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Hotel Security
by Carl Frederick
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Science Fiction

Copyright ©2005 by Carl Frederick

First published in Analog Magazine, December 2005

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

“Mag card or retinal scan?” said the hotel night clerk. “Or both if you want to give a key to a visitor."

Roger Royce glanced at the scanner and forced a smile. “Scanner,” he said. “Left eye."

“Oh,” said the clerk, a look of surprise on his face. “You've done this before.” He pushed a button and the scanner swiveled out to the front of the reservations desk. “Almost everyone chooses the card.” As Roger leaned in, his left eye over the metal guide, the clerk added, “People seem almost afraid of this thing."

“I have reservations about this,” said Roger, “but scanners are the way of the future.” His smile edged toward a scowl. Although he much preferred the mag card, he was duty bound to choose the scanner. After all, it was probably because of him that the hotel even had a scanner.

A flash came from the lens and Roger then bent to pick up his overnight bag and laptop.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the clerk. “But I need to see a photo ID, please."

Roger put down his baggage and took out his wallet. His hand hesitated over his driver's license before withdrawing instead, a phony ID. Performing a spur of the moment test, Roger handed the ‘Eastern Lycanthropic’ identification card to the clerk.

The clerk glanced at it and passed it back. “Thank you, Dr. Royce. Your room number is 2217. Shall I write it down?"

“No thank you.” Roger picked up his bags.

“Enjoy your stay at the Neotel Riverside,” said the clerk. “Have a good night."

Roger bit his lip for a moment before saying, ‘Thank you’ and then heading toward the elevator. He'd considered apprising the clerk of the lapse of security but decided there was no need to make an issue of it and embarrass the man. Roger smiled, thinking that the encounter would make a good opening anecdote for his speech in the morning.

As he walked, Roger noticed the announcement monitor showing the next day's events. He grimaced as he read the first entry.

National Hotel Security Conference

9:00 a.m. Galaxy Room

Breakfast Keynote Speech

Dr. Roger Royce—Chief Scientist, Hotel Security International

'Hotels—The First Line of Defense against Terrorists'

Waiting at the elevators, he took a long glance around the lobby. This was the first time he'd stayed at a Neotel. But except for the retinal scanner, there didn't seem to be anything particularly ‘neo’ about it. At least nothing that could be seen. He did know that it had the very latest security system. He had designed some of it.

The elevator came, rose, and deposited him on the twenty-second floor. Only then did he note that he'd forgotten his room number. It would be embarrassing to return to the reservation desk, so he spent the next couple of minutes eyeing each of the doors until a retinal lock displayed green. With a sigh of relief, he felt the door handle engage. A light came on as Roger walked into his hotel room.

“Welcome to your room,” came a cheerful voice from a dressing table. “I am your information butler."—Roger, smiling, shook his head and set his bags on the desk—"Just pick up the phone and push the ‘Information Butler’ button—and I'll be there to assist you."

The wall color changed and, after a few seconds, changed again. Then the walls ran through a rainbow of colors.

Roger watched, speechless. He'd known these technologies existed, but had never stayed at a hotel employing them.

“Neotel provides user-configurable accommodations,” said the voice. The room reverted to its original beige hue. “You can use the touch panel by the window to change the wall colors, or simply ask me to change them for you."

The picture on the wall then exhibited the same instability—changing from a landscape to a tiger to The Mona Lisa then finally to a view of The White House. “You can use the panel under the picture, or just ask me. I can even help you upload images from your laptop or from many brands of cell phones."

Music began to play but Roger couldn't tell where the sound came from.

“And music, of course,” said the Information Butler. The 1812 Overture gave way to Pachelbel's Canon and then to silence. “And for a small fee, you can even specify a scent. Maybe fresh-cut grass, or salt water over craggy rocks. Just pick up the phone and push ‘Information Butler'.” After a pause of about a second, the voice from the dressing table said, “There are no better accommodations to be had than at a Neotel. We are the best!"

“Oh, vanity!” said Roger, lightly. “I'm accustomed to more modest accommodations."

Roger smiled. The place did have its geeky pleasures. In the morning, he intended to try some of the ‘user configurable’ toys. But now, he was too tired. He stripped down and headed for the bathroom. If the toilet talks to me, I'll probably lose it.

