A/N: Wow, a month since I updated! I had originally planned to have the last three weeks in one chapter, but when it got to be 75+ pages in NeoOfficeJ, I was convinced otherwise...
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For disclaimers, please see chapter one.
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10: 12
August – 18 August, 2001
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Monday,
August 13, 2001:
New York City, United Nations Security Council
Meeting: 13:42 (GMT -5)
------------------------
Mr. Paulson rolled his eyes as the French representative finally finished his speech. The vote to authorize the Solar Guard as an international armed force now rested in the hands of the Security Council.
The chairman banged his gavel. "The chair now brings to the vote an authorization bill for the Solar Guard. How vote the members? The People's Republic of China?"
The Chinese representative stood, "The People's Republic abstains." 'No surprise there,' Paulson thought.
"Columbia?"
"Columbia votes in support," the small man said without bothering to rise.
Paulson leaned forward as the chairman called "The Republic of France?" The price for French support had been to integrate the Solar Guard as a unit under French military control, indeed, the Frenchman's three hour speech was a rather long winded explanation as to why France was uniquely suited to command it. Paulson snorted to himself, 'Only if we want to surrender at the first shot.'
"The Republic of France, in baffled dismay at the rejection of its most reasonable offer, must unfortunately vote 'Non'." A ripple went around the hall as the consequences of the French veto sank in, and Paulson stood, making his way to the exit.
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Tuesday,
August 14, 2001:
Gotham City, Wayne Manor, Gymnasium: 12:28 (GMT
-5)
------------------------
Tomas waited, his visitor... was early! Spinning, he fired a stunner, only to see it miss his target.
"Very good, Mr. Ramirez, you almost had me there," Zatanna said with a smile. "You would have if I hadn't been using a precognition spell. It gives me a few seconds warning over your perimeter spell." She smiled, "Don't forget, you are taking steps others at Hogwarts do not even know about. We'll discuss this spell, and other combat spells today." Her eyes twinkled, "You can put one over on your brother Richard, eh?"
"He says I should not rely on my magic, Senorita," Tomas replied.
"Your magic is but one arrow in your quiver, young man," the mage replied. "Another is a fit mind and body. You've been running with Barbara?"
"Si," he replied. "I am still exhausted at the end of the five kilometers, though."
"You'll get there. The old saying about Rome not being built in a day comes to mind."
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Tuesday,
August 14, 2001:
London, Crown & Gander pub, private room:
17:26
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Gerald (never Jerry!) K. O'Neil entered the working class pub's meeting room. Normally, he would not have come, except as a favor to his grandfather, who had reminded him who had paid for Oxford. He spotted his grandfather just as the old man called to him, "Jerry! Kip a pint or two, eh?"
Gerald winced internally, but fetched a pint for his grandfather. Claiming a chair with his briefcase, he poured a cuppa for himself, then sat down, recognizing a familiar face. He nodded politely, "Ms. Hawking."
"Mr. O'Neil," she replied, "Let me introduce Mr. MacAdam, our CFO." He stood to shake the much shorter man's hand, who replied in a thick Scottish brogue, "Mr. O'Neil."
The tall, exotically beautiful dark skinned girl rapped her knuckles on the table. "May we proceed? Thank you." She swallowed nervously, "Ms. Hawking?"
Gerald made a mental note as Ms. Hawking smiled, "A word of tactical advice, Shernette, once you have control of a meeting, don't let it go. Tallgrass is not the only startup Arrowhead is working with ('Arrowhead!' Gerald thought, and sat up a bit straighter. 'That's where I've seen her!'), so we're used to this." She cleared her throat, "This is an exploratory meeting between Arrowhead Investments and Tallgrass Designs, Ltd. Mr. MacAdam?"
"Aye, lassie. Nae, I see ye' are proposin' six plants: bamboo, cotton, flax, hemp, jute an' soybeans. Le' start wi' bamboo, an' how ye' plan to grow, harvest, an' process it intae cloth."
Shernette swallowed, "Thank you, Mr. MacAdam. What we're proposing is to have each plant species in a separate greenhouse. This allows us to breed true, reduce the possibility of disease or insect infestation, adjust the environment to suit each species, and if necessary limit pressure loss to one greenhouse." She swallowed nervously, "Also, if a disease wipes out a crop, it would hurt financially, but it wouldn't put us out of business."
