 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You are listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 26. Written and Recorded by Catherine Eastman. Trevor sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. All right, all right, you've got me. He gave his twin a mournful look. But just think all that lovely information. Tracy crossed her arms and looked at him meaningfully. He threw up his hands in mock resignation. Right-o! If we destroy the data, we effectively perform a lobotomy on global. And the faster we do that, the faster that whole problem goes away. Man! he muttered, what I wouldn't give to have life be simple again. But I need more time! he said, as Tracy came over and hugged him. From what I recall, and I'm not certain how much of that recollection is real, their structure looked like a real bugger to get into. Grandmother! he stood and bowed to her. May I have access to a networked computer, some time, and some more of your marvellous tea? Tracy stood as well and curtsied in return. Of course, Trevor, dear, you may use my office and I'll have Pierre prepare another pot of tea for your private use. Her eyes twinkled at the unlikely ceremoniousness of the conversation. But do hurry, for all our sakes. She seated herself once more. Tracy and I will remain here. There are other issues that must be discussed. Our unexpected guest for one. She turned her head, gazing out the window, while her fingers tapped idly on the arm of her chair. Not surprisingly, Fulvia found the door locked. The knob could not be turned, and pushing and pulling at the door were equally ineffective. She gave the door a harder shove, with no effect. The mild exertion caused her head to pound with a pain that surprised her. Ow! she thought, as her newly roiling stomach added to her discomfort. Slowly and carefully, she returned to the bed and lay down once more. Soft these people might be. Stupid, at least to the extent of taking somebody prisoner and then failing to close them in properly, they weren't. As she lay back, she tried to remember just what had happened. At the beginning of this mission, U3 had told her that Trevor had a document that was important to the Knights of Malta, the old hospitalers' group that was forever nipping at global's heels. Her job was to either deliver the document to him or to destroy it. She had been getting more and more frustrated with Trevor as time had passed. When she questioned him, with or without her charming little rod, she got the strangest mix of sense and nonsense out of him. Trevor had confirmed the existence of this document, and had insisted that it was with a Professor Prajak. Fulvia hadn't recognized the name, but that didn't matter. Google had confirmed the existence of this man and his linguistic capabilities. But even that much real information had been hard won. Trevor had spent a great deal of time trying to introduce Fulvia to his pet Chinchilla, a non-existent pet. And he'd frequently stop dead in his tracks, look up with a frightened stare, and shout, Hazel! Hazel! Where are you? Fulvia sighed, annoyed in recollection. He'd led them to Prague first. Getting to Prague had been a bit more complicated than she would have liked. She'd gotten so annoyed with Trevor that she had failed to conceal her pistol properly in her luggage, and had had a run-in with airport security as a result. Beaning the solitary guard with her metal rod had been the quickest and easiest way to escape and return to the plane. Shortly after arriving in Prague, Trevor had insisted that Prajak was on a speaking tour, and that he would keep this document with him as he traveled because of its importance. She'd taken Trevor back to their shared hotel room at that point, and applied a bit of pressure to him, to emphasize how important it was that he be open and honest with her regarding the document. Trevor didn't change his story, though, so they'd then flown to New York, the first stop on this supposed speaking tour. Instead of heading directly to NYU, Trevor had brought them to Central Park, continuing to mutter about his stupid chinchilla, and needing to feed it. He'd started minutely examining the grass at the edge of the lake, getting down on his hands and knees and startling the ducks congregated there. Fortunately, it was a weekday morning, around ten, and there were essentially no human passers-by to notice his odd behavior, except for the homeless men sitting in a group by a nearby tree. From the fragments of their conversation that she could hear, Fulvia figured Trevor's behavior wouldn't disturb them in the least. She'd taken a moment to call you three, informing him of Trevor's odd behavior and the difficulty she was encountering in retrieving the document. You three had rushed away her explanations. Just get the document, that's what matters. I don't care what it takes. You can deal with Trevor in any way you like once you've got it. The permission had pleased her, causing her lips to curl in a vulpine grin as she snapped the cell phone shut and returned it to her purse. And then? A sudden sharp pain in the side of her neck. She reached up and felt the tiny needle sticking there, even as she slumped quietly forward. At the edge of her vision, she saw one of the homeless men standing up from a crouched position, sticking something vaguely pencil shaped in a pocket and running towards Trevor. She must have passed out completely, for she remembered nothing more until awakening here. Trevor spent the next two hours searching through the incomprehensibly vast global database. He wasn't looking at the specific pieces of information, or at least he was trying not to. But it was hard to not notice, for example, someone's link to a private bank account in Switzerland that was being used to buy works of art on the black market. He was searching for an overarching structure to the thing, something that would give him a clue as to where the weak point was and how to exploit it. Once he found that keyhole, one little weak point, he could write a relatively simple script that would overwrite the whole thing quite efficiently and the whole house of cards would come tumbling down. If this had been a database designed by an average programmer, it would have been a series of nested arrays. The top level of the array would contain elements that each represented a particular person. Each element of that array would point to a new array, with pointers to different types of data about that person. One for vital stats, one for photographs, one for things that the person had created, etc. Each one of the pointers would then point to an array containing the actual information in that particular category. Depending on how detailed the designer wished to get in their categorizations, the arrays could nest downwards practically forever. You could have Joe somebody, created works, media, pencil, representational, object represented animal, animal represented dog, as six vertical layers to describe a pencil drawing that a person had done of a dog. There would probably be a branch off from the created works level to describe the age the person had been and the location where the drawing had been made. That was if the database had been designed by an average programmer. This clearly wasn't. Here, pieces of data about certain individuals had been linked directly to pieces of data of other individuals that were as far as he could tell almost entirely unrelated. Instead of predictable branchings, links ran complicated circles around each other in labyrinthine rabbit-warren confusion. Rabbits. The chinchilla nuzzled gently at his ear as the kittens played under the desk. Tracy ran her hand through her hair in unconscious imitation of her twin. Do we have to deal with her? She said, a bit plaintively. Can't we just, I don't know, dump her in the river without a life jacket? While she had never even seen the woman, she disliked her thoroughly from everything she'd heard of Fulvia's activity regarding her brother. Truth be told, I'm kind of sorry that Gerhardt brought her in when he rescued Trevor. But I suppose we couldn't just leave her there, she sighed. Teresia sank back in her chair. N'fais pas du mal, she said softly. We couldn't just dump her in the river. I understand the temptation, of course. Fulvia is an example of some of the darkest instincts in humanity, instincts that I wish could be entirely eradicated. But no guns, no violence. N'fais pas du mal. She leaned her head against her hand. However, doing no wrong does not mean not doing justice. And I think I know someone who can help us there. She pressed the button on her bracelet. Pierre, could you place a call to Emily and see if she can come by on her lunch break or after work? Tracy asked, who's Emily? A friend. A friend who was a member of the Order, and who works for justice. Another pot of tea and some pretty good pasta had sharpened Trevor and put him back on the chase. Now where was that waskily wabbit? He leaned back and considered. There were a couple of jobs to do here, really. One was to try to gain administrative level access. If he could do that, then he could go at the database from the inside out, which would likely be the fastest and surest way to eradicate it. At the admin level, he might also be able to determine whether and how often global made backups of the database. There was so much information, he couldn't imagine anyone not backing such a thing up. The database wasn't terabytes of information. It was probably into exabyte territory, a thousand million gigabytes. The sheer amount of space the backups would take up might indicate that relatively few archives were kept if he was lucky. If he didn't manage to corrupt the inevitable backups as well, mangling the active database wouldn't do much good. If he was unable to gain administrative access, he could write a program that would continuously rewrite entries in the active database and gradually corrupt the entire thing. That method would probably take days to complete. He could set multiple copies of the program running at once, but even that would be slow, and it wouldn't be able to do anything about backups. Furthermore, none of his coding efforts would do anything to tapes or other hard media that might be stored off the network. Only physical damage could deal with those physical backups, wherever they were. He idly scanned more entries following the crosslinks and hoping that some pattern would emerge. Adam's Eileen. Lover of Music. Invented Elastic Bound. Coconut milk used in Mother's Recipe changed to Dairy Milk in 1973. Entrepreneur in small-town America. He shook his head. The descriptors weren't even all related to this Eileen Adam's person. Each of them referred to totally separate individuals. Why had they been indexed this way? Why? The chinchilla insistently rubbed, then nibbled at the choicest words. Adams. Lover. Invented. Coconut. Entrepreneur. A-L-I-C-E. Emily arrived in mid-afternoon. I'm working the 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift now, she explained. Short, stout, and with a no nonsense look about her, she wore a uniform similar to that of the New York Police Department, but where the badge was normally worn, she wore a pin that depicted a globe surrounded by olive leaves, with a Libra-type balance partially hidden behind it and a sword piercing the globe. The legend, Interpol, was written at the lower edge of the globe. So, you've got someone you think might be of interest to us, she addressed Theresea. The old woman nodded. I believe that you have a red notice out for one full via Rossi. Emily crossed her arms, an interested look on her plain face. We do indeed. She attacked a security guard in Malta International Airport. That's equivalent