 
## Fifteen Stories

## Malfeasance Does Not Pay

By

### Mario V. Farina

Copyright 2016 Mario V. Farina

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

Electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information

Storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

Correspondence may be directed to:

Mario V. Farina

Email: mario@mariofarina.com

Here we are with fifteen stories that deal with men and woman engaged in activities that, even if not actually considered illegal might be looked at with disapproval. Do they always pay a penalty for their behavior? Do read these books to find out. The titles of the books are:

Judge Me Fair

A Meal To End All Meals

I'll Conjure You Up A Fortune

Introducing That Damn Little Bocce Ball

Time After Time

The Mistrial

The Ghost Town Trap

A Chaotic Scrambling Of Jupiter's Moons

Why Infinity Was Invented

Codebreaker

Portrait of a Foolish Clod

The One You Do Not Know

Scammer

Betrayer

A Reenactment For Justice

**The author of this book has over 200 additional stories in** _Smashwords_ **. You are invited to find and read these. You can download almost all of them at no cost. Also, check with** _YouTube_ **. The author reads a story each day on** _Youtube_ **. To see and hear these readings, open** _YouTube_ **and search with the words, "** _Grandpa Mario reads_ **". All of the stories will open.**

## Judge Me Fair

"Hear ye, hear ye, the Superior Court of the County of Los Angeles is now in session, the Honorable Lee Mannerheim presiding." The judge settled into the massive leather chair behind the bench and the long awaited trial began.

The district attorney, William Crane, made the opening statement. "We will show," he stated, "that on night of March 23, this year, the defendant, Henry Allen Wilton, brutally murdered his wife. We will show that his motive was control of the family owned corporation, Horizons Beyond."

Henry winced when he heard himself accused of murder. He wanted to shout, "That's a lie! I loved Jan!" But he couldn't do this. John Barkley, had warned Henry that outbursts during the trial would hurt him.

When it was his turn to speak, Mr. Barkley asserted that the Defense would prove that his client was innocent. Someone else had committed the murder and made it appear that Henry had done it.

John didn't mean a word of what he was saying. In private, he made no secret of the fact that he thought Henry was guilty. But everyone deserved the best defense that he or she could buy, and John knew that he was the best. He had been able to convince the judge to grant bail for Henry. It hadn't been easy or cheap. Henry was president of Horizons Beyond, an international travel agency worth several hundred million dollars. John had utilized his skills of persuasion, honed to acute sharpness with twenty years of courtroom experience, to convince the judge that Henry Wilton wasn't about to skip the country.

Henry had grown up in the Bronx. He had always had a manipulative bent and, in his youth, had ingratiated himself to some powerful movers who had helped him obtain an education at an ivory league college. Then, he had acquired an influential position at a well-known advertising firm. The same powerful friends had helped him infiltrate the highest strata of society. In his early thirties, he had met and fallen in love with Janice Ann Lansbury, of a prestigious San Diego family. She had returned his love and the wedding had been the gala event of the decade.

The couple made their home at the outskirts of Los Angeles in a luxurious a estate they dubbed Hidden Acres.

Horizons Beyond had been founded by Janice's grandfather. At the time of the marriage, she was its sole owner. On their tenth anniversary, Janice had conferred upon Henry half ownership in the company. "How else can I show my undying love for you?" she had declared as they toasted each other at their anniversary party.

The first day in the courtroom was long and boring for Henry. The jury was finally selected and the court was recessed until the following day. John told Henry that the nine man and three women who had been selected to serve on the jury were above average in intelligence. This fact meant that Henry had at least a thirty percent chance to cheat the gas chamber. It could have been much worse. As Henry drove homeward, he reviewed in his mind how he had come to find himself in a battle for his life.

It had begun on the night of March 23. While Henry was away on business in Reno, someone had invaded the grounds at Hidden Acres. The person or persons had made their way into Janice's opulent bedroom and had murdered her with one well-placed bullet in the brain. A silencer had probably been used since the maid had heard nothing and had not discovered the outrage until the following morning. Half a million dollars' worth of jewels had been taken. The police were unable to uncover any clues. The murder weapon was never found.

At first, it appeared that Henry was completely in the clear since he had been in Reno on business for several days. Later, routine investigation by the Reno police uncovered the fact that Henry had chartered a private plane on the night of the murder, a plane that was capable of flying to Los Angeles and back in a time span of only four hours. At his hotel in Reno, Henry had not been seen from ten in the evening until nine the following morning. The State contended that Henry had ample opportunity to fly to Los Angeles, take a cab to Hidden Acres, secretly enter the mansion, murder his wife, and return to Reno during the time that he had not been seen. Henry had taken the jewels to make it appear that robbery had been the motive, they said.

Henry Wilton had been the only passenger on the Gulf Stream 840. The pilot, Mike Chandler, could not be located. When asked to explain his strange actions that night, Henry said that, on impulse, he had decided to take a trip to Montréal, but changed his mind after he and the pilot had been in the air for several hours. He had ordered the pilot to return to Reno. He had no idea where the pilot was now. Records at the Los Angeles airport told a different story. At headquarters, the police had laughed at Henry's tale.

The Statewide Cab Company had a record of a Mr. Johnson having been picked up at the Los Angeles airport and having been taken to a point within a mile of the Wilton mansion. The driver of the cab that was prepared to swear that the passenger had been Henry Wilton.

The Porsche owned by Henry had been missing. A few days after the murder it was found abandoned in a San Diego suburb.

Henry had failed a lie detector test. The technician who had administered the test stated that he had never seen anyone fail a test as miserably as Henry had. Mr. Barkley told Henry that there was no need to worry. The test could not, and would not, be admitted as evidence during the trial.

A court appointed psychiatrist reported that he found Henry to be exploitative and completely without scruples. When asked whether he thought Henry was capable of murder, he said _yes_ without hesitation.

John Barclay had laid it on the line. He was the best defense attorney in the country, but he couldn't work miracles. He would deem it a victory if he could save Henry from the death penalty.

Henry was not worried. He felt that a miracle was not needed. He was convinced that when the verdict was read, it would be in his favor.

Arriving at his home, Henry pushed the button on the radio controlled door opener and drove into the garage. Another button alerted the valet that he had arrived. He walked the few steps along the breezeway to the side door. It opened just as he reached it.

"Good evening, sir."

"Good evening, Thomas, did anything unusual happen today?"

"No sir, there were a few routine calls that I took care of. There were none that required your personal attention. Is there anything I can do for you now?"

"No, Thomas, you may retire to your quarters. I'll glance at the evening paper and go to bed."

"Very well, sir."

Henry walked into the library and sat in his favorite armchair. He picked up the paper that had been made ready for him and skimmed the headlines. Looking over his shoulder to make sure that Thomas was gone, Henry reached for the ornate French phone located on the stand next to his chair. He dialed a number, then waited a few seconds.

"Is it safe to talk?"

There were some words on the other end.

"Yes, I know, dear, but it will all be over within a few days. Then we can let it all blow over and take a nice trip."

Henry listened, then spoke again.

"Having you on my side makes all the difference. I'll call you when I get home tomorrow. Good night, my dear."

The proceedings resumed at nine the following morning. The clerk called out the familiar "Hear ye," and all present settled down for a full day. Henry and his attorney were seated at a large oak table. Flanking them on both sides were additional lawyers from the firm of Cohen, Adams, and Griffith. Henry knew that they made an impressive array against the two individuals that the State had managed to pit against him.

The courtroom was packed. There was a raucous hubbub that Judge Mannerheim effectively quelled with a severe, "Order in the court!"

Henry stared at the judge. "Stern looking. Very stern," he mused. John had told Henry that judge Mannerheim had a reputation for adhering to the letter of the law. If Henry were found guilty, he could expect no mercy.

Henry perused the jury. He tried to recall the professions of the members. He remembered that most of the men were in business for themselves. Two of the women were wives of office workers and the third woman was in business for herself with a dress shop. Feeling that he had a professional eye for feminine beauty, Henry studied the faces of the women. Not even one of the three was half as attractive as his sweetheart, he concluded. If the State had any inkling that he had been seeing this beautiful woman for over a year, they would have had a field day. He glanced at his watch. It would be several hours before the court would be recessed.

John leaned in his direction and whispered, "You should be paying more attention to what's being said. Juries expect that." Henry nodded and tuned in. The people were presenting a pretty good case. They had brought out a witness who was testifying to the brutality of the murder. Henry leaned over to John. "Are they allowed to be so graphic?" He continued with, "Couldn't that be considered inflammatory? Maybe you should object."

John whispered back that there was not much he could do. The Prosecution was within its rights.

"Approach the bench!" The judge severely summoned the attorneys from both sides. William Crane and John Barclay moved forward. There was an out-of-earshot animated discussion, then the consultation was broken off. John Barclay came back to the table.

"What did the judge have in mind, John?"

"The judge was very disturbed at the methods being used by the Prosecution. They were told to cool it. You were right, I should have objected."

"How did Mr. Crane feel about this?"

"He was furious and made a formal protest. On balance, this was good for you. Your chances have improved a good deal."

In the afternoon, a procedural battle erupted over whether an individual named Gordon Effram should be heard. Henry knew who Gordon was. This man could place him at the Los Angeles airport at eleven. His testimony would be devastating. John's argument that the existence of Gordon should have been revealed to the Defense before the trial began, was weak. But that's all they had, and they had to go with it.

The judge listened to the arguments of both sides, then decided in favor of the Defense.

"It appears that the people had ample opportunity to inform the Defense of this witness, Mr. Crane," the judge declared angrily. "I will not allow this testimony. I have to warn you, councilor, that your conduct in this matter has been duly noted. Now, as the hour is getting late, we will adjourn and resume at nine tomorrow morning."

As Henry walked out of the courtroom, he discussed the events of the day with Mr. Barkley. "They don't have a great deal left, Henry" John said. "The evidence is strong, of course, but it's circumstantial. We have just one more hurdle to overcome, then I think you'll make it."

In the library, Henry depressed the digits of the number he had dialed the night before.

"Hello, darling," he said, "How do you think the jury feels about what happened today?"

He listened.

"No, sweetheart, I don't have my eye on any of the women in the jury. I was just studying their faces to see if I could guess what they were thinking. When compared to you, they're nothing."

There was a pause.

"Yes, dear, tomorrow should be a decisive day. And do be careful. I caught you looking at me with that special way you have. There will be plenty of time for those looks later."

"On the following day, the State presented records from the Statewide Cab Company and offered the testimony of the cab driver who had driven a man close to Hidden Acres. The driver stated positively that the man was Henry Wilton.

Mr. Barkley introduced evidence that the witness had been fired from his previous position for drinking. The objections from the Prosecution were to no avail. They were summarily overruled, and the destruction of this witness was allowed to continue without interruption.

The State attempted to introduce records obtained from Los Angeles International Airport. John was able to have most of them stricken because of missing affidavits. This favorable ruling was based on a technicality, to be sure, but the Defense had prevailed.

The State rested. "Mr. Barkley, Are you going to make a motion?" Judge Mannerheim asked.

John seemed taken aback, then remembered that it was customary to move for dismissal on the grounds that the State had not presented a prima facie case. These kinds of motions were usually denied. He made the motion in a desultory manner.

"Motion granted!" The judge turned to face the district attorney. "Mr. Crane, the behavior of the State in this courtroom has been reprehensible. Whatever case you might have had was destroyed because of the slipshod, even clumsy manner, in which you conducted your case. See me in chambers immediately!"

There was bedlam in the courtroom over the unexpected turn. People rushed to congratulate Henry and his attorneys. The Prosecution was stunned and stood numbly by. Reporters dashed for the phones.

"Send me your bill," Henry shouted to Mr. Barkley and hurriedly left the courtroom. A police officer drove his Rolls to the front of the building. Henry entered the car and turned the vehicle toward his home.

Meeting his valet at the door, Henry told him to take the evening off. He wanted to be alone and rest.

An hour after Thomas had left, the chimes announced a late caller. Henry hurried to the door and let in a beautiful visitor.

"You always did look lovely in black, your honor," he said, "but those bulky robes don't do a thing for you."

He drew her close and kissed her passionately

"I knew you were on my side," he said "but what you did today was outrageous. They're going to be very angry with you, Lee."

"What are they going to do about it? Now that they don't have you as the political victim of the century, they'll have to go after Mike Chandler and the maid. My spies in the DA's office tell me that they've had Mike under surveillance for several weeks. They didn't move aggressively against him because they felt you were easier. In chambers, I told Mr. Crane what I knew, and what would happen to the pack."

"Henry, you know what a stickler I am for ethical behavior. I wouldn't have taken such extreme actions if I hadn't known the truth. But, my love, what a dunce you were that night! When you flew down to see me, you played right into the hands of the Prosecution. It was lucky for you that the judge knew you were innocent!"

## A Meal To End All Meals

"Service please." The voice was deep, sensual, beautifully modulated. Vincent hesitated for a moment, furrowing his brow **,** then said, "I'm sorry, you've dialed the wrong number. Are you trying to get automobile service?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"No problem at all." Vincent put the receiver back in its cradle. "That was a lovely voice," he mumbled barely audibly. "I wonder what she's like."

He leaned back in his recliner. "Sometimes they call back," he thought, as he turned his attention to the TV. "They make the same mistake."

The phone rang. Vincent grabbed the receiver before it had completed its first ring. "Hello!"

"Oh, darn!" It was the same voice. "You are not Continental, are you? I thought I knew the number, but I'm obviously doing something wrong."

"Oh, that's OK," Vincent summoned his most melodious tone. "I know how it is to dial a wrong number. I congratulate you on your choice of cars. I have a Continental too."

"Oh, do you? What a coincidence! They are very fine cars, aren't they?"

"Yes, very fine. Very fine, indeed. I believe in owning nothing but the best. I'm Vincent Bradshaw, by the way. And you are...?"

"I'm Susan Wilkerson."

"Please call me Vince. Do you live locally?"

"Yes, I do, Vince. I live in the Tall Oaks area. Nothing but the best, you say?"

"I go first class, Susan. Always have. Always will! There is usually a way to get what you want even if you have to bend the rules a little now and then."

He thought about Nancy Beth. Where she was concerned, a _little_ , was something of an understatement. To remove her from his life, he had found it necessary to take some steps that most people would consider extreme. The objective had been accomplished, and the money he had received in insurance had been a pleasant bonus. Half the money had gone into the huge white vehicle crowding the walls of his garage; some, into the stock market. He hadn't decided what to do with the rest. A trip to Bermuda with a sweetheart might be a possibility.

Vincent missed his wife, but he was looking forward to finding a suitable replacement. If Susan was anything like her voice, she might be the one.

"Your voice is so delightful," he said. "I can almost picture what you look like."

"You can?" Susan responded teasingly. "Tell me, what do I look like?"

Vincent glanced at the ceiling, then made a few flattering guesses. He was wrong in some, but he learned what he wanted to know. She was thirty-two, five, six in high heels, had blue eyes, weighed 108, didn't smoke, and had long jet-black hair. "People tell me I'm attractive," she had said.

