Freeman P.I.

By Robert Beers

Freeman is an ex-cop who fled to the Asteroids to escape prosecution for crimes he did not commit. Finding a position as a contract agent for a Belter Security Agency he settled into rebuilding his life. As he soon found out, the community inhabiting the Rock, carved into the miniature planet Pella was every bit as corrupt as the one he left back on earth, but far more deadly. The Rock, hold too many secrets and it likes it that way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Beers
• Release date: Mar 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224852390

Robert Beers

Robert Lee Beers (born 1951) is an author and an artist involved in graphic arts, illustration and fine art. Originally from Eureka, California, Beers attended Arcata High School and Humboldt State College. He currently resides in Topeka, Kansas. In 2008 as a state Assemblyman Robert was nominated to be a recipient of the JFK Profiles in Courage Award. After leaving office, Robert became a licensed mediator for the Nevada Supreme Court’s Foreclosure Mediation Program. Upon retiring he was the most successful mediator of his type in the nation, compiling an agreement rate nearing 85%. He continues to write, and to paint. His Tony Mandolin Mystery series has ten completed novels and several short stories. The first four novels were produced into full-cast audio dramas by Graphic Audio Publishers. As an artist, Robert is an accomplished painter of portraits, both human and pet, and in producing landscapes that capture the chosen scene with incredible depth and clarity.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A dead lurker

It was the smell that attracted my attention. Any stink can be trouble in a closed environment, but this odor said trouble had come and gone long ago. Now all that was left was the investigating, the reporting, and the paperwork.

I’d been assigned the case mostly because I was the closest agent to the old supply tunnels. Someone had reported a disturbance, but it took time for the report to filter through the various hands that dealt with complaints and finally drop down to me. The reported disturbance was of a bad odor coming from a section of old storage tunnels deep in the lower levels of the asteroid. The stench didn’t hit until I was well into the second tunnel.

This section, part of the hundreds of miles of tunnels carved out of Pella, one of the larger rocks in the belt, was one of the places where normal folks do not go unless it’s something they’ve been hired for. That’s why I was following the stench of rotting meat, the credit balance in my account said I had to. Agents don’t get paid until after the report is filed and verified.

As I closed in on the source of the stink, I was thinking this time it might take more than a couple of shots minus vermouth after I filed the report.

The tunnels carved into the Rock aren’t what most people think... in either direction. They don’t look like the old mines back on Earth with timbers helping to support the weight of the mountain overhead, and they aren’t all lined with metal and plastic and lit with L.E.D’s. Some are lined, and some are more hotel-like than not, but some are like the area where I was now, smooth rock, polished by the action of the cutters with the floor and sides of the tunnel crowded with cargo containers, shoved into a recess to be gotten to later and then forgotten about.

Overhead the piping that constituted the infrastructure of the system added to the issue of getting to where I needed to be. If you were the size the administration preferred to send out here, say about five foot six instead of my six-six, you would have no problem getting around the more remote areas of the Rock. I keep a bottle of aspirin handy for the occasional trauma-induced headache.

Right about the time I squeezed my way past a cluster of containers labeled R.H. Corp, the R.H. stood for Rock Hound, a company started by a couple of asteroid miners who hit it big when they discovered a rock composed almost entirely of rare earth, elements desperately needed by the people who make AI hardware, I had a choice of either slapping my rebreather over my face of losing what little remained of breakfast, even if it was all vat-grown.

Believe me, they may say it tastes just like meat, but if you’ve had the real thing, you know they’re lying.

There’s a point in the decay of a body where it hits the redline on the disgusting scale. This one was a good way past that. I think it was the bubbles that got me. One burst just as I was pulling out my B.T. unit to record and I had to rip the rebreather off before I filled it.

Everyone working and living in the Rock carries O2 as a matter of course. Sure, all the experts insist that nothing short of another asteroid could break the seals, but still... When have the experts ever been proven infallible?

I hooked up the cylinder to my rebreather and sucked in a couple of deep doses of pure oxygen. That settled my insides and helped clear my head. Then I went back to the business of recording what I found. Fortunately, the job did not include collection and hauling off the remains. All I had to do was find them, dead or alive. This one... definitely dead.

Once the recording was done, I fished around in my pockets and pulled out a tracking beacon. All I had to do was toss it onto or just near the body and the rest was up to the folks in the sanitation detail. Unless something was off, Bubbles here would eventually help with the feeding of the trees in the Greendome.

