Shreck was in Poland.  Shreck was in Poland.  Shreck was in Poland.

Okay, so the phone number was disconnected, when some little old lady named Stella Putski died and had her phone disconnected almost a year ago.  And his brother, or someone in the house, had called this number two weeks before the fire.

And Shreck was in Poland.

What were the odds? Switch mused.  What were the odds that a random wrong number on his brother's phone would be to the country and city that one of his other leads led to?  A lead to which his brother should have no connection?

The question could be answered, actually.  All he had to do was reverse it.  What were the odds that his other leads would accidentally lead to the same random city? As Basia would have it in her hit song, Warsaw should be considered on the same level as London or New York.  It's a big, cosmopolitan city, with a few million phones.  Would he be worrying about a wrong number in New York, and connecting it to Maximillian Powers, for example?  No.  Of course not.

But Shreck was in Poland.

He had brushed up on his Polish, just a few phrases, to see what he could learn from the number when he called it.  Even with an eidetic memory, knowing a little Polish would help him hear clearly to be able to parse the words later.  The recording had politely informed him, in Polish, that the number was disconnected.  Even without the Berlitz course, he would have known what the scratchy voice was saying.

An English-speaking overseas operator had then helped him track down more specifics and finally removed the charge from his bill, since it was obviously not a reasonable call.  But he was left with a feeling of mystification.  It was all too coincidental, and it jarred with the rest of the pattern he was putting together.

Somebody who was good enough to burn down a house with no traces of foul play, breaks in two weeks earlier and makes an undisguised phone call to Poland.  No.

His brother, with no ties to energy research besides him, made a random wrong number , and spoke for five minutes to a dead lady in Poland.  Or even to Shreck.  No.

It bothered him, like a piece of popcorn shell stuck in your teeth at the theatre.  You can't stop thinking about it, even though you can't do anything about it.

And Shreck was in Poland.

God, Shreck was a case.  The guy seemed to know a lot about a lot.  Statistical mechanics, quantum field theory, mathematical physics, computational physics, you name it.  But he seemed to have a stink that followed him around.

Other people came up with ideas, that he then built upon, and tried to take the whole credit.  At the Erwin Schrödinger International Institute for Mathematical Physics, in Austria, he was found as a plagiarist; the same goes with his stay at the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology, in Russia.  The funny thing is that his work really was original -- he would use someone else's
theoretical model, then devise and improve experiments based on their already grounded
theories.  But he never seemed to be willing and able to get the footnotes correct.

And Shreck lives in Warsaw, Poland.  What was it the folks at the Fission Hole in Santa Fe had said?  Molet had said, "Elblag, Poland" and "Static gravity well.".

Hmm,  Switch thought.  It's about time to review it all anyway.

My eyes adjust slowly to the chrome and neon, the plasma balls glowing like spherical jellyfish and other old sci fi crap.  A poster of Invasion of the Saucer Men is proudly displayed next to an autographed James T Kirk photograph.  A life-size model of Schwarzenegger's Terminator crawls out through the wall, its bony silver hand strangling a terrified ET model by its scrawny extended neck.  I smile.  It couldn't happen to a more deserving twit.

The Fission Hole is like a TGI Fridays of science fiction memorabilia -- geeky and proud of it, having been in continuous operation since some time in the late thirties.  It is located close to the university, and is a favorite haunt for artificial intelligence types and theoretical physicists.  There are a dozen people in here, slow for a Friday, but it's early.  Three are actually women, and
one is actually pretty.

I move to the chrome-plated bar, half-expecting the bartender to be costumed as an alien, or maybe Whoopi Goldberg dressed as Guinan.  Neither turns out to be the case -- it's a fat dude with a pony-tail and a deep cracky voice like Wolfman Jack.  I do a quick glance around and multiply by 6 to get the cost, then lay a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

Wolfman sets me straight.  "I can't change that, unless you want a bottle of scotch or something."

I laugh.  "Naw, that's to celebrate.  Drinks on me, while that holds out."

Wolfman looks around speculatively.  There are a couple of glances this way, but no one is acting like they heard.  "You sure?"

"Yep.  After all, Wen Ho Lee is out."

