Chapter 13

June 28

From my perspective, June 27th, a Sunday, had been very much like June 26. The 26th had been, in turn, quite similar to June 25. The 25th had been extremely comparable to June 24. And the 24th had been a precise replica of the 23rd, if only because I had neglected to cross the 23rd off on my calendar the first time through, dooming myself to live it again in its entirety, at least so far as I knew. The passage of time had ceased to have much meaning in my world, and figured to continue to do so until Bucklin's students flooded back to campus, at which point campus regulations regarding vagrancy, as well as any remaining pride I might possess, would compel me to move along.
This infestation of college students was scheduled to occur on August 30. There was little hope of a reprieve. Bucklin had been scheduling school years for 200-some-odd years, and each had begun promptly on schedule. Bucklin students had somehow found their way to campus through wars, railroad strikes, and a pesky Influenza Pandemic that killed off a third of the student body...yet never dropped class attendance rates down to anywhere their current lamentable levels. In fact, from my perspective, the coming school year seemed destined to begin ahead of schedule, since I had not yet discovered my oversight with the calendar on the 23rd.
Monday June 28th broke the monotony. My goal for the day was to sleep late, then spend the afternoon searching for a hovel or hollow tree within my price range, so I would have someplace to sleep come September. Instead, I was awakened at ten in the morning by an unexpected and exciting call. In as much as the phone had been disconnected since the end of May, I was willing to consider any actions on its part unexpected and exciting. I sat up on my bed, by which I mean the office sofa, to consider my options.
The proper course of action might seem obvious on the surface. Indeed, many people confronted by a ringing phone simply jump right in, happily taking up their receivers to find out who's at the other end, as if this was the only path available. But I'd grown a bit skittish about the whole phone-answering and human-interaction experience in recent months, an unavoidable consequence of the fact that none of the news I had received qualified as good news by even the most forgiving of standards. Still, I found the idea of speaking to another human did hold a sort of nostalgic charm. I labeled "answer the phone" option A. The alternate path was slightly more defensive: I could let the phone ring, while I hid under the office desk curled up in the fetal position, quietly begging for it to stop. I had to admit, this idea, too, was not without its allure. I'd call it option B. On the downside, option B did seem a bit defeatist. Now to weigh between the two options… Then the phone stopped ringing.
"That solves that problem," I thought, pleased to have had cleared the day's first hurdle. I got up to brush my teeth. I'd run out of toothpaste the week before, but I'd found plenty of liquid hand soap stored under the bathroom sink. It didn't taste as good as toothpaste, but one gets used to such things. Anyway, it's not like there's a positve correlation between comfort and effect dental care. Odds are, dentists will start recommening brushing with hand soap any day now.
I had just finished soaping down my upper left molars when the phone rang again. I was more awake this time, and thus largely able to contain my earlier inclination to hide under office furniture. I settled on option A. Why not? I wasn't expecting the results of any major medical tests, and all I had left at that point was my health. I strode confidently toward the phone. I didn't feel confident, but one must at least consider the possibility that phones can smell fear.
Not until my hand lifted the receiver did the thought strike me: while I wasn't expecting the results of any medical tests, the folks at Portland Biotechnics had been processing my blood on a regular basis. They very probably had turned up some hidden flaw that would prevent me from selling plasma at $20 a week and that, to add insult to injury, would then kill me. Or was that adding injury to insult? Either way, I didn't like the sound of it, and my confident front was badly shaken by the time the receiver reached my ear.
"Hello." I said, as this seemed as good a place to start as any.
"I want to thank you for your advice," said a vaguely familiar voice.
"You're welcome," I responded out of reflex. I was too relieved that my blood wasn't trying to kill me--at least so far as this caller knew--to worry about such details as to whom I was speaking.
"It was wonderful advice."
"Don't mention it," I answered. "I'm glad it helped."
"But I need some more."
"You do?"
"Yes, I am in definite need of more advice."
"Was there a problem with the original advice?"
"No, no. The advice was fine. I loved the advice. I've had great success with it on more than one occasion. However I'm afraid there are times when additional options are required."
"There are?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You've had problems?"
"A few minor problems, yes."
"How minor?"
"I wasn't actually strung up, but it was touch and go there for a while."
"And you’re sure you want more advice after those initial results?"
"Oh yes, I'm quite confident that the advice was sound, and only the execution was lacking. In fact it was going rather well until I made one or two small tactical errors."
