

Max

A novel

By Barry Friedman
Copyright © 2011 by Barry Friedman

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Also by Barry Friedman

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Prescription For Death

The Shroud

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Fracture

Non-Fiction

The Short Life of a Valiant Ship:USS Meredith(DD434)

That's Life: It's Sexually Transmitted and Terminal
Prologue

Xam was locked onto the screen. For hours he had been watching the contest they called Monday Night Football. Several hours before, it had been called Sunday Night Football.

A voice over his shoulder said, "I suppose they also have Saturday Night Football."

Xam turned. "No, Ling, Saturday night is something they call 'Live.' It's not football."

"Do you have any idea what they're doing?"

"Sure." Xam pointed to the screen. "This guy pulls a brown thing called a football from between the legs of the other guy bent over. Now, see he's looking for someone to throw it to. Oops... that's called a sack."

Ling said, "I thought a 'sack' was what they called a bag."

Xam stared at Ling for a few seconds. "This is too complicated for you. Why don't you go back to piloting this ship?

Ling walked back to the controls of the spaceship shaking his head. "Crazy humanoids."

Xam leaned back, thinking about the game he'd been watching. Looked easy. Why couldn't he...?

A few minutes later, he clicked off the viewing screen, and ambled to the Command Center. He fitted his ID card into a slot and a door slid open revealing a cavern-like room. Seated at a desk in the center of the room was Commander Loto. Like Xam and Ling, Loto was tall and thin, with red hair.

Xam flopped into a chair in front of the desk. "Commander," he said, "I'd like to ask a favor."

Loto grinned. Half a dozen times before, Xam had come to him requesting permission to land on the planet inhabited by creatures identical to those of their own planet.

Xam would not be the first visitor to Earth that Loto had set down. Others had spent periods of a few months to a year, Earth time, living and working among Earthlings, observing their habits and customs. Eventually, they would return their home planet. One "alien" always remained and was responsible for maintaining a base on Earth until relieved by a fellow "visitor."

"Still want to go there?" said Loto.

Xam nodded. "We look like them. I've studied their language. I'm sure I could get away with it."

"I'm sure you could. But what would be the purpose?"

"I've been watching re-runs of a game they play. I'd like to try it. To see how our skills match up to theirs. We've always thought we were superior in all ways."

"That's true," said Loto. "We've been able to monitor their activities; they don't even know we exist." He gazed down at his desk, then brought his head up. "It's an intriguing idea, Xam."

Xam gripped the arms of the chair. "Then you agree? I can go?"

Loto took in a deep breath. "You know the risks and the rules."

Xam put up a hand. "I know. I know. You can be sure, Commander. They'll never know." He smiled. "I don't think they have the intelligence to even suspect I'm not one of them."

Loto raised a cautionary finger. "Don't underestimate them. There may be a few who suspect that forms of, what they call life, exist outside their planet. But even those few only think of us as enemies who are interested in destroying them."

"Crazy idea," said Xam. "Why would anyone get that notion? They haven't even found ways of communicating with us."

Loto pressed a button and a large map appeared on the wall-sized screen behind his desk. With a laser pointer he indicted a spot on the map. This is where we'll put down. He handed Xam a plastic card. An address was printed on one side. "Here's your key to where you'll be staying. We call it a 'safe house.' You'll find clothing, money, a vehicle and other items, everything you'll need. Kentu is your contact. He's already there but is scheduled to return to home planet. You'll be his replacement."

He reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a small phone. "Here's your link with us. You know how to get us, but remember, only in an emergency."

Loto glanced at the dialed object on his wrist. "It's their summer. You have until early their winter, understood?"

Xam saluted smartly. "Aye aye, sir, as they say."

* * *

At 2 a.m., a large, saucer-shaped object slowly floated down from the sky, and landed in a field about fifteen miles from Cincinnati.

In the control tower of Cincinnati's airport, a radar operator pointed to his screen. "Hey! We don't have a flight due in now, do we?"

Sam Stone, the chief air traffic controller, seated at a desk in the center of the control tower, shook his head. "Nothing's due in until 8 a.m.."

"Well, something just came into our sector." The radar operator pointed to the screen, and Sam rolled his chair to the scope. The two watched as a blip appeared under the sweep arm.

"I don't see its data tag," said Sam. Commercial aircraft were equipped with a responder that identified it on the radar screen.

"Maybe it's a UFO."

Sam smiled. "An unidentified flying object? Sur-r-re. We've got invading aliens. Come on, Jim, you've been reading too much Science Fiction.

Suddenly the blip disappeared from the screen. Sam leaped from his chair. "Uh-oh. Whatever it is just crashed! Call highway patrol. Have them send a car out to investigate." He read off the position.

Back in the deserted field, a hatch of the spaceship opened. From it emerged a tall, red-haired man, wearing a backpack and pushing a motorcycle. He donned a helmet waved to the spaceship and gunned the cycle toward a dirt road a few yards away. A moment later, the spaceship hatched closed and it rapidly rose into the night sky.

In the control tower, the radar operator gazing at the screen, saw what appeared to be a flash of light. In a second it was gone. He shook his head and muttered, "I've gotta see about getting my eyes examined. I think I need new eyeglasses."

Sam said, "Did you say something?"

The radar operator shook his head. "Just talking to myself."

The motorcyclist watched the spaceship soar into the night sky, then sped down the dirt road until, reaching a paved highway, stopped. The driver removed his helmet, consulted a map he removed from his pocket and took off again toward Cincinnati. The cycle rounded a curve, then was gone from sight.

Moments later, a highway patrol car pulled up at the site from which the motorcycle had left. An officer got out and with a flashlight examined the surrounding area. He spotted the dirt road, got back in his patrol car and slowly drove down the dirt road until he reached a large open field. He spoke into a radiophone. "Car 26 calling control."

"Twenty-six, this is control."

"I'm at the field you directed me to. I don't see anything that looks like a downed aircraft."

"Roger that, twenty-six. I guess it was a mistake."

At 3 A.M., the motorcyclist drove slowly down a street in a suburban area of Cincinnati. The plain, frame houses on both sides of the street were dark, the street deserted except for a few cars parked in driveways and at the curb. After glancing at a slip of paper on which was written an address, the cyclist killed the engine and walked the machine up the driveway of one of the houses. From his backpack, he retrieved a remote and clicked open the garage door. A Buick sedan occupied one side of the garage, a lawn mower, other garden tools and a bicycle took up some of the remaining space. The cyclist maneuvered his machine to an empty corner, parked it and placed his helmet on the seat.

As he closed the garage door with the remote, a door at the back of the garage opened and a smiling figure appeared at the opening. "Xam! Welcome to Earth—and Cincinnati!"

He threw his arms open and gave Xam a bear hug.

"Good to see you, Kentu," said Xam.

Kentu, like the other men from his planet was slim and red-haired. Although fairly tall, he was slightly shorter than Xam.

Kentu held Xam at arm's length. "You look great. Incidentally, here I'm known as Ken. And we'll have to do something about your name."

"What's wrong with my name?"

Ken shook his head. "Xam sounds like someone from outer space."

"Well?"

They both laughed.

Ken said, "Come on in. I'll get you settled and give you all the information you'll need to get along here before I head back to Oh Ess Yew."

Half an hour later, the two sat across from each other at the kitchen table sipping cups of hot chocolate.

"This stuff tastes good," said Xam.

"Doesn't it. I plan to take some with me when I go home. Maybe we can grow the bean that it's made from."

Ken explained that Xam would be the only occupant of the house. The only other person who had access was Mrs. Kowalski, a seventy-five year-old woman. "She comes in three mornings a week. She does the cleaning and cooks meals which she leaves in the refrigerator for me. She'll do the same for you. I've already told her that I'm leaving, but my brother, that's you, will be here in my place."

"Are you here when she comes?"

Ken said, "Not always; she has her own key. If you're concerned that she might suspect we're not Earthlings, forget it. Mrs. Kowalsky is a great cook and house cleaner, but she doesn't know Earth from Mars."

"Good. House cleaning and cooking are not in my job description. What about neighbors?"

"What about neighbors?"

"Will they suspect I'm not one of them?"

Ken shook his head. "The house on one side belongs to an eighty-year-old lady who is hard of hearing and, for all I know, may be legally blind."

"I don't know how Earthlings figure their ages," said Xam. "Is eighty old?"

"Eighty is old-old," said Ken. "Anyway, on the other side is a couple in their seventies. I think they're European immigrants. The only time I see them is when they walk their dog. If I'm outside, they nod in my direction. They've never spoken to me. Across the street is a couple in their fifties. They both work at something that entails travel. They leave for weeks at a time. When they're home, they leave early in the morning and get home late at night. We wave the few times we're in sight of each other. I don't even know the other people on the street."

"No families? You know, with kids?"

"There may be one or two down the street, but the kids are all infants or very young, at least they don't play outdoors. If they do, it's in their own backyards. No, I haven't had any contact with neighbors, and I don't think you will either."

Xam asked Ken what he had been doing while he was here.

"I'm a free lance writer. I've written articles for magazines. I've also written a book."

Xam said, I'm impressed. What do you write about?"

"Astronomy. My book is what they call Science-Fiction. It's titled "Travels in Outer Space."

Xam nodded, "Except it isn't really fiction, is it?"

"Nah. But they don't know that. The publisher thinks I have a great imagination. He doesn't know it's for real. Incidentally, what do you plan to do here on Earth?"

Xam cleared his throat. "I'm going to play professional football."

Ken stared at him for a moment, then broke out laughing. "You're joking, of course."

Xam shook his head. "No, I've been watching their games. I know I can do it."

"I remember you were an outstanding athlete, Xam, but professional football? We're talking 300-pound, six-foot-five monsters. You get under a pile of these giants and you'll be reduced to a grease spot."

Xam shrugged. "I'm fast and I'm strong. I'm going to give it a try."

Ken smiled. "Well, good luck, buddy. You don't know what you're letting yourself in for."
Chapter 1

Marvin Jones, coach of the Cincinnati Rams grabbed the whistle that hung from a lanyard around his neck, and blew a sharp blast. He pointed to one of the scarlet-.and white-clad players getting up off the ground, brushing dirt from his uniform "Damn it Smitty, my sister could make a better tackle than that. You're not at a tea dance. If you're gonna tackle someone, tackle 'em!"

Jones shook his head and spoke to the air. "Great bunch of football players they sent me. They don't need a coach, they need a choreographer. If these dodos win one game this year, I'll give back my salary."

Jones gazed up at the clouds, hoping for rain, snow, hail anything to bring an end to this practice session. What he needed was a stiff drink. At six-two, two-hundred-twenty pounds of solid muscle, Marvin Jones was close to the shape he'd been in when he was a Pro Bowl linebacker for the Cleveland Browns ten years ago. Now, after a stint as Offensive Coach for the Cincinnati Rams, he was starting his third year as their head coach. The fans and head office had given him two years to grow into the job; they were getting impatient waiting for him to produce a team that would make it to the Super Bowl. Jones wasn't a bad coach. Actually, his team had more wins than losses in each of the past two years. Trouble was, the team was never quite good enough to make the play-offs, nor bad enough to make it high enough in the draft to get quality players. As a result, he had to make do with mediocre players.

He felt a tug on his sweatshirt and turned to see who was trying to get his attention.

"Uh, Coach." The quiet voice belonged to a tall, thin, red-haired kid, about twenty-five who was pulling on Jones' shirt.

Jones pulled his shirt out of the young man's grasp. "Who're you and what are you doin' here on our practice field. Better beat it before someone runs over you, squashes you like a bug."

The guy made no move to leave. He opened his mouth to say something, but Jones pushed him aside. "Get lost!"

The boy held his ground. "Coach Jones, I think I can be an asset to your team."

Jones snorted. "You don't stop bothering me, I'll kick your 'asset' right out of here."

"My name is, uh, Xa—Max."

"I don't care if your name is Joe Montana." He gazed around. Where were the stadium guards that were supposed to keep these pests off the field?

"I've got strong arms and legs."

Jones glanced down at Max's skinny arms and beanpole legs. "Yeah, and I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger. Look, kid. you've got guts, I'll give you that, but these are professional athletes. Pros. They get lotsa dough for playing. They ain't much good, I'll grant you that, but they're probably better than most college—." Why was he making an explanation to this nut?

