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May 8th 2047 A.D.
 
 

Chapter 1
HOMECOMING

Clint walked up to the sign that said, "Entering Grants Pass Oregon, population 78,885."  The sign was like a wall.  He took a deep breath, and forced himself to walk past it.

    He walked faster, and faster, through the gray predawn gloom, trying to hurry the sunrise.  The streetlights were still on, painting fuzzy circles on the road.   He was almost running, his backpack slapping against his back. He wouldn't run away this time; he would confront it all.

    He didn't see the patch of uneven sidewalk, lifted and broken by the roots of a large tree.  Down he went!  He started to get back up, and just couldn't quite do it.
    As he lay there it all caught up with him.  The memories crashed over Clint like angry surf, trying to force him to get up, turn, and run. In his mind he saw the summer spent cutting his way through 10 feet of solid rock.  He saw his mother stricken with breast cancer. His refusal to believe that someone could die of cancer in this day and age, Uncle Rob's betrayal, Bobo's ridiculous meaningless death. He saw it all, played across the screen in his head.

    Clint knew: if he had been just a little smarter, if he'd been at home taking care of his mother, if he had not trusted Uncle Rob, if he'd only gone with Bobo that night. . .  The waves of regret swept over him.

    Slowly the pain in his knees and shoulder returned him to rational thought. He sat up and leaned against the huge tree, rubbing his knees and flexing his shoulder. Clint stood up, and looked around. He noticed his backpack felt a little light; he felt around behind his lower back, he discovered that his sleeping bag was gone.

    "Damn," he said as he looked back the way he had come. In 10 minutes he had covered almost a mile. "Oh well, if things go right today I won't need it," Clint thought.

    He turned and began walking toward a brightly-lit fuel station.

    "Time to clean up for the big day," Clint said to himself.

    The two men watching Clint, from a dull black van, looked at each other.

    "What the hell was that all about?" asked the young man.

    "How should I know," said the older man.

    The older man looked at his watch.  "It's 8:30 in Virginia, I'd better call in."

    He punched a number into his phone, waited a few seconds, and then said, "He's here in Grants Pass."

    "Yes sir," the man said.

    "He spent the night at the rest area just south of Rogue River."

    "Yes Sir, thank you, Sir."

    He closed the phone, and said to the younger man, "He wants us to turn the van in, in Portland. We don't have to report back to Virginia until Monday."

    "Great!" said the younger man, looking at the small green video screen on his lap.

    "He lost one of the tracking buttons; it's the one in the sleeping bag."

    "Damn!" said the older man, "we'd better pick it up."

    They drove back along the Highway.  As they approached the sleeping bag, they saw a medium-size yellow lab sniffing it. Coming to a stop they watched the dog lift his leg and thoroughly mark the dark green bundle.

    "Damn!" The younger man said.

    The older man began to laugh. "Go get it," he said.
 

    Clint arrived downtown where he knew the bank was, by about eight o'clock.  He was surprised to see that they had put in a new town square. They had apparently demolished half a dozen ancient run-down buildings to clear the space in the center of the downtown area.  It was really nice; the only thing that Clint didn't like was the fact that every parking place around the square now had parking meters.  They stood like short skinny military guards, protecting the downtown area from free parking;
Clint hated parking meters, for they had cost him his last car.

   Just across the square there was one of those buy-inside, drink-outside coffee shops. Clint walked toward it.

    Beanie's café featured a brick patio in front, with shiny white wrought iron tables and chairs. The very ornate chairs had light green upholstered backs and seats.

    He put his backpack on one of the chairs and went inside.

    After investing his last 15 bucks in an extra large cafe lottae, and a large raisin cinnamon roll, he was totally broke. . . unless you counted the 15 or 16 million dollars in the bank across the street.

    It was only 8:00; the bank didn't open until 9 a.m.

    Clint loved the early morning, the smell of it, the quiet, and the light. Usually when he was on the road, he'd be up and moving with the crack of dawn.

  Clint spent a pleasant hour enjoying his coffee, and the morning.  He was enjoying the quiet time so much that it surprised him when he noticed people going in, and coming out, of the bank.   "Time to go," Clint thought to himself.

   Clint didn't feel the small, bright red spot of light that appeared on his forehead, so he felt nothing when the spot disappeared two seconds later. Clint didn't hear the silenced shots, or see the Mexican assassin tumbling 20 feet to the ground, with three very permanent dark red spots on the side of his head. He didn't see the four men move quickly to the body, pick it up, and carry it away through the woods. All of this happened in a patch of forest over 200 yards away.

    Clint got up, picked up his backpack and walked across the square to the bank.  With his anxiety increasing, Clint hesitated as his hand touched the crossbar on the revolving door.  What if the money wasn't there anymore, what if Uncle Rob had taken it back?  After all, he had told Uncle Rob he didn't want any of that filthy money.
 
 

  Chapter 2
The Jailbird

    Bob was startled into consciousness by the bone jarring crash of the 150-pound cell block gate; the sound reverberated along the corridor. None of the guards cared whether the inmates were sleeping or not.

    "Human beings use doors, animals like you use gates," the guards told them whenever an inmate referred to the gates as doors.

    "Click, squeak, click, squeak, click, squeak."

    "Damn!" Bob thought, "it's Red McNeil." Bob recognized the sound of Red's ankle brace.

    "What the hell is he doing here? He works from noon till eight," Bob muttered.

    Red McNeil was well known as the meanest, nastiest prison guard in all of the state of Florida; pure white trash in action. During Bob's time in Florida's worst medium security toilet, the red menace was his only real fear.  In two and a half years McNeil had bad-timed him 19 times, and had him thrown into solitary six times. If it weren't for McNeil, Bob would have been out two and a half weeks ago.  He knew he was here to screw him over again.

    Bob heard the footsteps stop suddenly--outside his cell.
    "Hey Freeman, wake up!" the guard yelled.

    Bob played dead.

    He heard Red flip the switch that turned the light on in his cell.

    "Come on, Freeman, I know you're awake! Don't make me come in there!"

    Bob sat up on his bunk; Red McNeil was standing there in his street clothes, his red mustache and scraggly goatee looking as silly as ever.

    "What do you want, Officer McNeil," Bob said, annoyed.

    "Don't give me any of your attitude, scum," Red said.

    "I brought you a present," Red continued, reaching into his shirt pocket.

    He brought something up to his mouth, took out a red plastic lighter and lit what appeared to be a cigarette. Red took a deep drag, and blew the smoke into Bob's cell. Bob knew instantly that it was marijuana.

    "What the Hell are you doing!" Bob exclaimed.

    "I know you don't really want to leave us," Red said, taking another deep pull on the roach, and blowing the smoke into the cell.

    "I've got no beef with you, McNeil," Bob groaned, almost pleading.

    Bob knew that the only thing that would stop his release, at 11:00 this morning, would be being caught with drugs, and McNeil knew it, too.

    McNeil held the cigarette out to Bob, “Here, try it, it's really good."

    "No way," said Bob, standing up, and moving toward the back of the cell.

    "Here, you Wussy, take it!" Red snarled, as he flipped the burning roach onto Bob's bunk.

    Bob moved quickly toward the cigarette. He picked it up and slapped out the sparks on his blanket. He then walked to the back of the cell and flushed it.

    While this was going on, Red was yelling, "Hey, Anderson: somebody's doing drugs on your block! I smell grass!"

    Bob heard the gate opening and closing and then fast moving footsteps.

    "What the hell are you doing on my block McNeil?"  Anderson asked.

    "I've got this block tomorrow and I thought I'd do a quick walk through," McNeil answered. "Where were you?  I caught Freeman doing grass on your block," he continued.

    "I was in the can," Anderson replied defensively.

    "Smell the grass?"  McNeil asked.

    "I've got a cold, I can't smell anything" Anderson lied.

    Bob remained silent.

    "You're not allowed on any block in civvies, and you know better," Anderson finally said.

    "Let's toss his cell. I'm sure we'll find more grass," McNeil said, his hand going unconsciously to his shirt pocket.

   "Damn!" thought Bob, "he's got more on him and he's going to plant it in my cell."

    "McNeil has grass in his shirt pocket and he's going to plant it in here." Bob shouted.

    "Shut up, scum!" McNeil retorted viciously.

    "What's in your pocket?" Anderson asked, looking at Red's shirt pocket.

    "Nothing!"

    "I don't know what's going on here and I probably don't want to know, but I want you off my block, McNeil,"  said Anderson.

    McNeil started to reply.

    "Now!" Anderson thundered. "Do you want me to call the watch commander?"

    "Okay, okay," Red said.  Then turning back to Bob, he said," This isn't over yet, white trash."

    The two guards walked away from Bob's cell.

    Bob sat on his bunk for the next 10 minutes trying to regain his composure.  The clock on the corridor wall across from his cell said 4:10 a.m.

    He sat thinking about how he ended up here. It all started, he knew, when he left Grants Pass.  He'd come to Florida looking for excitement; he'd certainly found it.

    He'd answered an ad in a Miami newspaper that said, “Real-estate salesperson wanted; no experience necessary; will train.” That's when he'd met Lorraine. They had hit it off from the start.

    By the end of the first year, he was Sales Manager, with eight salespeople working under him. That year he paid taxes on $160,000. Not only did he receive commissions on everything he sold, but he also got overrides from everyone else's sales.

    He and Lorraine had become an item the night he passed his real estate exam, and what a night it had been.  Bob had never met anyone like her; dark hair, brown eyes, and she had a natural tan.  After that they were together almost every night.  Lorraine never came into the office; of course he didn't notice that at the time.
She let him run everything at the office.  She worked on the contracts and paperwork at her home, a large condo overlooking the beach. The second year he was on track to make over a quarter of a million dollars. That was when it hit the fan. It was 10:30 in the morning, the Florida State police arrived in mass, they arrested everyone in the office, and they seized all of the computers, and paperwork.

    Bob was charged with several different kinds of fraud.

