256 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
256 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
***** The Adventures of Molly Modem *****
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EPISODE # 6
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As soon as she landed in Victoria, Molly made up a plan of action. First
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she'd go to her apartment for a shower and change of clothes. Then, she'd
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contact Ren and Michael and get an update on things. If only VonCriptic
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hadn't made his move yet! She hailed a cab and, giving her address and
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sweeping into the back seat in one fluid motion, she settled in for the drive
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into town. As she watched the passing scenery along the Pat Bay Highway, she
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couldn't help reflect about the time she'd spent with Mark and wondered if she
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might ever see him again. The "vacation" they'd had was unbelievable, but all
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the same she was glad to be back home again.
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Molly arrived at her apartment expecting the worst and got it: it was a
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mess, just as Ren had told her. Clothes strewn all over the place, drawers
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yanked out of cupboards, her ceramic monkey smashed to pieces... it was almost
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too much to bear. Some one had done a thorough job, but of course they hadn't
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found what they were looking for (she patted her purse wherein lay the 80666
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processor). Slowly, and with great care, she set about cleaning up the worst
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of it but somehow couldn't manage to get very far.
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She tried her answering machine - the one her mother made her buy when
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she'd moved out of her parents' house three years ago. There was only one
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message: from her boss wondering why she hadn't been into work for the past
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couple of weeks. Well, Mr. Tischart was a pretty easy-going guy. She was sure
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he'd understand.
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After a quick shower, she called Ren to find out how things were
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proceeding with the BEAST interface. It should be finished by now and,
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barring any further complications, they could put their plan into action. She
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let the phone ring ten times before giving up. Then she tried Michael's house
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and got the same response. Where were they? Then she realized: they must
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still be working on the interface down at the Farwest building! She phoned
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there, but the manager told her that he hadn't seen either of her friends for
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at least a week. How curious. Something was definitely wrong. If Ren and
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Michael were in trouble, they would need help. But what was her first move?
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The only logical thing she could think of to do was to go to the police and
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report what she knew.
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Bryn pushed his way through the door of Gamma Communications Corporation
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and walked inside. On the whole, it looked like quite a cheezy outfit and he
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wondered to himself why Allan Crime would ever send him to a dump like this.
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It reminded him of the back-office of the sleazy Shell station he used to work
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at in his former years. Machine parts were scattered all over the place, the
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air was foul and a raunchy calendar donned the wall behind the desk. An
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unshaven fat guy with a tee-shirt two sizes too small and a smelly cigar
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stepped out from the back and looked Bryn over. "Can I help ya, mac?" he said
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finally as if he were doing Bryn a favour by even talking to him.
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"Yes, I'd like to speak with Doctor May." said Bryn, "I don't have an
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appointment, so if he's not available..."
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"Got any I.D.?" the fat man asked, breathing smoke into Bryn's face.
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Bryn coughed and profferred his driver's licence. The man took it in his
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greasy palm and squinted at it momentarily. "Come wit' me." he said as he
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handed the card back to Bryn and motioned toward the door behind the counter.
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Behind the front room, Bryn got a shock. It was in total contrast to the
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mess that he had first seen. He was led down a series of gleaming white
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corridors much like a maze. Through any of the open doors he passed by, he
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could see people busy at work behind desks. Finally they came to one door
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that stood out from the others. The fat man knocked twice and then opened the
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door, motioning for Bryn to enter. He did and was immediately surprised. An
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elaborate office, with the finest of antique furniture and a glowing fire in
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the hearth. What a difference. A diminutive man with dark glasses and a
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goatee got up from behind his desk and shook Bryn's hand vigorously.
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"So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Jones. We've been expecting you for
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days."
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Bryn looked incredulously at the man, "But I never told you..."
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"Quite so. We received a message from your friend Allan. He told me you
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were in need of some... help, as it were. Have a seat."
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Bryn sat down and looked across at May. "What's with..."
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"The false front to the organization?" Dr. May smiled, "In the security
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business, one has a lot of enemies to protect against. It's in our interests
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to 'hide away' from any outside interference behind a facade. It suits our
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purposes and keeps people from being too nosy. The only reason you got in was
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because of the glowing recommendation your friend Alan gave you."