I checked my B.T. and hit the send tab. The admin would have the recording before I made it back to my office. I still had to write the report, but the recording would stave off the wolves of bureaucracy for a while. The unit pinged as I was slipping it back into the case on my belt.

I tapped the answer tab and said, Yes?

Freeman, it’s Gault. Do you have time for one more job? I know the hour’s late, but we need this handled ASAP.

Gault was okay in my book. He always asked, never demanded, and best of all, he paid on time.

I said, Send me the particulars and I’ll see. I’m almost to the hubward transit so I’ll check them over at the Soy Shack.

The Rock, known by the Earth Astronomers as the asteroid named Pella, had four main transits, each splitting off into a dozen or more arms, slideways that worked as a form of public transit. There were also fast transit auto-guided pods that traveled in non-pressurized tubes for those needing to get from one end of the Rock to another, but for most of us, the local neighborhood had just about everything we needed, including work.

The transit I needed went by the ingenious name of T-16, which was reached by taking one of the closest arms and transferring a couple of times before stepping onto the final slide. It took me to the landing just below the Soy Shack.

The place was one of the dozens of small shops and eateries set into a cavernous hollow called by the residents of the Rock, the Grub Hub. Unless you had credits to burn, everything dished up and served there came from the same yeast and soy incubators built into a section of the Rock a few hundred levels down and the same hydroponic farms in the domes spotting the sunward side of the surface. I'll admit that earth-grown meat and produce are good, but I am not a guy who enjoys putting down several months’ rent on a steak. With the locally-grown stuff, what made the difference was the talent of the chemist slash cook, and the fellow running the Soy Shack was one of the best.

I never asked what went into the various dishes they cooked up. It seemed easier to just enjoy the meal instead of wondering what it was made of.

Sally was the name the owner went by. I never asked him why he used it. Sally was even bigger than me, both ways, and I don’t know of anyone, even a hammered lurker high one whatever they were sniffing or shooting that day stupid enough to try to rip Sally off.

He was scratching the expanse of his gut as I approached the window. I got a wide grin surrounded by stubble and a gap in the side of the blocky teeth as a welcome.

Hey, Freeman, He chuckled in his stone crusher voice, How’re they hanging man?

I answered with the usual, At half a gravity, Sal, not as low as they used to.

That got me a huge laugh. Sally’s an easy crowd. He’s heard that stinker about three or four dozen times now.

He then asked, So whatcha want, Freeman?

I said, One large with chips and juice, Sal. Thanks.

I set my B.T. against the reader, and it beeped, letting me know the payment had been processed.

Sally replied, Comin’ right up.

I looked around and commented, Traffic’s a bit light. Anything going on I should know about?

He talked as he worked, Nothing much. Word came down a few hours ago about some kinda new drug going ‘round. Admin’s all in an uproar and the rights groups’re raising all kinds of fuss about the prohibitions hitting the folks who need it the hardest. The news has been covering it solid for a while. You’d know if you ever watched the screen.

He had me there. I prefer listening to recorded music and reading books to some overly made-up news jockey preaching their version of what actually happened. Nine times out of ten, if I get involved, I find out the story on the screen isn’t what happened. Of course, nine times out of ten, my report never makes the news because the folks who dispense that sort of thing think the public would get upset if it did.

Sally pushed the container with my food and drink out of the slot and I took it over to the table closest to where I was standing and sat down. A few other folks were also eating, and a couple were staring moony-eyed at each other. About half the tables were empty, which made what came next both odd and interesting.

You’re in my seat, grounder.

I didn’t know the voice, but I knew the tone and the insult. Grounder is a nasty slang putdown for those of us born planetside, whether it be Mars, Titan, or Earth. Even Moonies don’t get cut any slack, and they were born into half the gravity the Rock has.

I turned my head slowly, partially to be as insulting as possible, and partly to distract from what my free hand was doing out of sight from the speaker’s viewpoint.

The one issuing the challenge was a Belter, about five feet tall and slender. On Earth, he’d likely not even be able to stand for any length of time without needing to rest. Gravity is an unforgiving landlord. His skin had that corpse-pale tone of those who spend too much time away from the Vit-D lights. A deficiency in that rad-induced vitamin is not something you really want to court, but this type considered a healthy skin tone to be a sort of betrayal against the belters, those born among the asteroids.

