bout de papier, Vol. 29, No. 2 (2016), pp. 45–47
Liebnitz, Esmeralda and Bugby
and blare — tinsel, reindeer,.
frankincense and myrrh. All:
So frantic the celebration tt the tired Santa ring
Esmeralda heard the crash as the body knocked over the collection stand. She and Bugbyte dashed over but it was easy to tell there was indeed no Santa Claus, not on this block this morning. Liebnitz stared upward. “The metal icicle fell from that rooftop display. A tough shot.” He stooped to examine it. “But look, it has some odd-looking plant twined around the top.”
Later that day, the three were escorted into the nearby offices of the joint counterterrorism squad, where they were greeted by Special Agent John W. Pilgrim. “C’mon in, folks. Sorry for the rude welcome. We searched the roof, but no luck. Any idea who the killers were?” Liebnitz replied, “Who would want to kill Santa? But the plant around the icicle was mistletoe, another Christmas symbol.” “Mistletoe?” said a nerdish young man behind Pilgrim. “That adds up.”
Pilgrim nodded. “Sure does, Agent Putnik. It connects to the reason we asked you over, Liebnitz.” He took a sip of coffee. “Believe you know a man called Rialto Sleazewagon? Well, he’s planning a big terrorist attack just before Christmas. In fact, against Christmas.” “What does he have against Christmas?” asked Esmeralda. “As far as we can tell,” said Pilgrim, “Sleazewagon doesn’t oppose it personally. But the people who’ve hired him do. A neo-Druid cult that wants to return the holiday to its pre-Christian roots.” Liebnitz said, “Druids. The mistletoe.” Pilgrim pointed a finger at the ace logician. “Got it in one. The Celtic jihad.”
A buzzcut young woman entered the room. “We have a development. The Santa outside — he was one of our undercover ops. He was supposed to meet me at his lunch break to report.” Pilgrim grimaced. “Until they decided to terminate that option. Was there anything on the body, Agent Slade?” “Yes sir, his report.” “Have you read it? Give us the short take.” She nodded.
“He had worked out the attack was going to happen on December 22, the winter solstice, a special day of power for the Druids.” “When exactly, and where?” “He wasn’t sure, sir. Only Sleazewagon and the top Druids know, and it will be revealed on Twitter only minutes before the go. And except for the top honchos, the bulk of the attackers have never met.” “A flashmob,” said Bugbyte.
Pilgrim stroked his chin. “Putnik, do you have anything?” The nerd pushed up his glasses. “We know the Twitter account they’re using, so we’ll have the site as soon as the flashmob does.” “What about the ‘how’? What these bozos planning to do, Slade?” “No idea, sir. But our dead Santa thought it had something to do with a song-and-dance number.”
Putnik said, “One more thing, boss. Maybe important, maybe not so much. Recent metadata searches show an upsurge in non-standard fabrications at 3D printers in public facilities. None of these fabrications have been dangerous as such. We’ve followed some of the fabricators involved, no connection to Sleazewagon or the Druids. But my gut tells me something weird’s happening.”
Pilgrim slammed his fist on the table. “Great. Something bad’s going down in two days, but we don’t know what or where or how to prevent it.” Liebnitz spoke up. “Druidical ceremonies involve mystic rituals. Their dark fringe is said to use human sacrifice to power the magic. I think the neo-Druids will be going for a big kill”” “Thank you for that optimistic sidebar,” said Pilgrim.
The ace logician replied, “Oh, I think we can contribute more than a sidebar. We’ve had a lot of experience with Sleazewagon, so we know how he thinks. And there are useful clues here: Christmas, music and dance, 3D printing, crowds, more. Bugbyte, why don’t you work with Agent Putnik to narrow down the location? Esmeralda, round up Manitoba Jones and your father pronto. And I,” he sighed, “will go and talk with my brother Leo.”
Leo greeted his brother with habitual affection. Towelling the Boston cream pie off his face, Liebnitz sat at the kitchen table and explained the situation. Leo’s manic grin slowly faded. “Weaponized music, you think? How uncool. Maybe I can help you, man. You need a counter-song. How about Louie Louie?” Liebnitz glared. “Not in one of my operations, no. And nobody knows the words anyway.” Leo chuckled. “OK, let me get back to you.” The next morning, his reply was delivered. It was a single piece of paper and a blank puzzle chart.