"How could I be so blessed in finding such a dream girl?" Vincent asked himself. It was imperative that he meet this exceptional girl in person. Romantic notions swirled in his mind.

"Tell me about yourself, Vince," Susan asked.

"Well, I'm director of Mount Pleasant Hospital. I am thirty-eight, about five, ten, have dark hair, and am of average build." Vincent knew that he was exaggerating his height by about two inches, and that his "average build" was really twenty pounds overweight. He should have mentioned that his "dark hair" was streaked with a good deal of gray, but he felt that facts like these were of minor importance. A man's personality, intelligence, and sense of humor are the most important things to a woman, he thought. Vincent felt that he possessed these qualities in abundance despite the fact that none of the women he knew had ever mentioned them.

There was a pause. Vincent sensed that Susan was getting ready to wind down the conversation. He felt an urgency to get something important asked before they disconnected.

"Tell me, Susan, are you, ah, married?"

"Oh heavens, no!" She responded.

"Attached?"

"No, yourself?"

"I'm a widower, Susan," Vincent replied sadly. "My lovely wife died over a year ago. I loved her very dearly." Nancy Beth had actually had her so-called cerebral hemorrhage only seven months earlier, but Vincent didn't want Susan to think that he wasn't observing a decent period of mourning.

"I'm terribly sorry about your wife, Vince. Listen, I don't want to be rude, but I need to do some shopping, then dress for the symphony. Much as I'd like to keep talking, I must run."

"I understand perfectly," Vincent said disappointedly. "I'd like to talk to you again."

"I'd like that too," Susan responded. "Why don't you call me tomorrow evening after eight. My phone number is 555–0648. Bye for now."

Vincent put the receiver down slowly. "What a sexy sounding woman!" he mused. He straightened the recliner and rose from it. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Walking slowly around the living room he bent his head forward deep in thought. Something disturbed him about the conversation. Susan had remarked that she was preparing to attend a concert. His wife had enjoyed classical music. Since Vincent's lack of interest in the classics had been a source of conflict in the marriage, he had resolved never again to get involved with anyone who enjoyed this kind of music. Still, with the right woman, he could bend a little, he thought.

Yes, Vincent missed Nancy Beth, but only because of the comforts and services that she had provided. Now, he had to do his own washing, ironing, cleaning, and cooking. These were inconveniences but, at least, he didn't have to put up with that pudgy smokestack any longer.

Nancy had been thirty-five when she died, but she had looked ten years older. Her mousy brown hair was streaked with gray. Thick glasses gave her face an owlish expression. She coughed. Her voice was raspy. She bore no resemblance to the curvaceous sexpot that she had been ten years before. Their relationship had declined with the years. It reached a new low during the last week of her life when she had referred to him as an arrogant, sleazy low-life scumbag.

Vincent felt he _had needed_ to rid himself of this obstacle to happiness. Divorce would have been too messy, expensive, and time-consuming. He had zeroed in on a feasible, albeit drastic solution. Nancy's death had become as inevitable as if it had been predestined.

At eight, the following evening, Vincent picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. He punched the digits of Susan's number with his left hand. Then he leaned his back against the recliner. He felt his heart accelerate when he heard her voice.

"You sound so outgoing, Susan," he ventured. "Have there been many men in your life?"

"Oh no, only a few," she responded. "I was married once. But, that didn't work out. More recently, I was involved with a man named Tom. I can tell you that story at a later time."

Tom! Vincent thought of Tom Harris, the Chief Medical Officer at the hospital. Tom had once worked under Vincent. At that time, they had also been good friends. Their relationship was not cordial at this time. Vincent had discovered some shortages in Tom's accounts and had accosted him with the evidence. Tom had admitted embezzling from his department. Vincent had helped him cover up. Although their present relationship was strained, Vincent had Tom under full control. From time to time, he would demand a favor of him and Tom would never refuse.

Mentally, Vincent would often applaud his own cleverness when he thought about how he had arranged for Nancy Beth's death, and had contrived to have her cremated almost immediately. The insurance company had been outraged, but its investigators had gotten nowhere. Nancy Beth's ashes had been widely scattered over the Pacific Ocean in a matter of hours.

Tom had been the key. In his position as Chief Medical Officer, he had the authority to ascertain causes of death and to sign death certificates. He also had power to circumvent certain bothersome police regulations.

Vincent's thoughts returned to the present. "I'd be honored if you'd accept a dinner invitation, Susan, say for tomorrow evening at six. Would you care to accompany me to the Vauxhall?" This place was the most expensive restaurant in the area.

"Oh, yes, Vince, I'd love to do that," Susan responded exuberantly. "Tomorrow night would be fine. I'll look for you at six." She gave him her Sylvan Lane address and hung up. Vincent phoned the Vauxhall and made a reservation, also requesting certain special preparations.

Vincent left his office early the next day leaving word that he would not return. He hurried home and spent an hour bathing, shaving, and brushing his teeth. He drenched himself with aftershave lotion and slapped his face until it resembled a fresh strawberry. He combed his hair making sure that every strand was in place. He polished a pair of black shoes. Then he tried on various ensembles and settled upon a gray suit, which he complemented with a red striped tie. Having completed his grooming, he examined himself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom tucking in his midsection. He smiled with satisfaction.

Vincent eased the massive Continental out of the garage and maneuvered it down the driveway into the street. He glanced at the car's ornate digital clock. It was quarter after five, a bit early. He drove leisurely to Susan's street to preview the area. He found himself in a new development. All the houses appeared to have been built within the last two or three years. Slipping by 1467 Sylvan Lane, he glanced at the house where Susan lived. It was a brick colonial with tall columns. The lawn was green and well trimmed. The shrubs along the walkway seemed to have been recently planted and were thriving. He stopped the car and let the engine idle. There was time to practice. Twisting the rear view mirror toward him, he tried several styles of smiling.

Timing his arrival to the split-second, Vincent guided the car to a coasting stop in front of Susan's house. He switched off the ignition. Feeling that there might be eyes observing his movements, Vincent took care to exit gracefully. He straightened up, threw back his shoulders, and walked briskly around to the front of the car, then up the short concrete walk to the colonial's door.

He rang the bell and waited, peering through the door's curtained window. Just as he was beginning to wonder if there was a problem, he discerned motion within the house and saw a figure scampering toward him

Vincent was immediately captivated by the beautiful woman who opened the door. He stammered a greeting, grinned weakly, and extended his hand. Susan had instantly met his every hope. She was brunette, just as she had stated. Her hair was shoulder-length. It undulated gracefully as she tilted her head and greeted Vincent with an expansive smile. Her blue eyes were of an even deeper hue than he had imagined. She had on a simple, sleeveless, black, knee-length dress that hugged her trimly sculpted figure. On her ears, she wore long silver earrings with pink stones. Around her neck were two strands of pearls, one larger than the other. Vincent noticed that her neckline plunged daringly. Glancing downward, Vince observed that Susan wore a silver bracelet on one ankle. Her feet flowed into black, high-heeled shoes.

"I've hit the jackpot!" Vincent exulted inwardly. He and Susan exchanged pleasantries, then agreed that they should be on their way. As Susan scrambled here and there picking up keys, black purse, and matching cloak, Vincent kept his eyes riveted on her figure. Thoughts that he would not have dared share with Susan at this early stage of their relationship occurred to him. Reluctantly, he thrust them from his mind.

Vincent waited until Susan had locked the colonial's door, then he regally escorted her to his car. He opened to the Continental's door on the passenger side, and waited until she had entered. Then he lifted her seatbelt from its hook, leaned over, and attached it securely in the belt's receptacle. "The car complains if the belt is not attached," he said. He swung the door smoothly to a close, then nimbly darted to the driver's side, opened the door and swooped in. "Very nicely done," he commented mentally to himself.

"Stunning car!" Exclaimed Susan. "It's newer than mine. I'm impressed." "I'm glad you like it," Vincent responded. "It has custom everything!" he responded delightedly. Events couldn't be proceeding more favorably!

The auto's clock indicated there were still almost three-quarters of an hour to fill before seven. The drive to the Vauxhall should require no more than ten minutes or so. Vincent realized that he should have thought about this discrepancy earlier. A thought occurred to him he could take care of the time problem, and make it seem that there had been a plan all along. He turned right on Michigan Avenue and drove steadfastly eastward.

"Where are we going, may I ask?" said Susan.

Vincent smiled broadly, and responded with a lilt in his voice, "I'm kidnapping you."

"Kidnapping, you say?" She giggled. "Might I be so bold as to ask why?"

"I'll tell you later," he teased.

Vincent drove to the Pioneer Mall and parked his car in one of the spaces for the disabled. He turned on the radio and positioned the dial to the first classical frequency he found. "I'm sure you like the station," he commented, then added, "I'll only be a moment."

"You're acting very mysteriously," Susan observed.

"It will all be clear very soon!" Vincent responded grinning.

He exited from the car and locked the door. He sprinted into the mall through one of the large glass doors. Just a few feet inside was Frederick's Flowers. He entered hurriedly and was pleased to see that the shop was nearly empty. He caught the eye of one of the salespeople and scurried to where she was standing.

Speaking brusquely, he asked, "Have you any corsages already made up?"

"Yes we do, sir."

"Please give me your best one that goes with black," he demanded. "I don't care what it costs."

The clerk led him to a showcase, and opened the sliding door.

"Here is the one for sixteen. It's..."

"I'll take it." Vincent whisked out his wallet. "I'll take it just as it is."

Vincent handed her a twenty in exchange for the flowers. "That's sixteen plus tax. I'll ring it up, sir," she said. Vincent couldn't be bothered with change or paper work. He took the package, turned and fled the shop.

"That didn't take very long," Susan remarked.

"I called ahead," he declared." I hope you like this." He handed her the corsage.

Susan gasped. "Oh, how lovely," she cried. "And look, the carnations match my dress perfectly. How did you know what I'd be wearing?"

"Planned ahead," he boasted with a smirk. "When I called the Florist, I had them prepare three different corsages for the basic colors that you might be wearing. All I had to do when I arrived was tell them what you actually were wearing and picked up the one that suited you best. I asked them to send the other two to a nursing home."

"Oh, you're such a darling," Susan cooed, "and so thoughtful!" She grasped his hand and squeezed.

"Thank you, ma'am," Vincent said with mock gallantry. "All I ask in return is the privilege of helping you put on the corsage."

"With pleasure, sir!"

Together, they fastened the corsage on the collar of her cloak. Studiously, Vincent avoided any semblance of approaching forbidden areas, but privately, he was making plans for next time.

Vincent's time calculations have been accurate and they arrived at the Vauxhall at exactly seven. The valet took Vincent's car. Arm in arm, Susan and Vincent walked through the entrance. They approach a tuxedoed individual stationed at a podium.

"We have reservations for two," Vincent announced. "The name is Bradshaw."

The maître d' glanced at a large leather-bound book, then, conspicuously satisfied, elevated his nose and said, "Certainly, sir. This way please."

He led the couple to a cozy-sized, tablecloth-covered, table in a corner of the elegant dining room. A tall vase with three roses dominated the center of the table. There were two places set, each with a white dish lying within a larger, flowered one. There were arrays of gleaming silverware at each place, and tall champagne glasses and goblets for wine and water. A flame sparkled atop a long white candle set in a silver holder. There were upholstered armchairs at both ends of the table. A stainless steel wine bucket was positioned at one side.

Almost immediately, a waiter arrived to take their drink order. Susan ordered a Sombrero, and Vincent, a Whisky on the Rocks. He also ordered a magnum of vintage champagne.

"Tell me something about yourself," began Vincent. He had heard that a fine way to make a hit what a woman is to seem interested in her, especially her mind.

"There isn't much to tell," she replied "I'm an ordinary person with simple desires." She leaned forward, opening the "V" at her neck. She placed both forearms on the table, one crossing the other.

He averted his eyes. "Do you have special interests, hobbies?"

She smiled. "Well I like good music and live theater. I enjoy gardening."

They touched grasses when the drinks arrived.

"I also like hiking," she continued. "I've been doing this for several months. I used to weigh a bit more than I do now, and I find that hiking is a good way to stay trim."

"You're so slim, you don't look as if you could ever have had a weight problem."

"Oh yes, I do have a problem. I like to eat, but I keep my appetite under control. But you couldn't guess what my greatest weakness once was."

"What?"

"Chocolate covered cherries!"

Vincent winced. It was Tom who had supplied the chocolates that Nancy Beth had eaten that night. Tom had had easy access to arsenic and had laced the candy with enough poison to do the job several times over. Later, supposedly, he had responded to her frantic call for help. But, upon arriving, Tom had found her dead. He certified that her death had been caused by a cerebral hemorrhage.

The waiter took their orders. Susan ordered broiled sole with a light lemon dressing; Vincent, a large T-bone smothered with mushrooms. Each requested escargot as an appetizer.

The dining room began to fill and became more noisy. The two had difficulty conversing. Vincent didn't greatly mind. He spent a good deal of time staring into Susan's beautiful eyes. He marveled at the contrast between Susan's and Nancy Beth's eyes, which had been of a nondescript hazel cast.

Vincent had asked that the champagne be served last. Neither diner had wanted dessert opting to linger over the effervescent wine.

On the drive back to Susan's home, Vincent wondered whether she would invite him in. This would indicate how she felt about him.

At her home, Vincent assisted Susan from the car, then walked her to the door, the porch light shone casting a warm, romantic glow.

"Would you like to stop in for a cup of coffee?" Susan asked.

Would he! Vincent made no pretense of hiding his exhilaration.

Seated at the kitchen table, Vincent and Susan chatted animatedly. An hour passed, then it was time to part. Vincent and Susan walked to the door. He took her hand and pulled her slightly toward him. He would have been satisfied with a peck on the cheek, but Susan surprised him by throwing her arms around his neck implanting a fervent kiss on his lips. Instinctively, Vincent put his arms around Susan and pulled her closer. He initiated a kiss of his own. Susan blended into his arms. She placed her arms on his back, then raised them to his shoulders, fingers pointing upward, as the kiss matured. Suddenly, she broke away.

"No more; not now, Vince. It's too soon," Susan murmured. "I like you – maybe too much. It would be best if you left now."

Vincent left her house in lighthearted befuddlement. He entered this car and, somehow, made it safely to his home. His mind was filled of what would happen the next time he was with Susan. Exhilarated, he picked up the phone and dialed.

"Susan, this is Vince. I just wanted to say good night one more time before going to bed. I'm going to dream sweet dreams of you."

"You're such a dear, Vince," she murmured. "I enjoyed our evening together."

"Susan, may I see you tomorrow?"

"I've already made plans for tomorrow, Vince. But how about Thursday – the day after tomorrow? Say, I have a great idea! Why don't I cook for you at your place?"

What fantastic luck! Vincent couldn't believe his ears. "Yes, yes, oh yes!" He blurted. "I'll come to get you."