    They were selling unimproved lots that they didn't own.  The land had been purchased on contracts to be subdivided. The prosecutor told Bob that 40 percent of each sale was supposed to go to the contract holders; they had never received a dime.

   The first call Bob made at the police station was to Lorraine; her phone had been disconnected.

    It took Bob three days to get his bail lowered enough to get himself out.

    When Bob went to the condo, it was empty; there was no sign that she had ever been there.  The prosecutors told him everything was in his name. He couldn't prove Lorraine ever existed.

    His lawyer told him if he gave back the 8 million dollars, he could get a deal, 30 days in a minimum-security prison.

    They took almost everything.

    Over the previous six months, he had bought 24, 1oz. Gold Eagle coins. He had stashed them in a private safety deposit box.  He destroyed all records of the coins, and got away with it.

    At the non-jury trial Bob was found guilty of real-estate fraud.

    The judge still believed that Bob had the eight million, so he gave him 3 to 5 years in a maximum-security prison.  That had scared the hell out of Bob, and if he had had the eight million, he would have given it back in a heartbeat.  But he didn't, so he couldn't.

    Luckily for Bob, maximum-security prisons are very crowded and expensive, so the bureau of prisons had his sentence changed to medium security, but he was warned he was going to do the full five years.

    When he got to the prison, he found out that each day of good time was worth two days of prison time.  A good-time day is any day a guard doesn't bad-time you. If Bob kept his nose clean, he would be out in 2-½ years.

    Those 2-½ years were over this morning at 11 a.m., and Bob could hardly stand the waiting. He finally stretched out on the bunk, and got a little more sleep.  They came and took him over to the release office at 9:15.

    Bob was surprised to find Anderson there, waiting for him.

    "I wanted to make sure you got out of here okay," Anderson said, "I figured McNeil would try to pull something. He still thinks you have the 8 million hidden somewhere. There's an $800,000 reward, for anyone who finds it. I know you haven't got it Bob."

    Bill Anderson was the only friend Bob had among the guards. Bill was a Florida State University professor on sabbatical. He was writing a book about criminals. Late at night they would talk about what happened to Bob, Bill wanted all the details.  Bob knew that Bill was the only one who believed his story.

    Bob spent the next 40 minutes reading and signing release forms. They gave him back his street clothes, his wallet, and the small overnight bag he'd had with him when they locked him up. They also gave him the four hundred fifty dollars that was in his prison account.  He had earned it in the prison wood shop, at the rate of one dollar an hour.

    Bob changed into his street clothes, and gave them back the prison uniform.

    Finally, he was ready to leave.

    He expected to sit on the hard wooden bench for 45 minutes, waiting for 11 a.m. to come around.

    Bill surprised him; he handed Bob his release folder and said, "Okay, get the hell out of here."

    Bob took the folder, thanked Bill, and headed for the door. The door buzzed as Bob touched it; he pulled on the handle and walked through into the yard. His form fitting blue jeans, and black T-shirt, felt uncomfortably tight after the floppy prison uniform he had worn for over 30 months.

    Bob showed the guard on the main gate his release folder.  The guard pushed the button that opened the 20-foot high inner gate; Bob stepped through.  He waited while the big inner gate closed, and then the outer gate slid open. Bob took 16 steps to freedom.

    Bob scanned the large gravel parking lot and spotted Uley's big white ‘37-caddy convertible, with the top down.

    Uley saw him, and laid on the horn.

    "The Bob is free!" Uley yelled as loud as he could.

    "Uley had been the only one that had testified at Bob's trial, for he was the only other person that had actually met Lorraine.  Unfortunately, Uley was so shy that he found it difficult to look people directly in the eye, and this made him appear deceptive.
They didn't believe a word he said, but at least he tried.

    Bob got in the car.

  "  Did you take care of that thing?"  Bob asked.

    "Yup, here it is," Uley said handing Bob a fat envelope.

    Bob pulled the flap out of the unsealed envelope, and saw the money inside.

    "How much did you get?" Bob asked.

    "22,400."

    "Did you save two of them," Bob asked.

    "Yup, they're in the envelope," Uley replied.

    Bob dug down into the envelope and pulled out the last two golden Eagles. He took one and handed it to Uley.

    "No, no," Uley protested, "you don't have to pay me."

    "It's not pay--it's a present, from one friend to another, a good luck piece," said Bob.

    "Well, okay," Uley said reluctantly, as he took the coin. "They sure are heavy." He held up the bright shiny gold coin.

    "As long as you have that coin, you will never go hungry," Bob said.  "Take me to the airport's Motel Row, boy."

    "Who you calling boy, old man," Uley replied.

    "Shut up, and put some tunes on, boy."

    Uley started the car, and cranked up the stereo system.

    The next morning Bob Freeman was up at 7:30 a.m.; he had finished breakfast by 9:15 and boarded his plane at 9:50.

    He sat in the very comfortable seat and looked around the huge interior of the Boeing, Starcruiser 888; a flying auditorium some people said. The plane was almost as wide as it was long. It used third-generation Scramjet technology. With oxygen tanks strapped in the rear passenger compartment, the 888 could go to the moon, and back.

    Today it would fly at only mock 7, (almost 6,000 mph) and just 15 to 20 miles high. It would take less than two hours to fly from, Miami Florida, to Medford Oregon. The Starcruiser would take longer to ascend to, and descend from, cruising altitude, than the cross-continent trip itself. He would be flying for just over two hours.  He would leave Miami at 10 a.m. and arrive in Medford at 9 a.m.  He would be traveling over three times faster than the sun.

    He didn't know what he was going to tell his mother; she thought he had written a book, and was working on another.  He had needed to borrow a few hundred dollars from her for his prison account. A few weeks later he managed to get the job in the prison wood shop.  He told her he had quit his job and was writing a book.  He felt really bad about lying to her, but he didn't want to admit he was in jail.

    He was really surprised at what she had done while he was in Florida.  She bought the old Beanie's café. It had gone out of business because of the construction of the new Town Square. Now that the Square was finished, she was doing really well.

    The plane finally started to move; the captain came on the P. A. system with the usual announcements.

    Twenty minutes later Bob was asleep.

    When Bob awoke, he looked out the window and immediately wished he had his enhanced binoculars. From this altitude he could tell roughly where his hometown was, but he couldn't actually see it.
 
 

Chapter 3
More echoes of the past

    Clint followed the door around in its half circle and stepped into the lobby.  After the brightness outside, the bank's interior seemed dark.  It was a few seconds before his eyes adjusted.

    There were only three other customers; he walked toward the short line.

    Feeling a little light-headed, he realized he was still holding his breath. He chuckled to himself, exhaled and took a deep breath.

    When it was his turn, he stepped up to the counter, laid his driver's license and the bank ID card, that Uncle Rob had sent him, on it, and said, "I would like to take some money out of my account."

    The young, shapely, red haired girl looked at his driver's license and the account ID card.

    "How much would you like today, Mr. Fox?"

    "10 thousand dollars should do, for now," Clint replied.

    Clint realized he was holding his breath again.

    The young lady glanced up at him, Clint thought he saw a look of recognition in her beautiful green eyes; she looked vaguely familiar.

    "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Clint asked.

    "Yes, we went to high school together, well, not really together, you were graduating the year I started high school.  If you noticed me, you would've known me as Rose. Now I go by Bobbie."

    "Excuse me a minute, she continued, I have to check with the manager."

    Clint's stomach tightened, as she walked towards the manager's office. She showed the two cards to a young, tall, dark haired man. He examined them, and they both came back toward him.

    As they approached, Clint said, "Is there something wrong?" He could feel blood pounding in his ears.

    "Oh no! Nothing’s wrong; it's just that Larry Smith, our bank president would want to meet you."

    "He'll be disappointed if he misses you. He just called and said he would be here in five or ten minutes. Do you think you could wait?

    "Sure," Clint said.

    "Come with me. You can wait in Larry's office; I'm sure he won't mind."

    Clint followed the young man.

    The office wasn't plush, but neither was it Spartan. Clint settled down into a comfortable, upholstered, swivel chair.

    About five minutes later a tall, blond, balding man in his mid 40’s entered the office. "Good morning, you must be Clinton Fox," he said. "I'm Larry Smith."

    Clint stood up and the two men shook hands.

    "Could we get you some coffee, a soft drink or something?"

    "No thank you," Clint said, "I'm fine."

    "This is probably going to take a while," Larry said, "we have quite a bit of paperwork to go over."

    "I just wanted to make a withdrawal," Clint said. "Is there a problem?"

    "No, no," Larry said, "there's no problem, it’s just, well, we should get the accounts transferred completely into your name. When your uncle opened the accounts, he left instructions as to how to structure the trust, and investment accounts. Technically the money is still in your Uncle Rob’s name; he also left a durable power of attorney that allows us to transfer everything over to you."

    "I see," Clint said.

    "Using that power of attorney, the bank has paid your taxes and taken care of the details for the past six years," Larry continued.

    "It will probably take us about an hour to get everything transferred into your name."

    "Do you have an attorney?"

    "No, Clint said.

    "Would you like me to recommend someone?" Larry asked.

    "Why do I need an attorney?" Clint said, becoming anxious again.

    "Well actually, you need an attorney, and a good accountant, to protect this much money," Larry said.

    "It's the government: your Uncle Rob structured your accounts very carefully to avoid as much tax as possible."

    "Oh, " Clint said, feeling a little stupid.

    "Who do you recommend?" Clint asked.

    "Bruce Hondle," Larry said. "I can give him a call if you like; he should really be in on this."

    "Am I going to be able to get some money today?" Clint asked.

    "Yes of course, we have one account in your name,"

    "How much can I get today?"

    Larry turned towards his computer screen, tapped some keys, waited a few seconds, and said; "you can have up to three hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

    Clint smiled and relaxed.

    "Can you do all of this paperwork without me, and I'll just come in and sign everything when you're finished?"

    "Well, yes, of course," Larry said, surprised.

    "I have complete confidence in Uncle Rob's business sense. Transfer the accounts, as they now exist, into my name."

