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The Man from H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.

by Geoffrey Hart

Shrapnel whined past my ears like angry fire wasps as I set the chrome cockroach on the floor; I'd been warned about leaving calling cards, but like most warnings I'd endured, it didn't persuade. I’m a discipline problem.

The acrid smells of ozone and burning metal filled the air, and ionization from the guards' plasma weapons made the few hairs that hadn't already been singed from my wig stand erect on electrostatic tiptoes. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering whether there might not be some equally invigorating, but legal, way of earning a living.

I'd budgeted these few seconds to relax under fire, safely behind the burning counter. That respite now over, I turned to more pressing business. The guards had showed up quickly—not bad for government contractors. I pulled the pin from the minigrenade I'd been cradling, counted a slow three, then lobbed it over my shoulder. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my earpieces firmly in place, pinched shut my nose and closed my mouth against the pressure. Even so, the detonation hit hard, and a light show danced behind my eyelids. Unpleasant though this was, it was worse for the unprotected guards. Their barrage ceased abruptly.

Time to leave.

I moved out, low and fast, scuttling ’cross the floor like a roach on amphetamines. I reached the opening I'd carved in the wall unharmed, though my formerly natty business suit reeked of smoke and the expensive cloth was peppered with melted plascrete. With a graceful parting salute for the security cameras, I stepped through the hole and dropped 15 meters before the gee harness slammed me to a halt. Adjusting the lift, I floated down to the sewer line. For the second time that day, I slipped into the filthy water, whose current filled my boots and tugged at my pants. Thank God for broad-spectrum antibiotics! I peeled out of the gee harness, and released it into the revolting flow, never to be seen again until it reached the sewage plant.

My wristwatch timer ticked inexorably onwards, so I began pushing upstream as the water climbed above my hips, not daring to fall behind schedule. When I reached the shaft that gave entry to a car repair shop in the adjacent building, I climbed carefully to the top, feet slipping on ooze. Beneath the grating, I listened to confirm it was still empty, then pushed up the grating and emerged. I dropped my ruined suit and boots back into the shaft, replaced the grating, and ran naked to the shower, nose wrinkling at my own stench. In the shower, I scrubbed away most of the stench, and rinsed the last of the wig from my scalp, working harder where a near miss had melted the polymers into my hair, then shut down the shower and hit the air jets. Mostly dry, I removed a new three-piece suit from where I'd stashed it in the shop and dressed, wasting no time.

The stolen flash drive lay heavy in my stomach, which roiled from the adrenaline rush of being shot at. I’d need to get home soon to retrieve the drive before it retrieved itself. From a pocket, I removed a spray can and dosed myself with Bond ("the fragrance licensed to kill") to conceal any lingering aroma. Then I checked myself in the mirror, ensuring no traces of my recent activities remained. That done, I slouched into the posture of a career desk jockey, let my belly heed the call of gravity and droop, and headed for the main entrance, shorter than when I'd entered.

On my way out, I nodded politely at the watchful policemen stationed outside the adjacent building to keep pedestrians out of danger—after all, I'm a civilcivil servant. I looked with furrowed brow at the smoke pouring from the building I'd so recently vacated, smiled a sympathetic smile, then turned away. I resisted the temptation to look back, that being the usual downfall of amateurs, and strolled into the crowd.

Two more changes of appearance, two of transportation, and I was back at Outbound Nexus HQ. In the washroom, I recovered the drive, and after rinsing it and depositing it in the lab's delivery slot, returned to my office to check for messages. Only one: a package the size of a cell phone, but no address other than my name. The package wouldn't have passed Security had it been dangerous, so after a cursory examination, I opened it. It held the gleaming stainless-steel statue of a six-legged insect—the cockroach I'd chosen as my trademark. Like the bug’s namesake, my goal in life was to slip unnoticed through society’s bowels like a technological metaphor through a politician’s mind.

This one had a leg missing, snipped off cleanly at the thorax.

I booked a debriefing with the Binary Ops Strategic Supervisor, then dropped the cockroach at the Electronics labs, requesting confirmation it wasn’t the other kind of bug. The Highly Autonomous Remote Reconnaissance and Intelligence Service—Outbound Nexus has no sense of humor when it comes to electronic surveillance by Earth’s many eetee threats, and metaphorical heads would roll if the eetees somehow slipped a bug past Security. Granted, that's the ethical equivalent of a mugger complaining that you're only carrying a credit chip, but so long as the policy kept people who wanted me dead at a safe distance, I didn’t lose any sleep over the ethics.

***

While I waited for B.O.S.S., I let myself into Stores and helped myself to several amenities I felt naked without, plus a few luxuries the clerks who'd survived the latest round of corporate re-engineering wouldn't miss for some time. By then, it was time to debrief.

B.O.S.S. sat behind his mahogany desk, his upper half a reasonable simulation of a human with a bald scalp, except for two triangular tufts of hair that emerged vertically from behind his ears and the tracked carriage that supported his lower half, useful for those rare occasions when he had to join operatives in the field.

"Have a seat, Jim." The modulated synthetic voice reminded me of the talking heads who did the evening news. Come to think of it... Nah.

B.O.S.S. cleared his throat. "The lab checked that bug you dropped off. Yes, it's one of yours. Consider yourself on report—you know how I feel about those things." I did, and I used them all the more gleefully because of it. "It's not a bug, but it carried a microdot that says, and I quote: 'Jim: Meet me at Puck's... related to your imminent demise.—B'." He paused dramatically, which he'd been getting good at. "I think you take the point?"

"Yup. My cover's blown."

"Hardly surprising, the way you conduct yourself in the field. And you're over budget again."

I smiled. "Who's counting? You have to be willing to pay a premium for quality work, B.O.S.S."

B.O.S.S.'s pallid face managed a credible imitation of irritation, not an easy task when you have cameras instead of pupils. "Nevertheless, these are times of fiscal restraint. I'm chopping your equipment budget and informing Stores." I kept my poker face firmly in place, since B.O.S.S.’s facial recognition capabilities had been upgraded. "In the meantime, meet this 'B' fellow and get his story. Cancel him if necessary, but bring him in alive for questioning if "—a slight but noticeable hesitation—"humanly possible." His voice became congratulatory, or what Q section presumably thought sounded that way. "Nice job with the flash drive... "

"Thanks, B.O.S.S.. Nice of you to notice." It was. I'd seen so few of my fellow agents these past several weeks that the pressure to brag to someone had grown until it took superhuman restraint not to explode; fortunately, agents received extensive training on how to resist psychological torture. But it would've been nice to share with Ed, for instance, just to see the look on his face. On the way out, I stopped by his office, dusty and unlit—just like Anne's and Roger's. Guess I wasn't the only one pulling down serious overtime. I shrugged. There’s always e-mail.

