Ilene parked next to the blue Geo that always took the spot next to
the door, and got out of her bright white car, her boots crunching on the 
icy parking lot.  Her Eclipse hadn't failed her, even on this slippery day,
and thankfully the stairs were freshly salted, so she didn't slip as she
climbed them and swiped her access card in the door.  Knowing the
exact time to pull the door handle was something she had gotten down to a
science, and she did so exactly as the light turned green.
    Stepping into the small foyer, she swiped her card again at the inner
door, again pulling it open just as it clicked.  Glancing at her watch
as she walked down the long hallway to her office area, she saw it was
just a few minutes before seven o'clock.
    Quickly glancing in the mail slot outside the office area, she saw
there was no mail, as usual, and keyed the door code so she could enter
the lab area, beyond which was her office.

    Ilene Berkeley had intentionally chosen one of the lesser used office
areas to locate her desk when she had taken this position; she had found
that the less traffic there was through her area, the more she could get
done.  "Still thinking like a developer," she smiled to herself as she
sat down and powered up her workstation, a high end model from Sun
Microsystems.  "Kind of ironic," she had mentioned to a former colleague
of hers one day.  His name was Greg Harrison, though most of his friends
called him The Machine due to the long hours he usually put in.  "When I 
was a developer over there working on the K-80 stuff, I would have killed 
for a machine like this.  Over here, it's taken for granted, and all I use 
it for is memos and status reports.  I don't even have a compiler loaded 
onto it."
    "You'd better watch it, Berkeley," he replied with mock severity, 
"Jason and I might come over there on a raid and take it on you, leaving 
you with one of the doorstops they give us for development machines."
Greg had always referred to her by her last name, an obscure joke he 
and Jason found amusing due to the similarity between her name and that of
one of the popular operating systems used by Sun.
    "That's why they don't let guys like you in here," she had replied
with a laugh, "you're always trying to steal the hardware."

    This morning she found with annoying that there were several memos
already sitting on her chair, all signed by Harold Stanwick, and all
dated yesterday.  That meant he had probably stopped by yesterday after
she had left.  Although she came in an hour early most days, for the 
sake of the early morning peace and quiet, she rarely left early, or
even on time.  Yesterday had been one of those infrequent days; she had
been frustrated when she left the Monday afternoon status meeting and 
decided to hit the gym an hour early to beat the crowd, not thinking 
anything  of leaving at three-thirty.
    If there was one thing Ilene had learned in the month she had been
here, it was not to trust the Walrus.  As she sat watching the system
come up, she remembered meeting Harold in a staff meeting three weeks ago.
Nancy Schein, a friend she had met her first week here, had warned her
about him, but Ilene had brushed the warning off, thinking that she could
take care of herself.  Methodically throughout the meeting, he had asked
questions and made comments that were infuriating but impossible to respond
to without seeming foolish.  By the end of the hour-long meeting, she was
so frustrated she stormed out without saying a word to Sam Edison, her
new boss.  She didn't miss the knowning glance that Harold had exchanged
with Sam, but had known she would lose her temper if she went back in.
    "The Walrus is a jerk," Nancy had said to her afterwards.  "I heard
that he was angling to be in charge of Watson Bank project, and was going
to get it until the customer questioned his engineering credentials."
    "Didn't think he had any," commented Ilene.
    "He doesn't; he used to be a junior high teacher," replied Nancy, and
the people at Watson wanted someone with some real experience to head up
the project so they told Sam to get someone else.  You were the number one
technical person going for the job, as opposed to being Sam's pet manager,
so you got it.  That's why the Walrus is gunning for you."
    Publically nobody called him the Walrus, of course, but most of the
engineers did between themselves.  Ilene had thought it an odd nickname
until she met him that day.  He wasn't a heavy man, but his thick droopy
mustache did make her think of a walrus.

    Idly tugging at her dark brown hair, she logged into her workstation
and started her day's work.  She wasn't used to having to start from the
beginning every day, but the new policy was that everyone logged out every
night.  The upper management of CDS had apparently decided that it was in
the best interests of security, and the network people were apparently 
enforcing it harshly.  Ilene didn't know if it was a rumor or not, but she
had heard that a couple of people had actually been locked out of their
systems for flouting the rule.
    She began by sending some electronic mail to her group.  She still was
not comfortable referring to the two dozen engineers she was managing in
the Watson Bank project as her engineers, but it was the most convenient
way to refer to the team.  She had only posted for the job after incessant
prodding by Greg, and had been a bit overwhelmed when she had gotten
notice that she had been picked for the position.
    Finishing the two line summary of yesterday's meeting, she sent the 
e-mail off with a single click of her mouse, then began to review the 
schedules that had been sent to her in softcopy form from the two project 
leads.
    The Watson Bank project was a relatively small one for Cognitive Data
Systems; they usually went after larger government contracts and this one
was a test of the commercial marketplace and hence would be quite a feather
in the cap of whoever brought it to a successful completion.  She was not
sure she would have taken the job had she known, though she suspected that
Greg had been aware of the potential, even though he claimed innocence.

    Noticing two messages in her e-mail in box, she glanced quickly at who
had sent them before loading them in.  The first was corporate junk mail,
easily identified by the fact that it was sent from the "Bulletin" user.
The second was from Morris Griswold, one of the developers working on the
Watson Bank project.
    Morris was young and heavyset, though Ilene wouldn't really call him
obese.  He was competent enough, but Ilene had a suspicion he spent as
much time cruising the net as working, though it was hard to prove and
he got all his work done exactly on schedule.  Something about his wide,
bland face and his narrow eyes disturbed her.  Even in the middle of a
technical discussion on the merits of ATM and FDDI networking technology
she still felt as if he were mentally undressing her.  He never made any
comments that weren't entirely on the level that she had ever heard, so
she was not sure that it wasn't partly her imagination.
    The message was short and direct, and has no subject line.  "Lunch at
Emil's, 11:30," it said simply.  "You won't want to miss this."  Emil's
was an out-of-the-way Italian restaurant that she liked, over on the
far side of East Benford.  She wondered how Morris had known that she
liked to eat there.
    'Won't want to miss what?' she wondered to herself as she deleted the
message.  She quickly scanned the Bulletin Update e-mail, passing over
items on the monthly Feedback Awards and the recent management changes.
The only item of any interest at all was a short article on the recent
network upgrade in the Collins building, where she used to work before
being promoted to this position.

    The morning passed quickly.  There had been problems with the network
switches originally specified in the engineering plan, and she had spent 
the morning on the phone with several of the managers at Watson assuring
them that the new switch would perform even better than the spec called 
for, and the cost difference would not have an effect on their billing.  
She was thankful that her contacts at Cisco were so responsive, and griped 
to herself about inept cost-cutting.  The switch chosen for the design had 
been significantly lower in cost, but was from a little known European
manufacturer; one who had previously been good, but it was now found out
was in bankruptcy court.  She would not have selected it for the design
untested, but she had not been involved at that stage; she was handed a 
finished development plan and had to make it work.  The problem was that 
recent testing at other companies had revealed that the hardware didn't quite 
deliver as promised, and CDS was probably one of many companies scrambling 
to redo system designs.
    She got off the phone some time after noon and began to dig into the
small pile of paperwork left over from last week.  It wasn't until her
workstation beeped at her, announcing an incoming e-mail message, that
she guiltily remembered Morris's message about lunch.  She would probably
have made some excuse not to go, but felt bad that she hadn't even
responded.  As the message before it, this was short and to the point,
with no subject.  "Sorry I missed you," it said.  "I'll be by this 
afternoon."
    Frowning inwardly, she deleted the cryptic e-mail and quickly forgot it
as she plunged into the pile of engineering estimates, cost accounting 
sheets, and progress reports.  As usual, she donned headphones and listened
to soft music to ease the occasional distractions of ringing phones and
loud conversation that drifted in from the lab.  She guessed that one of the
corporate SITE groups was out there, since it was much more crowded than
normal.  Though the Self Improvement Through Education concept was one she
approved of, she did wish that they would do it somewhere else, or at least
more quietly.

    Her back was to the door, and she didn't notice that someone had
entered her office until a shadow fell upon her keyboard, and she started
involuntarily.  Looking up as she took off her headphones, she saw Morris 
standing over her, grinning. 
    She wondered how long he had been watching her.
    "May I?" asked Morris, shutting the door and leaning against it.
    "Sure," she replied uncertainly, and crossed her arms self-consciously
as he looked at her from his position by the door.  "Sorry I didn't get
back to you about lunch, I was on the phone with the Watson people until
after twelve."
    "Right," he said with a disbelieving grin.  "Well, lunch was good, 
though a bit quiet.  But that's okay.  Hey, you never told me you were a
genuine hacker.  That's really cool.  Rumor has it you were one of the
best, that's why they never caught you."
    "Rumor has it?" she repeated, stunned.  "What do you mean?"
    "Well you know how rumors are," he replied.  "They're always so
general.  Supposedly you're here because they had no evidence over there
but wanted you off their network."
    "Why would they want that?" asked Ilene.  "All the open networks here
are connected, being over here is no different."  CDS had a network linking
all three of their buildings in the area, a combination of fiber optic and
microwave relay.  Many of the more secure labs were not connected to the
site-wide network, but the majority of the offices were.
    "You tell me," he said with a grin.  "I heard that you'd found a way
to use the mail servers to gain access.  Beyond me, I don't know the system
that well."
    "That's ridiculous," she retored.
    "Well, just between you and me," answered Morris, "that would explain
why you got this job and yet weren't promoted."  Ilene started in surprise.
How did he know that?  She didn't like his grin at her reaction, either.
He had kept his hands disturbingly behind his back the whole time he 
was talking, and even though Ilene had seen his hands were empty when he 
shut the door, she began to get the unpleasant feeling that he was going to 
whip out some piece of evidence to support the rumor.  He seemed to be 
enjoying this all too much.
    "Well, that's all I can tell you," he said, his unpleasant grin still
on his face.  "Thought you'd want to know that, these things are always 
good to hear."
    "Thanks," she said automatically as he slipped out, shutting the door
behind him.  Staring blankly at her computer screen for a moment, she 
frowned once again and turned to pick up the phone, quickly dialing Nancy's 
extension.  Nestling the phone on her shoulder, she went back to her
compuer, checking for new mail.  Hearing the voice mail system pick up, 
she cursed under her breath and typed a quick e-mail to Nancy, asking her 
to stop by sometime soon, trying not to make it sound urgent.

    Hanging up the phone, she turned back to her computer and began to 
plug away at the last of the week's schedules.  She had been planning on
finishing up the paperwork early this afternoon and then heading over to
the development labs to see how things were going, but now she felt
uncomfortable going over there, imagining they were all talking about her.
Unmotivated, she poked at the figures for twenty minutes before turning
away in frustration.
    Someone was being downright vicious, and it was getting to her.  She
wondered what reason someone would have to start such a rumor, and who it
could possibly be.  As far as she knew, nobody over here in the Fenton
Center knew she hadn't gotten a promotion.  So why this?  She had only 
really met a half dozen or so people beyond the 22 people assigned to the 
project, and of those 22 people, she only regularly talked to about ten of 
them.
    Her train of thought was interrupted by a quick knock at the door, and
before she could answer Nancy quickly opened the door and slipped in.
"So what's the big emergency" she asked, "and why all the secrecy?  You
never close your door."  Nancy was a slim woman, a year or two younger 
than Ilene, and the two were close friends.  She always teased Ilene about
her weight, for though Ilene was in good shape, Nancy taught aerobics at
at the club they went to and was in amazing shape.  In return, Ilene
continually referred to Nancy as the bimbo, though not when others could
hear.
    "Morris shut the door," replied Ilene.
    "Didn't think he was your type," said Nancy with a chuckle.  "And you
call *me* the bimbo?"
    "Yeah, sure," said Ilene.  "In his wildest dreams."
    "Probably."  At this they both grimaced.  "No really, what's up?  
You don't usually send these vague e-mails summoning me to your office.
And I don't even work for you."
    "Morris told me a rumor," Ilene began.  "He said ..."
    "Wait, wait, let me get this straight.  Morris is now spreading the
rumors to you too?"  Nancy laughed.  "That boy is so starved for attention
he'll try anything."
    "This wasn't funny.  He said that I was transferred over here because
they caught me hacking over in Collins."  Ilene lowered her voice.  "He even
knew that I didn't get a promotion when I took it.  How would he know that?
Not even my friends knew that.  Nothing to do with me hacking the system or
anything.  Sam's just too cheap."
    "That is a bit odd, but I wouldn't put a little detective work past him.
Morris and Joan are the corporate tag-team gossipers.  She feeds it down and
he feeds it up.  Morris isn't the only one with loose lips."
    "You don't mean Joan Tarron, do you?  I hope he hasn't told her, that
would be horrible."
    "What makes you think she didn't tell him?"  Nancy held up a pair of
crossed fingers.  "Joan and the Walrus are like this, you know.  He's
in charge, but she's the eyes and ears."
    "You don't think the Walrus started this, do you?  That seems to be 
going a bit far."
    "If you think that's going far, you ain't seen nothin yet, honey.  He
is one sneaky bastard.  You never knew him, but there was this guy named
Dan Dunault who ended up in a position a lot like the one you're in now,
where he beat out the Walrus for a management job he wanted.  This was,
oh, last June or something.  This guy was a really nice guy, but a month
or so after he shows up, he starts acting funny."
    "Funny?  What do you mean?"
    "You remember the Synchronous Analysis project?  The one that was going
to be the big one, the break in to the municipal markets, the project to 
begin all other projects?"  The sarcasm dripped from Nancy's voice as she
spoke, and Ilene grinned.
    "Of course I remember that one.  We used to call it the Sinkhole
Analysis project; they were always scrounging for people, the turnover
was so bad.  I remember Dan, I worked with him a few years back."
    "Yeah, well that was after the Walrus took over.  It was doing okay for
the first month, while Dan was busting his ass to keep everything running,
and he was doing a great job.  Suddenly, he stops working so hard; he puts
in his day and takes off, and things start going to hell.  A month later,
he's off and Stanwick is on.  Don't know where he ended up, but I think
he left CDS not long after that."
    "What happened?  Can't imagine what they could have done to make him
act that way."
    "Well, nobody is really sure.  Rumor has it he was selling secrets to
someone - supposedly he made off with some big-time classified files, was
the story.  But everyone is damn well positive it was Stanwick who started
the rumors.  I tried to talk to Dan, but he just sat there with his
lips pressed together like the Mona Lisa.  The most anyone got out of
him was that he had gotten tired of CDS and was thinking of going somewhere
else.  Heard he got a decent raise when he did, too," Nancy mused.
    Ilene at first had felt relieved at Nancy's news that Morris was just
a typical gossip, but his link to Joan and Stanwick made her nervous again.
What if they were trying to do something?  She was uncomfortable about the
incident with Dan, as well.
    "I think as long as you don't let them get to you you'll be okay," said
Nancy in an attempt to reassure her.  "They can't really do anything."
    Ilene nodded with a thin smile as Nancy left, and once again tackled
the recalcitrant schedule.  This time everything lined up satisfactorily,
and she decided to pay a trip to the lab after all.