"No, that won't be necessary. Give me your address. I'll do some shopping and come over to see you around six. Will that be all right? In some circles, I was known to be a good cook. I'll make you an unforgettable meal."

Vincent eagerly accepted the offer. Then, fearing that she might change her mind, he took the initiative in terminating the call.

Vince hurried home from work the next day and spent the evening clearing up the clutter that he normally allowed himself. He put all his papers in one place, dusted the furniture, hung his clothes, washed dishes, swept and mopped the floor, cleaned the bathtub and the sink. He found a candle and inserted it in the neck of an empty wine bottle. Finally he retrieved a large bottle of champagne from the wine cellar and put it in the refrigerator.

On Thursday, Vincent began pacing the floor at five. Would she renege on her offer?

She didn't. Smartly attired in a white blouse and matching skirt, Susan arrived at six and began fussing with the chicken that she had bought. She removed the skin, seasoned the meat, and placed it in the oven. She put two potatoes in the microwave, then began working on the salad. Vincent's entreaties to assist were to no avail.

At seven, the small dining area in the kitchen was ready for the feast. Susan had found a white linen tablecloth and had covered the table. She had also located Vincent's best tableware and placed the cutlery neatly on the soft material. Vincent contributed by lighting the candle and placing it between the two settings. He also fetched the bottle of champagne, opened it, and poured. They lifted their glasses and gazed into each other's eyes. "To an incomparable evening," Vincent proposed as their glasses clinked. Susan smiled teasingly.

An hour later, Vincent put one last bite in his mouth and took a final sip of wine. "I don't think I can eat another morsel," he moaned. "My tummy hurts, it's so full. That was a remarkable meal."

"I'm glad you think so," Susan said. "That's exactly what I had in mind. Now, the bedroom!"

Vincent faltered, "W-what did you say?"

"The bedroom!" The timbre of Susan's voice bordered the edge of harshness. "You do want to go to the bedroom, don't you?"

"Why y-yes, of course, I guess so..."

"Come along, then."

Vincent's stomach discomfort was becoming more pronounced. A heavy meal normally did not bother him. He cast off all thoughts of indigestion by thinking about the exciting entertainment that Susan was promising. Hastily, he led the way.

In the bedroom, Susan ordered, "Off with your clothes!" She began unbuttoning her blouse.

This was unexpected. Vincent had counted on, at least, a token struggle for the conquest. Perplexed, he began to comply with her instructions. Susan removed her blouse.

"Off, off!" Susan ordered. "Everything has to come off! Don't be embarrassed. It isn't as if I haven't seen anything like this before." Vincent was surprised by the crudeness of her speech, but continued obeying her demands.

Naked, awkwardly self-conscious, Vincent stood before Susan. She pointed to the bed. "Under the covers. Now!"

He pulled back the blankets and crept under the sheets. The misery in his abdomen was increasing in ferocity. Glancing at Susan, he noticed the crimson birthmark on her left shoulder. "Susan, my wife had a mark like that," he exclaimed.

Susan glared at him. The pupils of her eyes, now immense, blazed. "Do you think it's a coincidence? Look at me, Vinnie Boy." Susan bent forward as if to propel her voice with greater velocity. Her mouth was distorted as she opened it a crack and forced her words through gritted teeth. "Look close! Do I look familiar to you?" Vincent pressed his hands to his midsection. Only Nancy Beth had used that pet name. The anguish in his bowels had turned to a conflagration that was consuming his belly.

An awesome realization drilled itself into Vincent's brain. "Nancy Beth! You're Nancy Beth," he whimpered. "You're alive! He clasped his hands to his belly. Oh, honey, help me, I need a doctor."

"You didn't recognize me, did you, Vinnie Boy? Frumpy, lumpy old Nancy Beth is dead. Figuratively of course. She died the night that she supposedly ate the chocolates you gave her. But a new person was born that night whose life was dedicated to only one purpose – to take vengeance. That person took Nancy Beth's old body, lost forty pounds, dyed her hair, quit smoking, threw away her glasses replacing them with colored contacts, studied voice, and started wearing stylish clothes. All this, so that she could have these few moments of glorious revenge!"

The inferno in Vincent's gut was raging out of control. "Get me a doctor, please," he groaned.

"You thought you had Tom Harris under full control. You thought you could order him to authenticate my death, and have my body cremated. You didn't count on Tom's not having the guts to do this. He told me what you are planning. When you gave me that box of chocolates and told me you had to work late, I disposed of them where they would do no harm. My stand-in, the body that was cremated was a convenient derelict from the morgue."

"I took on a new identity and a new name. Tom and I fell in love. We've been married six months."

"Nancy Beth, what's happening to me? For God's sake, please forgive me! I'm sorry! Honey, I'm dying! Please help me!" Vincent attempted to rise. He gasped for breath, unable to speak further. His eyes, drenched with tears, he carried on his pleadings for mercy.

"Stop that mewling, you arrogant, sleazy, lowlife, scumbag. You're not dying! Tom gave me stuff for your chicken that was meant to give you a bellyache you'd never forget. That's all! The pain will continue for a long time but you won't die. I have to leave now. But, do think of me! Think of me a lot! Think how much worse this could have been. This evening's banquet could have been _a meal to end all meals_!"

## I'll Conjure You Up A Fortune

"What a frumpy-looking woman," thought Adele Griffith, as she opened the door of her luxurious home in Tall Oaks Estates. She smiled and held out her hand.

"You must be Sylvia Watson," she said. "Please come in."

As Adele led the way into the family room, she had a chance to study Sylvia out of the corner of her eye. If she was going to make a go of playing the part of a psychic, she had to sharpen her skills of observation. People reveal much of themselves by how they look, the way they speak, how they walk, what they wear, and in many other ways.

Sylvia was frumpy all right. She was about forty, she guessed, and looked it. Her mousy-blonde hair was in disarray. She wore no makeup. Her dress fit like a sack, making it difficult to ascertain the shape of her figure.

"Sit here, please," Adele suggested politely. Sylvia sat stiffly on the gold brocade couch.

"I'm a little nervous, Ms. Griffith. This is the first time I've ever visited a psychic. You were recommended to me by one of my friends."

"Really?" Adele was impressed. She had been doing this for only a couple of months. The word was getting around. "Can you tell me the name of the person who recommended me?"

"No, I can't. She asked that her name not be mentioned, but she spoke highly of you. She said that you had told her a great deal about herself and had given her some really valuable advice."

Adele rummaged through her mind but was not able to determine from whom the favorable referral had come. "It could have been Janice Campbell or Wanda Ferguson," she thought. "I made some pretty good guesses with them."

If there was anything that Adele knew well, it was that she wasn't a very good psychic. When her husband had left her for that pretty little snip some months earlier, the parting had been bitter. At present, he was not providing any support and the court wasn't proceeding very rapidly in issuing a decree in her favor. Part of the problem was hers, of course. At an earlier time, she had foreseen the split up and had withdrawn all their funds – some eighty-thousand from the savings account that they held jointly. Her husband had made a fuss and the judge was taking this into consideration. Then, too, he was an attorney in the firm of Brent, Cohen, Murphy, and Griffith. Adele thought this might be one reason the judge was dragging his feet.

In preparation for her new profession, Adele had obtained some candles, a Bridge deck, and some posters illustrating signs of the Zodiac. She had placed an ad in the personals announcing that she possessed special powers and was anxious to help people. She had even changed her appearance in several ways. She had spent several hundred for an auburn wig, and more money for a full-length gown with colors gold on gold. Whenever she met with a customer, she took special attention with her eyes and eyebrows. Deep black mascara gave her eyes a mysterious quality.

And, she had developed a philosophy. "Tell them what they want to hear," had become her motto. "Learn to make good guesses, then offer them love, travel, and money." Adele had decided that her fee should be $65 for a consultation of half an hour. She was thinking of going to seventy-five but she knew that she'd have to improve her performance before she could do this.

Now, with Sylvia, she had another opportunity to practice her skills. What did this mousy little woman want to hear?

"Don't be nervous, Sylvia," she cooed. "May I call you Sylvia? Why don't you relax while I set up." She glanced at her visitor and tried to make some determinations as to what she was like and what was happening in her life. Sylvia wore no ring on her left hand. She was unmarried, probably not engaged.

It's all a matter of using one's reasoning powers mused Adele. People give away a lot of information about themselves in subtle ways. She hated those people, usually men, accompanied by their wives, who came to her with nothing but a challenge on their minds. "Go ahead, try to find out something about me," they would seem to be saying. There was only one way to handle those brainless clods. Tell them that the extraterrestrial forces were not cooperating and summarily dismiss them.

Abraham Lincoln had enunciated it elegantly. "It's best to say nothing and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

Adele walked into the kitchen and removed some items from the broom closet. She carried these into the family room and set up a small card table in front of the couch where Sylvia was setting. On the table, she placed the cloth that she had purchased at Halloween time last year. The cloth was black, trimmed with a wide, orange border. "Just the kind of covering for a psychic's table," she had thought.

She placed the candles on the left and right sides of the table and lit them. Then she set the deck of cards in the center. It was an ordinary Bridge deck. Tarot cards would have been better, but they were a too sophisticated for her right now. She had no clue what they meant and how to use them.

"Sylvia, in your phone call, you told me that you wanted to know what the future holds. I sense that you are having some problems."

"Yes, oh yes," exclaimed Sylvia. "I do hope you can help me."

"Off to a good start," Adele gloated inwardly.

"Cut the cards," she directed. "Make three piles. Then turn up the top card of the middle pile."

Sylvia did as she had been directed. It was the Queen of Diamonds.

"The Queen of Diamonds! This is remarkable," exclaimed Adele. "The Queen, a woman. Diamonds represent money. Diamonds also have a connection with love and marriage. The mystical message is crystal-clear. There is a wedding in your future."

She was watching Sylvia closely. She thought she detected a quiver when she spoke the word _marriage_ , and decided to follow up.

"I sense a serious impediment to a marriage."

"Yes! Oh, Ms. Griffith, you do know! You can see! I know now that you will be able to help me."

"Bull's-eye!" Adele congratulated herself, "I'm getting good at this."

"Let me see if I can tell you the name of the other person. I see an _M_ , No it's an _L_. It seems to be changing to a _J_." She had kept her eyes on Sylvia's face. The _M_ and _L_ had evoked no reactions at all. The _J_ had produced a slight shudder in Sylvia's shoulders.

"Yes, I do believe it's a _J_."

"This is amazing," Sylvia gasped. "You're right, Jimmy! Jimmy came into my life some months ago."

"Sylvia, I can see Jimmy clearly in my mind. He's very handsome, and good person. You love him very much, don't you?"

"Yes I do love him. He's married but he doesn't love her. They're separated and she's trying to take him for everything he owns. We don't know what to do."

"I can visualize Jimmy's wife. She's a lecherous, money-grubbing biddy. Sylvia, you must take hold of yourself. I sense that all this is affecting your health. You are profoundly troubled."

"Oh, Ms. Griffith, how did you know? You have learned so much about me in such a short time. Please tell me. Will it be all right?"

"It will be fine. Sylvia, I see a marriage for you in the near future. I see a trip to a sunny island."

An exciting thought occurred to Adele. Sylvia was so gullible that she was probably good for more than one fee. She decided to try an innovation.

"I sense that there is much more to tell you, Sylvia. Unfortunately, the cosmic forces are fading. Would you do something for me? Would you obtain a personal item from Jimmy – like a hanky, a lock of hair, or even some fingernail clippings? Anything at all would do. Do you think you can do this?"

"Y-yes, I think so."

"When you bring me one of those items, I'll be able to understand Jimmy better and give you some really sound advice that you can use. Sylvia, I find that the session has been unusually exhausting. If you don't mind, I'd like to rest now."

"Certainly, I understand perfectly," said Sylvia. "When shall I see you again? What do I owe you now?"

"That will be sixty-five. Just place it on the table."

Sylvia rose from the couch and began walking toward the door. Adele accompanied her. At the door, Adele extended her hand and gave Sylvia's a squeeze. "Can you come back next week at this time?" She asked.

"Yes, I can."

Suddenly Sylvia stiffened and fixed her eyes on Adele's. "Ms. Griffith, something strange is happening," she mumbled.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. It's something about you. I had a momentary revelation about you. Just now. I saw a letter. You're going to receive some money."

"That's impossible," Adele exclaimed. Then she laughed. "What's going on anyway, I'm supposed to be the psychic here."

"Yes, you're probably right. It's nothing. I'll see you next week."

Sylvia left but Adele stood at the door puzzling over what Sylvia had envisioned. The only way that any money could be coming her way would be from a court settlement. There had been an automobile accident eight years earlier and she had sued. Her husband had agreed to handle her case. She hated to do it, but decided to call her husband.

"Hello," the male voice on the other end sounded sleepy.

"I hope I'm not taking you away from anything important," Adele sputtered sarcastically. "Are you surprised to hear from me? This is a business call."

"What do you want?"

"You don't have to be so unfriendly. How is that orange-haired floozy girlfriend of yours? If she's there say _hi_ to her for me. Don't wake her up if she's asleep."

"Get to the point. I'm busy!"

"How is that court case coming along? You know, the one that has been dragging on for so many years."

"Funny you should ask about that. You must be psychic. I've been able to settle it. After the firm's share you'll be getting $200. We were planning on putting a letter to you in tomorrow's mail."

"Two hundred? Is that all? And you are taking a third of the settlement?"

"Why yes, of course. That was the agreement when you signed up with me. Besides, it's not I who is taking the cut; it's the firm."

"I'm sure you could have done better if you had wanted to. I'm going to sue! I'll have you disbarred! Oh, what a fool I was to think I was in love with an ambulance chaser!"

"After the eighty-thousand you stole from me, you expect me to be gallant and go out of my way to help you? Not on your life! You've got a nerve. You'll be getting your check in the mail. Now I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone."

"Scum," she muttered as she hung up.

Adele pick up the phone and dialed the number that was deeply engraved in her mind.

"Gordon, I just talked to my husband. My accident cases been settled. I'll be getting a pittance."

She listened for a few seconds.

"No, Gordon. There is no need to divorce him. Don't you see? In time, the court will award me a generous settlement. Then, with what's left of the eighty thousand, and your salary, we can live the life of royalty."

There were some words on the other end. "Yes, we'll talk about it tomorrow when you come over. Be careful, don't be seen."

She was about to disconnect when another thought occurred to her. "Oh, say, Gordon, the strangest thing happened tonight. You know that silly little experiment of mine – learning to be a psychic? My customer tonight was a wretched little woman who told me I was coming into some money. Could she have meant the settlement?"

She listened. "Yes you're right. It's absurd. Just a coincidence. Good night, darling. Can't wait till tomorrow. I'm planning an evening you'll never forget."

The week went by quickly. Adele had three clients and earned $195. She had nowhere near the success that she had enjoyed what Sylvia. But then, Sylvia had been unusually stupid. The biggest event of the week was the receipt of the settlement check.

Sylvia, as disheveled as on the previous visit, was exactly on time for her second visit. She brought a handkerchief with the initials _JG_ embroidered in a corner.

