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Show VM Brandon sat up abruptly and began pulling sheets of paper out of his briefcase. "Hark ye, now..-" he said, "...we are cursed mayhap with. . .uh. . .with. . - " He held a sheet up before him, glanced down at the Universal MiniComp on his wrist, and cleared his throat. Then he dropped back into his chair and flung the paper on the table. "By my troth," he said querulously, "I wot not how to think of this Grant-Sheblem business." He sighed. "Let me recount the thing. Some TwelveMonths ago, the department here keyed in an urgent requisition for A, B, and C Snoops to be attached with all haste to Grant-Sheblem's BAA transhologram, for lo! the Net, some several TwelveMonths before that, had picked up-Heaven bless us!-• the word Revolution!" He shuddered. "'Twas spoke in some conversation of the Good Doctor's-I wot not with whom-and activated the alarm system in its great good time." He leaned over and flicked the paper with his finger. "The requisition was filled, notwithstanding," he said with some satisfaction, "two hours past." Phrapp groaned softly. "Two hours p a s t . . . " he murmured. He had found his peppermints and was extracting one. "Two hours p a s t . . . " He kept repeating the phrase like a chant. Brandon glanced in the man's direction. For a good many TwelveMonths now. the MedTechs had been warning Brandon that his brilliant but eccentric second-in-command was showing signs of dementia-going off by himself in secluded rooms in the Bureau to read obscure bundles of hard copy, creating what he kept insisting were mathematical games on the Network's computers, number crunching aloud as he wandered the halls, disappearing altogether for long stretches of time on suspect holidays. He had even now been gone 49 |