Of Two Minds

Chapter One

At some point you're willing to take a job, any job, just to break the dispiriting cycle of looking for work: hopeful application, positive interview, anxious wait, polite rejection, numbing disappointment. Getting tipsy and wandering onto the Golden Gate Bridge in a deep fog was an optional step six, and then it was back to step one again.

Six months of this Sisyphus routine had been especially frustrating to a computer security guy like myself. Silicon Valley recruiters weren't exactly accosting programmers in the Safeway parking lot anymore, but demand for expertise in security was stronger than ever; yet here I was with thirteen years in the field and sterling recommendations, getting one great interview after another--and having the door slammed in my face each time.

I'd sunk through Foolish Paranoia--had an unknown enemy put a voodoo curse on me?--all the way down to the rock bottom of Grand Doubts: Was this just an extended run of bad luck, or had something gone irrevocably wrong in my life?

Despite this low ebb of self-assurance, I began my usual Sunday morning job hunting ritual with a strong feeling that my luck would change. Since my networking and online efforts had failed so miserably, I'd gone back to squinting at classified ads. After filling my big "Grand Canyon" souvenir mug with coffee and a dollop of half-and-half, I flattened the San Francisco newspapers' "employment opportunities" on our ancient mahogany dining table and readied my scissors.

While I scanned the listings, my cat Krypton curled up in a black ball on the window seat nearby, dead-center in the swath of bright sunlight warming the red cushion. As she tucked her head under her paws, I felt a surge of envy for her serene oblivion to my financial worries; even the rusty snips from my landlady's battle with the wild bougainvillea beneath our window failed to disturb her.

Although my roommate Greg insisted I was fabricating the whole thing, I'd noticed that our landlady Jan--an arty type who often smelled of wet clay--had an uncanny knack for stopping by on the rare evenings we had female guests; she also seemed to save any yardwork for the weekends that Greg's girlfriend Lena slept over. I don't know if she was hoping to witness a full-blown orgy, or if she was just checking that we weren't damaging the Victorian woodwork with bachelor highjinks, but her timing was beyond coincidence.

When I closed the classified sections an hour later, my collection of ads was depressingly small. The best prospect was Intext, a software company down in San Jose. The commute from San Francisco would leave me a bleary-eyed zombie, but at this point I'd grab the first job that came my way and hold on for dear life.

That evening I gathered up the newspapers and tossed them into the recycling bin by the front door. The help-wanted section was on top of the pile, and my eyes were drawn to a dried coffee ring from my mug in the upper-right corner. Inside the muddy round stain was a listing that I'd somehow missed that morning.

STRIKE OUT ON YOUR OWN. Lucrative and unusual position. Computer and psi experience a must. Apply in person Monday, May 3 only, 9 am to noon, 24 Bridgehead Road, San Francisco.

I didn't know what "psi" meant, but "lucrative" and the nearby location were enough for me to tear off the page corner and answer the ad the next morning.

A hazy fog partially obscured the sun; from Bridgehead Road, a quiet industrial street off the Embarcadero, the milky white disk suspended above the East Bay looked like a full moon.

Number 24 was a narrow old red-brick warehouse overshadowed by the Bay Bridge's massive silver span. The grimy facade looked like a child's drawing of a robot face; two narrow horizontal windows formed sleepy eyes above the square mouth of an open roll-up door. Faded "For Lease" signs in the middle of each window and luxuriant dark-green weeds sprouting out of the sidewalk spoke of long neglect.

I pulled out my triangle of newsprint to confirm the address. This was the place, alright, but it sure didn't look like a computer company--or any other business with a pulse.

A bearded man in a glossy new black leather jacket emerged from the fog a few yards away and then stopped uncertainly when he saw the forlorn warehouse. He retrieved the classified section of Sunday's paper from inside his jacket and appeared to check the building's address. After a brief hesitation, he strode toward the gaping door.

Despite my misgivings about the cryptic ad and the decrepit building, I wasn't about to let Mr. Black Jacket or anyone else snatch a job from me. I dashed forward and made it through the door just ahead of him.

A feeble light filtering through rust-streaked glass skylights suffused the cold interior with a dim glow; the dust-laden air smelled of old motor oil and long abandonment. Neat rows of beige folding chairs had been set up between a long white Formica counter in the middle of the cavernous building and the entrance.

About forty other jobseekers were already scattered about, either hunching over applications at the counter or slouching restlessly in the uncomfortable seats, and my spirits sank at the sight of so much competition. A hand-painted banner of bright red letters hanging from cobwebbed rafters declared: "Please do not leave until your application has been reviewed."

Behind the counter, a row of white plywood cubicles about eight feet tall had been hastily constructed against a drywalled partition that hid the back of the warehouse from view. A bespectacled man came round the partition and scurried purposefully into one of the cubicles, slamming the thin door behind him with a bang.

Spotting a neat pile of applications on the counter, I picked one up and then hesitated. Realistically, what were my chances of getting chosen out of this multitude? Slim, I concluded sourly, but since I was already here. . . despite its customized format, no company name appeared anywhere on the form. I quickly scribbled in minimal answers and handed the page and my resume to a gum-chewing clerk with a wild tangle of dyed blond hair.

She glanced over my application and resume with eyes laden with purple eye liner and then flicked a numbered card onto the counter.

"They review the apps in batches," she said without looking up. "Here's your number. Be about half an hour."

Charming, I thought to myself. If this was the firm's idea of frontline service, I was wasting my time even applying. As I turned to sit down, the clerk cracked her wad of gum. The loud pop echoed off the rusty sheet metal roof like a small-caliber gunshot, startling awake a plump man in a hideous green plaid coat who'd been snoring peacefully in the front row.

I followed the man's malevolent glare back to the clerk, who broke into a self-satisfied grin.

"What company is this?" I asked her.

She shrugged. "Don't know. I'm just a temp."

I smiled thinly and tried again. "This doesn't look like the typical computer company personnel department," I said casually. "Is their main office in Silicon Valley?"

She examined her long violet-painted fingernails with the dull glance of the terminally bored. "It's a one-day job. That's all I know."

I didn't move and she considered me with purple-hooded eyes for a moment. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "They paid me double wages. In cash."

I nodded, taken aback by her conspiratorial manner and the unusual payment. She raised her eyebrows theatrically and then walked my application back to a cubicle in a rear corner of the warehouse. Taking a chair next to the side wall, I watched the clerk return to her station and begin practicing her .22-caliber gum crack.

A half-hour slowly drifted by; no one was called for an interview, and it seemed clear that answering this peculiar ad had been a complete waste of time. I actually stood up to leave and then thought, what the hell, might as well satisfy my curiosity about the outfit staging this absurd application process.

I sat down and picked at the sandy, crumbling mortar in the brick wall next to me with my fingernail, annoyed that I'd forgotten to bring my issue of Scientific American. The other applicants sitting nearby weren't so unprepared; a young woman in a tailored white pant suit and teal blouse concentrated on a romance paperback, while the man in the fancy black leather jacket had closed his eyes and was tapping his booted foot to an invisible tune.

"Number 44 . . . Garrett Trask," the clerk suddenly shouted. "Come on up. Numbers 26 through 50, thanks for applying."

The smartly-dressed woman glanced at her numbered card, flung it down on the oil-stained concrete floor with a heartfelt oath and then stalked off. I suppressed my astonishment at being called and approached the clerk, who swung open a small section in the counter and crooked her finger at me to come through. As I followed dutifully, she led me to the cubicle at the end of the partition.

She stopped at the hastily painted door and gave me a mischievous smile. "You're kinda cute for a computer type," she said flippantly. "You marked 'single,' on your app. You got a girlfriend?"

"Nope."

My lack of enthusiasm caused her to frown. "You're not gay, are you?"

"Nope," I replied with a strained grin.

Her smile returned. "I didn't think so. I can usually tell."

She was probably a very sweet girl, and her body had certainly been genetically engineered to attract any male with correctable eyesight--but I was unmoved, and I wasn't sure why. Having a woman come on to me wasn't exactly a daily occurrence. Either Natalie had spoiled me, or my dismal dating history since she'd left a year ago had soured me more than I'd realized.

I'd spotted Natalie at the Art Institute's annual graduate show at Fort Mason. She'd been momentarily alone with her dense abstract paintings, a detached-looking beauty with smoky gray eyes, long brown hair and a model's elegant neck. She was leaning lightly against the display wall in a sleeveless linen dress, running her forefinger nervously around the rim of a plastic cup of champagne. After a moment of indecision I'd ventured over, made some fawning comment about her work and then bought a vibrant painting of a blood-red orb that I'd taken for the sun.

Of course she had to come to my flat to help me decide where to hang it. A few weeks later she dropped her impecunious, chain-smoking artist boyfriend and moved into my North Beach apartment.

She was absorbed by her painting and her friends; even so, I felt fortunate. Though men's eyes would rake her and then glance at me in envious appraisal, she was more than a sexy bounce; she had a quick mind, an instinct for color and a slightly twisted sense of humor that delighted me even after four years together. And, irresistibly, she liked my cooking and my lovemaking.

The clerk brought me out of my clouded memories by slipping a folded square of paper into my suit pocket. "Call me this weekend, okay? We could have some fun."