She reached into her bag, passing out samples, "Bamboo, because it can be spun extremely fine, is what we propose as filters for both air and water reclamation, and as our 'sexy' cloth, like silk. This would be our marketing, our 'catwalk' cloth." She took a sip of tea as notes were made, "We plan to harvest a crop at the twenty meter mark, which on Earth is about every six weeks. However, because of the size and weight of the plants, we can't do a rotary hydroponics system like we can for soybeans, flax and cotton."
"'Tis goin' tae increase y' infrastructure costs, lassie," MacAdam objected.
"Yes, sir, it will. However, the largest greenhouse structures would be for the bamboo, at twenty meters high. Other plants are much shorter, jute grows to about four meters, kenaf to about three and a half meters."
"Why nae take y' crop a' four or five meters, then?" MacAdam asked.
"The fibers are not as strong at that point, it's still a young plant, whereas if we harvest at forty meters, we think we'll have handling problems," Shernette replied, steepling her hands. "Obviously, we don't know how these will grow under lunar gravity. We're making assumptions based on Earth gravity, we think they'll grow faster and have wider shoots, which is why we're going by size. They will also have light twenty four hours a day, which will also contribute to their growth. For now, all we can do is work out the care and processing of the plants, I'm certain there will be differences once we're up and running on the Moon."
She took a sip of tea, then continued, "We are thinking of harvesting some younger plants, but to use as furniture, instead. People will need tables and chairs," she added, rapping the table with her knuckles. People chuckled as she continued, "We haven't yet found anyone that's used to working with bamboo as furniture, which is why those plans are still tentative. In any case, the stalk is cut near the base, trimmed to a uniform length, and then dropped through a hole in the floor of the greenhouse down into the processing room. There's a flowchart on page B3 of the appendix."
As people turned pages, she continued, "The stem, or culm, is run through a lathe to even out the joints and remove the flowering buds. It is then run through a series of rollers to crush the stem, then soaked to remove the lignin, which has commercial use." Heads nodded at this, as Mr. MacAdam asked, "What applications, lassie?"
"I'm not a chemical engineer, but from what I understand, its used in concrete, water purification, and various types of dyes," she replied. He grunted as she continued, "Following along, the water is removed from the lignin and recycled, the stem is shredded and spun into yarn. The yarn can then be woven or dyed, and the scraps can be used to brew fuels like biodiesel."
Gerald raised a finger, "I thought yarn was wool, and came from sheep."
"It is, sir, but in textile manufacturing, the threads that are woven are called yarn. Thread that is used to sew cloth together are called thread," she said with a smile. "It can be confusing. In any case, the yarn is then woven, using a computer-driven loom, and any finishing is done, the product is then packed and shipped."
"Y' specified three o' these looms, lassie," MacAdam said. "C' ye tell us why?"
"The base model, sir, one that an operator needs to load and unload the yarn onto. We figure that one machine will be occupied full time with making the solar panels for the power satellites, which will need to be sewn together from smaller segments, if the designs I've seen are accurate. I don't know of a loom that has a hundred meter width, even a five meter is unusual. The last one I knew of was for the Royal Navy's sailmakers. I think there's one in a museum..."
"Y'have y' answer there, lassie," MacAdam said. "Sailmakers. I see plenty of weekend sailors on th' rivers and lochs, why nae adapt their equipment, an' sew panels o' cloth together?"
Gerald asked, "Please clarify for me how cloth is used for solar power."
Shernette hesitated, "It's something one of my sorority mates did for her thesis at university. You seal a canvas like an oil painting, then deposit different chemicals on it with an airbrush, like making a computer chip. You would connect the wiring through grommets in the cloth, and stretch it on a frame. She did manage to get a voltage from it, but it wasn't terribly efficient. She charged a twelve volt battery, and therefore had a proof of concept, though."
She took another fortifying sip of tea, "Also, since you need to design for solar power instead of catching the wind, you could use a rougher, stronger cloth like burlap instead of canvas sailcloth."
