FROM THE FILES OF INTERNET IGGY, MASTER DETECTIVE
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The sun was beating down on the back of my neck like a blackjack as I
opened my office door. It was only then that I realized that some
cheap hood had made off with my ceiling. I made a mental note to track
him down, then realized I was out of mental notepaper. It was not
going to be a good day.

The figure I saw lurking behind the diffenbachia added more evidence
to support that conclusion. He was about five-four with a pasty-white,
pimply complexion. A piece of gold wire supported a pair of glass
billiard balls in front of his eyes. A white plastic flap with the
letters "IEEE" hung from his shirt pocket. Behind it rode an amazing
collection of pens, pencils, screwdrivers, and a Radio Shack logic
probe. His clip-on tie languished at the bottom of his open collar.
His lips were moving.

"Mr. Iggy, I may have a case for you."

"Teriffic, as long as it's Jack Daniels. In quart bottles."

"I work with computers for a living..."

"How did I ever guess?"

"...and I'm missing something very important."

"I'm not the guy you should talk to then. Look in the yellow pages,
under 'Urologists'. Or is that 'Penologists'?"

"You don't seem to understand, Mr. Iggy. I am in contact with a
certain, er, Oracle. Or should I say, I used to be in contact with
him. I would ask him to ask me questions. Then after I asked him to
ask me the question, he would answer with a question in answer to the
question I had asked asking for the question. This question in the
answer I would then have to answer, and then answer the Oracle with
the answer to the question he had asked me in answer to the question I
had asked him asking for the question..."

"Wait a minute, I'm asking the questions here."

"No, it's the Oracle. Or at least it should be, but it isn't. You see,
the question I have is that when I ask for a question whose answer is
a question I answer..."

"Try that again, geek, and you'll have a gum-wad's-eye view of the
linoleum."

"In any case, the Oracle does not reply. Mr. Iggy, I need you to find
out why. I need the answer to the question of the missing question...
*O*O*F*!"

I'll give the little guy one thing. He knew the one way to take a
Florsheim to the solar plexus. With great pain.

"OK, Brainiac", I said, "let's get something straight. I'm not going
to repeat myself, and I'm not going to say it again. _I'M_ asking the
questions around here! And if you don't like it, go see Dashiell
Hammett!!!"

"Urgh... you're... (gasp) ...brilliant!"

I drew my '38 and swivelled around to see who had walked in. Then I
realized that he was still talking to me.

"Me? -er- so you figured it out, finally?"

"Yes, Mr. Iggy! (*cough*) You're asking the... questions around here!
So _you_ are in p-p-posession of the missing questions!"

I went to my filing cabinet, carefully stepping on the geek's hand on
the way. From the center drawer I removed the file every detective
worth his flat feet should have. It was labelled

___#####
___# #
______#
___###
___#

___#

"You got that from the Oracle!" the geek pronounced. "You stole it!"

"Yeah, I pinched the questions file. So what? You know how boring it
is around here? Nothing to keep me occupied but slinky dames, booze,
fabulous wealth, and mystery. I've gotta have a little fun you know.
Here, take it. But be damn sure to leave it up for anonymous FTP."

"But how can I ever repay you?"

"Just keep out of my site. But there is one thing."

"Anything! Name it!"

"You owe the Oracle a brown fedora and a pack of unfiltered Luckies."