

### The Gigacull

## A Novel By

# Terrence Rickard

#   
Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Copyright 2011 Terrence Rickard

CHAPTER 1

I felt like sticking the microphone down his throat, or hitting him over the head with it. The pompous prick would not give a straight answer. He always ignored my questions and just continued making statements plucked from his own personal agenda. I decided to try one more time and asked him the same question I had already asked at least twice before. "Do you, or don't you believe that humans are responsible for global warning?"

"As I was saying, before you interrupted me – it's probably already too late now to stop global warming. The Earth's climate is changing, and now there is nothing we can do about it. And believe me, if things get as bad as it looks like they will, then it's going to devastate our environment and inflict unimaginable misery on every person living on this planet."

He spoke with a self-confident disposition, slowly, patiently, like a jaded teacher disenchanted with his students for their inability to grasp the depth of his awesome intelligence.

"Are you saying that our efforts to develop new sources of renewable energy are a complete waste of time? That it's not going to have any effect?"

He distorted his face in frustration. This behaviour triggered in me a memory of a television commercial that featured a dog breeder laying out the benefits of a brand of pet food. The professor wore the same dour, unyielding frown to show he was ready to consider anyone who had the audacity to disagree with him to be a fool, and that he was fully prepared for an argument. That it should be obvious that because he was saying it he was indisputably right.

"What I'm saying is that there is probably not much we can do now that will make much difference. It's too late. Far too late. The Earth is heating up, the glaziers are melting, and the oceans are rising. When the ice melts at both poles the ocean's currents will stop flowing, and the oceans will become still and stagnant. What happens after that is anyone's guess. It might trigger a new ice age, or perhaps escalate the release of more greenhouse gasses and bring on a sudden, runaway bout of rising temperatures beyond the limits of our tolerance."

"So you're saying there is absolutely nothing we can do about it?"

"Why do you keep on asking me the same question?"

"Just trying to make sure I understand what you're saying." I like to make people get angry and show their true colours.

"Listen to me \- there's nothing we can do - is that clear? We're almost at the tipping point right now. Damn close to it. Okay, we may have about ten years, but that's all, after that it will be too late. Game over. Look, it would take a major miracle to change things now. Everyone on the planet would have to voluntarily and completely change their life style and give up a lot of things they're used to, things they believe they can't live without. And I can't see that happening. Humans are just too damn selfish and too Damn stupid to see the necessity. And politician, worried about being voted out of office, haven't got the guts to force them."

I moved the microphone back in front of my mouth and Johno, my cameraman, swung his camera back on me. "Thank you Professor Colman," I said, and putting on an expression of concern I turned and looked into the camera lens. "That was Professor John Colman, summarizing the views he expressed earlier in today's session of the Climate Change Conference being held here in Melbourne. I'm Mike Stanley, and you're watching NewsFix."

After Johno lowered his camera and Alice, our sound-girl, took the microphone from me I turned back to the professor and thanked him for doing the interview, and shook his hand. From the tilt of his head and the smug, speculative expression on his face I knew he was waiting for me to ask, off the record, if he really believed all he had said, and if he was sure he had all his facts straight, or a similar question along those lines.

I was not interested in hearing any more from this egoist. I knew he had formulated a set of opinions that would make him stand out from the rest of his colleagues and that now he would strongly defend his position against all counter opinions. That's the way these scientists, who sought to develop a well-defined public image, usually to help sell a book, always operated.

He waited a few seconds, shrugged, then turned and walked away.

I was standing on the footpath outside the recently built extension to the conference centre and I thought about some of the interviews we had done earlier with other scientists who were attending the conference. Later, back at the studio, we would review all the footage we'd shot and pick out the spicy bits and put them together to make a story. We would only use the juicy, emotionally distressing bits, because it was our job to sensationalize a story as much as possible to keep our viewers happy, because our viewers, bless their sour little hearts, were only interested in stupefying, shocking, astounding, and scandal-mongering stories. Professor Colman's last few statements would make the cut, and he knew it, that's why he'd made them, he was a pro. Controversial statements backed up by stubbornness in the face of criticism were his tools of trade. Suddenly, I felt like kicking myself for missing the opportunity of putting him on the spot by asking how well his latest book was doing. I'd heard it was not selling very well.

A half hour later we were in the city, on a busy sidewalk a couple of blocks away from the County Court House. We had just finished an interview with a middle-aged female teacher who had been charged with having sex with one of her students, a fifteen year old boy, who, she now claims to be madly in love with and is determined to marry as soon as he turns eighteen and she gets a divorce from her husband.

She knew we would be waiting here for her because her agent had made an agreement with our station to do an exclusive, extended interview with her on a show called Forty-Five Minutes which we run in a high rated slot on Sunday nights. Our television station likes to promote this show using the slogan, "The show that always tells the truth." Our brief interview with the teacher would go on air tonight and was intended to be a teaser to promote the Sunday night show. She had been told to say nothing more than, "no comment," to the flock of reporters who rushed her the instant she came out through the revolving doors of the court house and as she fought her way down the steps and headed off down the street to this spot two blocks away, where she knew we would be waiting.

"Do you think she really is forty six?" I asked Johno as we watched her walk away, with her head held high and her shoulders pinned back to accentuate her small, but nicely shaped breasts. "She doesn't look it."

Normally I didn't ask a woman her age, but for this story it was a key issue. I studied what could still be seen of her as she merged with the crowd in the busy city street. She had a slim figure and the facial features of a teenager, and seemed to be just as carefree; always in a happy mood, always ready to smile, or to break out in a fit of giggles at the slightest provocation.

"Yeah, she looks, and acts a lot younger, doesn't she?" said Johno. "Maybe she doesn't understand the consequences of losing her case. She could end up in prison."

I noticed Johno's worried expression as he stood there studying my face. "What's going on in your little brain?" he asked. "Do you think she's lying? That she's exaggerating her age in order to sell her story to the network?"

"Well, could be, you never know."

Johno stood up straight and looked down on me, and seemed to be considering the merits of this idea. He was tall and lanky, and for someone who worked in the front lines of the news delivery industry he was a bit of an oddity - he was not the slightest bit interested in what was happening in the world of politics, sport, religion, science, or anything else currently making news headlines. He was always above all that crap - he was the super cool dude from his toes up to the top of his thick bright red hair. And thus he usually didn't take the slightest interest in any of the stories we did. But this story was different – it was about a beautiful sexy teacher who was in trouble.

The third, temporary, member of our team, Alice, who was working as our sound technician today, stood back near Johno's car and silently observed us. She was young, cute, strong and fit, and chronically shy. She had only been out with Johno and myself on a few odd occasions, and she was still trying to work us out, trying to decide how she should behave in our company.

"So, you don't think she knows that exaggerating her age, if she's doing that, might adversely effect her case in court?" Johno asked.

"Will it? - Maybe it won't. Maybe the judge will think she is just an innocent, simple minded little thing. Who knows?"

"Her lawyer would know," Johno said.

"Yeah, but her agent might be telling her not to worry, it makes for a better story. And her lawyer might be telling her it won't make much difference anyway, who knows?"

"Her lawyer should be telling her that being branded as a liar in court will undermine her case," Johno, my cameraman, should know, because he has a law degree. But I'll tell you more about that later.

"All women lie about their age," I said.

"Yeah, but they always claim to be younger, not older."

"I bet Alice doesn't lie about her age. You don't do that, do you Alice?"

Alice seemed shocked that I should direct a question at her. She blushed, shrugged, and shook her head. I looked back at Johno. "I'm just saying she doesn't look like forty six. But, who knows – maybe she is. She looks after her skin, and it's obvious she keeps herself fit."

Johno turned and tried to spot the teacher one last time in the crowd, but she was gone. "Yeah, that's for sure. She has a great little body. If any of my teachers looked like that when I was fifteen, and came on to me, I'm sure I wouldn't have hesitated."

"I believe it was the other way around – he came onto her, and she couldn't resist. He's a real charmer, a sweet talker, and good looking too. I believe he's going to get up in court and admit it - that it was his idea, to try to get her off. He knows they can't touch him. But, hey, didn't you go to a Catholic school? You had nuns there, didn't you?"

"That was primary school, you idiot." said Johno. "But even in high school none of my teachers looked like her, well, except for one, an art teacher, but there was no way she would flirt with any of her students. She was happily married and had a few kids. But man, did she look hot? Would have made a great centrefold."

"Yeah, I remember I had a teacher like that. Used to love going to her class just to spend time drooling over her."

I noticed Alice shaking her head in disgust.

"So you think she is lying about her age to make her story more sensational so that she would have a better chance of getting on Forty Five minutes?"

"The idea crossed my mind," I said.

"I don't believe it."

"So how about this – she deliberately had sex with the kid, in order to be arrested, so that she could get on Forty Five minutes?"

"Man, you're twisted. That idea is just simply crazy. You must have the most perverted mind of anyone I know."

"No, I think maybe she does." I didn't believe it, but I enjoyed provoking Johno.

"No man, you're the perverted one. Right now, she must be going through just about the most traumatic period she has ever experience in her life. But you don't understand that, do you? She must be going through hell. It's possible she could end up in prison over this."

"She doesn't seem to be too worried about it. Every time I've seen her she seems to be in a happy mood."

"It's all just a big act," said Johno, his faced pleading for understanding. "I bet she's all broken up inside. But you can't understand that, can you?"

"Don't worry - she'll get off. They only send ugly old guys to jail when they get caught screwing around with some sweet spunky little morsels of jail bait."

"Johno's right, you're twisted, really twisted," said Alice.

"Wow, she speaks," said Johno.

"No, not me," I said. "It's the dumb jerk-off arseholes who get their kicks by watching shows like ours who are the twisted ones."

"Then that makes you an arsehole too, because you're the one who does the interviews, and writes the dialogue that sells the story," said Johno.

"No, you're the arsehole for not understanding that we simply supply crap designed to entertain the sick morons who watch our show, because they can't think for themselves. We're doing a public service – if they didn't get their kicks by watching our show they would be out on the street getting them in other ways."

"They do both, and it's your interviews that inspire them."

"I couldn't do it without your fantastic camera work."

"Hey don't blame me. I just shoot them - I don't decide what stories to do, or how they are presented. I'm just a cameraman."

Don't take this the wrong way, we argue and call each other names all the time, it's our way of letting off steam. We enjoy doing it. The fact is I love Johno like a brother, and if needs be I probably wouldn't think twice before laying down my life in order to save his. He is a much better person than me. And if you believe that crap then you're as crazy as the brain-dead zombies who watch our show.

Johno and I are complete opposites, and yet we have a wonderful working relationship. To pass the time while on the road to do an interview, particularly while stuck in traffic jams, we deliberately get into arguments about trivial matters, and we are forever trying to think up ways to bait and denigrate each other. Traffic jams – it use to be they only happened during peak hour, now, the whole fucking day out on the road is just one big slow moving traffic jam. What's this world coming too?

Talking about our show, I guess now is a good time to tell you a bit about it – It's called NewsFix – what a stupid name. Who ever thought up that crappy name should be sacked, or shot, or both. It's on for half an hour every weeknight directly after the nightly news. It's a newsmagazine show that mostly digs deeper into the current news items. We love stories that contain a great deal of unpleasantness. Stories that appeal to our viewer's basic instincts, their sense of injustice being the main one. - It's a release they use to direct their anger at someone. We do stories on shonky building contractors, despicable conmen that come in all shades of heartlessness and greed. We love embarrassing any of the vast variety of bludgers who rip of the social security system. We enjoy tracking down the sordid details of corrupt politicians and cops who use their position for financial gain, and sleazy CEOs who let the companies they control fall into receivership and then walk away with million dollar payouts. When I interview someone I always try to get them to reveal the usually guarded side of their personality. I always stare them straight in the eye and deliberately try to provoke them by asking questions that I hope will make them get angry. I try to put them on the spot and embarrass at every opportunity. I often ask the same question two, three, or more times if they are evasive and don't give me the answer I want. I know my viewers like it when I make conmen and crooks squirm.

I'm reluctant to tell you we're not always this ruthless – I guess I should admit we do have a positive side and every now and then do a fun story. We love the nuts who claim they were abducted by aliens and taken aboard a UFO where they were subjected to invasive medical procedures. And occasionally we do a feel good story – maybe one about a kid who lost both legs in a car accident and is now taking his first steps on his new prosthetic limbs, or maybe a story that shows a parent's tears of delight, and the looks of wonderment on the face of a child who has been deaf since birth and who has just heard the very first amazing sounds coming from the cochlear implant they just received. You know the type of show I'm talking about. I bet wherever you live there's a show just like it on your box.

By now the teacher was well and truly out of sight and forgotten and Johno and Alice were busy packing up their gear and I stood there not exactly watching, but simply daydreaming, and waiting for them to finish.

I would have helped - I have offered to help many times, but Johno has always spurned my offer. Not sure why –It's probably because he doesn't trust me, or anybody else with his equipment. I know he has a system. He has his own personal idiosyncratic systems for doing just about everything, and doesn't like interference. Using those very words he has told me that millions of times. And I have joyfully thrown his words back at him on the few odd occasions when things have gone wrong, because he has screwed up in some way.

As I stood there absentmindedly watching the flow of pedestrian traffic a man stepped in front of me and blurted out, "I need you to interview me. I have some important information that I want to tell the world about."

In quick succession I noticed that the guy was young, mid twenties, was dressed in neat casual gear, had a row of very small gold ear-rings running up the edge of his left ear, and that he seemed to be nervous and excited.

"Oh really, and what would that be?"

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. I noticed Johno casually reach for his camera, which was still sitting on the deck of his van, just inside the open back door. Without actually looking at the guy he nudged the camera in our direction and switched it on. He then bent down and set about pretending to be busy rearranging gear in a metal case which was sitting on the sidewalk. I unceremoniously took a little step to the left so that the young guy, in order to continue facing me, needed to take a step to his right, thus unknowingly putting himself at a better angle to the lens. This was a lot better than a shot of the back of his head. Naturally I didn't want him to notice that the camera was on and pointing at him. Johno and I had been a team for quite a while now and were usually on the same wavelength about how certain situations needed to be handled.

"I have some important information about a secret organization called the Solutions Society that the world needs to know about."

"Ooooh, riiiight, the Solutions Society."

"You know about the Solution Society?"

"No, never heard of it. But let me guess - they're a satanic religious organization, or some hideous cult, that's kidnapped and brainwashed your sister, and won't let you see her?"

The guy took a deep breath, and slowly shook his head, as if he knew all along that this would be my reaction.

"Sure, you can laugh, but this is serious. You wouldn't be so smug if you knew just how serious it is."

"Okay, you can start by telling me your name."

"I can't tell you that yet."

"All right, we'll let that slide for a second. What type of work do you do? Who do you work for?"

"Look, I can't tell you anything like that yet."

"Fine – Goodbye!"

"No listen! The Solution Society is a very exclusive and secretive organization, and it's very powerful, extremely powerful. Outside of the top government organizations it's probably the most powerful organization on Earth."

"Right, well, that's good news. Thank you for that information. Okay, bye - see ya."

"What I want to talk about is connected with climate change."

"I see. In that case I suggest you go home and sleep it off, because - now don't get excited, - this may come as a bit of a surprise to you, but we already know that green house gases are heating up the planet."

"Will you please stop trying to be funny for a second and listen to me? The information I have is important."

"I'm sorry, okay, fire away, I'm listening."

"As I said, I won't tell you anything about myself, at this point in time."

"Right – So goodbye!"

"No, listen, you've got to hear me out. This is serious."

"Okay! Tell me about something serious. Impress me. Tell me something that's going to blow my boots off."

He took another deep breath, shook his head from side to side, then another big sigh, and then, as if just remembering something, he quickly looked around, scanning the area all around us. I guess to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear what he was about to say, what he so desperately wanted to tell the whole world about on TV.

"The Solution Society is not a cult. It's much worse than a cult. It's more like a club, a very exclusive club that very few people know about. Its members are all rich and powerful people, and what they are planning to do will have some very severe consequences that will affect everyone on this planet. They call it their Asimov Project."

"Wow, so that's it? The big bad club gig. Do they have a big bad Godfather running the show?" I heard Johno try to suppress a snicker and when I looked I saw that he was grinning. "Hey, Johno, shut up, this is serious stuff - it's going to affect everyone on this planet."

"I'm sorry," said Johno trying to lose the smile. "No, look, I really am sorry. I'll try to be as quiet as a field mouse from now on."

I could tell that he really meant it. He was a professional. Together, over the years, we had heard some extremely bazaar stories from some extremely weird people. Some that had eventually turned out to be true and went on to become award winners that had sent the rating sky high, for a few days – and sometimes had stretched out, on and off for weeks, as we dug deeper and made the effort to suck it dry.

I noticed Alice standing at the back of Johno's SUV under the shade of the raised back hatch, watching, with a stern face. I got the impression she was pissed at me for making fun of the guy and for not giving him a better chance to explain. I instantly decided that I would try to avoid working with her in the future. She was not my type - she didn't have a sense of humour.

"Okay, okay, you can laugh. But what I have discovered is serious. All I'm asking for is a fair chance to explain to you what is happening, so that you can put it on air, and tell the world about it. It's important that people be told about this."

"Okay, tell me about it. So far you haven't told me anything."

"Not now. I think I'm being followed. I think my life is in danger. Before I say another word I'll need some guarantees. First I'll need you to promise that what I reveal will be put on air, and not covered up. And as soon as I tell you everything I want to go into hiding. So, I want your station to use it influence to help me disappear."

"You won't be getting any guarantees until you've convince me you have something worthwhile."

"I need to talk to your boss at the studio. Can you arrange that?"

I could see this guy was really serious; maybe he did have something good. But was he sane? Then again sometimes even the insane had a good story up their sleeve.

"I'll need more information first."

"I can't talk here. It will take too long to explain it all, and I haven't got enough time now. I've got to keep moving. I think I'm being followed." He quickly looked around and nervously scanned up and down the street, looking, I guess, for people who looked suspicious. "Just tell me how I can get in contact with your boss. I tried ringing the studio but the girl on the switch wouldn't put me through unless I told her what it was all about."

"That's the way the system works."

Judging by the mood he was in I doubted he would reveal much more to me here and now, so I decided to pass the buck. "All right, here's my card, ring me later this afternoon and I'll set up a meeting with my producer at the studio."

He was still scanning the crowd. Suddenly he stopped, and stood as stiff as a kangaroo frozen in a car's headlights, concentrating on one spot across the street. He took a step to the left, and then stood still again, looking at something of interest over there. Suddenly he turned back to me, snatched the business card I held extended, and without saying another word walked off as quickly as he could, constantly turning to look back across the street. The expression on his face and the way he was behaving convinced me that he was thoroughly terrified.

Johno stood up, and we both alternated between watching him go, and examining the crowd across the street, trying to spot the culprit who had put the fear of the devil into the strange young guy.

"What do you think?" asked Johno, "a chronic basket case, or simply a basically normal guy who for some reason known only to himself, has suddenly turned paranoid skitzo?"

"Don't know – His speech wasn't slurred, didn't seem to be on drugs. I got the impression he honestly believes he has something important to say."

"Yeah right, something that the whole world needs to know about."

"Yeah, anyway, I bet we never hear from him again." Many time in the past strange encounters like this just fizzled out.

"Right! A bet \- You're on - how much?" said Johno as Alice started shaking her head again in disgust.

"Yeah, let's do it. I wouldn't mind taking Twenty bucks from you." I looked at Alice and said, "What about you Alice, want to get in on a bit of the action?"

Her mouth opened, her eyes widened and her face was covered with a mixed expression of surprise and disgust.

"No thank you," she said in a very deep and serious tone.

I felt like baiting her a little more by asking for her opinion on the matter, and her reasons for not betting on it. But I decided not to - decided to just leave her be.

CHAPTER 2

The rest of the day was spent doing all the other necessary tasks associated with being a television reporter. When we returned to the studio I put in some time writing the dialogue that would be used by our presenter on air to introduced the stories, worked with video editors, and did the voice-overs, spent time on the phone checking facts and following up new leads, making appointment for future interviews, and also just shooting the breeze with other members of the staff who happened to be in the office and felt a need to catch up on the latest goss.

As usual, after calling it a day at about five thirty, I headed to my local watering hole, which was a pub called The Lomond. My girlfriend Jill was already there waiting for me. We always had a drink or two at the bar before going next door, into the Pub's bistro for our evening meal.

"Hey babe, how was your day?" I said, as I sat down next to her on a stool and put some money on the bar and looked for Stan, the barman, to get a beer.

"Same old - and yours?"

"About the same."

In front of her was her usual Gin and tonic. The glass was three quarters full, so she hadn't been here long. I leaned towards her, moved her long blond hair aside and kissed her neck, just below her earlobe.

"You are so beautiful. I can't believe how lucky I am."

With a contented smile she purred and reached for her glass and took a sip.

When I sat back, Stan, the barman, without saying a word, was placing a glass of beer in front of me. I nodded my recognition and thanks and he nodded back. As he left, I turned my attention to one of the television sets strategically perched around the room. The one that suited me best was up high on the wall behind the drinkers sitting on the other side of the horseshoe shaped bar.

The Lomond is a small quiet pub sitting on a corner in a quite part of Brunswick, well away from the bustle of the main shopping, business, and entertainment area. I liked this pub because it rarely becomes crowded. Jill and I had become friends with most of the locals who regularly frequented the place, who were all now well passed the thrill of being in the company of a TV celebrity. Now they just thought of Jill and myself as drinking buddies.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be a relatively well known celebrity? Well I can't tell you what it's like for every celebrity, but I can tell you what it's like for me. First you must understand that I'm a relatively small fry celeb. Although the show I work on is shown Australia wide, I'm based in Melbourne and very rarely travel interstate. My brand of fame must be completely different to that of an internationally known personality. I don't get stalked and chased by the paparazzi the way movie stars do, and thus I'm in no danger of being hounded to death the way Princess Di was. Thank God for that. Okay, so what's it like for me? On the lowest scale, the simplest head trip is being recognized just walking down the street or while doing some shopping in a supermarket. Strangers spot me and say, "Hello Mike," as they walk passed as if they've known me all their life. I always say hello back, as if I've known them all my life, and sometimes I may even say, "Hey, it's good to see you again," and sometimes even ask, "How you doing?" and when they say, "Good," I say, "That's great," and with a smile keep walking, as if they had just made my day. Sometimes I do actually get a bit of a buzz out of encounters like that, particularly when it's an extraordinary attractive young woman.

Then there are restaurants. Often I'm having a meal with a friend or two, and out of the corner of my eye I notice people at near-by tables looking and nudging their friends, and soon all the people there are turning and looking, often smiling or even giggling with excitement at the novelty of the occasion. I usually ignore them completely, and they get the message. Sometime, if they are making a scene, I have no choice but to acknowledge them and smile, and then proceed to ignore them. What I really can't stand is when someone gets up and comes over and wants to have a photo taken with me, and even worse, when they want to tell me something, and try to engage me in a conversation. When this happens I usually try to explain as politely as possible that I'm having a private night tonight, and I'm already having a conversation with my friends. When they are pissed and can't seem to understand this I usually attract the attention of the manager and let the situation become his problem. I have worked out through experience which restaurants are the best at handling problems when they start getting out of hand.

I try to avoid places where it's possible to find myself trapped. Quiet lonely streets where there is a chance I could run into and be recognized by a group of young bucks out on the town. Situations like that can sometimes turn nasty. I have a healthy desire to avoid getting into senseless fights. I'm about five foot ten, quite trim and fit – I have an exercise room at home and work out often and I have taken lessons in self-defence - boxing, and Tae Kwon Do, and I consider myself fairly proficient in these areas, but when hopelessly outnumbered I usually end up priding myself on being a pretty good runner.

For the same reason I rarely travel on public transport. I either drive myself or call a cab. I don't go to the movies or the theatre very often. When I do it's usually to a special event where I know there will be a herd of other celebrities who will attract most of the flack.

The biggest problem is when I casually meet someone who has not liked a story I did that was shown on TV. They stop me and want to tell me how wrong it was, and what an idiot I am for doing it. They want to express their opinions of me, and sometimes start using fowl languish and calling me filthy names. Yes, I know it's hard to believe, but there really are some strange people out there who have seen me on TV and really don't like me, or even hate me. What can I say? What can you do? It's a hazard that comes with the job. With every aspect of life there are always elements of the good and the bad.

When I go to watch a game of football, to feel safe, I usually wear my disguise, which consists of a coat with a high collar, (luckily football is played in winter,) sunglasses, and a broad brimmed hat. Some football fanatics enjoy the thrill of expressing violent emotions. I have thought about getting a false moustache and a beard made, and maybe even a wig that would stick out from under the hat - but, fortunately, being only a low level celeb things haven't got that far out of hand, yet.

Here in the Lomond we always stayed in the bar long enough to watch the news, and then the current affair show that I work for, before going into the bistro. This routine had become so ingrained that it was starting to feel as if it has earned the status of a religious ritual.

We didn't really watch the news, we just sort of watched it. As we sat at the bar talking I maintained an awareness of what was happening on the TV and if what they were showing seemed to be of interest we would stop talking and pay attention. Well at least I would.

Jill didn't pay as much attention to the TV as I did - she just monitored my reaction during our conversation. She knows that I have an addiction to watching news and current affair shows. I have five VCRs set up at home programmed to record all the news shows I'm interested in. In my profession it is necessary to know to what extent other reporters have covered particular subjects, who they have interviewed, and the responses they received. A long time before I became a reporter, I had an acute interest in knowing what was happening locally and in the rest of the world. This was one of my two passions in life - the other being Australian rules football. That is if you don't count a healthy obsession with meeting and having relationships with a variety of beautiful women, which was more like a physical necessity than a hobby. That is before I met Jill of course.

Let me tell you a little bit about Jill. First, she has the body of a model, the looks of a movie star, and the brains of a genius. If this sounds like she is just too perfect to be true, what can I say – I thank my lucky stars, frequently. She is blond, and is walking proof that the notion; "blonds are dumb," is simply crap, because she may just be the smartest person I have ever met in my life. Well, I like to think so anyway. I'll tell you how I reached this conclusion about her smartness later.

She is not just beautiful, she is stunningly beautiful. Most of the time she dresses conservatively, with her hair pulled back and formed into a bun, or a pony-tail. She doesn't use much makeup, and yet still turns heads wherever she goes. When she puts on makeup, lets her hair down, and gets dressed up she stops traffic and generally turns a crowded room silent when she enters.

Naturally she attracts more than her share of attention from predatory men, and fortunately for me she is strictly a one guy girl. She simply ignores all advances with a polite smile, like a politician making his way through a mass of hungry reporters. She has no interest in playing any sexual conquest games, or of being the prize in such games. Having made her choice she is content and happy to be with me, and just me. And for this I am forever grateful. If I didn't have to work to make a living I would want nothing more than to spend all my time just being in her company. Every time I look at her I have to suppress a sigh of wonderment at her beauty and my good fortune to have ended up as her guy.

I was half listening to one of the pub's regulars named Bill who was sitting on the other side of Jill and talking about what he intended to do the following week in Sydney when he took his wife and kids there to see his brother and his family.

Above Bill's head I could see a TV screen and the other half of my attention was occupied with watching the news reader, Gail Claybush, introducing the next item. When the story started I only caught a few words of the introduction and for a while I was not sure what it was about. Then things started to click into place and I got the gist of it and I suddenly felt that I should be paying more attention to this story. The screen was showing a series of shadowy images, taken by security cameras, showing a man walking through a car park. Something about these images seemed familiar. Suddenly the man turned around and I felt like I'd been smashed on the head with a rolled-up newspaper - there on the screen was a frozen, zoomed in close-up of a young man's face – It was the face of the young guy who earlier in the day had asked me to interview him because he had some important information that he thought the world needed to know about.

"Shit!" I grunted, as I sat up straight, turned to face the screen square on, switched off all distractions and paid full attention to what was being said on the television set.

I stood up and called to the barman. "Stan, can you turn it up a bit?"

Stan found the remote and turned it up. He was used to me suddenly becoming excited about a story on the box. Jill noticed the change in me and she too turned her attention to the screen.

Now the screen was showing various shots of police and some crime scene investigators in a taped off section of the car park, and a voice over was explaining an eye witness's account of what had happened. The eye witness's face appeared on screen and he explained how he was sitting in his car, reading a magazine, while waiting for his wife to return from shopping. He had looked up a few times and noticed two tall, tough looking characters standing between two cars. He had thought it a little strange but had not been worried about it. Later, when he looked up again, he saw the young man approaching. When the man got to his car and opened its door the two other guys stepped out from behind a SUV and one of them simply shot the young man in the back of the head, and the other guy shot him twice in the chest. There were more views of the car park and a voice-over informed us that the guns used were fitted with mufflers, which according to the police indicated that they must have been professional hit men. One of the men then searched through the dead man's pockets and removed a few things. Then they simply got into their SUV and drove off. In the next scene a cop was talking to a bunch of reporters. He explained that they did not find any form of ID on the dead man, or in his car, and asked for anyone who could identify him to come forward.

As the next story was being introduced I quickly stood up and turned to the people in the bar, and in a loud voice asked, "Did anyone hear what car-park that was?"

Roscoe, who always sat at the end of the bar by himself and always watched the news, answered. "It was the one in Elizabeth Street, up near Lonsdale Street. Why - you know that guy, or what?"

"Maybe, but I'm not a hundred percent certain."

Because Roscoe is such a regular in this place I am now of the opinion that he is regarded by most as just another piece of the furniture. Every night he orders a counter meal, and because his drinking habits supply him with most of the energy he needs he ignores all the carbohydrates on his plate and with his eyes fixed to the television set only eats small meaty protein components. All meals come served with a couple of slices of buttered bread on the side of the plate and when Roscoe is finished the bread is always still there and his plate looks as if it has hardly been touched. I remember overhearing him talking to someone once, a stranger who wondered in and sat down on the stool beside him, "What a waste," he said picking up a slice of bread and flapping it around, "What an insult, giving me this crap. It's wasted. I never eat it, and they know I don't eat it, and yet they always put it on my plate. What a waste."

I also remember a few months back when some guy came into the pub and when he was settled down with a beer on a stool beside me started looking around in all directions and then explained to me that he had just come down from Sydney where he has been living for the last twenty five years. He told me he used to come in to this pub often before moving to Sydney. He told me that the last time he was in this pub was over twenty five years ago, just before he made the big move.

He seemed shocked at all the changes that had been made, and started describing the way the pub used to be. "They've put in a new wall over there, and a new door."

"That door," I said, pointing, "the door to the bistro?"

"Really, the bistro is through there? When I used to drink here, you had to go out through the door in the snooker room, past the toilets, and walk down a long passage, to get to the bistro."

The snooker room? I guessed he was referring to the small bar out back which is furnished with two coin operated pool tables and a couple of dart boards. "The games room?" I said.

"You call it the games room now, do you?"

"Yeah, well, I do anyway. I guess that's why they put in the new door – now you don't have to walk down that corridor, or walk past the toilets to get to the bistro."

"Right, that makes sense."

"And to get to the toilets you go through that door," I said, pointing.

"Really, they moved the toilets. Can't imagine that. I'll have to check that out later. And they put in another wall and a new door over there" He said pointing with his chin."

"Where?" I said, looking around.

"There," he said pointing, "Over there, right behind Roscoe."

Having established the location of the car park I sat down, then instantly leaned forward and looked down the bar at Roscoe, as another question occurred to me. "Hey Roscoe, did anyone say what time it was when it happened? Do you remember?"

"Hum, I don't think anybody mentioned the exact time Mike. I think Gail Claybush said around midday. But I'm not sure about that. I wouldn't swear to it on a bible in a court of law, if you know what I mean."

"Okay, thanks Roscoe."

The Elizabeth street car park was only a few blocks from the court house. I sat down and tried to remember the image of the face shown on the television. There was something about it that triggered my memory of the young guy I met earlier today. Then it struck me – it was the ear rings - the dead guy had a row of ear rings in his right ear, just like the guy who approached me around eleven, only a few blocks from that car park. Now I was certain it was the same guy.

"Do you know that guy?" asked Jill in a low voice, so that no one else could hear.

"I think I met him this morning."

"Really, what happened?"

"He came up to us in the street, as we were packing up after an interview, and said we had to interview him because he had something important to say."

"Really, did you interview him?'

"No, he wouldn't tell us what he had to say." I sat there thinking about the implications of his murder. "He wanted guarantees, before he would tell us anything. He thought his life was in danger. I said I would talk to Bruce, and told him to ring me later this afternoon."

"And he didn't ring."

"No, and now I know why."

My head was buzzing with whys, and what ifs. I finished my drink and looked for Stan to order another. Jill was watching me. I'm sure she could sense the mental disarray I was feeling.

Shortly after Stan had fixed me up with a fresh glass of beer, Morgan, another one of the regulars plopped down on a stool beside me. Morgan was one of the pub's worst and most annoying drunks. "Did you know that guy Mike?" he asked "Yes, but not well."

"Did you interview him?'

"No, but I was planning to."

"Too bad you didn't - I bet he had something sensational to tell you. Just goes to show you, doesn't it, one minute you haven't got a worry in the world, and before you know it, the next thing you know is, you're dead. Hey Mike, do you think that guy knew that someone wanted him dead?"

I really didn't want to have a conversation with Morgan. And I certainly didn't want to answer that question. I didn't even want to think about it. I can still see the look of worry on the young man's face. Perhaps if I had - no - no ifs, I didn't want to go there.

"I have no idea Morgan," I said as casually as I could.

"I bet he did Mike."

"Listen Morgan, everyone in the pub knows we come in here for a few quite drinks and we don't want to talk about what happened at work during the day. We want to leave all that at the door when we walk in."

"Yeah, well, okay, but this is different Mike. Someone you know just got killed, you're got to talk about these things. It's not good bottling up shit like that."

"It's not different. It's a work issue, and I don't talk about work issues in here - okay?" I turned my back on him.

Morgan mumbled a few words, and in a huff got up and shuffled off.

I have known Morgan for a few years now and not once have I ever seen him completely sober. There were a few in here like that. They always remind me of one guy in particular who comes in here named Philip. When I first started coming here and was introduced to Philip I tried to have a conversation with him but I couldn't understand what he was saying because he was slurring his words so much. It was immediately obvious that he was pissed out of his brain.

I hate having conversations with someone who is pissed. Correction, I hate having to listen to drunks when I'm sober – But if I'm pissed too it doesn't seem to matter so much. And as far as I can remember on such occasions it seems I never have any trouble understanding them, either that or I just don't care if I can't - as long as they seem to be able to understand me - I guess that's really all that's important on such occasions.

Anyway, over the next six months it was always the same thing - Philip was always pissed, and usually when staggering around the place he always seemed to be on the verge of falling over. Then one day I bumped into him in the street. It was early one Saturday morning, about nine o'clock. I said, "Hello," expecting that this was going to be the first time I had ever seen him sober. But guess what, he wasn't - I said hello, he said hello, and then he started speaking and with a lot of effort I could only manage to understand every second word. I quickly made an excuse and moved on. A few days later I was talking to someone else in the pub about all the different characters who were regulars here, and somehow I happened to mention that there were a few regulars that I had never seen sober, ever, and mentioned Philip as an example. The person I was talking to laughed and told me that Philip was not a drunk, and set me straight by explaining that a few years before Philip had been involved in a car accident and suffered massive brain damage, and now his speech and motor skills were impaired - and he was like that all the time.

My phone started buzzing in my trouser pocket. I got it out and looked at the screen – it was Johno.

"Hey Johno, did you see the news?"

"Yeah, that was the guy, right?"

"I think so. I'm pretty sure it was."

"Man, was he stupid? He should have laid it all on us. It must have been hot shit. If he had told us all we could have looked after him, got him some protection, and he would still be alive now."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," I said.

"So what do we do now?" Johno asked. "We haven't got a clue about what he was on about. I guess we should contact Gail, or the news desk, and let them know that we met the guy shortly before he was murdered."

"Yeah, I guess so." I was still in a state of shock.

"On the other hand, maybe we should speak with Bruce first."

"Right, good idea."

"And maybe we should let the cops know too."

"They can wait," I said.

"Yeah, the guy's dead. He's not going anywhere."

A short while later I rang my boss, Bruce, NewFix's executive producer, and explained everything to him, from start to finish.

Using a string of nasty swear words Bruce let me know how disappointed he was that we had not discovered what the guy had wanted to say. We kicked around the pros and cons of our options for a while and in the end decided not to release the news that we had met him and that he had some secrets he wanted to tell the world. We would have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning and decide on what we should do.

CHAPTER 3

At the usual time of seven fifty five in the morning I arrived, ready for work, at the building in Carlton rented by the television production company that I worked for. I parked my car in a space reserved for me and entered the stylishly renovated warehouse.

The main work area was a large room filled with odd shaped desks grouped together into odd shaped islands with two, three, and sometimes four chairs. Each island was a workstation assigned a function relevant to the needs of a television production company. A nearby wall was tiled with televisions screens, each switched to a different channel, each competing for attention. Most of the other surrounding walls were glass from floor to ceiling with offices beyond, one of which was mine. An entrance to a corridor in the far wall led to a different part of the building where there were more offices and dressing rooms for the show's presenters, and further along - the TV studio, which contained the sets used on the show and the cameras and lighting that worked the magic.

There were about fifty people in the big room, but a good number of these were reporters and members of video crews waiting to be given assignments, and would soon be gone - out on the road, doing the real work, as Johno liked to boast.

Most of the people were gathered in small groups in strategic niches around the room. One group lounging around the program manager's desk, another was crowded into a little alcove that contained a kitchenette and a couple of small tables. The rest were wandering around aimlessly, as if suffering from shell shock, stopping here and there for a few seconds, their minds not yet ready to function correctly or blocked with trivial procrastinations, waiting for the coffee to kick in and wake them up.

This was a time for being social, a time for bringing each other up to date on the latest gossip, a time for comparing opinions about our previous night's show and making fun of the efforts of our opposition.

Before going to my office I squeezed passed a couple of people blocking the entrance to the kitchenette and headed for the coffee machine.

My secretary usually waited a couple of minutes to give me time to get things sorted out in my office, and take a few mouthfuls of coffee before she came in flaunting her efficiency and started demanding explanations and laying out her plans for how I should spend my day.

Through the glass wall I noticed Johno across the room talking to a cute redhead who worked in editing. From the way she was behaving, the way she beamed in his presence and hung on his every word, I formed the distinct impression that she had developed lascivious aspirations that revolved around the use of his body.

He was tall and handsome and with his casual easy going style he could charm almost any woman when he put his mind to the task. I had no idea of their relationship. The only time he ever spoke to me about the women in his life was when their relationship was on the verge of becoming serious, for a while. Something that didn't happen all that often, because he was usually too busy playing the field, flirting around achieving one quick conquest after another. I knew he had no desire to be tied down with anything remotely approaching the seriousness of marriage.

Turning my attention away from Johno I moved aside a stack of messages that needed to be considered and given a response, and opened the clam-shell that was my laptop. As it cranked up I glanced across at Bruce's office. Through his glass wall I could see he was on the phone, and wondered how long it would be before he called me and Johno into his office.

"Okay, start at the beginning, and tell me exactly what happened. How did you meet this guy?" Bruce was behind his desk. Johno and I had barely sat down on the expensively upholstered leather couch situated to the side of his desk.

Bruce is our show's executive producer. He was in his mid fifties and looked it – bald on top, short greying hair each side of his head and at the back. He is from New Zealand and even with skin as white as a blank sheet of paper his facial features verified that, as did the few strangely pronounced words he drops into conversations every now and then. He is a no-nonsense type guy who calls homosexual woman lesbos or dikes, and gay men poofters, faggots, or fairies and the unemployed dole bludgers. I guess I do the same too, some times, and I blame him for that. Being in his company has had a bad influence on me. I take comfort from blaming him, whenever I can for any bad habits I might have. He has been in the industry for centuries, it seems, from the way he keeps reminding us that he knows all the tricks in the book and has seen heaps of flashy young reporters come and go. So many that he has lost count.

Working together, interrupting each other to elaborate on details we told Bruce what had happened the day before. Most of the time Bruce listened in silence, occasionally shaking his head with impatience, and telling us to get on with it. Occasionally stopping us, by raising an index finger, to ask a question. When we had finished he sat nodding his head up and down like a pecking chook for a while as he sat thinking about it, letting it all sink in.

"All Right, there's no story here, not yet anyway." He looked at both of us in turn, giving us his, "don't you dare disagree with me," eye. "We're not putting it on air. Not telling anybody anything. We've gota get the low down on this Solution Society crap, and what's the other thing?"

"The Asimov Project," I mumbled.

"Right, the fucking Asimov Project. If you go on air now and tell the world that you met the guy a couple of hours before he was murdered, and say - he had a secret that he wanted to reveal and mention that some fucking organization called Solution Society is involved, then every fucking reporter in the country will be digging for the skinny on this fucking group, and that fucking project, and the first one to hit pay-dirt will be in the box seat. The story will be theirs - they will own it."

"I could go on air and simply say I was approached by the guy, that the guy wanted to be interviewed, but wouldn't say why, just said that it was important. I won't mention the name of this secret society. We keep that little tidbit to ourselves, our ace up the sleeve."

"Yeah, you could, but what's the fucking point of that?"

"Well, first, it did happen, it is news, and we're in the business of reporting news. Second, it might attract a response from someone who knows something, call it a fishing expedition."

"Yeah, okay, you've got a point there. It might buy us a lead,"

"But it could also turn into something hairy. The guy was murdered by a couple of hit men, professional killers. So if I go on the air and tell the world we met the guy, but the guy wouldn't tell us anything, what happens if these killers don't believe that I don't know anything? What happens if they think the guy opened up and told us everything? They obviously killed the guy to shut him up. What's to stop them from coming after myself, and maybe Johno too, because he was there too, remember?"

"And Alice too," said Johno.

"Who's Alice?"

"She was our sound girl yesterday."

"Right, good point Mike. Okay, you don't put it on air. I can't afford to lose you right now. So you just keep your mouth shut, until we find out what this is all about."

"Can't afford to lose him – what about me?" Johno demanded in hurt tones. "Are you saying you don't give a shit about what happens to me?"

"Hey, don't get excited. Of course we don't want to lose you. I was talking to Mike."

"What did you mean by right now?" I asked. "Are you saying that if the show's ratings weren't so high you wouldn't mind losing me?"

"Oh shit! Listen, why don't you cool it too? I haven't got time for this shit. We've got to work out the best way to handle this thing, Okay?"

"If it does go to air," said Johno to me, "don't use the word, we, okay? Or the word us, like in, he told us, don't do that, okay? Just say me - he told me, okay? Not us!"

"Okay, don't worry, I'll do my best to keep you out of it." I said. "How about this - we do it a different way – we start a blog on the internet, anonymously, or we submit something as bait on someone else's blog site. We use the words Solution Society, and Asimov Project, so that when anyone who knows anything and is interested in the subject, and googles these words, they will find the blog. We could supply an email address where they can contact us."

"That's not a bad idea."

"So what bullshit story are you going to put in this blog?" Johno looked worried.

"No idea yet. I'll have to sit down and think about it. I'll mention that I have some information that I think the whole world should know about."

"That doesn't make sense," said Johno, "because if you have some information that the whole world should know about, what's your reason for not telling everyone about it, right there, in the blog?"

"Good point," said Bruce. "Mike you had better come up with a good story. One that doesn't say anything much, but one that will suck in anyone who has some real information. It's got to be a teaser, offering anyone who responds something they want. So first you've got to work out what they might want."

"What they'll want," said Johno, "is to find out who you are, so that they can come round and put a few bullets in you. What type of blog site do you think you could use?"

"Don't know yet. I guess it will depend on the type of story I write. It doesn't have to be a big well-read site, any old site will do. In fact an obscure little site, that no one ever reads, might be best. I don't want any journos getting interested - that's something that might happen on a big well-read site. It doesn't matter where I put it, a google search will find it. And any reporters who stumbles across it won't take any notice if he doesn't have a clue as to its significance."

"It might take a while for it to make its way into the Google data base."

"Yeah, but that can't be helped. We'll just have to wait."

"One other thing," said Bruce. "How sure are you that the guy you met in the street is the same one on the slab in the morgue?"

"Hmm, can't put a number on it, but I'm pretty sure," said Johno.

"What about you Mike, are you sure?"

"About ninety nine percent sure. If it's not him, then it's his twin brother."

"I think you guys had better go down to the morgue and make sure. I'll ring a cop I know and make an appointment, and have him meet you there. You won't get in without him. The only thing you tell the cop is the guy wanted to be interviewed, but wouldn't tell you why."

"Who's the cop?"

"Norm Sullivan."

"Oh, shit, not him. I interviewed him when his mate Kurt was up on corruption charges last year. He doesn't like me, doesn't like reporters; thinks the world would be a much better place if all reporters were thrown in the clink and the doors welded shut."

"Don't worry about him. He's a mate of mine. I did him a favour once. Found him a witness who saw a cop being killed. He doesn't have to like you. He just has to show you the body. And whether you believe it or not, he is a good cop, an honest cop."

Maybe, but I helped put his partner away. He can't be too happy about that."

"Give him a chance. He's a good cop I'm telling you. Most cops won't tell you a thin about a crime they're investigating. They wouldn't even tell you the time of day if your watched stopped and you had an appointment to see a cardiologist. But Sulivan is different – He'll keep you informed, when it suits his needs because he is a smart cop. He knows that quite often if he keeps you in the loop you may end up doing his job for him – He knows that sometimes reporters stumble onto important information that turns out to be a lead that helps him nail a hood. He'll try to use you – but he's a good cop."

When we arrived at the morgue about an hour later we were told at the reception that Senior Sergeant Sullivan had not arrived yet. The unpleasant chill I felt in the waiting area had more to do with my image of the building's denizens then the temperature and when I suggested we wait outside in the sunshine Johno quickly agreed.

We sat on a bench at the edge of a patch of grass near the front entrance and let the sun's rays warm us. After a while Johno noticed me checking my watch for probably the fifth or sixth time and stood up, and started wandering around the perimeter of the lawn.

"Checking your watch every few minutes is not going to make him arrive any sooner, you do know that, right?" He stopped, and turned to look at me.

"How can you be so sure of that?" I asked back. "Is there some scientific proof written somewhere that I don't know about that proves beyond a doubt that watch checking doesn't speed things up?

"Yeah, now that you mention it, there is. I read it years ago. It's a scientific fact."

"Where did you read it?"

"As I said, it was a long time ago, and I've forgotten the name of the publication it was in, but it was verified as being accurate by some of the leading scientists in the field."

"These scientists – What were their names?"

"As I said-"

"I know; it was a long time ago. So tell me what field of science was that, that these scientists worked in?"

"I think it was called the Watch Watching field."

"Never heard of it."

"That's probably because you're a moron and never read scientific magazines."

I looked at my watch again and Johno continued walking. As he did so he reached into his pocket and absent-mindedly bought out a small black rectangular object, which he didn't look at, but simply carried buried deep within his closed hand.

"I hope you have no intention of using that thing." I said. "It wouldn't surprise me to see a cop become upset at someone snapping his picture. So put it away, and don't use it on him."

Johno opened his hand and looked at the miniature digital camera there, and seemed slightly surprised at the discovery. He shrugged and put the camera back in his pocket and continued walking.

Years ago, Johno told me that all his life since he turned seven and received a camera as a birthday present, he has snapped at least one photograph of every person he has ever met and had a conversation with. Naturally, knowing what a kidder he is, I didn't believe him, until one day at his house he bought out a large stack of photo albums and started flicking through them. And there they all were – snapshots of ever person he has ever met in his life – thousands of them. "I'm not very good at remembering faces," he told me back then, "but every photograph is different, every face is different. I have no trouble recognizing photographs of people."

Correction - thinking about it now, I remember that he did tell me that he had put his camera away for about a year and a half, when he was about sixteen, and thus there was a big gap in his collection. When he resumed shooting people again he felt so bad about that gap that he rang or sent letters to everyone he remembered meeting for the first time during that period and asked them if they had a spare photograph of themselves and if they could send it to him, and explained the reason why. He went on to tell me that most of the people he had become friends with during that period had sent him the required photo, and of all the people he had met only once and never saw again, not one of them had sent him a photo. He genuinely thought that this was really strange. I thought it was strange too, that he should think of it as being strange.

When Johno was back in front of me after doing four laps of the lawn, but who's counting? I asked, "Does walking around a patch of grass speed time up?"

"It's better than constantly looking at one's watch - that was in the article too. It's better because it's a way of stretching one's legs, and thus getting a bit of exercise at the same time."

I was about to come back with another probing question when I noticed a police car turning off the road and entering the car park.

"At last - he's here. Now don't forget, keep that camera in your pocket."

Sullivan was not alone. When he got out of the car another tall guy, dressed in the same plain sort of suit, got out of the passenger side. Another cop, perhaps Sullivan's new partner.

Neither of them said a word, nor offered a hand to Johno or myself when they arrived. Sullivan simply gave me a curt nod of recognition, and then, as he walked by heading for the morgue's entrance, another nod indicating that we should follow. It all fitted with his obvious self image of being a tough no-nonsense cop. The other cop didn't even bother to nod, or in any way recognize our existence.

Inside Sullivan spoke to the guy in the office for a while, while we waited outside in the corridor, then we all silently headed for the freezer room.

The morgue guy, in his white jacket, looked at his clipboard and the numbers on the freezer doors, and when he found the right one, he opened it, and dragged out a long flat draw which supported a black body bag. I looked at Johno wondering if he felt any apprehension about seeing a corpse, the way I did, and discovered that he didn't seem in the least bit fazed, in fact I got the impression that he was enjoying the experience. The guy in the white coat zipped the bag open and pulled aside its flaps so that we could take a good look.

The eyelids of the dead face were closed, the waxen skin as white as piano keys. The gold ear rings and their arrangement in the right ear didn't strike me as being different to what I could remember about them. I looked at the face and tried to remember the guy I had met in the street. The guy I had met was standing upright – this dead body was laying flat on its back. The perspective was all wrong. I felt like asking the Morgue guy if he could sit the body up. I felt like getting up on the trolley with my feet each side of the corpse and looking directly down on the face to get the right perspective. Looking at this corpse was like looking at a badly painted portrait \- it did look somewhat like the guy I was expecting to see – it was close, but something was missing, something just didn't seem right. I couldn't put a finger on what, exactly. Then suddenly I realized what was troubling me - it was the lack of animated emotions - this thing I was looking at was lifeless, lacking a personality. The guy I had met in the street had been alive and full of emotion; he had been animated with the excitement of a purpose, and with fear. His emotions had been a feature of his personality and identity. This thing seemed to be emanating only one weak emotion, that of contentment, as if saying I have given up, it's all over and I just don't care about anything, anymore. It looked as if it was now at peace with the world and would be forever. I wondered if its eyes were blue like those of the guy I had met.

"Any idea what colour his eyes are?" I asked the morgue guy.

The morgue guy looked at his clipboard, and mumbled, "Hmm, it doesn't say. The autopsy hasn't been done yet. It's scheduled to be done this afternoon."

I guess there's no real hurry. I'm sure they already suspected that the three bullets put into the body would turn out to be the cause of death.

The morgue guy put his hand on the top of the dead guy's face and, using his thumb, forced up an eye lid, then bent over and peered at the glossless eyeball, and said, "Errr - blue. The eyes are blue."

"That's him," I said to the cop.

"Yeah, that's him alright," said Johno.

"Sure?" The cop asked, looking at both of us in turn.

"Completely," I said.

"One hundred percent," said Johno.

Without saying a word Sullivan turned and walked out of the room, and his new partner, who had been standing back against the wall studying us, more interested in us than a dead body, followed. He had probably already seen his share of dead bodies.

This left Johno and I with nothing better to do then to follow along behind them. When I reached the door I sensed that Johno was not coming and turned back to see what was delaying him. He was just turning away from the dead body and I caught a glimpse of what was in his disappearing hand, as he returned his miniature camera to his pocket. I wondered if he had snapped a shot of the morgue guy as well. The morgue guy's expression gave no indication that he had seen anything unusual. People snapping photos of dead bodies probably happened all the time in here, and so as not to upset relatives he had probably spent years cultivating such a tremendously emotionless face.

Johno quickly caught up to me and I was a little surprised when the morgue guy simply left the body there and followed along behind us. I guess he would come back later and push the eyelid back into place, zip up the body bag, and put it away.

When we arrived back at the office Sullivan asked the morgue guy if he could use his office for a while. The morgue guy shrugged and walked off.

"Okay you guys, in here. I have a few questions."

I got the impression that this was not the first time the cop had borrowed this office for an interrogation. He went and sat down behind the desk, and we sat on hard straight-backed chairs facing him, and the silent partner stood silently behind us, near the opened door.

"Right, what do you know about the dead guy?"

Since most of his attention seemed to be directed towards me, I decided to answer, "Not much."

"Okay, let's start with his name."

"We don't know his name. He wouldn't tell us."

Johno glared at me. I guessed that he was pissed that I had used the forbidden plurals.

"How do you know him? Where did you meet him?"

I gave Sullivan a quick run down on what had happened.

"That's it? - You expect me to believe that?"

"That's all there is. The guy was very secretive - said he wouldn't tell us anything until he had a signed contract."

"You know I could take you down to the station and continue this down there. I could hold you there for up to six hours. I could charge you with obstruction of justice. I might even be able to make that aiding and abetting."

"Aiding who?" I asked in a raised voice. "Abetting who?"

"The killers, of course."

"You're kidding!"

"Am I?"

"It would be a complete waste of time, yours and ours. We're not obstructing justice. We came forward and told you all we know."

"What did he tell you about the Solution Society?"

"What! – The what - the what society?" I was taken by surprise. I was sure I had not told the cop that the kid had mentioned the Solution Society. Well, almost sure.

"Okay, that seemed to have rung a few bells. You're not being honest with me." The cop's eyes quickly flashed between Johno and me. "So tell me all you know about this Solution Society."

"Don't know anything about it. Never heard of it."

"Sorry, I don't believe you."

"What's the Solution Society? What makes you think he told us anything about it?"

"I'm asking the questions here?"

"You're asking questions we don't have answers for."

Okay, you guys are reporters. You're looking for a story. I understand, you want answers just as much as I do. So maybe we can work together on this. You tell me everything you know and I'll tell you what I know, and you guys end up getting a scoop, an inside track on this story. What do you say?"

"Yeah, that would be great. I love that idea." I said. "Now it must be you're turn, because we've already told you everything we know."

Up until now Johno had been quiet, now something in him clicked, and he decided he had to say something, "Look detective, there is something I want to tell you, about the guy. He was extremely paranoid. He thought he was being followed. He thought someone might try to kill him. He told us that. But honestly, he wouldn't say why. Now I've got to tell you, I'm a bit worried. If he was being followed the killers may have seen him talking to us. I'm worried that they might think we know something, which we don't."

"Are you asking for police protection?"

"No, well, not exactly. Not yet. I just want to let you know that I'm a bit worried about the situation."

"I see. So help me - tell me what you know, and I'll help you."

"Yeah, I wish I could. But the man didn't tell us anything."

Sullivan was silent for a while as he stared intently at us in turn, trying, I knew, to instil in us a sense of fear.

Finally he said, "I could let it be known that you were very helpful to the police, that you spilled your guts, and gave us a whole lot of useful information."

I felt a flash of anger. I knew it was just a police tactic, to threaten people in order to get answers, but I wondered how deep this cop's animosity towards me ran. Would he really do it?

"If you did that," I said, "you would be putting us in danger, and you would only be disgracing yourself, and the uniform you usually wear."

"You know," said Johno, "I half wish you would do that. Why? – because if the killers thought we've already told you everything we know, then there would be no reason for them to come after us, to try to shut us up."

"Hum, okay, so how about I simply tell the truth. That I suspect you know a hell of a lot more than you're telling me. That you're sitting on information while you do some research and that at some date in the future you will broadcast all you know on your TV show."

Johno turned white, and shook his head from side to side. "Hey man, that would be a dirty rotten trick."

"No, it would just be me expressing my opinion."

"It would be setting us up as targets," I said.

"It might help us catch the killers, and that's my main objective right now."

"Yeah, and it might get us killed too."

Sullivan stared directly back at me, with a barely visible smirk.

"You bastard! You're still angry at me for putting you on the spot over your mate, Constable White."

"No, you're wrong there. He was a bent cop and he got what he deserved. He was my partner, but he didn't tell me he was selling drugs because he knew I wouldn't sit still and turn a blind eye, and put up with that sort of crap. He's still in Barwon where he belongs – And believe it or not I have no animosity towards you. You were just doing your job."

I was still angry. I don't like being threatened. "If you have no more questions, we're out of here."

Sulivan sat looking at me.

"Come on Johno, let's go." I stood up and started walking, and Johno slowly followed.

"Hold on. I've been waiting for you to ask me a question," said the cop. "I'm wondering why you didn't try to pump me for information about this Solution Society, and how I found out about it."

I stopped and turned, "Okay, so tell me - what is this Solution Society?"

"Hmm, now that's interesting. You're more interested in knowing about the society, than knowing about how I found out about it - Interesting."

"You like playing games, don't you Sullivan?"

"Okay, I'll tell you a few things. I don't have to tell you anything, and perhaps I shouldn't, but I did say that I want to help, and I must ask you to keep this information under raps until we find the killers. But I'm sure you'll also want to keep it under wraps for a while just as much as I do." The cop reached into his pocket and bought out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the desk. "I don't know anything at all about this group. I found this piece of paper, screwed up, under the front seat of the dead guy's car."

Johno and I walked back to the desk and looked at the paper. On it was written:-

"If you are the police and you are reading this, it's probably because I am dead. If it looks like I died in an accident, don't believe it. It was not an accident. It was murder, and the killers work for a group that calls itself THE SOLUTION SOCIETY."

I looked at the cop, wondering if I had formed the wrong opinion about him. He raised his head and pointed at the door with his chin. Still trying to be the tough guy. As we walked out of the office he called out, "Hey guys, keep in contact. If you remember anything more about what the guy said, or if you discover anything about him, or this society, anything at all, let me know."

Outside I said to Johno, "I'm glad you resisted the urge to snap them. All the time we were in that office I was half expecting you to whip out your camera and do it."

"No mate, it never crossed my mind. What's the matter with you, are you losing the plot, or something? When you interviewed him about his partner, I was the cameraman, right? I've already got him on video."

"What about his silent partner?"

"I only shoot people I meet and have a conversation with. We were not introduced to that dumb copper and he didn't say a fucking word. End of story."

We were silent as we walked to Johno's SUV and got in. He drove out of the car park onto the road and we remained silent for a while, until eventually I had to clear up a little problem that was bothering me. "Johno, I have a question. You said you didn't snap a photo of Sullivan because you already had him on video?"

"Correct."

"And yet, you also have a video of the dead guy – so why did you snap a shot of him in the morgue?"

"As you know I have a lot of video of dead guys. You know, car accidents, bodies at crime scenes we're been to et cetera. But I don't have any snapshots of dead bodies. Today at the morgue, that was my first. I'm going to start a new collection."

"Snap shots of dead bodies?"

"Until today I hadn't thought about it, but you're got to admit - it's not a bad idea. I just had a sudden urge to get a shot of that dead guy when I was in there looking at the body. Don't know why. It was just one of those things."

"So, it was like your camera was burning a hole in your pocket, so to speak. You had it there with you and felt you just had to use it? Is that it? Was it like you had to justify carrying it into the morgue, or something like that?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Well thanks for clearing that up Johno."

"You're welcome."

"I feel a lot better now that I know why you shot the dead guy."

"Fair enough. I'm glad I could help you out with that."

"But I must admit, I'm a little worried, having just discovered that I have a certifiable crazy person working as my cameraman."

CHAPTER 4

A few days ago I was assigned a job about a sweet old lady who was ripped off by a ruthless real-estate agent. As usual, before sending me out on the road to interview people my secretary spent some time making phone calls, checking facts, in order to ascertain if the story was true, and whether it would pan out as one worth doing. Often, after going through this procedure, what seemed at first glance to be a promising story fizzled out into a big zero, usually when we discovered that the victim in the story was telling lies. Sometimes the sweet and innocent victim, who claims to have been swindled of their life savings, turns out to be an extremely wealthy crook, or a thug, working on a vendetta to screw someone they didn't like.

Some ruthless reporters I know, who I will not name, after discovering the truth about a promising story, would go ahead and do it anyway, after deciding that it could still be very entertaining, with the application of a little creative editing and the omission of a few annoying little factual details that got in the way.

I'm not that type of reporter. I don't do stories that need to be twisted and manipulated to make them seem legitimate and interesting. And I don't beat people up in public if they don't deserve it.

So, having already wasted much time at the morgue it was time to get to work. The story was about the little old lady, who incidentally was considered legally blind. I had a list of addresses to visit and some notes I compiled the day before in the office about the footage we needed to get, and the questions to ask at each location. Our first stop was to get some shots of the house that the little old lady had recently sold to the estate agent.

Today we were working without a sound guy - the way Johno and I preferred to work. It made life a lot simpler. I usually travelled with Johno in his SUV, which he needed to carry all his equipment, and he usually drove. Occasionally when he was feeling a bit under the weather, usually from a hangover, I would do all the driving, and sometimes when I had to be somewhere later in the day we would take two cars, or three if we had a sound guy tagging along.

Today it was a one-car-day, and as Johno drove I noticed that he was looking in his rear vision mirror more frequently than usual. I knew right away why he was doing it, having a couple of times felt an urge to turn and look out the back window - but I had to ask. "Why do you keep looking in the rear vision mirror all the time?"

"What? - To see what's happening behind me, of cause. That's what the fucking thing is for, or didn't you know that?"

"Yeah, but today you've been looking every ten seconds, or so. Why?"

"You know why."

"I do? – What \- you think I'm a mind-reader, do you?"

"Why do you keep looking out the side window? Why do you stare at the people in all the cars that pass us?"

"I'm not doing that."

"Oh, yes you are."

I sat up straight and thought about it for a moment – had I been doing that? And as another car passed on my side, and I turned and looked at the driver, I realized that he was right, I had been doing it.

"Har ha,har ha. There you go. You just did it again. And we both know why you're doing it, don't we?"

"Hmm, okay, I guess you're right."

"You know I'm right," said Johno in a surprisingly serious tone. "There is one way, and I think only one way, to solve this problem."

The tone in Johno's voice was very unusual. It was rare for him to be worried about anything. He was always Mr. Cool – the lay back kid. He never sees anything as being serious, never! He doesn't read newspapers, doesn't take an interest in politics, or world affairs. Sometimes he does watch our show on television, but only to see how much they cut from the footage he shot. The only television shows he likes are cartoons and the mind numbing comedy soap operas. Never drama, or crime, or any of the cloned police shows, never any movies that tries to depict a serious slice of life, and never documentaries, unless their subject matter is hyper-trashy, like the ones that attempt to prove that UFO exist, or that Bigfoot is alive and well living in secret locations in Wisconsin. Johno believes that the Apollo 11 moon landing was shot by Stanley Kubrick in a film studio in London, the same studio where the movie 2001 was shot. He's well down the road towards believing that the CIA, or some other secret organization in the States, was responsible for the 911 attack in New York.

I remember a show he liked that he raved about for a good half hour the next morning on the way to an interview. The show sold him on the idea that the Tasmania tiger, the thylacine, was not extinct, but still alive, avoiding all humans contact down in Tasmania. We constantly got into arguments and criticized each other's viewing taste and called each other insulting names, but it was always done in a friendly way. It was our way of having fun to help pass the time while travelling to interviews.

Our personalities are opposite in most respects and we both know it. Unlike me Johno doesn't windge about anything because he doesn't care enough about anything. He's convinced he knows how the system works – it's corrupted beyond repair, and he accepts it. What's the use of worrying about all that shit if you can't do anything about it? That's just the way things are, so there's no use worrying.

A few times he has tried explaining it to me, "Look," he once said, "on our show we have been exposing crocks, and con artists and shonky house builders and swimming pool installers, and other cheats in all shades and styles, for years, but has it done any good? No, because it's just human nature, and you can never change that. Crooks and corrupt government officials have been around for thousands of years, generation after generation. It's a human trait, it's in our genes. All you can do is get used to it, learn to live with it, and try not to let it effect you. You've got to learn how to stay clear of it, and get on with your life, as best you can."

