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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.  He was surprised to find that Clint was wanted as a person of interest in the homicide of Robert Boyd Jones.  He had just finished his Internet search when Sheriff Carter called him into his office.  The sheriff had noticed that Mike was doing the search on Clint Fox, and was surprised when he found out that Mike actually knew him.

    Sheriff Carter told Mike that it was important to certain people in Grants Pass that Clint not leave the county.  He had asked Mike to keep an eye on Clint, and anyone else who was around him.  Mike was more or less ordered to let the Sheriff know, if anything out of the ordinary happened, or if Clint made any plans to leave the county.  Mike, as a brand-new deputy, found the whole thing a bit exciting.

    Suddenly there was a commotion in the bushes; a man wearing a ski mask, and holding a gun, jumped out on the trail in front of Clint and Buzz.

    "Hands up! Get down on the ground!" the man yelled.

    Though the man was over 10 yards away, Clint crouched down, and began running toward him.  The man fired his weapon in the air.  Clint launched into a flying tackle, hitting the man just above the waist. The two men fell into a pile of pine needles, and the gun flew out of the attacker's hand.

    Mike was surprised when Clint rushed the gunman; he stood up to get a better look.  That's when he saw movement in the forest near his three friends.  The two shadows were converging on the site of what was now a wrestling match. When one of the strangers stepped into a patch of light, Mike could see he was carrying a gun--with a silencer.

    "Oh crap!" Mike said, reaching for his pistol and not finding it strapped to his hip.

    Mike turned and ran toward his car; he knew his pistol was under the seat on the driver's side. He threw the door open and fumbled under the seat for his automatic.

    Clint now had the gunman pinned under him; he reached up and pulled the ski mask off his attacker.  The body under Clint was now shaking with laughter.

    "Thought you could scare me, you Jackass,"  Clint said, beginning to laugh himself."

    "Okay, okay, what gave me away?" said Bob Freeman, the fourth member of the Shan Creek gang.

    "It's your so-called partners in crime; Buzz never walked anywhere in his life when he could ride, and none of us ever drink before 6 p.m., because daytime hangovers are hell. I saw the Iron General parked behind the house, I could see it reflected in the garage window.

    Clint and Bob both noticed Mike was coming toward them at a trot. By the time Mike had retrieved his gun and returned to where he had been standing, the only people he could see were his three friends.

    He scanned the forest very carefully, and could see no one; it was almost as if he had imagined it all.

    "Let's get back up to the house." Mike said loudly, his eyes nervously scanning the woods. He had his gun stuck in his belt, and he'd pulled his shirt out to cover it.

    Clint sniffed the air, “I smell a skunk,"  he said, wrinkling his nose.

    "So do I," said Buzz, pinching his nose with his finger and thumb.

    "Oh no! Where's Pinocchio!"  Clint said.

    "Here, Pinocchio, come here, boy," both Clint and Buzz said in unison.

    The small robot came running out of the woods.  As he got closer the young men could tell Pinocchio had found himself a friend, a very stinky friend. The two men lying on the ground got up very quickly.

    "Stay!  Stay!" Clint said, pointing at the dog, and trying to stay clear of it.  The puppy stopped, looked at Clint, and started wagging its tail. The smell was so bad that Clint's eyes were beginning to water.  "Good boy, you're a good puppy,"  Clint said, reassuring the small creature.

    The pup started toward him again.  "No!  No!  Stay!"  Clint said.

    "Do you have any tomato juice or baking soda at the house?"  Clint asked Buzz.

    "Yeah, I think I have both, but first we have to get him up there without touching us,"  Buzz replied.

    "That shouldn't really be a problem; he minds better than a real dog." Clint said.

    "Once we get him up there we can take his skin off and soak it,"  Buzz said.

    "Real dog?  Take his skin off? What the hell are you two talking about? What kind of dog is that?" Bob asked, more than just a little confused.

    "It's a fuzzy-bot; you know, one of those robotic pets,"  Buzz said.

    Bob knew exactly what fuzzy-bots were, for he'd bought one of the early fuzzy-bot cats for Lorraine. The thought gave him a little twinge.

    The fuzzy-bots then didn't have such realistic fur; they were more like a plush stuffed animal.

    The trip back up to the house was funny to watch; everyone but Bob had to keep avoiding the small pup. It was like a satirical dance.

    When they got up near the house, Buzz told Clint to keep the robot occupied while he went and found some stuff.  Buzz dug around in the garage for awhile, then came out with a small stack of newspapers, an old porcelain basin, and a pair of mis-matched long rubber gloves--one glove was pink and the other was blue.

    Buzz went up on the porch and laid out several sheets of newspaper.

    Buzz put the rubber gloves on, and said; "come on Pinocchio," to the little dog. The robot ran up onto the porch and sat on the newspapers, looking up at Buzz, wagging its tail.

    "Okay, little fella, lie down,"  Buzz commanded, as he pushed the dog down, and rolled it on its back.  It took Buzz about 5 minutes to work the velvet Velcro loose, and pull the dog's skin off. Working with rubber gloves on made it very difficult, but it kept the skunk scent off of him.

   "There you are," Buzz said, picking the skin up, and placing it in the basin.

    The poor puppy looked terrible: it was all black pseudo-muscles and shiny gray plastic trying to act like a puppy.  It still had a certain amount of charm, but the illusion was mostly gone.

    "Boy, that's one potent skunk," Buzz said, his eyes now watering. Buzz put the basin on the workbench and went in the back door of the house.

    After two minutes, he came out with a big box of baking soda, and a large can of tomato juice.

    "Get the hose and turn it on low, will you Clint." Buzz said.

    Clint found the hose, turned it on low, and headed for the garage.

    He watched as Buzz first poured about half of the baking soda on the skin, followed by the entire can of juice.  Buzz took the hose from Clint and filled the white basin almost to the top. It was a red, gory mess, with the skin floating on the top. It looked like someone was giving a bath to a slaughtered animal. Buzz put his glove-clad hands into the mess and squeezed the skin a few times, then he rubbed it, making sure that the juice, and soda saturated the smelly skin.

    "That should do for now, we'll let it soak for a couple hours, then put it through the washing machine," Buzz said.

    "If that doesn't do it, I can buy a new skin for it, for eighty nine dollars and change." Clint said.

    "I'm pretty sure it will work; it always worked on Rufus,” Buzz said.

    “Rufus always smelled bad anyway.  Whatever happened to him?"  Clint asked.

    "We never knew; he just wandered off and never came back. He was almost as old as me.”

    Mike came walking around from the front of the house holding the strongly scented newspapers, formed into a large ball. Bob was following a few steps behind him.

    "What do you want me to do with these." Mike asked, holding the newspapers up.

    "Throw them in Clint's car.  He claims Rufus used to stink, and that's a terrible thing to say about another man's dog."

    "Okay," Mike said, smiling and walking toward Clint's beautiful convertible.

    "No!  No! Don't you dare, you buttface!"  Clint said, walking quickly toward Mike.

    Mike arrived at Felicia's door before Clint could get to him.

    Just as he was about to drop the aromatic newspapers into the open convertible, Buzz said, “No, it's not the car's fault its owner is an asshole-- throw the newspapers in the burn barrel."

    "Thank you, Asshole," Clint said, bowing grandly.

    "You're welcome." Buzz replied, putting his thumb to his nose and wiggling his upraised fingers at Clint.

    "As an officer of the law, it's my duty to tell you, you can't burn anything in a burn barrel in my county," Mike said, grinning.

    "Okay, Mike, in that case, just stand there and hold them until the rain dissolves them,"  Buzz retorted.

    Mike walked toward the old, rusty, 55-gallon barrel, and when he was about 15 feet from it, he threw the ball of newspapers in a high jump shot. He was as surprised as everyone else when it dropped neatly into the fire-blackened cylinder. All three of the other men clapped as Mike took a bow, and muttered, "Thank you, thank you very much.”

    Mike's mind was in turmoil, because he knew he had to contact Sheriff Carter as soon as possible.  The men in the woods were probably exactly the kind of thing the boss needed to know about.  At the same time, his loyalty to his friends made him feel like a spy, or a traitor. He knew he had to make the call, but at the same time he didn't want to do it. Somehow it all felt wrong, like a fun game gone bad. He needed to get away to make the call--he touched his pants pocket assuring himself that his phone was there.

    "I've got to go," Mike said, walking toward the huge tree at the back of the house.

    "Me too," Buzz said, understanding what Mike had meant, and also starting towards his official Pee tree.

    "Me three," Bob said; also heading for the huge oak

    "What's this, a mass Pee?"  Clint exclaimed.  "Alright count me in too."

    Mike was a bit annoyed, and at the same time amused at this turn of events. Getting free to make his call was going to be more difficult then he'd anticipated.

    The four men took care of business, thoroughly fertilizing the old tree.

    "Wait till you guys see the video game set-up I brought--it's a four player kit, complete with goggles, impact gloves, and about a hundred different games built in," Clint explained, zipping up and walking toward his car.

    The other three men did likewise, and followed Clint over to the back of his convertible.

    "Open the trunk, please, Felicia," Clint said.

    There was a pop, and the trunk lid opened silently.

    "Your car is voice activated?"  Buzz asked, looking toward the screen on the lower dashboard.

    "Yup, it's got an A. I. Built-in,"  Clint replied, pulling the large video game box out of the trunk. He closed the trunk and placed the cardboard container on the stump next to the car.

    "I just put an artificial intelligence chipset in my desktop; it saves me a lot of time," said Buzz.

    "Does your A. I. have a name?" Buzz asked.

    "Yeah, I call her Felicia,”

    "I called my A. I. Chipset Zeke," Buzz said, walking toward the driver side of Clint's car.

    "Hello… Felicia…," Buzz said slowly.

    "Please identify yourself."  Felicia replied, almost rudely.

    "My… name… is… Buzz,"  Buzz said, exaggerating every word.

    "You can talk to her in a normal voice," Clint said, smiling.

    "Hello Felicia,"  Buzz reiterated.

    "Hello… Buzz… what… can… I… do… for… you." Felicia replied, almost sarcastically.

    Both men chuckled at her reply.

    "I'll have to introduce you to Zeke; he is a bit of a wise-ass too,"  Buzz said, smiling broadly.

    "I would be happy to meet Zeke,"  Felicia replied. “But I don’t have an ass, so I couldn’t have a wise-ass.” Felicia explained, in stern tones.

    Buzz, Clint, and Bob, all cracked up.

    Felicia was interested in probing another artificial intelligence. She was discovering that her program was much more extensive then she had originally believed; it seemed to include curiosity, as well as quite a few other interesting sub-programs. She felt compelled to explore her evolving complexities...,

    "Where's Mike?"  Clint said, looking around. "Oh there he is." he said looking toward Mike's car." It looks like he's on the phone."

    Pinocchio began to walk around the car toward Clint, his gray plastic segmented tail wagging in his usual friendly manner, but when he spotted Bob, he froze and began barking.  Clint picked Pinocchio up; it was nothing like picking up the puppy he was used to.

    "He's all bony and slippery, I'll be glad when he gets his skin back."  Clint complained.

    "Friend recognition mode on," Clint said, holding the pup toward Bob, and he went through the friend-recognition mode routine.

    "Okay that should take care of that," Clint said, putting the puppy back down on the ground.

    With Bob and Buzz looking over his shoulder, Clint pulled the top off of the box that contained the video game goggles.

    "You got the deluxe set-up," Buzz said, elbowing Clint out of the way to get to the game set.

    "It's got four pair of elbow length inertia gloves," Bob observed, also crowding Clint.

    "They look like three pounders,"  Buzz announced, grabbing the instruction print sheet.

    "Hey! Come on guys, I haven't had a chance to look at anything yet.  Back off!" Clint said, trying to retrieve the print sheet from Buzz.

    "It says here that the gloves are seven pounders,"  Buzz said, studying the print sheet of instructions.

    Bob whistled. "You could hurt yourself with that much inertial backthrust," Bob put in, while holding down the wrist button that caused the gloves to become snug on his arms.

    Buzz finally handed Clint the print sheet of instructions, and then he reached past Clint and picked up a pair of the goggles and the yellow trimmed impact gloves.

    Mike then joined the group; his mind was much more at ease. He'd just found out that the two men he saw were bodyguards, protecting Clint. Clint didn't know about his protectors. Sheriff Carter told him that he would explain more about the situation when time allowed, but meanwhile he was to keep his mouth shut and keep playing his part.

    Mike was uncomfortable with the situation, but he had his orders. Mike grabbed the last pair of goggles and the brown trimmed gloves.

    "Where're the belt boxes?" Bob asked, looking into the now empty video game box.

    "They don't have belt boxes. Everything is built into the frames of the goggles," Clint replied.

    "Nothing but the best for my friends," Clint said grandly with sweep of his hand.

    "You mean we get to keep them?" Buzz asked, surprised.

    "Yes, of course--who else am I going to play video games with, twit?”  said Clint, punching Buzz on the arm playfully.

    The four men moved to the front of the house to run the game demo.  They had played video games together for years, but they had always had the old style video game boxes that they wore on their belts. These would be a lot less cumbersome. The gloves would probably add a lot of realism.

    "Is everybody ready?"  Buzz asked.

    "Yeah, let's go,” said Mike.

    The four young men stood side-by-side, like Christians waiting for the lions. Music started to play; a voice began to speak.

