A brisk wind howled across the Mintorn Mountains beneath a sky full of fat, reddish-purple clouds, swollen as if they were beaten and bruised from being knocked around the peaks. From them fell a stinging rain that crashed down the cliffs in a cascade of waterfalls, turning the River Swift into a churning torrent gnawing uselessly at the base of the mountains, then parting at a fork where the river divided, half of its waters rushing to the Blue Sea and half to the Red.

  The scientists of Filstar Labs had no idea this was going on because they hardly went outside, even in pleasant weather. They were the sort of Sheeple who growing up, when asked if they wanted to play ball, thought you were referring to buckyballs. So as the wind tugged at the radar dishes atop the roof, and the lightning charred the lightning rods, a group of scientists stood in a circle in shock over their latest discovery: The green chair had the ability to vanish. And no one could recall doing anything to make it disappear. Or had it simply moved again, but much further away, and without leaving a hole in the wall? Even the grat was missing.

  “Insanity,” moaned a chemist. “The stupid green chair didn’t like being tortured so it up and left.”

  Another slumped against a wall. “We're just dumping chemicals on it and burning off little bits, and it has to get all fussy and decide ‘I don’t like chemicals, I don’t like fire.' Who does that chair think it is, the Emperor?”

  A biologist threw her white hair back in fury. “Come on–you had to have done something. You chemists are always messing things up. Can't even keep a piece of furniture from running away. And I've been training Fluffy to do research since she was a gritten and you guys lost her too.”

  “I'll bet it was your big, hairy grat–and you call her Fluffy!–that made it disappear. We sure didn't do it.”

  “Don't you dare blame her! I saw what you were dumping on that chair that made it throw her across the room. You probably can't even pronounce half the chemicals you were messing around with.”

  Barth DeManth burst into the laboratory. “What seems to be the problem? Why do I hear nothing but arguing as I walk down the hall?” He looked around suspiciously. “And where's my chair?”

  No one said a word.

  “You lost it, didn't you?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. DeManth. We don't know what happened. It's almost like what happens with hykalondicate, the way things vanish–”

  “But we didn't use hykalondicate. And we weren't even doing anything–”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Yeah, we were eating lunch at the table over there.”

  “And the grat-thing was napping on it.”

  “She has a name, you know.”

  Barth sighed. He should have known better than to leave the chair alone with the pyromaniacs.

  “Forget the chair. You've given me three volumes of data, yet still we know nothing about it. Put that research on hold until it returns. Whereupon, I will keep it in my living room. I have a new job for you.”

  He slammed a black briefcase onto the lab table.

  A statistician peered at it nervously. “What is it?”

  “This was on Quinn's person when he died. I–”

  “He's dead?”

  Barth glared at the chemist. “Yes, dead. Terminated. Expired. So figure out how to open this without blowing the place up. Who knows what's inside, or how well it's protected. Call me when you have the contents.”

  “No bother,” said a chemist. “We can open it right now.” He grabbed a screwdriver, jamming it into the lid.

  “What are you doing!” gasped Barth, yanking the screwdriver away. “This is a Hake device.”

  The biologist rolled her eyes, then caught herself as Barth glared at her. “You carried it into the building, didn't you? Past all the guards on the top floor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then there's nothing dangerous inside. The whole laboratory would be in lockdown if someone had strolled in carrying a briefcase loaded with hazardous material.”

  “Oh. And those detectors… they are accurate?”

  “Only one way to find out.” The chemist reached for another screwdriver.

  “Try 7-1-3,” said the statistician.

  Barth did so, and the briefcase latches popped open.

  “How on Shamonj did you know that?”

  “Sheeple don't have a good sense for random numbers. And he left it set to 6-0-4.”

  “Oh. But say, 3-1-7, that would have been much more difficult to guess, right?”

  “Not really. That's the third most common code on the planet. All you did was change the numbers around.”

  Barth made a mental note to reprogram his locks when he got home.

  The chemist was already shuffling through the case's contents. “It's just a bunch of paper,” he muttered.

  “Don't burn it,” snapped the biologist.

  “Yeah, well, you keep your grat away.”

  “That won't be hard, considering you lost her.”

  “Enough!” ordered Barth, examining the sheets. “What is this nonsense?”

  The statistician took the stack. “They're encoded. I've never seen anything like it. Amazing…”

  “Well, unencode it–”

  “Decode.”

  “Whatever. How long will that take?”

  He flipped through the sheets. “Fifteen symbols… abnormal frequency… my team can do it in three weeks.”

  “You have two days, or you're all fired.”

  “All of us?” protested the biologist. “I don't have anything to do with decoding.”

  Barth turned to her. “I have a job for you too.” He handed her a plastic bag. “This is a hair sample of the rebel Quinn. We need the genetic profile so that when the dead body is found, it can be positively identified.”

  “You don’t have his body?”

  “Our informant left it behind somewhere in Ranj.”

  “What about the rest of us?” asked a chemist.

  “The rest of you can search for the chair, fetch food and drinks for the math gurus, and pray they solve the problem before Fourthday.”

  “You can't fire us. We’re independent researchers.”

  “Emperor Gaelen can.” Barth stormed out of the room. It was going to be close, he could sense it. Time was running out for his report to Emperor Gaelen. But I will solve this case, I will. Everything has a reason. Everything has a cause. Quinn cannot hide his secrets as if they came from nothing and went to nothing. I found the suitcase, didn't I? Well, that creepy V'hogel found the suitcase. But I was the one who orchestrated it. Those scoundrel Hakes cannot outsmart me.