Cultural Landscapes: A Haley and Willi Novel

By Larry M. Rosen

Life hasn't been kind to Haley. In his early 30’s, a database developer, and once a covert CIA operative, he has an alter ego who emerges when violence threatens. A half Irish, half Jewish orphan, he retreated to a workaholic existence after his wife died in an accident. Then Haley met Montana-born Episcopalian, Willi Mayers, a master at verbal jousting, able to eat enormous quantities of food without gaining weight. As they develop a Cultural Landscapes System for the National Park Service, a cryptic note appears with the message 3912. More notes appear, and Haley’s formerly submissive alter ego becomes aggressive. In Montana, Haley tries to effect a rapprochement between Willi and her father, only to return home to face a personal tragedy that frees his alter ego to take vengeance on a merciless killer. His future with Willi at stake, Haley must confront a violent adversary from his past, while deciphering the true meaning and intent of the notes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329577268

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Cultural Landscapes: A Haley and Willi Novel

Cultural Landscapes: A Haley and Willi Novel

By

Larry M. Rosen

Cover

Page

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2006 by Larry M. Rosen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This Book Is

PUBLISHED BY LULU

(www.lulu.com)

First Edition: January 2007

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, other organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-1-329-57726-8

The author and publisher do not have any control over, and do not assume any responsibility for, third-party websites or their content.

Novels By Larry M. Rosen

The Haley And Willi Novels

Joker In The Deck

The Light In The Garden

A Shadow That Passes Away

Seal, Trumpet, And Vial

Cultural Landscapes

The Maxine Kordell Novels

I, Of Limited Mercy

The Nora Kelly Novels

Maranatha

The Emissary Novels

The Elixir Of Fools

Other Novels

Women Don’t Like Me

Acknowledgments

This novel takes several potshots at the Federal Government. Despite these playful jabs, there are many Feds with whom I’ve worked who have my respect and affection. One is Bill Brimberry, currently with the Department of the Interior. Bill has taught me many things over the yearspersonal and professional. He even inspired one of the key characters in the novel. You’re one of the good guys, Bill. Never doubt it for a minute.

I’d also like to thank Ed Urquhart, my neighbor and friend, for helping me think through various human and electronic surveillance techniques suitable for a suburban cul-de-sac. Ed’s other pro bono efforts on my behalf include plumbing, removal of fallen tree stumps, dog sitting, and remedial counseling whenever I’ve faltered and shown excessive liberal tendencies.

I’d also like to acknowledge friends and colleagues whose names I modified and used for several charactersTom Coker, my first mentor at work and in life, who was best man at my wedding and made me a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan; Elaine Sussman, a long ago girlfriend, who really did resemble Audrey Hepburn; Larry Klapper, who taught me the fundamentals of relational databases; Germana Miner, who showed me how to optimize complex queries; Lenda Dincer, a woman of enormous charm; Cindy Flint, who often proved guilt is not a uniquely Jewish trait; and Michelle Kordell, who taught me the virtues of political passivity, but only after carpet bombing is off the table.

Also, I’d like to thank those who read earlier drafts of the manuscript, and tactfully refrained from telling me what they really thoughtElaine Lomax, Toni Nichols, Ray Gottlieb, Linda Jones, and Sal Culosi.

Further, I’d like to note my not too subtle alteration of the first names of my real-life in-lawsHelen and Paul Lomrantzwhen I created Haley’s former in-laws, Ellen and Saul. And surprise, surprise, the genuine articles and the fictional ones all live in New Jersey.

Finally, a special thanks to my wife, Andrea, and my daughter, Samantha, who put up with my emotional swings, as Cultural Landscapes went through various stages. Samantha, an artiste in her own right, also provided invaluable critiques and suggestions about the dust cover.

Dedication

It’s been a long road to Cultural Landscapes, with a temporary stop at my own consulting firm and a sometimes satisfying career as a database developer. But sometimes satisfying wasn’t enough. Something was missing. I was fortunate to have a friend who pointed out the mislaid piece—writing. Her name is Nora Mayers, she constantly goaded me to write, then, when I did, said a rather remarkable thing—Let the characters take you where they want to go. Quite an epiphany for someone accustomed to writing management and technical reports. So I’d never have done this without you, Nora. Remember that, when hordes of irate readers surround the fabled yellow house.