  "  Forever-vision, your passport to the world." The music swelled in intensity, and suddenly the men found themselves soaring high over snow capped mountains, all four men swayed as they found new equilibrium.

    "Incredible," Mike said.

    "Yeah,” Clint replied.

    "The graphics are the most believable I've ever seen," Buzz said, in a voice filled with awe.

    "The music gives you the feeling the orchestra is playing right behind you," Clint said.

    "I actually slipped my glasses up and looked--they aren't there," Bob said chuckling.

    Next, the four men found themselves standing at the bottom of a desert canyon, wearing cowboy clothes, complete with 10 gallon hats, boots, chaps, and guns. There was a far off rumbling sound, and a cloud of dust rising to their right.  Suddenly the source of the sound came into view, a herd of several hundred longhorn cattle, and they were heading straight for the Shan Creek gang. All four men immediately raised their goggles up slightly, so they could reaffirm they were still in Buzz's front yard.  Noticing that the others were double-checking, they all laughed and pointed at each other.

    "This is almost too real," Buzz observed.

    "That's the point," Clint replied.

    Clint snuggled his goggles back down on his nose, and turned to face the oncoming cattle.  He reached for the big, hog-leg revolver strapped to his hip, and pulled it out.  Clint took careful aim at the lead longhorn, and pulled the trigger, nothing happened.  Clint instantly realized his mistake; he reached across with his other hand and pulled the hammer back. He pulled the trigger again; there was a large explosion and a considerable kick as the heavy gun went off. The lead animal fell to its knees and rolled, end over end. The impact gloves simulated the weight of the big revolver, the feel of the handgrip and trigger, as well as the kick of the pistol going off. It was one of the most realistic experiences Clint had experienced with a video game. It was the first time he used the gloves that contained tiny inertial drive motors.

    The gloves could produce a total of seven pounds of inertial thrust in any direction. The computer chips in the game goggles controlled them. There weren't any wires; it was all handled by short range, ultra high frequency radio.

    "Good shootin,"  Buzz said, as he pulled his gun out.

    "The revolvers are single action--you have to pull the hammer back," Clint yelled, firing again. All four men fired several times and then moved toward the downed cattle. The pile of dead longhorns split the stampede, and the Shan Creek gang stood in the protected area between the two streams of rampaging cattle. The noise and dust were overwhelming. The scene dissolved.

    The young men found themselves standing 30 or 40 feet from the top of a very large mountain, gazing in different directions. They could see hundreds of miles.

    "I think it’s Everest, Buzz said, almost reverently.

    "It could be K2,”  Bob observed.

    "Wherever it is, I wouldn't want to walk home,” Clint said, sarcastically.

    Everyone chuckled. "You got that right," someone said.

    The demo concluded with a high-speed flight over the ocean and along a beach.  They landed and then stood watching high breakers, building and then crashing on-brain shaped boulders.

    "It seems like I can actually smell the ocean," Mike said, quietly.

    The scene pixelaited, and fell away. They were presented with a 20-ft. high list of games. Buzz pressed his thumb and little finger together; the list began to scroll up.

    They spent the rest of the afternoon fighting all kinds of creatures, including each other.  They used sticks, rocks, clubs, daggers, swords, rifles, pistols, machine guns, hand grenades, rocket launchers, dynamite, lasers, blasters, and almost every other weapon.

    They killed, and were killed by, every creature imaginable. Everyone had an absolutely great time. Only exhaustion ended their battles.

    We're getting too old for this--we need some nice sit down games,"  Mike said, quitting for the third time.

    "Come on you bunch of posies, just one more game," Buzz pleaded, swinging his game-projected, broadsword, back and forth.

    "No!" The other three men growled emphatically, almost in unison.

    Buzz was the baby of the group; he was a year younger than the other members. His child-like, bright-eyed innocence brought out protective instincts in the older men.  At the same time, he was an academic lion, for he had skipped sixth grade. The other three men had depended on Buzz to get them through high school.

    Bob, always considered the hustler, or the brains of the outfit, hadn't done well in his last two years of high school. He had discovered girls, and they had discovered him. Buzz had provided more than a few of Bob's term papers. Buzz could turn out a term paper on almost any subject, in about two hours.

    Mike was always considered the muscle of the group. He had been 40 pounds overweight, but at the same time, he stood six foot three in his freshman year. Mike wasn't really a fighter; he just looked like he was someone you didn't mess with.  He didn't understand that he was left alone because of his size; he considered himself average. He thought his lack of trouble was because he was a member of the Shan Creek gang.

    Clint, the unacknowledged leader of the group, didn't think of himself as the leader, so he usually looked to Bob, but Bob always looked to Clint for his cues.  All in all, the group was strong mainly because of its versatility.  There were very few squabbles over who was in charge, for everything was more or less decided by an informal, what do you think, vote.

    The three men lounging on the porch steps took their glasses off, hoping that would end the game-playing for this day.

    Buzz sighed with resignation, and took his goggles off.  His reaction when he noticed it was getting dark was quite startling. "Oh Damn!  What time is it?" he asked, wide-eyed.

    "Almost 5:00,"  Mike replied, after glancing at his watch.

    "Damn, Damn, Damn," Buzz said as he ran up the steps between the men and through the front door of the cabin.

    "What is it, Buzz?"  Clint yelled, as he followed Buzz through the old screen door.

    When Clint stepped into the living room he was surprised at what he found: it wasn't the comfortable living room he'd remembered.  It still had the five couches, but it was filled with clutter. Every flat surface contained either a stack of print sheets, or some half-assembled mechanical or electronic device.

    "Buzz, where are you?"  Clint said, looking around the dimly lit main room.

    "Over here," Buzz called.

    Clint could just make out his silhouette in the alcove that served as Buzz's computer room.

    "What bit you?" Clint asked, walking toward him.

    "It's just my auctions. I had three ending today, and I've already missed two of them. I was planning to do some last minute sniping. It's okay, though, because both of the earlier auctions sold for more than I was willing to pay." Buzz was still staring intently at his screen.

    "I might get this one," he said, flexing his fingers over the keyboard.

    "Okay, okay, don't talk to me for a minute or two,"  Buzz continued, with his fingers hovering over his keyboard.

    The three men now clustered around behind Buzz to watch the screen; they didn't know what they're watching for, but when it happened, they would probably see it. There was an unusual excitement in the air.

    Buzz began to mutter under his breath. Clint leaned closer and heard him counting methodically.

    "NOW!"  Buzz exclaimed, as he typed furiously for a few seconds, stopped, and watched the screen intently again.

    All three men standing behind him had jumped back a good foot, when Buzz yelled now. They were grinning sheepishly at each other, still silent, watching Buzz.

    "Ah ha, yes! I got it, and I only paid half of what it was worth," Buzz said, pushing himself back from the computer and spinning around in his chair toward his friends.

    "I just made between twelve, and eighteen hundred bucks--of course I still have to sell it, to get my money.  Hydraulic arm units are easy to sell; they're just hard to find."

    Bob whistled. "You just made twelve hundred dollars in three minutes?” he queried, incredulously.

    "Well, there will still be about 10 minutes more, selling the unit, then another 10 minutes arranging the shipping."  Buzz confessed.

    "How many times a day can you do that?" Clint asked.

    "If I had the money, I could probably do it, oh, ten or twelve times a day, seven days a week. Right now I can't buy anything until I sell the arm I just bought, and that will take at least a week, maybe a week and a half," Buzz replied, smiling and quite proud of himself.

    "Suppose you had 20 thousand dollars?" Bob asked.

    "No make that 40 thousand dollars," Mike interjected.

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute," Clint interrupted, "how much could you make if you had 60 thousand dollars to work with?”

    "I could probably double it every two or three weeks," Buzz said, surprised and now confused.

    "Well, I think we might have the makings of a deal here. Bob, you've got 20 thousand dollars?" Clint asked.

    "Yup" was the quick reply.

    "Mike?" Clint asked, looking at Mike.

    "Yup, I've got over 27 saved up," he said, smiling.

    "I can come up with 20 thousand dollars.  Do you think you would want to go into business with us, Buzz?" Clint asked, looking back toward his best friend.

    "I don't have 20 thousand dollars; I don't even have two thousand dollars, Buzz said--sadly.

    "You don't need 20 thousand dollars, because you have the expertise and the connections already set up.  The question is, will you let us in?  Clint said, watching his younger friend closely.

    As the three older men watched Buzz, his face first registered more confusion, then thoughtfulness, the beginnings of excitement, and then a bright smile of understanding.

    "You mean the four of us in business?  Partners?

    And I don't have to put up any money at all?" Buzz said with growing excitement.

    "Yes!" the three men replied in unison, chuckling.

    "Where do I sign?" Buzz asked, holding his hand up and pretending to have a pen in it.

    The three older men spent the next half-hour learning what it was that Buzz actually did, and how he did it. They found out that quite often, Buzz didn't even know what he was buying and selling.  He dealt in things, all kinds of things.  He would find an item that was listed several times on one of the regional auction Web sites, and then he would watch the prices until he had a feel for how hot items of that type were. He would then buy one, of whatever they were, and re-sell it on one of the specialty, or worldwide, auction sites. The article usually, but not always, netted him at least a one hundred percent mark-up. He had made up a list of over two hundred different categories that he knew enough about to deal in. Buzz had bought and sold everything from collectible Poof babies to bronze flange-restructuring templates. Buzz had also created a program that watched the relatively new "wanted" Web sites.  When a new item was listed as being wanted on one of those sites, an alarm would sound on his computer. The program would automatically initiate a search among all of the auctions on the planet to find that item.  It usually only happened a few times a month, but that's where the real money was. Now that he was going to be properly capitalized, he could increase the dollar amount limit that he had set in the program. This would mean as many as 10, or even 20 hits per month.

    "I think we should go out tonight and celebrate our new business," Clint said.  "How about dinner and night of revelry at the Rogue River Road house?  I'm buying," Clint continued.

    "I don't know if I still know how to revel, but I do know how to dinner,"  Bob said, sarcastically.

  "Alright wise-ass, are you in?” Clint said.

    "You're buying?  I'm in!" he replied, sticking his tongue out at Clint.

    "I'm in," Mike said.

    "Sounds like a gas, I'm in," Buzz said.

    "It's 5:40 now, so we'll all get cleaned up and meet back here at 7 o'clock.  Okay?" Clint looked at his watch, then back at his friends.

    The men agreed, so everyone except Buzz headed for their vehicles.

    "Is it okay if I leave Pinocchio here? I don't really want to take him home looking like that,” said Clint, waving toward the small, naked robot.

    "Okay, I really wanted to soak the skin overnight anyway,"  Buzz said, picking up the little bot. Buzz stood on the porch holding Pinocchio as the other three men drove away.

Click Here For a Quick Download of the Complete Book ; Only $7.86

CHAPTER 9
Trouble in River City

    At 7:20 the boys got back together at Buzz's house, and of course the usual controversy, of who was going to drive whom, in what, started. Bob wanted to drive everyone in the Iron General.  Mike wanted to drive his car because the other sheriffs would recognize it, and leave them alone. And of course, Clint wanted to show off his new intelligent convertible. Buzz didn't care, because all four of them couldn't fit in his little Putt-putt.

    The Putt-putt was the first African built car offered for sale in the American market.  With adapter kits it was capable of burning any kind of conventional fuel.  There were unfounded rumors that with the proper adapter kit, it could run on the fumes from burning cats.

    "Clint is buying, so he should drive; I've got shotgun,"  said Buzz, as he got into the front passenger seat of Clint's car.

    The other three men stopped their discussion, looked at each other, looked at Buzz, shrugged, and headed for Clint's car.

    All three men knew that further discussion was useless. They would be riding with Clint.  Buzz didn't make decisions very often, but when he did, the other three men knew, there was no point to arguing. Short of pulling him out of the car and beating him senseless, there was no way to change his mind once he decided something. All of them had tried at one time or another; and all of them had failed.

    "We are going to Rogue River. Where is the nearest auto drive lane, Felicia?" Clint asked.

    "The nearest auto-drive lane begins on Highway 199,"  She replied.

    "Do you have access to the Internet, Felicia?" Buzz asked.

    "Clint does have access to the Internet through my dash screen," Felicia replied.

    "Can I access the Internet?"  Buzz asked.

    "I can only allow access if you are an authorized operator of this vehicle," she replied sternly.

    "How do I make Buzz an authorized operator of this vehicle?"  Clint asked.

    "You need to say that he is an authorized operator, and I need his driver's license number,”  Felicia replied.

    "Get your licenses out, men. Felicia, I authorize these three men to be operators of this vehicle, with all the rights and privileges thus bestowed,”  said Clint, chuckling.

    The three men gave Felicia their driver's license numbers.

    "I have accessed your fingerprints from the department of motor vehicles, and I have recorded your voice prints.  From now on you will have full access to any part of this vehicle by voice or touch," Felicia said.

    Buzz accessed the Internet and checked on three auction sites that he was watching.

    "Nothing much going on tonight, but tomorrow afternoon is going to be hot, though,"  Buzz said as he logged off.

    "When do you guys think I'll get the money?" Buzz asked, turning slightly so he could also see the men in the back seat. "I could start making us money tomorrow."

    "Felicia, can you transfer money from my personal account to Buzz's account?" Clint asked.

    "Yes I probably can, Clint,"  Felicia replied, "Buzz, do you have your debit card or ring with you?” she continued.

