Some say research is boring . . . This is what happened.

Vice President Kurt Muller of the Price Research Center moved through an early morning workout in his home gym near Malibu, California. Muller's gray eyes focused on the wall-mounted television, where a reporter spoke of the need for an alternative fuel source. Muller smiled, knowing from his work, that worthy research reached beyond conservation and politics. R-42 a secret projects at the center, and EX-3 the code-named for an oil-free fuel formula, took top priority.

As he pulled and released the row-bars his eyes remained focused on television. CNN showed the lame-duck president making a last-minute effort to secure his place in history. Under the previous administration, the firm received government funding for this project. On its delivery, Price Research--and the CEO Kenneth Price himself carried weight in the new regime.

"You don't want to be late for today's meeting with the ever punctual Mister Price." His wife stood bare-foot in the doorway, wrapped in a bathrobe. "Remember, the radio forecasted a dense marine layer along the coast."

"I won't be long." He glanced at the wall-mounted clock stripped, and padded noiseless in the shower. The steaming water pounded the tile floor. Anxious to find out more, he closed his eyes and entered the hot spray, trying to calm his body and collect his thoughts. His powerful boss and his own growing obligations came to mind. For twenty-three years I worked for Price. Will I ever be the CEO of this corporation ?


Kurt sipped on his daily glass of orange juice in the kitchen of his suburban home. He tugged on the tassel of the canvas window shade and watched it recoil. A churning mass of fog welled up from the nearby sea like a tidal wave. The milky soup prevented him from seeing his wife's small garden or the neighbor's house across the street. The sound of a groaning garage door followed by the slap of a car door broke the stillness of the otherwise tranquil neighborhood. Kurt drained the juice, and headed for the door.

"Watch out dear, remember the fog."

"Don't worry Maria, it's just another typical December morning. The voice-activated Global Positioning System in my car will talk to me and designate an alternate route if necessary."

"Yeah, but can the satellite see through the fog?" Maria asked, cuddling him. Kurt just nodded. A graduate from a prominent Swiss Hotel school, Kurt's wife, Maria could quickly strike up a conversation with anybody.

"I'm late dear, I'll see you tonight. He punched the button to open the garage and pulled the rear door shut behind him. At once, puffs of chilly white fog rolled in causing him to zip up his leather jacket. Kurt proceeded around to the driver side of his new black Lexus sedan. He carefully opened the door, hitched up his tailored jeans and slid behind the steering wheel.

The instant he started the engine and wriggled his body into its comfort zone, something grabbed him from behind. In a flash his mouth, nose and eyes were covered with a fabric drenched with a sweet odor.

"Aw, shit," he wheezed in a smothered scream. He thrashed, his feet bound by the small space, his hands too heavy to raise, his airflow constricted. Inexorably a drowsy feeling overwhelmed him; as consciousness fled he realized that the sweet odor was ether. Damn, he was
being abducted.

With his last ounce of strength, his left hand searched for the steering wheel, slapping for the horn pad to warn Maria. His right hand fingers burrowed down between the front seats, searching for a hidden button. Too late?


Price Research Center

Kurt Muller breathed deeply like a swimmer coming up for air. A feeling of vague anxiety overcame him as his eyes slowly focused on the room he was in. He muttered something about EX-3, explosives, and a two mile radius.

"Oh, dear, you're awake." He recognized his wife's voice and hazy outlines. It all figured, he was in the research center's hospital ward. In the background, standing in front of the door, Kurt recognized one of Price's security agents. As the architectural designer of the Research Center, Muller was familiar with every square foot of the huge complex.

After a short soft knock, the security guard opened the door. Kenneth Price marched in with the centers staff doctor close behind. "How are you feeling, Kurt?" Price said with his usual strident voice.

Muller grunted and coughed... He glanced at his wife and motioned for her to get him a glass of water. "Thank you dear." He cleared his throat, stared at Price and said. "That little button, sir, it sure saved my ass."

"Yes, indeed." The center's research scientists and the testing for a new gas repellent paid off, Price told himself.

The staff doctor checked him over. "We're going to send you home today, you have some bruises, but other then that, you seem fine. I advice you to take a good rest, perhaps you want to play a round of golf." Yeah, Kurt thought, and eat some more humble pie.

Price shook his head. "The meeting you missed has been rescheduled for Monday, this gives you-- four days rest. Take the good doctors advice, clear the old head out and start fresh in the morning. The officials which are already here from Washington DC, won't mind to stay a few
extra days." Yeah, and the government will pay for it. Kurt thought.


The night before the meeting with Price, Kurt Muller tossed and turned in his sleep. A recurring dream flashed back to his abduction and the last meeting with Price. Kurt jumped up, and settled down on the edge of the bed, his hart pounding. He recalled making notes and went to his safe to retrieve them.

He glanced at his architectural printing style, and read the penciled notes. EX-3 fuel source; consists of three different chemicals. Two parts of the three chemicals, come from the Price Research Center. The third part a highly explosive chemical, comes from a pharmaceutical firm in Switzerland. This, the third chemical, can not be transported or mixed with the others, unless stabilized. In the hands of the wrong people, two ounces of this solution, could destroy a city block.

Kurt sauntered to the bedroom fireplace flicked on the gas fireplace starter and burned the note.

Perhaps he thought, OPEC is worried, Gasoline as we know it, could be a thing of the past.

"You're early," Maria said spreading her favored cream cheese on her onion beagle.

"Dear, I don't really look forward to this meeting. Have you seen the commotion on our drive-way?"

"Hey, you're a celebrity now, don't knock it." She looked him up and down and said. "Your new three-piece gray suit makes you look like a winner." He spun around slowly like a male model, grinned, and headed for the door.

Price's security team placed a car in front and back of the white Cadillac Seville. Chief security agent Abel, held the door for Muller. Muller settled back into the leather upholstered
seat, contemplating the future. To watch his wife wave goodbye, Kurt turned and torqued to see
her through the rear window. "Ah-- damn," he whizzed, his right hand shooting to the stabbing
pain in his lower back. The Doc was wrong, playing golf with a sore back is no fun.

Around a bend on the Kanan Dume road, Muller caught sight of the pounding surf, foaming and churning on the rock-strewn beach. To the right, above the pastel brown coastline hills, a black helicopter hovered, stationary, watching.

A few miles north on Pacific Coast Highway, a two-lane road wound its way up through the hills into the Price Research Center. The 150,000-square-foot administrative building was cradled between two hills, like a dam across a canyon. Two of the five buildings were specifically designed to accommodate luxury condominiums for the scientists.