There’s another woman whose talent and words stirred me to write, although I’ve neither met nor spoken with her—Michelle Ingrid Williams II. I’m certain, Michelle, you’ve positively touched many more souls than you imagine.

And a special remembrance of absent friends—Barbara Pisarski, Eileen Haskins, and Bud Applegate.

PROLOGUE

The waiter brought the

Peking Duck to our table, then took a plain looking, exceedingly sharp knife, and began to cut pieces of crisp skin and meat. He also cut off the wings and legs. In a few minutes, he’d finished carving the duck and set it before us, along with a small plate containing green onions and a covered plate holding eight pancakes. He placed a large cloth over the duck carcass, then began to leave.

He’s taking the duck, Willi said, alarmed.

Only the carcass, I noted.

That’s one of the best parts. I love to pick at it.

Picking is frowned on at high class bistros. If you need to pick, we can visit the Colonel tonight. They’re not so touchy there.

I want that carcass, Willi said, standing up.

Willi caught up to the waiter, then they began arguing, flapping their arms, and tugging on the carcass. Finally, both returned to our table. The angry waiter placed the carcass on the plate with the other duck pieces, then left in a huff. Astonished patrons were agog at this display.

Now I’m satisfied, Willi said.

"You’re satisfied, and The Duck Gourmet just lost one star from its rating."

"Shush, Haley. What is one lost symbol of the Dallas Cowchips compared to my cravings."

We began eating the duck. I noticed Willi getting irate looks from other diners and from the waiter. When we finished, I paid the check, and gave the waiter a rather large tip for his indulgence. Nevertheless, as we left the restaurant, I noticed the waiter and a Chinese woman, presumably the owner, glaring at us. We got in the Porsche, and Willi began driving back to the office.

I don’t think we’re welcome there anymore, I concluded.

Of course we are, unless you left your customary five percent gratuity.

Will you stop saying that. I don’t stiff waiters or waitresses. I am generous to a fault.

Then why were they glaring at us?

Oh, you noticed that.

Certainly. Little gets by my finely honed senses.

And you’re prepared to brazenly attribute the glares to my tipping?

I am, Haley. I … I am. Your Irish side invariably over tipples, while your Yiddish side always under tips. To you, this constitutes a balanced personality. For we unfortunates, momentarily caught in the backwash of your proximity, our only possible response is shame.

I laughed, as I always did at her ad lib ripostes. She’d given me back the gift of laughter, and rescued me from a self-imposed purgatory of brooding and empty, workaholic behavior. And I had helped her banish feelings of alienation and isolation. Together, we had begun to heal each other.

Still, something kept intruding on my thoughts something evil, yet undefined. At the thought of evil, I felt Him stir in His place, somewhere deep within me. He would find the evil, crush it, kill it. But my life was free of evil nowwasn’t it? Violence had been my frequent companion, but that was also irrevocably overwasn’t it? I convinced myself that my sense of foreboding was only the voice of fatigue, or the paranoia my training occasionally provoked.

Then I found myself thinking back, to the beginning, before Willi had reshaped me, before it had all happened.

KALISPELL

"I think you’d be much better

served by making your ensemble match your mouse pad," Carl Schuler, director of the database development team, snapped.

Mr. Schuler, you’re ignoring what I’m saying, Willi Mayers replied. She was sitting in a chair at the far end of the small conference room.

I’ve listened to every word you’ve said. They’re academic drivel, and no basis for developing database systems in the real world.

You can’t rationally design a database without first identifying tables and understanding how they’re related, the young woman insisted. We need an entity relationship diagram to model the business rules and take advantage of what the database engine offers.

We’re not going that route, a now visibly irritated Schuler snarled. If you cannot accept my approach, if you will not accept my approach, then we can file your termination papers immediately. Is that clear enough for you, Willi? Have you got that, Willi?

I didn’t know you were coordinating exit interviews these days, Carl, I said, walking into the room. My abrupt appearance and use of the name Carl threw him, since everyone called him by his nickname, Clif.

Uh, we were just having a heated professional debate over methodology, he stammered.