Out of a corner of his eye, Jones saw a football heading toward where he and this Max were standing. He followed its course as it sailed a good twelve feet over their heads. Suddenly, Max sprang up and snared the ball with one hand.

Jones stared at the young man, his mouth agape. Impossible. There was no way he could have gotten to the ball—and yet, it rested in his hands. "Wait a minute. How'd you do that?"

Max shrugged. "I told you. I've got strong arms and legs."

Jones yelled to one of the players about twenty yards away who was holding a football. "Hey, Brian, throw me that ball, but make sure it's way over my head." He turned to Max. "Okay, kid, let's see you do your jumping act again."

Brian reared back and fired the ball; this one was at least fifteen feet over their heads.

Max squatted on his haunches, and timing the throw, leaped up grabbing it with both hands.

Jones shook his head. "Kid, where the hell have you been all my life?"

Max grinned and hung his head. Jones half-expected him to come out with "aw-shucks." Instead, he said, "Wanna see me kick one?"

Jones nodded.

In an easy motion, Max punted the ball, sending it sailing over the goalposts at the far end of the field. Jones put his hands on his hips staring after the ball. That kick had to go over ninety yards. If he could... Maybe, just maybe, he might make a team out of this mess after all.

Cradling Max's shoulders, Jones said, "Son, let's go into my office and have a little talk."

Jones settled into a chair behind his desk. He pointed. "Have a seat."

When Max had lowered himself into the chair, Jones said, "Where'd you say you went to college?"

Max debated with himself before he answered. He finally decided to tell Jones the name of his planet, certain that the coach would never have heard of it. "I didn't say. It was Oh Ess Yew."

Jones half raised himself out of his seat. "OSU? You played for Woody Hayes?"

"No sir."

"Jim Tressel?"

"No sir, I didn't play for anybody."

"Wait a minute. Let's get on the same page. We're talking about college ball—football."

Max gazed at the floor. He hadn't anticipated this line of questioning. He wasn't going to lie, even if it meant getting kicked out of Jones' office. "I didn't play football in college."

Jones rubbed his chin. The kid was pretty scrawny. He could picture him squashed flat under a pile of beefy linemen. On second thought, he'd probably gotten carried away watching the youngster's leaping catch and stratospheric kick. He leaned back. "Listen kid—what'd you say your name was?"

"Max. Max Aries."

"Listen Max, pro ball is heavy stuff. Guys get hurt. You weigh what, one-forty?"

Max shook his head vehemently. "No sir. I'm one-fifty-five—and a half."

"Yeah. Soakin' wet, maybe." He rose and stuck out his hand. "You put on about fifty pounds, then come back and see me."

Max slowly stood. He glanced at Jones's outstretched hand but made no move to take it. He looked like he was about to cry. "Please, Coach. Won't you at least let me try out for the team? I told you, I'm not heavy, but I'm strong." He swept his gaze around the room. In a corner, was a thick steel bar with fifty-pound weights attached to each end. Max dashed over to the weight bar and with one hand easily lifted it. He placed the center of the bar across his knee and with little apparent effort, bent it to a right angle. He held it out for Jones. "See, I told you. I'm strong. Uh—sorry about your weight bar."

Jones gaped at the bent bar, the heavy weights dangling from each end. Jesus! That thing weighed over a hundred pounds and this kid handled it like it was a broomstick.

Max said, "Maybe it can be fixed." He shifted his hands to either side of the bend, and with as little effort as it took to deform it, pulled until the bar was straight. He held it up to eye level, squinted and sighted along its length. "There. I think it's straight again."

Jones shook his head. He'd watched some kind of Superman act. Did he dare hope...? "Max, I'm impressed. But I'll tell you honestly, it ain't me you got to impress. We've got a General Manager. He makes these decisions. Give me your phone number. I'll get back to you. "

Max brightened. "Promise?"

Jones nodded. "Yeah, yeah."

"When?"

Jones raised a hand. "Hey. Don't push me, okay?"

"Sorry, Coach." Max reached across the desk, grabbed a piece of blank paper and a pen, and scribbled. "You can reach me at this number. If I'm not there, leave a message."

He walked away, then realized he'd given the coach the interplanetary emergency signal Loto had given him. A regular phone with a Cincinnati number was back in the safe house, and Max started to walk back to Coach Jones to retrieve the number he'd given him, then realized he didn't remember the Cincinnati phone number. Finally, he decided to let it go. He'd explain the mistake to the controller on his home planet and ask to have the expected call from Jones relayed to him.
Chapter 2

J.J. Heywood flicked an ash off his cigar into a wastebasket. J.J., also known as Trader Joe for the sharp deals he made as General Manager of the Rams, blew out a puff of smoke and squinted at Marvin Jones through the haze. "So the kid can catch a ball. What's the big deal?"

"You haven't been listening, J.J.. I'm telling you, there's no way he could have caught the ball, it was thrown so high." Jones paused to let his last sentence sink in. "And that kick. I swear it went ninety yards in the air."

J.J. gazed at his desktop, thinking. Finally, he lifted his head. "So what do you want me to do? Sign him to a contract? A kid never played college ball—or any other kind of competitive football for all we know? I'd be laughed out of the league, not to mention my job."

Jones said, "I'm just afraid if we let him go he'll sign on with one of the other teams and we'll be kicking ourselves when he beats us silly."

Heywood shifted his bulk in his desk chair. A long time ago he'd been a guard on a small college football team. That's when any college kid who weighed over two-thirty had the coaches salivating. Made no difference whether or not he could run 100 yards in under thirty seconds, and Heywood had trouble running it under a minute. But when he just stood his ground at his position on the line, any opposing running back would have to detour several yards to gain any ground. By the time he reached his senior year, he made third team guard on the All-Inconsequential College League team. But he was a whiz at figures, so when he left college he joined a large firm of accountants. His bosses didn't care if he could run, block or tackle, as long as he could add a column of figures and come out with a profit. Boring. Boooring work.

Heywood had never lost his love for sports, so when his sister-in-law's son became a star quarterback at Stanford, he lived a vicarious life as his nephew's greatest fan. Pro football scouts picked the kid for at least a third round draft number, and Heywood saw the chance to break out of his dull existence, use God's gift of his brain, and do something in sports. He started a second career as a sports agent with one client in his stable: his nephew. After he had negotiated a seven-figure contract for the young quarterback, the newspaper publicity Heywood received attracted a college basketball star and a Nationwide Tour golfer to his fold. Although none of his athletes achieved superstar status, Heywood's talent as a contract negotiator won him a client base that grew to the point where he sold out to a national sports rep organization for enough money so that at age 40, married with two daughters, he could live in comfort for the rest of his life if he never worked another day. But sitting in a swing on his patio was not in Heywood's job description, so when the owners of the Rams offered him the position as General Manager, he jumped at it. Actually, J.J. Heywood had never been agile enough to jump, he just waddled.

Now he sat in his plush office opposite Marvin Jones who waited for a response to his concern about what to do with Max Aries. Heywood said, "Who's his agent?"

Jones snorted. "Agent? You kidding? This kid is right off the street. A cherry ripe for the picking."

Heywood's brow wrinkled. "Something here doesn't sound kosher. Here's a potential super-super star who falls into your lap. The only thing we know about him is his name. No, I take that back. We know he never played football, unless maybe intramural or touch. Yet, he can make an impossible catch and make an impossible punt, right?"

Jones nodded. "Yeah, and don't forget that thing with the weight bar."

Heywood scratched his chin. "Marvin, either this kid's from another planet, or you are."

"Look, J.J.. I'm just telling you what I saw with my own eyes."

"Okay, where do you propose to put him? You've got your quota of receivers. You've got your punter."

Jones shrugged. "Who knows? I don't have to tell you, guys get injured. Think of him as an insurance policy."

"So we sign him to a base salary contract, then let him warm the bench until he's old enough to retire just to protect ourselves," said Heywood. "That what you want?"

Jones drummed the desk. "Y'know, maybe that's not such a stupid idea."

J.J. reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, the contract form. "Okay, Marv. I'm relying on your judgment. Even at base salary it's gonna cost us, let's see, about $800 a week for pre-season, and at least a grand a week for sixteen weeks of the regular season. Just to keep a warm body around."

Jones stood, a grin spread across his face. "You won't be sorry, J.J.. I promise you."
Chapter 3

General Manager Heywood, seated at his desk puffing on a cigar, signed a paper, stuffed it into a box marked, "Out." He reached for another when there was a soft knock on the glass panel of the office door. He looked up. "Yeah, who's there?"

The response was muffled, sounding like, "A package."

"Well bring it in."

The door slowly opened to reveal a tall, skinny kid, bushy red hair, looked to be in his twenties, standing in the doorway. Heywood said, "Where's the package?"

The kid shook his head. "Package?"

Heywood realized he'd misunderstood. He had lots of work to do and didn't need this interruption. How did this guy get past his secretary anyway? He'd have to have a little talk with Marion, tell her she's have to screen visitors more carefully. "Who the hell are you?"

The kid gulped. "You sent for me. Max Aries. Sir."

Heywood gazed over Max's shoulder. "I sent for you?"

"Mr. Heywood?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Max Aries. Coach Jones said you wanted me to sign a contract."

Heywood's brow creased. He stood glaring at Max for a few seconds puffing cigar smoke, then a look of understanding came over him. Slowly, he swept his gaze from Max's feet to his head. For five seconds he stared into Max's face, then threw his head back and guffawed. He pointed at Max's chest. "You're the kid who caught the pass?"

"Yes sir."

"And kicked the ball?"

"Yes sir."

"And bent the weight bar?"

"Yes sir."

Heywood beckoned Max in and pointed. "Have a seat, kid."

Max eased into the chair.

Heywood leaned back and for half a minute sat staring at Max. Suddenly he leaned forward. Quietly, he said, "I don't believe it."

Max said, "You don't believe what, sir?"

"This is a joke, right?"

"Sir?"

"You and Marv are pulling some kinda gag, no?"

Max shook his head. "I'm—I'm sorry. I don't understand."

Heywood flapped his hand. "Okay. Okay. Go back to Marv and tell him I fell for it." He busied himself with some papers on his desk, then looked up. "Look I'm busy, son. Joke is over, now beat it."

Max slowly rose. "What—what about the contract?"

Heywood brought his head up. He snatched the cigar from his mouth and pounded it into an ashtray. "You're really serious?"

Max nodded.

Heywood took in a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. "What did you say your name was?"

"Max Aries—sir."

"How old are you, Max?"

Max was unsure of his age in Earth years, but he knew the number of the Earth year he was born. "Eighty."

Heywood cocked his head. "You mean you were born in 1980?"

"Sorry, sir. Yes sir."

"Married?"

"No sir."

"You don't have to keep calling me sir."

"Yes si—.I mean, yes."

Heywood paused, thinking. The kid's about twenty-seven. Looks like a strong breeze would knock him over. "What makes you think you can play professional football?"

Max leaned forward in his chair. "Oh, I know I can."

"Did you play in college?"

Max gazed up to the ceiling, looking there for the answer. "We-l-l-l, not exactly."

Heywood's brows came together. "Is that a yes or a no?

Max swallowed. He looked down at his shoes. Softly. "I guess it's a 'no'."

At least the kid was honest. Heywood took a cigar from his shirt pocket and bit off the end. From the top of his desk he grabbed a lighter, flicked it on and lit the end of the cigar. All this gave him time to mull over what he should do. He knew what he should really do is throw this nutty kid out of his office. At the very least, he should watch this Max perform on the field. But Marv Jones had never before tried to sell him a player. Yet this time... Shaking his head, he reached into a drawer and brought out a contract form.

"Okay, Max. What I've got here is a limited contract. In other words, you don't get a signing fee. You get paid for the practice sessions and the games where you suit-up. You also have to sign a waiver, so if you get hurt, we're not responsible." Heywood hesitated. He hated taking advantage of the kid, but what the hell, business is business. "Maybe you want to talk this over with your lawyer before you sign."

Fifteen minutes later, still shaking his head, Heywood watched Max Aries skip out of the door carrying a duplicate of the contract he had just signed. The kid said he didn't have a lawyer, didn't need one, Heywood muttered to the wall, "I just gave away my job."