Fill in the 21 numbered rows in the chart, using the names of social media firms, sites or programs in the bottom box. The shaded column will spell out the key to defending against Sleazewagon’s attack. The following numbered clues may help decide which name goes where:
1. Local business reviews and chat
2. Large Chinese micro-blogging site
3. Business and professional networking
4. Chat on books
5. Largest social media site
6. Fantasy and science fiction wiki
7. Photo and video sharing site
8. The bluebird’s song
9. Photo messaging application that auto-deletes
10. Largest file-sharing platform
11. Microblogging platform
12. Telephone challenger
13. Early Internet protocol underlying discussion “rooms”
14. Pop culture and music site
15. First online blogging community
16. Entertainment and news site with voting on submissions
17. Largest social network until surpassed by #5 above in 2008
18. Chinese social networking site established by Tencent
19. Photo-sharing and commentary site
20. Site for file-sharing among students
21. Cross-platform mobile messaging service
Liebnitz cursed his brother but called in Bugbyte and they had Leo’s enigma solved quickly. Bugbyte confirmed that she and Putnik had also solved their own puzzle.
Arrives December 22, just after noon. The stately Confederation-era station was crowded, with the regular throng of passengers augmented by customers eagerly prowling the city’s annual Christmas crafts fair. Stalls lined every free foot of the old stone walls, while from the high arched ceiling and the stained-glass dome hung myriad glittering ornaments.
In the middle of the concourse, a small empty patch of floor had been isolated with red velveteen ropes hanging from brass stanchions. The minute hand of the gilded station clock ticked to 12:17. From an archway, a nondescript man walked up to the enclosure, took down the ropes, opened his suitcase, placed a plastic box the size of a Buzznet, ClusterFlunk, Dropbox, Elftown, Facebook, Flict
OpenDiary, Qzone, Reddit, Relay Chat, Sina Weibo, Skype
large book on the floor between the stanchions, and walked away. Then a short bulky woman came up and pushed a slender rod into a hole in the box. A small boy raced up, added a second, larger box beside the first one and ran off. A man pushed up a teenager in a wheelchair. She pulled a cable out of her pocket, smiled and plugged one end into each box. A few curious looks from the crowd, but no-one stopped. Everyone had something else to do.
And so it went. In all, about 40 people added something to the pile, or made an adjustment, and went off again. There was a short pause, then two things happened at once. A beam of sunlight, which had been tracking across the floor as the sun passed over the crystal dome, touched the assembly among the stanchions. And a man with a pencil-thin mustache took a selfie between two columns in one corner of the concourse.
The random-looking pile of objects shook and the parts began to slide against one another, boxes opened and items changed shape. The assembly grew taller, sprouting antennas and speakers. Lenses, prisms and mirrors adjusted finely to catch the sunray. People began to notice, to stop and watch. A few clapped.
Then the music began. Not a big sound at first. An Irish jig played on a penny-whistle. From behind a booth selling hot cider strolled a young man and a young woman in green, who started a step-dance. The clapping became rhythmic and a few watchers began to dance as well.
Watching from the mezzanine, Liebnitz tapped his pocket-watch and muttered, “The solstice. Precisely.” He stuffed wads of cotton into his ears and slipped on a pair of shades. Beside him, Bugbyte and Esmeralda did likewise.
On the concourse, more and more people were dropping their suitcases and shopping bags to join the jig. The music grew louder. Soon hundreds and hundreds were stomping their heavy winter shoes on the floor in perfect synchrony, their faces panic-stricken. The two dancers who had started it all stopped, bowed elegantly to each other and left. Everyone else danced on.
Liebnitz looked up to see that dust was sifting from the mortar between the old stone blocks of the ceiling, and cracks had appeared in the glass dome. “So that’s it. Those people are step-dancing at the exact resonant frequency of the building. If they continue, the whole place will collapse on top of them. That much stone, that long a drop, there won’t be many survivors.”
He straightened up. “Esmeralda, cue the band. Jones, Don Gordo, destroy that compulsive construction and find Sleazewagon before he cuts and runs.”
From behind them on the balcony, the Centre’s heavy metal house band, Edible Granite, stepped up. Taking their downbeat from the lead singer, the Rani of SuWaNi, they broke into the classic rock number Leo had specified. A very loud rendition. From the first guitar riffs, Liebnitz saw a slight hitch in the step-dancers’ rhythm. But the dust continued to fall.
Don Gordo and Manitoba Jones swung Tarzan-style from the mezzanine to the concourse. Jones kept right on going and wrapped his rope around and around a giant Christmas tree, bringing it down with a violent crash and clouds of fake snow. He dropped with a thud into a pen of reindeer, who regarded him with mild curiosity. Don Gordo managed a less dramatic landing, but still toppled the flak-jacketed Pilgrim, Slade and Putnik like tenpins. Sorting themselves out, the three Agents mounted a frontal charge on the device, but were stopped by the dancers, who without missing a step shifted to form a barricade.
