Day 8 (Payroll)

The conversation wandered after that point, as did Wynn's
attention. Eventually the co-workers began to leave, one by one.
He handed them all his business card as they went, even if he
didn't imagine they'd call him. He'd learned a long time ago that
this was never a bad idea; more than one lead - even if on a
different story - had come to him from casual handouts of his
card.

Finally, after hours of mostly listening with a question or two
added every now and then, he was alone at his table with only his
notes for company. There were parts he liked about his job -
talking to people who were willing to help him with a story was
one. Getting a story out of the unwilling was perhaps even more
enjoyable, on those few occasions when he managed to pull it off.
Seeing his work in print was always satisfying. The part coming
next, however, wasn't on the list. That part was, of course, the
painstaking creation of a rough draft and near-constant revision
it would require to become presentable.

He drove home in the dark easily - one advantage to keeping the
insane hours that he tended to was that there was nowhere near
rush hour's volume on the roads. He didn't really have to pay
much attention to the road, which worked out well for him given
he was already constructing a the story in his mind. It didn't
have to be a long story, it had that much going for it. Tomorrow
he'd have to stop by the hospital, find out why Caster had
refused treatment. That was a detail that kept nagging at him
and, even though the place was entirely out of his way, one he
wouldn't let go. He'd also have to go back down and talk to
VonCannon. Most of him just wanted to steer clear of the old
coot, but he owed it to himself to find out what the connection
was. It simply seemed odd to him that Caster and VonCannon hadn't
spoken in years, and the day that the former was apparently
driving close to the latter, the former died under strange
circumstances.

It was probably just a coincidence, he rationalized. He'd seen
stranger things happen that also had turned out to be
meaningless.

Ten thirty. That was the time his car informed him of as he
pulled into his familiar driveway. A bit long a day, granted, but
a productive one. He wandered inside and started preparing for
bed. Not because he planned to get up all that early, simply
because he knew he'd put it off for another few hours.

He was lying down and shutting his eyes when he remembered the
one thing he'd forgotten to accomplish.

``Call Rosetta!'' he exclaimed, almost literally jumping out of
his bed.

His alarm clock beamed the numbers '11:45' at him redly, and he
cursed under his breath. He knew that in some schools of thought
it was better to wait a while - days, even - before calling
someone who'd given you their number. The problem with this
approach in Grant's experience was that the woman in question was
likely to have forgotten who he was and why he was calling by
that point. This was moot in this case, he considered while
rifling through his dirty laundry pile in a likely futile attempt
to locate his pants. Rose already knew who he was. No, she'd do
worse than forget why he was calling. She'd hold his tardiness
against him.

He located his discarded jeans and rummaged through the pockets,
finally locating the card she'd given him. He raised it
triumphantly and got as far as picking up his bedside phone to
dial the number before he considered.

Eleven fifty one. That wasn't really all that late for him, in
fact he was going to bed somewhat early tonight, but he realized
that the vast majority of people tended to have sane bedtimes.
When would Rose have gone to bed? Which would she be more angry
about, his waking her or his forgetting, then remembering but not
calling?

To hell with it, he decided, and dialed the number.

A ring.

Two.

Three. Most answering machines and voicemail services picked up
after the fourth ring, a fact which annoyed him because it
usually took him two rings of his own phone for him to even
realize it was ringing. He mentally began preparing a message. It
was the best of both worlds, really, he wouldn't have woken her
up but he'd have called -

``You're late.'' Rose's voice seemed somewhat detached, but it
wasn't sleepy.

``At least I didn't wake you up?'' He ventured.

``Ha! I wish you had. That'd at least mean I'd gotten some sleep.
I've been catching up on work, the outage really put us behind.
How about you, how's the paperboy business?'' Her voice had
picked up steam now.

He had to stifle a laugh at how she'd described his career. ``I
was thinking of that exact term last week when I was doing a
story about the city's largest teacup collection.''

``You know, if you can't tell me the story you're working on
because it's confidential, you can just say so. You don't have to
make up these ridiculous stories. Who'd read about a teacup
collection?''

``That's exactly what I said to my boss when he gave me the
story.'' Grant pointed out. ``He said I needed to do more human
interest stories.''