Chapter4

Marvin Jones blew a long blast on his whistle and waved the players to where he stood in the middle of the practice field. Sweat poured off their heads and faces after working out in the eighty-degree humidity of a Cincinnati day in August. Their wet shirts clung to their bodies. All wore sweat-stained shorts. They looked as though they had spent the afternoon in a sauna. That is, all but one. One of the thirty-odd men appeared fresh and dry, as though he had spent the day in a cool breeze. Max Aries.

The men formed a circle around Jones. Some dropped to the turf, panting. Max kept hopping in place like a jogger standing at a street corner waiting for the light to change.

Jones held a clipboard and fanned his face with it. He slowly looked around at the men, then fixed his gaze on Max. "You. Take two laps around the track. Wait. Make that three."

Max trotted off. One of the men muttered, "How the hell does he do it?"

Another said, "I watched him. He did two push-ups to each of mine."

Another: "Did you see that skinny kid push those blocking dummies around? Like they were paper dolls."

"And he skipped over those tires without missing a step."

Bronco Wilson, a three-hundred pound, six-foot-six linebacker snapped a line of sweat from his face, "Yeah. Now when it doesn't count. Wait till the season starts. Let's see how fresh-as-a-daisy he looks after he's been on the field for a couple of hours. After he's been pushed around and sat on all afternoon."

Max ran over to the group. Jones glanced at his watch. It had only been three minutes since he'd ordered Max to run the laps. He said, "Did you do the full three laps?"

"Yes si—I mean, Coach."

Hank O'Toole, the reserve quarterback, mumbled, "This guy's from Mars."

Max flicked a glance at him. "No, I'm from Oh Ess Yew."

"Ha, ha. Very funny."

Jones said, "Okay, guys. Team up, a little touch-tackle." He pointed. "You, you, you..."

Grumbling, the weary players pushed themselves off the turf. Donning red pullover t-shirts, one team lined up against the other who wore white shirts. Since this was a practice session, to guard against injury, there was no tackling; a player who carried the ball was considered tackled if he was touched by an opposing team player.

Max was white-shirted. For the first fifteen minutes of the workout, he had not been assigned a position, but ran along the sideline, shouting encouragement to his team. Finally, Coach Jones tapped him on the shoulder. "Get in there for Kern." Fred Kern was a cornerback on defense. His responsibility was covering an area on the field to prevent an opposing player in that area from catching a pass thrown by the quarterback.

Max ran on to the field and joined the huddle of defense players. Kishwan Allen, a veteran linebacker called the defensive signals. In the huddle he said, "Watch for a 24-out. This one's probably going to Caine."

Having studied the plays, Max knew that Allen was referring to a pass to a wide receiver on either side.

The huddles broke and the men lined up. Max was responsible for pass protection on the right side of the field. The quarterback took the ball from the center and dropped back to pass. Two receivers came at Max. One broke toward the middle of the field, the other ran toward the sideline. Max hesitated. He had to guess which of the two to guard. He quickly made his decision, chasing the one who ran toward the middle of the field. Flicking a glance back toward the opposing quarterback, he saw the ball arcing in the air, but it was aimed at Caine, the receiver who was tearing down the sideline, now twenty yards behind him, heading for the goal line, his arms in the air. Max had made the wrong choice. Lunging for the ball, he missed, fell on his face while the receiver cradled the ball and scored. His first play and he had failed the test.

Hanging his head, he trotted to the sideline. For the rest of the practice session, Max had to content himself with being a cheerleader. Although the coach hadn't said anything to him, he figured he was being punished for his boneheaded play on the one chance he'd been given.

Later, in the locker room, the other players seemed to avoid him. His attempts to make conversation, were met with one-word grunts. At first, he thought this was the way veteran players treated rookies like himself. But he soon noticed that the old-timers were friendly with the three or four other "newbies" on the squad. Nor was he able to make friends with the other rookies. They also ignored him.

Max showered, dressed, and carrying his gym bag walked out into the bright sunshine feeling anything but elated. If this was to be the pattern, professional football was going to be a lonely life.
Chapter 5

The Rams trotted out on the field to a lukewarm reception from the diehards in the stands. This was their final exhibition game before the regular season. Although it was a home game, their pre-season record of even wins and losses, was not impressive.

"Look," Coach Marv Jones told reporters at last week's, press conference. "They're only exhibition games. I'm trying to find out who are going to be my regular starters. So don't get impatient."

Ham Gleason, a sports columnist who covered football for the Cincinnati Herald raised his hand. "Want to make any predictions about the season, Coach?"

Jones gazed up at the ceiling. "We'll do better than last year, I can guarantee you."

"What about the Super Bowl?" yelled another reporter.

Jones raised his hand. "Let's take one thing at a time, okay? We've got a tough schedule. After we've beaten teams like the Patriots and the Chargers, we can talk post-season chances."

Now the teams were on the field. This afternoon's exhibition finale was against the Browns, their traditional rival.

Max Aries was in his usual spot, the end of the bench. He had gotten into two of the previous exhibition games as a substitute cornerback. On the one chance he'd had to block a pass, the receiver against whom he was defending feinted him out of the play. He was becoming discouraged. He had hoped to be on the offense team, but as a walk-on rookie he didn't feel he could tell the coach where to put him.

By the end of the first half, the Rams were leading the Browns 19-14. In the locker room during the halftime break, Coach Jones told the team he was happy with the score, but pointed out a number of stupid plays his team had made. "I want you guys to be more aggressive in your tackling." He pointed to a couple of Special Team members. "You've got to get downfield faster. There's no reason to allow a kick return of 30 yards." He turned to Max. I want you on the Special Team for the next kickoff."

Max had never been a Special Team member during any of the practice sessions or previous exhibition games. But, he had shown good speed in the wind sprints, always was first, and figured that was the reason for his being given the assignment. Max was finally given the chance to play. He couldn't wait for the second half kickoff. He hadn't been good as a defensive team player, he was determined to do better on the Special Team.

The halftime intermission was over, the teams lined up for the kickoff. The Browns were receiving. Max's heart thumped in his chest. He was a gunner, lined up on the outside of the offensive line, double-teamed by blockers.

The moment the ball left the tee, Max charged downfield. He leaped over two of the opposing team blockers, skirted around another and got to the receiver seconds before the ball. In fact, he had gotten downfield so fast, he overran the receiver. He skidded to a stop and chased back after the ball carrier, but a blocker upended him and he found himself flat on his back.

Max got to his feet and trotted off the field at the end of the play. Tim Taylor, the Rams' Special Team coach slapped him on the back. "Good hustle, son. But you're not just doing sprints. You've got to get your hands on the guy you're chasing down."

Max got his next chance a few plays later when the Browns had the ball on their own 35-yard line. Fourth down and fifteen yards to go for a first down. Their punter came in. Max was sent out with the other Special Team members. Although he hadn't been on the "block and punt return" squad, he had been watching carefully and knew that his mission was to block or force a bad punt. He had heard the Special Team coach giving instructions during practice sessions. "Remember, you guys, Get in there fast. You're going to force mistakes and turn-overs. Unless the snap is bad, most of these punters are going to get off some kind of kick. Your job is to force a shank or weak kick."

With the other Special Team linemen, Max was aligned in a ten-man front. He was determined to block the punt. The moment the ball was snapped, Max flew over the Browns' blocker like a high hurdler. He landed directly in front of the punter with his hands high in the air. But the punter had already made contact with the ball and it went through Max's outstretched arms. Max's body was off the ground. There was no way he could brake to a stop. His forward momentum carried him into the punter and both men crashed to the ground, Max on top of the kicker. Max heard the man under him grunt as the air was knocked out of his lungs. From the corner of his vision, a yellow flag fluttered to the ground and the next sound he heard was the referee's whistle. Max's heart sank. He had drawn a Roughing the Kicker penalty. The fifteen yards was just enough to give the Browns a first down at midfield.

Max returned to the sideline to face the glare of the Special Team coach. He grabbed Max by the shoulders. "You stupid ass." He pointed to the bench. "You sit there until you learn how to play this game." Max had struck out first as a defensive player, now as a Special Team player. So far he was batting .000.

To make matters worse, the major penalty Max had incurred shifted the momentum of the game to the Browns. They scored on the next series of plays and now led the Rams 21-19.

In the third quarter, Max's team came to life. Thanks to a field goal at the end of the quarter, the Rams again went ahead. When the fourth quarter started, the Rams were leading 22-21. Max's contribution to the lead was his loud and vigorous cheering from his perch on the bench.

Coming down to the final seconds, the fourth quarter was a see-saw, neither team being able to score. With twelve seconds remaining, the Rams, hung perilously on to their one-point lead, On fourth down and ten yards to go, they had been pushed back to their two-yard line. Each team had one timeout remaining. The Browns forward wall had been aggressive, so the Rams' only chance of salvaging a victory was either a running play or pass that would take long enough for time to expire, or a punt that would get them out of danger. Their punter had not been very efficient and needed more than the twelve yards from the line of scrimmage to get off a kick. Coach Marvin Jones signaled for the Rams' final timeout.

Recalling Max's ninety-yard kick way back before he had joined the team, Jones beckoned to him. Max trotted over.

"You haven't been much help to us so far," said Jones. " I'm going to let you try to get us out of this jam. Get in there and punt."

"Yes sir," said Max.

His heart beating a rapid tattoo, Max dashed to the huddle on the field. He was determined to get that kick off, or in some way get his team out of the end zone.

Todd Albright, the quarterback was about to call the play in the huddle. He glanced over at Max and muttered, "Well, lookie who's here. Our un-favorite screw-up. What mess are you planning for the next play, Aries?"

Max swallowed and said nothing. He knew the other players didn't have much use for him, but he was going to show them he could play football. All he had to do was punt the ball out of the end zone, send it flying downfield over the head of the Browns' receiver so the chances of a return would be practically impossible. The game would be over. The Rams would win 22-21.

The team broke the huddle and lined up for the play. Max stood as far back in the end zone as he could get, his arms outstretched waiting for the center to deliver the ball. The referee's whistle blew. A yellow flag dropped to the ground. The referee yelled, "Delay of game. Half the distance to the goal line." They had taken too much time getting the play off.

Since the line of scrimmage had been the two-yard line, the loss of even one additional yard could be critical. The Rams again lined up in a tight formation. A glance at the Browns' ten-man line showed Max that they were about to rush him and attempt to block the kick. He gritted his teeth. This kick will not be blocked.

As soon as the Rams had taken their stance, Albright yelled, "Hike!"

The Rams center was the long snapper. He wasn't used to snapping to a punter only about ten yards deep, and the ball came out flying in an arc ten feet over Max's head. The opposing linemen rushed in.

Max leaped, got his hands on the ball, but by the time he landed on the turf, four huge Browns linemen were in a wall so close to him he could smell their breath. There was no way he could get a punt off, he'd have to run it out. He tucked the ball to his side, jumped high in the air hurdling over the backs of the Browns who were crashing in on him, and except for the punt receiver downfield, there was nothing but daylight between him and the other goal line.

Max forced his legs to run faster than he ever had before. The Browns punt receiver closed in on him, but Max feinted left, ran right and the only possible tackler closed his arms over empty air. Max was gone and a moment later crossed the goal line raising the ball over his head in a victory gesture.

From the stands, Max heard the roar of the crowd.

Then suddenly the roar was silenced.

Gazing back to where the line of scrimmage had been, Max saw both teams standing looking back at him. From the end zone he had left at the start of the play, the referee stood with his palms together over his head. Coming down when he leaped for the ball, Max's heel had stepped out of the back of the end zone. Instead of scoring a touchdown for the Rams, Max had forced a safety. The Browns had won, 23-22. Max had chalked up another mistake.
Chapter Six

Ham Gleason sat with his feet on the desk top in his cubicle at the Cincinnati Herald office.

Harry Thompson, the editor, passed by and shoved Ham's feet off the desk. "Back to work," he growled.

"I'm working," protested Ham.

"I call that loafing."

"I'm thinking," said Ham.

"Well, think on your own time. This is a work area." He stopped for a moment. Ham was a hard worker. Whatever he was thinking about must be important. "Want to tell me what you're thinking about?"