    "When I come in to sign the papers maybe we could have a meeting with the lawyer and the accountant at the same time," Clint continued.

    "That's a good idea, I'll see if I can set up a meeting that meets all of our schedules," Larry said.

    "Exactly how much money do I have in all of my accounts?"

    Larry began tapping on his keyboard, "An absolute accounting would take several hours," Larry said, "but it looks like between 25 and 26 million dollars."

    "But I thought the accounts only had 15 or 16 million dollars in them," Clint said, surprised.

    "That was true in the beginning, but it's been six years. Your investment accounts have done fairly well; money left alone grows faster than most people expect."

    Larry was pleased, and the smile on his face showed it.

    "Well I guess your bank has done just fine," Clint said.

    Clint, standing up, said, "I'd like to get ten thousand dollars today."

    Larry stood up and said, "of course."

    Five minutes later, Larry was back, He laid a print sheet on the desk in front of Clint and said; " Put your right thumb there," indicating the light gray square at the bottom of the sheet. After Clint complied, Larry counted out, 20 crisp, new, five hundred-dollar bills.

    William McKinley never looked better.

    Clint folded the money and put it in his right pants pocket.

    Larry said, "let me make up a print sheet of your account information."

    Print sheets were all that was left of the printed computers that had been the rage in the early teens.  One print sheet could hold up to 400 pages of information and graphics. They were as thin as a single sheet of paper, foldable, and could be encrypted.

    Larry picked up a blank print sheet. He touched the sheet's pink corner to the monitor's dark red corner; he waited a few seconds, until it beeped. He handed the sheet to Clint.

    "You will probably notice, once you get a chance to study this, that several of your accounts aren't actually in cash, they hold various investment instruments.  The new Town Square was financed by your municipal bond account.  The parking meters are paying that account back with tax-free interest," said Larry.

    Clint smiled, and almost laughed--the irony wasn't lost on him.

    Clint said, "thank you," he glanced down at the print sheet full of his account information. The small box at the top right-hand corner said, Page 1 through 17.

    Clint touched the black encrypt button with his right thumb.  The printing on the sheet changed to gibberish. Clint folded the sheet twice, and put it in his shirt pocket.

    He shook Larry's hand, said "Thank you," picked up his backpack, and walked out of the office.

    Clint stopped, just outside the door, and turned around.

    "As soon as I get set up here in town, I'll call you, with my address and phone number, see you soon."

    Larry watched Clint as he moved across the lobby. He liked the young man. "He has his mother's clear blue eyes," Larry thought.

    It made him uncomfortable to see the boy. If things had gone a little differently, he might have been Clint's father.

    Clint walked down the street to the drugstore and bought a telephone.

    When he called the bank to give Larry his new phone number, Bobbie answered.  Clint was quite pleased when she invited him to come see her at her evening job. She was a bartender out at the old Rogue River roadhouse.

       Clint told her he would stop in as soon as he got situated.
 
 

Chapter 4
 INTERRUPTIONS

     Clint came out of the bathroom feeling cleaner than he had felt in a year; he especially liked the waterfall.
He went to the kitchen alcove to check on his clothes in the little washer-dryer.  It would be five more minutes.

     Clint looked around his beautiful penthouse suite, marveling at his luck.  Henry, the manager of the motor hotel,
had been very rude when he refused to let Clint stay here without a credit or debit card.  Clint had called Larry attempting to
get a card so that he could check in.  When he told Larry the story, Larry had pulled some strings and arranged this  penthouse suite and all of the available amenities for Clint, for a full week for free.  Larry knew the district manager personally, and the man owed him a favor.  Once the district manager told the motor hotel manager that Clint was a personal friend of his, the rude irritating man started treating Clint with an embarrassing amount of deference.

    Clint was completely unaware of the  fact that within fifteen minutes of his name going into the hotel's computer, penthouses 14A and 14C had been reserved.
   Before the hour was out, two-person teams occupied two of the other three penthouse suites.  Each team was from a different organization. 14A contained a husband and wife from Seattle, Washington. A two-man team from Portland, Oregon inhabited 14C.  Each team knew about the other, but they had adopted a live and let live stance. Both teams' objectives coincided, in most ways.

    A soft woman's voice from nowhere, and everywhere, said, "There is someone at the door."

    Clint walked to the foyer, and pushed the red, flashing, hall camera "on" button.

    Clint saw a short, very attractive blue eyed, blond girl standing outside his door. She was wearing a sky blue pants suit.

    "May I help you," Clint said.

    "Hi, I'm Cindy, Henry sent me up. He thought you might like a little company," the girl said, smiling.

    "I don't understand," said Clint.

    The girl looked both ways and moved toward the camera.

    "You know, a friend, for an hour or so," the girl said with an exaggerated wink.

    "Oh!" Clint said, flustered. "No thank you, I don't think I'm interested," he continued, surprised and embarrassed.

    "It's okay, I'm paid for," she said, smiling.

     Even though Clint was wearing the bathrobe, he felt naked.

    "I'm sorry, I'm not interested," he said emphatically.

    "I don't under...  Ooh, I get it, you're... Boy did Henry get it wrong this time--I'm sorry to have bothered you."

    Without another word she turned and headed for the elevator. She looked as good from the back as she had from the front.
Clint suffered a moment of regret. "Oh well, there'll be time enough for that, later," he thought.

    Clint pushed the hall camera "off" button.

    Clint heard a strange ringing sound coming from the bedroom. Walking into the bedroom he realized it was his new phone. He pushed the talk button.

   "Hello," said Clint.

   "Hi Clint, this is Larry Smith, is your room okay?"

    "It's unbelievable.  How did you manage it?"

    "Mike Princeton is an old friend of mind. I helped arrange the financing for the motor hotels in Grants Pass and Medford. I told him that without your large accounts I wouldn't have been able to do the deal," Larry explained.

    "Is that so? Can I fire the manager?"  Clint said chuckling.

    "Yeah I know--Henry is a real piece of work.  No, I'm afraid you can't fire Henry; the deal went through several government mortgage guarantee and re-purchasing programs. I just set it up--none of our money is involved now."

    "Darn!" Clint said--he wasn't serious.

    "The reason I called is this: if you want to have that meeting tomorrow, it could be at either 9, or 10 a.m.; it will only take about an hour. Will one of those times work for you? We can get your credit and debit cards set up then too."

    "10 a.m. will work just fine for me."  Clint said.

    "Okay, Clint, I'll see you then."

    "Thanks a lot for your help Larry, I owe you one."

    "That's okay, it was good to talk to Mike again."

    "Bye," said Larry.

    "Talk to you later," Clint said.

    Clint heard a buzzer in the kitchen.  "My clothes must be dry," he thought walking toward the washer.

    Once again the soft voice from everywhere said, "There is someone at the door."

    "What now," Clint said, annoyed.

    Clint went back into the foyer and pushed the button.

    The washer-dryer buzzer was still sounding.

    There was a tall dark-haired young man standing at Clint's door.

    "May I help you?" Clint said.

    "Hi, I'm Alexander. Henry sent me up. He told me you wanted a friend."     "What!" blurted Clint, shocked and embarrassed. He stared at the young man for five or six seconds, I suppose you're already paid for."

    "Of course," Alexander said.

    "I don't care what the Nose said, I'm not gay,"  Clint protested loudly, reaching for the camera "off" button.

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute, don't get upset. I understand: you're in a new town, you don't want to take any chances. I've been there. Look at you, all fresh and clean in a fluffy bathrobe, your hair still wet.  Just let me come in and we'll get to know each other. If we get along, fine. If not, I'll go, no problem."

    Clint was surprised, but he then noticed that a light was lit on the control panel that said, "Hall monitor".  He hadn't realized that he could be seen from the hall.

   "You don't seem to be hearing me--I'm not gay!"  Clint said, embarrassed, and almost shouting.

    A light seemed to come on in Alexander's eyes; he seemed to be genuinely surprised.

    "Okay, okay, I understand: as usual, Henry got it wrong, and I'm sorry to have bothered you."  The young man started to walk away, looking dejected.

    "Wait a minute," Clint said. "You've already been paid?"

    "Yes, but Henry will want his money back."

    "Can you get out of the building without Henry seeing you?" Clint asked.

    "Yes, of course I can."

    "Keep the money. Henry will never find out from me, but just don't let him catch you," Clint said.

    "Okay, you got a deal--thanks a lot."

    The young man walked toward the exit door.

    As Clint pushed the off button, he said out loud, “What Next, Sheep, Goats?"

    The people in 14A and 14C had identified both of Clint's visitors as they rode up in the elevator. Neither visitor represented any danger, so the agents just watched, and listened. At the end of the two exchanges, they were all working hard to hold back snickers. Clint's final line about goats, and sheep was just too much: they all dissolved into quiet laughter.
 
 

Chapter 5
Felicia

    The next morning Clint showed up at the bank at 9:30; other than Larry, he expected to be the first one there.  He was surprised to find Larry Smith, Bruce Hondle, and Terry Tibbs, waiting for him in a glasswalled conference room.  They spent the next 45 minutes getting all of Clint's accounts in order and arranging for two insurance policies that Larry and Terry felt that he needed.  After all of that business was taken care of, Larry, the bank manager, asked Clint to accompany him back into his office.

     "The reason I wanted to talk to you is, you said you wanted a car--how does a red convertible sound to you, a Chevy G2.2?" asked Larry.

    "Sounds great--where is it?" Clint replied.

    "It's parked in the back parking lot, it's a voluntary repo. It's less than a year old, and kind of a sad story. A young couple bought it, and then the husband was killed in a logging accident. He didn't have any insurance, and she doesn't make enough money to pay for it."

    "Can I see it?" asked Clint, standing up.

    "Sure," Larry said, picking up a black plastic key card.

    The two men walked out the back exit to the parking lot. There were several cars parked in the back lot, but no red convertible.

    Larry walked over to a green, two-door hard top.

    "I thought you said it was a red convertible," said Clint.