to a federal crime here in the States. She then fled the country, which is grounds for extradition. The whole thing was recorded on a hidden security camera, and she left this. Emily took out a folded, slightly tattered paper in the security room and overdue bill for some handyman tools with name, address, etc. She frowned at the paper, including one strange item, one solid metal rod 12 inches. I don't think she was planning to use that in a plumbing project. She put the paper back in her pocket. The Maltese authorities are definitely interested in having her returned to their care. You've got her here. Theresea smiled and rose from her chair. I know that you folks don't generally interfere in anything that might be connected to religious or military activities. But I thought you might be willing to take her off our hands for us. In addition to the harm you know about, we may be able to provide a witness to testify against her in a court of law with regards to Article Five of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Emily smiled. Oh, Article Five, torture and inhumane cruel or degrading treatment. So this fulvia person would definitely not qualify for employment in my upstanding agency. Theresea nodded agreement, knowing that the Interpol Constitution laid out the rule of taking actions within the spirit of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Naturally, it made sense that Interpol's employees would have that document memorized. Theresea nodded. Shall I take you down to her? Fulvia felt better after she had lain down for a while. She took another turn around the room, examining her surroundings more closely. She wiggled experimentally at the iron bars at the small window near the ceiling. Again, unsurprisingly, they remained firm. The toilet was both functional and clean, and she refreshed herself at the sink. The water from the tap was even drinkable, and a thick, shatter resistant plastic cup had been thoughtfully provided. She walked carefully around the perimeter, and noticed that her designer purse had been casually left on the floor leaning against the legs of the small table. Her purse, oh, these people were soft. She couldn't imagine global ever making that kind of error. Quickly, she riffled through the bag. Her metal rod had been confiscated, as had the lock picks that were standard issue to all global agents. But her captors, whoever they were, the sillies, had left her cell phone in the purse. She quickly retrieved the phone and turned it on, dialing a well-known number as soon as the phone received a signal. She looked around once more, and decided that she couldn't absolutely eliminate the possibility that her prison was bugged. Fine, she'd speak in code. She waited impatiently as the phone rang. At last, a man's voice answered. You three. Hi, it's Fulvia. That was code number one. While global agents knew the names of the agents they worked with, an agent never identified him or herself by name to their supervisor over the phone, unless they were in trouble. Is mom or dad home? That was the second code, indicating that an agent was likely in more trouble than they could handle alone and needed help. Fulvia. The man's voice had an oddly flat quality to it. It carried no overtones of concern, none at all. For heaven's sake, wasn't he worried? She thought she'd given him a good time that night, good enough that he'd have some personal interest in her. And she'd seen hard physical evidence that he'd quite liked her little games. Yes, what can I tell you? Code, I might be being overheard. Mentally, she added, you twit. Fulvia, you remember that top had taken an interest in your mission. Yes, of course, I remember. She chewed her fingernails. Top is not pleased. Oh, dear, this was not good. Er, no. No, and neither am I. She put on her very best of bashed vocal tone. I'm sorry, really, I am. I'm still working, though. Won't you work with me? Code, cut the garbage and get me out of here. Top has determined that you are no longer useful to us Fulvia Rossi. You have failed in your mission. Trevor Ames has secured the document and kept it out of our reach. Further, there is a suspicious user in the database. The security risk to global is tremendous. You failed. Fulvia was startled enough that she broke her code cover. In the database, Trevor? She realized that she was babbling and took hold of herself. You have failed, Fulvia. Global cannot afford to take care of agents who are incapable of caring for global. But, but, back to babbling, in an incoherent panic, global was abandoning her. What about us? Don't you know I would do anything for you? Normally that would be lying through her teeth. But at the moment it was close to the truth. You're on your own, Fulvia Rossi. The voice continued its flat affect to the very end, almost as if it had been spoken by a machine. Goodbye. Global broke the connection. Fulvia stared at the phone in growing horror. Trevor followed the white rabbit. He wrote a quick script that would grab the text of Alice in Wonderland from the Gutenberg Project and feed it to the database interface, and something in there would be the administrative password. He was certain of it. Meanwhile, there were other things with which he could occupy himself. For one thing, there was one particular individual that he wanted to look up. It wouldn't hurt the person. What possible harm could come of viewing detailed information of someone who had died? He opened a new login to the database. Query. Rebecca Sharp. The entry had pages of information, much of which he was familiar with. Still, there were the small treasures that Rebecca had never shown him, or had lost or discarded before meeting him. Drawings and poems from her early school years, including one of her goldfish back in second grade, fishy. He smiled, recalling the story she'd told him about finding fishy flapping about on the living room rug after a mighty leap out of his bowl. Happily, fishy had survived the encounter with dry land. There were even some voice recordings. Rebecca ordering a pizza with extra cheese and mushrooms. Rebecca calling her credit card company to ask about a strange charge on her bill. Rebecca calling him to arrange a dinner together. He paged through the entry, reveling in memory. Ten minutes later, he came across another document he'd never seen. It was a letter, and it caught his attention immediately. Dear Trevor, it started. I feel almost silly writing this. This is one of those beloved I am dead letters that comes up in overly dramatic Victorian novels. But I still wanted to write it to leave you a last message in case it's ever needed. If you're reading this, then through some random act of chance, I have died. I don't know how, obviously. You may not know either. Call me a victim of circumstances if it makes it easier for you. I never meant to leave you. I always meant to love you from nearly the instant that we met back at Cambridge. I did love you then, and I still do. Yes, dear heart, even now I'm sure I must, for I would not be myself if I did not love you. Please don't blame yourself because I'm dead. Perhaps I was coming to see you. Perhaps we were walking to class together. Perhaps, perhaps. It doesn't matter what we were doing. What matters is that we were and were together. Think of me. Think of us together, and remember the joy that we had together. Remember me when you read the poems and books we read aloud together, when you walk the paths we walked together. Even though you think of me, do not rush to meet me. Live, dear Trevor. Live and take in the joys that are still yours. Tell me about them if you like. I'm sure I'll be listening. You hold my heart, dearest, now and forever. In Aeternum, Rebecca, a single tear coarsed down Trevor's cheek. He copied and pasted the text into a new document and hit print. As it printed, he recited from memory the last stanza of the poem to one in paradise by Edgar Allan Poe. And all my days are trances. And all my nightly dreams are where thy grey eye glances and where thy footstep gleams. In what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams. Someone on LibriVox had recently made a recording of a poem in memory of a pet who had died. He rather thought that once he had his life back, he'd record that poem in her memory, perhaps as part of a special collection. That way, his memory of her would be propagated forever or close to it anyway. He looked across at the other window where the password hunt had successfully completed. Down the rabbit hole was the key phrase, apparently. He snorted at the relative simplicity of the passphrase. Good! He could do his real work now. Over the next hour, he wrote three different scripts. The first was designed to slowly eat away at the backups of new entries to the database that were captured nightly. The database was far too big to back up the entire thing on any regular basis. That was called Caterpillar, forever eating at the magic mushroom and polluting the surrounding air with his hookah smoke. Caterpillar would get run regardless and should be started soon, frankly. The second script was called Eat Me. It acted like a mutagen to the keys in the database table and would scramble them. Individual pieces of information would remain intact, but their inter relationships would be completely destroyed. The third script was called Drink Me. This script was effectively a cup filled with leaf water, overwriting every entry in every table, replicating itself as it went, so as to do the job relatively quickly. He opened a new command line in the directory with the database. Command. Run Caterpillar. His finger hovered over the return key. End of Chapter 26, recorded by Catherine Eastman on November 27, 2006 in Redwood City, California. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month, Chapter 27, written and recorded by Anita Roy Dobbs. Trevor slowly lifted his hands from the keyboard. So far too good, he murmured to the screen. He folded his arms and leaned back. It wouldn't do to ignore his instincts. Too much of his mind was running in undercurrent of remembered times with Rebecca. But mixed with those were memories of the Cambridge Chinchilla project, and suddenly he became aware of an immediate danger. He was operating on autopilot. He'd been only half present since finding the letter. Flypaper. He had buzzed away writing the scripts Caterpillar, eat me, drink me, busy wings preparing to fly. Nowhere. If global had wanted to trap him, they couldn't have chosen a more effective method. The shock of that realization put all Trevor's senses on alert. A surge of energy that would have propelled another man to his feet in a fit of pacing was harnessed and sent racing along a series of mental inquiries. Trevor jumped at the cell phone alert, a text message, cuckoo cuckoo. Instantly he disengaged from the global database. Then he pushed back from the desk. Pacing would be needed after all. His personal server, sitting in the pantry of his London flat, was under attack. Cuckoo. And would shut down immediately after sending the text message. And maybe that was quickly enough. The decoy hacker he'd set up there on auto run had been spotted and eradicated. The global database sentries had detected the decoy, despite all the input traffic of the planet, within six hours. Detected and destroyed. He fished out his iRiver and copied his scripts. They might be useful, but probably not, because the real kicker, the mastodon fly in the ointment, the cuckoo of the message, was that global had a two-man rule in place. Trevor needed Tracy to be his second. Emily smiled as if amused. Take me down to Miss Fulvia Rossi? And she chuckled out right. Let me call local officers, in case Miss Rossi is reluctant to be