I smiled wanly. "That would be a nice change of pace," I said as convincingly as I could, but inwardly I winced at the memory of my single post-Natalie one-night stand--a nightmarishly unromantic, absurdly unpleasurable evening with a brunette weightlifter. Nice girl, if you like Greco-Roman wrestling. That disaster had been set up by--who else--my roommate Greg.

The clerk opened the flimsy door and immediately wrinkled her nose. The interior reeked of new paint and the sappy aroma of freshly cut lumber. The cubicle contained only a cheap card table and two folding chairs.

"Today's your lucky day," she announced. "They've only interviewed one other guy so far." She cracked her gum and gently teased her ratted blond mane with manicured fingers. "Call me on Saturday, okay?"

I nodded gamely; she gave me a saucy grin and then strolled back to the front counter.

I squeezed behind the card table and sat down on one of the creaky metal chairs. The cubicle had no ceiling, and a sharp cough from someone waiting in front echoed off the rusty corrugated roofing far above me.

As usual before an interview, I began worrying about my presentation. Maybe I shouldn't have worn my navy blue suit; it was as outdated as my red tie. I've got to force myself to go shopping for some new shirts and ties, I thought, even if it meant running up my Mastercard. At this point every detail that might improve my chances had to be pursued.

Maybe I should have gotten a haircut; though I usually kept my hair short--Natalie had said it made made me look younger--it was now a dark-brown thatch touching my ears and collar. Too late now, I fretted.

After wiping the clammy dampness off my palms with a handkerchief I practiced my relaxed smile. My technique was to close my eyes and recall a deep blue, perfectly peaceful lake I'd once visited with Natalie; it lay in a glacial bowl high in the Sierra, surrounded by granite walls and permanent clefts of snow unmelted by even the summer sun. Then I'd think of my favorite "Zippy the Pinhead" comics until I couldn't help but chuckle.

Despite these precautions, a small fear nagged at me. Would a poisonous whiff of desperation somehow leak out of my smile and handshake?

Also as usual, I fought these doubts by running through my standard checklist: don't stand up, emphasizing my six-feet-one-inch height, if a guy was short; keep my eyes on any woman's face--and nothing lower; and fake a sincere enthusiasm for the job, no matter how utterly tedious it might sound.

A balding, gray-haired man perched on the far edge of middle-age darted into the cubicle and slammed the door shut behind him with a loud bang. I stood up and he quickly shifted his clipboard so he could extend his hand to greet me.

"Mr. Trask? I'm Julius Feinbaum."

His slight build and energetic handshake reminded me of a hungry squirrel twirling an acorn. A pair of slightly askew gold-rimmed spectacles sat half-way down his aquiline nose; he lowered his head to examine me over his bent glasses with roving, friendly eyes the color of damp clay.

The keen focus of his gaze belied the academic air of distraction conveyed by his rumpled clothing and hair; from the way some gray strands ran forward and others lay toward his ears, he'd obviously parted his remaining locks without benefit of a mirror.

Feinbaum plopped down across from me and set the clipboard in his lap. Then he reached into his frayed tweed jacket and pulled out a deck of bright lawn-green playing cards.

My eyes must have widened in surprise, for he half-smiled. "We're looking for some unique talents."

This is a first, I thought wryly; if I win gin rummy, I get a job.

He fanned the cards out face up. "This deck has five kinds of cards--circle, triangle, square, lines and wave. See?"

I'd never seen cards like this, and my puzzlement grew. He expertly slapped the cards face down in neat rows of six and looked up at me. "Now guess which of the five symbols will turn up in the first row."

I stared at him as if he'd just asked me to gaze at the full moon, howl twice, and foretell his future. I forced a polite smile. "I think you've got the wrong cubicle. I'm here for a job interview."

His smile flickered back to life. "This is it."

I searched his face for some sign of guile. "This is a joke, right?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I test people like this all the time. Now just go ahead and guess."

It occurred to me that if he ran these card games all the time, they probably weren't job interviews; maybe this was a local university's clever way of trying out a new psychological test. Might as well humor him, I thought sourly; the morning's shot anyway.

I concentrated on the marigold backs of the cards and felt a prickly selfconsciousness warm my face. What was I supposed to be doing? Trying to see through the cards? They all looked exactly the same. After a moment of embarrassed hesitation I said whatever symbols came to mind. "Circle, triangle, square. . . uh, line, triangle, wave."

He marked my answers on a clipboard and then turned the first row over. To my surprise I'd guessed the two triangle cards correctly.

"You see?" Feinbaum said. "It's easy. According to statistical chance, you should have guessed only one right. Let's do the next row."

My success in future runs was mixed. Sometimes I guessed two or three correctly and other times none at all.

After we'd gone through the deck several times he collected the cards and then pushed a blank sheet of paper and a small rose-colored stone pendant on a silver chain across to me.

"Now write down something about the owner of this pendant."

I picked up the smooth pink oval. "How am I supposed to....?"

He gave me a patient smile and set a gold Cross pen on the table. "Just guess."

Sighing heavily, I thought, what the hell, there's no harm in playing along for a few more minutes. The pendant felt warm in my palm, and I wondered vaguely if it really belonged to a woman or if Feinbaum had just bought it an hour ago off a department store rack.

Fingering the stone absentmindedly, I gazed at the rough knotholes bleeding through the plywood walls' fresh paint for a moment before taking the pen and writing: "She's very attractive, in her 30s, but she had a bad relationship recently so she's single. She's stronger than she looks, and likes foreign films."

Hoping it wouldn't be too uproariously off base, I slid my profile across to Feinbaum. He read it, suppressed a quick grin, and then readied his clipboard. "Now concentrate on the next cubicle and tell me what's in there."

Enough already, I thought irritably. "Sorry, my X-ray vision's a little weak today."

He smiled patiently. "Mr. Trask, we're just trying to find out how sensitive your mind is. Now what's in the next cubicle?"

Figuring it was a trick question, I smiled back and announced, "Nothing."

Feinbaum eyed me sternly through the scratched lenses of his bent glasses. "No, there's something in there. You have to make an effort, Mr. Trask."

With another heavy sigh I glanced at the white plywood. God only knew what weird collection of garbage might be stowed behind it. While Feinbaum gazed impassively at his clipboard, I considered the possibilities and eventually settled on a simple guess. "Water."

"How much?"

I rejected the mental image of a half-filled glass and then shrugged. "I have no idea."

"Come on, Mr. Trask. Let's make an effort," he said scoldingly.

Wishing just to escape the absurd interview, I said, "It might not be real water. It could be a photo of the ocean or a river."

"Anything else?" he asked.

Just to supply a serious-sounding answer to his prodding, I replied, "Something that comes in big sheets. Paintings . . . or maybe blueprints."

After scribbling some notes on his clipboard he abruptly scooped the pendant into the pocket of his worn tweed coat and gave me a friendly smile. "Well, that's it for me."

"Mind telling me what all this has to do with computers?" I asked.

His lingering smile closed like an old theater's thick velvet curtain. "Sorry. I can't tell you. Just wait here for the second interview."

He scurried out and banged the thin door shut behind him.

Taking a deep breath, I exhaled loudly. Who's next? Another professorial type clutching a ouji board? After a few moments, curiosity got the better of me and I climbed on the rickety folding chair, hoping to look into the next cubicle.

The rapidly approaching clicks of hard leather heels on concrete outside warned me off and I sat down just as the door swung open. A slim, dark-haired woman in a pin-striped gray suit entered and quietly closed the flimsy door behind her.

I stood up and hoped my welcoming grin didn't look too guilty. She gave me a perfunctory smile in return and set her clipboard down on the table. As she did so, her straight black hair fell in a silken cascade over her shoulder. She brushed it back with a practiced gesture and then offered me her hand in the chilled manner that sexy women use to factor their femininity out of a business meeting.

Her fingers were warm and almost masculine in strength. "Hi, I'm Jeannette Makoto," she said coolly. "You must be Garrett Trask."

As she looked me over I admired her eyes. They had the lustrous depth and gold-flecked light of a lacquered oak table, and the hint of an Asian fold. Her surname sounded Japanese but her height--at least five foot seven--and her slightly pronounced cheekbones, small pert nose and creamy skin also suggested a happy marriage of Asian and Anglo blood.

Breaking my rule, I surveyed her slender body. Her gray pin-striped suit and natural silk blouse were plain to the point of severity, but they failed to hide her graceful neck or the curves of her hips. A small pin on her lapel--a single pearl set in gold--and lip gloss were her only concessions to decoration.

I kept my gaze on her too long; her lips formed a small smile and she sat down across from me. Despite the heavy odor of the cubicle's new paint, I caught a whiff of her perfume. The musk-sweet, slightly flowery scent was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

Jeannette studied her clipboard for a moment and then looked at me evenly. "So you were a software systems designer at Cybertek until you were laid off six months ago."

"Yes. The axe fell on a bunch of us."

"You were there almost five years. That must have been tough."

Trying to hide my bitterness behind an expressionless mask, I nodded brusquely.

Her brows knitted as she read my application, and I suddenly wished I'd worn a more dashing tie. The faint freckles on her cheeks made her seem younger than her true age, which I guessed to be mid-thirties.

She continued reviewing my application. "So you're 35 years old, single, in excellent health--"

Jeannette glanced up and gave me another appraising look. "You look awfully fit for a techie."