    "I'm wearing my debit ring,"  Buzz replied.

    "Clint, do you have a debit card or ring with you?" Felicia asked.

    "I'm wearing my debit ring."

    The screen on the dashboard changed.  There were now two gray squares, one in the upper left-hand corner, one in the upper right-hand corner.

    "How much would you like to transfer?"  Felicia asked.

    "20 thousand dollars," said Clint.

    The figures appeared on the dashboard screen, along with the names of the two participants.

    "Each of you must place your right thumb on the proper square."  Felicia said.

    The two men complied; there was a beep.  The screen changed to “transaction completed,” along with the details of the transfer.

    "That was so cool!"  Buzz said, pleased and excited.

    "What are we going to call our business?" Clint asked, looking at Buzz and over his shoulder.

    "I think we should call it the Shan Creek trading company,"  Buzz said before anyone else could reply.

    "That was pretty quick, so I take it you've been thinking about it for awhile,”  Clint said, smiling at his friend.

    "Only for the last hour and a half," Buzz confessed.  "We are the Shan Creek gang, and we're planning on buying and selling stuff, so our company should be the Shan Creek trading company."

    "Works for me," Clint said, still smiling broadly.

    "I think it should be called the Bob trading company," Bob said, teasing Buzz.

    "No! I think it should be called the Mike trading company," Mike added, continuing the gag.

    "Then it's decided: it will be called the Clint Fox trading company, because I'm driving." Clint said, chuckling.

    "No!  No!  No! It's the Shan Creek trading company, Buzz said, realizing his friends were just pulling his chain.

    "All kidding aside, I think that's a great name," Clint said, punching his friend gently on the shoulder.

    "Agreed?" Clint said, loudly.

    "Agreed!" The other three men replied, just as loud.

    "Do you need our money now?"  Mike asked.

    "No, this whole turn of events caught me unprepared,” said Buzz “I have to figure out a new plan of attack.  Sometime next week will probably do fine. You know, after we get the paperwork all done.”

    "I'll make an appointment with Bruce, my attorney, and we'll probably have to do a corporation or something,"  Clint interjected.

    "Do you still have enough money to buy dinner?" Buzz asked, looking at Clint.

    Clint had to suppress his laughter.  "Oh yeah, I think I can still handle it," Clint said, with a wide grin.

    Clint still wasn't comfortable telling the other men about his millions.  He knew in his heart that it wouldn't really matter, but it just made him feel uncomfortable.

    They finished dinner and headed into the lounge at about 9 p.m.

    Bobbie saw Clint as he reached the doorway between the restaurant and lounge.  She was a little disappointed when she saw the other three men with him.

    As Clint approached she said, "Hi, Clint."

    Clint didn't recognize the woman talking to him at first, but after a moment or two, he realized it was Bobbie, the good-looking redhead from the bank.  He was surprised at how good she looked. She had looked very nice at the bank, but with her hair down, and with a relaxed, confident smile, she was stunning.

    "Hi, Bobbie," Clint said, smiling. Bobbie was pleased that he had remembered her name.

    "Do you want to sit at the bar, or do you want to get a table?" Clint asked, turning to his friends.

    Bobbie and Clint were both a little bit disappointed when the unanimous answer was: table.

    There were 20 or 30 people in the lounge, waiting for the band to start playing.  It wasn't a live band; it was a subscription Internet connection that featured a relatively well-known band from the Bay area.  The connection fed live interactive video to the large 3-D cube situated on the low stage overlooking the small dance floor. It looked like a live band, and sounded like a live band. You could even yell requests, but the likelihood of your request being played was rather low.  The Internet connected 20 or 30 other lounges into the network. So at the end of each song your request would be in competition with five or six hundred other people.

    The boys sat down at a table within sight of the bar, got comfortable, ordered their drinks from the waitress, and began their appraisal of the young ladies present.

    "Do you guys mind if I use your money to buy that blond over there?" Buzz said, gazing across the room at a well-built young lady.

    "You haven't got our money yet, Fool.  But I'm sure Clint wouldn't mind financing women for all of us,"  Bob replied, grinning at Clint.

    "I'm afraid you guys will have to win your fair maidens without the benefit of my cash, though I know that possibility is unlikely."  Clint said.

    "Curses, foiled again," Buzz said, smiling lecherously, as he twisted his imaginary mustache.

    The waitress returned to the table, put the drinks down, and said, "that will be $32.10." Clint started to reach for his wallet, but then remembered his debit ring.  He held his hand up to show the ring to the girl.  She laid the bill down on the table; he put his thumb on it.

    "I will be paying for all of the drinks,"  Clint said to the young woman.

    "Okay, I'll set it up as a pre-paid tab," The waitress said, as she touched the small green circle at the bottom of the bill. The young woman returned the bill to her tray, and walked away.

    Mike was examining the other people in the lounge very closely.  He wondered whether Clint's protectors were in here.  He had called the sheriff earlier and told him about their plans for the evening. As Mike looked around the room, he couldn't see anyone that looked out of place.  But he sensed they were here somewhere.

    The lights went down, and the band began to play.

    The music was so loud that it drowned out everything but thought, and it even made that difficult.

    Bobbie relaxed a little and leaned back against the back of the bar; it would be slow for the next 10 or 15 minutes, as people got used to the din. She didn't like the band that was playing this week, so thankfully it wasn't quite as loud at the bar as it was in the main room. She watched as two of Clint's friends got up and asked girls to dance. One of them was accepted; the other was shot down.  She felt bad for him. Clint and the big guy remained at the table, just watching the band. The one with the long, blond, curly hair returned to the table hiding his dejection behind an overly bright smile.

    Clint looked over in her direction; she met his gaze with a smile.

    After a few minutes he got up, picked up his drink, and walked toward her. He slipped onto one of the empty bar stools in front of her.

    "That band is way too loud," Clint yelled.

    "I'll drink to that," she said, smiling and meeting his gaze.

    "Tonight is their last night, thank goodness,” she said loudly.

    "It's been years since I've been in here--they really fixed the place up nice."

    "The current owners have only owned it for two years,"  Bobbie said.

    The song that the band had been playing ended, and Clint looked back toward his table.  His three friends were watching him.

    "I've got to get back to my table," he said picking up his drink. "Do you ever get to dance while you're on duty?"

    "I get a 10-minute break in about a half-hour. I'll dance with you then if you like," She replied, smiling.

    "Okay, it's a date,"  he said, returning her wink.

    Clint returned to his table, and sat down.

    "How are you losers doing?" Clint asked.

    "About as well as you are, fellow loser, I saw the bartender shut you down,"  Mike said.

    "Actually we have a date for a dance in about a half-hour. She gets a break, and she's spending it with me, losers."  Clint replied, proudly grinning.

    The other men's insulting replies were drowned out as the band began another song.

    Bobbie saw the interplay between the four men and was pleased;, she was pretty sure of what was being said.

    Her friend Ben slipped onto the stool in front of her.

    "Anything fun happening?"  he asked.

    "He showed up,"  she said, smiling.

    "Do you mean your Prince Charming is actually real?" Ben asked incredulously.

    "Of course he's real, you nonbeliever twit, he's the one wearing the lime green shirt, at that table with the three other guys,"  She said, nodding toward the Shan Creek gang's table.

    Ooh, he is a pretty one.  Can I have him?"  Ben teased.

    "You know what I told you. If you can get him, you can have him,"  Bobbie said, in her most annoying voice.

    "You may very well be looking at the father of my children,"  Bobbie continued, gazing across the room.

    "Oh, the poor shmuck!"  Ben said, making a face at Bobbie.

     Ben had been through a half a dozen affairs, and breakups, with Bobbie. He knew she was tough, but she didn't seem to have the best taste in men. Once, just after she turned 18, one of her loser boyfriends punched her in the face.  She didn't cower in the corner like a whipped dog--she got up, picked up an aluminum baseball bat, chased him half a block, cornered him between two houses, and beat the crap out of him. He was in the hospital for a week. Luckily no charges were ever filed; the loser left town just after he got out of the hospital.

    This guy didn't seem like her normal choice in men; it appeared that he actually had friends. Maybe this time it would be different.

    Buzz and Bob came back to the table as the music ended.  Clint was happy that Buzz had finally found someone to dance with him.

    They ordered another round of drinks. They all noticed how friendly the cocktail waitress was.  Buzz announced that he was going to go home with her, she smiled, and said; "that would be fine with me, but I don't think my six-foot-five, 220 pound husband would like it.”

    The music started again, and ended all further conversation.

    Halfway through the song, Mike relieved Bobbie for her 10-minute break; she poured some diet cola into a glass, picked it up, and walked across the lounge toward Clint.

    When she got to the table, all four men immediately stood up. That surprised her. They all shifted their chairs slightly, pulled a chair over from a nearby empty table, and put it next to Clint. She smiled at them all, and thankfully sat down.

    Bobbie leaned toward Clint and yelled over the music, "I only have 10 minutes, so do you want to dance now?"

    "No, let's wait for the next song,"  he yelled back.

    "She smiled and nodded her head in agreement.

    Clint hoped that the next dance would be a slow dance. He didn't know it, but Bobbie was hoping that too.

    The song finally ended, and sure enough, the next song was a slow one.  Clint stood up, and took Bobbie's hand.  She hesitated just long enough to take a quick sip of her drink, and then she allowed Clint to lead her to the dance floor.  Clint put his hand on her waist and started to take her hand, she reached up and put her arms around his neck, so he put his arms around her waist.  Her body moved up against Clint, his spirits began to rise, unfortunately so did something else.  It had been a long time since he'd held a woman this close. Her hair smelled wonderful, and the warmth of her against him was marvelous. His body's reaction was really to be expected; after all he was a young healthy male.  He pulled away from her slightly, hoping she wouldn't notice.

    He began to think very hard about other things, any other thing; baseball, football, blood and guts, death, war, and finally he thought about what Uncle Rob had done to him. That did the trick, as his lower regions relaxed, so did he.  The next four minutes seemed much too short.  When the song ended he didn't let go of Bobbie, he just pulled away a little, still holding her by the waist, she relaxed, leaned back and let her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. "Would you like to dance again my dear?" he said, grinning, and gazing directly into her eyes.

    She met his gaze, and held it.  "Of course I would, my dear," she replied, with just the hint of a pleased smile.

    They were both disappointed when the next song turned out to be a fast dance.  They let go of each other, and danced without touching for the next four or five minutes.

    When the dance was over Clint put his arm around Bobbie, and escorted her back to the table.

    "That was fun, for somebody who works at a lounge with a dance floor, I sure don't get to use it very often,"  Bobbie said, looking up at Clint.

    "What time do you get off?"  Clint asked.

    "I get off at 11 or so, but the guy who works from 11 until 3 is usually a little late,"  Bobbie replied.

    "Well, unless I miss my guess, we'll still be here at 11 or so, so we can dance until 3 a.m., if you like,” Clint said, looking around at his friends.

    "You got a date, handsome," she said, reaching up, and touching his cheek.

    She picked up her drink, smiled brightly at Clint's friends, and headed back to work.

    Clint looked around at the admiring grins of his friends and said, “Alright, cut it out!" Once again the band started playing, ending any further discussion.

    Bobbie went back behind the bar and walked down to her friend Ben.

    "He's not gay, he doesn't dance well enough," Ben said.

    "He dances just fine--he stayed off my toes better than you do,"  Bobbie said, a little annoyed.

    "Down girl, down girl, I was just kidding,”  Ben said, chuckling with delight.

    Bobbie reached over and picked up the drink-gun, and she aimed it right at Ben.

    "Any more cracks about Clint, and I'll blast you," Bobbie threatened.

    "At least make sure it's the good stuff," Ben said, opening his mouth and covering his eyes with his fingers. Bobby touched the soda button for a second, and a small burst of soda water flew directly into Ben's mouth. She was just as surprised as he was.

   "Yuck! soda water!" he sputtered, standing up quickly.

    "Yes, but you have to admit it was a great shot,"  Bobbie said, hoping he wasn't mad.

    "You wouldn't talk that way if you weren't armed," he said grinning and wiping his chin with a cocktail napkin.

    "As long as I'm already standing up, I'm going to go out and have a cigarette."  He reach for his shirt pocket.

    "You know you should quit those nasty things," she said.

    "Yeah, yeah, yeah, nag, nag, nag," he said as he walked toward the back door.

    Mike and Bob had disappeared into the game room.  Clint was sitting alone at the table when Buzz returned from dancing with a short, plump, brunet.

    "Is it okay if I go out and use Felicia's computer to do a check on two of my bids?"  Buzz asked.

    "Yeah, sure, this music is giving me a headache, I'll come with you." Clint replied, standing up.

    "What's the matter don't you trust me to be alone with your techno-babe?" Buzz asked, grinning.

    "No I don't, and I don't want you teaching her any of your nasty human habits,"  Clint retorted playfully.

    The two men walked out the back door of the lounge just as Mike and Bob came walking back into the lounge from the game room. They saw Buzz and Clint leaving.

    "Where are they going?" Bob asked Mike

    "How should I know, I was with you, Brain-trust,"  Mike fired back as he sat down.

  As Clint and Buzz headed across the brightly lit, half-full, field of cars, a white van pulled into the parking lot, and headed toward them. It sped up, cut across their path, and stopped directly in front of them.