    The Watson Bank project was a pilot in small bank support.  Most of 
the larger banks had internal MIS departments, handling the information
systems used by the banks and also all development.  Few smaller banks
could support internal development, however, and looked to outside software
and hardware vendors for systems to fit their needs.  The market was a bit
more competitive than Ilene had realized, and it was her opinion that CDS
was a bit lucky to have gotten the contract at all, given their history of
supporting large government software projects rather than the smaller
commercial systems like the one that would be required here.
    The main development area was in a different building, but there was
a small demonstration system being built here, in room 4902.  Ilene never
had been able to figure out the numbering scheme used in the buildings
at CDS.  Maybe it had something to do with corporate paranoia.  In any
case, room 4902 was just a short walk from her office in room 1897.  It
was a small lab, housing three or so workstations and a half-dozen PCs,
all linked to a central server.  The room had been pretty much taken over
by the Watson Bank project  There there were still two general purpose
workstations by the door, but between the pushbutton combination lock on
the door, recently changed, and the dismal response time of the two, 
it was unusual to see anyone using them, and today was no different than
any of her previous visits.
    Because most of the development was going on over in the Gold Plaza
office, that is where the majority of the development team was, though
not all were working full-time.  Bill Daley, however, was in his usual
position here, surrounded by stack of system manuals and empty soda 
cans.  He glanced up indifferently as she entered, and then went back
to his screen without acknowledging her presence.
    Had he wanted to, Bill Daley could have been in charge of the Watson
Bank project easily.  He had several years seniority over Ilene here at
CDS, but unlike her had not been hired directly out of college.  The
saying was that if Daley was working on your project and it still failed,
it wasn't for technical reasons.  She had gotten used to his dour
expression, but his cynical responses to all of her questions made her
feel foolish and she now avoided him.  Which was probably the point.
He was undoubtedly the resident network guru, though Ilene suspected
that he would have trouble going elsewhere if his attitude was always as
bad as it seemed.
    Besides Bill, only Jan Franco and Walter Madison were here, which 
was a good sign.  Though this was intended to be a demo system, the
development team had taken advantage of the separation of the labs here
and in Gold Plaza to do a lot of the network test before site installation.
Bill worked over here to avoid the inundation of questions he ran into
over in Gold Plaza, and Jan and Walter were in charge of the demo system,
though Walter split his time between Watson Bank and other projects as
needed.  Jan was standing over Walter, while he typed furiously at one
of the PCs.
    "How's everything progressing," she asked Jan quietly, not wanting 
to interrupt Walter.  "Looks like we've got the hardware set up at least."
    "We've got it set up," replied Jan, "but until we get the new network
switches, it's not going to perform anywhere close to what we need.  We're
trying to tweak it some so it will work, even if it works badly.  The
Neeson switches are even worse than the reviews said they were."
    "And we obviously don't want to bother Bill 'less we need to," said
Walter, revealing his slow southern drawl.  "He ain't gonna mess with
the system ah have set up here until its the final system.  He don't
want to be wastin' his time none."
    Ilene suspected that Bill was somewhat annoyed by the foul-up of the
design, but the only time she had asked him about it he sardonically replied
that he had complete faith in the engineering management team that did the
design and he was more than sure that whatever hardware they chose would
be more than adequate.  At the time she had not been looking for a 
confrontation, so she had dropped the matter.  Since then she rarely spoke
to him, and he replied to her weekly status requests quickly, though
his responses were alway quite terse.
    "Can we do some of the initial isolated testing with the system as
it is?" asked Ilene.  She glanced quickly at the status windows displayed
on Walter's monitor, but she was not as familiar with network management
as she was with system design and the figures scrolling quickly across the
screen meant nothing to her.
    "Well," replied Walter carefully, "it ain't all bad.  We just get to
test a lot of our error checking earlier than we had expected.  For every
transmission that gets through to the core, nine fail.  Ah reckon we'll be 
up the creek for sure round, say, March, if we ain't got the new hardware."
At her shocked expression, he nodded gamely.  "Ayuh, you got two months to
get us some hardware or tell the big boys we're missin the bus."

    The trouble with the Watson Bank project was that besides being a pilot
in an area of technology that CDS was not familiar with, the schedules were
aggressive.  Very aggressive.  And if they were going to met, there could
be no foul-ups or delays.  Like this one, for example.
    "Uh, thanks Walter," replied Ilene, a bit hurriedly, and she left the
lab quickly.  She heard Walter and Jan say something as she was shutting
the door, but couldn't catch what it was.  Hurrying back to her office,
she decided to place a quick call to Amin Yahete, her friend at Cisco.
In general, the special order hardware like they needed for this project
took a minimum of three months to procure and get into the shop.  She
realized she was going to need it in less than two.
    As she stabbed her fingers at the buttons of the cipherlock outside
her office area, she hoped that Amin would be able to help her.  The two
of them had formed a close friendship over the past eight years, even 
though she had met him in person only once, at West Coast trade show.  He
was a heavyset man, born overseas, and they had done many favors for each
other over the years.  She was definitely going to be calling in a few
to get this done.
    In her office, pulled up his card in her electronic rolodex, more out
of habit than necessity, since she had memorized his number years ago.  
As the ringing of the phone rolled over to his voice mail, she started
to chew on the end of her pen in frustration.  In college she had always
chewed on her nails, but once it got close to interview time, she had made
a concerted effort to break the habit, managing to switch from her battered
cuticles to the small cache of pens she carried in her purse.  Carol, her
roommate at the time, had always joked that she could tell how an interview
had gone by how many pens had suffered an untimely death.
    She waited to leave a message, listening unhappily to the news that he 
would be out of the office until Thursday, and as she left Amin her new
phone number, she glanced idly at her screen with a sinking feeling.
    Someone had been on her machine while she was out.
    She could tell because the document editor she had left up while gone 
had been shut down, and her email had all been recently read, even the 
message that had come in while she had been talking to Jan and Walter.
    Now that she was aware of it, she realized that the screen saver had
not been on.  This would not have been unusual for most people, who kept
it set to blank the screen after fifteen minutes or even up to half an
hour, but Ilene found the screen distracting and set it for less than
two minutes.  And she would have had a hard time making it to the demo
lab and back in that time, even if she had run.  While she was on the
phone trying to get through to Amin, she had heard the door open and 
shut.  Probably that was whoever had been in her office.  There was no
sign of what they had been looking at, but it was easy to erase any
traces just by closing down whatever windows they had been poking around
in, leaving no evidence that they were there.  Except the clues she had
seen.
    She saw that the message they had read was just another corporate
e-mail, this one mentioning the storm predicted for tomorrow, and 
expressing the usual empty concern.  Not that they would give time off,
of course, but *please* take care driving, oh yes.

    That evening on the way home from work, she realized that it was a
little disappointing that today was not a workout day.  A good workout
and shower usually dismissed any lingering depression from the day, and
today was a day she definitely could have used some cheering up.  Instead
she decided to do some long-overdue grocery shopping.  There was a small
supermarket close to Fenton, so she stopped there, noticing unhappily that
it was very crowded, even this early.  Braving the long checkout lines,
she didn't get out until nearly seven.  Pulling out of the nearly full
parking lot, she remembered that she had left her appointment book over in
Gold Plaza when she was over there on Monday.  Since it was only a little
out of her way, she detoured into town.
    Unlike the Fenton Center, Gold Plaza was in the center of the city, 
with an underground parking garage and 15 stories of offices and shopping, 
most of the shopping concentrated on the first floor.  Her second 
interview for CDS had been here, and she had spent her first few years 
working in the offices on the eighth floor.
    Thankful of the security at the entrance to the garage, she flashed
her badge at the bored guard and drove in, parking close to the elevator.
The biggest annoyance at Gold Plaza was that the garage elevators only
went to the main lobby; a second set went up to the offices.  She knew
it made sense from a security standpoint, but it had always been bothersome
when she worked here, and she felt the old annoyance again as she waited 
for an elevator for the second time.  While she stared idly at the silk 
flower arrangements on the walls, she thought about the project, and hoped 
that the lousy switch choice was the worst thing she was going to have to 
deal with on this contract.
    CDS leased the entire eighth floor, as well as the one above, and there
was one of the usual card entry systems at the large glass doors just off of
the elevator.  There was also an empty secretary's desk, neatly closed
down from the day before.  She used her card to get through the door, and
turned left down the hallway behind, stopping at room 813.
    At the door, marked with a fresh nameplate saying simply 'Dev. Lab 10,'
she punched in the numbers for the combination, but the doorknob wouldn't
turn.  She tried again, with the same result.  She had been particularly
careful to punch it in the right way, and she knew she wasn't forgetting
the combination; it was 0-2-0-2, almost the same as her phone number, 2020.
She tried one more time and then knocked uselessly on the door.  Sometimes
people were in the lab late, but it was now getting close to eight o'clock.
    With a sigh, she left, letting herself out through the door with
her access card.  She saw the phone at the secretary's desk and considered
calling security to let her in, but it was not worth the hassle or the 
wait, so she left, angrily stabbing the down button for the elevator.  She
was perturbed that someone had changed the combination on the lab and she
had not been informed, and resolved to find out what had happened when she
came in the next morning.

    She drove home to the music of K97, one of the local easy listening radio 
stations, and curled up in front of the fire with a glass of Chalk Hill wine 
and the morning paper, which she had not yet had a chance to look at.  
Dinner, leftover spinach tortellini, was heating in the oven, and she put 
some classical music on low to soothe her ragged nerves.
    The paper held little of interest, save for a few small pieces on
the upcoming local elections.  Feeling the chill of the cold evening,
she put on a heavy wool sweater and decided tonight was a good night for
a fire.  Tossing the paper in the fireplace, she tossed in some kindling
and added a couple of small logs before lighting it with one of the long
fireplace matches she kept readily available on the mantel.
    Few apartments in the area came with fireplaces, and none that she
had looked at, but this had used to be a four-family house, built early
in the century, and the extra rent for the unit with the fireplace had
proved more than worth it, even with the extra fifteen dollars a month
for firewood.
    As she ate the steaming pasta, she watched the news.  WWOR, the New
York station, usually had the best news, but she had missed that so she
just turned on CNN, waiting for the local news.  She watched the stories
of mayhem in the city; it was pretty much the same every night - murders,
muggings, and rapes.  When she graduated, she'd had an offer from a firm
in Manhattan, but a friend of hers from the far side of the city had 
told her it wasn't worth it, and she had taken the job at CDS instead.
The southern Connecticut rents were still high this close to the city, but 
she wasn't too far from her family and managed to avoid the high taxes.
    The news didn't tell her anything the newspaper had not already, so
she shut it off after a bit and put the music back on, relaxing once 
again beside the fire, now burning brightly behind its glass doors.  
It was a drowsy scene, and soon she was nodding off. 
    She woke an hour or so later, stiff from her nap on the hardwood 
floor.  Glancing at the kitchen clock, she saw that it was not even ten 
o'clock, but she was weary and decided to turn in for the night without 
her usual checkout of the system.  Though the security to get into the 
buildings at CDS was  very thorough, it was surprisingly easy to access 
the networks from home; the company was trying to encourage people to work 
at home a day or two a week, and had been making it as easy as possible 
for several years, even to the extent of supplying modems, though cheap 
ones, to any of their employees who requested one.  Ilene also had an
extra machine that had been sitting disused in one of the labs.  Technically
she wasn't supposed to have it, but like so many other pieces of hardware
at CDS, it would probably have sat there unused until it was scrapped.
Most nights Ilene would briefly check her e-mail before bed, more to see 
if any of her friends had sent her any mail than for any work-related 
reason.  It took a good fifteen minutes to log in, and was a little on
the tedious side, so since she didn't feel like fighting with the system, 
she quickly washed up and collapsed into her unmade bed.

    The next morning she woke, refreshed, well before her alarm went off,
and decided that last night's nap had done her good.  Quickly getting 
ready for work, she noted with pleasure that the storm predicted for 
today must have fizzled, the day was much warmer than yesterday had been, 
and the eaves were already dripping as the icy roof began to thaw.
    Another benefit of going into work early was the light traffic, and
today with the warm weather the traffic was even lighter than usual as
the snowbanks causing the snarl vanished under the warm air.  Though she
made the half-hour drive in near record time, she noted ruefully that 
it wasn't good enough to beat whomever owned the blue Geo, and as usual
she pulled into the second spot.  She had been in the mood for something
with more than the usual energy, and had decided to listen to X107 on
her way in rather than the usual news report.  Definitely not for every
day listening, she decided as she got out of her car, but today was a 
day for action.
    Checking the empty mailbox outside her office, she decided to spend
the day at Gold Plaza.  She was uncomfortable with the idea that her
presence made the engineers self-conscious, and tried to spend as much
time as possible over in the development lab so that they would get more
used to her presence.  She still didn't think of herself in a leadership
position, and definitely not as anyone's boss, though in a sense she was
in charge of everyone working on the project.
    Cognitive Data Systems was a matrix-based companies.  This meant 
that the engineers, technicians and other support employees, while they
maintained the same manager for the purposes of raises and performance
evaluations, switched project managers as they moved from job to job
within the company.  This had been Ilene's first real job change since
she had been at CDS, and she had grown comfortable with her old boss, 
Martin Duff.  Working for Sam Edison was another disconcerting thing 
about her new job; she had only met him a few times, and he was always
a bit distant, unlike Martin's familiar joviality.
    Her decision made, Ilene didn't bother going into her office, and
turning quickly, she went back to her car for the short drive to Gold
Plaza.  Once there, she flashed her badge at the guard, who didn't seem
as bored as the one the previous evening.  She was early enough to get
a spot reasonably close to the elevator.  Quickly getting out and locking
up her car, she took the elevator to the main floor.  Staring at the
same limp silk flowers, she was so immersed in her thoughts that she 
didn't take note of the man standing next to her until he cleared his 
throat self-consciously, and she glanced up, her worries about the projects 
vanishing with an almost audible pop.  She smiled as she pictured a 
cartoon-style balloon exploding over her head, and the smile obviously took 
the man by surprise.
    "Uh, hi," he said quietly.  She realized that he was one of the newer
engineers on the project, and mentally searched for his name, though the
search was in vain.  He had graduated from .. from Hope Valley Technical
College, she remembered, with a degree in network technology or something
similar, but she still could not remember his name.  He was short, at eye
level with her in the moderate heels she wore, and wore a simple shirt,
tie and jeans.  "You're Ilene, right?" he asked with some uncertainty.  He
self-consciously brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead.  He had
short brown hair.  It was wavy but not very long, though it seemed to have
a tendency to fall into his eyes.
    "Yes," she replied, continuing to smile, "though you have me at a loss,
I'm sorry to say."  His face fell slightly at this, and she quickly added,
"though I remember that you came from Hope Valley, if that's any consolation."
    The elevator arrived as she spoke, and he waved his hand hesitantly.
"After you, of course," he said, but he was obviously wondering how she would 
take the gesture.
    "Thanks," she replied, stepping quickly into the elevator.  Once inside,
she hit the raised brass 8 for the eighth floor.
     As he stepped on board the elevator, he fumbled for his wallet.  "Why 
don't I give you one of my cards," he said.  She recognized the eagerness;
she had given away her business cards every opportunity she could once she
got them after being hired.  The novelty had worn off after a few months,
but she could still remember the excitement of having her very own business
cards.  These days she did little with them other than enter drawings at
local restaurants, she realized.  
    She noticed the uncertain expression on his face.  "Oh it's not you,"
she said in explanation, "I was just remembering that these days I don't
do much with my business cards except drop them in the fishbowl at Chili's."
    "Oh.  Well, you can give me one," he said.  "You never know," he said
in answer to her raised eyebrow.
    'You never know what," she wondered to herself as she took his card, 
noticing that his name was Dennis Miller.  "Dennis Miller?" she asked, 
glancing up at him.
    "Yeah, I know.  And I'm not particularly funny either, according to
the guys upstairs.  They've had a contest for a new name for me running
for about a month."
    At the third floor, someone from one of the local package delivery
services got on, wheeling a full load of packages, and they rode the
remainder of the way to the floor in silence.  As they stopped, Ilene
followed Dennis out of the elevator, past the empty secretary's desk.
    "Ann doesn't get in until eight most days," said Dennis, noticing
Ilene's glance at the desk.  "Till then we have to pop the door ourselves."
Dennis swiped his card in the door, holding it for Ilene to walk through.
She noted the minor breach of policy, but did not comment.  Technically
every employee was supposed to key their entry themselves, but most of
the people would bend the rules for people they recognized.  "We're in
room 813," he said as he followed her through the door, "though I guess
you probably already knew that."
    At the door, Dennis precisely tapped out the combination.  "They just 
changed it this week," he said conspiratorially.  "It's 4-2-0-2 now."
    "Oh, thanks," she replied, surprised.  She had been about to ask him,
but hadn't wanted to bring up her embarrassing wasted trip last night.
"I didn't realize it had changed."