    "It’s any color convertible you want it to be--watch this,” said Larry enthusiastically.

    Larry pushed another button on the card and the driver side door slid open. He got in behind the wheel, manipulated something on the console, and the car suddenly turned bright candy apple red. He then touched a button in the center of the passenger compartment above the windshield. The front of the trunk lid popped open about 16 inches, and the top slid quietly down into it, the trunk lid then popped shut.

    "Incredible!" Clint said, delighted.  “I've heard of Chameleon cars, but I've never seen one. I thought they only changed color in small increments of tint. "

    "That was the older ones. A friend of mind had a green one that could go from very, very pale green, almost white, to dark green, almost black. The newer models will do almost anything, probably even polka dots if that's what you wanted,"  Larry responded exuberantly.

    "What year is it?" Clint asked.

    "It's a ‘47. The couple only drove her eight months, so she has less than four thousand miles on her."

    "The seats are still green; that doesn't look very good,"  Clint said.

    "No problem," Larry responded. "What color would you like? Red? White? Black? You can have the interior any color you want."

    "Let's try black, No, Do it white." Clint stammered.

    "How about black and white stripes," Larry said chuckling.

    "No, no, I've decided, at least for now I'd like the interior white."

    Larry made some kind of adjustments on the console. Clint stepped back a few steps, and gazed at the car. It was now a beautiful, long, low, Candy Apple Red Convertible, with a clean white interior, the chrome caught the light just right, and Clint was in love.

    "It's for sale by sealed bid, the bidding closes at noon tomorrow. I've only received one other bid. It came in from a dealer.  I can't tell you how much it is, but it's very low."

    "How much does the woman owe on it?"  Clint asked.

    "78 thousand and change," Larry answered.

    "What's retail book on it?"  Clint asked.

    "I think retail book is about 88 thousand."

    "What about wholesale book?"  Clint asked.

    "I think it's about 72,000."  Larry replied.

    "Who gets the extra money if I were to bid 83 thousand? "Clint asked.

    "Janet would get the extra, she would get anything over 68."

    "It's still covered by the factory warranty isn't it?"

    "Yes, the drive train is covered for eight years or 100,000 miles, the battery pack is covered for 10 years,” Larry replied.

    As this exchange was going on, Clint was walking slowly around the car, examining every inch, and kicking all four heavily perforated solid rubber tires.  Clint knew the hundreds of holes in the tires were for cooling; actually the tires were composites, and it was just called rubber.

    The tires did have five or ten percent rubber in them, but they were mostly, soft, flexible plastics.  The traction would always be the same on solid tires, thus the white coats could engineer cars to the third decimal point.

    "If I'm the successful bidder, when would I be able to get the car?" Clint asked as he slid in behind the steering wheel.

    "You would own it, as of noon tomorrow." Larry replied.  "First, I need to call Janet and Terry. If Janet agrees, and if Terry will insure it immediately, I would be able to let you take it now.  Sort of an overnight test drive."

    "That would be great. Let's do it!  I bid 83 thousand."  Clint said, smiling broadly.

    "Don't you want to drive it first?"  Larry asked.

    "No, I don't think it's necessary--all cars seem to drive about the same anymore, and everything on them is adjustable anyway."

    "What kinds of fuel does it burn?" Clint continued.

    "It's a flexible injector, diesel hybrid; it will burn anything from schedule five, to schedule twelve.  I've been told that in a pinch it will even burn cheap regular,” Larry replied.

    Clint was pleased with the versatility of the engine.  The prices of the different fuels fluctuated constantly.

    "Here's the key card," Larry said handing it to Clint.  "At least take her for a spin around the parking lot, while I go in and make some phone calls."

    Larry walked toward the back door of the bank.

    Clint gently pushed the red flashing door button on the 10" by 12" touch-screen above the console.  The door slid silently closed; the button turned solid green.

    The sun was beating down on Clint, so he reached up and pushed the "top-up" button.  The "top-up" button immediately changed to a "top-down "button.  Clint heard the trunk lid open, turned and watched as the top slid smoothly and quietly up.  He then heard the trunk lid close.

    Clint looked more closely at the screen built into the dashboard; he touched the table of contents. He touched auto adjustments; a voice came from the speakers all over the car.

    "Please sit in a comfortable position, looking forward, with seat belts fastened and your hands on the steering wheel; auto adjust will begin in five seconds."

    Clint very quickly fastened his seat belt, and looked forward.  He felt the seat adjusting itself to fit him perfectly. The steering wheel moved away from him a little, and adjusted its angle.

    "If this configuration is acceptable, please say, “Lock,"  the voice said.

    "Lock," Clint said.

    Clint put his elbows on the armrests and found them a little lower than they had been; it was almost as if the car was built for him.

    "To end this program say, “End."

    "Clint said, “End."

    Clint looked closely at the screen once more; he touched the button that said “mode.”  The screen gave him a number of options; he touched voice mode.

    "Hello," Clint said.

    "Hello," the car responded, "How may I help you?"

    "Is there an artificial intelligence mode?" Clint asked.

    "Yes, there are four levels of computer function: direct control, minor logic, fuzzy logic, and intuitive fuzzy logic.  Would you like to make a selection?"

    "Yes, I would like intuitive fuzzy logic."

    There was a 10-second delay, and then the car said, "Intuitive fuzzy logic activated. Say “lock,” and fuzzy logic will be your default selection."            Clint said, "Lock."

    Larry walked out of the bank heading toward Clint's door.  Clint lowered the driver's side window.

    "I need your driver's license," Larry said, "everyone is on board, so you can take the car in a few minutes."

    "Great!" Clint said, handing him his driver's license.

    Larry went back toward the bank's back door.

    Clint said, "Raise window."

    The window slid silently up.

    "Do you have a name?"

    Clint knew that most artificial intelligence engines were either named or contained the option.

    "I do not presently have a name assigned," the car responded.

    "Your new name will be Felicia," Clint said.

    "If you wish to lock that name in, say lock now," the car said.

    Clint said, "Lock."

    "That is a female name, so do you wish me to change the voice mode to female?"

    The voice had changed from a nondescript male voice to a bright, interesting female voice.

    "Yes of course," Clint replied.

    "Do you wish this to be your default setting?"  Felicia asked.

    "Yes" Clint replied.

    "Done," the car responded.

    "How do you wish to be addressed?" Felicia inquired.

    "Clint, Clint Fox," he replied.

    "May I continue in informal mode?"  The car asked.

    "Yes."

    "Thank you, Clint," Felicia said.

  "What should I do now?" Clint asked the car.

    "I need your mobile phone number, driver's license number, and insurance number," Felicia replied. "I will also need to know if you wish me to stay in auto-protect mode.

    "What is auto protect mode?"  Clint asked.

    "Auto protect mode is a crash avoidance system built into your car.   It’s a sensing system that uses the auto drive mode to take any necessary action to avoid contact with other vehicles, or objects, including pedestrians," the car replied.

    "Fine, I would like to crash into as few things as possible,” Clint said, smiling."

    "Thank you, Clint," Felicia replied.

    Larry came out of the bank and climbed in on the passenger side.  He handed Clint a credit card and said, “Here's the debit card for your personal account; if you look at the back you'll see the running balance.  Push the little gold button at the top anytime you're within 50 feet of a ATM machine, and it will update your balance."

    "Next is your debit ring, so put one of these on your right hand," he said, opening a small black ring case with 15 or 20 rings in it. "I suggest you take a gold one and a silver one."

    Clint selected two rings, a silver one with a small blue stone, and a gold one with a red stone.  He slipped both rings on his right hand. The silver one fit his pinkie; the Gold one fit his ring finger. He held the rings up to the light and said, “these will do just fine.”

    "Don't wear them both at the same time, or you're liable to blow up the ring reader," Larry said chuckling.

    Clint slipped the gold ring off his ring finger, and put it in his pocket.

    "Okay everything is set up: this is your insurance number. Here is your driver's license, and this is a temporary authorization to operate this car.  Just put your thumb here, here, here, and here."

    Clint complied.

    "Remember, you need to bring the car back for a few minutes, at noon tomorrow. This last print sheet I had you sign was your 83,000 dollar bid,"  Larry said.

    As Larry got out of the car, he turned to Clint and said, "Thanks a lot, Clint. I'll see you tomorrow, so don't wreck her--enjoy. I'm running late as usual."

    Larry walked back toward the bank. He turned and waved just before he went through the door.

    "Well I guess it's just you and me, Felicia."

    "I do not understand the question,” Felicia responded.

    "Can you take me to the Grants Pass Wall-Mall?" Clint queried.

    "Yes I can, Clint, but first, you must insert the key card. I need your mobile phone number, driver's license number, and insurance number. Then you must drive the car manually to the nearest auto-drive lane.

    Clint gave Felicia the numbers on the documents lying on the passenger seat.

    "Thank you, Clint; this vehicle is now legal."

    "You may now use your right thumb, to unlock the ignition, doors, trunk, and engine compartment. I've accessed your thumb print from the department of motor vehicles,” Felicia continued.

    "Thank you, Felicia, good job."

    "Where is the nearest auto-drive lane?" Clint asked.

    "The nearest lane passes by on 6th Street, in front of the Rogue Valley Bank. It is the lane bordered by green lines," the car replied.

    Clint stepped lightly on the accelerator and pulled the car out of its parking place. He drove around the bank and out onto 6th Street. It had been almost three months since he had driven. To have wheels again felt great; he decided he would drive the convertible for awhile.

    "I think I'll drive for awhile Felicia," Clint said."

    "Yes, Clint," the car responded.

    Clint thought for a moment that he detected disappointment in her voice, but he immediately dismissed that as being silly; artificial intelligence engines didn't have feelings. He had read that scientists felt that in fifty years A. I.'s would have feelings, and then the real fun would begin.

    Clint couldn't stand it; he was dying to try out the auto drive. It had only been around for three or four years in high-end cars, and he hadn't tried it yet.

    "Felicia, engage the auto drive please."  Clint said.