A few minutes later, ready for bed, he pulled back the covers and flopped down prone on the sheets. The sheets weren't hotel-room cold; the bed was obviously pre-warmed. Roger tap-switched off the light and gave a sigh of relaxation.

“Hi there,” came a voice from deep within the bed.

Roger rolled over, sharply and sat upright. “What!"

“I am your model SSC-IB2 Intelligent Bed from Sleepsmarts Corporation."

“You're kidding,” said Roger.

“No, not at all,” said the bed. “Is the mattress to your liking? I can make it harder or softer."

“Good grief,” said Roger, “This is real AI with voice recognition."

“Indeed, I am.” The bed's voice was mellow and soothing. “Is the mattress to your desired firmness?"

“I'd like it a little firmer,” said Roger, less interested in his mattress than in testing the limits of the bed's language processing.

“Be so good as to lie down,” said the bed. “That makes for a more accurate adjustment."

“How do you know I'm not lying down?"

“There are pressure sensors throughout the mattress. It is an active mattress, accommodating to your movements during the night."

“Fine, then.” Roger stretched out with his nose on the pillow. “Make it firmer,” he said, wondering if the bed could understand him in spite of his voice being muffled by the pillow.

“Just say stop,” said the bed, “when it is optimally comfortable."

“Oh, stop,” said Roger after a few moments. “This is perfect."

“Glad to be of service."

Roger pulled the covers over him. “Good night, bed."

“Good night."

A few moments later, Roger rolled over onto his side and reached for the phone. “Rats!” he said. “I always forget to ask for a wakeup call."

“I can do that,” said the bed. “What time do you wish to be awakened?"

“What? Oh. Six o'clock, please."

“Wakeup call at six, sharp,” said the bed. “Good night."

“Good night,” said Roger, “and thanks.” He shook his head against the pillow. What am I doing? Being polite to a simple AI—well, maybe not exactly simple.

Roger spent a fitful few hours. Not even the comfort of the SSC-IB2 Intelligent Bed had made sleep less elusive than it had been of late.

He rolled over and glanced at the clock radio. “Oh no,” he said. “Only two in the morning."

“What's wrong, sir?” said the bed.

Forgetting where he was for an instant, Roger started. “What?"

“Do you need medical assistance? I heard you groaning in your sleep."

Memory having returned, Roger relaxed. “No. No, I'm fine.” Then he sat up. “You said ‘sir'. How did you know I was male?"

“From profiling. Your weight is 182 pounds and I estimate your height at five feet, ten inches. And during the course of your motions during sleep, the mattress sensors detected determining features of your anatomy. By the way, your Body Mass Index is 26.1."

“Oh gosh.” Roger plopped down on the sheets. “It's the stress. I'm putting on weight.” He bit his lower lip. I'm doing it again; I'm explaining myself to a talking bed.

“There's a good health club at this hotel.” The bed's voice sounded eager. “You could work off those pounds. The club is free during your stay. And the yearly membership fee for non-guests is quite reasonable—or so I've been instructed to say."

“No. I'm just not sleeping well."

“I am very sad to hear that,” said the bed.

Roger smiled. “Sad? How can an AI be sad?"

“My sleeper-satisfaction algorithm indicates that I am failing in my purpose."

“And what exactly is that purpose?"

“My purpose"—the bed spoke as if intoning a mantra—"is to assure you of a good night's sleep."

“Then your sadness is justified.” Roger rolled face down and buried his face in the pillow. “I don't suppose,” he said, his voice muffled, “that you might have a sleeping pill I could borrow."

“No, sir. SSC-IB2 intelligent beds are not authorized to dispense medication."—Roger almost laughed at the bed's seriousness—"but I think I can offer something better."

“Excuse me?” Roger raised himself on his elbows.

“The founder of Sleepsmarts Corporation is Doctor Wolfgang Schneider, the acclaimed author of ‘My Analyst Has Fuzzy Ears’ and ‘Sleep like a Baby'. Both books, by the way, are available at the gift shop at a special reduced price for hotel guests."

“Much good it does me now."

“I have been programmed with the knowledge of those books,” said the bed. “I believe I can provide you with a method to sleep like a baby."

“Fine, fine,” said Roger, wearily. “And what is that method?"

“Sleep with a teddy bear."

“Do what?” Roger rolled onto his back and let his head fall to the pillow. “Give me a break!"