    Once inside the lab, she saw that several other people were already 
there.  She recognized Mark Hanson and Elaine Bradley, but the third was
someone she did not know.  Mark looked up and waved as she walked in.  Ilene 
had known who Mark was for a few years, but had never worked with him 
before.  He seemed to be a typical techie, just as eagerly discussing the 
merits of the latest computer architecture as any of the others in the lab, 
but she had heard that he left it all at work, and didn't have a computer at 
home, a relatively uncommon occurrence among the engineers she had worked 
with over the past few years.  He had curly brown hair, which he let grow in 
a ragged mop, cutting it only once a year or so.  Today it was in a loose
ponytail, falling over the collar of his dark blue sweatshirt.  He was also
not one for much in the way of formality.
    "Dennis and I were talking to Walter yesterday," he said, motioning
her over to the workstation he had open on the table before him.  She 
walked over to the bench, where he had one machine open and the guts of
several others piled next to it.  "Dennis was going over the specs on
those piece-of-shit switches they gave us, and he figured out a way to
run several of them in parallel.  We were going to be set for stage one
testing the end of this month, but these wouldn't have been able to handle
it," he said, giving something on the floor a kick.  She noticed it was one
of the cases for the Neeson switches.  "You see, though these are external
switch boxes, we found that we could pull the guts out and put them in
one of the workstations.  The setup of these boxes is impressive, even if
they don't work for shit - to sell an external switch box, they just put
one of their standard internal switch cards in this here chassis and
ship it out.  Too bad they started having problems, this could have been
a sweet little system."
    "You should be better off now," Dennis added.  "I was worried you would
have trouble making your deadlines,  These type of switches are usually
pretty flexible, so I played with it some to see if I could get something
out of it.  So you could meet the schedule."  He looked at her, an uncertain
smile on his face.
    Ilene realized he was watching for her reaction.  "That's really great," 
she replied earnestly.  "Tell you what, I don't want to get in your way, but 
I was planning on spending the day over here so do you think you can keep 
me posted on how it's going?  I'll be in the office if you need anything."
    Ilene had set up a second office over here for herself, and tried to
spend as much time as possible over here.  The seemingly endless stream of
meetings and urgent scheduling requirements made it difficult, but she was
here often enough to make it worthwhile to keep a workstation on her desk.
Or it had been, for now it was gone.
    Her office here was a disused cubicle in the corner of the lab, and 
she poked her head over the wall behind which Mark and Elaine were working.
Mark saw her peering over the low wall.  "What's up, Ilene," he asked with
a grin.  "Need help using the mouse?  Remember, *right* button for menus,
*left* to pick things out."
   "Well, actually I could use some help with the mouse.  And the keyboard,
and the rest of it.  Someone moved Zelazny."  As with most networks, the
naming of the machines on the net was of particular importance to the 
people who ran the network, and Ilene had seen all sorts of ways of giving
names to the machines.  Over here they were named after authors, or more
specifically science fiction authors.  Bill Daley had set up the network
originally, naming the server Heinlein, in his opinion the pinnacle of all
science fiction authors, and the remainder after others.
    "Someone moved it?"  She heard the scrape of a chair on the floor as
Mark stood up, and a moment later him and Dennis were looking at the empty
spot where the workstation had been.  "It was here yesterday," he said,
absent-mindedly tugging at his chin as he spoke.  "Elaine was using it to
play tetris at lunchtime.  Did you do so badly that you did away with the
evidence?" he called to her.
    Ilene heard a muffled protest from the other side of the wall, and 
suppressed a smile.  "It's not a problem," she said.  "I can use one of
the other machines in here to work on for now."
    "Well, it's not quite that simple," he said uncomfortably.  "We do 
need to find out where it is, because that's where some of the accounts
were located.  Like yours.  You won't be able to do much unless we find
out where it is."  He turned to look at Dennis.  "Why don't you see if it 
is on the net while I check the logbook to see what the hell is going on."
    The cube next to Ilene's makeshift office also had a workstation in 
it, and this one hadn't vanished.  Dennis quickly logged on and checked
the network.  "Well it's out there somewhere," he said to himself.  He
pointed the information out to Ilene, and she could see that it was 
responding to his requests.  "Trouble is, this doesn't tell us *where* it
is, just that it`s out there."
    Mark finished checking the logbook by the door.  Every time someone 
brought a piece of equipment into or out of the room, it was supposed to
be entered in the book, along with the date and the person responsible.
"Nothing here since we brought that new printer in last Friday," he said.
"Did someone move it around in here?  Van is usually here late, maybe he
has some idea what happened."  Van Nguyen was the database lead on the
project, and tended to work somewhat of a slip shift, usually not showing
up until nine or ten in the morning but staying until well after six.  His
wife also worked downtown, but since her schedule wasn't as flexible as
his Van was responsible for getting their two children set for school in
the morning.  "That's not for a while, though.  This shit pisses me off.
Someone is always screwing with the equipment, and we're supposed to be
on a tight schedule as it is.  I wanted to get that switch working today,
not play hide-and-seek with some stupid-ass workstation."
    One other thing about Mark was that he had a bit of a temper.  He
stomped about the lab briefly, seeing if it was actually hidden somewhere,
then he had an inspiration.  Going over to the system that Dennis had
logged into, he noted the network address of the machine, then logged
into it across the net.  "I'll get the bastard," he said.  "If nothing
else I'll know what time they moved it.  Maybe they were stupid and 
logged in after they took it.  In any case, we'll catch 'em sooner or
later."  Once he had access to the machine, he started typing furiously,
immediately uttering a cry of triumph.  "Aha, got you, asshole!"  Then
he paused and looked at the screen suspiciously.  "Uh, Ilene?  This
says that *you* moved the system, last night after eight."
    "Me?" she asked incredulously.  "Let me see."  Looking at the screen,
she saw the evidence for herself in the login accounting records:

  markh     pts/0            Wed Jan 10 07:31   still logged in
  ileneb    console          Tue Jan  9 20:18 - 20:22  (00:04)
  reboot    system boot      Tue Jan  9 20:17
  ileneb    console          Tue Jan  9 20:02 - down   (00:08)

Looking at the information, she broke out in a cold sweat.  That was
uncomfortably close to when she had tried to get in last night.  Looking 
up, she saw Mark looking at her.  "It really wasn't me," she protested, 
trying with great difficulty to keep the tension out of her voice.  "I was 
in Fenton yesterday."  She looked at his disbelieving expression.  "You know, 
someone could fake this stuff, and make it look like me."
    "Yes, that could happen," he agreed.  Though he seemed suspicious, he
appeared to let it pass.  "In any case, Zelazny obviously can't be far; it 
was only down for maybe ten minutes.  That's barely time to get it out of 
this room.  The only other labs on this floor are Kevin's WayStation lab 
next door and the Totra contract at the end of the hall."  He looked
over the wall at Elaine.  "'Lane, why don't you and I pay Josh a visit
down at Totra.  Dennis, you stop by and ask Kevin if he got any gifts
last night."
    The other man in the room, the one whom Ilene didn't recognize, stood 
up.  "Mike, I'll go with him.  Maybe we can shake him down," he said with
a grin.  He was a tall man, with a shaggy red beard and curly brown hair,
a lot like Mike's but shorter.
    "Okay, Al, sounds good.  Ilene, why don't you stay here, we'll get this
shit cleared up."  They left the room, leaving Ilene alone with the noisy
sound of fans and clicking air vents in the ceiling.
    Ilene decided to try to get something done while they were gone, so 
she logged into Foster, one of the machines by the door, while she waited 
for them to return.  There was no new e-mail yet today, but it was still
early she realized; about a quarter to eight.  Once online she was able
to check some of the progress in the on-line scheduling tool.  Bill had
pulled the pieces off of the net and had custom built it a few years ago;
now nearly a third of the development projects at CDS used it for keeping
the schedules.  Though it tended to lag the actual development by at 
least a week, it still tended to be a good guide to how things were
progressing.  The development lab maintained its own version, kept a bit
more up-to-date than that on the main network, and she could see that 
while progress was steady, the tasks currently under development were 
going to feel the impact of the substandard network switches very soon.
    She made a few updates of her own, frustrated that she would not
be able to reach Amin until tomorrow.  She put in the worst case dates
for delivery of the new hardware, and was staring gloomily at the
resulting delays when Mark and Elaine returned, followed a moment later
by Dennis and Al.
    "Any luck?"
    "Kevin had no idea what we were talking about.  Said that maybe 
Ilene here had a brainfreeze."  Ilene had worked with Kevin on one of
the smaller government contracts a few years back.  She remembered that
though he looked like a church deacon, he had a biting sense of humor.
    "Yes, Josh is just as baffled, though he agrees that it's gotta be
on this floor somewhere.  Maybe it's under one of the desks."  After 
another fruitless search of the lab, Mark gave up in annoyance.  "Well
at least it was Zelazny," he said.  "Not much to lose there, and since
it's still on the net we can access the data."
    Feeling a bit foolish, Ilene went back to Foster and closed down
the scheduling application and pulled up her local work area.  Or at
least she tried to, realizing rapidly there was a problem.  Biting
her lip, she hesitated before bothering Mark again.  Systems administration
had never been one of her strong points; she had preferred to leave that
to Jason when she was over in the Collins building.  Checking again,
she made doubly sure that she was not doing something wrong before 
standing up hesitantly.
    Dennis happened to be walking by at that point, and saw her confused 
look.  "Something else?" he asked.  A single glance at his screen told
him what was wrong.  "He leaned over her shoulder and poked away a the
system for a moment before calling out to Mark.  "Yo, Mark buddy, they 
did more than just move Zelazny.  They wiped the disk."
    With a frustrated grunt, Mark came over and quickly agreed with the
assessment.  "We'll have to pull what we can off of backup," he said in
annoyance.  "Is this something you need now, or can it wait a bit?"
    Already feeling like she was more of a roadblock than anything else,
Ilene stood up, deciding to head back to the Fenton Center.  "That's okay.  
I think I'll just head back to Fenton.  Please let me know when someone's 
had a chance to take care of it."
    "I'll get it," said Dennis to Mark.  "I had to pull an old driver
off of tape already."  He smiled at her as she left.
    While she was leaving, a thought occurred to her.  'I do believe 
Dennis likes me,' she thought, and it brought a wan smile to her face,
though it was short-lived.
    
    Feeling like a puppy with her tail between her legs, the trip down
to the garage and back to the Fenton Center seemed to go by in slow
motion.  It was already after eight, so she had wasted her early morning
time, and had not accomplished anything except get in the way of the
engineers in the dev lab.
    Back in her office, she logged in, noticing that she had gotten a
mail message from Nancy while she was between buildings.  There was
also another inane memo from the Walrus.  The man was the master of
making himself look good; every one of his memos, while they contained
general information, managed to make him look good, often to the detriment
of one of the other leads under Sam.
    Putting the Walrus's memo out of her head, she decided to give the
system design another once-over to make sure there weren't any other 
traps lying in wait.  In her previous examinations, she had notice that
pretty much all of the hardware except the Neeson switches had been 
standard stuff, but she wanted to double and perhaps triple check.  She
was only half way through, however, when there was a knock and she 
looked up with a start to see Sam Edison standing at her door.
    "I hear there was some trouble over in Gold Plaza today," he
commented easily, though there was nothing easy about his expression.
"Apparently a machine had just up and disappeared.  Not what I would
call effective management of the customer equipment."
    Ilene was near speechless.  She had no idea how he had heard about
the problem so quickly, and had no answer for the implied accusation.
"I would have thought you'd look into it a bit more thoroughly," he
continued.  "I know that if one of my projects lost a machine, the last
thing I would do is hide in my office."
    She started to recover he poise, and began to get a bit angry at the
new implication.  As she opened her mouth to protest, he cut her off
with an angry gesture.  "I strongly suggest you find this so-called
missing computer.  It would be in your best interest to do so as soon
as possible."  He abruptly left, but returned a moment later with one
further comment.  "I don't know what kind of policy they have over in
Dev Group, but I assure you we take the corporate policies about misuse
of equipment very seriously over here."
    Ilene had stood up as Sam had left, and now sat heavily in her chair,
overwhelmed by the horrible events of the day.  Though she had no idea
where to begin, she resolved to go back over to Gold Plaza and try to 
track down the missing machine.  Before leaving, she stopped by the
demo lab in 4902 to check on things.  Jan and Walter were there, working
with on the connection to Gold Plaza, Walter on the phone, Jan on the
computer.  After a quick assurance from them that nothing had happened, for 
better or worse, she looked up to see Bill staring at her.  He blandly
looked at her for a moment later, then went back to work.  Something about
him bothered her.  Leaving the Fenton Center for the second time today, she 
quickly drove back downtown.  She fidgeted, as always, about the long
elevator rides, and finally returned to the eighth floor.  Ann was at the 
front desk, dressed properly in a tan jacket, her hair coiled neatly 
behind her head.  "Good Morning, Miss Berkeley," she said as Ilene hurried 
by, and Ilene mumbled a greeting in return.
    Swiping her card through the card reader, Ilene began to pull open
the door, but then paused as an idea came to her.  "Ann," she said,
turning back from the still-closed glass door, "do we keep records of who 
goes in and out of here?  I mean, if someone was in here last night, is 
there any way to find out who it was?"
    "I would think so, but I don't know for sure.  I can tell from here
whether someone is in the building or not, but I can't tell when they
came in.  And if they left I can't tell when.  Let me call Bonnie over
in Fenton.  She will probably know."
    Bonnie Luma was the Security Administrator, and she would definitely 
know who had entered or exited the system, or at least if it were possible
to find out.  Ann spoke with her for a moment before hanging up with a 
pleased expression.  "Yes, she can tell who accessed any of the buildings
any time within the past week," said Ann.  "They keep full records for
a week or thereabouts, and then for earlier times the records are not as
complete.  She doesn't like to do that time of a check over the phone, 
though, so you'll need to go over to her office in Fenton 637," she said
apologetically.
    Racing back down to the garage, Ilene drove quickly drove to the 
offices at Fenton Center for the third time today.  Her knuckles were
white on the steering wheel, and she seemed to hit every traffic light
between the two buildings.  Finally she parked outside of the main
entrance to the building, a way she usually did not enter, and walked
rapidly into the building, her heels clicking noisily on the ceramic
tile of the large foyer.
    Bonnie Luma was waiting expectantly in her second floor office, and
she spoke to Ilene briefly before showing he the information.  Her
grandmotherly appearance was misleading, as was her plain manner of
talking.  Some of the people who had been at CDS for a few years joked
that she was in hiding from the folks at Nuremburg.  She spoke the 
clipped english of someone who had learned it as a second language.  "We 
don't like to reveal this type of information on a regular basis," she said 
a bit sternly.  "I'll do a check for you, but I can't promise I can show
you the results.  Sometimes the log data is confidential."
    As they walked down the hall to the secure computer room, Bonnie asked
her a few questions about what she was looking for, and why.  Without
giving details, Ilene explained that a machine was missing from one of the
dev labs, and they were trying to track it down.  "Missing equipment,"
commented Bonnie, "that's a common one."
    "Not everyone is allowed in here, but I checked on your access while
I was waiting, and you're allowed," said Bonnie as the swiped her access
card through the slot outside the heavy metal door.  An inner door with
a card access system was relatively rare, and showed that this room had
higher than the normal level of security.  "It's fairly unusual, in fact."
Seeing Ilene's confusion, she explained.  "It's from when you worked on
the Mact27 project.  Because you worked on Mact27, you were cleared to
this level."
    Mact27 had been a few years back, and the security had been quite an 
annoyance.  Obviously, however, it had its advantages too.  As Bonnie
climbed the two steps into the noisy computer room, she called a greeting
to the rosy-cheeked man already in the room.  "Garth, can you pull up 
that history I asked you for?"  Bonnie walked over to stand behind the
man, and motioned Ilene to stay when she began to follow.  "That was
yesterday evening over in Gold Plaza, you said."  She ignored Ilene's 
answering nod and continued.  "Okay, we've got it here, everything
between six p.m and midnight.  Now that's interesting," she said.  She
scanned the information on the screen and then waved Ilene forward.
    "You can see there's not much activity over there.  I only pulled up 
the records for Gold Plaza, and it's pretty quiet at night.  This system
tracks the two access doors, and that's about it.  The inner doors are 
all pushbutton locks, not electronic.  The curious thing is, the records
show that *you* were only one over there last."  Bonnie turned to look at 
Ilene appraisingly.  "In fact, after Van Nguyen left at 5:47 pm, you were 
the only one there until," she paused and looked back at the screen, "until
7:12 when the lab workers began to come in."
    Ilene was disturbed.  Someone must have done it while Van was there,
was all that she could think of.  She didn't know Van that well, but could
not think of a reason for him to do something like this.  She thanked
Bonnie and Garth and headed out the door, intending to call Van from her
office.  As she left she could see Garth nodding as she grumbled.  "Do
 you know how long I've been trying to get video over there ..."
 