That's Johno. Me, I'm the opposite - I take an interest in every little incident that happens in every corner of the globe. I examine the actions of all the world's leaders with a critical eye. I need to decide if every little change they made makes the world a better place, or not. And I guess I do grumble and wail a bit when I don't like what I see.

But today he seemed unnaturally serious, and worried.

"So you think we should put the tape on air."

"Darn right, I do," he said with a raised voice to indicate there was no doubt in his mind. "They killed that kid because they thought he was going to spill the beans. They kill him only a few blocks away from where he spoke to us, so they probably were following him, and they must have seen him talking to us. They must be wondering what he told us. So let's show them the tape, and let them know that he told us sweet fucking nothing."

"Maybe they were following him earlier and he gave them the slip, before he approached us. Maybe they went straight back to the car park to wait in the vicinity of his car, for him to return. And consequently they have no idea that he spoke to us."

"But remember, just before he walked off, he spotted someone across the street. Someone who scared the shit out of him."

"He was strung out and on the edge before he started talking to us. So maybe he made a mistake and just imagined he saw someone across the street."

"Yeah, but, then again maybe he did see one of the killers, which means the killers did see him talking to us. We may be betting our lives on that little maybe."

I sat thinking about it. It was a pleasant warm sunny day out on the street – the traffic, as usual, was a bit heavy, but it was basically a nice day \- it was hard to except that out there somewhere, someone was busy making plans to get rid of us, the way they got rid of the kid.

"Yeah, I think I'm starting to see it your way now Johno," I said. "Putting that tape on air may be the best thing to do."

"Fucking oath it is."

"Okay, I think we should talk to Bruce about it when we get back to the office.

We pulled up out the front of the house once owned by the little old lady. It was vacant at the moment, and since we didn't have permission to enter the property there was little that Johno could do except walk along the front fence with his camera on his shoulder getting as much footage of the house that he could from different angles. It would be enough.

The little old lady had lived in this house for over fifty years. She and her husband had built it shortly after they got married. He had passed away six years ago. We would have liked to have been allowed inside, but, since it was now owned by the guy I intended to confront later I didn't even bother to seek permission.

Next stop was a retirement village where the old lady now lived. We were directed to her compact self-contained unit by the girl in the front office. And even as Johno filmed this procedure we both knew that it probably wouldn't make it into the end product. Johno had a twitchy trigger finger, and at the slightest provocation would suck any image into his camera that had the flimsiest potential of being useful. He felt it was better to have footage we didn't need, rather than need it and not have it. He held a similar opinion when it came to photographic equipment. He had so much of the stuff clogging up his flat that he would have no trouble setting himself up in business as a retailer of second-hand photographic equipment.

Mrs. Park, the little old lady who opened the front door was perfect: - she looked as sweet and as frail as I had hoped she would. She invited us in and offered us tea. Johno kept his camera going the whole time in her little kitchen as she made the tea and served it in quaint hand-painted tea cups on saucers. Most of this would be edited out, but a few choice seconds of it would make it to the final cut. When we were seated in her snug little lounge room she told us her story.

A few months ago when she decided she wanted to sell her house in order to move into this retirement village she looked for an estate agent, and unfortunate she picked the wrong one. He was very friendly and seemed very kind and helpful, she told us, he also was very slick and had the gift of the gab. She had no idea of the market value of her house, no knowledge of current house prices or rents in her local area. He did a quick evaluation of her property and told her what she could expect to receive. Then set about convincing her that a private sale would be better than an auction. A few days later he rang and said he had a buyer who was prepared to offer three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. He told her that it was a fair offer and convinced her to accept it.

A few months after the deal had been finalized and she had moved in to her new unit at the retirement village she was told by a friend that there was a photo of her old house in the front window of the office of the estate agent who had arranged the sale of the house. The asking price for the house was six hundred thousand dollars.

Mrs. Park remained a sweet little old lady as she told her story in front of the camera. She showed no sign of anger or bitterness. She simply wanted to know why in four months the value of her house had gone up two hundred and eighty thousand dollars more than what she had received for it. She knew the answer already; she had been conned by a slick operator. She had been gullible and he had ruthlessly taken advantage of her lack of awareness of the true value of her house. She had been to see a lawyer and was told that the person who now owned the house was the wife of the real estate agent, and that what he had done was completely legal.

She explained to me that she was now just too old and set in her ways to waist what little time was left to her cultivating anger and stewing in disgust at her own misfortune. She knew the world was full of callous cheats and greedy operators. She had already accepted the notion that it was her bad luck that she had got tangled up with one. I asked her what she expected would happen after her story was put on television, and she told me that she knew the house was gone and she would not get any more money – she just wanted to prevent him from doing the same thing to some one else.

That was the right attitude, in my book.

Our next stop was the real estate agent's office. We decided that it would make some good footage if we bought the little old lady with us. First we had her stand out front looking, through her bottom-of-a-coke-bottle glasses, at photos of the houses for sale displayed in the window. I stood next to her, and pointed out the fact that almost all of the houses were to be auctioned and not sold privately. She slowly and sadly nodded her head and sighed, and then almost reluctantly pointed at the photo of her house, and then at the word auction, and the suggested amount of $620 K. She didn't say a word, she just lowered her hand and sighed again and looked at me with sad wrinkled eyes.

I told her that Johno and I were going into the office to confront the agent and see what he had to say for himself and asked if she wanted to come in with us, in order to have the opportunity of confronting him and telling him what she thought of him.

She said she didn't ever want to see him again, that she would wait in the car. What was done was done and there was nothing she could do about it now. I explained that this was her chance to shame him for his despicable action, face to face, on television. She said that she had seen enough of him, and if the story was put on TV and it helped to stop him from doing the same to others, that would be enough for her. I felt that she was holding back to preserve her own dignity and sanity. Everyone had a breaking point and I guessed she didn't want to risk approaching hers, and let everyone see her do it on TV. She had too much dignity to be involved in that sort of spectacle.

That settled, I marched into the shop and Johno followed with his camera blazing away at anything that moved. I explained who I was to the girl behind the front desk, it was hardly necessary, and asked to see the agent. She buzzed him, and a short while later he appeared wondering what this was all about. I told him in no uncertain terms, and asked him if he had no shame, ripping off a gullible old lady the way he had. He had done nothing wrong he told me. Everything he'd done was completely legal. "Legal," I almost shouted at him, but was it ethical? He stood to make two hundred and eighty thousand dollars profit by simply owning the house for four months. That's about what most people earn in five years. He said he had spent some money fixing the place up. What had he done? I asked, had he spent 280 thousand dollars on it? He just shrugged, but didn't answer. When I asked if he would take us to the house and show us the renovations, he said he wouldn't, that it was none of our business, and then, as I had expected from the start, he started to get angry and ordered us out of his office. When I kept asking questions he threatened, as I knew he would, to ring the police and have us thrown out. I told him to go right ahead. I knew that this would make good footage too. His temper was reaching boiling point, and he started threatening us with violence, and legal action. All good footage. Soon I decided that we probably had enough in the can for our story and headed for the door with Johno's camera covering our getaway. My parting shot was, "Hey sport, make sure you turn on the TV tonight and watch NewsFix. You're going to get your fifteen minutes of fame tonight."

Our next interview, after taking the little old lady home, was an appointment I had made yesterday with the CEO of the real-estate agents board of conduct. I showed him the interviews we had recorded so far and ask him his opinion of the agent's conduct, ask him if he considered it legal, and if he considered it ethical.

I had done stories like this before, and knew exactly what the CEO's response would be, and he didn't surprise or disappoint me. He express indignation over the agents conduct, and promised to look into it and if the facts warranted it he would withdraw the man's license to be a real estate agent. Naturally he would say all that, while hopping that that would be the end of it.

I knew that nothing would be done. It never was. To confirm the man's guilt and punish him would set a precedent that would show his organization in a bad light and have repercussions throughout the whole industry. Which was about the last thing this CEO wanted to happen. I knew it, and he knew that I knew it, but we still had to go through the motions and do the interview and put it on air, and make it seem like something was being done to correct an injustice.

The only thing that could be achieved by this story going to air was the possibility that the agent would be subjected to a few dirty looks and some snide remarks from people who saw the show and recognized him. Such treatment would probably make him feel uncomfortable for a short period of time, and the two hundred and eighty thousand dollars profit would do a good job at compensating him for these little unpleasant events and help him get over them pretty darn quickly, so that he could get on with the job of looking for a new sucker.

Later that afternoon, back in the office, before I started writing dialogue for the little old lady story, we marched into Bruce's office and told him what had happened at the Morgue with Sullivan and then we told him that we wanted the footage we had of the dead kid put on air – all of it, no edits.

I wanted to talk to Bruce first, before we set to work on the little old lady story so he would have time to consider the best way of doing it, and assign someone the job of writing the necessary dialogue, so that it could be put on air tonight. We wanted it on as soon as possible.

Bruce was not eager to comply with our request.

"You'll be blowing the inside track you have on this story. Right now we are the only ones who know the kid said anything about the Solutions Society, or the Asimov Project.

"If we put it on tonight we'll be stamping it as our story." I said. "That's surely worth something."

"Sure, until someone uncovers the skinny on this mysterious Solution Society, and then milk it until it's dry."

"Yeah, but at least we'll be able to stop looking over our shoulder all the time, knowing that the hit men haven't got us in their sights any longer," said Johno.

Bruce shrugged his shoulder and the edges of his mouth turned down, as if driven by contempt. "Have you seen any hit men, or anybody at all, following you? Anybody who looked the slightest bit suspicious?"

I shook my head, and Johno mumbled, "No, But that doesn't mean they weren't there. These guys are pros. They know how to maintain a low profile."

Bruce grated his teeth and snarled. "Maybe the kid's death had nothing to do with what he wanted to say on the show. Maybe he was a gambler and owed some people a lot of money, and he had no way, or intention of paying it back. Maybe there was someone out there who just didn't like him. Maybe he was fooling around with someone's wife. Who knows, whatever, what I'm saying is - there maybe no connection between his death and him wanting to be interviewed. And you're just worrying over nothing."

"I'm sorry Bruce, I'm finding it hard to see it that way," I said. "The kid was scared, really worried that what he wanted to do would put him in a dangerous situation. He thought he was being followed, that someone wanted to stop him talking to reporters. It was not a personal and private thing he wanted to talk about. He claimed it was something that the whole world needed to know about, that it was something that everyone would be interested in. And don't forget that note he left under the seat of his car, which said, if he was found dead, it was not an accident, it was murder and the Solution Society was responsible."

"Yeah, okay. But you're still alive. So obviously the shooters don't know that the kid talked to you. You're safe. Don't worry about it."

"I seem to remember hearing you telling a reporter, who was heading off to Iraq, that no story was worth dying for," Johno said.

"Did I say that? I must have been out of my mind. If I did say that, that is - If I did say it, then just forget I ever said it, okay?"

"If I remember correctly," I said, suddenly remembering the incident, "that reporter was your nephew."

"Oh, yeah. Well I had to say that then, didn't I – My sister was right there and wanted me to offer him some useful advice."

"Hey listen," said Johno, "there's something else I forgot to tell you about. I think someone broke into my flat yesterday." He looked at Bruce and then turned and looked at me to see my expression, waiting for a response."

I looked back at him and screwed up my face, as if I had just received a sudden jolt of pain from a bad tooth. Why hadn't he told me this earlier? "Go on, get on with it," I said.

"Well, nothing was stolen, and there was virtually no sign that anyone had been in there, but..."

"Oh shit," said Bruce, "here comes the big but."

"Now wait. Just listen. I had a few dishes sitting in the sink waiting to be washed. And one of them was my, "I love New York," cup."

"So?" Both Bruce and I said, at virtually the same time.

"Well, I love that cup. I bought it in New York when I was there about seven years ago. But the thing is, I never use it. It has a hair-line crack in it, so, I never use it. My mother always threw out dishes as soon as she saw a crack in them. She always said they're not safe to use. Little microbes get into the cracks and they can make you sick. Anyway, for sentimental reasons, I've never been able to throw that cup away. It just sits there in the cupboard with all the other cups. But I never use it."

"Maybe you just forgot the crack, and used it," said Bruce.

"No, somebody else used it. Not me. And there's one other thing. After I discover the cup in the sink I sat down and thought about it, and asked myself, why would someone break into my flat and not steal anything? And after thinking about it for a long time, and thinking about the kid's execution, I came to the conclusion that they must have been looking for something special. And then bingo, a light flashed on in my brain and I raced into my studio, to the shelves, you know, where I keep all the video tapes I've shot. The spines of the boxes are all dated. Anyway I opened the cases of the tapes I shot in the last few days, and guess what – the tapes I put in there were all gone, instead there were just blank tapes there. Someone stole my most recent tapes and replaced them with blanks."

"Are you sure?" I asked, as I noticed Bruce put his elbows on his desk and burry his head in his hands.

"Yeah, I don't label and date boxes and put blank tapes in them."

"They were not the originals, right? You have copies, here in this office, right?" asked Bruce, looking up, between his fingers.

"Oh sure, no worries. The originals are here. I only keep copies at home. Been doing that since Bill Oxford was sacked. Remember Bill?"

"No, can't say I do."

"He was canned for pointing his camera at a secretary's..."

"Yeah, I remember," said Bruce. "He pointed his camera at her arse, when she bent over to pick up some papers from a folder she dropped. Had a nice arse too. I remember."

"Yeah, and always wore tight fitting skirts. Anyway, the producer sacked him on the spot, called security and had him escorted to his desk to pick up a few personal items and then straight out the door. Wouldn't let him take any of the tapes he shot. Claimed they all belonged to the studio. So, from that day on I've been keeping copies at home of everything I shoot."

"In case you get canned, on the spot, like Bill?' I asked.

"Well, yeah, it could happen to anyone. Could happen to you too. Don't think it can't. You should think about keeping copies of your stuff at home."

"Could happen to both of you, and maybe sooner than you think, and don't forget it," growled Bruce.

"I VCR all of our shows, but I usually don't keep it long. I usually end up taping other stuff over the top," I told Johno, ignoring Bruce.

"That's crazy man. You should tape everything and keep it all. You might need it one day."

"Narr, I don't think so. Anyway I'm not worried. I'll just come round and see you."

"Right, do that, I could use a bit of extra money."

"What! You'd charge me, to look at your tapes?"

"Fucking oath, I would. If you're too lazy to go to the trouble of keeping your own tapes, darn right I would."

"So, that's what friends are for. I've always wonder what friends are for? So now, I guess I know."

"Fucking oath! Now you know."

"Arsehole!"

"Will you ladies get the fuck out of my office. Go and do some work, instead of acting like a couple of two bit prima donnas."

Johno shrugged and headed towards the door. I turned to Bruce, I wanted to know if we were on the same page. I wanted a commitment. "So, the kid's story is going on tonight, right?"

"Arrr, okay, if you insist. I couldn't live with myself knowing that you guys were out there worried shitless about whether you're being followed or not."

Johno was standing in the doorway. As I approached I noticed he looked relieved.

"Hold it, Hold it right there," yelled Bruce. "If someone broke into your place last night and took the tapes, then they already know what's on them and the full extent of what the kid told you. So now you're safe. They haven't killed you yet, so obviously they're not interested in you, or what you know."

"Well, the thing is," Johno said softly, almost whispered, "maybe I did use my New York mug after all, and maybe I..."

"You're the only fucking mug around here Johno. So get the fuck out of my office, right now, both of you, before I can both your stupid arses."

CHAPTER 5

Jill and I were sitting in the bistro of our favourite pub waiting for the food we had just ordered to arrive.

The Lomond was a workingman's pub and the food was no-thrills plain and wholesome. Always good value for the inexpensive price charged. Its most popular dish was a thick steak covered in gravy with three vegetables; usually mashed or baked potatoes and pees or beans and one other vegetable that could be just about anything, depending on the season. You could order chicken, crumbed and fried, with the same three vegetables, or go a step further and order chicken parmigiana, which is the same thing again but with a slice of melted parmesan cheese on top. Cottage pie – minced meat in a deep dish covered with mashed potato and sprinkled with breadcrumbs, grilled until it is brown and crispy on top – It's always on the menu, as is a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. And of cause don't forget the battered and deep fried fish and chips. That's one of the all-time favourites.

The portions are always large, intended to satisfy the well-earned appetites of builders and labourers and other blue collar workers who came in after work for a few beers and a decent meal. A bricklayer eating here would probably start with soup, then the main meal, and finish with a dessert. We usually passed on the soup and the dessert, because it would probably take us a week to burn off the calories that a bricklayer burned in a day. Often when we had finished eating our plates would still be half covered with food.

Before we came into the bistro, as usual we had spent the last hour watching the News and then NewsFix on the television in the bar.

In the same way as we have been doing for a bit over three years now. We are definitely creatures of habit. Three years, that's how long Jill and I had been living together at my place. Before that Jill was living in the two bedroom flat she bought about five years ago. Shortly after we met we were spending about equal time sleeping at each other's place. Gradually this arrangement changed as she started spending more time at my place, and only going to hers to pick up her mail and to get more clothes and other things she needed. Eventually we decided that it would be a lot simpler if she moved in completely and rented out her flat. I could have rented out my place and moved into hers, but my place was a large house, that had been owned by my family for generations and was full of furniture and other sentimental junk that I would have found hard to clear out. And besides since her main hobby is going to art galleries and buying works of art by young promising artists, my many walls have been turned into the perfect place to store these precious investments, along with just about every inch of free space in my garage.

Her other obsession is computer hacking. I'll tell you more about that later. First let's get my obsessions out of the way. I believe I've already told you that one of my main interests in life is watching news and current affair shows, and documentaries that keep me up to date with what is happening in the rest of the world. Like Jill I have two major obsessions. My other obsession is Australian Rules football. During the footy season I go to the MCG to watch my team every time they are playing in Melbourne, and sometime, for a big match, I'll fly interstate.

While I'm spending a Saturday afternoon at the football Jill is usually attending the opening of a new art exhibition. She likes football but she's not crazy about it. I'm not crazy about art shows, but sometimes one of us will manage to drag the other along to a special event on the grounds that it's good to do something different every now and then.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that when we were in the bar earlier the story about the little old lady was on Newsfix, and Jill was delighted that I had put the crumby bastard on the spot.

"But still, he didn't get what he deserved, he should have been locked up for ripping off that poor old thing," she said. "I hope everybody whose thinking about buying and selling a house in that area was watching, or hears about it, and gives his office a big miss and drives him out of business."

I knew from experience that that was highly unlikely, but I didn't say anything. Better to let her continue believing it was a possibility.

That story was follower by Johno and myself being interviewed in the studio by the show's presenter. She had a list of loaded questions that we wanted her to ask. She started by asking about how, when, and where we had happened to have a conversation with the young man shortly before he was murdered in the car park. I explained how he had approached us and told me he wanted to be interviewed by me. I justified my reaction to him in advance of showing the actual clip without any edits. When it was finished Johno made sure it was understood that that's all we had, and pointed out that the camera was on from virtually the moment the guy walked up to us and stayed on until he walked away. Then we spoke about our trip to the morgue to confirm it was the same guy. In response to a preplanned question asked by the presenter, Johno explained that he had forgotten the camera was still on. There were reasons for this little white lie: First it explained our delay in not coming forward sooner with information about the case. The other reason being that we didn't want it known that it was our usual MO to stealthily switch the camera on when talking to anybody off the record. Some people would probable become upset if they thought we had taped a private conversation, during which they had divulged privileged information - something they would never do if they knew the camera was on.

Although Jill already knew most of the details of our involvement with the dead guy, this was the first time she had seen this footage.

"Wow, are you always that rough on people you meet in the street?"

"Only with strangers who want to be interviewed, and waist my time by not telling me quickly and precisely what they want to be interviewed about. You would be surprised if you knew the number of nuts and bums who want me to put them on the air so that they can windge about their crappy lives, and how they beat around the bush, while trying to explain it to me, and convince me that it would make a good story."

Shortly after our food was served Jill decided to bring me up to date on her latest news. "I've got a new job," she said, as she cut into her porterhouse steak. "Tomorrow I start working undercover as a programmer at the Australian Bureau of Statistics." She looked at me with a self-satisfied hint of a smile, waiting for my response. I could tell she had something else even more interesting that she was busting to tell me. Undercover was the key word here; you see Jill is a cop. She works for the Fraud Squad, in the Hi Tech Crime Centre, a division of the Australian Federal Police - The Feds, we call them -our equivalent of America's FBI.

"Soooo--" I said slowly, impressed, and left it hanging for a while, as I finished chewing a few crispy potato chips, that came with a large slab of battered fish. "You've got a new job."

I waited while she chewed her steak.

"Yes.." she said, half way there. It seemed she wanted to stretch it out a bit more.

"Okay - tell me about it."

"First, you must realize that I shouldn't be telling you any of this - it's all completely off the record."

"Of cause - it's strictly hush hush, I understand that. Wait, how completely off the record is this? Do you mean completely forever, or just completely until you make a bust?"

"Good question. You'll make a good reporter one day. You're good at asking good questions. Anyway, I'll tell you – This one just may end up being completely off the record forever, if it turns out to be an issue of national security. And it's so weird that it just may do that."

"Okay, let's hear it."

"Right, it started when someone discovered that something very strange was happening. Some amateur radio nerds discovered an unrecorded and undocumented satellite."

"Satellite – like up there, in space?" I pointed up.

"Exactly - After a bit of investigating they worked out that it was being used exclusively by one, and only one computer here in Australia."

"Only one - that's what exclusively means."

"Yeah, right, anyway, I don't know how they discovered it, and it doesn't really matter how, what does matter is no one seems to know who put it up there, and what it's being used for. The best guess is - it was put up there by a clandestine branch of the American military, or the CIA. Naturally they won't admit to any stuff like that, and so we may never find out who is responsible. Anyway after investigating further we discovered that the computer hooked up to this satellite belongs to the Australian Bureau of Statistics. It's connected to this satellite by a disk on the roof of a building that houses the Melbourne branch of the ABS.

"Hum, sounds interesting, keep going."

"Well, yes, it is. Particularly if you consider that the Bureau of Statistics has no need for a link to any satellite, and especially not a secret satellite."

"Humm, stranger and stranger. I love mysteries. Tell me more."

"You're going to love this bit. No one at the Bureau seems to know why the dish is on the roof, who put it there, or what it's being used for. It's receiving masses of data, tones of data, both day and night, seven days a week, and no one knows why. We asked the top brass at the Bureau for an explanation and none of them seems to know anything about it."

"Arrr, that's bullshit - Somebody must know."

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you? But no one does. Or no one is admitting that they do."

"So they're sending you in there to work undercover, to find out what it's all about."

As I said earlier, Jill is a computer hacker. A very good one I've been told.

"They've tried examining the data flowing in, and this is another weird thing – the data is encrypted to a very high level. This in itself is not so strange, but what is strange is that it seems to be formatted in a way that indicates it is written in a very strange way. It seemed to be using a system of encryption that we know nothing about."

She'd lost me. I know how to use a word processor and the internet, and that's about the limit of my knowledge of computers.

"Hummm, that sounds terribly exciting."

"Cut the sarcasm, I'm trying to tell you why I'm working at the ABS, and what's happening there."

"No sarcasm, I'm fascinated by all this, tell me more."

"Okay, here's some more. As you probably already know the Bureau of Statistics is a Government run organization - as well as collecting statistics on just about everything to do with Australia they're also responsible for collecting and analysing the census data every four years. You knew that, didn't you?"

"Of cause. Keep going."

"So naturally they need a big powerful computer."

"Naturally."

"But did you know that the computer the Bureau uses is a one of a kind - a very unique computer? It was built right here in Australia by an American corporation called TrippleQuan. A few years ago this corporation risked all its capital to build a new type of computer, based of the principals of quantum mechanics. They build the computer and then they went bust. While in receivership they sold the only working computer they had, their prototype. Yes, the one that the Bureau now has. This computer is owned by one of the founding members of the corporation, a very famous person in the IT industry named Ben Wright. Years ago he invented the TrippleTum computer and made a considerable fortune, which he used to setup TrippleQuan and it seems he lost the lot when the company went broke. I'm telling you this because he is now here, working at the Bureau. You see, the bureau is renting the computer from him. When TrippleQuan went bust he bought the computer and shipped it here to Melbourne. When the bureau decided to go with his machine he came along as part of the deal."

"I don't understand – what do you mean - he was part of the deal?

"It seems he's the only person who knows exactly how it works, and the only one who can fix it. The computer is situated in the basement of the building. He has an office, a workshop, and a spare parts store room down there. He has one assistant, whose duties consists mainly of doing all the mundane maintenance jobs, like changing air filters, and ink cartages in the printers, and general cleaning. There is a rumour that the reason that TrippleQuan went broke is because the old guy was a drunk and screwed up on some detail of design, which he later sorted out. Other rumours have it that he is not a drunk, but a pretty smart operator, that he planed things to turn out the way they did. Other rumours have it that he is not broke, that he is in fact loaded, a multi billionaire, but that he just doesn't care about money. He is a loner. He has a house somewhere here in Melbourne but he spends most of his time either alone in his office, or our drinking in his local pub."

"Sound to me like the mystery is solved. He's your man. He's the one who put the dish on the roof. But I still don't understand - why did the Bureau decide to rent a computer that can only be fixed by one guy? That's crazy."

"I asked the same question. I was told that they got a good deal on the rental, a very good deal. They needed a powerful machine, and after looking at specks and running tests on his, they agreed that it was more than powerful enough to meet all their needs, now, and in the future. Also part of the deal was that he would train other people, so that they will be able to look after the machine. So far he has not done that. But no one seems to be too worried because the computer has never broken down and seems to be even much more powerful and faster than they expected."

"And I bet they don't want to hassle him about training people because they don't want to piss him off."

"That's right, no one wants to rock the boat."

"Hum, you know that would make a great story. I loved to put that on air."

"Yeah, that crossed my mind. But as I said, this is all strictly off the record, for now."

"Okay, okay, I've got it, I understand. But he's your man. What did he have to say when he was asked about the dish on the roof, and the satellite?"

"He claims he doesn't know anything about it. He said he wasn't aware there was a dish up on the roof. Doesn't know who put it up there. He thinks it was there before his computer was moved in. He said he doesn't have a clue about how the bureau is using his computer, or what programs they are running on it, and frankly he doesn't care."

"What do you think? Do you believe him?"

"I still working with an open mind at the moment. I need to examine the system in detail, and get a handle on what it's doing, before I can say one way or the other. He claims he used to be up on all the computer languages that were in use when he was younger, but things change quickly in this industry, and now all his computer programming skills are obsolete. He says he doesn't understand any of the modern computer languages that the Bureau's programmers are using these days. He understands how his computer works, but he doesn't understand what it's doing now."

"Do you believe him?"

"He's getting on in years, he's about sixty I think, maybe a bit older. I've known many programmers who skills have become obsolete, virtually overnight. For a while they would study and catch up with all the new stuff, all the latest programming technique, but as the years pass and new advances are made they let it get ahead of them again, and it all became too much for them, and they just give up, and that's it – they suddenly realized that it's all way over their heads, and that they're history. It's sad. It can happen so quickly."

"Are you worried that it may happen to you?"

"A little. So far I've managed to keep up with all the new stuff. And I'm not really worried because I hope to make my fortune soon and get out of the game and do something else, long before my skills become obsolete."

Before we go on I think I had better tell you a little more about Jill - Her father was a computer programmer way back in the days before the concept of a personal computer existed. He worked on big computers before they picked up the label mainframes. We're talking about the old days when most people didn't have the faintest idea about what a computer was, or what it did - Not long after Thomas Watson, the Chairman of IBM said, "I think there is a world market for maybe five computers," and Ken Olson, the founder of Digital Equipment Corporation said, "There is no reason why anyone would want a computer in the home."

As hobby computers started hitting the market in the mid seventies he kept buying the latest models. He had a Radio Shack machine for a while and mastered the aptly named language that it used called Basic. When the first IBM PC with an Intel 8080 chip came along he wasted no time getting one of them.

As a kid Jill fell in love with the crappy games on her father's PC and it wasn't long before she started teaching herself to program in Basic. After becoming proficient in that language she moved on to more complex languages. Normal people who become known as a linguist do so by learning human languages like French, Italian, German, et cetera. Jill's love of computers drove her to become a linguist in computer languages. By her early teens she had mastered half a dozen of them.

Her love of computers inevitably compelled her to investigate and become adept in the art of hacking. At the start her motivation for doing this had nothing to do with making money. She broke into other peoples computers and looked around inside for a while and left a few scary messages for the owners to find, simply for the thrill of knowing she could do it. It wasn't long before she built up a formidable reputation in the hacking community and became known as the Hungry Dingo Bitch.

For a long time it did not even occur to her that it was possible to make money from her hobby, until she accidentally hacked into a stockbroker's computer and stumbled upon some famous names she recognized, and discovered that these names were linked to lists of shares that they bought recently. She instantly realized that this knowledge had the potential of being a goldmine. She started studying the stock market, researched the names she'd found on the computer and out worked out what each individual was worth. Then she got herself a broker. Whenever the wealthiest players bought big loads of shares she started buying the same shares, based on the philosophy that since they were rich they probable knew what they were doing, and probably had access to some valuable inside information. Their inside information became hers. And for a while their success was closely mirrored by hers.

That is until she got caught. Being young, and perhaps feeling invincible, or at the least, not considering or understanding the risk she was taking she did a very foolish thing – she used the same broker whose computer she was hacking.

Perhaps she did this in order to keep a close eye on the record of her own transactions. Whatever, eventually a keen staff member discovered her account and could not accept that it was a coincidence that a young girl kept placing orders for the same shares bought by major clients, just a few hours after the client placed an order.

Because she was so young, and had never been in trouble before, and had not done any real damage, she was not charged.

The upshot of all this is - not too long after that the Australian Federal Police called on her. Computer hacking was a relative new profession in those days. They wanted to know how she did it, but first they also wanted her help to hack into the computer being used by a criminal suspect, to get evidence of his activities, and then later to teach members of the force how to do it.

A few years later when she graduated from university with a master's degree in computer science she applied for, and got a job with the AFP working in their computer fraud squad. A splendid reference from one of the chief officers in the force she'd already worked with probably didn't hurt at all.

Soon after joining the force, being now much smarter and more cautious she rekindled her hobby of making money on the stock market by using information obtained by hacking into stockbroker's computers. Given her circumstances her hobby was now saddled with a much higher degree of danger than before and the extra risk made it, if not more financially rewarding, then at least more of a challenge, more exciting, and more fun. She knew that if she got caught doing it now that she was a Fed there would be no mercy – they would throw the book at her.

But becoming a cop had a few advantages, the first big one being, at the Fed's expense she had been taught all the latest techniques used by cops to find and catch hackers, which naturally made her a much better hacker. It takes a hacker to catch a hacker. I'm not saying that this was her motivation for joining the force in the first place. But I do happen to know that it made sense to her that in order to become a better hacker, it seemed like a good idea to first become a crack hacker catcher. Try saying that a few times.

CHAPTER 6

The next day was a Saturday and since it was the middle of July it was also the middle of winter, which meant it was the middle of the Football season. I was lying on my back in bed looking up at the ceiling, exhausted and invigorated from just having made love. Jill was snuggled up close, her head on my outstretched arm. I knew it would be cold when we got out of bed and was reluctant to give up the warmth of Jill's body. But it was Saturday and the Roos were playing the Pies at the MCG this afternoon. I looked out the window and was relieved to find it was not raining, and that the clouds I could see where not depressingly dark.

I made a quick decision.

"You stay here," I whispered to Jill. "I'll go and make breakfast.

"Oh, breakfast in bed. What does this mean? It's not an anniversary, or my birthday. So what do you want?"

"Does making breakfast for the woman I love mean that I want something?" I asked as I put on my dressing gown.

"Yes, I'm sure it does."

"In that case, I'll give you a clue. It's a Saturday morning."

"Humm, a Saturday morning – that's not much of a clue."

"It's a perfect clue, if you think about it." I found my slippers.

"A bribe, on a Saturday morning – humm?"

"Hey, did you hear that sound, outside? It sounded like a warble, you know, like the sound a warbling bird makes."

"Do you mean like the warble of a magpie?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it sounded exactly like the warble of a magpie, one that's getting ready to do battle against a kangaroo."

"Humm, just go and make breakfast and I'll think about it."

I quickly headed towards the kitchen. Jill didn't take much interest in football, but she did occasionally ask how her team Collingwood, known as the Magpies, or simply the Pies, was doing, and often she did watch them play on television. So far this year they were doing pretty good. They had won more games than they had lost and were two places ahead of the Roos on the ladder. Only once this season would the Magpies be playing the Kangaroos. And today was that day, unless they were to meet again later in the finals. The last time Jill came with me to the football was about this time last year when our two teams were playing each other.

Lately there has been a lot of talk about the Kangaroos relocating to Queensland, permanently. For me this would be like the end of the world. I have no idea what I would do if such a tragic move ever took place. I don't even want to think about it.

I came back into the bedroom with a tray loaded with generous portions of what we usually had for breakfast, plus, in a long thin vase, a rose I had just picked in the garden. It's a pity roses don't come in black and white - the colours of her team.

With a warm mug of coffee held in one hands and a slice of toast in the other I sat in silence at the end of the bed and watched her eat. She glanced up at me every now and then and smiled. It looked like she was enjoying her breakfast and the little game she intended to stretch to the limit.

"I was planning to wash my car this after noon."

"It's not a good day for car washing. Tomorrow will be much better."

"Oh, really? In that case maybe this afternoon we can go and see what's happening at the Church Street Gallery."

"Oh, haven't you heard? They're going to be closed this afternoon. I think they're doing some renovations."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, pretty sure. Almost positive."

"What about the Jacksons, in Carlton?"

"Nope, they're closed too. They just went out of business last week. Sorry.

"Gorgy's?"

"Had a fire there last week. The place was burnt to the ground. All the paintings there went up in smoke."

"Darn, that sorts of puts a hole in my Saturday afternoon. Got any suggestions?"

"Humm, let me think about it." I screwed up my face in concentration, took a big bite of my toast, and lost in thought, looked out the window. A few seconds later I quickly turned back and said. "Hey, wait a minute, I think I do have a suggestion."

"Is it a good one?"

"It's perfect."

It was raining. Like everyone else in the large crowd crazy enough to sit in the rain to watch a game of football we were wearing clear plastic ponchos with hoods pulled up over our heads. Umbrellas were strictly a big no no. I had removed my hat and sunglasses, my usual disguise - the poncho's hood not only did the trick – but did a much better job at hiding my secret identity.

It seems history repeats itself. We were sitting in almost the same seats as the ones we sat in last year. Proving once again that we were definitely creatures of habit. Perhaps repeating simple procedures that have been found to be pleasurable helps bonds relationships and keep them on a straight and steady path.

When it comes to history repeating itself I wish I could say the same about the game we were watching. Last year the Kangaroos won. This year the Pies were killing us. Jill was delighted and jumped about in her seat, and screamed, "Come on the pies," every time her team kicked another goal. She really knew how to rub salt into the wounds of my bleeding ego.

At half time the Magpies were seven goals ahead, and I had to admit to myself, but not out loud, that it looked like the Roos were not going to win this one. At three quarter time the mighty Roos had clawed the deficit back to only three goals down, which gave me a glimmer of optimism. There was a chance, in the last quarter, if we could maintain our momentum we could perform the miracle and win.

For someone who claims to be not all that interested in football Jill was taking this game seriously. As the last quarter started she looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A complicated blend of excited optimism, and excruciating worry. I was excited too in my own way, but tried not to show it. In fact I tried to present an air of relaxed confidence.

"Okay, this is it," I said. "We're going to cream you in this quarter."

"Ha, rubbish. The Roos haven't been ahead once all afternoon, not once. The Pies stumbled a bit in the third quarter, but I bet their coach, what's his name?"

"Malthouse."

"Yeah, Malthouse, I bet he went to town on them in the break, and sorted them out. I bet he's got them back on track now."

"We'll see. But I doubt it. North's going to win this one, just like last year."

"North can't win it, that's impossible, because there's no such team as North Melbourne anymore."

"Yes there is – we changed our name back - It's North Melbourne again."

"Really? I didn't know that."

As a pre-emptive strategy to moving interstate the Roos had dropped the name North Melbourne and became knows simply as the Kangaroos. This year they had capitulated to the demands of their loyal fans and had reinstated the name North Melbourne.

"Now you do. And now you can just sit back and watch them win."

And, as if to prove I might be right, Petri, North's full forward, nick-named, "the Dish," took a mark, played on, and kicked a spectacular goal.

"There - see that! – that's the way to do it. Go Roos."

Half a minute later, just as one of the umpires was about to bounce the ball in the center of the ground my cell phone started to buzz in my pocket.

"Shit, I should have turned it off," I said as I pulled it out of my pocket.

"Don't answer it," said Jill without taking her eyes off the ball.

Good advice, but advice I knew I would have to ignore. After I said hello I had to concentrate hard to try to hear the caller's words over the noise of the crowd. It was a woman. I missed her name, and by imagining other missed words I worked out that she was telling me that she had rang the office and someone there had given her my number. I knew they would only do that if they considered it important. With my eyes on the game I waited for her to explain the reason for the call.

"I'm calling you because I wish to talk to you about...."

I missed the last bit, "What? What did you say? Why are you calling?"

"I'm calling because I saw you on TV last night, and I have some information that you may be interested in, about...."

"Shit," I mumbled in frustration, not only because a moment ago a Collingwood player had kicked another goal, but because the scream of the crowd had prevented me from hearing what she thought I might be interested in. "Say again, what information you have. Listen, I'm sorry, I'm at the football, and I'm having trouble hearing you over the noise of the crowd. So say it again, and speak up."

"It's about the guy who was killed, murdered I mean. I knew him."

Wow, holy shit! This was the break I'd been waiting for.

"Okay, hang on a minute. I'm going to move to a better place, to someplace where I can hear you. So don't hang up. Just wait. I'll be back with you in about a minute."

I looked at Jill. She had been watching me, and had heard what I'd just said.

"I can't hear her. I've got to take this call. I'll be back soon."

My interest in the game was put on hold as I raced up the steps next to rows of spectators and out of the stadium, into the almost deserted corridor behind the grandstand. I quickly headed for the exit stairs and went down a few steps, so that I was sheltered between floors, and put the phone back to my ear.

"Are you still there?'

"Yes."

"Good, great, I can hear you better now. Okay, tell me, what do you know about the murdered guy?"

"I can tell you a lot about him - I knew him well. He was a friend of mine. But, before I tell you anything, I've got to tell you it's going to cost you a lot of money."

Ha, here we go, I thought, there's always strings.

"Okay tell me two things – One, How much, and two, how do I know that what you're selling is worth anything?"

"The answer to the first question is one million dollars, Australian dollars will do. And as to the second question, well, first I can prove that I know him. I can send you proof. And then I can tell you what he wanted to tell you."

"Just knowing who he is, correction, was, is not worth much, and as for what he wanted to tell me, well I haven't a clue about what that's worth. But I'll tell you right now, it's not worth a million bucks. Nothing is worth a million bucks."

"It's good. It's worth a million, and I'll prove it to you, before you pay me. You probably think I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy."

"Hum, it all sounds a bit fishy to me. I think you're trying to con me. But I'll play your game for a while. Tell me more. Sell it to me. Tell me what you are going to sell me first, and how you're going to prove it."

"First, you've got to understand that Chris was not crazy. He was a religious nut, but he was not crazy. He discovered that some other members of his religious group had plans to kill people, perhaps millions of people, maybe more. I can tell you who his friends are, and I can prove it. That's what I'm selling. Are you interested or not?"

"You've got my attention. Chris, is that the dead guy's name? What's his surname?"

"I'm not telling you that until I get some money."

"Okay, but I still don't see how you're going to prove any of this. How are you planning to do that? - I bet you've got a plan. You do, don't you? I bet you've got it all worked out. All con artists have a plan worked out."

"I'm not a con artist. Don't worry, I will prove it, I'll prove everything. This is the way we're going to do it. I'll send you some more information. Information that you can check out. You send me some money. I send you more information. You verify it, and send me some more money. And we keep going like that until you have all the details, and then I get my final big payment – and you get the most important information of all – the information that you will really be desperate to get, by then."

"And then the whole thing falls apart like a house of cards and turns out to be worthless."

"No, I can guarantee that won't happen."

"All con artist give worthless guarantees."

"If you want to know more about Chris. If you're interested, we'll start with that. Now this is how it's going to work. You give me an email address where I can contact you, and I'll send you some photographs of Chris, and Chris and myself together, and others, to prove that I know him. And then we take it from there."

"Why don't we just meet somewhere and you can give me whatever you have in person? What's your name, by the way?"

"Like hell, I don't want to tell you my name, and I don't want to meet you because what I'm doing is extremely dangerous. The same people who kill Chris would kill me too if they ever suspected that I'm doing what I'm doing. So, no thanks, we'll do it my way. You can call me Rose. Naturally that's not my real name."

Do you have an email address Rose, where I can contact you?"

"No. I'll contact you. I'll be moving around and using internet cafes. I must ask you not to mention any of this to any body, except your boss, and the person who will be picking up the bill. I don't want anybody trying to find me. Have we got a deal?"

"I'll look at the photos and talk to my boss, and then we'll decide if you've got anything worth buying. But remember this – there's no way we'll be paying a million bucks, no way, not for anything."

"Okay, tell me your email address and I send you something."

"No, not now. I'll get a special email address set up, a very private one. Ring me back tonight and I'll give you the email address."

"I'll ring you at exactly nine o'clock from a public phone. And I won't talk for long, so don't try to trace it. And that's the last time I'll phone you. From then on, everything will be done on the internet. Okay?"

"Okay, nine o'clock."

The phone went dead.

I stood there on the stairs for a while thinking about the conversation I had just had, remembering bits and pieces of what the woman had said, trying to work out if she could be for real, or if I was being sucked into a colossal con job. Could it be a joke that someone from work was trying to play on me. Was it a prank that another studio, the competition, was trying to pull off to make me look stupid, possibly hoping I would go on air with this crazy story.

Slowly, in a bit of a daze, I staggered back towards the stadium and down the steps to where Jill was sitting. When I plopped down in the seat next to her she gave me one quick look and then returned her attention to the game. She was in a state of excitement, worked up over what was happening out there.

"Do you remember the other day I asked you to set up an email address for me?"

"What?" She didn't even look at me.

"I asked you, if you could set up an untraceable email address. How's it going? Have you done it yet?"

She looked at me for a second or two. "Mike, don't ask me about that now. - The scores are level. There's about two minutes game time left. We're into time on here."

I looked at the score board, but didn't notice what the scores were. I looked out at the players, spotted the ball flying through the air, and didn't notice who marked it when it came down, not even which side the player who kicked it next was on. Now my mind was occupied with thinking about how the other day I had spoken to Bruce about submitting a story to a blog site, in an attempt to fish for someone who knew something about the Solution Society, and how, shortly after I had rang Jill and asked her to set up an untraceable email address that I could use if the blog produced any bites. Now that I had a bite I could probable forget all about finding a blog site. But I still needed a secret and secure email address. Anybody at work could probably tap into the email address I had there, if they had a good enough reason to want to try. My home address probably wouldn't do either, for the same reason. I needed one that no one knew about, one that no one would find if they went looking for it. One that was not traceable back to me, or any of the computers I use.

"Come on, let's go," I said to Jill.

She looked at me as if I had just flipped into the twilight zone. "Are you crazy? The score is fucking level. Rocker just took a mark. He's got a set shot at goal. Look! look!" She turned her attention back to the game. "He's about fifty meters out. He can do it. The distance is not a problem for him, but he's on a tight angle. But he doesn't have to kick a goal, any score, a point, even a fucking point will win the game."

I watched. Rocker took his time, came is slow and deliberate and kicked the ball straight between the centre of the tall posts. I admired his skills; It was a brilliant kick, but I don't think I realized the true significance of it. I'm sure at that point in time it didn't register that we had just lost the game.

Jill made sure I knew it. "We won. We won, Collingwood won. There can't be more than a few seconds left on the clock. There's not enough time for you to score again. It's all over. We beat you."

Just as she predicted, about three seconds after the centre bounce the siren sounded and put an end to the game.

Jill's whole body collapsed with relief back into her seat. Wearing a big smile she slowly turned and looked at me.

"Well Mister, how about that? The best team won, of course."

I realized that what she said was true and accepted it in an almost emotionless state. "Okay, North lost this one. Let's get the hell out of here and organize an email address." And start doing some serious thinking about the ramifications of what had happened out on the back stairs.

"Hey where did you go anyway? Who was on the phone? You missed a great game, a fantastic game, one of the best games I've ever seen."

"Come on, let's go. I'll tell you about it on the way home. You're not going to believe it. I'm still not sure I do."

Later at home, instead of going out to a restaurant to eat as we had planned earlier, we had a couple of Pizzas delivered. On the way home I had told Jill all about the phone conversation I'd had with the woman at the back of the stadium.

When we'd finished with the pizzas Jill got to work on her computer setting up the secret, untraceable email address. Later she claimed it had been easy. She knew exactly how to do it; she had set up a string of obscure web sites in corrupt countries all around the world that catered to clandestine internet transactions.

She started hitting me with technical details, and would have went on for hours if I hadn't raised my hands as if to defend my self against an attack, and almost yell, "Stop, stop, I don't care how you did it. I don't understand any of that, and I don't want to know about it. Okay?"

She looked at me as if hurt by being denied the opportunity to show me how smart she was.

"I'm sorry, Babe. I love you for doing it. For being so smart, and knowing how to do this sort of thing. I'm just too dumb to understand what you're talking about - But I'm smart enough to know how lucky I am to be in love with a genius like you. And such a beautiful genius too."

She smiled. "Of course you are. And don't ever forget it. Now give me a kiss and then get the hell out of here, so I can get on with my own work."

When we finished a long and tender kiss I headed for my computer which was in another room, a room that I call my office. This house was so big, and had so many spare rooms that we had each claimed one, furnished it, and set it up as our own personal office.

Every time I returned to the TV studio after being on the road with Johno interviewing people, I would start writing the dialogue for the voice over, the narrative, that explained the story as the edited footage was shown on TV. The dialogue was usually written first, so that during the editing process images could be chosen that matched the words.

Now, as I sat at my computer I started writing, putting down as much as I could remember about the conversation with Rose, it was not unlike writing the narrative of a story. My objective was to try to remember every word spoken, to get it all down as close to verbatim as I could manage, as close as my memory would allow. Naturally I had no images to go with the dialogue, but it didn't matter – This time I was not writing to produce a story that would be shown on TV. This was for my own benefit. It was my way of sorting out situations in my brain. But who knows, maybe one day there would be a need to find images and match them to these words, in order to develop a story for the show. Perhaps the photos that Rose promised to send me would be a start.

Well before nine o'clock I had the email address ready for Rose. I had the conversation with her recorded in my word processor. All that was left was to wait for her to call at nine o'clock. I switched on the TV and rewound a tape in one of my VCR – I would catch up on some news shows I had missed while I waited.

Nine o'clock came and went, as did ten. Approaching eleven Jill came into my office and told me to forget about Rose and convinced me to come downstairs to the lounge room where she guaranteed she would come up with a sure fire way to make me forget all about Rose. It didn't take much convincing.

As one o'clock approached I resigned myself to the fact that Rose was not going to call, at least not tonight. I was disappointed. I wondered if she would ever ring, if I would ever hear from her again. I felt as deflated as a tire on a stolen car that had just run over a string of spikes thrown across the road.

I decided to forget all about stupid Rose and her Beguiling scam.

Together Jill and I picked up the dishes that contained the leftovers of the snacks; cheeses, salami, and crackers we had been nibbling on during the evening, a pair of wine glasses, and a couple of empty bottles. We carried them to the kitchen and left them sitting on a bench.

CHAPTER 7

We started off treating the morning like any other Sunday morning. We did not mention Rose, but in the back of my mind I was half expecting the phone to ring and I was bracing myself to have to listen to her apology and start getting back into the mind set of playing her game. I suspected that similar thoughts were flashing through Jill's mind.

After lunch these thoughts were gradually being pushed aside and replaced with thoughts about the best ways of making use of the rest of the day. As usual clearing my backlog of important recorded television shows was high on my list.

Jill came out onto the glass enclosed back veranda that faced north and was warned by the winter's sun coming in a good distance on a flat trajectory, deep onto the stone tiled floor. I had a small TV and another VCR set up on a low table in the shade at one end.

I had just sat down and got comfortable on a stretched out lounge chair and was waiting for a tape, I had just brought down from my office, to rewind, so that I could hit play.

Jill sat down opposite me, with a cup of coffee and waited, perhaps listening to the tape rewind, perhaps waiting for it to finish. I could see that she had something on her mind and that she was reluctant to talk about it.

"Okay, spit it out. What's bothering you?"

"I know somebody who might, just might, be able to shed some light on this mysterious Solutions Society."

"Really, who?"

"Someone I once worked with."

"What makes you think this person might have information that no one else seems to have?"

"He works for ASIO. It's his job to know about stuff like that. You know - secret societies, cults, dangerous religious organizations, anything to do with foreign spies, terrorist, and other nasty people." ASIO is an acronym for Australian Security Intelligence Organization, our equivalent to America's CIA.

"Hum, yeah, if anybody should know, then I guess an ASIO agent would be at the top of the list. So, you know an ASIO agent?"

"I do. Years ago he needed a good hacker to get into a computer owned by someone who worked at the embassy of a foreign country. The Feds recommended me to him. Over the years I've done a few more hacking jobs for ASIO. I had an affair with this ASIO guy for a while. This was a long time before I met you. We broke up on good terms and we are still good friends. He is married now."

"You hacked the embassy of a foreign country? Isn't that sort of thing illegal?"

"Probably – but maybe not, who knows? Hacking in general is illegal in Australia, but hacking into a foreign country's computer may not be, when the job is organized by an ASIO agent working in Australia's best interest. After all, they say that intelligent agents have a license to kill, and I've met some who think of themselves as being above the law. Any, and all laws."

"Yeah, I can see how someone who knows he can legally get away with murder might come to that conclusion."

"He is a very intelligent guy, speaks about six or seven languages. But he is also a very strange guy. I have never been able to read him and understand what he is thinking. He is either the smartest person I have ever met, or the most crazy, or both. He is the strangest, and I'm sure, the most dangerous. But at the same time he is a complete gentleman, and is extremely kind and generous. So, do you want me to call him, and ask him if he knows anything?"

"You can try. But even if he does know something I'm sure he's not going to open up to a TV reporter. These ASIO guys have a reputation for being good at keeping secrets."

"He's a good friend. If I ask him, and he knows something he might drop a few hints, and point you in the right direction. If it's in his interest to do so, I guess."

"Ha, you mean, I would have my very own, personal, deep throat."

"Deep throat - you're not talking about the movie, are you? You're talking about something connected with politics. I've heard that expression before but I don't have a clue about what it's all about. Do you know?"

"I certainly do. During the Watergate investigation in the States in the mid seventies that led to President Nixon being impeached, two reporters working for The Washington Post uncovered the whole sordid story with the help of a government insider. Someone in the highest ranks of the white house staff. He would meet one of the reporters in a dark car park. He had sworn allegiance to the President, so, he would not tell the reporter directly what he knew, but he did want to help the reporter. He wanted the truth told. It worked like this – he would listen to what the reporter had discovered. - No wait, that's wrong - he would listen to the theories the reporter had about who was involved and what he thought was happening, and he, deep throat, would let the reporter know if he was on the right track, or not."

"You're getting hot, or your getting cold - that sort of thing?"

"Exactly! For years after it was all over there was a lot of speculation about who Deep Throat was. The reporters wouldn't say. In the end it was Deep Throat himself who revealed the secret, and the reporters confirmed it."

"Who was he?"

"Shit, I've forgotten his name. He was someone I'd never heard of before. He had terminal cancer. He owned up to being Deep Throat, and shortly after he died."

"Okay, I'll try to ring my friend, and see if he'll be your deep throat."

"Hey, for Christ's sake, don't put it to him like that."

About five minutes later Jill came back out onto the veranda and sat down.

"Well, what happened?"

"He picked up the phone, and I said, 'hello, I need to talk to you about something,' - and he stopped me dead cold, and said, 'Don't say another word. I know what you want to talk about. Meet me in the Edinburgh Gardens at four o'clock, and bring your friend.' "

"No shit! He said that? And bring your friend – I'm guessing that would be me."

"He didn't say. But who else could it be? He just said, bring your friend, and then he hung up."

"Hey, this guy is very strange, and very fascinating."

"What do you expect – he works for ASIO. It's part of the job."

"I think he might have a bit of a theatrical flair, as well."

"Yeah, that's Stephen all right."

When we entered the Edinburgh Gardens it wasn't hard to spot the spook. He was sitting on a bench and he was the only other person in the park. Perhaps that was because it was a typical winter's day, cold and breezy. As we approached he stood up. He looked familiar to me, but I couldn't place where I had seen him before. When Jill made the introductions and said his name was Stephen West, all the pieces fell into place. I hadn't recognized him straight away because every other time I'd met him he was wearing the uniform of a colonel in the Australian Army, and was clean shaven. Now he was dressed as a civilian and had a full, neatly trimmed beard that was tinged throughout with a good quantity of grey hairs, that made him look much older than the way I remembered him. Okay, he was getting on in years – must be in his late forties now, maybe even early fifties. Yet, with his straight back, flat gut, and bulky shoulders he still looked fit and strong.

"Hello Colonel, it's good to see you again." We shook hands.

"Yes, it's good to see you again too Mike."

"You two know each other?" Jill was surprised.

"Yes," I said, "we met a few years ago in Western Australia. The Colonel was in command of an Army base over there. Do you mind if I ask Colonel - What happened, how come you're not in the army any more?"

Without any sign of emotion the ASIO guy studied my face for a few long seconds, then, having made a decision he told me. "After we lost the fountain over there I returned to Melbourne and was promoted to general. When our government decided to back Bush and send troops to Afghanistan I had no problem with that. But when the decision was made to attack Iraq I decided I could not send soldiers off to fight in a war I didn't believe in – so I quit."

"And joined ASIO."

"Yes. I felt a need to discover the truth."

"About?"

"About what was happening in that part of the world."

"I see, and have you?"

"I think so - but I'm still working on it."

"Hey, what's going on here?" said Jill. "Mike, cut it out. You're not doing an interview for your show, you know. So lay off."

"That's all right Jill," said West. "We were good friends before and like all old friends we like to catch up with what's been happening. And Mike has a right to know who he is dealing with now."

Jill jumped in quick. "In that case - you just said, you left WA after we lost the fountain – what's the fountain, and how did you lose it?"

"I'll tell you all about it when we get home," I said. "It's a long story. Hey, what about Lucy, any idea how she's doing these days? – Have you seen her lately?"

"Yes, I have. She is my wife now. And she's fine."

"You're wife, really - that's great, congratulations. Say hello to her for me. - Any kids?"

"Yes, one, a girl. She's almost four."

"Hey, that's great." For a few seconds I couldn't think of anything else to say. "I guess I don't have to tell you what I've been up to lately. I bet you already know."

"Yes, I do. That's why I'm here. You want to know about the Solution Society? I can't reveal all its secrets. But I'll tell you the basics. I'll tell you what I think you should know. Let's sit down."

The three of us sat in a line on the bench, with Jill in the middle. West looked around the park, and this inspired me to look too. There was an elderly lady slowly walking a little dog over on the other side of the park. She seemed innocent enough.

"It all started because a small country in Africa was being run by a brutal military dictator," West said. "This criminal regime build a large well-equipped army, and more than half of the country's economy was being used to support it. No foreign countries were threatening this small country and thus it didn't need a large army to defend itself. It needed the army to keep its own people under control. Any form of criticism, opposition, or protesting was quickly and brutally suppressed. Dissenters were quickly thrown into jail, tortured until they revealed all they knew about other dissenters, and then murdered. Often the families of these desperate citizens were rounded up as well and subjected to the same treatment. On the few occasions when demonstrations against the regime were well organized the army cracked down swiftly and heavily and many thousands of people simply disappeared."

While talking he was doing two things; he was intensely studying us, mainly me, and also, every now and again he would casually turned and look at different areas of the park, obviously checking that we were still alone.

"All the so called free governments in the rest of the world knew what was happening, but turned a blind eye. They didn't want to become involved. There wasn't much they could do anyway, short of sending troops and getting tangled up in a long and brutal military engagement in a foreign country, against a large and well equipped army. The United Nations reluctantly took up the challenge and tried to do something. First they tried imposing economic sanctions. This had no effect what so ever. The military regime quickly found ways to get around them and continued on its murderous way. Next the UN half heartedly started considering sending in a peace keeping force. But each proposal was quickly rejected by the Security Council, usually vetoed by China which had made some economic arrangements with the brutal dictator, to set up and mine for some valuable minerals that China needed to sustain its miracle economic boom."

"What country are we talking about here?"

"I can't tell you that Mike. You're going to have to work that out for yourself."

"Okay, keep going."

"This is about when, and the reason why, the Solution Society was created. After being frustrated at every turn a few United Nation Ambassadors from some powerful countries, who I will not name here and now, became appalled and outraged over the hopelessness of the situation and decided to do something about it. They were disgusted by the continuing failure of the United Nations to find solutions to any of the serious problems that existed not just in this African country, but all around the world.

"Remember Rwanda? UN forces were sent to Rwanda with instructions to observe, but not to get involved. They stood by and watched as over half a million people were slaughtered. They could have stopped it, but they didn't. Same thing happened in Somalia. The UN sent in a peacekeeping force that was under manned and had its hands tied, and when some soldiers were killed they decided that the job was just too hard and walked away from it."

"Yeah, they half heartedly tried to do the same thing in Lebanon," I said. "But when a Marine Barracks in Beirut was blown up by a car bomb and 241 American soldiers were killed they pulled out, and went home."

"Exactly, so these frustrated ambassadors decided that if the UN couldn't officially do anything about the problems, then they would act unofficially and would find clandestine solutions. All of the ambassadors who became involved had supporters back in their own countries. Some even had the complete backing of their country's government. All had connections with the military and the intelligent organizations in their countries. Some had the backing of individuals who ran large corporations. So financing any plans they came up with was not going to be a problem.

"They started by assigning project names to some of the most urgent problems, and then they set up working groups to look at what could be done. This was all unofficial, you understand? All under the table, all completely off the record.

"Their first project was to fix the problem in this African country. The working group consisted of military and intelligence officers from around the world, all experts in the art of subterfuge, propaganda, and guerrilla warfare. Their brief was to take down the corrupt military regime, and give the people a fair chance at writing a new constitution and organizing their own destiny."

"So they wanted to give this country a chance to set up a working democratic system?" I said.

"Yes, that was the general idea. The first task of the project leaders was to start finding people who had managed to flee from the carnage in their home country and who were now living in self imposed exile in various countries around the world. When they found some, they investigated them thoroughly and selected the ones who had been badly treated and who were determined to do something to help right things back home, even at the risk of their own lives. When this was done they put these people together with guerrilla warfare experts, and started training them. Eventually these recruits made contact with others inside their country and set up a vast underground network of small, three and four man cells."

"Cells?" said Jill. "Tell me about these cells. How did they work?"

"A cell is formed when someone in our resistance organization randomly comes across someone else who is cautiously expressing their dissatisfaction with what's happening around them. Our resistance worker recruits this dissenter. And then together they find a few more like minded people and form a cell. Each member of this cell goes out and finds someone else who finds others and sets up a different cell. And they don't tell the other members of their cell the name of their link to the new cell. Each member of the cell does this, forms a link to a different cell, and keeps the link's name to himself. This way if someone is picked up and tortured by the military they can only reveal their own link. They can't reveal the names of the other links to other cells, because they simply don't know them. Soon you have a well organized networked of linked cells all working in sync.

"The next task was to set up an organization of under-cover monitoring groups. There's an old saying - it's thousands of years old – to win a war, first you must know your enemy. Incidentally the Americans fighting in Vietnam had no idea that the Viet Cong had dug a vast network of tunnels up and down the country, some running directly below US Army bases. Anyway these spy missions were organized to keep tabs on the movements of the military. In particular to discover the routines of all the top brass. Where they lived, what time they left home in the morning and arrived back home at night, what route they took to get to work and where they were likely to go during the day, and night.

"At the same time that all this was happening others were being taught to make IED, improvised explosive devices. Material for these devices, and other weapons, were being provided and smuggled into the country by members of the Solution Society assigned to this project. It was coming from all around the world.

"The objective of all this was to set up a massive coordinated attack on the military, particularly its leaders. This would be the start of the campaign to win back their country. The main target would be the leaders of the military – and the dictator himself. On the day of the attack bombs were set up at strategic places along various roads. Some placed close to the drive ways of the homes of the top brass. Snipers were set up in streets that generals were known to travel."

"Okay, so what happened? Did it work?" I asked.

"Better then anyone expected. The supreme dictator was taken out first. Almost simultaneously over twenty of the most senior generals were killed, and many others wounded, some crippled for life. Army trucks on the road carrying soldiers and equipment were blown to pieces. Barracks full of troops were blown up. This produced total hysteria within all ranks of the army. They were all afraid to go out on the roads, worried that there was an IED or a bullet waiting for them. When the general population heard about what was happening masses of people came out and took over the city. Some stormed the radio and television stations. Others took government buildings. They came armed and fought the demoralized soldiers in the streets. Gunfights were happening all over the place and many thousands died. Many of the soldiers quickly ditched their uniforms and fled. When things started to calm down, about twelve days later, the Army was no longer in control. The people were. A provisional government, consisting entirely of civilians was set up. And soon after exiled citizens started returning home, and then the business of organizing a new system of government and preparing for a fair election got under way."

"How do you know so much about all this?"

"I know because I was approached by a member of the Solution Society and I became a part of the working group I mentioned earlier. I helped organize the Project.

"That's right, I remember now – when you were in the Army, you were the commander of an SAS unit."

I'm wondering why the same sort of thing has not been done in Burma," said Jill.

"We're working on it."

"What about North Korea," I said.

"We're studying the situation there, and considering our options."

"Wow! Okay," I said, "Now tell me about the Asimov project."

West stood up and slowly started to walk along the path.

I got up and casually walked along beside him. I could see that he was troubled about something. Jill, not wanting to be left out, got up, and caught up to us and soon we were all walking along side by side.

"I knew you were going to ask that," said West. "I'm sorry I can't tell you very much about it, because I'm not involved with that project. And I don't really know anything about it that's solid. Very few people do. It's extremely top secret.

"I know three people here in Australia who are members of the Solution Society. I'm not telling you who they are, but I will tell you none of them are involved in the Asimov Project. One of those three has recently disappeared. He was worried about something, I don't know what, he wouldn't say, and then he simply disappeared. One of the others is convinced his disappearance is connected with the Project. He says he has heard things about the project, and he doesn't like what he has heard. He thinks there is something fishy going on."

"Fishy?" I said. "What do you mean – in what way is it fishy?"

"I know a few people who work for the CIA in the States who are members of the Solution Society, and they also know nothing about the Asimov Project, and I know that they are also worried about it."

"Do you and your friends usually hear details about the different projects?" I asked.

"Usually, although every now and then there's a piddling little Mickey-mouse job that's locked up tightly. But there's never been one this big that's been so completely zipped up. From what I can gather there is only a hand-full of people, world wide, who have a full understanding of what the Asimov Project is all about. Many people have probably been asked to do things associated with the project without actually knowing that what they are doing has anything to do with it. They are just following orders. Like the hit men who assassinated that young man in the car park. They were given a job to do without being told that it was connected to the Asimov Project."

"How do you know it was connected to the project?"

"Your TV show, the kid told you, and everyone else who saw the show."

"If you don't know anything about the project, then how come you even know it exists?"

"The name of it - The Asimov Project - has been floating around, like a myth for a while now. It must have been accidentally dropped by someone, somewhere, and ever since then everyone has been speculating about it.