Gerald added, "You also need to determine if you can fold or roll the panel, and have it still function on delivery. There's nothing unusual about shipping restrictions and conditions."
Shernette was scribbling notes as MacAdam said, "If there be loom models that will automatically load yarn, t'will save you time, lassie, w' ye balance against the higher cost of a dedicated machine. Y' were figurin' labor costs at naething to have someone load and unload yarn. Tha' tis wrong, even if it only take a few seconds tae do it. F' a small machine tha' y' dedicate to job lots, y' figure tha' labor intae the quote." He leaned forward, "Aye, machinery is a capital expense, which y' depreciate, so y' go wi' the best fit for your conditions. In y' case, y' short of personnel, so y' automate wherever y' can." He looked about, "Any more aboot bamboo?" Heads shook, and he said, "Let's move on tae cotton, then, lassie."
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Wednesday,
August 15, 2001:
Warsaw, Babice airfield, Arrowhead hangers:
08:29 (GMT +1)
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"Good morning, Miss Bundy!" Casimir said. "I am assistant to Vasily, he is in Moscow at the moment, his daughter is expecting. Did you have a pleasant flight?"
"About normal," Karen said as he picked up two of her bags. "Did you receive my suit specifications?"
"We did," he replied, "We would ask a kindness, that you repeat them with our new laser mapper. It should match to within a few millimeters, if we have calibrated it correctly." She looked at him, and he shrugged, "Nothing we have not done, the only real danger is if the subject is foolish enough to ignore the protective goggles. We cannot, unfortunately engineer for human stupidity."
"Very true," Karen agreed. "That's why we have solicitors."
------------------------
She was a little nervous about this, but Karen resolutely folded her bra, and set it on the pile of clothes in the corner of the small, cool room. She adjusted the goggles over her eyes, then slapped the large red button. As the voice counted down from ten, she stepped onto the small circular platform, and stretched a bit. "Initiating laser scan," the voice said, and some horrible disco music started as a panel slid around to cover the opening as Karen started to move.
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"That is the most horrible music," the technician told her partner as she watched the wireframe drawing dance on her screen. The figure flashed green, and she touched her microphone, "Thank you, Miss Bundy. The scan is complete, come out when you're ready." The display blanked, and her male partner said, "We could at least mute the sound out here."
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Wednesday,
August 15, 2001:
Washington DC, White House, Oval Office: 08:29
(GMT -5)
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"Mr. President, your eight thirty with the National Science Adviser and her party is here," the intercom informed Lex Luthor.
He grumbled, extracting the file folder he hadn't had a chance to read yet, and thumbed the switch, ordering, "Send her in!"
The NSA, a tall, elegant black woman escorted several others in, who looked around for a place to sit as Luthor read the folder. She cleared her throat, and he held up one finger. Closing the folder, he said, "Well?"
"Mr. President," CalTech's president started, "We'd like you to reconsider your stance with Miss Wayne and her starship..."
"Why should I do that?" he snapped. "That ship and it's technology is crucial to maintaining the technical edge over others."
"That's just it, sir," Harvard's president said. "Miss Wayne has embargoed the technology from the United States while you hold that position. She is under the belief, mistaken I'm sure, that you don't intend to share the wealth. As it is..."
"As it is, she is an American citizen, and that ship should have been handed over to my control as soon as she stepped off it. She signs it over to me, or I will make her pay for her insolence."
"Sir, we're getting some technology transfer through our agreements with foreign schools like Cambridge," MIT's president said. "For the first time, we're having a brain drain, with our best and brightest going to Europe to have hands on experience. We're increasing our summer programs abroad, but..."
"But nothing," Luthor snapped. "My decision is final, and this meeting is over." He stood, "Thank you for your time," as the Secret Service agent opened the door, adding, "Wharton, stay a moment." The NSA stood as the others filed out, then Luthor snapped, "Wharton, you're fired for wasting my time. I want you out by noon." He glanced at the Secret Service agent, "See to it."
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Thursday,
August 16, 2001:
Hogwarts, Transfiguration classroom: 09:25
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"Really, Miss Wayne, it can't be that difficult," Professor Chang said, blowing her hair from her eyes in frustration. "You're simply changing a teapot to a tortoise. Miss Bundy got it on the first go."