arrested. Teresia pictured a centagenarian, an unarmed interpole officer, and a cornered global agent. Indeed, she laughed. I could not expect to persuade her. The desk phone rang, and Tracy bounded to it. Yes. She looked expectantly at her great-grandmother. Thank you, yes, please. Dr. Prazek. Hello, this is Tracy McHugh. Tracy Ames. Trevor Ames is my brother. I studied... Yes, right. Hello. I'm called... Tracy flashed a smile to Teresia and then fixed her gaze on the desktop, listening. Teresia motioned Emily toward the door, and the two of them stepped out to find a quiet place for Emily's call. Yes, that's why I'm... Tracy barely acknowledged they're leaving. Oh, are there? Professor Prazek, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I beg you to listen. Something has happened that may have placed you in harm's way. This phone we're speaking on is secure, and the man who handed you the phone... He did? Right, Gerhardt. And a younger man, Peter, will be nearby. If you will allow them, they will fly you here to me. I'm in New York, and Trevor is here, too. He... Yes, he is. You have? No. Wait. Dr. Prazek, please, say nothing else till you're here with us. The phones are secure, and they can't be traced, but I don't know whether your office could be... Yes, exactly. So, please, gather the document, and bring anything else that you can from your office, because I'm very sorry, Dr. Prazek, but you might want to... Yes, very safe here, and we can accommodate you, yes, for quite a long... Thank you, Professor. Yes, I'm afraid you're quite right. Yes. Yes, goodbye then. A trifle dazed, Tracy hung up the phone and sank into the massive chair. In a moment, Trevor strode into the room. Tracy, we have a real problem, Trevor began. Tief for timing, we may have a real solution, too, Tracy beamed, patting the phone. Fulvia Rossi closed her cell phone, opened it. 121. Everything can change in one minute and 21 seconds. At 345, your global agent M21 about to arrange your release at 347. What are you? She closed the cell phone, placed it on the small table, glanced at the barred windows, and back to the phone. She lunged forward and shoved the phone, sending it puck style across the table through the air to the wall. When the trace was complete, Top had terminated the conversation with Fulvia. It would do her good to realize how completely dependent she was on the good graces of global. She had taken too many liberties, made too many mistakes. But she was too valuable to lose if they could reclaim her and too risky to leave alive if they could not. Top skimmed into the trace. Where was she? Was it saying Paris or Prague? Top reached a team nearest Berkeley, California. Professor Andel Prazek, Berkeley Department of Linguistics. When you reach him, I will talk to him. He will be lured, no seen. You will bring him to me carefully. Kepanile way near Sather Road. The cell signal is still there. Be quick. If it moves, I'll contact you. Top continued a simultaneous connection with you three initiated 20 minutes ago when the London hack was detected. It had been startling to realize that Trevor had made his way back to London without leaving a trace en route. But there he was, tapping into the GDB, testing his capacity to cripple. You threes team had been deployed immediately. Pick him up carefully and bring him to me. He appears to be coherent. Don't trigger anything. They had finally reached the flat. Excellent. Within the day, they'll all be here, Trevor and Fulvia. Prazek in the document, no doubt. And then no hacking will be so threatening. Then too, Trevor might accept the offer. Fulvia's trace came back saying Paris and Prague. This call came from two origins, of course not. And London and Sydney, the source point had split the signal and converged again just before reaching top in Malta. This was new. Then Fulvia could not be traced through the call. The chip, then, traced the chip. And if that fails, activate the chip. Reporting, Trevor Ames isn't here. Indicators say that no one's been here for weeks. Everything's cold except this server. Awaiting orders. A beat. And then skim and document sweep. Will do. The underground vault felt oppressive to whatever extent top felt anything. A spike of inquiries coursed through the web network via satellite, optic fiber, cable, airwave. Where is Trevor? Where is Fulvia? Yesterday they landed in New York. Where are they today? A monitor alert in Berkeley. Prazek's cell phone had just dialed the operator and switched off. Top buzzed the Berkeley team. Confirmed, that's his phone. Let me speak to him. Remember, no scene. Reporting, Andel Prazek isn't here. His cell phone was just lying on his desk. Partly cleared desk. Indicators say he was here very recently. Awaiting orders. Two beats. And then one stay skim and document destroy any pups or papyrus. The rest spiral immediately. Five mile report. Will do. The good news is that Professor Prazek is on his way in. Trevor's scowl gave way to surprise even hope. And the other good news is that Ms. Fiend Rossi is on her way out. Alarmed, Trevor blurted out. Fulvia, but I need her. I may need her. I think Interpol may need her. But what you need is a lot of not her. Is Interpol coming? Interpol is here. Didn't you see them on your way here? Asked Tracy, indicating where Trevor had come in. He sprang to the door. No, where? Interpol needs to know about this database because global sure knows their database inside and out. I saw stuff. Tracy joined him in the doorway. Then waving Trevor in one direction as she headed in the other, she called over her shoulder. With Grandma, a woman shorter than me, black uniform, at each end, the corridor curved gracefully and ended in stairs. Downstairs, they saw each other and near the center of this hallway, the two women, startled from their hushed conversation outside a door. Teresia signaled Trevor to come quietly, then caught outside of Tracy. End of Chapter 27, recorded on December 1, 2006, Boston, USA. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nanorama project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November of 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 28, written by Kathleen Gatleff, recorded by Kathleen Gatleff, of www.skippupscratch.com, nearly dozed at her desk, and didn't notice the man's advance until she felt his sharp thump on the back of her head. She cried out and spun around, but it was only Corey, her immediate supervisor. He was an obnoxious couch potato, totally lacking in social skills or reasonable hygiene, and he had a crush on her. So he wouldn't report her to anyone who mattered. She yawned and stretched. Corey leaned against her desk, slouched in a way that she knew he thought was seductive. It wasn't. Nearly glared, but inwardly cringed, his daily attempts to flirt were the primary fuel behind her frequent craigslist job searches. The problem with working for an insanely secret organization was that a girl had a tough time getting anyone to agree to be a reference. And she was required to say she worked, not for global, before its cover organization, jiggle wiggle spam services. She couldn't get a car loan or even look her parents in the eye at Thanksgiving with that as her cover. She sighed and Corey twitched his long curly eyebrows at her. Yo sleeping beauty, he said word from the top get it from the top nearly slumped and rested her temple in her hand. Maybe it was time to go back to graduate school. Corey that joke's been made like 30 times already today. 20 of those times by you. Yeah, but this time it's true. So it's cooler. He smacked his lips. Yeah. So what does it want with us? Finally. Corey lean close, nearly scrambled back. But she could not escape the smell of dill pickles and onions issuing from his rancid ma. Do as you like. He said, water baby. Uh huh. She said wrinkling her nose. You're gross. He sat up and grumped. That's the code word. You're supposed to know what that means. And you're supposed to know the counter code. I could rate you up for this. Corey, I've worked here five years and in all that time, I've never had to do anything. I forgot the stupid codes. Okay, there's only like 100 of them. Corey stood up and pulled a tattered Hawaiian shirt shaped post it out of his front left jeans pocket. He read off of it. The water baby procedure code word. Do as you like. Employees should respond with be done by as you did. Then they scramble the database pointers. All of them nearly cocked her head. That's nuts. That's going to bring society to a standstill. This is a place to everybody, not just me. Yep, I would not want to be an average Joe today. Corey pretended to scrutinize the card. Nearly could tell he was a lousy actor before he continued. And it says one more thing. You should go out with me tonight. He leaned so close that nearly could feel his stubble grazer cheek. She pushed off hard against the floor and her chair's wheels carried her across the cubicle. She slammed into her semi ironic hang in there dangling kitten poster and could hear it crumple. Dang, she thought that was vintage and in mint condition. She stood up and shook her finger at Corey. You know, if global wasn't so damn secret, I could sue for sexual harassment. Corey sauntered to the doorway. He looked over his shoulder at her. You know you want me. He blew her a kiss and then was gone. Neely grabbed a can of air freshener and squirted it for a good 30 seconds in his direction, then pulled her chair back over to her computer. She shut down her MySpace page and her blog. She ignored the accumulated IMs from her friends, mostly bored low levels at other secret organizations. She cracked her knuckles and opened the Water Babies interface. She had actually tried to read the story it was based on once when she first started and actually thought working for global would be exciting, but found it too sickly sweet to appeal even to her detached pomo brain. She entered her passcode into the computer and it responded by opening a database. There were millions of files there arranged without rhyme or reason and the only thing that kept them sensible was the millions of pointers. It was a terribly ineffective system. But when she tried to tell Corey that he had barked at her over think that maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. Guess so, she thought, because the one thing it makes easy is screwing it all up. All around her she heard the clattering of keyboards as the 500 odd employees of the Global Archive yanked their pointers. This can't be undone, she thought. If I do this, it's going to take decades to sort all this out. She shrugged, grinned mirthlessly and whispered aloud, at least it's job security. She scrambled her pointers just as Nigel popped his adorable dark head over her cubicle wall. Hey! A bunch of us are going to the break room to watch the news and see what happens. Want to come? Now this was the kind of guy she would follow anywhere. The second great tragedy in her life, Global was the first, was that she suspected that he had a girlfriend. Sounds like fun, she said and grabbed her cloak from the back of her chair before she hurried to his side. What's this all about anyway? Nigel rolled his eyes. Some guy tried to get into the files, tried to wipe them or something. So Tops decided to take his anger out on the world. The first place affected was Herb's max power, natural foods, and supplements in Duluth. A mere nanosecond before the rest of the world. There, amidst the energy drinks and protein powders, a locally famous personal trainer was stymied as he tried to restock his client supply of energy bars. Why isn't my card working? He demanded. The young cashier, the owner's delinquent niece, took the credit card from the red faced man. Maybe it's demagnetized, or maybe you're not swiping it right. I'll punch it in. She hit the keys on her register with long lacquered blue nails and smiled reassuringly. It's going in now. She returned the man's card as her register beeped. She turned to it, puzzled. No, that's odd. I think it's saying your card is denied. She stared at the screen where a lengthy message scurled. The man blustered, let's outrageous, I never carry a balance on this card. She read aloud in a hushed voice. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. What the hell does that mean? It's like a famous quote, isn't it? By Benjamin Franklin or someone like that. Well, what does it have to do with me? He asked. She shook her head. I'd better call the manager. It was hard not to laugh at the newscasters. Everyone from Neely's floor was gathered around the set as the frantic talking heads tried to make sense of the situation. Someone had brought over a bottle of whiskey, good stuff, and they were drinking shots. We think this is the work of hackers. Many, many thousands of hackers, said a well groomed man on the set. His suit matched his touch of gray hair perfectly. His perky blonde cohost interrupted. What about terrorists? Could they have sabotaged us on such a massive scale? We're standing by for word from the White House. Meanwhile, the news crawl ran through a small list of disasters. chaos erupted at the New York Stock Exchange when the stock prices were replaced by numbers in the Fibonacci sequence. Teenagers wept in confusion as their text messages transformed to Elizabethan poetry. Academics participating in an international teleconference on string theory found the feed replaced with a loop of video footage starring cats using toilets. The information technologist raised her glasses and whooped. Neely leaned close to Nigel's ear and said, We really shouldn't find this funny. He whispered back. I know. It's like being a nuclear weapons designer. You don't want your bombs to ever go off. But in a weird way you do. Besides, no one's going to be hurt. Not really. Inconvenience, yes, but it's their fault for becoming overly dependent on the data. She turned to look into his face so close to her own. His eyes were warm brown, and he had a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. Neely felt giddy. Meanwhile, a girl from their floor, Diane, had jumped on the table in front of the television and was shouting for quiet. She had her cell phone to her ear and listened intently as she beckoned everyone to settle down. When they had somewhat, she tried to explain. Watch this green, she said gasping for breath between giggles. Polly on second figured out that she had control of the news feed. She's going to scramble into Diane jumped off the table. Everyone got quiet. The newscaster, a handsome young hotshot, was reading off the teleprompter. It is believed that an unknown virus has infected the database of thousands, possibly millions of computers. It is recommended that you take precautions and disconnect all media from any and all networks was really and the city tows. He stopped, blanched and looked around while died before continuing. We appear to be experiencing technical difficulties. Nigel whispered to Neely. He mispronounced slithy is supposed to be said like live. Somehow this was so extraordinary that she grabbed his head and kissed him hard on the mouth. He did not resist. In the background she could hear her co workers screaming the words from the news crawl. I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea. But we loved with a love that was more than a love. I am my Annabelle Lee. Life was good nearly thought as Nigel's arm settled over her shoulder. We're all going to heck, but it's going to be a fun ride. Fulvia felt ill. Her head ached but also her stomach. Light and noise made things worse. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and her hands over her ears. She wanted to moan. But the vibration it caused in her rib cage intensified the urge to vomit. It felt like her thoughts and experiences were being rung from her head. One of the other agents had warned her about this in the beginning about the microchip implanted in her skull. If she was no longer needed or had disappointed global in any way it would toast her brain. Not enough to kill her but enough to cause such excruciating pain that she would be unable to speak or write or indicate in any way what she knew or experienced. She would be a vegetable forever unless someone knew to look for the implant and remove it. But chances were good that even if they got it out she'd lose a lot of functionality. Why had she agreed to this? She cursed her younger self. Why had she become involved in a group so wicked they would cripple their own agents? She remembered the day she got the rejection letter from Interpol. She was a fresh young graduate student. Too fresh it seemed. The official reason was personality mismatch. But she felt that she knew the real reason. They had turned her away for being too nice. At the interview she addressed carefully in a tartan skirt and a cream-colored blouse with a fluffy bow at the neck. Her former sorority sisters helped with her makeup, powder blue eyeshadow and neon pink cheeks. They twisted her hair up into a sideways ponytail. At the time she thought she looked chic but in hindsight she knew she looked like a tarded up teenager. When she was asked if she was prepared to kill in the line of work she nodded but added that she hoped it wouldn't be necessary. The interviewer's face didn't register any change but she could tell he was disappointed. So she hurriedly added that she had no problem with killing, none at all. His eyes narrowed perceptibly and she grew more flustered. Her responses to his remaining questions grew more aggressive but she could tell that the man had already dismissed her, was just going through the ropes. Is this really what you want to do? He asked, a curious inflection on the word really. She stammered in reply and a quick flick of his eyelashes showed her they were done. As she left the building she bumped into a dark woman in black leather who cursed and hurried away. That's what an agent should be like, Fulvia thought to herself, cool and collected, and here I'm dolled up like a teeny-bopper. She bought a new outfit that same day, a flame-red spandex cat suit adorned with steel spikes around the neck and wrists. She became an expert in mayhem and running in spike heels. She took up smoking to prove her daring. Interpol was a lost cause but the folks at Global snapped her up in a second. She didn't care that they were evil, she only wanted an opportunity to prove her toughness. When they mentioned the implant she laughed and shook her luxurious teased mane. I'm not afraid, she said in a voice strained to be low and seductive. A jolt of pain brought her out of her reverie and she flailed on the floor. The pressure in her head was increasing but she felt at peace able to reflect on her career at last. She realized that she might have been wrong about the reason for her disqualification. Maybe they could see how insecure I am, she thought. Maybe they could tell I was so desperate for attention that I'd strangle a basketful of puppies just to be told, job well done. That's the kind of thing that makes a person perfect for Global. Someone touched her arm and she cried out. She wanted to reach out to apologize for the evil she'd done and take comfort in another's embrace but she could not unfold her limbs. The person whispered, she could tell they meant to be gentle but the sound tore through her aching skull like a bullet. End of Chapter 28, recorded on December 2, 2006. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. Chapter 29. The closed group sat on couches and highback chairs arranged in a tight circle in terrasious private living quarters. She sat back, steeply reclined in her personal lazy boy. She did not move and appeared to be breathing in shallow, long-threaded breaths. Trevor was sitting in a high straightback chair. Next to him was Tracy, sitting in a broad love seat with Fulvia, whose head rested against a large pillow, with her eyes closed. Tracy was holding Fulvia's hand as she gently stroked her former adversary's upper arm. Gerhardt sat upright in a cushionless wooden chair opposite them, next to Terrasia. Pierre was holding up a large speakerphone so all could hear the clear dulcet accent of Professor Prezac. He was speaking from the Worldcon jet, rushing him eastward from California. I searched the various pieces of papyrus over and over. I just couldn't focus any more. It was time to take a nap. I woke up just a few minutes ago, took a swig of this horrid coffee, and looked again. And then it hit me. How stupid I've been. The messages were the same every time. The motif was repeated again and again. Little ancient jokes thrown at me. No matter how I turned the phrase, they were the same. No matter what language I might have suspected these were translated from, the same message came through over and over. These words contain no secret, or the mystery is not in the script, or the words themselves about messages keys to some mystery, and on and on. There was a moment of silence with sounds of rustling. Stupid coffee spilled all over me. Wait. Okay. Then it struck me. These are translations of translations. It's not the messages, it's the Prezac. What are you talking about? Translations, messages? Trevor attempted to interrupt him, and so no one could hear what the professor was saying. Dr. Prezac continued, I'll try a different track. I hope you don't mind me saying that I'm happy to announce that I do not have to meet with you. I would, though, appreciate that you allow me to go home and get back to doing what is really important. Yes, Prezac, we know your work, Trevor said. Ours is, well, a small consequence. We're trying to establish a green earth and world peace. After all, a small piece of papyrus that, Prezac jumped in. I'm telling you, the papyrus is but a messenger. Now it was the professor's chance to interrupt Trevor. Before papyrus, there was cuneiform, as you know. But it's my guess that it's not the cuneiform cylinders that you're looking for, wherever they are. Do you know where they are? I know who has them, Trevor said. But shall I say, you're better off not knowing who these people are. You're better off remaining an innocent research authority. Anyway, okay, we'll bite. What crazy theory have you come up with this time? Again, a moment of silence. But this time there was no spilled coffee. Prezac continued. Just as the Egyptians stored bits of body parts and organs and all such and inside of jars, it's quite possible that you have to be kidding me, Prezac, Trevor shouted. I'm not kidding anyone, Prezac said. It's not what's on the cuneiform tablets, it's what's in them. What is he talking about, Trevor? Tracy asked. For some absurd reason, good Professor Prezac, do you need me any more? The professor asked. Thank you, Trevor said. Go home. The plane's yours for the day. We'll contact the pilot. The phone went dead. Prezac's energetic matter of fact voice continued to echo through the room. Meanwhile, at Therese's nod, Pierre closed up the wireless phone and carried it out of the room. He closed the door noiselessly. It's clear that global has the cuneiform cylinder, Tracy said, and the sample of of inside it. Human remains, Trevor finished Tracy's sentence matter of factly. We must go to Malta to meet with global directly. Tracy blurted out her mind racing. If I'm correct, if there is viable ancient DNA in those tablets, it holds the key to resolution without conflict. We cure the family curse and we establish peace. No, Trevor said emphatically. Malta is not