"I see."
"It might be helpful at this juncture if you could tell me what number you think you dialed so I can point out that you're thanking the wrong person."
"I don't think I have the wrong person--I remember your voice. Isn't this the Native American Observatory? I asked them to reconnect the line to the Observatory."
"Yes, it is, but…"
"I don't expect this advice for free, of course. If there's anything at all I can do for you, all you need to do is ask."
"Oh, well that changes everything," I said. Actually, it didn't change everything. It didn't change the fact that I didn't know who the caller was or what he was talking about. Nor did it change the fact that someone who has screwed up his own life as badly as I had screwed up mine should be vigorously dissuaded, if not legally barred, from offering advice to others. Asking my counsel was like relying on the guidance of a fortune teller who operated out of a trailer home or basement office; if they knew anything useful about the future--or the present, for that matter--why the hell couldn't they afford a permanent, above ground place of business? But as I was currently unemployed and soon to be homeless, I was hardly in a position to turn down anyone willing to do anything for me in exchange for a bit of advice. "I have some great advice that is perfectly tailored to your individual situation," I said.
"Wonderful."
"Now, if you could just tell me who you are, who you think I am, where we've met before, and what your problem is."
"Uh…You don't recall."
"Certainly I recall. I recall every moment of our engrossing encounter as if it happened this very week."
"It did happen this very week."
"Don't interrupt. I simply believe that reviewing the background often is a good way to make sure everyone's on the same page."
"Oh, yes. Very sensible. Let's see, you want to know who I am, when we met, who I think you are, and what my problem is…Okay, here goes, I'm Roger's owner. We met when Roger went poking around your Native American Observatory. You're the Native American from the observatory."
"Oh yes, Roger. Laconic sort...about twelve inches high...furry?" I'd thought Roger and his owner had been a dream. The plasma selling hadn't done wonders for my memory.
"That's him."
"And the advice I gave?"
"You advised Roger that he ought to be happy with what he has, and you advised me to agree with people. Roger seems to have taken your advice to heart, in as much as he didn't try to run away this morning, a pursuit that until now has been the greatest passion of his life. As for me, agreeing with everyone worked wonders at first…but I ran into one or two minor hiccups, and was wondering if you had anything else."
"What exactly went wrong?"
"When I tried to agree with someone I ended up insulting him."
"Yes, I see where that could be a problem. And you say you weren't trying to insult him?"
"No, of course not. I was trying to pander to him. It's just so very difficult to agree with people when you don't know what portion of reality they agree with, and what portion they consider heresy."
"I do see your point, but I hope you don't give up on the agreeing with everyone just yet. These things can take some practice, but with work you'll be able to agree with even the most irrational positions."
"Oh, I do hope you're right."
"But in the meantime, let's try to come up with that new advice you'd hoped for. Was there anything specific you were looking for?"
"No, nothing specific really. I was hoping for some sort of grand, profound statement that I could reflect upon throughout my life and career."
"Grand and profound, eh? Well, it's a bit hard for me to sound very philosophical at the moment, since it's daytime and I'm not suffering from extreme blood loss as I was during our earlier encounter. Maybe we could kick some ideas around for a while until I come up with something."
"I thought you said you had some great advice all ready for me."
"Hey, who's the spiritual advisor here? Believe me, it works better this way."
"Brainstorming session. Okay, if that's how these things work. I've never had a spiritual advisor before."
"Really? I thought everyone had a spiritual advisor these days. To be honest, my time is so filled up with the spiritual advising sometimes that I hardly have time for anything else."
"I can imagine. Well, how should we get started? I need help in so many areas. I'm really pretty bad at everything."
"Everything?"
"Well, I suppose I'm pretty good at what I used to do. In my field I was considered quite solid. Satisfactory, even."
"Great, there's your answer."
"Where? Where's my answer?" Roger's owner asked, afraid that it might run off before he'd spotted it.
"You have an area of strength," I said. "Whenever someone tries to better you in an area of weakness, just bring the issue back around to your area of strength so they'll be on the defensive."
"Even if the points are totally unrelated?"
"Especially if they're unrelated. As long as it's established that you know more on the subject than your adversary, they'll have to take your word that the point you're making is relevant."
"Interesting idea," Kerns admitted. "Very interesting. But again I'm struck by how little your guidance sounds like the peaceful, one-with-the planet stuff that Native Americans are known for."