I'd recently started jogging again after a ten-year hiatus. "I'm trying to get back in shape, but most of the time I feel like a wheezy old man."

She smiled politely and then returned to the form. "Does the thought of working overseas appeal to you?"

Since I'd been working in windowless offices for a decade, employer-paid travel seemed like an incredible bonus. Then a vision of malarial villages buzzing with fat flies popped into my mind. "Well. . . where?"

"Europe."

"Sounds great," I said with unfeigned enthusiasm.

"Would you be free to travel for several months at a time?" she asked. "You couldn't take anyone with you."

I hesitated. Ah, you mean a lover, I thought bitterly. Though Natalie had left me a year ago, the hurt felt as fresh as if it had only been a month. "No, I'm free."

She met my gaze and I shifted uncomfortably, unable to tell how much she had sensed in my simple answer. In an obvious effort to put me at ease, she set the clipboard down and said, "So tell me a little about the projects you worked on at Cybertek."

Finally, I thought with relief; a question I'm prepared to answer. We chatted about my successful product launches for a few moments, but then she deftly steered the conversation from products to my decision-making--specifically, on how often I'd used "gut feelings" when I had to make tough choices.

It was all too bizarre to be a real job interview, I thought dejectedly; and so there was nothing to lose in being honest. "There isn't really a job behind all this, is there?"

Jeannette glanced up at me quizzically. "Of course there is," she said. "What did you think?"

She'd have to maintain the fiction, I thought skeptically. "It could be one of those psychology tests that just looks like an interview," I replied evenly.

She grinned and pulled out two forms. "No, it's a real job. In fact, I need you to sign these." The first gave them permission to do a background check on me; the second was a standard confidentiality agreement. Neither one identified the company conducting the interviews.

Still skeptical, I gave her a disarming smile. "Isn't it a bit early for this? I don't even know what I'm applying for."

"It just says you'll keep this to yourself," she replied soothingly.

Of course, I thought with a smirk. The forms seemed harmless enough, so I signed both documents and she placed them in her clipboard.

"What's the job description?" I asked.

"They'll go over that if you're selected."

I nodded politely and said, "The ad mentioned pea-ess-eye. What does it mean?"

"It's pronounced 'sigh,' like the Greek letter," she said. "They'll cover that, too."

I looked into her steady mahogany eyes, but she did not look away. "How about the contents of the mystery cubicle?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, but I can't reveal that." She stood up and opened the thin door. "I won't keep you."

She waited outside while I extricated myself from the cramped cubicle and its pungent aroma of new paint. As I joined her, I again noticed her flower-scented perfume. I'd smelled it before somewhere, but I couldn't quite identify the setting or the fragrance.

Jeannette glanced toward the counter, signaling the end of the interview, but I tried one last question. "Can you at least tell me who you work for?" I asked.

"I'm sorry. It's restricted."

"Even the C.I.A. identifies its ads," I said with a wry grin.

The corners of her mouth turned slightly upward in a faint Mona Lisa smile. "This isn't the C.I.A.," she replied coolly, but her guarded eyes could not quite mask the gears of a busy mind.

I hesitated and she extended her hand. "It's been very interesting to meet you, Mr. Trask."

Her grip was again firm, but her skin seemed as cold and clammy as mine had been prior to the interview. I held her fingers a few seconds longer, trying to think up another question, and her lips pursed reprovingly. I reluctantly released my grasp and she gestured to a narrow steel fire door in the corner. "You can go out the back."

I nodded glumly and a pensive look clouded her eyes. She abruptly turned and disappeared behind the partition, and the sharp click of her receding heels echoed hollowly off the old warehouse's rust-stained roof.

CHAPTER TWO

While I headed to San Jose to drop off a resume at Intext, my mind stayed on the peculiar job interview and the striking but evasive Ms. Makoto. I formed a mental image of her in a tight red party dress and was pleased with the result. So pleased, in fact, that I almost rammed a Volvo station wagon.

I eased my old '74 Duster into the freeway's center lane and returned to Feinbaum's tests. Obviously, they were intended to assess some form of extrasensory perception--a strange concern for a computer company.

Intext was located in one of the sprawling business parks that had sprung up in the past three decades' semiconductor and Internet-fueled boom. Only vague childhood memories remained of the almond and peach orchards which had once stretched across Santa Clara Valley in seemingly endless rows.

The Intext headquarters looked like a giant white cereal box that had been flopped flat onto the valley floor and then pierced with narrow smoked-glass windows; the sun-baked parking lot and a strip of over-watered grass shaded by a few willows only accentuated the building's horizontal anonymity.

I pushed through the glass doors and entered a brightly lit lobby dominated by a jungle of silk potted plants. Unlike many computer firms, Intext had chosen the comfort of visitors over a glossy, high-tech image. Instead of torturously upscale chairs, a homey overstuffed sofa faced a central reception desk.

A sandy-haired pregnant woman in a floral Hawaiian print muu-muu was upbraiding the youthful receptionist in a hushed but unmistakably boss-corrects-worker manner. Seeing an opportunity to end the scolding, the younger woman turned to me, smoothed her carefully permed black hair and flashed a big red-lipstick smile. "Can I help you, sir?"

The expectant manager paused and looked at me with ill-concealed annoyance.

"I just want to drop off my resume," I said uncertainly.

"I can help you with that," the manager said flatly. I handed her the resume; to my surprise, she scanned the page right on the spot. After a moment of frowning concentration, she looked up and startled me with a smile. "I'm the personnel director," she said. "Why don't we chat in my office for a few minutes?"

I nodded and followed her out of the lobby. As I walked past the receptionist I gave her a big grin; she smiled back and wiped imaginary sweat off her brow.

The personnel manager directed me into her family-photo bedecked office and I took one of the swivel chairs facing her desk. She sat down, smoothed the Hawaiian print fabric over her bulging midriff and then began a deceptively informal interview. She outlined Intext's new line of educational software, and asked if I had any experience with similar projects. I did, and by the time she arose awkwardly from her chair to give me a friendly parting handshake, I knew the job was mine.

I gave the receptionist a thumbs-up sign on the way out and walked in a euphoric daze through the heat waves shimmering off the parked cars to my battered lime-green Plymouth. This was it, I thought gleefully; my luck had finally changed. Safely anonymous in the vast parking lot, I couldn't resist letting loose a victory leap and a whoop.

Feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders, I drove home and had my usual good fortune in finding a parking space. Street parking was limited--few of the cheek-by-jowl Victorians had adequate garages--but I rarely parked farther than two blocks from our doorstep. Greg claimed a "parking angel" hovered above my dented but reliable Duster, mysteriously directing me to the nearest open space; but I just drove to wherever I felt there might be an opening and usually found one.

The Intext interview had gone so well that for the first time in months, I took the afternoon off from job hunting. Locking my car, I decided to indulge my curiosity about Feinbaum's ESP tests by visiting Harry's used bookstore, four blocks away on Haight Street.

I opened the door and inhaled the familiar, musty smell of old books. The gruff old proprietor, slumped as usual in a cheap lawn chair behind the register, looked over his half-glasses at me and shifted the unlit cigar in his mouth. In his lexicon, this was an extremely fond gesture of recognition reserved for good customers. Lesser beings received a twitch of bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrow at best.

The shop reflected its idiosyncratic owner; a piece of plywood still covered a clerestory window broken in a 60s-era street melee, and tattered old street maps and People magazines cluttered the Byzantine nooks of tall steel shelving. The business survived only on the merit of its huge collection of used mysteries and romances.

As the Beatles' "She's A Woman" blasted out of the antiquated speakers tacked to the rear wall, I wandered through the claustrophobic aisles until I found an overloaded shelf labeled "Psychic Stuff." Within a few minutes I located a thick hardbound book on parapsychology.

I opened the volume at random and was mildly surprised to find an academic description of card tests much like the one Feinbaum had given me. Other chapters described spontaneous paranormal experiences, such as a sudden sense that a loved one was near death.

The owner's niece, a bony young woman with a toothy smile and long hair the warm orange of new redwood planks, began rearranging paperbacks nearby; with a flush of embarrassment I quickly shelved the parapsychology book and headed home.

After Natalie had left, I'd given up our wretchedly expensive unit in North Beach and sought a larger apartment and a roommate to share expenses. While driving around a neighborhood of charmingly ornate homes near Golden Gate Park, I'd spotted a small "For Rent" sign outside a restored Victorian. The landlords looked eccentric but the rent was reasonable for a two-bedroom flat; I immediately wrote out a check for the deposit and first month's rent. The next day I heard at work that Greg's girlfriend had just kicked him out and he was looking for a room.

Despite the fact that Greg was a fitness fanatic and loved parties, while I cursed every step of jogging and struggled lamely through small talk, we'd hit it off. We both liked high ceilings, cheap rent and sugary cold cereals, and generally tolerated each other's foibles without comment. Our friendship was like a big old coat--not an exact fit but comfortable just the same.

The only exceptions were Greg's ill-advised attempts to rectify my two big problems: no girlfriend and no job. Every date or a job lead he'd pushed on me had been howling flops. The last woman--pretty, yes, bright, yes, maddeningly incessant giggle, yes--had completely shredded my will to date unknowns. And the last job Greg had lined up for me was in a three-person start-up with low pay and a ridiculous workload. It reminded me of that old joke: the economy's created a lot of new jobs--and I have three of them.