a good idea, not at all. Facing this directly is the only solution, Tracy spoke emphatically. The room fell into an uneasy silence. A few minutes passed by and Gerhard turned towards elder, an imploring look on his face. Therese offered in reply an equally silent, imperceptible, side to side shake of her head. Any other ideas, Tracy? Trevor asked. Tracy sat back, looking directly down to Fulvia's limp hand resting in hers, there in her lap. Who would have thought their fingers were entwined? A former nemesis sat content and soothed beside her, shedding the years of rejection and remorse. Tracy spoke with apparent impulsivity. Her firm, assured voice made it clear to everyone that she was in command of herself, prepared for anything. She spoke warmly. What do you think, Fulvia? Is there anything you can suggest? Meet them on Lumpedusa. The twin-layered complex architecture of Malta is a labyrinth, a dangerous trap, even if there were time to map out a strategy. Beneath the city is deep and dark. It's global's hive and you will be stung again and again. Teresia Broker Silence. Yes, Fulvia has it exactly. Lumpedusa is the perfect spot. Remote but accessible. There is a small misuse villa on Lumpedusa on the northeast coast. In a private cove, if I remember correctly, Trevor added, we can land in Sicily and take a small plane into the aeroporto de Lumpedusca. There is no need for that. Gerhard interjected. No reason for stopovers. I've set things up. We have a jet. Small enough to land on Lumpedusa's strip. He stood up and walked directly towards the back door of the room. Hesitating for a moment, with his left hand on the handle, he turned to Teresia and said, I imagine this constitutes my encounter with the final blind yogi, sir. With a brief swallow, he added, excuse me, I mean, madam. He smiled and left a room. Everyone? Everyone here is going. Be ready in ten minutes, said Trevor, with the exception of Pierre, of course. No, Pierre will be going with me, Teresia said. You're going, Trevor asked. To the island, not to the villa, grandmother, Teresia answered. The two of you will handle things perfectly. I am certain. What about the access codes, Trevor? Tracy said. I can work on the codes on the plane. You sleep, I work. You're going to kill yourself, she said. You need rest. I'll have no reversals at this juncture. You'll have, Trevor laughed, just one day, and this will all be over, Trevor said, chillingly. Teresia rose from her lazy boy. Before you prepare to leave, I must speak openly to you all. Trevor's torso leaned backwards an inch or two, and his face assumed a guarded mean. I have withheld a truth from you, she began. The back door to the room suddenly opened and Gerhardt walked in, catching the very end of Teresia's sentence. She continued, I have withheld the truth from each of you. She looked about the room slowly, lingering on each face benevolently, making it clearly apparent that the room did not contain a group of isolated individuals, but instead each person was on equal footing, and each would be holding the fate of each other in their hands. Her face lingered on Fulvia. Yes, you too, my precious granddaughter. Fluvia's eyes widened, and she began to cry. I, Tracy, held Fluvia close to her, stroking her hair. Please wait, my darling. It will all make sense in just a moment, Teresia said. I will put this simply. Trevor, you will understand why you were not named after my son. Tracy, you will understand why I was always distant from you. Gerhardt, you will know why I continued to trust you, even when you rarely trusted yourself. And you, Fulvia, will understand, even though so much was hidden from you, why you took the path you never wanted to take. Here, within a single truth, a multitude of mysteries are laid open. Some we share, and some are uniquely our own. I will reveal one, and that one will open a door to many. You will open them together, but only together. I will now speak directly of my son, T.M. His name was not Trevor, Missus. As you suspected, Trevor, she gasped for a breath, as if it were her last. A deep and profound breath, filled with remorse and fear and sadness and hope. Yes, he was T.M., but his name was Topolus, Missus. Top, Fulvia gasped, and then murmured in a whisper, My father, and the remains that must be in the cylinders or cylinders in his possession, Teresia went on to say, Can only be ancient Missus flesh, pure and untainted. Even Top does not know that. None of us knew that here we would find the cure to the Missus madness. The room was suddenly quiet. Excuse me, Trevor ventured to say, How are we to arrange this meeting? Teresia answered. Everything is set in place. The meeting has long been arranged. We simply need to announce the location. By the time we're in the air, control will know where they need to be. Lumpedusa. As I've said, I'll be flying with you, but I will not be attending. It's now up to you, Tracy and Trevor. Once we've landed, I'm headed south to Isola del Conigli. The Island of Rabbits. Pierre will make certain I arrive. The diminishing loggerheads will be hatching. I've been meaning to go there before I die. End of Chapter 29. The text and this recording are in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project, in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 30b. One version of the end of the novel. Written and recorded by Michael Sirwa. Michael.Sirwa. S-I-R-O-I-S.com. The lights flashed by overhead as the group sped along, eighty feet under the river, toward the water's outbuilding on the other side of the Hudson. Looking out the rear window, Trevor watched the tunnel fall back into darkness as they passed by. All along the sides of the tunnel, he could see the massive pipes that supplied water, power and fuel to the compound, as well as carrying away the compound's waste products. It was ingenious, really. Aside from trips for food, which were made in one of the order's un-stylish SUVs, other necessaries were delivered or routed to their metalworks factory, located just north of Germantown, and piped under the Hudson to the compound. The metalworks factory had been a cover operation for the order since World War II, when it actually did manufacture sheet metal for B-15 bombers. Bought out by Charles once the war ended, he gradually replaced the workers with order personnel, continued a profitable business, making siding for houses, and put skilled teams to work building the tunnel and readying the island, which he had also bought, for habitation. It became the primary headquarters for the order during the Cold War, a time of heightened rivalry between the order and global. It had served them well and had been a perfect place for Tracy to administer treatments to Trevor, as well as a good spot to incarcerate Fulvia, although that didn't seem to be necessary any more. The team that would be going to Lampedusa was small. Aside from Tracy and Trevor, just two of the order's best agents, one of whom was a techie, plus Fulvia and Grayson would debark at the airport. Pierre and Teracia would slip from the plane once it had been hangered, just in case Top decided to try anything at the airport, and they would head south for the Isola de Conigli to see her beloved turtles. Trevor looked around the SUV from face to face, examining them, trying to read the emotions most of them weren't showing. Despite the outward calm everybody was displaying, a palpable undercurrent of tension and nervousness still made its presence known. Great-grandmother Teracia was the only one who seemed to truly welcome the end of the journey ahead. Trevor had noticed, back at the compound, how she smiled at the mention of the cuneiform cylinder, and had urged them to meet Top on Lampedusa. Trevor still couldn't believe the changes he'd noticed in Fulvia since Tracy removed the chip from her head, and in Tracy. Even before great-grandmother Teracia had revealed that Fulvia was their aunt, Tracy had seemed protective of her, a doctor-patient thing perhaps, or maybe a sixth sense of connectedness. The chip had been inserted in Fulvia's sternocleidomastoid muscle, just below the point where it attaches to the mastoid process at the base of her skull. Once Tracy realized the chip was what was causing the intense pain Fulvia was feeling, she decided to remove it. The medical training she had received as part of her genetics training included a little surgery, and she felt she could handle it. If she was careful she should be able to open the muscle and remove the chip, as long as she was sure to miss the occipital and the superior thyroid arteries, both of which ran along the muscle. A slip of the scalpel and Fulvia could easily bleed to death in minutes. Fortunately the compound was well equipped for surgeries, and after administering some mild anesthesia Tracy was able to remove it successfully. Fulvia's neck would be sore, and her movement a little restricted for a week or so, but she wouldn't be bothered any more with whatever kind of impulse global had been zapping her with. At any rate she seemed much calmer now. Most of that tension and bravado that had made her seem so alluring had faded. She looked softer now, less exciting, but more interesting, more real. It was thanks to her that they were going to finally square off with top and have a chance to put the plan into action. Using Trevor's hacking skills they were able to get a signal through the global network for top to call Fulvia. The message was that she had turned Trevor, that he now saw how futile it was to compete against the system that was currently wreaking havoc across the globe, and that he wanted to join forces. Top would be suspicious of the call of course, certain that it could be a trap, but everyone hoped his ego would get the better of him. He was to call the number of a specially designed secure phone that the order's electronics crew had been working on for nearly a decade. The original design was intended to be used as a scrambler for secure face to face conversations, preventing other agents from eavesdropping on you with remote microphones or bugs. As the design developed, they could see that it might have some other uses, and one in particular that intrigued Trevor. It involved transmitting data disguised as the received signal from a remote location. The phone call did come, and the order's techies didn't try to shunt the signal through too many channels. They allowed Global System to track the signal, through a series of poorly disguised decoys, back to the compound. Fulvia was very convincing, letting Top believe that his massive data scramble had convinced Trevor that the world would be powerless against Global, and that he felt he couldn't compete against them. Top agreed to meet with them, and suggested either Malta or the island of Lampedusa. They agreed to call him back when they were under way. Teresia suggested that Lampedusa would be the safer of the two, for reasons she understood if no one else did, and so they agreed. When Top was speaking, his digital signal was mirrored, much in the same way that noise-canceling microphones and headphones operated. The duplicate signal, in effect, became invisible, an undetectable channel to send data and small packets back to the source of the original sound. If they could get the right data, embedded somewhere in Global System, it could be all they needed to turn the tables on Top. The downside was that they would have to be at Global's headquarters to carry out the rest of the plan, and that would probably mean certain death if they didn't succeed. At this point, Trevor really didn't care if he lived or died. He was still sorting out the real from the unreal, and the image he found hardest to purge from memory was that of Hazel dying in a hail