    Once she was outside the dim computer room, she paused in the hall
for a moment to gather her wits.  The heavy door closed behind here with
a heavy clunk.  Deciding to stay over here in her office, she strode
purposefully down the long hallways.  She nodded absently to the few
people she passed, but her mind was far away, and it took her a moment
to realize that Nancy was calling her from behind.
    "There you are," she said as she came down the hallway.  Nancy was
dressed in a trim black skirt and an Armani jacket, and looked stunning
as usual.  Ilene guiltily shoved a stab of jealousy into the back of her
thoughts.  "What's going on?  Sam's been looking for you.  Something about
equipment being moved without authorization or something.  I thought I'd
warn you."
    "Thanks, but I ran into him already.  There's a workstation missing
from lab 10."  Ilene hesitated, considering whether to tell her the rest
of the strange happenings.  They both paused as someone walked by, and
then Nancy continued before Ilene could figure out what to do.
    "But that's not it," she said.  "They tracked it down."  Nancy looked
at Ilene curiously, and Ilene wondered what she was thinking.  "They found 
it in your office.  It was off the net, and under your desk.  Sam's not 
happy, and you-know-who is encouraging him."
    Shocked, Ilene could not reply.  Nancy glanced down the hall, and then
left quickly, indicating someone approaching from behind with a small nod 
of her head.  Ilene turned to see Sam and Harold.  They had just turned 
the corner, and rapidly walked up to her.  Sam was visibly angry.  "Miss 
Berkeley," he growled, his voice level and hard, "I suppose your friend 
told you what was just found in your office?"
    Still stunned by this new event, Ilene stammered her reply.  "Y-yes,
she told me.  But I don't know anything about it or why it is in my 
office."  Her headache was getting worse now, and she leaned on the wall.
    "So I don't suppose you know anything about the fact that one of our
dial-in packages was loaded on it either.  Preset with your login.  Quite
a coincidence in my opinion.  I talked with Bill and Mark over in the lab,
and just got off the phone with Bonnie Luma."
    A sinking feeling crept over Ilene, and the hallway seemed to narrow
to a dim tunnel as her headache crowded into her head.  "I .. I have to
sit down," she said weakly.
    "I think my office would be an appropriate location," said Sam, his
voice still hard as nails.  She looked at him, her eyes flat, and noticed
Harold, standing out of sight behind Sam, had a nasty smirk on his face,
which vanished as Sam turned.  "Thank you Harold," he said dismissively.
Harold walked off, his smirk returning as soon as Sam looked away, and
Ilene felt a sudden wave of distaste for the man.

    Sam had previously been a high school teacher, Nancy had told Ilene
just after she transferred.  "You can see it in his attitude," she had
said it over lunch, which they were having at a soup and salad restaurant in
the mall.  "Sometimes I feel like I need a hall pass when I meet him in
the hallway."  At the time, this had gotten a laugh, but it now felt more
than a bit like being summoned to the principal's office.  
    Just around the corner from the demo labs was the suite where the upper 
level managers had their offices.  In recent years, the difference between
upper and lower level management's offices had grown less pronounced.  The
only significant difference between Ilene's office and Sam's was the lack
of a workstation.  And the secretary at the door.
    "Ilene, this is very serious," he said once he shut the door.  "Misuse
of company equipment makes you eligible for immediate termination."
    "But .. but .. I didn't put that machine in my office and I have no idea
how it got there," she said lamely.  She realized that it was the classic
protest, but was having a difficult time thinking through the bolts of pain
shooting through her skull.  
    Sitting behind his desk, he steepled his fingers and looked at her.  
"I'm not sure where to go with this," he said.  "I'm going to have to call
Stan Dutch over in Ethics.  They'll probably want to talk to you either
today or tomorrow."  He picked up the phone and prepared to dial.  "Do me 
a favor and stay in your office today and tomorrow."
    As she left, she saw that Joan Tarron and Harold were talking in Joan's
office.  They both looked up at her, and the itchy feeling at the back of
her neck made her sure they were talking about her.
  
    Back in her office, an even worse thought hit her.  It looked as if
she were getting ready to take that workstation home.  What if they
wanted to check into it?  She had the other machine at home as well.  If
there ever was a nail in a coffin, that machine at home was it.  Ilene
felt like she was in a prison cell awaiting trial.  Or worse.  At a loss, 
she dialed Greg's extension, praying for him to pick up the phone.
Thankfully he was there.  She needed to talk to someone who would believe
her, so she could get herself calmed down.  She had seen in Nancy's eyes 
that while she believed the story, she was not completely convinced.
    She quickly explained what had happened to her, and he agreed with her
about the machine at her apartment.  She hadn't been self-conscious about
telling him about it; a half dozen of the engineers over in the Collins
building had done the same thing.  Every one of the machines was essentially
useless except as a dial-in machine, lacking the configuration to do any
effective work, but it was definitely not something that would help her if
it was discovered.
    "Tell you what," he said after a moment's thought, "if you've got a key
over at your apartment, I can go and get it out of there.  Just in case."
He was quiet for a moment, and she almost felt that she could hear his 
brain grinding away at the problem.  ~But that's secondary.  We need to
figure out who's behind all this.  Obviously someone is trying to set you
up, but why?  Any ideas, 'Lene?"  He had always called her 'Lene rather than
Ilene, and Jason had always joked with them, calling them the Lene Machine
Team.  Thinking about it brought a faint smile to her lips, but it was too
fleeting to cheer her for more than a moment.
    "You sure you want to do that, Greg?  I don't think you should get
involved; I can take care of it tonight when I get home."  He said something
in return, but she didn't catch what it was, for as she was talking she
had turned to face the door, and had seen a shadow fall briefly on her
door.  Someone was outside her office.  How long had they been there?
Had they heard her talking to Greg?  Suddenly Ilene was very nervous.
    She could still hear Greg talking, but without listening she thanked
him; she heard a confused protest as she hung up the phone.  Quickly she
got up and headed for the door, reaching it at the same time that Morris
turned the corner.  Startled, she bumped into him and nearly lost her
balance, catching herself on the door frame.
    Morris held up his hands in apology with an ingratiating grin.  "Sorry
there Ilene, didn't mean to startle you.  I was just coming by to ask
you if you were up for lunch today, since I missed you yesterday."
    Ilene sighed.  "No, I'm afraid I can't today, either.  I've got 
too much to do.  I'm going to be in my office all day as it is."
    "Oh, I understand," Morris said with a smug smile.  "I'm sure you've
got a lot to take care of.  With the contract and all, of course."
    'That little shit,' she thought, 'he doesn't care if I know he heard
me on the phone.'  Out loud, she spoke in a resigned voice.  "Well, before
anything else, I need some coffee."  Leaving Morris and his unsettling
smile behind, she left.

    Thankfully, when she returned, he had left.  She went in her office,
but this time she shut the door.  More nervous than ever about the
machine in her apartment, she called up Greg again.
    "'Lene!," he said, before she had a chance to say more than hello.
"I was hoping that was you.  What is going on?  You need me to pick up
that machine for you?"
    "I was hoping you could, though I hate to ask you.  I think that
someone heard me telling you it was in the apartment, and I'm afraid
they're going to do something about it.  Do you think you can go over
there today and take it, maybe at lunch?"
    "I'll go now," he said, "though there's one thing I want to check
out first."
    "You don't have to do it now - I'm sure lunchtime will be an okay
time to get it."
    "Don't worry, now, later, it doesn't matter to me so I'll just get it
out of the way, before something happens."  She heard some rustling of
papers on the other end of the line.  "What's your address, 'Lene?  Last
time I saw your place was when you had that party at the old place."
    "I moved to Thorn Lane.  I'm at 442A, it's on the left.  You know
where the big church is on Main?  That's at the corner of Thorn; just
go down that way about a half mile, it will be on your left."
    She heard him repeating it to himself as he wrote it down, and then
he was back on the phone.  "Okay," he said, "now to find this machine.
What did you say the name was, Heinlein?"
    "Zelazny.  Heinlein's the server."
    "Duh.  Okay, I see it.  Lets see if I can get in."  There was a 
moment of silence, and she thought she heard a noise from outside her door.  
Like a creak.  As if someone were standing outside her door again.  She 
listened, but it didn't repeat, and in a moment Greg spoke again.  Hmmm .. 
guess I don't have an account.  You do, though, right?  Why don't you log
in and we can check things out."
    "Okay, give me a second to log in."
    "You haven't logged into your system yet?  'Lene, it's eight thirty
in the morning.  You know what that means?  You're turning into a
*manager*!  Pretty soon you'll be good for nothing but meetings and
making schedules."
    Unhappily realizing that he was pretty close to the mark already, she
didn't reply.  Thankfully, her system was up quickly, so she used her
mouse to create a new window and used it to gain access to Zelazny.
"Ok, I'm in," she said.
    "Right.  First off, check the history.  Somebody besides you has
to have logged into the system."
    "Nope.  Still shows just me last night, and Mark this morning."
    "Well, what about before that?"
    To Ilene it looked like her and Mark were the only ones.  Maybe
she had cancelled it or something.  She checked the log again, but it
still just showed her and Mark.  "Greg, someone wiped the login records.
All it shows is me last night and Mark Hanson this morning."
    "Well now we're getting somewhere," he said.  Ilene didn't think
so, but she had never been one for system administration, so maybe this
was telling Greg something she wasn't picking up.  "Okay, so we can't
see who else has been on there."  She could almost hear the gears in
his head spinning.  "Oh, I know!  You know what the hosts file is,
'Lene?  The one with the names of all of the machines in it?"
    "Sure, you want me to take a look at it?"
    "No, not at it, I want you to check the last time someone *changed*
it.  I think something funny is going on here."
    Ilene quickly checked the time on the file.  "It was modified 
yesterday.  And get this: it was changed at 7:56 last night."
    "I'm not surprised.  I don't think the machine that is on the net is
really Zelazny, I think someone put another machine out there to mislead 
you.  Why don't you check and see what's in the hosts file.  Maybe they were 
sloppy and left the old machine name in there."
    Ilene went to check, but the window did not do anything when she
typed.  A moment later, she got a message on her screen: 'Connection closed
by remote host.'  "Damn!  They just cut me off."  Quickly she tried to 
access the machine again, but after almost a half minute she got a 
different message back: 'Zelazny: Connection timed out'.  "I think whoever
it is shut the system down.  Maybe they saw me on there."
    "Yeah.  We were probably about to figure out where it came from, too."
She could hear him tapping his pen on his desk.  It was a habit of his that
he had never been able to break.  It had always driven her crazy when she
worked over there, and it probably still drove Josh crazy.  She heard a
muffled complaint in the background, and the tapping stopped.
    "Well, unless it comes back online there isn't much more we can do, so
I'm going to head over your place," he said.  I'll give you a call when I
get back in.  I figure it will take somewhere around an hour.
    "Thank you, Greg, I owe you more than you can imagine."
    "You *already* owe me, 'Lene.  I'll just add it to the list."  She
heard noises of movement as he stood up.  "I'll talk to you in a bit."
    "Bye."  As she hung up the phone, she heard the outer door open and
shut.  'Who is it now,' she wondered to herself.  'I hope it's not Sam
again.'  Nobody knocked on her door, however, so she turned to her
workstation and resolved to try and get some work done.
    Absentmindedly chewing on a pen, she was glad to see there was still
no new e-mail.  If there was any, it would probably be from either Sam
or Harold, so no mail was a good thing.  She remembered that Amin was
supposed to be back at Cisco today.  He might even have called while 
she was over at Gold Plaza - Amin had thought her idea of coming in an
hour early was a good one, and as a consequence rare was the day that he
was not in before seven.
    She quickly checked her voice mail and found that she had one message
waiting for her.  Going into the system, she was a bit disappointed to 
find that it was not Amin, but was Dennis.  He must have sent it just
after she left; it had been sent just after quarter to eight.  Hoping
that it was some new information about Zelazny, she used her pen to 
tap out the commands to listen to it, but it was not that ... now Dennis
was asking her to lunch!  If it had been any other time, she would have
found all the attention amusing and a little flattering.  Well, from
Dennis, that is; he was kind of cute in his own way.  Maybe she could
take a rain check.
    She hit the code to reply.  "Hi, Dennis, this is Ilene.  I'm sorry,
but I can't make it today.  Sam has put me in detention - I'm confined
to my office for the next two days.  Maybe I can take a rain check on
the offer."  Sending the message off, she considered calling Amin, but
she knew he would call her when he had a chance, and while it was very
important, she didn't want to pester him.
    For the next hour, she continued going over the system design, as
she had started that morning before Sam showed up.  She had already
found two other pieces she was going to have to look into further.  The
Watson people were putting in an imaging system so they could start doing
away with the warehouses full of paper documents they had to maintain,
and part of this prototype was supposed to handle a heavy load, on the
average day scanning upwards of 200 documents per day, some of them
more than one page.  Problem was, the design didn't allow for that heavy
of a rate of input, and it didn't have storage sufficient for even a
fraction of that amount.
    Looking at the software design, she saw similar short-sightedness.
This design had some fundamental problems.  She hoped that Mark, Dennis
and the rest were not blindly following this design, or they were going
to have serious schedule problems.
    She continued to go through the design, kicking herself for not
doing so sooner.  She had been so busy maintaining the schedules that
she'd been given and attending project management meetings that she
hadn't even realized she was assuming the design was feasible.  Four
months from delivery was dangerously late to discover major flaws in
the design.  Becoming very curious, she began to search through the
documents to discover who was on the design team.  She could not 
imagine any of the engineers she had worked with coming up with a system
with so many gaping holes.
    Before she got very far, she was interrupted by the ring of her
phone, and she quickly picked it up.  "Hi," she said, "this is Ilene."
    She had been expecting Greg.  Instead, someone who's voice she did
not recognize spoke.  "Is this Ilene Berkeley?"
    "Yes, this is she."  Ilene felt her heart leap into her throat.
    "This is Lieutenant King, downtown at the station."
    "Wh-what?"  Ilene slumped in her chair, her mouth agape.
    "I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to come down to the station," he
said.  "There's been a break-in at your apartment."
    For the second time, Ilene was struck nearly speechless.  "A break-in?
At my apartment?"  All she could manage to do was repeat what he had said.
    "Yes, Ms. Berkeley.  I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to come downtown
to make a statement.  Can you be here before noon?"
    Ilene glanced at the small glass and plastic clock on her desk and
began to feel her panic beginning to subside.  She had gotten the clock
for her five year anniversary at CDS, and Josh had joked with her about it.  
"Now you can't say the company never gave you anything,"  he ribbed.  "You 
have a marvelous plastic gold clock!"   Once she thought of Josh, however,
her panic returned with incredible force.  'Greg!' she screamed in her
head.  Oh, no, what had she done?  
    "Ms. Berkeley, are you still there?"
    "Oh .. yes, yes I'm still here."  She paused for a second to gather
her courage.  "Did you arrest anyone?"
    "Well, it's rather unusual to actually catch someone," commented the
policeman, "but yes, we did.  In fact, I'm sorry to say, he works for
your company."  The man sounded genuinely apologetic.
    "There's been a terrible mistake!" Ilene blurted out, "he's not, I 
mean he's ..."
    The Lieutenant gently but firmly interrupted her.  "Let's hope so,
Ms. Berkeley.  I'm afraid you'll still have to come down to the station
to clear it up, if indeed it is a mistake."
    "All right, I'll be right down."  Ilene hung up the phone on his
goodbye in her haste to be going.  Grabbing her coat, she put it on as
she left and practically ran down the hallway to the exit.  Never had
the card protection system on the door seemed to be as much of a hindrance
as it was today.

