On the Application of Quantum Probability Tunneling to Improve Manufacturability of Printed Circuit Board Designs: A Case Study

Illustrated by Ron Chironna

(Tape recording of interview between Jason Payne and his attorney, Lawrence Fisk, at Federal Jail)

“Yeah, OK, I guess. But Larry, you gotta get me out of here.”

(Unintelligible)

“Dammit, I did cooperate. I told them the truth, just like you said, to get immunity. Yes, the whole truth. No, OK you’re right. It’s just that if that damn Sanchez hadn’t come in to get a cup of coffee…

“No, I guess it doesn’t make a lot of sense. OK, let me go back over the whole thing, just like I told it to them.”

The coffee was a real sore point with us. Some Cost Containment Weenie had noticed the printed circuit board shop used more coffee than the average department and slapped a ceiling on our supply. It did no good at all to point out that we were as far as hell and gone from the cafeteria and we worked all kinds of weird hours. All that got us was a form letter spouting the Cost Containment Credo for Effective Engineering. I was damn glad none of us had digestive problems. If we had, the Cost Containment Weenies probably would have rationed our toilet paper—not to mention flushes.

“I hear over in the main cafeteria they’ve got an espresso bar for afternoon coffee break,” Sanchez said that afternoon when we broke for coffee.

Wilson finished the last of the stuff in his cup and ambled over to the beat-up old urn in the corner of the board shop. “Jeez,” he said as he pulled the handle. “I wish this thing could make espresso.” Then he looked down at his cup and his eyes bugged out.

We didn’t have to ask why. From clear across the room we could smell the sharp, rich aroma of espresso wafting out of his cup.

“What did you guys do to this thing?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Sanchez protested. “We fixed the heating element like I said.”

Wilson raised the cup to his lips and took an experimental sip. “You sure you didn’t load it up with espresso or something? ’Cause this sure tastes like espresso to me.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went over, got my cup off the rack and stuck it under the spout. What came splashing into my cup was weak, brown, and by no stretch of the imagination espresso.

I looked at Wilson and Wilson looked at me. “Don’t ask me,” he said, “all I did was pour out the coffee. Here.” He pulled another mug off the drain board and tried again. This time he got the same brown junk that usually passed for coffee.

“Maybe you gotta ask it nice,” Sanchez said.

I don’t know why I did it. I mean to this day I really don’t. But I dumped the stuff out of my cup, stuck it back under the spout, said “espresso please” and pulled.

The liquid that filled the cup sure looked like espresso. It smelled like it too when I raised the cup to my nose. And it tasted like it as it burned its way down my gullet.

“Let me try that,” Sanchez said, grabbing his cup off the drain board. But Sanchez, he can’t do anything straight. He puts his cup under the spigot and says “café latte.”

And the thing hisses and spits and he gets café latte.

So there are the three of us, standing around the coffee urn, looking at each other and everyone’s eyes are bigger than his neighbors’.

“Shit,” says Sanchez at last. “A magic coffee urn. We got us a magic coffee urn.”

For once the little bastard wasn’t exaggerating.

If we’d had any sense we would have left it there. We would have kept our mouths shut and we would have drunk our coffee and that would have been the end of it. But we were engineers and we couldn’t leave it there. I mean we just couldn’t. We had this unexplained phenomenon and we had to mess with it until we found out what was causing it—and what else it was good for.

The obvious place to start was the repairs to the urn. A couple of days before the thermostat had gone out on it and we’d haywired a fix with a piece of old circuit board from the scrap bin. It hadn’t even been a working board, just something we’d thrown together with a lot of microwave elements on it and some more-or-less random scribbles. See, we’d been having trouble with the line widths on some of this high-frequency stuff and…

Oh, yeah. Well anyway we had this funny-looking printed circuit board wired into a standard coffee urn. So we stuck meters and probes and capacitance checkers and all sorts of stuff on that board. The readings we got didn’t make much sense; I mean the damn thing was covered with doodles, but we kept at it.

We tried stealing the coffee urn from Drafting down the hall and cannibalizing it to repair ours. That produced the usual swamp water for coffee, no matter what we asked for. Then we took off the unit we’d cannibalized and put the PC board back in place and we got whatever kind of coffee we asked for. (Except Irish. Sanchez couldn’t get it to add whiskey.) We snuck the other urn back into Drafting and settled down to try to make sense out of that damn PC board.

That was especially tricky because at microwave frequencies things go funny and the leads themselves become part of the active circuit elements. So (sound of chair scraping) you put something like this on the board:

and that’s a capacitor. This:

is a transformer. And so on.