I asked him, Where’s your sign?

He blinked, What?

The others backing him, about eight in total, were wearing the Belter youth uniform. All of them dressed in the fashion of Belter youth, heavy eye makeup, half-shaven scalps, sidelocks on some in the way of ancient Egyptians, others were wearing old-fashioned Stetson-style hats and kilts. A couple of the girls wore glitter-covered pasties, one of them was heavy enough topside to demonstrate the benefits of lower gravity. All of them looked like they were several I.Q. points short of a full deck.

I pointed at the table with the hand holding my drink, Your sign. You said this was your table, where is the sign indicating ownership?

I called out, Hey Sally, did you lease this table to somebody, and I never heard about it?

Sally called back, Naw, just as the kid was reaching for a weapon.

His knife was working loose from its sheath when his eyes focused on the pulse gun in my right hand.

Projectile weapons and the more powerful beamers are not allowed inside or even around the Rock. The danger of puncture is something that is not tolerated, and if there is one crime that can get you expelled minus a vacuum suit, it’s doing anything that might cause the interior to lose atmosphere. The pulse gun only poses a danger to soft things filled with fluid, say... like a human body. Depending on the setting, you can cause severe bruising and possibly unconsciousness, or you can make the victim rupture like a punctured balloon.

I snarled. How’s your health insurance, lurker?

To a Belter, lurker is every bit as much an insult as grounder is to a verified citizen.

His eyes crossed as he gulped and remained focused on the emitter at the end of the gun.

I put down my drink and took out my I.D.

Holding up so he could see it, I said, "See this? It means I can end you and the only thing I get is more skrudding paperwork, no matter who your daddy is. So why don’t you and your little friends do something less dangerous than hassle with me, like playing in the rapid transit tubes?

He backed away; his eyes still locked on the emitter.

I waggled it a couple of times as a signal to hurry.

After the gang left, Sally remarked, Kids, eh? What’re you gonna do, huh?

Chapter 2

Gualt’s Job

I’m what used to be called a Private Detective back on old Earth. Before that, I was an attorney and a pro-temp judge who liked working with the police and occasionally flew a fighter jet. I used to carry a briefcase and sometimes wore a black robe, but I ran into a bit of trouble years back. I know what you’re thinking, it was a woman, right? Well, this time the cliché sticks. It was a woman. She was in trouble, and I was the white knight on his charger, and I charged right into a psychotic spiderweb that eventually cost me my job, and my money. Thank God for friends.

Well... friend.

He’s retired now, but back then he had a certain amount of pull with the authorities. He couldn’t get my old job back, but he convinced them that I would be a good candidate for training. He never mentioned that the training would get me sent to the asteroids. When I saw the amount of pay they were offering I forgave him... and then I got here.

Imagine the worst of the urban jungles back on Earth and then imagine what makes them jungles trapped in a closed environment where the only escape is into the airless emptiness of space. The personality traits that make humanity what it is become distilled into a concentrated psychosis that occasionally bubbles to the top. That’s where I come in.

After I got the text that informed me of my first case I almost copied Bobbie on it with the tagline, Thanks asshole.

It took a while, but after receiving the case of single malt from Earth, I began to feel better about him helping me get the job. I think I have one or two bottles left. Those are being saved for special occasions. In the meantime, they make a sort of gin out here, ethyl alcohol flavored with a type of lichen that grows in some of the tunnels. It tastes just like juniper berries and it helps with some of what the job leaves behind.

The job Gault had for me was beginning to look like it was one where that gin would come in handy.

The text on mt B.T. began with, Sorry about this one Freeman, but there’s a ton of pressure coming down from the top on this one.

I paused and sneered internally, "When is there not a ton of pressure coming down from the top?" Certain things always flow downhill, even in low gravity.

The text continued, Somebody’s figured out how to increase the potency of the latest cancer painkiller. The new stuff on the tunnels makes the old Earth opiates look like aspirin. To make it worse, one of the admin’s kids got hooked on it and now she can’t be found, and they tried her tracking chip.

Probably visited one of the shops in the Dream sector. Down there you can buy just about anything except O2. Try selling that and it’s you trying to breathe vacuum. Just like playing with toys dangerous to the seals, O2 sales are a hard and fast hell no. A shop owner likely hit her chip with a soft E.M.P. and that’s that. No more tracking. If she was a user, she probably didn’t care about the rad damage hitting her system by getting that done.