Ham hunched forward, his elbows on the desk. "You know this kid, Max Aries, the Rams have signed?"

"You mean 'Stink Up The Air-ies'?"

Max had gotten the nickname since practically everything he had done on the Rams football field had been a blunder.

Ham nodded. "Yeah. That's the one."

"Well what about him? Every time he gets near the ball, he causes a disaster. Everybody in town is on J.J. Heywood's case for letting that guy on the field."

Ham put his hands up. "I know, I know. But in spite of it all, some of the things he does seem absolutely brilliant, out of this world."

"Like what?" said Thompson.

"Okay. For one, remember that exhibition game against the Browns?"

"How can I forget. He caused a safety and we lost the game."

"Right. But there was no way he could catch that snap from center it was so high over his head. And I've never seen anyone take off on a touchdown run like he did."

Thompson snorted. "What 'touchdown'? The ball was dead when he stepped out of the end zone."

Ham could see there was no point to carrying the argument further. "Well, you're probably right. But I'd like to find out a little more about him."

Thompson shook his head. "Don't waste your time—or the newspaper's money. I'm sure there are some other stories you could be writing."

Ham went back to his computer keyboard and typed a few lines but his mind was not on the column he was writing. He couldn't erase from his thoughts that there was something unusual about this Aries fellow. The guy was supposed to have been from OSU, but admitted he'd never played college football. Yet here he was at the pro level because Coach Jones had been impressed with his tryout performance. It wasn't even a tryout. The guy had just appeared on the practice field, did some weird things like leap in the air to catch an impossible pass and loft a punt like it had been shot from a cannon.

Ham glanced around to make sure the editor wasn't nearby, then reached for the phone and punched in some numbers.

A voice on the other end said, "Ohio State Registrar's Office, this is Sally Carson."

"Sally, this is Ham Gleason."

"Ham! How are you? It's been ages. Are you here in Columbus?"

Ham could picture the cute redhead with the dimpled smile. The two had dated a few years ago when Ham was a sports reporter for the Columbus Star-Times. After Ham left to become a columnist for the Cincinnati paper, Sally had gotten engaged, but he heard she had broken up with her fiancé. Now, whenever his work brought him to Columbus, Ham would call her. "No, I'm in Cincinnati. I need some information about one of your former students."

Sally said, "I'm disappointed. I thought you were calling for a date. But okay, I'll get you the information. What's the person's name?"

Out of the corner of Ham's vision, he saw the editor walking toward his desk. Thompson had warned him not to pursue his investigation of Aries, and Ham was about to hang up when Thompson stopped to speak to one of the other reporters. Ham cupped the mouthpiece with his hand and spoke hoarsely. "Max Aries, A-R-I-E-S."

Sally was quiet for a few moments, then, "Do you have a cold?"

Ham coughed. "Yeah, a little one. But let me call you back in about an hour. And thanks, Sally. I'll owe you big."

"You owe me a dinner and don't forget it."

"I won't, you can bet on it."

Ham went back to his computer and started typing furiously. He felt Thompson patting his shoulder, heard him say, "That's what I like to see. Keep it up."

An hour later, he called Sally back. She said, "Ham, are you sure about the name of the person you gave me?"

"Yes, why."

"I've gone through our files, even back as far as twenty years ago, and there was never anyone here by the name of Max Aries."

Chapter7

From the press box high up in Rams Stadium, Ham Gleason watched the team playing the Indianapolis Colts. It was the Rams' fourth game of the season and so far they had won only one. Now, in the fourth quarter they trailed the Colts 21-7.

Seated next to him was Sid Schaffer who covered the game for the magazine Sports Afield. After the third dropped pass by one of the Rams wide receivers he said, "That quarterback, Albright, seems to be unlucky, His passes are pretty much on target, but the receivers can't hold onto the ball."

Ham said, "Tell me about it, Sid. I can't remember ever seeing such a bunch of butterfingers."

"Well, the good news is, they keep up at this pace they'll be last in the league standings, and at the top of the heap when it comes to draft season."

Schaffer raised his binoculars and pointed to the field. "Who's that number 87? He's listed in the program as a flanker, but he hasn't budged from the bench. He must be pretty bad if he can't replace the Z receivers they've got in there now."

Ham put his field glasses on the player Schaffer asked about. "That's a kid named Max Aries. He's a reserve. They've tried him at several positions, defensive and offensive. He's supposedly a great prospect but..."

During a timeout on the field, Ham reflected. After Sally Carson had told him Ohio State had no record of Max having ever been a Buckeye student, he had tried some other approaches to try to learn more about Max's background. He tried to pin Max down after practice sessions when reporters were allowed in the locker room, but Max always had an excuse for ducking away. Either he had to shower, or had an appointment and couldn't talk, or flat-out said he didn't want to talk right now. Thinking that Max's OSU might refer to another college, he sent email requests for information to Oregon State University and Oklahoma State University. Like Ohio State, neither "OSU" school had a record of a student named Max Aries. Ham had even questioned J.J. Heywood, telling him there was no record anywhere of Aries as a student, but the Rams General Manager just shrugged him off saying, "Go ask Marv Jones. He's the one hired the kid. I just pay the salaries." Although Ham's curiosity remained, he was too busy to pursue the story, besides he had a daily column to write, and an editor who wasn't interested in Max Aries.

When the game resumed, the Rams moved the ball into Colts territory and with five minutes remaining, a 45-yard field goal on fourth down and seven yards to go for first down narrowed the deficit to 11 points. The few boo-birds in the stands who hadn't already left in disgust, made their feelings heard. Ham, too, thought the decision not to go for a touchdown was a bad one.

The on-sides kick-off was recovered by the Colts. Playing defensively to "eat up the clock," they ran three plays with short gains. On fourth down with six yards to go, they punted. The kick was downed on the Rams five-yard line.

Schaffer watching through his binoculars as the Rams offense ran on to the field said, "Well, look at that. Your 'hot prospect' is finally getting a chance to play."

Ham had been packing up his laptop and notes. For all practical purposes, the game was over and the Rams had dropped another one. He glanced up to see number 87 in at right flanker position. On the Rams first play, Max took off like a rocket and at midfield, guarded by a six-foot eight safety, jumped to snare a pass thrown a good eight feet over his head. He came down in the arms of the safety, but the play had gained fifty yards.

Schaffer's mouth gaped open. "Wow! That kid's got springs in his shoes. What's he been doing on the bench the whole game?"

Ham stopped packing. Although the chance of pulling the game out of the soup was none to nil, this might be interesting to watch.

Before the Rams were able to get off another play, the whistle blew for the two-minute warning.

Play resumed and the Rams went into a hurry-up offense, conserving the one time-out they had left. On first down, Albright fumbled the ball as he tried to take it from his center. The ball rolled around finally disappearing under a heap of Rams and Colts. By the time the referee blew the play dead, valuable time was lost. When the pile was finally untangled, the Rams had kept possession, but barely a minute remained on the clock.

With time running out, Albright spiked the ball as he took it from center. In the huddle he called the play on which Max had gained fifty yards. Max would be primary receiver. This time, Max charging downfield on the snap, was double-teamed in the end zone, both safeties were a foot or more taller than Max.

Playing for time for the receivers to get downfield before throwing the pass, Albright scurried out of the pocket and evading tacklers for a full six seconds, finally wound up and threw toward the goal posts.

The ball arced high toward Max and the two defenders. The three players timed their jumps simultaneously, but although each of the safeties outreached Max by a foot, his leap carried him several inches above their outstretched hands. Grabbing the ball, Max tucked it into his side. Before they hit the turf, one safety tried to punch the ball out of Max's grasp, while the other clawed at the pigskin trying to pull it loose. Max had the ball locked to his side with a grip like steel. He had it firmly in his grasp when his feet hit the ground. Touchdown!

Max trotted off the field, still holding the football. A trophy. His first score. The team and coaches on the sideline pounded Max on the back, The roar from the stands was deafening.

Ham Gleason in the press box unpacked his laptop. This was going to be some story, and he had almost walked out on it.

Coach Jones grabbed Max by the shoulders, yelled in his ear, "Great catch, kid."

Jones clapped his hands. "Okay guys, listen up. We're behind but we're still in the game. Let's get two."

With the scoreboard reading: Colts 21, Rams 16, to kick for an extra point would still leave them four points behind. A two-pointer, would allow them to tie the score with a field goal, as remote a possibility as that was considering there was less than thirty seconds left.

Jones huddled the team around him. "Let's run the Option Play. Max, you get out there, you're the right Z receiver."

The play called for Max to again play flanker. But if the quarterback saw that he was too well-defended, he had the option of giving the ball to his running back to try to run it over the goal line.

On the Colts sideline, the coaches were setting up to defend the obvious two-point play. The players lined up shifting their positions in an attempt to confuse the offense. On the line were their biggest, heaviest linemen. In the defensive backfield, their most aggressive safeties had their eyes on Max.

The ball was snapped. Max ran toward the right corner of the end zone, ducking around blockers who tried to keep him from crossing the line of scrimmage. The Colts as a team was keyed on Max; all but one Colts player ran in his direction. Quarterback Todd Albright took the ball from center, double-pumped faking a pass, then slipped the ball to Roy Williams, their best running back. Williams ran left and walked over the goal line untouched. The Rams had added two points to their score. They were a field goal away from a tie. A touchdown, of course, would win. One small detail remained: they had only seconds left in the game, and had to kickoff to the Colts. Somehow, they had to get possession of the ball.

Coach Jones called over to Carl Hajak, the kick-off specialist. "We're going to line everyone left except Charlie and Max." Charlie was a six-foot-seven wide receiver who'd been a basketball center. Unfortunately, he had trouble holding on to the ball, although he was good at tapping it toward a teammate.

"Try to kick to the right twenty yards out and as high as you can get it," Jones told Hajak. According to rules, the onsides kick had to go at least ten yards from the line of scrimmage. A twenty-yard kick meant that if the Rams were to recover the kick, they would have to really hustle off the line of scrimmage in order to get under the ball.

Hajak nodded. He was a former soccer star who could do everything with his feet but write—and he probably could do that if he tried.

Jones outlined the strategy to the kick-off specialists, and the teams took to the field.

The Colts split their defensive team unevenly. Most of the Colts linemen lined up against the larger number of Rams occupying the left side of the field. Only four of their tallest men were teamed against Max and Charlie.

Hajak teed up the ball, and side-kicked it high in the air. Max, Charlie and the Colts defenders were under the kick. Charlie got his hand on the ball and instead of trying to catch it like the Colts players, he tapped it toward Max. The Colts defenders lunged for the ball and one plucked it out of the air. All he had to do was flop to the ground keeping possession of the ball. The Colts would have four downs to run out the clock. Foolishly, the Colts player stayed on his feet trying to gain some yardage. Max flew through the air, punched the ball out of the Colts player's grasp and grabbed it just before it hit the ground. He rolled over, then got to his feet before any of the Colts players touched him.

Charlie yelled, "Run!"

Max hadn't been involved in, nor had he seen a similar play and wasn't sure about the rule. But he rightly assumed it was a free ball since the onsides kick had been in the possession of a Colts player. He took off like a shot, and since most of the other team was on the opposite side of the field, he had nothing between him and the Colts goal line. As the gun ending the game was fired, Max crossed the goal line. Final score: Rams 24, Colts 21.
Chapter 8

Ham Gleason, still in the press box, finished typing his column for tomorrow's edition of the Herald. Since he had already written off the game as a Rams loss, he had to revise the entire column. He called the game the most stirring he'd ever witnessed. "There aren't enough superlatives to describe the play of Max Aries," he wrote. "If the young man hasn't won a job as a starter, the Rams staff of coaches and managers should be committed as raving lunatics."

After closing his laptop, he rushed down to the Rams' dressing room to catch what he knew would be a victory celebration. He was right. If the team had just won the Super Bowl, the atmosphere couldn't be more jubilant. At the center of it all was Max.

Wearing only his underwear shorts, Max stood on a locker room bench surrounded by reporters, men and women, who were shoving microphones in his face, shouting questions at him. Unable to speak over the din even if he had wanted to, Max just shook his head.