"It doesn't?"
"Not even close."
"Well, I really shouldn't tell you this, but we're preparing for a bloody revolution."
"A bloody revolution? After all this time?"
"But don't tell anyone."
"Any chance it could be a bloodless revolution?"
"Always a chance I suppose. But before we stray too far from the subject, you mentioned that you might be able to do something for me."
"Anything I can do, you have my word," said Roger's owner. "What do you need?"
"What I find myself in need of at the moment is a job."
"I thought the spiritual guiding kept you busy."
"Yes, but I'm afraid it just isn't paying the bills like it used to. Those 1-900 psychic hotlines have been eating into the profit margins, you understand."
"I'm very sorry to hear that. Are you looking for an opening in the spiritual guidance field?"
"Something related to spiritual guidance, anyway. Perhaps investment banking, for example. But I'm flexible. Can you help?"
"Perhaps. I'll talk to the career services office this very morning."
Mentioning the 'career services office' probably meant that Roger's owner was indeed affiliated with the college, as I had suspected.
"If by 'career services office' you mean Bucklin's career services office, they have my resume on file. Just tell them to look under the name Gwafin."
"Gwafin. How interesting. What does it mean?"
"It means me."
"Oh…" Roger's owner sounded a bit disappointed. "I thought your names had some sort of deeper meaning."
"Well, I suppose it could mean 'The Oracle on the Hill' in Navaho."
"Really?"
"It's possible, I guess. Why not? Something has to mean 'The Oracle on the Hill."
"The Oracle on the Hill," repeated Roger's owner. "That's just perfect."
"Yes, I thought you might like it."
"I'll contact you there in the Native American Observatory as soon as I find out something about that job."
"Hmm…"
"Problem?" Roger's owner asked.
"I was just thinking that we probably should come up with a better name than the Native American Observatory--sounds like some sort of cross between a reservation and a zoo."
"Yes, that's an excellent point."
"See? You're already improving at agreeing with people who say dumb things. It can be a powerful weapon."
"I'll use it in a way that brings honor to your people."
"That's all my people can ask."

By her fourth day on the island, Dana felt right at home. It's easy to feel good when one's working for a cause one believes in, and even easier when working for two. Dana had decided to spend her mornings working with Brent's humanitarian organization "Power to the People," constructing a dam to bring electricity to the island. In the afternoon, Dana helped one of the island's environmental groups, "The Green Lands' Turn." Mostly the GLT was interested in stopping the construction of the dam, since it would irreparably harm the ecosystem of the river. Dana felt equally committed to both causes, and decided that her time was best divided evenly between them.
It was late afternoon--either 5 or 6 p.m., depending on where one was standing on Lesser Morrell Island in relation to the date line--so Dana was busy improving the environment. To be precise, she was improving the environment by planting explosives at the base of a nearly completed dam. It was a dramatic, proactive move, perhaps even a controversial one in some circles. But the Green Lands' Turn did not consider themselves extremists. To show their willingness to work within the system, they had decided to wait until after the Power to the People staff had left for the day before detonating any bombs.
There was, of course, a chance that one of the Power People people could return unexpectedly. But this was a longshot, in as much as every member of the dam-building team also was an active member of the GLT, and thus their present whereabouts could be accounted for with a reasonable degree of certainty. Still, the GLT activists wore disguises so as not to be recognized by any Power types who might happen by. Dana was not sure where they'd found seven pairs of novelty glasses with fake nose-and-mustache so far from civilization.
She glanced up at the GLT lookout to make sure all was well. The man was well trained, and he knew the area. In fact, on most days he served as the Power security guard. The lookout signaled that all was indeed well, then resumed scanning the forest lest he arrive suddenly and take himself by surprise.
Dana looked up at the top of the dam, where the group's explosives expert neared the completion of his work. The GLT was fortunate to have found such a skilled person in the region. As luck would have it, he was in the area to construct the dam, and had volunteered for this assignment. Everyone here is so willing to help, Dana thought with no small measure of pride. Her part of the job complete, Dana decided that this would probably be a good time to seek higher ground, away from any possible explosions or sudden rushes of water. She began climbing the once and future river bank towards safety.