``I thought they had to be interesting to be human interest
stories.''

``That's the next thing I said.''

There was a pause for a moment, and Grant found himself wondering
if the line had cut out. Then Rose's voice returned.

``I guess the question I need to ask you at this point,'' she
began, ``is: Are we going to just talk on the phone about your
boss, or are you going to ask me out?''

Grant feigned ignorance, never a difficult task. ``You want to go
out and talk about my boss?''

``I guess if you're not int-''

He didn't give her the chance to continue with that line of
thought. ``Want to go out?''

``Hmmmm.... ``He'd played dumb, and now he was paying for it. ``I
guess I could. It'd have to be at a restaurant, though, no movie
or anything. You're going to have to talk.'' She spoke up again
right as Grant was about to say something: ``And no, you can't
gripe about your boss there, either. In the spirit of fairness, I
won't complain about mine either.''

``You're self-employed.''

``And yet I'm still making myself do things like stay up and
finish work, lucky for you. The point is, you now have my terms.
Take them or leave them.''

She could get away with these things, he reflected, because she
knew he wasn't about to turn her down. It'd always been that way.
Still, it wasn't every day he had people demanding to go on
dates. ``It's a deal.''

``Good. You want to pick me up after work? Assuming, that is, you
can find your way to the recycling plant this time.'' there was a
teasing note in her voice, even though he hadn't mentioned his
earlier failed attempt. He'd have to ask about that later.

``Sounds good, when's after work for you?''

She laughed. ``You want me to give you another card?''

``Right. I'll see you at closing time.''

``Bye.''

``Bye.'' he replied reflexively, as they both hung up.

---

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Day 7 (Payroll)

4 Payroll

``I can't believe it, I saw him just last week.''

``Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.'' Grant said. He meant it,
too - when he'd managed to get ahold of someone at Vervicom who
hadn't yet gone home for the day, he'd been pretty upbeat about
it. What he'd neglected to mention over the phone was the reason
he wanted to talk to Caster's colleagues.

The co-worker Grant was talking to now, David, was shaking his
head slowly as though he wasn't quite understanding the
situation. It had been David who'd been fortunate - or
unfortunate - enough to answer Grant's call. The former had been
more than willing to discuss the late doctor, and had told the
reporter to meet up at a bar where they all, as a group,
sometimes went out after work.

``What am I going to tell them?'' David said, glancing over at
the half-dozen other co-workers who were frequenting the place.
When Grant had first arrived Dave had pulled him away from the
rest of the group in order to not be overheard, apparently under
the impression that Dr. Caster would be arriving soon. Wynn was
less than happy to have to inform him this would not be the case.

``Again, I have to apologize,'' Grant said in his most serious
reporter voice. ``I should have made myself more clear over the
phone earlier today.'' He'd been at this job for years but in
moments like this he still ended up feeling awkward.

``So...'' David paused. ``I guess... what questions do you have?''

``Anything you can tell me about Dr. Caster.''

``James. Or Jim.'' Dave smiled somewhat. ``He always insisted on
us using his first name. He said that if everyone in research
insisted on everyone else using their full titles, every other
spoken word would end up being 'Doctor'.''

Grant never went anywhere without a notepad and a writing
implement. Though he preferred making even rough drafts on
computer, he could never find anything portable enough for him to
take notes electronically and wasn't a voice recorder. In his
experience, recording equipment put people off. A pad of paper
and a pen, though, that was damn near expected. He jotted down a
note on the one he'd grabbed from his desk when he left the
office, and followed it up with, ``So how long did he work at
Vervicom?''

``I actually don't know,'' David admitted. ``I was hired on after
him. Maybe ten years or so?''

In truth Grant knew Dr. Caster's exact dates of employment or
would very soon, as the public employee profile was on its way to
his fax machine at the office, if the secretary he'd spoken to at
Vervicom was at all reliable. Given that she hadn't sounded at
all like any of those they'd had at the Gazette, this was likely
to be the case. He'd only asked David the question because he
found it to be a good lead-in question. Get them talking about
the person he was interested in.