Coach Jones stepped in front of the mob and raised his hands for silence. "Listen everyone. Max has had a tough day; we all have. I can speak for him to tell you what should be obvious: it was a great win for the entire team. But it's only one game. We still have more than half a season ahead of us and we'll take it one game at a time, one play at a time. Now how about all of you shoving off and giving these guys a chance to shower and get dressed."

A reporter shouted. "Before we go, can we get a statement from Max?"

Jones said, "All right." He looked up at Max, who appeared bewildered. "Say something so we can get rid of them."

The room hushed, the silence was deafening. Max leaned into the forest of microphones and tape recorders. In a hoarse whisper he said, "Thanks." Then he stepped down from his perch, pushed his way through the mob, strolled into the shower room and closed the door behind him.

A reporter grumbled, "That's it?"

Jones shrugged. "Write whatever you want. His play speaks for itself."

The attitude of Max's teammates toward him was a one-hundred-eighty degree turn from what it had been before the Colts game. His back was sore from the thumping he received during the week of practice sessions before the next game. The coaches revised the playbook making Max primary receiver for most pass plays. During practice, Todd Albright, the quarterback, kept throwing higher and higher to see if he could find Max's limit in leaping to make a catch. So far, he hadn't found it. Max seemed to be defying gravity. The only passes he missed were those when he timed his jump improperly.
Chapter 9

The Postit™ note attached to the front of Max's locker read: "See J.J. HeywoodInstead of going out to the field for a regular Tuesday practice session, Max changed from his cleated shoes to sneakers and headed back to Heywood's stadium office. Heywood was seated at his desk partially obscured by a haze of cigar smoke. On a couch opposite him was a man in a dark blue suit whom Max did not recognize. Heywood pointed to a chair in front of the desk. From the look on his face Max knew that whatever news Heywood had for him, it wasn't good. When Max was seated, Heywood leaned forward and spoke for the first time.

"When did you start taking drugs?"

Max's mouth gaped. Drugs? He shook his head in disbelief.

Heywood plucked a sheet of paper from his desk and waved it at Max. "Here's the report of last week's steroid urine test. It says your result was off the charts. The commissioner has slapped you with a five-game suspension. That's all we need in the thick of a race to the play-offs."

Max was still shaking his head. "Mr. Heywood, I don't know what they're talking about. I never, ever took any drugs. Ever. Never."

Heywood shifted his gaze from Max to the man on the couch. "Could they have gotten the test wrong Scottie?" He turned back to Max. "This is George Scott, our lawyer."

Scott said, "They claim they repeated the test and got the same result."

"Could it have been a mix-up? You know, a specimen from another player?"

"That's possible," said Scott. "I'm going to ask them to get another sample from Max."

Max said, "I wish someone would tell me what this is all about."

Scott said, "I don't have to tell you what steroids are." He drew a blank look from Max, then added, "Come on. You know, performance-enhancing drugs. They help the body to 'build' muscles, make them bulkier. The guys that use steroids become more aggressive. They seem to be able to practice more and without fatigue for longer periods."

"I don't understand," said Max. "If these steroids make people stronger and play better, why doesn't everyone use them? Why should someone who tests positive be suspended?" Quickly he added, "Not that I take the stuff. I'm just curious."

Scott's brow wrinkled. He turned to Heywood. "Has this guy been living on another planet?" He pointed a finger at Max. "Don't you read the papers? Look, the reason steroids are banned is that first of all they give a player who uses them an unfair advantage over non-users."

"But if everyone used them, wouldn't that put them on an equal—?"

Scott raised a hand, "Wait, let me finish. These drugs are dangerous because they're addictive, and they're dangerous. They not only affect the muscles but also sex organs and nervous system including the brain. These guys go into rages that make them dangerous to other people. Some go into mental depression, they become suicidal. But also there are other side effects: acne, baldness, blood-clotting disorders, liver damage, premature heart attacks and strokes."

Max nodded. "Wow, I see why they're banned." He looked up. "I assure you, even though I didn't know how bad they were, I never took any of these steroids. I sure would know if anyone gave me an injection of the stuff."

Heywood said, "It isn't necessary to take them by injection. They can be taken in pills."

"I don't take any pills," said Max.

"Well, we're going to ask to have you take another test. But meanwhile, we'll have to abide by the commissioner's decision. You can't play or practice with the team until we have the suspension lifted —if it's lifted."

Back in his "safe house," Max sat deep in thought. Could it be that his athletic superiority over the earthlings was in some way related to his having more of these steroids than they do? He picked up the phone that linked him to Commander Loto. The phone was to be used only in case of emergency, but wasn't this an emergency?

When Loto came on the line, Max explained that he had been suspended from playing football because of a positive steroid test. "I haven't taken any of the drugs that would cause the test to be positive. I wondered if we differ from earthlings in naturally having these steroids in our systems."

Loto said, "What is this steroid?"

"They call it testosterone."

"I don't know the answer to your question. I'll check with base and get back to you."

"Okay. But I hope it doesn't take too long. I'm scheduled to have a repeat test in two days—Earth time."

For the next day and a half, Max fidgeted and paced the floor. He kept staring at the phone, willing it to ring and give him the answer to his burning question. Finally, the call came.

"I'm going to patch you through to Dr. Yaar," said Loto. "He's back home at the base, and he's head of the scientific unit."

Max recalled having seen pictures of the doctor, a short man with a large, bald head and eyes that seemed to bug out of their sockets. He was one of the most respected men on the planet. Max felt honored to have the chance to speak to him personally. After several minutes, a squeaky voice came through. "This is Yaar. I understand you're having some kind of a problem. I'll see if I can help you."

Max said, "Thank you, Doctor. Here's my problem." He went on to explain that his urine test had shown the presence of steroids, a substance that was banned among athletes. "I haven't knowingly taken any steroids, so I wonder how the test could be positive."

"What is the chemical name of the steroid?"

"Here it's called testosterone, a male hormone."

"Do you know its chemical structure?"

Max had previously gathered all the material he could find on the internet that related to testosterone, so he was prepared for the question. "Yes, I have a picture of its molecular structure." He held up in front of the video screen. A picture of two pairs of linked polygons with letters, "H," "O," and "OH" attached to several points.

After a few moments, he heard a cackling laugh and Dr. Yaar said, "That's what they call testosterone?"

Max wondered what was so funny. "Yes sir."

"You know what that is? It's our Jumpolite. Of course they found it in you. All our males have it."

Of course! Max had learned about Jumpolite in his hygiene classes in school. "You mean the Anti-Gravity Factor? The reason we can jump so much higher than they can?"

"Sure. The chemical structure of Jumpolite is slightly different, but it would show up in a test as their testosterone. Not only that, but the reason they found so much in your urine is that they probably couldn't distinguish it from another chemical that occurs in all of us. Can you guess what that is?"

Max thought for a moment. "You mean Powerol, the Strength Factor?

"Right! The chemical structure of Powerol is very much like that of Jumpolite. All of us have that in our bodies as well."

"And Earthlings don't have either?"

Dr. Yaar said, "Well, from what I've learned, males do have the steroid, testosterone, in their sex glands, but in moderate amounts. When they take drugs containing large amounts of synthetic steroids in order to bulk up their muscles, it would spill over in their urine and show up in tests."

"But," said Max, "we don't suffer from the toxic effects that they seem to experience from taking the steroids."

"No, our bodies are adapted to them. We actually benefit from these chemicals. They allow us to perform athletic feats such as jumping and activities that call for great strength, such as bending steel bars."

The explanation satisfied Max. He now knew why he'd flunked the steroid test. "That still doesn't resolve my problem. I'd like to continue to play football, but I can't pass the steroid test and I can't explain to them why my test is positive without revealing that I'm not, you know, one of them."

"I think we can take care of that. All we need to do is tweak the structure of Jumpolite and Powerol in your body."

"You can do that?"

"No. you can do it. All you have to do is eat a food that will slightly alter the structure of your naturally occurring Jumpolite and Powerol."

"Is there a food I can get here that will do it?"

He heard Dr. Yaar chuckle. "Yes. It's something that grows abundantly on Earth."

"But if it changes the structure of Jumpolite and Powerol will it impair my ability to jump or lower my strength?"

"No, all it does is mask the chemicals so they don't show up on tests, but doesn't alter their effects."

Max thought for a few moments. "Um, if this food masks the presence of steroids, why doesn't everyone who takes them eat it so the steroids won't be detected."

"Ah! Good question. You're concerned that by taking the food you're cheating. Well, you're not. Your steroids are naturally occurring. Those are masked. The food doesn't mask excessive synthetic steroids which are what the others take.

"What's this magic food called?"

"Spinach."

For the next two days, Max ate spinach for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was so full of it he felt he was turning green, the color of the vegetable. At the appointed time, he walked into the laboratory where his test was to be conducted, and accompanied by a male technician, was taken to a small lavatory.

The lab technician said, "I hope you're not embarrassed by my being here, but we have to make sure you're not substituting someone else's urine specimen for your own."

Max was surprised. "You mean that's been done?"

The technician nodded. "You'd be amazed at what some of these guys will do to try to cheat and pass the test."

Max filled the tube he was given and passed it to the technician.

He couldn't sleep that night worrying whether he'd passed the test. Next morning, he phoned J.J. Heywood's, office to find out if he'd heard the result.

"I won't know until sometime this afternoon," said Heywood.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, he could wait no longer. The team secretary transferred his call to Heywood's office and the general manager greeted him. "Hi Max. I've got good news and bad news."

Max said nothing, waiting.

"The good news," Heywood said, "is that you've passed the urine test."

A grin broke out on Max's face. "I knew you'd find I was not taking steroids. Then I'm back on the team, right?"

Heywood held up a hand. "Not so fast. You've passed the urine test, but before the commission give you the okay they want you to submit to a blood test. Make sure there's nothing abnormal in your blood."

Max shrugged. "Okay, what do I do?"

"Go back to the lab where they'll draw some blood."

As soon as he hung up the phone, Max went back to the lab. He rolled up a sleeve and watched as the technician applied a tourniquet to Max's arm, and deftly threaded a needle into a vein. A rubber tube attached to the needle connected it to a glass vial that rapidly filled with Max's blood. The tech withdrew the needle, pressed a cotton ball over the site of needle entry and wrapped a pressure bandage around Max's arm to prevent any bleeding.

"That's it?" said Max.

The technician nodded, then held the blood-filled vial up to eye level. "Uh—yeah." He murmured something Max didn't understand.

Max said, "Something wrong?"

"No, no. It's just that..." His voice trailed off.

The way the technician examined the vial of blood gave Max the impression that all was not right. "What is it?"

"Well, to be honest I've never seen blood this red before."

"Isn't blood supposed to be red?"

"Sure, but—." He smiled. "Nothing wrong. You're a real red-blooded man."

Max left the lab but couldn't help wondering if the technician was being honest in assuring him that everything was okay.

Later that day, Max called Heywood's office to find out if he could rejoin the team at least for practice. Here it was Wednesday, and with a game against the second-place Broncos coming up Sunday, he felt that he'd better stay in shape.

"Mr. Heywood isn't available right now, "the secretary said. "But he left word that he's still waiting for the test results. Meanwhile you'll have to remain in suspension."

For the next two days, Max waited for word that he was reinstated. Each time he phoned the office, he was told that Heywood was busy, or on another phone line or at a meeting. Max was sure Heywood was stalling, but why? He spent his days running around the local high school track, or playing catch with the high school quarterback. The kid was good, but there was a world of difference between catching his passes and catching those of Todd Albright. Max had phoned Albright to find out if he had heard anything about his suspension.

"I have no idea what's going on, Max, " Albright said. "None of the other guys on the team have heard anything either. We're all getting itchy. We need you, man."

No more than Max needed the team. He tossed in bed all Friday night, unable to sleep, wondering what was causing the delay in getting the test results. Saturday morning his phone rang. It was Heywood telling Max to get down to his office.

"Am I cleared?" Max asked.

He listened, but the only response was a dial tone. Heywood had hung up without answering.

Max hurried down to the stadium and dashed to Heywood's office. He heard voices behind the frosted glass door; obviously, Heywood was not alone. Max timidly knocked and was told to come in.