***

The ecstatic grunts from the holoscreen were easily ignored; the ones from the surrounding seats were disturbing. I gritted my teeth, and took a tighter grip on the bag of popcorn I'd smuggled into the theater in my trench coat. I'd rather have played last touch with a paper shredder than enter Puck's Porno Palace, but the guy who'd been following me was a pro, and I was betting he was the mysterious 'B'. I didn't see him enter, but nearly twenty years working for H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. had fine-tuned my naturally keen senses. I reached into my coat for some insurance I'd pocketed as a precaution.

The guy sitting behind me poked the muzzle of a 20-millimetre pistol firmly against the back of my skull.

My cover was blown, and I didn't want my brains to follow suit. Before B could introduce himself, I threw myself to the floor, simultaneously triggering the popcorn. The whooshof a rocket-propelled slug passed uncomfortably close to my ear, echoed by a tremendous explosion from the holoscreen. I hit the tacky floor and scrabbled away, popcorn kernels exploding in my wake, not letting myself think about what fluids were clutching at my hands and knees; fumes from burning vinyl upholstery clogged my nose. Then the special kernels started popping, and dense smoke filled the room. The words "Scram, boys, it's a raid!" screamed from the empty bag in three languages, and strobing flashes lit the room to the tune of banshee wails. I settled my Groucho Marx facegear more firmly into place while moving farther out of the line of fire. The filters locked into place just in time to block the tear-gas grenades mingled with the other kernels. The IR goggles cut in with a click, penetrating the smoke.

I should have been the only one in the room still functioning when I rose to my feet, but I’d underestimated B. The guy who'd trailed me into the theatre had torn off his disguise to move more freely, revealing a large and nasty-looking cyborg. For the record, I’ve got nothing against cyborgs—mostly, they're nice people—but the triple row of human heads blazoned on his armored chest, a large red X drawn through each, didn't reassure. He tossed aside his empty pistol and took a step towards me.

"Jim Gray, agent of H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.?"

I nodded. "B?" I turned slightly sideways, concealing the distraction I'd palmed.

The cyborg ignored my question and smiled, confirming first impressions. Its mouthful of razor blades suggested this conversation wouldn’t end well for me. "Then it’s time to die." A resonant digitized chuckle sounded from behind his portable shaving kit, and the cyborg came for me, tossing aside a row of bolted-down seats.

"Not just yet, thanks." I let him have a shot from the taser.

A taser doesn’t have much stopping power, but it has certain advantages against a cyborg. The effect on B was dramatic: he froze in his tracks, powerful hands clenching futilely before my face, sparks spitting from his torso. I stepped back, not wanting him to fall on me, and glanced around. Puck's patrons were down for the count, moaning in an altogether different key. Judging by the smoke trickling from between the cyborg's teeth, which gnashed more slowly by the second, he wasn't going to be much help clarifying matters.

When he stopped sizzling, I went through his discarded clothing, then patted down his smoking corpse. Nothing useful. I shrugged and exited through the front door, neatly avoiding the cordon the police had thrown up around the side and rear exits. There's something to be said for knowing standard police procedure.

***

Back at the office, B.O.S.S. sounded grim. "It's worse than we thought, Jim. Statistics section extrapolated from the drive you recovered: we've been infiltrated."

That explained how B had slipped their package past Security. "How's that possible?" It was disturbing news. I thought we'd become so robotized and computerized and rightsized it would have been a piece of cake spotting any new staff.

"Your guess is good as mine." B.O.S.S. sounded seriously pissed. I hadn't known he had it in him. More upgrades? "We suspect one of the alien races that shares this sector with us discovered our real role and is trying to subvert H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. from the inside. Xenobiology’s put together a portfolio of possibilities.” He patted a file folder on his desk. “Get moving on the investigation soon as you've showered. You reek of popcorn, and there's something unidentifiable yet strangely disgusting on your trousers." I blinked. Someone had definitely been tinkering with B.O.S.S. I wasn't sure I approved.

"Oh... One more thing."

"Yes?"

"We obtained samples from the cockroach, and ran a biochemical screen. Insufficient genetic material to pin down which race sent it. Nonetheless, Q section’s confident they can ID the perpetrator from certain residues if you get close enough."

He flung something that resembled a fountain pen in my direction and I snatched it from the air. "For taking blood samples?"

"Not without DNA. Press the pocket clip." I complied, and the pen vibrated in my hand; after a moment, it beeped quietly three times. "When you get within arm's reach of an alien, trigger the pen and it'll beep if you've found the right species."

"But if...?"

"Self-test mode, I assume. Ask the boys in Q if it bothers you. Now get going. No time to waste."

I shrugged; how the tech worked wasn't my concern, so long as it worked. I plucked the dossier from his desk and stowed it in my office safe on the way to the showers. I wasn't crazy about having to investigate a slew of aliens, especially given that one was trying to kill me. Then again, if they'd come hunting me in my own stomping grounds, it was time to take the game to them.

***

As I scrubbed, I kept a wary eye open. I'd been distracted by the new threat, but it was odd I was alone in the showers. If everyone else was in the field, we were seriously overextended. An unworthy thought occurred as the hot water beat on my head: Given that we organics were easier to subvert than our electronic colleagues, had B.O.S.S. put us all in the field to keep HQ secure? I filed that for future consideration.

Later, freshly scrubbed and smelling only of myself, I left Outbound. Forget those glamorous spy novels, in which agents use the hottest gadget-infested spaceships. After the latest budget cuts, H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. hocked our ships and invested in transit passes to save dozens of person-years of salaried positions. Then the powers-that-be hired a Finance Expert System to replace the finance guy at less than half the cost, freeing up even more cash. The AI'd tried working its financial magic on my budget, but I'd stayed late one night and done a little corporate re-engineering of my own.

