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***** The Adventures of Molly Modem *****
EPISODE # 6
As soon as she landed in Victoria, Molly made up a plan of action. First
she'd go to her apartment for a shower and change of clothes. Then, she'd
contact Ren and Michael and get an update on things. If only VonCriptic
hadn't made his move yet! She hailed a cab and, giving her address and
sweeping into the back seat in one fluid motion, she settled in for the drive
into town. As she watched the passing scenery along the Pat Bay Highway, she
couldn't help reflect about the time she'd spent with Mark and wondered if she
might ever see him again. The "vacation" they'd had was unbelievable, but all
the same she was glad to be back home again.
Molly arrived at her apartment expecting the worst and got it: it was a
mess, just as Ren had told her. Clothes strewn all over the place, drawers
yanked out of cupboards, her ceramic monkey smashed to pieces... it was almost
too much to bear. Some one had done a thorough job, but of course they hadn't
found what they were looking for (she patted her purse wherein lay the 80666
processor). Slowly, and with great care, she set about cleaning up the worst
of it but somehow couldn't manage to get very far.
She tried her answering machine - the one her mother made her buy when
she'd moved out of her parents' house three years ago. There was only one
message: from her boss wondering why she hadn't been into work for the past
couple of weeks. Well, Mr. Tischart was a pretty easy-going guy. She was sure
he'd understand.
After a quick shower, she called Ren to find out how things were
proceeding with the BEAST interface. It should be finished by now and,
barring any further complications, they could put their plan into action. She
let the phone ring ten times before giving up. Then she tried Michael's house
and got the same response. Where were they? Then she realized: they must
still be working on the interface down at the Farwest building! She phoned
there, but the manager told her that he hadn't seen either of her friends for
at least a week. How curious. Something was definitely wrong. If Ren and
Michael were in trouble, they would need help. But what was her first move?
The only logical thing she could think of to do was to go to the police and
report what she knew.
Bryn pushed his way through the door of Gamma Communications Corporation
and walked inside. On the whole, it looked like quite a cheezy outfit and he
wondered to himself why Allan Crime would ever send him to a dump like this.
It reminded him of the back-office of the sleazy Shell station he used to work
at in his former years. Machine parts were scattered all over the place, the
air was foul and a raunchy calendar donned the wall behind the desk. An
unshaven fat guy with a tee-shirt two sizes too small and a smelly cigar
stepped out from the back and looked Bryn over. "Can I help ya, mac?" he said
finally as if he were doing Bryn a favour by even talking to him.
"Yes, I'd like to speak with Doctor May." said Bryn, "I don't have an
appointment, so if he's not available..."
"Got any I.D.?" the fat man asked, breathing smoke into Bryn's face.
Bryn coughed and profferred his driver's licence. The man took it in his
greasy palm and squinted at it momentarily. "Come wit' me." he said as he
handed the card back to Bryn and motioned toward the door behind the counter.
Behind the front room, Bryn got a shock. It was in total contrast to the
mess that he had first seen. He was led down a series of gleaming white
corridors much like a maze. Through any of the open doors he passed by, he
could see people busy at work behind desks. Finally they came to one door
that stood out from the others. The fat man knocked twice and then opened the
door, motioning for Bryn to enter. He did and was immediately surprised. An
elaborate office, with the finest of antique furniture and a glowing fire in
the hearth. What a difference. A diminutive man with dark glasses and a
goatee got up from behind his desk and shook Bryn's hand vigorously.
"So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Jones. We've been expecting you for
days."
Bryn looked incredulously at the man, "But I never told you..."
"Quite so. We received a message from your friend Allan. He told me you
were in need of some... help, as it were. Have a seat."
Bryn sat down and looked across at May. "What's with..."
"The false front to the organization?" Dr. May smiled, "In the security
business, one has a lot of enemies to protect against. It's in our interests
to 'hide away' from any outside interference behind a facade. It suits our
purposes and keeps people from being too nosy. The only reason you got in was
because of the glowing recommendation your friend Alan gave you."