Heywood was at his desk and seated in front of him were two men and a woman. One of the men looked to be around thirty-years-old, the other, a white haired man, was probably in his sixties. The woman was slim, had short-cropped brown hair and wore no make-up. Heywood waved Max to an empty chair and pointed to the other people. "Max, I'd like you to meet Drs. Ward, Halpern and Dexter."

Three doctors? Max felt his knees wobble. Although he didn't feel sick, something was terribly wrong

"Before you wonder what's wrong with your health," said Heywood, "These people are not medical doctors. They're biologists. Actually, Dr. Dexter is a geneticist."

The woman, apparently Dr. Dexter, nodded.

Heywood went on. "I know you want to know about your blood test." He turned to the older man. "Dr. Ward, why don't you explain."

Dr. Ward cleared his throat. "Max—is it all right to call you Max?"

Max nodded. The man could call him anything. He just wanted to know was what was going on.

Ward continued. "Your blood has two qualities that are unusual. Not necessarily bad, you understand, but unusual."

Max didn't understand. He shook his head.

"First," said Ward, "is your hemoglobin. Do you know what that is?"

Max recalled what he'd learned in his hygiene class. "Isn't that the stuff that colors red blood cells?"

"Right. And more importantly, it carries oxygen from the lungs to the rest of the body."

"And the more oxygen your blood can carry, the more stamina you have, right?"

Ward smiled and glanced at Heywood. "This is one smart lad."

Max felt a blush rise to his cheeks. " So is my hemoglobin okay?"

"Not only is it okay," said Ward. "But it's about twice the amount we see in a normal adult."

Max was beginning to see where this conversation was going. He now understood why he seemed to have more stamina than any of his teammates. "So what's wrong with my having so much hemoglobin?"

The younger man, Dr. Halpern, had been quiet, but now he spoke for the first time. "Nothing wrong with having a lot of hemoglobin. The question is why. We've boiled it down to two possibilities: one is that you're taking erythropoietin, know what that is?"

Max's eyebrows drew together. "Is that the stuff cyclist take to increase their red blood cells to help them cycle up hills?"

Dr. Halpern nodded. "Yeah. It's a no-no for athletes. Are you taking it?"

Max shook his head vigorously. First they accused him of taking steroids, now this other stuff. "Absolutely not! If you want me to, I'll take any kind of test, including a lie detector.

Heywood held up a hand. "Take it easy kid. I believe you." He turned to Dr. Halpern. "You said there were two possibilities to explain why Max has so much hemoglobin. What's the other?"

Halpern said. "There's a population who have abnormally high hemoglobins, although none as high as Max's."

"What population?"

"Sherpas."

"Who?"

"Sherpas. They live in the Himalaya Mountains where the air is thin in the high altitude, and they need the additional red blood cells to carry the oxygen they need to survive."

Max said, "Like Mt. Everest?"

"Right. You're not a Sherpa, are you? You haven't lived at a high altitude, have you?"

High altitude! Max fought to keep from laughing at the guy. Would he consider 2 million light- years above the earth high altitude? He didn't think that's what the guy meant, nor could Max divulge that he was from a distant planet without jeopardizing the entire mission. He simply said, "No."

Heywood said, "Isn't there some cure, some medicine he could take? Max is a valuable commodity for our team. We're in a tight race for the Super Bowl and he's one of the reasons we're as high in the standings as we are."

Halpern shrugged. "Well, we could siphon off some of his blood from time to time. Bring it down to where the rest of us are."

Max flicked a glance from Halpern to Heywood. "Is he talking about bleeding me?"

Halpern said, "That's exactly what I said. If it means bringing your red blood count down so that you meet the requirement for playing football would you be willing?"

Max gulped. He could picture himself on a table with a tube leading from his arm to a bottle, blood pouring out of him. "I could donate it to a blood bank, couldn't I?"

"Sure. Think of the good you could do for someone who needs blood."

That made sense. "Yeah. Okay, I'll do it."

Max started to get up, then remembered that Dr. Ward had said there were two unusual qualities to his blood.

Dr. Ward said, "I'm going to let Dr. Dexter tell you about the second thing that has us puzzled."

Dr. Dexter adjusted her eyeglasses. "Max, I'm a geneticist. I examine people's chromosomes and the genes that each chromosome contains. As you probably have read, we've come a long way in the past few years. We have identified the genes that cause some diseases, and we've even engineered the defective genes to correct them."

Max was wondering what that had to do with him, and Dexter apparently had anticipated his question. She said, "I'm sure you have heard about DNA."

"Isn't that the stuff that's in the nuclei of all the cells in everyone's body?"

"Right. Except for red blood cells which have no nuclei. But, yes, the DNA is the molecule that's responsible for all the characteristics that go to make up an individual, or any living thing for that matter."

Max grinned. He just learned he had too much hemoglobin. "Don't tell me I have too much DNA also."

Dr. Dexter wasn't amused. She nodded. "That seems to be the problem."

Max's jaw fell open.

Dexter went on. "Each DNA molecule is made up of two strands. They're like ropes twisted around each other. I won't go into any more detail such as their chemical composition because it's not germane here. What is interesting is that each of your DNA molecules consist of four strands. In other words, double the amount everyone else has."

Max shook his head to clear it. "Is that bad? I mean what's the harm in my having so much DNA?"

Dr. Dexter shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I don't know."

Heywood chimed in. "Why should the fact that Max has more than the usual amount of DNA in his cells keep him from playing football?"

Dr. Halpern said, "We've discussed this among ourselves, and even asked a number of other experts in the cell biology field. Several of these experts felt that the additional DNA gives him skills that the rest of us don't have. It could make him run faster, jump higher, make him stronger than anyone else. It gives him an unfair advantage."

Max listened attentively. It was true he was able to run faster, jump higher, bend steel bars that others couldn't do. He recalled that Dr. Yaar on the home planet, had attributed his prowess to the anti-gravity factor, Jumpolite and Powerol, the strength factor. Maybe they were formed from his additional DNA. He'd have to get back to Dr. Yaar for the answers.

Dr. Dexter was saying, "Before we turn you loose, Max, we'd like check the blood of your parents and see if it's an inherited factor. Could you have your Mom and Dad come to our lab so we can draw their bloods?"

His Mom and Dad? How could he tell these people that he came from a planet where Moms and Dads didn't exist? People were formed in test tubes and grew on culture plates and incubators until they were large enough to survive on their own. Only the hardiest ones were kept. By selective breeding it was possible to develop a race of individuals like Max who had no defects.

Dr. Dexter repeated, "Could you ask your Mom and Dad to come to our lab?"

Max gazed up at the ceiling shaking his head. He could feel tears come to his eyes.

Dexter put her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize...It must be too painful to talk about how you lost them.

Max lowered his head. He kept quiet. Let them think what they wanted.
Chapter 10

Max was on the interplanetary line, talking to Dr. Yaar. He had just finished telling Yaar

about the blood tests.

"Of course the Earthlings thought the hemoglobin was abnormal," said Dr. Yaar. "They don't know about the climactic conditions here. We all have hemoglobin values like yours. For us it is normal."

Max said, "They're still puzzling over my DNA. They've never seen so much."

He heard Yaar chuckle. "They're still in the Dark Ages with genetic engineering. At the time we discovered the secrets of DNA, what is now Earth was still a swirling cloud of dust and vapors. You remember what your science teachers taught you about DNA, don't you, Max?"

"Vaguely."

"Well let me refresh your memory. Eons ago we found that if we doubled the DNA in our nuclei it would give us, in addition to a number of skills—."

"You mean our ability to run faster, jump higher, like that?"

"Yes. But even more importantly it's the reason we can replace our worn-out parts. We have built-in organ replacement farms."

Max said, "Earthlings can't do that?"

"Nah. They're still fooling around with embryonic stem cell research. Maybe in about twenty years they'll figure out how to replace their old hearts, lungs, brains, kidneys, by growing them from double DNA stem cells like we all have in our bodies."

Max had enough of Dr. Yaar's science refresher. "You know I'm still on suspension from football."

Dr. Yaar said, "That's something I can't help you with. Gotta go. Keep in touch."

Sunday found Max pacing the sidelines while his Ram teammates were having their problems with the Broncos. He wasn't even permitted to dress in his uniform for the game. After he had bowled over the offensive coordinator while charging up and down the sidelines, the coach told him, "Max, you're getting in our way. Go on up to the press box."

In the press box he found a seat next to Ham Gleason, the reporter who covered the Rams for the Herald. Gleason said, "How much longer will they keep you on suspension?"

Max said, "Your guess is as good as mine, maybe better. What galls me is that it isn't even something I did that they're punishing me for. The're just combing through the rule books trying to find a reason for turning me loose or an excuse for keeping me on suspension."

On the field, it was now third quarter and the Broncos were ahead by a touchdown. The Rams were in the Broncos Red Zone; they appeared poised to come away with either a score to tie it up, or a field goal to narrow the gap to four points. Albright dropped back to pass. He had Luke Taylor, his wide receiver in the back corner of the end zone and fired a bullet aimed for Taylor's midsection. Suddenly, a Bronco cornerback leaped in front of Taylor and snared Albright's pass, rolling to the turf with the interception clutched to his chest. Up in the press box, Max's groan could be heard from half a mile away.

On the next series of plays, the Rams still reeling from the loss of momentum, lost their incentive as well. Their listless play resulted in a defensive line that leaked like a sieve. By the middle of the fourth quarter, with the Broncos leading 30-13, the stands began to empty as the fans headed out to beat the homebound traffic jam.

Max sat seething as he watched from his perch in the press box. He had seen half a dozen wasted opportunities by which the Rams could have gotten back in the game. If only he could get down on the field, he was sure he could fire up the team. They needed a leader, someone to prod them. The few faithful fans who remained felt as he did. They began to chant "Bring back Max!" Their faith should have cheered him, but Max was more concerned by the Rams' losing the game, than his own esteem. When mercifully the final gun was fired, he trudged out of the stands. He briefly considered a stop in the locker room to consol his teammates, but knew they felt as bad as he did and spared himself any further grief

* * *

"Congratulations, Max. You're back on the team."

"I passed all the tests?"

J.J. Heywood nodded. "You're good to go."

On the field, Max was the same, unassuming young man he'd been when he appeared tugging at Coach Marvin Jones' shirt, begging for a chance to play. He blushed when, at the start of one of the practice sessions, his teammates jokingly knelt down in front of him crying out, "Oh, our king, our savior."

Max covered his face with his hands and said, "Aw, come on, guys."

Several teammates confessed they had been approached by representatives of Fox Sports Network and Sports Illustrated and offered large sums if they could find out where Max had gone to college, where he lived, what he did, where he came from and where he disappeared to after he left the playing field. The only information they could come back with was OSU. Max was a genius in diverting their questions. They concluded that if Max didn't want them to know, it was none of their business. He also politely declined invitations to dinners or parties from his teammates, coaches, even the team owners.

Sports Illustrated did put his picture on a cover of the magazine, but it was one taken with a long range camera while Max was playing. He just shook his head when asked to pose for one.

Sunday's game against the Eagles turned out to be a laugher for the Rams. By the end of the first half they led 35-6, thanks to a new franchise record of 130 yards receiving in one half by Max. In the second half, the Eagles tried triple-teaming him, but that just opened up the other receivers. In addition, with all the attention on the Rams' passing game, the runners had a picnic. If Coach Jones hadn't kept his passing game to a minimum, the final score, 56-20, could have been even worse for the Eagles. But several years before, the Eagles' coach had been Jones' mentor, and Jones wanted to avoid embarrassing him by putting up astronomical numbers.

Monday morning following the rout over the Eagles, the Herald editor called Ham Gleason into his office. Ham walked into the glass-enclosed cubicle that overlooked the large room where reporters pecked away at their computer keyboards.

"What do we know about this Aries kid, Ham?" said Thompson.

"Only that he's a gift from heaven, and the Rams' key to the Super Bowl."

"What about his background?"

Ham recalled how only a few weeks before, Thompson had called him off when he had attempted to find out where Max had gone to college. Since then, he had been so busy meeting deadlines for his column he hadn't had time to pursue the story. Besides, he didn't want to buck the editor's orders. "Nobody seems to know anything. I asked the Rams' media guru, but all she had was a copy of his contract."