"There is one scrap of information I do have about the Project. A friend of mine showed me a copy of a message he received about the Asimov Project that obviously was not intended for him. It was accidentally sent to him with other coded messages. The strange message seems to have come from the Administrator of the Asimov Project. The message was addressed to individuals with the following code names: - The Judge, the Chemist, and the Troubleshooter. This was the message: – 'The decision has been made that we can't wait for the robotics. The environment is corroding faster than expected. We must act as soon as all systems are in place and ready for activation.'

"My friend, the one who showed me this message, has since died in what I consider suspicious circumstances - I was told he died in a car accident, that he was driving under the influence, that an autopsy revealed he had alcohol in his system. I know for a fact he was a non drinker. He would never touch the stuff."

"What do you make of the code names?" asked Jill. "What were they? The judge, the troubleshooter, and what were the others?"

"The administrator and the chemist. I have no idea who they are. As to the message, once again, no idea what it is referring to."

"So why are you telling us all this?" I asked.

"First I need to know if the young man told you anything else off camera, like his name, what type of work he does, who he works for, anything."

"No, he didn't say anything else. Johno turned the camera on just seconds after he walked up to me, and it stayed on until the guy walked away. What was shown on the show is virtually all of it."

"The other reason I'm telling you this is because you are an investigative reporter, and I'm sure that you are using all your resources to try to find out more about the society and the project, and who that young man was. I need to know what you find out. As you can imagine I can not be seen digging for information on this project. I'm sure I'm being watched, and if I start digging it would be noticed.

"So you want to use me, to do your digging?"

"There is one other reason I'm telling you all this - I want you to realize that you're becoming involved in a very risky game. You're playing with some very dangerous people now. I suggest that you stop going to that pub you drink at, because the whole place is probably bugged by now. Find a new one and don't use it for long. Keep moving about. And don't talk about what you're doing, or what you know at any pub, or at home. Your house is probably wired too, and your cars. Go for long walks in the park or on the beach. That's about the only place where you can talk safely."

"You're fucking kidding!"

"No, I'm not kidding. I'm serious, and so are the people who are keeping tabs on you. Completely serious. Deadly serious. You had better start believing it."

He stopped walking and stared with intense eyes at both of us in turn. I got the impression that he was indeed completely serious. I had never known the Colonel to be this serious about anything before.

We were cursing along M79, the Calder highway, in Johno's SUV, out in the bush heading for the township of Gisborne to interview a man about a big black cat he had seen in the near-by Lerberderg State Park. The man wanted to show us a video he had of the cat. A cat he claimed was so big it must be a panther, a puma, a leopard, or maybe even a jaguar.

In the office before we left I had decided not to tell Bruce anything about the conversation with my ASIO friend, because it was all just a little too weird, too wild, and I was not fully sure if the guy still had all his marbles. I needed to second source what he told be before I started taking him seriously. But who could I possibly turn to, to second source something like that?

I also decided not to tell Bruce about the call I received from Rose at the football, mainly because it didn't pan out – she didn't ring back as she said she would. I might never hear from her again. There would be time enough to tell him later, if she does ring back, and if she starts sending emails containing valuable information.

But I could see no harm in telling Johno.

"We went to the football on Saturday. It was a good game, a close one. In the end the Pies got lucky."

Johno nodded his head. I knew he was not interested. He was not interested in any sports. He thought watching any form of competitive sport was a complete waste of time, and he had better things to do with his time.

"You should have been there. It was a good game. I thought the Roos might get up and win, but in the end the Pies hung on. Rocker kicked a goal with only seconds to go."

"Why are you telling me this shit? I've told you a million times that I don't give a damn about football."

"Just checking, to see if you've suddenly had a change of heart, to see if a miracle has happened and you have suddenly come to your senses and discovered that football is the greatest and noblest activity a human can be involved in."

"Don't hold you breath."

"While I was there I received a strange phone call. Right in the middle of the last quarter my bloody phone started buzzing. It was from a woman who claims she knew the kid who was killed in the car park."

"Really, what did she say – did she tell you anything about the guy?"

"Not a bloody thing. You're not going to believe this – she wants a million dollars before she will tell us anything else about Chris – Chris, that's the name of the dead guy."

"A million bucks – Did you ask her what planet she came from?"

"I told her it was not going to happen. She said she would give us some information about the kid and tell us a little about what he wanted to tell us, and that this would convince us that we should pay her the million."

"Find out what she's smoking and where she gets it. I wouldn't mind getting a bit of that stuff. Hey man, she's definitely trying to work a con on you. Stay away from her. Tell her to fuck off."

"Yeah, it's possible. But then again she may have some thing worth while. I intend to string her along for a while and see what she's got."

"No man, that's no good. She'll get her hooks into you, you're got to keep away from her."

"I'm aware it could be a con. I'll be ready when she tries to pull my strings."

"No, forget it. She'll end up stinging you, for sure. She'll offer you something she knows you definitely want. Then she'll set up a panic situation, and tell you you've got to act now, it can't wait - if you don't pay up right now you'll lose it for good. She won't give you time to think about it. That's the way these things work. Man, you should know all that. How many stories have we done about con artists and the tricks they use?'

"I do know that, and you know that I know it. So don't start acting like you're trying to teach me something I don't know. I'll be watching, waiting for the panic situation."

"And then you'll fall straight into her trap, because she's going to offer you something you really want, that you think you really need, something you're desperate to get. No man, stay away from her. I personally think she must be bonkers if she thinks she can chisel a million bucks out of our tight-arse producers. Did you tell her that? You should have explained how anal they can be when it comes to forking out even a few bucks for essential things like new tires for this car, or dry-cleaning bills, or...."

"Yeah, I told her there's no way."

"Right, good for you."

"We made arrangements for her to ring me back, so that I could give her a secure email address, so that we could continue talking about what she was offering and how much we were prepared to pay."

"And – what happened?"

"She didn't ring back."

"You're fucking kidding."

"No. That was Saturday, today's Tuesday, she hasn't rung back - yet. But I'm still hopeful that she will, eventually.

"That's part of her strategy man. She wants to build some tension in you. She wants you to start regretting already that you have missed an opportunity. She wants you to feel pissed off that you didn't receive what she is offering. She's playing with your emotions and creating the right atmosphere to work the con."

"Well thank you Mr. Smartshit. I'll bare all your sagely advice in mind when she rings back."

"No you won't. You'll forget everything. It will all go flying straight out the window, and you'll buy her story hook, line, and sinker. I know you. You're hopeless."

I spotted a sign that informed us that the turn off for Diggers Rest was one K ahead. Gisborne was the next town after Diggers Rest. I took Johno's advice and forgot about Rose and her scam and started thinking again about the guy we were to see in Gisborne.

He had emailed us a copy of his video and we had agreed that the animal did seem to be a big cat, and it did look like a panther. But then again it could simply be a big black house cat. It was hard to say because there was nothing nearby but trees in the shot that could be used as a reference. Although in the distance behind the cat there was a fence and if you use one of the fence posts as a reference than that still doesn't help, because it was hard to judge how far the animal was from the fence.

My secretary had already sent a copy of the video to an expert on big cats at the Melbourne Zoo, and later she had spoken to him on the phone and learnt that the expert was also unsure. He thought it looked like a jaguar, but its tail didn't seem to be long enough. But he did concede that the tail may have been at an angle from the cat's body and thus showed a foreshortened view of its actual length.

If we got some good footage in Gisborne we would drop in at the zoo on the way home, and I would interview the big cat expert and get him to repeat his opinion in front of the camera. When I rang the guy in Gisborne a couple of days ago and told him I would like to come out to his place and interview him, he was delighted and told me he knew some other people who had seen the big cat while driving through the park. He said he would round them up and have them at his place so that I could interview them as well. He said one of them had some still photos of the beast taken out in his back paddock, and another had a plaster cast of the animal's paw print. A paw print that was so big that it could not possibly have been made by a simple house cat. It was almost as big as a hoof print of a horse.

It crossed my mind that anyone who worked at the zoo, or knew someone who worked at the Zoo would have no trouble making a plaster cast of a paw print of one of their lions.

It looked like I was in for an interesting afternoon. I loved this type of story – they were fun. Much more fun then interviewing rape victims, or survivors of a car crash, or people who had been cheated out of their life's savings.

I knew what was going to happen. It would be like going to the theatre and watching a bunch of actors perform a well rehearsed script. With expressions of deep sincerity they would lay their tall tale on me. They would show me facial expressions of shock and surprise, the same ones they felt when they came across the big thing wandering across a lonely track in the forest. And they would offer to swear on a stack of bibles, or their mother's grave that what they were telling me was true, and not the tiniest bit exaggerated.

I suspected it was a well organized prank, possibly motivated by a desire to attract tourists to the area. Maybe it was just a way of claiming an allusive fifteen minutes of fame. Who knows, and who cares – it was harmless fun. I had noticed years ago that this type of story often popped up shortly after a movie or documentary about the Lock Ness monster was shown on TV.

Out of the blue I suddenly remembered a story that came from a Sydney show years ago, about a guy who had a photograph of an animal that looked like a rabbit, with wings. He said he snapped the shot as this unusual animal as it dived bombed him, and again just before it disappeared into the dense underbrush, and vanished, never to be seen again. A few days later the guy was back on the box again, this time admitting that he had faked the whole thing. He explained how he fixed some chicken wings onto the back of a rabbit and had throw it up into the air a few times and snapped shots of it as it fell back onto a mattress on the ground. His reason for fessing up now? – guilt - he felt sorry for the hundreds of cold and tired people wandering around with cameras and sleeping out in the bush hoping to get a glimpse of this strange, and previously undiscovered creature.

I liked flying saucer stories too, but they seem to be becoming scarcer all the time. Perhaps it's because over the years there has been a glut of unproven UFO stories, and movies, and people have just had enough. Dreaming up new storylines to satisfy the television viewer's hunger for alien abduction plots has become an industry, and has inhibited the hoaxer's desire to come up with new UFO stories to about same level as the desire to make up stories about the tooth fairy. Same thing with alien crop circles - they have become more like entries in an art competition, than a fascinating report about unexplained phenomenon.

Coming back from Gisborne, on the way to our next stop; the zoo, I decided to tell Johno about our meeting with the ASIO guy, who Johno had also known years ago as Colonel Stephen West. I told him how it was Jill's idea, that she knew this ASIO agent, and phoned him, and we met him in the park. And how when we arrived I had discovered that I also knew him.

I filled Johno in on the gist of what the agent had told us about the Solution Society. Johno listened in silence and when I had finished I was surprised to find that he seemed to be upset about something.

"Hey man, am I pissed off at you - you bastard. I should kick you out of this car right now." He was angry, very angry.

"What's got into you all of a sudden? I thought you wanted to hear about what happened in the park, and what the ASIO guy told us."

"Now listen to me, you bastard, you prick, you told me the whole fucking story and only at the end did you tell me that this car is probably bugged. You should have told me that up front, you prick, before you started telling me what happened in the fucking park. Now all the bastards who are listening to this conversation know that you've told me the whole fucking works. Man, without even asking, you've gone and got me involved again. You've put my life in danger all over again. You prick. I feel like the way Al pacino must have felt in one of those the Godfather movies, when he said, 'Just when I thought I was out of all that shit – you drag me back in again.' "

"Hey don't worry - we only met the ASIO guy on Sunday. He made sure he wasn't followed to the park, so no one knows he told us anything. So this car hasn't been bugged, yet, they haven't had time. So don't worry."

Even as I said these words, the thought crossed my mind that the car may have been bugged before Sunday, maybe even just after we put the tape of the young guy on the air.

"Bullshit! They probably started bugging us just minutes after that dead kid walked up to us in the street. Now we're dead too - you bastard." It seems Johno was one step ahead of me.

"Narr, don't worry about it. If they wanted us dead, we would be dead already."

"Hello, hello, anybody out there listening to this conversation? If there is - believe me, it was not my fault that I got involved in all this crap. Listen, I'm going to just forget everything I just heard, thanks to my prick friend here. So you don't have to worry about me. I know nothing. I have a memory like a sieve. Okay."

"What are you doing?"

"You know exactly what I'm doing. I'm trying to get myself out of this mess you got me into."

I decided not to say anything for a while. I just shook my head, and shut up. I intended to give him time to cool down. We'll go and do the interview at the zoo, and then I'll play it by ear. I'll just wait and see how long he was going to stay mad at me.

After we got out of the car in the zoo's car-park, while Johno was unloading the equipment he would need I stood away from the car a bit, just in case it was actually bugged, and said; "When we get back to the office I'll search your car, and if it is bugged I will find the bug. I will get down on the ground and crawl underneath and find it."

"Rubbish, you won't find fucking anything. Bugs these days are too small, and to well hidden."

"Okay, I'll tell you what I'll do – When we're finished here I'll look in the phone book for the address of a security specialists, and we'll drop in on the way back to the office and get them to scan the car for bugs. If there's a bug in your car they'll find it. How's that \- okay?"

"They won't find it. ASIO uses the latest generation of bugs. They're much too sophisticated for any local security firm to find.

I looked up at the sky. "My God Johno, you're a hard man to please. Okay, you tell me, since you're the fucking expert, how do we find out if your car is bugged or not?"

"We don't. We'll just have to wait and see what happens, and if we don't get shot soon, then I guess I'll have to admit that it probably hasn't been bugged."

"Good, I'm glad we got that settled. Come on, let's go and ask the big cat expert in here if he thinks there are any black tigers running around in the bush near Gisborne."

We started walking towards the Zoo's entrance. After a few steps Johno stopped. "Listen to me now," he said with a serious expression. "From now on, when you're sitting in my fucking car, you don't talk about any of that shit anymore, okay?"

"I shrugged. "Okay, whatever, If that's the way you fucking want it – it's no skin off my nose."

CHAPTER 8

As usual, after work I headed for the Lomond hotel, and as usual Jill was already there. I sat down beside her at the bar and when I leaned across to softly caress her neck with my lips she whispered to me, "Don't say anything about you know what, because, remember, this place may be bugged. One drink and we get out of here and go somewhere else."

I wasn't expecting that. I sat back, and with a smile, nodded at Stan the barman as he placed a pot of beer in front of me and took some money from the handful of coins I had placed on the bar.

"Listen, don't take this the wrong way, okay? I've been thinking about it, and I don't believe there are any bugs in this place. I think West is full of shit."

She looked at me as if I had just called her mother a hooker.

She leaned in close so that no one could hear. "Don't say anything else. Humour me, will you - we'll talk more about this out in the street."

I shrugged, as I decided to go along with her request. A short while later without any set plan Jill arranged to finish her gin and tonic at the same time I finished my beer. We got up and as we headed for the door I hoped that no one in the bar would notice this unexpected behaviour and call out, to ask why we were leaving so early.

Out in the street we walked a few paces away from the door then turned and stood facing each other.

"You don't know him the way I do. I hope you didn't say what you said just because he's my friend. I told you we had a brief affair, years ago. Is that why you don't want to believe him - jealously?"

"No, that's rubbish. I'm not jealous of him. No, that's got nothing to do with it. I'm just finding it hard to buy the crap he fed us the other day – that someone is watching us, and has bugged our house, and the pub where we drink."

"A young man was killed."

"I know that. But think about it. I can't believe that an ASIO agent would spill his guts the way he did, to a reporter like me. I can't see his motivation for doing something like that. Either he's crazy, or he's simply bullshitting us for reasons that make sense only to him. Because none of it makes sense to me."

"You've told me many times about government officials who have deliberately leaked information to you."

"Yeah, but that's because they want me to put it on air. They want to use me. He said he wants me to keep quite about it. So what's his game?"

"Okay, I guess he's using you. He wants you to keep him informed about any discoveries you might make, any gossip you might hear. He told you that was his reason."

"It has been my experience that when someone wants my cooperation, when they say they want to work with me - they never tell me the truth, never the whole truth. They spin me a bag of lies with just a smidgeon of half truths mixed in to make their line of crap seem plausible."

"So you think he's bullshitting you for some reason?"

"Yes. He wants something, and I'm sure he knows much more than he's telling us. I can't see it any other way."

It was a stand off. We stood there in silence, looking at each other, walking a few steps in one direction and then another. "Well," Jill finally said, "we walked out of there, I'm not going back in again. So let's go somewhere else, just for the fun of it."

I stood there for a while and considered where we could go.

"There's the Railway Hotel," I said.

"No, I've never liked the crowd that goes there."

"We haven't been there in years. There might be a completely different crowd in there now."

She gave a sour look and shook her head. "It will be the same old crowd. You know that. Well, at least all the old regulars who live nearby will still be there."

"I know, I've got it, the Brandon. I used to eat there a lot years ago. They've always had the reputation of having the best pub food in this part of town."

"Yes, the Brandon. I love that place. Let's go. Hey, this is fun. We're been stuck in the Lomond for years. It's good to get out and see what's happening in the rest of the world these days."

She seemed happy and excited to be doing something different. The Brandon was about a mile down Nicholson Street. We could have waited for a tram, which would take us almost to the Brandon's front door, Instead, when I spotted a cab I hailed it. It would be a lot quicker and simpler.

In the cab Jill told me, in whispered tones so that the driver could not hear, that she had left her office early and had spent the best part of two hours checking the house and her car for bugs. She looked them over visually first then used an electronic scanner, checking for hidden radio transmitters. She had not found any. She said later tonight when we went home she intended to check my car too. She also planned to take a look inside our computers to make sure they were safe to use.

In the front bar of the Brandon we recognized a couple of people we knew from The Lomond. The rest of the crowd was strangers and I knew immediately what to expect. Half of them would ignore us completely, occupied with doing some serious drinking. A quarter would notice, and would not be able to take their eyes off the stunningly beautiful lady who just walked through the front door, and another quarter would notice Jill first and then realize that they had seen the guy she was with, on television.

I steered her to the remotest part of the bar, out of the direct line of vision of most of the drinkers. After the barman had served our drinks we looked at each other and wondered if we had done the right thing.

We quickly finished out drinks and headed for the bistro in the next room, hoping that the food they served there would still be as good as it used to be. To suppress the pang of regret I felt for not staying at the Lomond to watch the news I told myself I probably wouldn't be missing much – tonight's news would be much the same as last night's news – and the night before – just a few different faces, in a few different places, telling a few slightly different sad stories. Suddenly remembering that I had a set of VCRs at home, taping the news on other channels cheered me up a little.

As soon as we walked through the door of the bistro I knew we had definitely made a big mistake. The place was packed, which in itself indicated that the food was still good. But I knew we were destined to have an audience all through the meal, and maybe a few unwelcome interruptions.

We found a table at the back, in a corner, that gave us a little privacy. Already heads were turning and people were nudging their companions to check out the celebrity who just walked in. After ordering drinks we turned our attention to the board on the far wall that was the only menu in the place. It listed all the meals and their prices. The descriptions of the food were about the same as I remembered from a few years ago.

I remembered in the past one of my favourite meals here was a small whole rabbit, so I ordered that. Jill took a while making up her mind and finally settled on the flame grilled Steak Lover's Special. It had always amazed me how she could eat like a bricklayer and still keep her slim figure. I guess some people are lucky that way.

The food was as good as I had expected it to be. As well as small portions of vegetables served with the meal you could help yourself from a smorgasbord of side dishes set up on a long table in the centre of the room. There was a large variety of salads and vegetable dishes, cuts of cold meats, cheeses, bread rolls, and an assortment of bottled condiments; sauces and relishes. You could load up with as much as you felt you could handle,

We ate in silence for a while. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that people all around the room were still turning to glance in our direction and I decided to try harder to ignore all the attention. I studied the menu on the far wall again, read the description of the ingredients and method of preparation, and tried to remember which ones I had eaten here in the past. I noticed Jill glancing at the same menu and soon we were talking about food and folk-feeding each other morsels from our plates. It was all delicious.

When we had had enough of sharing and praising the high quality of the food I asked, "How was your day – getting anywhere with that mysterious computer?"

"It's slow going, but I think I'm making some progress."

"What's the problem? Why is it so hard? You've cracked hundreds of computers before?"

"Well first, this computer has its own unique operating system, and it's so different to any other system it's turning out to be extremely hard to understand how it could possibly work."

Jill knew that I only had a limited understanding of how computers worked. "Operating system?" I asked, "Is that something like Windows in my PC?"

"Yeah, well, sort of. But even with your PC there is a lower level operating system. It's called the bios, and it's physically built into the computer's hardware. That's what I'm trying to understand. I need to crack the code it is written in. I need to discover all the instructions it uses, and understand what each one does. In other words, not only do I need to learn a completely new programming language, first I have to discover how it is written and what instructions it uses. Which means that at the same time I have to work out the architecture of the hardware, and the function of each component in the computer."

"Wow, I have absolutely no desire to try to learn how to do something like that. Hey, can't you just ask someone for the operating manual?"

"For this computer there isn't one. Well there probably is, but it's in the possession of the computer's owner and builder. And as far as I know he has not let anyone see it. Maybe it only exists in his head."

"But how can the staff at the Bureau use the computer if they don't understand how it works?"

"Oh, that's easy. They just write programs in the languages they were taught in school, just like they would on any computer. And the computer automatically translates the programs into its own special machine language and gets on with the job."

"So why don't you just write programs using one of the languages you already know?"

"I'm doing that – and I've got many good hacking programs that I'm using to look around inside the machine, but I need to get into the guts of the computer, into its kernel, into the deep protected parts of it memory, into places you can only get to by using its unique machine language. I need to take control of the machine so that I can look at anything, anywhere inside it, and do anything I want with it."

"I see - sort of. It all sounds terribly complicated to me."

"I'm getting there. And there's one thing I can tell you right now - this machine is extremely powerful. It must be one of the most powerful computers on this planet. It would be right up there in the top ten, maybe even the top five. That's one of the reasons I'm now so determined to crack it."

"You sound like you're really enjoying all this."

"Oh, I am. It's the biggest challenge I've ever had in my life."

"Any idea yet about why it's hooked up to the satellite dish?"

"Well, yes and no. I know that it's receiving stacks of encrypted data. I also know its encryption code is nothing like anything anyone has ever seen before. So far I haven't cracked the encryption code, so I don't know what the data it's receiving is all about. You know, it's almost impossible to crack a really good encrypted code. The best way to do it is to get your hands of the key.

"The key? Okay, tell me, what's the key?"

"The key is what the sender and the receiver use to encrypt and decipher the code."

"Humm, right! \- Keep going."

"Usually the best way to get your hands on the key is to find out who's got it, and steal a copy from them. To do that first you've got to find out where they're hiding it. They usually have it hidden somewhere inside their computer. And if that's a laptop, then you just steal their laptop and then at your leisure you search the hardrive and find the key. Trouble is, I would really hate to steal someone laptop. I can imagine how they would feel. To me it's a crime on par with stealing someone's children. The other problem with doing that is - as soon as they realize their laptop has been stolen, they get a new one and immediately change the key. Everyone in the network gets a new key, and no one can read any new document with out the new key. But the new key doesn't affect the old documents, so you will still be able to use the old key to read the old documents."

"So why bother cracking the computer, just pinch someone's laptop for Christ's sake, and if your conscience bothers you so much, when you find the key, send the machine back to them."

"Yeah, well, under normal circumstances I probably would do it that way, but, there's a big problem - there are about 700 people working there, many of them are programmers, and most would have a laptop. But probably only one or two know about the satellite and are involved with what's going on and thus have the key to the inscription code -so who's laptop do I borrow?"

"Yeah, I see what you mean. A big problem."

"Fortunately, there's another way, not a better way, but another way to crack the code. And that's by the application of brute computer power - by simply dedicating a powerful computer to the task. NASA and the CIA have computers that can do the job, and as it turns out, I believe I do too. I'm sure this special computer should be able to do it. I wouldn't be surprised if it just happens to be the most powerful computer in existence. And for it cracking the code will be a breeze, as simple as a walk in the park. I think this computer is so powerful it won't even build up a sweat."

We sat in silence still nibbling at bits and pieces left on our plates when a middle aged man stepped up to the table with a piece of paper and a pen. He must have realized we were on the verge of leaving.

Before he could say a word I stood up, put out my hand and said, "Hey, good to see you again." When he took my hand I shook it quickly and then sat down again, and said to him, "Hey sit down. There's something I want to talk to you about."

Mystified, the man sat down.

I leaned in close. "Look, I know you want an autograph. But the thing is we came in here to have a quite meal. And if I sign that piece of paper you have in your hand, others in here will notice, and soon there will be a queue lined up to get an autograph. You can understand that, right?" The guy was about to say something. I put up my hand to stop him. "So I'll tell you how we can solve the problem. Tomorrow look up the phone number of the station I work for and ring them and ask for the publicity department - and ask them for a signed photograph. They have stacks of them and they will be glad to send you one, no charge. And that's much better than an autograph on a scrap of paper. Okay. Now put the pen and piece of paper back in your pocket, and let us finish our meal in peace, Okay?"

He looked stunned. This is where, sometime, the shit hits the fan, and I start receiving a string of abusive words. I stood up and as he slowly stood up I put my hand out again. Still in shock he shook it, and then wandered back to his table.

"It would have been a lot simpler if you had just signed the bloody piece of paper."

"I knoooow. But I'm trying to perfect a new technique for getting rid of guys like him. It worked fine this time, wouldn't you agree? - Tried it out in a cafe with Johno a couple of weeks ago. Nearly got punched on the nose. I'm still trying to work the bugs out of it, so that it's foolproof."

She sighed, shook her head, and rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling.

"You've still got to get past him on the way out."

"I know, and he might come back soon, so let's get the hell out of here before he has a chance to think about it." I stood up, and as I eased Jill's chair back I whispered in her ear, "By the way, I'm not coming back here for a while – The food's great, but there's too many people. I think we should just stick with the Lomond, even if it is bugged. We'll just have to learn to avoid talking about certain things in there.

CHAPTER 9

A couple of days later on the way back to the office in Johno's car, with a few good interviews in the can, my mobile phone rang. There was no number on the screen to tell me who was calling.

"Hello," I said wondering, and the response I got immediately put my mind into panic mode. It was Rose. I definitely wanted to hear from her, but not in the car with Johno sitting next to me. I had decided to stop keeping him up to date with any developments associated with the death of the young man. It all seemed to be upsetting him too much and interfering with his lay-back attitude. I had not told him about Jill's new job, nor anything about the strange computer and the way it was connected to the mysterious satellite dish.

"Hello," I said again, as softy and as casually as I could manage. "Listen, can you hang on a minute? There's something I've got to do."

"Yes, okay."

"Good. I'll be right back, don't hang up." I turned to Johno. "Pull over, right now, and stop the car."

"For a second or two Johno kept driving. Then, noticing the serious look on my face, he shrugged, pulled over and stopped. I got out of the car and walked a few paces away from it, then put my phone back to my ear. "Hello, I'm back. Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here," said Rose. "I'm Sorry I didn't call you the other day. I've been moving around a bit, and everything's been a bit hectic lately. So, did you talk to your boss? - Is he interested in what I know?"

"No, I haven't spoken to him yet. I've been waiting for your call."

"Yeah, I understand. Did you set up an email address?"

"Yes, I did. It's ms@mikefixit.com.au - Did you get that?" I spelt it for her.

"Okay, got it. Okay, Chris Norton, that's the name of the boy who was killed. I'm giving it to you as a token of what I can deliver. So please talk to your boss. - Now listen, I'm moving again tonight. This is the last time I'll be talking to you on the phone. I'll send you an email, soon, not sure when. When you answer tell me this password - sirhc - that's easy to remember - it's Chris spelt backwards. I need you to tell me that password so that I'll know that it's you who is sending me emails."

"Okay, sirhc, can do. What about one from you, so I'll know it's you?"

"Yes, okay, mine will be esor. Rose backwards. Remember it, don't write it down. Let me explain a few things - I don't have a computer. I will be using computers in internet cafes. It's hard for me to get away from the people I'm with. The only opportunities I have are on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 8.30 and 9.00 PM. When the people I'm with hold meetings. I'll explain all that later. So if you want to send emails directly back to me you have to be on line at those times."

"Okay, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 8.30 to 9."

"Right!"

The phone suddenly went dead.

Slowly, still a bit shocked, I walked back to the car and got in.

Johno was looking at me as if I had just dropped my pants in a crowded shopping mall. "So what was that all about?"

"What! - what was what all about?"

"Arrr, like, umm - all that quick, stop the car shit."

"Arrr, that – that was nothing."

"So, who was on the phone?"

"No one."

"Right! – So why did you give no one an email address?"

"Johno, you really don't want to know."

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

"Believe me, it's better for you if I don't tell you."

"So now you know better than me, what I do, and don't want to know."

"That's right!"

"So now you're keeping secrets from me, and using what you consider to be best for me, as an excuse for not telling about what's going on."

"Yeah, exactly! You've got it. You hit the nail right on the head."

"I thought we were friends. Friends don't keep secrets from each other."

"Shit, Johno. The last time I told you about what was happening, concerning the dead kid, you got mad at me for telling you about it, and fucking threatened to kick me out of the car. So what's it going to be – Do you want me to keep you up to date on this shit, or not."

No, don't tell me anything about that shit. I don't want to know anything about that."

You see? I told you, I told you. You don't want to know. You just don't listen, do you? Next time, when I tell you, you don't want to know – believe me. - Okay?"

In the Lomond after work things had started out about the same as usual. We had each talked about trivial little things that had happen during the day, as we sat at the bar waiting for the news to come on.

Suddenly Jill leaned across to me and with one hand on my shoulder to steady herself she whispered in my ear. "Don't look straight away - but the old guy who just walked in the door - that's Ben Wright."

Without turning my body I slowly turned my head so that my lips were near Jill's ear and looked towards the door and saw an old guy, and casually asked, "Is that name suppose to mean something to me?"

She sat back, and studied my face. "He's the guy who built and owns the computer at the bureau. I've spoken about him before, and told you his name."

"Yes, you did \- I'm sorry, I forgot his name."

She accepted that, turned back square to the bar and took a sip of her drink.

"I wonder what he's doing in here," she said more to herself than to me.

I shrugged. "Hum, maybe he came in for a drink."

"Yeah, but why this pub. How does he know I drink here?"

"Who said he's here because you're here?"

"Come on, get real."

It had just turned six o'clock. I knew this because the television had just started blasting out the theme music for the nightly news. I turned slightly so that I was square on to the TV box across the room. The bar in this pub is horseshoe shaped and when I looked across at the bar opposite I noticed the old guy who had just sat down and decided that he must be the computer genius.

"Of all the gin joints, in all the world, he has to walk into mine - Or something like that," I said in a soft voice.

"I'm worried."

"Don't worry - He's an old guy, I'm pretty sure I could take him, if he starts making any trouble."

She thumped my arm.

Suddenly on the Television there was a shot of me interviewing the wife of a guy who had just been taken to hospital with an arrow imbedded in his chest. It was a snippet from the full interview that I knew would be shown later on NewsFix. I glanced at the old guy. His eyes were on the box, suddenly they dropped, and he was looking straight across at me, as if a light had just been turned on and he had suddenly made the connection with why my face seemed so familiar. It was an event I'd seen many times before on other faces that had been watching the television in here.

He turned back to the TV and watched until another shot of me came on. He kept watching until the image of me was replaced with a different scene, then he quickly turned back to check me out again. Yes, I know, you had to make sure, and now you are sure. I had to admit I couldn't tell if the surprise he was showing was real, or if he was just a good actor. Sometimes I find it hard to read Americans – their set of expressions and mannerisms are subtly different to those used by Australians. Their history and culture gives them a slightly different mind-set to ours.

He's head turned slightly and he was looking at Jill. Suddenly another display of surprise - now he was showing signs, or acting as if he had just recognized Jill. He stood up and carrying his drink walked around the bar and stopped on the other side of her.

He was a bald, short, small framed man. He wore round steel framed classes that together with his slight build reminded me of Mohandas Gandhi. Not the real Gandhi, but the version played Ben Kingsley in the movie.

"Excuse me," He said, "I may be mistaken, but I believe we work for the same organization. I believe we were introduced a few weeks ago."

"Yes Mr. Wright, that's right."

"Well, well, well, what a coincidence. Of all the bars in town we just happen to find ourselves sitting in the same one. I wonder what the odds of that would be."

I nearly choked.

He lent forward to look around Jill.

I put my glass down.

Hi," I said, "I'm Michael Stanley."

He put out his hand, "Hello, I believe I've just been watching you on the television. My name is Ben Wright."

We shook hands.

"I don't think I've seen you here before Mr. Wright. I guess we could be classified as a couple of the regulars, Jill and I. We drink here almost every night. Almost part of the furniture now."

"Call me Ben. I just happened to be in the area. Thought I'd drop in and see if they served Sake here. It's my favourite drink, but not very many pubs keep it in stock."

"So, do they – serve Sake here?"

"Yes, it was a pleasant surprise to discover that they do. Not very many pubs serve it, you know."

"I see, well, that's good."

He nodded his head in agreement. Looked up at the TV and then back again. "Do you mind if I sit down here?" He indicated a stool near Jill. "The angle to view the television is much better on this side of the bar."

"Go right ahead," said Jill. "That's the reason we sit over here."

He sat, and for a while we watched in silence. Occasionally one of us would make a comment about something on the television. Under normal circumstances Jill and I would have felt cramped, having an uninvited person, an intruder, sitting so close. But these were not normal circumstances - There was a game in play here. The goal of the game, and the stakes had not been established yet, and the rules had not yet been defined. There was only one thing I was certain about; coincidence had little to do with his presence here.

Normally after the two shows were over we would get up and go straight into the bistro to eat. If one of the regulars was sitting nearby we would just excuse ourselves and go. They all knew our routine. Tonight we just continued to sit there. Tonight was different. After a while Jill slowly looked around the room and for a few seconds her eyes locked onto mine. I gave an extremely slight shrug, indicating I didn't have a clue about what to do. She sighed and turned back.

"Normally at this time of night we head into the bistro, next door," said Jill. "Would you like to join us? The food's not too fancy, but it suits us."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," said Ben.

While ordering and then waiting for the food the conversation was pretty tame. We found common ground by talked about various local pubs we had been to, the differences between them and what we liked about them. He seemed to know a fair bit about most of the pubs in the area.

Jill and I were both under the impression, based on rumours she had heard at work, that he only frequented one pub; his local, and that he always drank alone because he was completely antisocial, and a dedicated alcoholic. The picture I was building of him didn't seem to match the rumours. He told us that he loved Japanese food and customs, and often went to Japanese restaurants and that he also spent a lot of time at a Japanese night club that had genuine geisha girls who had been trained in Japan.

The conversation drifted to other subjects and gradually worked its way around to what it was like to be a reporter working on a TV show, and from there quickly moved on to the importance of delivering the news and keeping people well informed, and then, at his prompting, it settled for a while on the subject of climate change and global warming. He expressed some strong opinions on this subject and I got the impression that he was trying hard to discover how we felt about the issues, and one issue in particular; overpopulation. That subject seemed to be a bit of a bugbear to him.

"Do you know what the biggest problem is, that we have to tackle in our struggle to stop climate change? It's not the necessity to discover and develop new sources of clean renewable energy," said Ben. "It's overpopulation. And we're fighting a losing battle. A battle we can't possibly win while this planet is so overpopulated. The current population of the world is about six and a half billion people, by the year two thousand and fifty it will be about nine billion – nine billion. There are just not enough resources to meet the needs of a population like that. The demand on this planet's basic resources, like drinkable water and arable land suitable for food cultivation, will simply outstrip the supply. And while we are discovering this fact the CO2 level in the atmosphere will continue to rise, until, eventually, we won't be able to halt the climate change."

"If we can solve the problem of supplying abundant clean energy," said Jill, "then we should be able to bring more land into production. And I don't see that water will be a problem. With enough cheep energy we could get all the water we need by building desalination plants, and pipelines, that can deliver the water to where it's needed."

"In principle that sounds fine," said Ben. "But we have not yet solved the problem of replacing the fossil fuels - oil, and gas that we guzzled at an alarming rate right now, with the cheep clean energy, that you mentioned. And while we are running out of time to find these solutions countries like India and China, who already have large populations, are developing fast and building coal fired power stations at an incredible and accelerating rate."

"So what are you suggesting?" I asked. "That we in the west get together and restrict the economic development of countries like India and China and stop them using up what remains of all our precious fossil fuels?"

"No, I'm not suggesting that." He went quiet for a few seconds and looked as if he was sorry he bought the subject up. "I was just making conversation, that's all. Just telling you how worried I am about what's happening in the world today. That's all."

"Fair enough, now we know," I said. "And we're worried too. And hopefully enough people, and governments, around the world will become just as worried, and start putting in the serious effort needed to solve all the problems."

"Yes, a sensible way to solve all the problems, that's what we need."

Little did I know then that this crazy old man was under the impression that he and his cronies already had the perfect solution, and that they were busy working towards putting it into action. And that this conversation was a way of putting out feelers to see how understanding and agreeable Jill and I would be towards it.

I noticed that all during the meal not once did he ask Jill about her job. He didn't inquire about what she was working on, or even if she enjoyed working at the bureau - nothing, zippo. The fact that she was a programmer was not even mentioned. And perhaps even more telling; he didn't ask her what she thought of his computer.

Later after Ben had left the pub I just happened to be talking to the pub's owner who was down in the bar having a drink or two and being social, and suddenly out of the blue it occurred to me to ask how long he had been selling sake. "It's funny you should ask me about that," said the publican. "Just a couple of days ago a sharp Japanese salesman came in here and said he was trying to get more pubs to stock sake. And as part of his promotion campaign he offered me a deal I couldn't resist - five cases of the stuff at a 75% discount."

CHAPTER 10

It was normally a busy city street in the heart of Melbourne. But now the only cars here were stationary police cars scattered around in the middle of the street and a few parked cars on each side that the cops would not allow to be moved. From the closest set of traffic lights in one direction to a set in the opposite direction the street was now a cordoned-off murder scene, and all the traffic that normally flowed along here was being diverted, sent on detours each way to parallel roads.

There were cops and reporters all over the place, and most of the normal pedestrian traffic on the footpaths was now rubber necking sightseers moving slowly or lingering in the hope of getting a glimpse of something interesting that they could rave about to their friends and family later.

From what I had picked up from other reporters and some cops assigned to liaise with reporters; it seems that earlier in the morning, somewhere between six and seven o'clock, a guy and his girlfriend had left a near-by night club, after being there most of the night, and headed to his car parked across the road. Before getting in the car they had an argument, and, it seems, she decided she wasn't going home with him. At this point he started getting rough with her. He began hitting her hard and pushing her into the car. What happened next is still unclear. The cops had already rounded up a few people who had witnessed what happened and were currently taking statements from them. When the cops were finished with them Johno and I would do our best to get them to repeat for the camera what they had told the cops.

From the sketchy reports we had so far received it seems that three people in the street tried to come to the girls rescue. Two men and a woman tried to wrestle the girl away from her angry boyfriend, and he retaliated. He pulled out a hand gun and shot the lot of them, including his girlfriend. She was dead, one of the guys, a lawyer, was also dead, the woman who tried to intervene was shot in the arm, and a tourist, a backpacker was shot twice in the chest. By now a fleet of ambulances had come and gone. According to the grapevine no one expected the backpacker to live – He looked to be in a very bad way when an ambulance rushed him off to the hospital.

Most of the video reporters here worked for news shows and although they would shoot a lot of footage, only a few snippets of it would be shown on the nightly news. Whereas most of the work Johno and I planned to do, on the other hand, would be shown in an extended coverage on NewsFix that would run for at lease five minutes, maybe even ten.

So we definitely had a hard slog ahead of us today. We would interview as many witnesses and cops here as we could, and then head up to the hospital to talk to doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, and anyone else who might know anything. We would also try to do interviews with friends and family members of the dead and injured. This was the part of the job that I hated most. It was also what the honchos back at the studio wanted most. If it bled it led, and the more emotional the situation the better. There was only one thing worse; and that was being the first to knock on someone's front door and break the news to relatives that someone in their family had been involved in a dreadful tragedy and wouldn't be coming home.

I always tried to avoid situations like that. Whenever I managed to be first to arrive I would usually sit in the car and wait for the cops to show up and then let them have first go. The studio hated it when I did that, because by the time I got to the family members they were either a wailing muddle of uncontrollable pain, or they had gotten over the initial shock and were now calm and collected, and seemed to be callously unaffected by the tragedy. The idiots running the studio always wants to show the emotional content of that dreadful initial shock of discovery. They believe it's what the public wants to see, and maybe it is, but it's not something I want to see. I've often wonder how I've lasted so long in this job.

Shortly after we arrived here and got the gist on what had happened, while waiting around to interview some key players we'd done a few brief interviews with people in the street who had just discovered what all the fuss was about. The person who had been kind enough to inform them about what had happened, was generally me, shortly before the camera started rolling, so that their comments and reaction to the tragic event would be spontaneous. Bruce loved spontaneous reactions.

We were looking for more people to interview when I spotted Senior Detective Sullivan across the road outside the night club talking to other plain clothes detectives. I knew the place would be full of cops right now and that there was no chance of us getting in to find out what the killer had gotten to up during the night. Maybe we would have a chance later, if anyone who had been here during the night was crazy enough to still be here.

As we stood looking and waiting for other people to approach who were suitable for an on the spot street interview I kept an eye on Sullivan across the street. Johno noticed this, and his expression made it plain that he didn't want to have anything to do with Detective Sulivan.

When Sulivan finished talking to fellow officers and started walking off, I crossed the street and headed to intercept him. I wanted to get him alone, but I quickly realized I had little chance of that when his partner, the same one who was with him at the morgue, quickly joined him.

When I finally caught up and was walking alongside, I said, "Any comments about what happened here Detective?" He gave me a dirty look. I knew he would have seen Johno's tape of the murdered kid on TV, or had been told about it, and that he would be pissed at me for holding out on him.

"I've got nothing to say to you – except, to ask; are you aware that withholding information relating to a crime is a criminal offence?"

"Hey detective, I was just doing my job."

"Yeah, right. Which doesn't make mine any easier."

"Would it square things if I told you I have reason to believe that the kid's name was Chris Norton?"

Sulivan stopped walking and looked at me.

"How did you get that information?"

"Can you confirm that name?"

Sullivan pulled a notepad out of a pocket and scribbled something in it. Obviously this was the first time he had heard the name.

"Who told you the kid's name?"

"An anonymous caller."

"What else did this anonymous caller tell you?"

"Not a thing. That's it. - I'm hoping to receive another call."

He thought about this for a few seconds, "Yeah? So someone calls, tells you the kid's name, and that's it, that's all. So what makes you think this person will call again?"

"She wants money."

"Arrr – so it's a she - what's her name?"

"She wouldn't give me her real name."

"So what name did she give?"

"What does it matter, if it's not her real name? Can you tell me about the car the dead kid was driving? Who did it belong to? It obviously didn't belong to the kid, because you didn't know his name."

Sulivan lit a cigarette and thought about it for a while. He was still pissed alright, but knew there was a chance I might come up with more useful information it he didn't cut me off completely. His partner just stood there in the background with a dead-pan expression, like he was waiting for a tram.

"The car was owned by a woman named Roselyn Stewart. She hasn't been seen at the address on the registration in over ten months. No one there knows where she is."

"The woman who rang me, told me to call her Rose."

"Arrr, now that's interesting.

"Anything else you can tell me about Rose? Like maybe her address."

"We're looking into it. I'll let you know."

"Come on Sergeant– you scratch mine and I'll scratch yours."

Sulivan continued to stand there thinking about it, putting his brand of pressure on by staring me straight in the eye, waiting with a relaxed and confident but threatening expression.

"Look I'll tell you this, I said. "The woman wants more money than we are prepared to pay, but we're negotiating with her. We're expecting her to call back with more information."

He stood there thinking about it. I could see he hated the idea of opening up to me again, but I'm sure he felt he needed all the leads he could get.

"There were four people living in the house where Rose used to live. They are all members of a religious sect. They haven't got a clue where Rose went, but they gave me the name and address of a close friend of hers. He is now living in Townsville and I'm going up there to see him."

"Wouldn't it be a lot simpler to ask a cop up there to go and see him?"

"Yes, much, and that's what I would normally do, but I could use a few days break, and it nice up there this time of the year."

"I wish I could do that whenever I needed a break."

"You're a reporter, I'm sure you do it all the time. I bet you even piss off overseas, to a war zone, or a disaster area, whenever you feel like a holiday."

"What's his name?"

"Come on, get real. You think I would tell you that so that you can get up there before me and scare him off?"

"I need a holiday too."

"You can go up and see him when I'm through with him."

So that was it. He was still playing his cards close to his chest. Just giving me a little tit-bit to keep me on line. I casually looked around the street, waited a few more seconds, shrugged, and started walking off. After taking a few steps I stopped and looked back. "Hey, in the nightclub, any mention of drugs? Was the killer on anything?"

"We're looking into it."

"Right, got ya. - I gotta scratch yours a little bit more first, right?"

"You got it."

I smiled and started walking again. When I got back to where Johno was waiting he didn't say anything, or ask any questions.

A few hours later while we were at the hospital I got a call from Bruce. He gave me the latest news; the killer had been picked up trying to steel a car he had just broken into, a few blocks from where the shooting happened. He was now at Police headquarters, being held for questioning. Bruce told me to stay at the hospital and get what I needed. He would send a different crew to Police headquarters to wait for an official update on the situation from a police spokesperson. I knew from experience; all the reporters and cameramen there would be juniors, and could be waiting there for many long hours. I felt glad I didn't have to do that sort of shit anymore.

During the day Jill phoned me to tell me she was working at home, and because she was so busy she wouldn't be eating at the Lomond tonight. I tried to convince her that no matter how busy she was she had to take a break to eat, and pointed out that we had virtually no food in the house and if she took the time to go and buy some and then cook it, it would probably take longer than it would to drop into the Lomond. Impeccable logic I thought. She shot it down in flames by simply telling me she would have a pizza delivered.

I grunted and ummed and arred a bit, not liking the image of eating alone in the bistro at the Lomond, and then told her to order two pizzas, and that I would pick up some booze on the way home.

When I got home I found her sitting at her paper-cluttered desk in a sweat stained T-shirt, with dishevelled strands of hair dangling down in front of her eyes, working flat-out on her computer, like a student preparing for an end of year exam.

She was on a roll she told me. She was finally starting to unravel the mysterious pieces of code needed to run the big computer at the Bureau, and was putting them back together in a way that she could understand. It was fun, it was exciting, she told me, and she didn't want to stop. No - not - didn't want to stop, she corrected – she just couldn't stop – it was impossible. Just dragging herself away to race to the toilet when she had been busting to go for over an hour, felt like a race to win the one hundred meters at the Olympic games, she told me, as her hands flew over the keyboard, while I stood just behind her watching in amazement, surprised that she could explain anything as her fingers kept pumping the keys at such an unbelievable speed. It seemed she could talk as she typed, but not listen, not answer question, and not carry on a conversation - all she could do was type and talk. And not everything she said made sense to me. I think she was talking more to herself, most of the time.

Naturally she had not stopped to order any pizzas, so I ordered them. When they arrived I tried to convince her that the computer would not get up and run away if she stopped long enough to come down to the dining room to eat. Perhaps she didn't believe it, whatever, I ended up taking a boxed pizza up to her office and she kept typing with one hand as she absently mindedly shovelled slices of pizza into her mouth with her other hand. I'm sure she didn't even taste one mouthful. I could have fed her a slice of polystyrene foam and she wouldn't have noticed the difference.

This went on for close to two weeks.

We both stopped going to the Lomond. We ordered food in from MacDoodals, Kontuckies, and pizza joints. On the few occasions when I attempted to provide a home cooked meal it was always something as simple as scrambled eggs on toast, baked beans on toast, or toasted sardines sandwiches. I've never claimed to be a great cook.

She only slept when she was so exhausted and sleep deprived that she was on the verge of passing out. And on the few occasions when she did sleep for a few hours, after she dragged herself out of bed in the morning her first stop was the kitchen to make the cup of coffee she needed to prepare herself for another session at the computer. This was the only time I could stall her long enough to get her to explain what was happening.

The day all this activity got started she had gone to work as usual and the day had started out as any normal day, but by mid afternoon she had made a major break through. And with the excitement of it, she knew that she was not going to stop to go home after work at the regular time. She knew that she was not going to stop at all until she had the whole thing cracked and in the bag. She knew that working continuously around the clock at the office would generate some suspicions and raise questions about what she was working on. So she had done the sensible thing, closed her laptop, walked out the door, and headed for home, where her only distraction would be me.

Now, two weeks later, as her frenzy of discovery was reverting to a mundane slog of completing necessary and tedious tasks she decided it was time to bring me up to date on what she had discovered, so far, about the big computer's secret agenda, about its reason for existence.

"This is what I've learnt so far," she said as she gulped some more coffee. "I've cracked the computer's operating system. I now understand the language it uses. I've written some programs that enabled it to unscramble the encrypted code used by all the messages it has received. I can now read all the information it receives from countries all around the world via the satellite dish."

"Man, that's great. What are the messages about?"

"Haven't had time to read many of them yet. But I do know that everything it received is being incorporated into vast data bases. This computer seems to be collecting information about billions of people from all over the world. It's collecting private details about people that no one has the right to be collecting."

"Why is it doing that – do you know?"

"I have no idea. Some people believe that information equals power. Maybe someone has worked out a way to use this information to make money. Right now I haven't got a clue about how they intend to do that. But I'll tell you this; I intend to find out. If someone has come up with some fancy international money making scheme, then I intend to cash in on it."

"So I take it you have no intention of telling your employer, the Federal Police, about any of this?"

"No, not yet. Not until I have it all fully worked out, and know exactly what's going on."

"You realize you could be playing with fire here Jill."

"Yeah, maybe. But they can't prosecute me if they don't understand what I do, and don't know."

"They can, if they notice you're making a shit load of money from it."

"I've already got untraceable bank accounts in tax havens overseas."

"Oh my God, sometimes you say things that make my heart miss a few beats. I'm worried for you Jill. I know you think you're smarter than them, and maybe you are, but just one little slip up and they'll put you away for a long time."

"And all this time I thought it was my beautiful body that made your heart miss a few beats."

"Yeah, that too, but that's the pleasant, worry free type of heartbeat skips. Okay, tell me more about what you've discovered. What's all this secret information about?"

"First let me tell you a bit more about how this computer is doing what it's doing. There are complicated programs running in this computer that make it an extremely efficient hacking machine. It leaves my hacking skills for dead. Just as the Google search engine roams around the internet collecting data about all the web sites on the net and indexes it all into a giant data base, this computer is searching through all the computer networks around the world looking for data in other computers. When it finds a new computer it hacks into it and takes control for a few seconds, enough time to check for databases and download any it finds, and likes. Once it has all this new data stored in its own memory banks it sorts it, cross references it, and collates it into the appropriate database. By the way, this machine is a wiz at doing this sort of thing. It probably does this better and quicker than any other computer in the world. It was probably designed just for this purpose."

"Really? Then that means Ben is behind all this."

"Probably, but I can't rule out the possibility that others at the Bureau may be in on it too, and probably in control."

"Okay, tell me more about all this data it's collecting – what's it being used for?"

"That's another mystery. So far I haven't been able to put a handle on the reason for collecting any of it. It's information about all sorts of people. Rich people and poor people. People in all sorts of professions, factory workers, trade workers, professionals, business owners, and also unemployed people. Highly educated people and also people who are uneducated.

"It's putting bits and pieces of information together from all over the place to compile a full and detailed file on all these people, their families, family trees, police records, detailed CVs, their employment history, details about all the jobs they have ever had, their standard of education, health records, medical histories, lists of all the property they own, the amount of money they have in the bank, the amount they owe, their credit rating, investments and business records, taxes they have paid, criminal records, information about any organizations they have ever been associated with, including all social, business, trade, and always any religious organizations they have been involved with. This is not just about the individual but their whole family – their marital status, the number of dependants. And to top it off included are lists of their neighbours, the people they work with, and any person known to be considered as a friend, past or present.

"You're kidding! Why would anybody want to know all that shit?"

"What is being received is the type of personal information that regulatory organization would consider as a grievous invasion of privacy. As I said, it's the type of information that the Bureau of Statistics has no right to be collecting. It is completely over the top, and it's illegal to put together files on people like this. The top people at the Bureau would be in a lot of hot water if the authorities, the feds, knew what this computer was doing."

Something suddenly occurred to me. "Could this be the reason why this computer was set up here in Australia? You know, away from all the cyber expertise that exists overseas, in the States, and Europe?"

"Hum, an interesting idea. Yeah, it could be, but who knows? The reason for doing it has still got me stumped - it just doesn't seem to make any sense. I just can't see what they need all this information for. I believe it must be motivated by some brilliant money making scheme, but I just can't see how it works."

"What countries is all this information coming from?"

"It's coming from a large number of countries, but mostly from the US, the UK, and many other European countries. It's coming from India, from China, and some other Asian countries, and from some South American countries, mostly Brazil, and Argentina. From what I can work out, at the rate this stuff is coming in, it looks like the intention is to gather this sort of information on every person on this planet."

I couldn't help myself, I had to laugh. "My God, this seems crazy. Why would anyone go to all the trouble to do it? I can't understand this. It just doesn't make sense."

When Jill decided that she had gleamed most of the secrets this machine had to offer she returned to work, and without mentioning her discoveries to her supervisor at the Feds she carried on as before, pretending that so far her efforts had not produced any useful results.

Our routines that revolved around our drinking and eating at the Lomond, that had been put on hold for the last couple of weeks, were picked up, dusted off, and gladly resumed.

Ben had continued drinking at the Lomond while we were gone and when we returned he simply acted as if he hadn't noticed we had gone AWOL for a while, and we continued building our friendship as we had been doing before.

And as usual he didn't ask about her job, or what she thought of his fantastic computer, and she didn't mention that she now had all its secrets tucked away neatly in her pocket. Well most of them, the big ones, anyway.

CHAPTER 11

The first we heard about what would soon turn out to be the start of the most scary period in our lives was while we were watching the news at the Lomond. It was a late breaking story tacked on at the end of the news, just after the weather report. A worried looking news presenter read from a sheet of paper she held in her hands.

"We have just received a report from Tokyo that three people who arrived in that city earlier this morning on a flight from San Francisco have been taken to hospital and placed in an isolation ward. They have all come down with severe flu symptoms that doctors suspect could be a dangerous strain of a virus labelled H251, known as the avian virus or more commonly as the bird flu virus. The doctors are worried about the possibility that this new strain of the virus could be transmitted from one human to another. At this stage we must stress that it has not been confirmed positively that it is indeed the bird flu, but authorities are taking no chances. They are trying to locate all the other passengers on flight 93 from San Francisco. Once again we must stress there is no need for panic. The virus that struck down the three passengers has not yet been confirmed as the avian flu virus. And the patients are receiving the best care available. We will keep you updated during the evening on any further developments."

The sound of the usually low-key background hum of conversation in the bar had stopped completely and except for the soft drone of the television set, the room had become deadly quiet.

This lasted a good twenty seconds, and then all of a sudden everyone seemed to be talking at once. Some who had missed part of the announcement were calling for details, asking if she was talking about the bird flu, wanting to know if anyone had died yet. Others who usually never took any notice of the television were demanding to be told what all the fuss was about.

I turned to Jill, and Ben sitting just beyond her. "Oh my God, it's finally happened, and what's worse, they were passengers on an international flight. My God, if it is a strain that can be passed from human to human it's going to be spread all around the world."

"They don't know if it is bird flu, or not, yet," said Ben.

"Yeah, but if it is, then we're in a lot of trouble. That stuff is deadly. I remember interviewing a doctor from the World Health Organization a while back - what he said gave me nightmares for a week. He said that bird flu is somewhere between seventy five to eighty five percent lethal, and there is no cure. He said, at the moment you can only catch it from birds - by eating, or handling a bird that has it. He said it's not an airborne disease, so if a human is infected he can't pass it on to another human. He went on to say that if it ever becomes human transferable then it would quickly travel all around the world in a matter of weeks and that it would kill many millions of people. He said it was much more deadly than any other known strains of influencer."

The two of them just sat there looking at me. I could see they wanted to say something, but couldn't think of anything. What can you say when confronted with news like that? You couldn't offer words of optimism based on wishful thinking. Anything pessimistic would not be welcome. That only left comments about the acceptance of the inevitable, which no one seemed to want to talk about.

"This doctor I interviewed was a world renowned expert on infectious diseases, and he said that the chances of bird flu becoming airborne, and thus producing a world wide epidemic, was not a matter of if, but when." By quoting this doctor I hoped I was putting the heat on him and making him responsible for this bad news.

We sat in silence thinking about this. It had all happened so suddenly. In that moment in the pub we had no idea about what was going to happen, and we were filled with grave fears for the future.

The next day I arrived at the office three hours earlier than normal. The reason for this – on the way home from the Lomond I had received a phone call from Bruce. He had just received some fresh news from Tokyo. He was in such a flap he didn't tell me what the news was, and he didn't ask me politely if I could come in earlier, he simply told me. These are his exact words; "Tomorrow get your arse into the office at least three hours earlier, because it's definitely going to be one hell of a long ball-breaker. You can count on that." Then he hung up.

He must have called everyone who worked for the show and told them the same thing, because when I arrived it seemed just like a normal day. It was as if someone had suddenly had a bright idea and invented a new form of daylight savings. Either that, or someone, as wicked as Bruce, had crept into everyone's bedroom during the night and set all their watches and alarm clocks back three hours.

Bruce wasted no time. When he was sure that everyone who was coming in, was in, he called a meeting. The first bit of news he had for us was about the three backpackers who had been taken to hospital in Tokyo. One had died, and the other two were still in a serious condition in intensive care. And it was definitely confirmed as a new strain of bird flu.

Now it may have been my imagination, and I must admit I have formed a biased opinion about the way Bruce does things, but when it comes to delivering news about tragedies – I am convinced he enjoys doing it. When he told us that the doctors in Tokyo had confirmed that it was indeed avian flu that killed the backpacker, it seemed to me that he gave the distinct impression that he thought this was good news, even great news. There was no sign of a smile on his face and the tone of his voice didn't change, yet, it seemed as if he was delighted to be the deliverer of news that had the potential of being the harbinger of a world wide monumental catastrophe. So now I am completely sure he loves bad news – it could even be a fetish. Perhaps it simply makes his job seem more interesting. Perhaps he feels his job is more secure when he knows that more people will be glued to their televisions sets, watching a show he produced, in order to acquire the latest gory details about the suffering of others.

When he was finished with his announcements he wandered around the room handing out printed lists of tasks he wanted different people to work on.

Mine was a list of people he wanted me to interview. He told me he knew this was not going to be easy – that every reporter in Melbourne would be trying to line up interviews with the same people. And as usual he was right.

I spent the next two frustrating hours helping my secretary, Paula, and her temporary assistant, either on the phone or trying to find the phone numbers of the right people to talk too, to arrange convenient times and places for interviews. It was normally a mundane procedure that Paula had no trouble doing by herself. And which I normally only did when it was necessary for me to speak personally to someone to convince then to do an interview.

Today whenever we called a number that held prospects of being fruitful, if it wasn't busy, then it was a job just getting past the switch board, and then there seemed to be an unusually long string of underlings, who needed to be dealt with, before we were put through to the secretary of the person I wished to interview.

When I had a few solid appointment lined up I called Johno and told him to saddle up, we had work to do, and left Paula to continue to negotiate for more.

In Johno's station wagon on the way to the first interview he started our ritual of provoking each other by asking if I had found any hidden bugs yet.

I simply said, "No not yet. Jill hasn't had much time to spend looking lately." Usually I would have thrown back a more challenging reply, but today my mind and heart wasn't quite in the mood for verbal sparring with Johno - I had more pressing things to think about - like what questions I needed to ask a microbiologist in a situation like this.

I had an appointment to see a Dr. Norma Walker, an expert on infectious diseases who worked here in Melbourne at the WHO Collaborating Centre for Reference and Research on Influenza. I knew she was scheduled to hold a press conference at nine thirty, which I planned to attend, and after, at ten forty five I would do a one on one with her. She was so busy I had been allotted only five minutes of her time.

I was having trouble thinking of any questions that were unlikely to have been covered during the press conference. All the technical details about the decease were sure to have been asked and answered, so what did that leave for me to ask in a private interview? To hell with it I thought; surely as I sat through the conference some fresh questions would occur to me, and naturally I would have my notepad ready and write them down when they did.

With that settled I turned my attention back to the more pleasant job of benignly ribbing Johno. "Hey cool dude, how are you going to remain cool and stay out of trouble when the bird flu hits town?"

"Come on man, you know as well as I do, that stuff is not going to come here. Remember the SARS scare we had a few years ago? Everybody thought the end of the world was just around the corner. And what happened? It just fizzled out and disappeared without giving anyone here in Australia as much as a headache."

"Yeah, but this is different. This is the bird flu. It's got wings man, and it flying this way."

"You don't seem to be too fucking worried about it. Which leads me to believe that you don't believe it's going to be much of a problem either."

He was right – I wasn't too worried about it, well, not yet anyway. I knew the potential for a serious catastrophe existed, but it was too early to start worrying about it.

"Yeah, I guess you're right Johno – what's the use of worrying?" As an after thought, in an attempt to get him going again, I decided to add, "We've all got to die one day, right?"

"Yeah, but not from some crappy bird shit virus."

"No? – So how would you like to go out? You want to grow old and become senile - and in the end have a relative put a pillow over you face to put you out of your misery?"

"Hey, that's your fucking dream, not mine. I don't think about that sort of shit, too depressing. What's the point of thinking about shit like that? Is that how you get your rocks off, thinking about how to put an end to your miserable life? You sick deprived bastard."

For quite a while I had no come back. Of course neither of us spent any time thinking about how our lives would end. But if that bird flu was as serious as many smart people thought it was, and it did descend on us, then soon we may all be spending time contemplating a better way to go.

"Don't worry Johno, if any sick birds start flying in and one of them pisses on you, I make sure you don't die a slow and painful death. I jam a pillow on your face, and make sure you don't suffer. Before you go you'll be thankful you had a sick and deprived bastard like me for a friend."

"Yeah, right on. What are friends for? And I'll do the same for you, mate."

"Really, okay, thanks pal, it's a deal. You've got no idea how relieved I feel now that we've got that settled."

"Arr, one little problem mate."

"What's that?"

"Not sure if I'll be able to do the same for you, if you do me first. I guess I'll have to do you first."

"Yeah, that makes sense."

After getting a little lost in the grounds of the Austin hospital we arrived at Dr. Walker's press conference just after it started. I was sure we hadn't missed much. Johno put his camera to work, pointing it at her, and later at question time, around the room at the large number of reporters there.

There was another reporter and camera crew there from the Television channel we worked for – Snippets from the footage they shot would be shown on the six o'clock news, so Johno's camera work was not all that important in here. But Johno was a true professional who left nothing to chance. Perhaps his footage would come in handy as a backup and save the day, if something happened to the other crew on the way home. "Don't laugh, it could happen," Johno told me when I tried to tell him that the chances of that happening were pretty darn remote.

As expected Dr. Walkers's explanation of the virus, and later the questions and answers session just about covered everything one needed to know about the dangers of Avian flu.

She told us how deadly it was. Explained how a human carrier could be created if a person already suffering from any strain of influencer picked up a does of the Avian strain directly from an infected bird. How the two viruses could combine inside any one of billions of cells in this person's body and make a new strain of the virus with the properties of both – a new strain of bird flu that could be passed from human to human. And the most important information she tried to convey was the seriousness of the situation if this new strain got lose. She told us what the incubation period inside the human body was, and explained how quickly an infected person could become contagious – it was all knee-tremblingly-disturbing information.

I did my one on one with her at eleven, and virtually just rehashed a few of the questions she had been asked earlier. And she gave the same appropriate answers. What else could I do? It was not like I was going for a scoop interview with a famous movie star and trying to dig past their stunningly glamorous and mysterious personality for an insight into their hidden secret love life. This was a bug doctor talking about a potential medical emergency, trying to get the message across to the public about how dangerous an outbreak of bird flu could be. Repetition was the best way to get any message across.