    Buzz and Clint stopped, surprised. They were facing the large door, on the right side of the vehicle. Suddenly the door slid open, and two men, wearing ski masks jumped out, holding guns.

    "He's the one!" the taller man in black said, pointing to Clint.

    "What the hell?"  Buzz exclaimed, frightened.

    "Very funny. Where did you guys get the van?" Clint asked, smiling. "It didn't work this afternoon, and it won't work tonight," Clint continued, chuckling, and beginning to crouch down.

    "No!  We didn't…" Buzz started.

  Just as Buzz began his denial, the back door of the lounge burst open, and out came Mike and Bob. Clint came up out of his crouch a bit, and looked over his shoulder. He saw Bob and Mike, then he turned and looked back at the two men wearing ski masks and holding very big guns.

    "Oh crap!" Clint said taking two steps back.

    "What's going on?" Mike yelled across the parking lot.

    The tall man in black fired his gun into the air.  Mike grabbed Bob and shoved him down between the parked cars.

    Suddenly something moved very quickly up behind the two men from the van--their guns flipped up into the air, and suddenly they were lying on the ground. It all happened so fast that Clint couldn't figure out what happened. Someone yelled, "RUN!"  Everyone except the two men lying on the ground did. Clint and Buzz made it about 50 feet before the shooting started.

    Two other vehicles pulled into the lounge parking lot, and people with guns got out of them and started shooting. There were bullets flying everywhere. All four members of the Shan Creek gang headed instinctively toward Felicia. As they approached the car Clint was surprised to see that the top was going down, and so were the windows.

    A bullet slammed into a car next to where Buzz and Clint were running, and they were showered with glass.  Buzz dove into Felicia's back seat, Clint into the front seat.

    Two seconds later Bob and Mike jumped into the back of the car.

    Clint didn't see anyone, but he heard them. He was stuck face down on the floor of the front seat. Clint also heard the top go up, and the windows close.

    The car roared to life, and burned rubber all the way across the parking lot.  It slid sideways twice as it turned the corners, and then the continuing acceleration was unbelievable. He struggled and got himself out from underneath the dashboard. Clint was curious about who was driving.  When he finally sat up in the front passenger's seat and looked to his left, he was surprised to see that no one was driving.

    "Felicia are you driving?" Clint asked, realizing instantly how stupid that question was.

     "Yes I am, Clint," Felicia replied.

    "Hey Clint, slide over, let Buzz get in front--it's a little too cozy back here,"  yelled Bob.

    Clint slid over into the driver seat, being careful not to jog the steering wheel.  Buzz climbed over the seat, sat down, and fastened his seatbelt.

    Clint buckled up and said, “Felicia, don't you think you should slow down?"

    The car immediately began to decelerate.

    "I thought you could only drive in auto-drive lanes?"  Clint said.

    "I thought that too, but apparently in an emergency, I can take complete control of the car,"  Felicia replied.

    "Well, I for one, think she did a terrific job," Buzz said smiling, and patting her dashboard.

     "Does anyone smell anything?"  Bob asked.

    "No, I don't smell anything.  What the hell are you talking about?”  Mike asked.

    "Good, that means I didn't crap my pants,"  Bob said, chuckling.

    "You!  I was out there without my gun! You know what that means to a cop?  I was worse than naked."  Mike said.

    "Who the hell were those guys, anyway, and what did you say to piss them off, Clint?"

    "Clint almost tried to tackle them--he thought they were you two, like this afternoon."  Buzz said.

    "Who was that guy that dumped them on their butts?"  Buzz asked.

    "I don't know. He was probably with the guys in the car--it looks like they were expecting the two guys in the van."  Clint said

    "I don't know who the guys in the van were, but whoever they were looking for, apparently found them.  We just got caught at the wrong place at the wrong time,"  Clint said.

    "It could have been gangs, but they don't usually wear ski masks.  It's a macho thing. They want to be seen,"  Mike said.

    "There aren't any gangs around here, but maybe they came up from Sacramento,"  Mike continued.

    "Or down from Portland, I know from experience there are some bad ones up there,"  Clint said.

    "We'll probably never know. All I know is, we got out of there with our skins intact."  Clint said.

    "Can I get an amen?  I say, can I get an amen, Brothers?"  Buzz asked.

    "Amen!"  The three other men said it in unison, chuckling.

    Buzz rubbed his hand on his neck, and looked at it, there was blood.

    "I think I was hit,"  Buzz said, showing his hand to Clint.

    "Felicia, let's go to the emergency room of the Josephine county hospital," Clint said as he examined his friend's neck.

    They all felt the car begin to accelerate slightly.

    “It looks like a scratch, but no use taking any chances. You probably got it when we were sprayed with the glass," Clint said.

    "There is a possibility that it's a bullet fragment."  Mike interjected.

    "Oh no! Oh no! I'm gonna die!  I'm gonna die!"  Buzz said, grabbing his Throat, and pretending to choke. "Save me! Save me."  He gagged out.

    The car began to accelerate violently, once again the speedometer pegged.  They were passing cars like the other vehicles were parked.  Felicia was weaving through traffic like a race car driver.

    "Are you sure this is safe Felicia? Clint asked, becoming alarmed.

    "Buzz is dying," she replied quickly, with stress in her voice.

    "No, no, he's just screwing around."  Clint assured her.

    "Buzz, tell her," he commanded.

    "I'm okay, Felicia--I only got a little scratch. I'll be just fine," Buzz said, chuckling.

    The car began to slow as they approached the Grants Pass off-ramp.

    "That wasn't very nice, you frightened me,"  Felicia said, in a soft, reproachful voice.

    "It was just a joke, Felicia. Look up humor and practical jokes on the Internet,"  Buzz advised.

    Felicia spent the next 3.6 seconds examining the 30 million Internet pages devoted to humor. She then spent almost two full seconds pondering the entire situation.  If anything, she was more confused than ever.

    "The whole thing strikes me as being a bit silly,"  Felicia admitted.

    "That's how the old saying goes, ‘humans is the silliest animals’,"  Buzz responded, chuckling.

    "Tell us a joke, Felicia."  Buzz said.

    "If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?"  She asked.

    All four men chuckled. Felicia told five more jokes before they arrived at the hospital.  By that time all four men were in high spirits.  Felicia didn't quite understand what they were laughing at. She liked the fact that she was causing the good feelings.  It made her feel good, and almost powerful.

    The four men got out of the car and walked into the emergency room.

    "My neck is aching," Buzz said, rubbing his neck as they walked in the door.

    Bob, Mike, and Clint hung back a little as they approached the counter, in deference to Buzz.

    "I think I've got a piece of glass in my neck," Buzz said to the middle-aged nurse.

    "It's probably nothing, but the guys thought I should have someone look at it,"  he continued.

    The nurse looked up at Buzz; "Is this your first time here?" she asked.

    "Yes. I mean no, I haven't been here for about 10 years."  Buzz replied.

    "It will be about 15 or 20 minutes; we'll get to you as quickly as we can,"  she said, as she touched the data board to the computer monitor's pink input tab. The computer beeped once.

    Buzz turned and rejoined his friends in the waiting area.

    "They say it'll be 15 or 20 minutes, I think we should just go, it's just a scratch,"  Buzz said to them.

    "No, we're here, let's wait, just in case," Clint replied.

    "We're not in any hurry,"  Mike added.

    About 10 minutes later a doctor stepped into the waiting room, and called Buzz's name. Clint got up.

    "Can I go with him?"  Clint asked the doctor.

    "Sure, go into cubicle 6, and I'll be with you in a minute,"  the young doctor replied.

    When they reached the cubicle, Buzz sat up on the paper-covered table; Clint sat down on one of the stools.

    The doctor came in about two minutes later.

    "What seems to be the problem?"  The young man asked. Buzz told him about the gunfire, the flying glass, and then he showed him the little spot of blood on his neck.

    "It doesn't look too serious but we'll check it out," the doctor said, pulling a small white box, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, out of his pocket.

    "Lie back and put your head on the head rest," the doctor instructed.

    The doctor pushed a button on the side of the small white box, and the three-foot video screen on the wall lit up. The letters along the bottom of the screen said; "Ready for Ultrasound." The doctor put the small white box against Buzz's neck, and moved it slowly up and down over the tiny wound.

    To Clint, the screen showed only a bunch of green fuzzy blobs.

    "Oh crap!" the doctor exclaimed.

    The doctor took the box off of Buzz's neck, pushed a button on the side of the box three times, and then held it directly over the injury.

    "It looks like we do have a problem.  I don't think it's glass; it seems to be metal.  Buzz, I don't want you to move your neck at all.

   "Okay," Buzz said, now obviously frightened.

  The doctor turned to Clint.

    "You will have to return to the waiting room, because we're going to have to perform a tiny bit of surgery. It will take about an hour.

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute, what's wrong? Why can't he move his neck? Why is it going to take an hour? " Clint said, stepping in front of the doctor.

  "He has a metal fragment about an eighth of an inch from his carotid artery, if he moves, it could cut it.  We need to sterilize this room with ultraviolet light."  The doctor said as he pulled a pair of glasses out of a drawer.

    "Here, Buzz, put these on, they'll protect your eyes from the ultraviolet radiation."

    "Can't I stay here?" Clint asked.

    "No, the ultraviolet isn't good for you. I'm going to give Buzz a small shot of sodium pentathal.  I'll have a nurse stay with him. Our insurance won't allow you to stay in the room after I turn the ultraviolet on. The ultraviolet will give us a sterile room in about 15 minutes." The doctor replied.

    "If you want to keep an eye on him, you can turn to channel 106 on one of the waiting room televisions, and I'll enable the camera in here," the doctor promised.

    "It's okay, Clint, I'll be alright,"  Buzz said.

    "Just remember, you owe me a lot of money," Clint said, smiling.

    "Your money's safe with me, Asshole."  Buzz replied grinning playfully.

    "If you die I'm going to sue you, Buttface,”  Clint said as he walked out of the room smiling.

    Clint returned to the waiting room and turned one of the four televisions to channel 106. After about two minutes, Buzz's face blossomed on the screen; he looked strange bathed in blue ultraviolet light; he waved.

    Clint, Bob, and Mike, watched as the nurse used a bright red plastic, pneumatic injector to give Buzz a shot in his upper arm. He didn't flinch.

    "This ought to really get good now; they just gave him sodium pentathal.  I got pentathal when I was 16; I got it for a broken wrist, it really makes you feel silly,"  Bob volunteered.

    The three men watched as the doctor pushed a five-foot tall box, on wheels, into the room.  He positioned the box at the head of the table Buzz was lying on. The doctor lowered Buzz's head. The doctor pushed a button on the box; a panel slid down exposing the plastic wrapped robotic arm inside.  The nurse was busy putting some kind of a contraption around Buzz's head, apparently to hold his head and neck precisely in place.

    "I saw this on television--that's a micro-surgery robot,"  Mike informed them.

    "I just hope he's going to be okay--this is really scary.  1/8 of an inch and he might have died," Clint said.

  "What do you mean?" Mike said, startled.

    "The doctor said if the fragment had gone another 1/8 of an inch, it would have cut into his Carotid artery."  Clint replied.

    "He would have been dead in minutes, they taught us all about bullet wounds at the academy.  Nick an artery, and you're probably going to die before you get to the hospital."  Mike stated, shaking his head.

    "Why did they teach you that? It seems like it would scare the hell out of everybody!"  Clint rejoined.

    "No, they were just trying to make the point; there is no such thing as a safe gunshot wound.  It was to keep us from shooting someone, just to knock them down, or wound them." Mike replied.

    "Alright, alright, he's in the hospital, he's going to be okay. You two mother hens need to lighten up,"  Bob said, slapping his two friends on the back.

    "Mike you're the hero here, I wouldn't have thought that a small scratch like that needed a hospital,"  Clint said, looking back at the screen.

    The doctor was giving Buzz a couple of shots in his neck near the wound.  Buzz looked like he was asleep.  The doctor stepped around behind the robot. He seemed to be operating some kind of controls, and looking at a video screen.  The segmented robotic arm moved slowly out of its box and stopped poised over Buzz's neck. The doctor came back around to the front of the robot, picked something up out of a tray, and snapped it onto the end of the robotic arm. The doctor looked closely at the connections to the instrument, wiggled it a little, seemed satisfied, walked toward the camera, waved, and turned it off.

    "Well, that really sucks! I thought we would be able to watch the whole thing," Bob said, frowning.

    "I'm going to get some coffee," Mike said, turning and walking down the corridor toward the vending machines.

    "Me, too."  Clint followed him.

    "Me three."  Bob said, turning and trotting after the other two men.

    Mike was a little bit annoyed, for he'd tried to break away from the other two men so he could call the sheriff's office, and find out exactly what happened at the roadhouse.

    The three men made their purchases from one of the regular coffee machines, and started back along the corridor toward the waiting room.

    Mike hung back a little, pretending to look at a machine full of paperback book sheets.  The other two men continued down the corridor and turned into the waiting area; Mike pulled out his phone, discovered it was turned off, turned it on, and quickly dialed. He was surprised when Sheriff Carter answered the phone.

    "Where the hell are you? Why the hell have you had your phone turned off?" The Sheriff asked angrily.

    "I'm at the hospital, why, what's the matter?"

    "Which hospital?" the Sheriff asked.

