Psychlone by Greg Bear

smaller operations. He was telling me about his problems in the area, with the big outfits in Ohio buying all the local chains and running them like rubber stamps. I said I'd like to do a story on it, so he bought me a drink and we talked for several hours. Got quite a story out of it. Ran two three-minute segments in Sacramento. I like books and bookstores, so we met about a month later in San Francisco and visited all the old bookstores around Union Square. He seemed a very intelligent, friendly guy. I invited him and his family to visit mine in Sacramento if they ever came up. But he said he wasn't married. Something of a swinging bachelor, I gathered."
    “He did okay with women."
    “Then, when they died, I covered the basics of the story for my station. But I couldn't believe it had happened the way the police said. Now, you tell me all this about Jordan Taggart looking out for haunts and I'm not so sure he wasn't crazy."
    “Stick around."
    “I intend to. One way or another, it's a story."
    “But it isn't news any more. How do you justify following up old news?"
    “Not all modern journalism is flash-and-go."
    “Sounds like a rare bit of wisdom,” Fowler said. He stood and began to clear the table.
    “We're both breaking the law, you know,” Prohaska said as he stacked the plates in the sink. He lifted his can of beer. “Breaking, entering, stealing."
    “Yes, and I wonder why we haven't been approached yet."
    “Nobody knows you're here. Bishop's pretty far away and things are kind of slow up here.” He walked into the living room and looked through the front window. “It's going to get slower, too. It's starting to snow.” He turned back to the kitchen. “You're nuts, you know. Believing ghosts could have killed them."
    “Not directly killed them,” Fowler reiterated. “Besides, it was Jordan's idea, not mine. I was brought up here to check it out. And there's evidence—of a sort."
    “But do microwave emissions—and I'm no physicist, so you can fool me—always indicate spooks?"
    “No. I don't know what they indicate. They're just part of the environment surrounding the event, which was in itself like nothing I've ever experienced. Until something else happens—"
    “You sound positive it will."
    Fowler smiled. “Until something else happens, you'll have to take my word for it. There is something peculiar going on here."
    “Think its connected with Lorobu?"
    Fowler shook his head. “I doubt it. Lorobu's a long way from here. I haven't been keeping track of it much. I thought it would end up nerve gas or something, and we'd never really know what happened."
    “Whatever it was, it's sealed tight as a drum. Nothing leaks out of that town now."
    “Sounds like the defense department to me."
    “Yes,” Prohaska said, “but our station got a few stories from eyewitnesses. A highway patrol officer, before he shut up, and a state trooper. Sounds very much like what happened here. Which reminds me—shall we tie bells around each other's neck? Might be safer that way."
    “I think staying awake will be enough."
    “Your advantage,” Prohaska said. “I had a long drive today. I'm sleepy already."
    “Then how about a walk after cleanup?"
    When the dishes were rinsed and dried, they put on parkas and stood in the doorway, looking across the gravel drive, the two cars already sprinkled with snow, and the quiet, cold night. “Is this Taggart's jacket?” Prohaska asked, holding up one arm.
    “Jordan's, I think,” Fowler said. The reporter nodded.
    “Weather forecast was for about a foot of snow tonight. The roads won't be clear until late morning tomorrow."
    “I don't intend to go anyplace,” Fowler said. “Not outside of walking distance, anyway. I found a trail that's clearly marked, but we'd better stick to the drive tonight. Perhaps follow the road."
    “Real exciting stuff,” Prohaska said. “I'm missing the camera team already."
    “I want to keep my head clear. The cabin is comfortable,