    "Yes, Clint, please give me speed and destination."

    "Highest legal speed, Grants Pass Wall-Mall,"  Clint replied.

    "Auto drive in progress," she responded.

     There it was again: Clint thought he detected a hint of pleasure in her voice.

     The car drove itself up 6th, and after five blocks, Clint said, "This isn't the shortest way to the Wall-Mall."

     "Yes I know, but it's the shortest route with auto-drive lanes."

     "Oh," Clint said.

     The car continued up 6th Street to the highway interchange. She got onto the freeway and headed south to the first offramp, where she slowed down and exited the freeway. She pulled into the Wall-Mall auto-drive stopping area. The stopping area consisted of a small parking lot near the street, with green lines separating the parking spaces.

    "Disengaging auto drive,” the car reported.

    "Fine," Clint said. "I'll take it from here."

    Clint put his hands on the wheel and drove through the parking lot toward the mall. When he found a parking space near one of the entrances, he parked.

    Clint sat in the car thinking about his newest experience. It had been like having an invisible driver sitting next to him. Clint had tried closing his eyes during the drive and found it almost impossible to keep them shut. He knew that quite a few people reported sleeping for hours, as their car auto drove hundreds of miles down the highway. It would be quite awhile before he would feel that trusting with a machine.

    Clint looked up at the huge building that housed the mall. It was the same mall that his mother brought him to at the close of every summer. Clint missed his mom very much; they had been the Fox team, two against the world.

    "Is there something wrong, Clint? Your pulse rate and breathing have increased," Felicia asked quietly, with concern.

    Felicia's question startled Clint. For a moment he looked around trying to figure out who was talking; suddenly he just wanted to run, get away from this place as quickly as possible.

    "Let's get out of here, take me to the Wall Mall in Medford."

    "I can't, Clint, you must drive to the auto-drive area,"  Felicia replied.

    "Oh yeah, I forgot,"  said Clint, agitated.

    Clint put the car in reverse and stepped on the accelerator.  The car moved about three feet--then the brakes slammed on, and a buzzer began to sound.  Clint looked behind him and saw that he had almost hit a woman pushing a shopping cart.  After the woman moved away, he backed slowly out of the parking place, and drove with extreme care to the auto drive area.

   "Take over, Felicia, maximum legal speed; the north Medford Wall Mall."

    "Yes, Clint."

    As they pulled away from the Wall-Mall, Clint began to feel better, but by the time they actually reached the highway, he was becoming angry.  Running away again, Fox, he thought to himself.  Running and hiding like a stinking baby, you coward!

    Clint looked around inside the car that would soon be his; at least, this time he was running away in style.

    "How does it feel to be driving a stinking coward around?" Clint asked the car.

    After a short pause, Felicia said, "I don't understand the question, Clint."

    "How do you feel driving someone around who runs away from anything that might be the slightest bit painful?" Clint asked again.

    "Clint, I don't think I feel anything, I am a program that is integrated into a computer. I can't give you a response.  Is there someone inside the Wall-Mall that wants to hurt you?" the car asked.

    "No, Felicia, it's the memories--that was the Mall that my mother and I went to when I got my new school clothes every year, it was always a happy time, but she died six years ago.

    "That is sad, I am very sorry," the car said quietly.

    "Disengage auto-drive," Clint said putting his hands on the steering wheel.

    Clint exited the freeway at Rogue River, turned around, and headed back for Grants Pass.  "No more running!  From here on out, I'm in charge."

    Just after he reentered the freeway a buzzer began to sound and a light began blinking on the dashboard, "You are about to exceed the posted speed limit, Clint,"  Felicia said.

    "Okay, okay, I'll slow down.”  Clint knew that if he exceeded the speed limit by 7 mph, his car would automatically report him to the authorities, and he would receive a citation in the mail.

    Clint's tires squealed a bit as he pulled into the Wall-Mall parking lot; he pulled into a space in front of one of the entrances.

    "As soon as I get out, lock up, and turn on the alarm system," Clint said.

    "Yes Clint,” Felicia responded.

    "If I'm not back in four hours, come in after me," Clint said, as the door slid open and he stepped out.

    "Yes, Clint," the car replied.

    Felicia, watched him on four of her 23 external cameras. As he walked through the mall doors, she started a four-hour timer.

    After Larry Smith sent Clint on his way, he went directly to his office. He used his thumb to unlock the very secure lower left-hand drawer in his desk; he pulled out a large, strange looking cherry red phone. Larry pushed several buttons with cryptic symbols on them, in a very careful order. He knew if he made a single mistake, the electronics in the phone would instantly burn up. He put the phone to his ear, and
a computer generated voice said, "Voice-print check, please: state your name."

    "Lawrence Smith," Larry said.  Larry waited for a few seconds, and then
a young female operator came on the line.

    "To whom do you wish to speak?" she asked.

    "Mr. Nightingale."  Larry knew to say nothing else.

    In Redmond Washington, just east of Seattle, another phone, identical to the one Larry now had sitting on his desk, began
to ring, and it too was locked in a drawer.
 After six or seven rings, the phone was answered: "Mr. Nightingale," the man on the other end said.

    "This is Larry Smith," Larry said.

    "Hi Larry, how are you, did you get the package delivered?"

    "I sure did; he was thrilled.  I told him that it was a voluntary repo, and that the young woman that had it couldn't afford the payments, because her husband had been killed.  The damn kid offered 5 thousand more for it than he had to.

    "Whatever he paid for it, it's not enough. That car cost me almost a million dollars,"  Mr. Nightingale said.

    Larry whistled, "How come so much?"

    Well, it's NATO class A--bullet, bomb, and rocket proof.  The thing has got some electronics in it that won't be available to most people for 50 years. I've got to protect the kid until I get this mess straightened out.

    "Why don't you just bring him in, show him you're still alive, and tell him the situation?" Larry asked.

    "I won't get him mixed up in this crap, because I want him to have a normal life. I chose this; he and Susan didn't. You know how much this life has cost me, and I want better for him," Mr. Nightingale answered.  "I've got to go--red lights are blinking."

    "Bye Cli... I mean, Mr. Nightingale,” said Larry.

    "Bye, Larry," Mr. Nightingale said.

    Both men hung up, picked up their scrambled, secure, satellite phones, and locked them away.

    Larry got up, and walked out into the lobby.

    Mr. Nightingale pushed one of the red blinking buttons on his desk and said, "What is it, Charlotte?"

    "Mr. Connors is here from intelligence with your weekly briefing," Charlotte said.

    "Just have him leave it; I'll look at it later," the man Larry called Mr. Nightingale said.

    "He says it’s verbal only—it’s about the Mexican thing, whatever that means."

    "Alright, send him in."

    "Yes, Mr. Fox," she replied.

    The electric lock clicked on the office door, and a young, well-dressed man came in and sat down.

    "Don't get too comfortable, Connors; it's a busy afternoon," Mr. Fox said.

    The young man stood back up quickly and said, "I'm sorry, Sir." Embarrassed, he launched right into the briefing.

    "Indications are that the Ramirez cartel of northern Mexico is responsible for the attempted assassination of your son yesterday."  They know the Vasquez cartel of southern Mexico has attempted to kidnap your son, and hold him, forcing you to return their money. The Ramirez cartel believes that with a billion dollars in capital, the Vasquez cartel would start a war that would ultimately end in the Ramiriz demise. So, the Ramirez cartel has decided the best answer for them is. . . kill your son." Connors said.

    "We definitely do not want the Vasquez cartel controlling all of Mexico," Clinton interjected. "Where did this information come from?"

    "This information has been squeezed out of almost every source we have south of the border."

    "There is one more piece of bad news," Connors continued.  "The Ramirez cartel has offered a contract to Delgado, a contract on you.  We don't know if he's accepted it yet."

    "Is that all?" Clinton Fox Sr. said, stone-faced.

    "Yes Sir, that's all we have, so far.

    "Thank you very much, good job, Connors," Clinton said.

    Clinton opened the door and allowed the young man to leave. He then walked over to his desk, pushed one of the buttons and said, "Charlotte please call Bill Mitchell in intelligence, and tell him that from now on, I want Connors to bring the daily briefing."

    "Yes, Sir,"  Charlotte replied. "Matt Jones, from operations, is on line three--he says it's urgent."

    Clinton pushed the button for line three and said, "What's up, Matt?"

    "Do you want us to bring your son in? We heard a rumor that Delgado is after him."

    "No, no, you got it wrong, intelligence thinks Delgado is after me. He won't accept the contract; I know his weakness.  Keep your people sharp--I'll own your balls if anything happens to my kid,"  Clinton said.

    "We have eighteen people in Josephine County, and the NSA has six; we have an assortment of freelance operatives in place as well."

    "Your son will be safe as long as he stays in the county," Matt said.

    "Okay Matt, one more thing, get a message to Delgado. Tell him I'll never tell your eight secrets, but others might. Sign it: “The Fox."

    "Will do," Matt said.

    He could feel the blood pounding in his head and down his back. Damn blood pressure’s up again, he thought; he took a deep breath and tried to relax.

    He touched the button under the lip of his desk, and the center computer screen slid silently up in front of him.

    He was surprised to see the screen full of text, and then he remembered that he had been working on the preface for the new training manual yesterday when all hell had broken loose.

    He began to read what he had written.

    "They had no idea what the world was really like when they gutted the federal government almost twenty years ago; they left the United States almost defenseless. Luckily the same move weakened every other government on the planet.

    Where there's a power vacuum someone will always move into it. That's where the multinational corporations came in. As people lost their federal government jobs, the corporate giants smelled opportunity. They began increasing their security forces, and their espionage departments; highly trained people came cheap.

    Soon American corporations began forming alliances, creating countries inside America. What was left of the American intelligence establishment watched and courted friends among the corporate alliances. The West Coast alliance was felt to be friendly."

  Clinton still harbored a vehement hatred of the American moderate party.