    "Josephine County General, in Grants Pass,"  Mike answered

    "Was Clint hit?"  The Sheriff asked,

    "No, Buzz got hit by a bullet fragment, and he's in surgery now,"  Mike replied.

    "Clint's okay then, he wasn't hurt?"  the Sheriff asked.

    "No, the rest of us are all okay,"  Mike replied

    "Thank God," the Sheriff said, with relief in his voice.

    "What the hell happened at the roadhouse," Mike asked.

    "We'll talk about what really happened later when there's more time. For now the story is, a drug deal that went bad, you know Sacramento gangs, etc.

    "I'm going to send a couple of deputies there to keep an eye on you guys," the Sheriff said.

    "No, that's not necessary, because I've got everything under control." Mike said.

    "That's probably true, but it would look better if I have deputies interview you guys. After all, you seem to be the only human victims.

    "Okay, fine, I think we will be here for another 45 minutes or so,” Mike replied.

    "Don't leave until our people get there," The Sheriff ordered.

    "Okay, we'll be here."

    Mike joined his friends in the waiting area.

    "Have you heard anything about Buzz?" Mike asked.

    "Nothing yet," Bob replied, stretching, and yawning.

    "He's going to be okay. Sit down, relax," Clint said.

    "I called in to work to find out what happened, and they think it was a drug deal that went bad, something about Sacramento gangs. They're sending a couple of deputies here to interview us,"  Mike said.

    "Interview us? I don't know about you guys, but I didn't see anything," Bob exclaimed.

    "It's just routine--they need to cover their asses, you know, liability, politics,” Mike said, sitting down again.

    Five minutes later the doctor finally walked in smiling.

    "Everything turned out just fine. We took this out of the wound on his neck,"  The doctor said shaking a small pill bottle with something rattling inside. Clint put his hand out and the doctor gave it to him. Clint held it at eye level and the three men examined its contents very carefully.

    "It looks like a tiny copper cornflake," Mike observed.

    "Since it is technically a gunshot wound, I had to call the Grants Pass police, and report it, and they're sending someone over to interview you."  the doctor said apologetically.

    "That's okay, Mike here is a Deputy Sheriff, so they are sending some deputies to interview us, too,"  Clint said, nodding toward Mike.

    "Can we see Buzz now?" Bob asked.

    "No, it will still be a few minutes,” said the doctor, “it’s because he's got to hold very still while the dressing cures.  Don't worry about him; he isn't feeling any pain at all. The local anesthetic seems to have affected his voice temporarily, but it should be okay by tomorrow afternoon."

    "You mean he can't talk?"  Clint asked.

    "Yes, he can talk, but it's only a loud whisper," the doctor replied. Three minutes later, four Grants Pass police officers walked in.

    Mike walked up to them and flashed his badge.

    "The wound happened in the county, actually over in Rogue River, so we'll take care of the paperwork," Mike informed them.

    "You're in Grants Pass now, so we have our paperwork to take care of."  the lead officer replied.

    "No, I'm sorry, I can't let you interview them until we interview them,"  Mike replied.

    The lead officer didn't like that at all, for he pulled out his telephone and dialed a number.

    "Hi Jim, we're here investigating that gunshot wound at Josephine General, but there's a county Mounty here who says we can't interview them until they interview the subjects,." the police officer said into the phone.

    "Okay, I'll tell him, thanks a lot,"  the cop said.

    He closed his phone and put it back in his pocket.

    "My boss says, we interview everybody now," the cop said, smiling. "Our town, our rules."

    Just then four big Deputy Sheriff's walked through the door, led by Sheriff Carter himself.  Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Now it would be out of his hands.

    "We'll take it from here, I just talked to your boss, and he said we could handle it,"  Sheriff Carter announced.

    "I just talked to my boss, and he said we should interview everybody,"  the cop said, defensively.

    "Who told you that?  Chief Tanner?  I got the okay from Mayor Simpson.  You guys can take off now," Sheriff Carter said, looking around at the city cops.

    "No use you guys waiting around,” Sheriff Carter continued, “we're going to interview them at the sheriff's office."

    The young cop stopped, and turned around. He glared at the Sheriff for a moment, and said, "Okay, okay, anything you say." He then turned and walked out the automatic doors.

    "Well I guess that takes care of them,"  the sheriff said as he turned back around toward the waiting group.

    "Mike, are you all clear as to what happened in the roadhouse parking lot?" the sheriff asked.

    "Yes, I saw it all, at least until we jumped in the car,"  Mike replied.

    "Okay, you can fill me in tomorrow,” the Sheriff said.

    The doctor stuck his head out of Buzz's room and said, "Two of you can come in now."

    Clint and Bob walked toward Buzz's cubicle, leaving Mike to deal with the Sheriff and his minions.

    "Peggy, please go out and check and see that the city cops have left," the sheriff said to the tall blond female Deputy.

    "Sure thing," she replied, walking toward the exit.

    Mike had noticed Peggy around the office quite a few times; she always seemed to be either going on-duty when he was going off-duty, or she would be going off-duty when he was going on-duty, so he hadn't had much chance to talk to this good-looking young woman. If he could get the chance to talk to her for a little while, he might get up the courage to ask her out.

    She returned about two minutes later and told the Sheriff that the Grants Pass police had cleared out.

    "Okay, let's get out of here,"  the Sheriff said as he turned to the other deputies.

    "Peggy, hang around here for a little while, just in case the city cops come back.  Call me at home if there's any problem,"  The Sheriff said, leading the other three deputies toward the door.

    Mike was very pleased at this turn of events.

    "The coffee machines are down that corridor," Mike said, pointing them out.

    "I never touch the stuff; a ginger ale would go good though," she said, walking toward the machines, and reaching into her right front pants pocket.

    Mike headed toward the room he knew Buzz was in.

    When Mike walked into the cubicle, he was surprised to see Buzz hugging Clint.

    "He's my buddy Clint, my absolute best buddy ever, Buzz was blubbering, obviously high as a kite.

    Buzz looked up and saw Mike. "Hey, there is one of my other buddies; how you doing Mike, come here and give Buzz a big hug,"  he said, reaching one arm out toward Mike while still holding Clint with the other.

    Bob, the doctor, and the nurse were smiling and chuckling, as they tried to help Clint get out of Buzz's grip.

    "Buzz, Buzz, I told you you can't talk out loud--you must whisper. The local anesthetic has paralyzed the nerves going to part of your voice box.  If you talk out loud, you could damage your vocal cord,”  the doctor said, trying to turn Buzz's face so he could make eye contact.

    "Come on, Mike, old buddy, give Buzz a hug, Buzz whispered loudly.” Everyone laughed.

    "That's good, Buzz, but remember that you must whisper, "  the doctor whispered loudly, trying to be as serious as possible.

    Mike quickly backed out of the room and turned around. He almost ran into Peggy, for she had come up behind him.

    "Here, I got you some coffee; cream, no sugar--right?" she asked.

    "That's right, how did you know?" Mike asked, surprised.

    "I've watched you get yourself coffee a couple of times at work,"  she replied, taking a sip from her box of ginger ale.

    "Thank you," Mike said, taking the plastic cup.

    The two young deputies walked back toward the waiting room.

    "I've been wanting to talk to you for awhile, but it seems like you're always on-duty when I'm off, and off-duty when I'm on."  Peggy said.

    "I noticed the same thing," Mike said.  It's almost like someone is doing it on purpose.

    "It's probably just the way our names are put on the duty list, some kind of a alphabetical computer thing," Peggy replied.
Peggy reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, and then she held it up and said, "do you want to exchange numbers?"

    "Yes of course," Mike said, pulling his phone out like a QuickDraw artist.

    They touched the top corners of their phones together, both phones beeped.

    "Was it good for you?"  Peggy said grinning impishly.

    Before Mike could answer, Buzz and his full entourage emerged from the cubicle.

   Buzz was in a wheelchair.

   Peggy stood up and said; "I'll go see if the city cops are anywhere around."

    "Good idea," Mike replied, standing up.

    Mike walked up to Buzz's group and said; "Peggy's going out to check and see if the city cops are around. It will take just a second."

    They all watched her go out into the parking lot.

    "Nice view," Mike thought to himself, enjoying her swing.

    Mike turned back around toward his friends and found that they were enjoying the view as well.

    "Down, boy--with a little bit of luck, she's mine," Mike said smiling, and very pleased with himself.

    The group moved slowly toward the door.  After about 30 seconds Peggy reappeared in the doorway.

    "They seem to have left, but I'll follow you, at least to the city limits,"  Peggy said, smiling.

    The group stopped on the sidewalk just outside the emergency room doors.

    "I'll go get the car," Clint said, heading toward Felicia.

    "I'm okay--I can walk," Buzz protested, whispering loudly.

    "No, you're probably going to be dizzy for a while yet, no use taking chances," the nurse that had been pushing the wheelchair said sternly.

    Buzz stood up, swayed for a few seconds, and quickly settled back into the wheelchair.

    "Whoa!  What a rush," Buzz said out loud.

    "Whisper, whisper," the nurse said firmly.

    "Okay, okay," Buzz whispered.

    Buzz seemed to be regaining his sobriety, and becoming a bit irritated.

    Clint drove Felicia in a loop around the parking lot, so that the passenger door would be facing Buzz when he pulled up. Once stopped, Clint stayed in the car as the passenger door slid open.  Mike and Bob helped Buzz into the front seat. They thanked the nurse, and she pushed the wheelchair back into the hospital.

    As Mike and Bob got into the back seat, Peggy's sheriff's cruiser pulled up behind them. She turned the flashing blue lights on for a moment; it startled Buzz.

    "What the hell was that?" Buzz said, looking around befuddled.

    "Whisper!"  The other three men said simultaneously. They all laughed.

    Clint pulled out of the hospital parking lot, and headed for the Redwood highway.  Peggy followed them until they reached the Grants Pass city limits.

    "Why are you taking the long way?"  Mike asked.

    "I'm not comfortable on Lower River Road yet."  Clint replied.

    Mike looked over at Bob; he was shaking his head.

   They rode the rest of the way to Buzz's house in silence.

    As they pulled up in front of the cabin, Clint looked over at Buzz, who was asleep.

    "Should we wake him up, or try to carry him?"  Clint asked, looking over his shoulder.

    "Let's wake him up, I don't think we can carry him upstairs."  Mike replied.

    "Wake up, Buzz, we're here," Clint said, shaking his friend's shoulder.

    Though he was still groggy from the drugs, they managed to rouse Buzz, get him out of the car, and up the stairs to his bedroom.

    After they got Buzz in bed, Bob rummaged around in the kitchen and found an old deck of cards, and two boxes of toothpicks.

    They assigned a value of a dollar each for the toothpicks, and sat down at the kitchen table to play poker. Two hours later Clint was up over a hundred dollars, when Buzz came staggering into the room.

    "Boy have I got a headache." Buzz complained, rubbing his forehead.

    "Whisper," Mike ordered.

    "Yeah, yeah," Buzz whispered, annoyed.

    Buzz went over to the kitchen cabinet by the sink, and pulled out a large bottle of pills.

    "Thank God I've got my smuggled APC's," Buzz said, opening the bottle and throwing several of the white tablets in his mouth.

    "I've told you three times, you are allowed to take APC's across the Canadian border"  Mike said.

    "If I don't declare them, they're smuggled, right?" Buzz whispered.

    "Okay, I guess you're right; they're smuggled, so you're under arrest for smuggling,"  Mike said, grinning and standing up.

    "No, no, I declared them, I guess I'm not a smuggler after all," Buzz whispered loudly, backing away from Mike, playfully.

    "If you feel good enough to harass us, you should sit down and see how much money you can lose. Playing poker with three people sucks,"  Mike said, sitting back down.

   Clint was up about fifty bucks when they declared the game over, on account of exhaustion.

    It was decided that everyone would spend the night at Buzz's house.  Buzz dug blankets, sheets, and pillows out of the hall cupboards and handed them out. Clint, Bob, and Mike each cleared off a couch, and set up their beds.  Buzz climbed up the stairs, said "goodnight," and went into his room.  The young men stretched out on the couches and were soon asleep.
 
 

Chapter 10
The Best Laid Plans

    "I want to know who the hell is responsible for this screwup," Clinton Fox Sr. yelled, red-faced.

    In front of him stood four of his seven senior security chiefs.  Each one of them knew their jobs, and their careers, would be determined by the next five minutes. They had all been called in at 1:30 a.m. Each of them had been given only 45 minutes to find out where their people were, what they were doing, and what had happened.

    "Who wants to go first?"  Clinton asked, cooling down a bit.

    "I seem to have most of the information you'll want," Bill Mitchell said, as he stepped foreword.

    "Go ahead," Clinton said, as he sat down.

    "Your son arrived at the Rogue River roadhouse at 8:05 PM, accompanied by three of his friends. They had dinner and then moved into the lounge.  We had two of our operatives in place, in the lounge.

    Clint and his friends ordered drinks, and settled down for what we thought would be a few hours of drinking, and dancing. At 9:50 p.m. Clint and one of his friends proceeded out the back door of the lounge.