The message went on, The parents are the Goodmans, so you know the credit’s covered. They’re offering twenty kay if you find the girl, and forty if you can deliver her alive.

There was an attachment. I tapped the icon and a picture of what had to be the daughter appeared.

She was a pretty girl. She’d be prettier if she didn’t have the layers of makeup in fashion with her age group. It was as if they were hiding behind a mask, and that was likely the motivation for it.

Gault had one last thing to add to the message, it came up after I closed the photo, Here’s the hitch, they’re demanding something be done, her found or delivered in thirty-six hours, three Earth days or the offer’s withdrawn, regardless of any work already done.

The next thing to come up was the accept and decline buttons.

Twenty or forty kay was huge. As offers go, it was substantial. Hell, it was more than twice the amount of anything else I’d seen, and none of those had come my way. I’d had to make do with less than I’d liked, and I was getting damned tired of it.

I tapped the accept button and almost immediately my B.T. started buzzing.

Pressing the spot behind my ear where the embedded chip sat, I activated the com function of the B.T..

Freeman, I said, Who’re you?

I asked because no I.D. on the units screen told me who wanted to talk to me.

This is your employer, Mister Freeman, A voice I did not know, other than the fact of it likely being male.

I grunted and then added, Sorry to be stubborn about it, but the only employer I have is that file with the contract I signed a few years ago. If this is Goodman, you’re my client, not my employer.

Potato, potawto, Mister Freeman, was the reply.

Uh-uh, I said, a bit forcefully, It’s the same relationship that exists between an attorney and a client. You have certain rights of expectations and I have the right to terminate the relationship without cause or obligation. If that cannot be lived with, we have nothing more to discuss, and I’ll go back to doing the scut work for the local authority. The pay and the work stink, but they understand the relationship.

The pause went on. I imagined I could hear capped teeth grinding.

Right before I tapped behind my ear to end the connection, Goodman said, asperity all through his tone, Very well, Mister Freeman, I agree.

Agree with this also, I added, It’s Freeman, no Mister, just Freeman. Okay?

Goodman replied, I assume there is a story behind that?

Yeah, I said, There is, but we aren’t old and dear friends, so...

Understood. Now I need you to understand something, my daughter must be found within thirty-six hours. There are reasons for that you do not need to know.

I said, Fair enough.

He then asked, Do you need any operating expenses? I am well aware that the search could extend beyond this planetoid.

That was something I had not thought of. Here was another difference between my world and the class that ruled it.

I said, My usual contract has that built in. I typically take half of my fee upfront. That covers most of the usual expenses and gives me something if the client turns out to be a cheat.

I expected a blowup or at least some objection over my accusing him of being one of the cheats. I hadn’t, but the reaction occurred before.

He surprised me, pleasantly, Perfectly understandable, Freeman. I would do the same if I were in your boots.

My B.T. pinged and I glanced at it. The balance of my credit had increased by ten kay.

I said, I haven’t said I accepted the job, Mister Goodman.

He replied, That is your concern, Freeman. My concern is the whereabouts and the health of my daughter. Believe me, fulfilling this assignment is worth far more than a few thousand credits.

I said, Okay, let’s assume I’ll take this on. Can you send me any information about her? Her habits, where she liked to hang out, her friends and associates. And on the last one, it is usually the ones the parents do not like that give me the best leads. If possible, I could use addresses along with the names.

I will have that data sent presently, Freeman. Now, if that is all, I do have other matters demanding my attention, Came the reply.

I reached up toward the back of my ear and said, Thanks.

I tapped and ended the connection.

Sally was looking at me with a smile on his homely face as he wiped imaginary grime from his counter.

So, you flush again, Freeman? He chuckled.

I replied off-topic, I’ll be seeing you later, Sal.

Before I began checking into the whereabouts of Goodman’s kid, I needed to get that report on the dead lurker processed and filed. The nasties you can find in the Dream Sector have nothing on the hell an angry bureaucrat can rain down on a fellow’s backside.

The transit took me from the area of the Grub Hub in and around the perimeter of the Rock to where the folks of midlevel bureaucracy made their living. Some called it R.T. Hell, or Red Tape Hell. I never said the term out loud, but I had a good idea it had merit. 