Oh, well, in that case, let’s pink slip Willi immediately, have her clean out her desk, and award you one hundred debater’s points. Get it, Willi. Carl’s threatening to fire you was merely a debater’s trick. So you go home now, get depressed, take some Valium, and next week we’ll rehire you just in time for another debate. Uh, you better bone up on defending yourself against tactics like ignoring the professional opinions of women, shouting women down, or telling them they’re not logical thinkers.

Now I never said or did those things to Willi, Schuler protested.

No, you didn’t … to Willi. But you can’t say the same for Geri Minor, Maxine Kordell, or Carly Flint.

I’m not gonna listen to anymore of this crap, Schuler snarled. I don’t work for you. You got a problem, take it up with Taylor Richards.

"I take it an I’m sorry, Willi is not forthcoming."

Schuler got up, shoved his chair back roughly, and left the room.

Well, Willi, since Carl is out of sorts, out of excuses, and out of the room, let me end the stalemate by reassigning you to an upcoming projectthat is, if you want a transfer. So, want a change of venue?

Yes. I do.

Consider it done.

Okay, she said, smiling broadly. Her smile seemed somehow familiar.

Let’s go grab a cup of coffee and talk.

*     *     *     *     *

I can’t believe you helped me, Willi said. It was becoming a close contest between quitting or getting fired.

We were in my outer office, which featured a round conference table, four chairs, and a small coffee service and sink in the corner. We were seated at opposite ends of the table.

Let me ask you a question, Willi. Why do you think Schuler treats you with such disdain?

He’s from the old schoolyou know, Cobol programmer, IBM mainframes, flat file thinking. So we approach database design differently. He scared me with that talk about termination, though. This is my second job since college, and I’ve only been here about a year. I sure can’t afford getting fired, professionally or financially.

Forget that firing nonsense. Nobody’s firing you. But what you experienced has happened before, and has little to do with being a Cobol programmer.

What do you mean?

Let’s leave that discussion for another day, when we know a little more about each other. By the way, we haven’t been formally introduced. My name’s Haley.

I know. You’re Director of Database Systems Development. People told me about you my first day, and somebody pointed you out in the cafeteria.

What’d they say?

You’re a hands-on manager who doesn’t micromanage people. Everyone calls you Haley, but no one knows if that’s your first or last name. You’re very intense, but nice.

They got the intense part right, the nice is iffy. You’d get a lot of argument from certain people in this firm whose project methodology I’ve trashed, and from some clients I’ve told to go to hell.

Not from me. I should have said it earlier. Thank you.

Actually, you should thank Andrea Lomax, TGC’s Director of Human Resources. Andrea’s been keeping an eye on Schuler. She’d received a few complaints about himnot sexual harassment, just several unhappy women who felt their professional input was being ignored. Andrea asked me to discreetly look into it, I eavesdropped on your conversation, and here we are.

If Schuler’s such a problem, why hasn’t he been fired, or at least shifted to a position where he doesn’t manage women?

Schuler’s a former Navy Commander, a colleague of Thomas Grayson Coken, the guy whose initials appear on our corporate logo. Tom was a Navy Captain before founding this firm. Schuler also has some pretty good business contacts, which have resulted in several substantial contracts.

And you took him on to help me. Aren’t you afraid that might not be a good career move?

I’m not very career oriented. I enjoy project work gives me entertaining problems to solve. Besides, I have a pretty good relationship with Tom, myself. He was best man at my wedding.

I didn’t know you were married. I mean, no ring and, well, you just don’t seem ... married.

I’m not.

Divorced?

No, Willi. It’s a long story. Some other time, perhaps.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I …

That’s all right. Look, let’s talk about why I asked you here—the new assignment. We’re a medium-sized, computer consulting company. Some cynics might even call us a beltway bandit, but we’ll save that discussion for later.

You keep putting off the interesting conversations.

Everything comes to she who waits. Anyway, the firm has to attract new clients, as well as maintain existing ones, if it’s to grow. Recently, some overtures we made with the National Park Service paid off in a new contract to determine the feasibility of developing a database system for cultural landscapes.

What’s a cultural landscape?

I haven’t a clue. That’s why we’re going to San Francisco.

San Francisco. Fabulous. The restaurants are supposed to be great, and the city’s beautiful.