On the way home I noticed two well-dressed men standing on the sidewalk outside our house, snapping photos. This was not unusual; tourists often stopped to photograph the incredible paint job.

Our friends called it "The Gumdrop House" not only for its rainbow of colors--light peach walls, lilac window trim and blasting bright red for the front door--but for the row of small round wooden balls that ornamented the eave boards. The owners had painstakingly painted the balls in alternating red and teal. Surprisingly, the overall effect was quite cheerful.

The men had turned their cameras on a house across the street by the time I climbed the creaky wooden steps to our porch and punched in our front door lock's code. Greg had insisted we install a high-tech digital lock. It had worked--to a point; the last burglar had ignored it entirely and shattered the small entry window with a brick.

Having picked a well-maintained Victorian with an expensive lock, he had every right to expect treasure inside. Imagine his dismay as he surveyed our living room: an ancient console television that two men could barely budge, a cobwebbed weight machine in the corner, a stained orange sofa and a particle board bookshelf sagging with old IEEE Spectrum magazines. The street value of these miserable garage sale rejects was minus twenty dollars--that is, the cost of hauling them off.

This so demoralized the thief that he'd ignored the one item of value, the Japanese woodblock print that my grandfather had brought back from Japan. To my relief, he'd also passed over the nearest thing we had to modern art, the black and yellow "Dead End" sign I'd stolen from a construction site during a late-night college outing.

Our informal inventory left only Greg's pickle jar of pennies and four Anchor Steam beers unaccounted for; but given our haphazard housekeeping, it was entirely possible that the burglar had fled empty-handed.

I climbed up the long interior staircase to our flat and tossed my suit coat on the worn couch. Greg was in the bathroom, singing the old Sinatra tune "Nice and Easy" over the steady hiss of the shower. The rattle of a saucepan lid and the tangy smell of frying onions led me to our small kitchen.

Greg's girlfriend Lena was at the stove, scraping diced garlic from my big wood chopping board into a black cast-iron skillet of hot olive oil and crisply sizzling onions. A plume of steam rose from a large stainless steel pot on one of the back burners; a plate of raw Chinese eggplant, sliced lengthwise, sat on the counter near her.

Lena was a tall young woman with luxuriant auburn hair and flawless brown skin. I never missed Natalie's firm body more keenly than when I saw Lena's tawny legs. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts and one of Greg's old white dress shirts; she'd scrunched the loose sleeves up above her elbows and stuffed the shirttails into her cutoffs.

Lena adjusted the flame down and began stirring the garlic-onion mixture with a long wooden spoon darkened by countless pasta sauces.

"Hi there," I said, announcing my presence.

Lena glanced around and smiled. "Hello, Mr. Garrett."

The warm aroma of garlic and crushed basil filled the room, and I inhaled deeply. "Smells great," I said.

She beamed and tilted her head in an playful show of pleasure at the compliment.

"What's cooking?" I asked.

"Nothing special," she replied. "Fried eggplant and spaghetti with fresh pesto. Want some?"

"Love it," I said. "I haven't had any in ages."

She looked into the stainless steel pot and turned to me. "Could you give me a hand for a second?"

"Sure." I couldn't help noticing a sliver of her flat brown belly through the white shirt where a button was missing.

"Can you dump the spaghetti in the colander?" she asked.

"That's exactly my level of culinary skill," I replied. As she laughed--a most gratifying sound--I grabbed two potholders, lifted the bubbling pot to the sink and dumped the contents into a plastic colander. I stood there for a moment in the steam cloud rising from the pasta, savoring the pleasure of sharing the kitchen with a woman again, even if only for a moment. Natalie had been a good cook, too; I'd always enjoyed helping her as prep chef, slicing vegetables or assembling ingredients.

Lena handed me a bottle of Italian olive oil and a fork. "Mix a little of this in. It keeps it from sticking together."

I did as instructed and Lena glanced over at me with a coy grin. "We're going to the races this weekend," she said. "Greg wants you to pick the horses again. He says he's going to make real money off you this time."

I groaned. "He's crazy."

Greg had dragged me to Golden Gate Fields the previous Sunday and insisted I join them in placing a two-dollar bet in each race. He'd been jabbering about my off-the-cuff flurry of success ever since.

"It's called beginner's luck," I said doggedly. "Everybody picks a few winners the first time."

She tapped the wooden spoon on the rim of the blackened cast iron saucepan. "I sure didn't."

Greg emerged from the steamy bath rubbing his dark mop of hair with a white hand towel and sauntered into the kitchen doorway. Apparently he hadn't heard my voice, for he paused as if startled to find me beside Lena. Standing there in his Daffy Duck boxer shorts, he looked like a model in an underwear layout—straight eyebrows, chiseled, youthful face and a muscular torso. His handsome mug would have been intolerable if not for his loony expressions.

"Hey, Garrett. How'd the jobhunting go?"

I continued stirring the slightly oily pasta. "One good possibility," I replied. "Intext. Ever hear of it?"

"Nope." Greg tossed the damp towel into the bathroom with a quick behind-the-back-pass and then ambled in to give Lena a one-armed hug.

He slyly nudged her arm and turned to me. "Lena says there's this new girl at work."

"Forget it," I said curtly, thinking of his last inane pick for me.

"Come on, man, Natalie's ancient history," Greg said disparagingly. "It's time to move on."

Yeah, sure, I thought wearily. Move on to what? I glanced at Lena's tanned legs and suppressed a sudden jealousy. Too bad I couldn't move on with her.

Greg turned to Lena. "You've been dumped, haven't you?"

She glanced at me and then shifted uncomfortably. "Not exactly," she said.

"Well, I have," Greg said defiantly. "And it was the best damn thing that ever happened to me."

I stirred the noodles silently. I couldn't decide if he was intentionally trying to humiliate me or if he was just being his usual brazenly thoughtless self.

Greg extracted a hot strand of spaghetti from the colander, slurped it down and continued his jeremiad. "You keep mooning over Natalie like she was some goddess," he said accusingly. "Now nobody looks good."

He winced in sudden realization and then patted Lena's shoulder. "Except you, sugarplum."

Lena rolled her eyes and began laying eggplant slices into the hot pan.

I set the fork down and remained stonily silent. Greg gave me a shadow-box punch to the shoulder. "Come on, man. I could get you tons of dates."

Or I could just jam bamboo shards under my fingernails, I thought sourly. To change the subject I said, "I had a weird interview today. I think they were testing me for ESP."

"No kidding," Greg replied. "How'd you do?"

"Lousy."

"Too bad." Greg modulated his voice to mimic a newscaster. "The Amazing Traskin has taken Las Vegas by storm."

Lena giggled, and I suppressed my chagrin behind a frozen smile.

"A hotshot like you has got have better prospects than Madam Lulu and her crystal ball," Greg said.

"I used to."

He threw up his arms in mock despair. "I tell you, man, you're cursed."

I shook my head. "I got a feeling my luck has finally changed."

"Hey, I hope so," Greg said, grinning. "It's about time you bought me that big steak dinner."

Right after I'd been laid off I'd foolishly promised Greg the biggest steak in San Francisco as soon as I got a job; my rejection letters had vexed him almost as much as they had me.

Greg suddenly turned excitedly to me. "Hey. Don't change your luck until you pick my horses on Sunday."

I sighed. "Those were just wild guesses."

"Come off it. I've never even picked two winners, let alone four." He squinted comically at Lena. "Have you?"

She smiled uneasily and shook her head.

"If you want to blow your money, let's do it on dinner," I said goodnaturedly.

"Why don't you make use of what you've got?" Greg snapped exasperatedly. "Who's got the parking angel? You, man. Who hits it big at the races? It's a knack, man. You could make a million."

I took my big blue and yellow ceramic bowl down from the cabinet and dumped the spaghetti into it. "I'd rather have a knack for finding a job."

"Then stop waiting for one to drift by," he said curtly.

His challenging tone surprised me, and I set the bowl down hard. "You think all these interviews just dropped in my lap?"

"No, but all you've done is answer ads," he snorted. "You've got to get out there and make something happen."

I had no response to his charge. Answering ads had always been enough--until now.

"You ditched the job I got you in that start-up," Greg continued. "Hell, you could have written your own ticket there."

"Yeah, a ticket to Hell," I replied heatedly. "If you're dumb enough to work eighteen hours a day for no pay and some impossible dream, there's a thousand start-ups who'd just love to hire you."

Greg and I eyed each other like tomcats facing off in an alley and then I turned to the doorway.

"Come on, you guys," Lena said with a nervous grin. "Let's eat."

"Thanks," I sais as politely as I could manage. "I'll have some later."

Making sure not to slam the front door--after all, Greg had done his best to help me during six gloomy months--I headed toward Golden Gate Park.

Unable to avoid the exhaust stench of the afternoon commute, I walked rapidly past the gridlocked cars and tried to stifle my anger at Greg. Of course he was frustrated by my unhappy state; who wouldn't be? I'd rejected every one of his job leads and blind dates while practically drooling over his girlfriend.

But it was ludicrous to be angry at me for not wanting to place wild bets at the track. I knew nothing about horse racing; Greg had to explain "place" bets to me. Winning had been sheer luck.