"Is this Jimmy's hanky?"

"Yes, it is. Will it allow you to understand Jimmy better?"

"Definitely!" Adele set up her paraphernalia, then folded the handkerchief and placed it under the deck of cards. When asked to do so, Sylvia cut the deck and produced a seven of clubs.

Adele pretended to be elated. "The seven," she cried out. "The luckiest of the numbers! This is good, very good. A seven combined with clubs indicates that you will be successful in any endeavor that requires planning. I sense that monetary decisions are being made. I have a plan for you. I'll conjure you up a fortune!"

"I don't see how you do it," exclaimed Sylvia. "You really do have a gift. Jimmy and I have been doing a great deal of planning. There are problems with money. Whatever you do for us will be so helpful!"

"Relax! Soon your money problems will evaporate like the fog on a hot summers day. Sylvia, I see nothing but wealth and happiness for you two."

"Do you see a trip to Jamaica?"

"Oh yes, Sylvia, definitely Jamaica. I see blue skies and white clouds. I see emerald green waves breaking on white sandy shores."

"Oh, Ms. Griffith, I don't know how to thank you for what you've told me. I'm so indebted to you. How I envy you for being able to see the future so clearly!"

"How could this pumpkin head be so gullible," thought Adele. Audibly, she remarked, "Maybe you have some psychic ability too, Sylvia. Remember, you told me last week that I was coming into some money? I did receive an amount during the week. It was completely unexpected. Have you ever had any supernatural training?"

"Oh, no. Nothing at all. The image in my head last week was only a trick that my mind played on me. I'm sure the money you received was just a coincidence."

No sooner had Sylvia completed her remark than she gasped and slowly rose from her seat. "I feel so peculiar," she murmured. "I don't know what's happening to me or why. It must be that I'm in the presence of the universal forces that you attract. I'm receiving another revelation about you. It's stronger than the first. Does the name Gordon Cutler mean anything to you? I see that your husband has found out about someone named Gordon and is suing for divorce."

Adele blanched. "Ridiculous. That's impossible. There's no Gordon in my life."

The two women stared at each other wordlessly. Adele broke the silence. "I'm afraid I'm exhausted now. I can't continue. I'm sorry. Please come back next week. There is no charge for today. Let yourself out."

Abruptly, Adele walked away leaving Sylvia gaping. She went directly to the extension phone in her bedroom and phoned her husband. "A spooky woman was just here," she began, "and she told me that, that..."

"That I'm divorcing you? Yes, Adele, I filed papers today. The grounds are adultery. I've had you followed. I'm naming Gordon Cutler as co-respondent."

"You dirty weasel, you're not going to do this to me! I won't let you! I'll fight you every step of the way! That hot, painted Jezebel that has you so mesmerized is not going to take my place!" She slammed down the receiver and threw herself on the bed sobbing bitterly.

On the following day, Adele received a phone call from Sylvia. "I've had another vision, Ms. Griffith," she bubbled. "This was the strongest yet. I saw you with winnings of one thousand dollars. I need to place a bet for you at Off-Track Betting. Do I have your permission to do this?"

"How much will it cost me?" Adele asked suspiciously.

"One hundred," exclaimed Adele, "but you don't have to give me anything. Let this be a little gift to show you how much I appreciate everything you're doing for Jimmy and me."

"All right then. Go ahead and bet for me on whichever nag your vision tells you is going to win. But, Sylvia, I don't want to sound unappreciative. I don't think this will go anywhere. Besides, I don't care whether I win or not. I've got problems that a mere thousand dollars is going to solve."

The next day, Sylvia called with the good news that Adele was one thousand dollars richer. "Thanks for the good news," Adele murmured. "By the way, there's no need for you to call me Ms. Griffith any longer. My name is Adele." They hung up.

"How did she do that?" Adele wondered as she reached for a chocolate cream. "Could it be that this unattractive, dowdy woman really does have psychic powers? Wouldn't this be ironic? If Sylvia is indeed gifted, how can I cash in on it?" Adele phoned Sylvia.

"Sylvia, my friend, you know that thousand dollars that I won? Do you suppose that you could roll it over and make another bet for me at Off-Track Betting? Just between us psychics, you suppose you could arrange to have another vision?"

"Yes, I know I can. I picked up the power at your place. Oh Adele, you've done so much for me. I now want to repay you for all your kindness."

"Sylvia, my dear," Adele breathed the words dulcetly, "Can you put, say seventy or eighty thousand on the next bet? When you win, that would set me up for life!"

"Oh yes, I know you'll win, Adele. But I don't have that kind of money. You'll have to give it to me in cash."

"Come over at ten tomorrow morning. I'll have the money for you."

The next morning, Adele waited for the bank to open. She withdrew everything from her money market account. The bank officer asked her if she really wanted to do this and she assured him she did.

Later at her home, the bell rang and the Adele scurried to the door. It was Sylvia. Adele handed her a bundle of bills.

"Here, Sylvia," she said. "Vision me up a fortune!"

"No problem!" Sylvia stated confidently.

Time passed slowly that day for Adele. She sat next to the phone watching television and eating chocolates. Finally the phone rang and Adele seized it eagerly. Sylvia was on the other end. "Sylvia, I'm so happy you called. What's the good news?"

"I have information of the greatest importance to you. May I come over?"

"Oh yes, please do. I can hardly wait!"

An hour later, Adele opened the door and was surprised to see a slim vision of loveliness standing at the entryway. She had to look twice to make sure who it was. It was Sylvia! What a difference! For the first time, Adele noticed that Sylvia's eyes were a deep blue, set against the background of her coiffured, shiny blonde hair, they sparkled like sapphires. She was dressed in a stunning two-piece black suit and was wearing stylish black stockings to match. There were fancy white ruffles on her blouse. Slung over her shoulder, she carried a Gucci black leather bag.

"Sylvia, what have you done with yourself? You're beautiful."

"Sit!" Sylvia's voice was sharp.

Surprised by the severity of Sylvia's tone, Adele sank numbly into the couch. She was suddenly struck with a fearful premonition.

"What's going on," she managed to blurt.

"Jimmy says that you referred to me as a weird woman," Sylvia began. "Hell, that was just an act. I wanted you to think I was a foolish dimwit that you could easily exploit. And it worked."

"The way you see me now is what I normally look like. You don't suppose that the receptionist at your husband's law office could get away looking tacky, do you? If there's anyone drab, dowdy, and unattractive around here it's you, Adele. Look at yourself, witchy looking, overweight, flabby, it's no wonder that your husband decided to leave you."

"My husband? What does James have to do with all this?"

"Your James and my Jimmy are the same person," replied Sylvia. "You know, of course, that he was furious when you took that money out of the joint account. He asked me if I would help him get it back. And, of course, I agreed. I would do _anything_ for my honey."

"You're lying! You have to be a psychic. You knew about the settlement. You knew about Gordon. You knew about the suit for divorce."

"Of course I knew. Jimmy told me."

"And what about those winnings at the track?"

"Pure imagination, Adele. There weren't any winnings. There weren't any visions. There was only your greed. There was never any doubt that we would be able to get back all the money you took."

"And by the way, thank you for your visions. They were remarkably accurate. You predicted there would be a marriage in our future, and money, and a great trip!"

"You're not going to make all those plans come true with my money," Adele screamed. "Give it back!"

Sylvia smiled. "Give what back?" She asked coyly. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with my honey."

## Introducing That Damn Little Bocce Ball Planet

"Space Shuttle, Victoria," an unfamiliar voice was heard. "This is planet Immia. We are right in front of you, the object you've compared to a bocce ball. Please respond."

The call came as a surprise.

Mark Martini was at the controls of Shuttle, Victoria, as it descended to 125 miles above Earth. His copilot, Wilma Brown, had been lazily scanning the horizon. The curvature of the earth was clearly evident as the ship sped across the southern countries of Africa. There were six persons in the crew. Besides the pilot and copilot, there were James Maxwell, Flight Engineer; Lee Halloway, Navigator; Robert Flanders, Science Director; and Leon Chi, Communications Consultant.

The six crew members were buried in a myriad of instruments. Dials and switches of many colors, shapes, and types adorning the instrument panel below the windshield, the walls, and the roof of the flight cabin. Their lights blazed in competition with the morning sunlight.

"Hello!" Mike muttered. "What's this?" He was young, robust, with jet black hair, dressed in a white shirt and khaki pants.

"See something?" Wilma asked. She was attractive, well-built, blonde hair, also in white and khaki.

"Yes, look there. What is that?" Mike pointed to an object several meters ahead of the ship. "It looks like a little ball."

"What would a little ball be doing up here?" Roberta asked. "Maybe it's some sort of space junk. Look out, you're going to run into it."

Mike tapped the button labeled _Retro_ a few times; the shuttle slowed a bit, then dropped a few meters. Victoria was now on the tail of the object traveling at about the same velocity and at the same distance from Earth. "Can't be junk. Look, it's perfectly round," commented Mike. "I'm going to go a little closer to get a better look."

"What's going on up there?" It was the voice of Randy Rawlings, Mission Control Shift Chief.

"Hi, Randy," responded Mike. "We've drifted down to a new altitude so that we could get those pictures you requested. Right in front of us there is a tiny round object, about the size of a bocce ball. Were trying to figure out what it is."

"Bocce ball? What kind of description is that?"

"To me, that's what it looks like – round, smooth, dull, blue mottled with various other colors, weight, estimate, about two hundred kilograms. What would you recommend we do?"

"Well, we can't leave it there." Randy sounded worried. "It's not on our charts. Another crew might run into it accidentally. Could destroy a shuttle. Is probably some space debris that we've never recorded. Maybe you can give it a little shove and send it to outer space."

"Wouldn't it be better to pick it up with the retractable arm and bring it back to earth? Maybe there's something interesting that we can learn from it."

"Hate to take the time to do that," responded Randy "but you're probably right. Can the arm handle an object the small as a, like you say, bocce ball?"

"Oh sure," Mike reassured him. "We could pick up a pin if we had to. We'll have the object in the cargo bay in no time."

"Go ahead, then."

"Okay. Wilma, shall we begin the countdown on the arm?"

"Sure," she responded. "This will take about half an hour."

It was 11:42 military time when the call was heard. "Space Shuttle, Victoria, this is planet Immia. We are right in front of you, the object you've compared to a bocce ball. Please respond."

"What was that?" blurted Mike.

Wilma chuckled. "Someone's playing a joke. OK, Randy, who sounded off?"

"It didn't come from here," Randy responded. "Which of you is the ventriloquist?"

Mike and Wilma looked at each other, puzzlement and shrouding their faces.

The voice was heard again. "Space Shuttle, Victoria. This is planet Immia. Please respond."

"Planet Immia, you in front? Is that you calling? You're a planet? Come on, whoever's joking. Quit kidding around!"

"We've triangulated on the sound," Randy's voice came back. "The source is twenty meters immediately ahead of you. Our guys here are trying to figure out what it is."

"Space Shuttle, Victoria, we are another satellite of earth, like your moon. Up to this time, we've been unknown to you. But, we must now reveal our existence. We can't accept being retracted into your cargo bay! I'm sure you can understand that."

"You can't be a satellite," objected Mike. "We would have known about you. And you're too small to be a planet."

"We're only 125 miles above Earth, and have always been here," responded the voice. "Hardly a place where your astronomers would expect to find a moon. Then, too, as you have stated, we're very much smaller than you are. The fact is that we've been invisible to Earth for over four billion years."

Randy's voice was heard. "I have the President of the United States patched in from the White House. He wants to ask Mike some questions. Go ahead Mr. President."

The unmistakable voice of the President was heard. "Mr. Martini, this here little talking bocce ball, would you have any trouble putting it into the cargo bay?"

"Not at all, Mr. President, but we're hearing a voice from the object saying it's a planet. I'm not sure we should do what you're asking."

"Well, I'm not going to have any little bocce ball tell me what I can or can't do," roared the President. "What I'm saying goes! Go ahead with the pickup. I want to examine that _damn little Bocce Ball Planet_ in person!"

Another voice was heard. "Mr. President of the United States, Planet Earth, this is Oiram Etnarem, World Minister of Planet Immia. We can't allow you to interfere with the peaceful, independent existence of our planet! We are a populated world with two billion inhabitants." There was indignation in the voice.

The raucous laughter of the President reverberated in the small cockpit of the shuttle. "Reel it in, guys," he ordered. Mark and Wilma stared at each other, uncertain what to do. After a moment, they heard the strained voice of Randy Rawlings, "Better do it, guys."

Wilma turned a few dials and flipped a couple of switches. "Start the countdown, Mike."

"Spaceship, Victoria, you are not authorized to interfere with our autonomy! We must warn you, we have the technological capability to repel this interference on our right of self-determination. Desist from any further actions to harass us!"

"I said, reel in the friggin' thing," thundered the President.

"Let's do it Wilma," Mike spoke barely audibly.

Suddenly, the retro rockets on Victoria were activated and the shuttle began to nose downward. "What's going on?" yelled Mike.

"Did you do this, Mike?" demanded Wilma.

"No I didn't!"

"Hey," came the voice of Randy. "Mike, what are you doing?"

"I didn't do a thing! Mark insisted. We have an unexpected problem here!"

"Stop the burn!" cried out Randy. "Reset! Reverse!"

"I'm trying, the controls are not responding!"

"What's happening?" It was the impatient voice of the President. "Status report!"

"Shut up, Mr. President." It was Randy's voice. "We have a serious malfunction. We could lose the crew!"

"We are accelerating, Randy," Mike cried out. "Were in full forward velocity. Can't _you_ do something?"

"You're probably reentering the Earth's atmosphere," Randy responded. "You'll be going into blackout within sixty seconds. And your fuel will be exhausted. You're probably going to land on Earth somewhere, but we'll have to do some calculations to find out where exactly. The computers have lost the ability to track you."

"Great!" mumbled Wilma. "And you don't know if we're going to splash!"

"It's too soon to tell what's going to happen," Randy muttered. "After the blackout, we'll be back in contact. Five minutes. Good luck!"

Randy had barely spoken the words when the phones were choked with static. Mike flicked the switch to _off_. Roberta did the same with her phones.

The G's increased, five, six, ten, fifty, one hundred, until the scale couldn't record anything higher. Flames from the heat shield obscured the windshield. Then the shuttle slowed to a normal descent velocity.

"Did you see that scale?" Wilma marveled. "We should be as flat as pancakes!"

"But I didn't feel the usual G forces," she continued, "even though the needle hit the top of the scale."

"Something's wrong with the scale, obviously," Mike opined. "Where are we? Do you recognize anything?"

They looked through the thick windshield. There were knolls below, forests, rivers, cities, houses, roads.

"I can't tell whether we're closer to Florida or Siberia," said Mike sarcastically.

"Will someone tell me what's going on." The agitated voice of Randy came through the speakers.

"Wish I knew," grumbled Mike.

Objects on the ground were getting larger. They were at several thousand feet and Mike attempted to take the controls.