They are and it is. The purpose of the trip, though, is to meet with the Program Manager and members of some Task Force. They’ll tell us about cultural landscapes, and we can get an idea of how large and complex their system is likely to be.

When do we leave?

Day after tomorrow. Oh, one other thing, and it’s personal.

What? she asked, softly, a wariness replacing her smile.

"Do I have to call you Willi? I’m sorry, but that name brings to mind either Kate Capshaw’s whining in Indiana Jones and the Temple Of Doom, or the seamier side of Bill Clinton."

My real name is Wilhemina Mayers, she answered, laughing, but I’ve always hated it. Willi was a compromise with my parents.

Then I’ll call you Kalispell. I’ve reviewed your file, and you’re from that small town in Montana. So, Kalispell it is, unless you have objections.

She thought for a moment, then her smile reappeared.

No objections. In fact, I like it.

A DIRTY JOKE

The watcher had driven a

rental car into the Northern Virginia tract community, then parked on a street located a quarter of a mile from the target’s home. The watcher wore white running shoes and a lightweight, grey sweat suit, which had a parka that masked the watcher’s face. The watcher jogged slowly, heading toward the cul-de-sac where the target lived. The watcher passed several joggers running in the opposite direction, and even waved at one.

The watcher had to be careful, thoughthe surveillance object had once been a professional, a rather deadly one at that. So an appropriate disguise and observation point were paramount. The selected disguise was the jogger’s suit that would not draw special attention in a suburban community. It was the observation point that was proving troublesome. Pretending to work around the target’s home as a telephone or cable company employee might not fool the target, might even alert him. Sitting in an unfamiliar vehicle parked in or near the cul-de-sac would also be a red flag. No, the watcher would have to be cleverer than that.

The watcher was old school, preferring direct visual surveillance to electronic gadgetry. The cul-de-sac, however, was proving a hard nut to crackthere were just no adequate concealment spots. The watcher cursed softly, accepted the inevitable, then lifted a running shoe against a wooden post that supported a white mailbox, pretending to tie a shoelace. Quickly, the watcher removed a miniature electronic camera and attached it to the bottom of the metal mail box, positioning it to capture the area from the front door to the double garage doors.

Back inside the rental car, the watcher opened a leather bag, then removed a device the size of a video camcorder. The watcher flipped open an LED screen, pressed a button, adjusted several controls, and viewed the display. The image of the front of the house was perfect. Fifteen minutes later, the watcher saw one of the garage doors open, a maroon Honda Odyssey back down the driveway, and the target re-enter the garage, then reappear, carrying a very large suitcase that he stowed in the rear hatch of the minivan.

Rage quickly suffused the watcher’s detached demeanor. The watcher imagined a blade tearing the man’s flesh, heard the man scream in agony, then listened as the man blubbered, begging for mercy. The suitcase. The watcher snapped back from the bloody reverie. The target was carrying a large suitcasethat meant he was traveling somewhere for at least a few days, probably by plane. The watcher reached into the black leather bag, took out a cell phone, and punched in a number.

Adamari, the target’s leaving his home, probably headed for Dulles Airport.

*     *     *     *     *

The Boeing 737 lifted off the runway at Dulles International under full power, its steep ascent sharply tilting the aircraft’s cabin from front to rear. The June sky was clear and sunlit, visibility seemingly endless. After several minutes, with Dulles airspace miles behind, the aircraft reduced its climb angle, and the cabin became almost parallel to the distant ground below. At Willi’s request, I had switched seats with her so she could watch the takeoff through the small porthole window. I was ensconced in the aisle seat.

I didn’t expect first class, Willi said. Certainly a welcome perk.

It’s a fixed price contract, I explained, so I had more discretion. Besides, no coach seats were available when I booked this flight. Uh, since we know each other a little better now, do you want my theories on why Schuler treated you so badly?

Sure.

Schuler’s got nothing against you personally. It’s your type he finds threatening.

My type, Willi snapped. And just what is my type?

Sorry. Imprecise language. Gets you every time. What I meant was your perceived type.

Meaning?

Let me start again. There are four reasons why Schuler treats you badly. You’re young, you’re a woman, you’re brilliant, and you have integrity.