“The essence of Doctor Schneider's method,” said the bed with a slow, cadenced delivery, “is, if you wish to sleep like a baby, act like a baby. Don't take your troubles to bed. Don't think about your job, your health, your relationships. Let the teddy bear's fur against your cheek spur you to empty your mind of thoughts, and to sleep the sleep of the innocent."

The innocent. Roger contemplated lost innocence. Not all that long ago, he'd been a naïve geeky researcher in AI systems. But he'd been lured first into the conspiratorial world of government security and afterwards drifted into his current occupation. It was a struggle acting like a suspicious, ultra-cautious security expert all the time. But his clients expected it from the man who ‘wrote the book’ on hotel security systems. I wonder. Maybe that's the cause of my sleep problems. Maybe I'm simply not cut out for this line of work. In fact—

“Sir?” said the bed.

Roger snapped out of his introspection. “Yes?"

“Would you like to try the teddy bear method?"

“It is somewhat academic,” said Roger, wondering if the SSC-IB2 could detect sarcasm, “as I didn't happen to bring a teddy bear with me."

“You may use mine,” said the bed.

Roger, hearing the whine of a motor, leaned his head over the side of the bed. He saw a drawer slide open from under the bed-frame. From inside, a teddy bear looked up at him. He lifted out the plush animal.

“I had a bear like this when I was a kid,” said Roger, in the throes of fond memory.

“I've been told most children did."

“I named him Theodore. We were a very formal family."

“Hi,” said the Bear.

“Yikes!” From the surprise, Roger dropped the bear but caught it before it hit the ground. He noticed it was warm, like a living creature—a pet.

“I think I like you,” said the bear. Its voice was pitched lower than the bed's. It sounded like a six-year-old boy imitating his father's voice.

“I"—Roger couldn't think of anything intelligent to say—"I think I like you, too."

“It is very late now,” said the bed. “You two should go to sleep.” The bed sounded very parental.

“But—"

“You may embrace the bear with complete confidence,” said the bed. “For your safety, it is sterilized after each use."

Roger gave a mental shrug. Why the heck not? It's a sleep aid. He drew up the covers and pulled the bear close. He gave a soft chuckle. They thought of everything; the bear even has a heartbeat.

“Good night, bed,” said Roger.

“Good night."

“Good night bear—Theodore."

“Good night."

I wonder if I talk in my sleep. Roger nuzzled the bear. I'll have to ask Theodore in the morning.

* * * *

“Good morning."

“Grummf,” Roger mumbled.

“Six o'clock. Time to get up."

As intellect caught up with reflex, Roger snapped his eyes open, then remembered his wakeup call. “Just ten more minutes, please."

“Please confirm,” said the bed. “Do you want me to alert you in ten minutes?"

“Yes.” But as he said it, Roger realized he didn't need the extra time. He felt very awake and very relaxed. Maybe there's something to be said for the teddy bear stratagem. A return to innocence. He smiled. “I'd rather hoped Theodore, uh, the bear would have given me the wakeup call."

“That was the intention,” said the bed. “But I'm no longer able to communicate with the bear."

“Why?"

“I don't know. There is no response from its net address. Perhaps the wireless access point is down."

Rodger shrugged. It was the best sleep he'd had in months. He wondered if the bed had detected his shrug using the mattress sensors. But again, it didn't matter. Roger stretched then luxuriated until the next bed alarm.

He rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. After shaving, he hopped in the shower—and saw a karaoke control next to the joystick-like faucet. He sang a few choruses of Gilbert and Sullivan in the steamy torrent and then basked with sybaritic enjoyment in the air stream from the full-body hot air dryer.

Roger loaded the coffee maker. While listening to the gurgling of boiling water and smelling what was clearly fresh ground coffee beans, he picked up the newspaper e-reader from the TV cabinet. He tried to select his hometown paper, but the reader didn't seem to work; it showed no papers available for download.

Only a minor nuisance; he could do without reading the paper for a day—especially with the current state of the world. He took his mug and sat, carefully so as not to spill the coffee, in the room's easy chair. On the left armrest, he saw an on/off switch. Idly, he flipped it on.

“Good morning, sir,” said the chair in a sultry feminine voice.

“Sir?” Roger chuckled in surprise. “You've been talking to the bed, haven't you?"