of bullets. Hazel, even though she had been a figment of his imagination, had seemed so much like Rebecca that he had mentally brought back the dead, not realizing he had been trying to do that for the last twenty years anyway. He needed to trust what was true, but he wanted a different truth than the one his mind and everyone around him was telling him was real. He had been through so much that death would certainly be easier, but leading everyone else into the lion's den wasn't right either. He knew this had to be done, but actually accomplishing it would be another matter altogether. Before long they were in the air. The phone call to Top was made, and they told him they wanted to meet on Lampedusa. The time and location was agreed on, and Trevor and Fulvia were to come alone. Trevor was exhausted. He tried to concentrate on his codes but couldn't keep his eyes open. He looked around the cabin. He had to finish restructuring the code before they landed. Who could he trust? His gaze fell on Grayson, two seats forward. He called to him. Grayson, could I have a word with you? Grayson got up and came back to him. Of course, what is it? I need to get some sleep. But I have to have this code ready before we land. And I also need some time to work with Malcolm, the tech guy. If I go to sleep, Tracy will want to let me sleep for the whole flight. Promise me you'll wake me up in two hours. Definitely. And Trevor? Yes. I'm glad you're on our side. Glad to be here. Thanks. Trevor closed the laptop and laid the seat back. As tired as he was it was a struggle to let go and drift off. The weight of the past several weeks had taken its toll, but his body finally succumbed. Tracy watched Trevor fall asleep across the aisle from her, and was glad he was finally getting some rest. He would need it to get through the ordeal ahead, she was sure, but she was more concerned about his long-term health. For the gene therapy to work, he would have to take care of himself for the next several months. And he hadn't seemed inclined to do that lately. There was also no guarantee that the therapy would be permanent. She could do so much more with a sample of untainted misu flesh. Pre-disorder DNA from the same family. Just imagine. A shape appeared in the aisle. Fulvia sat down beside her wanting to talk. Thank you for what you did back there, she said. You were in pain. And how are you feeling now? A little sore, but nothing serious. The physical pain is nothing. Sometimes it's the things that others do to you that hurt the worst. I can't believe that my father is top. It's so Luke Skywalker-ish. Tracy laughed, then quickly clapped her hand across her mouth. Sorry, I— No, it's all right. I meant it as a joke. It's daddy. I mean, top, that I want to talk to you about. Tracy waited, not knowing how to respond. Fulvia continued, speaking about the man who, though he was middle-aged already when Fulvia was born, was very athletic and agile. She told Tracy about a time when she was young, on her thirteenth birthday. Topolus Missou had promised to be there for his daughter's birthday party. She didn't understand at the time that her father had two families, and hers was the secondary one. He did arrive at the appointed hour, but was acting strangely, a look of panic in his eyes. Fulvia watched her mother try to manage the situation, as her father said strange things. The clown was a spy. Aliens tried to paint his office green. The dog ate his foot. Her mother hustled Topolus from the room, but the party broke up soon after that, and Fulvia was the talk of the school and the receiver of odd stares for weeks afterward. A few days after the party, Fulvia's mother told her that her father was gone on a long business trip, but he would be back. He was gone often, so this didn't seem unusual to her, but she was worried about his strange behavior. He did return, several weeks later, long after the gossip had shifted from her father's behavior to the school counselor catching Benny Goulson and Andrea Marcoli naked together in the girl's restroom, which was much juicier removing the spotlight from Fulvia and her family. Her father seemed fine when he returned, happier than he had been in some time. Then he fell ill. He seemed to be very weak and his skin turned a pale waxy color after a few days. He was rushed to the hospital and seemed to be getting worse. One day after school she asked her mother to take her to see him and was told that he had been taken away to a far away hospital and they were going to perform a special operation to try to save him and that she must be brave. Oddly he returned after another few weeks and seemed the picture of health. His color was back and he seemed to be talking normally. In the evening about once a week he would lock himself in his study for hours and she thought that was odd, but otherwise he seemed fine. She did notice one behavior in particular that changed, though. He loved to swim and always started each morning with a swim in their pool, but had stopped doing that since his return this time. She wondered why but couldn't see any reason for the change. She put it out of her mind and eventually stopped thinking about it, but began having a dream during those months that didn't stop until she was almost fourteen. In the dream she saw her father rising naked from his bed. He had a small black box in his hand and a wire went from the box up over his shoulder. When he turned around she could see that the wire was plugged into the back of his neck and his spine looked all lumpy. The dream disturbed her for some months and for a while she was convinced that it wasn't a dream at all, that she actually had seen the box and the wires and the lump. And that's what I wanted to tell you, she said, finishing her story. Your operation on me reminded me of it, and now I'm more convinced than ever that it wasn't a dream. I think I know what we need—what I need to do. Trevor slept deeply and would have remained that way long past time to land. Exactly two hours later, though, he was dreaming about a chorus line of chinchillas in four-inch stiletto heels, but they weren't dancing, they were kicking him. As he looked up at his attackers he noticed they looked oddly like fulvia, and their nipples hardened as they continued to kick him. One of them leaned over, grabbed his shoulder, and said, Times up, man, rise and shine! Trevor opened his eyes to see Grayson standing over him, making sure he woke up. Top waited in his darkened office at Global's base on Lampedusa. He was bathed in the eerie glow of the three flat panel monitors on his desk. On one monitor he was browsing through reports of the panic caused by his brief data scramble the day before. On another he scrolled through a series of emails, trying to piece together connections between various global employees. The third monitor showed an image of a world con jet landing. The meeting would be soon. He had hated to toss fulvia aside that way, but it had been necessary. She was weak and in the hands of the order. It was quite a surprise to get the signal from Trevor that fulvia wanted to talk. Either she was more resourceful than he thought, or they were attempting to perpetrate a massive double cross on him. He would be ready either way. As he reached outward toward one of the monitors, intending to tilt it toward him a little, the tremors in his hands began again. It was time to restream the flow. He pulled a small black device from his desk drawer, untangled the cord dangling from one end of it, and found the plug on the end. It looked very much like the mini plug on a set of headphones. Gripping it between thumb and forefinger, he reached his arm over his shoulder, and with an often-practiced movement slipped the plug into the jack on the back of his neck, just at the joint between his C1 and C2 vertebrae. The hump of the implant was barely visible, and he took great care to never appear in public shirtless. This had been his routine since the late 1980s, when he had realized that the misu curse had finally surfaced in him. He switched the device on, and felt a calming warmth spread into his spine and down through his extremities. Soon he would be fine for another few days, although the treatments had grown more frequent in recent years. The time on the plane hadn't been wasted. Trevor, with Malcolm's help, had been able to prepare the code so they could be released at the proper time. He could do that, of course, any time he was inside the global network, and could even have done it remotely from New York. But they weren't here just to reverse the damage done by Top the day before. They were here for the cylinder. He still wasn't sure he could trust Fulvia, but Tracy seemed to think that Fulvia knew something about the cylinder that would work to their advantage, and she was willing to stick by her. They had discussed the details of their plan in a final 20-minute huddle, before the plane landed at Lampedusa, and now it was up to them to execute it. A black Range Rover was waiting for them at the airport, and Fulvia, Trevor, and Tracy slid onto the back seat. Grayson drove, following the directions taped to the wheel. They were sure the vehicle was bugged, so they remained silent during the short trip across the tiny island, arriving at the gate to global's compound within ten minutes. A guard looked inside the vehicle briefly, listened to someone on his earpiece, then waved them through. Security cameras followed them as they passed the guard-house. Trevor could see their movement executing a slow arc along their path. Suddenly the radio turned on, and a voice came through the speakers. You and Fulvia were told to come alone, Mr. Ames. I sister Tracy and I are a team, and Grayson is a trusted friend. He'll stay in the vehicle, Trevor said emphatically. Yes, he will. Top replied. The mechanics of the radio unable to hide the amusement in his voice. Please leave any electronic devices you have with you in the Range Rover, and though I shouldn't need to say it, I've always wanted to. Check your weapons at the door. We have no weapons, and we'll leave cell phones and the like with Grayson. Excellent. They pulled up to the main building, and Grayson parked in a particularly well-lit area as he was instructed. Two heavily armed guards came out to the Range Rover, and escorted Tracy, Trevor, and Fulvia into the building. Just outside Top's office, they thoroughly frisked the three of them. One of the guards seemed to be taking an unusually long time checking Tracy over for weapons or signalling devices. Not finding anything unusual, they knocked on the door. Top told them to come in. Once inside, the guards positioned themselves inside the room, on either side of the door, just behind the three newcomers. They had planned carefully on the plane, certain there would be guards and other difficulties. Now as they were face to face with the end-game, a quote from Macbeth popped into Trevor's head. If it were done when Tis' done, then to where well it were done quickly. He couldn't agree more, but the situation would dictate the action. Well, Fulvia, Top said, I had given up on you, but it looks like you have done well this time. Trevor, did you honestly think I had needed you to work for me? Haven't you seen what my chinchilla can do? Chinchilla, Trevor said, not expecting this at all. Yes, I named it after your techniques, which I have been generously borrowing from and improving on for years, thanks to employees I've planted at top research institutions that are using your AI code. We're way beyond anything you had done before you dropped out of sight. Our database is structured after your research on the human brain, but it's the linkages we've established with other major financial, medical