Some genius involved in the design of the station had thought it a good idea to keep things as familiar as possible for those being assigned to work in the Rock once the administration got up and running. Sure, would, having left behind the take-a-number lines and the deadpan expressions of the assorted Earth-bound government offices wouldn’t love to find the same situation waiting for them when they unpacked their luggage after immigrating from momma Earth? 

The only respite I got from it was my I.D. contained a coded chip that talked to the seals leading behind the Lexan-fronted counters and the unsmiling security guards to a line of unmanned cubicles where folks such as me could write up their reports and send them along up the chain.

If you were lucky, the report remained unflagged and you got paid. If not, you were contacted and ordered to sit for an interview. Most, according to the few conversations I’d had with the others on the Rock also doing my job don’t seem to mind it. They take it as par for the course. As for me, I used to be a people person... before things went sour. Now, outside of Sally and Bobbie, not so much.

Freeman, I heard the greeting as I walked past a cubicle with one of the actual Admin agents in it.

’Lo, I replied, "I still didn’t know the guy’s name.

I had to stroll past almost a dozen and a half of the cubicles before I reached the one they wanted me to use. I knew it was the one because the B.T. unit buzzed, signaling me I had reached the one that would respond to me.

By the time I sat in the chair, the monitor read, Freeman, PI, hit enter and begin reporting.

So, I did.

Having learned from past interviews, I knew to begin a bit before the beginning so they would know where I was and a brief description of what I was doing when I got the assignment that sent me into the tunnel.

It took a few minutes to get the thing done and in the way the system needed it to be. That included a few expletives regarding the stupidity of the spelling and grammar checkers, especially when they wanted me to say something different than what happened or how it looked.

I finished up by describing the bubbling and wet popping of the lurker corpse and hit send.

After doing that we’re supposed to wait a short time to give the system time to digest the report and to make sure we do that, the chair has sensors that tell on you if you leave too early. The payment for each assignment is partially based on following the rules. Like in a relationship, premature withdrawal costs you a hefty twenty percent.

I like to eat, so I sit and wait.

After what should have been just a bit more than the appropriate time, I got up and turned to leave the cubicle.

A bell-like ding brought my attention back to the monitor.

A single line showed there, white block letters on a black screen, P.I. Freeman, report to office 44A.

That’s all it said. I knew the meaning behind the words, why aren’t you here already?

44A was reached by going past the cubicle farm and into the sector where real offices had been carved out of the rock. 44A was in a section four levels up, a trip requiring both the elevator and a short transit.

Well, there was nothing for it but to comply... if I wanted payment, and even with the advance from Goodman, I still needed payment so I hurried as best I could.

Once past the cubicles, I ran into more humanity. The halls were filled with men and women all focused on getting from A to B with as little time spent traveling as possible, but also without seeming to be hurrying. It creates a somewhat intriguing style of walk, sort of like the rapid stiff-legged shuffle of someone hoping to make it to the toilet before disaster strikes.

I thought it funny.

The interviewer did not share my sense of humor.

Smiling at a private joke, Freeman?

I recognized the whiney, nasal voice and groaned inwardly. My report had been flagged by none other than Shifty Sheldon Settelmeyer, the epitome of the career-oriented bureaucrats whose sex life more than likely held images of naked filing cabinets with their labels blacked out.

I didn’t answer but just asked, Why was I summoned?

Settelmeyer glared at me and pointed to the armless chair in front of his desk, Sit.

Chapter 3

It’s Politics

Settelmeyer continued to glare at me as I sat there.

After several seconds, I said, If there’s nothing to talk about, I’ll be going.

For a brief instant, I saw the actual hatred of me flash through the man’s eyes. I had no idea why he felt that way, but it had been like this ever since I’d filed my first report and he interviewed me over literally nothing.

From then on, whenever I had to interact with him, I was formally polite but also nonsubordinate, meaning I treated him as an equal. I never used titles or honorifics. Those things are earned in my world, and Settelmeyer was running a deficit.

He snapped, Very well! Let’s get on with it.

Then he snarled, What were you doing poking around in the tunnels where you discovered the body?

I replied, Following my nose. The aroma of a decaying human body is very distinctive, and, according to station regulation title 18, section 24—

Enough! He cut me off, We know you are familiar with the regulations. So, you smelled decay. Why did you not just call it in and have a biohazard team clean it up?