Outbound public transport is cheap and uncomfortable as transportation gets, but it’s efficient. To travel, you swallow “transfer RNA” pills that physically restructure your brain until you believe you're at the desired destination; once you’re certain, your body loyally follows your mind so mind and body can continue their journey together. Appropriate linguistic abilities come with that new state of mind—a fortunate side-effect for field operatives. I'll leave the philosophical implications to the philosophers; the friendly aliens who sold us the technology don't know how it works either. I’d have preferred something more traditional, but no shuttles went offworld that time of night, and anyway, it wasn’t in the budget. Purely selfishly, not as a loyal taxpayer, I wished they'd let us use real ships; RNA transfers left me with a migraine.

I tapped my warrant card on the dispenser and waited for my pills. While I waited, I reviewed the dossier. The Remote Assessment Technician who'd discovered the first species I’d visit named them Revenants, after their disconcerting habit of dying when startled; the dearly departed’s mind immediately transmigrated into the body of their nearest genetic relative. This had an intriguing consequence: the families most involved in the hazardous business of dealing with aliens produced the most experienced leaders, their brains packed full of knowledge painfully accumulated by predecessors—in this case, literal predecessors. It seemed reasonable that if a previous R.A.T.’s visit had caused the premature demise of enough Revenants, the species might want revenge. That didn't explain why they'd targeted me, though it did explain why they’d hired a cyborg instead of doing the job themselves.

The machine chimed and delivered a small box of pills. I pocketed all but the pill labeled “one”, then stepped into the transfer booth. The enclosure’s featureless grey walls and the numbing musak are designed to minimize distractions for travelers who have difficulty concentrating, but because many felt claustrophobic waiting for the pills to work, a small window had been provided. I looked out at the Transit Authority waiting room; no sign I was being followed, so I swallowed the pill, focused my mind on my destination, and prepared to leave. As the headache began, I raised my eyes for one last look. The transfer booth began fading into a crowded street under a strangely colored alien sky, and I saw something I'd never seen from such close proximity: the inside of what must have been a spectacular explosion, bits and pieces of people and machines flying past in slow motion.

I escaped the booth before the shockwave hit, but the pyrotechnics came along for the ride, make of that philosophical conundrum what you will. My indiscreet arrival had the unfortunate side-effect of startling everyone in the crowded street where I arrived, with predictable results. Having done my part to control the local population density and raise the average wisdom of many families, I clutched my aching head and staggered shakily into the nearest alleyway, consoling myself that at least no one could follow me. A blessing, since until my head cleared, I didn't want to cope with an alien race that had good reason to be seriously pissed at humans.

Figuring out how to reach the specific Revenant Xenobiology had suggested posed a quandary. It would be trivial to break into their office, but the shock of discovering me waiting would end the conversation before it began. So I improvised. As I approached his office, headache slowly ebbing, I whistled a popular song to announce my arrival, as if my visit were the most predictable thing in the world. It worked, as a living Revenant awaited me.

Revenants are externally human, but tend towards cadaverous thinness and pallor, with strong chins and long faces topped with grey hair that tapers to a pronounced widow's peak. The secretary was a typical specimen, but an excess of blue eyeshadow, cheek rouge, and carmine lipstick exacerbated her corpselike pallor.

"Inspector Price, please."

Her voice was emotionless. "Very good, sir. You have an appointment?"

"No, but he'll see me. Jim Gray from Outbound Nexus." I seated myself slowly, not wanting to startle her, and smiled.

She closed her eyes a moment, then forced a smile. "He'll see you. Go in."

I rose and approached the door, hesitating as I grasped the handle. I looked back at her. Her face soured. "Go in, sir; I said he's expecting you."

I entered, resisting the impulse to slam the door. When I turned from the door, Inspector Price sat facing me with a large-bore handgun trained on my chest.

"Have a seat, Mister Gray. Slowly." Price had a deceptively gentle, cultured voice. To my untrained eye, he resembled his secretary, but he wore substantially less makeup and packed more muscle. The gun was unwavering, so I seated myself carefully in the hard wooden chair in front of his desk, legs dangling above the floor.

"I don't think you want to do that."

"Your government would protest?"

"I flatter myself they would, but what I really mean is the noise would startle your secretary and most occupants of this office block. That wouldn’t end well."

"My office is, of course, soundproofed. But even if that weren't so, I have staffing priority; my secretary would be back at work in a day, better than before." He smiled coldly.

"True. But I wouldn't have walked into your office without preparing an unpleasant surprise for anyone who pulled a gun. You’d also be back at work in a day, I suppose?"

Price grimaced and set the gun down slowly on his desk, then flicked the safety on. "That's true, but it wouldn’t be particularly pleasant. Very well, let's cease our games. Tell me what you want."

"Nothing you can't reasonably provide. I need to know why your people are infiltrating H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. and why I’m a target." I reached into my jacket pocket and pressed the fountain pen's clip. It vibrated silently, but didn’t beep.

Price laughed. "A ludicrous notion!" I placed the five-legged roach I'd palmed on his desk. He looked at it distastefully.

"This suggests otherwise."

"I’ve no idea what that repulsive thing is, save only that it bears an uncanny resemblance to this item which found its way to my desk yesterday." He placed a nearly identical cockroach upon his desk. This one was missing two legs.

Our eyes met, and I judged that were he human, he'd be telling the truth. Moreover, the boys in Q were sharp, and the pen should have beeped if the Revenants had anything to do with the first cockroach. I pocketed both, then rose from the chair.

"I could kill you and search your office."

"You’d find nothing. Believe me when I say your race is too violent and unpredictable for us to meddle with. I doubt we could infiltrate your Service without leaving such a long trail of corpses that our intentions would be evident even to the least competent agent."

I ignored the inuendo. "You have a point. My apologies for wasting your time."

"Accepted, grudgingly. And Gray?"

"Hmmm?"

"Next time you visit—and may it be a long time between visits—arrive less dramatically. My office will be busy for days pacifying the relatives of those your arrival sent prematurely to share skulls with their kin."

"Sorry." I felt genuine chagrin, and let it show on my face, figuring it might earn me some diplomacy points should I return. I left Price's office, carefully closing the door behind me. His secretary watched with unconcealed distaste as I headed for the building's public transfer booth.