  He knew more then he wanted to know about the almost bloodless, American second revolution of 2018. The revolt was the last gasp of the damn baby boomer generation. It was carried out with voter registration, re-registration, and sit-ins.  It was a trip back to the 1960’s, but by then the boomers knew how to use the system.  They formed the American moderate party, and over a period of 8 years changed two thirds of the Congress and Senate. They even managed to elect four of the last five presidents.

    Since then, federal intelligence and law enforcement agencies, were almost nonexistent. Federal taxes were now about one fourth of what they had been before the revolution; of course state taxes were now about three times higher.

    Clinton realized what he had written was much too harsh. If it leaked there would be hard feelings. He didn't need to alienate what was left of the government, especially not now.

    He touched the delete button; the white sheet crumpled itself into a ball and flew into the recycle bin. He touched the solitaire icon and selected a game. As he played he continued to think about his situation.

    When all was said and done, it was still about money and power. He had it, and he was going to keep it. There was only one thing he was unwilling to sacrifice.

    He had managed to keep the existence of his wife and child a secret, and even after Susan died, the secret survived. It had just been a stupid twist of fate. Clint and his alcoholic friend Bobo had been caught urinating in an alley. The Santa Fe police made a big deal out of it; they called them sexual offenders. That's when the DNA test was done. Clinton had called in favors, and had the charges dropped, but it was too late. The results of the test had gone out on the web. Someone had crosschecked and nailed Clint as being his son.

    That foolishness about a Clinton Fox State Park hadn't helped; it had only confirmed his identity. That's when the real fun began.

   Clinton pushed a button on his desk and said, "Charlotte, I've been at it since three o'clock this morning. I'm going to call it a day. If anything really important blows up, I'll be upstairs."

  Clinton got on his private elevator and rode it up two floors to his small apartment.
 
 

Chapter 7
Toys, toys, toys

    As Clint walked through the mall doors, he saw kids everywhere, and smelled Carmel popcorn; the smell triggered a multitude of memories. Clint had expected the ghosts hiding in the mall to overwhelm him, but the exact opposite was true, for he felt suddenly warm, and a little excited.  He had forgotten how many kids hung out at the mall.  "It must not be a school day," he thought. Teenagers were everywhere.

    He and the rest of the Shan Creek gang had spent almost every Saturday here.  Clint had gotten his allowance every Saturday morning, and by Saturday night he was always broke.

    The kids wondered around in small groups, most wearing the latest brightly colored teen fashions.  Most of the kids wore game goggles, and in some of the corners there were spirited sword fights going on. Of course, he couldn't see any swords, only the kids wearing goggles could see them.

    The virtual reality goggles were a technical wonder; they held up to 16 high-resolution cameras. The cameras recorded everything around the gamer, and then the small computer that they had clipped to their belt processed all that data.  Then, inside the goggles, it projected 3-D game objects over the obstacles and terrain around them. This meant that you could have running battles anywhere.  With 2056 bit graphics, the illusion was almost perfect: some of the high-end goggles projected actual pre-recorded video.

     Goggles had been expensive when he was a teenager; they didn't usually leave home.  Most families only had one pair.  Now that the cheap goggles had gone below fifty dollars, Clint guessed that most families had a pair for each child.  It looked like a challenge culture was developing. It appeared that a quick game had replaced the usual verbal sparring, pushing matches, and fistfights.

    Clint reached one of the intersections without being challenged to a virtual fight; he turned left and headed toward the Radio Shack. He hadn't been to the Shack for at least five years. As long as he was here, he'd see what kind of new Electro-toys had hit the shelves. Walking into the store he was surprised to see that it was now at least twice as large as it had been when he was a kid.

    He felt like a kid in a candy store; he had almost unlimited credit, and the whole afternoon.

    First he wanted to see the new robots, not that he needed one; he just wanted to see what they could do now.

    Clint knew more about robots than the average person did--he knew all about the history of the machines. When he was 11 he had decided that he wanted to be a robotics engineer. He knew that a lot of people had made millions during the early teens.  And that the robot bubble had burst in the late teens.  The Sony Co. had made fabulous profits with their cleaning robots.  Robots were supposed to be the next great thing, and everyone was going to profit from robots. The stock market soared; everyone was going to be rich.  Any little garage robot company that could actually show a product gathered more investors then they could use.  It was like the tech boom in the 1990s.  There were one or two IPOs every day.  But like the early Internet companies, robots had a fatal flaw. Most robots could only do one or two things. As you added task abilities to a robot, you added complexity and cost.

    He knew that in 2015 one of the academic scientists estimated that to produce an all-purpose robot with an IQ of 60 would cost approximately 8 million dollars.  This robot would have a life of approximately 20 years. There are few jobs for robots with low IQ’s that pay $400,000 a year. So robots were relegated back to the expensive toy category. The stock market plunged, and limped along for the next few years.

    Clint also knew that in 2017 Dr. Robert Gray developed a way to operate robots remotely over the satellite Net.  That had led to millions of new jobs in Third World countries.  Now people in almost any part of the world could get jobs at their local VR center. The robots these men and women would be operating would be doing the simple, backbreaking, or dirty jobs. The kind of jobs that the citizens of the rich industrialized countries didn't want. The people in the Third World could then go home each night, and live in their own village, in their own country. These people, for the first time, had the money to purchase products from those same industrialized countries. The robot bubble reinflated and the entire world prospered.
Clint wandered up and down the aisles looking at everything, and trying whatever interested him.

    Clint liked the selection of ready-made robots; muscle wire, insect robots, foot-tall wheeled robots, various one- or two-task domestic robots, and about five hundred different kits.

    The kits were mind-boggling.  There were kits to build almost every kind of robot on display. There were miniature video camera kits, electronically enhanced microscope kits, electronically enhanced telescope kits.

    Clint wandered around pushing the "touch me" buttons located on the top right hand corner of each of the kit boxes. Touching the little gold buttons would start a recorded, one or two-minute sales pitch.

    Both the enhanced microscope and the telescope kits claimed they used the latest technology, a three giga-pixel super-high-resolution video pickup chip.  The telescope kit box claimed that it gave you resolution equal to a 100-inch conventional telescope with atmospheric distortion canceling.

    The microscope box claimed resolution equal to 20th century electron microscopes.

    Clint turned down the last aisle and found what he had come in here for, the electronic pets.  He was surprised at the selection; he had seen the robotic dogs and electromechanical cats.  But now they had created robotic replicas of 50 or 60 real and imagined animals. There were foot tall dinosaurs, small horses, unicorns, monkeys, rats, snakes, life-like teddy bears, and even four small fish tanks with brightly colored artificial fish swimming around happily. Clint was looking for a small robotic dog. As he walked down the aisle he was captivated by the way the small creatures reacted to him.

    The small dinosaurs threw back their heads and gave out small roars; the small horses and unicorns Galloped back and forth across the top shelf. The tiny mechanical tropical fish turned and watched him as he walked by, three or four brightly colored birds began to sing, and several of the parrots started to talk. They all seemed to react to him in one way or another.

    Except for the lack of smell, it seemed like a normal pet shop.

    At the end of the aisle Clint found the robotic dogs.  Clint wanted an electronic dog to keep an eye on his apartment while he slept. He found himself waking up several times during the night, because of the unaccustomed noises coming from below him. If he knew there was an electronic sentry on duty, he felt he would sleep through the night without any problem. At least that was the reason he gave himself, but the fact was, he was lonely.

    They had the activated robotic dogs in an open topped, 4-ft. by 4-ft. clear plastic box on the bottom shelf. It was the same kind of a box they would display organic puppies in, in a real pet shop. They even had the bottom of the box filled with wood shavings.

    Clint chuckled when he saw the shavings.

    Almost everyone used the small mechanical dogs as security, and fire detection systems in their homes. They could be programmed to stay completely out of the way, and go on guard at night, or whenever the house was empty. At as little as 200 dollars they were a real bargain.

    Most of the middle and higher-end dogs had phone and video capabilities; they could be programmed to contact the authorities directly. The authorities, in turn, could then access the robot's video and audio sensors and view first hand what was going on.

    There were eight different small dogs in the large box.

    Clint saw the one he wanted immediately.  It looked like a golden retriever puppy, with honey-colored eyes. Clint picked it up. The small robot didn't smell like a puppy, for it had the clean smell of new fabric.

    "How are you, little one?"  Clint murmured.

    He knew that talking to this little robot was pure foolishness, but the small mechanical creature reacted with the squirming exuberance of a real puppy. It even licked his hands and face with a small dry tongue.

    The overall effect was delightful; the marketing people had seen to that. Clint pressed the gold "touch-me" button on the small tag attached to the red collar worn by the small robot. The dog settled down as Clint listened to the two-minute description of its features.

    "That's my favorite robot dog," a voice said behind Clint.

    Clint started, stood up, and turned toward the sales clerk.

    "It's a little pricey but it's the most realistic and responsive. The skin is attached with the newer velvet Velcro, which is much stronger and thinner than the old Velcro and holds tighter, and it hides the seams better. The 1024 encrypted audio and video can go directly out on the Web. You can access it from anywhere on the planet.  This little 'bot can be programmed using any computer: Windows, Mac, and even Unix,"  the big man said.

    "How much?"  Clint asked.

    "679 plus tax," the clerk replied.

    "Okay, that sounds good,"  Clint said as he walked over to the glass sales counters still holding the small robot dog.

    Clint also bought a, four person, Sony game-goggle system, and a wallet with GPS capability.

    At the last minute he decided to get the electronically enhanced telescope kit and a self-tracking tripod for it. It would be fun to look at Grants Pass from his balcony.  The kit claimed it could be built in less than an hour with the included tools.

    "What are those?" Clint asked, pointing to four robots behind the counter.

    "Those are the Web controlled robots.  You buy one for $2995.00, then you sign a contract with the company, and you have an intelligent robot on demand," said the clerk.

    "I don't understand," Clint said.

