ahead of him was a nine-foot chain-link fence, and no ordinary one. The simple existence of the object would discourage the casual hikers. Yet Janson could also see the cunning array of pressure detectors built into the fence: it would repel even a highly skilled burglar. Tensioned wire threaded its way through the chain links, connecting to a series of boxes. Here were two systems in one: a taut wire intrusion-detection system reinforced with vibration detectors. His heart plummeted; fences equipped with vibration detectors alone could often be penetrated with a pair of nippers and a little patience. The taut-wire system made that approach impossible.
Beyond the chain-link barricade, he saw a series of stanchions. These were, at first glance, four-foot-high poles with nothing between them. A closer look revealed them for what they were. Each received and transmitted a microwave flux. In simpler systems, it was possible to clamp a rod on top of a pole and simply climb over it, dodging the invisible beams. Unfortunately, these were staggered, with overlapping beams that protected the stanchions themselves. There was simply no physical way to avoid the microwave flux.
And in the grassy fairway beyond the stanchions? There were no visible impediments, and Janson scanned the grounds until, with a sharp pang, he identified the small box near the graveled driveway with the logo of TriStar Security on it. There, beneath the ground, was the most formidable obstacle of all: a buried-cable pressure sensor. It could not be bypassed; it could not be reached. Even if he somehow surmounted the other obstacles, the pressure sensors would remain.
Infiltration was surely impossible. Logic told him as much. He put down his binoculars, rolled back over the rocky ledge, and sat there in silence for a long moment. A wave of resignation and despair overcame him. So near and yet so far.
It was almost dusk by the time he found his way back to the maroon Taurus. His clothing flecked with bits of leaves and many small burrs, he drove back toward Millington and then north on Route 58, keeping a vigilant eye on the rearview mirror.
With the little time he had left, he had to make a number of stops, a number of acquisitions. At a roadside flea market, he bought an electric eggbeater, though all he wanted was the solenoid motor. A strip-mall Radio Shack sufficed for a cheap cell phone and a few inexpensive add-ons. At the Millington grocery store, he bought a large round container of butter cookies, though all he wanted was the steel can. Next was the hardware store on Main Street, where he bought glue, a canister of artist's powdered charcoal, a roll of electrical tape, a pair of heavy-duty scissors, a compressed-air atomizer, and a locking extensible curtain rod. "A handyman, are you?" asked the blonde in denim cutoffs as she rang up his purchase. "My kinda guy." She gave him an inviting smile. He could imagine the counterman across the street glowering.
His final stop was farther down Route 58, and he arrived at Sipperly's car lot just shortly before it closed. From his face, he could tell the salesman was not pleased to see him. The big mutt's ears pricked up, but when he saw who it was, he returned his attentions to his saliva-slick rag doll.
Sipperly took a long drag on a cigarette and walked toward Janson. "You know all sales are 'as is,' don't you?" he said warily.
Janson took five dollars out of his billfold. "For the dog," he said.
"Come again?"
"You said I could have the dog for a fiver," Janson said. "Here's a fiver."
Sipperly laughed wheezily, then he saw that Janson was serious. An avaricious look crept over his fleshy features. "Well, joking aside, I'm really very fond of that dog," he recovered. "He's truly one-of-a-kind. Excellent guard dog ... "
Janson glanced at the large animal, his muddy coat of black and tan, his short, blunt snout and the curved incisor that jutted outside his lips when his mouth was closed, bulldog-style. A homely creature, at best.
"Except he doesn't bark," Janson pointed out.
"Well, sure, he's a little reluctant in that department. But he's really a great dog. I don't know if I could part with him. I'm kind of a sentimental guy."
"Fifty."
"A hundred."
"Seventy-five."
"Sold," Jed Sipperly said, with another beery grin. "As is. Just remember that. As is. And you'd better take that mangy filth-puppet along with it. The only way you'll ever get the beast in the car."
The mammoth dog sniffed Janson a