***

Unlike my previous trip’s drama, this transfer was uneventful. I arrived in a dark street with seamless, skyscraping walls that vanished into a sky clotted with roiling black clouds. The walls blocked any light that might have reached the street, but given how violently my head throbbed whenever I moved my eyes, I was grateful for dimness. The alleyway was just wide enough to bridge if I fell crosswise, with no visible windows or doors, but a short distance to either side, streets led off at right angles. At my feet, a line of evenly spaced mushrooms glowed golden yellow and led off in both directions before vanishing into the murk. A moldy taint permeated the thick air, and my sinuses slammed shut, exacerbating my head’s already unpleasant throbbing. I gritted my teeth and wished I'd had the foresight to bring painkillers. Drugs powerful enough to dull the pain would reduce my speed and cognitive abilities, but I no longer cared.

They don’t pay me enough.

I ignored the pain best I could, and focused. I was here to meet a race known as The Pac, a communal intelligence that lived in this gloomy place and rarely left their planet. I had little expectation they’d reveal themselves as H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.'s enemy; they were sufficiently inhuman they'd never infiltrate undetected. Moreover, Xenobiology suggested they didn’t use cyborg-level technology.

I unholstered my pistol, checked the clip, then reholstered it. There was no hint which way I should head, so I set off in the direction I'd been facing when I arrived, careful not to disturb the mushrooms. Breathing was difficult enough without introducing clouds of alien spores into the confined space, and I was confident they wouldn't improve my headache. I took the first side street, which led off into the gloom towards a T-intersection; neither arm showed any distinctive characteristics. I considered damaging a few mushrooms to mark my progress through this maze, then shrugged and continued onward; any member of the Pac's distributed brain should be equally able to provide the information I needed.

After a dozen turns, I heard a moist smacking of lips behind me, and spun, gun already in hand, to face it. Xenobiology had warned what to expect, but I still stepped back, nauseated. The Pac who faced me was a floating, jaundice-yellow globe just narrow enough to fit between the walls. A gaping mouth slit its unhealthy-looking face from ear to ear like a gruesome knife wound, the effect exacerbated by an oily band of something resembling thick red lipstick, and bits of mushroom dripped unpleasantly from thin lips. Two pallid yellow eyes with enormous black pupils watched me coldly, as if I were less significant than the omnipresent fungi. As I watched, its mouth opened into a wide grin fringed with blunt teeth, and the Pac sucked up another mushroom and began chewing. As it spoke, bits of fungus spattered on the ground.

"You Gray." The voice was shrill and tinny, as if produced by a cheap synthesizer with disposable speakers, and the words were distorted both by the mouth’s shape and the mouthful of food.

"I am. And you?"

"Miz. Your visit anticipated, not desired. We crave you: leave."

I raised my pistol. "I'm not leaving before you answer my questions."

There was no change in the unexpressive eyes, but the Pac edged closer, ripping up another mushroom. "You have upper hand. Ask."

"If you know who I am, you know who I work for. Why have your people attacked us?"

The thin lips writhed for several seconds before the creature answered. "Attack? Amusing. You imagine me in distasteful garments you wear? Standing at water cooler, flirting secretaries?"

It had a point, though flirt-worthy secretaries were few and far between at H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. these days. "Nonetheless, the question stands. Do you recognize these?" With my free hand, I removed the two roach statues from my pocket and displayed them in my palm.

"Seen them never," it replied, then lunged with surprising speed, its mouth opening impossibly wide.

I'd been expecting this, but not its speed. Even so, my heavy-caliber slug took it in one eye. The shot echoed in that enclosed space. With a despairing wail, the Pac flew backwards down the alley like a pierced balloon, trailing a foul stench. It vanished from sight in the murk, then there came the dull double-thud of its leathery body mushily striking a wall and caroming off to hit the ground. Fearing its death cry would bring help, I rushed forward, smashing mushrooms with each stride and hoping Miz was carrying something that would guide my investigation. I knelt by the corpse, running my hands over it in a vain search for a pocket or some other storage, and found the skin dry and oddly pleasant beneath my fingers, like old leather. Then I jerked my hand back: the Pac had begun moving!

The slash mouth opened and a weak voice emerged. "Discourteous to shoot us. We fix you presently." And it began slowly inflating, its swelling bulk threatening to push me aside. Stepping back a safe distance, I shot it again. It deflated again, but I'd seen something in its mouth, and prying that orifice open with the gun’s barrel, I reached inside. I removed a chrome cockroach, this one with three legs missing. Miz gave me no time to ponder, swelling again under my hand. I pulled free my gun, its mouth closing with a slap. Ahead, another Pac was approaching.

I shot the newcomer, then triggered the fountain pen; it vibrated quietly, but failed to beep, so I turned and ran, pocketing the roaches and skidding around a corner, breathing heavily through my mouth, head pounding, mushrooms splattering beneath my feet and leaving a clear trail. Ahead, another Pac rounded the corner and rushed towards me. I ran, randomly taking left or right turns, snapping off shots at any Pac that presented a target. I was quickly lost, and reeling from inadequate oxygen. The streets snaked around me like a self-portrait of Escher's intestines.

I knew I was in trouble when I rounded a corner to confront yet another Pac, floating above a trail of freshly crushed mushrooms I'd traversed moments earlier. I shot it, panting, then paused to catch my breath and jam a new clip in the pistol.

If I kept running, they'd eventually catch me and devour me. Despite the pleasant prospect this might cure my headache, it wasn’t a fate I was eager to embrace. My only chance was to swallow a transfer pill while fending off the Pac with my dwindling ammunition. I pulled another pill from my pocket, and choked it down before I could reconsider. Transfer outside a booth wasn’t recommended, and I could only imagine the headache I was courting.

The alleyway blurred, and pain surged in my head. My last thought as I fell was that it was unwise to appear unannounced in a public place brandishing a handgun. Thinking and acting were two different things; I don't recall whether I managed to holster the pistol in time.

***

I awoke in a comfortable bed, surrounded by hospital smells: freshly starched and perfumed sheets, disinfectants, bedpans, and soggy toast, among others. My headache was a distant memory, and I was comfortable—though the bed was a Procrustean foot and a half too short. My brain’s warm fuzziness slowly resolved into the sharp mind of an experienced field agent. I kept my eyes closed while the cotton batting in my head blew away, and began assessing my surroundings, not to mention inventorying my possessions and limbs. The limbs were still present, and the surroundings seemed innocuous, despite a belt cinched around my waist; as the belt wasn’t paired with wrist and ankle restraints, it seemed more a measure to keep me from falling. Slightly more alarming was the discovery I'd been searched thoroughly, including natural and artificial body cavities that formerly held useful implements.