    "They're like the commercial harvesting and cleaning robots that you see everywhere, except they're limited; you buy one and take it home.  It sits in the corner, and when you want it to do something, you tell it what you want. An operator in Asia, or South America, goes on duty, does the task, then the bot goes back and sits down, and the operator goes off-duty.  You only pay for the operator when the robot is actually doing something.  Depending on the contract you sign, it can be between 12 and 18 dollars per hour. That's a lot cheaper than hiring a person, but you can only use them for up to 60 hours a month.  It's basically for domestic chores.  A lot of women call them their plastic husbands," the man said.

    "Why are they limited to 60 hours a month?" Clint asked.

    "Government regulations: they figure that if you need household help for more than 60 hours a month, you should hire an American human. Do you want one?"  The clerk replied.

    "No, I was just curious.” Clint's said.

     Clint knew he was very close to the thousand-dollar limit that Bruce, his new lawyer-accountant, had set for spur-of-the-moment purchases.  With tax his bill came to $1356.00.  He considered putting something back, but decided he wanted everything he had picked out.  He asked the clerk if he could break the purchased into two parts, the clerk agreed, so Clint felt he, technically, didn't break the rule.

    The clerk put Clint’s purchases in two large plastic bags and walked with him to the door.

    "Thank you very much--you be sure and come back again," the clerk said, smiling broadly.

    Clint carried his packages along the mall corridor, and out the door to the parking lot, still dodging the multitude of children.

    He liked the game system he'd bought; it had four pairs of goggles. The game system was built right into the sides of the eyewear. The goggles looked like wrap-around sunglasses; they had a light-enhancing system built in that featured 0-Lux night vision capability.

    As Clint approached his car, the trunk popped open.

    "Thank you, Felicia," he said.

    "You're welcome, Clint," she replied.

    Clint placed his packages on the floor of the trunk.

    "Okay, please lock up, Felicia. I've got to go clothes shopping."

    "Yes, Clint."

    Clint walked back toward the mall; Felicia's countdown clock was at one-hour 43 minutes remaining.

    Clint wandered up and down the Mall looking at the clothing displayed in the Windows, he finally found a shop that he liked. The store had both men's, and women's clothing and accessories.

    Clint walked around in the store and found the scanner in the back, he stepped on the small platform put his arms straight out from his sides, and waited while the platform slowly rotated. When the scanner was finished measuring him, it beeped several times and spit out a small white plastic square.  He would insert this small plastic data square into a slot on any rack of clothing he was interested in.  Small LEDs would than light up on the individual clothes hangers, showing him immediately which clothing would fit him; yellow for might fit; green, that would definitely fit; and red, for the clothing that wouldn't fit him. It made shopping for clothes a lot faster and simpler.

    After he had his new data square, he headed straight for the pants and found four pair that he liked, so he took them to the sales counter and left them there. Clint then headed for the shirts.

    It took him about 35 minutes to complete his wardrobe: shirts, pants, underwear, socks, and two pair of new shoes.

    Clint had even found a shirt and pair of pants that would change color just like his car.  He, of course, had to have them.

    What really impressed him was the women's Chameleon accessories, they had sets including; shoes, belts, and purses that
would change color in unison. If a woman wanted to wear a blue dress, she could just turn a small dial inside the purse, and make the accessories either match or contrast the dress.  Clint tried them; the color change was produced by liquid crystals, stimulated by safe micro-currents.

    Clint assumed the shirt and pants he bought worked the same way, but up till now he had only seen color changes on shiny surfaces.  The Chameleon clothes he bought felt like a normal cotton polyester blend.

    Clint paid for his purchases, using the debit ring again, and left the store.

    As Clint approached his car again, Felicia popped the trunk for him.

    "Thank you, Felicia," Clint said after he tossed his bags into the trunk.

    There were almost 40 minutes left on Felicia's "come in and get me timer," so she shut it down.

    Clint drove back to the motor hotel and spent a quiet afternoon assembling his new telescope, and programming and enjoying his new mechanical puppy.  At about seven o'clock his room's telephone began to ring.  He hesitated before he picked it up, hoping it wasn't Henry the obnoxious manager.

    "Hello," he said.

    "Is your refrigerator running?"  the voice asked.  "Do you have Prince Albert in a can?" the voice continued.

    "Yes, it's running I'll go catch it. Yes, I'll send Prince Albert home right away. Buzz, you Jackass," Clint said laughing, "I'd know your voice anywhere, Asshole."

    "How the hell are you doing, I was just thinking about you this afternoon, I stepped in something and thought, I wonder what Buzz is up to,"  Clint said chuckling.

    "I hear you've been here for two days and you haven't called me; talk about Assholes,"  Buzz countered.

    "I've been really busy since I got here; I was planning to call you tomorrow."

    "You know I stay up late, so why don't you come out here now?  Do you have a car?" Buzz asked.

    "No I can't, I'm tired, it's been a long busy day--when we get together, we are going to probably talk for days. I figure I'll last another two or three hours before I collapse.”

    Clint told Buzz about the car he got, and how he got it, but he just wasn't really comfortable talking about his money yet. People can change a lot in six years; he didn't want to take the chance of alienating Buzz.

    They talked for another 20 or 30 minutes, and then Buzz said he had to go. He was waiting for an online auction to come close to its end, so he could do some price sniping. He told Clint he would see him tomorrow.

    Clint was very pleased with the call; he'd put off calling Buzz because he was afraid that Buzz had changed. If the call was any indication, he hadn't changed at all.

    Clint went back to watching television and absentmindedly petting his sleeping puppy.
 

    The four people in 14 C and 14 A were at high alert, because there was a unidentified Latino male on his way up in the elevator with a room service cart.  The three men and the woman stepped out into the hall simultaneously; guns already drawn.
The two startled men from 14 C immediately recognized the man and woman from 14 A. The tallest of the two N. S. A. men grabbed his partner’s arm, and muttered, "Let them take it." The two men quickly disappeared back into 14 C, leaving the well-armed man and woman in control of the hall.

    As the elevator doors slid open, they went to stand on either side of the portal, against the opposite wall, with their silenced 9-mm automatics carefully held behind them.

    A surprised looking dark skinned man stood in the elevator gazing at them from behind a food service cart.

    "Where's your hotel ID badge?" The woman barked at him.

    "I just started today--I don't have one yet," the man replied in broken English.

    "No one ordered room service on this floor. What are you doing here?" the woman spat, quickly raising her pistol.

    The man in the elevator moved with unbelievable speed. He kicked the food service cart out into the hall. The silenced machine pistol he had been holding behind him, stitched a row of holes across the woman's chest, the last bullet grazing her unprotected left arm, splattering blood on the wall.  She went down.  Her partner fired four times, which seemed to stun the man in the elevator for a moment. But then he stepped out into the hall.

    Suddenly the door to 14 C burst open, eight more bullets slammed into the waiter from the two N. S. A. men, and though also silenced, they were much louder.

    The Mexican finally slumped to the floor.

    The agents made the necessary telephone calls; the woman was helped back to her feet. She was quietly taken to the hospital to get the flesh wound she suffered to her arm bandaged.

    The only words exchanged between the two pair of agents were, "Thank God for Kevlar." The smiling reply was,  "and for Magnums."
 

    Clint stretched, yawned, and decided it was bedtime.  He picked up the puppy, put it on the floor, and said, "Guard mode on."  The affectionate little alarm system started patrolling the apartment.  Pinocchio went down the hall into the bedroom, back out, and then he did a circuit of the living room.  When he finished his first circuit, he started a second.  Clint was rather surprised at the fact that the little robotic animal was now paying no attention to him at all.  Once he had said, "Guard mode on," it was as if he no longer existed.

    Clint opened the sliding glass door that led to the balcony about 10 inches; Pinocchio immediately added the balcony to his guard area. Clint watched as the small dog marched out on the balcony, walked a circuit on it, and returned to the living room.

    Clint stretched and said, "living room lights, off."  The living room was suddenly plunged into darkness. It took a second, or two, for the six small floor night-lights to come on.

    Clint headed for the bedroom; he paused for a second at the front door controls, and flipped the switch that turned the "do not disturb" panel on in the outside hall.

    Clint would've been surprised to know the panic that that had caused in the hall.  The sweeper team had already removed the Mexican's body, but there was still quite a bit of blood to clean up, and holes to patch.

    Clint then continued into the bedroom, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. As he lay there in the semi-darkness, he was quite pleased with the small robotic guard dog; it made him feel protected, and safe.
 
 

Chapter 8
REUNION

    Clint was jolted awake by a piercing two-tone siren, and the words; INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT! In two seconds he was out of bed and fumbling with the thing that was making all the noise. After he picked it up he realized it was his phone. He looked at it for a few seconds. Confused and befuddled, he pushed the End Button--the terrible noise ceased. Looking around the room still bewildered, he could hear his pseudo-dog barking fanatically somewhere down the hall.

    He quickly left the bedroom and ran toward the living room. Clint could feel his heart beating rapidly from the adrenaline pumping through his body. As he walked into the living room, he could tell the small dog was barking hysterically out on the balcony. Still wearing only his light blue T-shirt, and underwear, he stepped onto the deck.

    The small robot was barking at a tall, thin, white haired African-American man, wearing a maintenance uniform. The man was up on the chest-high railing.

    "That's enough Pinocchio!" Clint shouted. The small, noisy dog ignored him.

    Then he remembered: " Pinocchio, guard mode off."

    The small dog stopped barking and ran over to Clint, wagging its tail; it looked back and barked one more time.

    "What are you doing here?" Clint asked the man aggressively.

    "I just came here to wash the windows. It's my job; didn't mean to wake you up," the man said. "I've been bit by one of those things before" he said waving toward Pinocchio.  "Still got the scar right here on my ankle, it hurt for two weeks," he said, lifting his pant leg.

    Clint turned slightly and looked the length of the balcony. There were a couple of rags, a black plastic bucket, and several other cleaning objects strewn across it. At the far end of the balcony there was a small service door that he hadn't noticed before. The half door was standing wide open; it led to a set of stairs.