"That I’m young and a woman is self-evident. What makes you think I’m brilliant?

Whaaaat, fishing for more compliments?

Nooooo. I’m curious how someone I’ve only recently met can be so certain about my intelligence.

I read your personnel fileIQ above 140, high school grad at 16, bachelor’s degree in Computer Science at 20, Master’s Degree in same at 21. I also read your white paper on database design, which, as I now recall, Schuler read and didn’t understand. Another strike against you.

What about my integrity?

Instinct. Of course, I have been known to err when my initial evaluation is positive. Look, Schuler’s a very insecure man. He’s afraid to compete in the marketplace of ideas, so he adopts rules under which he believes he’s predestined to win. Under his rules, you can’t be heard because you’re young. That’s because nobody listened to him when he was your age. It escapes him, of course, that he had nothing of value to say then. You also can’t be heard because you’re a woman. Women can only assume nurturing positions.

But I’m not in a nurturing position, like a secretary.

That’s the threatening point. TGC makes you one of his colleagues, and, under his own rules, a colleague should be allowed to debate and contradict. For him, it’s a Catch-22. He can’t disavow collegiality, and he can’t accept you as a fellow colleague. His only recourse, in his own mind, is to run you off. So he belittles your ideas and threatens you with dismissal.

But why?

Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke. That’s their natural and first weapon.

That’s certainly cynical.

Those aren’t my words. Gloria Steinem wrote them over 25 years ago.

Why are you doing this? she asked, suddenly suspicious. Why are you being so nice?

Why do you find nice so unexpected?

She started to answer, but was interrupted as the flight attendants began their breakfast service of scrambled eggs, hash browns, link sausages, biscuits, pastries, coffee, and orange juice. Since this was first class, we were given real silverware and china, along with decent portions. I watched her rapidly down the meal, while I picked at my food. We didn’t say much as we ate. I offered her my pastry and sausage links, and she wolfed them down, too. She was quite nice to look at, dressed in a pale blue blouse and gray slacks, wearing stylish, but sensible, low heeled shoes. Her highlighted blonde hair, though obviously not her natural color, somehow suited her. Her round, almost plump face, was genuinely pretty, but not overwhelmingly so. She was about 5’ 3", and though her figure was slightly stocky, it was attractive. She was one of those women whose individual parts are unexceptional, yet, when taken together, she somehow becomes unnerving.

I’m not used to anyone taking the time to try to get to know me, let alone watch over me, she blurted.

Kalispell, I’m not watching over you. That’s sort of sexist. We’re colleagues. We’ll be working closely together for the next three months with clients neither of us have met. It would be nice if we trusted each other, personally and professionally. Okay?

Okay. I’ll try to contain my natural skepticism.

Good. We’re both feeling our way. You know, I’ve been doing most of the talking. Okay, I’ve been pontificating. So tell me about yourself. What was it like for you growing up?

What do you want to know?

Everything you’re willing to tell. It’s a long flight, and I’m sort of interested.

Just sort of?

Very sort of.

I grew up in Montana. I skipped eighth grade because of my supposedly high IQ and some other standard tests. Then my Dad moved the family to Los Angeles, so there I was, starting high school at 12.

Kinda scary for you.

It was, she said, the smile gone, her hazel eyes displaying a wistful look. I never could relate to the other girls. They couldn’t see beyond the next party. For them, there was no life after high school. For me, high school was a place to start preparing for life. So I immersed myself in math and computers, and I got good grades. But you know, I don’t have a single fond memory of those days. No prom, no boyfriend, not even a close girl friend. When I recall those days, I still get a knot in my stomach. What does that say about me?

I’ve always believed childhood pain never vanishes. It just cloaks itself, waiting for a vulnerable moment when it can spew forth. Anyway, what about college? Was that better for you?

In some ways. I met a few girls I felt comfortable with, and I think they genuinely liked me. We spent our free time going to movies or taking day trips. No sororities or anything like that. Just informal get-togethers.

Did you date, if you don’t mind my prying?

A little. But the boys I liked never seemed to call more than once, and the others, well, I was glad they didn’t call much, either.

I’m sorry, Kalispell. You missed out on a lot, and I think you deserved better.

Why? In general, I think people get exactly what they deserve.