One thing I had going for me – what would be shown on the News would be just a few quick highlights of her press conference, whereas almost all of my interview would be shown later. And would have the added value of having me asking the questions directly. Don't think I'm being big-headed about this – a lot of people enjoy the intimacy of a one on one more than just her standing in front of a crown talking into a microphone. My fans will anyway.

At the end she gave me her card and said if I had any more questions I could ring her. I thanked her for taking the time to talk to me, and we left.

The afternoon was almost a repeat performance of the morning. A press conference and than later a one on one interview. Only this time it was with a government official in charge of the arrangements being put in place to make sure any infected people didn't get into the country. It was so boring I don't think it's worth the effort of telling you in detail what it was all about. You can use your imagination – government officials at airports, and on the docks looking for people who showed any signs of having a cold or the flu, and putting them into quarantine, and even closing all our boarders if the situation became desperate. "We will stop anybody and everybody from coming in," He said. "We will virtually shut Australia off from the rest of the world."

I wondered if there was a difference between stopping anybody, as opposed to stopping everybody. I planned to ask him that one during the one on one. Who knows, it might even livened things up a bit.

Our next stop was to discover what the police and the military had in mind to help keep Australia safe from a potential bird flu attack.

At each interview I was amazed at how I seemed to be finding the whole thing so boring. Here we were facing a potential catastrophe that could devastate this country and possibly many other countries as well, and I was peeved at the necessary of having to listen to inept government officials rattle off boring details of procedures and contingency plans that they had probably been working on for years. I guess my boredom stemmed from the fact that deep down inside I believed this epidemic was never going to happen. That it would all turn out to be a false alarm, like, as Johno said, the SARs scare a few years ago.

At the office the next day, about a second after I walked in the front door I was almost knocked over by one of our reporters, a guy I had known for years, as he barged into me in a hurry to get out the front door, carrying a cardboard box loaded up with personal items, some I recognized from his desk.

"Hey, watch it," I said.

"Arr sorry Mike, sorry. I'm getting out of here. I just quit. I'm heading for the hills. I got a holiday house up at Dalesford. I'm taking the family up there until someone gets this mess sorted out."

I was about to ask him, "what mess," but he was gone before I had a chance. I wondered over to the desk of an editor I was on good terms with.

"What's with him?"

Franklin, the editor, gave out a big sigh, and shook his head from side to side, slowly. "I think he's got the right idea. I'm thinking about getting out too."

"Why, what's happened?"

"You haven't heard yet? The bug, it's in Australia now. A few people up in Townsville have come down with it."

"Townsville, you're kidding."

"No, I'm not kidding. I wish I was. And it's spread to about a dozen other countries around the world. People are keeling over, all over the place."

"Shit!"

I wandered off, heading in the direction of Bruce's office.

Worried looking people in groups of twos and threes were milling around all over the place. It was obvious to me that they were not in the mood to be sitting at their desks, doing the jobs they usually do. I joined one group and listened in for a while, then moved on to another. The people in both groups were weighing up their options; \- stay, and take the chance that the threat of infection would simply go away, somehow – or, get the fuck out now - go home, or go somewhere else and hide until it was all over. Get out now before panic set in and clogged up all the roads, and emptied the supermarkets of all essential supplies.

I stood thinking about it for a while. Maybe I should call Jill, and ask what she thought - ask her if she wanted to head for the hills. For the first time it occurred to me - this could turn out to be a life of death decision.

All the TV screens that covered one wall had been switched to channels that were continuously covering the situation. The sound from one set, at one end of the room, was turned up, and the sound from another, on a different channel, at the other end of the room was also turned up. Their volumes adjusted so as not to interfere with each other. Small groups of people were gathered in front of both sets and others were wandering between the two. As fresh news was announced the room became more excited, as the new information got passed around the rest of the room.

On a white board on a different wall someone had started keeping score. There was a list of countries hit by the bug, and next to each the latest count of confirmed dead, and people known to be infected. The total, so far – 14 countries hit, including Australia, America, both north and south, Great Britain, France, Italy, Spain, and many Asian countries. Total dead, six hundred. Total infected, over three thousand. Someone had written at the bottom of the board – Total unconfirmed or undiscovered infections, who knows? Someone else had written - Possibly millions. I looked again at Australia's score – dead 32, infected 145+.

Suddenly Bruce appeared in the doorway of his office and in a loud voice called out, "Alright everyone listen up. I know you're all thinking about pissing off, but let me remind you – you are news people, news gathers, and reporters. There's a job that needs to be done and you're the people who have to do it. The public needs to be informed of what's happening, or else there will be chaos. News people don't piss off when the going get tough. Not real news people anyway. It's disgraceful to even think about pissing off at a time like this. Other people out there are doing their jobs, trying to control this thing. We should all be trying to do our best - Let me tell you right now – if you walk out that door, and we get this thing under control and stop it, then don't expect to find you still have a job here when you come back. Because you won't be welcome back here. I hope I'm making myself clear. If you go now, don't come back. I don't think I can make it any clearer than that. Now take your time and think about it. I'll give you ten minutes, and then either you get back to work, or get out of the way."

He turned and went back into his office and closed the door.

For a while everyone just stood there in silence, including me, thinking about what Bruce had just said, then suddenly we all started talking again at an intensity higher than before.

Decisions had to be made.

The ten minutes that Bruce mentioned came and went, and an hour later no one had left, and only one or two had returned to their desk, not to actually do any work, but merely to sit down for a while.

I rang Jill, and she told me that virtually the same thing was happening around her, and throughout the entire ABS building. I was just about to ask her what she wanted to do when Bruce came out of his office and called out, "All right you bums, listen up. I have some news, gather round."

I told Jill that Bruce had some news and said I'd call her back.

"It seems I'm the only one doing any work around here," Bruce said, in a vehement tone as people moved in closer. "Okay, it seems you can't make up your minds about whether you're staying or going, so I'll give you some information that might help you decide, that might help you come to your bloody senses and get back to work.

"I've been on the phone to some government people I know to find out what they are doing about the situation. Yes, I've been doing the job all you bums should be doing. Anyway this is what I can tell you. As of half an hour ago this country is now officially closed down. No one gets in, or out. You may know, or you should know, that since the original outbreak of bird flu a few years ago our government has been steadily obtaining and stockpiling a bird flu vaccine. The Prime Minister has just ordered that the distribution of this vaccine should start immediately. Unfortunately it's a slow process making this vaccine – each batch takes about nine months to make. And it seems we just don't have enough for every man, woman, and child in this country. So..."

Everybody in the room started expressing their bitterness that this situation should never have been allowed to happen. There should be enough for everyone, darn the cost.

"Hey, hey hey, quiet down, and listen up. I'm not finished yet." Bruce's face showed the stress he felt at dealing with a bunch of slackers and potential deserters. He put his hands on his hips and waited. When the room was quiet again he continued.

"Alright, as I was about to say, this is what's going to happen. First, everyone employed in a job essential to maintaining order and treating the sick will get a dose immediately. I'm talking about doctors, nurses, cops, firemen, and anyone else engaged in emergency or essential services. Probably all government officials and public servants as well, will get a dose."

A few boos were heard throughout the office. And someone at the back called out, "I hope they don't give it to the bastards at the taxation office." There were a few chuckles, and then Bruce continued.

"Okay, okay, now this is what's going to happen with what's left over. There will be a lottery, or a raffle, however you want to describe it. I don't know how many of you can remember the Vietnam War. When the government decided to bring in conscription, to call up more troops, the way they decided who should be drafted was done with a type of lottery. They picked random dates and if that was your birthday then you were in the army and off to Vietnam. So they're going to do something similar now. Every name on the national electoral roll will be fed into a computer and the computer will randomly pick names until all the remaining doses of the vaccine have been allocated. This process will begin this afternoon. The winners will be notified by registered mail tomorrow morning. If you're notified you will go to a depot that will be set up in your area where your shot will be administered to you. That's it. Any questions?'

Someone at the back shouted out, "What about if you have kids, and a wife. Do they get a shot too?"

Bruce smiled. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you – The answer is yes, if you're a winner, your wife and kids will also get a dose of the vaccine. But not your parents or any other members of your family. Just your spouse and kids."

There were a few other questions and when Bruce had explained all he knew he said, "Okay, now it's time for you all to get back to work and do your jobs. Get on the internet, and look at the Prime Minister's site for more information and other government sites too – they should all be explaining how they are organizing ways to help people. Work out the best way to get this information out to the public, to all the worried people out there, and let them know what's happening. It's your job to give people the news, to keep them informed of what's happening, so go and do it."

Someone at the back of the room called out, "Hey Bruce, you said everyone who works in an essential service will automatically receive a dose of this vaccine. So what about us? Are we an essential service, or not?"

"Okay, it seems like the answer should be yes. I'm going to get on the phone right now and make sure that the government agrees. And then I'll organize things so that you all get it, as soon as possible. I'll even get a doctor in here later this afternoon to administer it. Now get back to work."

"What about the wife and kids?"

Bruce was quiet for a second or two, thinking about it, and then said, "Okay, get on the phone. Tell your wife to get in here with the kids later this afternoon. If I can't find a doctor I'll get my wife in here to give it to you. She's retired now, but she used to be a nurse, she'll know how to administer it."

"And what if you can't get your hand on any of the stuff?'

"Then I'll walk off the fucking job with you."

Johno and I spent the rest of the day on the road travelling from one quick interview to another, stopping every now and then along the way in order to capture the mood of the people in the street. We would get out of the car and stop people to ask them if they were worried, what they intended to do, and if they thought the government was doing enough. Only a couple of people we spoke to didn't have a clue and had not heard that the bird flu had arrived in Australia. Most knew of people who had left town. Some were thinking about leaving but couldn't decide where they should go, and were worried that their house would get broken into and all their possessions stolen, if they left. Most had no option but to stay and had developed a strategy for survival -They intended to avoid close contact with all people whenever they were outside, and they would wear a mask and gloves. They would sterilize everything they bought, and wash all the clothes they were wearing when they came home.

And all of them were cursing the Government for not having the foresight to make sure that they had enough doses of the vaccine for everyone.

All the major roads and highways were bumper to bumper with cars leaving the city. All the supermarkets were packed with trolley pushers loading up on essential items that they originally thought would probably be in short supply within a day or two - items that they now knew would be completely gone within a few hours.

Most of the formal interviews that had been arranged for us were with people who were working to enforce the shutdown of the country's borders, or were working to carry out the distribution of the vaccine. These interviews all contained useful and important information for anyone hearing it for the first time, but could easily be considered repetitive, and thus dull and boring by anyone who had already heard it before and knew all the details associated with the technicalities of carrying out the job of saving Australia.

Later that day when we got back to the office we discovered that Bruce's wife had set up shop on a table in a corner of the big room and would joyfully jab a needle containing the Bird flu vaccine into the arm of anyone who stopped to say hello.

After stopping at the scheduling producer's island, to bring her up to date on the interviews we had done today and footage we had in the can, Johno headed for the video editors island, and I, instead of heading to my office to start writing all the dialogue needed for the show, headed over to get my shot of the potentially life-saving vaccine. I wanted to get that out of the way as soon as possible so I wouldn't have to be constantly worrying about the possibility of her running out of needles or vaccine while I was busy processing words.

I had rang Jill during the day and she told me that because she was employed by the Federal police she was also entitled to a shot of the vaccine, but unlike this office she would have to drop by the distribution depot in the morning. It was an inconvenience for her, but I felt a great sense of relief knowing that she would be protected from the virus.

"Hello Mrs. Morris," I said, as I removed my jacket and rolled up my shirt sleeve. "This is not going to hurt is it?"

"No, Mike, sorry! I hope you weren't looking forward to a little bit of pain, because, unfortunately I left all my blunt and rusty needles at home. All I bought with me today are these nice sharp and shiny ones."

"Okay, I can see you're enjoying this. Tell me something - is being a sadist a prerequisite for becoming a nurse?"

"No, but it sure helps."

She grabbed my arm, rubbed a spot of skin with a piece of cotton wool and without any warning quickly hit the spot with a needle, pushed the plunger, pulled out the needle, and wiped the skin down again.

"There, that's it. You don't have to worry about eating chicken anymore."

I rolled down my sleeve and put my jacket back on.

"Thank you. Remember to bring you're other needles next time, will you?"

"Sure, no problem."

I started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. "I guess you have enough doses for everyone, right? There's no chance you're going to run out?"

"Yes, I have enough. More than enough, don't worry."

"Okay, thanks again."

I walked off and headed for my office.

Later, after work while sitting with Jill at the bar in the Lomond watching the nightly news the presenter introduced a story related to bird flu outbreak that, she confidently declared, no one had foreseen. I sat up and paid attention, and she was right – who would have guessed that something like this would happen? Not even the most experienced reporter on our staff who had seen just about everything before, and knew every trick in the book saw this one coming.

It seemed that all around the country marriage celebrants, priests, ministers, and church leaders of all kinds were being swamped with thousands of people who wanted to get married right now, on the spot. Thinking about it now, with hindsight, it should have been predicted.

I immediately decided that this was a human interest story that I had to work on, in more detail, tomorrow. I could interview couples and find out what hassles they faced in getting hitched so quickly. While interviewing priests on the subject I could also ask for their opinion on God's motivation for letting something like this happen.

When the story was finished Jill turned to me. "If I didn't work for the government, let's say I was a shop assistant, and thus was not eligible to receive a dose of the vaccine, would you have raced me off to a marriage celebrant and demanded that he marry us?"

I quickly turned and said, "Of course, darling, in a flash." That was one of those questions you had to answer quickly, and treat as a joke. Like when a woman asked if you thought she was putting on weight. You don't study her body in great detail and ask her to turn around and then say slowly and seriously, "No I don't think so." No, you never do that. And you never show what an honest person you are by saying, "Well, maybe just a little." No, you never do anything remotely like that. What you do is say as quickly as possible, "No way baby, not an ounce." And you never, never study her body.

"I'm serious Mick," she said. "Don't make a joke of it. Would we be getting married tomorrow if I hadn't got a dose of the vaccine?"

"That reminds me – did you get your dose? Have you been to the depot yet? What was I thinking, I should have asked you that as soon as I walked in the door, ten minutes ago. I'm sorry darling, I've had so much on my mind lately that I didn't think of it. So tell me – have you had your shot yet?"

"I told you I'm getting it tomorrow morning. And don't try to change the subject."

"I'm not – I really wanted to know. I forgot it's tomorrow morning."

"Bullshit, you didn't forget. Now answer my question."

"I've answered it already – I said, I would marry you in a flash. And I would invite a few close friends along. I'd tell Johno that he's going to be my best man, and drag you off screaming to the closest church as quick as bodily possible."

"Be serious. Give me a straight answer."

"I am being serious."

"No, you're not."

"What do you want me to say? That I wouldn't marry you? Because that's ridiculous – of cause I would, and as quickly as possible."

"You're just saying that because you know I'm getting the vaccine, and you know that whatever you say, doesn't matter, because it will never become a real issue."

"Okay, let's put the shoe on the other foot – what would you do if I was ineligible to get a does of the vaccine?"

"But you've already received it."

"Well, imagine I haven't, and that I wouldn't be getting it."

"I'd marry you in a flash."

"Now there you go – you see, who's not being serious now?"

"No, I really mean it."

"You're just saying that because it's never going to be a real issue."

"Hey, you're good – you really do know how to put the shoe on the other foot, don't you."

"Of cause." I said smiling.

"So how about we pretend that one of us is not ineligible?"

"Wow - Are you proposing to me?" My smile disappeared.

"Sure why not. Let's go and get married, right now."

"I'd love too, but right now may not be the best time. You just saw on TV, all the marriage celebrants are being swamped with people who desperately need to get married. It would be a real hassle right now. How about we leave it for a while, until marriage celebrants are not quite so busy."

"I knew it. You weren't really serious. Okay, forget the whole thing. Forget I mentioned it."

"I won't forget it. When all this bird shit thing is over, and things have settled down a bit - you'll see – you just wait, you'll see I wasn't joking."

"Yeah, okay, I'll wait. And we'll see."

Naturally I became even more obsessed with watching the news shows on the box, coming from all around the world. Now, on pay TV there were channels that were devoted exclusively to keeping up with the latest developments in the battle against the deadly virus.

Each morning I would get up at least an hour earlier, sometimes two hours, have a quick shower and make breakfast and then sit in front of the television, constantly jumping from one channel to another until I found something of interest. Sometimes, If there didn't seem to be anything new on TV, I would switch on my computer and surf the internet. I hate to admit it, but often this would be more informative than the television. Too much time on the television was being wasted with displaying groups of distinguished looking individuals talking rubbish, behaving as if they were experts, the highest authority on an unmentioned subject. They would Blabber on with unemotional and meaningless generalities that had no value and showed that they lacked a deep understanding of the subject they were talking about – boring, time wasting crap.

The news items I was most interested in were associated with the spread of the disease and the latest number of casualties, but more importantly any reports of success from those working to halt the disease in its tracks and stop the spread to new areas.

For a while it seemed as if these heroes were fighting a losing battle. Then at the start of the second week there were signs that they were finally getting on top of the situation, as the number of new cases started to fall.

By the end of the second week the number of people around the world in hospitals dieing from the disease started tapering off and the number of new cases being found each day slowed and then became zero. In the middle of the third week a spokesman for the Centre of Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia, in the States cautiously announced, with an expression of great relief, that CDC's medics working on the front line were optimistic that the disease was now fully contained, and was under control.

By the end of that week, with no reports of new cases, spontaneous celebrations broke out all around the world. The human race had fought bravely and been victorious over the avian influence epidemic.

A few weeks later this little hiccup in the province of human affairs was no longer a news item, and if not completely forgotten, was quickly fading from many memories, as the regular mundane daily routines for survival were resumed.

CHAPTER 12

Now that the bird flu scare was history my daily routine picked up where it had left off and we started doing the trashy stories that our devoted moronic viewers loved so much.

Sure, we could have done serious and important stories like those being done by the commercial free ABC. But our sponsors, those lovely people who paid our bills, and our salaries, and continuously interrupted our show with trashy commercials because they had trashy products to sell, were guided by the rating system – which told them that trashy was more highly rated than quality.

Sure, I could have quit and applied for a job at the ABC, but the pay there was not as good – so I guess I have no right to complain – I was in it for the money too.

So there you go. That's the situation.

Being back in my old routine set me thinking about the mystery surrounding the dead kid again.

I remembered that the last time I spoke to Senior Detective Sullivan, in the city street, where a drug loaded bully had killed his girlfriend and a couple of heroes, he had told me that he was heading up to Townsville to try to find a lead on the whereabouts of Rose. Townsville, I suddenly remembered, was where the first case of bird flu had broken out in this country.

I decided it would be a good idea if I gave him a call and asked if he had discovered anything worthwhile up there.

I still had the card he gave me. The number I dialed was answered by the receptionist on the police telephone switchboard. When I asked to speak to DS Sullivan there was a moment of silence before she asked who was calling. I told her, and she asked what the call was in reference to. I told her that what I was calling about was something that concerned only Detective Sullivan. She was quiet for a few seconds, then when she spoke again she informed me in sad tones that Senior Detective Sullivan was dead, and asked if there was someone else I wished to speak to who could help me. Now it was my turn to delay answering while I thought this through. I could have straight away requested to be put through to his partner, but instead I asked how he had died. Silence again, she was reluctant to tell me, finally she said he had died up in Townsville, he had been struck down by the bird flu virus. After another delay she told me that his body had finally been released by the authorities up there and had just been returned to Melbourne, and that he was to be buried in two days time, on Thursday. Then she asked me again if I wished to speak to anyone else. I said no, and hung up. My mind was too busy trying to come to terms with this news to try to carry on a decent conversation with his partner, now his ex-partner.

I did not know Sullivan all that well, but when I started to get to know him I found myself liking the guy, and now I did feel truly sorry that he was dead and that he had gone out in such a senseless and ignoble way. I guess he would have preferred to have gone down in the line of duty, in a blaze of glory, riddled by a hale of bullets while doing his best to protect innocent bystanders, instead of being struck down by a virus from a bird that was destined to end up being served as a meal at KFC.

The following Thursday morning I borrowed a newspaper from someone in the office and looked through the obituaries and read the details connected with Sullivan's funeral. I'm not sure why, I didn't know the guy all that well, but in the back of my mind I couldn't dismiss the feeling that I should go and see him off.

Later in the car after checking my list of appointments for the day I worked out that if we cancelled one, that was not essential, it would give us time to make a slight detour and visit the cemetery on the way to a different appointment. I sat thinking about it for a while – I still couldn't work out why I wanted to do this.

I told Johno about Sullivan's death and about my urge to go to his funeral, and explained the new schedule I had worked out.

He looked across at me and was silent for a while, then with an understanding tone, he said, "Well, sometimes we don't need a good reason to do what we think is right." After a few minutes he turned to me again. "Hey, I believe Vince has been assigned to get some footage at that funeral, for tonight's news. I could make a call and tell him that we could do the job." Vince was a freelance cameraman who usually worked alone, but sometimes became part of a team when a regular cameraman was not available.

"He won't mind?"

"No – he's always got more work than he can handle. I was talking to him in the office this morning, he was complaining about the travel time to get to the cemetery, in order to shoot enough footage for less than thirty seconds of news time. I'll call and tell him I'll take his place. He'll owe me one."

"Okay, do it."

Johno reached for his cell phone and made the call.

When he'd finished he turned to me. "Vance filled me in on what they want. They want some footage of uniformed police lined up as the coffin is carried past, and anything else that seems interesting. Some stills of him in uniform will be shown as a voice over tells us about some of his most famous arrests, and praises him as being a good cop who will be missed, etc. that sort of thing - you know the deal. We don't have to interview anybody. But you know something, the real story here – the reason they are making such a big deal about him is because he was the last person in Australia to die from the bird flu. Since his death, no one else has even come down with the bug. And now the authorities are declaring that the epidemic is well and truly over. No one is even on the critical list anymore.

"No shit?"

"Yeah, no shit. How would you like to go down in history as the last person to have died of Bird flu in Australia? It's almost as bad as being known as the last soldier to die in the Second World War. Or even the First World War."

"Or even the Korean War, or the Vietnam War," I said.

"Yeah, or any other bloody war, I guess."

"So who was the last soldier to die in the Second World War, do you know?"

"No idea."

"What about the First World War, or any of the other wars?"

"Absolutely no idea, about any of them," said Johno.

"So why are you talking about it, as if it's an honour worth having?"

"Not me. I'm not doing that. I'm just telling you about why they want to do a story about Sullivan."

"Yeah, and I'm thinking that's an honour I could easily do without. Now I realize it's not even a real honour if no one knows or cares about it, except maybe his family and friends. I bet they must feel extremely proud."

"Yeah," said Johno. "At least it better than being the second last soldier killed in a war. If you're the second last, you're just as dead as the last, but you miss out completely on the honour of being the last."

"Yeah, you're got a point there."

"Makes you wonder about the status of being the first soldier killed in a war. Would you say it's an honour to be the first?"

"Johno, drop it. I don't want to spend any time thinking about shit like that."

When we arrived at the cemetery I was a bit worried that Johno with his camera might be perceived as intrusive. From experience I knew that most cops didn't like having cameras pointed at them. But, because his car was parked near-by with our channel's logo painted on its side, everyone there knew that the funeral would be on the news tonight, and they all thought that that was okay - they considered it a tribute to the dead cop.

There was a large crowd there. I was expecting it to be mostly cops, but there were far more civilians than cops. I guess he was from a large family, and had lots of friends.

We didn't have to wait long before the hearse arrived escorted by six police cars in front and six behind. It came to a stop at the end of a long line of uniformed cops. Eight of them went to the back of the hearse and ceremoniously removed the coffin and carried it towards the open grave. The coffin looked to be made of metal. I could picture it being sterilized with steam as soon as it was sealed up in Queensland – no one wanted to export the virus and let it get going again down here in Melbourne.

A mishmash of assorted dignitaries climbed out of the escort cars – among them high-ranking police officers in their brass embellished uniforms, some recognizable politicians with their trim image-cultivated personas, and other celebrities, some associated with the world of organized crime. They all followed solemnly along behind the coffin.

At the grave site the coffin was placed on view above the hole. I was at the back of the crowd, too far away to hear clearly the word the minister was saying as he stood solemnly at the head of the coffin, as it slowly sank into the grave. In my mind I imagined I heard the words, "dust to dust," and, "the Lord givith, and the Lord taketh." All the dignities must have already delivered their eulogies at the church service. I remembered from the obituaries in the paper that it was to be held at a Roman Catholic Church and was to be preceded by a mass. I was glad I missed all that. I'm not a Catholic, was my prepared excuse if anyone was interested in why I didn't attend.

When the minister was finished a woman carrying a long stemmed rose walked up to the edge of the hole and after looking down at the coffin, with tears in her eyes, she let the rose fall into the hole. Shortly after as she walked away a young man walked up, bent over, and scooped up a handful of soil. Standing upright he slowly let the soil trickle from his fingers onto the coffin.

As I stood watching more people started doing the same thing and I noticed the cop I knew as Sullivan's partner approaching me.

He stopped in front of me and was about to say something when we both heard the sound of someone playing a bugle. We both looked around and found that it was an old man in an army uniform.

"Sullivan was in the army during the Vietnam war." Sullivan's partner said to me. "That must be one of his old buddies. The tune he's playing is called The Last Post."

I knew that, but I didn't say anything. Then a little amazed I realized that this was the first time I had ever heard this cop's voice. When the old soldier had finished playing his bugle the cop turned back to me, and put out his hand. "My name is Detective Frank Fitzgerald."

We shook hands. I didn't even consider telling him my name. He already knew it of cause, as did most people in Australia who watched television regularly.

"I'm sorry about Senior Detective Sullivan. I didn't know him all that well, but I think of him as a good man, and a good and fair cop. I just heard about his death a couple of days ago."

"That's what I want to talk to you about. I'm now in charge of the investigation into Chris Norton's death, and I expect your full cooperation in this matter."

"Of cause, and you'll get it." I was a little startled at the harsh tone of his voice.

"I need to know about any new information you have connected with it."

"I don't have any new information. If I did I would most definitely...."

He cut me off. "What about that woman, Rose. What have you heard from her lately?"

"I haven't heard anything from her lately."

"Now listen to me. I don't want any bullshit. This has now become my number one case."

"I haven't heard from her lately. The last time she rang we continued to haggle over the amount of money she expected for information. She still wanted a million bucks, and I said no way – I gave her an email address where she could contact me, but I haven't received any emails from her yet – and I don't have her phone number."

"What's the email address?"

I thought about the wisdom of telling him. It had sounded more like an order than a request, and I disliked the tone he had used. "Sorry, I'm not telling you. There's still a chance she may contact me, and I don't want anyone scaring her off before she does. And I don't see why you need it. If you use it, you only contact me – not her."

"If she does contact you I want to know immediately. And I don't want you putting anything you learn from her on the air - I'll tell you why. I think Sullivan was murdered up there, in Townsville. The last call I got from him, the day before he came down with the bug, he told me he had met someone up there who knew the dead kid, and this person told him that the Norton was a microbiologist, and that he's specialty was viruses."

"That's news to me. So, now you think he discovered something up there, and someone deliberately infected him with the bird flu, to shut him up?"

"That's exactly what I think. That's why I don't want you putting anything about the kid on the air. I don't want you scaring anyone off, until we know what happened, and who is involved. I'm warning you right now. If you do, you may be prosecuted for interfering in a criminal investigation. Is that clear?"

The way he asked me if that was clear reminded me of Jack Nicholson in the movie A Few Good Men. He even looked and sounded a bit like Nicholson.

"Crystal," I said to him.

"What?"

"I said crystal – like in, crystal clear."

"You're a smart arse, are you?"

For a long time I just stood there looking him straight in the eye. Then I took a deep breath and turned and walk away. Over my shoulder I said: "Nice meeting you again Detective Fitzgerald. Good luck with your investigation."

I felt a fresh twinge of sorrow at Sullivan's passing.

CHAPTER 13

I drove into the Lomond Hotel carpark, and as I parked in the spot where I usually parked, right next to Jill's car. I noticed that Jill was sitting in her car. She must have just arrived, saw me coming, and decided to wait for me. As I got out of my car I expected her to get out of hers, but she didn't, Instead she leant across her front seat and opened her side door, right next to me.

"Get in," she said. "I've been waiting for you, for about fifteen minutes."

Mystified, I climbed in, "What's going on?"

"Before we go in the pub, I need to talk to you. Ben might be in there, and I need to tell you something that I don't want to talk about in front of him."

"Okay, this sounds a little melodramatic, but, go ahead."

"I found a list of names on the computer, and after studying it for a long time I'm sure it's the list of all the people who received the Bird flu vaccination."

"Yeah, so what? That computer belongs to the Bureau of Statistics. It was probably the one used by the Government to make the list."

"Well, first, we were told that all the names for the lottery were obtained from the electoral role. And the Australian Election Commission has its own computer - one that's quite powerful enough to handle the selection process and to notify all the winners. And second, now this is the one that shocked me the most – the place where I found this list was on my own computer – I downloaded it from the big computer weeks ago. I only got around to decoding it today."

"What? - What are you saying – that you've had this list from before the bird flu epidemic started?"

"That's what I'm saying - from well before it started."

"But how do you know the list you have is what you think it is?"

"I've spent all afternoon checking. I've been ringing people all around Australia who are on the list and asking if they received the vaccine. If they won it in the lottery. Some wouldn't tell me if they received it or not, but most were happy to boast about receiving it. And this is the kicker - not one person I rang said he hadn't received it."

I sat looking out the windscreen at the brick wall in front of the car thinking about the implication of what Jill had discovered. It just didn't make sense – If the names had been generated on the big computer weeks before the epidemic then the lottery either didn't happen, or the results of the lottery were ignored, and this list substituted. If that was the case then many people must have been involved in the fraud, far too many for it to have simply slipped under the radar of all the honest people who were involved in the process. It crossed my mind that Jill may have made a mistake, that maybe she had inadvertently got the list from the big computer recently, not many weeks ago. Somehow she must have got things mixed up. This explanation seemed more plausible. But I didn't want to make a big deal about it, and accuse her of making a mistake, because obviously she was under the impression she hadn't made a mistake. I didn't see the point of starting an argument over it. And so I decided to explore her line of reasoning a little further.

"Do you think Ben may be involved in this?"

"His big computer is definitely involved. But is Ben involved? I don't know. I have no evidence that he is involved. I don't have a clue who is involved yet. But since it is his computer, it seems reasonable to place him on the top of my list of suspects."

"The smoking gun is registered in his name."

"Exactly. And has his fingerprints all over it."

"Come on, let's go in and have it out with him."

"No way. Don't you dare accuse him of anything, or let him know what I'm doing at the bureau until I've finished my investigation and have more information about what's going on. If he is involved and you blow my cover he'll just delete all the evidence, pack up and move on, and I'll never get any answers."

"Okay, don't worry, I won't say a word. I can smell a good story here and I want to know what's going on just as much as you do."

She smiled, leaned across and kissed me, and then we both got out of the car and headed for the Lomond's back door.

The first thing I noticed, and I guess Jill did too, was that the bar stool that Ben usually sat on, was in it usual place and was not being used.

"Shit," said Jill under her breath as we headed towards the bar. "I wasted a good fifteen minutes of drinking time sitting in the car for no good reason."

"And another ten minutes of my time, out there, telling me about it."

Just as the nightly news was coming to an end Ben walked in and sat down in his usual spot.

While NewsFix was on I drank beer and we talked about trivial things, as usual.

When NewsFix was over, as a group, without a word being said, we got up and wandered into the bistro where we sat in the same chairs at the same table we always used.

Ben looked at the menu with a sour expression. "Hum, I'm growing tied of this selection. All the food here is very basic, wouldn't you agree?"

Jill shrugged, and nodded her head.

I thought about it, and said: "At least we know what to expect, there's no unpleasant surprises."

"That's true," said Ben. "But then again there are no new and exciting surprises either."

"Yeah, that's true too."

"Do you like Japanese food?" asked Ben.

"Never tried it," I said. "Except for a few little rolled up finger food, thingies, that were served at a reception I went to years ago."

"Oh my God," said Ben. "I don't believe it. You've never been to a decent Japanese restaurant?"

"No, never."

"What about you Jill - do you like Japanese food?"

"Yeah, I've been to a few Japanese Restaurants. I quite like the food. But I'm not crazy about the raw fish."

"I've got an idea," said Ben. "Instead of eating the same old thing here tonight, why don't we all go to a Japanese Restaurant? I know a good one in Richmond? The food is excellent there. It's a bit expensive, but it's worth it. And don't worry about the cost – tonight it's all on me."

I looked at Jill. She was looking at me, and there was a smile on her face. I shrugged, opened my hands, palms up and said: "Okay, why not?"

Jill's smile grew a little, and Ben said: "Indeed – why not!"

We took a cab to the restaurant in Richmond. This part of town was the inner suburban headquarters for the Vietnamese community. It seemed a little incongruous that a Japanese restaurant would choose to set up here and I wondered if the large population of Asians in the area might have anything to do with it, and if rice was the connection - after all rice, along with a few other ingredients like noodles, bean curd, and soy sauce were the basis of both their cuisines. Although without actually having a deep knowledge of the subject, I suspect that's where the similarities ended. Please stop calling me a racist, because in a typical Australian fashion I'm just having a little bit of harmless fun.

When we entered the foyer of the restaurant and headed towards the staircase that would take us to a more exclusive dinning area upstairs, I noticed the lay out of the downstairs eating area. Plunked into the centre of a long thin room was a long wrap around bar that left only enough space between the bar and the walls for a wrap around row of bar stools. There was little space here for waitresses, but that was okay because they didn't need any - a continuous flow of tempting dishes was forever circulating on a long conveyer belt in front of appraising eaters as if saying, "You still hungry? Don't I look good? Go ahead, grab me, eat me." It was almost like a form of entertainment for the diner, keeping them wondering what would be coming along next, giving them the opportunity to speculate about what each mouthful would taste like.

Up stairs was completely different.

Low lights, soothing colours, soft carpet underfoot. It all looked tranquil and relaxing. That is until after being persuaded to remove our shoes and led to low table on a raised platform, where it quickly became apparent that we were required to step up, and sit on the floor, up there, on thin flat cushions.

Within a split second I knew that this was not going to be anything like the enjoyable experience accompanied by a wonderful and exotic meal that Ben had raved about earlier. Just looking at those cruel and slender cushions and that low slung table made my knees start to quiver in anticipation of all the pain that was coming. I knew instantly that the only exotic thing I could expect tonight would be the novelty of not being able to stand up when it was time to go home.

"It's not as bad as it looks," said Ben gingerly as he stepped up the platform and sat down on a pancakes thin cushion, on the damned floor. "You'll get used to it in about five minutes."

Like hell I will, I thought. I felt like demanding my shoes back and getting the hell out of there. Perhaps I could go down stairs and play trains for a while with their conveyer belt. I was sure that it would be much more enjoyable.

Jill didn't seem to be worried. Her legs were probably more supple and flexible than mine. She sat down next to Ben and looked up at me with an expression that indicated she couldn't understand what was delaying me.

I decided to put my anxieties on hold and to suffer through the ordeal, for her sake. I could see that she was looking forward to the experience of a genuine Japanese meal, served the traditional Japanese way.

Oh, what fun!

As I stepped up, and dropped into a crossed-leg position, slowly, so as not to put and unnecessary strain on the muscles in my soon to be punished legs, a woman who was dressed like a geisha appeared, bowed deeply, and greeted Ben using his name. She was about to offer us menus but Ben put out his hand to stop her and said: "Perhaps I could take the liberty of ordering for all of us."

I shrugged indifferently – I was saving my energy to fight the pain. Jill nodded and whispered: "Just remember I'm not keen on raw fish."

Ben spoke to the geisha girl in what seemed to me was fluent Japanese. When he was finished the geisha girl giggled and shuffled off. I was sure he had cracked a joke with her about my stiff legs. The bastard! – I made a promise to myself that I'll get even one day.

"A Japanese meal," said Ben, "usually consists of a bowl of white rice – gohan or meshi, accompanied by a pickles called tsukemono, a bowl of soup, and a variety of side dishes known as okazu - fish, meat, and vegetable. A meal with three side dishes is called ichiju-sansai each employing a different cooking technique –grilled, simmered, deep fried, or raw fish, called sashimi, and finished with green tea."

"I'll try some sake," I said. "And I'll give the green tea a miss."

"Okay. I've ordered a selection of vegetables, and different meats. The Japanese people eat a great variety of seafood. I've ordered the specialty of this restaurant, something you'd rarely see on menus in Melbourne."

"I hope you are not going to say whale meat." I said.

"No – it's a combination of seafoods. Its main ingredient is sea urchin, included are pawns, clams, oyster, squid, snow crab, salmon caviar, and flying fish roe. It's a truly wonderful dish."

"Is it cooked?" asked Jill.

Ben thought about his answer. "Some of it is. The pawns, the crab and the squid are cooked, but you wouldn't cook the caviar. You're got to eat that fresh, and raw. Just try it – you'll love it, I guarantee it. We'll start in the traditional Australian way – with the soup. I've ordered bird's nest soup. It's a Japanese delicacy now, but it originated in China, and it tastes fantastic."

Inwardly, I growled. Not from Ben's descriptions of the food - I was barely listening. But from the pain I was already feeling in my cramped calves.

When we first arrived the restaurant was only a little over half full and the soft background music was almost elevator muzak in its dullness. Now as we were almost finished eating the place was packed with giggling and noisy drunks, mostly men, who were almost fighting each other to have a turn at the microphone connected to the Karaoke machine.

Thanks to all the sake I had put away I was winning the fight against my complaining legs. As time passed I seemed to be getting better at ignoring the fact that inside they were screaming to go home.

With the thrill of introducing us to exciting new culinary delights fading, Ben turned to Jill and said, "So how is everything at work going? You must be settled in by now?"

"Yes, everything's fine, no problems."

"You're doing some research there, I believe."

"Yes, that's right."

"Want to tell me, what type of research you're doing?"

Not expecting this question Jill suddenly became serious. "Well, no, sorry. I don't like to talk about it until I have a better understanding of where the results are heading."

"You don't want to be influenced by other people's opinion on the subject, is that it?"

"Yes, that is exactly right."

"Good, fair enough. Although I am curious about your need to have a full understanding of the way my computer works, and why you need to learn the language that the master code is written in. That seems a bit like over-kill to me. Surely all the languages in common use would suffice."

Jill looked at me and I could see that she felt uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

"I love computers. They are my life, and when I come across a unique machine, like yours, I can't resist the urge to find out how it works, how it is different from other computers. It might be over-kill, but I get a kick out of discovering things like that."

"And have you worked out how the satellite dish on the roof is connected to the system yet - what it is doing, and who is using it?"

I received another look of discomfort from Jill. Before she could answer Ben spoke again: "Don't worry, I know all about what you are doing at the Bureau. The General Manager, Alex Selby, came to see me the first time the Feds came to his office and demanded explanations about the existence of the dish and its function. He told the Feds the truth – he didn't even know we had a satellite dish on the roof. He thought I might know."

"And do you?"

"I was interviewed by people from your organization, and I told them all I know. This was before they sent you in to do a bit of snooping. But I'm sure you know all the details of my interview."

"I do." She said.

I decided to put my two cents worth in: "I'm sure there are not many people in this world who would give incriminating answers when questioned by the Australian Federal Police."

Ben laughed. "I believe you just hinted that I may have lied to the Feds."

"I suspect you know more than you let on during your interview."

"Maybe they just didn't ask the right questions."

"I have been looking at certain files stored in your computer," said Jill, "and I was wondering why I happened to find a list of the names of all the people who received the bird flu vaccine, a couple of weeks before the decision was made to conduct the lottery. Any ideas about how that list got into you computer, or who put it there?"

It was obvious that Jill was quickly coming to terms with the idea that as far as Ben was concerned the cat was now well and truly out of the bag. I could see that she was now determined to hold her own interview, and get some answers.

"My my, you are a tough young lady. I admire that immensely. And I also greatly admire the way you have managed to crack the operating system of my computer so quickly. I have known many programmers over the years, and not many of them could have done what you have done. Not many of them would even try. I admire your tenacity and abilities tremendously. If you ever decide to leave the feds, come and see me. I'll employ you. In fact I'll give you a job right now. Come and work for me and I'll pay you double, no, triple what you're getting now."

"No thank you. I like the job I've got now."

"You can name your own price. With the brains and talent you've got, I'll pay it. Working together we could build a machine even better than the one at the bureau. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Yes it would. And I'm sure it's something that I would love to do. But, as I said, I've got a job to do, and I can't quit until it's finished."

Okay, but think about it. There's one retrospection I would like to make about your efforts to crack my computer; - I could have help you a lot, you know, if you had of asked. I could have made your job a lot simpler."

"It's not too late. Tell me about the dish, tell me about those files."

"I meant I could have helped you understand how my computer works, not what it is being used for."

"So you don't know anything about the dish, or the list?"

"The list - I could easily say sorry I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about. A lot of people use my computer, and I don't keep track of them, or what they are doing. But I won't say that. I'll tell you the truth. Yes I did know about the existence of that list. It seems some people decided a long time ago that it was only a matter of time before the Avian flu became a virus that was transmissible from human to human. And they knew there were not enough doses of the vaccine to go around. They decided to make a list of people who they thought should receive it. So that they would be ready when the Virus became an epidemic. It's as simple as that."

"Who made up the list?" I asked.

"No idea. Some Government officials, I guess, who had a bit of spare time on their hands and nothing better to do. I discovered the file by accident, as you did, while doing a bit of routine maintenance on the computer, a little bit of house keeping – cleaning out old files and corrupt data in obscure corners of the computer's memory."

I'm not sure what, exactly, but something suddenly made me wonder if there was any connection between the flu outbreak and the Solution Society's secret project. Perhaps it was because Detective Fitzgerald had recently told me that Chris Norton was a microbiologist.

"Have you ever heard of the Solution Society?"

"Well yes I have. I saw you on television talking about the poor young man who was murdered in a carpark. You said that he claimed to have some important information about the Solution Society, and the Asimov project, but he died before he told you what he knew. How is your investigation going, by the way, Are you, or the cops, any closer to discovering who killed that young man, or why he was killed?"

"It's not going very well at all. We're still trying to find some leads."

"Oh, that's too bad. You know, I think I may have met that young man a few years ago."

"Really, where, when?"

"Well, first let me say, I'm not a hundred percent sure it was him. It was about two years ago. I went to a friend's house, and he was there, with a woman named Rosetta. Although this woman, Rosetta, may have been with my friend and not him. I can't be sure about that. My friend was a microbiologist, and he seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth. I wish I knew what happened to him."

"What was the connection between your friend, the young, man, and this Rosetta, do you know?"

"Not really. I think they were working together on something. I think the young man was a chemist, or a doctor. The woman, Rosetta, may have been with him. They seemed to be a very tight little group. I haven't seen her since that night either. I think she might know what happened to my friend."

Gears in my brain started grinding against each other. I was sure that Ben knew a hell of a lot more than he was letting on. I got the impression that he was on a fishing trip and was only shelling out a few tantalizing morsels of information in order to discover what I knew. I decided to play along with him for a while.

"It's funny you should mention the name Rosetta. I received a phone call from a woman named Rose. She claimed she knew Chris Norton, that's the name of the young man who was killed. She wants the show I work for to pay her money for information she has about him and the reason why he was murdered."

"Really, and is your company going to pay her what she wants?"

"I don't know yet. They're still thinking about it."

"Well if you happen to talk to her again, tell her that I wouldn't mind hearing from her. I would like to know what happened to my friend."

"What's your friend's name? And what's your connection to him?"

"His name is John Wilson. As well as being a microbiologist he is also a leader of a small and little-known religious group. At the time I was having a lot of trouble with alcohol, and I was searching for answers, and reasons to go on fighting my battle with the bottle. At first, when I was introduced to his group, his teaching seemed to make a lot of sense. Later, when I started to get things together I changed my mind about his philosophy. But I still think of him as a friend, and would like to see him again. So if you hear from her, let her know."

"Will do."

With this line of conversation seeming to be exhausted we all looked around the room and paid more attention to the characters surrounding us. Most of the people in the restaurant were Asian. During the night I had formed an opinion about why this might be the case and I was still convinced that my theory was water-tight. It was quite a simple theory actually: - Australian legs just couldn't hack it.

"Do you enjoy singing?" asked Ben.

For a second I wondered why he would ask such a strange question, then it hit me – he was suggesting I might like to get up and make a fool of myself with the microphone.

"Only in the shower. What about you?"

"Yes, I like singing. When I come here I often get up and use the Karaoke machine. So, how about it – are either of you game?"

"I am," said Jill. "But I'm not getting up there by my self. How about we all get up." She looked at me, and then at Ben.

Suddenly it occurred to me – not once during the night had my status as a celebrity caused me any anxiety. I guess my legs hadn't allowed me time to worry about anything as mundane as that. Then I realized, the people in here just didn't seem to notice. I guess they see their fair share of celebrities in here, enough so that they just didn't care.

I was on the verge of getting up when my legs screamed at me – "if you get up," they said, "We're not sitting down again, were going home, because we don't think we can make the effort twice."

"No, I think I'll pass on that."

"Come on Jill, let's go," said Ben. "We'll let the old guy here sit this one out."

Jill looked at me, noticed my determination to stay put, and my nod, indicating that I would get a kick out of watching her up there.

"What song will we sing?"

"There's a list up there, but if you will indulge me, I have a favourite – I'm sure you'll know the words."

"Okay, come on," she said, as she got up, without showing any sign of pain. - Remarkable! - Unfucking believable - Her beautiful legs must be made of rubber.

As they walked towards the stage some uninhibited drunks clapped louder than usual and a few cheered, and when most of the rest of the crowd turned to see what all the fuss was about, it instantly became clear to them that it was about the stunningly beautiful woman who was heading towards the karaoke microphone. Two guys waiting up there with classes of beer in hand, who were next in line to strut their stuff, after a few quick bows, gladly stepped aside to make way for this stunning knockout.

With a bow back at them and a few words Ben graciously accepted their kind offer. Then he turned and spoke to one of the geisha girls, who bowed, handed microphones to both of them, and then went to the machine and pressed some buttons.

When they started singing something that had not happened all night happened – the crowd became silent and everyone in the room turned to watch. It was almost as if an advertised floorshow they had been waiting for had finally arrived.

At the sound of the first few bars of the music I recognized the song that Frank Sinatra had made famous, and I was not really surprised that Ben had chosen to sing, "I did it my way."

I was stunned by Jill's performance. I knew she had a pretty good voice. I had heard her singing along to songs on the radio and cds, but always only softly. I had no idea her voice could produce such power and could sound so wonderful, or that she had the confidence to get up in front of a crowd and put on such a captivating show. Ben's also had a good voice and sang with confidence and vigour.

When the song was over the crowd went wild and I clapped and cheered along with them, maybe even louder than anybody else. Like them I wanted more.

CHAPTER 14

At home later that night I switched on my computer to check for emails, and was bowled over with excitement to discover that one had been sent to ms@mikefixit.com.au, the website Jill set up that was untraceable back to me. The email was from Rose, not surprising since she is the only other person who knew that this email address belongs to me. I opened the email and this is what it contained:-

Mike.

Sorry I have not contacted you sooner. Been moving around a lot.

I hope the producer of your show has decided to pay the fee I want for the information I am prepared to provide. I am certain the information I have is well worth it.

I am prepared to tell you a little more here about the nature of the information I have in order to let you know a little more about the nature of that information.

Chris Norton, the boy who was murdered in Melbourne was a microbiologist who specialized in viruses. He was a member of a religious group called The Chosen for the Rapture Deliverance. I am also a member of this group. John Wilson is the leader of this Group. He is also a microbiologist. He has worked in the infectious diseases division at the WHO in Atlanta in the States. (World Health Organization) Chris Norton and John Wilson and some biochemists who I will not name right now have all been working on developing a deadly virus. Chris Wilson is completely crazy. It is his plan to use a virus to kill most on earth. He thinks God wants him to do this.

Chris Norton was killed because he discovered this plan and tried to stop it.

I have much more information. I know where John Wilson is hiding. He is constantly moving from one hiding place to another, and I am with him. I know that he is getting ready to release the virus.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Rose.

I read and reread the message a few times then just sat in a daze looking at the screen with unfocused eyes thinking about what had happened recently, and about certain things people had told me, trying to link them together - trying to decide if there was any connection with Rose's incredible accusations. But mainly trying to decide if I was the subject of some crazy con job, or if I was receiving correspondence from a crazy person, or if, perhaps, she was completely on the level, and what she was telling me was true.

I decided to test Rose. I would ask her a few simple questions in an endeavour to discover if she was crazy or not.

I typed the following email and sent it to her.

Rose.

I just received your email. The claims you are making are highly incredible. I would like to ask you a couple of questions that will assist me to understand the situation better.

First – What makes you think that John Wilson is developing a deadly virus?

Second - What sort of proof do you have?

Mike.

I patiently waited a few minutes, not expecting an immediate reply, but using the time to think about other questions I should ask her. I was more than a little surprised when my computer notified me that I had mail, and that it was from Rose. This is what she sent:-

Mike.

I will try to answer your questions.

Chris was born in Australia and went to live in the States when he was about 5 with his mother, who changed her name, and his too, to get away from his father. He was educated in a small university in Ohio and obtained a degree in microbiology. He got a job at the WHO and there worked with John Wilson for a while. Wilson mesmerized him into become a member of his religious group, then invited him to come to Australia and work with him on a new project. For a while Chris had no idea what the true aim of the project was. He thought he was just doing research on bird flu. When he finally discover the truth, that Wilson and others were developing a deadly virus, and Wilson proudly confirmed it, Chris decided he had to get away and tell the world about what was happening. Shortly after that he was murdered. Chris and I were good friends. Chris told me about what he had discovered, and I believe that he knew what he was talking about and that he was telling me the truth.

Since then John Wilson has told the members of his community that this is what he has been doing. He told them that he believes God wants him to fulfil the predictions in the bible, to make them happen. God wants him, personally, to commence bringing about the events that lead up to the end time when The Lord will return to Earth and save all the true believers. He has all his followers mesmerized. They think he is a prophet and that he receives messages from god. He is in hiding now, and they are helping him. I know where he is hiding. I am travelling with him and a few of his closest followers.

I don't know what else to tell you. The only proof I have is what I know. I believe the above is the reason why Chris was murdered.

Chris was murdered. That is my only proof.

Rose.

I was unsure about how serious I should be taking all this. Was she onto something fantastic, or was she completely bonkers? My immediate impulse was to dismiss her as a nut, or simply a misguided religious fanatic who had let her imagination run away with the coincidence of the kid's death. But then again maybe she was right and had discovered the truth. What a story that would be. I decided to try to test her in a different way, so I sent the following email:

Rose.

Tell me something – what do you think about AIDS – Do you think that HIV and AIDS are man made?

Mike.

Her reply came back in a little over a minute.

Mike,

I didn't want to mention it because I didn't want you to think I'm crazy, but, yes, I do. I've got no proof of course. I am not a scientist. But it stands to reason, that something like AIDS, that mainly attacks homosexual and intravenous drug users, and also hookers, would be something that some organization like the FBI or ASIO might invent and release. But I don't think John Wilson was involved in developing this disease. If he was, he has not mentioned it, as I'm sure he would do if he was involved.

Rose.

This reply didn't really help me any. It's the sort of opinion most people in the world would give to this question. At least she did not try to convince me that she knew for a fact that Wilson was involved.

I sent her another email:-

Rose.

You have given me a lot to think about. I will talk to my boss, and see if he is interested in taking it further. But I must tell you that even if what you say is true I still think there is no way they would pay a million dollars. Why won't they pay it? Because you don't have enough proof. They would need irrefutable proof before they paid anything like a million dollars. If they paid you a million dollars they would lose money, and they are not in business to lose money, no matter how great the story is.

I will get back to you as soon as I can.

Mike.

I sent the email, and waited a few minutes to see if she had more to say. I didn't have to wait long.

Mike.

I am prepared to lower the amount of money I want to 500 thousand dollars. And I won't go any lower. So do not try to bargain with me.

Rose.

I sent another message:-

Rose.

I'll tell them and get back to you.

By the way, you didn't ask me for my secret password, or give me yours. So how do I know I'm talking to you, and how do you know you're talking to me?

Mike.

A minute or two later:-

Mike.

Sorry. My password is esor. What's yours?

Rose.

I answered:-

Rose.

Thanks. Mine is sirhc.

Mike.

From her:-

Mike.

Thanks - bye.

Rose.

Just after our meeting with Stephen West, the ASIO guy, Jill checked her computer and mine for Trojan horse programs, and when she didn't find any she put an anti Trojan horse program into both of our computers so that whenever we switched them on it checks for the sneaky little buggers. And she told me this is the only computer I should use for checking my secret email address.

She also checked my whole house for bugs. Being a federal cop she knows all the different ways to bug a house and how to make it safe from being bugged. She declared the house clean, but she still keeps checking every now and then to make sure it stays that way. She also checked out our cars, and Johno's too.

From the time I read the first email from Rose the name John Wilson had been ringing bells, bells which probably would have started ringing when Ben mentioned that name last night if I hadn't been consuming sake at a fantastic rate to dull the pain in my legs. Suddenly I realized why – about two years ago I did an interview with a guy named John, John something, it could have been Wilson, who was a leader of some crazy religious sect.

Thinking about it now I remembered the guy mentioned the word rapture, and that he was of the opinion that the rapture was about to happen soon, and when it did, he and his group would be sucked up into heaven just before God bought an end to this world.

Ten minutes later, after no more messages had arrived from Rose, I switched off the computer and went to tell Jill that I had to go out for a while.

I expected to find her in bed reading while waiting for me to come to bed. The bed was untouched. I walked down the hall and found her sitting at her computer in the room she used as her study. Before I could say anything she swivelled her chair around and looked at me.

"You'll never guess what I just found." She was wide-eyed with excitement, anxious to tell me about her discovery. "I just found some more lists. I found one big one and lots of other smaller ones. The big one contains the names of all the people in Australia who were selected to receive the vaccine, the same as the other one I told you about, but this big one has more names in it. Included are names of people living in other countries. It seems to be a list that contains the names of every person in the whole fucking world who received the vaccine. I have just rang a few people who live overseas in countries where it is still daytime and asked them if they received the vaccine, and guess what, most admitted that they had received it. The smaller lists are the same names grouped together under the name of the country where they live."

I stood there thinking about this new discovery. Before I could start asking questions, she, as if reading my mind, answered the big question.

"No I did not just download these lists from Ben's computer. I found them on CDs that I burnt weeks ago, before the bird flu crisis started."

I slowly walked towards Jill trying to sort out the implications of all this in my mind. "So the big computer has been receiving information about people from countries all around the world. Information that has been gathered from many different sources. It's been putting all this information together, analysing it, and building a profile on each person. From this information it was applying its own secret selection formula, and was picking out names and putting them into a special list. And now you're saying that you had found a master list of all the people who had received the bird flu vaccine, a list that was put together before the bird flu crisis began. Wow, this whole situation is becoming extremely hairy."

She smiled, satisfied that at last I had got a grasp on the situation, and that the discovery she had announced the day before had been confirmed – she had not made a mistake about when she had downloaded the lists.

I told her about the email messages I received from Rose. Told her if she wanted to read them she could go to my computer and look at my emails received. Then I kissed her on the lips and said I had to go out for a while.

CHAPTER 15

I knocked on Johno's door. I could see a light on inside through the glass panels beside the door. After waiting at least fifteen seconds I knocked again, louder, and called out, "Come on Johno, it's me, open the door." I knocked again, a bit louder.

Soon an indignant looking Johno was holding the door open. He was wearing a dressing gown and slippers. "For Christ sake it's twelve thirty. What the Fuck do you want?"

"I need to look at a tape." I said as a strolled past him into his lounge room.

"It's twelve fucking thirty. Can't we do this tomorrow?"

"Nope, it can't wait. Got to work tomorrow, remember?"

"My point exactly. In order to work tomorrow, got to sleep tonight."

"This won't take long. One tape, that's all. I just want to look at it, then I'm out of here."

"What tape?"

"Come outside I think I left something, in the car." I started heading out the door again. When he just stood there looking mystified I put a finger up to my lips then pointed at my ears, then at the walls, trying to transmit the message: the walls have ears, someone may be listening. Johno got the message, but remained standing there. I took hold of his shirt sleeve and gave him a little nudge. He sighed and nodded his head and followed me outside.

Out in his drive way, near my car I said: "Remember about two years ago, maybe closer to three, we drove up to Castlemaine to interview a religious nut who had six wives?"

"The one who reminded me of crazy David Car-crash?"

"Yes, right, but the name is David Koresh, not car-crash."

"Right, the wacko from Waco Texas, who got whacked."

"That's right, the leader of a religious sect called the Branch Davidians."

"Right, right, right, I'm just remembering what I used to say about him at the time, "The wacko who got whacked in Waco and took all of his dividends with him."

"That's the one, you idiot! Anyway I want to see the tape on the guy in Castlemaine who reminded you of David Car-crash."

"You think my house is bugged, don't you."

"I don't know, honestly. Jill checked it out. She said it wasn't, but that was a while back. I thought it would be best not to take any chances. Come on, you think you can fine it?"

"Of cause I can find it."

I knew he could, and I knew it wouldn't take him very long. He was one of the most organized persons I have ever met in my life.

Inside, he went to the shelves that covered almost one wall of his lounge room where he kept all his video tapes. He retrieved from one of the shelves a catalogue in which he noted the location of all his tapes, flicked through its pages, stopped at a page and ran his finger down the entries, then started looking at the spines of the video tape boxes.

"John Wils...."

I grabbed his arm and made him look at me, and put a finger to my lips. He grimaced at his own stupidity, and imitated zipping up his lips, then pointed at the label on the box, on which was written – "John Wilson: – The Children of the Rapture Deliverance."

"Okay, put it in the machine." I whispered. "Let's see it."

He put the tape in his VCR and switched on the TV.

I heard a woman's voice calling Johno's name and when I turned to see who it was, the teacher who had been charged with having sex with a student appeared in the doorway. She seemed to be wearing nothing but the top part of Johno's pyjamas. She stopped suddenly, shocked by seeing me, but quickly recovered. "Hello Mike, we meet again."

Something strange happened – I was so shocked I couldn't remember her name, and just stood there and mumbled, "Yeah, hello."

"Go back to bed Jane," said Johno. "Mike won't be staying long."

She shrugged, waved her fingers, smiled, and turned and disappeared.

I moved a bit closer to Johno and whispered, "What, errr, how come....errr?"

"It's a long story."

"Isn't she a bit old for you? If I remember correctly, she's forty six. Maybe I should say – aren't you a bit old for her? The way I remember it her last boyfriend was only fifteen...and..."

"Can it Mike. I told you it's a long story."

"Okay, cut it short. How did you meet her?"

"Look, all I'm saying now is, when we interviewed her she gave me the eye and smiled at me. Okay, let's leave it at that."

"Wow, man, you must be some operator. Okay, forget it. Find the tape, and let's get on with it."

We both turned and looked at Johno's wall of tapes.

"You know," said Johno, "one day I'm going to put all these tapes onto DVD. Look at all these shelves, imagine how much space I'd get back."

"You're not going to do that. I know it, and you know it. Well, come to think of it, on second thoughts, you might just be crazy enough to do it, but you won't throw out all these tapes. No way. You're far too anal to do that."

"I'm going to do it, man, one day, believe me."

"Look at all these lovely tapes - You're not going to throw them out. You know that."

Johno looked at all his tapes, "Yeah, you may be right. I would probably pack them into cardboard boxes and store them somewhere."

"Nope, I bet you couldn't even do that."

"I will. Yes I will. You'll see – one day."

"Where you going to store all the cartons?"

Johno looked around the room. His eyes paused on a distant corner of the room where there was only a straight back chair, that no one ever used, looking unloved and lonely. Slowly Johno's eyes moved on, looking in a different direction, when they arrived back on me he said: "Your house is a lot bigger than mine. I bet you've got a spare room somewhere that you don't use."

"One that you could easily clutter up, hey?"

"Hey man, you would have your very own set of tapes. You wouldn't have to come banging on my door in the middle of the night."

"Yes I would. It would still be a lot easier to come banging on your door than to try searching through all your junk trying to find the right tape."

Johno shrugged. He was defeated. He knew I was right.

"Okay, think of it this way - you'd have something to show to your grandkids someday, when you're old and in a wheelchair, with nothing to do."

"I don't have any grandkids. I don't even have any kids."

"Arr, not yet, but you will one day."

"By then a VCR player will be just an ancient piece of history, just a memory, and my grandkids won't be able to watch them. It would be like having a fine collection of the old four and a half inch computer floppies, containing programs that will only work on a first generation Apple computer, or an old Radio Shack computer. Do you know anyone with a computer that can use the old floppies?"

Johno shrugged again, and I felt I had scored a victory.

I walked over to his stereo system and unplugged his earphones. I took them to his television set and plugged them in.

"Hit the play button, will ya." I said as I sat down in a chair near Johno's favourite chair.

Johno went to a cupboard and opened a draw and got out another set of earphones and plugged them into the VCR machine. Then using his remote the tape was soon rolling. He fast forwarded passed other stories that had been on the show that night, and eventually came to the right spot. He backed it up a bit to the very start but instead of hitting play he hit pause.

Pointing to his ears and then the walls he said loudly: "Too bad there's no sound track on this tape. I think I'll put on some music." He pointed his remote at his stereo and soon some soft classical music filled the room. Then he hit play on the VCR.

On the screen the show's presenter introduced the piece: "This next story is about a secretive Christian sect called the Children of the Rapture Deliverance. According to an ex-member of this sect the leader of the group is practicing polygamy without breaking the law. He seems to have found a way to be married to more than one wife simply by not getting married in the legal sense of the word. Each time he fancies a new wife they conduct their own marriage ceremony according to their creed without getting a marriage license and without bothering to inform the authorities. Mike Stanley takes up the story with an ex-member who is incensed by this blatant disregard for the law."

The presenter was replaced by a head and shoulders shot of me, talking into a microphone in a sparsely furnished lounge room.

"I'm talking to an ex-member of the children of the rapture Deliverance sect. He is fearful of retribution from this group and doesn't want to be identified."

The next shot shows a man sitting in shadows with a brightly lit window behind. All we can see of him is a silhouette.

"Before you tell me about this group, tell me why you are worried about being identified. Are you afraid that they might physically harm you, if they discovered who you are?"

"Yes, I'm worried. Some members of this group are completely out of control. They have a complete disregard for the laws of our courts. They make up their own laws. They do exactly what they like and at times they can be extremely violent. If anyone stands in their way, or fails to obey their instructions then they have been know to gang up on the poor unlucky and innocent person and beat the living day-light out of him, or her."

"Why did you leave this group?"

"Why? – because a while back I just happened to be one of the poor sods who was beaten senseless because I made the mistake of telling a friend, a member of this group, who is no longer a friend, let me tell you, that I happened to disagree with something that their leader, John Wilson, had said."

"Do you want to tell us about that?"

"No – That's not important now. And what I said wasn't much of a big deal at the time anyway, either. No, what I want to tell you about now is the way their leader is sponging of the well-fair system, by being in de facto relationships with six different women, who are all receiving the single mothers' pension. He is using them like his own personal slaves, and the taxpayer is picking up the bill."

My voice over: "You have proof of this?"

"No, no physical proof. But all the members of this sect know it's true. They were all there during all of his marriage ceremonies."

"I would like to talk to this John Wilson and hear his side of the story. Do you know where I can find him?"

"I sure do."

The silhouette of this man is instantly replaced by a wide shot of a farm, taken by a camera inside a car. A group of farm houses and other rural buildings, with an extensive plot of land in the foreground being used as a large vegetable garden, and in the background can be seen a mixture of green and recently ploughed pastures. Children are playing in the vicinity of the farm houses, and out the back some people can be seen working in the fields. The camera pans around and picks up on me sitting in the driver's seat of Johno's car. Obviously the cameraman, Johno, is sitting in the front passenger seat.

"This property belongs to the religious sect known as the Children of the Rapture Deliverance. I have not made an appointment, so they are not expecting me, but I'm hoping to get a few questions answered, preferably by the leader of this outfit John Wilson, and if not him, then by someone else who knows what's going on."