At least he hadn't badgered me into another blind date, I thought with relief. Convinced that dating assuaged the sting of being dumped, Greg could not understand that my reluctance stemmed from more than being rejected.

It wasn't just Natalie's infidelity that had devastated me; it was being played for a fool. I'd assumed, naively, blindly, foolishly, that the sweet little poems she'd written me in our first months were permanent markers of my place in her heart.

She'd made an effort to keep up the pretense of love—as either a reflection of her own mixed feelings or, more cynically, because I paid the bills—and I'd ignored the fissures she couldn't plaster over. Her kisses were no longer passionate, and the increased hours in her studio produced fewer paintings, but easy rationalizations were always on hand.

I'd vowed never to be such a chump again.

I shambled through the frisbee games crisscrossing the Panhandle's block-wide strip of grass and entered the main body of the park. A short walk took me to one of my favorite buildings, the Spreckels Temple of Music. I sat down in the chill dusk to again admire the bandshell's monumental ceiling and its stately Beaux-Arts sandstone columns. Although I enjoyed the Sunday concerts, the lonely, almost eerie weekday silence appealed to me even more. My only companion on the windswept dark-green benches was an old Asian woman in a knitted cap who watched her bundled-up young granddaughter throw bits of white bread to a jostling circle of pigeons.

I returned home after dark to an empty apartment, grateful that I wouldn't have to listen to the muffled pleasuring sighs of Greg and Lena's lovemaking.

After grabbing a fresh towel from the linen closet, I started the water for a shower. As I unbuttoned my shirt I glanced absentmindedly at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.

I'd always prided myself on my youthful looks, but the many cycles of interview-confidence-hope and rejection-dejection-doubt had seemed to physically age me. The fine wrinkles beneath my eyes and the lines across my forehead appeared to have deepened in the past few months; a scattering of gray hairs now glimmered amidst the dark brown hair at my temples, small but squawking precursors of permanent decline.

Even worse, the physiognomy of my face seemed to have changed for the worse. My best features--slightly prominent cheekbones and strong chin--had weathered from a young man's vigorous definition, while my nose, always a bit too long to my self-conscious eyes in high school, appeared more prominent than before.

Not all was lost, I reassured myself. What Natalie had called my "nice guy looks" were still more or less intact; what one of her friends had once described as my "James Dean smile"--probably just an artist's way of saying my teeth were straight--hadn't disappeared entirely under the weight of age. And due to my long walks and occasional jogging, I looked healthier now than when I was working long days in a sunless office.

But the somberness of my face startled me. My eyes--my mother always insisted that they weren't brown, they were hazel, like her--looked flat and beaten, as sparkless as a defeated fighter's.

With a sudden defiance, I turned away and stepped under the shower's hot blast. So disappointments had aged me; what were they supposed to do, make me younger? Once I got the Intext job, I could put this job-hunting nonsense behind me and start moving forward again.

Intext's rejection letter arrived the next day.

Standing dumbly on my front porch, I read the letter again and again for some evidence that it was a mistake. There was none.

I tore the page into tiny squares and tossed them into the mixed paper recycling bin, the fragments of a last best hope that had suddenly died.

I knew of only one way to release the poisonous bitterness swelling within me. I drove to the beach at Crissy Field and walked to Fort Point, the old red brick citadel beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.

The hillside beyond the fort's thick walls was my favorite refuge from the world. Clambering up to the massive concrete footings that anchored the bridge thick cables, I marveled anew at the graceful majesty of the dull orange girders far above me. Entirely alone, I sat down on a patch of grass to watch the heavy Pacific rollers crash in foamy protest against the gray rocks of the Marin coastline.

So that was it. Another good interview, another few days of silence, and then a terse rejection letter. So much for my brilliant intuition that my luck had changed; Maybe I was cursed. I'd never been this long without a job.

Not even Greg had ever accused me of indulging in self-pity, but at that moment I gave in to the bitterness, fully and completely. I had no lover, no job, no future.

The cold fresh breeze blew through the shadows cast by the bridge, and rush hour traffic hummed over the span far above me. It always felt like the wind had been cleansed by its journey across the vast expanse of the Pacific; the salty tang in the air was sharpest here, the sense of renewal the sweetest.

I broke off small blades of grass, balled them up and tossed them into the breeze. It wasn't just the depressing cycle of hopes being raised and then dashed; it was also the practical matter of running out of money. I'd saved regularly, but San Francisco was an expensive city to inhabit.

A thick fog soon drifted in from the Pacific and obscured the orange span above me; the rumble of traffic might have been drifting down from a ghost bridge.

By the time I stood up to leave, thoroughly chilled, dusk had faded to evening. I drove home through the choked streets and found a parking spot right outside our apartment, surprising even myself, for I'd noticed that my "parking angel" tended to desert me when I was in a funk.

I entered our dark flat and found a note from Greg taped under the light switch: "Don't forget--Pizza at J. and R.'s tonight."

Our landlords Jan and Raleigh lived in the flat beneath us. They'd purchased the Victorian duplex when it was a run-down flophouse and lovingly restored it themselves over the past twenty years. It was an accomplishment you probably wouldn't pin on Raleigh at first sight, given his gruff manner, unruly beard and well-stoked pot-belly, or on Jan, with her motley clothing and stringy gray hair.

Raleigh did small remodeling work for a handful of appreciative clients; two decades of Jan's ceramic experiments--the ones that never sold, I reckoned--were scattered about their flat. My favorite was the irregular toilet tank lid dribbled with colors a la Jackson Pollack. Jan and Raleigh had brought us pizza and beer our first night in the flat, and we'd been unlikely friends ever since.

I went down and rang their doorbell; Raleigh opened it a moment later, grasping a fragile-looking cellular phone in his oversized hand. As usual, musky Indian incense scented the warm air of their flat.

"The heartburn special okay with you?" he asked gruffly. His loud voice and abrupt manner might have offended a stranger, but I just nodded. He lifted the phone to his hairy cheek--an unnecessary exercise, as he could have made himself heard even if the instrument was at arm's length--and said: "Make it a giant. Half jalapeno, green pepper and pepperoni, and half artichoke hearts, feta and zucchini. Thanks."

He slipped the phone into the front pocket of his denim overalls and let loose a ripping burp. "Sapporo Draft," he growled. "Want one?"

I solemnly shook my head "no" and he frowned in puzzlement.

"Make it two," I said ruefully, and he slapped my shoulder with a heavy paw. "That's more like it. Come on in."

I lowered my head to dodge the houseplants dangling from macrame hangers and sat down on their leather sofa. Jan came in a moment later, still wearing her clay-smeared artist's smock, carrying a brightly painted Mexican folk art tray of tortilla chips, frosty brown bottles of beer and a glass bowl of salsa. From the piquant aroma of fresh diced onion and cilantro, I knew it was homemade.

"Hi, Garrett," she said with a smile. "Where's Greg?"

"I think he's picking up beer," I answered. "Isn't it our turn?"

She set the tray down on the tiled coffee table and handed me a Sapporo Draft. "For heaven's sake, don't worry about it."

She opened a bottle for herself and sat down next to me. The smell of wet clay surrounded Jan like an earthen perfume; it seemed as much a physical characteristic of her as a husky voice and crinkly, gray-shot hair.

She fixed a curious gaze on me and I resigned myself to another well-meaning query about work. "How's the job hunt going?" she asked.

I tried not to look pained and took a deep pull on the beer. "Still batting zero."

Jan frowned sympathetically. "Maybe you should start your own business. Couldn't you do some consulting?"

I'd observed that the longer you're unemployed, the more advice well-meaning people heap on you, just like the suggestions to "find a nice girl, settle down and have some kids" that start piling up once you hit thirty. I call this "buy low and sell high" advice--easy in theory but damnably difficult in real life.

I nodded wanly. "That's a possibility."

Raleigh walked over and grabbed a fistful of chips. "Bastardus non carborundum," he growled. "Don't let the bastards wear you down." Then he stuffed the entire handful in his mouth and gently dusted the blue corn debris off his tangled beard.

The entry bell chimed and Raleigh strode over to open the door.

"Hey, fool--" Raleigh's loud greeting to Greg died in his throat.

"Mr. Dukowski?" A man asked. "I need to ask you a few questions about a neighbor of yours. A Mr. Garrett Trask."

His voice, as dry and raspy as windswept dead leaves, carried the cool politeness of authority. Raleigh motioned me away, his hand hidden by the door, and a chill raced up my spine. I crouched down and crept through the dimly lit living room to the window facing the front porch.

I silently shifted positions to peek between their India-print curtain and the window jamb. The leaded-glass porch light cast a circle of light around a tall, cadaverous man, highlighting his short bleached blond hair. As Jan joined Raleigh at the door, the man took a pen that glinted gold from his navy blue suit jacket and readied it expectantly above a clipboard.

With a shock I recognized the tall blond as one of the "tourists" who'd been snapping photos of my house in the afternoon.

"You know how high-tech jobs require security clearances," said the man with a suddenly friendlier tone. "I'm doing a background check on Mr. Trask. Would you help him out by answering a few questions?"

Raleigh looked the man over suspiciously. "I guess so."

"Good," the man replied. "Now how long has Mr. Trask lived in your rental unit?"

Jan answered in a clipped voice. "About a year."

The tall blond interrogator handed the clipboard to Raleigh. "Now if you folks will just check off the people who you know are acquainted with Mr. Trask."