As I lay pondering my situation, a boggy smell insinuated itself into my consciousness. After the moldy density of the Pac homeworld's air, it wasn't unpleasant: decaying vegetable matter and stagnant water, but more greenhouse than sewer. I opened my eyes and met the bug-eyed gaze of something wearing a stiff white hat perched at a rakish angle on a flat olive-green head. I'm not sure who was most surprised, and we both jerked our heads backwards. The other fled, kicking webbed feet to a surprising height above the floor and beating a soggy tattoo on the local linoleum equivalent.

"Ah! You're awake." The lisping voice came from the bed’s other side, and I turned my head gingerly. But my headache was gone, and no pain answered that abrupt motion. Squatting on the floor was a frog-like creature with alarmingly bulging eyes, with large black pupils bordered by beautiful golden rims. Beneath the obtuse snout, a large, fleshy, goiterlike growth swung gently every time the being moved its head. Though its head and sides were brilliant green pocked with large black spots, its face and belly were an unpleasant fish-belly white.

I'd been captured by the Bems.

"Um, yes, and thanks for caring for me," I replied, stalling while I recalled the dossier’s description of these beings. "And wheream I awake?"

"Where, is the main public hospital of Batrakia. Whois an entirely different matter. Your documents suggest you’re Jim Gray, itinerant iodine salesman."

I smiled my best used-car-salesman smile. "That’s me. And who might you have the pleasure to be?"

The Bem ignored my question, beady eyes not leaving mine for an instant. "The passport and quantity of iodine we found in your pocket suggest that’s indeed who you are, unusual though it be for Humans to visit us. Yet..."

"Yet?" My smile was becoming harder to maintain.

"Yet iodine salesmen rarely carry weapons, competitive though the trade be."

"It's not the competition, but rather the unsavory elements on my planet—"

"Outbound Nexus."

"—that inspire caution in the prudent salesman."

"I acknowledge your logic," the Bem continued. "Still, I find it difficult to imagine why a salesman might be carrying these." He held out his hand, palm upwards, and several small objects rolled down his palm and onto the webby flesh between his fingers.

"Trade items, of course," I riposted weakly, my smile congealing.

"Hardly. My people have little use and less taste for explosives, and I find it difficult to understand how you acquired H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.-issue weaponry. There are other curious devices my colleagues are still endeavoring to decipher. Business must be competitive indeed to travel so extravagantly defended."

My smile vanished with my equanimity. "Who areyou?"

The Bem grimaced in a way I interpreted as a smile, and rose to bow in a floppy, boneless sort of way. "Inspector Grenoyl at your service. You, my dear Gray, pose a dilemma. We aren’t inherently hostile, yet my government is displeased to find your Service sticking their unpleasantly small noses into our affairs. This leaves us puzzled."

"I hope I can resolve that puzzle to your satisfaction."

"I'm open to suggestions."

"First, let me offer you the iodine as a good-will gesture. I understand it's a valuable commodity."

"Sadly, this benighted planet's soil is deficient in iodine, and our homeworld has been lax in supplying the requisite quantities. But you offer something I already possess." His cold, hard eyes focused, unblinking, on my face, and an appallingly long tongue whipped between his lips and pinned a large insect to the wall behind me. He blinked, then his eyes sank into his head as he swallowed, and both tongue and insect vanished. The eyes re-emerged.

"The truth?"

"That would do nicely." The Bem’s gaze softened marginally.

"I'm an agent of H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N."

"Ah! Now we're getting somewhere." The Bem squatted back on his haunches with a moist sound, and that long tongue shot out again, snatching another insect mid-flight.

"I'm here to learn why you’re infiltrating H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. and trying to kill me."

"Kill you? Preposterous!"

"Then explain the amputee chrome cockroaches!"

Grenoyl blinked. "You have the advantage of me. We noted those, of course, among your gear, and would have devoted considerable effort to dismantling them had we not already seen one." A fleshy hand dipped into a pouch that hung around his neck, deposited my explosives, and emerged with another maimed roach. Inspector Grenoyl placed it gently in my hand. This roach had only two legs left, and had been sawed in half, then clumsily glued back together.

"Damn!" I’d noticed the increasing dismemberment of my calling cards, but that pattern’s meaning eluded me.

"Indeed. We still have no explanation for these creations."

"They're calling cards. A trademark, of sorts."

The Bem bobbed his head. "You Humans behave even more peculiarly than your appearance suggests. Nonetheless, your explanation seems plausible. What more can you tell us?"

"Little, I'm afraid. If you've received one of my mutilated roaches, you're probably not behind the assassination attempts. That means my business lies elsewhere."

"I concur."

"Might I have my equipment returned before I leave?"

Grenoyl's face contorted. "We certainly have no use for it."

A short while later, I circumspectly pressed the button on my pen as I dressed. The pen vibrated, but gave no other sign. Relieved, I finished dressing and followed Grenoyl to the hospital’s transfer booth, its walls running with condensation. Once inside, I placed another pill on my tongue, swallowed it, and braced myself for another in an interminable series of headaches. Batrakia dissolved moistly, and in the next instant, I found myself hip-deep in the sunbaked grass of a rolling prairie. Apart from a vaguely linear structure in the distance, there was no sign of civilization. Shrugging, I set off for that structure. My head throbbed with each step, but I gritted my teeth and persevered.

***

The sun beat down, doing its best to cook my brain and suck the last drops of sweat from my feverish skin. Not for the first time, I observed that H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.'s damned cost-cutting measures had gone too damned far, and I was a damned urban operative, not some damned ranger. I was close enough to heat prostration that when the feline predator sprang upon me, it was all I could do to roll with the blow and grab for my pistol.

I saw bright orange and ginger fur, golden slit eyes, and enormous fangs, then a powerful limb knocked the weapon from my grasp. It vanished into the grass, and I found myself striving to ward off those claws. It wouldn't have been a fair fight even had I been in peak condition; lying upon my back, sun-struck and with several hundred pounds of giant cat crushing me into the grass, it was hopeless. Fortunately, the fight didn't last longer than it took to describe. As I glared up into those fierce eyes, the carnivore wrinkled its nose, baring enormous fangs. Calling on training I'd hoped never to use, I closed my eyes and composed myself for premature retirement.