The camera follows me as I get out of the car and start opening the gate.

The vision cuts to me sitting in the front seat of the car again, I'm driving, as we head towards the main farm house. Suddenly all hell breaks lose. Six powerfully built men of various ages come racing down the dirt road waving their arms, indicating they want the car to stop immediately. I stop the car and a few seconds later it is surrounded by a group of angry men. I wind down the window and introduce myself.

"Hello, I'm Mike Stanley from NewsFix. If it's possible I would like to interview Mr. Wilson."

One of the guys pushes another young guy aside and makes his way around to my side of the car and stands there grim-faced looking in at me.

"What do you want to speak to him about?" The grim-faced man says.

"Someone I interviewed earlier this morning put forwards some interesting accusations about what is happening here on this farm. I would like to hear your side of it, and get it all cleared up."

"What did you hear?"

"Well, I would really like to speak with Mr. Wilson, it concerns him. Is he here?"

"What do you want to talk to him about?"

The real Johno, sitting next to me in his lounge room, hit the pause button on the VCR, and backed the tape up a bit, then a bit more, then stopped it cold. He then got up and went to the television set and pointed at one of the six guys in front of the car. Not wanting to say a word he stood there looking at me, pointing and waiting. It took me a few seconds then it suddenly hit me – the guy Johno was pointing at was the young man named Chris Norton, the dead guy. Johno was studying my face. He saw my surprise, and when I nodded my head and smiled he knew I had made the connection. He returned to his chair and hit play. Soon the tape caught up to the place where Johno had decided to rewind it. On screen I was answering the tough guy's question.

"I believe this farm is being used by a religious community. I would simply like to know more about your organization, as I'm sure our viewers would too."

Unsure about what to do the guy looks around, looks up at the main farmhouse. Johno's camera pans in that direction and through the windshield zooms in on an annoyed looking man standing on the front veranda. After a few seconds the man waves his hand, indicating that the group of farmers should let the car approach the farmhouse.

Cut to a shot of me and a man sitting side by side in heavy wooden chairs on the front veranda. The camera zooms in for a close up of me.

"I'm talking to John Wilson, the leader of this little group. Perhaps to start, you could tell me exactly how many members there are in your group?"

The camera drifts across to John Wilson.

"I guess we have a bit over three hundred followers. Roughly between thirty and forty of them live here on this farm on a permanent basis."

My voice is heard asking: "And how many of them are your wives?"

"None. Like our Lord Jesus I am not married. I don't know who is spreading these vicious rumours about me. And I would like to know. Can you tell me who it is?"

"It's an ex-member of your congregation. He claims that you are living in de facto relationships with at least six women here, treating them as if they were your wives. He claims that they are all receiving the single mothers' pension, and that between them they have 15 children, and that you are the father of most, if not all of them."

"That's a lie. I don't have any wives, and I'm not living in a de facto relationship with any of my congregation. And I am definitely not the biological father of any of the children living here in our community. I don't even know what women you're talking about. Why don't you tell me their names."

The Camera zooms out so that both of us are in the frame. I reach inside my jacket and bring out a sheet of paper. I unfold the paper and extend it towards the other man.

"I have a list of names here. I don't want to read the names on camera. Do you know any of these women Mr. Wilson? – Do they live here on this farm - Do you know who they are married to?"

Mr. Wilson reluctantly takes the paper and glances at it for a couple of seconds. He shrugs and the corners of his mouth turn down. "I don't recognize any of these names." He hands the paper back to me.

"According to my source they all live here, on this farm, and are members of you're community. Perhaps someone else here might recognize them."

"No, I'm sure no one here will recognize any of those names."

"So you're not the father of any of the kids living here?"

"No, I've already told you that a few times, haven't I? Although, I should explain something - all the adults here consider themselves as equal guardians of all the children. You could say that all the adults treat all the children as if they were their own. And since I am the Shepherd of this little flock, then I consider myself as the spiritual father of all the children in our group of believers."

Suddenly I heard a sound in my earphones that jogged a memory. It was a sound I remember hearing when we were doing the interview and I remembered that I thought it strange at the time, because I couldn't recognize what sort of animal would make a sound like that. But I didn't make an issue of it and never discovered what it was. Now I thought I knew.

"Johno, give me the remote will you?" I said.

Mystified Johno handed it to me. I backed up the tape a bit and hit pause.

I pointed at my ear, and then at the TV screen. Johno nodded, he understood I wanted him to listen to something on the tape. I hit play. After I heard the sound again I hit pause, and played it again a few more times. I put my finger to my lips to stop him guessing, then whispered: "It's not a farm animal. I know what it is, I'll tell you later." I played it for him again, and then let the tape run. I could see that Johno was still mystified.

A close up of me: "You come from the states, right, from Salt Lake City, that's the home of the Mormons, right? And they do practice Polygamy. Are you a Mormon?"

The camera pans to Wilson: "I do come from that part of the world, but I am not a Mormon, never have been. It's true that Mormons used to practice Polygamy, But they don't any more. It's been outlawed. I am not a polygamist. I don't think I can make it any clearer than that."

"So what religion do you practice?"

"None of the traditional religions understand the true meaning of the words of the Lord in the bible. I have studied the bible and prayed for steerage and enlightenment from God all my life, and over the last few years I have been fortunate to have received guidance directly from God. He has let me know that he has a special job for me to do, to help bring about the rapture that is prophesied in the bible which is a part of the end time and the coming of God's kingdom here on earth."

"A special job – what sort of job?"

"It is my job to help bring God's message to the elect, the believers who will be saved at the time of the rapture, which will soon be upon us."

"The rapture, unfortunately I'm not up on my bible reading these days. I wonder if you could explain to me in simple terms what the rapture is, and who the elect are?"

"Very well. Just before the end days there will be a time of tribulation, and during that time, or just before it, the rapture will take place – Christ and his saints will come down to Earth and raise up the chosen and protect them from the horrors of the tribulation and prepare them for the coming millennium when Jesus Christ will rule an Earthly Kingdom for 1000 years."

"And who are the chosen, do you know?"

"They are all who truly and fully understand and follow the teachings of Jesus Christ. They are the elite of mankind."

"When is all this likely to happen, any idea?"

"I have a very good idea. I think I know the answer to that question better than anyone else on this planet. I won't give you an exact date, because God did not want the exact date to be known - we should all live everyday as if it may be our last. But I can tell you that it will be happening soon. Possibly within the next few years. Maybe even as early as next year. But definitely within the next seven years."

"You seem so sure about all this - How do you know all this, and what makes you think you are right?"

"I have spent a lot of time studying eschatology, praying, and asking God for guidance. And he has answered me."

I didn't have a clue back then what eschatology was. Shortly after this interview I googled the word eschatology and Wikipedia told me:- "Eschatology (from the Greek meaning "last" and logy meaning "the study of") is a part of theology and philosophy concerned with the final events in the history of the world, or the ultimate destiny of humanity, commonly referred to as the end of the world."

"So God speaks to you?"

"Yes, I am a very fortunate man. One that God has seen fit to bestow a wonderful gift upon. He has endowed me with the ability to hear his words."

"I see, okay - so the righteous will be saved, but what about the rest of us? What will happen to everybody else?"

"It's all in the Bible. Read it and you will know, and by reading it, and believing it, you too may become one of the chosen to be saved."

"I guess all your followers will be saved?"

"Yes, every single one of them. I will make sure of that."

I remembered that in what followed I thanked him for taking the time to talk to me, did a quick summary for the camera, and signed off – all of no interest to me now. I hit the pause button and sat thinking about what I should be learning from this tape. I hadn't known at the time of this interview that this man was a world renowned microbiologist. He probably had a laboratory right there on the farm where he spent his time working with a few other biologists, including Chris Norton, working on a new deadly virus and its vaccine. My God, if only I known then what I know now.

I hit the rewind button, waited a few seconds then hit play. I had gone back too far, past the scene I wanted, so I hit the fast forward. When the scene of us driving up towards the farm houses appeared I hit the play button, then slow forward as I examined all the farm building that could be seen, and eventually hit pause.

I got up and went to the TV set and looked closely at one particular building in the background, set away from all the others. It looked to be a two story building made from concrete. I could see two of its walls and there were no windows in either, and only one solid looking door. This building looked nothing like any building you'd expect to find on a farm – it looked like a fortress, and I had no doubt that it was being used as a biochemically safe laboratory. The place where the end of the world was being formulated.

Soon Johno was down on the carpet beside me looking closely at the screen. He turned and looked questioningly at me. I pointed at the building. He looked at the screen, looked back at me, shrugged and made a face that expressed his confusion.

I stood up. "Well that's it. I've seen enough, I'm going home. Thanks Johno."

As I headed for the door I wiggled my fingers indicating that he should follow. He got up and did just that.

"Any time pal, but before twelve would be better in the future, okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry mate.

Outside we stopped next to my car.

"So what's going on? What do you think is so significant about that building?"

"It's solid concrete, no windows. I think it's a laboratory. That guy, John Wilson has degrees in microbiology. So did the dead guy, Chris Norton."

"No shit? – And what about that strange sound we heard during the interview – what do you think that was?"

"Johno I don't think you really want to know, so I think it would be best if I didn't tell you."

"Come on, cut the crap. I was there remember, I heard it too, remember. I want to know what it was."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, spill it."

"Well, my best guess is, well to me it sounded like the screeching sound that some species of monkeys make. I'm sure it was a monkey. I believe he had a lot of animals there somewhere, in cages. Animals that he used in laboratory experiments."

"Holy shit. You think he was testing new drugs or medicines on them?"

"I think he was developing a deadly virus and testing it on the monkeys?"

"Arh, come on man, get real. You don't honestly believe that."

"Yes, I do. And maybe at the end, when he was sure he had the goods, he may have even tested it on a human, just to be sure. Maybe one of his faithful followers volunteered."

"No way! Sure he's a religious nut, but he wouldn't do that."

"He thinks he's working for God. Doing what God wants him to do. He's a nut alright, and what's one or two lives now, when he is planning to wipe out most of the world's population, because he believes it's what God wants him to do? I wouldn't be surprised if he's actually convinced one, or even a few of his followers to volunteer to be guinea pigs, telling them that they would be doing it for God, that they would be classified as martyrs and would instantly take their place in heaven at God's side."

"You mean, like, the way a Muslim suicide bomber believes he's going straight to paradise?'

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Holy shit. Are you sure he'd do something like that?"

"Ninety percent."

"Holy shit. Hey, we've got to tell the cops, so that they can go up there and investigate, and stop him."

"He's not there any more. I've heard he's gone into hiding. Which means - he believes people are looking for him."

"Do you think he's perfected this deadly virus yet?"

"I don't know. But I get the feeling that some people believe he has, or that he's close to doing so. And I think they believe he is on the verge of releasing it.

"Holy, holy, holy shit."

"You can say that again."

In life, as in sport, there are winners and losers. Chris Norton ended up a loser. Doing the wrong thing at the wrong time can make anyone a loser. I was not sure what I should do now, but I was sure I didn't want to do the wrong thing.

I needed to know more about what was going on, what I had accidentally got myself involved in, before I could decide what I should do next.

Normally when I discover a good story I would go and see Bruce, and if someone was asking to be paid for a story then that would be his problem. It would be up to him and the station to decide how much they are willing to pay. So normally the correct thing to do now would be to go and see Bruce and lay it all on the line and make it his problem from now on.

But I was feeling very reluctant to do that because this story was not normal, far from it - it had developed a little complication that from my point of view was very important – it came with an element of danger attached. A little extra that could ruin one's whole day if played the wrong way.

And right now I was is a position where I didn't know enough about what was going on to make the correct decision. I needed to know more. Bearing in mind that if the wrong people knew how much I already knew they might consider that I knew too much already and decide to get rid of me.

So the trick, I guess, was not to let them know how much I knew, which meant that I should not go to Bruce and the produces at the station and lay it all on the line, not yet, because then the cat would be out of the bag, and from then on the people involve would be working towards limiting the damage, towards containing the situation, towards shutting me up, like eternally.

So I should try to carry on as if I knew nothing, while I worked towards putting two and two together in order to come to a better understanding of what the hell was going on.

From now on my policy would be don't tell anyone anything, not yet. Don't talk to anyone about it who doesn't already know the score. Don't bring any new players into the game because I would probably be just putting them in danger, and they might just get in the way and screw this up. It's possible they could inadvertently tilt the playing field in the wrong direction and thereby expose my weaknesses and put my side into a losing position.

So far, there weren't too many people who knew I was a player in the game. Johno had been sidelined. Bruce knew there was a game on, but he didn't have a clue about who was playing, or what the score was, and that's the way I wanted to keep it. He had the potential to be a star play, at the right time, but the time was not yet right. Jill was in the game and she was on the ball, and I was beginning to feel uneasy about that. I was starting to feel it was time she retired and got off the field.

West was ahead of the game, and had made a few useful passes of information to me, but I was sure he only did it when he felt it was to his benefit to do so. I suspected that he was under the impression that he was playing a different game.

Ben was using me. He seemed to be patiently waiting for me to be in a position to score, so that he could benefit and take all the credit. And Rose, I was not sure what she was playing at yet. But she had the potential of being classified as the key player. Perhaps the most important player on the ground, a pivotal player, she could probably turn the whole game, with almost no effort at all, with just the whimsical desire to do so. I suspected that she could even call a stop to it, if she so choose. What really worried me was the notion that there other players in the game that I didn't know about, players who knew all about me.

I was certain that there was a formatable story here if only I could put all the pieces together and work out what was going on. But if I tried and I couldn't put them together, and if I made a few wrong moves in the process, then I could wind up just as dead as the kid in the carpark. I was now fully aware that I playing in a dangerous game.

It was late when I arrived home and Jill was in bed fast asleep. I was certain she would have read the email from Rose on my computer, and I wanted to bring her up to date on the video I had just seen at Johno's. But it could wait until the morning.

Over breakfast we talked about Rose's emails and I told her what had happened at Johno's, then I expressed my concerns about her involvement in all this, told her that I would like to see her walk away from it all.

She laughed, and told me she was touched that I should be so worried about her safety.

"I'm a cop," she said. "A member of the federal police force. I get paid to take risks. It's my job to my life on the line to keep this world safe, and free from dangerous criminals. It's me who should be worried about your safety."

"Yeah, but I'm the man, and you're only a woman. It's a man's job to look after his woman."

"I'm going to hit you in second or two, if you keep talking shit like that."

"But it's true. We both know it's true. Admit it."

"So who carries the gun in this partnership. You don't have a gun. I'm the one with the gun. So who's protecting who?"

"I don't need a gun – and I can get one anytime I need one. But for now I've got these here." I held up my closed fists and shook them.

She laughed again.

"I've interviewed a few criminals over the years, some of them are the real bad boys. I could get a machine gun just like that," I clicked my fingers, "if I wanted one."

"You bring a gun home to this house and I will have to arrest you darling," she was smiling – it was still a joke, "If I don't, I could lose my job."

"So lose it. Don't worry. It wouldn't matter, I would still be here to protect you. If fact, right now I wish you would quit your job."

"Oh, I can't take much more of this." She got up and headed towards the stairs. "Got to go." Suddenly she stopped and came back and sat back down. "So what are you going to do about what you have discovered?" She was serious now. "Are you going to tell Bruce and do a story about it?"

"I don't have enough for a story yet. I don't have a full and clear understand about what's going on. And no, I'm not telling Bruce anything yet, because I truly believe we have stumbled into a situation that could be very dangerous. I intend to play my cards close to my chest until I know the score."

"I see. Yes, I think not telling Bruce right now is a good idea."

"What about you, are you going to put in a report to you boss about what you have discovered at the Bureau, and about my connection with Rose and what she has told me?"

"No, I not doing anything like that yet. For the same reason you mentioned – I don't fully understand what's going down. Stephen West said that people at ASIO are connected to members of the Solution Society. I think it would be best if I too just laid low for a while, to wait and see what develops. If West is right and government officials are in on this caper then I'm not making a move until I know who I can trust."

CHAPTER 16

I wanted to know more. I decided I needed to talk to Stephen West, the man from ASIO, again. He was the only person who seemed willing to tell me anything about what was going on. I wanted to find out what he knew about John Wilson and his troop of religious fanatics, and his medical research technician buddies. Trouble was I didn't know how to contact him. I knew that Jill knew, but now I wanted to keep Jill out of this as much as possible. Not because she worked for the Federal Police, but for her own safety.

I remembered that he told us that he was now married to Lucy.

The first time I met Lucy was when I was sent to Western Australia to do a story. They weren't married then - they were simply having an affair. So how would I go about finding Lucy? I was sure that looking in the phone book wouldn't do much good – West was a common name and there were probably many pages of them in the book.

When she was in WA Lucy worked as a Palaeontologist. She had gone there with two other palaeontologists. What were their names? After thinking about it for a while I remembered that one was Ray, something, and the other was James something. Shit, I had no choice except to phone Johno and get him to fish out some tapes of the stories we did over there. I could expect him to give me a hard time if I did that - already I could almost hear him gloating about the benefits of keeping video tapes. But I had no other choice. I reluctantly picked up the phone.

Johno and I had no interviews to do today. I had a lot of phone calls to make and research to do connected with stories that were in the pipeline, and Johno had things to do at home, and his car was in for a service.

An hour later he rang back and told me that Ray's full name was Raymond Webster and that the other was James Malouf and reminded me that Lucy's maiden name was Pascal, Lucy Pascal. He suggested I google them to find out what universities or museums they were working for now. Good advice - which inspired me to try googleing Lucy's name first. Why didn't I think of that before I rang Johno? It was usually the first thing I did when I wanted to find someone. And why didn't Johno suggest that before he went looking for the names of the two guys? Probably because I failed to mention that I was really trying to find Lucy. Probably because he probably thought that I had obviously tried it already.

Since she was a bit of a celebrity in the palaeontology world and for her involvement in what happened over in WA, her name bought up many hits in google. Sifting through the chaff of old stories, looking for current ones that would help me find a way to contact her was a pain. But half an hour later I had an email address that looked good. I made a mental note not to tell Johno that the information he so graciously dug out for me, turned out to be not needed. I would probably never hear the end of it, and he would never help me again, if I was stupid enough to ever tell him what happened.

I sent her an email, reminding her who I was and where we had met, hardly necessary since she probably saw me on television occasionally and each time was reminded that we had known each other in WA. I then explained that I had met her husband Stephen recently and that I now wished to contact him again, but considering the nature of his work, I didn't know how to do it. I asked if she could help.

A short while later my phone rang. It was my secretary telling me a woman named Lucy West wanted to talk to me. When Lucy was on the line she said she was reluctant to give me the information I wanted over the phone, considering the type of work her husband did. She suggested I come to her place so that she could talk to me directly. She gave me her address, and we decided that later this afternoon, around four o'clock would be the best time for both of us.

She lived in the inner Melbourne suburb of Fitzroy, not far from the Edinburgh Gardens. It's a small world, sometimes. And incidentally not far from the Victorian State Museum, where I presumed she worked as a palaeontologist.

Using a brightly polished brass lion's head I knocked on the front door of the single fronted brick cottage, that, given the area, was probably heritage listed, and worth a small fortune. When Lucy opened the door the sight of her instantly took me back to the desert of Western Australia.

We smiled and she said, "Hi," and she quickly stepped forwards and planted a quick kiss square on my lips, then just as quickly stepped back and we stood there looking at each other for a few seconds. She was just a smidgen heavier, but just as beautiful as she had been the last time I saw her.

"What's it been," she asked, "six years?"

"More like seven, I think. You haven't changed at all. You don't look a day older. You're still one of the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on."

"Rubbish! But I don't mind a few little white lies like that. Come on, come in and sit down for a while. And I must say you haven't changed either, since the last time I saw you - on television, last Wednesday night," she said this over her shoulder as I followed her down the long passage to the lounge room.

We both laughed. It was good to see her again. I had forgotten her good natured sense of humour, and her easy going attitude in almost any situation. Now it came flooding back, and it felt good.

There were boxes of fossilized bones all over the place, and assembled skeletons of long dead animals standing like sculptures in every corner of the room, and more little ones on the mantle piece above the open fire place. I had forgotten how Lucy always seemed to be surrounded by bones, how cluttered with them her caravan in WA had been. It was good to see that some things never changed.

She made coffee and we sat in the lounge room reminiscing about the strange and exciting things that had happened over in Western Australia.

When I asked her what time she expected her husband, Stephen to be home the mood of the conversation suddenly changed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should have explained earlier. Stephen doesn't live here anymore. We decided to try living apart for a while. It's very likely we will be getting divorced soon."

This news was something I had not been expecting. It hit me with a sudden jolt. I didn't know what to say.

"We've been separated for about three months now."

"Wow, I can't believe it. Everyone I knew, over there, thought that you two were the perfect couple. It was like you were made for each other. What happened? Do you mind me asking?"

"I'm still not sure what happened. Everything was going fine until he left the Army. No that's not right – it was still going fine for a while, then he left the army and started working for ASIO. And then over a short period of time he changed from being a loving father and husband into something completely different. He started staying away for days on end. He grew distant and cold, and seemed to no longer care about me or Dani, that's our daughter. He lost all interested in anything to do with his family. He turned into a completely different man."

"Have you tried counselling?"

"I suggested it, but he wouldn't even consider it. You know how it is – if anyone at ASIO found out, it would be the end of his career. They wouldn't fire him - they would just put him out to pasture. No more promotions, no prospects of any advancements. Did you know the Army promoted him to general, before all the action in WA came to an end, and they sent him back to Melbourne?"

"Yes, he did mention it. I think after I called him colonel."

"They gave him a desk job. I guess that was the start of the change in him. He always said he would get out of the Army, when the best they could offer him was a dead-end desk job."

"How are you managing, by your self?"

"Oh, that's no hassle. He still pays the bills, and I'm back at work. Got a job at the museum down the road."

"Working with old bones again."

"I never stopped."

I heard a sound behind me. A door being opened, footsteps, and voices. I casually turned and saw a woman and two young girls, about six years old.

"This is my daughter Dani, home from school," said Lucy, as she stood up, and turned to the woman. "Mary, this is an old friend of mine. Someone I knew in Western Australia. Mike..."

"Mike Stanley," the woman almost screamed, and then just stood there as if frozen to the spot.

I stood up, ready to discover what form of irrational behaviour my presence would produce in this person.

"Yes, Mike Stanley." Lucy turned to me. "And this is my daughter Dani, and her best friend from next door Mojena. Mary and I take it in turns to pick the girls up from school."

"Hello Dani, Mojena and Mary," I said. I was prepared to shake Mary's hand, but was a little afraid of how she might react, so I remained where I was.

"Okay, who wants a glass of milk and a snack?" said Lucy as she headed towards the kitchen.

"Okay," said Dani, without displaying much interest as she went and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, and Mojena followed.

Mary suddenly came back to life. "I'd better get going. I've got a few phone calls to make. Nice meeting you Mr. Stanley. Bye." She almost ran towards the back door.

"Call me Mike," I said to her back.

She stopped dead in her tracks, and turned. "Okay – Mike - thank you," she said as if I had just given her a large bunch of roses, then she was off again, and out through the open door.

"She can't wait to tell everyone she knows she just met Mike Stanley in the flesh, and he told her to call him Mike," said Lucy with a little chuckle.

"I think I had better get going too," I said, since I was already on my feet.

"Oh, all right," said Lucy. "It's been good to see you again. Don't be a stranger, drop in anytime."

"Okay, I will. Yes, it was good catching up with an old friend again and talking about the good old days."

"I'll walk to the door with you."

We walked along the long passage, and when Lucy opened the door I turned to her. "About that address I wanted. I would really like to talk to Stephen about something important."

"Oh, yes. I forgot all about that. Wait." She turned and went to the hall table and opened a draw and bought out a pad and pen and wrote something on the pad."

"Here, this is his address. It's only a few blocks from here. He has told me never to give this address to anyone, but, you're not just anyone – you're an old friend. And what's he going to do - divorce me for handing out his address?"

"I wish there was something I could do to make things right between you two again. If there is anything you need, don't hesitate, call me."

"That's kind of you. And I will too, if I suddenly think of anything." She stepped in close and gave me a long tight hug, followed by a kiss as we separated.

At the front gate I turned to wave. She was still there at the door and waved back.

Walking to the car I felt a wave of sorrow. They had been a loving couple. It really was a shame they were on the verge of divorce.

Now I had West's address, but how should I use it. Should I crack the lock on his front door and wait, sitting in the dark in his favourite chair, for him to come home, like in spy movies? Should I simply sit on his front door step and wait? Either way I would have to explain how I obtained his address. I could park my car outside his house and sit in it, and spend hours waiting, and when I spotted him in the street I could approach him and pretend our meeting was an accident. This would probable be the best way.

But what if he doesn't live here any more? Maybe he has moved to a new address and hasn't told Lucy.

Ah, hell, I suddenly thought, the best thing to do is, to simply knock on his door, and say hello, and take it from there.

So that's what I did. And fortunately, he was home.

"How the fuck did you know I lived here," He asked, as he grabbed the lapels of my suit and pushed me backwards and slammed me up against a wall.

"Does it matter? I just want to talk to you about something."

For a second I thought about fighting him off. But only for a second as I remembered that for years in the army he had been first a member, and then a commander of a secret SAS unit and was trained in the art of killing people in many different ways with just his bare hands.

"It matters. I want to know who gave you my address."

"It's no big deal. I saw you driving your car, and wrote down the plate number. This morning I rang a cop I know, who owes me a favour. He looked it up and gave me this address."

He slammed me hard against the wall. "That's bullshit. The car I drive is not connected to this address in any way. Why are you bullshitting me?"

With an angry expression he held me solid and studied my face, obviously considering what form of pain to administer to produce the right answer.

"I went to see Lucy. I didn't want to tell you that because she told me you two were having trouble and I didn't want you getting mad at her for giving me your address."

After a few seconds he slowly released me and stepped back.

"So what are you doing here? What do you want?"

"As always, I'm looking for answers. I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

He stood there for a while studying my face. "I know you're a reporter and it's your job to dig for dirt, but no story is worth dying for. You should leave this one alone."

"Just a few simple questions, that's all."

"You're not listening. I'm trying to tell you, you're playing with fire and if you're not careful you're going to get burnt."

"Yeah, I'm starting to believe that I have stumbled onto something big, and probably dangerous. But I can't walk away from it until I know more about it. That's the type of guy I am."

"Oh shit, spare me the crap. Okay I'll talk to you for Jill's sake. I don't want to see her get hurt."

He stepped to one side and then to the other, looking past me to check to see if there was anyone watching us. Unsure about what to do he half turned towards his front door, stopped, and looked back at me. "Go now. I'll meet you at Princes Park, at the back of the football stadium, near the cemetery. In about fifteen to twenty minutes."

I thought about it for a few seconds, wondering if this was just a scam, wondering if he had no intention of turning up. "Okay," I finally said. He would be there. He knew that I now knew his address, unless he had plans of leaving town.

He had been on the verge of inviting me in, obviously he was worried about the possibility that his house was being watched, or that it was bugged.

It wasn't hard to find him in Princes Park. He was sitting near a kids' playground watching the mothers there who were watching kids playing on the colourful play equipment installed there.

As I approached he stood up and started walking towards me. When he was close to me he changed directions, I followed, and side by side we walked the path that circled the football stadium. I noticed him looking around in all directions, obviously to make sure we were not being followed, or spied upon.

"I was thinking about asking Jill to contact you," I said. "But I decided not to. I want to keep her out of this as much as possible."

"After today I won't be talking to you or Jill again, because there is no point anymore."

That statement instilled in me a certain amount of curiosity. I decided there was no point in resisting, "No point to what, anymore?"

"You still don't get it, do you? You haven't worked it out yet."

"Would I be asking if I had?"

"I've never been directly involved in the Asimov Project but I know a hell of a lot more about it then I told you the last time we met. There are only a few people in ASIO who have heard of this project. They have suspicions about what's going on, but don't really know for sure. And I suspect even in the Solution Society there are only a few, not more than a hand-full who know all the vital details, or who are officially involved in the project, but all of us on the side-lines have heard rumours about the objective of the project."

"Yeah, okay - so what's the objective?"

"To wipe out most of this planet's human population. To save humanity from extinction while there's still time by reducing the number of humans living on this planet in order to slow down and reduce the effects of climate change, and all the other problems associated with over population."

I was stunned. I could see that he was serious, but I couldn't believe that what he was saying was actually happening. He must have made a mistake, got some wires crossed, got some information mixed up, heard some rumours and misunderstood them. But I decided to play along to find out more about what he thought was happening.

"If that's so, then why are you telling me all this – Are you hoping I might be able to stop it?"

"Hell no! - I don't want it stopped. Since I first heard about it I have always thought it was a good idea. Besides, you couldn't stop it, and I couldn't either, if I wanted to - there are too many powerful people involved, people who don't want it stopped."

"Then why did you tell me all the things you told me last time we met, and why are you telling me more now, if you're not trying to stop it?"

"Okay, I'll tell you, listen - But first I want you to understand what's happening. We'll start with Ben Wright. I've known for a long time that he is involved, that he's code-name is The Judge. His main job, using his wonderful computer, is to select the names of all the people who will be saved."

"What"

"It's his job to decide who will be a survivor. That's what all the data and the lists that Jill discovered are about. The lists are the names of the survivors."

"No, you've got it all wrong. The lists she found are the names of all the people who received the bird flu vaccine."

"Yes, that's right, exactly. What you need to understand is this – That bird flu vaccine was actually two vaccines in one dose. One for the Bird flu, and one for another more deadly virus that hasn't been released yet. I happen to know there is someone else involved in this project whose code-name is The Chemist. He is a microbiologist and he has been working with other microbiologists and bioengineers to develop the deadly virus that's going to get rid of everyone who has been deemed as superfluous. This virus is highly contagious and is about ninety nine percent lethal. It will kill almost everyone exposed to it, except the people on the lists who have already been given a vaccine against it."

At the back of my mind I could sense little pieces of information finding each other and fitting together like antibodies in the blood stream latching onto dangerous microbes. In a way it was a satisfying sort of feeling; one of discovery, but at the same time there was a sense of horror that came with the scale of mayhem and devastation associated with it, and it was starting to make me feel sick.

"I spoke to you before because I needed to discover who the chemist was, so that I could find him and get a dose of the vaccine. I knew that you had been contacted by a woman who calls herself Rose. I believe she is married to the chemist and thus knows who he is and where he is hiding. And I thought that with her help you might be able to find this guy."

"Now you don't need to find him because you've already received a dose of the vaccine."

"That's right \- The same way you received yours. The bird flu outbreak last month was a rouse. It was staged and organized by the Solutions Society, for the sole purpose of delivering the vaccine to all the people selected by the judge. There was never any real danger of the bird flu getting loose and killing millions. It was all stage-managed and controlled, every step of the way."

"And you didn't know this was going to happen?"

"No," he laughed, "And I should have seen it coming, it's so obvious now. It all makes sense. Before it happened, me and a few buddies in ASIO decided that the best way to get our hands on enough doses of the vaccine for our needs would be to find the chemist, put some pressure on him, and get what we needed. But the Bird flu thing changed all that – being members of an essential service we were all automatically allocated a dose. Man, I wish I'd known that was going to happen, it would have save me a few sleepless nights, and I wouldn't have spoken to you."

"And now you're just waiting around for the deadly virus to be released?"

"Exactly. What else is there to do? It can't be stopped, because, as I said, there are too many powerful people involved in making this plan work. And, as I said, I don't want it stopped anyway. It's a good idea. It's the correct action needed to save this planet."

"But millions of people will die."

"No, not millions – billions, will die. But don't worry - think of it like this - every person who has ever lived was destined from birth to die anyway. The people who get hit by the virus will just die sooner than they would have naturally. That's all. But their dieing sooner rather than later will prevent the destruction of this planet. It's as simple as that."

"As simple as that! According to you, someone is planning to kill off half the people on this planet. I can't get my head around that. And you call it simple."

"Not half, more than half, much more, at least seventy five percent, maybe even more than that. There's a simple trick you can use to get your head around it – keep this in mind - it's the right thing to do – The human race has got itself and this planet into a mess, and now this is the best way to fix things, not just for us, but for all the future generations yet to be born. Their legacy from us won't be the poverty of a destroyed planet. It's as simple as that."

"Aah, that's bullshit. If we can develop new sources of renewable energy we can stop polluting this planet, without killing off billions of people."

I had to sit down on a nearby bench. West stopped and looked around again in all directions, and when satisfied he sat down next to me. I looked at him and formed the impression that he seemed smug in his attitude of self-righteousness.

"This project has been in the works for a very long time," he said. "Consider this – they needed a very powerful computer to collect information about people from all around the world, so that they could decide who would be needed, or most useful in the new world, and then pick those who should be saved. A computer situated in an out-of-the-way sort of place. Melbourne was perfect. They have it now, but it took years of planning and effort. And consider this – in order to collect all the data he needed he must have organized things with some powerful supporters, probably UN ambassadors, so that he could received the co-operation from government agencies all around the world."

It suddenly crossed my mind that the Solution Society might also have tentacles into our own Federal Government, or had someone high up in the echelons of the Bureau of Statistics, and used that person to facilitate the deal that enabled Ben's computer to be set up at the Bureau. They wanted his computer installed here, because here there was less chance of it being discovered by hackers, even though its uniqueness made it difficult for hackers to get into it, control it, and perusal through its secret files. They didn't count on someone like Jill having a go at it.

I looked at West. He was watching me, waiting for all the little shards of truth to fall into place. When our eyes met he smiled.

"Now ask yourself this – how do you distribute a vaccine to all the people selected to be a survivor and all the members of their families - many millions of them, and then get them to take it without telling them what it's for?"

He had already told me, but I could see he was just busting to tell me more about the perfect solution again.

"You can't just knock on someone's door and say, "Hey, you've been selected as a survivor. I want you to inject yourself, your wife and kids with a vaccine, that will protect you against a deadly virus that we will be releasing soon that will kill most of the people on Earth," and then expect them to do it, and keep it a secret. So what do you do? Even if that approach could work, you would need many thousands of people out on the road, for many years, contacting people, convincing them, and injecting them with the vaccine."

"So the solution was to create a scare...."

"That's right –You've got to get the selected people in the right state of mind, so that they are desperate to get their hands on a dose of the vaccine and have an intense desire to use it. So the project organizers decided to stage-set the bird flu epidemic.

But before that, in order to get to the stage where they could deliver the vaccine, they had to get pharmaceutical companies all around the world busy making the stuff. And to do that they needed to get governments all around the world to put in orders to have it made, and then to store it until it was needed. To do that they had to get governments afraid of bird flu. That's why they set up the first, the original outbreak of bird flu, way back in 1989.

"Are you saying that bird flu virus is a complete fake, a hoax?"

"No, it's not a fake - it is a deadly virus. But the release of it, the recent bird flu pandemic was completely controlled, in selected areas. A new strain of the bird flu virus was invented by the Solution Society, one that was transmittable from human to human, and was put into play in a controlled way, by the people running the Asimov Project. Sure people died, and some birds too, lots of birds actually, but all the out breaks were set up and fully controlled, as was the SARS outbreak before that.

"What - SARS was man made too?"

"Well, naturally, I don't know for sure, but it seems logical to me. My opinion is it was the forerunner of the bird flu. I have no real proof that any of these viruses were man made, but it all seems to make sense. I think there must have been a few problems with SARS so they closed it down. I think they liked the name, Bird Flu better. It has more of an emotional element to it. Millions of chickens became infected and had to be killed, and that scared the hell out of many people who liked chicken. Incidentally, the infected chickens and the other birds were completely harmless to humans. I think they had been given a slightly different strain of the virus, one that looked about the same as the deadly one under a microscope, but one that would have no effect on humans. The humans who became infected received the deadly strain, and it was no accident."

"And the recent outbreak in Tokyo, then in other places around the world were..."

"Were completely staged set and controlled. Yes, some people had to die, because as news of the pandemic spread, panic set in, and panic was what was needed to convinced millions around the world to take the vaccine."

"Oh my God, and now everything is set, and all the people who knows what's going on are just waiting for this killer bug to be released."

"Yes, sometime in the near future. So, now you've got the full picture. Isn't it beautiful? By beautiful I mean, so well planned and carried out - the scale, the boldness, and the audacity of it all."

"The deviousness, immorality, the depravity of it. It all makes me feel sick."

"You'll get over it, when you've had time to think about it."

"So you're just going to sit around and wait for this wicked virus to be released, and do nothing?"

"I'm going to quit ASIO, and disappear, and you will never see or hear from me again."

"So why did you turn up here today? Why are you telling me all this? What do you want from me now?"

"It's quite simple really. I'm interested in what you intend to do. Seeing as you're a resourceful and respected reporter, I'm a bit worried that you might throw a spanner in the works. So I've decided to bring you up to date, and let you know what the score is, in order to get you to ease up, chill out, and stop investigating this thing. I want to point out the reasons why you should do this."

"I'm waiting."

"I'm also telling you this because I don't want to see anything happen to Jill. If you continue doing what you're doing some people may decide that it would be better if you weren't around anymore, and they might decide that because Jill is with you, it's a package deal."

"And if they suspect I've been in contact with you – then you're history as well."

"See, now you're starting to get the full picture. I would also like to remind you that you have received a dose of the vaccine. And point out that you're sitting pretty, and it would be in your best interest not to screw things up. You get my drift? You would be cutting your own throat if you were to expose what's going on, and stop it. I'm explaining all this because I consider you a lose end, and I like to tie up lose ends. Consider this, you may do a story and stop it, but not for long. In a few years the project will be up and running again, controlled by the same people, but put into action by a fresh team. And you will be black-listed. You won't receive a dose of the new vaccine. Think about it. I'm advising you not to make waves for your own good. You might manage to put the project on hold for a few years, but you will never stop it. There are too many people involved who are genuinely worried about the fate of this planet, and the future of mankind - People who see this as the best solution to all our problems. Not just the best, but the only valid and lasting solution."

"What about your wife Lucy and your daughter Dani, have they received the Vaccine?"

"Of course. The reason I'm leaving Melbourne is to find a safe place where I can take them to lay-low and ride out the storm that will hit when the killer virus is released. When I find the right place I will come back and get them. It's going to be a mad house around here when the shit hits the fan, and for a while after, when the survivors realize what's happened. Law and order will break down. What's left of the Government will be useless. There will be looting - everyone will be out to get whatever they can. The infrastructure of society will break down. Delivery of essential commodities will grind to a halt, food production will cease for a while and finding food just to survive will become a major undertaking. Eventually things will sort themselves out and a new structured government will be put in place..."

"Probably by members of the solution society."

"Yes, but it may take a while and until then Melbourne is going to be a very dangerous place to live."

"The bastards, I bet they have detailed plans about how to take control and rule all the survivors too."

West shrugged and nodded his head, "I wouldn't be surprised."

"And when all the survivors find out that the release of this virus was a deliberate act, they will want revenge."

"Well yes, maybe - some will, probably. But I think most will eventually come to see it as a solution to all their problems. They will understand why it had to happen. But yes, some may want revenge. They'll want someone to blame, someone to punish, and Heaven help any known members of the Solution Society when that happens. But the following generations will probably think of them as heroes, and will honour the memory of them for their vision and courage."

"Oh my God! – I can't believe all this madness is happening."

I drove home like a zombie. I simply put the act of driving the car into what could be describes as a fully-automatic mode. I stopped at the lights when necessary, kept the right distance from the car in front, and made turns when needed. But as far as being aware of what I was doing my mind was a blank. It was like driving while sleepwalking.

But my mind was far from being asleep. It was buzzing with emotions: - disbelief, amazement, fear, with spasms of anger flaring and fading. My confusion was gradually being alleviated in incremental stages as piece by piece bits of information I possessed started falling into place, each continuing to confirm that the scenario that West had laid out could be devastatingly real, and could be actually in the process of unfolding as he claimed.

I suddenly snapped out of my daze and became aware of my surroundings. I looked around at the cars on the street, at the people walking on the footpath – everything looked to be so normal, so as expected. But, if what I had learned about the Asimov project was true, then all this, everything I was seeing outside my car was about to be dramatically changed. Right now there were people behind closed door all around the world who knew that this scheme was in the process of being carried out – They knew that a few other key people were working in secret towards reducing the number of humans living on this planet – planning the cold-blooded murder of billions of people.

It was simply unbelievable that such a diabolic conspiracy to commit mass murder could, first, be dreamed up, and second be in the process of being made a reality.

Now that I knew the motivations behind West's actions I could understand why he had taken me into his confidence and explained what he knew about the Solution Society. Somehow he had discovered that Rose had contacted me, but how? That was still a mystery which I thought Jill should know about, so that together we could try to work it out. I wish I had simply asked West. He probably wouldn't have told me, but then again, since he had so freely told me other details and warned me of the dangers I was confronting, maybe he would have told me that too.

So, who else knew that Rose had contacted me?

Perhaps Ben did. Now that West had confirmed my suspicion the Ben was not the innocent he pretended to be – that he was indeed a major player in the project, it presented me with a few questions that needed to be answered. First, what was his motivation for turning up at the Lomond and developing a friendship with Jill and myself? Was he there simply to keep an eye on Jill, to try to discover how successful she was at cracking the codes used by his computer? Or was there some other reason? Like maybe he also knew that Rose had contacted me, and he wanted to know what she was up to, and what she was planning to do.

Maybe he also wanted to know the whereabouts of the chemist and was hoping that she would tell me. Maybe there were other people as well, players in the game, who also wanted to know what she knew. If this was so, then maybe that was my ace up my sleeve. Maybe that was the only reason I was still alive right now. I had something that people wanted – a connection to Rose and to some vital information.

There was one other question I needed to spend some time thinking about – Maybe I should tell Bruce after all. Well, two questions actually, the other more important one being – should I try to stop it – do I think that reducing our human population is a good idea, or not? Wow, I really needed to put in some time thinking about that one.

So much had happened in the last couple of hours that now my mind was in a dizzy spin. I felt I was not in a fit condition to start thinking about such weighty matters, right now. This desire to delay making any important decisions was reinforced by West's warnings that doing the wrong thing now could be extremely dangerous. My thoughts drifted back to Bruce. I could lay it all out for him to examine, and let him make the decision about how we should proceed. But what could he do? I had no real proof that such a hellish project was actually in the works and was about to be initiated, not enough that we could go on air with and use to convince the world that we weren't insane. Telling Bruce would achieve only one thing – it would plant a bull's-eye on his forehead, one that would grow bigger each time he opened his mouth to amuse someone by telling them how crazy I was.

CHAPTER 17

I stopped the car in the street at the address Ben had given me. His house could not be seen from the street. All I could see was a row of bushes in front of a high fence set back from the footpath and a driveway that led up to two tall solid-wooden gates set in the centre of the fence.

I looked at all the cars parked up and down the street. For as far as I could see there didn't seem to be any spaces where I could park. I took my foot of the break and drove into the driveway and stopped next to the intercom that was head-high on a pole. As I looked up at a camera on the wall, pointed in my direction I reached out through my window and pressed a button on the intercom. A low buzzing sound reassured me it was working, and a short while later I heard Ben's voice.

"Hello, Mike, and Jill, I'll open the gates for you."

There was a whining sound as the big gates swung open. I drove in and we got our first look at Ben's house. I had no idea about what to expect, and although astonished, at the same time I was not surprised. The house looked like it could have been picked up in one piece in Japan and transported here. Right or wrong it matched my concept of a medieval Japanese palace. There was a raised wooden veranda on stumps that I presumed ran all the way around the house. The bottom part of the walls were made from stones of different sizes neatly fitted together, the top part was wooden cladding. It seemed improbable, but the wide front doors looked as if they were flimsy paper panels set into square timber frames. The roof of red terracotta tiles extended out all around over the wide verandas with upturned corners. Overall, it looked to be a big, well-crafted, and expensive affair.

Jill jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. "Wow, have you ever seen anything like this before? I should have guessed he would live in a place like this."

"Yep – when he goes Japanese he doesn't fool around."

I parked the car in a space near the path that led to the front veranda and we walked through a beautifully designed Japanese garden towards the front of the house. As we stepped up on to the veranda the front door slid silently open and Ben appeared.

"Jill, Mike, welcome to my house - Surprised?"

"Yeah," I said, "It certainly is different. I've never seen anything like it."

"Great, that's wonderful. It's built in the style of a traditional Japanese house. Wait until you see inside. The whole place was designed by one of Japan's top architects, and built by Japanese craftsmen using traditional skills and methods. I bought them all in from Japan, the gardeners too. They stayed for about a year and a half. I wanted the place built to the highest Japanese standards."

Just inside the front door Ben asked us to remove our shoes and we put them on a shelf in an open cupboard just inside the entrance hall. He gave us a quick tour of the main rooms on the ground floor pointing out all the traditional features of this style of Japanese house. All the doors were sliding wooden frames with screens of rice paper. The floors were covered with mats, heating was open fireplaces in the middle of the floor. Until now I had always held the opinion that a traditional Japanese house was sparsely furnished. This one was filled to overflowing with what looked to me to be expensive treasures – all the rooms had their share of Jade and bronze statues, highly decorated ceramic vases, some extremely large standing on the floor, some small and delicate sitting on wooden stands and benches, some containing delicate arrangements of unusual flowers. Scrolls of Japanese calligraphy and prints depicting Japanese landscapes were hanging on the walls, and elegant-crafted wooded furniture was set strategically throughout the house.

It all must have cost a fortune.

The room that impressed me the most was the armoury. Down at the far end of this long room was a display of a full set of leather body armour that, I suspected, may have once belonged to a medieval Japanese warrior. The display was complete with helmet, shield, swords, bows, long lances, and other paraphernalia whose functions eluded me. The walls on either side of this room were covered with more swords and spears of all sizes, and ancient firearms; long muskets and ball and powder pistols. Dispersed incongruously in this collection of deadly weapons were four embroidered silk komodos hanging with sleeves spread in the best way to show their beauty. My guess was these komodos were probably trophies awarded to heroes, and worn on special occasions to celebrate victorious battles. It was just a guess and I decided not to ask Ben for confirmation, in case there were lengthy explanations attached.

A fortune invested, and probably not a small one. The rumours that Ben was a billionaire didn't seem so far fetched anymore.

"All this must have cost a small fortune," I said. "So just how rich are you Ben? Are the rumours that you're a billionaire true?"

"That's what I like about you Australians. You don't beat about the bush. If you have a question you just come straight out and ask it."

"Yeah, and we have a thick skin too, and when we don't get a straight answer we usually keep asking until we do. Particularly if we happen to be an investigative reporter, who gets paid to ask appropriate, but impertinent questions."

"All the more reason why I'm going to insist on taking the fifth."

"The fifth is part of the American constitution, and has no legal standing here."

"That may be true. But I'm an American, and all Americans have the right to take the fifth."

"All right, then I'll just have to assume that your lack of denial is proof that the rumours are true."

"If that makes you feel satisfied, then be my guest, go right ahead."

We moved into a room that obviously was the Japanese equivalent of an Australian lounge room. Its main feature was a long low table surrounded by flat looking cushions on the floor.

I stopped just inside the door and stood there looking at the arrangement, dreading the prospect of having to spend any length of time sitting on the floor. I knew from recent experience that this form of torture did not come close to matching my ideal way of relaxing.

Ben noticed my ashen expression and laughed.

"Don't worry," he said, and started laughing again. "For occasions like this the house has one fault. It contains a room that is very out of place. One that is set up to cater for western tastes. Come, this way."

He led us into another room that was tastefully furnished with big, plush, and comfortable looking couches and lounge chairs, a bar, set out from a wall, its shelves loaded with bottles, and at the far end of the room I could see a normal, sensible dining table with sensible chairs.

This was more like it.

This room and one other were the only rooms that made concession to the twenty first century. The other I was to learn later was his office which was fitted out with the latest in computer hardware and communications equipment.

Ben went behind the bar and asked what we would like to drink. Jill and I sat on bar stools, facing a selection of bottles that would have done any pub in Melbourne proud.

"Saki seems appropriate," said Jill.

Ben nodded his approval and looked at me.

"Yeah, okay," I said.

It was my intention to get some answers about his involvement in the Asimov Project. "Ben, you mentioned once before that you knew a guy named John Wilson...."

I didn't get a chance to finish - Ben raised his hand and said, "Mike, how about we have a few drinks and enjoy ourselves for a while, and leave all the questions until after we've had something to eat. I have some entertainment planned for later - I have arranged for some genuine geisha girls to be flown in from Japan, just for the night. They will play some music for us and sing a few songs."

I spread my hands and nodded my agreement, "Okay." What else could I do? Geisha girls, flown in, it seems he had gone to some trouble to organize something special for this meeting. I had nothing to gain by spoiling his fun by insisting on immediate answers.

After handing us drinks he came out from behind the bar and suggested we sit in the more comfortable lounge chairs.

He was right, the chairs were much more comfortable. We had barely sat down when two young Japanese girls dressed in komodos entered the room, each carrying a bowl of nuts. They placed the nuts on the low table between our chairs then went and stood as still as dolls in front of the bar, watching us silently in anticipation of our every need. Each time we finished a drink they quickly replaced it with a fresh glass. When Jill finished smoking a cigarette the ashtray was taken away and replaced with a clean one.

We spent the best part of the next hour mainly listening to Ben telling us about his obsession for all things Japanese. I would have preferred to hear about how he managed to build the world's most powerful computer, and I'm sure Jill would have too. Or about how he put together business deals and ended up owning large chunks of huge corporations, and other relevant personal details that would be useful when it came time to do a story about him and his obsession with wiping out billions of people.

Eventually he decided it was time to show us the tea house he had built out in his back garden.

He led the way out the back of the house and into a beautifully manicured garden. We walked down a cobbled path and around his fastidiously raked sand garden which featured three enormous rocks planted a little off center. I wondered if Ben was responsible for the intricate raking job the sand had received, and he informed me that he wasn't – it took years of training to become a master of this skill. He had a man flown in from Japan every few weeks to take care of it.

A little further on we came to a small low wooden bridge that spanned the narrowest part of a man-made lake that was naturally designed and built by Japanese craftsmen, of course. The little lake was surrounded by rocks and reeds and other beautiful broad-leaved plants and it was full of carp, what the Japanese call Koi and cost thousands of dollars of each at auctions in Japan. These brightly coloured fish were usually well and truly asleep at this time of night, but tonight they were wide awake, seeing as some heavy duty spotlights had been turned on at least two hours ago, so that the confuse fish were now well and truly convinced that summer had suddenly come early this year.

There was a man waiting there for us on the bridge with a bucket of fish pellets. Ben took the handful of the pallets and tossed them out onto the water, and the fish went wild, scrambling and splashing around to get the pellets. I couldn't help wondering if Ben had given orders that they were not to be fed today so that they would be active for us now. He seemed delighted with this feeding frenzy as he pointed out to his favourite fish - the one that was a blue ribbon winner in Tokyo because of its unusual markings and had cost him a small fortune.

Ben offered the bucket of fish pallets to us in turn and after a few more handfuls of the stuff hit the water we continued on down a path of circular stepping stones that were set in a field of moss and lit by strategically placed stone lanterns, until we came to the tea house.

A white faced geisha girl was waiting for us to arrive. She bowed low and showed us in, and directed Jill and I to sit on a wooden bench against a wall, from where we could watch without disturbing the harmony of the elaborate ceremony.

Ben narrated for us the significance and importance of each petite movement involved with the making and the drinking of the tea. I had seen it all before on television and knew what to expect, and half way through tonight's show decided that seeing it all close up and performed live by real people was no less boring than seeing it on TV.

Back in the house it was time to eat. While we were in the Tea house a long bench containing the equipment needed for preparing and cooking Japanese cuisine had been bought in and set up at the end of the dining table. Standing behind the bench was a Japanese chef wearing a long apron over his komodo and a hat at least fifteen inches high. I didn't need to be told that he had been flown in from Japan especially for this occasion, but Ben told us anyway.

Raw fish – what can I say? What were the odds that it would not be offered to us? - And in a way that a refusal would be considered an insult. We sat there in silence like Buddha statues and watched this master showman swinging and flashing long sharp knife blades around before slicing, and making intricate tit-bits of the most expensive ingredients money could buy and then using them to make pictures on plates which he offered to us in small portions one after another until we could take no more.

Sure we had been to a Japanese restaurant recently, but so what? What we were being served here tonight was on a different level – this guy was a master chef and had the reputation as being one of the best in Japan – well, according to Ben anyway. All I can say is – it was a completely new culinary experience for me. One, I guess, that needed the experience and knowledge of a connoisseur to appreciate fully. Acquirements that I did not possess. According to Ben the colour and design of the dish being used and the placement of the food on the dish, the harmony created by the balance of empty space, was just as important as the food. To a food cretin like myself this just didn't make sense. But I didn't say anything. I didn't want to spoil his fun?

Later, back in the lounge chairs with fresh drinks it was time for the entertainment to begin.

The two geisha girls flown in for a one night show took it in turns to sing in high shrieks and squeals and to play their three string banjo and to beat on their saucepan sized drum. It wouldn't have surprise me to learn that these girls were house-hold-names back in Japan, and that an average Japanese person would be over the moon with excitement to be invited to be a part of such a small private audience like this. But a Japanese person would come to it with the advantage of having the knowledge of the history of the culture that produced this form of entertainment, and the ability to understand the language, and thus would know what all the fuss was all about. To me it was just a colourful spectacle of overdressed, white faced cuties making a bit of inharmonious noise. (My apologies to all Japanese readers and anyone else who feels they should take offence. Please note that the opinions expressed here are not actually those held by the author of this book, but merely those held by its main character; Mike Stanley. He can be a real prick sometimes. - FYI – the author loves sushi, and greatly admires the culture of Japan.)

After the geishas had gone we got down to the nuts and bolts of what this night was really all about.

Ben moved from where he had been sitting in a row beside us to watch the girls, and sat directly opposite, facing me.

"Part of being a successful businessman is being a good salesman. Now if you would permit me I would like to try selling an idea to you."

"Go right ahead," I said.

"Before I do I would like to give you a little background, and later I will bring you up to date on where things stand at the moment."

"Can't wait."

"Good. I believe you have recently had a couple of conversations with a guy named Stephen West. He has undoubtedly told you..."

I interrupted him. "How do you know I've had a conversation with West?"

Ben smiled. "I just know, let's leave it at that."

I remembered he had also known that Jill was a federal cop, and that she had been cracking his wonderful computer. He must surely have a powerful network of spies working for him. I stared at him wondering what else he knew.

"As I was saying – I'm sure West must have told you what he knows about an organization that calls itself the Solution Society." He stopped and waited a few seconds. I kept my mouth shut and we both just stared back at him.

"I am a member of that organization." He looked as if this revelation was supposed to either shock, or impress us. "Okay, now I'll tell you something that West doesn't know - l am also a part of a sub-group of that organization that is working on what we call the Asimov Project."

It was hard, but I resisted telling him that West did know, and that he also knew that his code-name was the Judge.

"I would like to start by telling you a bit about that project. I take it you have both heard of this project and perhaps even have an inkling of what it's about."

"Yeah, we've heard of it – keep going."

"The UN ambassador who set it up is retired now, but he still controls the show. I'm not going to tell you his name, or what country he was an ambassador for - that doesn't really matter. I will tell you why he set it up - he was worried about the effects of climate change and how difficult it is going to be to make the changes necessary to solve all the problems associated with global warming, and the consequences of not doing so. He spoke with other UN ambassadors about it and discovered that they were all convinced that the problems would never be solved, because the magnitude of the problems were just too enormous, and the endeavour to do so would fail because the economics of trying would cause too much suffering."

"That's bullshit," said Jill.

"Hold on, let me finish. They were all of the opinion that their efforts at the UN would not be effective. The UN didn't have the power to enforce any solutions that it might decide on, because when it came to big serious problems the UN was hopeless at coming to any agreement connected with putting solutions into effect."

"Yeah, we've heard, that that's the reason the Solution Society was formed," I said.

"Exactly right. Now this ambassador, he loved reading science fiction and fell in love with one particular novel written by Isaac Asimov called The Naked Sun. Have either of you read it?"

"No, I haven't" said Jill.

"Never heard of it," I said.

"Okay – I'll give you a quick run down on the applicable elements in the book that appealed to this ambassador. The story is set on a planet called Solaria. At some point in the past this planet had a large technically advanced population, a bit more advanced than ours is today. They were suffering from the effects of over population - severe pollution, dwindling mineral resources, and in some places starvation, just as we are today. Then there was a war. It took a while for the dust to settle but when they got themselves sorted out they discovered that they now had a completely different society, and lifestyle. The survivors were now part of a very small population and they had a large number of advanced robots that did all the work for them. Now everyone on the planet could live on a large well run property with all the resources they needed and enough robots to do all the necessary work. They were surprised to find that they could now all live like kings.

"This ambassador has a very charismatic personality. He met with other ambassadors and told them about Asimov's book and convinced them that if planned and carried out right the same result could be achieved here, and without the need for a destructive war. He told them that this planet had the potential to be like paradise for the people who were selected to survive. He kept at them, telling them that it could be done, and that they were the only people who could pull it off, the only ones in a position to do it, that, in fact, it was their duty to do it before it was too late. He kept on casting his dream and telling them how wonderful it could be.

"He kept at them until one after the other they started to believe him, until eventually the last of the stubborn ones reluctantly accepted that it looked like this plan was going ahead. At the same time these hesitant ones realized that they were in too deep to try to stop it, that things had got to the stage were they didn't feel safe to stand up to this ambassador and his followers and tell them to go to hell. And they realized that they knew too much to bail out."

"Rubbish," I almost shouted, "all they had to do was leak details of the plan to any well known reporter, and all the people trying to promote it would be kicked out of office."

"Do you Remember a few years ago when the Libyan ambassador was murdered in Chad? My personal opinion is that supporters of the Asimov Project were behind that. I believe they organized it as a message to any other ambassador who was thinking about bailing out and blowing the whistle. It reminds me of what happened in Germany last century in the early thirties when Hitler was setting up his Nazi party. At first everyone was fascinated by Hitler's dreams, and wanted to get on the bandwagon, and then when it started to get rolling, it became like a run away snowball rolling down hill, growing bigger as it picked up speed, and they all realized too late that anyone who opposed him was not long for this world."

"So the lessen here is beware of people in power with a vision of the future," I said. "If they gather around them enough supporters, their dreams could change the world."

"That was then, and this is now," said Jill. "People are a lot smarter now. People in the western world don't put up with crap like that from two bit dictators anymore."

"What about Bush, He lied about Iraq having weapons of mass destruction in order to invade that country and finish the job on Saddam Hussein, something his father reneged on doing when he had the chance, and then later regretted."

"Bush had the backing of congress, and all the American people. He wasn't a dictator," I said.

Ben thought about it for a few seconds. "When he used the power of his office to veto a bill on stem cell research, that was passed by congress, this is part of the speech he made, "If this bill would have become law, American taxpayers would, for the first time in our history, be compelled to fund the deliberate destruction of human embryos. And I'm not going to allow it." This is the same guy who gave the order to drop bombs on thousands of innocent civilian Iraqis. I imagine at least a few of them were pregnant women."

"You can't compare Bush to Hitler, said Jill."

"Okay, maybe not. But I do know that the ambassador who is running this show sold the idea to generals and politicians all around the world, and that there are many people involved in it who are now having second thoughts, but are afraid to speak out against it. He has agents from the CIA, ASIO and other secret service organizations in his pocket. Believe me, it is unstoppable now. He's got all the money he needs - he's got billionaires and government officials who control their countries purse strings convinced that this plan should, and will succeed. Some are probably in it because they believe they are simply placing a bet each way, as insurance, in case he does succeed. They have bought their survivors' ticket into the new world."

"You're a billionaire," I said, "so tell me why a billionaire like you, who can already live like a king, would want to back someone who wants to wipe out the customer base that your companies rely on for business?"

"Business men, if they are smart, they can see the writing on the wall. He convinces everyone he meets that we can't continue living the way we are living now. The economic system in place now is doomed. If we continue to destroy the Earth's ecological systems at the rate we are doing now, continue to use up the world's natural resources, oil in particular, then our economical system will collapse, and the fortunes of all big businesses will be wiped out. Law and order will disappear and every one of today's billionaires will be just another one of the billions trying to survive in a living hell."

"I can't understand your motivation for telling us all this," I said. "What do you want from us? I'm sure you haven't been coming to the Lomond for the food, and I'm also sure you didn't invite us here today to tell us about your secret project because you think of us as close friends. So, what's going on?"

Ben took his time, thinking about it before he answered. "You have something I need. But before I tell you what it is, I would like to tell you a little more about the project and how it stands at the moment. I have a few charts I would like to show you."

He lent forward and opened a long thin draw in the low table between us and bought out a manila envelope. He opened it and removed a stack of foolscap sized sheets of paper and spread them out on the table facing us. Printed on each sheet were labelled graphs, or some other type of graphic representation of data and numbers.

I glanced at some of the graphs. They seemed to be about population levels, industrial growth, poverty levels, and standards of living levels. Economic development. Pollution levels, oil, gas, and coal consumption figures. I caught flashes of familiar key words and phrases as the charts were shuffled around and he managed to leave a page covered with a complicated set of graphs labelled peek-oil, on top of the heap.

"Take these charts home with you, and when you have the time look them over, and think about what they will mean to future generations. Look at the projections, they will show you where we are heading if we don't do something about the trends that these charts will clearly show you. You'll see that I'm right - Every aspect of this world's civil, social, and economic sustainability is racing towards a total collapse of viability."

He gathered them up and put them back into the envelope.

I nodded my head, and decided that I would take them home. I felt a sincere desire to take the time to study them.

"Oh, I just remembered something else I'd like to tell you about the ambassador who was inspired by the Asimov novel. He loved to ask people a question that he remembered from the book. He would ask them, 'How many people have you ever met in your life and had a conversation with?' He once told me that no one could say for sure but they usually agreed that it was probably somewhere between ten and twenty thousand. His response was always; 'If that is the case, then in order to be happy, is it really necessary for this world to have a population of six billion plus? You're never going to meet, or even see them all. Anything over twenty thousand is redundant and is just taking up precious space and using up the Earth's precious resources.' "

"What are you trying to say?" asked Jill with a touch of anger in her voice. "Are you saying that because we probably won't meet more than ten thousand people in our entire life, that we should kill off everyone else?"

"No! I'm just telling you about the ambassador's habit of asking people that question."

"I see, so you're not actually trying to tell us that we don't need more than ten thousand people living on this planet? – You're just telling us what some other guy thought."

Ben shrugged his shoulders, nodded his head, smiled and opened his hands palm up. "Yeah, that's all I'm doing. He wanted to make the point that you don't need to have billions of people living on this planet in order to avoid feeling lonely and having the feeling that you're missing out on making new friends."

Jill raised her eyes to the ceiling in defeat.

I shook my head. I was not impressed by Ben's efforts at being a salesman. His technique left a lot to be desired. So far, his attempt at selling me his dream of a new world was turning out to be a complete failure.

"In an ideal world all the technological problems associated with living a secure and comfortable life would be solved, and we would not be destroying this planet," Ben said, obviously getting his second wind. "Not just solved, but at such a high technical level that everyone could live like a king, on their own piece of land with all the work being done by strong and smart, but emotionless and undemanding robots. Everybody would be free to do whatever they felt like doing. They could spend all their time studying, playing games to their hearts content, indulging themselves in their hobbies, or they could spend time socializing with others, or pursuing any other undertaking or activity that interested them."

"Wouldn't that he nice," I couldn't resist the sarcasm.

"The key to making all this a reality is the development of robotics to a level where they could actually do all the work required of them. We have not reached that level yet. But robotics is advancing at a rapid rate and soon it will be at that level. Soon robots will be able to lay bricks and build houses, drive cars safely, use farming machinery to produce all our food we need, and do everything else that a human body can physically do. They will do all the mundane inhuman tasks, all factory and labour intensive work, and all the dangerous jobs too, like cleaning windows on tall buildings, and cleaning up the radioactive mess at Chernobyl made by the atomic reactor there when it blue a fuse. And more - they are already doing many things that we can't do. They are assembling electronic circuit boards, like those in your cell phone, with components so small that we would have trouble just picking them up with tweezers. And they are doing it at such a pace that for us, with our eyes, their actions are a blur."