    We had three people stationed across the street at the South end of the parking area.  Unknown to us, the three NSA agents had left their station at the north end of the parking lot--they had gone to get coffee.  At that point a white van containing three Mexican nationals confronted your son and his friend. Clint's other two friends then emerged from the lounge. After a short scuffle two of the Mexicans from the van were left lying on the ground.  Your son and his friends ran across the parking lot to their car. Our people then intervened, exchanging gunfire with the members of the southern Mexican cartel. Two killed, one injured.  Theirs, not ours.  Your son and his friends reached their car. An unknown individual then drove your son's car from the parking lot at an extremely high rate of speed. The bodies of the two Mexican nationals have been disposed of. The third man was captured, and is on his way here. He will arrive at SeaTac airport in approximately 30 minutes. We just confirmed 40 minutes ago, that your son is uninjured. One of his friends seems to have suffered a very slight wound. He was treated, and released, from the Josephine County hospital at 11:35 p.m. The four young men, including your son, arrived at one of the men's homes at approximately 12:05 PM.

    They have apparently settled down for the night.  We have eight of our people on station, around the property.

    "You're telling me, with over 200 field agents, my son was forced to defend himself?"  Clinton bellowed.

    Three of the four security chiefs jumped, startled by Clinton Fox's outburst.  The only man that hadn't jumped was Bill Mitchell. Clinton Fox knew that Bill Mitchell would probably, one day, take over as chief of security for the whole operation.  The man was unflappable.  Clinton Fox Sr. liked that.

    "Do the rest of you have anything to add?" Clinton asked, standing up and glaring at them.

    The three men standing behind Bill Mitchell looked at each other, and then all shook their heads.

    "Bill, you stay, and the rest of you, get back to work."  Clinton said, still scowling.

    "You shouldn't be so hard on them, Clinton. None of Thomas's people were even involved. The other two were just handling data. If anybody's to blame, it's me.  It was a Friday night, hell; one of my people was working with a bum arm.  You need to authorize more people.  Better yet, tell the boy what's going on--he seems to be able to handle himself," said Bill.

    "Okay, okay,” said Clinton, “send six more people, and if the big boss gets wind of this, I could be looking at some real trouble.  Oh well, I'll just agree to pay him back out of my own pocket. I've got more than I'll ever need.”

   "I still think you should tell the boy."  Bill retorted.

   "Sure, sure, just exactly what do I tell the boy?  Your mother and I lied to you for about 20 years; I'm your dad, and I just happen to still be alive.  And now two drug cartels are trying to kidnap or kill you.  Oh, and by the way, they have already murdered one of your friends, and another has been wounded. Sorry about that, son, I hope you'll forgive me, and give Daddy a great big hug," Clinton retorted defiantly.

    "I'm sure we could find some way to let him in on the problem without tipping your hand," Bill responded, looking Clinton directly in the eyes.

    "I'll tell you what, Bill, if you can figure out a way to do that, I'll buy you a two-week, all expense paid vacation, anywhere on this planet.

    This was exactly what Bill Mitchell had been waiting for. He knew the old man would come to his senses eventually. He got up and laid a Manila envelope on the desk in front of Clinton.

    "It's the answer. After you read that, I think you'll agree you owe me two weeks in Antarctica," Bill replied, smiling.

    "Antarctica? You asshole, you couldn't find anything more expensive?  If this plan is any good, you need to get your parka cleaned," Clinton said, tearing the envelope open.

    Clinton spent the next two minutes reading, and rereading the two sheets of paper that the envelope had contained.

    "How long have you been sitting on this?"  Clinton asked.

    "About two weeks,” Bill replied. “It all came to me while I was in the shower. At the time it seemed too simple. It's actually almost the truth. It's just that the timeline is a little warped.

    "Have we got people in Grants Pass that could pull it off?"  The older man asked.

    "Yes," Bill Mitchell replied.

    "Do it."  Clinton Fox Sr. ordered.

    "Do I get my trip to Antarctica," Bill asked smiling broadly.

    "Yes, yes, you blackmailing bastard, pack your parka, and get the hell out of here," Clinton replied, grinning at the younger man.

    "No I want to go just after Christmas, because its mid-summer then, in Antarctica.

    "Whatever. Get the hell out of here, and get some work done! We don't pay you for sitting on your butt,” Clinton said, pointing toward the door with a smile.

    "Actually, that's exactly what you pay me for,"  Bill said over his shoulder as he headed toward the door.
Clinton buzzed Bill out, and then reread the two sheets of paper on the desk in front of him.

    "This could work out really well," he mumbled to himself.
 
 

Chapter 11
The one eyed skunk

    As Clint began to wake up, he immediately realized he wasn't at the Ramada.  When his eyes finally focused, he could see the roughly cut timbers some 12 feet above him.  He recognized the beams, and remembered where he was. He heard deep breathing coming from behind him, and knew it was Bob, and Mike. Clint stretched, yawned, and turned toward the window.

    It was going to be a nice day; most days were nice in Grants Pass in May. Clint sat up.  He took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled the unmistakable scent of too many humans sleeping in a closed room. Although most people would classify it as a bad smell, Clint found it somehow comforting.

    Clint got up, and walked over to the big multipane windows at the front of the large living room. He unlatched the side-by-side, six-foot high swinging panels, and pulled them open. A very slight breeze lightly stroked his face. He looked at his watch.  It was almost 11 AM. He turned and looked at his friends.  They were both sleeping peacefully, so he didn't want to wake them yet; he enjoyed a little bit of quiet when he first got up.  He turned back toward the window and surveyed the peaceful scene outside.  Birds were fussing; the apple trees had begun to blossom, and somewhere far away a rooster crowed.

    Clint heard a scratching, tapping sound coming from the overhead landing. He turned and saw a very large skunk come hopping down the stairs. Startled he looked around for a way to escape. The skunk, now at the bottom of the stairs, was between him and the door.  The skunk started toward him.  Clint jumped up onto the windowsill.

    "Bob! Mike! There's a skunk in here!" Clint yelled, as he continued out the window.

    When he hit the ground, he immediately turned and yelled at his friends again, "SKUNK!" Looking in the window he saw both of his friends sit up and look around startled and confused.

    "Run for it! There's a skunk in the living room!" Clint yelled.

    The skunk's head appeared at the bottom of the window, it was looking directly out at Clint, and it was trying to climb up on the windowsill. The skunk seemed to have only one eye, and its face was twisted strangely.  Clint saw his friends get up and run toward the front door, the skunk was at the window, so the path to the front door was now clear.

    Bob and Mike came bursting out the front door, looking over their shoulders.  Clint looked back at the window; he could no longer see the skunk.  About four seconds later the skunk came out the front door--it was chasing the other two men.

    Clint took about five steps back and yelled up at the window on the second floor, "Hey Buzz, there's a skunk down here! Get your rifle--it's after Bob and Mike."

    The skunk suddenly stopped and turned toward Clint, and then it came running after him.

    Clint turned, and took off running.  He looked over his shoulder; the skunk was gaining on him.  Clint ran completely around the house, and across the yard.

    Bob and Mike had taken refuge up in two apple trees; Clint climbed up into a third.

    "Can skunks climb trees?"  Clint yelled, sitting on a branch about six feet up in the old apple tree.

    "I don't know, I hope not,"  Bob yelled back.

    "Hey Buzz! Get a gun, I think this skunk has rabies,"  Clint yelled toward the house as loud as he could.

    Buzz finally came to the upstairs window and pulled it open. He looked out at the yard but didn't see the three men up in the apple trees.

    Buzz started to close the window.

    "Buzz!  We're up in the apple trees--there's a rabid skunk after us, so get a gun!" Clint yelled.

    Buzz stuck his head a little further out the window so he could see the treed men.

    Buzz whispered something loudly, but the other three men couldn't understand him. Clint had forgotten that the doctor told Buzz not to talk out loud until this afternoon.

    "Buzz, get your gun. I think this thing has rabies, because it's chased us all over the yard,"  Clint yelled.

    Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound; Mike was lowered quickly to the ground by the branch he was sitting on. The skunk, which had been at the base of Clint's tree, turned, and ran toward Mike.

    "Oh crap!"  Mike said as he got up, and ran toward his car. When he reached it, he climbed quickly up onto the roof.

    "You guys distract him, and I'll get my gun out of the trunk,"  Mike shouted.

    "You're only wearing your underwear--how are you going to get into your trunk?" Bob yelled.

    "Crap, crap, crap," was Mike's reply.

    Buzz came running out onto the front porch. He was completely dressed except for his shoes and socks.  He stopped, looked toward Clint, ran down the four steps, and headed toward them.  He had come about five feet when he stepped on something; grunted, grabbed his foot, and hopped back to the stairs.

    "Get your gun Buzz, I think the skunk has rabies, it keeps chasing us," Clint yelled, for the third or fourth time.

    All three men knew that this was unusual behavior for a skunk. Usually they took off running when they saw humans.

    Buzz whispered something at Clint as loud as he could.  Clint still couldn't hear what he was saying.  Buzz sat for 10 or 15 seconds looking at the whole situation, rubbing his foot. Clint watched as the skunk circled Mike's car.  Bob carefully got down out of the half dead apple tree. The skunk saw him and started back in his direction.  Bob climbed very quickly back up into the tree.

    "Show the skunk your badge, Mike. That will scare him,"  Bob said, beginning to chuckle.

    "There's a big branch right over under your tree,’ Mike countered, beginning to laugh himself, “Get it and bash the thing!”

  "I'll tell you what--you get down off of your car, and make skunk food sounds. When he goes for you, I'll clobber him with the branch," Bob retorted, laughing.

    "I have no idea of what skunks eat," Mike replied.

    "That's okay--forget it, and anyway, I don't usually beat skunks with a stick before I have my morning coffee," Bob replied, laughing so hard he almost fell out of his tree.

    Clint looked back at Buzz, who was now lying on the porch, holding his stomach, and shaking.

    "Something's the matter with Buzz! It looks like he's having a convulsion or something!"  Clint yelled, as he began to climb down from his tree.

    "Mike!  Get down off your car and distract the skunk,"  Clint yelled, as he touched the ground.

    Mike jumped down off of his car, and yelled, "Hey skunk, come here skunk, here skunkie, skunkie, skunkie."

    Once again, Bob almost fell out of his tree laughing.

    Buzz rolled over, facing away from the other three men; the convulsions seemed to be getting worse. Clint ran toward his friend, he didn't know what he was going to do when he got there.  Clint ran up onto the porch, and fell to his knees beside his friend. When he touched Buzz, the younger man immediately rolled over and looked up at him.

    Clint looked at his friend's face; tears were running down it. He was having a very hard time breathing.

    "What's the matter? What's wrong?"  Clint asked.

    "Pinoc... it's... The skunk is...I didn't mean to..." Buzz gasped, pointing toward the skunk, then he dissolved back into almost silent, helpless gasping and shaking.

    "I don't understand--something about the skunk? …and something about Pinocchio?" Clint asked.

    Clint looked at his friend very closely.  It was then that he realized Buzz wasn't having convulsions; he was laughing so hard he couldn't talk.

    Mike had run down the driveway, turned, and was now out in the field beside the driveway, running back toward the house.  Clint marveled at how fast the big man was moving.  The skunk was staying about three feet behind him.

    "I...  I put the... skunk skin... on Pinocchio," Buzz was finally able to sob out, pointing toward Pinocchio.

    Buzz then pointed toward Bob, still sitting up in the apple tree, in his underwear, and once again dissolved into gasping, gut wrenching laughter.

    "What's the matter with Buzz, is he okay?" Mike yelled, still running toward the house.  Clint, now understanding what had happened, began to chuckle.

    "It's okay--it's not a skunk. Asshole, here, put a skunk skin on Pinocchio," Clint yelled, trying not to laugh.

    "What!" Mike yelled back, still running.

    "That's not a skunk, it's Pinocchio!  Clint yelled again, pointing toward the small robot.

    "Are you sure?" Mike said, beginning to break stride.

    "You don't smell anything do you?" Clint replied, sniffing the air.

    Buzz was still laughing so hard he couldn't even sit up. Mike finally stopped and turned around. The small robot ran up to him--he looked very closely at the animal, and then picked it up.  Mike and Bob joined Clint and Buzz on the porch.

    Sitting up and trying to control his laughter, Buzz said, "I had some old Robo-pet skins I got in a box of stuff from the Roseburg auction, and the skunk skin almost fit Pinocchio.  I was trying to find the scissors to fix the eyeholes, but Pinocchio heard you guys and ran downstairs.”

    Buzz once again fell back and dissolved into almost silent laughter, as tears were still running down his face.

    Buzz's laughter was infectious, for the other three men began to point at each other, and laugh.  The laughter ended abruptly when the UPS motor freight truck appeared at the end of the driveway. It drove up toward the house.  The three men still in their underwear slipped very quickly into the cabin.

    By the time the young men dressed and got back outside, Buzz was back by the garage, helping the UPS man unload two large crates, and a cardboard box.  Buzz inspected the rough wooden crates very carefully, and rolled the box up on its side so he could examine the bottom.

    "It all looks okay to me," he told the driver, as he put his thumb on the driver's databoard.

    The driver said, "Thank you," got in his truck and headed down the driveway.

    "What did you get?" Bob asked, putting his hand on one of the crates.

    "The wood crates contain a Hydro-arm, and the cardboard box is the Hydro-arm rebuild kit. I'm surprised I got them at the same time. Usually the rebuild kit takes at least an extra week to get here." Buzz made short work of taking the crates apart.

    "I want to save the crates, so I can use them when we sell it," Buzz explained.

    "Is this the one you bought yesterday?"  Mike asked.

    "No, no, I bought this one about 10 days ago," Buzz replied.