Then an enormous sneeze lifted the creature from me. Freed from its weight, I rolled for the gun, and was immediately knocked flying as the predator pounced again. But just like the last time, an immense sneeze saved me. After two more repetitions of this performance, the cat recoiled, raised itself onto its hind legs, and stepped sulkily back. My ribs ached like a quarterback playing behind an incompetent front four, but I sat up, adrenaline running amok and banishing irrelevant concerns such as my torn clothing, incipient heat stroke, and throbbing skull. I surreptitiously reached for my remaining weapons. As I did, another titanic sneeze racked the cat.

I belatedly recognized the species. "Gsinteit!"

"Thanks. What you lack in olfactory suitability, you make up for in politeness." The Gsint snarled, tiny pink parasol-like ears unfolding from where they'd lain flat against its skull during the attack and pivoting to focus on me. A pungent cat smell filled my nostrils. "It seems I'm not to feast upon you this day," it continued. "Pity."

Still sitting, I groped through the grass, seeking my vanished pistol. Never trust a smiling crocodile, they say, and a temporarily passive Gsinteit inspires even less confidence. "That depends on one's point of view, doesn’t it?"

"If one's point of view were important, one would not be Food, one would be Gsinteit. Humans are Food, and their views of no importance. Why, were it not for—"

My hand touched the pistol, and I raised it between us. "—for this?" I smiled my coldest smile, baring my own fangs for the Gsint's benefit. A pitiful display, but body language counts for a surprising amount, particularly when supported by modern weaponry. The cat's incongruous ears folded dejectedly back upon its skull.

"Slay me and be done with it, Human. My mortification’s complete."

I relaxed my smile, but not my vigilance. "I didn’t come to slay you. I came to learn why your people are trying to kill me."

The Gsint's brows furrowed, an oddly human gesture. "Is it not enough you are Food? Or would be, were it not for our allergy to your species."

"That would explain why you sent a cyborg to kill me."

The Gsint’s lips folded back in a silent snarl, and I tightened my grip on the pistol; adrenaline or no, I was beginning to fade now that the immediate threat was ended. "No Gsinteit would stoop so low. Were we unable to kill you bare-handed"—its claws gleamed in the bright sunlight—"then we’d use an equally noble weapon, such as axe, knife, or bow. An assassin? Never, not even should it mean starvation!"

That agreed with Xenobiology's dossier. Belatedly, I noticed the foot-long steel knife thrust into a leather belt at the big cat’s waist. "I'll take that, if you don't mind." I brushed the big cat's luxuriant pelt as I removed the knife, and tossed it into the grass. Another mighty sneeze racked my erstwhile captor. I narrowly escaped slicing my hand on the knife. The Gsint sniffled plaintively and wiped its nose on its pelt, leaving a moist trail.

I pondered. "Hmmm."

"Yes, Human?"

"I'm convinced it couldn't have been a Gsint."

"Do you doubt our courage?" The flattened ears twitched in what I took to be outrage.

"No, I doubt your immune system. Your species seems violently allergic to mine. There’s no way you could’ve managed it. My apologies, noble hunter, for suspecting you." I nudged the pen inconspicuously, and again, it vibrated quietly. But then, playing a hunch, I removed the chrome cockroaches from my pocket and held them between us, glinting in the sun. "Yet I wonder whether you've seen one of these."

The predator's eyes narrowed. "Yes... there’s one like it in the council kraal, though sealed in heavy plastic lest its contagion spread. It nearly slew the council when it was brought to us; as it was, Speaker Among Equals is in hospital with broken ribs, and half the others are confined to bed. Had Speaker to Test Tubes—miserable wretch though he be—not found a way to imprison the infernal device, things might have gone poorly for our leaders." The eyes narrowed. "Wait, I mistake myself. The one in the kraal has but one leg."

The recovered roaches had progressively fewer legs. If that pattern held true, my next stop would reveal a roach with no legs, and should lead me to those responsible for the attempts on my life.

I frowned. "Take yourself home, Hunter, and none shall learn of this. I’ve bigger game to hunt this day."

The Gsint tucked his naked tail, which I'd not noticed before, between his powerful hind legs and stalked off without a backwards glance, salvaging such dignity as he could. I closed my eyes and rallied my mental resources. It would refresh me, however briefly, and I’d need to be refreshed. I grimaced and swallowed the second to last of my transfer pills. The Nevins, an ancient high-tech species, would be my most dangerous hosts yet, and might also be the last.

The sea of golden grass faded from view, and as it did, I gripped my gun and readied myself for sudden, violent action. But no sooner had I materialized then I felt myself immobilized in a tanglefield. The voice of an almost unimaginably sexy woman spoke softly from behind me. "Sleep, Human. We'll talk later."

So I did.

***

I woke upon a spongy surface, staring at a pastel-green ceiling. Unaccountably, my headache was gone, and a quick inventory confirmed I'd been disarmed, right down to my various body cavities. On the plus side, I'd been rehydrated. I sat up.

A short distance away, a pair of cloven hooves joined muscular yet graceful legs that rose about a foot from the floor, vanishing into a matted and unpleasant-smelling fur that reminded me of a dyspeptic and poorly groomed llama I'd once seen in a zoo. Behind the paired hooves, a single, powerfully muscled leg pressed against the floor, muscles twitching as if the creature were readying itself for flight. I looked up at the creature’s two heads. Each reminded me of a Puff the Magic Dragon puppet I’d owned as a child, with scaly leathery hide, bat ears, and a mouth with surprisingly full and sensuous lips.

The Nevin spoke in a voice that would have guaranteed a profitable career on the phone-sex lines that had become all the rage, bankrupting several formerly lucrative VR firms. "Our stochastic devices predicted your arrival and the most effective way to disarm you. Which we did. But you’re safe. So long as you remain non-violent."

"I appreciate it."

"Your race is senselessly violent, and threatens all it encounters. Though you pose no threat, a prudent being takes no risks, for there’s always a chance we've underestimated you." One head dipped into the thick fur on its back and emerged with a rounded black object clutched between its lips. "And now, a brief demonstration to encourage you to forsake violence."