Mattie closed her eyes and counted to ten, again. True, Anne had gotten her teapot changed, although it still bore a resemblance to fine china, and the poor tortoise's head was immobile. It was not a happy tortoise, but still, she had done it. Mattie's on the other hand, was definitely NOT a tortoise, but instead resembled a rather fat white saucer with five tiny stumps where the legs and head might be. Professor Chang waved her wand, resetting the teapot, and Mattie tried again, asking, "When would we ever need to do something like this?"
"Better to know than not, eh?" Cho replied. "Besides, it's been on the OWL since the sixteen hundreds." She had some sympathy, the girl was obviously trying hard, she simply had trouble with spellcasting.
Wayne was slowly beating her head against the desk in frustration, then looked up and asked, "Don't you find this exhausting?"
"Certainly not," Cho replied. "By Merlin, I'm going to make certain you pass your Transfiguration exam, Miss Wayne!"
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Friday,
August 17, 2001:
LEO orbit: 09:50 (GMT)
------------------------
"Welcome to space, everyone!" Casimir said. "Please make certain you are securely tethered, and let us start unloading. Alfred will return to Warsaw for a second load while we start assembly. Miss Bundy, you're partnered with me."
Karen looked down as she was connected to Casimir with a ten meter lanyard, seeing the Earth rotate beneath her feet. She confided, "I just want to yell, 'I'm in space!'"
Casimir chuckled, "So did I when I first went up with Vasily. Don't worry about this, we're putting the framework together, just bolting together beams and such. The key thing to remember is to take it gently. Others will be doing the power systems, solar panels and such. We just need to match ends A with B, and bolt them together. Setting three on your wrench, please. Not too tight."
------------------------
"They're getting ahead of us!" Karen said jokingly, pointing at a crew that was screwing down decking.
"Ah, but we're doing the real work," Casimir said, as Karen maneuvered a section of truss into place. "Once we have the decking finished, the power and environmental people can get their equipment in. Then we close it all up and see where the leaks are."
"What leaks?" Karen asked, catching a wandering nut as she finished a four-way connection.
"There are ALWAYS leaks," Casimir said. "The key point is not to have large ones."
------------------------
"This was much more exciting in the days of rivets," one ironworker mused. "Then you caught rivets in a leather glove while you were two hundred meters above the city. One slip, and you either dropped a red-hot rivet on someone's head, or fell to your death. Here, BAH! You're two hundred kilometers up," he said as he looked over toward Karen. "You've done well today, girl. Keep it up, we'll vote you an honorary member of the union."
"What union?"
"Orbital Ironworkers local 100, girlie. Registered in Warsaw."
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Friday,
August 17, 2001:
Gotham City, Downtown
public library: 12:04 (GMT-5)
------------------------
Edward Nigma whistled as he strolled into the library, where he signed up for the usual half hour of free computer use. He flipped through a reference tome until the librarian called, "Mr. DeGama? Machine four, please."
Logging into his email account, he automatically deleted the spam, stopping short at one particular message – 'My, my. Little Mattie Wayne. What can she want with her Uncle Edward?' he wondered. Clicking on it, he read, 'At the very least a holiday in London, expenses paid. Most unusual, with 'some risk of life' involved.' Clicking the 'Reply' button, he typed an acceptance of her offer, fishing out ten cents for the printout and wondering, 'Now where did I put my passport?'
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Friday,
August 17, 2001:
New York City, Two World Trade, 89th
floor: 13:36 (GMT -5)
------------------------
Maria Cortez smiled as she dialed, it was her turn to pick the restaurant for their wedding anniversary. As the reservation line picked up, she heard "Windows on the World."
"Hello, I'd like to make a reservation, please. Eight pm for two, on September eleventh, under Cortez."
"Certainly, ma'am. Is this any special occasion?"
"Our fifteenth anniversary."
She heard tapping sounds, "Very well, ma'am. You're confirmed with two persons on the eleventh at eight under the name Cortez. Happy anniversary."