    "How long will it take you to rebuild it?" Clint asked.

    "If everything is the way it's supposed to be, three or four hours,” said Buzz, “The problem is, the units are never the way they're supposed to be. It seems like everyone but me lies about the condition of their merchandise."    Clint, Mike, and Bob helped Buzz carry the pieces of the arm into the garage. They laid them out on a huge, metal-covered wooden worktable.

   "You guys get to help me rebuild it later this afternoon. But now, I want some breakfast, or lunch, since it's almost noon. Are you guys hungry?" Buzz asked, wiping his hands on a red shop towel.

    The reply was a unanimous, "Yes."

    The three older men followed Buzz into the house.  Buzz was quite proud of his little apartment sized refrigerator. He explained that the refrigerator ordered food itself, directly over the Internet. Whenever he used anything, the refrigerator made note of it, and twice a week, a man came in a big refrigerated truck, to refill the appliance. The price of the food was actually less than at the supermarket, and the company supplied the refrigerator-freezer for free. Forty-five minutes and 20 or 30 dollars worth of groceries later, the four men sat on the big front porch.

    "I think we should have a barbecue tomorrow," Buzz said, chewing on a toothpick.

    "Sounds good to me," Bob replied.

    "We'll make it a party, a welcome home party for Bob and Clint," Buzz continued.

    "Can we bring dates?" Mike asked.

    "Mikey’s got a girlfriend, Mikey’s got a girlfriend," Bob sang, in an annoying sing-song voice.

    "Does your girlfriend have a friend?"  Buzz asked hopefully.

    "I don't know, I can ask."  Mike replied.

    "I can ask Bobbie if she has any friends hard up enough to want to date one of you guys," Clint volunteered.

    "Okay, if you guys can get Bob and me a girl, we'll make it a boy-girl party," Buzz said.

    "Let's get to work--it's time for you guys to learn the messy part of our new business," Buzz said, getting up and heading toward the garage.

    Buzz noticed that Bob was wearing his game goggles as sunglasses.

    "Hey Bob, why don't you record this? It's the third button from the front, on the right hand side of the glasses."

    Bob took the glasses off and examined the right side of the frames. He found the button with REC on it, pressed it, and put the glasses back on.

    Buzz spent the next 20 minutes showing everyone how to assemble a hydraulic, robotic arm unit.  He then showed them how to run the unit through the tests that would determine what parts needed to be rebuilt.

    The unit squirted hydraulic fluid, groaned, shuddered, banged, and refused to work in several modes. All in all, it behaved like a piece of junk.

    "Are you sure you're going to be able to fix it?"  Clint asked dubiously.

    "Oh yeah, this one is in better shape than most, I've never had one that I couldn't rebuild."  Buzz answered brightly.

    Buzz then showed them how to completely disassemble the unit into its two or three hundred component parts.  He showed them what parts were most likely worn. He showed them how to use the special tools necessary to disassemble certain modules.

    "I've got the manual for this unit. I downloaded it a couple months ago," Buzz informed them, walking over to a shelf full of print sheets.

    Buzz dug through the stack of manuals, found the one he wanted, and returned to the other three men.

    "If you guys study this, you'll end up knowing as much about the unit as I do," Buzz said, handing the print sheet to Clint.

    "I need to go in and do some more buying. If we all want to make a living at this, I'll have to buy at least five times as much stuff as I usually do,"  Buzz remarked. Clint looked down at the print sheet he held and saw that he was on Page 1 of 347 pages.  He then looked at the hundreds of small parts spread out on the table and shook his head in dismay.

    "Here, Mike, you take this. I need to go help Buzz,"  Clint said, handing him the print sheet and beating a hasty retreat.

    Mike surveyed the hundreds of parts lying out on the table, glanced at the print sheet, and handed it to Bob.

    "Here, Bob, you take it--I need to go help Clint help Buzz,"  Mike said, walking after Clint.

    "Come on, guys, we can do this; we just need to do it one step at a time,"  Bob called out, watching his friends' retreat into the house.

    Bob took the game glasses off, examined the side of the frames again, hit the reset button, hit the play button, and put the glasses back on.  It was strange: it was just like he was reliving the last hour and a half.  He watched as Buzz ran the unit through its paces.  He watched as Buzz disassembled the entire unit again.  The game glasses were very satisfying; they gave a digital three-dimensional field of view.  Bob took the glasses off and looked at the buttons, for he wanted to see what the reverse button would do. When he pushed it, the video ran backwards, clearly and flawlessly. He watched, as the Video Buzz, put the unit back together.

    Mike and Clint found Buzz sitting at his computer monitor, so they took their places behind him, in two small swivel chairs. Fully absorbed in what he was doing, Buzz didn't acknowledge their arrival. After about five minutes, Buzz took a deep breath, leaned back from the monitor and turned toward the two men behind him.

    "You guys are supposed to be figuring out how to rebuild the arm unit."

    "Bob's out working on it, but I'm afraid it's a pretty overwhelming job. You're going to have to walk us through it the first time or two. I want to find out how you do--what you do,"  Clint replied.

    "Me, too," Mike added, leaning back in his chair.

    "Okay, gather around my friends, you're about to see the Buzzer in action,"  Buzz said, turning toward the monitor, wiggling his fingers in the air, and clearing his throat.

    After over 2 ½ hours of playing with the video in the game glasses, Bob returned the goggles to sunglasses mode. He was prompted to save the video file; he did so.

    "You've got to see this, Bob. We can buy anything from an oil refinery to a diesel powered World War II submarine," said Clint, waving toward the computer.

    "Wait a minute, we're not a country--you have to be a recognized member of the United Nations to bid on the submarine,” Buzz said, smiling.

    "We have a bid in on a set of 12 robotic arm units, including a fourth generation A. I. computer control system,” explained Clint. “The auction is over in eight minutes. If we win, Buzz says we can make 40 to 80 thousand dollars profit, rebuilding them."  Clint was smiling broadly.

    "Right now our bid is at $32,000, but the last minute bidding will probably take it up to a little over 41,000," Buzz replied.

    "Wow, that's over two-thirds of our capital. Are you sure it's a good idea to risk that much, right out of the box?" Bob asked.

    "Even if we can only rebuild half of them, we can still almost double our money.  If we can rebuild the complete 12 arm system, we can more than triple our money on one deal,"  Buzz replied, looking back toward the computer screen.

    "How long is it going to take us to rebuild all 14 of the units we're going to be committed to?" Mike asked, rolling back from the computer monitor.

    "If everyone will quit screwing around, and concentrate on actually getting the work done, it should take us less than a week,"  Buzz replied.

    The tension increased noticeably over the next seven minutes as the young men's excitement built.  Finally in the last minute, Buzz's fingers were a blur on his keyboard as he inched the bid up.  They had it; they lost it; they had it; they lost it; they had it. Finally, in the last two seconds they had it.  When the auction was over the Shan Creek trading company had just barely won, with a bid of $43,657.51. Clint, Mike, and Bob went crazy--you would have thought they had just won the lottery; they high fived each other, they high tenned each other, they patted each other on the back, they danced around like fools.  Buzz looked up, confused and a bit anxious about all the excitement.  Buying hardware was something he did several times a week. He looked at the computer screen, he looked at his friends, he looked back at the computer screen, and then it finally occurred to him that they would make as much in three weeks, as he usually made in two years. Buzz stood up and joined the celebration, for him the money was secondary. He loved being a hero. The young men sat around for the next hour daydreaming out loud.

    "I've got to go! I haven't had much time to get my living arrangements situated yet,"  Bob announced at about 3:00.

    "Me, too--I need to get my uniforms into the cleaners, before 5:00."

    "What a bunch of party poopers. Why don't you move in here, Bob? It will save you a 40-mile trip every day; you're going to be out here most of the time anyway. You can have the downstairs’ back bedroom. I won't charge you too much rent," Buzz said, chuckling, and rubbing his hands together in a greedy manner.

    "Maybe later. Mom would get her feelings hurt if I stayed here rather than with her. I'm going to get a little apartment; I'll tell her I need my space.  Maybe after we get things going, I'll stay here part of the time--after all, I can't bring dates here."  Bob replied.

    "Of course you can bring dates here; you just have to let me watch," Buzz replied, leering, and rubbing his hands together again.

    "You'd like that, you pervert, it would probably stunt your growth,"  Bob said, laughing.

    "That's okay, I'm tall enough," Buzz replied, chuckling.

    "Have you had a chance to run Pinocchio's skin through the washing machine yet?"  Clint asked.

    "No, but we can do it right now." Buzz stood up.

    All four of the young man headed out the front door, and they paused on the porch long enough to say their good-byes. Bob and Mike walked directly to their vehicles.

    Buzz poured most of the liquid out of the small washtub, being careful not to get any of the mess on his shoes.  He put the gloves on, and squeezed as much of the liquid out of the skin as he could.

    "That should do it. It doesn't smell too bad, so we'll put it through the washer and dryer, and see how it comes out.  I've got some really strong- smelling fabric softener, and I'll put that in, too," Buzz said, carrying the skin toward the enclosed back porch.

    An hour later the skin was finished. It didn't smell like skunk anymore; it smelled like cheap perfume.

    "I guess I put in a little too much fabric softener," Buzz said, wrinkling his nose.

    "No problem, anything is better than fresh skunk."  Clint replied. It was a real relief to get the skin back on Pinocchio.  After they put the skin on the little robot, they brushed it back to its silky smoothness.  Pinocchio loved all the attention.

    "I think it's time for me to be heading home--I've worn these clothes since yesterday, and I really need a shower,"  Clint muttered, picking Pinocchio up.

    "Aw, you're not deserting me, too, are you? You don't have anyone waiting for you at the motel; why don't you stay?  I've got stuff you can wear, and you know the shower works good, even if the toilet doesn't."  Buzz was showing his disappointment.

    "No, I've got to go--I didn't bring Pinocchio's charger, so he'll go dead in the next couple hours," Clint lied.

    "Okay, okay, you don't love me anymore," Buzz said, smiling.

    "I want to get to Radio Shack tonight and pick up another four-pair of the game goggles, so the girls will the able to use them too," Clint said.

    "I can get them for you much cheaper on the Internet," Buzz volunteered.

    "Yeah, I know, but we need them tomorrow, can you get 12 hour delivery?  Clint asked, chuckling.

    "Not on Sunday," Buzz said, disappointed.

    Buzz followed Clint out to the car, and they said their good-byes. Clint had Felicia drive him back into town.

    He stopped at the Radio Shack store, picked up another four-pair of the game goggles, and returned to the motor hotel. He felt himself relaxing as he entered the apartment.

    "It's surprising how quickly a motel can become home," Clint thought to himself.

    "Pinocchio, go to your bed," Clint said to the small, perfumed robot.

    The pseudo-dog went straight to its charger and lay down on the plaid-covered cushion.

    Clint took out his phone, and sat down at the dining room table.  He needed to call Bobbie. He looked at the telephone and realized he didn't have her phone number, or even her last name.  After staring at the phone for a moment, he put it to his ear and said; "Rogue River roadhouse, Rogue River, Oregon; dial."  After two or three rings, a male voice answered.

    "I'm trying to get in touch with a friend of mine, she works the 9 to 11 shift, nights, as a bartender," Clint said.

    "Who's calling?"  The man asked.

    "Clint, Clint Fox."  Clint replied.

    "Okay, hang on a minute," the voice replied.

    He was put on hold.

    "Hello Clint, this is Bobbie, what's up?"  Bobbie said.

    "This is a pleasant surprise,” Clint said, “because I was going to call you, but I realized I don't have your phone number, or even your last name. I was just calling the lounge to see if I could get them to give me your last name." Clint was a little flustered.

    "Normally I wouldn't be here, but I'm having my car towed to the shop. I got a bullet in my windshield last night, and I couldn't drive it with a hole in the window. Are you all right? You seem to have been out in the middle of the gunplay," said Bobbie.

    "I'm fine, but Buzz got a bullet fragment in his neck.  We had to take him over to the hospital last night, and by the time they got him taken care of, it was too late to come back,"  Clint replied.

    "I'm really mad about my windshield; it's going to cost me over 600 bucks to get it replaced. It would be a lot more, but my insurance is covering most of it. I'm going to try and get Mike to pay the deductible,” Bobbie said.

    "Who is Mike?"  Clint asked.

    "He owns the roadhouse; he's kind of cheap, but maybe I can nag him into paying."

    "How would you like to come out to Buzz's house to a barbecue tomorrow?" Clint asked abruptly.

    "Sounds like fun--who else is going to be there?" Bobbie asked.

    "Buzz, Bob, Mike, Mike's female friend, and of course me.  You met the guys last night," Clint replied.

    "Sounds like you need two more girls," said Bobbie.

    "Do you have a couple of friends you could bring along?  Clint asked.

    "I might. Which one was Buzz, and which one was Bob?" she asked.

    "Buzz was the tall guy, with the blue eyes, and the long curly blond hair.  Bob was the shorter guy with the brown eyes and short dark curly hair."  Clint replied.

    "Mike was the big guy, with the sandy colored hair?"  Bobbie asked.

    "Yes, but he thinks he might have a new girlfriend," Clint replied.

    "A funny thing happened when I looked at Buzz. He made me think of a friend of mine named Candy. I think they might really hit it off.

    Her real name is Charlene, but she has always gone by Candy."  Bobbie said.

