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"I don't remember."

There was obvious disappointment, then revived interest as London added,

"At least, not all of it." He paused, then continued, "There are two

things, though, you can tell from reading what the guy put down. First,

he's every bit as vain and conceited as we figured, maybe more so.

Also-and you get this right away from reading all the gar~age that's in

there-he has what you'd call a compulsion to write things."

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"So have thousands of others," Van Buren said. "Is that all?"

"Yep."

London seemed deflated and Nim put in quickly, "Tess, don't knock that

kind of information. Every detail helps,"

"Tell us something, Harry," Oscar O'Brien said. "Do you remember anything

about the handwriting in that journal?"

"What kind of thing?"

"Well, was it distinctive?"

The Property Protection chief considered. "I'd say, yes."

"What I'm getting at," the general counsel said, "is this: If you took

a sample of the journal handwriting, and then another turned up from

someplace else, would it be easy to match the two and know they were both

from the same person?"

"I see what you mean," London said. "No doubt of it. Very easy."

"Um." O'Brien was stroking his chin, drifting off into a reverie of his

own. He motioned to the others. "Carry on. I only have a half-baked idea

that isn't ready yet."

"All right," Nim said, "let's go on to talk about North Castle, the part

of town where that 'Fire Protection Service' truck was found abandoned."

"With the radiator still warm," Van Buren reminded them. "And he was seen

to go on foot from there, which makes it likely he couldn't have gone

far."

"Maybe not," Harry London said, "but that whole North Castle area is a

rabbit warren. The police have combed it and got nothing. If anybody

wanted to choose a place in this city where they could disappear, that's

the district."

"And from what I've read or heard," Nim added, "it's a reasonable guess

that Archambault bad a second hideaway prepared, to fall back on, and is

now in it. We know he wasn't short of money, so lie could have arranged

everything well ahead of time."

"Using a pbony name, of course," Van Buren said. "The same way he did to

buy the truck."

Nim smiled. "I doubt if the phone company has him listed in 'Directory

Assistance."'

"About that truck registration," London said. "It's been checked on, and

it's a dead end."

"Harry," O'Brien queried, "has anyone estimated the size of the area in

which Arcbambault has apparently been swallowed up? In other words, if

you drew a circle on a map, and stated 'the man is probably hiding

somewhere in there,'how big would the circle be?"

"I believe the police have made an estimate," London said. "But of course

it's only a guess."

"Tell us," Nim prompted.

"Well, the thinking goes something like this: When Arcbambault

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abandoned that truck, he was in one belluva burry. So, assuming be was

heading for a hideaway, while he wouldn't have left the truck close to it,

it would not have been too far either. Say a mile and a half at the most. So

if you take the truck as the center, that means a circle with a

one-and-a-half-mile radius."

"If I remember my high school geometry," O'Brien mused, "the area of a

circle is pi times the radius squared." He crossed to a small desk and

picked up an electronic calculator. After a moment he announced, "That's a

bit ovcr seven square miles."

Nim said, "Which means you're talking about roughly twelve thousand homes

and small businesses, with probably thirty thousand people living within

that circle."

"I know that's a lot of territory," O'Brien said, "and looking for

Archambault in there would be like searching for the proverbial needle.

just the same, we might smoke him out, and here's a thought for the rest of

you to kick around."

Nim, London and Van Buren were listening carefully. As all of them knew, it

was the lawyer's ideas which had led to most of the conclusions at their

earlier sessions.

O'Brien continued, "Harry says Archambault has a compulsion to write

things. Taken with the other information we have about the man, it adds up

to him being an exhibitionist with a need to 'sound off' constantly, even

in small ways. So my thought is this: If we could get some kind of public

questionnaire circulating in that seven -square-m ile areaI mean the kind

of thing with a string of questions to which people write in answers-our

man might not be able to resist answering too."

There was a puzzled silence, then Van Buren asked, "What would the actual

questions be about?"

"Oh, electric power, of course-something to arouse Archambault's interest,

if possible, to make him angry. Like: How do you rate the service which GSP

& L gives the public? Do you agree that continued good service will require

higher rates soon? Do you favor a public utility remaining under private

enterprise? That sort of thing. Of course, those are rough. The real

questions would have to be thought out carefully."

Nim said thoughtfully, "I suppose your idea, Oscar, is that as the

questionnaires came back, you'd look for some handwriting matching the

sample in that journal."

"Right."

"But supposing Archambault used a typewriter?"

"Then we couldn't identify," the lawyer said. "Look, this isn't a foolproof

scheme. If you're looking for that, you won't find one."