Struggling to his feet among the reindeer, Jones leaped over the fence, but failed to notice that the adjacent booth was selling roller skates. He zoomed across the concourse, down a long ramp, over a low railing and onto the roof of the arriving Montreal Express. Don Gordo meanwhile got into an argument with the Pilgrim, not improved by the fact that neither could hear the other. The rotund caballero in frustration pulled out his earplugs — and immediately started step-dancing with the rest of the crowd, his weight adding noticeably to the shuddering of the floor.
On the balcony, Liebnitz put a hand over his eyes. But the Rani was in the groove. She sang about the Twist, the Watusi, the Jerk, the Mashed Potato and more. The band chorused “Nah nanana nah nanana nah nana nah nana nah”. The dancers began to lose rhythm.
Don Gordo got back just enough control to tip himself off-balance. Still step-dancing wildly, he staggered across the concourse to a doughnut booth, grabbed a large bowl of batter and stuck his head firmly into it. Ears plugged, his dancing crashed to a halt. Pausing only to lick the spoon, he dashed back into the fray. As he did so, the smoke-smudged figure of Manitoba Jones catapulted precipitously through the glass of the ticket booth. The two figures collided violently and reeled back, Jones into a Christmas bakery and Don Gordo into a toy store.
From above, Liebnitz spotted a figure with a pencil-thin moustache, apparently trying another selfie. Impatiently, the ace logician looked away and then did a double take. Flipping on his collar mike, he shouted, “Gordo, Jones — that man over by the pickle stand isn’t dancing. It’s Sleazewagon. Don’t let him get away”.
The step-dancers’ rhythm was becoming ragged, but it was no more than a stalemate between Sleazewagon’s device and Edible Granite. Liebnitz’ team on the concourse looked at each other and nodded. Don Gordo tossed Manitoba Jones a hoverboard from the toy shop pile and a trio of fruitcakes rolled back.
Jones mounted the board and began streaking toward Sleazewagon, ricocheting from pillar to post like a pinball as the archvillain tried to finish him off with a Glock. With a final swerve and a sliding stop, Jones cut the mastermind off at the knees, crowing “Top that, McFly!”
Dripping batter, meanwhile, Don Gordo began hurling the fruitcakes toward the device. The first veered wildly to the left, knocking over Putnik and Slade before slamming into the support struts of a gigantic papier-mâché snowman. From a great height, its huge top hat came whirling down to cover a loudly protesting Pilgrim Don Gordo’s second fruitcake jostled an immense floor-candle off its stand into a barrel stuffed with Christmas crackers. The resulting explosion sent a wide section of the dancer’s barricade spinning to either side. Flung through the resulting gap, the final dessert, still flaming with brandy, demolished the compulsion construct. Bits of plastic, candied cherries and electronica sprayed widely over the exhausted dancers slumped on the floor.
With a final “Ohh help me!” Mabel brought Edible Granite to a loud tight finish.
The next morning in Special Agent Pilgrim’s office. “So what the hell happened, Liebnitz? Not that I’m ungrateful, but what am I supposed to tell the Agency?” The ace logician replied, “You can report that Sleazewagon came up with two interesting new ploys. First, he broke down his diabolical device into components and recruited people to fabricate those parts separately using 3D printers. Then he set up a flashmob to bring all the fabricators to the station at a certain time, to build the device step by step. He told them it was performance art. They never met him or each other, and the parts individually were harmless, so there was never an obvious conspiracy. We were just lucky to work out the target zone, the song-and-dance link and the right counter-measures.”
Pilgrim tipped his fedora. “Kudos. But Sleazewagon’s smart. Dangerously smart. I hope you keep him securely locked up.” “Oh we will, as soon as we straighten out one problem. When Jones tackled him, he swallowed the control device he had disguised as a camera. Now, every time we let him out of the straitjacket, he starts step-dancing madly and shouting, ‘Stop dancing, you fool, stop dancing.’ We’re having some luck sedating him with MacArthur Park”
Can you duplicate Liebnitz’ efforts and determine the five-word song title hidden in Leo’s puzzle, the music that countered Sleazewagon’s plot? bout de papier will determine the winner by drawing from a hat containing all the correct answers submitted by April 20, 2016. The winner will receive a book signed by A Aalto. Not required to win, but can you also fill in the full chart? And can you say what Frankie Garcia
Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 29, No. 2 (2016), pp. 45–47. Read the rest of this issue →