No, listen, dammit, this is important. It’s the key to the whole thing.

Anyhow, what was on that board was one part standard microwave components from the CAD library placed sort of at random and strung together any which way, and one part just doodles. But it did something.

And we couldn’t duplicate it. I mean not at first. We copied the doodles and the components exactly and it didn’t do anything.

Then Wilson came up with this crazy idea. Have you met Wilson’s wife? His second one, Sherri, the one with the little tiny voice and the great big… anyway, she’s really into all this New Age crap.

So here we are sitting around, staring at that damn board and drinking our gourmet coffee. (Mine was Kenyan, the kind with the smoky taste that goes for $25 a pound when you can get it.) Then Wilson sets down his mug and squints sorta sideways at the board.

“You know,” he says slowly, “if I didn’t know better I’d swear some of that stuff looks like pictures in a book Sherri’s got, a grimoire.”

Well, what the hell? Anything’s worth a try. Besides, screwing with that damn coffee maker kept us sane while we wrestled with our real problem. The, ah, Mighty Fine Board—TMFB for short.

If the coffee was a sore point, TMFB was acute appendicitis, kidney stones, and third-degree hemorrhoids. Some bright, young, freshly minted engineer over in Circuit Design had figured out that you could save a bundle on parts and production costs if you minimized the number of passive components on this particular board. So he cranked up his shiny new software and turned out a design that did away with maybe a third of those resistors, capacitors and such. Of course management loved him for such a shining example of Effective Engineering through Cost Containment. (Supposedly pronounced “eekks.” In our shop it sounded more like a fart.)

Unfortunately the bright, young, etc. was so green he believed what the software told him. The result was that the circuit was manufacturable, but would only work right if the tolerances stacked just so. Which meant that a lot of the time it didn’t work at all, and the board shop caught the flak because our implementation was supposed to make up for the missing components.

We kept revising the thing, throwing it over the wall to Manufacturing and they kept throwing it right back to us for “excessive defects in implementation” or some such crap. We couldn’t buck the blame back up where it belonged because the designer was a hero and he could show the suits where his shiny new software said it worked. So we were the ground between a rock and a hard place and about all we could do was keep making useless fiddles on the implementation and distracting ourselves with the damn coffee maker.

Yes, Larry, that’s important too. Just let me finish.

So the next day, Wilson brings in his wife’s grimoire. Its title is Ye Fecretf Of Antient And Forgotten Wifdom and it’s a $19.95 paperback full of old woodcuts. Some of these things, sigils and talismans and stuff actually look kinda like microwave components on a printed circuit board—only you’ll go blind if you try to figure out what they’d do.

So we just started slapping stuff on boards, running them through our prototyper and putting power to them to see what happened. Eventually we got—well, we thought we got—lucky.

It wasn’t as simple as that. We finally figured out that what we were looking at was a four-layer design. It also turned out the line widths varied in important ways and the spacing was a little different than what it showed in the book. And of course we were completely in the dark about what frequency to operate it at. But we kept at it. We got showers of green sparks. We got blue flashes. We got clouds of stinking orange smoke. We got a board that melted into a puddle and another one that flapped around like a fish as soon as we applied power. But we kept getting closer and closer until finally we got something that produced a blue haze over the board as soon as we fed it power. I held my breath and Sanchez fiddled with the frequency generator and all of a sudden there was a blinding blue flash on the bench and there he was.

My first thought was someone had painted a Ken doll blue and dressed him in a three-piece suit. Then I realized his skin was kind of scaly under the blue and when he moved his head to look around, well…

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said in a voice that was a little high but otherwise normal. We all just stared and he cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, like he was waiting for us to say something.

“We, ah, we don’t see many demons around here.” It was inane but it was the best thing I could think of.

“And with this kind of transport you’re not going to see many more,” the little thing said, brushing itself off. “And I’m an IMP, not a DEMON.”

“Imp?” Wilson said, just to get his jaw to close.

“Interdimensional Manufacturing Partners. DEMON is one of our competitors.”

We all nodded like we understood.

“You can call me Mr. Smith,” the thing said. “Now gentlemen, suppose you tell me about your problem?”

“How do you know we have a problem?” Wilson asked.

The imp grimaced. “People like you always have a problem,” he said. “That’s why you summon probability engineering consultants like IMP. So what’s your problem?”

He looked at us, we looked at him, and the silence stretched on.