“We're part of the same system,” said the chair. “Would you care for a back massage?"

“Yes, please."

The chair back began to vibrate with the center of the undulations between Roger's shoulders. “Lower, please."

The center moved down. “Is this low enough?” said the chair.

“Ahh, wonderful,” said Roger. “But just a tad lower."

“What is a tad?"

“In this case,” said Roger, a tremolo in his voice from the vibrations, “about an inch.” He made a mental note to find an excuse to stay at a Neotel again.

About five minutes later, Roger, both tingly and relaxed, turned off the chair and fetched his laptop. He set it on his knee and brought up his e-mail program. But, like the e-reader, the program didn't work. He ran a diagnostic and found there was no wireless signal. That explains the e-reader problem. The room's wireless is down. With some annoyance, he slipped the laptop back into its case. He could do without news, but not without e-mail.

Quickly, he dressed in what he liked to call his battle armor—his business suit and power tie. Even though there was a full breakfast for him in the Galaxy room before his speech, he'd go down for more coffee. There had to be a working wireless access point in the coffee shop.

He checked his armor in the mirror, nodded in approval, picked up his laptop and strode to the door. He disengaged the security latch and turned the handle—but the door wouldn't open. The handle moved freely but didn't seem to engage the lock mechanism. Roger jiggled the handle a few times, but it still wouldn't engage.

He stared at the door for a few moments, then turned on his heel and darted for the telephone. He picked up the handset and pushed the ‘Information Butler’ button.

“This is your butler. How may I assist you?” came the cheerful voice he recognized from the previous night.

“My door lock isn't working. I'm locked in my room."

After a few moments, the butler answered, “Information acknowledged. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

“What?” Roger remembered he was dealing with an AI. “Yes. Get me out, please,” he said, calmly.

“I can't do that,” said the butler. “I'm only an information system."

“Fine,” said Roger. “Then connect me with someone who can."

“Who can what, sir?"

“Who can get me out of here,” said Roger, almost shouting.

“Should I connect you with the hotel maid's desk?"

“Yeah, I guess,” said Roger, sheepishly—embarrassed that he'd lost his temper with an AI. “But, I have reservations about this."

“I understand,” said the butler. “I shall connect you."

“Hotel Reservations,” came a new voice. “How can I help you?” The accent was vaguely foreign.

“Reservations? Geez,” said Roger, throwing a glance to the ceiling. “Oh wait. You'll do. I'm in room 2217. Could you send someone up? I seem to be locked in."

“I'm sorry, sir. But so early in your morning, reservations are handled off site."

“My morning? Where are you?"

“Bangalore, sir."

“Bangalore? Bangalore, India? A call center in India?"

“Yes, sir."

Roger thumped his head a few times against the wall. “Look,” he said. “This is an emergency. Could you please connect me to the front desk?"

“It would be difficult,” said the call center operator. “Perhaps you might just press the ‘front desk’ button on your phone?"

“What?” Roger felt like an idiot. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Goodbye."

He hit the hang-up bar and then pushed the ‘front desk’ button—and waited. After about fifteen seconds, a woman's voice came on the line. “Please, hold the line,” it said. “Your call is important to us. A representative will be on the line with you shortly."

Roger made a fist. Then, holding the handset, he plopped down on the bed.

“Good morning, sir,” said the bed.

“Shut up!"

“As you wish, sir."

Several minutes later, a voice issued from the handset. “Front desk,” it said, breathlessly. “Sorry for the delay. We're a little understaffed so early in the morning. How can I be of assist.... Oh."

“What's wrong?” said Roger.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to assist you,” said the clerk.

“What?” Roger swung off the bed and onto his feet. “You don't even know what I need?"

“I'm afraid,” said the clerk, sounding actually somewhat afraid, “that room 2217 is in a security lockdown."

“Lockdown! What are you talking about?"

“The ‘Freedom through Vigilance Act',” said the clerk. “It says that if someone checks in using fraudulent credentials, we must detain that individual if we can. And it says here, you used a bogus photo ID."

“That's ridiculous—a mistake.” Roger tried for a laugh, but it came out more like a plaint.

“Mistakes do happen,” said the clerk. “If there has been a mistake, our policy is to offer you a free, one week stay at our hotel, meals and gratuities included."