Thompson nodded. "Okay, I want a feature story on him. Biography, where he came from, where he lives, what he has for breakfast—the works. And I want it for tomorrow's paper"

Ham left the editor's office scratching his head. Where to begin? The simplest way was to go directly to the source: Max himself.

A phone call to the Rams office gave him the information he already knew: there'd be no practice today, the team had been given the day off as a reward for their lopsided victory over the Eagles.

Ham pressed the secretary who'd taken his call. "Evie, I need an interview with Max Aries. Today would be ideal since he doesn't have to report for practice. Where can I reach him?"

Evie said, "How should I know. I'm not his mother."

"Where does he live?"

Ham could almost hear her shaking her head over the phone. "Ham, you know we can't give out that information."

He wasn't about to give up that easily. "Evie darling, remember when you needed tickets for your family for the World Series? I scratched, scraped and called in a bunch of favors to get them for you..."

"All right, all right. I wouldn't do this for anybody else, but hold on, let me look it up. But remember, this is between you and me."

"Thanks Ev. My lips are sealed."

While he waited, Ham hummed and thought of the questions he was going to ask Max.

Finally, Evie was back on the line. "Ham, I don't know how to tell you, but we have no record of his address. In fact, except for the copy of his contract, the only other thing in his file is a scribbled note that Marv Jones said was Max Aries cell phone number. Marv said he called him at that number to tell him to report to J.J.'s office for a contract."

"Okay, give me that."

"Well, I tried to call him once and all I got was a humming noise."

Ham Gleason was persistent. "Evie, give me the number and I'll see what I can do."

"Be my guest. The number is 23f6 992d"

"Huh?"

"I told you."

Ham wrote down what Evie had given him. After he had hung up, he tried punching the numbers and letters into his phone. He heard a series of clicks, then, "Hmmmmm..." followed by three-tone musical notes repeated over and over. He tried to recall where he'd heard something like that before. Ham shook his head. His mind was playing tricks on him.

Back in an office on the planet Oh Ess Yew, Ham Gleason's ring registered as a blinking green light on a large board. The operator who'd received the call switched on a screen that showed Gleason's image. Since it was no one he recognized, he turned off the signal.

The operator's supervisor, a man named Tron, from a far corner of the room called over, "Was that an interplanetary call?"

"Yes. From planet Earth."

"Isn't that where Xam is visiting?"

"Uh-huh. Except on Earth he calls himself Max— Max Aries."

Tron smiled. "Clever. What did Xam—or Max—want?

"It wasn't Xam. I didn't recognize the caller, so I aborted the signal."

"Hm," said Tron. "I wonder how he got this call signal. I'm sure Xam didn't give it to him. He knows it's only to be used in emergency. If it happens again, we'll have to cut Xam's visit to Earth short and bring him back here."

Max Aries felt the vibration emanating from the phone in his pocket. On its small screen he saw Ham Gleason's face and wondered how Gleason had accessed his call signal. He disconnected the signal and mused that have to be more careful about leaving his signal where it could be picked up.

Ham Gleason called a friend, Sam Loewe, at the phone company. "Sam, someone gave me a cell phone number. Does this sound like anything you've heard of?"

Ham gave him the combination.

"There's no such number," said Sam.

"What about cell phones?"

"Ham, there's no such number. What word in that sentence don't you understand?"

Ham hung up. He made a note to ask Marv Jones if he had reached Max at that number. But, since there was no practice session today, he couldn't do anything about it until tomorrow. He'd grab Max or Marv and try to fill in the blanks.

For the next hour, the frustration Ham felt was eating him up. He couldn't wait until tomorrow. His editor wanted the story NOW.

Ham had been friendly with Todd Albright, the Rams quarterback. During the Rams dark days when they had been losing games, other journalists had been lambasting Albright, blaming him for his receivers' dropped passes. Ham had stood by the quarterback, praising him in his columns. He had Albright's home phone number. If any of Max's teammates knew where he could be reached, Todd Albright would certainly know. He placed the call.

Albright said, "Ham, I wish I could help you. Mary and I have invited him for dinner a couple of times, but he was always busy."

Ham wondered if Albright could give him a lead in tracking down the elusive Max Aries. He said, "When you invited him, did you phone him?"

Albright thought for a few moments, then, "You know, I never called him. I always invited him in the locker room after practice sessions."

Albright knew that none of the other team members were friendly with Max. "In fact, I hate to admit it, but until he became such a star, the other guys treated him like he had leprosy."

Ham tried all the resources that usually gave him the information he needed, but came up empty. The Bureau of Motor Vehicles had no record of Max Aries. "He apparently has no license to drive," said the clerk.

He had wheedled Max's Social Security number from Evie in the Rams' office, but as he knew, the Social Security Administration would not give out information.

Finally, after wasting an entire day, Ham was forced to call his editor and confess that the only place Max Aries existed was on the football field at practice or during games. "I'm afraid I can't get you the story until I see him at practice tomorrow."

Chapter11

The day after his unsuccessful attempt to track down Max Aries, Ham arrived at the Rams practice field an hour before the team was scheduled to be out on the field. He'd collar Aries in the dressing room before he had to go out.

Ham sat on a bench in the Rams' dressing room. He found he wasn't the only journalist hungry for the new Rams star. Sports reporters from newspapers in every part of the country crawled over each other trying to learn more about Max. Sports Illustrated had sent a photographer; Max was to be their next cover boy. One by one, the players arrived and dressed for practice. All but Max Aries. Finally, as Coach Marvin Jones yelled, "Okay guys. Everyone out on the field. Two laps, then..." While he called out practice assignments, Max dashed into the locker room, fully dressed in his uniform. While Ham and the other journalists gazed on in astonishment, the team jogged out on to the field. Ham's chance for a one-on-one interview with Max had gone out the window.

Hank Strobel from the New York Post grabbed hold of Ham. "Where does that guy get dressed? In his car?"

Ham shrugged. "Far as we can tell he doesn't even have car."

Another reporter sang out, "Maybe in a taxi."

One said, "I'll bet I know. He changes clothes in a phone booth. After all, he is Superman."

That got a good laugh, but Ham wasn't laughing. He had a deadline, and if he didn't get a story for his editor, he might be looking for another job.

Four hours later, practice was over and the weary players trudged back into the dressing room. Coach Jones was unhappy with the lackadaisical attitude some of the players had shown after the drubbing they had given the Eagles. He wanted to remind them that last week they had played a team that was at the bottom of the league standings and the rest of the schedule was a killer. When the media people crowded to get into the dressing room for interviews, Jones barred the way. "I've got some things to say that are between me and the team. You people will have to wait out here until I'm through."

There was a chorus of grumbling, but the media people had no choice but to wait.

Half an hour later, the Rams assistant equipment manager unlocked the door. "Okay, people. You can come in now, but please respect the privacy of the team members. Give them a chance to shower and dress before..."

He wasn't given the time to finish before the media people pushed him aside in their anxiety to get in. Once inside, armed with their notebooks, tape recorders, and cameras, they scoured the room, hunting for Max Aries. Some of the other players stood around smiling, indicating their readiness to get a little publicity for themselves. The media people showed no interest. They had come for Max but he was not in the locker room. One reporter opened the shower room door only to be driven back by a cloud of steam and several cakes of soap that were thrown at him. From inside one of the players yelled, "Beat it! Max isn't in here."

Ham cornered Coach Jones. "Marv, there's going to be a riot unless you produce Max Aries."

Jones shrugged. "He was here when I gave my spiel. I have no idea where he went."

Ham remembered he wanted to ask Marv Jones about Max's phone number.

Marv Said, "Yeah. I called him. Told him to see J.J. about a contract."

He showed Jones the scrap of paper on which he had written the number Evie had given him. "Then you reached him at this number?"

Marv Jones stared at Ham for five seconds before answering. "Do I have to diagram it for you?"

Ham slunk away, embarrassment was added to his frustration.

Each of the players had his name engraved on a brass plate on his locker door. Max's locker was closed—he was nowhere to be seen.

Thinking that Max might have gone out the back way and could be in the parking lot, Ham dashed to the back door, guarded by one of the security men. He collared the security guard."Did Max Aries leave through here?" .

The security guard shook his head. "None of the players has left yet."

"Are you sure?"

The guard scowled. "I've been here for the past hour. Nobody ain't getting by me without me seeing 'em."

Ham walked to his car, head down. Max Aries was as hard to catch off the field as he was on it.

Chapter12

Back at his desk in the Herald's office, Ham Gleason felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of one of the reporters. "Harry Thompson wants to see you in his office. "

Ham walked into the editor's office to face what looked like a committee meeting. In addition to Thompson, were the Herald's publisher and two other people Ham didn't recognize.

"You know Gene Hancock," Thompson said pointing to the publisher.

Ham smiled and nodded. Hancock paid his salary.

Thompson introduced the other two men. "These gentlemen are investigators from a private detective agency. We've hired them to try to get some background about that young Rams player, Aries."

Ham nodded at them. He was thinking: Good luck. He'd used up all his investigative resources. Maybe these guys had some ways he'd overlooked.

The investigators, one fat, the other skinny, quizzed Ham for half an hour, asking what he knew about Max. When they were finished one said, "We know about as much now as we did when we started."

The other said, "Well, from now on its pure scutwork. We'll tail him to wherever he lives, go around knocking on doors, peeking through windows, surveillance from disguised laundry trucks."

Hancock said, "What do you think are your chances of finding out who he is and where he's from?"

The fat one pushed up from his chair. "Don't worry Mr. Hancock. If we don't find out, he doesn't exist."

Ham thought: Amen.
Chapter 13

A week had passed since the Herald had hired the investigators to learn what they could about Max Aries background. They had come with zilch, nada, nothing.

He appeared on the field from apparently nowhere, dressed to practice or play. No one knew whether he came by car, taxi or mule. He was just "here."

Same for his leaving at the end of a practice session or game. Once Max entered the tunnel leading to the dressing room he evaporated into thin air.

The Rams were on the road that weekend, playing the Cardinals in Arizona. Max sat in the chartered plane with one of the other rookies. He came with a paperback book and the playbook under his arm. While the other team members were horsing around or conversing, Max spent the time in the air reading or studying the playbook.

Max was sharing a hotel room with Bobo Gamble. Ham Gleason, in his job as beat reporter for the Rams had flown in a day before the game. He tried to pry information about Max from his road roommate. After the Saturday practice session, he invited Bobo to join him in the hotel bar for a beer. After Bobo's second, Gleason said, "Bobo, you room with Max on the road, do you talk about your private lives?"

Bobo, a guard with big muscles but small brain said, " Sure, but I do most of the talking."

"Does Max date girls?"

"Hey, you asking me if Max has a girl friend?"

"Uh-huh. I wondered if he was going with anyone."

Bobo shrugged. "If he does, he don't tell me, and I don't ask."

Ham could see he was getting nowhere. Max Aries remained as much a mystery as before and the Herald was out the price of a couple of beers.

Ham Gleason tried to pump the coach for information, but as far as Marv Jones was concerned, he didn't care one way or the other about Max's private life. All he wanted to do was win games, and thanks to his receiver who could catch anything thrown near him, Jones was considered a genius. Marv just prayed that the young man's catching was limited to footballs, not colds or something more serious.

J.J. Heywood felt the same way. What Max did off the playing field was no concern of his as long as it was legal. He saw that Max's paychecks were left in his locker each week and, although they disappeared, none of them had been cashed. He worried only that Max would come back at him one day and demand a ridiculous bonus. Not that he wasn't entitled to it. Max had earned every cent— and more— that his contract called for, but J.J. would be just as happy if the matter was left as it was.

On Sunday, the Cardinals with the best defensive record, tried any number of ways to devise a defense aimed at Max Aries. The Arizona team had allowed an average of only ten points a game before meeting up with the Rams. When the Rams had the ball during the first quarter, the Cardinals put two 300-pound linemen to block Max from getting downfield. One would drive him to the ground, the other would lay on him to keep him from getting up. The scheme worked for a few plays, but Rams offensive coaches quickly shifted to a running game and the Cardinals' "Points Allowed per Game" average suffered a sickening blow. The final score: Rams 41, Cardinals 28.

Ham wangled a ride on the charter for the return trip, he even managed a seat alongside Max. But his prey, along with most of the men, exhausted following the game, snoozed.

