largely feigned. He was pretty sure they would get to the bottom of
this, would learn who Frank was and where he went at night and how and
why; however, he could see that Frank was declining fast, and he would
not have bet money that they’d find all the answers while Frank was
still alive, sane, and able to benefit from their discoveries.
Nevertheless, he put his hand on Frank’s shoulder and gave it a gentle
reassuring squeeze.
“Hang in there, buddy. Everything’s going to be okay. I really think
it is. I really do.” Frank took a deep breath and nodded. Turning to
the display terminal again, feeling guilty about the lie he’d just told,
Bobby said,
“You remember how old you are, Frank?
“No.”
“You look about thirty-two, thirty-three.”
“I feel older.”
Softly whistling Duke Ellington’s “Satin Doll,” Bobby thought a moment,
then asked the SSA computer to eliminate those Frank Pollards younger
than twenty-eight and older than thirty-eight. That left seventy-two of
them.
“Frank, do you think you’ve ever lived anywhere else are you a
dyed-in-the-wool Californian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s assume you’re a son of the sunshine state.” He asked the SSA
computer to whittle down the remaining Frank Pollards to those who
applied for their Social security numbers while living in California
(fifteen), then to whose current addresses on file were in California
(six).
The public-access portion of the Social Security Administrations data
network was forbidden by law to reveal Social security numbers to casual
researchers. Bobby referred to instructions in Lee Chen’s code book and
entered the restricted files through a complicated series of maneuvers
that circumvented SSA security.
He was unhappy about breaking the law, but it was the way of high-tech
life that you never got the maximum benefit your data-gathering system
if you played strictly by the rules. Computers were instruments of
freedom, and government were to one degree or another instruments of
repression; two and could not always exist in harmony.
He obtained the six numbers and addresses for the Frank Pollards living
in California.
“Now what?” Frank wondered.
“Now,” Bobby said, “I’ll use these numbers and addresses to cross
reference with the California Department of Motor Vehicles, all of the
armed forces, state police, major city police, other government agencies
to get descriptions of these Frank Pollards. As we learn their height,
weight, hair color of their eyes, race… we’ll gradually eliminate
them one by one. Better yet, if one of them is you, and if you’ve
served in the military or been arrested for a crime, we might even be
able to turn up a picture of you in one of those and confirm your
identity with a photo match.” StarTING AT the desk, cadicorner from
each other, Julie and Hal removed the rubber bands from more than half
of the packets of cash. They sorted through the hundred-dollar bills,
trying to determine if some of them had consecutive serial numbers that
might indicate they were stolen from a bank, savings and loan, or other
institution.
Suddenly Hal looked up and said,
“Why do those flowerlike sounds and drafts precede Frank when he
teleports himself?”
“Who knows?” Julie said. “Maybe it’s displaced air following him down
some tunnel in another dimension, from the place he left to the place
he’s going.”
“I was just thinking…. If this Mr. Blue is real, and if he’s
searching for Frank, and if Frank heard those flutes and felt those
gusts in that alleyway… then Mr. Blue is also able to teleport.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So Frank’s not unique. Whatever he is, there’s another one like him.
Maybe even more than one.”
“Here’s something else to think about,” Julie said. “If Mr. Blue can
teleport himself, and if he finds out where Frank is, we won’t be able
to defend a hiding place from him. He’ll be able to pop up among us.
And what if he arrived with a submachine gun, spraying bullets as he
materialized?” After a moment of silence, Hal said, “You know,
gardening has always seemed like a pleasant profession. You need a
lawnmower, a weed whacker, a few simple tools. There’s not much
overhead, and you hardly ever get shot at.”