Indescribable ecstasy swept over me. My eyes lost focus, my toes curled, and all thoughts of why I was here vanished. When the sensation ebbed, I found myself strangely triste, and in need of a cigarette. I took a long, slow, deep breath while I gathered my scattered wits. "What the hellwas that?"

"The tasp is remarkably effective against primitives. Don't tempt me to use a higher setting. You'd enjoy your death, but then we'd have no chance to answer your questions and send you to deal with the true threat."

"You’ve lost me." I fought a powerful urge to alarm the Nevin enough to earn another shot from the tasp. It took considerable willpower.

The second head dipped into the mass of fur and emerged bearing something small and silvery in its lips. A disturbingly five-lobed tongue pushed between the lips, grasped the object, and tossed it to me. A legless roach gleamed under the soft overhead light.

"Where’d you get this?"

"I should think it obvious. From your employer."

"You've lost me." What with multiple headaches, strenuous exertion, and the tasp’s insidious lure, I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I needed to.

The Nevin sighed, and its heads faced each other in a mute tête à tête. Then they faced me again. "It's a wonder you've survived so long. The agency trying to kill you is your own employer."

It made sense. H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. had been systematically eliminating human operatives since B.O.S.S. took command, and would have eliminated me too had it not been for my after-hours conversation with the Personnel computer. But if they couldn't retire me one way, there were alternatives. With no humans to interfere, B.O.S.S. and his cybercronies could use H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. to rule society with a silicon fist.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Though you Humans pose no threat, B.O.S.S. and his cybernetic allies represent an unknown quantity. We would handle the matter ourselves, save for one small problem."

"Right. You're all cowards."

"We prefer to think of it as exercising a judicious sense of self-preservation. We survived millennia before your race emerged because of that prudence."

"So you need me to do your dirty work?"

"Think, rather, as working towards our mutual benefit. After all, your employer isn't trying to kill us."

"Yet."

"As I said, you’d be working for our mutual benefit."

I pondered a moment. "Fine. Then return my weapons and send me home."

"I think not. You might turn the weapons on me in a last spiteful act before you left. If it's weapons you want, obtain new ones when you’re home."

"That's a death sentence. You might just as well tasp me on the high setting." The latter suggestion slipped out; part of me hoped my captor would follow up on its threat.

The Nevin snorted musically. "Fatalism is not an endearing trait. Your rapid, if pleasant, death would serve no purpose. We’ll return you with the only weapon you truly need."

I blinked. "That's the third time you've lost me."

The two heads exchanged glances, then turned their gazes on me. One head produced a small, flat ring and the disturbing tongue threw it to me. "Take this."

The ring felt uncannily like flesh. "What's it do?"

"It's a superconducting monofilament, wrapped around a larger ring so you don't slice your finger off. Put it on." I complied, and the ring changed color, nearly vanishing from sight; had I not felt it pressed against my skin, I would have sworn I'd dropped it. The Nevin produced a small battery from its tangled mane, approached nervously, then touched the battery gingerly to the ring. No sooner had it done so then it skipped backwards like a goat.

"Surely you don't expect B.O.S.S. to let me get anywhere near him with the ring?"

"We expect that once he sees it, he’ll remove the ring from your finger. That will trigger the electromagnetic pulse stored within the ring. Don't remove the ring while you’re in a functioning spaceship or near any electronic device that might fail catastrophically. The results would be... undesirable."

"I imagine." I rubbed the ring. "What's to stop me from doing that now and trapping you here?"

The Nevin sprang backwards, colliding with the bulkhead. "Even should you evade the tasp, this eventuality was anticipated. My shipmates will teleport me to their ship before you can attempt physical harm, leaving you on an unpilotable ship in decaying orbit around a uniquely hot star."

"There are other kinds of star? Never mind; you argue persuasively. Yet… why not just drop this ship on H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.?"

The two heads stared at each other for another long moment. "Though logical, there’s a significant chance one of your robotic colleagues would survive the impact and take vengeance upon us. That risk’s unacceptable."

"Not big on gambling, are you?"

"Not with our lives, no. And on that note, I shall take my leave, for the risk of some senseless act of violence grows with each passing second. Good day, and good fortune—for both our sakes."

I began a reply, but the Nevin disappeared, leaving only the faint pop!of air rushing to fill the space he'd occupied. I shrugged, and toyed with the ring a moment. Then I set about inspecting my surroundings. The Nevin had left a fully functional bridge, mounted within a late-model Acme type-VI hull, but nothing I could turn into a weapon. Yet it would get me home. I settled into the command chair to contemplate my next move. I thought through the obvious and less obvious steps I'd need to take, and the necessary precautions. That done, I set the controls for Outbound, engaged the autopilot, and caught some sleep.

***

Outbound Nexus is the most heavily policed city in Human space, which means it has a thriving black market. I traded in my ship for a collection of useful gadgets, few of which were legal. That done, I strode confidently to H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. No human guarded the front door. That didn't mean no security, though. I was thoroughly scanned before the door opened. Inside, the corridors were dark, and the lights only came on ahead of me as I walked through a series of differently armed and armored doors, the lights fading in my wake.

At B.O.S.S.'s office, the receptionist smiled disarmingly. "Welcome home, Agent Gray. I'm afraid you'll have to surrender your weapons."

"Pardon?"

She frowned convincingly, spoiling an otherwise attractive new face, and I heard a faint hum as the room's concealed weaponry swiveled to focus on me. That disturbed me less than the amount of money that had gone into her upgrades while I'd been away.

"New standard operating procedure. There have been attempts on B.O.S.S.'s life."

"I see. Understandable." I smiled confidently, reassured that she'd missed the double meaning, and wondered which of my colleagues had made those attempts, and whether they’d survived. I compliantly shed my outermost, visible layer of weaponry. If the Nevin hadn't lied, I'd pick it up again on the way out.

"Proceed."

I passed through a final armored door, wondering if this was going to be easier than I'd expected. It wasn’t. A tanglefield seized me as soon as I passed through the door, and I hung there helplessly as the receptionist rolled into the room. With a grimace of distaste and distressing thoroughness, she removed my remaining weaponry, leaving only the fleshy ring; evidently, it had defenses against detection. I began to have some confidence the Nevins knew what they were about. Her search complete, the receptionist gripped me by the neck, collapsed the tanglefield, and marched me into B.O.S.S.'s office.

