Or then there was the time that Scott received an anonymous tip that the Oil Companies had suppressed critical temperature-emis- sion ratio calculations, and therefore the extent of the green- house effect was being sorely underestimated. As a result of his research and detective work, and the ability to verify and under- stand the physics involved, Scott's articles forced a re-examina- tion of the dangers. He received a New York Writer's Award for that series. When Doug had hired Scott, as a thirty-something cub reporter, they both thought that Scott would fit in, nice and neat, and write cute, introspective technical pieces. Neither expected Scott to quickly evolve into a innovative journalist on the offensive who had the embryo of a cult following. But Scott Mason also performed a lot of the more mundane work that most writer's suffer with until the better stories can justify their full time efforts. New products, whiz bang elec- tronic toys for the kitchen, whiz bangs for the bathroom. New computer this, new software that. Now, though, he was on the track, due in part he admitted, to Doug coercing him into writing the computer virus bits. Yes, he was wrong and Doug was right. The pieces were falling in place. So, no matter what happened, it was Doug's fault. "I'm going to Europe." "No you're not!" thundered Doug. "Yes I am. I gotta go . . ." Scott tried to plead his case. "You aren't going anywhere, and that's final." Doug retorted without a pause. He stared challengingly through Scott. "Doug," Scott visibly calmed himself, "will you at least hear me out, before telling me no? At least listen to me, and if I'm wrong, tell me why. O.K.?" Same routine, different day, thought Scott. The calmer, sincere request elicited empathy from Doug. Maybe he'd been too harsh. "Sorry, it's automatic to say 'no'. You know that they," he pointed down with his thumb, "have us counting paper clips. Sure, explain to me why I'm going to say 'no'," he joked. Doug's overtly stern yet fatherlike geniality returned. "O.K." Scott mentally organized his thoughts. He touched his fingers to his forehead and turned to sit on the edge of Doug's desk. A traditional no-no. "Without my notes . . ." "Screw the notes, what have you got? If you don't know the mate- rial, the notes won't help. They're the details, not the story." Scott had heard this before. "Sure, sorry." He gained confidence and went straight from the hip. "Fact one. The FBI is investigating a massive blackmail campaign that nobody wants us to talk about, and probably for good reason from what I can see. As of now, there is no clue at all to whom is behind the operation.