"They won't respond! I can't control the ship!"

"Disconnect the computer," shouted Wilma.

"I'm trying to. I'm trying to!"

The shuttle continue to descend. They were over the treetops now, barely skimming them. There was no sign of an open landing space anywhere ahead. Suddenly, from nowhere, it appeared – a long runway. The shuttle settled into it as if it were being guided by an expert pilot or an infallible computer. In a few moments, the shuttle slowed and rolled to a stop. There was silence.

Amazed at the turn of events, the crew unbuckled themselves from their seats. The door was electrically opened without difficulty and the six person walked down the steps. When on the ground they began looking around.

"Look," shouted Lee Holloway, and pointed to the sky. "What in holy hell is that?"

Immediately above them, filling the sky, so close it appeared near enough to touch, was Earth. It was shrouded with clouds, but the East Coast in the vicinity of Boston was clearly visible.

"That's Earth," gasped Rob Flanders.

"If that's earth, then where the hell are we now?" demanded Leon Chi.

"Would someone please tell me what's going on?" It was Randy again. "Come in Victoria."

"Wait," shouted Lee, "something's happening."

The crew could see a small group of people approaching. As they came nearer, they could discern a massive being, approximately eight feet in height, with a fiery red beard, dressed in flowing purple robes. He seemed to be the leader. Close behind were three other persons, who could have been men or women, of about the same height, similarly dressed.

"Looks like a welcoming committee," James Maxwell ventured. "Look at the sizes of those people!"

The bearded leader of the group approached and held out his hand. "Hello, I'm Oiram Etnarem, World Minister of planet Immia, Bocce Ball Planet, as you have called us. I bid you welcome."

"What's going on? Where are you? Come in, Mike." Randy's voice sounded shrill as it emanated from within the ship.

"Tell him," Etnarem addressed Mike. "Indeed, tell all people on Planet Earth, especially your President, that you are to be our guests for a short period of time. Now that you have discovered the existence of Immia, there is need for greater understanding between our two worlds. And the very first thing that must be understood is that we are never again to be referred to as that _damn little Bocce Ball Planet_!"

## Time After Time

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press and of television," Dr. Walgrave began. "Man has long desired to go back in time, or to the future. Within a few minutes, we will attempt to send James Thorton, son of our esteemed senator from North Dakota, back to the 17th of April, 1945. There, he will do nothing but observe for five minutes, then return. Based upon what Jim tells us at his return, the scientific community will determine what further experiments could and should be conducted." Dr. Walgrave, a bespectacled man of medium height, about forty, gazed at the members of his audience who were beginning to babble with excitement. A dozen voices began shouting a jumble of questions.

This hectic scene was taking place less than five minutes after the meeting in the Green room had begun. At first there had been a hush awaiting an opening statement from Ron Boswell. "We've brought you here because of the momentous significance of the occasion," the President's Press Secretary announced. He brushed aside his shock of jet black hair. "The president of the United State has a statement to make, after which he will allow a few questions."

Ron nodded toward President Richard Allison who stepped to the microphone, adjusted his massive bulk, then spoke. "Doctor William Wallgrave, of the Massachusetts Institute of technology, here at my side, will speak to you about an experiment that has never before been performed. Preparations for it have been confidential until now." The President of the United States stepped aside and Dr. Wallgrave took his place.

After Doctor Wallgrave had made his statement, Ron needed to shout, "One at a time, one at a time! "Mister Brown, you have a question." Michael Brown, of NBC, happy for the opportunity, called out, not one, but a series of questions, "Is this on the level? Is time travel a reality? How long has this been going on? When will...?"

"Wait," Ron interrupted. "One question at a time. Doctor Wallgrave, would you give us some background information?"

Doctor Wallgrave stepped back to the Mike. "As you all know, it was discovered last year that the light gathered by a large reflex telescope could be accelerated to a velocity far greater than the speed of light, which up until that time, had been thought impossible. It was demonstrated that incidents that had taken place on Earth years ago could be viewed from a spacecraft. Science has taken the next logical step. A force field has been developed that can allow actual landings at times in the past. We have arranged for you to participate as witnesses in an experiment that is closed to the public. The media is being asked to witness the experiment, then report the results to the American people."

Ron motioned to Linda Stewart, an attractive brunette, White House correspondent from CBS.

"This question is directed to Doctor Wallgrave. Why was James Thornton selected to go. Shouldn't an astronaut have been chosen?"

"This journey does not demand much exertion," the doctor responded. "All that will be required of Jim is that he stand on a street corner for five minutes. A time mechanism in this room will bring him back at the end of that time. The whole thing will require no more energy than drinking a cup of coffee. And, oh yes, he was nominated for this adventure by his father, the respected legislator from North Dakota, Senator Samuel Thornton. The senator's son is Professor of Political Science at Harvard, a logical choice for the assignment."

James Thornton, about twenty-five, in a gray business suit reminiscent of the forties, with a matching light–colored fedora and red–striped tie, shifted from foot to foot. He glanced around the room seemingly evaluating the reaction of the attendees. He smiled at his father; the distinguished, gray-haired man radiated with pride.

Madeleine Chandler, from ABC, called out a question. "Doctor, is it not dangerous to fool with the past? Couldn't Mr. Thornton's presence in the past, with all the knowledge he has about what is going to happen, affect the future – that is, _the now_?" Ms. Chandler was considered the matriarch of news reporters. She was scheduled to retire later in the year.

Dr. Walgrave looked in the direction of the white haired woman. "We don't think the future will be affected," he replied. "Jim Thornton will be in 1945 only a few minutes. If we thought there would be any danger of history being affected, we wouldn't have agreed to send him." Madeleine Chandler shook her head strongly, displaying extreme dubiousness.

There were questions from others in the assemblage including Thomas Finley of CNN, Dorothy Saunders of the Washington Post, Gordon Maxwell of the Wall Street Journal, and others. When all questions had been answered and the commotion had died down, everyone was requested to look in the direction of an archway that had been erected a few feet away. In a couple of minutes, James Thornton was to walk through that archway, fade from view as he journeyed to 1945, then reappear exactly five minutes later.

Dr. Walgrave nodded toward Jim Thornton, who walked to the archway. Pausing a few feet from its opening. He glanced at his father, then at the President, finally at the others in the room. His father nodded reassuringly. Jim turned his eyes toward the opening and quickly walked through it. The scene dissolved gradually as Jim was seen to pause at the other side, then was gone.

Five minutes passed slowly. When this amount of time had been exceeded, many in the Green Room showed anxiety. After six minutes had elapsed and Jim had not returned, there was apprehension that something had gone wrong. All that represented reality in the room began to fade slowly, then disappeared entirely. It was gradually replaced by the emergence of the same room except with different people in attendance.

"We have brought you to the Green Room because of the momentous significance of the occasion," Gregg Narcraft, the Press Secretary announced. He brushed aside his shock of light brown hair. "Our beloved Leader Superior, James Thornton, President of the United States and Prime Minister of the United World Federation, has a statement to make. There will be no questions." Gregg nodded toward President Thornton who stepped to the microphone. The President and Prime Minister, frail, in his mid-nineties, spoke; weary words barely clearing his throat. "Doctor Andrew Phillips has a statement to make," he mumbled.

Doctor Phillips stepped to the mike, bowed to the President, then spoke to the audience consisting of Gregg Narcraft, Daniel Stone, of Amalgamated Television, and Gerald Ward of Consolidated Press.

"Our magnificent Leader Superior, James Thornton," he began, "has decided to personally participate in a an experiment involving travel to the past. He was elected in 1948 defeating the infamous President Truman. He has become more and more revered by people of the United States and, indeed, by citizens of all other nations of the world. With majestic bravery, he has held his staunch finger on the trigger of atomic weaponry directing its use exclusively to constructive and peaceful activities. Now, he will embark upon a triumphant experiment to determine whether a return to April 17, 1945 is possible. While others have suggested that a younger man should attempt this trial, he has insisted that he alone undertake it. In a few minutes, the Leader Superior will be reverently assisted to the archway that has been erected in this room. He was step through its opening. A tiny mechanism will allow him to remain in 1945 for a duration of only five minutes. After that he will triumphantly return reporting what he has learned."

Doctor Phillips turned to Gregg Narcraft, who glanced at the aged James Thornton. The Leader Superior nodded. "Let the experiment began," he wheezed.

## The Mistrial

Cora Fielding, Forewoman of the jury, took a vote as soon as the five men and seven women had been seated. She announced the result had been eleven votes for innocent and one for guilty. Ms. Fielding, about 35, overweight, blond with streaks of gray asked, "Would the person who voted guilty care to identify himself or herself?" Janet Carter raised her hand. Puzzled, Ms. Fielding stared at her. "You don't look familiar," she said. "Are you one of the jurors? What is your name?"

"I'm registered with you as Mary Carter," responded the juror. "My real name is Janet Carter." Mystified, the other members of the jury remained silent. "This is bizarre," commented Ms. Fielding. What did you do, switch places with Mary Carter? "No," responded, Janet. "I'm the same person that entered the room. I took on a different appearance and name while we were voting."

"Nonsense," retorted the forewoman angrily. "What's going on here? As I recall, the other person was young with dark hair. You're, at least, thirty years older! How did you get in here? Where is the other person?"

"I know this will cause a mistrial," said Janet. "I have a special reason to being here. The other person was me as a young woman. My present appearance is as I was when I died! We're here to judge the innocence or guilt of Jerome Carter. He's accused of killing his wife, Janet Carter. Most people think this trial is a farce since there was no physical evidence linking him to the crime. I'm here because I know he's guilty! _I am the person he killed!_ "

The silence in the room continued but its character changed from mysticism to shock. There was not so much as a murmur in the room. After several seconds, Ms. Fielding found her voice. "Do I understand that you are claiming to be the murdered person?"

"Exactly, declared Janet!"

"How can we believe that? What can you show? What is your objective in being here?" gasped Ms. Fielding.

"I do have a purpose, "responded, Mary. "Whether you believe what I'm saying or not, does not matter. I want this jury to file back into the courtroom and have Jerome see me, a year after he shot me. We need to see his reaction."

"I can't agree to that," Ms. Fielding shouted. "As forewoman of this jury, it's my duty to report this to the judge at once. This is for him to handle." She picked up the phone. "Open the door," she commanded. "We're coming back. Now!"

She led ten jurors to the door. Janet followed slowly several steps behind.

There were still several persons in the courtroom. The judge was standing behind the bench speaking to his adjutant. Jerome Carter, the defendant, middle aged and balding, was seated absorbed in a discussion with his lawyer. The prosecutor was having an animated conversation with several reporters.

A great deal of confusion ensued as eleven members of the jury seated themselves. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded Judge Allen. "Your honor," began Ms. Fielding but didn't get any further. Janet was walking through the door when Jerome Carter caught sight of her. He hesitated for a moment, then rose shakily.

Janet pointed her finger at him. "I've come back, darling," she shouted. With color draining from his face, Jerome sank back into his chair.

"Yes, it's me, lover," Janet continued. "Do you have anything to say to your adoring wife? Speak! Though I'm already dead, I'm dying to hear your voice!"

"Jan, Jan, I'm sorry!" shrieked Jerome. "I did it in a moment of madness. I'm sorry!

You're dead! Go back. Go back to wherever you've come from." He clapped both hands to his eyes and began to sob.

"I'll go now, beloved," responded Janet. "But I won't be far. Stray not one step from the path you need to walk!"

She vanished. The room was quiet except for the tumultuous sounds of Jerome's continuing sobs.

## The Ghost Town Trap

The large police SUV glided to a stop at the Ghost Town Service Station's driveway. The driver, Officer Wilbert, stepped out and was met by the proprietor of the station. He returned to the vehicle and said, "He thinks it's the transmission. They'll need to hold the car a day or two to fix it. We're stuck with staying in Ghost Town for a while."

It was Sunday and very hot. The officers in the car had not noticed this because of the air conditioning. Officer Wilbert wiped the sweat from his brow. Clean-shaven, he was a tall man, clad impeccably in gray. He wore a western-style hat.

There were three males in the rear seat of the vehicle, Officers Johnson and Troller, one on each side of Xavier Beale who sat, glum faced, with arms and legs shackled. "What about him," asked Officer Johnson pointing to their prisoner?

"The jail is across the street. Let's go there and find out," responded Officer Wilbert.

Officers Johnson and Troller were also wearing gray police vesture. Each sported a mustache and it was difficult to tell them apart in poor light. They had on visored headgear. The prisoner, Xavier Beale, also known as Butcher Beale, was about forty-five. He was unkempt in dirty blue slacks and white shirt.

The quartet walked across Main Street and entered the Ghost Town Jail. There were three unoccupied cells inside and a massive oak desk near the door. A heavy-set individual sat scribbling on some papers. He wore a faded blue suit that was too small for him. There was a gun belt fastened over his jacket with a revolver in the holster.

The man looked up as the visitors entered. "Well?" he questioned no one in particular.

"We need a place to park this here, Mr. Beale, while our car is being fixed," said Officer Wilbert. The loud air conditioner in the room all but drowned out his words. "We're taking him across the desert to Valencia and can't take a chance on the car breaking down. Can you accommodate him?" The large man rose noticing Beale. "Oh him! Yeah, I can do that." Immediately, without explanation, he pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it at the officers. "Unshackle that man," he commanded. "Lay your guns on the table and get in the cells." Surprised, the officers complied and the man locked the cell doors. Beale stood dumbfounded, puzzled over the sudden turn of events.

"I'm Mayor Adam Gordon," announced the heavy-set man. "And the Chief of Police. I'm the law here in Ghost Town." The man was huge, towering over, and outweighing, the others in the room by far. He turned his attention to the Xavier Beale. "As for you, I know who you are," he said. "I've read about your rampage in the paper but can't help admiring you a little for your resourcefulness. I think you're a killer but I also believe there's been a rush to justice. In this country everyone is innocent until proven guilty. I'm giving you a last few hours of freedom before these clowns take you to be dealt with across the desert."

"To me, you're simply Butcher Beale," he continued. "There are a lot of people in this town who are on your side. You'll have a chance to enjoy their company. We'll feed you, entertain you, and house you in our luxurious quarters on the second floor of the Ghost Town Saloon. But don't think you'll have a chance to get away. We'll have 184 pairs of good citizen's eyes following your every move. Their owners will be hospitable to you, but they have guns and know how to use them. And even if you did try to cross the dessert with any of the jalopies the people drive in this here town, you'll end up frying in the heat. Compared to the desert just outside that door, Death Valley would feel like Nome, Alaska!"

There was one of every necessary business in town, a restaurant, beauty parlor, barber shop, even a newspaper. After having enjoyed a steak at the restaurant, Beale spent the night at the room atop the tavern. Early Monday, he decided to take a walk around town before breakfast. He believed what Mayor Gordon had said about trying to escape and had made up his mind simply to impress the inhabitants of the town and enjoy his new-found liberty as best he could. And, who knows, he thought, something might come up that would allow him to escape.