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Getting over his initial shock, Bryn settled himself in his chair and told
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his tale of woe to Dr. May. Dr. May mulled over the problem and leaned
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forward in his chair, making a bridge with his hands.
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"The way I see it, Mr. Jones, you are in need of a highly sophisticated
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security system. We can arrange such a thing... for a price."
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"I see...", said Bryn, "and what kind of system had you in mind?"
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"Well we could set you up with something like the systems Alan told you
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about, but I suggest you try our latest development: Herbie."
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"Herbie?"
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"A processing unit that uses a heuristic algorithm to screen prospective
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users of your computer network."
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"I don't understand..."
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"Simply put, Herbie provides complex interactive passwords for users -
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passwords that unauthorized users can't fake because the user is asked a
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series of questions about his or her self. Then, Herbie determines the
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probability that the correct person is logging on based on his responses."
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"I like it." said Bryn, deep in thought.
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"The process involved is so complex, no hacker could hope to break it
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without knowing the exact psychological break-down of the user. It's
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practically fool-proof."
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"Well, Dr. May," said Bryn, shaking the doctor's hand, "I think we can do
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business."
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Molly entered the station house for the Victoria Police Department and
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headed for the front desk.
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"Can I help you, miss?" asked an obviously bored sergeant. Overworked and
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underpaid, all he wanted to do was finish his shift and go home to watch Knots
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Landing.
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"Yes I'd like to report a missing person... two missing persons, er,
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people." said Molly, struggling to get the words right.
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"Um hmm." the sergeant pulled a standard form out and looked it over,
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"Name?"
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"Molly. Molly Modem."
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"I see. And when did these two persons go missing."
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"Well I just got back into town today after a two-week vacation so..."
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"Waitaminit. Did someone TELL you they were missing?"
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"No. I just can't find any trace of them and I..."
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"Then you just assume they're missing."
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Molly became flustered, "I have no idea where they are. I talked to one
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of them five days ago and I..."
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The sergeant crumpled the form up and tossed it into the wastepaper
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basket. "Sorry, miss. Wish I could help you, but standard operating
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procedure clearly states we have to wait a minimum of 48 hours before anyone
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can officially be declared missing. As it is, you've only just found out
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today, so..." he shrugged his shoulders.
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"You mean to tell me you won't do anything?"
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"It's just to early to determine anything. They could be at the local pub
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having a beer for all you know..."
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"Not Ren and Michael! I know them, they'd have left word!"
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"Sometimes we don't know people as well as we think we do. At any rate,
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if they're still missing after 48 hours, come back and I'll fill out another
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form."
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"Right." Molly gritted her teeth and walked out as calmly as she could.
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She wasn't the kind that lost her temper easily, but guys like that tended to
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make her blood boil.
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With nothing else to do, Molly decided to head into work. She worked for
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a large independent firm by the name of Shawdata which specialized in
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compilers. Their motto was: "Faster than the average Bear". Built up from
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nothing in the late 70's, it was now a thriving business, with contracts
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world-wide.
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Molly tried to concentrate on her current project: the low-level routines
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of a compiler for an Armed Forces programming language created solely for the
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purpose of doing payroll. In keeping with the bureaucratic style of the
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government, the language was written in a wide-sweeping, archaic style that
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only graduates of the highest echelons of acadaemia could ever hope to
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decipher. Her desk covered with a mountain of rigid army specifications, she
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stared at her monitor blankly and found she couldn't concentrate - her mind
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was too full of what might have happened. The general manager, Fran Berube
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walked over. "What's wrong, Molly?" she asked.
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She and Fran were real good friends and Molly knew she could talk openly
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with her. She spilled her guts out over a cup of steaming black coffee and
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felt a lot better for having done so.
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Fran rubbed her chin, "Ever consider hiring a private detective?"
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"Don't you think that's a little 'extreme', Fran?" said Molly, running her
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fingers nervously through her hair.
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"Not in the least. If the police refuse to do anything, you have to take
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the initiative. It so happens I know a guy who might be able to help."
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"Oh?"
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"His name's Sam Slick. He works out of a small office on Broad Street."
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"Where do you know him from?"
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Fran shrugged her shoulders, "Before I married Stan I used to date a lot
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of creeps. He was creepy, but a damn good detective."
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"You think it might help?" asked Molly.
