Hosts

"It was." Please don't say anything stupid, he told himself. "It's a moment every journalist dreams of."

"You've got to tell me all about it sometime."

"Gladly."

"Give me a buzz when you're free."

And with that she swayed off. Sandy resisted sticking his head outside his cubicle for an extended look at her, as he'd done so many times in the past. He was above that now.

"Tell me that wasn't Patrice's voice I just heard," said Pokorny from somewhere on the far side of the partition.

"It was, my man. It most certainly was."

Pokorny groaned. "I'm going to kill myself."

Does it get any better than this? Sandy thought, gri

No. It was positively intoxicating. Like a drug. And just as addicting. He didn't want to let this go. Couldn't. He needed more, a steady fix.

But what next? He couldn't let this be the pi

But what was left to cover in a second interview? Rehashing the same old material wouldn't cut it.

But what if I challenge the initial material? he wondered.

He suspected that some of it wasn't true. In fact the more he thought about it, the surer he became that the Savior wasn't doing undercover work for the government. That was a little too glamorous, a little too Hollywood.

So what other reasons could he have to stop him from stepping forward to be acclaimed as a hero?

And then he remembered his earlier conversation with Beth. He'd been blue-skying with her but—

Sandy slammed his hand on his desktop. Christ, I bet that's it! The man has a criminal record. He's a fugitive! Some sort of felon with a warrant out for his arrest. And that's why he was armed!

He had his next hook: get the Savior to talk about his crime. Maybe he was an i

No, stop. You're getting Hollywood again.

Maybe he'd committed just one crime, or maybe he wasn't bad all the way through. He certainly did the right thing on the train. Maybe…

And then it all came together, driving Sandy to his feet, gasping like a fish out of water. He had it! A fabulous idea!

He fumbled a slip of paper from his pocket—the phone number the Savior had given him. He reached for his phone, then stopped.

No. No calls from here. Somewhere he was sure the paper kept a record of all outgoing numbers. Better a public phone.

Sandy hurried for the street. He was a man on fire, a man with a mission. He was going to do something wonderful, something that would repay the mystery man for saving his life. Talk about advocacy journalism! He'd be pulling off a journalistic coup to make today's story look like a weather report. Not just your common everyday, run-of-the-mill journalistic coup—the journalistic coup of the new century!

Can you spell Pulitzer?

6

Jack struck out at a hardware store and an appliance store, but finally found what he wanted at the Wiz. On his way back to Jeanette's apartment he stopped at a pay phone to check his messages. He groaned aloud when he heard Sandy Palmer's voice.

"Good morning, 'Jack.' Yeah, like I'm supposed to believe that's your real name."

Jack? How did he know—?

And then Jack remembered: the outgoing message on his voicemail began, "This is Jack…" He'd forgot all about that. Not that it mattered. Palmer thought it was phony anyway.

"Listen, we have to talk again. I've come up with an idea that's going to transform your life. We've got to meet. And don't blow this off, because what I've got to say to you is vitally important. Another reason you shouldn't blow me off is I've still got the drawing. Now don't get me wrong, because I don't want you to think I'm trying to blackmail you, but I'm pretty sure you weren't completely straight with me the other day—about your past, that is—so I don't feel bound by our little agreement to destroy the drawing. But we can let bygones be bygones and straighten all this out with one little meeting. Call and tell me where and when. And trust me, Jack, or whatever your name is, you'll be ever so glad you did."

He left his number and extension at the paper.

Jack slammed the receiver against the phone box. Then did it again. And again.

Now I don't want you to think I'm trying to blackmail you . . .

What else am I supposed to think, you rotten little bastard?

He had this frenzied urge to get his hands around Palmer's pencil neck and squeeze until…

Easy. Step back. Look at it again…

But short of killing the kid, Jack saw no quick and easy way to take command of the situation. Palmer controlled the deck. Jack would have to play it his way. For now.

He called Palmer's number and extension. With an effort he kept his voice low and even when he reached his voicemail.

"Same place. Noon."

Then he hung up.

He'd cooled a little by the time he reached Jeanette's apartment, but his mood was still cooking over a low flame.

Kate took one look at him and said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing to do with this."

"Need to share?"

Jack considered that, almost gave in to the urge to tell her, but decided against it. The fewer who knew, the better.

"I'll be all right. But thanks." He opened his Wiz bag and produced a little white gizmo. "Looky. A microwave tester."

He set the oven for five minutes and started it, then ran the little tester along the edges of the door. The indicator started flashing red immediately and went into high gear when he reached the lower right corner with the cracked glass.

"That confirms it. Leaky oven." He hit the off switch. "How dangerous is that?"

"I did a search on Jeanette's computer while you were out."

"I'd think a doctor would know all about microwaves."

"Why? I haven't found a use yet for radar in my practice."

"Radar?"

"That's why the first microwave ovens were called radar ranges. Microwaves are radiofrequency radiation—somewhere below infrared and above UHF in the frequency spectrum."

That meant nothing to Jack. "I know they're used for cell phone transmission. But what's the downside—besides brain tumors?"

"That's never been proven, and it seems unlikely since it's non-ionizing radiation. The main effect is heat. The guy who discovered the microwave oven was playing with different frequencies, looking for new radar applications, when he melted the candy bar in his shirt pocket."

"A true 'Eureka!' moment."

"I suppose so. The ovens work by causing vibrations in water molecules, creating heat. The strength of the transmitter and the frequency of the waves determine the depth of penetration and the amount of heat generated. The best documented ill effects in humans are cataracts and sterilized testicles."

Jack stepped away from the oven. "But no brain tumors."

"Not a one. But my search popped up lots of hits involving central nervous system effects—everything from memory loss to mind control. I don't know how factual they are though."

"So if this virus is having an effect on Jeanette's brain—"

"Which is the heart of the central nervous system."

"—maybe the microwaves disrupt that."

"But what about Holdstock? He was dosed with the virus too, but he walked right up to the oven and turned it off."

"Right. Forgot about that. Damn. So much for that theory."

"Pretty far-fetched anyway."

"Lot of far-fetched stuff going down these days," he said, thinking back on the events of the last couple of months. "And remember, I didn't come up with the virus-taking-over idea. That was Jeanette's."

"Well, rest assured, there's no virus taking over Jeanette's mind. But she might believe there is."