He entered the barber shop. The small, elderly barber hastened to him and oozed, "Mr. Beale, sir, you can't believe how we feel about you. You're the most creative of the classic lawbreakers by far. We have to go by what Mayor Gordon says, but, believe me, if we could let you escape, we would!"

"That's nice of you, mumbled Beale."

He walked by the beauty parlor next and was surprised to see the rush to the window by the women inside. They waved vigorously and he returned their greetings with one of his own. He wondered if he should return a little later to check whether any of the women was receptive to the idea of a little covert adventure.

The Ghost Town Diner was next on the street. Being hungry, Beale pushed open the heavy glass door and walked in. The first sounds he heard were cheers from every side. Someone started a cheer. Others took it up. The hostess, a pretty young blond, seized Butcher Beale's arm and escorted him to a booth. She sat on the seat opposite him and exclaimed, "I'm claiming you as my own!" She turned and shouted to the cook, "Don't bother with the menu, Nick. Make a batch of the works for Xavier and me!" Turning to a flustered Beale, she asked, "You don't mind it I call you by your first name, do you?" He shook his head, _no_.

Overwhelmed with the attention, Butcher decided to let the course of events take their own course. After Nick had delivered the food and the couple was eating, the blond said, "My name is Clara. Some of the people in town don't believe you did the Harland thing. They claim your reputation of being clever is unwarranted. But, I'm with you! I'm on your side. That group of five in Harland probably deserved what they got. But a lot of police in the country and a lot of newspapers put up a howl that you needed to be caught and brought to instant justice. I'm glad we've got a man like Mayor Gordon here who can defy convention and have you treated with the respect you deserve!"

"I ain't naturally a liar, Clara," responded Beale. "My lawyer told me I gotta play it cool. It makes me sore that some people have the feelings you say. But I can tell you one thing, that newspaper guy in Harland figured out pretty much how it was done. If people think it wasn't me, that's their problem. I ain't gonna say one way or the other."

Clara said, "Beautifully stated, Xavier. Say, I got a nice place not far from here. There's too much hustle and bustle here. Maybe later we can go there for a little dessert and you can explain a few things about how it was done. Without admitting anything, of course. Then, I'll give you a good bye gift you'll never forget!"

"No point wasting time," retorted Beale, greatly intrigued. "I can see you understand me. I'll say this to you and only you. It took some smarts to figure out how to gather those people in the same place at the same time. They were all into Astrology. The newspaper guy had it right. There was a fake reading sent to the group. The rest was automatic."

"It was really you, then?" exclaimed Clara excitedly.

"Yeah, it was me! I'm telling you this because you're on the level. I feel I can trust you. I don't see you with a camera." He grinned. "And, you're not wearing a wire, are you? I plan to look for it myself after we leave here. Tell those yokels out there you know I did the whole thing but don't tell 'em I told you. They can think I'm brainy if they want to. It'll be the truth. I'm finished with the food. Wanna go to your place now?"

"Yeah, I do, Xavier, but in a little while. I just got a sudden headache. Suppose I meet you back here in an hour, hon. Will that be OK?"

Disappointed, Beale agreed and began roaming the streets. He knew the next hour would take a year to elapse.

When Beale returned to the diner an hour later, there were dozens of men and women engaged in various tasks involving the loading of materials into trucks large and small. Some vehicles were already being driven away. The officers who had taken him to this town were chatting amicably with Adam Gordon in the street outside the jail. Beale did not see Clara. Officer Wilbert glimpsed Beale's arrival and approached him with gun in hand. Officers Johnson and Troller joined him and immediately cuffed Beale. "We'll be on our way in a minute," said Officer Wilbert.

Dumbfounded, Beale stammered, "What's going on?"

Officer Wilbert responded. "We're putting Ghost Town back to sleep," he said. "All the people you see here are members of the police force. The town hasn't seen this much activity in over fifty years. Now that you've admitted to the Harland atrocity we're putting it back to like it was. And you're the star in a movie that will be watched by the jury at your trial. They'll be especially interested in your line, 'Yeah, it was me.' "

Stunned, Beale stammered. "This was all make-believe? Clara too?"

"Oh, you mean Officer Clara Wells. Yeah, she was part of the make believe. And by the way, she sent a message for you. She said to tell you that she's sorry but she still has that

headache."

## A Chaotic Scrambling Of Jupiter's Moons

When I asked Professor Krisbin why he had done it, his response was an unexpected, "Because I could!"

What had led to this outrageous remark? Well, here is the story. I'll let you decide whether his actions had been criminal.

I don't have any idea whether what I'm about to tell you will have a beneficial or harmful result, but I'm compelled to do it because you need to know the truth. It's in the Bible, "Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free."

Not many people know that several of the planets in the Solar System have a great many more moons than they might have thought. It's no secret. There is no conspiracy here. It simply isn't interesting for most folks! Many of the moons were only recently discovered and several of them don't even have names. As an example Saturn has sixty-two moons; Uranus, twenty-seven, Jupiter, sixty-seven. These are not final counts. More moons are being discovered all the time. Consider Jupiter. for example. The names of some of the moons in this giant planet are Io, Europa, Ganymede, Callisto, Metis, and Himalea. Some moons are named with temporary designations like S/1999 J1. Among Jupiter's moons, there are some that are very large; two are larger than our own moon. Ganymede is also larger than the planet, Mercury. Several of the moons are tiny, barely a mile or two in diameter.

In April, an exploration was made of the tiny moon S/2003 J9. Professor Andrew Krisbin had been in charge. A powerful rocket had been shot to its surface with the purpose of staring up some dust so that it could be studied. What happened afterwards was something not intended. The rocket had been too powerful. Or so it was thought. We know differently today! The impact threw the moon completely out of orbit! Whirling out of control, it struck the larger moon, Kalyke!

NASA reported the experiment had been a success. It was I who made the announcement. I was Press Secretary for NASA and knew that what I was saying was wrong, but I had no choice. Most of us felt that nothing really bad would come out of this. But, this wasn't the universal opinion. I saw worried expressions on several of the scientists who frequented the lunch room. From the somber looks on their faces, I sensed they were worried that something earth-shaking had taken place; no pun intended. I was devastated having had to tell a lie. What had happened was actually a catastrophe. My job was on the line and _I made the wrong choice_.

I bumped into Professor Krisbin at the coffee machine. He, of all the astro scientists was the one I admired most. I had learned much from him. "Robert," I said, "you are aware of Newton's laws of motion, of course. I'd like to talk to you about how balls are struck on a pool table. Suppose an astronomer who knows how to program a computer, wanted to try an experiment with the moons of Jupiter, what are the limits of what could be accomplished?" I admitted that I did know the answer to my own question.

"The value of pi has an infinite number of decimal places," I said. "Only seven or eight are required for most anything mankind needs in order to compute solutions to practical problems. But, consider what its use in a program could accomplish if twenty decimal places were used, or one hundred, or one thousand. Do you suppose it would be possible to hit a billiard ball in such a way that it, in turn, it would strike additional balls in such a way as to accomplish miraculous results unerringly?"

There was an inscrutable expression on the professor's face. I could not tell whether he had understood the gist of what my question had really been. He did not answer; he simply turned and walked away. Then I remembered, Professor Krisbin was unbeatable at billiards!

On the following day, it was learned that Kalyke had struck Eukelade and what was left of S/2003 J9 had been captured by Jupiter and destroyed. Next, Eukelade had made its way to Carme and given it a glancing blow. That strike was enough for Carme to take a new path in its orbit. In the meantime, the delicate balance that the moons had with each other was being systematically altered. This caused half a dozen moons to take paths that were new to them. None of this was reported to the public. All of us at NASA were waiting for things to settle down. And this was with a great deal of apprehension. I felt blessed that there was no news conference scheduled for several days. But the phones, which were normally quiet, began ringing with alarming rapidity. I wondered what were the questions being asked and how they were being answered.

Things didn't settle down! One of the large moons, Europa, suddenly escaped from its orbit and began making its way toward Saturn. From its trajectory, Chief Astronomer, Gordon Henchfield estimated that it would either strike Saturn and be destroyed, or become a new moon of this ringed planet. He didn't have enough data to make a better prediction since so many of Jupiter's moons had altered their orbits. The computers were working overtime to come up with more accurate trajectories.

That evening, Leda also escaped from Jupiter and began a long trip to Uranus. At this time, several of the astronomers met to discuss the ramifications of what was occurring. Dr. Krisbin had not been invited. I asked for a meeting with NASA's Director, Gail Brownowitz to inquire whether we should announce the horrible events that were taking place to the public. She sent me an he-mail with a strong negative response.

On the following day, the worst scenarios had been, or were, taking effect. All the moons of Jupiter were out of their orbits and striking each other in random and terrifying ways. It was like what happens on a billiard table when one of the balls strikes a group of others. The moons of Jupiter were doing a dance that would have been wondrous if it hadn't been so frightening. Some were creating new orbits, some were being smashed to smithereens, many were taking a death rush to the surface of Jupiter. And still, I was not allowed to do my job, which was to truthfully tell the world what was happening.

On the same day, the question of whether Pluto, Charon, and Xena were really planets had become a moot point. Callisto had been hit in such a way that it had been torn from its orbit and was on its way to ricochet would all three of these icy rocks. It was expected _all_ _players_ in this tragedy would be destroyed.

On Earth, life went on as usual. In the United States, the stock market was making new highs. Unemployment was down. Air travel was hitting new peaks. The real estate market was booming. Gasoline consumption was reaching unprecedented levels as the price of oil hit ninety dollars a barrel.

On May 1, there was a gigantic earthquake in Japan that sent the needle off the Richter Scale. The newspapers of the world reported that something noteworthy was happening in space. The Times of London stated that chaotic activity was ensuing among the moons of Jupiter. It was observed that Jupiter had begun to wobble. It wasn't bad at first, but as the days went by, the wobble became more pronounced. NASA was receiving calls from amateur astronomers, senators, governors, even world leaders, insisting we tell them what was happening. On May 6, I was required to announce that what was being observed was an optical illusion caused by air eddies in the atmosphere. Immediately afterwards, I tendered my resignation. My conscience would not allow me continue fabricating monstrous lies.

Most astronomers now knew that within a week, the gigantic planet, was in danger of abandoning its orbit and beginning a long journey toward the sun. Most of the moons were gyrating around it in seemingly unpredictable ways. Most were scattering in various directions. Earth might be directly in the path of Metis.

By this time newspapers were announcing the horrible events that were occurring. There was great consternation among all nations as to what could be done to prevent the apparent demise of the earth.

I saw Professor Krisbin in the lunchroom again. "Professor," I said, you know more about this than what you're saying, don't you?" That inscrutable look returned to his face. "Don't worry," he said. "The moons are settling down, albeit in different places. Remember what you were saying about pi? I can assure you there is no danger to earth." He spoke so authoritatively, that I instinctively believed him.

I threw all caution away when I said, "Professor, why did you do this?"

"Because the challenge was there!" He responded. "Because I could!"

Now, you know the truth. I repeat the question I posed at the beginning of this story. Were the actions of this illustrious scientist criminal?

## Why Infinity Was Invented

James Bentley was dead. He knew this for sure. The last he remembered, he'd been on a table naked except for a white gown. He had expected to wake up with a quadruple by-pass behind him. Instead, he found himself seated in a large, brightly lit living room. He was completely free of pain as he sat in a large upholstered armchair. Wearing no clothing, he was violently shivering. There were other chairs in the room with people ensconced in them. One was a lovely young woman who was quietly crying; another, a man in a tux with a revolver in his lap. The room had multiple sides and a highly polished mahogany door at a far corner.

A white-gowned woman entered and escorted the pretty woman out of the room. Her soft crying turned to loud sobs as she got closer to her door. The man with the gun took on a bearing of dread. James became infected from the others and also began to worry about what the future might bring. He knew he had led a life of absolute debauchery and dreaded what was on the other side of the door.

A sudden blast of cold air alerted James of an approaching man dressed in coveralls. "Come with me, Mr. Bentley," the man said. James rose from his chair and followed the man's lead. As they went through the mahogany door James felt a frigid draft emanating from a hole at the side of a mountain. The draft was especially uncomfortable since he was still as bare as the day he was born. There was a sign over the door on age-darkened wood scrawled with white paint. The sign read, _San Geltbrine Mine_. There was a gigantic heavy haul truck standing near the opening.

The two stopped and looked toward the truck. "What's all this?" James asked.

"It's yours," answered the man. "You need to fill the truck with gold coins that will be coming out of the mine. When you have done this, the truck will be driven to your eternal abode."

James smiled. "The truck will be filled with coins?"

"Of a surety," replied the man. "That's the good news; the bad is that you will have to load it yourself."

"I suppose that will be acceptable," said James. "From the look of things, I'll probably have plenty of time to do that. That truck is enormous."

"There's enough capacity in the truck to load four railroad cars," returned the man. As he spoke, a coal shuttle car emerged on a track from the mine with a single gold coin in it. The car tilted to the left and dropped the coin to the ground. Then it rolled away.

"Fling the coin into the bed of the truck," ordered the man.

"That's forty or fifty feet," James complained. "Too high for me."

"You need to try," said the man.

James picked up the coin, braced himself and hurled it upward with all his strength. He missed the opening at the top of the truck by inches.

"Try again," demanded the man. While James was attempting his second throw, another car emerged from the mine and dumped two coins where the first one had landed. The car rolled away. James' second throw was no better than his first. "Again!" shouted the man. James failed again. Another car arrived with four coins. "You're falling behind," the man in coveralls yelled. "Try again!"

A pattern began to unfold. With every throw, another car arrived from the mine with double the number of coins as before. James was failing to land even one coin into the huge cavern of the truck. He stopped trying and turned angrily toward the man. "What kind of reward is this for the life I've led? I can't land even one coin inside the truck!"

"This is the reward you deserve," shouted the man. "All your life you've been trying to accumulate money though you had more than you could ever use. You've killed and maimed to achieve this goal."

"Mr. Bentley," he added sternly, "you're are not allowed to stop throwing."

"How long must I continue to try?" queried James.

"Until you fill the truck! Then there will be another truck!"

"How many others?" shouted James.

"There is no limit," retorted the man. "Until you have filled all the trucks that come.

"Keep throwing, keep throwing!"

"Until when?" bellowed James.

"To the end of time," the man hollered back.

"The end of time? That's infinity," James objected with all the strength of his voice.

"Exactly!"

"But there is no infinity," screeched James. "It's a fiction of mathematics."

"Oh yes, there is!" shouted the man, his words on fire as they exited his lips. "There is an infinity! _It was invented for people like you!"_

## Codebreaker

Benjamin Underwood rose from his gaudily polished desk and strode quickly to greet me as I entered his office. "Mr. Gordon! Welcome," he exclaimed. "May I call you Fred?" We shook hands. I was pleased with the warm greeting from the Director of Information Processing at _General Energy_.