Jill couldn't resist expressing her thoughts on the subject. "We don't need robots to solve all the problems we are facing connected with climate change. Mankind has lived for millions of years without robots, and we can continue to get along without them just fine. You're talking about killing billions of people to solve our problems. What, or who gives you the right to do that?"

Ben looked at her with a sad expression, as if he had just realized that he has not been getting through to her. That all along she has been on a different wavelength.

"So you think we can get along fine without robots, do you? Well I suggest you think about it a bit more. Our global economy only works because we are treating many millions of workers in China and other overpopulated parts of the world as if they were robots, human robots. Most of them are working twelve hour days, six days a week. Some are even working longer hours. And each day after work they are herded off like cattle to a company hostel built next to the factory, to sleep six to eight to a room. And what do we pay them? About fifty cents and a few bowls of gruel per day." It was clear he was getting worked up over this. "They are today's robots. Our robots." He pointed a finger at her. "You're robots. When you go home tonight have a close look at all your cherished knickknacks. You will see the words MADE IN CHINA stamped on most of them. So don't tell me we don't need robots."

Jill opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. She folded her arm and sat back in her chair. Then suddenly she thought of a response. "If these people were replaced by robots then they wouldn't have any jobs at all, and they would be worse off then they are now."

It crossed my mind that if Ben's project succeeded they wouldn't be worse off, they'd all be dead. But I had no intention of pointing this out to Jill.

"So do we live just to work, or do we just work to live?" asked Ben.

"What?" asked Jill, and when she saw Ben getting ready to explain, she raised her hand to fend off his words, she said, "Just forget it, okay."

He shrugged and closed his mouth.

"I admit, some people are forced to work in poor conditions," said Jill, "and they don't get paid very much, but it's a social and economic problem that can be rectified. And things are slowly changing all the time. People have to work, and most people enjoy their jobs."

"I remember a trip I made to France years ago," said Ben. "I visited a winery on a beautiful country estate. I saw something there that had a profound influence on me. In the bottling section of this winery I saw a woman sitting on a wooden stool between two conveyer belts. One belt was bringing recently washed bottles towards her. The bottles were sitting upside down in racks that supported them. She would pick up a bottle from this conveyer belt with her left hand, turn it upright and pass it to her right hand, and then deposit it on the other conveyer belt on the other side of her, which would take the bottle to the filling station. She sat there looking straight ahead in a dream like state, and she was working like a machine, just picking up and inverting the bottles, passing them from one hand to the other, and putting them down again. She had the routine down pat and didn't have to think about what she was doing. She worked at a constant pace like a well oiled machine. Later I asked, and was told that this was her only job, that she had been working here for close to thirty years, working eight hours a day doing what should be done by a machine."

Jill was silent. She reached for her glass and took a sip of saki. Then decided she had to respond. "Okay, it would be better if they used a machine to do that type of thing - but you're talking about replacing everyone with robots."

"It's going to happen anyway, eventually, and not in the distant future, but soon."

He reached inside the komodo he was wearing and bought out his cell phone and placed it on the table between us. He looked across at the two girls standing at the bar and spoke to them in Japanese. They jerked to attention and looked first at him, then at each other in confusion. He yelled at them and pointed at the bar and shouted a few more Japanese words. I caught one word – the word, 'champagne.'

The girls raced around behind the bar and one emerged with a bottle of champagne and was about to open it when Ben shouted again. Confused, she approached Ben, and bending over with her head bowed low and her arms out-stretched she offered him the unopened bottle.

He took it from her, and with a wave of his hand and a grunted word he dismissed her, and she, staying bowed, waddled backwards to her place at the bar.

"Champagne bottles are extremely strong," Ben said. "They are used to christen ships about to be launched, and sometime when they are swung on a rope and hit the bow of the ship they send a wave of horror through the organizers of the ceremony when they don't break."

He smashed the bottle down on his mobile phone. The bottle did not break. But his phone sure did, into several large chunks. He smashed the phone again a few more times, then satisfied, he stood the weapon upright on the table, and picked up a few pieces of his broken phone.

"Look at the intricate detail of this circuit board. Look at the size of the components fitted to the board. They are so small that a human would find it impossible to fit them into the board and solder them into place. This phone was made on an automated assembly line by a series of robotic machines. Without these machines humans simply could not make a device like this. We put the raw materials in one end of the assembly line and the phones come out the other. This device represents the miracle of modern engineering and manufacturing. So once again don't tell me we don't need robots."

I looked at the pieces of wrecked phone and the dints and scratches in the wooden surface of the beautifully crafted table. They would both be replaced tomorrow. It was a dramatic and extravagant way to make a point, but for a billionaire the cost of a new phone and a new coffee table was like the cost of a few peanuts to a mortal like me.

"And to answer your other question – who gave us the right to make such an important decision about the future of the human race? You did, and people like you did, by your inaction or inability to come up with any better solutions, or any real solution. And now you're telling me to do nothing, to just sit back and let the future take care of itself, as you are now doing. Well, I've got news for you - this planet is heating up and it doesn't care if humans wipe themselves out. But I do. Something needs to be done and quickly, and we're doing it."

He got up and went behind the bar, bent down and came up with a bottle of Scotch. I recognized the label and knew that a bottle of this beverage cost around five hundred bucks - the good stuff. He had been drinking saki all night, and I mentally gave Jill the credit for driving him to something harder. He poured a good slug of it into a heavy cut crystal glass, and gulped down a deep bite of the stuff.

I looked across at the two girls who had been standing like unemotional robots in front of the bar all night. Now they looked worried, and a little embarrassed; it was their job to get drinks for us. And although I'm sure they were being paid much more than fifty cents a day, they looked as if they were hoping this little incident would not cost them their jobs, or bonus, or whatever they were expecting.

Ben came back and sat down again. He looked as if he had regained control of his emotions.

"Soon I'll get to the point and tell you what I want from you. But first I want to tell you that I know exactly what state of development robotics is at, in the world today. I am a major shareholder in a robotics company in Japan, and another company here in Melbourne. The company in Japan manufactures industrial robots used in the car industry. I don't take much interest in the day to day running of the company. I let other people do that, but I know what's going on, and the progress they have been making. And I can tell you at today's rate of development we should be ready to replace all essential human labour with robotics in about five to eight years time, ten at the latest. And I would like to see the Asimov Project put on hold until then."

Wow, this was a turn I had not been expecting.

"A year ago I thought everything could be in place to put the plan into action in about three years. I thought that if I put enough money into robotics I could get some good results in a couple of years. Since then I have re-evaluated the situation and now I'm thinking it may take a bit longer. But, other members of the Solution Society think that because of the global warming situation we can't wait that long. They want to act as soon as possible.

"The timing of the commencement of the plan is critical. I think if we act now we will lose the consumer base necessary for the full development of a complete robotic technology. And we are on the verge of discovering other new technologies as well. There are millions of scientists working to discover all sorts of new valuable technologies, of developing marvellous medical treatments, and other wonderful things. It would be a shame to stop all this before their work is complete."

He picked up the manila folder, looked in it, pulled out a chart, plopped it down on the table, and pointed at it. The chart showed a line the representing our human population. The line climbs steadily to the right and then shoots up sharply near to the top of the page, then suddenly drops away to almost nothing, then continues to the right, levelled off.

"Without the high demand and buying power of a large population, and without the huge number of scientists working on it, the development of the technology will stall. If we act too soon robotics development will be delayed." He pointed to the spot on the graph where the line is near the top of the page and drops straight down, and levels off. "Maybe for many decades, and it may even be stopped completely. This would be a tragedy."

He pulled out another chart and pointed at it. It showed a line curving sharply up and at the top of the page suddenly flattening out and running level, horizontally, to the right.

"This represents the general development of technology that has been steadily growing over the last couple of centuries and is about to move even higher. But as I said, we need the high population to achieve these results. This first chart shows that we end up with a low population, and the second one shows they all inherit a high level of technology with the potential to provide everyone with a very high standard of living. Timing is critical."

His glass was empty. The two girls at the bar looked worried. Normally one of them would have bought a fresh glass of saki over, but now they were whispering to each other, obviously trying to decide if it would be proper for them to go around behind the bar and find his bottle of Scotch. He held up his glass and barked; "saki!" and the girls smiled, giggled, and nodded their heads vigorously, as one of them raced over with a fresh glass of saki.

"Right now there is a big problem that must be addressed immediately. It's the man you mentioned earlier – John Wilson. He is completely crazy. He is a religious nut and unstable. He's in hiding at the moment. We have been trying to find him, but so far without success."

Right so there it was. I knew it was coming, and now it was out there.

"Why is he hiding?"

"Not sure. But my best guess is, it's because he has heard that I want to stop him releasing the virus. Which isn't exactly true – I just want to delay the release of the virus for a while."

"And he doesn't want the release delayed?"

"No, he thinks he receives messages from God and that it's God's desire to have this thing done now. The end of the world is predicted in the bible and he thinks he knows the exact date of when it should happen, and that it's his job to bring it on."

"I see, and you believe that Rosalyn Stewart, his de facto wife is travelling with him and knows where he is hiding," I said, in a soft tone, hoping I showed no sign of gloating.

"Yes, and we know she has made contact with you Mike. So what we want from you is John Wilson's location. We're hoping that Rosalyn will provide you with that information."

I was not surprised, in fact I had come here tonight with the suspicion that my link to Rose was what everyone was interested in. Now I just wanted to stall for time.

"If you find him, how will you stop him?"

"Don't you worry about that. Just leave it to me. I'll stop him."

"I have no way of contacting her. When she has something to say to me she sends me an email. I think she doesn't have easy access to a computer. When she gets a chance she finds an internet café and uses a computer there to send emails."

"Well, now I have explained the situation to you Mike. And I've been honest with you. Now I want you to go home and study the graphs and think about what I've said. The consequence of your decision will have grave repercussions. It could affect the future of the human race."

"Okay, I understand, you don't want to put mush pressure on me, so you're not going to make it seem as if it's important."

He laughed. "This is no joking matter Mike. But I think you already know that. I think we understand each other now."

"So you're going to wait a few years before you get rid of all the scientists working on all the new and marvellous technologies they are about to develop?" said Jill.

"No, no, no." He suddenly stopped talking and looked at each of us in turn. "How much do you two already know? Do you know about the true nature of the bird flu vaccine?"

"Yes, it's two vaccines in one." I said.

"Right, okay. Do you know the extent of my involvement in this project?"

"We have a good idea," I said. "Your code-name is the Judge. It's your job to select who will be a survivor."

"Right again. Okay, so, to get back to your question Jill – No, we won't be killing off all our brilliant scientists. Most of the scientists have already been given the vaccine. The ones who actually do real research that is. Not the ones who just talk about it. The trouble is, at the moment their work is driven by the prospect of commercial reward, and the target of their efforts is the mass markets. When their mass markets disappear their only incentive to continue will be their own desire for self satisfaction. Living in a technological culture built on the concept that all necessary labour will be carried out by robots will free them up from the necessity to consider economics as a driving force. They will be able to work on whatever they like, whenever they want. In the future freedom from economic pressure will govern all their endeavours. It will be a completely different world."

"A whole new ball game," I offered.

"Exactly!" said Ben, smiling, happy that at last I was beginning to get the picture.

"You hope." I said.

"Yes, we all do," said Ben.

In the car on the way home from Ben's evening of stunning revelations Jill was quiet for a while. She sat as if in a daze, looking straight ahead, deep in thought, and I decided not to interrupt, but to let her take her time to work out what was bothering her the most. Eventually she changed her position and turned to face me.

"How does he know so much about what we have been up to?" she asked.

"I have been wondering the same thing. I imagine he has the services of some pretty slick operators at his disposal."

"And somehow, they must have bugged us, somehow. I don't think the Lomond is bugged, but it really doesn't matter in there anyway."

Lately, whenever we were in the Lomond and spoke about things we didn't want overheard, we always moved closer together and whispered them in each others ear, and there is usually enough ambient background noise in there to cover our low tones.

"What about our cars?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm sure there are no radio transmitters in the cars. I've tested them often. They're clean. That only leaves the house. They must have a new way of bugging a house that no one at ASIO or at the Feds knows anything about. I thought I was up on all the latest technology. Obviously I'm not."

"Maybe they have worked out a new way to bug cars."

She sat thinking about this for a few seconds.

"Maybe, but my gut feeling is it's a lot harder to bug a moving car, without using a radio transmitter, than it is to bug a house. No, I'm sure it's the house."

"Maybe they don't use a radio transmitter. Maybe they use an infra red signal, or ultra violet, or some other method of transmitting information."

She was quite again, considering this option.

"Maybe, but I've been over every inch of both our cars and I couldn't find any hidden equipment. It's a lot harder to hide a device in a car than a house. No, I'm betting it's the house."

"Maybe it's in our computers."

"No! I've gone over them very thoroughly, both the electronics and all the software. They're clean. It's got to be some new technology planted somewhere in the house. Tomorrow, I'm going to take your house apart and find the little fuckers. I'm going to turn it upside down and shake it until I do."

"I hope you turn it back the right way up again when you're finished."

"Don't worry darling – of cause I will."

I'll tell you now what happened over the following week - Jill almost drove herself, and me, crazy looking for exotic little bugs. She moved all the furniture in every room to look at the walls and the skirting boards, and flipped all the furniture over to look underneath before putting it all back. She systematically lifted every piece of carpet, a corner at a time to examine the floor underneath. She examined every square inch of the walls as high as she could standing on tip toes, and then got in a ladder so that she could examine, with a magnifying glass, every fly spot up high on the walls and the ceilings. I kid you not, she actually did look at fly spots. Then she climbed up into the roof to look around up there and came down covered in cobwebs. The only thing that prevented her from wriggling under the house was the fact that it was built on a concrete slab. Then outside, she walked around the perimeter of the house about a dozen times examining every crack in every square inch of the brickwork, every window-frame and every down-pipe.

And what did she find? Nothing. Well, nothing but a lot of mouse droppings and dust. For years now, about ten at least, I've been meaning to do a bit of spring cleaning. No need now. Or I should say no need to worry, and feel guilty about it anymore. Thanks Jill, you're a real sweetheart.

Anyway, getting back to that night, when we arrived home, although it was getting late and we both had to go to work the next day we were both too keyed up to just forget about what had happened at Ben's to just go to bed. No, we had to talk about it, to clear the air and make sure we were on the same page.

We sat down on the couch ready to begin when suddenly it occurred to me that if the house was indeed bugged then everything we said would be overheard.

I put a finger to my lips, pointed at the walls surrounding us and then at my ear. Long before I'd finished this routine Jill had got the message. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes rolled, and she began nodding her head and mouthing the word, 'yes, yes, yes.'

Without saying a word she stood up, took my hand and headed for the back door. She took me out to her car and I hoped her gut feeling about it being free of bugs was correct.

"So, tell me," she said, "what do you think of Ben and his fuckwit co-conspirator buddies, and their plan to wipe out most of humanity?"

An hour or so later I had found a site on the internet that sold e-books and had a copy of Isaac Asimov's novel - The Naked Sun. Using my Paypal account I paid for the book and downloaded it. Over the last few weeks I had spent a lot of time on the internet reading all the synopsis, descriptions, and reviews of all the Asimov's novels I could find. The name of the mysterious the Asimov project was my reason for doing this? Why did they select the name Asimov for their project? Did it have something to do with writer? Was the project based on something written in one of his novels? So I decided to study the writer's works in order to see if I could find a connection. It was not an easy task, because Asimov was a very prolific writer. Weeks ago I googled Isaac Asimov and discovered from Wikipedia that - Asimov was one of the most prolific writers of all time, having written or edited more than 500 books and an estimated 9,000 letters and postcards.

It had crossed my mind that the Asimov who inspired the project may not be the writer, but some other Asimov, so I googled the following, "Asimov -Isaac -sf -science -robotics -fiction –project -novel." The minus sign telling google not to use the word connected to it. And I still got 390 000 hits. Far too many to examine individually.

And so far I had not gleamed from any of the review the slightest inspiration of what the project was about.

Now I knew what novel the plot was based on, I had a copy of it, and I was determined to read the darn thing as soon and as quickly as possible.

CHAPTER 18

It was not even nine o'clock and I was on the road with Johno. I had rang him the night before and told him I had things to do today and wanted to hit the road early. So when we arrived at the office we cut short our usual crap sessions with the other guys, picked up our assignment and got out of there quick smart.

My secretary had been on the phone the day before and earlier today making appointments, and now I had a list of people to see. I had their names and addresses, a quick rundown of their connection to the story, and notes on the type of questions to ask. I also had their phone numbers and this was important because I intended to ring some of them and cancel our appointment. I would ring others and shuffle appointment times around to condense them so that I would end up with a bit of free time. It was a dog attack story and I hated dog attack stories. But this wasn't my reason for deliberately rushing and cutting the story. There was something else I needed to do today - I felt a great urge to go to the robotics factory that was owned by Ben Wright and find out what was happening there.

Today's story was about someone's pet pit bull terrier that had attacked a five year old girl in the street and made a mess of her face and arms. Our first stop was the hospital where the mother was sitting at her daughter's bedside. We were supposed to get some video of the poor little girl, bandaged and bed-bound, and do the essential interview with the mother. I needed to ask the mother how her daughter was doing, and get her views on what had happened, how she felt about her neighbour now, and whether she thought the dog should be put down. After the interview I needed to ask her if there was anyone at her house who could give us a photograph of her daughter, so that we could show our viewers how beautiful she was before the dog attack – a recent home video would be better. I hated doing this type of interview. I hated trying to comfort a mother whose daughter's face had just been ripped open.

Next on my list was an interview with the doctor who treated the little girl. If it looked like there was going to be a delay, waiting for the doctor to be free, I would scrub this interview.

Next stop, the mother's house, to pick up photos or video. I was hoping that the father or any other member of the family, who I should interview, would not be there.

The dog owner was on the list as well. I had to discover how it was possible her dog was let lose on an innocent young girl, and if she agreed that the dog should now be put down. I knew the animal had already been taken to the lost dog's home and was awaiting judgment and sentencing. I hated interviewing owners of hoodlum dogs. I knew the owner would either be devastated and full of hysterical apologies or would try to defend her dog, and her own negligence by trying to pass the blame to the little girl, by claiming that the girl was in the wrong place and that she provoked the dog somehow.

Then it was off across the road to hear what the hero of the story had to say. He was the one who heard the girl's screams and ran out and rescued the girl by beating the dog senseless with a picket he pulled from his fence. He was the one who stayed with her, while he called an ambulance on his cell phone and waited for it to arrive. I was hoping he would not be home; it would save us a lot of time.

I should also interview a local government official about the regulations regarding dogs on leashes, and any other responsibilities put on pet owners. And we should also go to the Lost Dogs Home and get someone there to tell me how often dogs attack and kill kids, and to get them to express their views on the responsibilities of a caring dog owner.

I had done my share of dog attack interviews before and I was now well and truly sick of them, and if I had a choice I would gladly give them a miss. I decided I would not go knocking on any neighbours' doors looking for other witnesses to the attack. In fact if anyone told me they knew anyone else with information or opinions I would ignore them too.

What about the opinion of the cop who investigated the incident – sorry, not interested. I didn't really want to know if the cops were considering laying charges against the dog owner, or charges of cruelty to animals against the hero who belted the dog with a fence picket, because that would require me to seek the opinion of a lawyer to find out if the hero had any rights to justify his actions.

The ambulance driver who rushed the little girl to hospital, and who probably has a daughter the same age? – I had no intention of trying to find him. Like me, he was probably sick of talking about such sad and tragic incidents.

I told Johno what I intended to do and he just shrugged. It wasn't his arse that would be in a sling later when Bruce discovered how I'd butchered this story.

"So what's the big deal - where do you have to be later?"

I thought about this for a few seconds, wondering how much I should tell him. "I heard a rumour about a place that may turn out to be a good story."

"Yeah, so what did you hear?"

"You don't want to know."

"If I didn't want to know I wouldn't have asked."

"It's connected with a certain subject that you don't want to know about. So let's leave it at that."

Johno was quite for a while.

"Is this a personal thing, or do you want me to come in with the camera?"

My turn to think about it for a while.

"Yeah, I guess I do. Just don't ask me any questions later."

"Fair enough."

"And don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"See, there you go – asking again, about what, already. Just drop it. Don't ask about what."

I wasn't asking anything about that other thing. I was just asking about what you are warning me about."

"Don't ask. They're connected. Consider yourself warned."

After a long sigh. "Fair enough. Man, you're in a real touchy mood today. How's everything at home – you having troubles, or what?"

"What? - What's with all the whats today? - Don't ask, okay."

"Fair enough. Just trying to help."

"Fair enough. Just forget it."

As planned, after we had wrapped up the dog attack story, we had some free time left, and as planned, we headed for Ben's robot factory. It was a long drive to the factory, but I knew we would have enough time, and now that the pressure was off I started to relax a little and think about other things.

"For some strange reason," I said to Johno, "I just remembered a documentary I saw on TV a while back. It was about Easter Island - about how once upon a time there were a great number of people living there, and the Island was covered with trees and there was plenty of food to eat. And as you know the people there started to build all these stupid big stone head thingies. Why did they build them? - No one knows. I just thought I'd tell you that, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

"Okay, as I said, it was just in case."

"Right, got that."

"Anyway, from the moment they arrived on the island they started chopping down trees. It wasn't called Easter Island in those days, but you probably know that already."

"I do. I think Captain Cook, or some other explorer landed there at Easter."

"Anyway, they probably used some of the wood to build huts and other useful things, like boats, for fishing, and for cooking and heating. I believe it gets really cold down there at night, in winter. And it's probable that some of the wood came in handy for building and moving these big stone heads around."

"Right, they cut down trees and used the wood. I understand that. We're on the same page here. In fact I think I saw the same documentary, or one just like it. But don't let that stop you. Get on with the little story you're trying to tell me. I expect, and hope, it's going to get interesting, soon, right?"

"Right, they probably also cut the trees down to clear the land so that they could grow some crops."

"Right, they chopped down trees, I've got that. I understand that. I'm not going to ask what sort of crops they grew, in case you're wondering, because I really don't care."

"That's good, because I don't have a fucking clue what sort of crops they grew. But I suspect it may have been corn, or maze, or..."

"I told you I don't care. Get on with your stupid story."

"Could have been potatoes. I believe potatoes originated in South America, which is quite close to..."

"Hey! - I don't care. Got it?"

Okay, got it, whatever, anyway, over the centuries they continued to chop down trees and to built the heads, and use the wood in other useful ways, and eventually, one day they woke up and realized that they had chopped down the very last tree on the island. The very last tree, there was not even one little green tree left on the island. They could no longer build new stuff or heat..."

"Don't go through the whole fucking list of what they used the fucking trees for, again, Okay?"

"Okay, okay, but I will mention that they could no longer build boats and go fishing, so they all started to starve and towards the end they probably became cannibals. I say probably, because no one knows, for sure, that that is a fact. And without any boats they could not leave their wrecked island and sail off and find a better place to live, and start again. So they all died."

"Is that it? Is that the end of the story?"

"Yeah, that's it, the end of all of them, and the end of the story."

"That wasn't a nice story."

"I know."

"Especially the ending. I didn't like the ending very much."

"Yes, I agree. It wasn't nice."

"They all died in the end."

"Yes."

"So what's your point? Why the fuck did you suddenly want to remind me of the tragic fucking history of Easter Island? You trying to make me feel depressed, or what?"

"No, it was just something I suddenly remembered. I've been thinking about that sort of thing a bit lately."

"What sort of thing?"

"I think there is a lesson to be learned from the Easter Islanders. I think the same sort of thing is happening right here, right now on this planet, on a global scale. We're not building the stupid head thingies, but we're cutting down all the trees. And we're using up all of this planet's resources at a fantastic rate, and when they are all gone, we, like the people on Easter Island will have no where else to go."

"So, we will all die - is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Yes, I think so. Just like they did."

"Thanks mate. That was just what I needed to be told on a beautiful day like today. I'm sure it's bound to put me in a great mood for the rest of the day."

"Hey, don't mention it - You're welcome, mate, anytime. What are friends for?"

Ben's robot factory was situated in a strange place. It was literally on the very edge of Melbourne. When we found the street we were looking for and were driving along looking for house numbers, on one side of the street there were a few houses under construction, and a lot of vacant lots in a new housing development project. On the other side of the street there was a barbwire fence and beyond that open fields for as far as the eye could see – Farmland that had yet to be subdivided for housing.

"There it is, just up ahead," I said.

There was a building that looked like a factory plopped down in a field on the farmland side of the street.

"Hey man this is a strange place for a factory," said Johno. "It's like they've been trying to keep away from suburbia, and suburbia has been slowly creeping up on them."

I noticed the boundary fence of the factory property. It enclosed an enormous plot of land – much bigger than what a normal factory would need. It looked like they're leaving open the option for a great deal of expansion.

Johno drove into the parking lot out front, and parked the car.

As we walked towards the building's entrance Johno hefted his camera up onto his shoulder and dropped back a little behind me. I stopped and turned to him. "Put your camera down, for now. I think it might be best if we introduced ourselves first, and asked if they wouldn't mind if we used it."

Johno shrugged. "fair enough. So it's not going to be an in-your-face ambush?"

"No, they've done nothing wrong – As far as I know. I'm just curious about a few things."

As expected, the girl at the front desk looked surprised. I guess she recognized me from the show.

"I don't have an appointment, but I was wondering if I could talk with Nogene Newman." I had done some checking last night and knew that he was the managing director here.

The girl said, "Wait here, I'll check, to see if he's free." And disappeared around a corner and down a corridor.

A few minutes later she reappeared followed by a tall, young bald headed guy who, even in a suit, looked as if he had the body of an athlete.

"I'm Nogene Newman. What can I do for you?"

"My name is Mike Stanley, and this is my cameraman, John Luck. We work for NewsFix. We're thinking about doing a documentary, in our spare time, about the progress of robotic development in Melbourne. I'm hoping to shoot enough material to put together an hour long feature on the subject, and I thought I would start here. Could you spare me a few minutes, and tell me a bit about the type of work you're doing here?" I knew that Johno knew that all I'd just said was bullshit. I also knew that he would not interrupt and correct me. He had heard me dishing out bizarre lines of crap so many times before to people whose confidence I was trying to win, that he knew to behaved as if whatever I said was the gospel truth.

Newman studied me with a completely emotionless face for a few seconds. "There isn't much to see here, at the moment. We are still in the process of getting set up. This will be a research facility. We won't be moving into the production stage for quite some time."

"That's okay. I'm interested in hearing about your plans, what type of research you will be doing. I'm interested in anything you can tell me about robotics."

"Very well, come into my office." He started walking towards the corridor.

"Do you mind if Mr. Luck uses his camera? After all, we are trying to make a documentary."

"No, I don't mind."

A minute or so later I was seated in front of a desk facing Newman and Johno was standing nearby with his camera on his shoulder, alternating between pointing it at Newman, and myself.

There was something about this guy that made me think that I had met him before, somewhere, and I couldn't resist saying, "You look very familiar to me. Do you think we may have met before?"

"I don't think so, I'm sure I would have remembered you," he said, and, as if not wanting to waist any more time on this subject, he started talking about what he thought I was interested in knowing. "We are recruiting robotic experts from around the world at the moment. We want the best research engineers we can find. We are determined to build a perfect robot. We already have some people with some great ideas here waiting to get started. We're just waiting for a delivery of some new equipment."

"What type of robots do you intend to build here, industrial, or something more domestic?

"Eventually we will definitely be working towards developing robots for the domestic market. But we will also be looking at robots that could be used in the building industry. That is, robots that can lay bricks, work with wood, and do everything else necessary to build a house, and other things like that. To start we want to build a set of specialized robots that working together can build just about anything. Eventually we want to design and build a versatile model, a universal robot, one that can do everything that a human can do."

"Do you think that will be possible?"

"I do."

"How long do you think it will be before you have this universal robot in production?"

"It's hard to say. It may be many years, or even a decade or two. Then again, it may happen a lot quicker, maybe within one or two years. A lot of research needs to be done and a lot of problems need to be solved. But it will happen. I can assure you of that." Speaking in a soft and calm voice and without displaying any emotions this guy seemed to be oozing with confidence, as if there was not the slightest doubt in his mind that what he was saying was true.

"Do you think there will be a big market for a universal robot, considering there is a large number of people around the world who are unemployed and are prepared to work long hours for very little pay?"

"That is a good question. In the third world, where there are a lot of people living in poverty, there won't be a big demand for an expensive universal robot. But in the richer countries of the west there are many people who will be able to afford to buy a robot to do all the domestic chores required around the house. Geo-economics forces will determine the demand for the robots."

"So, it's a matter of economics, and the ability of the robot to perform the tasks asked of it."

"Yes - exactly."

"What happens if not enough people want or can afford a universal robot?"

"Obviously, we would go out of business."

"Do you think that competition between rival robotic manufacturing companies will be a factor in the development of the technology, and the industry?"

"Yes - it will be to a certain extent. But there is a large range of technologies used across a whole range of industries already in existence that will help speed things up. I'm talking about sensitive instruments used for testing, and sophisticated machine tools used for processing exotic materials. So in this area we won't have to reinvent the wheel. What we need to design and develop is the specific mechanisms and materials for the product we intend to build, and of course the software that controls it."

"So you're saying it will be a lot easier than most people think, because a lot of the tools and materials needed to build it already exists?"

"Yes, but we will still have to develop some new technologies."

"What type of new technologies?"

"The perfect robot I have in mind will have a titanium skeleton, and be powered by a set of muscles, much like those employed in a human body. Muscles, tendon, and ligaments made from an artificial tissue."

"Artificial tissue? Are you talking about tissue that's grown like normal tissue, using DNA?"

"No. It won't be using DNA. But the way it functions and is powered will be based on the way our muscles function and are powered. The same chemical process that moves our muscles will be employed. These muscles and nerve fibbers will probably be made out of plastic polymers - but then again, maybe they will be made out of a material that is more like living flesh. It's too early to say yet, until we have done some research."

"A lot of research by the sound of it."

"Yes. But someone now employed by this company has already done some good research, and has already built some samples of the type of material we want. A lot of testing and fine tuning needs to be done, but it looks very promising."

"So what we're talking about here is Arnie, the terminator. A metal skeleton covered in living tissue."

"No, not living tissue. Artificial materials that will behave in ways similar to our skin and muscles, but won't grow, or repair itself the way human tissue does. When any of it wears out, or is accidentally damaged, it will simply be replaced."

"Like a damaged mud guard on a car."

He nodded his head. My last statement was not a question, so he obviously decided no response was necessary.

I wanted to ask him if he knew Ben Wright, and if he knew about Ben's dream, that involve killing off most of the human race and replacing it with robots that would do all the manual labour that up until now had been done by humans. But I quickly decided that here and now might not be the right time and place to bring out that can of worms and drop it on his desk. And definitely not in the presence of Johno, that's for sure. I knew that by doing so, I would be labelled as someone with a big mouth and would be putting my life on the line. And I saw no good reason for doing that. I'm sure if Johno knew what this was all about he would agree.

Suddenly I couldn't resist saying, "I've been trying to work out where we may have met, and I've come to the conclusion that we probably haven't met before, and I've worked out why you look so familiar – you remind me of a rock star who was popular about two years ago. You look just like him."

"Yeah, I know who you mean. A lot of people have told me that. Their next question is usually, 'are you related?' And the answer is no."

I thanked him for his time and as we headed towards the door I turned back with another question. "As we drove in I noticed the boundary fence of this property. This is a very large lot. Is there a reason you wanted so much land?"

"Yes, there is. When we start production, the first robots we produce will be put to work building more factories here on this site. These new factories will produce more robots and they will be put to work building and equipping more factories. We hope to build a city here that will be almost completely run and used by robots."

"Wow, that's a mind blower," said Johno.

"You said almost – so there will be some humans here too?" I asked.

"Yes, I'll be here, and my staff, and a team of humans supervisors, who will run the place."

"To make sure that humans retain complete control at all times, I hope," I said jokingly.

Suddenly I had flashes of the movie, "The Terminator," and realized that there would need to be a great deal of new legislation written by the government, in order to put a big bunch of safeguards into place here, to supervise the running of this factory, to make sure that the robots don't work their way, inadvertently or deliberately, into a position where they could decide to take over and turn against their human creators. To make sure that these robots never got a chance to become a bit too uppity. But then I remembered that Arnold Schwarzenegger is not really a robot. The terminator was only a movie. And the sort of things that happened in that movie don't happen in real life.

"I can assure you all the robots we make here will have faultless and unimpeachable safeguards written into their software." I could tell he didn't think what I said was a joke. This guy showed no sign of a sense of humour. Poor thing!

When we got back to the office I quickly wrote the dialogue for the lousy dog attack story, then, still sitting at my desk, I suddenly decided I needed to talk to Dr. Norma Walker, the expert on infectious diseases who worked at the WHO Collaborating Centre for Reference and Research on Influenza, the woman I interviewed when the recent bird flu scare put everyone into panic mode.

I found her number and as I punched it into my desk phone I was resigned to the possibility that she may not be in, or that I would get the, 'I'll put you on hold' while I try to find her routine, or worse, the I'll put you through to another extension run around. I was thus pleasantly surprised, almost shocked, when she answered the phone.

I told her who I was, and reminded her that I had interviewed her not long ago about the bird flu scare. She remembered.

"I was wondering if you could spare the time to answer a few more questions about the bird flu vaccine that was handed out."

"Look, I'm a bit busy right now – would you like to meet me somewhere, later, maybe in a restaurant, or a pub?"

"I only have a couple of questions. It shouldn't take too long. I was thinking you might be able to answer them now, over the phone."

"Hum, as I said, I'm really busy right now. But if it's only a few I'll give it a go."

"Okay – first question - where did the vaccine come from – who made it?"

"Wow, that's a question and a half, right there. Who made it? I guess it would have been made by, well it's complicated - the usual thing that happens is The World Health Organization is sent samples of the virus. They are analysed and standardized reagents are developed for producing inactivated vaccines. After testing these reagents they are provided to manufactures worldwide on request. And they produce the vaccine."

"I see," I said, although I was not sure I did, and I was not sure where I was going with these questions. I guess what I wanted to know was how did the second vaccine get put in with the bird flu vaccine. Where was it done, and who did it, and how come no one at WHO knew about it. It was hard to think of questions to ask without telling her what I suspected, and what I really wanted to know. I decided to start with some simple obvious questions.

"I guess that during the scare we had recently all the doses of the vaccine were used up, and now more doses will have to be made."

"Yes, just a few days after the scare started we commenced giving out the vaccine, manufactures all around the world went into full production, making more of the vaccine. It's a slow process but our stocks are slowly building up again."

"So has the chance of a new outbreak of bird flu been reduced at all?"

"Yes, and no. Yes, because a lot of people have been vaccinated against the virus. And no, because the avian influenza virus could easily mutate into a new strain that could infect people who have been vaccinated against the old strain."

"So we would be back to square one, with the possibility of a new outbreak happening at any time?"

"Yes, more or less."

"But it's unlikely to start in Australia because no poultry, or any other birds here in Australia are infected with Avian influenza?"

"Mr. Stanley, questions like that were all asked and answered in great detail weeks ago when the scare was on. I suggest you look at video tapes of your own show. Now if you don't mind, I am a bit busy. If you have anymore questions why don't you send me a fax, or email me, and I'll answer them when I have more time."

"Wait a minute, I just have a few more simple questions - why weren't more doses of the vaccine produced? Why weren't there enough doses for everyone? And why were they being held in storage and not given out before the outbreak?"

"You don't understand - we only had a few doses of the vaccine that would protect people against the actual Avian Influenza virus H5N1, because people inoculated with that vaccine would only be protected from becoming infected after coming into contact with, or eating birds infected with the virus. Everyone expected that when the virus mutated and became a human to human virus, that it would be a new strain, and that the H5N1 vaccine would be of no use against it. Which turned out to be true.

"What, I don't understand, if that so, then the vaccine should have been useless."

"Yes, but as it sometimes happens, we lucked out. The Avian virus joined with a different strain of human influenza that we already knew about and had been expecting to be a major outbreak next year. And we had been very busy lately developing a vaccine against it. And it just happened to turn out that this new vaccine was perfect against the new virus that contained the bird flu component."

"Does this sort of thing happen much? Does a vaccine against one strain of influenza usually work against a new strain?"

"No. This is where we lucked out. This sort of thing is very unusual."

I decided to take a chance. "One more question. Would it be possible for someone, for anyone to tamper with a vaccine, before it went to the manufacturing stage, so as to include a second vaccine for a different virus, in with the vaccine that was used during the bird flu outbreak?"

"What! - are you crazy? Of cause not. Strict test are carried out at every step of the development procedure, before the reagents are released to vaccine manufacturers. If that's all I must..."

"Do the names Chris Norton or John Wilson mean anything to you?"

"Yes - I know both of them. I just learnt recently that Chris was murdered here in Melbourne not long ago. And I have known John Wilson for many years. Why are you asking about then?"

"I believe they have both worked for the WHO. Do you know if they were ever involved in any way with the development of the bird flu vaccine?"

"Yes, I do know. They were both very much involved. Are you suggesting that they may have tampered with the vaccine?"

"Would it be possible? Were they ever in a position to do so?"

"Well -yes, I guess so, if they so desired to do that sort of thing. But, come on, that's ridiculous - They were both highly respected scientists. There is no way that either of them would ever do anything like that."

"Do you know that John Wilson is a leader of a bizarre religious group and that Chris Norton was one of his followers?"

"Well, yes and no. I have recently heard rumours to that effect about Wilson, but when I knew him I didn't know he was involved with anything like that. But I have never heard anything about Chris taking an interest in that."

"Where were they working when you knew them?"

"They both worked here in Melbourne at the Australian WHO collaborating centre for reference and research on influenza. But just because they worked in the right sort of place to do what you are suggesting doesn't mean that they did anything like that."

"No, I guess not. I don't have any more questions right now. Thank you for your time. You have been most helpful."

"You're welcome, goodbye.'

As soon as I hung up I felt like an idiot. I had just done the very last thing I wanted to do - I had let my emotions take control and I had just given this woman information that I had intended to keep to myself. I had told her about the double vaccine, stupid, stupid, and mentioned the names of two of the players in the drama I had got caught up in. This was more than stupid it was crazy. I didn't know if she was involved with the Asimov project or not. If it turns out that she is, then I have just demonstrated that I can't keep my mouth shut. They might be on their way here, right now, to take me out of the game. Maybe doing the crappy story about the dog attack had put me in the wrong mood to be making such an important phone call. I should have left it until tomorrow and thought it through before hand, and planned it better.

At the same time I felt that I had learned something of value. It was now confirmed that Norton and Wilson were microbiologists and that they had been in a position to fool around with the bird flu vaccine. More than that, I had learned that there was something unusual about the vaccine. Could it be that the religious nut had designed the new strain of the bird flu virus that caused all the trouble a few weeks ago, and at the same time designed the vaccine that would be effective against it, and then controlled the timing of the release of both, when they saw fit, to suit their plans?

After arriving home from the Lomond that night I went straight to my computer to see if there was a message from Rose. It was a Tuesday and Rose had told me that she could only send me emails on a Tuesday or a Thursday. But it was only eight twenty and she had also told me to expect her on line at eight thirty. So I wasn't too optimistic. As soon as my computer finished booting I check for new emails and quickly discovered that there was none from Rose.

I was a little disappointed and yet relieved at the same time. A message from Rose could mean new developments in the game, and both Jill and I felt we were not ready for that yet. On the way home in the car we had rehashed our options and tried again to decide on the best line of action we should be following right now. And like the last time we tried doing that we could not arrive at any clear-cut decisions. Which meant that we would continue to do nothing and wait for further developments and then just play them by ear, as we saw fit at the time.

I switched on the lamp on the shelf above my desk in order to see my keyboard better, the only other light in the room coming from a low wattage globe hanging from the ceiling directly behind me. And straight away I felt like I had stepped into the twilight zone. The light from my lamp was not as bright as I was expecting it to be - it was perfect. I stood there trying to work out why this was the case. Last night the sixty watt globe in the lamp had blown. I had gone to the cupboard where I keep a supply of new globes and found that I was out of sixty watters. But there were some one hundred watt globes there. I had no choice except to put a one hundred watt globe in the lamp, and as I knew it would be, it was far too bright. But now, tonight, it wasn't bright anymore. It was just right, just like the sixty watt globe that had blown. Was I going crazy? Was I becoming senile? Had I bought a new sixty watt globe and forgotten that I'd bought it and that I'd put it in? Did I just imagine that the globe I put in last night was too bright?

I bent down and checked my rubbish bin, found the burnt out globe, and checked the numbers stamped on it - 60W. I switched off my lamp and looked at the globe in there - 60W. Something strange was going on here. I looked in the rubbish bin again and found the little cardboard box that the new globe had been in. And there, written on the box were the words 100 Watts.

With the globe from my waste bin still in my hand, and as I continued to wonder about possibilities I walked down the passage to Jill's study. She was not there. She must be down stairs.

I found her coming up the stairs with two cups of coffee. I waited for her at the top and when she arrived I told her what was troubling me. Before I'd finished she put the cups down on a small hall table there and took the globe from me, and with an expression of excitement on her face she started examining it.

After a few seconds her jaw dropped open and was quickly replaced with a broad smile.

Her excitement seemed to grow as she quickly looked around, looking up at the ceiling. Suddenly, with a flash of insight she put a finger to her lips, grabbed my arm, and dragged me half way along the passage and stopped. Then leaning in close she whispered in my ear. "Darling, you have just found our bugs." Not wanting to waist this opportunity of being so close she kissed me passionately on the lips – my reward for finding the bugs. When she had finished kissing me she pointed to the metal end of the globe. "Look!" she whispered.

I looked and noticed a row of four little pin holes in the metal cap.

"A microphone," she whispered.

"Oh," I whispered back, "really? How clever."

She nodded, and gave me another kiss on the lips.

She pointed up at the two ceiling lamps. We were standing in the centre between them. In a loud voice she spoke for the benefit of our listeners. "Honey, I think you are right, you must be going senile. You must have put a sixty watt globe in your lamp. It probably seemed brighter because it was new."

"Yeah, I guess your right," I said.

Now getting down to business she grabbed my arm again and dragged me back into my office. Both lights in there were still on. She reached for the switch just inside the door and switched off the light hanging from the ceiling. We still had plenty of light from my desk lamp. She ripped a hand-full of tissues from a nearby box, grabbed a chair and put it down below the ceiling globe and gave me the tissues and pointed at ceiling globe with a twisting motion.

I got up on the chair and removed the hot globe. She looked at it, nodded, and pointed at the row of little holes. When I nodded she gave the globe back to me and pantomimed her desire for me to replace it up above.

When I was finished she pointed at the straight backed chair I had just used and indicated that she wanted me to come with her and bring the chair. I shrugged and complied. She walked down the passage and went into a room we hardly ever visited. It was piled high with junk. She didn't have to tell me what she wanted, I knew and went into action. Using the chair I retrieved the globe and handed it to her. She took it out into the passage to use the light there to examine it. She came back into the room, handed the globe to me and whispered, "Put it back in."

As soon as it was back in she switched it on, closed the door, and said in a normal voice, "That one is not bugged. I guess they only changed the bulbs in the rooms that we use frequently."

"I bet you're just busting to tell me how it works, and why you didn't find it before."

"You're right. As soon as you showed me the globe I remembered an article I read in a magazine about a new way to connect a computer to the internet. You use a modem, but you don't plug it into the telephone line. You plug it into an electric power point. The system uses the power lines to connect you to the internet. So there is probably someone in a house down the street somewhere, with a device, plugged into the power lines there, monitoring singles coming from this house on a frequency that is being used by the bugs in our globes."

"Amazing."

"Yes, and that's why I didn't detect them - they are not transmitting any radio waves, they are not using our telephone line, and they don't need to use any strange wires coming out of the house, or buried under the ground."

"So you think someone got into our house today and replaced the new globe I put in, with a bugged one?"

"Yes, someone with lock picking skills was given a sixty watt bulb and told to swap it for the one in you're lamp, but they weren't told to check that the one in there was a sixty watter."

"So all we've got to do is replace all the light bulbs in the house and we will be bug free."

"Yes, but we are not doing that. We should leave then in place. If we replace them they will know we have discovered them. If we want to talk about something important we come into this room. In the rest of the house we don't talk about things we don't want then to know about."

"So, it's as simple as that. You're a genius. I'll leave this chair in here. Because I think we are going to have to check this globe each time we come into this room."

"Good thinking darling."

"I'm sure this also means that you were right about the cars not being bugged," I said.

"And I think this means that the Lomond is probably not bugged. The ceilings are higher there, and bugs like these would probably pick up too much background noise."

"Still, I don't think we should take any chance in there. Besides I enjoy whispering in your ear."

Before all this fuss with the light bulbs I had intended to be sitting at my computer at 8.30 tonight just in case Rose decided that she was in the mood to have a bit of fun by pulling my strings for a while. I looked at my watch. It was 8.54.

"It's eight fifty four. Got to go and see if Rose is on line." I raced into my study and checked my computer. I looked for new emails and discovered that there was one from Rose sitting there, waiting. I quickly opened, and read it.

MIKE.

I don't know how much you know about the Solutions Society. In case you don't already know, I would like to tell you that John Wilson is a member of that society. His codename is The Chemist. There is another member of this society that I would like to contact. I don't know who he is or where he is. His codename is The Judge. I'm sure you have been trying to find out all you can about the Solutions Society. And I am hoping that you may have discovered who the Judge is. If you have. I would be very pleased if you could tell me who he is, and how I can contact him.

The reason I want to contact him is because Wilson is afraid of him. Wilson is in hiding now because he thinks that the judge and some others in the SolSoc want to stop him doing what he is planning to do. He thinks the judge can stop him. That's why he is afraid of him.

If you are there now could you please respond.

ROSE.

I looked at my watch. It was sitting on 8.56. If she was still there I had to make up my mind about whether I wanted to tell Rose what she wanted to know.

I made a snap decision - I would not tell her anything until after I have spoken to Ben about it.

ROSE.

Sorry I'm late. I hope you are still there.

There is something I need to know. I'm wondering about your motivation for contacting me.

Are you doing this simply for the money, or do you have some other reason?

And why are you anxious to contact this person known as the judge?

MIKE.

My watch told me it was now 8.58. I waited patiently, hoping that she was still on line. A minute passed, still no answer. Another minute, it was now 9 o'clock. I wondered how much of a stickler for punctuality she was. How long she could hang around and chat after she reached her deadline. Suddenly my computer told me I had mail.

I quickly opened it.

MIKE.

I can understand your confusion. To help clear it up I will tell you that the reason I want to contact the judge is because Wilson thinks the judge wants to stop him from releasing the virus. If the judge can stop Wilson from releasing the virus then I want to help him do that. And I believe that I can help him do it.

There are two reasons I need the money. First, because I will need some money in order to help the Judge stop Wilson. I will have to pay someone some money. Someone who can help. The second reason is because I will need money to make a clean break away from Wilson. He will kill me the way Chris was killed if he thinks I have betrayed him.

I am late. I have got to go right now. Help me if you can. Will try to contact you on Thursday. Please don't be late.

ROSE.

I reread her emails again. And I still could not decide if she was on the level, or if she was trying to pull off an elaborate con job. If it was a con then Ben would be an ideal target. Maybe she already knew that Ben was the Judge and knew that he was loaded. She did not mention money in her first email to night, and only mentioned it in her second in response to my questions. Maybe she simply ran out of time, which suggested that she really was worried about the time, and about being caught sending emails.

I was in a state of confusion, and it was taking a toll on my ability to concentrate and reason through this thing in a logical and emotionally detached fashion and come to a satisfactory conclusion. But how could anyone not be emotional about a situation like this? I guess the trick was to find a way to work around the emotions, to put them aside for a while. Maybe some people could work well under pressure. I was discovering the hard way that I wasn't one of them. I felt like taking a holiday and just walking away from all this. Maybe Jill and I could just jump on a plane and fly up to Bali for a few weeks. Lie on the beach in the sun drinking cold beer, and gin and tonics and forget all about the troubles of this world, and the games people are playing. Wouldn't that be nice?

An hour later Jill was working on her computer and I was sitting in a comfortable chair on the enclosed back veranda watching the rain. I had a glass of whisky resting on the wide flat arm of the chair and there was a half empty bottle on the floor beside me.

The elation of finding the bugs was well and truly dissipated, and the seriousness of the situation confronting us and all the implications that came with it were catching up to me. I honestly had no idea about what I should be doing about any of it. I had options but I didn't like any of them.

For the last half hour I had steadily been coming to the realization that the main problem I had, that was stopping me from making any decisions, was my inability to decide if I wanted to stop the Solution Society from carrying out its horrific plan.

I drained the last sip of whiskey from my glass and refilled it. Sitting back in the chair I noticed a possum sheltering from the rain in a tree just on the other side of the glass wall. The little bugger had eaten all the apricots and all the almond buds in the trees in my backyard last summer, and had lately been gnawing away on the bark of another tree. Jill was not the slightest bit upset when I told her what the little bugger had done, when I told her there would be no almonds or apricots this year. She told be it was okay because the apricots and almonds belonged to the possum, not us. They were its food at this time of year. We could go to the supermarket and buy fruit and nuts there – the possum couldn't. I thought about catching the little beast and taking it to a park miles away and releasing it there, until I read an article in the paper about a guy who was fined $5000 after being caught doing exactly that.

I don't know how many different types of animals there are on this planet – there are certainly a lot. And I don't know how many individual animals there are in each species. Who does? But from what I've seen on television and from what I've read in newspapers I have come to believe that the biodiversity of life on this planet is decreasing at a rapid rate, and more and more species each day are coming under the threat of extinction. And it's all the fault of humanity's greed for more land. Land needed to grow more food for the ever increasing population of human beings. The total number of large wild mammals world wide is far exceeded by the stockpile of domesticated farm animals needed to feed the most overstocked animal on this planet – us humans. I would hazard a guess and say that at a bit over six billion (at last count and still rising) the only species more numerous than human beings on this planet are insects - things like ants, flies, and cockroaches.

After doing a bit more thinking on the subject I was now convinced that the human race was like a plague set lose on this planet. - The relationship between the planet Earth and us could be equated to that of a host organism with a parasite attached - attacking it, and eating it alive.

We seem to be hell-bent on destroying the very things we need to keep us alive. We are like a pestilence sucking the life out of a passive victim. We have infested every corner of this planet and the only thing that can save it now is an antibiotic that works against humans. An antibiotic targeted to destroy the infestation called humanity. That's all we are - an infection.

Even if we could reduce the amount of CO2 we are producing now by fifty percent it wouldn't make much difference in twenty years time if the world's population, which is over six billion now, grows to about nine billion, as predicted, and if a higher percentage of the undeveloped countries today become industrialised and want all the trappings that we in the western world consider essential. Just to feed the extra people we will need to cut down more forests, which would kill of more native animals. We are heading towards a situation where this entire planet will be set up to support large over-crowded cities and every bit of arable land space on earth is covered by cultivated farmland working flat out to feed the masses.

The only mammals on the planet will be humans and domesticated animals like cows, sheep and pigs, needed to feed us. The only place left for what is now called wild life will be a few square meters in a few zoos, and we won't be able to label what we have caged up in there as wild any more.

I realized that being part of the problem any cure found and applied would also affect me directly or indirectly, but I was rapidly approaching a state of mind that was preparing me to be ready to pay that price.

I knew I was well and truly drunk, but I felt I had to sit here a bit longer and try to get these thoughts, this line of thinking, sorted out in my brain.

The climate warming doomsayers are telling us that we are faced with the possibility that, because of our own success at surviving and propagating, we may make this planet uninhabitable for ourselves and most of the other species that currently call this planet home. That this will happen is still uncertain, but fast approaching is a day when this proposition may be confirmed. On such a day it may already be too late to avoid the consequences. But if we still have time then at the very least we will have to take some serious measures to correct the situation. The best way being - to find a way to seriously reduce the number of humans on this planet.

We will have to perform a cull.

As we do now to other animals when the land set aside to support them in nature reserves can no longer cope with a rapid increase in their population. Kangaroos in various national parks in Australia are often culled. And elephants in wild life parks in Zimbabwe and the Kruger National Park in South Africa too. I did an interview with a bleeding heart protestor who stopped over in Melbourne while doing a world tour of protest to try to stop the culling of elephants. While she was here she decided to take a shot at us Australians for culling some kangaroos because they were trespassing on, and devouring lush grassy pastures where sheep were grazing.

But to cull billions of humans. That's a lot of people. A billion is a giga – so we're talking about a gigacull, More than one billion and it's a multi gigacull. That's a hell of a lot of people.

If such a hideous action is unavoidable, then, as Ben said, the timing of it could have enormous consequences. Too soon and we risk losing the technology breakthroughs to a better life, that are likely to happen in the near future. Too late and it may simply be too fucking late for us - we may fuck this planet up beyond repair.

Do the promised technological advances really matter? If we don't achieve them, then we won't really know what we are missing.

But it would be a shame if we lost the opportunity to make advancements that are now starting to look like real possibilities. We could be on the verge of making some remarkable discoveries that will raise our standard of existence to new and unbelievable heights, which will remain with the survivors of any cull carried out, for a long, long time. That would be their inheritance, from our over populated world.

Some medical researchers are on the verge of discovering the secrets of how T-cells work, and finding methods of employing them to cure many different diseases. This goes hand in hand with a much better understanding of the way our bodies and brains work. The trouble here is they are also rapidly finding new ways to extent the life span of humans. An overpopulated world with people living longer is not good. And if the secret of immortality is ever discovered, a cure of death, that would be a disaster.

The main area of technology that needs to be developed right now is associated with the elimination of our dependence on the use of fossil fuels. While we still can we desperately need to discover and develop new technologies that will give our descendants a constant supply of renewable, non-polluting energy.

It would be a shame not to delay the inevitable for a while longer and let all these things happen.

But do we have the time to wait – that is the big question. When considering climate change there is a thing called the tipping point. This is the point where the amount of CO2 and other green house gasses in the atmosphere reaches a critical point and causes changes here on earth to take place, such as the melting of glaciers and the polar ice caps, to a degree that there is nothing we can do to stop, or reverse these changes. What follows is a run away increase in temperatures and the world wide desertification of once fertile lands. Well, that is according to some experts I have interviewed.

So there is a need to act as soon as possible before it is too late, and we end up wrecking this planet.

And there is also a need to wait and let the scientist make the discoveries that will benefit all the future generations of mankind.

Is there a difference between making decisions for our generation's benefit, and making them for the benefit of future generations? I guess so – one set of decisions - we suffer but future generations benefit. A different set – we don't suffer, but future generations do.

A win win situation would be best - we don't suffer, they don't suffer. Much better then, we suffer, and they suffer too. But is a win win possible? I had no idea.

I wondered how we got to this stage where such a monstrous decision has to be made. And it seems to me that I was now one of the people in a position to make it. I could simply let the cull go ahead, but I also had a chance, if I tried, and with a bit of luck, of stopping it.

My thinking was going around in circles. By now I was just too darn drunk to reach any useful conclusions about what my attitude to the situation should be.

Time to find Jill and head for bed.

CHAPTER 19

Mid morning the next day, in Johno's car, just a few minutes after starting on the journey to do today's first interview Johno decided he had some news he needed to share with me. "Remember that teacher we interviewed a while back, the one who was charged with having sex with a student?"

"Yes, I remember."

"She got six months."

"What! Six months, what do you mean - on probation, doing community work, what?"

"Prison."

"You're fucking kidding. Six months, in prison, for a little bit of nooky, a first offence, I don't believe it. What's this world coming to?"

"Do you remember about two years ago, there was a similar case, a female teacher was sentenced to prison for two years for having sex with a student. She receive two years for two reasons – first because the student entrusted to her care, who she seduced and corrupted, was only thirteen and still a cute little virgin. - And second, because shortly before this a male athletics coach was given five years for fooling around with a young girl he was training. Charges of rape were dropped in this case because they could not be proved. Each of these cases set a precedent in law, and the media when wild telling about the latest always referring to the previous. Stories in the newspapers asked questions like, if a male coach is sentenced to prison for having sex with a student then why shouldn't a female teacher be sent to prison for a similar crime? Public pressure ensured that she was. So, for the teacher we met, the question was, if one female can be sent to prison for having sex with a student, then why shouldn't another one receive the same punishment? Same situation, same result. It was as simple as that."

"And I guess she only got six months because this student was older, and no longer a virgin."

"Exactly. And also because he seduced her, and she just couldn't resist his charms."

"Amazing."

"It sure is."

This little distraction helped to get my mind off my problems for a short while, and reminded me of a few interesting things about Johno that I forgot to tell you earlier.

I believe I told you before, that Johno's life revolved around photography. Well, there is one other thing that he does take a slight interest in – and that's the law.

His father is a barrister. His grandfather was a judge. His mother is a solicitor. Johno was bought up in a house where the law was the main subject of conversation. And it was always assumed that when Johno grew up he too would be a lawyer.

But along the way a strange thing happened that deflated that bag of expectations \- when he turned seven someone gave him a camera for his birthday. Not a movie camera but a 35mm still, single lens reflex camera. And since the cost of film was never a problem for his prosperous parents he spent all his spare time shooting anything that he considered interesting, and everybody who got in his line of sight.

I think I have already mentioned that when Johno becomes interested in something he become anal about it. This started at an early age, when someone, seeing his huge collection of photographs, thought a few photo albums might come in handy, and gave him some for his birthday. And for the first time in his life Johno got busy organizing all his photos as he put them into the correct categorize album.

With his ample pocket money he bought more cameras, and photography established such a grip on him that when he was approaching the end of high school his father sat him down and spoke to him about enrolling in law school. And this is where his father got the shock of his life, when Johno told him that he was not going to law school because he was going to be a professional photographer.

His father became enraged at this stupidity. He called Johno insulting names and threatened to kick him out of the house and cut off his allowance if he didn't come to his senses and do law. He even inferred that Johno's reason for not doing it must be because he knew he was just not intelligent enough.

This contest of wills went on for many weeks, and ended when Johno finally decided to do law, simply to show his father that he did indeed have the intelligence to do it, and to shut the old bugger up.

He went to Law school and passed the Bar Exam so that he was qualified to practice law in the State of Victoria. But he never joined a law firm, never spent a day in court, and in fact, never even spent one day working as a lawyer. The very next day after finishing law school he signed up to do a full time course on professional photography. His father was furious, but he had little ground to stand on when he made his objections. And later even admitted he did admire the way Johno had stuck to his guns, and followed his dream, after having been forced to put it on hold for years.

A few years back when Johno and I were working as newbie's for a nightly news show we were required to spend countless boring hours waiting outside court houses, with camera ready, waiting for cases to end inside and for key players to emerge so that we could stick a microphone and a camera in their faces.

Often while waiting Johno's father, dressed in a long black silk robe and wearing a white horse hair wig, would walk by on his way to the court house entrance and he would do no more than simply glance in Johno's direction. They both knew it would simply not be seemly for a person of his rank to stop in the street and chat with a reporter and his photographer.

Johno didn't care one iota about this situation. He was doing what he wanted to do, and that was all that mattered.

Today we had two different stories to work on. They were both in the same part of town, and they were both relatively simple. One was about two teenage girls who played football at school in a mixed sex team. There was a game coming up next week and the coach or management of the team they were due to play had declared that their team would not play against a team that allowed girls to play. They used lack of insurance against injuries as their excuse. I would interview the girls in their footy jerseys out on the field practicing with their team mates. I would interview the coach and some of the boys too, and then go and interview the coach of the other team, and if possible some of the opposition players too. I would ask them if they were afraid of the girls and try to stir the pot as much as possible, to make the story interesting.

To do the other story I would have to go to the home of a guy who just got out of hospital, after recovering from being bit on the penis by a brown snake. It seems he was out duck hunting with a group of people that included a young girl. When he felt the urge to relieve his bladder he wandered off and went behind a large rock. There, while doing his business, he was watching the sky for ducks and accidentally disturbed a brown snake which sprang out from under the rock and bit him on the penis. I guess this is a snake attacks snake story. I will have a bit of fun with this one by asking him if someone tried to help him by using the old fashion method of responding to a snake bite, that is, by cutting the skin where he was bitten, and sucking out the poison. I would also ask if his wife has tried using his damaged equipment yet, to see if it is still in good working order. I already knew that the answer to this question was yes, no problems, because my secretary had already asked him. I wouldn't ask a question like that without knowing the answer, because I wouldn't want to embarrass the poor guy if it turned out he was crippled for life.

Our show's brain dead viewers love stories like this. The poor things.

"I watched a documentary on TV the other night." I said to Johno as we sat in a traffic jam. "It was about how they found a humanoid skull in the desert in North Africa. Actually only half a skull, the lower jaw was missing. They claimed it was about seven million years old and that makes it our oldest human ancestor. They examined it in many different ways. They gave it an MRI, x-rayed it in a cyclotron, measured it inside and out and made plaster copies of it. Then using one of the copies they added clay muscles and built a face that showed what the animal would have looked like when it was alive seven million years ago."

"Male or female?"

"Male. It was all very interesting. It looked like it was half way between an ape and a human. It only had a small brain, so I guess it was more like an animal, an ape, in this respect, but it walked upright, so in some ways, it was more like us than an ape."

"You said they only found half a head, so if they didn't find any other bits of its body how did they know that it walked upright?"

"They looked underneath the scull and from the position where its neck, or the top of its backbone, joined the scull they worked out that it must have walked upright, all right?"

"Sure, okay, keep going."

"Right, anyway they found bones from other animals in the same area and this told them that this area was not a desert all those years ago. They worked out that there used to be a forest there and a swamp, and a lake, anyway from all this they tried to work out what this animal's life style must have been like, you know, what it ate, what animals it interacted with, what its family life must have been like, what sort of dangers it faced from predators, you know, that sort of thing.

"Sounds fascinating."

"Yeah, it was. Okay, be sarcastic, but it was a good show. It was one of those shows, you know, you had to be there and see it for yourself to really know how good it was."

"Did it have animation, depicting how the animal hunted and things like that?"

"Yeah, there was quite a bit of that."

"Did it look real? Was it actors wearing hairy suits, or real animation?"

"It was all computer generated graphics, and it looked real. Well, actually, the figures where a bit jumpy at times, but it was pretty good. You got the idea of what it was like back then, in those days. Anyway, shortly after that I watched a movie. The story was a heavy duty drama about the problems that a contemporary family had to deal with, you know, emotional relationships, people trying to express themselves and feeling miss-understood, being cheated, and trying to have their way, yelling and screaming and crying, you know the type of movie I'm talking about. And it got me wondering about all the complex emotions we have to deal with today because we have big complicated brains. And it occurred to me that perhaps seven million years ago our ancestors had the better deal."

"Yeah, they got eaten by lions."

I decided to ignore that comment. "The brain cavity of this skull was a lot smaller than ours. The animal looked like the top half of its head was missing. It had these massive eye brow ridges and nothing above them, just a flat top. A flat top from its massive eye-brows back."

"I get the idea - it was not as intelligent as us. That's what you're trying to say, right?"

"Right, exactly, and its life style was a lot simpler. Its objectives were simpler – find food, mate, and stay alive."

"So, with its simpler life style it didn't need a big brain."

"Right, that's exactly what I'm saying." I was relieved that we were now on the same page.

"Okay, I've got the picture."

"But at the same time it didn't have the capacity to understand what life is all about, the way we do now. To make the discoveries and do the science and work out how it all fits together to the degree that we have done, and are still doing now."

"That's true, but does it matter. What's your point?"

"We try to understand, but do we really understand, and what good has understanding done us? That's my point. The ape man didn't need our incredibly high intelligence to survive. It didn't know how to read and write, but it didn't need our advanced brainpower in order to exist and enjoy its life. It could taste the food it was eating and enjoy it. It could play with its young and watch them grow up and enjoy that too. It could make love and get pleasure out of that. It probably hadn't even developed a complex language, so it obviously didn't have any in depth conversations and try to express itself in detail, and explain all the emotions it felt. It probably didn't have as many emotions as we do now anyway, but it didn't need them. That's my point.