    Arriving in the police station parking lot, her tires squealing as she
pulled in at breakneck speed, she took the first space she saw and ran 
inside, taking the steps at the entrance two at a time.  There was a yellow
formica counter with a nameplate on top that read 'Officer Dales.'  Behind
the desk was a black-haired man in uniform.  She ignored the strange look 
the man gave her as she stood there panting and out of breath.  She leaned 
on the yellow formica counter for a moment and then she spoke.  "I'm here to 
see Lieutenant King," she gasped.  "I'm Ilene Berkeley, he's expecting me."  
After her explanation, the odd expression disappeared and was replaced by an 
easy smile.
    "Oh yes, Ms. Berkeley, you man go in."  He pointed at a gray steel door
at the end of the small room.  It has a large window made of wired glass, 
with the blinds drawn on the other side.  "I'll buzz you in.  His office
is to the left, the second door."
    She walked over, and there was a loud, electric buzz, accompanied by
a loud click.  She pulled the door open and went through, going to the
left as the desk officer had said.  Behind her, the door closed with an
authoritative ka-CHUNK.
    The second door on the right was a heavy, hardwood door.  Lt. King,
Room 21, the door said in precise black letters.  The door was shut, and
when she knocked she could hear someone coming over to the door.  The
door was opened by a stocky man with short gray hair and a thick black
mustache.  The arms of his starched white shirt were filled by his large
arms, but the front of his shirt was stretched some over his belly as well.  
His craggy face was pleasantly marked with laugh lines, but his brown eyes 
were cool as he looked at her.  "Ms. Berkeley?" he inquired as he waved her 
in.  He waited, obviously expecting a response.
    "Yes, I'm Ilene Berkeley."
    "Have a seat, Ms. Berkeley."  He indicated one of the two old wooden
chairs on the far side of his desk, which was covered with a mount of 
old newspaper clippings, folders with yellow, green and red tags, small
spiral notebooks, and other loose odds and ends, including at least two
partially full coffee mugs.  Not including the one in his large hand.
    He paused for a moment, moved a pile of papers, and pulled out several
sheets of paper.  He scanned them for a moment.  "May I see some ID, 
please," he asked.  She fumbled in her purse, pulling out her driver's
license and giving it to him.  He glanced at it briefly, then handed it
back to her.  "Nice picture," he commented.
    Oddly enough, her driver's license picture was one of the few pictures
of herself that Ilene liked.  It had been taken years ago when she had just
returned from a trip in the caribbean with her boyfriend of the time, and
had been tanned, trim, and happy.  Soon after that, they had split up, but
that trip still made her smile.
    "Okay," he said, settling back in his chair and drawing a large sip
from his coffee mug.  "You think there might be a mistake?  We caught him
in your apartment.  Our guess is that he used the key you keep under your
welcome mat."  He looked at her disapprovingly.
    "You'll need to fill this out," he slid a pink, two-page form across
the desk in her direction, "but if this is a mistake I'm sure our friend
would like to be out of his cell."
    "His cell?"  This was more serious than she had thought.  An incident 
like that could cause Greg to lose security clearances, or worse.  The 
lieutenant smiled reassuringly at her shocked expression.  "Don't worry, 
ma'am.  This isn't the gulag.  I think you'll find that he's more than 
comfortable."
    They left the room, he with his coffee mug, she clutching her purse.
Continuing down the hall, they came to a second door.  Lieutenant King
pressed a green button on the wall and waved at a camera above.  The door
buzzed, much like the one at the front, and he opened it with a flourish.
They were now in the cell block.  It looked just like any of the jails
she had seen in the movies, with gray-green bars, narrow fold-down beds,
and a sink and toilet in the corner.  Three of the four cells were empty,
Ilene rushed over to the fourth.
    She opened her mouth in greeting, as the man in the cell turned at the
sound of the heavy door.  She stopped quickly, almost losing her balance.
'DENNIS???' her brain screamed in her inner ear.    
    Momentarily stunned, she did not hear Lieutenant King's question, and
he had to repeat it.  "Is this a colleague of yours," he asked.  "He 
claimed he was merely running an errand for you."
    "What?"  Ilene paused for a moment to collect her wits.  "Oh.  Yes, I
do work with him.  I had, uh, sent him over to my apartment to get some 
stuff I needed.  I guess someone called when he was inside."  She stepped 
up to the cell.  "I'm really sorry, Dennis."  Her hand still on the cold 
bars of the cell, she turned to the policeman, who was impassively watching
from a few feet away.  "Can he get out of there?"
    "If you are not going to press charges, and in fact he was in your
apartment with your permission, there is no reason to hold him.  He
glanced quickly at the papers in his hand, and pulled one large yellow
sheet.  "If you'll just fill this out, he can go."  It already had her
name and address typed in, and had space for a written statement and her
signature.  "You can fill it out in my office."  He looked at Dennis.  She
noticed that the officer looked at Dennis appraisingly before speaking.
"You'll be able to go when she's finished."
    There was a speaker next to the door, and Lieutenant King called and
had the door buzzed open.   Back in his office, he worked on the remainder
of the paperwork while she completed the form, after which he read it over.
"Hmmm ... mind if I ask you a few questions?  Just want to make sure it's
all clear."  He continued after her brief nod.  "So Mr. Miller went over
to your apartment to get," he paused and looked down, "to get what, Miss
Berkeley?  Some books, your lunch?"  She fumbled briefly, and he looked at
her.  "Some computer equipment, perhaps?"
    "No, not computer equipment," she said quickly, perhaps a bit too
quickly.  "I mean, I don't have a computer at home," she said.  "He
was going to get some material for a project we're working on."  She
crossed her fingers, hoping he hadn't said anything different.
    Lieutenant King flipped some pages on a large yellow legal pad.  
Ilene could see sprawling longhand writing on the pages, written in
heavy pencil.  "Ah, yes, the Watson Bank project, yes?"
    "Uh, Watson Bank, yes."  They weren't supposed to discuss projects 
outside of CDS, especially ones like Watson Bank that were breaking new 
ground.  "I shouldn't discuss it, its a sensitive area.  I hope Dennis
didn't say too much."
    "No ma'am, you can rest assured that all he told us was that the
project was for Watson Bank.  And you couldn't get these yourself because?"
He looked at her across the big grey office desk.
    "I was too busy at the office.  I'm running the project.  He was going
out anyways, so I asked him to stop by my place."
    "You and Mr. Miller, you're good friends then?"
    Ilene was getting uncomfortable under the questioning.  It was almost
like he knew something, with his probing, and it was difficult to maintain
her composure.  "Yes, we know each other pretty well."
    "Yes, yes, of course," he muttered, almost to herself.  "A pretty young
girl like yourself isn't going to let just anyone in her apartment."  He
appeared to be ready to ask more questions, so she quickly interrupted.
    "I'm sorry if I seem to be in a rush, but I need to get back.  We're
having some trouble, and I need to clear it up quickly."  He looked at
her with obvious curiosity in his eyes, but said nothing as she continued.
"Let me give you my card, you can call me if ... if you need anything else."
She had been about to say 'if you have any more questions.'  She flipped
through her small leather clutch purse and found a card, realizing that
this was the first time in a long time she had given one of her cards away
for a reason other than to win a door prize.
    Lieutenant King started to hand her one of the cards from the holder on
his desk, but then paused and scribbled an extension on it.  "The card's 
just got the desk number.  That's my number here in the office," he said.  
"Call if you remember anything you haven't told me.  If you want to wait a
minute, I can get your friend for you.  He'll need a ride back to his car,
I would imagine."  He stood up, but as she stood motioned for her to stay.
"You can just wait here, Miss Berkeley.  I'll be right back with your
friend."
    It took nearly fifteen minutes for Lieutenant King to return, and this
time Dennis was following him, seeming somewhat subdued.  "All squared
away," he said jovially.  He smiled again, his mouth friendly but his eyes
not.  He held the door for her and watched as they left, the front door to
the area buzzed, and she pulled it open, quickly walking through the lobby
of the police station without looking left or right, while Dennis hurried
to follow.
    Once outside, he started to speak.  "Wait," she hissed, and he stopped.
She unlocked the door of her car, which was crusted with salt and dirt
from the winter roads.  Dennis got in the passenger side, and she headed
back to her apartment.   Once they were out of the parking lot, she looked
at him briefly.  "What were you doing in my apartment?" she asked angrily.
    "I had restored your account from a backup tape," he said repentantly,
"so I thought I'd stop by to tell you, since I was going out for a bite to
eat.  I came by your office, but the door was shut, and I, uh, listened
and heard you talking to your friend Greg.  I thought I'd help him."  Ilene 
was furious, but Dennis was not quite done yet.  "I caught up with him
outside of the Collins Building and told him you'd asked me to help."
His eyes were large and dark green, almost brown.  "It's, uh, it's a good
thing I was there," he said.  "The police came before we were done and I
stayed there while he went out the back door.  I stalled for a little bit
until I was sure he was far enough away.  It was something, with the police
and all.  Pretty scary, actually."
    "You *let* yourself be caught?" she asked, amazed, and her anger began
to dissipate.  Though she was mad he had listened at her door, if he had
not been there the police would have arrested Greg instead.
    "Of course," he replied, his voice quivering.  Don't you understand,
his eyes said to her.  Suddenly she did, and got nervous once again.
    "Let's get you back to your car," she said, now keeping her eyes fixed
on the road ahead.  "I've got to try to track down a custom switch for us
and you probably have to get back too."
    "We can pick up some lunch while we're out," he said plaintively.  "I
know I could go for some lunch."
    Alarms were going off in Ilene's head by this point.  "I really can't,
but maybe another day, okay?"  She really should let him down early, but
couldn't quite bring herself to do it harshly, especially after what he
had just done.
    "But I .. I mean, I thought if I, well, if I did this, then maybe you'd,
well, you'd like me a little bit.  You do like me, at least a little bit,
don't you."
    She could feel the weight of his gaze, but didn't look away from the
road.  She had reached the corner of Thorn and Main, and turned onto her
street with an inward sigh of relief.  As she pulled into her driveway, she
saw the curtain of the apartment next door briefly move, and she knew that
her neighbor Leanna Aaron was watching.  "Which car is yours," she asked,
and he indicated a battered maroon Corolla parked nearby.
    She forced herself to look at him.  "I really appreciate what you've 
done, and I think you're very nice, but that's all," she said.  "There
isn't anything more than that.  Dennis, I never talked to you before
yesterday."  She could see the agitation in his face.  "I'm truly sorry,
but I don't think lunch would be a good idea.  Thank you for the offer,
but no."  She kept her hands on the steering wheel as she spoke, and hoped
he would get out of the car without making a scene.
    "Oh," he said simply, and got out of the car, his motions slow, his
shoulders slouched.  "Okay, Ilene, I guess I'll see you back at work."  He
walked slowly to his car, and dug in the pocket of his trousers for his
keys.  Ilene was afraid he would not have them, but he did.  He got in
his car and drove off without responding to Ilene's apologetic wave.

    Deciding to check her apartment, Ilene got our of her car, finding
her house key with one hand and clutching her purse with the other.  Her
key was no longer under the welcome mat where she usually kept it and she
hoped that Greg had it.  The front door was locked but not dead-bolted;
the police could not have done more than that without the key.
    Inside, the only signs that anyone had been there were a few blurry
footprints on the carpet inside the door and some dirt on the rug in
front of the fireplace.  Checking upstairs, she saw that not only had
Greg moved the computer from her desk in her room, but had rearranged
the bills and papers there so that it would be difficult to tell that the
desk had held a computer previously.  He had taken the modem as well.
    Ilene wondered who had called the police, but the only one she could
think of to ask was Leanna, and Leanna tended to rattle on a bit.  She
was an older woman with a husband who Ilene never saw; he was always either
working at a local mill or out at one of the local pubs.  The woman was
obviously lonely, and after her day today, Ilene did not feel like being
a sympathetic listener.  Instead, she glanced quickly at her answering
machine, on the former computer desk, its unwinking red eye confirming 
that there were no messages.  Picking up the phone, she dialed Greg's
office number and listened to it ring.  After three rings, she knew he was
not going to answer, and on the fourth ring the CDS voice mail system
answered.  Unhappily, she hung up, and headed back to work.
    
    It was now nearly noon, but traffic was light for lunchtime and she
was back at work within fifteen minutes after leaving her driveway, going
to Gold Plaza instead of her office.  While unlikely, it is possible that
someone has found something out about the missing machine.
    Once inside the parking garage, noticing that the same bored guard from
Tuesday night was at the entrance, she distracted herself while waiting
for the garage elevator by considering the possibilities for the switches.
Worst case, Amin could do nothing to help, and they have to reschedule
delivery to Watson Bank.  Though this would be disheartening, Ilene did
not think that it would cause cancellation of the project.  Another setback
like that would most likely spell disaster.  Best case, Amin could get her
some prototype switches within two months, and a full shipment before the
final system delivery date.  That also was unlikely.
    The elevator arrived, and as it took her to the lobby, she considered
the possibility that Amin would be able to supply the switches, but with
enough delay to cause a slip in the schedule.  This was the most likely
case; custom switches like those she was going to need almost always took
longer for delivery than the two weeks she was allotting.  As the elevator
slid its doors open to the lobby, she got out automatically and walked over 
to the office elevators, her eyes still focused inward on the problems with 
the design she'd been given.
    She didn't notice until she had turned to corner by the main elevators
that Dennis was there.  'Damn,' she said to herself.  If she had known he
was there, should would have waited for the next set.  It was too late now,
however, because he had already seen her.  She walked the rest of the
distance a bit quicker, as if by her walking quicker the elevators would
know to arrive sooner.  Her heels echoed resoundingly in the silence.
"Hi," she said uncertainly, torn between not wanting to begin a conversation
and not wanting to be rude.
    Dennis smiled, a genuinely cheerful smile, and Ilene let out an
imperceptible sigh.  "It's okay, my fault," said Dennis, offering his
hand.  "Still friends?"  Ilene hesitantly took his hand, but all he did
was give it a curt, professional shake.  "That's a bad habit of mine.
Jumping to conclusions, I mean, not getting arrested."
    She laughed, just a little, but it thankfully broke the tension.  "I'm
sorry, too," she said.  "I think I was probably a bit short back there.
You did both myself and Greg a favor we probably won't be able to repay."
For just a second, she thought she caught an odd look in his eyes, but it
was gone instantly, and she wasn't sure whether she really saw it or was
still worried about Dennis because of his previous behavior.
    "No, that's what I needed, I'm afraid.  When I was a freshman at Hope
Valley a few years back, I did the same thing with one of my professors.
Well, not really a professor; she was a grad student teaching the course.
It was something like network troubleshooting or maintenance of token
ring networks, I can't remember now, but I can remember thinking that she
really liked me.  She didn't of course, she was just being friendly, but
I started to hang around a lot.  She was too polite to say anything, of
course .."  Dennis paused, an alarmed look on his face.  "Not to say
you're not polite, or ..."
    "That's okay, I know what you mean.  So what happened?"
    Again that odd expression seemed to cross his face, and he flushed
just a little.  "Oh, things just came to a head," he replied offhandedly.
"It got a little out of hand."  Dennis fidgeted for a moment, looking at
his dark leather loafers, before he continued.  "I mean, you've got to
learn from that kind of thing, you know what I mean?"
    Ilene wondered what 'a little out of hand' meant, but decided she
didn't want to know.  At that moment the elevators showed up.  Two men
got out, impeccably dressed in three piece suits and carrying matching
briefcases, they went by quickly, with a brief, flat glance.
    "Basit," Ilene and Dennis said simultaneously, and they both suppressed
a laugh.  The fourth floor was the domain of Basit and Portolis, a legal
firm specializing in difficult defenses.  Like those for murderers.  "You
know," said Ilene conspiratorially as the door slid shut, "being looked at
by them is just like being looked at by the fish in an aquarium.  You know
what I mean?"
    "Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean.  I was at Mystic Aquarium this
past summer.  The sharks there are the worst.  They just kind of slide by
without even blinking or acknowledging your presence."
    A moment later they arrived at the eighth floor.  Ann was seated behind
her desk.  She smiled a greeting at Dennis, and then she was Ilene, and her
smile changed to a confused expression.  Ilene didn't notice the strange 
look Ann was giving her until she had greeted the secretary.
    Ann looked like she was about to say something, but instead, she watched
as they went over to the door to the office area.  Ilene pulled her access
card out, but Dennis was faster and held the door open with a flourish.  
    At this, Ann broke her silence.  "Dennis, you really shouldn't," she
began, but he cut her off.
    "Oh Ann, she's in charge of the project, for Pete's sake.  We all know
who she is."  He grinned at her as she shut the door, and she sat huffily
down at her desk.
    