We sat in leather chairs at a small round table only a few feet apart. "Call me Ben, please," he began. "Ms. Elizabeth Gridley in Human Resources said you were an excellent candidate for the position," he declared. "Tell me about yourself, Fred. She said your programming skills are remarkable. And you're a _codebreaker_!"

I told him I had helped develop the program for _System 7_ at Apple and was especially good at breaking codes. I'm ashamed to admit that I lied about this. I didn't know the difference between a _byte_ and a boot. And I can't solve the simplest of cryptograms. He seemed pleased. "I have a project you'll love," he stated. "Sadly, you'll be taking over from a fellow named Gregg Lexmore." I had heard of Gregg, of course. He had been killed in a mysterious, apparently random, drive-by shooting on Glenwood Street earlier in the week.

"Tell me about the project, Ben," I said. "Ms. Gridley said that I will find that much of the data is enciphered."

"That's right, Fred," he responded. "The data deals with funds that are to be used for special initiatives at _General Energy_. The name of the program you'll be working on is called, _Special Project._ This program is under my complete control. It isn't listed in any company records. You and I will be the only persons knowing about it and able to access it. The funds managed by the program are drawn from miscellaneous sources within the company. You'll need to break the cipher that was used by Mr. Lexmore. His death was so sudden you won't have the benefit of any documentation."

Underwood continue with his explanation. "Currently, I am not able to access this program because Mr. Lexmore had recently changed the password to the program. He died before he had a chance to tell me what it was. Your job will be to allow me to access the program and the funds that the program controls."

"That's OK," I said. 'I'm familiar with all the major computer ciphers, _Fibonacci_ , _logarithmic_ , _hexadecimal_ , etc." I made up the names from words I had heard but had no idea what they meant.

"Fred, I will require complete confidentiality from you," he stated. "Some of the funds may appear to be for my personal benefit but that will be incorrect. They may seem that way for technical legal reasons. Ask me first before you come to any conclusions."

Mr. Underwood hired me at an extraordinarily generous salary. He gave me the key words I would need to open the program. "You'll have a private office in the Glenridge Building for your work," he said. "Let me know if you need anything."

Over the next several weeks, I toyed with the program in my office during the day, but I did the important work in the middle of the night. I wasn't alone, however. A team of six of the smartest programmers in the company toiled along with me as we tore _Special Project_ apart. All this was done without the knowledge of Mr. Underwood but with the support of Ms. Gridley. The results were prodigious . The team established that, with the help of Gregg Lexmore, Mr. Underwood had been fleecing the company of more than a billion dollars over several years. There were secret e-mails between Gregg and Underwood concerning funds Mr. Lexmore was demanding for himself. There were also veiled threats from Underwood of what a fellow named _Snake_ might do to Gregg if he didn't ease off on his demands.

It took a month to accumulate all the facts allowing me have Benjamin Underwood arrested and to make an important phone personal call. I dialed Ms. Gridley's private phone number. She responded. "Betty, this is Bill," I said. "We've uncovered all the information about how Gregg Lexmore met his death, and who was responsible; also about the money both Underwood and Lexmore were embezzling from the company."

"I'm happy to hear this," Betty responded. "When Benjamin said he needed a good programmer and codebreaker to work on a special project for him _on the sly_ , I felt I should make you aware of this!

Betty Gridley was a jewel. She and I had worked well together since I had been named President and CEO of _General Energy_ some years before.

## Portrait Of A Foolish Clod

"What more do you want? I got you a vacuum cleaner!" Steve Clark was at the computer, which was not unusual, obviously irritated at having been disturbed by his wife's unwelcome presence. "Last year, it was trimmer for the bushes. Whenever, you want something, all you need to do is ask. If it's something you need, I'll always say _yes_!"

"I know all that," Trudy responded tartly. "I was just hoping for a little help. Or a little company."

"I don't have time to be company," Steve declared. "It's like I always say, _company's nice but only at a distance_!"

"Company at a distance doesn't apply to wives," she replied. "Tell me, what did you marry me for?"

"I thought I've made it clear. It's like everybody else. People marry to buy a house; live together, have kids; the usual things. Wives help husbands get ahead behind the scene."

"You didn't mention companionship, love, going out, having company; you know what a lot of married people do." Trudy's tone bordered on the edge of anger.

"When in the world do I have time for any of that. You keep mentioning love. It's like I always say _, a little love, a little at a time, is best for me and best for thine!_ "

"Can't you stop using the wrong word; it should be _thee_. You need to know the difference between _thou_ , _thee_ , _thy_ , and _thine_."

"It's gotta rhyme," he said. "Look, we have a home and you're on the deed. We have joint stock and checking accounts that I keep working with. You have a your own Chevy paid for, money for groceries and bills, a clothing allowance. A lot of women would be happy with this."

"Yes, I know that, Steve. I have _things_ , but I don't have _you_. We don't go out, we don't talk, we don't make plans; it's like I'm a nuisance to you. We don't even sleep together any more."

"Of course you have me!" Steve insisted. "I'm in the Computer Room all the time. I even have a cot here. This saves time, and it's like I always say, _when not hindered by the other one, I cannot fail to get more done._ "

"That's a horrible thing to say," Trudy stammered.

"You can see how busy I am. I have this stock report I need to do every day, and I need to check on the budget to make sure we're on target, and I make decisions about making our investments grow. Did I tell you our stocks are worth over one hundred thousand dollars. You know what I always say, _a portfolio that doesn't go up has no place to go except down."_

_Everything you always say is about what's good for you!_ Trudy stated angrily. "I'm not important to you." She paused. Then challenged, "When's my birthday?"

"April sometime. Your birthday is in my database I can look it up when I need it!"

"It's May 12. You didn't even give me a card!"

"I don't send cards. They say things that were written by other people that usually don't apply. If I want to say something to you, I can tell you in person."

"Or send me an e-mail like you did yesterday about the _White Out_ you needed."

"I only send e-mails when I'm busy," he retorted. "It's like I always say, _a stitch in time saves what mine._ "

"It would be nice to receive a card saying something nice about me, even if somebody else wrote it. There was nothing nice from you on Valentine's day. I gave you a gift. It's there on your desk, the box with the hearts on it. You haven't even opened it." she spoke quietly.

Steve appeared confused, then brightened and said, "Oh yes, I remember. It's safe. I'll get to it at the appropriate time."

"The appropriate time was Valentine's Day." Trudy spoke sadly and did not wait for a response. She closed the door behind her as she left the Computer Room.

On the following day, Trudy fixed breakfast for Steve and brought it to him in the Computer Room as she always did. But there was no lunch. Steve needed to go to the kitchen and pop a frozen dinner into the microwave in order to make himself lunch. When dinner time came, he went to Burger King where he consumed two _Whoppers_. He hazily wondered why he hadn't seen Trudy for some time.

Steve began to get mildly annoyed when Trudy didn't bring breakfast on the next morning. He wasn't greatly perturbed because there were some errors in his stock and checking accounts that needed attending to. He was getting puzzling information concerning his problem accounts. The house was becoming eerily quiet and he didn't like it. He determined to do something about it the next day if Trudy did not bring up his breakfast.

There was no delivered breakfast the next day. Steve looked out the window when he heard the front door slamming shut. He was just in time to see a silver-colored BMW entering the street from their driveway.

He sat at the computer desk and opened the e-mail program. There was mail from Trudy. He sat, stunned, when he read:

"I trust you won't mind, I've left you and will file for divorce. To explain the activity in our joint accounts, I need to tell you that the Chevy had seen better days. I traded it in and bought a BMW M5. I don't have anything pithy to say about the many fool things you do, so, with apologies to _Thomas Tusser_ I'll simply say, _A fool and the things that have true value in his life are soon parted!"_

## The One You Do Not Know

The _Sun_ _Globe's_ headline read, _Brod's Goof Enrages Audience_. Broderick Ramsey had done it again. An off-the-cuff remark about hating kids had all but ruined his chances for being reelected as the representative of his congressional district.

He called a meeting of his advisors and listened to their suggestions as to how to deal

with the gaffe.

Some suggested that Broderick should declare that he had been misinterpreted. When he stated that he dislike kids, he had meant that he disliked the conditions under which they worked. This did not sound convincing.

Others felt he should state that he disliked discretionary laws concerning kips. No good! People wouldn't know what kips were.

One individual said that he should deny that he had ever said anything on the subject. This wouldn't work because he had obviously said _something_.

None of the ideas seemed feasible; the meeting adjourned subject to another meeting on the following day. In the meantime, if any of the workers were to be questioned, they were instructed to say that they had not yet had a chance to study the issue.

On the way out of the meeting room, Broderick felt a pressure on the left pocket of his suit jacket. He didn't think anything of it until he casually put his hand in his pocket and felt something there. He pulled it out and saw that it was a business card. On it was written:

A Reverse in Time Sometimes Saves

Turn Back Time

855-6699

How nice it would be, he thought, of going back in time to change the words he had said to _loving kids_ instead of _disliking_ them.

He didn't know exactly what the words on the card meant. Could it be, he wondered, that one could go back in time and change something that he had said or done? How wonderful that would be! He dialed the number.

There was a recorded message on the other end. It offered an opportunity for the listener to copy directions on how to visit the person who had slipped the card in his pocket. The message that he had heard had suggested that he might attain exactly the objective that he had in mind. He could make the same talk in which he had blundered and change the few words that would make all the difference.

He wrote down the words of the message then hung up the phone. He decided not to waste any time and visit the location the address of which he had written on the paper. He drove to Stuart Street, which was in the downtown area of the city. He found _Number 6_ without any difficulty. He tried the door, not expecting it to open, but it did.

Although he was fearful of encountering trouble inside, he felt that the advantages that might be gained were worth risking the danger. He entered and found a room about the size of a small living room. There was nothing in the room except a single light on the ceiling. The lamp was small, yielding only a small circle of illumination. There was no carpet on the floor. The floor was badly scuffed.

The instructions said he needed to seek the door at the other end of the room and to enter it. This he did, and found that he was in a long hallway. On the ceiling, separated by several feet, were small lamps similar to the one in the room he had just left. The hallway was only a couple of feet wide and he found that he could touch both walls as he walked to the other end. There he found another door which he opened. Inside, at the far end of a dingy room was a desk and a man sitting there. Broderick wondered how the man could have possibly known that he would be coming, but he didn't dwell on this thought very long. He went to where the man was sitting, positioned himself in front of the desk, and said, "Have you been waiting for me?"

"Exactly," replied the man. Broderick took a moment to take notice of the person to whom he was speaking. He was middle-aged, gray-haired, wearing glasses, otherwise clean-shaven. He was wearing a gray business suit that had seen many years of service. The demeanor of the man was businesslike and not, at all, friendly.

Broderick introduced himself. "I'm Broderick Ramsey," he said.

"I know," the man said. "And I know why you are here. I was in the room where the meeting was held. You did not see me, because I was not visible at that time. But I knew that you would want to talk to me."

"If you know why I am here," Broderick said, "then you know what I would like to do. Would you be able to do that for me?"

"Yes I can do that. I don't do it often because it changes many lives and events. You will be speaking to several hundred thousand people. In various ways, the lives of those people will be changed because of what you say even though you will only be changing a few words of what you said before."

"I understand that, but what I want is important. What would I have to pay for the service?"

"There would be no charge. I do this as an accommodation, but only when I feel that I want to. It is not right that the lives of so many people be changed in the blink of an eye."

"I would pay any amount," responded Broderick. "The changes that I make to people's lives does not concern me. It's the end result that is important to me."

"I want you to understand," responded the man, "that when the changes have been made, there will be no turning back. Time must continue to move forward. Though I realize that I am violating this dictum, I take pleasure in doing it, this one time, for you."

"You are not asking for money," commented Broderick. "What pleasure could there be in this for you?"

"The pleasure that I get from my actions do not depend upon money. There is a source of joy that I cannot share with you at this time. But I do have a question that I need to ask you."

"And what would that be?" asked Broderick.

"Are you familiar with the expression, _better the devil that you know than the one that you do not know._ "

"Yes I am. Are you telling me that you are a devil?"

"Oh no, I am just a man that provides a service. The devil that you know is within you. You may recognize a devil that you do not know in the new life you experience after the change you have requested takes place."

"I will not be dissuaded," responded Broderick affirmatively. "I will take my chances with the other devil, if indeed there is to be one."

"When do you want to go ahead?" the man asked.

"Right away."

"Now?"

"Now!"

"Done!"

Broderick found himself standing in the middle of a field. There were vague buildings and mountains in the distance. He was alone. Suddenly he sensed someone behind him. He turned and saw a figure standing there in a black tuxedo. He was about six feet tall, had dark hair, was wearing a red bowtie and handkerchief. He had a hawkish looking face with glasses, and had a black mustache and beard.

"What has happened?" asked Broderick. "Where am I?"

"What you requested happened," the man said. "The words that you changed were televised to over two hundred thousand people. Many lives were changed, some for the better, some worse. When you left the auditorium, you were accidentally killed by a taxi running a red light."

"That's impossible! That's not what I wanted!"

"This was due to the natural flow of time. When you changed your talk, you changed the future passage of time, not only for the lives of the people you addressed, but also for you. The fact that your life ended soon afterwards was unfortunate for you but inevitable due to changes of conditions _in your life_."

"I won't accept that!"

"You agreed there would be no turning back!"

"Where am I now? Why am I here? Who are you?"

"You are here to meet and come with me. _I am the devil that you did not know_!"

## Scammer

Reginald Maxwell would never have admitted that he was a _scammer_. However he would proudly have stated that he was an ambitious individual. "A person gets ahead by the skill of his wits," he would have gladly declared. But a scammer, _never_!

If one had asked him why he wanted to write a business letter to the very wealthy new widow in the area, he would have said that he merely wanted to be of assistance to her. He had seen her picture in the paper and it had intrigued him considerably. In his mind he formulated the words that he wanted to include in the letter. Sitting at his computer, he began:

Ms. Agnes T. Foster:

My name is Gordon Chambers. I am a gardener of considerable experience. I have noted your grounds need attention. I would like to offer my services at half what you would expect to pay for the expertise that I have. My objective in making this offer is because I have admired you for a long time, and at this sad time in your life, you may appreciate the services of an individual who understands your situation and wants to be of the greatest support to you that he can.

He had given a fictitious name. He had no knowledge of gardening. However, if he could be hired by this wealthy woman, there was no telling what considerable advantages might accrue to him. He checked with the Internet for her address and mailed the letter the next day.

In the letter he had given an email address, one of the many, that he would resort to from time to time whenever he was involved with an _ambitious_ plan.

He waited patiently for several days before deciding that there had been no favorable reaction to his letter. He felt that trying again with another letter would be a good idea. However, he knew that the new letter should be very carefully crafted so that it did not seem to come from the same individual.

He designed a letter that stated his name was Philip Winslow, and that he was a skilled carpenter. Making sure that there was no chance that this letter could be suspected as having come from the same person as that from the gardener, he mailed this letter on the following day. The email address he gave was from another of his supply of addresses.

