Read Online The Intruders by Michael Marshall - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Marshall
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farm machinery. The Raiders didn’t hail from anywhere near here, of course, but geography has become malleable now. It could also, Oz realized, be intended as a signal. To him. He turned to the window and watched the man’s reflection in the glass.
He went up to the counter, got a beer, exchanged the pleasantries required to pass as no one in particular. Then he came straight over toward the booth. He had evidently used the mirrors behind the bar to scope the room, so he could look like he was coming to meet a friend, not searching for a stranger.
Oz turned from the window as the man slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Mr. Jones?”
The man nodded, looking Oz over. Oz knew what he was seeing. A man who looked ten years older than he should. Gray stubble over the dry jowls of someone who used to carry an extra sixty pounds. A thick coat that looked like it doubled as the bed blanket of a large dog.
“Glad you agreed to meet in person,” the man said. “A little surprised, too.”
“Two guys in a bar,” Oz said, “they’re the only people ever have to know. E-mails, anyone can find out what was said. Even after both of you are dead.”
The man nodded appreciatively. “‘They’ want to find you, they gonna.”
Oz knew this only too well, having been attacked by “them” a year before. He still wasn’t sure who “they” were. He’d managed to fix the damage they’d tried to cause before it became insurmountable, but he still felt he had to leave town. He’d kept moving ever since, leaving behind a job on a small local newspaper and the few people he’d called friends. Joining the undertow. It was better that way.
Jones didn’t know about this, of course. He was referring instead to the fact that every e-mail you send, every message you post, every file you download is logged on a server somewhere. Machines see nothing, understand less, but their memories are perfect. There is no anonymity on the Internet, and sooner or later a lot of solid citizens were going to discover that e-mails to lovers were not private, nor were hours spent bathed in the light of other people’s nakedness. That people were watching you, all the time. That the Web was not some huge sand pit. It was quicksand. It could swallow you up.
“So how come Hanley?” the man asked, looking around. A couple in the next booth were conducting a vague, whispered fight, bitter sentences that bore no relevance to what the other had just said. “I know Wisconsin, some. Never even heard of this town.”
“It’s where I am right now,” Oz said. “That’s all. How did you get my e-mail address?”
“Heard your podcast. Made us want to talk to you. Did a little digging, took a chance. No big deal.”
Oz nodded. Once upon a time, he’d had a little late-night radio show, back east. That stopped when he left town, of course. But in the last couple of months, he’d started recording snippets onto his laptop, uploading them onto the Web, started spreading the word again. There were others like him, doing the same thing. “It concerns me that you were able to find my e-mail address.”
“Should worry you even more if I couldn’t. Otherwise I’d just be an amateur, right?”
“And what did you want to say to me?”
“You first,” Jones said. “What you said in the ’cast was pretty oblique. I threw you a couple bones in my e-mail, hinted what we know. Let’s hear you talk now.”
Oz had thought about ways of communicating the bottom line while remaining circumspect. He took a sip of his beer, then set it back on the table and looked the man in the eye.
“The Neanderthals had flutes,” he said. “Why?”
The man shrugged. “To play tunes.”
“That just rephrases the question. Why did they believe it important to be able to replicate certain sounds, when just getting enough to eat was hard labor?”
“Why indeed.”
“Because sound is important in ways we’ve forgotten. For millions of years, it
He went up to the counter, got a beer, exchanged the pleasantries required to pass as no one in particular. Then he came straight over toward the booth. He had evidently used the mirrors behind the bar to scope the room, so he could look like he was coming to meet a friend, not searching for a stranger.
Oz turned from the window as the man slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Mr. Jones?”
The man nodded, looking Oz over. Oz knew what he was seeing. A man who looked ten years older than he should. Gray stubble over the dry jowls of someone who used to carry an extra sixty pounds. A thick coat that looked like it doubled as the bed blanket of a large dog.
“Glad you agreed to meet in person,” the man said. “A little surprised, too.”
“Two guys in a bar,” Oz said, “they’re the only people ever have to know. E-mails, anyone can find out what was said. Even after both of you are dead.”
The man nodded appreciatively. “‘They’ want to find you, they gonna.”
Oz knew this only too well, having been attacked by “them” a year before. He still wasn’t sure who “they” were. He’d managed to fix the damage they’d tried to cause before it became insurmountable, but he still felt he had to leave town. He’d kept moving ever since, leaving behind a job on a small local newspaper and the few people he’d called friends. Joining the undertow. It was better that way.
Jones didn’t know about this, of course. He was referring instead to the fact that every e-mail you send, every message you post, every file you download is logged on a server somewhere. Machines see nothing, understand less, but their memories are perfect. There is no anonymity on the Internet, and sooner or later a lot of solid citizens were going to discover that e-mails to lovers were not private, nor were hours spent bathed in the light of other people’s nakedness. That people were watching you, all the time. That the Web was not some huge sand pit. It was quicksand. It could swallow you up.
“So how come Hanley?” the man asked, looking around. A couple in the next booth were conducting a vague, whispered fight, bitter sentences that bore no relevance to what the other had just said. “I know Wisconsin, some. Never even heard of this town.”
“It’s where I am right now,” Oz said. “That’s all. How did you get my e-mail address?”
“Heard your podcast. Made us want to talk to you. Did a little digging, took a chance. No big deal.”
Oz nodded. Once upon a time, he’d had a little late-night radio show, back east. That stopped when he left town, of course. But in the last couple of months, he’d started recording snippets onto his laptop, uploading them onto the Web, started spreading the word again. There were others like him, doing the same thing. “It concerns me that you were able to find my e-mail address.”
“Should worry you even more if I couldn’t. Otherwise I’d just be an amateur, right?”
“And what did you want to say to me?”
“You first,” Jones said. “What you said in the ’cast was pretty oblique. I threw you a couple bones in my e-mail, hinted what we know. Let’s hear you talk now.”
Oz had thought about ways of communicating the bottom line while remaining circumspect. He took a sip of his beer, then set it back on the table and looked the man in the eye.
“The Neanderthals had flutes,” he said. “Why?”
The man shrugged. “To play tunes.”
“That just rephrases the question. Why did they believe it important to be able to replicate certain sounds, when just getting enough to eat was hard labor?”
“Why indeed.”
“Because sound is important in ways we’ve forgotten. For millions of years, it
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