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Friday,
August 17, 2001:
London, Arrowhead's lobby: 10:25 (GMT)
------------------------
The security guard watched as the stiff, tartan-clad Scotswoman strode up to his desk, informing him, "I am Headmistress McGonagall. I wish to see Ms. Amy Johnson or Ms. Wayne. I have a matter regarding their schooling."
He swallowed, remembering his own school days, and picked up his phone, replying, "One moment, please, ma'am. I'll see if they're available."
------------------------
"Ms. McGonagall, if you'll sign for the pass, Ms. Johnson will be down in a moment," the guard said, speaking a bit loudly as the Headmistress was inspecting a cutaway model of a lunar lifeboat. She nodded briefly, then signed his clipboard as the lift 'dinged', Ms. Johnson appearing.
------------------------
"And how are you doing, Miss Johnson?" Minerva inquired in the lift. "Are you still dividing your time between Arrowhead and..."
"Greywolf, ma'am. What was this about our schooling? This is my year before NEWTs, I'm doing as much studying as I can, as are Mattie and Anne..."
"I am certain you are, however it occurred to me in a conversation with Mr. Griplink that you might have neglected an important social aspect to business." The lift 'dinged' open at the fifth floor, Minerva raising her eyebrow at the directory sign on the wall. "I was under the impression that we were going to your office, not the gymnasium."
"We are, but the executive offices aren't listed as a security precaution," Amy said. She waved her pass at a nondescript door as a fellow came out another door wearing a tracksuit. He nodded to her as the door unlocked, she said, "The executive staff gives interviews, and meets in the City with bankers and solicitors, so we wear skirts and suits. Everyone else is casual wear. When Greywolf's building gets off the ground, I'll be moving my primary office across the street to their building." They walked past a large glass-fronted room filled with blinking lights and seeming miles of cable. Amy paused, gesturing, "Our communications people are working with some really exotic technologies, ma'am. One of the things they left on the moon a few months ago was a transceiver. We're trying to get FTL communications, so we can reduce the signal lag, and make it a directional signal. It will give us a great tactical advantage, we know it can be done, but it's causing our boffins to pull out their hair." She gestured, "My office is over here, near Mattie's and Mr. MacAdam's.
"A fellow Scot?" Minerva wondered. "Perhaps he should sit in," she suggested.
Amy nodded, "Very highly recommended by Mr. Griplink, a relative of his," she explained, raising an eyebrow.
Minerva nodded, 'This should be easier than I thought,' she reflected, as Amy steered her into a visitor's chair, then left to fetch Ms. Wayne and Mr. MacAdam. Minerva looked about the cubicle, this was the first time she had ever been in one. There was a cute stuffed grey wolf puppy, and the usual muggle photos of Miss Johnson's family, together with one showing Miss Johnson and Mr. Slater together at last year's Halloween ball.
"They do make a cute couple," Miss Wayne said from the cubicle's opening, over the ringing of phones, and Minerva turned to see her leaning in the doorway. "As do you and Mr. Morton," Minerva replied.
Miss Wayne got an odd expression on her face as Amy took her seat behind the desk, coughed, then said, "Yes, well, I'd like to introduce Mr. MacAdam, our Chief Financial Officer. You said this was in regard to our education?"
"Yes," Minerva said as she settled herself, arranging her long skirt. "Not all business is done in boardrooms. Indeed, my understanding is that a great deal of what is discussed in the boardroom is previously decided upon..."
"Tha' links!" MacAdam said. "Thank ye, lassie, for sayin' wha I have nae f' months. I've said these two should take up th' grand game, an' possibly e' tennis, but nae, she's a blind spot there." He cocked his head, "Y' up f' a game o' two y'self, lassie?"
"I am a McGonagall, sir, we have always found time for a hole or two." She looked at Mattie, "Your father once told me that he was proud of his reputation of 'the worst swing in Gotham,' it had done more for his business than anything he did in formal meetings." She looked over her spectacles, "I believe he would approve of your lessons."
She shifted, "As for you, Miss Johnson, you are approaching the same position with Greywolf. That is why I have sent emails to both Mr. Slater and Mr. Morton regarding lessons. We do have a driving range at Hogwarts." She looked at Sev, "Mr. MacAdam, why don't we kidnap these two for the afternoon, get them properly kitted out, and then do a round? Will you partner with Miss Wayne, while I partner Miss Johnson?"