Raleigh scratched his beard dubiously and looked at Jan, who shrugged and began scanning the list. She checked off several names and gave the clipboard back to the man.

"You're being a big help, folks," he said. His vaguely Midwestern voice and practiced bonhomie reminded me of an experienced life insurance salesman.

"Have you ever observed any of Mr. Trask's visitors?"

Raleigh's deep voice sharpened with indignation. "We respect each other's privacy around here."

"I see. Then you've never noticed anything unusual about Mr. Trask's possessions?"

Jan put her arms on her hips and snickered. "Unless a weight machine in the living room is your idea of high fashion, I'd say no."

The man did not laugh. "Does Mr. Trask drink?"

A large moth hovered by the porch light for a few seconds before Raleigh brushed it away. "He'll have a beer or two with the rest of us."

"What's Garrett applying for, anyway?" Jan asked defiantly.

"I don't know what the position is, Ma'am," the man replied with a hint of raspy annoyance. "Did he and his roommate Gregory Longstreet ever travel together?"

Raleigh warily folded his beefy arms. "What's that got to do with computer work?"

"Mr. Dukowski, these are just standard questions."

After a reluctant pause, Raleigh said, "They never traveled together that I know of."

After making a note, the man looked up expectantly. "Has Mr. Trask had a girlfriend during the time that he's roomed with Mr. Longstreet?"

A hot flush of embarrassment swept over me.

"Now wait a minute," Raleigh said gruffly.

The moth again fluttered against the porch light and cast oversized, eerie shadows on the walls. "If you want to help Mr. Trask, I need honest answers to these questions," the blond man said flatly.

Even his thick beard could not hide Raleigh's threatening frown. "The way I hear it, it's illegal to even ask that kind of crap."

The man lowered the clipboard and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, folks, this isn't the Sunshine Cookie Company."

"Then what is it?" Jan demanded sharply. "The F.B.I.?"

The moth fluttered about, and its shadow wings seemed to beat against the man's head. "No, Ma'am," he replied curtly.

I eased the thin cotton curtain aside a bit more and watched Jan and Raleigh engage in a silent debate with their eyes.

"I'm sorry you don't want to cooperate," the man said coldly, and he turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," Raleigh growled.

The tall blond stopped stiffly and then shifted round to face them. "I'm sure Mr. Trask will appreciate your assistance," he said evenly. "Now, has either of them had a girlfriend in the past year?"

"Greg has," Raleigh said quietly.

While the man jotted an entry with the gold pen, he asked: "Did Mr. Trask ever talk about the security breaches at Cybertek?"

Jan shooed the moth away and then addressed the man sourly. "They don't talk shop with us."

"Mr. Trask never mentioned that he had access to all the company's files?" the man asked.

I froze in mid-breath.

Jan folded her arms against her clay-encrusted smock. "No."

"There were extremely serious losses of proprietary data."

"I'm telling you, he doesn't talk shop," Jan said adamantly.

A hot wave of anger roared through me. Was this bastard suggesting that I'd stolen those files? I'd been as devastated as anyone by the theft; after four years as one of Cybertek's senior systems designers, I'd contributed quite a lot to that "proprietary data."

"I see." The blond man lowered the clipboard and placed the pen in his coat pocket. "You've really helped Mr. Trask out here. Keeping this confidential will help him even more. Good night."

The man strode purposefully away without looking back. Jan and Raleigh shut the door and I crept back into the entry. Our voices were just above whispers.

"What the hell was that all about?" Jan asked.

"I don't know," I replied uneasily. "I applied for a computer job yesterday but I never expected to hear from them again."

Raleigh clicked off the entry light and peered cautiously through the narrow window by the front door. "Looks like you just did."

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I raced a man wearing a chic black designer suit to the automatic teller machine outside Safeway and won. It wasn't an official competition; he'd parked his shiny red BMW in a handicapped stall and was hurrying in a decidedly able-bodied manner toward the cash machine. The man's arrogance annoyed me and I sped up to reach the ATM before him.

My success drew a sullen glare from the curly-haired BMW man. I leisurely inserted my bank card, punched in my code number and then hit the "quick cash" button. The machine paused and then beeped.

The screen display read "Insufficient funds."

My face hot with shame, I reinserted my card and tried again. The "insufficient funds" message reappeared, and the BMW man sniped, "You have to put some money in first."

I was sure I'd transferred funds, but obviously my bookkeeping was awry. I yanked my card out of the machine and strode rapidly into the supermarket, ignoring the man's smirk.

With only one twenty-dollar bill in my wallet, it was going to be a short shopping trip. I picked up a loaf of whole wheat bread, some Fuji apples on sale, a package of Oreos to cure any future post-interview slump and then headed to the poultry cooler.

I was standing in front of the frozen chicken, comparing the cost per pound of a whole fryer to a package of thighs, when a male voice behind me said: "Mr. Trask?"

I spun around and suddenly felt warm, even in front of the cooler. Two unsmiling men in dark blue suits--the tall blond interviewer from last night and a beefy man with a neatly trimmed black mustache--were standing about two feet from me.

If their scheme was to catch me off-guard, they'd succeeded. I recognized the football-player type as the other "tourist" who'd been snapping photos of my house.

A rail-thin old woman in a flower print dress pushed her clattering cart alongside the chicken, took one look at the grim men and veered hastily away to the luncheon meats. She made a show of scanning the bologna, but her darting glances betrayed her eavesdropping. Perhaps she expected me to be arrested for shoplifting a frozen fryer.

"We'd like to talk to you about a job," the blond man said. I could see why the old woman had scurried off; his light blue eyes reminded me of an icy mountain stream. I decided to play dumb.

"Sorry, you must have the wrong guy," I said.

"Mr. Trask, you applied for a computer position two days ago."

Okay, so there really was a job, just as Ms. Makoto had insisted. "That's right," I said noncommittally.

Their faces remained expressionless. "Can we speak to you for a moment. . . outside?" the big one asked.

My curiosity about the job overcame my suspicion of the two men and I nodded assent. With an unnerving silence they accompanied me through the checkout and then to the sidewalk.

"Any reason you had to do this at Safeway?" I asked.

"We were just doing some shopping," said the tall blond man. I glanced over, expecting a smile, but he was looking stolidly at his oversized partner.

"Mr. Trask, the computer security field is growing fast," the beefy one said. "We'd like you to become part of it."

I stopped and looked at them, slightly stunned. "Are you offering me a job?"

The big man nodded and then offered me a plain envelope. "Here's a ticket for tomorrow morning's flight to Washington, D.C. and some expense money."

I lowered my bag of groceries to the concrete, took the envelope and thumbed through its contents: a First Class airline ticket, an address in the Northwest district of D.C. and a fat packet of crisp new $20 bills. I examined them closely; each had the anti-counterfeit strips.

I glanced up at the two men. "Okay, what's the joke?"

"There's no joke, Mr. Trask," the blond one replied.

The men kept their cool eyes locked on mine while I put the bills back in the envelope. "I'm sure you don't expect me to fly to Washington without knowing something about the position," I said evenly.

The big man scratched his dark bristle-brush mustache. "I'm sorry, but all we can tell you is that it's highly sensitive and very well-paid. They'll cover the rest when you get there."

The two men continued to focus their gaze on me. The beefy one nodded toward the parking lot. "In three months you'll be able to buy just about any new car out there, cash. You'll get a generous travel allowance and full benefits, too. How about it?"

My savings account was a precarious ladder of withdrawals with only a few flimsy rungs left. Paychecks that fat would fund a long list of needs: tires for the Duster, that damned steak dinner for Greg and finally, some weekly fun money.

"So how about it?" The thin blond asked.

I looked into his clear, frozen-blue eyes. I didn't want to leave San Francisco, especially for a job no one could talk about with a company that hired ice-sculptures like this, but I had no other prospects. And I had to admit that it felt good--no, great--to finally be offered a job, no matter how peculiar it might be.

"Alright," I said.

A thin smile flickered across the blond man's bloodless lips. "Welcome aboard," he said in his dried-leaves voice.

For the first time in six months, I had a job. But rather than the blazing joy I'd expected, I felt only an odd sense of foreboding.

CHAPTER FOUR

My fitful sleep ended in the half-light of dawn, and I turned the job over in my mind until the alarm buzzer to sound. Any company that refused to identify itself deserved the strongest skepticism, but I'd had my fill of interviews and rejections. The choice between a well-paid "one in the hand" position in Washington and a "two in the bush" job I might be offered here--and "might" had never weighed so heavily on me before--wasn't much of a choice.

Still, I had the unsettling suspicion that ESP tests, computer security and excessive secrecy did not add up to a carefree overseas job. Or perhaps there was no job, and this was all part of a study on "The Irrational Hopes and Fears of the Chronically Unemployed."

Eventually I gave up, snapped off the alarm and got dressed. I'd already packed my black nylon shoulder bag and laid out a pin-striped gray suit that still fit well and lent me an air of corporate competence.

As I waited for the morning pot of coffee to finish gurgling Greg staggered in, pulled his Daffy Duck boxer shorts up and braced himself in the doorway. His presence surprised me, for he was not an early riser.

"You look like hell," I said good-naturedly. "Want some coffee?"

He grimaced and blearily shook his head. "Garrett, it's crazy to take a job you don't know squat about."