Reginald waited patiently for a week, and, receiving no response, decided he would try again, this time, as being from an electrician. As before, the letter received no response. Other ambitious individuals might have been disheartened at this point, he muttered to himself, but not he. He had heard, and believed, that if one fails, he needs to try again.

In his next letter, Reginald indicated that he was a knowledgeable business manager for a private home such as hers. As before, he used another email address for the response, and sent the letter. Several days went by. Opening his email later that day, his heart leapt when he discovered a message from Ms. Foster. "Please phone me at 555–2867" is all it said.

Using his smart phone, he punched the number, and heard a feminine voice on the other end.

"Hello."

"This is Edward McDonald," he announced. This was the name that he had used in his last letter. "Am I speaking to Ms. Foster?"

"Yes, this is Agnes Foster. I was intrigued by your letter. I have felt the need for a business manager for quite a while since my husband died. Would you be able to come visit me tomorrow at two?"

"Yes, of course I can!" responded Reginald. His heart was racing at a speed that he had never experienced. After a few more words had been exchanged, he hung up.

At the appointed time, Reginald drove to the home of Ms. Foster. There was a gate that he needed to go through and was pleased to see that it was opened wide. He drove several more yards along a winding driveway until he came to the doorway of his destination. He exited from his car, walked to the door, and gently pushed the doorbell. The door was opened by a butler, who escorted him into the living room of the luxurious home.

"Sit here, Ms. Foster will be with you in a few moments." Reginald did as he had been instructed. This was the time when his wits must be exercised to the maximum, he felt.

Agnes Foster entered the room. She was about forty-five, of medium height, had slightly graying hair, wore no glasses. She was dressed in a long blue dress. Reginald noted she was attractive, and, even though he was much younger than she, felt that a marriage with her would be very satisfactory. He must not indicate any romantic designs, however!

Ms. Foster graciously introduced herself, and sat on the sofa facing where Reginald was sitting.

"You are a business manager!" she remarked. "I was intrigued by your letter, and felt that you might be of great help to me."

"I hope that this will be the first day of a very pleasant relationship," he replied. What he had in mind, of course, was a relationship not greatly involving business management.

"Even though, you stated that you would work for me at a much reduced rate, I want to offer you the going salary for an experienced business manager. There will be a trial period, of course. I have every expectation that you will pass with flying colors!"

"Thank you for your confidence," exclaimed Reginald. "I'm sure you will be fully satisfied with my work."

"I have something that you can do for me right away," said Ms. Foster. "I have been receiving a number of letters from different people recently. Let me show them to you."

Opening a drawer of a nearby desk, she pulled out several papers, and handed them to Reginald. He was mildly alarmed when he saw that all of them were the ones he had written.

"These letters have come from several service people that I can use," Ms. Foster said. "They are offering their work at very reasonable cost. I would like to hire all of them. This will be the first task I give you as a part of your test period. I will leave the room now. While I am gone, I'd like to have you call these individuals and ask them to come here tomorrow so that you and I can interview them. Are you willing to do this now?"

Reginald hesitated. His wits were not capable of coming up with a reasonable reason as to why she was requesting the impossible. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I may have trouble catching them at home. They may not be available tomorrow. Some of them might be frauds," he stumbled over the words.

"I'm glad you mentioned _frauds_ ," she responded. "It occurred to me that _you_ might be a fraud, writing several letters pretending that you were someone that you were not. In view of this, I invited you here so that you could have a chat with two men that are waiting in the next room."

As if on cue, two police officers entered the room, and walked to where Reginald was sitting. The older one spoke.

"Ms. Foster said that she had been getting several suspicious letters, poorly disguised as coming from different persons, and was worried. _There were no return addresses on any of the envelopes._ She thought that you might be that person and that's why she invited you here. We'd like to have a chat with you!"

## Betrayer

"What's your husband doing in Albany these days?" Jill asked.

"I thought I had told you," replied Belle. "He's attending a teachers' convention and should be coming home at the end of the week. How did you know he was in Albany?"

"I go there every so often to shop. I watch for the sales, and, you know me, I can't resist a good sale. I was on Western Avenue, and I saw Ed going by. Didn't have a chance to say _hello_."

"The convention is on State Street," commented Belle. "I wonder what he was doing on Western Avenue."

"Well, I don't think this has anything to do with anything, but he was with a nice looking young lady. Blond. They were deeply engrossed in conversation. Maybe they were on break and having some lunch. It was about two in the afternoon, I think."

"Yes, that must be the reason. She's probably a teacher also. And they had simply gone for a quick lunch."

Belle Cameron and Jill Wallace were having coffee in the kitchen of Belle and Edward's new home on Mason Avenue in Troy. They had been married almost a year and had recently purchased a small Cape Cod. Jill was a new friend. Belle did not fully believe what she had said about the meeting that her husband was having with a woman. She had full trust in him, and believed that there was nothing wrong, but there was just a _slight_ _hint of a_ doubt. "I'll try to ask him a simple, innocent question, when he returns," she thought.

It was Tuesday, and the days passed slowly. Belle couldn't shake from her mind what Jill had told her. She was going to have coffee with Jill again on Thursday, and maybe she would learn a little more.

When they next met, Belle said, "I've been wondering, Jill, how the conference is going. I'll be happy to see Ed when he returns tomorrow."

"Funny you should say that," Jill interjected. "I was in Albany yesterday and was on Western Avenue again. Would you believe, I saw Ed with a different woman. Red hair! I knew I shouldn't do this, but I kept out of sight and followed them to see if I could find out what they were doing, so that I could tell you and relieve your mind, if you had had any suspicions. They walked together holding hands, until they came to a house on Wilson Avenue. They went in and I waited about an hour, but they didn't come out. I hope I'm not telling you anything that you wouldn't want to hear."

"Well what you're telling me is disconcerting," replied Belle. "I will definitely need to ask him about this when he comes home Friday."

"I'm sure there's a very good explanation for all of this," responded Jill. "I wouldn't worry about it a great deal."

"Well I _am_ worried. He told me he was going to be at a conference, but I have not heard from him since he left, and I've been wondering how he's been doing. I trust him completely, of course. But what you've told me doesn't seem to have a simple explanation. I just can't help but think that . . ."

"I would feel the same if I were in your shoes," interrupted Jill.

It seemed to take a week for Friday to arrive. Finally around four-thirty, the door opened and Edward walked in jauntily. "Hi, Belle, I'm home," he called out. She ran to him and they kissed their hellos. Belle resisted the urge to begin questioning him. This was not easy but she succeeded.

After dinner, as they were sitting in the living room, Belle said, "Ed, dear, how did the conference go?"

"As usual," he replied, "dull, but informative."

"Were there many people there?"

"Oh, several hundred, maybe."

"What did you do for lunch?"

"There was a Burger King at the end of the block. I usually went there and had a couple of burgers."

"Did any of the others go with you?" She asked nervously.

"No, I was usually alone. One day one of the guys came with me."

"One of the guys?"

" Yeah, I didn't know him very well. I think his name was Joe."

"Anything else interesting happen?" she asked haltingly. "Anything that you'd want to tell me?"

"No, nothing at all. It was all routine stuff."

Belle was not satisfied with the conversation that she and her husband had had. As soon as she had an opportunity, she phoned Jill. "I talked to Ed," she said. He didn't tell me anything about the women that he had been with in Albany. "What do you think might be going on?"

"I think it's very suspicious," responded Jill. "He and that redhead seemed awfully cozy together. I wouldn't put it past him to, well, you know! I have an idea; why don't you arrange a little dinner party and invite me, and some others, and I'll see if I can worm it out of him what was going on. I'm very good at finding out things that people might be trying to hide."

"I'm not sure that will work," objected Belle, "but it's worth a try. I'll keep you posted."

After they had hung up, she went back into the living room, and exclaimed, "I just had a wonderful idea!"

"Tell me about it."

"I'd like to have a party Sunday and invite Jill Wallace and your sister, Madeline, and her husband, Tom. How does that sound to you?"

"Those are sudden invitations, aren't they, dear? Do you think they will be able to make it. It's a coincidence that I was just thinking of inviting my sister and Tom for dinner. So your idea comes at a good time."

On the following day, Belle phoned Madeline and was pleased that she and her husband would happily accept an invitation for the following Sunday. She called Jill and told her that she had arranged for a party on Sunday, and, of course, she should attend.

"Now, we'll find out what that scoundrel has been up to," commented Jill. "I've always been a little suspicious of him!"

"He may be doing something on the sly, Jill, but you're judging him too soon. He could have had perfectly legitimate reasons for being with those women. I'm sure you'll find out. Besides, this will give you an opportunity to meet my husband's sister and her husband."

"I'll come early so that I can help with the party," said Jill just before hanging up.

On Sunday, Belle and the Jill worked on the arrangements for the party which was to begin at two in the afternoon. Ed was in and out purchasing last-minute items.

Two o'clock arrived and everything was set for a gala afternoon. All that was needed was the arrivals of Madeline and Thomas, then the festivities could begin. Precisely at two, the doorbell rang. Belle opened the door and escorted the visitors into the living room. She turned to Jill, and said, "Jill, I'd like you to meet Ed's sister, Madeline, and her husband, Tom."

Jill looked as if she had been hit with a sledgehammer. Her face turned various shades of yellow, blue, and green. She opened and closed her mouth, but no sounds came out. She stiffened as rigid as a statue and seemed to be on the verge of toppling to the floor.

"Jill! What the devil are you doing here?" shouted Madeline. "I thought I'd never see you again. You have no idea the hate that I still have for you!"

"What's going on, Madeline?" Belle objected. "Jill is my friend. Why are you speaking to her that way?"

"She's a devious demon," responded Madeline. "When I met Tom and we began planning to get married, this woman, that you call _your friend_ , and that I _thought_ was my friend, tried to convince me that Tom was being disloyal to me. She told me about things that Tom was doing, that were perfectly innocent, but she made it seem as if he was two-timing me. And she made up fake stories completely out of whole cloth. She wanted Tom for herself and was using the most vicious of schemes trying to take him away from me. Tom told me the truth and I ordered this evil person to get out of my life and stay out!"

Belle turned to Jill and exclaimed, "Those things that you were telling me about Ed and other women were lies!"

Jill did not respond.

"Belle," Ed said. "When I was at the convention, there was a time when I was with Madeline. We were selecting an anniversary gift for me to give you for our first anniversary. She was the only woman I was with while at the convention. If Jill said there were others, she was lying!"

"The next move is up to me," thundered Belle uncharacteristically. "Ed, would you open the door. I'm going to take this woman by the arm and escort her to the door, then, pardon my French, I'm going to push her out with a kick to her derriere."

## A Reenactment To Justice!

It was Saturday, October 15, 2016. Norman Kendall awoke at seven to a voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere in the room. He opened his eyes and looked around. There was something familiar about the room, but it was not the bedroom in which he had gone to sleep the night before. He felt groggy from some unknown cause. He listened to what the voice was saying.

Norman Kendall, you are reliving a day in your life from this same date in 1991, Arise from your bed, and check to see whether your gun, in the middle bureau drawer, is there.

Norman was fifty-two. He was about five-ten, balding with streaks of gray in the hair that still remained. He was about twenty pounds overweight. His eyes were gray, as was his small mustache. He was wearing blue pajamas.

He placed his feet on the wooden floor and walked unsteadily to the bureau. He recognized the furniture in the room from a bedroom, having the same appearance as this one, in which he had slept many years before. Opening the middle drawer, he saw a small caliber automatic.

The voice instructed,

_Do not touch it. Walk to the kitchen_ **.**

He was fast regaining his strength as he took the several steps that led to the nearby room. He entered the kitchen. It was not the kitchen that he had used for the last several years. It looked exactly like one that he had known from a long-ago past. At the kitchen table, was sitting a young, blonde woman. She had a cup of coffee in front of her from which she was sipping. She had on a pale, yellow night gown that had seen much use.

"Lillie," he gasped. "You're, you're . . ." He was not able to complete the sentence. He had intended to say, "You're alive!"

As before, the voice seemed to come from everywhere.

You are in the kitchen of your apartment on the same date as today in 1991. Help yourself to some coffee and sit facing this woman.

Numbly obeying the command, Norman did as the voice had directed. "Lillie," he muttered, "Is this you? Am I dreaming? I need to wake up!"

Speak to this woman as you did on October 15, 1991.

The woman spoke for the first time. "I'm real, Norman dear. Tell me that you have found another and that you will be leaving me."

"Lillie, _that_ was in the past. You're dead now. Why are you here, if you are really here?"

"We are reliving that date, that last date of my life. Tell me about Edna."

"Edna was a momentary thing! She meant nothing to me! She stayed with me only a short time. What I did, I did from a moment of insanity!"

"Tell me, that you knew I was pregnant! Tell me that I was ruining your chance for happiness. Tell me that you needed me out of the way."

"Lillie, that was all a mistake. I was looking forward to having our baby."

"Tell me what you said when I told you that I would not grant you a divorce. Repeat those terrible words."

There was silence in the room.

Tell her what you said.

"I didn't mean it what I said! I didn't mean it!"

Tell her what you said.

"Something about getting rid of her. But they were just words. I didn't mean them!"

Do what you said you would do!

"I can't. I can't."

Do it!

The voice was fierce. The demand was intense.

Do it! Now!

Norman stood and walked back to the bedroom. He was gone for a minute, then came back with a gun. He faced the woman and pointed the gun at her.

"Say what you said to me before you pulled the trigger!" the young woman commanded.

"I can't!"

Say the words! This is a reenactment of that date. You will not be set free until the reenactment is fully completed exactly the way it happened.

"With this gun . . ."

Continue!

"With this gun, I put an end to you and that _thing_ in your belly!" Ronald yelled strongly as if reliving the emotion he had felt on that day twenty-five years earlier.

"Then?" It was the woman's voice.

_"I shot you!" he shouted. "Yes, I meant to do it! You were in my way!_ Norman pulled the trigger. A shot rang out. The woman fell to the floor.

Norman turned from what he had done, and strode briskly from the room and into the bedroom.

Three police officers were waiting for him there. They had heard and seen everything. Two of them immediately put cuffs on Norman and escorted him from the room.

The young woman had risen from the floor and joined the officer who was still in the bedroom. A young man came from somewhere and joined them.

Officer Jamison said, "What is the whole story, Ms. Farmer. How did all this come about?"

This is what Jessica Farmer said:

"The thing that he said was in her belly was me, I'm Jessie Farmer. Lillian Kendall was my mother. I've been told that I am the _spitting image of mom_. I knew my father would think I was his wife who he killed. There had been someone nearby who had heard enough of the conversation and who had acted promptly enough so that _my life could be saved_. Mom died but there was not enough evidence to charge my father. This reenactment took a lot of planning. We had these two rooms built. My husband, Ted Farmer, here, was a rock in my support. He and I drugged my father while he slept and brought him here. Ted was the voice that you heard. The gun, of course, shot a blank."

"Your plan worked perfectly," said the officer. "We might say that it was _A Reenactment To Justice!_ "