“Well, we’ve got this coffee maker—” Wilson finally begin.

“With modifications, I see. But offhand I don’t see the problem with it. It isn’t broken, is it?”

“It keeps giving us fancy coffees.”

“Can you remove the modification?”

“Well, yeah,” Wilson said slowly. “But we like the fancy coffees.”

“Then leave the modification,” Mr. Smith said with a wave of his tiny hand.

“There’s this circuit board,” Sanchez picked one up off the bench. The little creature hefted it in both hands and swiveled his head as he scanned over the surface, frowning as he did.

“Yes, this definitely presents a problem in probability engineering. Fortunately the group I represent has an experienced and efficient probability engineering staff that is well equipped to handle your needs.”

Wilson finished his espresso in one gullet-searing gulp. “You mean you can make this damn thing work?”

“Of course.” The imp looked slightly offended.

It sounded too good to be true. But hell, there was a time when a transistor sounded too good to be true. The quantum mechanical explanation for a modern transistor was weird enough, why not something like quantum engineering for probability?

Yeah Larry, we were really desperate.

So over the next couple of hours we talked price with a little blue man standing on the workbench. Smith was sharp, but Wilson and I had been around the block a few times and we caught the stuff—most of the stuff—he tried to slip by us. Finally, around quitting time we had a provisional contract between DynoDyne Aerospace and IMP Consultants.

“We don’t have to sign in blood or anything, do we?” Sanchez asked very seriously as we came to the end.

“Only if you want to,” the imp said.

No one wanted to, so we signed the thing in non-repro blue felt-tip, since that’s what Wilson happened to have in his shirt pocket.

Well, the board shop had some contracting authority. So by splitting the deal up into several pieces and hiding it under misleading names and other finagling we were able to cover it.

There was a little trouble about their first invoice. Seems accounts payable wasn’t used to getting invoices on parchment, and the letters of golden fire played hell with their optical scanner. But we were able to get all that straightened out without too much trouble.

So a couple of days later I’m sweating over the umpty-umpth revision of TMFB when the phone rings.

“This is the guard in the main lobby. There are two wombats and a koala here to see you.”

“Two wombats and a koala,” I repeated.

“Well sir, they say they’re wombats.” The guard’s voice was carefully neutral. “And the other one sure looks like a koala.”

The silence stretched on. “They say they’re here for a contract job.”

“Oh! Uh, right. I’ll be right out. Make them comfortable, will you?”

Sure enough they were waiting for me when I arrived, sitting on one of the sofas in the lobby side by side like someone’s collection of stuffed toys. Only the fact that the smaller wombat was chewing meditatively on a branch from one of the lobby’s ficus trees showed they were alive. The two salesmen who were also sitting in the lobby were working very hard at not noticing and the guard was watching them out of the corner of his eye. I noticed he had his holster strap unsnapped.

“Jack,” the larger wombat said as I approached. “These are my mates Digger and Clancy.” He glared at the smaller wombat who dropped the ficus branch and blushed. At least I think he blushed, I mean how do you tell with all that fur on a wombat?

“I wasn’t expecting you to look, uh, like this,” I said as soon as we were out of earshot of the lobby.

“Figured it was best if we looked like the natives, right?”

“But wombats and koalas live in Australia.”

The wombat looked around. “And this isn’t Australia?”

“Different continent. Besides, they’re not intelligent.”

The wombat muttered something under his breath about “bloody research department” and then shrugged. “S’all right mate. We’re used to cockups in this business. After all, it’s the job that counts, isn’t it? So let’s get on with it.”

No, I don’t really know what they did, but they did something. All of a sudden stuff started to work, and not just the coffee urn. For the first time in living memory the plotter would produce three drawings in a row without shredding one. The etch bath temperature stabilized and the manufacturer’s specs actually worked. And all the while there’s this gang of refugees from an Australian zoo over in the comer, obviously working away at I-don’t-know-what.

At first we didn’t know what to make of it. I mean suddenly our work load was cut maybe by two-thirds. We started working eight-hour days. No more weekends. And we were actually filling out our schedule sheets honestly! It was amazing.

Oh, there was the usual quota of corporate BS to deal with. The company started a new quality drive. We got a couple of visits from inspection teams looking for safety violations. Our consultants pretended to be stuffed animals and we explained them as gifts for Sanchez’s nieces, but that was the closest we had to a problem.

So there we were, sailing along. The latest revision of TMFB was working fine, all our projects were on schedule for a change and most of them were under budget. Life was good.

I should have been scared to death.