``Actually, it's kinda funny, the only reason I have any idea is
because of the story.'' David had apparently misinterpreted
Grant's silence and had decided to fill the void.

``What sto-'' The reporter began, but David was already out of
the booth they'd been occupying and across the room to his other
compatriots. Before Grant had a chance to stand up, he'd returned
with one of them.

``This is Patrick,'' he said, gesturing to the slightly
bewildered newcomer, ``Pat, tell him about how James got hired.''

Patrick glanced toward the door. ``Caster's usually in by now, he
can tell the story.''

What little cheer David had gained from reminiscing vanished
then, his formerly recovering expression replaced by a shadow
that Grant recognized having seen before, and recently. ``Oh
hell,'' Dave muttered. ``Okay, get the rest of the guys over
here.''

A few moments of awkward maneuvering in order to get all those
from the company who attended the bar in the same general area
were followed by moments of more awkward silence when David broke
the news.

``Car accident?'' Patrick had piped up. ``That man was a more
cautious driver than me, and these guys refuse to let me drive
anywhere because I'm too slow.''

This admission was greeted with a chorus of agreement.

Grant felt entirely self conscious leaning forward, but it
couldn't be helped. He was here for a story, after all. Right now
he was their only source of information and he wasn't going to
fail them. He hoped, desperately, that wanting something in
return didn't make him a wholly despicable person. ``It wasn't
his fault, he was hit by a streetcar, the brakes failed.''

Everyone took this in quietly, and another silence filled the
gap.

``So you're writing a story about him?'' Patrick was once again
brave enough to speak up.

``Yes, we're covering the incidents that happened during the
outage.'' At least, he added silently, those of us foolish enough
to travel during it are getting such assignments.

``Tell him the story.'' David said, suddenly remembering why he'd
called Pat over.

``The payroll story? I don't know, he always told it better than
me.''

``It doesn't have to go in the paper,'' Grant said reassuringly.
He wasn't sure if they were reluctant to talk because they didn't
wish to speak ill of the dead, or simply because they didn't want
to remind themselves of it at all. Whatever the reason, his
statement did the trick.

``All right.'' Pat said, sitting up. ``I always get picked to
tell this story anyway, because I was in payroll when it
happened. I wasn't part of the department, you know, I was just
one of the people who coded up the system. Anyway, you know when
he started working with us, right?''

``About a decade ago,'' Grant said, dutifully referring to his
notes. This appeared to be the right answer, because Pat smiled.

``Ah, no! That's what everyone thinks, because that's what the
records say. He actually came on board about two years after his
supposed start date.''
[(0x0008) Caster's reputation in academia would have allowed him
to recreate the experiments far sooner, thus bringing VonCannon
back into an incompatible environment. This was an eventually
successful attempt at separating him from it.]

``I should have remembered.'' David remarked in a tone that
indicated he'd slipped up quite a bit. ``Here I am, he asks me
when Jim started working and I think I'll tell him the story, but
I don't even remember that part. That's why I had you tell it,
Pat, because you remember the details.''

``Be glad you don't,'' Patrick replied, ``I only remember them
because I caught hell.''

``I'm still not sure I'm following.'' Grant didn't like to
interrupt when people were giving him information, but thus far
it wasn't making a great deal of sense. ``He was working there
but he hadn't started yet?''

``No, he was getting paid for working for Vervicom; he was on
Payroll's roster, but he didn't actually work here. Still worked
for the university at that point, if I recall.'' Pat revealed
this with a tone that underscored the trouble this had caused
him. ``We couldn't even track down how his entry had got into the
system. Wouldn't have even known it if he hadn't been getting the
paychecks returned.''

``I remember that.'' one of the other co-workers whose name Grant
hadn't caught interjected. ``There was some kind of inquiry at
his university about it, they thought he was working for industry
and having a post there, but he wasn't, or something along those
lines.''

``They cleared him.'' Pat clarified. ``But we caught hell. The
returned paychecks weren't that big a deal, nobody except
accounting really noticed them and, just between us, they don't
ask too many questions when the money's flowing in rather than
out. When the local university suddenly has evidence that you've
been trying to buy their people off, that's when it hits the fan.''

