Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can. He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand." He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch" A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake. He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. Who needed help? - The Air Force. - George. - not enough information - SenTrax.
George.

A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words! Winter probably lasted: - not enough information - all year long - two weeks - at least four months
at least four months

(Question)
Another phone call at just after three. He answered on the third ring. "Is this Mr. Ray--uh. . ." The sound of shuffling papers. "Yes." The voice brightened perceptibly, strapped on a mask of friendliness. "My name is John Donovan. I'm an attorney representing the family of Donald Ackerman. I'm sorry to be calling so late." "It's not late for me." A laugh, intended to sound nervous or flustered. To Ray, it only sounded false. "That's right, of course. Only late for me. Do you mind if I tape record this conversation?" Smooth segue, meant to catch him off guard, startle him into acceptance. "Yes, I do mind. Can I help you?" You fucking bastard. John Donovan paused on his end of the line. Ray imagined him reaching for a legal pad upon which to take notes (just as he was supposed to imagine), though, of course, the tape recorder was still running. "Um, I was wondering if I could get some information?" "Sir, federal law prohibits me from acknowledging either to confirm or deny the presence of the individual of whom you have spoken or his participation in our program." Ray grinned. "Very well done," the lawyer said. "I guess that sets the parameters." "I guess it does." "Were you working two nights ago." "Sir, I am bound by Center policy and state law from discussing with you the work schedule of our employees at this facility unless you are an officer of the law or bearing a subpoena, in which case, I am only authorized to refer you to my supervisor." Ray grinned again. He was enjoying this. "What if I told you I have possession of a subpoena?" "Have you spoken to our attorney?" Ray countered. "In fact, son, yes I have. This afternoon." Ray grunted. Standard level of communication. "That's good, because I haven't. Which means, of course, that I'm not prepared to talk to you at all until advised on my statement by legal counsel." After the conversation with Ray, John probably: - not enough information - did not learn anything new. - spoke to Ray's lawyer. - had gotten all the answers he needed.
(Answer)
did not learn anything new.