    As they went into Dev Lab 10, the half dozen people there greeted
Dennis, but then there was a stunned silence as Ilene walked into the room.
They all looked at her in surprise, and Mark even dropped the book he was
placing on top of a shelf.  The loud BANG! as it hit the floor made everyone,
including Ilene, jump.
   "What?" she said to nobody in particular.  She looked at Dennis, but he
just shrugged.  "Mark, what's going on?  You look like you saw a ghost."
Mark looked to his left, where Bill Daley was sitting.  That, also, was
unusual.  Bill was almost like a hermit; he only left the demo lab in the
Fenton Center for emergencies.   Bill gave him a look in return, one that
seemed to say 'you tell her.'
   "We didn't expect to see you," Mark looked decidedly uncomfortable, and
tugged at his ponytail briefly before continuing.  "I, uh, that is, Bill 
and I, uh," he looked briefly at Bill for support, but when none appeared
to be forthcoming, he continued.  "We found your program," he said, as if
that explained everything.
    "My program?  What program?"
    A slight look of annoyance crossed his face.  "You know damn well what
program," he said angrily.  "You know, Ilene, we don't appreciate these
games.  First you 'lose' your machine, then it shows up in your office.
Now you're running a password cracker.  Everyone knows you were kicked out
of Collins for hacking the system.  What's next?  We've got a hard enough
time over here trying to implement this system, without shit like this from
the people that are supposed to be *helping*!"
    Ilene was completely baffled.  Mark was about to continue, his face
getting red, but the door to the lab opened quickly.  Bonnie Luma walked
in, followed by one of the security guards.  A particularly large one.
She fixed her icy stare on Ilene, not appearing the least bit grandmotherly
now.  "Miss Berkeley, you'll come with us," she said simply.  It was obvious
it was not a request.
    "But, but what's going on?" she asked.  "Am I getting FIRED??"
    "No, Miss Berkeley.  Your employment has already been terminated.
Technically, you are trespassing and we could have you arrested, but we
rarely go to that extreme."  She paused, her eyes flat and unemotional,
and Ilene was reminded of the lawyers downstairs.  "Unless, of course,
people don't cooperate."
    At that moment, there was a firm knock at the lab door.  Dennis, who
was closest, opened it to admit Sam Edison.  Sam was livid.  "I thought
I had said for you to stay in your office," he grated slowly in a voice
like broken glass.  His glare silenced her protest.
    "What's going on?" interrupted Dennis.  Sam turned his head slowly to
face Dennis, his eyes stony.  "Ilene didn't do anything.  She's being set
up!  Can't any of you idiots see that?"
    "Dennis, perhaps you should relax," said Sam.  Ilene could see that
he was keeping his temper in check.  Barely.  His jaw was clenched, and
the words were measured carefully, as Sam fought to keep his voice level.
    "Relax?  What you mean relax??  You guys are out to get Ilene, and I'm
supposed to just RELAX??"  His eyes were wide, and the tendons in his neck
stood out like cords.
    "DENNIS!" thundered Sam.  "You may have the rest of the day OFF!!  Now
cool off, or you'll be joining your pal Ilene in the unemployment line!"
Before Dennis could reply again, Sam cut him off.  His voice had returned
to the slow grating tone he had first used on Ilene.  "Out.  Now.  Or you
*will* be joining her."
    Ilene, temporarily forgotten, shuddered inwardly.  Dennis, his lip
twitching, looked as if he was going to reply, but then it was as if 
someone shut off a light switch.  His face returned to normal, and he was
almost apologetic.  "Uh, yes, sir.  I'll, uh, I'll stop by your office
tomorrow."
    The change in Dennis's demeanor was creepy, and Ilene felt a chill run
down her spine.  Dennis was immediately forgotten, however, as the guard
touched her elbow and indicated the door.  Ilene had been regaining her
composure, but the shock of what had happened hit her once again, and she
stumbled out of the room.  She now knew how a convicted criminal felt, led 
from the courtroom under the stares of the judge and jury.  She only glanced 
up once, catching Mark's eye, and his hard, unflinching stare made her wilt.  
It was not until a bit later that she realize that Bill Daley, standing 
behind Mark, had an uncharacteristic expression, one that was sad, almost 
sympathetic.
    Bonnie was talking to her as they left and rode down the elevator, but
Ilene only caught fragments of what was said.  They would box her office 
for her.  Something about a restrainting order not being needed.  Not 
pressing charges.  They left her in the lobby of Gold Plaza, her arms
dangling loosely at her sides, stripped of her badge and office keys.  The
tears welled up in her eyes, and she stood there for a long time, ignoring
the stares and sideways glances of the people as they walked by.

    Ilene drove aimlessly for a while before she returned to her apartment.
Maybe it was an hour.  Maybe three.  She didn't know or care.  Once inside,
she plodded up the stairs to her bedroom.  The answering machine winked 
cheerfully at her, but she had no interest in hearing what it had to say,
and unplugged it and the phone, shoving them into one of the desk drawers.
    As it got dark, the grey day giving way first to the hazy dimness of
dusk and then the black of a moonless night, she sat in her living room,
watching television uncomprehendingly.  Her eyes were red and puffy, the
towel that she had used to wipe the ruined mascara from her eye crumpled on
the floor beside her.  After a joyless dinner, she fell asleep on her couch,
the droning of the evening programs lulling her to sleep.
    She didn't wake until well after eight o'clock the next morning.  She
grimaced at the cheerful sunlight streaming in her living room window, and
laboriously climbed the stairs.  Plugging in her answering machine, she 
listened to the two messages from the day before.
    The first was a short, cheerful message from Greg.  "Hey, 'Lene," he
said.  "You left something over my house last time you were over.  Call
me when you get in so I can give it to you."  There was a comment in the
background that she could not quite hear, though it sounded like Jason's
voice, and Greg laughed.  "Jason says to remind you to clean up your own
messes from now on."
    Ilene could feel the tears coming on again, and rubbed her eyes to hold
them back while she listened to the second message.  It was even shorted
than Greg's message, and it sounded like the person was at a pay phone. 
She could hear cars going by in the background, and briefly she heard a
strange squeal or squeak.  It was a man's voice, but not one she recognize.
"Uh, I'm sorry," the man said.  There was a long pause, and she heard the
funny squeal again.  "I didn't, uh ..."  there was a voice in the background,
and then the man abruptly hung up.
    It had to be Dennis.  It could have been his voice - it was hard to 
tell over all of the background noise, and she didn't really know him well
enough to recognize his voice like she would Greg's or Martin Duff's.  She 
pulled a tissue from the holder next to the bed and dryed her eyes, 
wondering about the odd message.
    Ilene decided to call Greg, and fumbled behind the desk for a moment
before finding the phone jack.  As she plugged it in, it rang, startling
her, and she dropped it on the desk.  Picking it up quickly, she answered,
her voice quickened by the adrenaline.
    "Man, 'Lene," said Greg, "you sound like you just ran a race.  You okay
over there?"  He paused briefly, and she knew what was coming.  "I heard 
what happened yesterday, 'Lene.  Let me know if there's anything I can do,
will you?"  
    Ilene bit back an urge to ask him to pound Morris.  "Thanks, Greg,
appreciate the thought.  No, not much you can do, unless you know the name
of a good headhunter.  One who specializes in hard cases."  The sarcasm
dripped from her voice, and she could feel her emotions changing to anger.
"You know, this is really lousy.  I'm out of a job because someone over
there felt like playing games with the machines!"
    "Well, it ain't over yet," said Greg.  "Jason and I plan on doing a little
prospecting of our own to see what we can find out."
    "Greg, don't!  That's what they said I was doing!"
    "Don't worry.  It'll be fine.  Oh, gotta run, here comes the Duff.  I'll
catch you later."  There was a click, and the receiver went dead.  She stared
at it for a moment before she hung up, but decided against calling Nancy.
Instead, she took a long, hot shower, the steaming water soothing her back,
the muscles sore from the night on the couch.
    She sas toweling her hair dry when the phone rang again.  She let the
machine answer the phone, but at Dennis's voice she picked it up, unplugging
the answering machine so she could talk.  "Hi, I'm here," she said.  "I was 
just getting out of the shower."  As soon as she said it, she wished she 
hadn't, but he went on as if he hadn't heard.
    "Ilene!  This is great!  I did it, I caught him!  It's going to be 
okay!"  It sounded like he had been running.  He was out of breath, and
his voice was ragged.  "This is almost funny.  To think that I, I mean I
almost ..."  his voice trailed off for a moment, but then he began again,
speaking so fast she was reminded of one of those old Federal Express
commercials.   "It was Harold, you know, the Walrus.  He's the one who
called the police.  This is so great!  I've got to go tell Sam!  He'll give
you your job back!"  Dennis's voice suddenly took on a darker tone.  "And
then he'll get his.  Oh yes, he'll get his."
    "Harold?  What, did he say something to you?"
    "No, no, not to me.  I went over to your office, you know, I was going
to see if there was anything I could do.  Harold and Joan were in there,
with the door almost shut."  His voice began to sound strained, and Ilene
bristled at the thought of Harold nosing through her desk and files.  "They
were laughing about something, so I stopped, uh, to listen.  They were
laughing at you Ilene.  I didn't like that."
    "Thank you Dennis."  Ilene resisted the urge to prod him along, even
though she was anxious to hear.  Instead, she waited a moment, and after
a pause he continued, his voice still strained.  Absently she picked up
a pen from the desk and began chewing on the end of it.
    "Well, Harold and Joan were joking about how easy it was to get rid of
you.  He was saying how Watson was his, like it was supposed to be, and
how he was glad he had called the police.  It made me so mad!  I wanted to
go in there and ... well, I decided to tell Sam instead."  His voice cheered
up a little.  "And that's what I'm going to do now!"
    "Umm, Dennis?  Even if Harold did call the police, what does that
have to do with me getting fired?  I didn't get fired for anything to 
do with that.  Now maybe if he put Zelazny in my office," she mused to
herself.
    "But that's the key!  The key to the whole thing, don't you see?  Sam
will see.  You'll get your job back."  He paused, and she heard a strange
noise.  Like a stapler.  Or a hole punch.  It was hard to tell.  "Well,
I'm off to talk to Sam!  Wish me luck!"  Then, without waiting for her
answer, he was gone.
    Ilene put the phone down on her desk.  Something was wrong with what
Dennis had said.  She wasn't sure what it was, though.  It was there
somewhere, she could feel it nagging at the back of her mind.  Whatever 
it was didn't want to come out, however, so she got dressed and went
downstairs.  It was actually kind of nice not having to rush to work in
the morning.  She could brew herself some coffee, have a bowl of cereal,
and then check the paper.  Maybe Greg knew of a good headhunter in the
area.  Relaxing like this was nice, but it wasn't going to pay her bills.

    She spent the rest of the morning on her old blue couch, her coffee on 
a battered cork coaster she had put on the hardwood floor so it would not 
spill on the couch.  She had scotchgarded it a few years back, but 
she was sure it had worn off by now, and she didn't figure she'd be buying
any new furniture in the near future.  Folding the newspaper in half, she 
was done looking through the Help Wanted ads much too quickly.  The local 
paper wasn't much for job offerings, and Thursday wasn't one of the more
promising days, she told herself.
    Digging the remote control for the television out from it's usual place
between the cushions of the couch, she switched it on and began flipping
through the channels.  Even though Ilene only got the basic cable service
for her area, she still had 38 channels.  Maybe it was 42 now, the cable
company had just sent a flyer out.  She had it around here somewhere.  She
was digging through a stack of papers on the end table when the phone rang
again.  Ilene let the phone ring, not feeling like talking if it was Dennis
again.  It continued to ring, insistently, and she remembered unplugging the
answering machine.  She glanced at the stylized blue enamel clock over the
fireplace mantel, and noticed it was nearly eleven.
    "All right, I'm coming," she said out loud.  She left the television on
a New Haven station and stood up, arching her back as she did so.  Then
she hurried to the phone, picking it up mid-ring.  "Hello, this is Ilene,"
she said, expecting Dennis again.  As she spoke, she heard footsteps out
in front of the building, as someone walked up the steps to the porch.
    "Ilene?  This is Nancy," said a near hysterical voice on the phone.
Ilene was only half listening.  The blinds were drawn on the windows facing
the street, and the only window in the door was above eye level.  The slow,
heavy footsteps approached her door and then stopped.  There was a pause,
and then her doorbell rang.
    "Ilene?  Ilene?  Are you there?"  Ilene no longer had the phone to her
ear, listening instead to the noises outside her door.  The doorbell rang
again, and she walked over to the door, her stocking feet silent on the
wooden floor.  The cordless phone was under her arm but she was not paying
any attention.
    Wishing more than ever that she had put an eye-hole in the front door, 
Ilene stood on her toes and tried to look out the small windows at the
top of the door, without success.  Finally, she left the chain across the
door and opened it an inch, standing a little to the side of the opening.
The door slammed into the chain, and she let out a gasp.  Someone was 
pushing on the door from the other side!  The wall anchor for the chain 
creaked ominously, and some plaster dust drifted down.
    She quickly threw her weight against the door, trying to push it shut.
The cordless phone fell to the floor and the corner shattered, sending 
shards of plastic flying and leaving batteries rolling across the floor.
"no, wait," she heard a faint, gasping voice say on the other side of the
door, but she continued to push.  Her feet found little purchase on the
slippery floor, but she began to make progress.  She switched her footing
to try to get a better grip on the door, and slipped again.  This time
in something wet.  Ilene flailed to keep her balance, grabbing onto the
door chain with her left hand, and pulled herself upright.  As she did so, 
a bloody hand closed on hers.
    She screamed, and yanked her hand away.  She felt a blossom of pain
as she tore her knuckle on the metal edge of the door, and then the force
of pulling her hand away caused her to lose her balance.  Her feet went
up, her head went down, and her mind went black.
    When Ilene was in seventh grade, she used to ice skate in the winters,
at a local pond.  It was a large pond, used to irrigate the big tobacco
farms in the summer, but in the winter it was the skating pond.  Every
now and then someone would slip and fall.  As often as not it was a slider
where the person ended up spinning across the ice for a few yards before
coming to a dizzy stop, but once in a while someone was pinwheeling their
arms for balance and lost both feet at the same time.  When that happened,
you either fell on your rear or on your head.  She'd only seen someone do
a header twice.  The first time it was Ricky Hunt, one of the boys always
zipping about playing ice hockey.  He was wearing a helmet, and after a
shake of his head and some razzing, he went right back to the game.
    Orville Staver was not so lucky.  He had always skated in second 
hand hockey skates, usually begged or borrowed from one of the other boys,
and never in a helmet.  When he took a header, he didn't get up.  They had
thought he was joking at first, and had laughed and poked at him, but when
he still didn't get up, the kids got nervous.  Caleb and Mike Facin had
dragged him to the side of the pond while Sally Kerin ran for help.  Orv
woke beside the fire, but he just looked up at them blankly and wouldn't
answer any questions.  Ilene found out later he had a really bad concussion;
he was out of school for almost a week.
    She didn't think she had taken a header as bad as that one, but when
she woke on her couch she instinctively felt for the lump atop her head.
It was an impressive one, and she could feel matted blood where she had
split her scalp, probably from falling on a piece of plastic.  Then she
opens her eyes with a start.  How had she gotten on the couch?.  Her left 
eye doesn't open all the way; a trickle of blood had glued it part way shut,
and she rubbed at it with the back of her hand while she got unsteadily to
her feet.
    Ilene didn't think she had a concussion, but she did have a splitting
headache.  Her front door was ajar, she could see where the bracket for
the chain had pulled free from the wall.  So much for home security.
Bloody footprints led from the door to the couch, and from there to the 
kitchen.  In addition, there were random splatters of blood on the floor.
As she walked slowly towards to kitchen she wondered about all the blood.
How much blood could a person lose?  She had known at one time, back in 
college, when whe was considering pre-med.  It was something like two 
liters, maybe three.  The footprints had started to congeal, and the blood
spatters were turning brown, making Ilene wonder how long she had been out.
    Rubbing her eye still, she tip-toed towards the kitchen.  It was an 
open kitchen, with only a counter separating it from the living room.  She
could see a bloody handprint on the light green counter.
    "ilene," said a faint voice behind the counter.  She froze, and looked
back at her shattered telephone.  One of the bloody footprints was smeared
where it has slipped on one of the batteries.  She realized that whomever
was behind the counter could have done something horrible while she was
unconscious and hadn't, so she stepped carefully into the kitchen.
    Dennis Miller was sitting on the floor, his legs splayed before him.
She could see several large shards of glass on the floor as well.  The
front of his shirt was in tatters, and his clothes were soaked in blood.
"Oh my god," she said in a small voice.  She saw a small twinkle of light
from inside the ragged ruin of his shirt, and realized that he had pulled
the shards of glass out of his chest.  "I .. I've got to call someone," she
said, and started to back out of the kitchen.
    His face was pasty white, and his eyes rolled slowly to look at her.
"...." he said in a faint voice, and then motioned her closer.  She took
another step and bent towards him, frightened by the sight.  She could 
swear that she could see his ribs in one of the deep gouges on his chest.
He spoke again, and a small stream of blood ran out of his mouth and dripped
onto the floor.  "bill," he said weakly.  
    "Bill?  Should I talk to Bill?"
    His not was barely perceptible.  "zelazny's not ... it's not ... "  He
coughed, and let out a small moan of pain.  "... it wasn't real," he finished.
"harold's gone.  he did it ... it was for .. dan ..."  Dan Helle worked on
the Watson Bank project, but only part time, and she didn't know what Dan
had to do with Harold.
    Ilene heard the wail of sirens in the distance, and Dennis's eyes flicked
towards the sound, then back at her.  "tell joan ... i'm sorry," he said, and
a large blood bubble appeared on his lips, then popped.  His eyes began to
flutter, and as the sirens got closer, they stopped moving altogether.
There was a screech of tires and the crunch of metal on metal, and then she
heard loud voices outside.  She backed up until she was against the wall
between the refrigerator and the door.  Her legs turned to rubber, but she
managed to keep her feet with the support of the cool plaster.  Her back
must have been bloody, because she could feel it sticking to the wall.
    From her position against the wall, she could see the front door, still 
ajar.  A shadow briefly appeared on the window and quickly disappeared.  
There was some muttering, and then the front door burst open and one police
officer came through the opening, gun ready.  He had short, black hair and
was wearing heavy, black clothing.  A second man, similarly attired, but with
longer, blond hair was right behind him.  Ilene gasped and headed 
instinctively towards the stairs.
    The first officer saw her.  "Hold it!" he yelled, as he turned and fired.
    "Jesus, Tom!" cried the officer behind him, and he chopped at the black
haired man's arm.  The shot went wide, splintering the banister and careening
into the ceiling.  The man's eyes grew wide as he looked again at Ilene.
    The blond policeman was looking quickly around Ilene's apartment now,
noting the bloody footprints and the red smears on the couch.  His eyes
followed the trail into the kitchen, and he motioned to someone behind him.
He didn't walk any closer to the kitchen, but instead began to move to the
side toward the wall opposite Ilene.
    More sirens began to wail, off in the distance, and Ilene could hear
some loud voices outside.  She had tripped and fell headlong onto the stairs
when the officer had shot at her.  Her arms and legs were shaking, and her
head was throbbing where she had banged it once again.  Her scalp tickled
where she could feel blood beginning to flow once again.
    "He's dead," muttered Ilene weakly.  She pulled herself to a sitting
position using the stairwell railing, and wrapped her shaking arms around
her legs.  The officers didn't hear her, and she managed to repeat it again,
a bit louder.  A tall man with a red mustache and close-cropped red hair
stepped in through the door.  "Tom," he hissed, "get her out of here!  What
the hell happened in here?"  He noticed that Tom was now shaking as well.
"Tom, get it together and get her out of here!"  He grabbed Tom's shoulder,
and Tom calmed down a little.  He came forward and falteringly offered
Ilene his hand.  She was still shaken by the gunshot, but managed to take
his hand and let him help her up.  Regaining his composure quickly, he
hustled her out the front door.  There were two police cars outside, and
several more officers in and around them.  Before she had left, she had
seen the two men still inside motioning to each other, having stopped 
speaking out loud.