and political databases that makes it so powerful. We don't need you. Then why allow me to come here? Certainly not to work for me. I just don't want you digging into the chinchilla and messing it up. You've tried to do that several times over the past few days, and that's a no-no. We're going to have to make sure you don't play with your toys ever again. Neither you nor your sister will leave this compound alive. Fulvia stepped forward, leaving a gap between Trevor and Tracy. Father, isn't there any way? Top roared at her. Don't you try to talk me out of this girl. Are you with me or them? She turned back to Tracy and Trevor for a moment and said, I'm sorry. Turning to Top, head bowed, she said, Father, forgive me, and silently added, for you know not what I am about to do. Forgive you for what? Top said, a moment of gentleness showing through his anger. Lifting her tear-stained eyes to Top, Fulvia held her arms out and went to him, starting to throw her arms around his neck. Her arms stopped at the sides of his head, though, and grasping him firmly, snapped his neck. The guard shifted as they heard the pop of his C1 vertebrae snapping. Before his dead body even began the slump toward the floor, Tracy and Trevor each placed well-practiced backwards kicks, disabling the guards long enough to remove their weapons and tie them up. As in most real-world hand-to-hand combat, no lengthy battle-sequence a la Jackie Chan was necessary. No shots were fired, it was all over in seconds, and the guards were gagged and trust shortly thereafter. It was all up to Tracy now. Tracy moved to the limp body of Top. Fulvia, unable to stop the tears that were flowing quite freely now, helped her turn the body on its stomach. Knowing that they would not be able to bring any weapons inside, Tracy realized she would have to rely on whatever was available. A quick search of Top's desk revealed only a small letter opener, but the edge was fairly sharp and she knew it would be enough for now. She first used it to start a rip in the back of Top's shirt. Then tearing it open, Tracy examined the lump, about an inch and a half wide by four inches long. It bulged slightly against the skin like there was a small pipe or something underneath. She had to remind herself that this wasn't surgery she was about to perform, and she quickly created a slit along the length of the lump, from the plug at the Top down to the base of it. She then made slits along the Top and Bottom, which allowed her to peel the covering skin and tissue back, revealing a plastic cylinder, which was mounted in place of Top's C2 through C6 vertebrae. His nerves and blood vessels were routed around the outer edge of the cylinder through plastic tubing. Inside the plastic cylinder Tracy could see the cuneiform cylinder, the Top and Bottom of which were attached to the nerves and blood vessels with intricate electronica, too detailed to examine here. She finished quickly with the part she had been dreading, that of separating the cylinder from the spinal column, and they wrapped it in some tissue they found in the desk. Time to call in the troops. The simple ring Trevor had been wearing had only one purpose to signal Grayson. The commandos, Tracy as Turtles, had been waiting on the Isola de Canigli for Tracy as a rival, and had set off in their small landing boats in time to surround Global's compound. Tracy is shouted after them as they set off. I love the sight of Turtles in the moonlight. When Grayson received the signal from Trevor, he sent two signals himself. One alerted the commandos to attack, which began with well-placed mortar fire and a couple of targeted missile strikes in the far reaches of the compound, far away from Top's offices. The second released the worm into the Global database. As soon as the first explosion hit, Trevor and Fulvia grabbed the guard's assault rifles and headed into the corridor, Tracy following close behind with the cylinder. As hoped, they received very little resistance, because most of the compound soldiers were running towards the sound of the action. The diversion allowed the commandos to move in quickly and form a cordon around the three of them as they made their way out to the Range Rover, which was apparently now a present from Global. The strike was over soon since the main objective was to get Trevor, Tracy, and Fulvia out quickly and safely. They were ferried over to the Isola de Canigli, where they joined to Racia and Pierre, until they could board a waiting Worldcon sea plane, which took them up to Sicily, a short stop before the journey back to New York. Over the next few days, the World righted itself again. The scramble stopped as the worm that Grayson released worked its way through Global's massive system, and markets and institutions began to restore their systems from their own backups. Global would, of course, restore the Chinchilla to full operation, once they contained the digital cancer spreading through it, so the order's work wasn't done. There would be plenty to keep them occupied for years to come. For now, though, Trevor, Tracy, and Fulvia, newfound relatives, wanted to relax at the compound near Catskill, venturing out to Angela's Pancake House occasionally, talking and learning from Teracia, and just basking in the warmth of new friendships. End of Chapter 30B. Recorded on December 1, 2006, in Houston, Texas. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project, in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form, during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Mystery of the Public Domain, Chapter 30C. Written by Alan Drake. Of Long Branch, New Jersey. Recorded by Alan Drake. H-T-T-P-W-W-W blog.ameless.com Post Title. All's well that ends well. Or, there's nothing like a dame. Posted by Chinchilla on 15 December 2006. Private posting, Draft 004. Well, it's been two weeks since the Mediterranean brew ha ha. If life hadn't been confusing, mixed up enough over those first befuddling three weeks, the trip to and visit on Lumpedusa took the cake. God, am I glad it's over with. Don't know why I'm bothering to write this. It's like responding to letters from a non-existent fan club. The no fans for Trevor Ames non-fan club. Tracy suggested I work through things. Typing would be good therapy. Dr. Holstein said it wouldn't hurt. It's not as if three days a week with good old Dr. Cow has gone to nought. I think I'm getting a handle on it. Well, I'm thinking I'm getting a handle on it. Tracy, of course, doesn't need therapy. She's back home in Ithaca with Michael and the kids, and everything's as normal as it can be. Her normal. How can anything be normal back in Ithaca? Well, I guess it's better being odysseus than Oedipus. Oedipus nicks. I have Pierre and Grayson. Like I need guys around me. Ugh, like I need a woman around me. If only, no, I am not going there. Yes, it's still too soon to make that real. Typing it or not, I've got to get away from computers and typing and making recordings of 19th century poetry that no one listens to. I've got to get a life. Now, I've heard that cultural message too many times lately. Lives degenerated into an inanimate relationship with U.S. cable television. Yes, here I am, back on the Hudson. What the hell am I going to do in this place? With this place? Maybe I can sell it to Donald Trump. No, even he couldn't afford it. It's not that it isn't beautiful. It's magnificent compared to any place I've lived in in Britain. But now all the trees have lost their leaves. When I look up through the spindly branches, the sky is gray. Hey, that's not too bad. The wording, I mean. If I vowed not to record any more poems, maybe I should start writing them. The trees lose their leaves. Branches against the gray-gray sky. Plop. A cuneiform cylinder bites the dust. Crikey. I want a poem and the first thing that pops into my head is, This poem is in the public domain, bugger. Maybe I should start taking up hiking in the Catskills. And Grandmother Terasia gone. It'll be a while before I can talk about that as well. For now I'll tell the background. The short of it. She's gone. Enough? Left us while watching her beloved loggerhead scamper for the sea. Pierre said she encouraged the stragglers, cheering them on like Olympian champions. She was instrumental in making certain rabbit island remained, at the very least, the last egg-glaying sight on Italy for the loggerhead sea turtle. I am proud of her. Very. No one will ever know what she's done for this planet. My secretive great-great-grandmother. I. And Aunt Fulvia. Joining a bowling team. She doesn't waste time. Now, you would think there's someone who needs therapy. Needs a close connection with people. I'm hoping she'll be all right. She surprised me the most. Or maybe I surprised myself. How quickly, instantly, I forgave her everything. There is something to walking in someone else's moccasins. Grandma T was right. Clichés and all. Anyway, I guess I should get to it. I am. I really am. Here. Now. I'm doing it. Look at me. Watch these dancing fingers do their thing. All alone. Me. A beautiful mac. In the homeland of the mac. And me talking to myself, being my own rooting section. Type it down, Trevor. Express yourself. Be real. Be realistic. Face the facts in plain black and white. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera. Crap. Odysseus and Oedipus weren't enough. Now I have Ewell Brenner in my living room. Tracy, Therasia, Dr. Holstein, even Fulvia. All saying the same thing. Spell it out and let it go. Beat me on the head, will you? Let it go. I wish I could let it go. Geez. Now that I think of it, even my grandfather Topolus hit me with the same bloody message. You have to step out. Face it. You have intimacy issues, Trevor. That's hysterical. You've got to be kidding. It's like beating a dead horse deader. Don't you see? Becky's gone. What are they thinking? Ah, yes, the caper. As Tracy and I eventually came to call it. It turned out to be very simple. Not difficult at all. Simple as hell. It was suddenly over. We all looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and laughed. Maybe that's what's not letting the old chinchilla roll off to rest. Maybe it's all just speed and momentum. You work to change the world, and then one morning, on your day off nonetheless, you take your dog for a walk up the hill, little plastic baggie in one pocket, and hand wipes in the other, and suddenly you notice the world just went right ahead and beat you to it. It changed itself. You suddenly realize you're never really in control. But I have to believe I had some influence on things, on how things turned out. The trip to the airport was uneventful. The flight over was uneventful. I even got some sleep in the air. Setting in motion, the disassembly of Global's master database was suddenly simple and uneventful. Little did I know it was a simple two-man operation. I was getting help. Landing in Lumpedusa was uneventful. The trip to the villa uneventful. Seeing grandfather Topolus was uneventful. Well, that's not altogether true. I have to say it was a shock to see him flipping channels in the villa great room, a cigar in one hand, a sucky martini in the other, and no one else, no one anywhere to be found. That's simple. That was a moment of supreme unsurrity. And I suddenly realized why Grandmother Terrasia wasn't there. It couldn't have just been the loggerheads of Rabbit Island. Sure, it was hatching time, and she had to do her thing. At a hundred—whatever she is—she can do and say whatever she wished. I should live so long. And I very well might, oddly enough. But I'm suddenly ahead of myself. Top. Grandfather. Grandmother. Grandfather. Grandfather Top. Now, there is a tricky guy. Not that Grandmother T. hadn't been