"If you did get a returned questionnaire where the bandwriting matcbed,"

Teresa Van Buren objected, "I don't see what good it would do you. How

would you know where it came from? Even if Archam-

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bault was dumb enough to answer, you can be sure he wouldn't give his

address."

O'Brien shrugged. "I already admitted it was a half-baked notion, Tess."

"Wait a minute," London said. "There is one way a thing like that could

be traceable. Invisible ink."

Nim told him, "Explain that."

"Invisible ink isn't just a trick for kids; it's used more often than

you'd think," the Property Protection chief said. "Here's the way it

works: On every questionnaire would be a number, but it wouldn't be

visible. You print it with a luminescent powder dissolved in glycol; the

liquid's absorbed into the paper so there's no trace of it in view. But

when you find the questionnaire you want, you hold it under a black light

scanner and the number shows up clearly. Take it away from the scanner,

the number disappears."

Van Buren exclaimed, "I'll be damned!"

Harry London told her, "It's done often. On lottery tickets is one ex-

ample; it proves a lottery ticket is genuine and not a fake which some

crook printed. Also, half the so-called anonymous questionnaires floating

around are done that way. Never trust any piece of paper which says you

can't be identified."

"This begins to get interesting," O'Brien said.

"The big problem, though," Nim cautioned, "is how to distribute those

questionnaires widely, yet keep a record of where each one went. I don't

see how you'd do it."

Van Buren sat up straight. "I do. The answer is under our noses. Our own

Billing Department."

The others stared at her.

"Look at it this way," the p.r. director said. "Every house, every

building, in that seven-square-mile area is a customer of GSP & L, and

all that information is stored in our billing computers."

"I get it," Nim said; he was thinking aloud. "You'd program the computer

to print out the addresses in that area, and no more."

"We could do even better," O'Brien put in; he sounded excited. "The

computer could produce the questionnaires ready for mailing The portion

with a customer's name and address could be detached so only the

non-identifiable part would be sent back."

"Apparently non-identifiable," Harry London reminded him. "But while the

regular printing was being done, that invisible ink number would be

added. Don't forget that."

O'Brien slapped a thigh enthusiastically. "By Jupiter, we're onto

something!"

"It's a good idea," Nim said, "and worth trying, But let's be realistic

about two things. First, even if the questionnaire reaches Archambault,

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he might be smart and throw it away, so what we're backing is a long

shot."

O'Brien nodded. "I agree."

"The other thing," Nim continued, "is that Archambault-under whatever

name be's using in his hideaway-may not be on our direct billing system.

fie could be renting a room. In that case someone else would get the

electricity and gas bills-and the questionnaire."

"That's a possibility," Van Buren conceded, "though I don't believe it's

likely. Think of it from Archambault's point of view. For any hideaway

to be effective, it has to be self-contained and private. A rented room

wouldn't be. Therefore chances are, he has a house or apartment, the way

he did before. Which means separate metering with separate billing. So

he would get the questionnaire."

O'Brien nodded again. "Makes sense."

They continued talking for another hour, refining their idea, their in-

terest and eagerness growing.

10

GSP & L's Computer Center, Nim thought, bore a striking resemblance to a

movie set of Star Wars.

Everything on the three floors of the company's headquarters bililding

which the center occupied was futuristic, ciinic2l and functional.

Aesthetic frills which appeared in other departments-decorative furni-

ture, carpets, paintings, draperies-were forbidden here. There were no

windows; all light was artificial. Even the air was special, with

hilmid1tv controlled and temperature at an even seventv degrees. All who

worked in the Computer Center were subject to closed-circuit TV

surveillance and no one knew when lie or she was being watched bv the

utility's equivalent of Big Brother.

Movement of individuals in and out of the center was ri-idlv controlled.

Security guards, operating inside bulletproof glass cubicles, and

speaking through microphones, scrutinized every arrival and departure.

Their orders allowed them to assume nothing. Not even a known, friendly

face which they saw each working day was permitted to pass without an

inspection of credentials.

Fach person moving through the security area (always singly; more than

one at a time was not allowed) was enclosed in an "air lock"-in effect,

a small prison, also of bulletproof glass. After entry, a heavy door

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at the rear clanged shut and was bolted electronically. Another door in

front, equally formidable, was opened when a guard was satisfied that all

was well. If suspicions were aroused, as sometimes happened, both doors

remained closed and locked until reinforcements, or proof of identity,

arrived.

No exceptions were made. Even the company's chairman, J. Eric Humphrey,