Getting over his initial shock, Bryn settled himself in his chair and told
his tale of woe to Dr. May. Dr. May mulled over the problem and leaned
forward in his chair, making a bridge with his hands.
"The way I see it, Mr. Jones, you are in need of a highly sophisticated
security system. We can arrange such a thing... for a price."
"I see...", said Bryn, "and what kind of system had you in mind?"
"Well we could set you up with something like the systems Alan told you
about, but I suggest you try our latest development: Herbie."
"Herbie?"
"A processing unit that uses a heuristic algorithm to screen prospective
users of your computer network."
"I don't understand..."
"Simply put, Herbie provides complex interactive passwords for users -
passwords that unauthorized users can't fake because the user is asked a
series of questions about his or her self. Then, Herbie determines the
probability that the correct person is logging on based on his responses."
"I like it." said Bryn, deep in thought.
"The process involved is so complex, no hacker could hope to break it
without knowing the exact psychological break-down of the user. It's
practically fool-proof."
"Well, Dr. May," said Bryn, shaking the doctor's hand, "I think we can do
business."
Molly entered the station house for the Victoria Police Department and
headed for the front desk.
"Can I help you, miss?" asked an obviously bored sergeant. Overworked and
underpaid, all he wanted to do was finish his shift and go home to watch Knots
Landing.
"Yes I'd like to report a missing person... two missing persons, er,
people." said Molly, struggling to get the words right.
"Um hmm." the sergeant pulled a standard form out and looked it over,
"Name?"
"Molly. Molly Modem."
"I see. And when did these two persons go missing."
"Well I just got back into town today after a two-week vacation so..."
"Waitaminit. Did someone TELL you they were missing?"
"No. I just can't find any trace of them and I..."
"Then you just assume they're missing."
Molly became flustered, "I have no idea where they are. I talked to one
of them five days ago and I..."
The sergeant crumpled the form up and tossed it into the wastepaper
basket. "Sorry, miss. Wish I could help you, but standard operating
procedure clearly states we have to wait a minimum of 48 hours before anyone
can officially be declared missing. As it is, you've only just found out
today, so..." he shrugged his shoulders.
"You mean to tell me you won't do anything?"
"It's just to early to determine anything. They could be at the local pub
having a beer for all you know..."
"Not Ren and Michael! I know them, they'd have left word!"
"Sometimes we don't know people as well as we think we do. At any rate,
if they're still missing after 48 hours, come back and I'll fill out another
form."
"Right." Molly gritted her teeth and walked out as calmly as she could.
She wasn't the kind that lost her temper easily, but guys like that tended to
make her blood boil.
With nothing else to do, Molly decided to head into work. She worked for
a large independent firm by the name of Shawdata which specialized in
compilers. Their motto was: "Faster than the average Bear". Built up from
nothing in the late 70's, it was now a thriving business, with contracts
world-wide.
Molly tried to concentrate on her current project: the low-level routines
of a compiler for an Armed Forces programming language created solely for the
purpose of doing payroll. In keeping with the bureaucratic style of the
government, the language was written in a wide-sweeping, archaic style that
only graduates of the highest echelons of acadaemia could ever hope to
decipher. Her desk covered with a mountain of rigid army specifications, she
stared at her monitor blankly and found she couldn't concentrate - her mind
was too full of what might have happened. The general manager, Fran Berube
walked over. "What's wrong, Molly?" she asked.
She and Fran were real good friends and Molly knew she could talk openly
with her. She spilled her guts out over a cup of steaming black coffee and
felt a lot better for having done so.
Fran rubbed her chin, "Ever consider hiring a private detective?"
"Don't you think that's a little 'extreme', Fran?" said Molly, running her
fingers nervously through her hair.
"Not in the least. If the police refuse to do anything, you have to take
the initiative. It so happens I know a guy who might be able to help."