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"Better that stewing around here unproductively. Go on, take the rest of
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the day off."
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Molly thanked her and, packing up her things, left.
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Dr. Node sat in a hotel room in the Johnny Canuck Inn in Vancouver mulling
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over recent developments whilst Baud Job snacked on Chicken McNuggets. After
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failing miserably in his attempt to procure the 80666 processor, he and Baud
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Job had retreated to Vancouver to lick their wounds and lay low in case Molly
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had died in the Juan de Fuca strait and the authorities had gotten suspicious.
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After perusing the papers and finding no mention of her death however, Dr.
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Node was of a mind to go back and make sure that the 80666 was indeed gone.
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After all, someone like Molly who was smart enough to engineer an escape from
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him was smart enough not to throw away an almost invaluable piece of
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equipment. He had his doubts. Perhaps it was time to return to Victoria...
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"So you say ya wanna find some friends, eh?" Sam Slick said as he peered
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over his desk at the woman before him. He was a private detective along the
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lines of Sam Spade or Mike Hammer with one difference: he was good.
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"Yes, yes I do." said Molly, "The police are absolutely useless and I must
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find out what happened to them before..."
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"Cost ya $500 a day."
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"That's expensive."
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"So go hire someone who don't know what they're doing. I'm sure you'll
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get a reasonable rate of return. Of course, you'll probably never see your
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friends again, but..."
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"Ok, ok. You've made your point."
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Sam smiled. This was gonna be a piece o' cake.
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Dr. May pressed a button on the elaborate phone system in front of him
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and got a secure line. He didn't want anyone evesdropping on this
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conversation. He dialed a number and waited for someone to pick up the
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receiver on the other end. "Yes?" came a voice.
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"It's Dr. May, Grandmaster." said the doctor, "It is done - the pieces are
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in place for the final phase of 'Operation Spam'."
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"Excellent." came the response, "You have done well, May. Soon, FASC
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shall rule the world! A ha a ha a hah hah hah hah haaaaaaaa!!"
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Dr. May hung the phone up and smiled an evil smile as he lit a cigarette
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and blew a smoke ring into the air. He chuckled to himself.
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Molly and Sam examined the room in the Farwest building where Ren and
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Michael had been working on the interface. Slick was quite observant and it
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was obvious to Molly that she had been right in contacting him.
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Sam pointed at the floor, "Look at that."
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"What is it?" asked Molly, staring at a small discoloured patch on the
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rug.
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Sam scraped it with a knife. He looked up at her, "Blood ma'am. Dried
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blood." He studied it with the mark of an expert, "I'd say it's been there...
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at least a week."
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"But that can't be!" exclaimed Molly, "Ren talked to us only five days ago
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and everything seemed fine!" Explanations reeled in her head, but the true
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answer was enshrouded by fog. How could Ren have talked to her and Mark if he
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had been kidnapped... or worse.
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"Over here!" called Sam, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from an ashtray
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on the table. "He unfolded it and showed it to Molly, "This mean anything to
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you?"
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She looked at it. It was a business card from Gamma Communications
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Corporation. "Doesn't mean a thing." she said, her face a study in confusion.
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Sam turned it over, "There's a phone number on the back. Wait here." He
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went over to a pay phone and dialed the number while Molly watched nervously.
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What happened? Have Ren and Michael been the object of a mafia hit? And
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whose phone number is on the back of that card? What are Dr. Node and Baud
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Job going to go now? When will the mysterious VonCriptic show his
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acne-covered face? What is FASC and what evil plans is it concocting and what
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part does Allan Crime play in them? Is Compuspec soon to be proverbial
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"toast"? Find out the answers to these and many other burning issues in the
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next bone-shattering "Adventures of Molly Modem" when we hear Molly say
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"Waitaminit! I just remembered something vitally important! Something to
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do... with spam."
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X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X
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Another file downloaded from: NIRVANAnet(tm)
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& the Temple of the Screaming Electron Jeff Hunter 510-935-5845
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Rat Head Ratsnatcher 510-524-3649
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Burn This Flag Zardoz 408-363-9766
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realitycheck Poindexter Fortran 415-567-7043
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Lies Unlimited Mick Freen 415-583-4102
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"Raw Data for Raw Nerves"
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