Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [59]
“As a matter of fact…,” Hayes began.
“Five minutes are up.” The Chief Agent shuffled the neat pile of papers in front of him, preparatory to changing the subject.
At that point it was doubtful he would have listened to anyone—except Spitzer. “A seven point one. Lots of property damage, forty-six killed, hundreds injured.”
“I know the stats,” Morrison growled, but let the big man continue.
Spitzer scratched at his impregnable five o’clock shadow. “Denver doesn’t have earthquakes. It’s situated in a tectonically stable region. The geologists said it was a freak occurrence. They still can’t find the fault responsible for the geological shift.”
“So?” Morrison groused. Time was fleeting.
“What,” Spitzer continued softly, “if there is no fault?”
“Are you actually suggesting that it was somehow this Wilbur person’s fault?” Tiffin was gaping at the big man. “Sorry.”
Spitzer was looking at Hayes. “All I’m saying is that while gaining admittance to the restricted section of the Special Collections Department of the Harvard Library may not be a federal crime, and therefore not fall under our purview, making threats against and attempting to extort money from the government is another matter entirely. Bob, I presume you’ve tried to trace this Wilbur person and without success, or you wouldn’t be here discussing the matter with us.”
Hayes nodded, more grateful than he could say for Spitzer’s support. “Wilbur says that if we don’t comply with his demands, he’ll post to the Net everything he’s scanned from this book. According to him, that will let anyone from third-world dictators to role-playing teens have an equal shot at destroying the world.”
Van Wert pursued his lips. “Wouldn’t that kind of render his ten million worthless?”
“I had the impression he’s pretty desperate. Or pretty crazy. You know how hard it is to deduce personality types from e-mail.” He went silent, watching Morrison.
The Chief Agent sipped from his glass, then set it back down in precisely the same place where it had been resting. “This is ridiculous, and I can’t believe I’m wasting the Bureau’s time on it.” His gaze narrowed suspiciously as he stared across the table at Spitzer. “If I find out that you two have conspired on this, to try to put one over on me and get a couple of days off, I’ll see you both spending the rest of your respective careers tracking retirees’ bank transfers in South Florida.”
Spitzer folded his hands over his imposing belly. “I swear to God I never heard anything of it until Hayes started talking ten minutes ago.”
Morrison grunted, mumbling something under his breath. “This ‘Wilbur’ isn’t the only crazy person around. I ought to be committed myself for even listening to this. If any word of this leaks beyond this room, I won’t be able to buy a burger in this town without people pointing at me and cracking up.” His glare at that moment could have melted manhole covers.
“All right—do a quick follow-up. A harmless ranting nut can turn into a dangerous nut. See if you can find him. We’ll stop him from making threats, anyway. Hollow or otherwise.” He picked up his papers. “Now then, about this new militia site on the Web. We know it’s being routed through a server in Madison, Wisconsin, but after that…”
An hour later, puffing slightly, Spitzer caught up to Hayes in the hallway. “He doesn’t buy it, does he?”
“Morrison? No.” Hayes didn’t know whether to feel half justified or half disappointed. “What about you? And thanks for sticking up for me back there.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s say I have an open mind on the subject. What do you intend to do now?”
“We don’t have much time. In between talking to Harvard and trying to calm them down, I asked them what I should do. One of their people suggested I contact a Herman Rumford in New York. Gave me his number.”
“By the brevity of your response I take it you have already done so.”
Hayes nodded as they strolled together down the corridor. “If anything, he sounds even weirder than this Wilbur character.