"You got a better idea?" I snapped.

He rubbed his black-stubbled cheek and squinted at me through half-open eyes. "Yeah. Why don't you apply at these little start-up companies that don't advertise? I know you're desperate, but if you—"

"Not just desperate, pal," I said heatedly. "Cursed. Remember?"

Greg ran his fingers through his cowlicked hair and yawned. "The whole setup stinks. You don't even know the name of the outfit, for Christ's sake."

I turned away and poured myself a mug of coffee. "If this job is as bad as you think, I'll quit."

"It might not be that easy to bail out."

"You're really Mr. Positive this morning," I said, fully annoyed. "This is the first break I've had in months."

"You know damn well it's fishy," he said.

I sipped my coffee and made no reply. He was right. But a fishy job was better than no job.

Greg mumbled a parting comment under his breath and shuffled back to his room.

After hurriedly gulping my coffee, I went down to wait for the airport shuttle van. It pulled up as the sun was just peeking above the rooftops and within the hour I had checked in and was walking to my gate. In another hour I was sitting in First Class, looking down at the Nevada desert far below.

Greg's warning weighed on me, for he would never stumble out of bed to challenge me over some triviality. On the other hand, this incredibly secretive computer security position could turn out to be a job locking PCs to desks with superglue.

Whatever the outcome, it felt great to be flying to Washington at someone else's expense. The big salary and free European travel wouldn't be too hard to swallow, either. At worst, I'd have a free trip to D.C. and a welcome break from clipping ads and acting perky during interviews. Maybe my intuition of last Sunday morning hadn't been as faulty as I'd thought; maybe this was the lucky break I'd anticipated.

The mid-afternoon sun was breaking through a high cloud cover when we landed. It seemed awfully warm for early May, but then I was used to fog and cool Pacific winds.

I handed an African cabbie the address and we drove through heavy traffic into the city's heart. The cab rounded a corner and my heart sped up unexpectedly at my first sight of the Mall and the nation's most hallowed buildings.

Traffic slowed to a walking pace, and I had plenty of time to orient myself: the Lincoln Memorial, so much more impressive than photos suggested; the graceful white spire of the Washington Monument and the Reflecting Pool, scene of historic demonstrations, and then the great white dome of the Capital at the other end.

I was simultaneously impressed by the grand scale of the Mall and surprised by the incestuous intimacy of our government's offices; the White House, Congress and the Supreme Court always appeared isolated in photos.

The taxi deposited me at an office building a few blocks from the Mall. The first two floors were windowless gray concrete; faded gold anodized metal screening covered the upper four stories. Narrow vertical windows hid behind this ugly facade.

I walked across the pebbled courtyard in front of the building and stopped by the two large, squat cement planters that sat on either side of the entrance doors like silent, rotund sentries. The barren dirt inside was raked flat like the gravel of a Zen garden; no flowers, or even weeds, marred their sterile surfaces.

The lobby was as devoid of decoration as the plaza; no sign or logo betrayed the identity of the company that had flown me three thousand miles for a job they'd refused to describe.

All the conjecturing was about to end, and my heartrate pumped up in nervous anticipation. I pushed through the glass doors and was struck by a strong antiseptic scent. It smelled as if my grandmother had just mopped the terrazzo floor with the same mixture of Pine-Sol and bleach she so liberally sloshed about her bathroom.

Two uniformed security guards wearing large revolvers staffed an expansive gray Formica security station set against the wall, opposite a bank of elevators. One of the guards stared at an impressive array of surveillance monitors; the other one, a taciturn man with sunken cheeks and wispy brown hair, trained his gaze on me.

I approached the counter and introduced myself. The thin guard typed my name into a computer, glanced at the resulting display on the monitor, and then directed me to Room 301. I thanked him and walked across the polished concrete to the elevator.

After exiting on the third floor, I proceeded down a long carpeted hallway buzzing with fluorescent lights. The placard next to 301 read, "Robert Botham, Special Operations." In a peculiar juxtaposition to the Pine-Sol-splashed lobby, the corridor outside his door smelled like freshly baked bread.

I knocked and was invited in. A heavyset man with thinning black hair sat in a swivel chair behind a big uncluttered oak desk of sleek Danish design. He looked like a fat owl: wide, expressionless tobacco-colored eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, rounded shoulders and a tightlipped mouth. His tailored dark suit and starched white shirt gave him the air of a successful attorney in a mid-rank firm; his Mondrian-inspired tie of intersecting red and yellow squares suggested a slightly untraditional formalism.

The man rose from his chair with surprising agility and gripped my hand tightly. "Mr. Trask? Robert Botham. Thanks for coming on such short notice. It's just super." He had the deep, measured voice of a classical music station announcer.

He motioned me into a large dark red leather chair in front of the desk and smiled quickly, as if it were painful to do so. "Coffee?"

"Yes, thanks," I said. "With a little creamer if you've got it."

He lumbered over to a matching oak credenza against the side wall and I spotted the source of the bakery smell: a tray of fresh glazed doughnuts sat next to the coffee pot.

While he prepared my coffee I looked around his office; its generous dimensions, thick carpet and quietly elegant furniture suggested the company had no difficulty paying its rent—but then such outward affluence often masked fiscal insolvency. The most striking item in the room was an ornately framed reproduction of a Medieval map of Europe which hung above the credenza.

The windows behind his desk looked out toward the Mall; the exterior bronze-anodized screen shrouding the glass was as ugly from the inside as it was from the outside.

Glancing over the papers on his desk, I caught sight of my name at the top of a document. With the intense curiosity we reserve for reports on ourselves, I hastily shifted position to read the page.

SUBJECT: GARRETT TRASK
Height: 6' 1"
Hair: dark brown, generally worn short
Build: slim
Face: clean-shaven, no anomalies
Health: no known problems, reportedly jogs approx. 9 miles a week
Other: scar on upper left arm from childhood injury/broken glass
General appearance: favors casual college-type attire of blue jeans, sweat shirts
Hobbies: subject frequents local cafes, has been observed sketching in small notebook; participates in volleyball games organized by roommate G.L.
Spending habits: recent credit history indicates few purchases
Private life: no recent intimate encounters reported
Vehicle: poorly maintained 70s-era Plymouth muscle car
Work Record:

I skimmed the job history to confirm its accuracy and sat down in the red chair before Botham noticed my prying. These guys hadn't wasted any time getting to people who knew me--and to some pretty old files. How else could they have found out about my collision with a plate glass window in the 5th grade? As for the rest of it: the "private life" note and insulting description of my Duster rankled, but only because they were true.

Botham returned to the desk and handed me a doughnut on a napkin and a large white mug emblazoned with the stylized letters "CSI" in deep red. I was struck by his hands; his grip had been firm but the back of his hands were unnaturally smooth, more like a young woman's than a middle-aged man's in their almost porcelain whiteness.

He sat down heavily, slipped the report into a drawer and pushed a W-2 form and a four-page contract across the desktop to me.

"Sign these and we can get down to business."

The firm's name ran along the top of the contract in small, discreet typeface: Computer Security International. It seemed rather mundane in comparison to all the secrecy deployed to shield it.

I leafed through the documents to confirm that the salary and benefits were as generous as the men in the supermarket had described; they were. The contract ran for three months, with an option to renew.

I readied the pen and then hesitated as the nagging sense of foreboding in the back of my mind rose up. What the hell, I argued internally; I need the money, and it's time to end the curse.

I signed the papers and slid them across to him.

He glanced at my signatures. "Super."

Then he leaned back in his padded executive chair and stared blankly at the Medieval map of Europe.

"Mr. Trask, we deal in security. Protecting corporations from industrial espionage, that sort of thing."

Oh great, I thought to myself; any teenager with a snoopy kid brother had more qualifications than I did. My entire computer security experience consisted of using my cat's name for a password during my years at Cybertek. As for industrial espionage, I was the last person to find out Cybertek's patent files had been broken into and copied.

"I'm afraid I don't have much practice with poison darts and blowguns," I said.

He frowned in puzzlement and then smiled painfully when he realized my non-sequitur was a joke. "It's nothing quite so melodramatic."

His eyes flitted from the map back to me. "You work with computers," he said. "Ever hear of N.E.T.?"

"No. What is it?"

"Neural Emulation Technology. It's a type of artificial intelligence. Instead of processing data linearly like most computers, it uses a neural network logic that emulates the human brain."

"I'm familiar with the concept," I replied, hiding my smirk. Neural networks had been overhyped for years. They worked somewhat better than traditional methods in limited functions such as machine vision, but like most A.I. ideas, the concept had often failed when applied to practical tasks.

He regarded me steadily for a moment before continuing. "Our most important American client has made a major advance in NET research. Unfortunately, a number of highly confidential NET patent documents have recently been stolen from their European Operations' computer files."

"Their security system must be pretty shoddy," I said.

"Actually, it's superb," he replied. "Their office entrance is bombproof, and a biometric scan of one's left eye is required to enter. An uncrackable passcode protects files from remote access--in other words, from hackers-- and they've done an excellent job of regularly updating the passcodes."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

His response was steeped in frustration. "Despite everything, someone still broke into their system."

"So you were hired to find out who the thief is," I ventured.

"No, we already know that."