“Are you nuts!” Roger grasped the phone as if he were trying to strangle it. “That's like Leavenworth Prison offering a complimentary one week incarceration. No, thank you!"

“Well, if that's the way you feel about it,” said the clerk, “then you can simply—"

“No, please,” said Roger. “Stay on the line. Look. I'm a security consultant. I was simply testing your procedures."

“Are you saying you were hired to do that?"

“Well, no,” said Roger. “I was only trying to—."

“Then I'm afraid you'll just have to wait for our security officer. He gets on duty at eight a.m. Good bye, sir.” Roger heard the phone disconnect.

Roger blew out a breath. He needed some outside help, and decided that, early as it was, he'd call the president of his company. He stabbed at the ‘outside line’ button, but he didn't hear a dial tone. After a few more attempts, he realized that they weren't going to let him make any outside calls.

“Damn them!” he said, slamming the receiver to its cradle.

He reached for his cell phone and flipped it open. The display indicated, ‘No Service'. And damn these metal frame buildings. Then came the understanding that they were probably jamming the cell phone frequencies. They really mean it. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. And that explains why there's no wireless—and why the bear didn't wake me up.

Roger stood there, trembling. With a twinge of claustrophobia, he remembered being confined to his room as a kid—his parents’ punishment of choice.

Annoyance turned to resentment and then to anger. He wasn't about to just wait like a brain-dead bovine to be freed. Property damage or not, he'd try like hell to break out. He had his pride—his professional pride.

He took off his jacket then rushed to the window and looked out. It was a non-opening window, but that didn't matter. There was no outside ledge. And from a sheer twenty-two story height, he was hardly going to shimmy to the ground on tied-together bed sheets.

Glancing over at the locked door, he got an idea. He went to the door and put his ear against the lock. He heard a faint electrical hum, presumably of a solenoid, and that confirmed his theory; for safety reasons, the inside handle locking function was powered. If there were a fire there might also be a power interruption. And for people to get out, the door would have to function normally if the power were cut. Roger stood up. All he had to do was somehow cause a power failure.

But how?

Roger darted to his overnight bag and rummaged for his Swiss Army Knife. Carrying a knife. One of the advantages of driving rather than flying. He then unplugged the floor lamp and cut its power cord at the base. He stripped off a couple of inches of insulation from the two power wires, then twisted the bare wires together. Finding the closest power outlet to the door, he plugged in the cord. He heard a satisfying electrical zapping sound, and the hall light flickered and went dark. He sprang to the door, and pulled down the handle. But it didn't engage. He was still held captive. He listened at the door and heard the solenoid. With a sigh, he unplugged his shorting cable. All he'd done was blow an unimportant breaker. To make sure, he flipped the switch on the bed table lamp. The light indeed came on.

Straining for inspiration, he rubbed his temples and craned his neck, forcing his gaze to the ceiling. He smiled for there above, he saw a fire detector. All he had to do was light a fire and hold it under the detector. The hotel's system would have to release the solenoids so no one burned to death.

Again, but how? If only I had matches.

He scanned the room and caught sight of the coffeemaker.

Using the screwdriver blade on his knife, he removed the coffeemaker's plastic housing, exposing the nichrome heating coil. Since the coffeemaker's cord wasn't long enough to let him hold the unit under the fire detector, he cut off the plug and appended his shorting cord. Then, after forcing a crumpled up business card into the heating coil and plugging in the coffeemaker, he stood on a chair and positioned the heating element directly under the detector. The device smelled like burning coffee. After a few seconds, the business card began to smolder.

“Smoking is prohibited in this room,” came a loud and officious voice from the dressing table.

“Yes!” Roger held the coffeemaker yet closer to the fire detector.

Suddenly, he heard the clang of a fire alarm out in the hall. He smiled in satisfaction. But then, from little holes that he'd thought were simply patterns in the ceiling tiles, a heavy blanket of spray rained down. Roger, out of surprise and fear of electrocution, dropped the coffeemaker, where it sizzled as the water droplets hit it.

Roger sprung from the chair, unplugged the coffeemaker and rushed for the door. Just as he got to it, the alarm went silent and the rain stopped. And the door was still locked.

“Damn it to hell!” Roger glowered at the door and wished for a good, old-fashioned crowbar. He stalked off to the easy chair and, despite the soggy upholstery, flopped down in it.