I didn’t really begin to figure it out until Dark Gray Tuesday, the day before Black Wednesday, the Night Eagle’s scheduled rollout.

You know about the Night Eagle, the super-stealthy unmanned recon aircraft that was going to save the company from the merger mania that had hit the defense industry after the Cold War. It was hot. It was new, it was sexy, it was wicked looking and it was going to keep the company afloat into the next century. The Night Eagle program was probably the only thing corporate management took more seriously than CCTEE. Cost Containment Through Effective Engineering was a fad. This was business.

The big day was Wednesday and the company had pulled out all the stops. They were bringing in everything from a couple of tame Congressmen to the local junior college band. A couple of thousand employees, carefully picked for their appearance, diversity, and mindless enthusiasm, would fill the bleachers. There would be bigwigs from the Air Force, the major subcontractors, the local and trade press and, as we were constantly reminded, DynoDyne would be on display to the whole world.

Unfortunately the rollout was scheduled for hangar 17, not the production building. Apparently the production building was too messy and they wanted a nice, clean tarmac and hangar as a background for the picture. Never mind the place hadn’t been used by anyone but pigeons, bats, and the occasional owl since 1957.

So for the last month crews had been painting the exterior, polishing the glass, erecting bleachers, resurfacing the tarmac and generally complicating life for those of us who worked in Building 23 across the way. That included making us park in the main lot and hike nearly half a mile to our building.

Anyway, Tuesday morning as I was pulling into the main parking lot, it all came together.

Nearly literally. I had spotted a parking spot near the main entrance and was cutting the wheel to pull into it when a bicycle messenger with a basket full of interoffice mail came tearing around the corner and cut right in front of me. I hit my brakes as the kid missed my bumper by inches.

He made it, but he’d been so intent on cutting me off he hadn’t seen the guy in the pickup with an enormous cabover camper turning down the aisle. The messenger was still looking over his shoulder at me when he slammed head-on into the nearly stopped pickup and went down in a blizzard of memos.

The guy in the pickup camper jammed on his brakes so hard he stalled the pickup. Then he started yelling out the window at the messenger while cranking the truck. He was so involved in swearing at the messenger I guess he didn’t realize he still had the truck in reverse. Anyway, it lurched backwards and was still picking up speed when it rammed into the light pole behind him.

There was a tremendous crunch as the light pole went over, smashing in the hoods of five parked cars and bridging the space I had been trying to pull into. The guy in the camper jumped out and started screaming at the bicycle messenger, who was trying to pick up all the papers before the wind scattered them. Meanwhile the owner of one of the cars came running over and started yelling at them both.

I found a parking spot in the next row and by that time all of them were engaged in a three-way fistfight. Two security guards passed me at a puffing run as I went into the building. They were so intent on getting to the fight they didn’t realize the sprinklers were on and both of them ran right through the spray. As the door swung shut behind me I saw one of them slip on a wet patch of sidewalk and go down.

I started down the hall shaking my head. What a way to start the day. I mean, what was the probability…?

That’s when this cold little prickle crawled out from the waistband of my jockey shorts and scampered up my spine to muss the hair on the back of my neck. Probability. All of a sudden the word had an ugly ring to it.

That sensitized me. When I took my usual shortcut through one of the shops I noticed the big sign over the work floor that announced “At DynoDyne, Safety Is Job One! 1 Day Without A Serious Accident.” The numeral ‘1’ was a little dirty. As if it had been up there for a while.

That bothered me more.

As soon as I got to the shop, I pulled the chief wombat aside. “I need to know more about just what you’re doing.”

The wombat looked slightly annoyed, the way consultants do when you try to pry into their secrets. “Well mate, it’s a little complicated, y’see. Have you got any grounding in probability engineering?”

“Nope.”

The wombat looked satisfied and a little smug. “Ah then. That makes it a little hard, doesn’t it? But basically we’re maintaining a flow of positive probabilities suitable to the accomplishment of your mission by exchanging them by quantum probability tunneling.”

I understood about as much of that as the wombat intended me to—which is say almost none of it—but there was something in there that I was afraid I did understand.

“So you mean,” I said slowly, “that all the good luck we’re having here is being balanced by bad luck elsewhere?”

The wombat frowned. “That’s a crude, layman’s way of putting it, but I think you have the basic idea there.”

Suddenly a couple of hundred hairs on the back of my neck snapped to attention and my stomach took a down elevator. “Where,” I asked just a little too calmly, “are you dumping the bad luck?”