"Oh?"
"His name's Sam Slick. He works out of a small office on Broad Street."
"Where do you know him from?"
Fran shrugged her shoulders, "Before I married Stan I used to date a lot
of creeps. He was creepy, but a damn good detective."
"You think it might help?" asked Molly.
"Better that stewing around here unproductively. Go on, take the rest of
the day off."
Molly thanked her and, packing up her things, left.
Dr. Node sat in a hotel room in the Johnny Canuck Inn in Vancouver mulling
over recent developments whilst Baud Job snacked on Chicken McNuggets. After
failing miserably in his attempt to procure the 80666 processor, he and Baud
Job had retreated to Vancouver to lick their wounds and lay low in case Molly
had died in the Juan de Fuca strait and the authorities had gotten suspicious.
After perusing the papers and finding no mention of her death however, Dr.
Node was of a mind to go back and make sure that the 80666 was indeed gone.
After all, someone like Molly who was smart enough to engineer an escape from
him was smart enough not to throw away an almost invaluable piece of
equipment. He had his doubts. Perhaps it was time to return to Victoria...
"So you say ya wanna find some friends, eh?" Sam Slick said as he peered
over his desk at the woman before him. He was a private detective along the
lines of Sam Spade or Mike Hammer with one difference: he was good.
"Yes, yes I do." said Molly, "The police are absolutely useless and I must
find out what happened to them before..."
"Cost ya $500 a day."
"That's expensive."
"So go hire someone who don't know what they're doing. I'm sure you'll
get a reasonable rate of return. Of course, you'll probably never see your
friends again, but..."
"Ok, ok. You've made your point."
Sam smiled. This was gonna be a piece o' cake.
Dr. May pressed a button on the elaborate phone system in front of him
and got a secure line. He didn't want anyone evesdropping on this
conversation. He dialed a number and waited for someone to pick up the
receiver on the other end. "Yes?" came a voice.
"It's Dr. May, Grandmaster." said the doctor, "It is done - the pieces are
in place for the final phase of 'Operation Spam'."
"Excellent." came the response, "You have done well, May. Soon, FASC
shall rule the world! A ha a ha a hah hah hah hah haaaaaaaa!!"
Dr. May hung the phone up and smiled an evil smile as he lit a cigarette
and blew a smoke ring into the air. He chuckled to himself.
Molly and Sam examined the room in the Farwest building where Ren and
Michael had been working on the interface. Slick was quite observant and it
was obvious to Molly that she had been right in contacting him.
Sam pointed at the floor, "Look at that."
"What is it?" asked Molly, staring at a small discoloured patch on the
rug.
Sam scraped it with a knife. He looked up at her, "Blood ma'am. Dried
blood." He studied it with the mark of an expert, "I'd say it's been there...
at least a week."
"But that can't be!" exclaimed Molly, "Ren talked to us only five days ago
and everything seemed fine!" Explanations reeled in her head, but the true
answer was enshrouded by fog. How could Ren have talked to her and Mark if he
had been kidnapped... or worse.
"Over here!" called Sam, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from an ashtray
on the table. "He unfolded it and showed it to Molly, "This mean anything to
you?"
She looked at it. It was a business card from Gamma Communications
Corporation. "Doesn't mean a thing." she said, her face a study in confusion.
Sam turned it over, "There's a phone number on the back. Wait here." He
went over to a pay phone and dialed the number while Molly watched nervously.
What happened? Have Ren and Michael been the object of a mafia hit? And
whose phone number is on the back of that card? What are Dr. Node and Baud
Job going to go now? When will the mysterious VonCriptic show his
acne-covered face? What is FASC and what evil plans is it concocting and what
part does Allan Crime play in them? Is Compuspec soon to be proverbial
"toast"? Find out the answers to these and many other burning issues in the
next bone-shattering "Adventures of Molly Modem" when we hear Molly say
"Waitaminit! I just remembered something vitally important! Something to
do... with spam."
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