Wolfman grins.  "About damn time.  Hey, everybody.  This guy's buying drinks to celebrate Doctor Lee's release!"

Now I have their attention.  Most are smiling, although whether it's for the beer or the sentiment, I can't tell yet.  I fondle the plasma ball imbedded in the bar, bringing tentacles of glowing plasma to play under the glass near my fingers.  It's badly shielded, so it actually tingles a little.

My reflection in the bar looks dark and wiry, with pale blue shirt and gray slacks slightly darker than my eyes.  The fake goatee, darkened hair and slight makeup all give me a non-threatening, techie but not quite geeky look.  I fit in seamlessly, and wouldn't be identified by anyone who didn't already know me.

I look up.  While I wasn't watching, Wolfman has rubbed the bill with a special pen to check if it's real, and now he nods and spirits it away and starts tossing frosted bottles onto the bar.  Nobody needs to tell him their drink, except a business type who orders the most expensive whisky on the top shelf.  Johnny Walker Gold, and I was lucky they didn't have the Blue.  I can tell from Wolfman's quickly hidden scowl that the asshole's not a regular.

Nine people gather round, including two women.  I raise my bottle.  "Here's to Deutch spending nine months in solitary for the same thing.  And fuck you, Bill Clinton."

"Fuck you, Bill Clinton!" echo eight of twelve voices, and drinks are consumed.  One abstainer is a grizzled old white guy who likes gin and probably hates Asians.  By now I know that Johnny Walker hasn't got a clue who Wen Ho Lee is, but he'd toast Clinton's death for his own reasons.  Me, I just figure that a guy who spends 9 months in solitary confinement as a cover for Bill Clinton's political butt deserves at least a drink in his honor.

Fast Forward... no significant information... STOP..

It's about a half hour later that I'm sitting at a table chatting up the two women and their four friends.  Really, it's two tables pushed together.

Trina's a fat and friendly redhead, an SCA Renaissance Festival type.  She reads Darkover novels, works in crystal physics simulations.  I'd bet all the cash in my pocket she's wearing a "matrix" crystal under her green silk blouse.  Which would mean she's a lot more classy than most Bradley fans, who wear huge rocks displayed like National monuments -- no true Darkovan would actually display her matrix in public.

I like Trina.

Janet, the pretty one, is half Japanese, with black hair cut New-York stylish. She's in one of the weapons laboratories, I haven't heard which and don't care. I catch a whiff of her vanilla scented perfume, while she's talking about how her lab now has a security guy charged with deciding what files can be transferred from red to green partitions.  Real work has slowed to a crawl.  She raises her glass.  "To having current resumes!"

We all drink.  The guys are measuring each other to see who's in the running.  They all figure me for a contender for Janet, but I'm just here for information.  I'm betting Janet leaves with Ashok, who's plain-spoken and beautifully tanned, with a lovely Indian lilt in his voice.  He works Artificial Intelligence in some start-up associated with the Santa Fe institute.  They got their butts kicked in their IPO in March.  Bad timing, what with the stock crash, but you can bet his resume is up to date.  Janet's hand turns over Ashok's watch to check the time.  I smile.

Ashok's co-worker, Simon, is medium height with a bushy black beard and no hair on top.  He's got a wife at home and he'll be leaving momentarily as soon as he can get Ashok's attention to say goodbye.  That could take awhile.

Chuck, Mister Short and Slick, is getting nervous.  He's picking up the vibes, if not the details, that he's out, even though he's been playing word games complementing both the ladies.  They both know he's pure BS, and neither is interested, although they'll probably take all the drinks he wants to buy.  The Rolex shows he's a marketing type, but these women both go for brains.

I take a drink myself while I check out the tall white guy with the cats-eye glasses once again.  He's smoking Players, from the black box.  They call him "Molee," although I don't know at this point if his last name is Molet or he just likes Mexican sauces.  Speaking of which, I need to order some more of their kick-ass Green Chile Clam Chowder.  Everything in Santa Fe has green chile in it -- it's a local religion -- but this stuff is wonderful.

Anyway, Molet has been quietly amused the whole evening, celebrating some inner triumph of his own and talking only when he can complete a sentence someone else is too drunk to finish.  I don't think he's psychic -- he's just not drinking as much as the rest of us, and what he's drinking is Molsen Export.  That's it, he's Canadian, which accounts for the faint accent.