``So how did you fix the situation?'' Grant asked.

Dave laughed. ``They hired him.''

Pat paused to consider this. ``It sounds trite, but it's really
what happened. Every time we took him out of the system, he'd end
up back in it a week or two later. It got to the point we had to
write in a special exception, just for him. Meanwhile there were
people at his university that still didn't trust him, so when he
decided to jump ship a year or so later I guess he figured he'd
go to the place that, at least as far as the computers were
concerned, he already worked.''

``That's quite an interesting story.'' Grant replied, writing as
he went. It was interesting and at the same time bizarre, which
typified a great deal of events happening to him lately. ``I'd
have to say, as a recruitment tool, it's hard to beat.''

``Sure,'' Pat agreed, ``and it even opens up the job position by
getting the poor bastard in payroll fired, eh?''

The group laughed at that, and it seemed the earlier awkwardness
had just begun to dissipate when David brought it back.

``It was great to her Jim tell that story.'' he said wistfully. ``
He always used to act like he was so panicked about the
disciplinary board.''

David's eyes widened as he tried to impersonate the doctor. ``
When I heard the committee was meeting to discuss me, suddenly I
was going through all the students in my mind who wanted to pin
something on me! Jenkins has it in for me, Maria's hated me ever
since I turned down her thesis, I've got a campus full of people
who want me out!''

The group laughed at this, too, but sadly. Grant knew this stage
well, everything would remind them of Dr. Caster: The journalist
asking questions about him probably most so.

``Shame we didn't see much of him these past few months.'' Dave
continued, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and unaware of the
effect his statement had had on his compatriots.

``It was some project he was on, right? He didn't say much about
it, but from what I gathered it was pretty confidential. One of
those NDA things.'' the nameless co-worker who'd spoken up before
had done so once more. If he talked any longer, Grant thought
ruefully, he was going to have to find out his name. That would
be yet more awkwardness he did not need.

David was shaking his head. ``I guess I can talk about this now,
but it wasn't NDA stuff, he was doing personal work. Remember
that bit of junk he made earlier this year?''

This question was met with embarrassed silence, as though
everyone else was realizing that they were at this point, indeed,
speaking ill of the dead.

``I didn't mean it like that,'' Dave continued shortly. ``But you
know what I mean. The box with the frayed wires, the one that
disappointed everyone.''

``He said he'd worked for months on it.'' Patrick said, not
making eye contact with anyone.

David nodded, encouraged. ``That was the thing, though. He said
it was working, that disappointing people was what it was
supposed to do.'' he shook his head. ``Anyway, the new project
was something related to that.''

Pat looked up. ``You know who that reminds me of, now you mention
it?'' he had the semi-desperate tone of voice those who have
thought of a plan to change the subject and are hurriedly
implementing it. ``That crazy old colleague of his from his
college days.''

Dave looked blankly at him.

``It was before your time,'' Patrick informed him, as though such
information were reassuring. ``Apparently the doc tried to keep
in touch with those of his old co-workers as would still talk to
him. There was one in particular he talked to a fair amount, but
then after maybe a few years they had this terrible argument over
the phone, you could hear them on other floors.''

``I do remember that!'' Dave interrupted suddenly. ``That was on
my second day! I remember worrying I was working for a drill
instructor or something.''

``I looked him up, actually,'' Pat said, ``because I knew that
kind of reaction wasn't like Jim at all. I wondered if maybe we
were going to have to deal with a stalker or something. I don't
remember the name now, it was Von... something.''

``Oh yeah, I remember this,'' Mystery Worker spoke up. ``It was
VonCannon.''

``What?'' Grant said, forgetting his earlier admonition to
himself to not interrupt. He tried to cover his slip-up by
adding, ``I'm sorry, I didn't catch that name.''

``VonCannon'' the man with no name said again. ``I remember the
'Cannon' part, seemed appropriate for the reaction he got out of
James.''

Patrick was nodding. ``That's the guy. Some strange hermit,
working out of an industrial area downtown. I remember thinking
he was a stalker for a while, but nothing happened.''

Until yesterday, Grant found himself thinking.

---

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