"I get it. They just grunted and screeched at each other. So what you're trying to say is - why do we need a big brain."

"Exactly, what good is it. Our ancestors had no use for one. There have been millions, perhaps billions of different species of animals living on this planet. Animals have evolved into existence and most of them have gone extinct, and yet we are the only ones that have developed big brains, well along with dolphins and elephants, I guess. All animals, except humans and dolphins and elephants have not needed big brains to survive. And we are the only animals that have develop technology. So what are we using our big brains for? To make ourselves miserable. And what do we do with our technology? – We use it to kill off other species in order to make room for more of us. Six billion humans at the moment and still rising. How many more humans do we need on this planet? How many more animals do we need to kill off?"

"That's a good question."

"Let's look at the situation from outside our perspective for a minute. Let's look at it from the perspective of the other life forms on this planet. Does this world need us humans? Are we doing it any good, or are we harming it in any way?"

"Okay we both know the answers to those questions."

"Our big brains have given us the ability to destroy this planet, and it seems we are doing just that. No other animal has ever had this capability. So I guess the big question is – will our big brains supply us with enough intelligence to prevent us destroying ourselves, and all the other innocent animals alive today?"

"I think so. We have recognized the problem, and we're started work on it. So yes, I think we will solve all our problems."

"Hum, I hope you're right."

I didn't tell Johno, that I was worried that some humans, with their big brains, had already come up with the best and quickest solution for solving our biggest problem.

I didn't tell him that I, with my massive human brain, had not yet decided if I should try to throw a spanner in the works of their big plan, or if I should sit back and do nothing and let the desires of some egotistical homo sapiens, nature, divine providence, natural selection, or whatever, take its course.

CHAPTER 20

We had not seen Ben at the Lomond in the last three days, not since last Sunday night when he invited us to his house. I guess he was giving us a bit of space to think about what he had said, in order for us to decide if we were with him, or against him.

I don't think he was much afraid of what we might do - I'm sure he must have spent some time considering all the possibilities before he opened up to us. And if we decided that we disagreed with what he and the solution Society were planning to do, and if we decided we should do our best to try to expose them, in order to stop them, Then I imagine he would already have contingency plans in place to deal with that situation, to neutralize any damage, to overcome any inconveniences, and to reduce any embarrassment we might cause. How exactly, I didn't know. I didn't even want to speculate about it. But I could easily accept that we wouldn't find it pleasant.

Shortly after we arrived home from the Lomond we had barely walked in the door and removed our coats when there was a knock at the front door.

Jill and I looked at each other and showed our surprise. It was unusual for people to come visiting uninvited at this time of night. I shrugged and headed for the door.

It was Ben. And he was holding a parcel in front of him with both hands, one that looked heavy.

For a second or two we just stood there looking at each other. He had never been to my house before.

"Well, are you going to invite me in? I'm sure you realize there are things we must talk about."

"Sure, come in." I didn't want to ask what was in the parcel. It was wrapped in gold paper that looked to have a silky texture and there was a bright red ribbon ending in a bow around it.

Jill was at the bar mixing a drink when we walked into the lounge room.

"Hello Jill."

"Hello Ben," she said. "Would you like a drink? Haven't got any saki. There's Scotch, gin, or beer."

Ben put the parcel down on the bar.

"And saki," he said as he ripped open the parcel to reveal a case of a dozen bottles of saki. "I assumed you wouldn't have any."

Ah, a bribe, I thought. "You're not Greek are you," I couldn't resist asking.

"No, I've got no need for Trojan horses."

"I'll stick with beer," I told Jill, as she was working on making a gin and tonic and Ben opened one of the bottles of saki. The writing on the wooden case and on the bottles was one hundred percent Japanese and I assumed they were imported from Japan. Probably one of their best brands.

When we were equipped with drinks I said, "Sit down," and pointed at a large comfortable leather chair, near the couch.

Jill sat down at my side on the long couch.

"Have you heard from Rosalyn yet?" asked Ben.

"Yes, we exchanged emails last night.

He slowly took a sip of his drink. Over the rim of his glass he looked at me, waiting for me to elaborate.

"She asked me if I knew the identity of the Judge, and if so, if I knew how to contact him."

All day I had been trying to decide if I should reveal this information to Ben. At the Lomond Jill and I had discussed this problem briefly in whispers - the pros and cons of letting Rose and Ben get together. And still being worried about hidden microphones in there, and of being noticed doing too much whispering, we decided to put the subject on hold until we arrived home. Now being deprived of the opportunity to hear Jill's latest, final thoughts on the subject I made a quick decision. If working together the judge and Rose could put an end to this madness then I guess that would be the best solution. If Rose was trying to work a con on Ben, then that was his problem.

I looked at Jill, and she seemed to be content with my decision.

"So - what did you tell her?"

"I didn't get a chance to tell her anything. We ran out of time. She had to go. She said she would contact me again on Thursday night."

"I see - tomorrow night – so what do you intend to do?"

"She said she wants to try to stop Wilson, and she thinks you can help her. She said, she wants the money to pay someone. Someone who can stop Wilson."

"A million dollars?"

"No, I got it down to five hundred thousand."

"Well done! That was very kind of you."

"I know."

"Did she give you the name of this person, and tell you how he would help?"

"No, didn't have time for that. You realize this could all be just an elaborate sting operation."

"I'm sure it's not. But thanks for the warning Mike."

"Ben, I'm growing tired of this game. Give me your email address and I'll pass it on to her. And then we're out of it."

Ben smiled, and slowly nodded his head up and down a few times.

"Good! Thank you. It will be interesting to hear what she has to say."

"We just got in a minute before you knocked on the door," said Jill. "Have you been waiting outside for us to arrive home?"

"Yes, but not for long. You are both creatures of habit, and I know your routines and the approximate time you leave the Lomond each night."

"You do want to stop Wilson, don't you Ben?" Jill asked.

"I most definitely do. My robots are not ready yet."

"You're not afraid of what other members of the Solutions Society will do, if you go ahead and stop him?"

"No, not in the least. They know I only want to postpone it for a while. – I have my share of supporters in the society, and when the time is right to proceed, they will all need me again."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes. When the time is right, and we revive the plan and things start to happen there will be a great deal of chaos for a while. My computer will play a big part in getting all the problems sorted out. It contains lists of people who will be needed, and extensive plans about how thing should be organized after the virus is released to minimize the suffering and make sure that every one of the survivors are cared for properly. It's almost indispensable."

"Indispensable, hum, it's an impressive word," I said. "But every time I hear it I'm reminded of an old saying - cemeteries are full of indispensable people."

Ben laughed. He did not seem in the least worried.

"So, you're planning to create a new world order," I could tell from the tone of Jill's voice that she resented the way Ben so casually talked about plans already worked out about what should happen after the slaughter of billions of people.

"Yes," said Ben. "That's what will be needed. Law and order will be completely out of control. Like a locomotive without a driver. We will take control and get everything running smoothly again."

"You're planning to be the dictator who controls the lives of the survivors."

"Och! - Now that's a crude way of putting it. But yes, the Solution Society will be in charge for a while - it will play an essential role in getting things working again. But listen, this is important - it will only be a temporary arrangement. We will step aside when a new democratic government is established."

"Ha, democracy, you people don't know what the word means." Jill was smouldering, letting her anger grow hot inside. "You lot have put yourselves above everyone else, and decided you know what's best for this planet."

"At this point in time something on the magnitude of this undertaking can't be decided by a democratic vote. If it was put to a referendum and all the people in the world were asked to vote on it, it would be defeated. The only people who can make a decision like this, and carry it out, are people presently in positions of power. The UN ambassadors who support this were appointed by their countries' governments to go to the United Nations, and there to interact with representatives of other countries and make decisions on issues that concern all the nations on earth. This group of people is better qualified to make decisions of this magnitude than any other group. They were put in this position by the collective agreement of the people of this planet. They have a mandate to do what they consider is needed to insure the survival of the human race."

"And they have decided that the world is over populated and that billions of people need to be killed in order to make this a better world?"

"Not just to make it a better world, but to save it. To prevent mankind from destroying itself,"

"I've asked this question before and I still haven't received a straight answer – what legal precedent gives you and the ambassadors at the UN the right to make a decision like this on behalf of mankind?"

"So, you want to rehash all that again, do you? Okay, listen, it's a decision that needs to be made, and someone's got to make it, if not now, then very soon. I can't see why you can't understand that."

"Before it's too late, right?"

"Exactly, before it's too late. As I said there is no way that the democratic process could be used to make a decision like this. Democracy was not designed to handle such a task."

"But for a group of dictators, it's not a problem?"

"For a group of ambassadors who are all of the same opinion, and capable of carrying it out – it's possible."

"Like the politburo in a communist country? I thought the collapse of the communist party in the USSR proved that the communists system of government doesn't work."

"The political system in the USSR collapsed because the country was being run by corrupt people in and out of government. When it's being operated right communism is a good system, and probably much better than democracy for certain countries."

"Oh, come on, that's crap. Okay, tell me a country where you think communism works better than democracy."

"Let's talk about democracy. In some countries, like Indonesia, Thailand and Cambodia in the run up to a so called free democratic election the candidates go round handing out bank notes to people in the street, to buy their votes. And here in Australia in the years leading up to the last election the government in power neglected spending money it should have spent on education and hospitals, and other services so that it would have a budget surplus just before the elections, so that during the campaign for re-election it could offer the incentive of a tax cut after the election if they were voted back into power. That's the Australian way of buying votes. The same thing happens in America, and most other democratic countries."

"We were talking about communism, and I asked if you could name a country where communism works."

"Democracy would be a disaster for China. It's a country with 1.3 billion people, and it has a one child policy, and yet the prediction is that by 2020 its population will still grow to 1.5 billion people. If they had a democratic system in place there, an irresponsible politician could offer to abolish the one child system, if elected. The opposition candidate might do a survey and find that people were responding to this bribe, and decide that he must offer the same policy to stay in contention. He would have no choice except to say vote for me and you can have as many children as you like. That's the main weakness of democracy – votes can be bought. In fact, the only way a government can win an election is by buying votes. In the US, election campaigns are funned with money from large corporations that expect favourable decisions from congress later. In communist countries future leaders have to work their way up to the top from the grass roots, by doing the best job they can for their community. A true Communist system is based on what's perceived as good, and fair, for the whole community.

"So you're saying Democracy wouldn't work in China?"

"No, it might work, but I think it's doubtful. I'm saying that at this point in time communism is probably the best system of government for China. People in a democracy make decisions about who they want in power, not based on what's good for the country, but on what's good for them personally in the near future. Democracy is based on selfishness. And once a government is in power democracy is put on hold for four years. In your country and mine no referendum was held to ask the people if they wanted to go to war in Iraq. The decision was made for them. And in a democracy usually the leader making that decision is not the best person for the job, but simply the one who made the most popular promises at the time of the last election."

"Ha, I find it strange to hear all this coming from a successful capitalist."

"You do? Well don't get Capitalism confused with Democracy, or with Communism. Consider this - for people working for a big corporation in this democratic country, the conditions of their employment is more like communism than anything else. Some workers sit at a nice desk that they don't own, on a comfortable chair that they don't own, using equipment, tools, maybe a computer that they don't own. Some of them may have a bit of money, but their money won't buy them a promotion within the corporation. They start at their entry position and they must work their way up to the top by their own efforts and personality, by making friends, kissing the right arse, telling joke to the boss, throwing parties or by getting results that please the leaders of the corporation. It's the same process used by the members of the communist parties in a communist country. It's not a democratic process. Democracy has nothing to do with the running of a corporation, large or small, public, or private. And the profits of the corporations go to the capitalists who own the company, not to the workers, well, not unless they are offered shares as they advance.

"Now consider this, - most people in the military in America claim it's their job to fight against communism, to fight for democracy. They will tell you that they hate communists. And yet the military system they work under is based on communist principles. They are supplied with a uniform, a place to sleep, food to eat, a gun to carry, and a tank to drive, and their orders come down from the top. Picture this - soldiers, the lowest ranked grunts are in a trench on a battle field, they are told that at dawn the next day they must go over the top and attack the enemy. A general doesn't come along the night before and offer them a democratic vote on the subject, doesn't ask whether they want to go over the top. Nothing in the military is put to a vote. Democracy and the military don't mix. It's a top down system in the same way as the USSR was when ruled by Joseph Stalin from the top down. There is absolutely no difference in the way the military is run in the USA or in a communist country.

Jill sighed. She had nothing ready to counter this line of reasoning. She had never considered army life in these terms. And I hadn't either. What he said was true, but it just didn't seemed to be right, somehow. How, exactly, I just couldn't seem to put my finger on.

"Consider countries ruled by monarchs. Kings and Queens are not elected. Queen Elizabeth holds the highest office of government in Britain. Their Prime Minister reports to her once a week and brings her up to date on what her government is doing. Same thing with religious organizations – And religion, it's the same thing – religion and democracy don't mix - common people sitting in churches don't get to elect their ministers, their cardinals, or the Pope."

"How did we get onto this subject?" I asked.

"I was trying to explain why sometimes, in certain situations, the process of democracy can not be relied upon to make the right decisions."

"Ah, yes," said Jill, "you were saying that it must be made by a dictator."

"There is an old adage – the best from of government is one that is controlled by a wise and benevolent dictator."

"Do you consider killing eighty percent of the population as benevolent?"

"Yes, if one hundred percent is in danger, and it's obvious that by not doing so one hundred percent will perish while trying to cope in a world that is no longer inhabitable. And if the 20 percent who survive will end up with a much, much better life style, free from worry."

"Ah, but will they?" said Jill. Anxious to have the last word she stood up and walked out of the room.

At the door she stopped and turned around. "If you told everyone what you're planning to do, and asked them for the go ahead, or alternately, if they were prepared to stick around and see what the future brings, I'm sure they would all say they would prefer to stay alive and face the consequences. And they would tell you to go to hell and take your fucking virus with you."

"I'm sure they would. That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you. And it would be the wrong decision."

I'm not sure if Jill heard what Ben said – she disappeared straight after she got her final, last comment in. I thought they were both only half right. If I were a betting man, I would bet the house that the vast majority of the group who knew they had received the vaccine would want Ben and his pals to stick around.

I picked up Ben's empty glass and went to the bar to refill it and get a bottle of beer for myself.

"I just read that Asimov novel," I said. "The Naked Sun, and I have discovered that many of the events and situation, that you claimed the ambassador referred to, and used as the inspiration for his plan, are simply not in the novel."

"I know. I read the novel years ago and discovered the same thing. I thought he must have got that novel mixed up with another, and asked him about the discrepancies. He told me he knew it – he said that by simplifying and changing a few things, it was a lot easier to relate the basic plot of the novel to his ideas. He said the way he told it was the way the novel should have been written."

"But, if he changed the plot, why did he continue to use it as a reference, and tell people it was his inspiration?"

"He said he wanted to use the novel the way television evangelists use quotations from the Bible to give authority to their message."

"I see. But if any of the people he was trying to convince actually read the novel, they would not only discover the discrepancies, they would also discover that the inhabitants of this wonderful world were all crazy. That the boundless freedom they enjoyed had made them all neurotic social psychopaths, who were too afraid to leave their vast properties and meet other people."

"Well, first, like a television evangelists he didn't expect anyone to go to the trouble of reading the novel. And to those that did, he would simply say, we're going to do it the right way, and make sure the same thing doesn't happen here."

"Oh, right, I see. Well, all I can say is - good luck pal, you're going to need it."

On Thursday night while anxiously waiting for eight thirty and for Rose to start sending me emails I was playing a game of solitaire on my computer, a game which here in Australia is appropriately called patience.

At eight thirty two my computer spoke to me. "You have mail," it said. I quickly clicked my email application, which mercifully hid the game I had no chance of winning.

Mike.

Are you there?

Have you found out who the judge is yet?

Rose.

I answered:

Rose.

Yes, I've found him. He would like to talk to you.

His email address is benny@bcs.gov.au.

Mike.

I didn't have to wait long for her response.

Mike.

Thanks.

I had better go right now. I haven't got much time, and I want to try to contact him immediately.

Bye.

Rose.

And that was it - she was gone, in less than one minute. I had been patiently playing the stupid game of solitaire for a good half hour waiting to hear from her and in less than a minute I had given her what she wanted, and she was gone.

I had told Ben the time she was due to contact me tonight, so there was a good chance he would be at his computer waiting to hear from her. But who knows? I had just about given up trying to second guess what was happening anymore - and what was about to happen in the future.

I stormed into Bruce's office and fortunately the heaviest thing I was carrying was a sheet of paper. I slammed it down on his desk. I was angry.

"I'm not doing this shit," I said. "This is a job for a junior. Give it to a junior."

The piece of paper held details for an assignment that my secretary had just handed me a minute before. It was the type of thing we did at least once a year, every year. A story about the freshness of the fruit and vegetables sold in supermarkets, or more precisely, the lack of it. The journalists doing the story would go shopping in a string of supermarkets. Taking painstaking care to keep all the goodies labelled as to which store each came from, the name of each item, and how much it cost. They would take all the items to a laboratory where they could be tested for freshness.

It seems not just many, but all supermarkets sell fruit that has been in cold storage for up to a year, sometimes longer. They sell it as fresh and charge accordingly. At the laboratory our scientists look for a certain chemical, a marker, which only exists in old stuff. We draw up a list of the worst offenders and present it on our show.

Each year we shame all the big supermarkets on TV. But no one, not the customers, the distributors, the supermarkets, or even the government officials in charge of such things, gives a shit, and life goes on as before, as if our story had been about something that was happening, not here, but overseas somewhere in a third world country, where, if the truth be told, there is no need to label fruit and vegetables with the word fresh because nobody there stores fruit for this long and no one considers that what they buy could be anything but fresh.

The only reason we do this sort of shit, is because our hysterical neurotic and sociopathic viewers get a kick out of it, not to mention our run of the mill psycho paranoids.

This type of story was almost as bad as our yearly collection, testing, and classification of washing soap powders.

"Okay, okay," said Bruce. "Forget it. Here, take this." He held out a sheet of paper. "It's about a guy who talks to his dead grand mother. Think you can handle that?"

"Ooooh shit, a ghost story. Okay, give it to me."

"Here, now get out of my office. I've got work to do."

"What are you pissed off at me for? What did I do?"

"You know what you did, or didn't do."

"The dog story, right?"

"Yeah, the dog story."

"Man, people are sick of dog attacks kid stories. They've seen them all before, and they are all the same - downers."

"No, they're not. They are the bread and butter of this show. You should know that by now - there are many people out there who feel better when they see how others are suffering. They are fascinated by dog attack stories. And it's our job to report them when they happen. If you can't understand that, and can't hack doing such stories to the best of your ability, then you are in the wrong business."

I just stood there staring at him. He was right and I knew it. Another show produced by our company, 'National Home Videos,' is based on the premise that watching people get hurt, makes people laugh. I thought about quitting. I thought about telling him all that was happening with the Asimov project. But I was not ready to do either, yet.

"Yeah, okay, you're right." I glanced at the sheet of paper he had just given me. "I'll get right onto this, and I won't screw it up."

"Good, do that. Now get the fuck out of my office, before I fire your arse."

About an hour later, after a hectic time on the phone lining up interviews to get the ball rolling on the ghost story, I was in the car with Johno, with Paula, my secretary, back at the office busy trying to line up more interviews.

It may be my imagination, but I'm of the opinion that most people, when they get to know me, ends up thinking of me as a whinger, that is, a person who complains excessively – and usually about trivial matters.

Today for a reason I couldn't put my finger on I was starting to wonder if they might be right. But then again, maybe it may just be my imagination. Perhaps no one ever thinks about me like that at all. Maybe like most of our viewers I was just being paranoid.

Lately I've been doing a bit of thinking about mankind, trying to decide if humans were simply no good and deserves to be wiped out. Being addicted to news shows and documentaries I like talking about history and the world's current set of bad guys to anyone who will listen. - I enjoy expressing my opinion about the people I consider to be scum bags in positions of power, tyrants like the late Saddam Hussein, and mad men like Osama Bin Laden. Naturally Ben Laden is one of my favourites. I like to tell people about how he doesn't understand anything about the real world. Except for a short stay in Sudan after he got kicked out of Saudi Arabia by his family, he hasn't done much travelling, he hasn't seem much of the rest of the world, hasn't seen anything actually. He doesn't even watch TV for Christ sake, and he doesn't listen to music. He goes to a mosque to prey five times a day. Hell he lives in a cave, for heavens sake. What was the bastard thinking when he put together a team of terrorists and organized the destruction of the twin towers? Did he think the US wouldn't retaliate? Did he think the Americans wouldn't bother to come to Afghanistan to get him, and if they did that the Taliban could protect him?

Or did he think that the Americans would come to Afghanistan and he wanted them to come so that he could kick their arses over there, the way they had kicked the soviets arses a couple of decades before. He underestimated the US, because he didn't really understand them. He didn't have a full understanding of what they were capable of doing. Didn't he know that they had the most deadly weapons on Earth, and that they had been patiently waiting for another opportunity to use them against a suitably ill-equipped enemy? There is nothing an American loves more than kicking arse. And with their hideous weapons they could kick arse better, much better, than anyone else.

I hear tell that right now Bin Laden is trying to get his hands on a nuke or two. That he is planning to nuke an American city – I read somewhere that he has been granted permission from his local mufti to do this, to wipe out up to ten million Americans in the holy war he is fighting for his God. That crazy son of a bitch, doesn't he realize that if he ever did use a nuke on an American city then the Americans would consider it a declaration of all-out-war, and without a definable state to blame would consider every Moslem a potential enemy. They would hit back with thousands of nukes. They would hit every Moslem country on this planet and turn them all into radio active parking-lots. No one nukes an American city without having to pay for it.

I get the impression that most Moslems hate the US of A. All around the world they were all out in the streets celebrating when the twin towers were bought down. Some still wear T shirts with a print of Bin Laden's face on the front. Some have little shrines in their homes with a framed picture of Bin Laden and two pictures of New York, one showing the twin towers standing proudly and the other showing New York's skyline without the twin towers.

I turned to Johno, who, as usual, was driving, taking us to the first appointment we had lined up for the day.

"Hey Johno, do you think I'm a whinger?"

Johno took his eyes off the road for a second or two and looked at me with an, oh, hell, here we go again, expression.

"Of cause you are mate, didn't you know that? You're the biggest whinger I've ever known. Hang on, correction, that's not right, you're the second biggest. I had a next door neighbour when I was about eleven – she was the biggest, so you're the second biggest. She would probably hold the world record for whinging if there was such a thing. If she was still alive today, and I ran into her, I would do what I wish I'd done when I was eleven – I would give her some good advice – I would tell her to ring the people at the Guinness book of world records and get them to enter her name in their book as the world's biggest whinger. Hey! Hang on, she's dead now, so I guess that makes you the current record holder of that title – Congratulations mate."

"Thanks mate – Oops, did I say mate, I'm sorry, I meant to say prick – Thanks Prick."

"Don't mention it, Arsehole."

Having sorted that out we continued in silence, and it wasn't long before my thoughts returned to the reason I had such a low opinion of the human race.

What sort of sadistic freak would design a weapon that used depleted uranium? The thought just sort of popped into my brain, and I was off again \- What sort of frustrated, demented general would authorize the use of a weapon like that after it had been tested and the resulting radioactive residue measured.

When tanks are hit by shells made from the stuff a cloud of radioactive dust spreads all over the place. Dust that remains radioactive for tens of thousands of years. People living in the nearby dusty neighbourhood become infected with radioactive toxins when they breathe in the air as they walk by. Kids playing on the husks of the burnt out tanks ingest it and are effected by the high levels radiation in their system until their die just a few short years later. Even US military personnel who handle the shells while loading up the tanks are effected. US soldiers who walk through the dust in the area surrounding a dead tank ingest the dust and are infected. It is now recognized that one of the main causes of the gulf war syndrome that many veterans suffer from is in fact radioactive poisoning from all the depleted uranium they have come into contact with. Soldiers returning home have higher rates of leukaemia, cancer, and their children have higher rates of birth defects, which if it doesn't kill the kids outright gets passed on for generation after generation.

Humans are just no good. Maybe they deserved to be wiped out. We behave like animals sometimes – No, that's not true, that's an insult to animals. No animal would ever behave the way we do. No animal would behave so badly towards another living creature. Let's leave this planet to the peaceful animals – considering all the harm we cause, we don't deserve to exist.

"Hey Johno, why did you say you think I'm a whinger?"

"I thought that's what you wanted me to tell you when you asked that stupid question before."

"So you don't think I'm a whinger?"

"Oh, no, I do, I definitely do think you are a whinger."

"Yeah, but why? Get serious for a moment."

"You're always complaining about what's wrong with the world: - the traffic, the water, food in restaurants, everything. And you usually know who to blame – and when you don't know who to blame you always end up blaming the government. You're hopeless mate - you just can't help doing it."

I wondered if Johno was just saying this because he is super cool. He has no opinion on important subjects, and is not interested in talking about anything serious that has to do with politics or world affairs.

"Hey Johno, if you weren't so fucking lay-back, so super cool, if you actually took an interest in politics and world affairs, and if you knew what I have discovered about the Solution Society, you wouldn't call be a whinger."

"Are you still on about that Solution Society crap? Man, I don't believe it. I thought you got all that shit out of your system weeks ago."

"There is a good chance that some big time crap is about to hit the fan any day now, and the world will never be the same again. I'm thinking about going on air and telling the world all about it. I think the world needs to know."

"You're starting to sound like that kid that was murdered in the carpark."

"Yeah, he knew what he was talking about. We should have listened, should have taken him seriously. He was right, the world is on the verge of a catastrophe. Thank God we received our shots of that bird flu vaccine."

"What? - what the fuck are you on about now?"

"The bird flu vaccine. I know you don't want to hear any more about it, but believe me, you're lucky you got that shot. It might just save your life."

"The bird flu epidemic is over mate. Or didn't you hear?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know that. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about what's coming."

"What's coming? I hope it's not another round of that bird flu shit. I hate fucking needles."

For a second or two the implication of what Johno had just said didn't register.

Then suddenly it did.

"What do you mean - you hate needles?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? I hate fucking needles, it's as simple as that."

"Yeah, but you said, you hope another round of the flu wasn't coming...."

"Yeah, that's what I said. What's the big fucking deal? I hate needles."

Just then my phone in my pocket started to buzz. I got it out and looked at it. It was Jill.

"Hi Jill, what's up?"

"I've just been talking to my supervisor. He told me to drop everything, go home and pack an overnight bag, and get on the first plane to Canberra."

My heart missed a beat, or two. "Did he say why?"

"No. He said I'll find out when I arrived. Said it was urgent. That's all."

"Hell, you don't think it's about - you know what?"

"I don't know. I think it might be. I've got no choice except to go, and find out."

"Are you worried? Do you want me to call in sick and come up there with you?"

"No, definitely not. I'm a big girl, and I have many friends in the service. I'll be all right. Well I'd better get moving. I'll call you as soon as I know what it's all about. Bye love."

"Bye, and call me as soon as you can."

The phone went dead. I sat there staring straight ahead considering possible reasons for this sudden development.

"Is everything all right Mike? You look like you have just received some bad news."

"Jill's been called to Canberra - and they won't tell her why."

"No biggie mate, no biggie. Cops are like that - they enjoy acting mysterious. They do it to keep you keyed up, and worried, just to see what effect it will have on you. Don't worry about it. She'll be all right."

"Yeah, I guess so."

A few second later I remembered the worrying feelings I had experienced during the conversation I was having with Johno, before Jill called.

"Hey Johno, let's get back to what we were talking about before."

"What, when?"

"The bird flu vaccine. Just tell me this - did you get your shot of the Bird flu vaccine from Bruce's wife?'

"It was being kept under control, and there was no outbreak in Melbourne yet, so..."

"Just fucking tell me, did you get a fucking shot, or not."

"Well no. As I said I hate fucking needles, and..."

"Oh, my fucking God. You fucking idiot. You didn't get your fucking shot. I don't fucking believe this."

"What the fuck is your fucking problem? It's my fucking arm they wanted to stick a needle in, not yours."

I just couldn't believe it. He was offered a golden ticket to be a survivor and he passed on it - because he doesn't like needles. "She stuck a needle in my arm mate - Hell Johno - you should have got yours, when it was offered to you."

"I can't see what you're making such a big fuss about."

"Okay, pull over at the next pub you see. We're going in for a few quite drinks, and although you don't want to hear it, I'm going to do you a favour - I'm going to tell you something that may save your life. And you're going to sit still and listen while I bring you up to date on all the shit that's been going down lately."

"Mike, we're running late as it is, we can't stop and spend any time in a pub drinking beer."

"Fuck the job. What's more important - your job, or your life? What we're dealing with here mate, could be the difference between life and death - Yours!" I jabbed a finger into his arm. "So pull over at the first pub you see."

It was just after eleven. The pub had just opened and we virtually had the place to ourselves, except for the barman and a woman with a vacuum cleaner, and a few old pensioners sitting like wooden statues at the end of the bar, obviously long time alcoholics. I picked a table in the back, out of the way in a corner, on the off chance that the place might soon become swamped by lunchtime drinkers.

Before we found the pub I put in a call to Bruce and told him that I was not feeling well, that he should give the job assigned to me, to someone else. I intended to take the rest of the day off.

He uttered a few swear words and asked what was wrong. I mumbled a few words about stomach troubles - cramps, diarrhoea, killing pain, etc. You know what I'm talking about, the old standard gastro gripe. I bet you've used it a few times yourself. It never fails.

Over a chain of beers I bought Johno up to date on all the shit he had not wanted to know about - I told him about my meetings with West, the guy from ASIO, and about Ben and his dream of saving the world from being overrun, and smother to death. by the ever growing herd of humanity, about his dream of a perfect, dream-like, robotic-assisted life style. I reminded him of the interview we had done on Wilson's community farm. And I told him what Rose had told me about Chris Norton, how he was a microbiologist and had helped develop a deadly virus and had hidden its vaccine in with the Bird flu vaccine in order to distribute it to all the perfect people on Ben's list of survivors, and to others, like us, who just happened to be part of the package deal.

"So, you're telling me that there's a bunch of crazies out there who are planning to let lose a virus that will kill millions of people, and because I don't like needles I missed out on receiving the vaccine?"

"Well, yeah, that's about it. Except it's not millions, it's billions of people, giga people, who will be wiped out."

"Man, I think you have finally done it, you've flipped out. Gone off the deep end. You don't honestly believe all that crap, do you?"

"Arrr - shit."

"Well?"

"Johno, you saw the dead kid lying on a slab in the morgue. Sullivan, the cop who went up to Townsville to investigate his murder is dead. I believe he probably got to close to the truth and someone slipped him a dose of the bird flu virus. You've met Wilson. He is also a microbiologist - remember he was talking about the coming rapture - the end of mankind, the end of the world...."

"That's it? - Is that all the evidence you have to prove that what you're saying is true? It wouldn't stand up in a court of law, that's for sure."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." I looked around the pub that was now not so empty. Suddenly I remembered Jill, and all the information she'd dug out of Ben's computer. I quickly explained the highlights of Jill's discoveries, and Ben's link to it all. Even as I laid it all out I could see that Johno was still not buying any of it. I had to admit it was all very circumstantial. It was only when you put all the little pieces together that the big picture started to come into focus, started to seem plausible. But plausibility was not enough for Johno.

"So you're trying to tell me that the Avian flu virus was man made? What about Mad Cow disease, and that horse flu thingy, the equine influenza crisis that hit Australia not long ago - were they all man made too?"

"All I'm saying is they controlled the release of the deadly human to human version of the bird flu virus, to make it look like an epidemic had broken out when in fact it hadn't. They just needed to scare everyone into wanting to get a shot of the vaccine. I don't know if they manufactured the original virus that hit the chickens and other birds in china years ago – probably they didn't, okay?"

"You're dreaming Mike. Something like that just couldn't happen, because anyone in a position to make it happen would have no interest in doing anything like that. People with money and power, the world's movers and shakers, wouldn't want anything like that to happen. Reducing the world's population would be a disaster for them."

"Maybe it wouldn't take all that much money to develop a virus and distribute it. Maybe any nut with a bit of money, not a fortune, could do it."

"Yeah, but not even a nut would want to do it."

"There are all kinds of people in this world who are prepared to do strange things because they believe it should be done. Soldiers are prepared to sacrifice their lives for God and country. What about a man in a position of wealth and power with a terminal illness, cancer or a bad ticker, who doesn't have long to live. He might put the wheels of change in motion to help create what he sees as a better world, to save it, or fix the mess that it's in now. To give it a fresh start, a chance for a better future, for the next generation. What about a religious nut who thinks it's Gods will."

"No, that's all bullshit. No one would be that crazy."

"Look Johno, why don't you just get the bloody shot and then we can both stop worrying about it?"

"I'm not worried about it and I'm not getting no bloody shot. End of story. And I don't want to hear any more about it. Okay?"

I gave up. I had laid the whole situation out for him. Told him everything. What else could I do? Besides I had just given Ben's email address to Rose, and they were both determined to put a stop to this craziness. So perhaps Johno wouldn't need to get the shot after all.

Perhaps Johno was right and it was all just a crazy dream. Maybe just thinking about things too much makes them seem real. Do thoughts change reality? Is reality the result of dreams? I was not sure about anything anymore. Perhaps I should stop thinking about the future, about possible possibilities, about the need to change things, about what is best, about what I do and don't want to happen, and just let things happen as they should, the way they always do.

Now, at least, I'd had a taste of what I could expect to go through if I ever decided to try to explain it all to Bruce.

I looked at my watch, wondering if I should ring Bruce and tell him I was feeling better and that we would be able to do the assignment after all. Trouble was Melbourne's traffic. With the roads Packed solid the way they always were these days it would takes us at least and hour to get to where we needed to go, maybe longer. Then we would have to do the interview and get back to the office. It couldn't be done, we simply did not have enough time.

I decided to go home and try to forget the whole thing.

CHAPTER 21

My daily activities ran smoothly for the next few day, like I was on autopilot, just like before Chris Norton tapped me on the shoulder in Lonsdale street and told me he had some information that the world needed to know about. Yes, all my established routines were running smoothly, with a couple of outstanding differences; Jill was in Canberra, and my mind was in a constant state of worry, bought on by my never ending contemplations of what could be happening to her there.

At the same time I was a little mystified by the fact that Rose had not tried to contact me again. And it seemed as if Ben had simply disappeared. None of my attempts to contact him were successful – It seemed no one at the Bureau of Census and Statistics knew where he was. I could only assume that he had made contact with Rose and that these two individuals were now off somewhere together, hopefully trying to save most of the world's population from imminent slaughter.

At least a dozen times a day I would try to call Jill. Most of the time I found that her mobile was turned off. A few times it was on, but she didn't respond and I had no choice except to leave a message, telling her that I was worried and asking her to phone me, as soon as possible to put me out of my misery.

Over the first three days the closest thing to a response I received from Jill was a brief text message telling me that she was alright and not to worry, which naturally sent me crazy with feelings of helpless frustration, and visions of her being subjected to unspeakable acts of deprivation and torture, all of which made me worry more.

It did occur to me that the reason she was ordered to Canberra might not have had anything to do with what she had discovered on Ben's computer, and the intrigues of the Solution Society. But instead could be connected with her schemes of making money on the stock market and her reluctance to give up her hobby of hacking into private computers for personal gain, instead of only when told to do so by the federal Police.

Then on the forth day after her disappearance she phoned me.

"What the hell's going on up there?" I asked. "Are you alright? They're not hurting you, are they?"

"No - Everything's okay, now. They isolated me from outside contact, took away my cell phone, and grilled me extensively about what I had discovered at the Bureau, and about my meeting with Ben."

"And?"

"And, I told them the truth, about all the strange files I'd discovered on the big computer, and everything else that had happened, and everything I knew about Ben."

"Wow, how did all that go down? - Did they believe you - well, what I mean is – did they already know...have they come to the same conclusions about the situation, as..." I was flustered with excitement to be talking to her again.

"You mean - do they now believe that there is a group of people who call themselves the Solution Society who are planning to wipe out most of the human race?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's the question. Well, do they?"

"Some do. Most don't. But the good thing is, one of them who does believe it, is the head of my division, my boss, and he is now busy checking out the situation and working out how the Feds should respond. Hey, listen, I've got to go. Can't talk any more. My boss wants to see me, right now. Bye."

She hung up, just like that, the bitch, can you believe that, because I sure can't. She left me hanging with at least another dozen unanswered question. Like, well, the main one being - when was she coming home. She didn't even tell me when I could expect to hear from her again. I'll be damned, I don't believe this. Doesn't she understand how worried I am?"

I was in a bad mood the next day, sick with worry about what was happening to Jill in Canberra, and Johno knew it.

I had told him the reason she was in Canberra was because the people she worked for, the Feds, were taking seriously the things she had discovered on the big computer. I knew that Johno still could not except that what we believed was happening, was really happening. He had built a wall of denial against such an outrageous proposition.

And I had lost all desire to try to change his mind, to convince him that we were right and that he was stupid for not believing me.

So silence prevailed as he drove us to the address of our next interview which was with a Doctor who did not actually practice medicine, but worked fulltime doing medical research, studying, and trying to unravel the mysteries of human DNA.

A noble occupation in most people's opinion, but not in mine on this occasion, at least not according to the information I had gleamed about him from the assignment slip my secretary had given me earlier, which was now lying at my feet on the floor of Johno's car screwed up in a tight ball.

I really didn't want to do this interview - I knew that at the very least it was going to depress me, and I really didn't feel like being depressed any more than I already was, and that it might even fill me with anger.

When we arrived at the hospital where the doctor was based Johno selected a spot from where he could frame me on the footpath with a good shot of the exterior of the hospital in the background, then pulled over and parked illegally - too close to a street corner.

Without saying a word I got out and waited while he got his equipment out and ready.

"Where do you want me?" I asked when I thought he was ready, as I walked to a spot between him and the building that I thought was approximately right.

With his camera on his shoulder he shuffled around a bit. "Half a step to the left," he said as his thumb indicated the direction. "Okay, that's it. Whenever you're ready."

I looked into the lens. "Doctor Whatter, who works here at the Elisa and Walter research institute, announced last night that he has made the medical discovery of the century, what many consider to be the holy grail of research. He claims he has discovered the gene that controls the aging process. That's right, and not only that, he also claims he has worked out a way of turning it off. If he is right, it means, from now on, no one will ever grow old. Wow, isn't that great? Isn't that good news? I thought it would be a good idea to come here today and have a chat with Doctor Whatter, and see if he can tell us more about his wonderful discovery."

Johno put his camera down and looked at me with a stern expression.

"You don't think you were laying it on a bit too thick do you mate? Maybe we could do it again without the sarcasm."

I turned and looked around at the hospital, and thought about it for a second or two, then turned back to Johno.

"No, I don't think so. That's it. Take it or leave it. Park the car somewhere else and I'll meet you inside. I'll wait for you in the lobby." Without waiting for Johno's response I walked off.

"Hey," he called out before I had taken half a dozen steps. "I know what this is all about. It's you problem with overpopulation, isn't it?"

I stopped, and slowly walked back to Johno.

"That's very astute of you Johno. Considering that you don't think there is any problem."

We're got a job to do mate. We're professionals, not kids starting out who try to insert their personal opinions into every story they do. So do it right, or don't do it at all."

"Yeah, you're right Johno. I'm sorry. I'll meet you inside and I'll try to get my head right on the way. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Get your head right and we'll do that shot again in the lobby."

I stood there and watched as he put his camera away, resisting the urge to express the feelings I was experiencing. I didn't want to start an argument with him and then go in and do the interview feeling hot under the collar.

"My knowledge of genetics would be about the same as that of the average guy in the street Doctor, so could you try to explain it to me in simple terms how this discovery of yours works."

We were standing in about the centre of Doctor Whatter's laboratory surrounded by a menagerie of caged animals, rats, and mice mostly. He was short and overweight, bald on top, and wore glasses with thick lenses that distorted the outline of his face.

"Sure, I'll try," said the doctor. "In the DNA of every cell, in every living creature, there is a gene that controls how many times that cell will reproduce. What this means basically is - this gene controls how long the animal will live."

"I see. So how did you find this gene Doctor? Were you looking for it, or did you just happen to stumble across it one day, accidentally?"

The doctor looked at me and frowned. I could see that he was not sure if I was hostile towards him, or was just having a bit of fun. Either way, I don't think he liked the way I framed the question.

"We suspected that this gene existed and deliberately set out to find it."

"Was it easy to find?"

"It was extremely difficult to find. It took us a long time and there was a lot of hard work involved."

"Could you explain in more detail how you went about finding it?"

"Sure. Okay, we knew that it existed in every animal, because every animal grows old and dies eventually. So we started by looking for genes that only existed in one species, or one group of animals. For instance the genes that only exist in marsupials, like kangaroos and Koala bears. And we eliminated these genes from our list of likely genes.

"Then we looked for differences in the same genes in two types of animals - short lived animals like guinea pigs and finches, and long lived animals like parrots and tortoises. And we eliminated all the genes that were identical in these types of animals.

"After that we started concentrating on the similarities of genes found only in long lived animals like swans, parrots and tortoises. Eventually we had a list of candidates, and we started testing them to discover exactly which gene was the one we were looking for."

"And, eventually you found it. Congratulations Doctor. But how do you know that it works, that it will work for humans? After all you can't prove it overnight, or even in a few years that you have found a way of extending the human life span to a couple of centuries. It would take a couple of centuries to prove it."

"We have given the gene to animals that normally only live short lives, and so far most of them have already lived three or four time longer than they normally live. And we have removed it from some animals that normally live long lives, and most of them have died of old age in just a few years. So yes, we are sure we have the right gene, and that it does what we believe it does. We have started tests on monkeys and other primates, and as you said, it will take years, many years to prove that it works on primates. But we are confident it will work."

Okay, I guess we will just have to wait and see. I hope you are a patient man doctor, because it may be many years before you receive your noble prize." I turned and looked into the camera's lens. "I have been talking to Doctor Whatter who may have discovered the fountain of youth. I'm Mike Stanley, and you're watching Newsfix."

As we started walking back towards the reception area I couldn't resist putting the good doctor on the spot. "Hey doctor, do you have any idea about how many human beings are living on this planet at the moment?"

He stopped walking and studied me. There was no longer any confusion in his mind about my attitude.

"Yeah, about six and a half billion, okay?"

"And do you know the estimate about how many there will be mid century?"

"Nine Billion. Now let me ask you a question - If you were a very wealthy man and thus could afford to buy a pill each month that was keeping you feeling young and healthy and could possibly extend your life by fifty, maybe even a hundred years, would you buy it?"

"So, are you saying that you expect that when your pill hits the market it's going to be so expensive that only the wealthy could afford it?"

"I expect it will be."

"So tell me, what happens if some smartarse chemist in India, or China does a bit of reverse engineering and takes your pill apart and discovers its secret ingredients and then starts mass producing, and selling them on the street to every Tom, Dick, and Harry for only a couple of bucks?"

"That won't happen. Every country will be worried about the consequences of something like that and will put laws in place to prevent that sort of thing from happening."

"Oh, right, sure. And you think that will stop the billions of people who will buy their illegal pills every month on the black market?"

"Yes, it won't happen. There won't be any black market."

"It will happen. And I'll tell you why - because every low-paid cop who presently is unsuccessful at stopping the trade in illegal drugs like heroin and cocaine, will be even less successful at stopping the trade in your shit, because they will be using the stuff themselves, and giving it to members of their family, and will want to insure that their own supply doesn't dry up."

"You didn't answer my question," He said, smugly, "Would you personally buy it and use it?"

"You really are an asshole, aren't you? You're in it for the bucks, and you don't give a shit that the world's population will go through the roof, and thus will probably bring on unimaginable suffering and misery."

"Hey fella, wake up, it's called progress. The state of the science is such that if I hadn't discovered it, then it would only be a matter of time before some other smart research scientist did."

"So you're the bright spark who wins the prize, and pockets the cash?"

I felt like hitting him, but I merely shook my head and walked off. I was now convinced that if the Solution Society had any doubts about their plans, they now had one more reason for believing that what they were doing was the right thing.

Already the life expectancy of people all over the world, but particularly in the western world, is continuously climbing each year with discoveries of new medical drugs and treatments. Imagine what it will be like when there are nine billion people living and breeding on this small planet and someone suddenly gives then all the opportunity of living for hundreds of years - well, I didn't even want to think about it.

I could imagine Ben saying something along these lines; "But if there were only about 20 million humans living here on earth, being looked after by about 200 million energy-efficient and undemanding robots, then living longer wouldn't be much of a problem."

About a week after the last email received from Rose, and about six days since Jill was called to Canberra I was sitting at my computer at eight thirty wondering if either of them would contact me.

Since Jill's departure for Canberra I had been constantly checking my email for a message from her. The first night she was gone I was optimistic that there would be one when I came home alone after the Lomond, and I was shocked, disappointed, and then extremely worried when I discovered that there wasn't one. As the days passed I was less shocked by their continuing absence, but at the same time my disappointment and fear grew.

Now, after speaking to her a couple of days ago on the phone I was less worried, but I still wasn't hopeful of finding an email from her, and thus was not so disappointed after confirming that there was none.

A few minutes after eight thirty I was about to switch the computer off when it suddenly jolted me out of my despondence with the magic words, "You have mail." Jill or Rose, I wondered.

It was a message from Rose.

Hi Mike.

Just thought I would let you know that I have been in contact with Ben and that something big has happened and everything has been bought to a conclusion, and that you will probably not hear from me again.

But there is one more thing I want to ask of you Mike. I want to make sure that when you tell the story about what has happened you tell the truth about Chris Norton. You must tell the world he was a hero. That he died trying to stop Wilson.

Rose.

I had a million questions, but where to start? I knew from experience that Rose's responses tended to be brief, and that she never stayed on line for long.

Rose.

Tell me, what has happened? You said that everything has been bought to a conclusion. How? What has happened?

Mike.

I crossed my fingers and held my breath, waiting, hoping that she was still on line.

Mike.

You will know everything in about a week, or maybe two. Something really big will start to happen pretty soon, and after that everyone will know all about it.

Don't worry you are safe.

Rose.

Wow, I didn't like the sound of that, particularly the, don't worry bit. It crossed my mind that she may have just pulled off the world's biggest con. I wanted to ask her if it was all just a con, but I knew she would not tell me, if it was. Although she might want to boast about it.

No, she would have done that already.

Rose.

I need to know where Wilson is hiding, or where he was hiding. The Feds are giving my girlfriend, Jill, a hard time. (I guess Ben has told you about her.) And if I can't give them this information then she, and maybe myself as well, could end up being in a lot of trouble.

Also, I could use some reassurances that all this has not been one big con job.

Can you help me?

Mike.

I waited holding my breath. Nothing happened. The minutes dragged by. I looked at my watch it was now eight forty eight. She had not responded for over seven minutes. So that was it - she was gone, and I was left without any suitable explanations. Then suddenly her response came through.

Mike.

I am laughing. A con job? Ha,ha. Anyway you helped me - so I will help you. Why not? I will tell you what you want to know.

I will give you the GPS address of where Wilson was hiding. Ben thought it would be best if I gave it to you encoded. He said that Jill would know how to decode it. You will find the information in an attachment to this email.

It doesn't matter any more if you or the feds have this information. It is too late to change anything now.

All I can do is tell you, it was not a big con.

Bye.

Rose.

So that was it \- she was gone. Wherever she was, it seems Ben must be there with her. Only he could decode the GPS location for her. No wait, perhaps they are not together, perhaps they were corresponding with each other using emails. That would explain the time delay of her last email.

Whatever, she was gone, and she had told me that something big is about to happen and that I should not worry because I was safe.

Oh my God. I didn't like the sound of that. I would be safe seemed to be code words for - the virus has been released.

I switched off the computer and sat there in a state of frozen fear, wishing that Jill would come home soon, hoping that she knew more about what was happening, and that she could tell me that it was not as bad as it seemed.

CHAPTER 22

The following Saturday morning, like an emotionless zombie I climbed out of the big, lonely bed, had a quick shower, retrieved the newspaper from the front lawn, made breakfast, and sat down at the kitchen table and without opening the newspaper started munching my Vita-Brits and wondering what Jill was doing right now. Football, and who North was playing today did not even cross my mind. That's how bad things were.

I decided that straight after breakfast I would make a start on the day long task of trying to phone Jill. Then realizing that my phone was in my dressing gown pocket where I had left it last night before going to bed, I retrieved it and dialled her number.

"Hello," she answered almost immediately.

I almost fell off the chair. "Jill, I don't believe it. You answered your phone."

"Hi, baby. I've missed you. I was just about to call you to tell you that I'm on my way home. I should be there in about three minutes."

"Three minutes! Where are you?"

"I'm in a car with a couple of other cops. We just got off a plane and now we're on the road. They're bringing me home. They want to talk to you when we arrive."

"Three minutes \- great. But I'm still in my pyjamas. I had better go and get dressed. You've got your keys, right?"

"Right. Okay, see you soon."

The phone went dead. I put it down, and filled with excitement I almost stumbled on the rug as I raced towards the stairs.

I was dressed and waiting in the lounge room in less then two minutes. And was still waiting fifteen minutes later filled again with worry about what could have happened.

When I heard a car pull up out the front I raced to the window and watched Jill and two men in suits get out and start up the garden path.

I had considered waiting for her in the bedroom upstairs, because I desperately wanted some time alone with her before meeting the cops. But I suspected that they would try to prevent that, and would come upstairs with her, which would just turn out to be embarrassing for all of us. So, instead I moved to the bottom of the staircase and waited there.

The door opened and she came in first, and ran across the room and into my arms, just as I hoped she would.

We hugged each other tightly, and kissed. She had only been gone for a week and a half, but the stress I'd felt during that time made it seem longer and the relief at being reunited again felt wonderful.

The two cops kept their distance.

"I missed you, badly. Are you alright?" I said.

"Yes, I'm fine. I missed you too."

"We hugged and kissed again. I wanted to take her up to the bedroom, but I could see the two cops, waiting, wandering around the lounge room studying the art work on the walls there, trying to give the impression that they were not keeping an eye on us at the same time.

"Did they treat you badly, in Canberra?" I was sure that at this distance the cops could not hear our conversation.

"No, but it was intense and they were thorough in their questioning, but they didn't hurt me in any way."

"Is everything alright now?"

"Yes. Now they just want to ask you a few questions. They want to know all about Rose, and what she has told you."

"I see, but why did they give you such a hard time, and keep you up there so long?"

"They were really pissed, because I had not kept them up to date on what I had discovered on Ben's computer. They wanted to know, in great detail, everything that had happened since I started working at the Bureau."

"I see, and that's all sorted out now, is it?"

"Yes, I told them the truth, about everything, and showed them all the files I had downloaded onto my laptop. Fortunately I found the names of some of the Fed's top brass in one of the files that came from Ben's computer, along with names of some big shots in the Australian government and the military. I say fortunately because I used that as my excuse for not reporting what I found. I explained that I didn't know who I could trust, and that I was afraid. That I had decided not to tell anyone anything until I had discovered more about what was going on, and who was involved."

"And they bought that?"

"Hook, line, and sinker."

From the lounge room one of the cops, the big one, called out. "Okay, you two, we haven't got all day. How about you break it up and come in here, so we can get on with it, and then we'll get out of your hair."

Jill stepped back, and said in a loud voice, "Come on Mike let me introduce you to a couple of federal cops."

We went into the lounge room and I shook hands with them as Jill made the introductions. Her immediate boss was a tall, solidly-built brute named Inspector Byron Henry, and the other, shorter one who I guessed represented the big brass at the Feds, was Superintendent Roger Monk.

Jill suggested coffee and when they agreed I formed the opinion that they expected to be here for a while. We all went into the kitchen and watched her make it, then returned to the lounge room and sat down and got comfortable. Monk placed his laptop computer on the coffee table in front of him and opened it, ready for action.

Jill went to the hall table near the front door and retrieved her laptop from where she had left it a split second after she came in. It was the same one I had seen upstairs in her office about a week ago. Someone must have been sent to retrieve it while I was at work. It was like this house had no doors, as far as they were concerned.

I spent the next half hour answering questions that they fired at me in turns in rapid succession. Questions that I was certain they must already have answers for, from Jill. She sat in silence. She knew that the purpose for asking me these questions was simply to verify that my answers matched hers.

When all that was settled they moved on and started asking me questions about Rose. I explained, as I'm sure they already knew, that the only contact I'd had with Rose was via infrequent emails. Naturally they eventually worked their way around to what they really wanted to know - had I received any new emails from her lately?

Now here I had decisions to make - should I tell them that I had put her in contact with Ben? Should I tell them that she had given me the GPS location of Wilson's last known hiding place? And should I tell them about my suspicion that they virus had already been released?

These little scraps of information were my bargaining chips, and I didn't want to waste them. Unless they had been in the house again while I was out, and cracked the password on my computer and already knew all about the last emails. Maybe they were still just playing games and testing me. Maybe Jill had given them the secret email address that Rose used, and they had been monitoring it. Or maybe, any minute now, they would demand to be given access to my computer.

"Before I answer any more questions I would like to know a few things - for instance, I would like to know what you think of the information you have received from Jill and myself. Do you believe that there is a group of people out there planning to release a deadly virus soon? And if so, what are your intentions - How do you plan to stop them?"

Monk took his time thinking about his answer. "We do believe there is such a group. We have heard about them from other sources. If we could, we would put a stop to their plans immediately. But as things stand we can't do that simply because we don't know where they are. If you can tell us that, we will move on them at once, and with great force. Can you tell us that, Mr. Stanley?"

Now he was putting me on the spot. What the heck, why don't I just tell them and be done with all this shit. I could tell by Jill's expression that she too had had enough of this crap, but more than that, she looked straight at me and with a barely noticeable nod of her head and just the slightest indication of a smile of encouragement she let me know that she wanted me to tell them all I knew.

"As a matter of fact I can tell you the exact location of John Wilson's last known hiding place, up to a little over a week ago. I can give you the GPS bearings."

I thought that might produce a reaction, and it did. The faces of both cops screwed up in confusion, then excitement as they sat up straight and looked at each other for confirmation that they were not hearing things.

"You can? - Where did you get this information?" said Monk.

"Tell us the GPS bearings?" said Henry.

"Rose gave it to me. The information is in my computer, upstairs. It's encoded. I'll go up stairs and send Jill an email with an attachment. She should be able to decode it."

As I headed for the stairs Monk got up and came after me. I guess he didn't want to let me out of his sight. Did he think I would climb out a window and make a run for it?

In my study I switched on my computer and when it was booted up I found the folder where I kept the emails correspondence between myself and Rose. On a sudden urge I decided to send Jill copies of both email sessions I'd had with Rose recently - the one where I gave Rose Ben's email address, and the one where she gave me the GPS address.

When this was done we headed downstairs again.

Jill was busy on her machine when we returned. Henry was wandering around the room talking into his cell phone. I went and stood next to Monk who positioned himself behind Jill, so that he could read the emails that were exchanged between Rose and myself.

"Holy shit!" said Monk. "Ben and Rose have teamed up, and they have done something together, but the bitch doesn't say what."

"What" said Henry, confused, putting his cell phone in his pocket.

"Ben and Rose have done something, together, but she has failed to explain, to provide details about what they have done." Monk put his hand on Jill shoulder to get her attention. "Jill, open the attachment, and see if you can decode it."

"Hey, wait, I want to read the emails," said Henry.

"Read them later. We need to get that GPS address. Keep going Jill." Monk took out his phone and started pacing the floor, talking to someone in urgent tones.

"Come on Mike, upstairs," said Henry. "I want to read the emails on your computer." He put his hand in the small of my back and started guiding me towards the stairs.

I applied the breaks and stood firm. "Okay, you don't have to push. Get your hand off me, or I'm not going anywhere."

He raised both his hands up into the air. "Okay, sorry - okay?"

I nodded and started upstairs and he followed.

When we came down a few minutes later Jill had finished cracking the code and now had the GPS bearings.

"Get a map on screen," Monk was standing behind Jill again. "I want to know what's at the location of those bearings.

A few seconds later a map of the state of Victoria was on the screen, and Jill pointed to a small cross that was centered over what seemed to be an open patch in the middle of a forest.

Monk jabbed a finger at a spot on the map. "Okay, it's just down that road from a place called Enfielf. Where is this Enfielf? Zoom out, I want to see where Enfielf is in relation to Melbourne."

The map zoomed out. "Is about seventy clicks south west of Melbourne, It's a national forest reserve," said Jill.

"Show me a satellite view of this area. And zero in on that cross. I want a close up of that clearing."

The screen changed from a road map to a satellite image, and started zooming in. At the spot where the cross showed the GPS bearing there was a clearing in the centre of a dense green forest. Some dirt tracks could be gleamed running through the trees to the cleared area.

Monk turned to Henry. "Get on the phone. I want better intelligence, a recent satellite image of this place. Close ups, high definition. Have them sent to my computer."

Henry nodded and whipped out his phone and got busy.

Monk had his phone to his ear again, and I was amazed that the two cops didn't collide as they paced around the lounge room talking on their phones, stepping aside at the last moment as they approached each other as if subconsciously playing a pedestrian game of chicken.

Monk went to Jill and removed the phone from his ear. "What's the closest park?"

"Closest to what?" asked Jill.

"To here. Show me a map of this area. I want to bring a helicopter in here. I want it to land in the closest park."

Jill worked her computer and soon my house was at the centre of a map. Jill pointed. "There! That's Fleming Park. There's a football oval there."

Monk nodded and resumed speaking into his phone. I heard him say Fleming Park but didn't pay much attention to anything else he said.

I bent over and whispered in Jill's ear. "While these monkeys are busy do you think we could race up stairs to the bedroom and catch up on some important business we have neglected over the last week?"

She laughed. "There's nothing I would like more, but I think I have pissed them off too much already, lately."

"Okay, just thought I'd check. I guess I can wait until they jump in their helicopter and buzz off."

"If they are planning to do what I think they are, then I will be going with them."

"WHAT! - what do you think they are planning to do?"

"I just caught a few words here and there. I think Henry is putting together a strike force. I think he is planning a raid on Wilson's hide-out."

"Really?"

"Yep!"

"Wow, okay, but why do you have to go with them?"

"I am a cop. And I've been a part of this operation from the start."

"I don't think Wilson will still be there. Reading between the lines in Rose's email, I think she and Ben may have already confronted him. Remember, she said that things had been sorted out."

"Still, we're got to go down there, and check the place out."

"Yeah, I guess so. Okay, I'm coming too." Jill looked surprised. "I just got you back. For the last week, twenty four, seven, I've been worrying about what's happening to you. I'm not letting you out of my sight again for a while."

"I'm touched." She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled, forcing me to bend over the back of the couch until my head was just above hers, then she reached up and gave me a kiss on the lips.

When I straighten up I noticed that the two cops where now studying satellite images on Monk's computer and were engaged in a serious conversation that seem to be about the best strategy for attacking and engaging a hostile force in battle.

"I'm going upstairs to change," said Jill. "If I'm going to be hiking through the jungle, then I'm not going to be doing it in an expensive pair of high-heels."

"Forest, not jungle," I said. "But I think you have the right idea. I think I'll go and put on some denims and find a pair of old boots."

Monk looked up. "Hang on, who said your going. You're not going. This is a police operation."

"If Jill's going, I'm going."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am, because you'll need me."

"I will? - why?"

"Have you ever met Wilson? - Do you know what he looks like?"

Monk looked at Henry, then back at me. "No."

"I do. I did an interview with him a while back. I know exactly what he looks like."

"Hum - Okay, you're in. But no cameras. We're not making a bloody documentary here."

"Ah - that's a pity. I was thinking about inviting Johno, my cameraman, along."

"Forget it."

As they went back into a huddle over Monk's laptop, Jill and I sneaked upstairs to change into more suitable clothing - clothing suitable for a rumble in the jungle. We took longer than expected doing this on account of our bodies getting tied in a knot as we removed each others clothes.

Less than an hour later we were in a military helicopter heading for the location of Wilson's last known hiding place. With us were four more cops who were dressed in their best combat-ready swat uniforms, and armed with some fancy looking firearms that I was sure could dispense death with great accuracy and efficiency.

The new cops had bought along extra weapons and armoured vests and helmets for Jill, Monk, and Henry, but none for me. I guess they thought I was bullet proof.

About half way to our destination our chopper was joined by three more. Inside I could see that they were all packed with more combat ready troops. As we continued on to our destination flying in formation it reminded me of a scene from the movie Apocalypse Now, and it crossed my mind that all we needed to make the illusion complete was a loud speaker hooked up outside blaring out Richard Wagner's euphonic piece, "Ride of the Valkyries." There were probably no Vietcong where we were heading, but I bet if there were any dope farmers down there guarding their crops, if they heard that tune, and saw us coming, it would scare the living shit out of them.

As we approached our destination our chopper and two of the others slowed down and went into a circling holding pattern while the other one flew in low and made a pass directly over the clearing to recon the area - for all you non military people out there, recon, that's a military term, short for reconnaissance - it means to scout the area and gather information about the enemy. I wasn't wearing any earphone, so I have no idea about what they saw down there, when they reported back.

Anyway, our chopper stayed in place, obviously acting as the command post, and we watched as the other three choppers moved into position surrounding the clearing and hovered just above the tree tops while the troop slid down ropes and disappeared into the dense forest. Obviously from there, they crept forward, and then in an organized fashion, charged into the clearing with guns locked and loaded, ready to overcome and destroy any resistance.

Wondering what was going on down there I watched Monk and Henry and tried to read their expressions as they listened to the reports coming back in their earphones and as they conferred with each other and the cop who was obviously the commander of this task force. I looked at Jill, but she was no help. Not being a part of the command structure she had not received a set of earphones. Like me she was just along for the ride, and now she was just as mystified as I was.

Eventually they must have decided it was safe to proceed and reposition the command post, because without any fuss our chopper flew directly down and landed square in the centre of the clearing.

The cops waiting for us on the ground, who were assigned the task of securing the LZ (landing zone,) looked disappointed. They carried their deadly weapons casually at their side, using one hand - some were lethargically wandering around smoking, others were sitting on the ground, patiently waiting for their choppers to come in and pick them up, and take them home.

The only thing here that looked remotely interesting was situated under a large gum tree at the edge of the clearing. It was a pile of burnt black rubble. The occupants of our chopper casually ambled over to check it out. Jill and I tagged along a few paces behind.

"Corrugated iron," said Monk. "Must have been some sort of shelter."

"Looks as though it burnt down recently," said the commander. "I'd say not more than a week ago, two at the most."

"Yeah, I agree," said Henry.

"So do I," I said.

The three cops turned and looked at me. Their expressions showed that they were all thinking the same thing; - who asked for your opinion?

I shrugged and turned to study the rest of the area. There were some nice big gum trees growing around here.

A few second later the commander tilted his head to the side and put his hand to his helmet, I guess to indicate that he was receiving an important message over his built in radio from the cops still out patrolling the surrounding forest.

"Where?" he shouted, and waited for a response. "Right, send someone to here, who can show us the way to your location." He removed his hand and turned to his fellow cops. "Sergeant Cooke's men have found some destroyed buildings not far from here."

The other cops lounging about must have heard the same message on the radios built into their helmets; they all suddenly snapped out of their daydreams and were instantly combat soldiers again. Their automatic weapons held in both hands, out front, chest high, their trigger finger pointing straight down the barrel above the trigger guard to avoid accidentally discharging their weapon, yet ready to pounce onto the trigger in a flash if necessary.

A few seconds later the sound of vegetation being crunched under trotting feet was heard, and everyone turned and watched as glimpses of two cops could be seen, quickly approaching on a dirt track. They came into the clearing and stopped, looked around and spotted the commander.

"Okay," said the commander, "show us where these buildings are."

The soldiers nodded, turned, and started back the way they had just come.

About two hundred meters from the clearing we were shown the burnt out remains of about half a dozen small buildings, or shacks. Our group wandered around looking at the mess. Someone made the comment that these structures, like the one we had seen in the clearing, looked as if they had only been destroyed recently.