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Friday,
August 17, 2001:
Grandview Heights,
Ohio, Morton home: 07:24 (GMT-5)
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Maggie Morton turned on the computer to get her email while she got dressed for work. There was a 'ping' as she finished rolling up her hose, she looked at the return address – Minerva McGonagall.
17 August, 2001
To:
Mrs. Maggie Morton
From: Minerva McGonagall
Subject: Arthur's
future
Dear Mrs. Morton,
Over the past few years I have noticed that your son Arthur, while doing well academically, is something of a social loner. While a great many people in history have been such, I feel this may hurt his prospects in the future, especially if he continues to be linked to Miss Wayne.
He has always been one to challenge himself, and while basketball may provide the needed exercise for good health, it does not provide the social context he needs to succeed. Therefore, I propose golf lessons, as I am doing with other students. This will provide an adequate challenge, as it is 'him against the course', while providing the needed social context.
A good beginning set of clubs can be had for about two hundred fifty pounds, and we will be refurbishing the indoor and the outdoor driving ranges here at Hogwarts.
I am an experienced golfer myself, as are several of the staff, and can assist the three of yours when they arrive.
I am awaiting your
reply, and seeing Arthur, Julia and meeting William again in
September.
Minerva McGonagall
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Friday,
August 17, 2001:
London, London Golf & Country Club: 13:10
(GMT)
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"One ae th' key things tae remember, lassie, is tha' y' neaever ha' a perfect swing. E' th' pros are always practicin' their swing. Nae, y' want tae keep th' line o' y' shoulders aimed a' th' point y' want tae hit." MacAdam said.
"We certainly are," the club pro said. "Let me adjust your grip there," she told Amy, as MacAdam did the same for Matte.
"I'm left handed," Amy said. "Does that matter?"
"It gives you a choice," the pro replied. "You can either swing left, or swing right. Most lefties like myself swing right, even if we're extremely dominant. I'd wait to buy clubs until you've tried both and made a decision."
"How much is a good starter set of clubs?" Mattie asked.
"Two fifty to three hundred pounds," the pro replied, "Let me take a look at your swing, please."
------------------------
"Professor, we've been..." Amy said, when Minerva raised a finger. "We are not in school, nor at work, please call me Minerva."
Amy glanced at Mattie, then at Sev, and continued, "Very well, Minerva, we have been discussing a bit of business and wondered if Hogwarts would be interested."
"A five, I think," Minerva said, then stepped back as Amy swung.
Sev winced, "Ach, a nasty slice, lassie. Dinnae worry, y'll get better."
"I hope we do," Mattie said as Sev adjusted her grip, reminding her, "Eye on the ball, lassie." With a 'thwack', her ball went into the woods to join Amy's. "That's what, forty something on the third hole?" she asked with a grin. "Think we'll break five hundred?"
"I asked the same questions myself when I started," a fellow said with a chuckle. "Might we play through?" Mattie and Amy took a few steps back, and he placed his ball on the black tee. With a 'thwack', it sailed straight down the fairway, and Amy groaned. He smiled, and produced a card, "Give us a call if you want to play and need another couple."
A woman chuckled, "It took him a while to get that good. We've coached a lot of youngsters. It's a good way to make contacts when you're just starting out in the business world."
"Well, then we should reciprocate," Amy said, and passed her business card over. Mattie dug one of hers out, and passed it over as well. The wife raised her eyebrow, "I don't think I've heard of Greywolf Transport, Ltd."
"We're a startup, we're doing cislunar transport," Amy said as the husband raised an eyebrow at Mattie's card.
"I do hope you're planning a course on the moon," he said. "It would be most challenging."
"We hadn't considered it, but it's still early," she replied. "Perhaps you should talk to Mr. MacAdam, our CFO," Mattie added. Hands were shaken, and the money men stood aside to talk as the others played through.
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Saturday,
August 18, 2001:
Grandview Heights,
Ohio, Morton home: 08:31 (GMT-5)
------------------------
"I am antisocial," Arthur said.
