At first I thought it was just another wrong number. Well, it was, in a sense—but not the kind of wrong number I thought it was. The ringing signal burred against my ear in the usual way, then there was a click, and somebody said, "Office of Historical Research. Zon Twenty speaking." "Oh. 'Scuse me," I said. "I must have dialed wrong." That was euphemism—misplaced loyalty, maybe. I didn't dial the wrong number, and I knew it. But high brass had installed a new automatic dialing system in the Pen