Dana's heart was racing with the danger. What if the GLT's explosives went off too soon? What if the lookout suddenly turned back into the guard? She sneaked a glance at a fellow team member as she passed by, but could read nothing in his expression behind the novelty glasses. Then everyone was running. Where explosives are involved, following the crowd often is a good thing, so Dana ran as well. Soon she heard the blast, and ensuing shower of debris on the forest canopy.
The island's ecology stood to benefit from the destruction of this dam throughout the ages. Whatever else Dana did for the rest of her life, she could know she made this contribution.

The phone was ringing again when I returned to the observatory. I'd been out early for my daily trip to the campus gym. I was quite proud that I'd made to it to the gym each day that summer without exception. Once there I would come up with an excuse for not exercising, then take a shower. I could have tried to stay in shape, of course. I certainly had the time. But if trips to the gym required work, I might start skipping them altogether, and repetition is the most important factor when it comes to conditioning. Anyway, I needed the showers more than the muscles. The Observatory was a little lacking in the bathtub department.
"Mr. Gwafin, it's me, Roger's owner," said Roger's owner. "Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you. I finally got a hold of someone down in the career services office and they have something for you--actually, they've been trying to find you for a week now."
"You’re kidding--where?"
"They say they've been looking everywhere. Of course, we're talking about Career Services employees, so that probably means they looked to see if you were in their waiting room."
"No, I mean where's the job?"
"Johnston Brothers, the investment bank. They want you to come down to New York for a second interview."
"Oh, that," I said, deflated. "They told me about that when they were here on campus. They want me to come down for an interview, only there's no job and I'd have to pay my own travel expenses."
"Hmm. That would seem to take a level of excitement off the whole interview experience," admitted Roger's owner. "Still, I think you should give them a call. The people in the career services office seemed very upbeat. It's been a tough year for them you know, what with so many of our graduates being unemployed and all."
"Yes, I can imagine how much they must be suffering."
"So you'll call?"
"Sure, why not." I took down the number. "I just need to find a phone that allows long-distance calls. This one seems to think I'm better off interacting with only local residents since it came back to life this morning." I hadn't expected to get through to Spanish Guyana, but nothing is lost in trying.
"You can use the phone at the career services office…actually, you better head down to the alumni offices instead. The career services people tend to take the afternoons off in the summer."
"But the alumni people will be there?"
"Oh yes. They never close. I'll let them know you're coming."
"Sounds good."
"If there is a job you'll probably move to New York."
"I suppose so."
"I'll miss your council. It's been nice to have someone to turn to. It's a very powerless feeling, this being in charge. Any final words of advice?"
"I hadn't realized you were in charge," I said, honestly surprised that anyone would have put Roger's owner in charge of anything more complicated than Roger. "There is one lesson about leadership I believe you need to learn. When you're the boss, you can have everyone's problems, or everyone can have your problems--it's up to you."
"I'm going to jot that down," said Kerns. "I want to think about it later. But what should I do if I need more advice?"
"Just ask Roger. He's a very wise dog."
"Really?"
"Well, he won't give you any bad advice anyway. And that puts him miles ahead of most advice givers."
"Are you saying that I don't really need any more advice, and deep down I now have everything I need within myself?"
"Ahhh, yea, sure. What the hell. But just to be on the safe side, you'd better run any big decisions by Roger first."
Wonderful. Now I'd have to spend half an hour on the phone with the Johnston Brothers personnel department explaining that I wasn't coming down to New York unless they either paid for the trip or pretended that there was a job available. Still, I decided to make the call. There was nothing to lose, even if there was nothing to gain. Anyway it gave me a chance to enter the mysterious Alumni Affairs building, something I hadn't done while a student on campus. No one I knew had ever set foot in the building, although rumors persisted of a nirvana of complementary coffee and cookies.
I was about to head over when I caught a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. It had been some time since I had shaved or, for that matter, donned leg wear that extended below my knees. This shouldn't have mattered, since I was just making a phone call, and the acceptance of videophone technology by society has been painfully slow, but there was something about the alumni building that suggested a degree of formality--or at least basic hygiene. So I shaved. And washed my face. And combed my hair with a serious, professional part on the left, in place of my usual, devil-may-care part on the right. I even put on my suit, which had hung undisturbed in a storage closet since I'd moved in in June. If I remained unemployed much longer, it had a shot to come back into style.