I was beginning to think I’d seen something somebody else wanted to be kept hidden, and I had no idea what that was.

I smiled and said, You’re going to make me quote another regulation if you insist on an answer.

That got me another I wish you were dead look and then he muttered, Let’s move on past that then. What did you notice about the body besides what is described in the report?

Here we had another trap. If you remembered enough, and it did not have to be much, you, in essence admitted to filing a false report and could wind up on charges ranging from a loss of pay, position, residency, or life... if they felt the lie had endangered the station.

The only answer I could give was one Settelmeyer had heard from me before, but the jerk would continue to try, Everything I saw, smelled, and heard, oh, and tasted is right there, and I believe you know it.

I left off the desired sir at the end.

As I had done in the past, I added, If you wish I will sit under a verifier scan and answer again.

Settelmeyer knew I knew that every interview was recorded in 3D, and being willing to sit under one of those brain sifters was taken as proof you were telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

We sat there in silence for a long series of uncomfortable seconds and then he waved a hand as he ordered me gone.

Go, get out of here!

I left, feeling more like I’d beaten up a bratty kid when I should have found another way to handle him. The problem was, there wasn’t any other way, not with that jerk.

The office I rented, yes, they made me pay for its use, was in a section of the administrative area down several floors from the cubical farm. It sat in amongst a cluster of equally sized units built into a moderately large opening carved into the rock. The ceilings had light panels set into them and the walls were lined with the same material as the floor, some sort of silicon-based material that cushioned and sealed.

If you had the credits, you could buy stuff to hang on the walls, or if you had even more credits you could put up a screen that gave the impression your office had a forest, a field, or even an ocean beach outside. I had a dartboard. 

A dart just missed the triple score ring when Tim Maye knocked on the frame of my office door.

Tim was an interesting character. Another Earth Immigrant, but unlike me, he had a few remarkable talents. The guy could compose music, play a variety of instruments, fix or repair just about anything mechanical, and he liked to brew beer and distill gin. Tim was the one who came up with using the lichen for flavoring rather than importing Juniper berries at a price twice that of an ounce of gold per pound.

Hello, Freeman, He said in his lightly accented drawl, Scuttlebutt has it that Shifty tried to sling you under the crosstown bus.

I flicked another dart at the board, and replied, That was fast.

Tim smiled crookedly, Well... I was eavesdropping a bit. I’d been there before you, and... He’d left the line on after finishing a chewing out regarding my style. He couldn’t find any factual errors, so he went after the style. Maybe I should try a different font...

That got me chuckling and I asked, What time do you have, Tim?

He checked his B.T. and said, Umm... a few minutes after three pee em. Why do you ask?

I pulled open a drawer in my desk and pulled out a bottle containing clear liquid, Because somewhere in this solar system it’s already late enough. Care for a drink?

Tim grabbed the other chair and sat, saying, Occasionally a good idea bubbles to the surface in that head of yours.

As I poured, I asked Tim, So tell me, what do think is going on? Shifty was almost rabid in his attitude over that dead lurker.

Politics, May replied, This whole thing smacks dead on of politics. You can almost feel the slime dripping from it.

True that, I said while sipping, Damn, Maye, but you cook up a decent gin. Not as fine a drink as single malt, but it does hold its own.

Tim smiled and replied, Thanks. You know, I tried to pull up your report and it’s already gone from the server. Now why would they scrub something like that so rapidly?

I grunted, Politics like you said.

He asked, What do you think was in it that was so sensitive it caused the powers that be to go berserk?

I don’t know... I mused, Tell me, what do you see in this...?

I went over the meat of my report, item by item, leaving nothing out except for the preamble which had nothing to do with what I saw anyway.

When I finished, Tim just sat there for a second, holding his gin and looking at me. Then he said, You know... if I was you, I’d be interested in what would make a corpse do that.

You mean, bubble and pop? I asked.

He nodded, finishing off his gin, Yep. I’ll bet there’s something there that has them frightened, and you know how politicians act when they are frightened. Nothing good ever comes of it.

I nodded, Again, true. The question is, how do I find out what I think I need to know and do it without being found out?

Tim leaned back in the chair and said while studying the ceiling, "Hmm... a very good question. Let’s look at the evidence and ask additional questions. One... what killed the