The wombat looked annoyed. “I told you, we’re not ‘dumping’ anything. We’re exchanging probabilities by quantum probability tunneling.”

“Where with?”

“Why the nearest source of positive probabilities, of course. Doesn’t do any good to transfer them any further than we have to, now does it? I mean, inefficient and all.”

“Of course,” I said weakly. “But, ah, what about the other places, the ones you’re getting the probability from?”

“Oh we don’t worry about those, mate,” the wombat said airily. “Not covered by the contract, you see, so they’re not our job, now are they?”

I gulped, nodded and went looking for Wilson.

I found him and Sanchez over at the other side of the shop, looking out across the tarmac at Hangar 17. The bleachers were up, the platforms for the television cameras were in place, and a crew of workmen with a couple of cherry pickers were trying to hang the DynoDyne Night Eagle banner over the hangar doors.

“Hey Jase,” Wilson chuckled. “Take a look at this. It’s better than a sitcom.”

“Yeah,” Sanchez said. “They’ve been trying to hang that banner for two hours now.”

The elevator took off with my stomach again. “Two hours?” I managed.

“Yeah. Every time they nearly get it up, the wind comes along or something and it comes down again.”

Very quickly I explained to Wilson and Sanchez what was going on. Then I looked at Wilson, Wilson looked at me and we both looked at the hangar where the banner had just fallen down again.

“I don’t suppose,” he said slowly, “it would do any good to call in sick, would it?”

We didn’t call in sick. For one thing they knew where we lived and for another, well, call it horrified fascination. We knew what was going to happen, but we had to see it anyway. Like watching a train wreck coming.

That morning Wilson and I went down to Drafting to get a better look. We pretty much had the room to ourselves because the drafting staff was out in the bleachers, but stood a discreet distance away from the windows anyway.

So far things looked pretty normal. The banner had finally been hung, the grandstands had filled, the band was in place and the limos were arriving with the VIPs.

The crew was running around self-importantly in pale blue jumpsuits that shaded to black at the knees. I noticed an ambulance discreetly parked off to one side and decided it was either a bad sign or a wise precaution. Or maybe both.

Things seemed to go along normally for a while. The band played, the flags waved in the breeze, the VIPs took their seats. I had begun to hope that maybe, just maybe, we’d get through this all right.

Then M. Chambers Jones, president and CEO of DynoDyne, got up to speak. There was an expectant hush as he placed his notes on the podium and looked up. The wind ruffled his gray hair just a little and then he launched into it.

“Friends, associates and fellow guests…” at that point he was drowned out by a squeal of feedback from the expensive state-of-the-art amplifier system the company had bought for the occasion.

He stopped, frowned and tried again. “Friends…” and the squeal was back, worse than ever.

Jones fiddled with the microphone and the squeal grew louder. He turned away from the speakers and put his back to the crowd. “As I look over these faces…” and then the feedback drowned him out. A technician in a black-and-blue jumpsuit scurried up on the stage and whispered in his ear. He leaned over and whispered something back to the technician. “…do something about this or I’ll have your ass!” boomed out of the speakers, clear as day. The president reddened and smiled weakly. The civilians on the speakers’ platform fidgeted. Jones gave it up as a bad job and signaled for the rollout.

The bandmaster raised his baton, the band stood and they struck up.

With a blare of brass and a squeal of feedback, the doors of the hangars slid open—about six inches. Then they stopped. The band ran through its fanfare and still the doors didn’t move. The bandmaster looked over at the speaker’s stand and then signaled the musicians into the junior college fight song. There was much running around and even from where we were we could hear the banging as the crew tried to free the doors. Finally the left one slid most of the way back. Then the right door started back, tottered and fell outward on the concrete with a resounding crash. The noise and sudden glare frightened a flock of pigeons that was roosting in the hangar and they burst out the door.

Then slowly and carefully the Night Eagle emerged. Painfully slowly, since the tug wouldn’t start and they had about fifty guys in sweat-stained blue-black jump suits pushing on the plane from behind. As we watched one of the pushers tripped over the fallen hangar door and went down holding his knee.

When the Stealth Eagle rolled out into the Sunlight it became obvious the pigeons had been busy doing what pigeons do and they had done it all over the plane. The entire top surface was splotched with white and green that contrasted horribly with the $50,000 paint job.