    "I didn't know that was there," Clint said waving toward the gray, four-foot high door, "The desk should have called, and told me you were coming. I wouldn't have let Pinocchio out on the deck if I'd known," Clint said.

    Clint picked up his puppy, and walked toward the living room's sliding glass door.

    "I'll leave you to your work, then," Clint said, suddenly becoming aware of the fact, that he was standing on his balcony, talking to a stranger, wearing only his underwear.

    Once inside he closed the strip drapes.

    "Well I guess you worked, but I've got to go back to your web page, and deactivate the cell phone alert function,” he said to his puppy.

    The puppy's tail started wagging, and he started trying to lick Clint's face.

    He looked at his wrist, realized he wasn't wearing his watch, and walked toward the bedroom.  He put the puppy down, and picked up his timepiece-- it read 10:45 a.m.

    "Oh well, I was getting up at 11 anyway,"  he said, yawning and stretching.

    Clint took a long, hot shower, used the hotel supplied shaving wipes, and got dressed.  He wore all new clothes.

    He fixed himself two wave bacon and cheese omelets and two wave packs of hash browns.

    Clint momentarily felt guilty about not fixing the pup something.

    He looked around and didn't see Pinocchio; he stepped into the living room and found him lying on his charger bed.

    "After guarding the penthouse all night, its battery pack must be low," Clint thought as he looked at the small bundle of fur with amused affection.

    Clint spent the next 40 minutes savoring his meal; he even had a second cup of coffee. When he finished his second cup of coffee, he still didn't feel like he was ready to go.

    It had been three days since he arrived back in town, and he hadn't called anyone; he'd waited until Buzz called him.

    "If it were me, I'd be mad," Clint muttered out loud.

    "Oh well, if he's mad I'll make it up to him," Clint mumbled to himself.

    "After all! I'm bringing toys," Clint suddenly said out loud, walking into the small kitchen and putting his dishes in the sink.

    Clint gathered together the things that he wanted to take with him to Buzz's house. He wanted to bring the puppy along; Buzz would absolutely love it, but he didn't want to damage the robot by discharging its batteries too far.

    Clint walked in and grabbed the instruction print sheet for the puppy, touched "battery pack" on the table of contents, and quickly read the page.  It said that the small robot would operate for 72 hours in the guard mode without being re-charged.

    "Okay, I'll be able to take Pinocchio with me," Clint thought to himself, quite pleased.

    He picked up the items he was taking with him and said; "Here, Pinocchio."

    The little dog jumped off its bed and came running. Clint opened the front door and walked across to the elevator, pushed the button, then went back and closed and locked the penthouse door. The puppy had followed him out into the hall. Clint sniffed the air; it smelled like fresh paint.  "They must be painting one of the other penthouses," Clint decided. He looked down the hall at the other doors; two of the other three apartments were occupied, and their "do not disturb panels" were lit.

    Clint and Pinocchio rode the elevator down to the parking garage.

    "Hi beautiful, disarm and unlock, please,"  Clint said to the candy-apple red convertible.

    "Good afternoon, Clint," Felicia replied.

    "Open the trunk please," Clint said.

    The trunk popped, and then opened.

    He put the electronic toys he was carrying in the trunk, and closed it.

    Clint said, "Open the door please, Felicia."  As the door slid open, Clint picked up the pup, and put it on the seat. It walked over to the passenger side.

    Clint slid in and put his right thumb on the start panel; the instruments lit up, and the door slid shut, but Clint didn't hear the engine start. He knew the battery pack was probably fully charged; the car had been parked against the charger-bar all night.

    He was going to take highway 199 out to Shan Creek road; he still couldn't bring himself to go Lower River Road. The road along the River was shorter, but there were too many bad memories along that Route.

    After a pleasant thirty-minute ride, Clint pulled over about a mile from his destination.

    "Lower the top please, Felicia," he said, pressing the "windows down" button himself.

    Clint felt his anxiety increasing a little, as he drove the last mile. "This is really dumb," he thought, "they'll be as glad to see me, as I will be to see them."

    Clint turned into Buzz's ½ mile long, dirt driveway, and proceeded up through the thick trees toward the house. The big old home was built in the center of the clearing. There was an area of about a hundred yards in every direction from the house, which was free of the thick second growth timber that surrounded the clearing. On the East side of the red dirt driveway, there were six or seven old apple trees left over from when Buzz's grandfather had tried to raise the fickle fruit. There were also three or four huge old oak trees shading the cabin.

    As Clint approached, he could see two people standing next to the cabin.  At first he thought it was Buzz and Bob; when he got closer he could see it was actually, Buzz and Mike. Mike was wearing a Josephine County Deputy Sheriff's uniform.

    He came to a stop beside the two men.

    "Hey Buzz, Mike, how's it going?" Clint said smiling. "I didn't know you were going to be here, Mike," he added.

    ‘What's this, you being a cop? You're the last person I thought would be carrying a gun, and fighting the bad guys."

    The big man seemed almost embarrassed.

    "Oh well, you know, small town, I passed the civil service exam. I really wanted to be a fireman, but the deputy job opened up first, so here I am, Deputy Sheriff Mike."

    "Well you're sure looking good," Clint said.

    Mike had lost about 50 lbs. since the last time Clint had seen him.

    "Wow! Where did you steal this."  Buzz asked, grinning broadly, and rubbing his hand on the fender of the car.

    "It's mine. I told you about it. I bought it yesterday, pretty cool, huh?"

    "Where's Bob?  I thought you said he was going to be here," Clint continued.

    "He had to leave, he'll be back,"  Buzz replied.

    Clint got out of the car and put his hand out toward Buzz, but Buzz ignored the hand and hugged him like a long lost brother.

    "I missed you, man,"  Buzz said, still hugging Clint.

    "I missed you too, you dipstick,"  Clint replied, returning the hug.

    "Okay, okay, that's enough, that's enough, keep this up and we'll have to have a cigarette,” Clint said.

    Clint put his hand out toward Mike; Mike put his arms way out and pretended like he was going to give Clint a really big hug too.

    "No, no more hugging," Clint said backing away and beginning to chuckle.

    Mike put his head down and pretended to be dejected.

    "You gave him some, how come I don't get any?” Mike said.

    "Come on Clint just give me a little," Mike said putting his arms way out again, and starting towards Clint, with a Frankenstein gait.

    Clint started backing away laughing, trying to avoid one of Mike's famous spine-cracking Bear hugs.

    Pinocchio started barking; all three men immediately shifted their attention to the small robotic animal.

    "Well who is this?" Buzz asked, walking toward the passenger side of the car. "It looks like somebody's got themselves a dog."

    As Buzz approached, the small robot ran over to the driver's side of the seat.

    "Doesn't look like he's very friendly," Buzz said.

    "It's a fuzzy-bot. Come over here," Clint said as he picked up the pseudo-dog.

    Buzz walked around the front of the car, and the small dog barked as he approached.

    "It's okay, Pinocchio, calm down," Clint commanded, petting the little robot soothingly.

    "Friend Recognition mode on," Clint said, holding the dog so that it faced Buzz.

    The small animal barked twice.

    "Put your arms out, and slowly turn around, Buzz," Clint said.

    "Why?  What do you mean?" Buzz said, looking at Clint,
confused.

    "Because I have to program in, that you're a friend--you need to put your arms out and turn completely around--then he'll recognize you as being a friend and not a stranger.

    "Oh, okay," Buzz said as he complied.

    The small bot barked once as Buzz completed his turn.

    "There, he'll now recognize you as being one of his friends. They have it set up that way to make it harder for people to steal the small robots. They're set up at the factory to run away from anyone who's not programmed in as a friend."

    "Well hello, little one."  Buzz said, as he took the small dog from Clint.

    Now the little bot reacted to Buzz in its normal, tail wagging, face- licking way.

    "He is really remarkable.  I've read about them,” said Buzz, “and seen pictures on the Web, but I've never actually seen one in person, or held one before. Why do you call him Pinocchio--is that the factory installed name?" Buzz petted the pup gently.

    "No, I named him Pinocchio. It's because he seems to want to be a real dog," Clint replied.

    As Mike began to approach the two men, the pup began barking at him.

   Clint went through the friend-recognition routine again.

    "There, now were all friends," Clint said as he handed the pup back to Buzz.

    Clint was pleased, and amused, at how the two men fussed over the small robot.

    "Oh, what about that beer, Buzz,"  Mike said.

    Buzz looked at him blankly for a moment, and then a light came on.

    "Oh yeah, Mike and I were going to go over and get a couple of six packs. Do you want to walk over to the store, and help me carry them back; he claims he has a sore foot?" Buzz said, waving toward Mike.

    "Why don't we take my car?"  Clint asked.

    "A... this is when I usually take my daily walk, particularly when I've worked on the web all morning. It clears my head," Buzz replied, glancing at Mike.

    Clint didn't relish the thought of walking over a mile to the store and back.

    "Oh well, okay, the exercise will probably do me some good, too."     Buzz put the pup down and said, "Come on, little one, let's go for a walk." The two men and the robot dog started off along the shortcut path to the store.

    The pup, as usual, reacted to the walk through the woods the same way a real puppy would.  Pinocchio sniffed and examined all the new things he was discovering.

    "You're right: he really seems to want to be a real puppy,"  Buzz observed, watching the pup.

    "Yeah, it's really strange.  I can't help but like the little mechanical monster,"  Clint commented. "You want to see something really funny?"  Clint continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the robot's steel teeth.   "The bot came with these. I talked to a guy today, who said he'd been bit by one of the fuzzy-bots.  He said it hurt for weeks."

    "I can see why," said Buzz, taking the stainless-steel dentures, and running his fingers across the sharp points on the teeth. Buzz handed the shiny teeth back to Clint, who slipped them into his pocket.

    The two men continued along the path.

    Mike was watching them intently, leaning against the back of Clint's car.

    An informal part of Mike's job was now keeping an eye on Clint.

    Two days ago Mike had seen Clint going into the bank.  Out of curiosity he had run an Internet check on Clint, to see if he'd gotten into any trouble while he was away.