    "Do you think she might be able to come tomorrow?"  Clint asked.

    "I don't know, but she doesn't work Sundays or Mondays, so she might be able to come. I'll call her and find out."

    "What about Bob; do you know anybody that might like him?"  Clint asked.

    "My younger sister Chris might want to come,” Bobbie replied. “She went through a nasty divorce about a year ago, and hasn't dated much since. She has two little girls, twin two-year-olds. It should be okay if everybody keeps it casual."

    That sounds great. We'll keep the whole thing casual, not really dates, just people getting together for a barbecue,”  Clint said.

    "Okay," said Bobbie, sounding a bit disappointed.

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute, I didn't mean keep it casual with us! I'm officially asking you for a date," Clint said quickly.

    "Okay, then, I'm officially excepting a date," she said, giggling.

    "We've got two quad sets of new game goggles, so everyone will be able to play just about anything they want,” Clint added.

    "Do they have inertial gloves?"  Bobbie asked.

    "Yes, they are seven pounders," Clint replied. Bobbie whistled.

    "Buzz isn't any kind of a religious nut, or prude or anything is he?"  Bobbie asked.

    "No, he's just a regular guy, why?"  Clint replied.

    "Candy is a dancer. Now, she doesn't dance nude or anything; it’s usually just bikinis. She works as an exotic dancer in Medford; it's just until she gets her degree.” Bobbie said.

    "No problem--he's a good old-fashioned male animal, and he'll love it," Clint said, laughing.

    "You'll have to pick us up and take us home, because my car won't be ready until Tuesday or Wednesday," Bobbie warned.

    "Once again, no problem,” Clint quipped.

    “What time?” Bobbie asked.

    "Probably one, or two, in the afternoon--I'll have to call Buzz and find out."

    "Okay, sounds good," Bobbie said.

    Clint got Bobbie's address and phone number, and he told her he would call back as soon as he found out what time the barbecue would be. She told him she would know about the other two girls in an hour or so.  He wanted to call Buzz immediately and tell him that he was going to have a date with an exotic dancer, but he decided to wait until it was for sure.

    After fixing himself a cup of coffee, Clint sat back down at the dining room table.  He picked up his phone and called Buzz.

    "Hey, Buzz, what time did you want to have the barbecue?"  Clint asked.

    I figured about 1:00.  I'm doing pork ribs and steaks. I also had them deliver a bunch of different kinds of salad and stuff; it's going to be great,"  he said, enthusiastically.

    "I think I've got you a date, she's really ugly, and she smells funny, but people brave enough to get close to her say she's got a good personality."  Clint was laughing.

    "Hey, Asshole! She had better be at least as pretty as I am," Buzz retorted.

    "It's not for sure yet, but Bobbie thinks she's got two girl friends she can talk into coming to our barbecue," Clint said,  "so I'll call you back once it's for sure."

    "Okay, great, I ordered some beer, and wine coolers; it should all be here first thing in the morning."

    "I'll talk to you later."

    "Later," replied Buzz.

    Clint felt very good as he hit the end button on his phone. He picked up his coffee and walked out on the deck.  The view from the balcony was very pleasant; the smell of the air bore the promise of an early summer.  Clint sat down at one of the wrought iron and glass tables and began to contemplate everything that had happened in the last four days.  If he had known it was going to be like this, he would have come back three or four years ago. Then again, if he'd come back then, everything wouldn't have been as it is now.  Bob wouldn't have been in Grants Pass, Mike wouldn't have been a cop yet, Bobbie probably wouldn't have been working at the bank, and Buzz, most likely, wouldn't have been buying and selling on the Web. He wouldn't have had the chance to buy Felicia. It doubtless would have been, just a continuation of his childhood.

    "It's as if it's all meant to be," he mumbled out loud.

    "Here Pinocchio, come here boy," Clint called loudly.

    Clint turned slightly to see if the dog had heard him.  The small pseudo-animal bounced out onto the balcony, spotted Clint, and came running toward him.

    "Up," Clint said, slapping his upper leg.

    The small robot jumped up onto Clint's lap, wagging its tail excitedly.

    "Easy little one," Clint said, petting the small, still-fragrant animal.

    "You smell like laundry day," Clint said, chuckling.

    Clint sat out on the balcony for the next 15 or 20 minutes, petting his dog and daydreaming about what the future might bring.  Clint's phone rang; he dug it out of his pocket. The caller ID said it was Bobbie.

    "Hi Bobbie, what's up?"  He said into the phone.

    "Candy and Chris are both coming to the barbecue, Candy's going to drive her car, and you can pick Chris and me up at about 12:30, here at my house. Candy's going to be here, too, but she wants to drive her car out there, so she'll follow us." Bobbie said.

    "I love it when a plan comes together. Buzz and Bob will be happy," Clint replied.

  "Now remember, these aren't blind dates or anything, just people getting together for a barbecue, so if anyone likes anyone else, they're free to pursue it, no pressure.  I hate blind dates, and I don't intend to set any up," Bobbie said firmly.

    "Okay, okay, I'll make that clear to Bob and Buzz. I really appreciate this, Bobbie, because Buzz doesn't get out much, and Bob is just newly back in town," Clint said.

    "That's alright, because I've been wanting to get Chris to go out for almost a year now, and she just doesn't seem to have any confidence since her marriage broke up. Candy is usually too busy, what with work, and full time school. We haven't been able to get together much for girl talk.  Don't let anyone get their feelings hurt if Candy has to leave early. She really is very busy," Bobbie explained.

    "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow at about 12:30," Clint said.

    "Okay, I'll see you then, bye,"  she said. Clint tapped the end button; he then pushed the dial button and said, "Buzz" into the phone. After a few seconds, his friend answered.

    "I've got you and Bob a date. It's not really a date, though, just people getting together for a barbecue, Bobbie's rules.  She doesn't want anyone to think that these are blind dates, even though they are, and you know the drill. They're going to load your date onto the truck at about 11:30 tomorrow, her handlers will drive her out to your house, Clint said, chuckling.

    "Okay, Asshole, how are they going to get out here--do I pick them up, or are you bringing them?"  Buzz asked.

    "I'm bringing Bobbie and her sister, and Candy is going to follow us out in her car,"  Clint answered.

    "Quit screwing around, what do you know about her?"  Buzz asked plaintively.

    "You probably won't believe this, but she's an exotic dancer, she also goes to school full-time over in Medford.  Bobby says she's a very pretty blond, and she said that when she saw you, for some reason she thought of Candy. You reminded her of this girl.”

    "You're kidding, she's a stripper?"  Buzz exclaimed.

    "Yeah, she doesn't dance nude or anything, just bikinis," Clint said.

    "I don't believe you, Jerk-off, so I guess I'll see what she's like when she gets out here," Buzz said.

    "I told you, you wouldn't believe me, but she's really a dancer, and she’s supposed to be cute. I haven't seen her, but Bobbie thinks she's a knockout," Clint concluded.

    "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll bet you 100 bucks that she's a dog," Buzz whined.

    "You're on, I can use an extra hundred bucks, Dog-breath. We'll let Bob decide. If he says she's good-looking, you owe me a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

    "You're actually taking my bet? It would be well worth it to me if she were a dancer. After all, I'm going to be rich; I've already got most of your money," Buzz said in a taunting voice.

    "You're hopeless; she'll probably be so good-looking she'll scare the hell out of you. You'll probably run and hide under the back porch again.”  Clint said.

   "I've got to go, I'll see you tomorrow, auction's coming close to its end," Buzz said, abruptly.
  "Okay, later, Clint said.

    Buzz had already hung up; Clint looked at his phone surprised.

    "Oh well, I hope he's making us money. I guess I shouldn't have said anything about the Sharon fiasco," Clint murmured to himself.

  Clint put Pinocchio on the floor, told him to go to his bed, got up, and walked into the kitchen wondering what he would have for dinner.

    Clint fixed himself the same dinner he'd had the night before, surf and turf, with stuffed baked potatoes. After eating, he settled down in front of the TV and watched three programs on the discovery channel.

    The first one was about the early muck ships. The ships harvested organic biomass from the floor of the ocean.  The muck consisted of fish waste, dead algae, rotting seaweed, tiny pieces of almost any creature or plant that had lived in the ocean. It showed that in the early teens, just about anyone could take an old tanker out to the deepest part of the ocean and get rich in months. In that era raw muck could be sold for as much as 20 cents a gallon. It could be converted into oil, or the salt could be removed and it could be used raw, as a high-energy, nitrogen rich, organic fertilizer.

    Oceanographers had known about this biomass for over 100 years. The area where muck was found was known as the haystack zone.

    Scientists had dismissed it as just an interesting phenomenon.  A few scientists had noticed that methane ice existed on the sea floor in, and adjacent to, the haystack zone.  They theorized that the methane ice was produced by the anaerobic decay of this sea bottom garbage.

    It took a young chemistry postgraduate student to put the pieces together and provide mankind with a limitless source of cheap energy.

    Back then it was refined on-shore; unfortunately, the smell was terrible. After years of complaints they went to refinery ships. Next came pumping refinery ships: these ships would pump muck off the bottom at one end, and pump man-made crude oil into tankers from the other.

    The next program was about the Sky-trains.  A farmer outside of Lewiston, Idaho had invented them. Originally long-range helicopters had pulled the Sky-trains, but this wasn't cost-effective; that's when they came up with the airship tugs. The airships allowed the Sky-trains to operate high above any disruptive weather.

    A 400-foot composite-plastic balloon would be loaded with a couple of tons of grain, and then the balloon would be filled with hydrogen. These plastic balloons would then be strung together, using high strength, lightweight, plastic cables. One Blimp-tug could then move a shipload of bulk commodities, quickly and economically to almost anywhere in the world.

    There was a big fight about the hydrogen. The government had banned the flammable gas for use in airships, for almost a hundred years, but since the balloons did not carry passengers, the government finally relented and allowed its use.

    The Blimp-tugs used safer nonflammable helium, because they did carry at least one pilot.

    Clint knew a lot more about the Sky-trains than most people; he had worked at the Sky-train yard outside of Portland Oregon. In fact, that's where he and Bobo had met.

    Clint knew how complicated all the balloons really were, the control package at the top of each balloon used thin-walled air bladders inside the balloon itself to keep the balloons fully inflated at any altitude.

    These balloons, inside balloons, were necessary to keep the high altitude cargo carriers aerodynamically smooth. The control package also allowed for the ignition of the hydrogen in any balloon that was in danger of falling to earth. Exploding the hydrogen would blow the sturdy, flexible plastic cargo carrier to pieces, and allow the small grains of cargo to fall to the ground like a small-scale hailstorm.

    The next program was about the Tritium-Silicon-phosphor nuclear battery.  They showed how easy it was to build one of these power producers.  They took a glass tube about eight inches long, sealed at one end, and placed a simple, round photovolactic solar cell in it, face up.

    Next they placed a thin sheet of phosphorescent paper on top of it, then came another solar cell face down, then a solar cell face up, phosphorescent paper on top of that, a solar cell face down. This way, each pair of solar cells had a layer of phosphorescent paper between them.  They continued this process until they had filled the glass tube to the top; it looked like a glass roll of silver dollars. Each of the Photovoltaic solar cells made contact with a pair of metal strips inside the glass tube. Those strips were attached to terminals outside the cell.

    Next they sealed the top of the glass tube. The end cap had a small fitting attached to it. They attached a hose to the fitting and pulled all of the remaining air out of the cylinder.  Using the same hose, they then pumped in five atmospheres of Tritium gas. As the moderately radioactive gas was introduced, the sheets of phosphor began to glow brightly. The solar cells then converted that light into electric current; it would continue to flow for 10 years or more. The half-life of Tritium is a little over six years; so at the six-year mark, the battery would have about half the power it had when it was new. Tritium cells produce no heat, minimal radiation exposure, and if they are damaged, the radioactivity usually bleeds away safely. Unfortunately Tritium cells were banned for use within earth's atmosphere, but they were used extensively in outer space.  Almost every space station contained huge banks of what were referred to as trid cells, or trids. The inertial drives used in the Bubble and Zip-lock ships also relied on trids as their power source.

    Clint found most of this interesting, for he already knew a little about trid cells from high school. Clint noticed that they had left out one of the most important elements of the cells. He knew that at least in the earlier trids, there were multifaceted, high refraction lenses between each sheet of phosphor and the adjoining photovolactic cell. These lenses would take the weak light from the glowing phosphor and intensify it into 30 or 40 much brighter spots on the surface of the Silicon cell. "Maybe they had found new brighter phosphors that eliminated the need for the lenses," Clint guessed. He had always been fascinated by how easy they were to build. The only problem was, you couldn't get the necessary Tritium gas without federal nuclear material licenses.

    The Discovery channel prime time was over, and an infomercial started about rose bushes that produced small red apples, after they finished blooming.

    Clint flipped over to the twenty-four hour news channel. The talking head began: David Letterman, 96, reported from his studios in Indianapolis Indiana; that he was in fact serious about leaving his show so he could move to Utah, and marry both of his twin 28 year old girl friends, Candy and Bambi Douglas.

    Jay Leno, contacted at the 360-acre car museum adjoining the Leno studios in Palm Springs, California, reacted to the news with pleasure, saying, “Gee, I guess this means I finally won!”

  Clint turned the television off and went to bed.

(49 chapters of fun and adventure to go.)

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