Professor Jones and the Revenge of the Luddites.

	"Scotch on the rocks."
	“We have no rocks, sir.”
	“Sorry, Lyman. I meant ice.”
	“Right away, sir.”
	It was one of those nights. The air was damp and chilly, the fog already rolling through the streets. I sat inside the Binomial Nomenclature and tried not to think about the rest of the world. I figured a scotch might assist in this task. 
	Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Professor Jones. My mother, she was keen on seeing me become a…well, you follow. So I became a private detective to spite her. Not just any private detective either. My door reads: Professor Jones, Computers and Related Machines. I’m the city’s only computer crimes detective. 
My scotch arrived. Not bad for a city joint, but then this was one of the older bars. As if to prove this point, Lyman said: “Refill your drink, sir?” Lyman’s a hard worker, and I’m sure he was a top of the line model in his day, but hell. I’ve been coming to that bar for three years and every day he asks me if I want more thirty seconds after the drink touches my lips. I’ve had to take up alcoholism to keep up with him.
	“No, Lyman, not tonight. I need a client tonight.”
	“I’m sorry, sir, we serve no clients here.”
	“Not your fault, Lyman.” I paid my dues and got out.

The Binomial Nomenclature looks pretty dingy on the inside, but most people are forgiving of this fact. This is because they’ve most likely seen the outside. From the outside, the building appears to have no windows. This is because the windows are the same color of the rest of the building, and opaque. In the daylight, the place looks like some sort of half-buried fossil that just happens to have a brightly lit sign attached to it. At night it looks like a haunted house. 
	I stepped out into the night. I pressed the button for a ride and had begun buttoning up my trenchcoat, when a voice floated out of the alley. 
	“Pssst!”
	“Pssst, yourself,” I said. 
	“You Jones?”
	“That depends who’s asking. Who’s asking?”
	A beautiful young woman stepped out of the alley. I should’ve known. “I need your help,” she said.
	“Considering that you spend your time in alleys looking for a man named Jones, you certainly need somebody’s help.”
	“I’m serious, Jones.”
	“What a coincidence. I’m Professor Jones. Nice to meet you, Serious.”
	For a moment, she looked ready to explode. Then her face relaxed. “I can pay you.”
	“Now,” I said, “You are speaking my language.”

She lived in the posh section of town. The apartment was all-automated, top of the line mechanics. The moment the door closed, a cord snaked out to snatch my hat and coat. I skittered back, clutching both. Lord knows what happens when you try to use the bathrooms. 
	She strolled into the living room. “Sit,” she said. I did, and the chair immediately tried to do something horrible to my ass.
	“It’s just shifting to fit the contours of your body.”
	I muttered something unpleasant.
	“You know, for a man specializing in computers, you don’t seem to like technology much.”
	“Why do you think I specialize in dead ones?”
	She sighed. “Tea for two,” she ordered. “Mr. Jones, one lump or two?”
	“Three.”
	“Very well. I imagine you’re wondering why I’ve procured your services.”
	“Not especially.”
	“Really, Mr. Jones, you are being utterly unhelpful.”
	“Comes from years of practice. Why did you procure my services?”
	“Are you familiar with Harry Trudeau?”
	“The owner of Club Emphasis?”
	“The same.”
	“Sure, I know who he is.”
	“Harry does not own Club Emphasis, Mr. Jones. I do. Harry is a machine. MY machine. And someone’s destroyed him.”
	“Harry was a machine? I’d never have guessed.”
	“He was a very advanced model.”
	“Must have cost you a pretty penny.”
	She said nothing.
	“So who killed him?”
	“That’s YOUR job, Mr. Jones.”
	I grinned. “Always worth a try. Poor Harry.”
	“Yes,” she said. “Poor Harry. Drink your tea, Mr. Jones. It’s getting cold.”
	“No thanks. I hate tea.”

This time of night, Club Emphasis was hopping. Boys and girls of all shapes and sizes were shucking and jiving and grinding and bumping and generally doing everything but hump each other right there on the dance floor. At least, not yet. Ten thousand different lights strobed on and off, giving the room an odd sort of motion that detracted not one bit from the complicated diagrams being sketched out in light on the ceiling. All around me, the smell of liquor, drugs, and expensive perfumes meant to drive the opposite sex into fits of passion at the very scent. I took another look at the room. Hmm…

We reached the far side of the club, wall-to-wall mirror that made the club look roughly the size of a class C starship- minus the walls. The girl -her name was Annn- just like that, with three n’s- placed her hand against the mirror. Nothing appeared to happen. She looked back- presumably to make sure I was still there- and nodded. Then she stepped into the mirror. I shrugged- life is full of surprises- and followed her.

Behind me there was a loud -Shlooop!- , and the noise of the club cut off. We were in a long, featureless hallway made of flat black metal. Annn stalked down to the far door and pressed the comm. 
	“You can’t fool them,” she said. The door slid open. The largest man I have ever seen -and I’ve come across some gorillas in my day- stood on the other side. He had to slouch to look through the doorway.
	“Who’s this?” he said.
	“Professor Jones, meet Mr. Thomas Grund, my personal assistant.”
	“Pleased, delighted, frightened, and overshadowed to meet you, Mr. Grund.”
	“Pleestameetcha.”
	“I bet.”
	“Mr. Jones. If you would accompany me to the lounge, where Mr. Trudeau was murdered…”
	“I would.”