     He sat next to one of the refrigerated units and grabbed the
tool kit from his pocket.  The name plate on the unit identified
the occupant as Morton Westheimmer.  With the tiny flashlight,
Nick got back to his feet and crouched next to the observation
window.  He wiped away frost and condensation and peered inside. 
The face of a slumbering forty-year-old man inside reminded Nick
of one of his laziest teachers back in school.
     Nick twisted on the flashlight and directed the beam inside. 
He moved it from side to side but the beam didn't brighten the
sleeping face.  Nick had a sudden thought about one-way glass and
dismissed it.
     Near the bottom of the cabinet was a panel that ran the
width of the unit, held in place with eight torque screws.  Nick
used his tool and a couple of minutes later the panel suddenly
sagged on one side as Nick got ready to take out the last screw. 
Inside the enclosure was a compressor, no doubt part of the
cooling system, and next to it was an electrical plug inserted in
a socket in the floor.
     Nick drew in a breath, planning to remove the plug for only
a couple of seconds.  Surely the insulation in the unit would
prevent any real damage.  He pulled the plug.  The compressor
went right on running.
     Nick looked more closely at the inside of the box.  Sure
enough, they had installed an uninterruptible power supply. 
Evergreen certainly wouldn't want to be off the air during a
power failure.
     He reached into the cabinet, found the recessed switch, and
flicked it off.  The compressor died.  Rapidly Nick raised his
head and peered through the observation window.  He saw nothing. 
He flicked on his tiny light.  The inside of the cabinet was
empty.
     "I'll be damned," Nick said softly.
     "You never can tell," said a voice behind him.
     Nick turned carefully, slowly, keeping his hands visible.
     Alvin stood just on the other side of a row of cabinets. 
With him were two men who looked more like businessmen than
guards, but all three men held pistols pointed at Nick.
     Nick didn't stand to gain anything by playing dumb. 
"Holograms, huh?  So this whole thing is just a big con game to
get estate money from rich victims?"
     Alvin said, "Actually, I thought we'd last longer than we
did.  But we have made an obscene amount of money already, so I
guess all's well that ends well.  I am curious about what tipped
you off, though.  I promise we'll be harder on you if you don't
tell us."
     Nick considered that for a moment.  "They all looked just
like their pictures."
     "That's bad?"
     "I mean exactly like their pictures.  Sylvia's mole was on
the same side.  Ted Harley had his hair parted on the correct
side."
     "So?"
     "So, you told me the heads face the rear and a mirror lets
people outside see them.  You look in a mirror and tell me if
your hair is still parted on the same side."
     Alvin gritted his teeth.  "Thank you, Mr. Rice.  Although I
don't suppose your real name is Rice."
     "Naught."
     "I said that."
     "Nick Naught.  That's my name."
     "I bet that was fun growing up with."
     "Oh, yeah."
     One of the men with Alvin started getting visibly impatient,
shifting from one foot to the other.  He looked like one of the
heavyweights on "Boxing for Dollars."
     "Well, Mr. Naught, I guess we'd better get started," said
Alvin.
     "Started?"
     "You don't have a car in the lot."
     "No."
     "But no doubt you have one close by.  And we don't want it
found near here.  Mr. McCarthy will go with you to your car and
bring you back here."  Alvin indicated the impatient man with no
neck.
     "And why should I do that?"
     "Hope springs eternal.  Have you forgotten?  If you don't do
it, we'll kill you right now and look up your license plate
number on our own.  If you help us, you stay alive longer, and
I'm sure that will motivate you."
     "Okay, let's go."  Nick stood up slowly.  "Just don't use
anymore homilies on me.  I don't think I can take it."
     Alvin frowned.  "Just a moment."  While Alvin's silent
helpers held their guns on Nick, Alvin found and removed Nick's
pistol.  "There now.  I think you're ready."
     Nick trudged toward the back of the complex, trying to
figure out how to get away from the silent man following him with
a gun.  They went out, through the parking lot, and onto the dark
street, quiet but for the sound of a few distant sirens and car
radios.
     They walked five blocks before the man behind him said
anything.  "I think you're trying to be funny.  I'm not going to
follow you around the neighborhood until dawn.  We get to your
car in ten minutes, or we don't get to it at all."
     Nick stopped, then turned back the way they had come.  A
block later they reached Nick's car.  The windows were all the
way up, but Nick could easily hear "Little GTO" playing inside.
     "Here we are," Nick said.
     "You drive."  The man held his gun on Nick as he got into
the passenger seat and Nick slipped behind the wheel.
     "Turn that crap off," Nick said as he started the engine.
     The radio volume dropped.  "Why?" asked the car.
     "You'd better get used to playing something else," Nick said
as he pulled into the deserted street.
     "Why?"
     "Because you're going to have a new owner soon, and probably
no one else will put up with this."  Almost anyone else would
probably have the money to completely replace the car computer.
     "Why?"
     "Is that all it can say?" asked Nick's heavyweight
passenger.
     "Because this guy is planning to kill me," said Nick.
     "Why?" asked the car.
     "Does it really matter--" Nick was saying when suddenly an
explosion sounded and the passenger-side air-bag burst in the
face of the man with the gun.  Nick jammed on the brakes and hit
the heel of his hand as hard as he could against his captor's
temple.  The man's head jerked over and smacked hard against the
side window.  Seconds later Nick had the man's gun in his hand.
     "Excellent work!" Nick shouted.
     "Thank you," said the car.  "But you're going to owe me."
     * * *
     Nick knelt and placed the dozen roses on Sylvia's grave.
     "I'm sorry, Sylvia.  No one should have to die for such a
senseless reason.  Maybe now you can at least sleep a little
easier."
     Nick walked slowly back toward his car in the cool morning
air.  When he was almost there, an old woman said loudly, "I
think that's disgraceful."
     She must have been talking about the strains of "Dead Man's
Curve" seeping through Nick's car doors and windows.
     Nick spread his hands helplessly.
     The woman scowled at him as he drove away.
     Nick still felt depressed about Sylvia's death as he drove,
but he did feel a sense of accomplishment in getting Evergreen
shut down.  The police had actually arrived fairly promptly, and
Ricardo had been able to verify that all the trust funds set up
for the victims at Rock Solid S&L had been funneled into
Evergreen.  Alvin and his friends would be in a different kind of
deep freeze for a long time.
     "So, Nick," said the car.  "What about that new fuel
injection system?"
     "Give me a break.  Weren't the new tires enough?  How long
am I going to have to pay?"
     The car was silent for a moment.  "I know your MasterCard
number."
     "God."  Nick massaged his temples.
     Seconds later, a deep rumbling sounded from behind the car. 
In the rear-view mirror appeared a huge band of mean-looking
bikers.  The two guys in front had so many tattoos their skin
looked like blueprints.  Chains hung from their necks, and pieces
of food were stuck between their teeth.  Or maybe those were bugs
stuck in their teeth.  A few more bikers sped past before the car
said innocently, "Come on, Nicky.  You wouldn't want the horn to
stick, would you?"