Superintendent Monk looked as if he was enjoying himself as he poked around in the rubble, pleased at this opportunity to put his crime scene investigation skills into use again.

"It looks like who ever did this was in a hurry," he said, to no one in particular. "Some of these buildings are only half destroyed. Looks like they were set on fire, and before the fire got going good, it started to rain. And the people who started the fires had either already gone, or else they didn't care enough to stick around and finish the job after it stopped raining. This building looks like it was a bunk house. Look," Jill and I were the only two still with him, so he turned and looked at us, "look, here, this was a double Decker bunk, and so was this. And over there, three more. I think they could have slept at least eight, nine, maybe even a dozen people in here."

"Hey, over here everyone. This looks interesting." It was inspector Henry, shouting out through a glassless window from inside another half destroyed building.

We all ambled over and didn't have to use the door to get inside, because all of one wall was missing, as was most of the roof.

"What have you got," asked Monk.

"This looks like some sort of workshop," said Henry. "Look, it looks like there were some tables, or benches in here, with machinery on them. Look at this." He used his boot to point at a heap of burnt rubble on the ground, then using his boot again he rolled over a burnt and mangled metal box that was once part of a piece of machinery.

Monk looked at it and shrugged, and walked around the room looking down at each heap of debris for a few seconds, before moving on to the next. "Okay, it does look like there was a lot of machinery in here, but nothing looks familiar to me. I think we will need to get someone in here who knows a bit about machinery, and get him to identify each piece. I want to know what all this machinery was being used for."

I put my hand on a wooden post for support as I stepped over a heap of rubble and felt the post move a little. I quickly stopped putting weight on it, thinking it might give way and bring down what was left of the roof. I looked at the post to see how badly damaged it was and noticed something that didn't look right. The wood was splintered in a strange way. I moved in and took a closer look. There were bullet holes in it. Wow, I examined the other side of the post and saw deep cuts that looked as if they were made by a machete, or a samurai sword. I looked around the room, at the walls, at a door frame, at other posts, and at the last remaining door which was hanging from only one hinge. The door was scorched and broken and like everything else in here it was disfigured by bullet holes.

"What a mess. Looks like someone went wild in here with an automatic weapon," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"What?" said monk.

"It was a fire, you idiot," said the commander. "What would you know about automatic weapons? Who is this guy anyway - what's he doing here?"

'My name is Mike Stanley," I said. "I'm the one who supplied the GPS location of this place."

"Oh, yeah, thought you looked familiar. You're that TV guy."

"Right, that's me. And I'm also the one who noticed all the bullet holes in the walls, and posts, and everything else around here."

"What?" said Monk, as everyone started looking around at the walls.

"Shit, he's right," said Henry. "Fucking hell, there're all over the place. We're been looking at the mess on the floor, he's been looking at the walls. Shit there must have been one hell of a battle in here."

"So where are all the bodies?" asked Monk. "They burnt the place down to get rid of these machines. Well they tried to, but didn't do a good job of it. So why didn't they just leave the bodies here?"

"Perhaps the bodies were once friends, and they took then away to give them a decent burial," said Jill.

"Yeah, could be," said Henry. "That's probably it."

"What do you think Commander?" I said. "You've probably been in countless gun battles, and know all about removing the bodies of all the people you're shot dead."

The commander looked at me with a clenched Jaw. I suspected he had never shot anyone in his life, and probably had not even come close to being in a gun fight. I felt tempted to ask him other embarrassing question, but decided it would probably be wise not to push my luck. After all, he was supplying my ride home. I turned and walked away.

Monk gave the impression that he had not noticed the Commander's anger. "So what we're got here now is a possible crime scene. If there was any blood on the floor then the fire has taken care of that." He looked around at the walls. The only one that was not completely scorched and blackened was at the far end of the room. Half of it looked to still be in a reasonably original condition. He walked down there and examined it, and then pointed. "Looks like there is some blood here. Okay, Inspector Henry, get on the phone and get a forensic team sent down here ASAP. It looks like we're going to be here for some time, so organize to have some catering sent down, some food and beverages. I don't think we have to worry about any hostiles still being around here any longer, so some of the troops can be sent back."

"Right, I'm on it," said Henry.

A few seconds later a few cops still carrying rifles at the ready approached and their leader stepped in and spoke to the commander. "Sir, we have finished inspecting the other buildings. This area is secure, sir."

"Good, join the others and continue reconnoitring the surrounding forest."

"Wait," said Monk. "Give me a run down on the other buildings."

"One was obviously a kitchen and a mess hall, a very small mess hall. One was a toilet and shower block. One looked to be either an office or a lounge area, there were the remains of some big arm chairs in there. Up the hill a bit there is a small church, or a chapel. It's not burnt, not damaged at all. And there was one other building that looked like it was some sort of chemical laboratory. There was a lot of broken glassware all around, and some large vats, and a sterilizing tank. That's about it sir." I moved in a bit closer. "Tell me about this chemical laboratory. Did you touch anything in there? Did you open any containers?"

"No sir, we just stepped in, and had a quick look around and then moved on, Sir."

"Okay, thank you."

Monk was suddenly on my wave length. "Oh shit. I want these three guys sent back to Melbourne immediately. I want them sent directly to a hospital." He stopped to think for a moment. "Which hospital would be best for infectious diseases, anybody know?"

There's a place in Geelong," I said. "WHO, that's the World Health Organization, has a class four facilities there for working on infectious diseases. It's one of the four top facilities in the world for doing that sort of work."

"Right, Henry, have these guys sent there. Contact the place and let them know these guys are on their way.

"Hey, what's going on?" asked one of the cops who had just inspected the other buildings.

"Don't worry," I said. "If you didn't open any sealed containers, then you've probably got nothing to worry about. Any germs around here that have been exposed to the open air for longer than a few days are probably no longer viable. And there's been no body here for about a week, so I wouldn't worry about it." I was not worried - Everyone here, except myself, was a cop, and all of them should have received the bird flu vaccine.

Monk's brain was ticking over again. He quickly turned to the commander. "I want that laboratory declared off limits. I want crime scene tape strung up all around it, and guys on guard twenty four seven. No one is to go in there." He turned to Henry. "Contact that place in Geelong. I want a team of infectious disease investigators in chemical hazards suits sent in here immediately. Okay, everyone out of this building too, until we know what we are dealing with here, and until I get the all clear from the infectious disease guys. Everything is on hold until then. The forensic team can still come in, but they will have to start their investigation somewhere else first."

We all trouped out of the building, and just sort of stood around out there, all at a loss about what we could do, or should be doing now, wondering where do we go from here?

We didn't have to wonder long. Less than a minute later one of the cops who had been out looking for possible interesting things in the forest, had found something that was indeed interesting. He raced up and stopped in front of the commander.

"Sir, we have found a small clearing in the forest sir. Someone has been digging up the earth in there, recently. The dirt is mounded up in piles, looks like a lot of graves to me, sir."

"Oh, shit. How many?"

"Looks like about nine, sir."

"Okay, let's go. Show us where this place is."

With nothing better to do Jill and I followed along.

Before we arrived at the spot that soon became known as the grave yard, one of the cops there had taken the initiative and had started digging with a very small fold-up shovel that was a part of his assigned equipment. Being a member of this crack tactical unit they had all come prepared for any situation. Between the four cops there was only the one shovel and they had taken turns using it. Which suited them fine because they were in no hurry, since they were not under attack from any enemy forces and were not digging a fox hole to hide in.

By the time we arrived they had already confirmed their suspicions - They had found a body beneath the mound of earth they were working on.

Upon hearing this news Jill and I sat down on a log to the side of this little clearing and waited, wondering what would happen next, and considering our options. Eventually we agreed that just about everything to be discovered here, had probably been discovered. There was no need for us to stick around any longer. The best thing we could do was to head back to the LZ and wait there until we could get a lift back to Melbourne on the first chopper heading that way.

Having arrived at this conclusion we continued to sit there. We were in no great hurry. Eventually Monk wandered over and we shared our thoughts with him. He shrugged his shoulders, nodded his head, and agreed that we were probably right - that we weren't needed around here any longer. He explained that he and teams of cops would be busy here for many days yet. Then he sat down beside us, on our log, and it crossed my mind that we, Jill and I, had inadvertently chosen not just the best place to sit down around here, but the only dry and half comfortable place.

"I've been thinking about all that burnt machinery, back there." Jill said to Monk. "Doing the work I do, I've spent a lot of time in other people's offices, and I've seen a lot of different pieces of business equipment."

"Yeah, so get to the point."

"Well, first, back in that burnt out office there were two almost identical lumps of melted plastic and glass side by side, over by the wall. I'm pretty sure they were PCs. And there was another lump of burnt machinery, which looked familiar. I been thinking about it, and I'm sure I've seen something like it before. I think it was an envelope franking machine."

"What's a franking machine - what does it do?"

"It's a postage stamping machine. Where a stamp is usually placed on an envelope it prints the words, 'Postage paid,' or 'No postage required if posted in Australia," or something similar to that. I remember I also saw two long piles of rubble, which I think may have been small conveyer belts."

"So, what conclusion have you come to, about all this?"

"I think we'll also find the remains of a very fast line printer in there, maybe even two printers. I think the place was set up to print letters, and to print addresses, supplied by a computer, onto envelops, then the conveyer belts were used to bring them together where the letters were inserted into the envelopes and then stamped by the franking machine. Then some people working there sealed them, and packed them up.

"And you think that somewhere along the line these letters were somehow impregnated with a deadly virus," I said.

Jill didn't say any thing. She just gently nodded her head.

"Holy shit!" said Monk. "You could be right. So the big question is, did Ben and Rose and others get there in time, and physically stop them, before they did their dirty deed? Or did Wilson use those machines and then try to destroy the evidence, by burning the place down?"

We were all quite for a while as we let these thought sink in.

Then monk suddenly stood up. "Come on, we're got to go back and have another look at those machines. And see if we can determine if you're right. If they are what we think they are, and if they did, what we think they did."

"And see if we can spot any clues that will tell us if they have been used yet, to do their job," I said.

Monk called to Henry as we started walking.

On the way back to the group of burnt-out buildings Monk bought Henry up to speed on our latest theories. As we approached the building, and headed for the one that contained the wrecked machines, we approached it from the rear and Jill suddenly spotted something that we had missed before. She raced ahead, and when she arrived at her destination she stopped dead in her tracks, looking down at a stack of opened, and now folded-flat cardboard boxes, with a stone on top to keep them in place. We quickly caught up to her, and no words were needed to tell us that the worst of our fears had already taken place, here, in this remote spot in the forest. The printing on the discarded boxes told us that each flattened box had once contained five hundred business sized envelopes. I bent over and quickly counted how many folded boxes the stack contained.

"Twenty five boxes," I said, as I stood up. "That's thirteen thousand envelopes."

"Oh my God," said Monk. "The bastards fucking did it. I hope Ben dropped in on them later and blasted the shit out of them. Killed the lot of the bastards. I really do hope he did that."

"Maybe Ben came along and caught them in the act," I said, "or just after, before they had a chance to post any of the fucking letters. And then destroyed them all, the letters I mean, and maybe the bastards too. Let's hope so. And then he buried them, or burnt them - the infected letters, I mean."

"Burnt them, I reckon, and the bastards too," said Henry.

"Let's hope that's what happen," said Monk, cheering up a little, with this scant ray of optimism.

Jill had hardly made a sound all this time. She had been just standing there deep in thought.

"What is it Jill - what are you thinking about?" I said.

She took a deep breath, and snapped out of her reverie, and looked at each of us in turn.

"I was just remembering something I found on my computer - one of the many lists I got from Ben's computer. Usually his lists were lists of people. This one was different - it was a list of places, addresses, all around the world. I remember now that the addresses struck me as strange, they were addresses of places like electricity companies, and other utilities, like gas companies, phone companies, water supply billing companies, and other places like that. If someone sent infected letters to places like these, places that sent bills out to people who used their utilities, and if he could infect the people who worked at these places, then they in turn could infect all the bills they sent out, and--"

"Perhaps," said Henry, "they have sent letters directly to baggage handlers at all the major airports, and train stations, around the world. And to people who work at the ticket desks too."

"Shit," I said, "not only that, but to get to these addresses the letters would pass through all the post offices in all these different countries, and if they could infect the postman who delivers the letters to peoples houses, then that's it - game over - everybody in the world who received a letter, or a bill, or any mail, in the last week is probably infected."

"And those that didn't receive a letter," said Monk, "would probably be infected by their mother, brother, or sister who did. Or even by their next door neighbour."

"Or when they went to buy bread down at the local shop," said Henry.

We all stood there thinking about this in silence for a while. Then Monk suddenly came alive. "Okay, I've got to get you home pronto. I want that list of addresses. And I've got to put together a team who can start checking to see if there has been a massive increase of letters posted locally to international addresses."

"They may not have been posted locally," said Henry. "The bastards may have got on a plane and flew interstate to different places all around Australia to post their fucking letters, so as not to arise suspicions by posting them all from one place."

"And to help spread the mess around a bit more. And lessen the chance of it being stopped," I said.

"Jesus Christ," said Monk. "We've got to stop every letter from being delivered. We've got to close down every post office in Australia – and maybe even in the world."

"And every airport," I shook my head, and sighed. "Bit we're forgetting one thing. We're probably too late. All this..." I looked around, and pointed in different direction, "happened about a week ago. If Ben didn't stop the bastard then we're too late. The letters have already been posted."

It's strange how the mind works - I suddenly remembered Detective Frank Fitzgerald, at Sulivan's funeral, telling me that the name of the tune the old soldier was playing, was called, 'The Last Post."

The last post \- the words triggered some corner of my brain and sent my mind off on a tangent and I started thinking about how, when this was all over, I could do a story on it for the show. Maybe make a one hour special out of it. Maybe even turn it into a full length documentary. I could call it the Last Post. But that title had probably been used many times before and would sort of give the plot away. Maybe I could call it the Asimov Project. That has a nice ring to it, and as a title had a lot in common with the Da Vinci Code. They were both iconic figures who left their mark on history.

But first I had to wait and see how it was all going to pan out. Maybe when it was all over there wouldn't be any reason to make a doco about it, because there wouldn't be anybody left to watch it. Or too few who wanted to be reminded of the catastrophe they had just lived through.

On second thoughts I guess there would be a need for the story to be told - any survivors would want to know who was responsible, who planned it and carried it out – they would want to know who to blame.

And as a reporter, if I survive, it would be my job to tell them all the gory details. Someone would have to do it.

And even if nothing happens, if we manage to stop the virus before it does too much damage, someone has to warn the world that in the future, in an overpopulated world, the possibility of such a horrific scenario being carried out would always remain on the cards.

CHAPTER 23

The Helicopter that bought us back to Melbourne dropped us off on the roof of the headquarters of the Victorian Police Force. We caught a taxi and it was late in the afternoon when we arrived home. A delayed telecast of the football game between North Melbourne and Essendon was probably still being shown on television, but I was not in the mood for watching football. I was not in the mood for doing anything much except sitting and worrying about what was going to happen, if indeed the virus had been released. We were still not one hundred percent certain that it had been released, but almost everything we saw during the day indicated that it had been. The only thing that gave us the slightest reason to continue to hope were the signs that indicated a battle had taken place. There was a slim chance that Ben had recruited the aid of some tough mercenaries and had intervened and saved the day. But there was also the chance that he was dead, and that his body was buried in the small grave yard that had been found out in the bush.

All we could do was wait and hope.

The idea of going to the Lomond as usual did not appeal to either of us, so we ordered pizza home delivered. Jill took hers to her computer and ate it there, mainly, I think, because we were both not in the mood for talking, watching television, or doing anything else. Now we both needed some space, and time alone. I could not imagine any reason why she would want to use her computer now that we were almost certain that the bug had been released. On Monday she would not be going back to the Bureau of Statistics. Her job there was finished. She had not yet received official word that this was the case, but she was pretty sure that it was.

When I'd had enough of the pizza, with nothing better to do, I went for a walk. I didn't have a destination, I just walked, turned left and walked some more, and kept doing that until I found myself back where I started then headed off in a different direction and did the same sort of thing all over again.

When I arrived home I was tired and decided to do something I very rarely did - I took a long bath. After that I did another thing that I rarely did this early - I went to bed. The long walk had tired me and I knew I would have no trouble falling asleep. I had not been in bed long and had not yet fallen asleep when Jill did something that surprised me - she came into the bedroom and silently got into bed beside me.

She moved up close and took my arm and used it as a pillow and placed her free arm on top of me. We did not talk and we both knew that neither of us was in the mood for sex. We just lied there together, wanting to hold each other for a while until we fell asleep.

Sunday was just like any other Sunday, except, at the same time it was like no other Sunday we had ever experienced before. We found it impossible to do the things we usually did on a Sunday, to talk about the things we usually talked about or to talk about the future. It was as if the future was on hold. There was nothing we could do except wait - and waiting was torture.

I didn't even bother getting the newspaper from the front lawn. I spent hours just sitting in a comfortable chair on the back veranda, in the winter sunshine for a while, until I felt too hot, and then in the shade for a while until I felt too cold, just letting my thoughts wander wherever they wanted to go, remembering trivial things from the past, avoiding all thoughts that carried a degree of importance. When I got sick of that I went for a walk that was even longer than yesterday's.

At some point during the day I had checked in on Jill to see how she was doing, and listened as she explained that she had decided to read a long and boring novel, one that she had read before. She didn't want to read an exciting book or one that she might find enjoyable, and especially not one that she might find inspirational and make her look to the future with enthusiasm. She was afraid that such a book would make her feel sad - sadder than she already felt.

When it was time for the nightly news I turned on the television. Today I had no desire to hear about any fresh or ongoing tragedies happening in the world. I just wanted to know if there were any reports, from anywhere in the world, about an outbreak of a new and deadly epidemic.

I found it slightly encouraging that none were reported.

Towards the end of the show Jill wandered in and stood looking at me. There was no need for her to ask.

"Nothing," I said.

She continued standing there for a while, then turned and left the room. Obviously she felt it was too early to start feeling optimistic. She did not need to tell me this - she knew that I felt the same way.

With nothing better to do I decided to waste the next few hours engaged in a silly little bit of research. I could have used my car but decided to walk again instead, simply because it would take longer and help burn off a little more pent up stress. I told Jill I was going for a walk, and out in the street headed for an all night chemist and not the even the closest one.

An hour later when I arrived at my destination I went in and told the guy behind the counter that I thought I was coming down with the flu, and asked him to suggest a cough mixture that might help. He did, and as I paid him I told him that it was unusual for me to get the flu at this time of the year, and casually asked if he had had many other people, more than usual, in here lately suffering from the flu. He told me that he did not think so, that in fact he thought it was just about average for this time of the year. I thanked him and left.

Once again I considered this to be encouraging news.

Feeling that I could use a little more of the same medicine right now, I decided to visit another chemist, the closer one, on the way home.

In there I went through the same routine. And immediately felt sorry for not leaving well enough alone. The response this chemist gave me negated the good news I had received from the other. This one told me, that yes, he had indeed noticed that more people than usual had been in over the last week seeking relief from symptoms of the flu. "Many more," he said.

"Many more," I repeated softly to myself when I was back out on the street. Maybe this guy was one of those people who received pleasure by delivering bad news, or by exaggerating, or even by telling little white lies that he knew would upset people. There are people like that in this world. I knew this to be a fact because to a certain extent, I was one of them. That's what I did for a living - I entered people's living rooms through their television set and often told them details about tragic events that had happened that day.

Back home I decided not to tell Jill about where I'd been and what I had done. There was no point. I had received mixed results that really didn't mean anything, anyway.

It was still early, not even eight o'clock yet. I didn't want to watch TV and I didn't feel like reading. I didn't feel like doing anything except just sitting in the lounge room doing nothing. But when doing nothing time seemed to pass more slowly. I could listen to music, but I was not in the mood to listen to any of my old favourites. Okay, I would do something that I very rarely did - I would turn down the lights and switch on the radio and listen to classical music. No lyrics there that could trigger emotions that I didn't want triggered right now. I would sit and listen to emotionless classical music, and listen intently to all the sounds and try to identify all the instruments being played. That should take my mind off the big thing that I didn't want to think about again for a while.

Less than ten minutes into this game Jill came into the room, turned the lights up a bit, turned the radio down low, and sat down on the couch opposite me. She held up a piece of printed paper.

"What's up?" I said, relieved at the interruption, because the music thing was just not working.

"I found something in my computer that may explain what's happening. Yesterday I remembered that I'd found a folder in Ben's computer that seemed to contain a lot of email messages sent to him. I only glanced through it when I first found it and didn't bother to read more than a handful of the messages. They were all very cryptic and were hard to understand without knowing what they were referring to. I thought I'd put them aside and come back to them when I knew more about what was going on."

She sat down on the couch beside me and held the paper out, so that I could take it if I wanted. I thought about it for a second or two and took it, but did not look at it. I simply took it because she offered it.

"I started reading them yesterday, and again this afternoon, and I've found a message that came from someone code-named the Supervisor, It was addressed to the Chemist, and it seems a copy was sent to four other people - the Organizer, the Judge, the Postman, and the Trouble-shooter. The message was advising the chemist of the desired specifications his product should be engineered to meet. It tells him that any person who received the product should become contagious almost immediately, or as soon as possible. The this person should not show any sign of symptoms or feel any ill effects for at least two weeks while he is contagious, that three weeks would be even better in order to maximize the spread of the bug, and then the receiver should suddenly be overwhelmed and pass away quickly, and as painlessly as possible, preferably from a sudden heart attack."

She looked at me and waited. I shook my head and sighed.

"So that explains why we haven't heard anything about an outbreak yet. It might be another week yet before people start droppings dead."

"Unless Ben managed to stop it."

"Yeah, right. Anyway, it sounds like they were trying to design a virus that, after infecting a person, keeps them going so that they can pass it on to as many others as possible, and then makes them suddenly drop dead from a heart attack."

"Sounds that way."

"Is there any thing else in that message?"

"Yes, there's a little more. It goes on to say that the bug should be made to be as highly contagious as possible, so that any object touched by a contaminated person will remain contagious for a long time, and that any surface sneezed upon, or coughed upon will also remain contagious for a long time, a week, or longer, if possible."

"The bastards. \- Are you going to send a copy of this to your boss?

"I haven't thought about it. Yeah, I guess I should."

"A fat lot of good it will do, if the virus is already out there."

Jill sat there for a while. Then without saying a word she got up and left the room. I switched the radio off. I thought about going after her to try to comfort her, but, I suspected that she just wanted to be alone again for while. If she wanted company she knew where I was. And anyway, I just didn't have a clue about what I could say to her that would help.

Later when it was time to order another pizza, if that's what we were going to do again tonight, I went and found her and asked if she felt up to going to the Lomond, and she told me that she just couldn't handle seeing and talking to any of our friends there, knowing that we had received the vaccine and they hadn't, knowing that soon they might all be dead.

I understood perfectly how she felt, because I felt the same way. When I arrived back in the lounge room and sat down I thought about alternatives - We could go to a different pub where we didn't know anybody. Or I could easily find a party to go to. Most of the television and Movie celebrities didn't go to pubs, instead they organized parties in their homes. I could make a few phone calls and find one any night of the week that would be chock a block full of Celebes. It would probably take our minds off our worries, but it would mean making an effort to be social with strangers, or with people I knew but was not particularly interested in. And in the end it would only reinforce our need to be alone, so that we could worry without superficial and meaningless distractions.

No, the Lomond was our pub. If we were going anywhere it would be the Lomond. I thought about some of my friends there, and wondered, should I go and tell them about the situation in order to give the resourceful ones the chance of trying to run away and hide, or to try to get their hands on a dose of the vaccine? Some would try, I believed that. But what about the ones who didn't or couldn't?

But perhaps Ben has stopped the thing. I still didn't know for sure one way or the other.

What would happen if I went to the Lomond and warned them and then nothing happened? No deadly virus. Well, the next time I showed my face there I would really be in the dog house, after causing them so much anxiety over nothing. Maybe that would be better then not trying to help them now. But if I did tell them they would tell their families and all their friends that they had heard it from me, the guy on TV, and soon the whole city would know that I was spreading this suspicious rumour. A city wide panic may be set off. Which may not be a bad thing if the bug is out there and spreading, but would be a disaster if it wasn't.

I suddenly decided to keep my mouth shut. The Federal police knew what the score was. It was their job to decide if it was in the publics' best interest to know about this thing.

Okay, so I couldn't save the world, but there was one person I could try to save - Johno.

I quickly went back to Jill's office and told her I was going out for a while, and what I intended to do - well, intended to try to do if I could talk some sense into that dumb bastard - if that dumb bustard would just listen.

When I arrived at Johno's place I wasted no time. As soon as we were seated in his lounge room I started by telling him about what had happened from the moment Jill arrived home with her cop buddies. I told him all about what at happened at Wilson's bush hideaway. I told him about the burnt equipment we had found and about the empty cardboard boxes that had once contained envelops. And finished by telling him about the email Ben received describing the ideal characteristics of the deadly virus. When I had finished Johno just sat there thinking about it, letting it all sink in.

"Okay Johno," I said, "look at it like this - if I'm wrong and the bug hasn't been released, you've got nothing to worry about. Everything's sweet. Except you will be even surer that your good mate Mike is losing his marbles. - But what if I'm right, and the virus has been released - without that vaccine you will be cactus mate, dead, defunct, and utterly stuffed. So why don't you just humour me? And let's see if we can find a dose of that vaccine for you? It's only a quick jab in the arm and then you can forget the whole thing."

Johno looked around the room obviously thinking about the merits of the logic of this idea.

"Where do you think you're going to find a dose of that stuff now?"

"Well, we could try asking Bruce's wife, for a start. Maybe she has a does or two left over from that day in the office when she was jabbing everyone, everyone that is who was not afraid of needles."

"You can't stop taking a fucking dig, can you?"

"Sorry, couldn't resist it. Okay, I've got Bruce's home number here, I'll just give her a call and ask if she's got any."

He made a sour face and shrugged his shoulders, and I started hitting buttons on my phone. If she didn't have any I would call Monk next and tell him I wanted one dose, or I would go on television and spill the beans and tell the world all about what was happening.

"Hello, Mrs. Morris, it's Mike Stanley here. I was wondering if you had any doses of that bird flu vaccine left over? - why? Because a friend of mine has been having nightmares about the possibility of the bird flu epidemic breaking out again. - Yes, I know that's unlikely, but he can't sleep at night, he's so worried. He thinks if he can just get a does of that vaccine everything will be alright again. - So do you have any doses of it left over? - You do, that's great. Would it be possible for me to bring him over in about half an hour, so that you could jab him in the arm?" I enjoyed watching Johno winch when I asked that last question. "You can - No, that's not a problem. We'll be there for sure, and we won't stay long, just long enough for you to do the deed - Not a problem. Okay, see you in about half an hour. Oh, is Bruce home? - Hello, are you still there? - He is? - Oh. I see, okay, I would appreciate it if you didn't wake him. I'll tell you why when we get there. See you soon, bye."

I looked at Johno. "Good news mate, it's all set. She's got a couple of doses, and Bruce has already gone to bed. Finnish your drink, and let's go."

Belinda Morris, Bruce's wife, was a very understanding woman. When we turned up at her house and I explained that we would prefer it if Bruce didn't hear about Johno's sleeping problem, and his fear of needles, she nodded wisely and clasped her lips between her thumb and index finger for a couple of seconds, then let go and smiled knowingly. "My lips are sealed," she said.

Johno was not actually shivering but he looked as pale as a field covered in snow.

"He hates needles," I said.

"Err, stupid boy," she said. "They only hurt for less than a second, or two."

She may have been an understanding person, but empathic and a comforter she was not.

"I think it would be best if we got it done as soon as possible," I said, and jerked my head to indicate Johno, who looked as if he was about to puke.

Her eyes looked to the heavens and she threw her head back. "Come with me, right now." She led him through the kitchen and into a bathroom, and pushed him over next to the toilet bowl. "Stay right there. It's in the fridge. I'll go get it. Take your jacket off, and roll up your shirt sleeve."

I stood in the bathroom door way to block his exit, watching and waiting, and wondering if it would become necessary to apply a head-lock and hold him down while she did her thing with the needle.

When she returned she was ready for business and wasted no time. She handed him a hot face washer. "Here, wipe your face with this. You'll feel better."

As he took the face washer and raised it, she raised her other hand, the one that held the needle and before he knew what was happening she had it in his arm and out again, as quick as a blink.

He looked at her with a puzzled expression, then looked at his arm.

"What did you just do then?" He asked.

She smiled.

"What did you do to my arm?"

"Does it hurt?"

"No, just tell me, what did you do?"

She held up the empty needle. "I did what you came here for, you stupid boy. Put your jacket back on. Okay you guys, you can let yourselves out. I'm going to bed."

"Okay, goodnight Mrs. M. and thanks for doing that," I said.

She walked out of the room. I looked at Johno who was standing there busy with his head craned over examining his arm, which he was twisting at a strange angle. He was looking for a puncture wound and was not finding any, not even a slight bruise that would put him in the right area. I'm sure he was still not convinced that she actually gave him a shot.

Johno looked at me, looked at his arm again, then back at me. "Has she given me the shot already?"

"I smiled. "Come on, put your jacket on, and let's get out of here."

"I don't believe it. I didn't feel a thing, nothing, not a thing. It didn't hurt at all."

"Tell me something Johno - how many shots have you had in your life?"

He thought about it for a few seconds. "Hum, one, only one, I think - at school, when I was about six, or seven."

"Did it hurt?"

"I think it did. Can't actually remember. It must have, because I do remember I was extremely embarrassed, shortly after, because I cried a lot."

"And you're been afraid of needles and avoiding them ever since," I said as I walked out of the room.

The next day, Monday morning I went into work and went straight into Bruce's office and told him that I was quitting, immediately, without giving any notice. I told him I didn't want to make a fuss about it, that I didn't intend to say good bye to anyone, and I didn't want anyone to organize a going away party. I was just going and that was all there was too it.

He sat there stunned for a few seconds, then asked the big question. "Why?"

"Because I've had enough." I wanted to tell him the whole story, to lay it all out for him, but I knew in the end the story would not be put on the air - even if he did believe it - because if true it would cause too much needless panic, if the bug was actually out there. And because it was too late - nothing could be done to stop it. If it wasn't out there, then NewsFix would look like it was being run by a pack of idiots. Putting it to air was a no win situation.

"I have noticed that you seemed to be troubled by something lately. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"It must be still unresolved, or else you wouldn't be quitting. How about you simply take a couple of weeks off, and think things over. Maybe after that you'll feel different and decide that you really don't want to quit."

"No, I've made up my mind, I'm quitting."

"Last week some cops were around here asking questions about you, and Jill. So tell me, are you, or is she, in any sort of trouble with the law? Because if you are we have some pretty good lawyers working for this company, and..."

"No, it's got nothing to do with the law."

"Then what is it, for Christ sake, talk to me. Tell me what's bothering you. I think you owe me that much."

"I'm just sick of all the crappy stories we do on this show. That's all. That's it, I've had enough." I held out my hand. "Well, I'm going now Bruce."

Shaking his head, defeated, he reluctantly shook my hand, and as I headed for the door I knew he would, as usual, have to get the last word in. "If you change your mind and you want your job back, don't leave it too long. I'm not going to process this for two weeks, as far as I'm concerned you're on holidays. You're a good reporter, and it's going to be hard to find a replacement. I'll wait a while, but not too long."

"No, go ahead and process it. I won't be back. See you Bruce."

"Hey Mike, one more thing - I'll really miss you, mate. And I mean that."

At the door I stopped and turned and looked at him." I know that mate, and I'll miss you too, and every body else around here."

Then I walked out and casually walked through the main office past all my friends sitting at their desks, without stopping to talk to anybody - to tell them that I was going, or to say goodbye, or to tell them that a deadly bug was about to change all their lives.

It felt strange to be home on a Monday morning with no job and nothing to do. But I knew that I could not face going out on the road to do another story about stupid people, con artists and their suckers, or perhaps bickering neighbours fighting over a new fence that one of them thinks is ten centimetres too low, or too high. No, I couldn't do that, not while waiting for news telling me that billions of people were about to die, that life as we knew it was about to come to an end because the most dramatic modification ever to the structure of human civilization was about to take place.

But what if it doesn't happen?

Then I would have to find a new job. It was as simple as that. Maybe I could get another job as a reporter doing serious, in depth and worthwhile documentaries.

Maybe I could become a teacher. When I first started at uni I did two years studying to be a teacher. That was before a met a certain, beautiful young lady, whose name I have forgotten now, who was doing journalism and who invited me to a lecture given by a well known reporter who had just returned from reporting via a satellite link from the back of a lightly armoured Hum vee, in Iraq, during the first gulf war which was codenamed; Desert Storm. His confidence in his own place in the scheme of things and his belief in the importance of reporting what he had personally seen there made such an impression on me that before the next term began I had dropped my plans to be a teacher, and switched to journalism.

Anyway, whatever happened in the future, I had no regrets about quitting my job, and I was not worried about finding something better, and if necessary seriously considering a career change to a completely different profession.

I found Jill exactly where I expected her to be - in her office, sitting at her computer. I told her what I'd done, and she just shrugged. She was not fazed in the least by this news. She had more important things to worry about right now.

I was not concerned that my career seemed to mean so little to her, but I was now definitely concerned that she seemed to be having more trouble than I had realized coping with the threat of total upheaval on a global scale.

"I rang Monk," she said. "I asked him about the bodies they found - how they were doing with identifications. I wanted to know if Ben's body, or Rose's was there - and if they had found Wilson's body yet."

"And what did he say?"

"He said no, it doesn't look like any of them are there."

"Well, that's good, I guess. Although I wish they had found Wilson's bloody body there."

I went and stood behind her and started massaging her shoulders, waiting for inspiration about what else I could do, or say.

"Have you found anything else, that may help us understand what is about to happen?"

She just shook her head.

"Perhaps you should turn off the computer, and stop thinking about all this shit for a while."

She shook her head again.

"You're not doing yourself any good, sitting here all day, worrying about it. It's only making you worry more. I think it's time you stopped. Whatever is going to happen, will happen, and worrying about it is not going to change that."

She just shrugged.

I slowly and gently swivelled her chair around so that she was facing me. She raised her head and looked up at me. She looked sad and confused, as if defeated by her inability to discover the secret that, if known, would enable this catastrophe to be circumvented.

I reached out and took hold of both her arms and leaned back, using my weight to raise her up out of her chair. When she was standing I moved up close and put my arms around her. She responded and raised her arms and put her hands on my shoulders.

We stood there in silence hugging each other. Her head was resting on my chest and I felt her body shudder and she started to weep softly. I stood still and rubbed her back softly, and waited patiently as her sobs slowly subsided.

After a while she methodically undid the buttons on my shirt and pulled up the front of my shirt, out of my pants, and used my shirt to wipe her eyes. I laughed, and when she was finished we kissed.

"Okay, here's what we are going to do," I said. "We're going to do things that we don't usually do. First, you're going to turn off that computer. And you're not going to turn it on again for the rest of the day, and we're not going to turn on the TV, either."

She looked at me as if I had just said something that was completely outrageous, as if she couldn't believe that I wasn't joking.

"No, it's true. That's what we are going to do - well, actually, not do."

"You mean, except for the news, at six o'clock, right?"

"No - no TV means, no news at six o'clock, or at any other time. Let's see if we can keep this shit out of our lives for at least twenty four hours."

"Oh, I see, we're playing a game, are we? What's it called?"

"It's called - let's see - it's called, okay, I've got it - it's called - the let's save our sanity game."

"Nice name. Very impressive. How do you play it?"

"As I said before, by doing new things. Things we don't usually do. We're going to start by going out shopping. Did you know that I have a nice big stove in my kitchen, with a nice big oven? And that there is also a big refrigerator in there too. We're going to go to the butchers, the fish monger, down by the bay, and to the supermarket and we're going to buy a lot of food and tonight we're going to do something we never do - we're going to cook our own supper - But before we do, I think we should also go to a book store and buy a cook book or two, so that we will have a fighting chance of producing something that is actually eatable."

We were still standing facing each other with our hands casually fondling each other - hers on my arse, mine cupping her breasts. Suddenly she broke lose and turned towards her computer.

"No need for cookbooks. I could google up recipes on the internet. You said fish right - what kind of fish?"

"No, no internet, no computers. Turn it off. We'll buy cookbooks. We're doing things differently today, because, remember, it our let's save our sanity day, today."

She turned back and looked at me. "We'll need to get the books first and look for a recipe, so we'll know what ingredients to buy."

"No, we'll buy stacks of stuff, meat and vegetables, and every herb and every spice in the supermarket, you know, that stuff that comes in those fancy little bottles that are all the same size. And later we'll pick a recipe out of the cookbook that matches the food we've bought. More fun that way, I think."

She smiled, and with a hand behind her back, she switched off her computer.

At the supermarket we loaded up on every possible condiment and every other piddling item we thought we might possibly need, all the things that we would normally walk straight past without even giving a glance.

Not knowing where fishing boats docked to unload their catch at our end of the bay, and suspecting that this sort of thing probably happened at the break of dawn anyway, we decided to go to the Queen Victoria Market, to the section where all the butchers and the well-stocked fresh-fish merchants hung out and regaled passer-byes with tempting offers and boasts. There we bought some super-fresh oysters, and some small black lobsters, called marrons, which we didn't have the slightest clue about how to prepare and cook, but we had a pretty good idea about how to eat them and what they would taste like, or should taste like, if we managed to get the cooking thing done right. Then we headed for the fruit and vegetable section and loaded up with all the basic staple products and from an Asian stall a few exotic items that we had never seen before, didn't know the name of, and had no idea about what they would taste like.

We dropped into a bookstore on the way home and picked up some cookbooks. One in particular which filled us with confidence titled; Seafood Cooking For Dummies. How could we go wrong, when we had a book written especially for us?

To help us commiserate and get over the disappointment of any devastating failures I also picked up a few bottles of champagne.

At home we covered the kitchen table with our goodie, made a space for our special book, and started flipping pages looking at pictures and reading list of ingredients trying to imagine the splendid taste sensations we could expect if we didn't manage to screw things up too badly.

We had fun, which was really our main objective all along.

And the champagne wasn't needed to drown the sorrows caused by any catastrophes, but we drank it anyway, while cooking while eating, and after when we sat in joyful bliss celebrating what a success our first attempt at mastering the culinary sciences had been.

Later, feeling in a joyful mood we went to bed early, and without having to try hard to forget all about the pending virus attack, we engaged in some exceedingly pleasant and long-overdue love making.

I woke next day still euphoric and elated over our success in the kitchen, and between the sheets. Hopeful that we could maintain our relaxed dispositions and keep that dark dog of depression chained up outside, away from our door for a while longer.

I guess my big mistake was not continuing my moratorium on television viewing. Every time we watched the news over the last week we had been rewarded with nothing but good news, and I didn't consider that today's viewing could do anything but add to that.

How wrong can a person be sometimes?

At about one minute to eleven I switched on the little set in the kitchen to catch the eleven o'clock news, as I sat there encouraging Jill to attempt to try making a complicated omelette that she thought looked good in one of our new cookbooks. As well as eggs it required spinach, tomatoes, onions, three different types of cheeses, and herbs that I was sure we now had among our proud collection of little bottles lined up and ready for action on a shelve nearby. Even as Jill beat up some eggs and I chopped ingredients it looked appetizing, and promised to taste good.

But then the news was on, and it was anything but good.

It was horrific.

It told us that what we feared most was starting to happen. In fact it was the lead story.

After the musical fanfare announcing the start of the show we were shown a few quick snippets of the main items with an announcer's voice over telling us what to expect. Then the stoic face of the female news reader was on. "Today's first item is about a strange phenomenon occurring all around the world. A mild outbreak of a new strain of influenza. It was noticed for the first time a little over a week ago in Singapore and since then it quickly spread and is now affecting people in every city and town and village in every country around the world. Jimmy Button, our reporter in Tokyo, takes up the story."

Jill slammed down a saucepan on the kitchen table and stood there frozen staring at the TV set. My heart missed a few beats as I too became frozen to the spot, my eyes on the screen. The stoic reader was replaced by a reporter standing next to an elderly man with thick rimed glasses and wearing a tweed jacket.

"Doctor Sidney Dobbs works for the World Health Organization here in Tokyo and is a specialist on infectious diseases. Doctor can you tell us what's happening and what so unusual about it?"

"Yes - first, the occurrence of new strains of influenza is not unusual, it happen all the time. A new strain is usually discovered every year. What is strange this time is, this strain seems to have broken out simultaneously all over the world. You see, what usually happens is a new strain breaks out in one place first, and then over the course of a year, usually in winter months, it gradually spreads around the world."

"So, are you saying this new strain is highly contagious, more contagious than previous strains?"

"Yes, indeed it is. We have never seen any other disease that is anywhere near as contagious as this one. And this is strange because although it is highly contagious it doesn't seem to be as debilitating as influenza usually is. It's a very mild type of influenza. It symptoms are mild. So far, as far as we know, no one has died from it. This is very strange. Usually many elderly people, or people with bad hearts or weak lungs die from influenza each year. And also this one doesn't last long. We have reports about some people who became infected late last week, who have already gotten over it."

"So I take it you're not very worried about this influenza outbreak?"

"There is one other strange thing about this bug. It seems that so far, not one person who was vaccinated during the recent bird flu epidemic has been infected by this new strain of influenza."

"Are you saying that this bug is a new form of bird flu? Or that somehow it was derived from bird flu?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all. On the contrary, we have already looked at that question and compared the two viruses and we have come to the conclusion that the two viruses are not related in any way."

"So how do you explain what is happening?"

"So far we have no explanation. All we can say is - it seems as if the bird flu vaccine is now working as a vaccine against this new strain of influenza. And we have no idea why this is happening."

"Thank you doctor Dobbs. Back to you Tracy."

The News reader in the studio was back on the screen introducing the next item. I switched off the television.

Jill stormed out of the kitchen. I thought about going after her, thought about waiting a while to give her time to cool down. I looked at the beaten eggs in the bowl on the table and thought about putting them into a frying pan and making the omelette while I thought about what to do next, and quickly dismissed that idea, and decided to go and look for Jill.

I found her in the lounge room sitting on the couch with crossed arm staring at the wall opposite.

I could have sat facing her in an arm chair, to give her space and to be better able to gauge her emotions. Instead I sat down next to her and put my open hand palm up on her lap.

After a few seconds she unfolded her arms and placed a hand on top of mine.

"The disease that guy on the news described," I softly said, "is not the same as the one described in the email you found addressed to the Judge in the big computer."

"No, it's not. But we both know that it's the one released by Wilson a couple of weeks ago, and that the reason it broke out simultaneously in different cities is because he mailed it all around the world."

"Yeah, I guess so. But remember, that doctor on TV said so far no one had died from catching this disease."

"It's probably only a matter of time."

"Maybe, but I don't think so. Remember he said that some people were over it completely, already. I think something must have gone wrong with Wilson's bug. It's a fizzer. He got the contagious part of it right, but screwed up on the deadly killer bit."

"Yeah I guess so." She smiled, which made me smile, and soon we were both giggling with joy.

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens next, to be sure," she snickered. I wasn't too worried; her face still wore a broad smile.

Somehow we did manage to wait. The first few days were the hardest, but after that it became easier as there continued to be no reports of death from this new disease.

A week later there was still no reports, and then two weeks, we started to become optimistic, telling ourselves that Wilson must have made a big mistake, that somehow he must have miscalculated the toxicity of his invention.

Soon we were not scared to turn the TV on any time we felt like it, and I was watching all the news shows again.

The best estimates from the experts on the subject said they believed up to ninety percent of the human population must have been effected by this new strange virus, that being infected didn't do much harm to anyone. And after three weeks they said it had burnt itself out. That it was now dead. It had simply ran out of new people to infect who could carry it on, and without such people it had disappeared from the face of the planet, for good, everyone hoped. Everyone who had been infected by it quickly got over it, and life went on as before, as if this strange event had never even happened.

Jill and I also got over it and resumed our lives as if it had never happened. She was given a new assignment by Henry, her boss in Melbourne, and I, believe it or not, went and had a talk to Bruce and got my old job back.

Sure for a while I was pissed off at being back doing that sort of work, for a while, but I got over it, and tell me - who doesn't get sick of doing whatever they do to earn a living every now and then? I realized I was too old to be zipping off to strange places around the world chasing down details about people in misery, and calling it serious journalism, when there were already plenty of people in Melbourne with their own brand of misery. The sorrow felt by a gullible bloke in Melbourne who had just been swindled out of his life savings by a conniving astrologer was just as real as the sorrow of an untouchable in India who has just seen his tin hobble stomped down by a bulldozer to make room for a car park of a new shopping centre.

And if the truth were told, most of the viewers in Melbourne were probably more interested in the misery of the poor bloke in Melbourne, than that of the untouchable in Mumbai.

That's just life - People are always more interested in what effects them personally than what is happening to the rest of the world. It has always been that way, and who knows? - It will probably always remain that way.

CHAPTER 24

I arrived at the Lomond early and straight away noticed that Jill had not arrived yet. Naturally I went and sat on the stool at my favourite spot at the bar, where I always sat, and shortly after Stan, the barman, put down a beer in front of me.

"You're early. What happened, did you run out of perverts to hassle?"

"Yeah, good guess. They must have all got religion and changed their wicked ways. Don't know what I'm going to do now. Guess I'll have to start checking up on barmen who water down the beer."

"Hey, come on, you know barmen don't do that sort of thing. We're just hard working stiffs. It's the publican's job to do that."

"Right, thanks for setting me straight. I'll put publicans on my hit list, for the next time things get a bit slack."

He nodded his head as he walked off to serve someone down the bar. Over the years I had already done my share of stories about Pub owners who been caught watering down the beer, and filling up expensive scotch bottles with cheep stuff.

I picked up my beer and tasted it, trying to decide if there was any chance it had been water down.

A few seconds later someone sat down on the stool beside me and spoke to me. "Hello Mike. Can I buy you a drink?" I looked around. It was a woman I didn't recognize. Hell, I hadn't had a fan do this sort of thing for a while - it used to happen a lot. Now, since Jill and I have been together, it only happens a few times a year.

In a homely sort of way she was cute, even beautiful, but she was not Jill, and I was not in the least interested.

"Look miss, I'm sorry, but I, hum, I'm just sitting here intending to have a few quite drinks to wind down after a hard day's work, and I'm not looking for any company. In fact, I'm waiting for my girlfriend to arrive."

"My name is Rose," she said, "Ben told me I could find you here. I just thought it was about time we met, so that I could thank you for all your help. And maybe tie up a few lose ends, in person, instead of over the internet."

"Oh my God, you're Rose. Well, hi, Rose, I'm Mike. It's good to meet you at last."

I put out my hand. Meeting Rose like this had come as a bit of a shock. It was something I never expected to happen, never even considered it.

She giggled sweetly and took my hand. "I know who you are Mike, I've seen you on TV many times."

"Of cause you have, sorry. It's just you've taken me by surprise. I wasn't expecting to meet you like this."

"The main reason I wanted to see you Mike, was to thank you in person for all your help. So thank you Mike." She hesitated a second, then quickly leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment as she leaned back and looked away in discomfit for few seconds. She was smiling shyly. I was mystified. What had I done, exactly, to bring that on?

"So, what did I do - that you are thanking me for?"

She looked back at me. "You found Ben, the judge, for me. And you put us together."

"Oh, right, that, yeah, okay, you're welcome, any time. - Don't mention it."

I was about to say something else when I heard Jill's voice, behind me, talking to someone. I looked around and got another shock. There she was over in a far corner standing talking to someone who was sitting alone at a table. She moved a bit and I saw that the person she was talking to was Ben. He was smiling and suddenly looked over at me and Rose, and raised his hand in greeting, then with his fingers he beckoned us to come over and join him at his table.

Rose got up and waited to see what I was doing. I noticed Jill sit down at Ben's table, so naturally I got up and we both went over and joined them.

"Hi, Ben. Didn't expect to see you again. Thought you might be living in Japan these days, and it did cross my mind that you might even be dead, the way you simply disappeared off the face of the Earth."

"I was in Japan for a while, but I'm back now. And it's good to see you again Mike."

I turned to Jill. "Jill, this sweet young lady here is Rose. Rose, this is my girlfriend Jill."

For a second or two Jill looked confused, then suddenly things clicked into place and she reached out and offered her hand to Rose. They smiled and shook hands.

"I rang your house a few times and the lady who answered, she sounded Japanese, told me you were gone, and she didn't know where you were, or when you would be coming back."

"Arr, yes, that would have been my house keeper. A wonderful woman. She does a great job looking after the place. She treats it as if it was her own house, which it just might end up being, one day. I'm not getting any younger."

I didn't know what to make of that, so I just let it slide. I had a thousand other questions for this character that I was more interested in. Before I could start on any of them Ben stood up and headed for the Bar. "It must be my shout. I think I remember what everyone drinks."

I had questions for Rose too, but decided to wait until Ben returned.

"Ben has told me a lot about you Jill," said Rose. "He said you were very beautiful. I can see he didn't exaggerate. He also said you had a wonderful singing voice."

Jill looked surprised and a little confused about how to respond to this.

"He told you about our night at the Japanese restaurant?"

"Yes, he said it was the best fun he'd had in years."

"Well, we all had a few too many drinks that night. But it was fun."

"Hell, that's not the way I remember it. Just thinking about it makes my legs quiver."

Ben returned carrying our drinks on a tray.

"So," he said as he sat down and placed our drinks in front of us, "being a good reporter, I bet you have a few questions you're dying to ask."

"I do - in fact, I've got so many I don't know where to start."

"Take your time, there's no hurry."

"Okay, let's start with the big one first. What happened to the virus? It turned out to be a bit of a fizzer."

"Humm, a fizzer - I haven't heard that expression for a while. Not since I was a young man living in England. They used to celebrate the Queens birthday over there with a fire-cracker night. Everybody would buy fire works, and let them off. You would light a cracker's fuse and throw it, and usually it went bang, but sometimes it didn't, instead it would just shoot a lot of sparks out one end. They called that type a fizzer."

"Yeah, we used to have fire cracker nights here too. I interviewed a guy who was badly burnt on Guy Folks night when he was a kid. He had a pocket full of crackers and some idiot lit a fuse sticking out of his pocket. All his crackers exploded in his pocket and his clothes caught on fire. That sort of thing happened a lot. That's why they banned cracker night here and in England. - So tell me about the virus, what happened - what went wrong?"

"Well, for a start, it wasn't a fizzer. It worked exactly as planned."

"What? - How could that be right? - No one died. So obviously it didn't work."

"Oh, it worked all right. And it is still working. How about I tell you more about that later. First, why don't I tell you about what happened when I received the email from Rose? And right now I would like to say thanks for giving her my email address."

"Don't mention it. Okay, so tell me what happened when you met Rose?"

"Very well. When Rose contacted me she told me where and when we could meet. We met in a small town, not far from where she was staying, where John Wilson was in hiding with some others. When we met she told me about Chris Norton and his involvement with Wilson. It seems that Chris, and Wilson, and some others started out working on a completely different virus. Before going on with my story, perhaps I should first tell you and Jill more about this other virus."

He sat thinking about it, and then took a sip of his drink, then resumed thinking about it some more. I felt like throwing something at him.

"For Christ sake, get on with it."

"Prepare your self. Don't get angry when I tell you about the virus that was set lose."

"Your stalling tactics are not helping me stay calm. So just tell us."

"Okay. Rose and I managed to fool Wilson. We substituted his deadly virus with one that Chris Norton worked on. And Wilson released Chris's virus, thinking he was releasing his own...."

"I thought you were going to tell us about the virus."

"Yes, Okay, okay. Chris's virus didn't kill anyone because it wasn't meant to. It wasn't designed to kill people. Its function was to make every person, man or woman, who became infected by it, completely sterile, infertile - to make them completely incapable of reproducing an offspring. Unfortunately there was a little side effect to this treatment. Anyone who became infected had to put up with a slight case of the flu for a few days while the virus did its job. It probably made them sneeze and cough a bit, and they probably had the sniffles for about a week, or two, poor things, it must have been awful."

He reached for his drink, in order to let what he'd just said sink in. Although he resisted smiling I think he was enjoying himself tremendously. In fact, I think that's probably the true reason he came here today - to be amused, as he watched our reaction when he laid that one on us. And I'm sure we didn't disappoint him. We must have looked like people who had just learned for the first time men had walked on the moon.

"Ha, hah," I said, trying to look cool, like I already knew this.

"Are you saying," said Jill, with her brow wrinkled up in concentration, "that the virus was switched, and that the one let lose has already sterilized everyone who was infected by it?"

"That, my dear, is exactly what I am saying."

"Oh my God. No more babies."

"Well, not exactly – there will be more, just not so many. All the people who received the bird flu vaccine were also vaccinated against Chris's virus. So they will still be able to have babies. Good news, right? \- You two have got nothing to worry about. You can have as many babies as you like."

"Oh, my Fucking God," I said. I thought it wouldn't hurt to let him have a little satisfaction.

"She had nothing to do with it,' said Rose.

"So how many people were infected, and what's going to happen?" asked Jill.

"Well it seems it was a great success. All the people we were expecting to be infected by the deadly virus were infected by this one instead. I imagine there are some lucky people who fell between the cracks and missed out on being infected - People who had a built-in natural genetic resistance, and others who, because they lived in remote corners of the planet, like in the artic, and hermits in the Himalaya Mountains. These people will still be able to conceive. And of cause the ones who received the vaccine. But still, the number of people infected must be close to six billion."

"Six billion," both Jill and I said at about the same time.

"So what's going to happen?" said Ben. "For many years to come there is going to be a huge imbalance between the birth rate and the death rate. As people grow old and die, or die young from natural causes, or get killed in accidents, or die from famines, which will happen more frequently for a while as the oil starts to run out and farm land gets used to produce biofuels instead of food, and as people die in small local wars - As all these people die, only a very small percentage of them with be replaced by the birth of new babies, and the human population will constantly and steadily be reduced over time, until humans are no longer in plague proportions and the scourge of this planet as they are now."

"But how do you know that the virus is working - that it is actually making people infertile?"

"Why don't you drop in on some hospitals tomorrow and ask how many new pregnant women have come in lately, say in the last week. You'll be able to make a good story out of what you discover."

"Tell me more about Chris," Jill said.

Rose started speaking, in my opinion to get in before Ben had chance to start. "When I first met Chris, when we were in Uni together. He had dreams of developing an agent, or a compound, that, when dropped in the water supply of a city, would make everyone who drank that water sterile. He had dreams of groups of people, future visualizers, he called them, eco-warriors or eco-terrorists they would be called today, travelling all around the world dropping these agents into the water supply of every city they visited.

"At the start both Chris and Wilson worked on this sterilization Virus and they developed a vaccine for it. Chris thought that this was the virus that Wilson planned to release. He didn't know that Wilson was developing the deadly virus. When Chris finally found out what was going on, and decided to tell the world to try to stop it, he was killed.

"No one in the Solutions Society knew about Chris's sterilization Virus. Wilson didn't care about what vaccine went into the bird flu vaccine, because he changed his mind about what should happen. He decided that the only people who would receive his vaccine would be his followers, and he personally injected all of them with the vaccine for the killer virus. No one else was to get a dose. He wanted to kill every other human on the planet. He was completely crazy.

"Wilson let Chris go through the procedure to put his sterilization vaccine in with the bird flu vaccine because he intended to release the killer virus and he didn't want the SolSoc to know that the vaccine would be ineffective against it."

"Rose, why didn't you tell me about this other virus, in your emails?"

"Two reasons, I didn't want you to know about it, because although I thought you wanted to stop the deadly virus, I didn't know whether you would also try to stop Chris's virus as well.

"Second reason, I wasn't convinced that your email setup was secure. I knew that I was the only one who knew about Chris's virus - no one in the Solution Society knew about it, and I wanted to keep it that way because I didn't know who I could trust. I didn't know who in the Society was working with John Wilson, and I didn't want anyone to know that Chris had given me a sample of his virus for safe keeping. The only person I was willing to trust was the Judge because John was afraid of him. He told me all about the Judge's desire to stall things until his robots were ready."

"And you contacted me," I said, "because I was outside the society?"

"Yes, exactly."

"You thought I would be able to find the Judge?"

"Yes, and I was right. That's why I rang you. I knew straight after your show about Chris's death went on air, your phone would be bugged. I wanted people to know that I had contacted you. I knew they were trying to find Wilson. And I hoped that sooner or later the judge would contact you. That's why I kept stalling for time, and giving you the run around. All that bullshit about wanting your studio to pay me a million dollars, was just a stalling tactic. Although I did actually need a million to carry out my plans. But I knew it wouldn't be coming from you."

"I see. But why didn't more people contact me, to try to find you. Ben, you're the only one who came looking for her."

"They didn't have to contact you," said Ben, "they all had your place completely bugged."

"Who do you mean when you say they?"

"Everybody! ASIO, the Solution Society, the CIA, the Australian Feds, FBI, MI6, everyone. They all had their own special bugs planted in your house, in your car, and just under the lip of this bar here, in the Lomond, since you always sat in the same place in here, and in the bistro you always sat at the same table."

I resisted looking across at Jill, and kept all trace of surprise from showing on my face. "If that's the case, then why did you come here, and make contact?"

"I wanted to meet Jill. I was tremendously impressed with the way she was going about unravelling the mysteries built into my machine. The way she was learning how it worked and how to operate it. I wanted to know what she was discovering."

Jill couldn't hide her surprise. And she looked a little embarrassed by this unexpected praise. Ben turned and looked straight at Jill. "If you ever get tired of being a cop, come and see me. I'll give you a job, just about any job you want. And I'll pay you about ten times more than you're receiving now."

Jill's eyes opened wide and she looked even more surprised.

"Wow, I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

"Know much about robotics?"

"No, not much."

"Doesn't matter. You're a smart girl. You'll pick it up easily enough."

"So what happened when you two got together," I asked, "down in that small town you mentioned earlier?"

Ben nodded his head, "Right, well, For a start Jill surprised me when she told me about the virus Chris had developed, and said she had a seed copy of it ready to be grown into more, and that the vaccine in with the bird flu vaccine was only for this virus. I was delighted because it would give me time to get my robots up and running. My original intention was simply to stop the killer virus from being released.

"Rose knew where the killer virus was being kept. It was being watched over mostly by Wilson's people, and also by one of the key biologist who had helped develop it, and the sterilization virus."

Rose interrupted him. "There are a few things you need to know about this guy. He was not in the least bit religious. And definitely was not one of Wilson's cult followers. He had been appointed to this job by the Solution Society. He received his orders from the administrator of the Asimov Project and he intended to follow them. There is something else you need to know about him. His wife and children were all killed in a car accident. The hatred he had for this world when he started working on the virus had burnt out a long time ago, along with his desire for revenge. Now he just didn't care what happened anymore. He didn't care if he lived or died. He had not even given himself a shot of the vaccine."

"He and Rose had had many conversations," said Ben. "And he had made it plain to her he would not switch the viruses because he was afraid of repercussions if he went against the Society. Although he had no desire to keep on living he was afraid of dieing. But he also told her that he would switch the viruses, for a million dollars, as compensation for going against his principles and betraying the people who trusted him. And also the million would enable him to go into hiding and avoid the Solution Society for the rest of his life."

"So he knew about Chris's virus," I said. "Why didn't he tell the guy running the project, the administrator, about it?"

"He did," said Rose. "I don't know who he told, but he did tell someone. But the person he told didn't tell anyone else, he just told my friend to forget all about the sterilizer, and that his orders were to release the killer. I think the person he told was taking his orders from Wilson."

Ben took up the story again. "So this is where I came into the picture. I actually knew this guy and knew that he was willing to take orders from me, because I was a high ranking member of the Society, and also because I was willing to pay him the million dollars."

"Weren't you afraid that you were being conned out of a million dollars?

"No, not really, as I said I knew this guy. Besides when you're a billionaire being cheated out of a million is not such a big deal."

"Right, why didn't I think of that? I guess we look at things from a different perspective sometimes. So what happened?"

"As soon as the switch was made I organized for some heavies to get near to Wilson's hiding place and to wait there under cover until after Wilson and his helpers had finished the job of preparing all the letters and packing them, ready to be distributed. Then they came down heavy on Wilson and his helpers. I wanted to be sure I would never again have to worry about Wilson releasing his deadly virus."

"Does that mean what it sounds like it means?"

"Yes. Wilson and his helpers are no longer amongst the living. Now don't start feeling sorry for them. Remember they were on the verge of killing billions of their fellow humans. They were not nice people."

I refrained from mentioning that at one stage Ben had the same dream.

"We destroyed all his journals and the notes he made about the results of all his experiments. So that now, no one in the society can get their hands on them and pass them along to someone else who could use them to manufacture and release the deadly virus in a few months time. Now they will have to start again from scratch, and it will take many years of research before they are ready to try again."

"And his followers back on the community farm, what's happened to them?"

"No one's worried about them. By now they have discovered that the end of the world has not happened as expected. That they have not been placed on high as the elite in God's kingdom on Earth, as Wilson predicted. And now without their leader they are probably in the process of dissipating. They are like a chook without its head, running around aimlessly. By now they have probably come to the realization that they are just like every other person on this planet, wondering why they are here, and what they should be doing to stay alive."

"So, that's it. Now we know."

"Yes, now you know. Hey, you missed the six o'clock news tonight."

"I'm not worried. I've got some VCRs set up at home that will take care of that."

"Okay. My shout again. Tonight the drinks are on me. How about a couple of bottles of champagne this time. Hey, I just remembered - this is one of the few pubs in Melbourne that sell saki. Anyone feel like a round of saki?"

"I'm feeling hungry," said Jill. "I was thinking about going in next door and getting something to eat.

"I've got a better idea," said Ben. "I know a nice little Japanese place, not too far from here."

"If you're thinking about that sit on the floor place, forget it."

If everything Ben and Rose had said was true and this new virus was out there and working as planned then Chris Norton would either be cursed and labelled as the most evil person who ever lived, and damned to hell by some, or he would be praised by others - and might even go down in history as humanity's greatest savoir.

A few days later I did exactly what Ben had suggested I should do if I needed proof that the new virus was a sterilizer and was working. I went to the local hospital and found a doctor I had once interviewed in connection with a baby that was born here about a year ago. Perhaps baby is the wrong word – I guess to be accurate I should refer to what was born as a set of Siamese twins, although it certainly didn't look like two babies. It looked like one baby with two heads. The bodies of these twins were so fused that there seemed to be only one torso, with the usual two perfectly formed arms and two legs, plus some little shrivelled up appendages that should have been the other twin's arms and legs. It would have been a very strange creature if it had lived longer then the six days that it did live. It would have been a sensation, and would have attracted a great deal of attention wherever it went.

Anyway, I asked this doctor if the number of pregnant women coming into the hospital was the same as usual, or if the numbers had dropped off recently. The doctor must have thought I was crazy, as he told me that he had noticed no change – that there were just as many women falling pregnant as usual. As I walked out of the hospital I couldn't help wondering about the possibility that Rose had actually worked a successful sting on Ben after all.

Later at the Lomond when I told Jill about this. At first she was surprised that Ben and Rose had been so wrong about this new virus. She dismissed my speculation about a sting as improbable. She liked Rose and said she thought of her as an unsophisticated, uncomplicated and uninhibited girl from the country – Jill's words, not mine – as someone who would not consider doing anything like that. Then she told me that she was delighted that Ben's plans had gone haywire. I did not share her delight – it crossed my mind that the members of the Solution Society would not be happy, and that they were probably busy at this very moment dreaming up a new and perhaps an even more diabolically deadly scheme that would fix everything, and produce the results they wanted.

Jill suddenly looked as if she had just remembered something important. "It's only been a little over four weeks since the virus was released," she said. "All the pregnant women turning up at the hospital now probably became pregnant before the virus was released. So, it doesn't mean anything. It's too early yet to expect the numbers of expecting mothers to start dropping. We will just have to wait awhile, before we know for sure if the virus is working or not."

THE END.

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