"Not as much as you were," his mother said. "No, dear. Professor McGonagall said you were a loner, and thinks you should socialize more. She suggested golf lessons, and with you and Mattie, I think that would be a good idea."
"Quite a bit of business does get done on golf courses," his father said. "We've got our clubs around somewhere. Maggie, why don't I dust them off, and we can go over to Raymond Memorial." He looked over the breakfast table, "Hank, what about you and Misty? Interested?"
The eldest son took a sip of coffee as he thought, then said, "Thanks anyway Dad, but Misty and I were going to study. She's got a quiz coming up on silicates, and I need to go over torsions again. Besides, we can get free lessons at the university. Wouldn't be a bad idea for Arthur, though, and Bill can go over his first-year books with us."
"Well, in that case, Arthur why don't you and Julie go change into some shorts and polo shirts, and your mother and I will take you for lessons."
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Saturday,
August 18, 2001:
Grandview Heights,
Ohio, Federal surveillance: 10:03 (GMT-5)
------------------------
"Where are they going?" Susan Ellis asked from across the street as she looked through binoculars as the Mortons loaded up a station wagon. "Crap, golf clubs. When did they develop an interest in golf? Anyone here play golf besides me?" she asked over the radio.
"Perkins and Elmer do," one of the spotters replied.
"Hopefully they can tail them, if we can figure out which of about forty golf courses they're going to in this town. Did someone replace the transmitter on that station wagon?" she asked.
"She parks in Faculty parking," someone said, adding, "We're allegedly students, we don't have access. Security almost caught me when I tried yesterday."
Susan sighed, "Can we at least go in and replace that screwy transmitter in the bedroom?"
------------------------
Saturday,
August 18, 2001:
Grandview Heights,
Ohio, Morton home: 12:13 (GMT-5)
------------------------
Bill sat up with a jerk, "Intruder," he said. "Second floor bathroom window."
"You think they'd at least have the courtesy to wait for night," Hank said as he grabbed a baseball bat sitting next to the door.
------------------------
"Well, well. Hello, Ms. Wilson, if that is your real name," Hank said, reaching over and pulling the black stocking cap off the slim, black-clad figure. "I thought burglary was a nighttime occupation. Now what do we do with you?" She glared up at him through her blonde hair, unable to move a muscle as she was frozen, half in and out of the window.
"Somehow I don't think she's a fellow university student," Misty said, as she ran her hands over the still figure, searching for and removing equipment. Taking the camera that Teela handed her, she shot photos, then detached an equipment belt. Handing the camera and equipment off, she rolled the stocking cap back over their guest's eyes as a blindfold, asking, "Now what do we do with her?"
"Go?" Susan Ellis managed to force out. "Forget?"
"Forget a felony by a neighbor?" Misty replied. "We couldn't show our faces at the neighborhood potlucks again. No, I think we'll just let you stay there, in that position, until later. After a few hours, the muscle cramping will encourage truth, I think."
Hank rummaged in the medicine cabinet as Bill added, "Don't try to talk, Mrs. Wilson. It reduces your available air." Misty rolled the mask up, inserting ear plugs, then rolling an elastic bandage over her prisoner's ears and eyes before rolling the black mask back in place. "We don't want you peeking if we have to use the facilities," she said, then ushering the others out, switching the light off and closing the door.
------------------------
Saturday,
August 18, 2001:
Columbus, Ohio, Raymond Memorial Golf Course,
practice tees: 12:21 (GMT-5)
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Bill Morton's cell phone rang, he checked the caller ID, "Yes, Hank, what's up?" he asked as he stepped away from where the pro was correcting Arthur's grip. "I see. No, I think you're right, just leave her there for now. Good. I don't know, just a minute." He stepped over to where the pro was with Julie, and said, "Arthur, can you talk to Hank?"
"Sure, dad." He accepted the phone, listened, then said, "Email them from my account to Mrs. Grayson. The passphrase is 'Potter is a drunk', she'll be able to identify her. Make sure you capitalize the 'P', ok? Need us back there?" He nodded to himself, then passed the phone back to his dad.