When I entered the alumni building, I was glad I'd taken the time to clean myself up. Inside it was less like a college building, and more like a college building as envisioned by someone working without a budget. The carpet was so new that I felt guilty for walking on it. The paint on the walls was so fresh that I would have felt guilty for walking on them, too...though if I could have walked on the walls, it might have been a neat enough trick to be worth the smudges.
There wasn't a corner in sight that didn't contain either a vase of flowers or a Bucklin employee. And there wasn't a Bucklin employee who didn't sport a well-tailored suit, a rarity not just for a college campus, but the whole state of Maine. As a rule, anyone wearing a suit in Maine was either trying to sell you something you didn't need, heading to court concerning something they'd just as soon not discuss, or en route to a funeral, possibly their own.
Social acceptance wasn't the only reason I was glad I'd worn my suit. The alumni building's air was conditioned within an inch of its life. There was just one reason for anyone not storing meat to keep a building this cold in the summer: to prove they could. Bucklin's alumni department was so well funded that they could afford to turn their air conditioning up well past the point of discomfort, and they wanted you to know it the moment you walked in the door.
I noted with pleasure that the alumni building legends were true in another department as well: the reception area featured not just a coffee urn, but a plate piled so high with cookies that the top wafers swayed slightly in the air conditioner's breeze. I helped myself to a cup of coffee to combat the cold, but decided it would be prudent to get my phone call taken care of before attempting to swipe such a staggering quantity of cookies. I gave some thought to making a grab for the coffee urn as well. The idea of running full speed with a hot vessel filled with a colored fluid whilst wearing one's only suit had certain downsides worth considering...but it was very good coffee.
A badly frostbitten receptionist directed me to an office on the second floor, where I met Foster Castleman VI, the director of alumni giving. Mr. Castleman was, well, exactly what one would expect a Foster Castleman VI to be, which is to say he came from a long line of people successful enough that they could live with the fact that they were all named Foster Castleman. To put it another way, he was nothing like the typical college employee. If he hadn't taken the alumni fund-raising job, he'd probably have been running a bank somewhere. Foster Castleman VI might have been running a bank in his spare time for all I knew. A man who looks that distinguished walks into a bank and I suspect they just offer him the place. Then there was his wardrobe. If suits could talk, Castleman's would not have spoken to mine.
Yet this sixth incarnation of Foster Castleman turned out to be a very reasonable man. He consented to let me use his office phone, in exchange only for my agreeing to donate $100 of my first Johnston Brothers' bonus to Bucklin should I land the job. A hundred dollars might seem like a significant sum for a phone call, but the joke was on him since I knew there was no job. The negotiations complete, Castleman politely withdrew so I could make my call in private. For my part, I politely ignored the suspicious clicks I heard on the line as I dialed.
"Gwafin," said the voice at the other end after a single ring.
"That's right," I stammered. "How did you know."
"How did I know what? And who is this?"
"How did you know who I am, and I'm Bob Gwafin, to answer both your questions."
"You’re who?"
"I'm Gwafin."
"You're Gwafin?" There was a pause. "Oh yes. Mr. Gwafin. You’ll be calling about the job."
"That's right."
"I'm very much looking forward to meeting you. How soon can you be in New York?"
"I'd have to look into travel arrangements…," I said, trying to estimate the time required to hitchhike 300 miles, allowing for the inevitable attempts on my life in and around New Haven, Connecticut.
"Oh, we can take care of that at our end. How's Wednesday? I'll tell my assistant to have a ticket waiting for you at the airport."
"Wednesday would be fine," I answered, mostly because any day would be fine as long as someone else was paying.
"Great. She'll call you back with the details. Where can you be reached?"
I gave him the Observatory number, thereby dooming myself to hours of standing watch over a phone, since the Observatory phone had no Observatory answering machine.
"If my assistant asks you in what name to reserve the ticket," the man continued, "just tell her Gwafin. And remember: we can't trust anyone."
Castleman reentered his office as soon as I'd hung up.
"Not exactly a typical way to end business call," I said. "And against all expectations it sounds like they're actually willing to pay my travel costs. Could I be dreaming this whole thing?"
"No, I don't think so," answered Castleman. "Because I'm here, too, and the alumni department doesn't have a way of inserting its representatives into the dreams of alumni. Not yet."
"Yet…you mean you're working on it?"
"Officially I have no comment on that...but I can say that we're very actively working on a way to block that dream where you suddenly realize you've forgotten to attend class all semester and it's the morning of the final exam. Terrible for fund raising, that one."