    The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.  A second officer helped
her into the back of a police car, offering her some hot coffee, which she
gratefully accepted.  There was some noise and movement inside her 
apartment, but no further gunshots.  The tall red-haired policeman came out
and drew his finger across his throat in the classic gesture for death.
Soon after that, an ambulance arrived, and Ilene was on her way to Saint
Martino Hospital, escorted by a police car that had arrived with it.
    Inside the ambulance, it was pleasantly warm, and Ilene felt drowsy.
"Sleepy?" asked one of the technicians, and he nodded at her affirmative
response.  She was out by the time they were at the hospital, and when she
woke she had been cleaned up somewhat and was in a hospital bed.  There
was a nurse there, dressed in blue scrubs, her long brown hair in a thick
ponytail.  Lieutenant King was also there.  He smiled as she opened her
eyes.  This time his eyes smiled as well.
    "Reconsidering letting Mr. Miller out, I imagine," he said.  She nodded
slowly, her neck stiff.  "I thought so.  You're actually rather lucky," he
said, leaning on the foot of her bed.  The bed creaked alarmingly.
    "Lucky?  What do you mean?"  Her mouth was parched, and her tongue felt
like leather behind her lips.  There was a tray with a green plastic pitcher
and cup on it.  Ilene tried to reach, but her stiff muscles fought her.  The
nurse heard her efforts and quickly helped her get a glass of water,  It
felt like the entire first mouthful was absorbed by her dry mouth, and after
a few large swallows she felt a bit better.
    "It seems that our Mr. Miller had a history of stalking women," he said.
"I didn't get the records until this morning; the Hope Valley PD isn't 
networked as well as most departments, so they were a bit slow.  Turns out 
there were several complaints over at the school when he was there, and he 
was arrested once, accused of going after some girl's boyfriend with a 
switchblade.  Not sure how, but he got off of that one.    I tried
to get in touch with you this morning, but there was no answer at your
apartment and I didn't have your work number."
    Ilene flushed a little at the mention of her work, but as she did so 
Lieutenant King's beeper went off.  He glanced at the number on the little 
red display, a frown on his face.  "I'm going to have to go.  I'll be back 
soon; there's still some things we can't figure out."  He tipped an 
imaginary hat.  "Don't go anywhere," he said with a chuckle, leaving Ilene 
alone with the nurse.
    Still drowsy, she napped again.  She thought she heard some discussion
of a concussion at one point.  Someone else made a comment about a gunshot
wound.  She didn't think she had been hit, maybe it wasn't her.  Finally,
she was gently shaken awake by one of the aides, who stepped back once he
saw she was awake.  There were two doctors there now, and Lieutenant King
was back.
    "We're going to let you go home now, Miss Berkeley," said the first
doctor.  He was older, at least 55.  He looked like he had once been fit,
but his loose white coat hid a large belly and the skin on his arms had
obvious signs of age.  "It turns out that while you have a nasty bump,
you didn't get a concussion.  That's the good news.  You still ought to
stay off of your feet for the next few days, I suggest staying out of
work until Monday or Tuesday.  Play it by ear."  The aide left the room
while he was talking.
    Ilene's smiled ironically.  Work was not a problem.  Paying for this
trip to the hospital was going to be a problem.
    As he spoke, he was scribbling on a pad he pulled from the pocket of
his lab coat.  Tearing off the top sheet, he handed Ilene a prescription
for some mild pain-killers.  "You'll probably have a residual headache for
a week or two," he said.  "You can take up to two of these a night if it
gets too bad."  He scribbled something on the chart at the foot of her
bed, and then turned to go.  Pausing, he indicated Lieutenant King with
his pen.  "This gentleman has offered to drive you home," he said, "but
we made him promise not to give you the third degree."  Lieutenant King
smiled, and the doctor continued on his way.
    The nurse's aide came back in with a small plastic supermarket bag.
In it was a complete set of clothes, including socks and underwear.
"Someone dropped this off for you," he said in a rich, deep voice.  
~You'll probably want to change in the bathroom."  The room she was in
was normally a double, but the second bed was empty.  Ilene slowly got
out of bed with the man's help, and then shuffled into the bathroom,
her disposable foam slippers silent on the hospital's linoleum floor.
    She dressed quickly, and splashed some cold water on her face to wake
herself.  A woman came by with some insurance and release forms, which
Ilene signed without reading, and then she had to wait to talk to the
nurse before she could go.  It was a half an hour before she left, leaning
on the lieutenant for support.  It was another overcast night, though
it was unseasonable warm.  It was misting gently, and the vapor formed
bright halos around the streetlights.
    Ilene was surprised to see that the Lieutenant drove an old Bronco.
One of the fenders was rusted out, and the chrome bumpers were dented
and pitted.  "Good for fishing," he said simply.  The inside was clean
and well maintained, however, and the seat was comfortable.  He backed
the truck slowly out of its parking spot in the hospital lot, and drove
out towards Main Street.  "Been a busy couple of days for you," he
commented.  "Let's hope it quiets down some."
    It was only a short drive to her apartment, and though she was afraid
that he was going to begin asking her about the day, the Lieutenant was
true to his word, not bringing it up except to ask her to call him the
next day or Monday, whenever she felt up to it.  "All routine stuff," he
said.  "We won't be done with our paperwork until late next week, so 
there's no need to come in tomorrow if you don't feel up to it.  From the
sound of that doctor's advice, it would be a bad idea anyways."  He switched 
the radio on, to a local country station, and they rode the rest of the way 
to the sound of Clint Black and the Judds. 
    The sharp pain in her head was gone, leaving behind a dull, pulsing throb,
though when he hit a pothole, it returned for a brief, bright flash, and 
the Lieutenant looked at her apologetically.
    As they turned onto her street, she saw that there was a police car 
parked in front of her house with its parking lights on.  Several lights 
were on in her apartment as well, and as the tires crunched on the gravel
of the driveway, an officer came out of the front door, laden with several
large plastic garbage bags.  He nodded in their direction before going over
to the police car and depositing them in the trunk.  Then he walked over
to Lieutenant King's Bronco.  The two men spoke briefly, with the truck
still running, and Ilene only caught fragments of the conversation.  Sounded
like the apartment was pretty much cleaned up except for the blood on the
carpet and couch.  Then the man spoke directly to Ilene, and she realized
it was the tall, red-haired officer who had been there earlier.
    "Miss Berkeley, there's no reason to think everything won't be fine 
here tonight, but we're going to have an officer here all night, just in
case.  He pulled out a business card and handed it to her after writing
something on it.  "This is the phone number, the direct line to the car."
    "To the car?"
    "We've got a few mobile phones, and car 22 has one.  Hopefully there's 
no need for that, but it's better to be sure.  We didn't fix the broken
chain," he continued, but the deadbolt is still good.  I'm heading back to
the station now, but Officer Manning will be here until the shift change
at midnight."
    Ilene got out of the truck, slowly so she didn't shake her aching head.
She shut the door and started towards the front door of the house, but 
stopped as she heard the loud whirr of the Bronco's passenger window.
"I almost forgot to tell you," said the lieutenant.  "I got a call today
from someone named Bonnie Luma at your company.  Do you know her?"  Ilene
nodded and as he continued, The red-haired officer came around the back of
the Bronco and rested his arm on the open window.  "She'd like you to call
tomorrow.  I didn't give her the number of your room at Saint Martino,
since it seemed like you needed the rest."
    While she was wondering if he knew what the call was about, the other
officer opened the door and hopped into the passenger side of the truck.
"Mighty presumptuous of you, Todd," said the lieutenant with a grin.  With
a curt wave to Ilene, he expertly backed out of the narrow driveway.  She
saw them wave a greeting to the officer in the parked squad car, who raised
a hand in acknowledgement, glanced at her, and then went back to writing
something on the clipboard he had.
    Rummaging in her small purse for her keys, she realized the officer had
not locked the door, just shut it.  She opened the door quickly, the old
brass knob cold in her hand, and shut it behind her, turning the heavy 
deadbolt with one hand while her other instinctively went for the now broken
chain.  The lights were still on, and she could see the bloody footprints on 
the carpet, leading to the linoleum floor of the kitchen, which was 
thankfully clean.  She pulled the pillows off of the couch, tossing them in 
the corner of the living room, and then headed up the stairs to bed.  Her 
blue enamel wall clock said only nine fifteen, but she felt like it was
midnight.  She slumped into bed, and was asleep in less than a minute.

    The next day was bright and clear, and the sunlight streaming in her
bedroom window hurt her eyes when she awoke.  She was still dressed in 
the jeans and blouse that Nancy had brought to the hospital for her, and
she peeled them off, rubbing the lines they had left on her skin after
wearing them all night.  She removed the temporary bandage they had put
on at Saint Martino, and carefully but thoroughly showered away the 
remaining traces of blood.  The worst was her hair, but the warm water
soon washed everything away, and she once again felt like herself.  She
was thankful that the towel was still clean after gently toweling her
hair; she didn't want to try to put a bandage on her head by herself.  The
swelling had gone down as well; as a consequence she felt more like she
had a mild hangover than anything else.  She considered going downstairs
and getting some breakfast, but the thought of eating in her kitchen turned
her stomach, and the previous days events all came rushing back in.
    Sitting heavily down on the chair in front of her now messy desk, she
decided to go out and get a bite to eat.  Glancing out the bedroom window,
she saw that the squad car that had been out front was gone.  'Looks like
I'm on my own again.'
    Retrieving her clutch purse from the nightstand drawer where she had
tossed it the night before, she went downstairs, preparing to go out. She
kept her eyes averted from the stained carpet and couch, only deviating
from a straight line to the front door long enough to get her jacket from
the front closet.  Outside, the streak of warm weather was continuing, and
she didn't bother to zip up her coat as she walked to her car.  One of the
considerations for buying the Eclipse had been its all-wheel drive, but 
she had never really had occasion or need to use it.  She had put her watch
on, and now noticed that it was only quarter after eight.  While she had
been tired last night, she obviously hadn't been tired enough to need to
sleep late.  There was a cozy diner at the end of Thorn, across Main, and
she went there to get a bite to eat.

    An hour later, feeling better after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and
home-made hash brown, she left and headed towards CDS.  While Ilene was
eating, she had decided to get the unpleasant task of meeting with Bonnie
Luma over with instead of putting it off until next week.  It felt strange
to park in the visitor's spot out front of Fenton Center, and even stranger
going into the lobby.  She used the lobby phone to call, and Bonnie Luma
answered right away.
    "This is Bonnie Luma," said the grandmotherly voice on the line.
    "Hi Bonnie, this is Ilene Berkeley."
    "Ilene, thank you for calling.  Do you know when you can stop by?
I need to ask you about a couple of things.  I'm sure you understand."
    "Yes, I understand.  I'm in the lobby now, I thought I would get it
over with as soon as possible."
    "That is probably best.  Why don't you come on in, this won't take too
long.  In any case, I heard you got a bad bump on the head, and I don't
want to keep you too long."
    Confused, Ilene paused.  "But I can't ... I mean I don't .. I don't 
have a badge any more."  She remembered the lost feeling she had felt 
Wednesday in the Gold Plaza lobby, and felt her eyes tearing a little.
    "I'll be right out," said Bonnie cheerfully.  "Didn't you know?
You've been reinstated."
    Ilene hung up the phone.  She had her job back?  How had that 
happened?  Sitting on one of the couches, she waited for Bonnie, who was
there within a minute or two.  Ilene heard the noise of the turnstile
before she saw Bonnie, and looked up expectantly.
    "I would have thought Sam Edison would have had more consideration
than that," said Bonnie.  Today she really did seem like a grandmother,
and Ilene was reassured just listening to her speak, finding it odd that
one day Bonnie could be hard as nails and then be soothingly gentle another.
"I gave your badge to Sam because he was supposed to call you and let you
know."  She frowned briefly.
    "He might have called; my phone has been unplugged since yesterday.
Well, one is broken, the other unplugged.  I guess you heard that Dennis
Miller came over to my apartment yesterday."  There was just the smallest
quiver in Ilene's voice.
    "Oh yes, yes indeed.  That was what I wanted to talk to you about.
You see, he went there from here."
    "From *here*?  But what happened?  I mean..."
    "He apparently smashed his way out the back door.  Not very successfully,
I'm afraid.  He apparently fell as he went through the door."  Bonnie looked
at her watch, a slim gold watch with a brown leather band, and shook her
head.  "Let me get you a temporary badge.  I didn't think you would be over
here so early, and I have to be in Gold Plaza at ten, so I can't talk long
right now.  Can you meet with Sam, and maybe wait for me to get back?  I
should be back before eleven."
    Ilene really didn't want to stay, even though it was uplifting to know
she had her job back.  She wanted to find out what had happened to change
everything though, so she nodded her assent.
    "Good, good.  It's a long story," she said, using her badge to let 
Ilene through the security door.  "Dennis was quite confused, but he
happened to find out whe was causing you such trouble.  It was Bill Davis.
Nothing to do with you, really, you were just caught in the middle.  Bill
told me that things went a bit further than he thought they would.  He
certainly didn't expect anyone to get shot.  He's a very shaken up man now."
    "Shot?  But Dennis wasn't shot.  The police arrived after he, well, 
after he died."  Ilene's stomach started to clench; she felt like she had
someone squeezing it inside her gut.
    This made Bonnie pause for a moment.  They had climbed the stairs to
the second floor, and were now in the hall, just outside Bonnie's office.
She looked at Ilene oddly.  "No, not Dennis.  Dennis shot Joan Tarron and 
Harold Stanwick yesterday."  Bonnie had a strange expression on her face
as she continued.  "Joan didn't make it, and Harold is recovering over
in Saint Martino."
    Unlocking her office and opening the door, she quickly retrieved a
temporary badge for Ilene.  "I have to leave now, but I'll be back by 
eleven.  I'll call Sam and tell him you're on your way down."  Bonnie's 
expression was one of genuine concern as she picked up the phone.  "I'm
not impressed with Sam Edison's handling of this situation.  If he does
not tell you, you should know that you get next week off to rest.  There's
an odd policy this company has relating to situations like this, where
someone is attacked, and there is a *mandatory* week off to recover."
She scratched her head.  "It's actually somewhat surprising, considering
how they handle some other situations.  But I thought you should be aware
of it."  She began to dial, and shooed Ilene out of the room.  "I want to
yell at him," she smiled.  "Can't have you listening to that, can we?"