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Saturday,
August 18, 2001:
Gotham City, Clocktower:
12:36 (GMT-5)
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"Well, well, well, hello Ms. Susan Ellis," Barbara cackled as the FBI personnel dossier scrolled before her. "So you're team lead on this little mission, eh?" She cracked her knuckles and said, "Who are you working with? Shall we find out?"
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Saturday,
August 18, 2001:
Grandview Heights,
Ohio, Morton home: 20:39 (GMT-5)
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Susan slowly panted in the August heat. Wearing a black bodysuit for what was supposed to be a quick in-and-out job of replacing a failed transmitter, she was caught somehow motionless, left leg awkwardly braced on the outside ledge as her right foot was on the shingles, her gloved hands on a steam radiator inside the bathroom. The damned earplugs and bandage prevented her from seeing or hearing anything, she had no idea how long she'd been there, or would be, and her muscles were screaming in pain. What was worst was her bladder, she had no control over voluntary muscles, she couldn't even pee in her pants! 'I shouldn't have drunk all that coffee!' she kept telling herself. 'If I even have a job after this monumental screw-up,' she added.
Faintly hearing a noise, she could suddenly breathe easier, and could move her head, but not the rest of her body. She felt hands removing the earplugs, but leaving her blindfolded. "Hello, Ms. Ellis. May I call you Susan?"
'Crap!' she told herself. She recognized the voice of Bill Morton, who asked, "Are you feeling better?"
"This is torture," she groaned, "How did you do it?"
"Susan, aside from searching you, by a female I might add, we haven't laid a finger on you. After all, you're the one that was caught in burglary of an occupied dwelling, and with burglary tools. Those are felonies, and all I need to do is to call 911 and report it. Even if you get out of it with your FBI connections, your career is ruined. All that time in the Air Force, and the North Forks police department, where you made detective, down the tubes. Washed up at thirty five, even if you look twenty, and you'll be lucky to get a job waiting tables. Now, can we dispense with the bull?"
"You've got me by the short and curlies, Bill," she admitted to her surprise, and he chuckled. "What do you want?"
"Honesty," he said. "What's your mission? What relationship do you have with Marvin Patterson, your supposed husband?" She heard pages turn, and the click of a ballpoint pen. She took a breath and started to talk.
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"So what do I get out of this mess?" Susan asked.
"Our limited co-operation, and your career," Bill said. "We replaced the transmitter half an hour ago for you, you had to hide in a closet for several hours while one of the girls took a nap. Teela is a light sleeper, so you had to wait until she made a head call. This window isn't visible from the street, and that's what one of the girls reported for you. So, while delayed, your mission was a success, your career is safe, and we have a possible friend in the FBI."
"You've got other friends, I've noticed. One that wears a red cape," she replied.
"One doesn't always need to call in the battleships when a SEAL will do," Bill replied.
"That's true," she replied. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
"Certainly you do," Bill said. "We can replace your equipment, and call the cops, where you've got the burglary charges, or we release the capture field, you put your equipment back on, and Mrs. Wilson continues on with her life and studies at Ohio State. How are your grades, by the way?"
"You're a parent, Morton," she said with a snort. "We have an arrangement with the university." She thought for a minute, then said, "Deal, but I can't shake on it."
"You'll be able to in a minute, but we'll have to replace the ear plugs," he said. "Oh, two of the streetlights have suffered mysterious failures. I'm sure the city will fix them eventually."
"Yes, we know about government efficiency," she said with a chuckle. "Are we still invited to next week's potluck?"
"Of course, Mrs. Wilson, why wouldn't you be?" She felt hands on her head again.
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Julie waited outside the door, grinning to herself as she listened to the cursing. She had placed a couple of small sticking spells, one on the elastic bandage and one on the zipper pull. That meant their uninvited guest couldn't remove the bandage, leaving her deaf and blind, nor could she pull the zipper down her back, and was trapped in her bodysuit until she could cut it off. Once away from her body heat, it would work perfectly, but until then, she couldn't use the toilet that she desperately needed to. Her equipment lay on the floor, the bathroom door was locked, and the guys were outside playing a game of pickup basketball with the neighbors. 'Break into MY house,' Julie smirked to herself.
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