Not always. Besides, you’re a nice person and, despite the cliché, nice people shouldn’t finish last.

How do you know I’m a really nice person?

I said nice, not really nice.

She punched me in the arm, then her smile grew wider.

How do you know, Haley?

Just ‘cause.

We sat silently for awhile, staring straight ahead, then she took out a book and began reading. I closed my eyes and tried to recall what I knew about the National Park Service, but Elaine’s face intruded, and I had to struggle very hard to will it away. Finally I succeeded, and sleep came without the dream.

*     *     *     *     *

I awoke, checked my watch, and saw that I’d slept for over an hour. The flight attendants were preparing their luncheon service. Willi had been asleep, but somehow sensed I was awake.

Haley, you snore.

I do not snore.

You do, and it’s a geezer wheezer.

I don’t snore, but you doze with your mouth wide open. Several aviation ants went to their deaths down your gaping gullet.

I don’t gape, and besides, there’s no such thing as an aviation ant.

Is too.

Uh, uh.

The flight attendants came by to take our luncheon order. I declined the meal, but asked for coffee. Willi ordered a chicken entrée, which came with a salad and a small piece of chocolate cake.

All this airplane food will ruin your appetite for San Francisco’s finest, I said.

No it won’t. I have a very hearty appetite, and I never turn down a meal. Ever.

True to her words, she attacked the meal with what had to be termed gusto. The food, with never a real fighting chance, was quickly dispatched.

I am in awe of you, Kalispell.

And you never fail to surprise, Haley.

SAN FRANCISCO

Our luggage arrived on the conveyor belt without a hitch. We carried our baggage to the outside taxi stand, waited in line to get a cab, helped the cabbie load the luggage into the trunk, and plopped ourselves into the back seat. I felt stiff and a little disembodied from the flight, so I hoped the drive to the St. Regis Hotel would be a quick one. It was. During the half hour ride, Willi said very little. She seemed transfixed by the buildings and sights of San Francisco. Fortunately, the cabbie, a young man barely out of his teens, was not the talkative type, so I wasn’t forced to make small talk, not one of my acquired skills.

The taxi pulled up to the entrance of the St. Regis, we exited, and a bellhop immediately appeared to gather up our luggage. I paid the cabbie, over tipping him for his silence. We followed the bellhop to the registration desk, where the clerk took my American Express card and quickly confirmed our booking. We were given coded, plastic room cards, then again followed the bellhop, taking an elevator that whisked us to the eighth floor, where our rooms were located on opposite sides of the hallway. The bellhop entered my room first, depositing my bags. I accompanied him to Willi’s room, waited as he placed her bags on the luggage rack, then tipped him. He left.

Why don’t we meet in the lobby in an hour, I said, and we can start our mini-tour.

See yuh, Haley.

*     *     *     *     *

We visited the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and the Japanese Tea Garden, but didn’t have enough time to give either site its due. I hailed a cab, and we began the drive toward the San Francisco Bay Bridge. Traffic was surprisingly light, we made excellent time, and soon we were beginning our ascent.

When was it built? Willi asked.

I think in 1937, but I’m not very good with dates.

Can’t remember dates, eh. Does that mean I won’t be getting a birthday card from you?

September 9, 1974 already has a special place in my heart.

You know my birthday, she said, incredulous at the discovery.

I have my priorities in order, Kalispell.

So it would seem.

Now don’t start angling for a present. I’ve only committed to a card.

When we left the Bridge behind, the cabbie began a route that would take us back across the Bridge, then on to the St. Regis.

Our meeting with the Park Service contingent is scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning in one of the hotel’s conference rooms, I said. After breakfast, why don’t we review what I know about the project, although it’s not much. Then we’ll both be on the same page.

I’d like a briefing. I’m always nervous about a project I know nothing about.

Me, too, although the meeting’s not likely to focus on technical matters. These people are landscape architects, historians, and ethnographers. They’re not experienced in designing state-of-the-art database systems. Besides, I’ve heard the Park Service is Paleolithic when it comes to hardware and software.

We won’t have to develop this system in an outdated environment, will we?

No. They want us to design a modern system.

"Whew. I like using Microsoft Access, and it’s been a while since I’ve worked in a character-based environment. I’m not sure I remember