secretively crafty herself, preparing—oh, I should say weaning—Tracy and me, while secretly plotting with her son. No, he wasn't dead. He WAS the mystery. The two of them, pulling, you know, fifty years of accumulated strings that she'd been craftily, secretly putting in place, and with her son. All along, my great-grandmother, my grandfather, the supreme followers of non-violence. Well, it hadn't been easy for him. I'm presuming—he'll never tell—posting as a jerk to the outside world, acting the puppet within. That has to be the world's longest-planned sting. Thirty, forty, fifty years? From what he said, the taciturn bear, he walked the fence every day, trundling the catacombs and vaulted walls of Malta. Skillfully, my words, avoiding harm to others. He took the credit for it. Credit? How he must have been hated and feared. On all sides, he knew how to get the amygdala working. It's a wonder he remained alive. He knew of the cylinder and the DNA, even before we knew of DNA. Had to. That was what kept him alive, preventing his end to be as his father's was. And I see, I think, my mother's death as well. He couldn't help her. Family secrets. Everyone has him. A pitiful joke. But what about my father, Quentin Ames? I asked Top several times in several ways, and he shrugged off each question. Was my father a good man? Did he get in someone's way? Did he die or disappear, protecting Tracy and me or mom? What is Top protecting us from? The last I saw of Top was just before he and Pierre left for Rabbit Island Beach. Pierre returned with Grandma T's body. I asked Pierre about Top. He motioned his head to the cove below. The boat was gone. As I stood on the patio overlooking the Mediterranean, I thanked him for his brilliant self-service, and for telling me to let go. Tears were in my eyes. Sometimes I expect you to pop up in any second. Walk through the door. Water ski up the Hudson. Sky dive in on a big red sheet. It will never happen. I'm going to delete this. I have doubts, of course. But I also have work to do. Work that finally makes sense to me. Goodbye, Rebecca. You knew I was writing to you, didn't you? What did I know? I understand now. Thank you. All. Here I've been trying to make sense of all of this for you. Trying to help you get it. I know what I have to do. You'll forgive me, my love. I know you will. If in the middle of a busy work day, trying to green up the world Grandma T left in my care, in Tracy's care. If I meet someone overwhelmingly, if I meet someone overwhelmingly bright and funny and lovely, who can go forward with me. Someone to talk with again, like I did once with you. Thank you. I'm going to do this. Private. Draft. No comments. Delete. End of chapter 30c. The text and this recording are in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. You're listening to a section of the LibriVox Nano-Rymo project in which a number of LibriVox volunteers write and record a whole novel together in serial form during November 2006. The project is based on the idea started by the National Novel Writing Month. Chapter 30h. Written by Kathleen Gatliff. Recorded by Kathleen Gatliff. Of www.skippopscratch.com. Sexton Blake lay in the large double bed that dominated his squalid Parisian apartment. His girlfriend Trixie sprawled on her belly beside him, trying to devise a system to place spider solitaire with only an incomplete deck of cards. Plump gray rats, scratched under the floorboards and flat brown roaches, ran up the torn and fading, puce wallpaper. Ah yes, how to end this thing! Sexton mumbled as he nibbled at his pencil and read over the pen-ultimate chapter of his great novel, The Mystery. It was quite a departure from his usual work, which tended to consist of Sherlock Holmes rip-offs and adventure stories for boys. This was something more, something meaningful and important. It would win critical acclaim, and Sexton knew, that favourable reviews, from the arbiters of good taste, always guaranteed financial success. Trixie, my girl, he said, puffed up with pride. If this thing sells, I'll take you to the Isle of Rabbits. His reference to Chapter 29 did not impress her, and she yawned, open-mouthed. What do I want Rabbits for? she said. Only good rodent is one made into a fur, my mother always said that, and she should know. She used to play her mandolin on the sidewalk outside sex in New York. You say she was a busker, which sounds dirty to me, but she was a very classy lady, my mom was. Never mind, Sexton sighed, and tried to get back to work. Trixie threw down her cards and discussed. I mean, it's not like they're good eating. I had one once. Some kind of British rabbit. But it tasted like cheese on toast. She turned her wide eyes towards him, and he chuckled. That's because it was cheese on toast. That's what Welsh Rabbit is, and that's what you ate. Sexton looked to the point of his pencil and wrote the words, Chapter 30, Some Ideas, on the top of the next page in his pad. Whatever it was, it made me feel awfully queer, and such dreams I had that night. Oh! She snuggled close to her man and looked at his notebook. You're working on the story? Yes, he said. I'm not sure how to end it. I think I'll write a whole bunch of endings, and then we can pick the best one. Won't that be fun? Trixie squealed and clapped her hands. I want that girl, you know, the one you made to be like me? Uh, Fulvia? Yeah, Fulvia. I want her to turn out all reformed and marry a millionaire, because I like her. She's got spunk. She kissed Sexton on the cheek. I'll make a note of it, dear, but I'll also probably write at least one where she turns out bad, so that there's variety. In fact, I may even kill her. She did have her brain scrambled, you know. Trixie turned away and socked. The feature is awfully complicated. She played with the lace of her powder blue negligé for a moment before she continued. Hey, how about you give me a piece of paper? Maybe I'll write one of those endings for you. Sexton stared at her in surprise. Why, Trixie, I didn't know you knew how to write. He tore three pages from his notebook and passed them in a spare pencil to her. Trixie took them and settled back down on her stomach as she muttered, Yeah, well, there's a lot you don't know about me. The two worked quietly for a few minutes until Trixie spoke again. The thing I like about the story of yours is that all these girls got educations and jobs. Real good jobs. She swung her feet in the air. You think this means that women get the right to vote by then? Sexton didn't answer. Trixie tapped her paper with her pen. I wish I had the right to vote. Sexton imagined Trixie in politics, possibly even running for office with her dreadful grammar in combative ways. The thought so amused him that he could not suppress a derisive and very audible snort. She heard it and glared at him, ready for a fight. He tried to avoid her eye. You think I'm an idiot just because I come from Brooklyn and don't speak like the damn queen, she said, going tense. Good heavens know, he lied. You're much prettier than Victoria. She stared at him but said nothing. Eventually she gave up, rolled over, and whined. I don't like these computer things you write about. I think I'll have them stay blown up. Seems to me that nobody in the future ever gets any exercise because they're too busy playing with these things. The whole lot of them need to get out more. Starting with Tracy and Trevor, I think I'll have them become a team of world champion ballroom dancers. Mm-hmm, Sexton said. Except Tracy's sister, not the girlfriend. Yeah, well, one should never go into a business venture with a lover. That's what my father used to say. That's why his trained poodles performed in front of Grand Central Station, far away from my mother. The distance gave them something to fight about when they got back together at the end of the day. Sexton grunted. It was best not to get involved in conversations about Trixie's family. Better to change the subject, and so he did. Well, what would you do about this top fellow, rather a bad egg, bent on world domination? He's heading for a fall, eh? Trixie's feet swung lazily back and forth as she thought. Well, he's the richest, isn't he? So he could be redeemed and marry Fulvia. She started scribbling like mad. I'll need three ghosts to visit him, to show him like the error of his ways. And then the chinchilla will say, God bless us, everyone. Darling, it's been done, by Dickens. What? Trixie let out a small scream. Damn his eyes! Um, could it be three witches instead? Three weird sisters met on a gloomy night. Shakespeare, Macbeth, sad ending. Out, out, damn spot. Trixie looked around wildly. Did that awful neighbor dog get in here again? Sexton shook his head, tears of mirth welling in his eyes. She grinned. See, I can make jokes. Yes, you certainly can. Darling, you should be a comedian on the stage. She groused. Tell my agent, I'm awfully sick of Trapeze's work. She looked back at her sheet of paper. Okay, then. I'll have top visited by the three, um, maybe like a scarecrow and a lion, and, uh, some kind of a tomaton. That's never been done before. Sexton pushed her with his foot. Yes, but that's silly. She tossed her head. I bet your friend Frank would love my idea. Mr. Baum writes a journal about chickens, dear. He doesn't do fiction. Trixie made a face. Well, it's more sensible than these airplanes you write about incessantly. I'll give you that man will fly someday. But you make it sound like there are almost 20 people on these vehicles. That's way too heavy. Whether wings would have to be an acre each in size. Sexton could feel his face flush as he blustered. I know it seems ridiculous, but this was the muse's doing. She dictated the story. I am just her vessel. I thought I was your muse. Trixie launched herself at Sexton. Pencils and paper went flying as they grappled, then broke away laughing. They lay side by side on the bed, their chests heaving. Sexton? Yes, Trixie. She rested her head on his chest. Let's get married. I know I said no before, but I think I like this writing life. It beats being in the circus. There's less elephant manure for one thing, and I'm always getting propositioned by the clowns. Of course, darling, he said, relieved to at last have her consent. The girl had an undeniable knack for predicting what the public wanted, and she was pretty. And probably smarter than he was. She was soft, and she smelled good. But if they were to eat, he'd have to get back to work. More subpity. He tried to sit up. We have to finish our chapters. Real writers stick to it, right up until the end. Okay. So everyone lives happily ever after. That's a good ending, right? Sure, Sexton said. He put his arm around her small round shoulders. Her perfume, a heavenly blend of citrus and vanilla, made him feel intoxicated. What about the professor, he asked, his mind spinning. She snuggled closer. We'll give him some sort of prize. What's the top award in his field? I don't know. Well, just write down his Fields Medal, and we'll fix it later. Sexton didn't. He wanted to, but was too content to do anything at the moment. Still, he could feel energy crackling off Trixie, and knew her brain was still buzzing. I still have to figure out what to do about Rebecca, she said. Is she alive, or dead, or whatever? Sexton's head was so cloudy he had no idea. He closed his eyes, and Trixie went on. Well, she'll have to be alive to marry Trevor, so she's alive, no matter what. And Trevor is cured, one hundred percent. So he'll live too. Sexton was nodding off, but managed one last question. What about the chinchilla? He could barely hear her answered. He could barely hear her answer, muffled as it was, in a pink cloud of love. End of Chapter 30H, recorded on December 5th, 2006.