I tried to hide my surprise as Botham retrieved a folder from his file drawer, removed several photographs and handed them to me. The top one was an old-fashioned, scratchy studio portrait of a young East Bloc officer in full dress uniform. "This man’s been selling the stolen NET documents on the black market for big money. His name is Nicolai Vladimir Polenkov."

The old photo showed Polenkov as a broad-shouldered, handsome young officer with a sharp glint of intelligence in his eyes and a determined ambition in his square jaw, straight black eyebrows and sternly set expression.

"He began his career in Red Army Intelligence," Botham commented.

He looked like the last person you'd want interrogating you in some dank prison cell—the type of man who had the wits to coerce you into talking and the ruthless skill to make you talk if cleverness failed.

In the newer photos, Polenkov was seated in a fancy restaurant, a tall-stemmed wine glass in hand. He was wearing expensive clothing and had grown considerably in girth; his youthful features had been lost to the sagging corpulence of overindulgence.

"Polenkov was seriously injured during the Czech uprising back in 1968," Botham said as I studied the photos. "As a result, he now uses a cane." Botham pointed to a corner of the restaurant photo; the curved leather-bound handle of a cane was visible by Polenkov's sleeve.

I glanced again at the youthful Polenkov and then pushed the photos back across the desk to him. "Since you know he's doing it, what's the problem?" I asked.

"The problem is how he's doing it." Botham raised his fingertips to his chin, forming a steeple. "We usually find that someone inside the firm sells the passcodes to an outside thief, who then steals the documents electronically. Any computer with a modem will do."

His thin lips formed a grim smile and he continued in his deep radio announcer's voice. "So naturally we issued a new passcode and limited it to their most senior staff. This would either stop the thefts or cut the number of suspects down to a handful. From there, it’s relatively easy to find our man—or woman."

His expression of satisfaction disappeared. "In this case, however, Polenkov is still getting the passcodes. There's no physical evidence of theft--no broken locks or electronic tampering--and no evidence that the senior people are involved. In fact, they’ve all passed rigorous polygraph tests."

"What about the cops over there?" I asked. "Can't they just arrest this guy?"

Botham gave me an annoyed glance. "There are several reasons why that won't happen. Number one, the only evidence comes from informants who are quite wary of any contact with police. No evidence, no case. Number two, the authorities aren't terribly interested in protecting American firms from industrial espionage, since they're generally viewed as threats to home-grown companies. Number three, our client wants this handled discreetly. The loss of the NET patent documents is the last thing they want publicized. And number four, even if they wanted to arrest Polenkov, they don't know where he is."

Botham retrieved the photos of Polenkov and placed them back in the folder. "We've thoroughly investigated blackmail, electronic snooping, disgruntled employees, desperate competitors--you name it--and we’re still stumped."

The puzzle--assuming I'd heard an accurate account of it--was certainly intriguing. But I didn't see any role for myself in solving it.

His grim frown settled back into an owl-like blankness. "So now we've been forced to look into. . . less conventional possibilities."

Trying not to look too interested, I picked up the CSI coffee mug and asked, "Like what?"

After a moment of reflection he removed a crisply folded handkerchief from his coat and began cleaning his heavy black-framed glasses.

"It’s common knowledge that the East Bloc spent decades trying to find telepathic methods that could be used for espionage," he said evenly. "They were dead serious about it. They had a huge telepathic research lab in Krasnayat, on the Baltic Sea."

I shifted forward in the big chair. The thin leads dangling from "ESP testing" and "computer security" finally made contact.

Botham stopped wiping the lenses. "Polenkov was the director of the lab in Krasnayat for twenty-two years."

"Was the director?"

"Yes, was. After the East Bloc collapsed, the new government decided to close the lab. Money was tight and priorities changed. Polenkov insisted he was close to a breakthrough in telepathics, but they shut the lab down anyway. He apparently downloaded his research and went out to make some money on his own."

Botham held the glasses up to the light and inspected each lens as if looking for tiny defects. "Dr. Feinbaum believes that Polenkov may be getting the passcodes by using a form of telepathy called remote viewing."

So it was Doctor Feinbaum. I couldn't repress a smile. "I guess I’m not too surprised that Dr. Feinbaum would believe that."

Botham put his glasses back on and gave me a withering stare. "Don’t let him fool you. He’s got degrees in computer science, psychology, statistics, you name it. He heads one of Southeastern University's research labs in Virginia. Remember that stir a few years ago about the Pentagon-funded parapsychology research? Feinbaum was a major recipient, and a well-respected one. We've used him as a consultant for years. He knows his stuff, and he's met Polenkov at conferences in Europe."

My smile faded but Botham continued to fix me in his unblinking gaze. "Polenkov has been getting the NET passcodes and documents. That’s a fact. We need to verify whether or not he’s using telepathics to help him steal it. Dr. Feinbaum's plan is to plant a new NET passcode so that the only way Polenkov could get it is by using remote viewing."

"And what's that?"

"You’ll go to Europe with a portable computer that has the new passcode etched inside one of its processors. Dr. Feinbaum used a randomizer program to select the code. No one over there knows it."

"But why send me?"

He paused, his owl-like stare unchanged, and then replied in a carefully even-toned voice. "You scored unusually well on the tests we gave you in San Francisco."

My eyes must have widened in shock, for the slightest flicker of satisfaction crossed Botham's impassive face. I certainly didn't remember guessing that many cards right.

"That's a surprise," I said as flatly as I could manage.

Botham's pressed on, suppressing an obvious distaste for the subject. "According to Dr. Feinbaum, people who are sensitive to this sort of thing may exhibit a specific EEG pattern during telepathic attempts by others."

He sat forward and folded his hands on the desk. "The computer you'll be carrying will monitor your EEG. It's been programmed to recognize this specific EEG pattern in your brain functions. If remote viewing really is the only way Polenkov can acquire the new passcode, he’ll try it. The computer will record the effort and your job will be over. It’s actually quite straightforward."

"Yes, I can see that."

My sarcasm was lost on Botham, who continued to stare at me blankly.

"Why can't Polenkov just disassemble the computer and find the code?" I asked.

"He'd have to tear it into little pieces and even then he probably wouldn't find it," he replied. "This computer contains a great number of processors. Anyway, so far he's been getting the passcodes without any visible effort."

"Maybe he's a good guesser."

Botham's thin lips tightened. "If he guesses he'll get caught. A special program detects invalid passcode entries and instantaneously traces them back to the point of origin. We give the police the location and they move in."

I shifted back in the red leather chair. "How will Polenkov know about this new passcode?"

Botham's gaze drifted over to the map on the wall. "He has a sophisticated network of informants over there--his own people, and numerous contacts within the big Eastern European Mafia groups. We'll leak that you'll be carrying this computer and that it contains the new NET passcode. He'll hear about it in a few days."

After a moment of silence Botham turned to me. "Well, are you game?"

I thought of the rejections I'd endured, Greg's sharp warning, and the secret fear that perhaps I was somehow cursed. If I was going to walk out, it would have to be now.

My mind raced over the obvious objections. The job was a bit nutty, but so what? I'd be paid handsomely for carrying a laptop computer around Europe. It hardly seemed like work. And if I could save the three months' salary, that lump sum would keep me alive while I found a real job back home in Fall.

I took a deep breath and then sighed. "Sure."

"Super." Botham removed a thin folder from the top drawer of his desk. "We're under intense time pressure on this project," he said. "The final NET patent documents will be completed in three weeks. The moment they're finished our client will file for worldwide patent protection of the NET technology. If Polenkov can obtain the NET software codes and design specs before the patents are filed, he'll become an immensely wealthy man."

Botham looked up and I met his unblinking owl gaze. "You see, the opportunity to get in on the bottom floor of such revolutionary technology is extremely rare," he said. "Whoever holds the patents, or sells the technology before they're filed, could make billions."

Botham handed me the folder. "Here's your briefing schedule. You see Dr. Feinbaum and his assistant tomorrow morning and then Mr. Rumford in Special Ops that afternoon. The following day you'll meet with our computer expert, Dr. Velasquez. You're leaving for Europe in two days so get some sleep tonight."

I nodded automatically and stood up to leave, somewhat stunned by the rapidity of events; interviewed on Monday, hired on Wednesday, off to Europe on Saturday.

Botham shuffled the papers on his desk and then suddenly glanced at me.

"Oh, Trask. I forgot to mention one other thing. We understand Polenkov carries a computer disk with him that might interest us. We've been unable to find out what information is stored on it."

He smiled painfully. "It's not part of your assignment, mind you, but you'd be a big man around here if you could get that diskette."

I remembered the old military photo of Polenkov as a no-nonsense officer. Cane or no cane, he didn't look like someone who'd hand his diskette over just because you asked politely. "I'll keep it in mind," I said.

"Super," Botham replied.

I suddenly remembered the question that Jeannette had dodged during my interview in San Francisco. "By the way," I said. "What's psi?"

Botham set his heavy black-framed glasses carefully on the desktop, closed his eyes and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's a letter in the Greek alphabet."

"What's it got to do with this job?"

"Psi represents the unknown," he replied. "It stands for all parapsychological phenomena."

The room seemed unnaturally silent. "You mean ESP?" I asked.

"Yes, that, and everything else that's unexplained."

"But I don't have any psi experience."

He opened his eyes and focused his blank, owl-like gaze on me. "Perhaps you will, Mr. Trask."