"You've returned, Gray." He sounded disappointed.

"That's me, always turning up where I'm least expected."

"Did you discover who's infiltrating us?" The receptionist's grip tightened painfully.

"I think we both know I did."

A velvet-gloved manipulator emerged from beneath his desk and placed a single, six-legged chrome cockroach on its gleaming surface; almost absentmindedly, a second manipulator emerged and began stripping the bug’s legs. B.O.S.S.'s eyes narrowed in a convincing imitation of anger. "Then we'll dispose of you ourselves. But wait!" Alarm rose in his voice. "What's that on your finger?" He turned angrily on the receptionist. "How could you let him enter with a potential weapon?"

The secretary blinked, and I could almost see the gears spinning in its pretty little head. "Weapon?"

"That object on his finger. Remove it!"

Sensing my opportunity, I wriggled in the receptionist's unyielding grasp, trying halfheartedly to protect the ring. "No!"

After a brief and—I thought—convincing struggle, during which I managed to land one good but ineffective blow to her midsection, the receptionist held the finger that bore the ring close to her eyes. I grimaced, not having to pretend it hurt.

"You can give us the ring nicely, or we can simply remove the finger. Choose fast."

"The ring, by all means," I gasped.

The receptionist smiled as I slid the ring towards my finger tip. Before I'd finished, she caught the ring and yanked it painfully from my finger. I'm not sure what I'd expected, but the results were spectacular. Something intangible as a ghost, yet equally horripilating, swept through the room, leaving my hair on end as if I'd embraced a van de Graaf generator. I didn't have time to regret my impaired coiffure, as I found myself dancing away from the desk, as the receptionist had released me into a storm of high-voltage sparks that arced between her and B.O.S.S. The smoke detectors were shrilling their warning and water from the sprinkler system was pouring down. The water soothed my electrical burns.

When the sparks ceased, I stepped through the deepening puddles, pushed B.O.S.S. over backwards, and squatted behind his desk. The computer interface used by the last human occupant of his office remained, but was nonfunctional. The Nevin weapon had certainly been effective; I doubted there was a single functional computer in the building, eliminating any chance I'd learn the truth of what happened here. It also meant I was unemployed, but that problem was trivial compared with the cold, hard snout of the blaster pressing against the back of my neck. That was getting old.

"Hands on the desk."

I complied, as a blaster focuses one's attention remarkably.

"Excellent. Now stay still, or I'll fry you." The pressure on my neck eased, and a small, balding man moved to put the desk between us. His remaining hair had gone grey, and he wore a poorly fitting three-piece suit whose inelegance hadn’t been improved by the soaking he’d received from the sprinklers.

A memory surfaced. "Phillips?"

"In person."

"I thought you retired?"

"That's what I wanted everyone to think. Like most of us, H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. forced me out, but not before I planted a back door in its computer."

I remembered my own back door, and smiled approval. "A prudent career move."

He smiled, blaster aimed at my face. "More than prudent; inspired. When it became obvious what B.O.S.S. was planning, I made sure I'd be there to help him. It was surprisingly easy to rid H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. of all other human operatives so gradually no one noticed. You were the last obstacle: once you were gone, there'd be no one left to detect my tampering. H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N. would be mine."

"I suppose I've ruined that plan, haven't I?"

"Thoroughly." He frowned, and wiped water from his eyes with the back of the hand holding the blaster. Amateurs! "And now you’ll pay for the trouble you've caused me." He brought the blaster back into line. While he spoke, I'd surreptitiously felt about under the desk with one foot, seeking the panic button I knew had to be there, and I'd found it. Gently, almost reluctantly, I toed the foot pedal as his fingers tightened on the trigger.

Nothing happened.

A lifetime of fieldwork had taught me when to move—and when to stand pat. The blaster bolt that sheared through the office’s back wall, leaving a cloud of steam in its wake, would have neatly removed my head had I dodged—it was that badly aimed. As it was, I waited for the beam to sweep towards me before I ducked under it. Melted plascrete showered down, but I didn't stop to brush it off; instead, I grabbed his wrist and lifted, diverting the beam into the ceiling. A sizable chunk of ceiling fell behind me. I pulled him towards me, tore the gun from his grip, then flung him to the floor and sat on his chest, training the gun on his face. There was terror in his eyes as I pressed the warm barrel against his forehead.

"Wait! We can share!"

I smiled coolly, then drew the blaster backwards just far enough for him to see me tightening my finger on the trigger. The trigger clicked, and as it did, his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted. Leaving the safety on, I tucked the gun into my shoulder holster and efficiently bound the man with loops of fiber optic cable that had fallen with the ceiling. I'd turn him over to the civilian authorities once I was clear, but there was no hurry; all the phones and alarm systems would be dead, and it would be some time before anyone noticed. I rose from the sodden floor, just as the sprinklers stopped. I gazed at the wreckage, pleased to note that the first blaster bolt had opened B.O.S.S.'s wall safe in passing. There were all kinds of interesting things stored there, including large quantities of old-fashioned plastic money and EMP-hardened backup cubes. All that remained of H.A.R.R.I.S.O.N.'s computers.

I made my way to Stores, stepping around the immobile, charred machines that cluttered the hallways. I was dismayed that I'd never noticed the absence of other human operatives until then; I'd become something of a workaholic lately, I suppose. In Stores, I acquired a backpack large enough to hold the contents of B.O.S.S.’s safe, and filled two large duffel bags with various toys that would be difficult to obtain in my new life. I stopped by my office only long enough to reclaim a box of my roaches, then returned to B.O.S.S.’s office to transfer the backups and money into my backpack. Phillips still lay on the floor. I pocketed the legless cockroach, then replaced it with one of its intact brethren.

Then I strode confidently out into my new life. The Chrome Cockroach was going to have a profitable new freelance career. Let the eetees beware.

Author's notes

I always loved the ingenuity and spirit of Harry Harrison's Stainless Steel Rat series, and always wanted to do a Harrison pastiche that preserved the free spirit of Slippery Jim deGriz, without actually trying to write like Harry Harrison. This story is a long thank-you note to Harrison for hours of reading pleasure. Needless to say, he had nothing to do with it other than providing inspiration, so don't blame him for the results. Note that “transfer RNA” doesn’t work even remotely as described. I chose it for the name, not the science.

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