The bandmaster signaled the band and they stopped the fight song in mid-chorus. With a tremendous banging of drums they went into the theme from 2001. They got through the drum stuff at the beginning all right, but when the brass came in the music somehow got into the microphone on the speakers stand, which was supposed to be off but wasn’t. The result was the most horrendous squeal of feedback you’ve ever heard as that state-of-the-art amplifier system fed on itself. There was everything from ear-splitting high notes to bone-rattling subsonics, and in between a howl that rattled the windows and shook dust down from the ceiling above us.

I don’t know what was in that note, but whatever it was, bats hated it. A couple of hundred of them erupted from the hangar, fleeing for all they were worth and heading straight for the grandstand.

Pandemonium? That’s too mild. People screamed, yelled, ducked, dived off the bleachers and tripped over one another in an effort to get away. The TV cameras were still rolling when the bleachers collapsed.

Well, you saw the tape, Larry. Hell, every TV station in the country was running it for the next two days. You know the numbers. Twenty-three people, including two generals and a Congressman, injured. A full-scale Congressional investigation into “fraud, waste, and abuse,” the indictments, the lawsuits, the hostile takeover and all the rest of it.

Just then we didn’t know any of that because we were cowering under the work tables, but we knew enough to know we had just witnessed a disaster of major proportions.

“Do you suppose they’ll figure out what happened?” Wilson asked me as we crawled out from under the table.

I thought about it while I brushed the dust off. “I don’t see how. I mean who’d believe it? And who’s going to tell them anyway?”

“I suppose,” Wilson said in a voice that sounded as unconvinced as I felt.

Then another thought struck me. “Besides,” I said slowly, “we’ve got positive probabilities on our side, remember? Under the terms of the contract they can’t let anything happen to us that will interfere with our operations.”

Wilson thought about it for a minute. “Yeah,” he said. Then he brightened. “Yeah. We got luck on our side guaranteed.”

The luck lasted exactly as long as it took us to get back down the hall to our office.

We had a visitor waiting for us. A rather small visitor, less than a foot high. He was standing on the bench by the transporter board wearing a cutaway coat, string tie and glaring through his pince-nez at everyone and everything. The chief wombat was looking decidedly abashed and his mates didn’t look too happy either.

“Snruflitz Geeblefritz,” the little man said, “I’m from the EPA.”

“EPA?” Wilson asked blankly.

“The Extradimensional Probability Agency,” he said sharply. “Surely you’re familiar with us?”

“Ah, right. What seems to be the problem Mr., ah, Geeblefritz?”

“That’s Geeblefritz,” the demon corrected, “and a more accurate question would be what isn’t the problem? As nearly as I can determine there is hardly a regulation you have not violated in running this illegal probability sink, starting with failure to file a Probability Impact Statement and proceeding to a complete and utter lack of required reports, failure to maintain the proper paperwork for inspection. Oh yes, and illegal probability transport, but that’s really another department.”

“There’s regulations for this stuff?” Sanchez asked.

Geeblefritz, or Geeblefritz, drew himself up to his full eight inches. “Sir,” he said, adjusting his pince-nez, “there are regulations for everything.”

“But we didn’t know,” I protested.

“Ignorance is no excuse. Although how you could have avoided knowing when hiring a firm as disreputable as,” he sniffed, “IMP is beyond me. However, it is immaterial. As beneficiary you are of course responsible for your contractor’s malfeasance.” He glared at the wombats and the koala.

He turned his attention back to me. “Your company will be receiving notification of your fine—and a bill. Good day, gentlemen.” With that he winked out and the koala and the wombats winked out with him.

For a minute no one said anything. Actually for more than a minute.

Sanchez went over to the coffee pot, said “espresso” and poured a cup. He got something light brown and stone cold.

“Boy,” Wilson said at last, “I suddenly feel unlucky.”

Well, of course they found us. We weren’t hard to find. Not only were we close by, but by that time we were the only department in the whole plant that was on time, under budget, and wasn’t filing workman’s compensation claims by the handful. Naturally that made them suspicious as hell.

The FBI was in on it too, just in case what had happened was sabotage. That’s when I called you, Larry. When I found out the FBI was involved.

Yes, I did just as you told me. As soon as the FBI showed up to question us, I gave them the entire story.

…And they believed it, Larry. That’s the thing. By the end I think they actually bought the whole story, demons and all.

(Unintelligible sounds on tape.) OK, so I’m finishing up my statement. I explained to them how everything was back to normal and we’d never see those demons again. And then that damn fool Sanchez walks into the room, sees them interviewing me. So he kinda smirks in my direction, goes over to the coffee urn, sticks his cup under the spout and says:

“Tea, Earl Gray, hot.”