"I can imagine."
"If it helps, it's possible that this is my dream," said Castleman. "I dream about our alumni landing good jobs all the time."
"No I don't think that's it," I said. "Actually, this feels less like a dream and more like something that would happen to Cary Grant in a Hitchcock film."
"A Hitchcock film?"
"You know, where an ordinary man is suddenly drawn into a web of intrigue. That wouldn't be so bad, I guess. I mean it's not like Grant's characters were ever actually killed in one of those movies… They just were nearly killed many, many times."
"We are talking about Johnston Brothers, after all," offered Castleman. "What's a few attempts on your life compared to a good job at Johnston Brothers?"
"And attempts on my life are really just a worst-case scenario--or an attempt at a worst-case scenario, anyway. Chances are, it's merely a matter of some sort of underhanded financial scheme for which I'll be set up as the patsy."
"Yes, that does seem more likely, now that you mention it."
"I could live with that," I said. "Those guys who get caught in financial scams usually wind up in minimum-security prisons. Sounds pretty cushy."
"It would be a roof over your head and three meals a day," said Castleman.
"Three meals. That would be something. Maybe this will work out after all. I'll keep you posted."
"Oh, don't bother. We'll keep tabs on you."
"But if I get the job I'll have to move to New York. How will you know where I am?"
"We're the Alumni Affairs Office. We know everything. There are Bucklin students living in caves in Tibet that still receive calls during our annual fund-raising drive."
"I knew it--you were eavesdropping on my phone call to Johnston Brothers."
"That would be unethical."
"But you don't deny it, do you?"
"You're one to talk. You're willing to break the law and risk a prison term just for a chance at a job."
"A minimum-security prison term for a chance at a good job, if you don't mind. I'm not a monster."
"Tell you what. I'll overlook the questionable elements of what I just heard while illegally listening in on your call in exchange for your ignoring my illegally listening in on your call--plus another donation of $100."
"That's extortion."
"Okay," admitted Castleman. "You got me there. It was extortion. Tell you what. I'll forget about the second $100 donation if you forget about the extortion attempt."
"How about this," I offered. "I'll forget about the extortion, the illegal eavesdropping, and I won't start a rumor that you've implanted tracking chips in the necks of Bucklin graduates in exchange for your overlooking the questionable nature of the job I'm about to jump at, plus you forget about both $100 donations."
"Hmm. Well played," said Castleman. "I'm not usually one to give up on an agreed upon donation--if I did that, our enforcers would be out of work--but I'll go along this one time, since that tracking chip rumor could open up a can of worms that I'd just as soon leave closed. And $100 is less than I'd have to pay to have you killed to keep your mouth shut--at least it is if you land the Johnston Brothers' job. If you're living on the street, I can have you killed for a price so low I'd be a fool not to jump at it."
We shook on the agreement. "Well, I'd better get back to my observatory. That odd investment banker's assistant might be trying to reach me as we speak."
"Oh don't worry, no one's called your number yet."
"You're tapping my phone?"
"Nothing of the sort. We're simply monitoring the usage of college long distance. Nothing unethical about that."
"Fine, go ahead, tap my phone. But as long as you know everything about every Bucklin graduate, perhaps you wouldn't mind answering a question for me: where exactly is my former roommate, Dave Orr? He has my suitcase, and it looks like I'll need it back."
Castleman appeared shaken by the name. "Did you say Orr?"
"That's right. Dave Orr."
"Truth is, Orr's something of an interesting case. Just between you and me, he seems to have disappeared."
"Disappeared? What does that mean?"
"To be honest, we don't know what it means. We've never lost anyone before. Never. And Judge Crater went to school here. If Orr was anywhere on this planet, or buried below its surface, or in a low orbit around it, alumni affairs sources ought to know about it."
"Figures. No one but Dave could set out to see the world and miss," I said. "Well, if you can't find Dave, do you happen to know what happened to the suitcase he was carrying?"
"We have nothing on the suitcase, either," admitted Castleman.
"That's a shame," I said. "I could have used that suitcase."
"This whole Orr Affair is quite disturbing…Incidentally, if you do run into your roommate again one day, it would be very helpful to us if you could attach some sort of transponder to him."
I was so flustered by the whole sequence of events that I forgot to take the plate of cookies on my way out.