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just as he and his fellow Z-men had practiced. “You’ve reached the Puzzle Center.” At this point Pedanski wanted to laugh. If only they knew how close that was to the truth… “You have solved one of our hardest puzzles, and having done so you will be awarded a two-year! subscription to the magazine of your choice. I’ll need your name and address, phone number, and the number of the puzzle you’ve solved.” Pedanski stared at the trace gear to his front in silence. The silence persisted. “Hello?”
    Stiff paper rustling, then, “I can’t tell strangers my name.”
    What the hell… “Uhhh.”
    “You’re a stranger.”
    Was this a kid? Pedanski wondered. It spoke like one, but in an older voice. “Uh, this is the Puzzle Center. Where did you get this number?”
    “I solved puzzle ninety-nine.”
    Pedanski snatched the glasses from his face, his gray eyes bugging. WHAT!? He steadied himself as best he could and swallowed before speaking. “Again, what puzzle?”
    “Puzzle ninety-nine.”
    No. It could not be. This had to be a razz. It had to…
    But it couldn’t be. It was line 2, and if anyone in Z was pulling this as a stunt, the boss would have their ass in a federal pen before they could spit.
    It had to be a joke, and it could not be at the same time.
    “Who is this?” Pedanski asked seriously.
    “You’re a stranger.”
    “Listen, I need—” Click. Dial tone. “Hello…dammit!” he swore as he slammed the phone into its cradle. With the hand that held it he covered his mouth. It, like the one holding the pencil, was trembling. Oh, man, this can not be happening. It is im-possible.
    But something had definitely happened. Something terrible. He did not know exactly what, yet, but one thing was quite clear: a single phone call had just cost him and his comrades five years of work and Uncle Sam ten billion dollars.
    Chicken Little would have been proud.
     
     

 
Chapter Two
    Big Dogs
    G. Nicholas Kudrow paced slowly along the bookcase wall of his office, a few sheets of paper held high in one hand, the other rubbing slow circles on his prominent chin as he considered what he read. At the end of the bookcase the forty-eight year old civil servant turned and retraced his steps toward his mahogany desk, still reading, his tinted glasses angled down at the object of his interest. Almost to the next turn-around he paused, square face rising a bit in contemplation, then lowering as the thought-walk continued.
    At the end he stopped and ran a hand over his graying brown hair, whose natural wave added an illusory inch to his six-one frame, and looked away from the papers for the last time. His eyes angled right, at the flexible microphone snaking upward near the computer monitor on his desk. “VOICE,” he said loudly, in a distinct tone he knew would be recognized, then, in a more normal voice, “Intercom.” His normal voice commanded attention. An electronic beep told him to continue. “Sharon?”
    “Yes, Mr. Kudrow,” a disembodied voice replied through the speaker in the microphone’s base.
    “Contact Colonel Murdoch in S and inform him that I have studied his request and that it is denied.” Kudrow stood motionless, staring toward his desk.
    “Understood, Mr. Kudrow.”
    “Intercom off.” Two beeps signaled that his voice command had been heeded. Kudrow walked around his desk and sat, tossing the poorly conceived request into a large red basket. There was no need to shred what went in there.
    Done with serious contemplation for the moment, Kudrow sipped lemonade from the half full glass on his desk and flipped through a minor stack of papers. All bore the TOP SECRET designation across their top, which was why his secretary had placed them with the routine material he needed to peruse before this first day of the work week was finished. If he had his druthers he’d have Sharon sign off on them, but the government had silly rules that only added to the workload of its truly valuable