     THE END of "Naught Again" by John E. Stith

*************************************************************

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AUTHOR INFO FOR THIS FILE: “Naught for Hire” and “Naught Again”
are written by John E. Stith. These works will remain protected
by copyright for the author’s life plus seventy years.
Author's web site: http://www.neverend.com.
Author's email:    jestith@neverend.com.
If the web site moves or author's email address changes, do a web
search and find the new information.

Stith has published the following novels as of the year 2000:
Look for them if you enjoy this work.  Excerpts from each one can
be found on author’s web site.
     SCAPESCOPE: Intrigue in NORAD complex in future
     MEMORY BLANK: Amnesia story on L-5 colony
     DEATH TOLLS: Mystery set on Mars
     DEEP QUARRY: Private eye finds buried starship
     REDSHIFT RENDEZVOUS: Hard SF in slow-light environment.
          Nebula nominee.
     MANHATTAN TRANSFER: Manhattan is kidnapped. Hugo honorable
          mention.
     REUNION ON NEVEREND: Interplanetary gateways and secret
          agent
     RECKONING INFINITY: Investigation of huge organic “moon”

-----End of Author-Specific Info-----

CEC NOTICE:  PLEASE PRESERVE ALL INFORMATION IN THIS FILE INTACT,
IN COMPLIANCE WITH COALITION FOR ETHICAL COPYING (CEC) POLICY.

End of File