Fast Forward...  no significant information...  STOP.

At the edge of my vision, Mr. Whiskey Gold is muttering to himself or to his drink, glancing at our table occasionally.

Fast Forward...  no significant information...  STOP.

It has taken me another hour to get the conversation around to Wilson and Shreck and Johannessen.  I can see lights going on in some heads, others are really dim with liquor.  The third round of appetizers I ordered are being put away rapidly, and I've got just the two women, plus Ashok and Molet.  Chuck and the other guy bailed long ago.

"After getting kicked out of Austria, last I heard he was at Elbow in Poland, someplace called WWB," says Janet, slightly tipsy.  I sit up slightly.  Poland.

"Elblag," corrects Molet gently.

"Warner Brothers?" asks Trina.

"That's what I said.  Elblegh."  Janet sticks her tongue out at Molet.

"Don't point that at me unless you're going to use it, eh?"  Molet responds, accentuating the French in his voice.  For a moment Janet seems to consider it, then she pulls her tongue back in, slowly.  It takes my breath away.  "And no, that would be Wszczynac od Waga Badanie, which is Polish for 'Institute of Gravity Research,' except there's no such company in Poland.  I 'ave read the same newsgroup, and they're full of shit.  Static gravity well, my ass. "

Ashok looks at Molet and smiles.  "About as ridiculous as self-aware robots, eh Molet?"

Molet stares at him.  The seconds tick on while Stone Temple Pilots plays in the background and Ashok looks like the cat that ate the canary.  Finally Molet chooses to smile.  "Just so."

The women bust up.  And I realize that he's Jean-Claude Molet, the AI guru.  The guy who designed the architecture for the infamous Project Think Tank.  The guy who swore he'd never work on another government project.

At the same moment, I realize we're probably being watched.  After all I went through to dump the bugs and lose my tails in Dallas, I'm being freaking watched again.  Good thing the damn car is rented under another name.

With a practiced eye I gaze around the bar, taking in every detail but pausing on nothing.  I'll review it all later, after I've lost any new tails.  The only thing I notice is that Mr. Whiskey Gold is still nearby.  There's no indication that they'd have to be in the club to monitor us, though.  Any of us could be carrying a bug like the ones I'd cleaned out of my shoes earlier.

Janet is looking at me, noticing my change in mood without commenting.  I smile at her, and watch her soften a bit.  Trina has started on telling a story about a Turing test someone once gave.  Twenty students were each put in rooms and allowed to talk to each other via e-mail, but the e-mails were put through an English to Spanish to English conversion program.  By the end of the test, none of them thought each other were intelligent beings.

"Well," I say, "This non-sapient being has to go home now."

Switch had left quickly, lost his nonexistent tail and swept the car and himself for bugs.  None had been placed, at least not unless they were using a much higher quality bug than the Federal Power people were using.

Federal Power Commission, not Federal Powers Commission.  What a stupid mistake he had made.  He shook his head, then smiled grimly.  There would be a reckoning.

Here he was, safely back at his loft, setting the rest of the trap.  The only thing left was to order the bait -- a delivery of palladium, and some other odds and ends of equipment that would prove the resident of the loft was on the track of cold fusion.  They would be delivered through a door into an armored drop-off box, the better to make it difficult for them to mess with him, other than on his own terms.

Cameras and backup cameras were set to catch intruders, and Switch had completed construction of the robotic cats which would be his hands and eyes for the work to come.  From this moment forward, he would not even have to return to the lab to do his experiments.

He glanced around the room, grinning at the stainless steel and modern art, his eyes pausing momentarily on the steel-scale wall hanging.  Yep.  It was all ready.

The backup phone line was shielded and hidden.  Now if he just didn't make any more stupid mistakes.  Like wasted phone calls to Poland.

Switch slapped his forehead.  They had used another of his own damn tricks on him!  When he returned to Dallas, he was going to need to hack into the phone company to check the backup tapes on that phone call.  He would bet that the phone number would be different on the original call, and that it had been hacked in the billing file.  Now if he could just get the right number before the backup tapes cycled out.

Shreck was in Poland.  And so, perhaps, was something else.
 

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