Free Class Fives: Origins by Jon H. Thompson

exploded view of a fist-sized sub-circuit that would eventually jut from the side of the completed device, and would contain most of the controls.
    “Go on,” the voice issuing from the speaker phone prompted calmly.
    “Well,” Joe responded, with a faint sigh of resignation, “Like I told you, I can’t do the main control circuitry unless I know what the impedance rating of the central power coupling is supposed to be. Otherwise, if it’s not right, if we use the wrong materials, it could burn out as soon as the current is applied.”
    “And that information,” the voice replied, “Is not shown on the schematics?”
    “No, it’s not,” Joe responded. “There’s a reference here to another document which, I assume, is detail on the required metallurgy of all the power-bearing components. I don’t suppose you have a copy of that?”
    “Alas, no,” the voice said thoughtfully.
    Joe nodded slowly, despite the fact that the man with whom he was talking was at the other end of a phone.
    “Yeah, I kind of thought so,” Joe said resignedly.
    “So how do we correct this?” the voice said.
    Joe took a further moment to let his gaze sweep over the aging paper containing its myriad sharply etched lines, text and symbols.
    The entire project was quickly approaching the point at which he would prefer to abandon it rather than put up with any additional frustration and his growing sense of discomfort.
    This set of plans, fifty four pages in all, had arrived rolled up tightly in a shipping tube a little over three weeks ago, the day after he’d received that first mysterious phone call. The client, who had only identified himself as Dr. Walter Montgomery, had said Joe had been recommended to him as a capable independent electrical engineer who made much of his living by fabricating prototype electronic devices for various clients. He had worked for major corporations, constructing experimental equipment for testing, and had a growing reputation with a few development companies who would receive bright ideas for new devices of various kinds from eager, hopeful, would-be amateur inventors, who had no clue how to transform their brainstorms into working models. The companies would pass them along to Joe and, for a fee, he would see if these products of imagination could be made, and if they would actually function as intended.
    One of his key attractions for doing such work was his discretion. He made it a flat, unbending rule that what he did, how he did it and any other information about anything he did, was strictly between himself and his client. If the client paid his fee, then what happened to his work was none of his business once he turned it over to them.
    As a result, over the years, he had found himself constructing a few devices that could easily be used as components of weapons, and one time he had actually taken a stab at building a crude electromagnetic rail gun, intended to propel a one-inch diameter metal bolt at tremendous speed using only the power of a magnetic field. That project had been abandoned by the client when he was informed of just how much power would be needed to make the thing function properly.
    But this project was beginning to make him feel a growing sense of discomfort. For one thing, the plans were old, having originally been drawn decades ago, and clearly having spent at least some time spread out on a long table, just like the one before which he now stood, and poured over by who knows how many people. For another, the notations and text were in Russian Cyrillic.
    “Dr. Montgomery,” he said at last, his tone cautious, “Can I ask you something?”
    “Of course,” the voice responded.
    Joe hesitated, searching for a delicate way to pose the question.
    “Can you tell me the specific purpose of this device? What its function is supposed to be?”
    “Is it important that you know that?” the voice replied, and now the tone was quiet, cautious.
    “It would certainly help,”