“Wait a minute!” he said, aloud, his nose wrinkled in puzzlement. He flipped the chair's switch to on.

“Good morning, sir,” said the chair. “Would you care for a back massage?"

“Maybe later,” said Roger, rushing to get to his question. “Tell me. Are you able to communicate with the bed?"

“Yes."

“How?"

“I use the hotel's LAN."

“Excellent. Exactly what I'd hoped.” Roger jumped from the chair and dropped to his knees. He found the LAN cable coming from the back of the chair and followed it to where it was plugged in to the wall. “I'm sorry to do this to you, chair,” he said as he unplugged the thick, Uniwire, LAN cable. If I'm lucky, the hotel's entire control system runs over this.

He took his speech from the side pocket of his laptop case. It was soggy, but Roger didn't care. He needed the paper clip holding the pages. He straightened the clip and inserted an end into the center of the wall's LAN socket. He retrieved his power cord from the coffeemaker and wrapped the exposed ‘hot’ wire around the protruding end of the paper clip. He plugged the cord into a power socket and then, very gingerly, held the other bare wire against the socket's ground. 120 Volts into the hotel's LAN might just do it.

Nothing.

Roger leaned his head against the wall. He was almost out of ideas. Maybe there's a surge protector, or a high-impedance series resistor. He thunked his head lightly against the wall a few times. That must be it—an isolation interface. He unplugged the a.c. then using his knife, removed the LAN cover plate screws. Pulling the LAN socket away from the wall, he saw the interface assembly. It was the work of only a minute to bypass the isolation circuit. Again, he plugged in his power cable.

There came a soft buzz and then silence.

Roger, as if savoring a fine wine, inhaled an acrid smell of burning insulation, and he saw whiffs of smoke wafting up from his handiwork. Then, against the silence, he heard a distinct click from the door. He raced to it, pulled down the handle, felt the mechanism engage, and yanked the door open. “Yes!"

He flipped the night latch and slowly closed the door onto it, making sure the door couldn't completely close. Then, choosing speed over organization, he rushed through room and bathroom, gathering up his belongings and shoving them into his travel bag. Soggy though it was, he put on his suit jacket and, with bag in one hand and laptop in its shoulder bag, he headed for the door. There, he paused.

Looking back, he surveyed the carnage. The room, save for the droplets of water still trickling down the walls, looked less a hotel room and more like his workshop at home. And for some reason, he felt almost reluctant to leave it. Softly, he pounded a fist against the wall. Compensation!

He was certainly not going to accept the hotel's free week's stay—even in the unlikely event it was still on offer. But he did feel he deserved some recompense for his ordeal. A towel. Maybe I should make off with a hotel towel. Then he chuckled. He darted to his spoil of battle, his trophy. He grabbed it, stuffed it into his overnight bag, then flew out the door, wincing as he heard the door snap closed behind him.

Padding toward the elevators in shoes squeaking from wet socks, he speculated that he'd probably just blown a local node and the elevators were probably fine. Even though he didn't much like the idea of enclosed spaces at the moment, he pushed the down button. The light didn't come on. Apparently he'd done more damage than he'd thought. He shook his head and bit his lower lip. It was very poor security not having a redundant data system. And security was his job. He chuckled. Was his job, at any rate.

An Emergency Exit sign pointed him to the stairwell and he started down the twenty-one flights to the lobby. As he descended, his spirits rose, his anger slowly changing to amusement. He'd had fun—a release of years of pent up geekiness.

At about the fifteenth floor, he grew serious. He had a speech to give but his written words didn't seem appropriate anymore. He gave a mental shrug; perhaps, after a battle with a hotel room and an encounter with a teddy bear, he'd rediscovered his values—including the notion that maybe security shouldn't automatically trump liberty or privacy. As he neared the lobby level he nodded, his lips stretched in a tight smile. He'd come to a decision; this morning, he'd deliver a very different kind of speech—and then start looking for a new job.

At the door to the lobby, he stopped, hand on the door handle. Perhaps for the sake of his own personal security, it might be better not to give any speech at all.

He turned and walked the additional flights down to the parking garage. As he drew close to his car, Roger cast a sideways glance to the overnight bag he carried. “Come on, Theodore,” he said in a soft, conspiratorial voice. “Let's quit this joint and go home."

END