    Ilene left Bonnie's small office and took the front stairs to get 
back to the first floor.  Once on the first floor she headed in the
direction of Sam Edison's office, passing the turnstiles as she did so.
"Ilene!" called a voice after she had passed.  As she turned, Nancy
Schein came bursting through.  "I thought that was you.  Can you 
believe all of this?  I'd be a total wreck, but look at you!  You don't 
look fazed at all."
    "Nothing could be further from the truth, but thanks anyways.  I'm
on my way to see Sam.  Apparently he was supposed to call me.  Maybe
he did, I wouldn't know, I haven't really been home."
    "Now that I knew.  I've been trying to call you since yesterday.
What did you do, unplug your phones?"
    "Well, actually, one of them was broken, but I did unplug the other
one yesterday."
    "How did it break?  Wait, let me fill you in first."  Nancy was obviously
bursting with some information.  "Have you talked to anyone else?"
    "Just to Bonnie, but I'm not sure what she was talking about.  She
said Bill Davis was the one who caused all of the trouble, but not much
more.  I'm going to talk to her again after I catch up with Sam."  Ilene
frowned.  "She said Dennis shot Joan and Harold, too."  It didn't feel
quite right calling him the Walrus after he had been shot.
    "Oh, then you haven't heard.  Come on," said Nancy, ushering Ilene
down the hallway into an empty conference room.  She shut the door,
and turned.  "It all started with Dennis, yesterday.  He goes into Sam's
office and starts yelling at him about the Walrus, and how he was setting you
up.  Well you know how Sam is about the Walrus.  They both start yelling.  I 
wasn't there, but Jan was over there, and she said they were really going at 
it.  Apparently Dennis said something like 'If you're not going to get rid 
of him, then I am.'  That was the last straw - Sam told him to turn in his 
badge and get out.  Instead, Dennis took off and Sam called security.
    "Well, it turns out that Joan and the Walrus were in your office.  Lord
knows what they were doing, but I guess Dennis had overheard them saying 
something and went to tell Sam.  When Sam didn't go anything, Dennis went
back over to your office.  Get this.  He's got a GUN, he brought it into
work with him.  Guy must have been a nutcase.  Anyways, he tries to blow
away the Walrus.  You know what he does?  That asshole grabs *Joan* and
shoves her in front of him.  Joan takes one bullet straight in the chest,
and that scumbag just gets one in the arm.  They both go down, I guess the
Walrus just fainted or something."
    "That's horrible," exclaimed Ilene.  "I mean, I didn't like Joan, but
to die that way..."  Ilene shuddered.
    "It gets worse.  Joan actually manages to get up and dial the phone.
She calls 9-1-1, but she faints before she can tell the operator where she
is or anything."
    "But they can trace back the calls..."
    "...unless you're on a PBX.  Then they just get the generic company
address when they try to trace it.  So it takes them almost half an hour
to figure out where she is.  They were in your office, and that section
of the building is pretty empty, and she usually isn't down there."
    "You mean she might have *lived*?"
    "She definitely would have lived.  There's one more thing.  They finally
do figure out where she is, just by doing a sweep of the whole building, and
these emergency guys go in, get the Walrus out, and try to resuscitate her.  
They don't have any luck, so they take her out.  Well, the last guy is just 
about to leave when he hears a noise, and notices that it still smells in 
your office.  Like an outhouse, it smells in there."
    "Ugh, is that really necessary?"  Ilene's already unsteady stomach did
a slow roll.  "I mean, that's what always happens."
    "Yes, but that noise .. it was Morris.  He was crouched under your
desk, scared so shitless he wet his pants.  *He sat there in his own
piss and just let her die*.  I heard that from one of the ambulance guys."
    "Oh no.  That's ... that's awful ..."
    "He was grilled pretty roughly by the police.  You can bet he isn't here
today.  Probably won't be back, either."
    Ilene just stood there, struck dumb by what had happened.  She had sensed
that Dennis was weird, but this was more than weird.  This whole thing was
creepy.  Even though the conference room was well heated, she shivered.
    "I'm not so clear on what happened with Dennis after that.  He ended up
in the demo lab with Bill Davis.  Bonnie won't talk about what happened in
there, it's really hush hush, but whatever it was, it got you back here.
Mark talked to Bill before anything happened, and Bill was scared, but he
didn't say anything to Mark about stealing machines or anything."
    The door to the conference room opened, and both Nancy and Ilene jumped.
A janitor poked his head in apologetically, and proceeded to empty the trash
cans and recycling bin.
    "Well, let me know what you find out," said Nancy as they left the room.
Ilene turned towards Sam's office, and Nancy headed towards the building
exit.  "I mean it," she called to Ilene.
    "I will," she answered.  She went around in a big U to get to the area
with Sam's office.  His office was on the right, with the door shut.  She
went over and knocked, and a muffled voice called "Come in" through the door.
She went in, and Sam literally jumped.  "Ilene," he said.  "I didn't expect
you.  I hadn't .. I mean you don't have ..."  He looked at her temporary
id badge.  "Oh, you talked to Bonnie?  She told you what happened?  It was
a horrible, horrible thing to happen."
    "In any event, I wanted to apologize to you.  It turns out that someone
else was making it look like you were stealing equipment and trying to
compromise the system.  Did Bonnie fill you in on what happened."
    "No, she didn't," answered Ilene carefully.  She wanted to hear what
Sam had to say, and if he knew she had talked to Nancy, he would probably
tell the story different.  "All she told me was it had something to do 
with Bill Davis.  And that Joan and Harold were shot."
    At this, Sam's face fell.  He gave her a much abbreviated version of the
story, not mentioning Morris, the poor response time of the emergency team,
or what Harold had done.  He did talk about Bill, however.  He told her
that Bill had been out to get Harold, that she had unfortunately gotten in
the middle of it.  Sam claimed no knowledge of what Bill was trying to get
Harold for, but Ilene doubted his sincerity.  He was obviously embarrassed
by the whole situation, though she didn't feel sorry for him at all, and he
didn't object when she said she wanted to go back to her office.  Probably
he was relieved to be rid of her.

    Instead of going back to her office Ilene went to the demo lab instead.
Thankfully they hadn't changed the combination, and she let herself in.
Everything looked pretty much normal.  Except for the workstation that Bill
sat on.  It has what looked like two bullet holes in it.  And there was
another in the wall beyond.  There was jagged fragments of the glass
monitor screen on the desk and floor, and the smell of burning components
still lingered in the air.  She could see Bill's headphones dangling from 
the desk, and several CDs and CD cases were scattered about.  Had Dennis
shot Bill too?  Bonnie hadn't said anything about that.
    On tiptoe, Ilene walked over to the workstation.  There was no blood
around; perhaps Dennis had missed.  She had heard once that guns were a lot
harder to aim properly than people thought.
    Glancing at her watch, she noticed it was almost twenty of eleven.  She
left the demo lab, closing the door quitely behind her, and went to the 
back of the building.  The glass door was boarded up, and there were still 
traces of blood on the floor nearby.  She shut the picture of Dennis writhing
on the shattered glass of the door out of her mind, and quickly went back to
where her office was, wanting to see it before she went to talk to Bonnie.

    Back in her office, things were much the same as they had been in the 
demo lab.  There was one bullet hole in the wall behind her desk, and it
seemed like someone had recently replaced at least a half-dozen of the 
carpeted floor tiles.  There was still several small spots of blood on her
desk, but other than that her office was pretty much intact.  She neatened
the papers on the desk briefly, and then went upstairs to talk to Bonnie.
    
    Bonnie was already in her office.  She was reviewing some memos that
had been put into her IN basket when Ilene knocked on the open door.  "Come
in," she said, indicating a chair.  "Sit down."  She set the memos aside,
and looked at Ilene.  "Did Sam tell you what happened?"
    "In a general way, yes.  He didn't say much about what happened with
Dennis and Bill."
    "And did he tell you about your week off?"
    "Oh, actually, no, he didn't."
    "I thought not."  Bonnie scribbled something down on a pad.  "Bill
Davis was trying to get Harold Stanwick.  It was unclear, but setting you
up had something to do with it."
    "How did you know?  Did Bill tell you?"
    "In a way.  I called the lab, because we had found out that Dennis
had gone in there.  There had been some delay at the police station, and
the officers on their way wouldn't arrive for another few minutes.  I
had called to tell him not to get Dennis excited.  Bill was glad to hear 
from me, but I guess Dennis had told him not to answer the phone and he
had gotten quite upset.
    "In any case, Dennis was yelling at Bill.  Bill was obviously scared,
and started confessing things to Dennis.  For some reason Bill thought 
Dennis was after him, though he wasn't.  Until Bill started talking.  I
turned on my speaker phone and tape recorder and recorded the whole
conversation.  It looks like Bill had intentionally sabotaged the design
of the project as well, to make Harold look bad.  Then Harold was taken
off and you were put on the project, and it threw a wrench in the works.
I guess he decided to get you out of the way."
    "What did Harold do that Bill was willing to get *me* fired over it?"
    "I`m sorry, Ilene, but that I can't tell you."
    "What, you don't know?"
    "That's not it.  I just can't tell you."
    Ilene frowned, then remembered something Dennis had said.  Something
like 'it was for Dan.'  "It was Dan!" exclaimed Ilene.  "He did it for 
Dan Helle!  Right?  Bill was after Harold because of Dan?"
    Bonnie looked shocked.  "Not Dan Helle, Dan Dunault," she corrected
automatically, then stopped as she realized that she had said something
she shouldn't have.  Ilene pressed her a little for more information, but
Bonnie wouldn't say anything else, and asked Ilene not to repeat the
name.  Instead, she insisted that Ilene go back home and enjoy her week
off, saying she would make sure Sam handled it correctly.  Meekly, Ilene
left Bonnie's office.  "Just leave the badge in the box by the door," Bonnie
called to her.  "And thank you for your help."

    Ilene wondered what help she had given Bonnie.  Maybe she was referring
to Dan Dunault.  Ilene walked out to the parking lot, squinting in the glare
of the sun, made worse by the white snow.  She again noted that her car
was desperately in need of a wash, and figured she could do it later today.
She had to go home first, though.
    Humming along with the radio, she thought about Dan.  She didn't really
need Bonnie to tell her who Dan Dunault was.  She had worked with him a few
years back on the Mact27 project.  That was the most highly classified
project she had worked on here, and was glad to be out of that environment;
she much preferred unclassified work.
    Correcting herself as she pulled into her driveway, she remembered that
she had never really known who Dan was.  Mact27 was a pretty big project,
and she had bumped into him once or twice but had never really talked to him
at all.  He had been involved in some of the core design of the system, and
most of what he dealt with had been over her head at the time.  Not any more,
she thought with an ironic smile.  I know my stuff, and now I'm a lead and 
don't do any real work.
    Unlocking the front door, she looked with a grimace at the now brownish
red footprints on carpet.  It was only a moment's distraction, however.  
Though it was a warm day, she opened the fireplace flue and started a fire,
staring, almost hypnotized, at the crackling orange and yellow flames.  Then
she went upstairs to rummage in her closet.
    Unline most of the people on Mact27, Dan had access to pretty much all
of the closed rooms - the rooms where classified work was done.  Since he
was system administrator, designer and developer, he was always going from
place to place setting up systems, fixing problems, and giving advice on
project design.
    One week there had been a big shakedown, and security auditors
came in and went through all of the closed areas, making sure proper 
procedures were being followed.  Since pretty much all of Ilene's work was
on the system rather than with printouts and other hardcopy, she had little
to worry about.
    Dan, on the other hand, had been severely reprimanded.  Apparently he
had lost a file.  A very secret, critical file.  There were rumors of foul
play, but with no certain evidence it even was him, they had to drop it 
after a while.  They couldn't take Dan off of the project at this late date,
he was too critical, but things did not look good for him.
    He had a much smaller role in Mact27 after that point, and pretty much
the next time she had heard about him was when Nancy told her about Harold
getting him in trouble.  Ilene hadn't realized it, but she had heard about
that before.  Nobody had mentioned that it was Dan, Greg had told her 
someone had been turned in for selling stuff, and she had heard about it in
a security briefing.  It wasn't clear whether it was to the competition or 
someone else, but it wasn't good in any case.  The clues all fit, and now 
she realized it was Dan that had been in trouble.  It had been part of the
briefing, and they had mentioned the document that had been supposedly lost 
as an illustration.  They had said that it was always a rather touchy 
situation, and since there was no definite proof they had to let the person 
resign rather than having them arrested.

    Coincidentally, the same week as that security briefing, she had been
cleaning house.  Pulling an old box of papers out of the closet, she
started to go through it.  Near the bottom she stopped.
    Dan had always copied articles and papers for people that he thought
would be useful.  One day he had stopped by the lab where she was working,
and had left a pile of papers for her, having to do with the compress-
decompress subsystem she was working on.  Since she was just about to
leave, she threw the papers in her bag and brought them home to read.  In
usual form, she forgot about them for a few days when they got piled under
bills, old newspapers, and other random junk on her desk.  Soon they moved
to a box in her closet, and were forgotten.
    Under that pile of papers that Dan had dropped off for her was one extra
document.  But not just any document.  This one was covered with multicolored
diagonal stripes, and had a half-dozen cryptic two and three-letter keywords
on it.  She only knew what half of them were, and she had some of the highest
clearances at CDS.  It was scary just to look at.  It was also the document 
that had gotten Dan in trouble, not once but twice, and apparently made him
lose his job.  Somehow Harold had found out about it and had gotten Dan
fired, apparently.  Alarmed, she had crammed it back into the box and shoved 
the box back into her closet.  She had kept on meaning to do something with 
it, but every time she thought about trying to bring it into work, the thought
scared her.  Eventually, she suppressed it enought that she forgot about it
again, except for occasional flashes of panic.

    Bringing the box of papers downstairs, she threw some newspaper into the
fireplace, making the fire big and bright, and then began feeding the
document in, page by page.  She ignored the writing and diagrams, and kept
going until she was done.  It took nearly ten minutes to feed the entire
thing in, including both covers.  She watched the plastic covers curl and
shrink, and then she threw a small handful of other random papers on the
fire.
    Sitting in front of the fire, she stared blankly at the flames, now
crackling green and orange where they were burning the multi-colored 
papers.  As she watched everything burn away to nothing, a tear rolled down 
her cheek.