After another week during which the investigators had failed to find out even where Max lived, let alone any information concerning his private life, Gene Hancock, the Herald's publisher, fired them and hired another private detective. He had no more success than his predecessors, bumbling aound the stadium locker room like an Inspector Jacques Clouseau until he, too, was booted out.

Hancock called his friend Harry Thompson, the Herald editor. "Harry, I know you're anxious to get a featured article about Max Aries."

"You've got that right, Gene."

Hancock laughed. "As you know, the P.I.s we hired couldn't find their rear ends with both hands. I'm open for suggestions. What do we do next?"

Thompson said, "Looks like we're swinging at wild pitches. But I do have some snitches who owe me. If you don't care how I do it, I'll sic them on the case."

"As long as it's legal and doesn't hurt Aries, be my guest."

Thompson cleared his throat. "Uh, Gene, I'm not sure our budget—."

"Don't let the expense get in your way."

"You mean you've got deep pockets?"

Hancock said, "Within reason. And I expect an itemized account."

"We've got a deal." He hung up, rubbed his hands together and punched a number in his phone.
Chapter 14

In the stadium's players' parking lot, Max Aries retrieved his motorcycle after a full day's practice with the team. He turned toward home. It was the day after Editor Thompson's conversation with the newspaper's publisher.

As Max approached the on-ramp to the highway, the cycle's engine began to splutter. By the time he maneuvered to the curb, the motor had stalled. He kicked the starter but after a few wheezes the motor failed to turn over. He flicked a glanced at the gas tank gauge: empty. Empty? How did that happen. He remembered filling the gas tank this morning. Could there be a leak? He looked down at the pavement under the cycle, but there was no sign of leaking gasoline. Whatever the reason, he had a dead cycle. And no service station in sight. First his team lost a vital game, now this. The day was turning into a full blown bummer.

A long black sedan with darkly-tinted windows pulled up alongside Max and his crippled cycle. A window slid down and a voice from inside called, "Need help?"

Max removed his helmet and leaned into the open window. In the car were two men in their thirties, the driver and passenger. "I'm out of gas. If you could give me a lift to the nearest service station I'd appreciate it."

The man seated in the passenger's seat said, "Hey, we'll do even better. I'll give you a hand, and we can put your motorcycle into this car's king-sized trunk. Take you anywhere you want to go."

"There's a gas station about a mile ahead off the interstate," said Max. "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you guys stopped to help.

The passenger, a stocky, muscular man got out of the car, and he and Max lifted the cycle into the car trunk. The passenger fished a bungee cord out of the well in the trunk and fastened the lid over the portion of the cycle that protruded. "Okay, that'll take care of it. Let's get—." He stopped in mid-sentence, stared at Max and poked a finger in his chest. "Hey, aren't you Max Aries?"

Max smiled sheepishly. "Guilty."

"Wow! We're big fans of yours." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Billy Joe and my partner's called Silky. Can't tell you how disappointed we were when the league suspended you. What did you do?"

Max shook his hand. He explained that he hadn't done anything illegal, but it's history now that I'm back on the team.

Billy Joe said, "We're sure glad it's over. The team needs you badly."

After they got in the car, Silky, the driver, said, "I can drive you home if you'd like."

"Gee, I don't want to take you out of your way. Just drop me off a the service sta—."

"Where do you live?"

Max was hesitant to give out his address. He knew Gleason and others had tried to find it, but he'd resisted because of the possibility they might discover it was a "safe house." Then the true nature of his presence on Earth could be jeopardized. On the other hand, these guys looked harmless. It seemed unlikely they would divulge his secret. To be on the safe side, gave Silky an address a few houses from his own and figured once they let him off, he'd walk the cycle down the street to his own house.

Silky said, "That's not out of our way at all. No problem."

When they arrived at the address Max had given, they unloaded the cycle. Max stood holding the motorcycle. "I can't thank you guys enough. I can handle it from here." He shook hands with Billy Joe and Silky, then waved as they drove away. When he was sure they were out of sight, he wheeled the cycle to his own driveway, clicked opened the garage door and breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the house.

A block away around a corner, Billy Joe and Silky sat in their car. They had watched Max wheel his cycle down the street and up his driveway. Billy Joe raised his hand and Silky slapped it, a "high-five."

"We did it!" Billy Joe said.

Silky chuckled. "Your idea about draining most of the gasoline out of that motorcycle while it was in the players' parking lot was pure genius."

"Yeah, but your surveillance to learn it was Aries' cycle, made the rest of it possible," said Billy Joe. He rubbed his hands together. "Now, let's collect our ten grand and let the other guys finish the job."

Max's safe house was one of a dozen similarly undistinguished homes on either side of Andreason, a short street between Central Parkway and Water Avenue. For a block-long street less than an eighth of a mile in length, the City of Cincinnati seemed to give Andreason more attention than it deserved.

On Monday morning, two men in hard hats exited a van bearing on its side the city seal and letters designating it Department of Streets. One man removed from the back of the van a jack hammer, and with his partner, spent most of the day taking turns at breaking up the asphalt over a three square-foot part of the street opposite the driveway of Max's house. At 9:30 a.m., Max, on his way to Paul Brown Stadium for a practice session, rolled his cycle down the driveway. Reaching the street he had to maneuver the cycle around the orange cones the workers had set out to protect drivers from the hole they created.

During a lull in the jack-hammering while the workers were eating their lunch in the van, Jane Rollins, a sixty-year-old widow asked one of the men the reason for the racquet.

"Pot hole."

Jane shook her head. "What pot hole? I didn't see any pot hole before you dug one."

"Prevention," was the terse reply.

On Tuesday morning, another two-man crew arrived and spent the day filling in the hole.

On Wednesday morning, the van bore the designation Metropolitan Sewer District. By quitting time at 5pm, they had removed the manhole covers, and with a motorized pump, flushed out the sewers along the length of Andreason Street.

The bulbs on the street lights along Andreason Street were changed on Thursday. This was accomplished using a small truck with a cherry picker type of lift. Of course, it took the whole day to do the job. One of the residents of Andreason Street, Sam Jackson, a seventy-year-old retired steel worker, watched for a while before asking the man operating the cherry picker what was wrong with the bulbs that had been in place. The answer was, "Lower wattage." Jackson shrugged. The old bulbs looked no different from the replacements, but what did he know.

Friday it was searching for gas leaks. Two men spent the day walking around each of the houses, aiming hand-held instruments that looked like large TV remote controls, at the gas lines that ran into each house.

At 5 p.m., the men got back in their van. While one man drove, the other pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number. He spoke into the phone. "Our man is the only occupant. Leaves by motorcycle around 9:30 every morning, returns around 4:30 in the afternoon. Three mornings a week some old broad walks from the bus stop on Central and goes into the house using her own key. Always carries a grocery bag from Safeway. She leaves around three. I think she cleans and cooks for the guy."

"Alarm?"

"Negative."

"You sure?"

"BillyJoe rang the bell one day when the old lady was in the house doing her thing. Gave her some bullshit about checking for a gas leak. She don't speak English that good, but he got her to understand. He looked around for an alarm control box, wired windows, watchdog, all that stuff. Nothing."

"Sounds good. We're on it."

On Saturday morning, a van pulled across the street from Max's house. A sign on the side of the van identified it as "Elite Courier Service." The driver glanced at his watch: 9 A.M.. Over his shoulder he spoke to someone in the interior of the van.

"He should be leaving pretty soon. Practice starts at 10, right?"

A voice from the back of the van answered. "Yeah. And he likes to get there early."

"Uh-oh," said the driver. "The garage door just went up."

A moment later, Max Aries drove his motorcycle down the driveway. When he reached the street he took a fleeting look at the van, then gunned the cycle down the street.

The man seated next to the van driver put on a uniform visored cap and climbed down from his seat. Holding a clipboard and large manila envelope, he ambled across the street, glanced at his clipboard then at the house number. If anyone had been watching, they would have assumed he was checking the address. He walked up to the front door and pushed the bell button. He waited half a minute to be sure no one was home. Standing close to the door, he took a small metal lock pick from his pocket and in a few seconds had the door open. He removed his cap and stood at the threshold. To an observer, he appeared to be talking to someone inside the door, then, smiling, stepped in the house and closed the door behind him.

Once inside, he called, "Hello. Anybody home?" As expected, there was no answer.

The small vestibule opened into a living room, furnished with a couch, several easy chairs and a coffee table. In the corner was a desk. The intruder spoke into a small microphone attached to a shoulder of his uniform. "I'm in. About to start with the desk."

A voice in his ear bud said, "Don't forget the bugs, Silky."

"Right. I'll take care..."

On the planet Oh Ess Yew, a man sat in front of a large screen in a control room. Suddenly, a bell rang and on the screen a flashing red light and message appeared. The message read: "UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY EARTH SAFE HOUSE 4." The man at the screen flipped a switch.

In the Earth safe house, Silky pulled open the desk drawer. Suddenly, a loud siren blasted his ears. "Jesus!"

Grabbing the clipboard and envelope, he dashed from the house and headed for the van yelling "Get moving!"

The passenger side door flew open and Silky barely jumped in when the van took off.
Chapter 15

As the season ground down, keeping the Rams out of the opposing end zone proved to be as difficult as preventing a handful of mercury from slipping through your fingers. Even with a defense as porous as a leaky boat, the Rams won games by outscoring their opponents. Albright-to-Aries became a new record passer-receiver combination.

Gene Hancock, the Herald's publisher had given up trying to get any personal information on Max Aries. He had already spent a small fortune financing the paper's editor in his aborted attempt.

The first week of playoffs, the Rams with a record of 14-3, drew a bye. In the second week of post-season play, they were matched with the Bills, a team they did not play during regular season. The Bills, a fifth-seeded team had reached the finals of the AFC championship by beating a fourth-seeded Panthers team. But, the Bills had reached the end of the line. The "Air-Rams" with Maximum Max Aires snaring everything that Todd Albright threw, marched down the field as though they were a pitcher-catcher combination on a baseball team. The bookies who had bet on the Bills lost their shirts, even giving away an unprecedented twenty-one points to the Rams. Final score: Rams 56, Bills 30.

The call to the Rams' front office came in on Saturday before the game with the Packers. A man speaking with a foreign accent said, "This is the Nation of Malum calling. There's a bomb planted somewhere in the stadium. It will go off during the game tomorrow."

"J.J. Heywood blew puffs of smoke as he spoke to Tom Riley, his executive secretary. "Who or what the hell is Nation of Malum?"

Riley shrugged. "They don't ask for money. What do you suppose they want?"

Heywood shook his head. "Who knows? Probably some crank. But we can't just ignore it. The threat may be genuine, and if this Nation of whatever does what they say they're going to do, a lot of people are gonna to die. Get me Joe Belchek."

Fifteen minutes later, Belchek, head of Rams security, stood in front of Heywood's desk reading the note.

Heywood said, "What do you think, Joe?"

Belchek shook his head. "This could be the real thing, Mr. Heywood. We'll have to call in the police to investigate."

Heywood threw his hands in the air. "Do you realize the publicity this is going to cause? Nobody in their right mind is gonna come to the game. It's a sell-out. We'll go broke refunding all those tickets."

Belchek fixed Heywood with a stare. "Do you mean we're going to take a chance and forget about it?"

Heywood shook his head and grumbled. "Of course not."

"Well," said Belchek. "We don't have much time. Today is Friday."

Heywood covered his face with his hands, moaning. "And Sunday we play the Packers."

"If we play," said Belchek.

"What do you remember about the phone call?" In the front office, Belchek was speaking with Linda, the secretary who had received the bomb threat call.

"As I told Mr. Heywood, the caller spoke with a foreign accent."

"Was it like a Russian or Hispanic accent?"

"No, neither of those. But I don't think I could tell where the person came from."

"Do you remember if there were any noises in the background, like music?"

Linda gazed up at the ceiling. "No-o. Wait. I think there was some kind of motor sound."

"Like an auto?"

"Yeah. Like a car. Maybe he was calling on a cell phone from a car."

Belchek went on trying to identify something that would help finding where the threat came from. Linda had followed the procedures that had been in place. These included asking the caller why he would place a bomb in the stadium, keeping the caller on the line as long as possible, asking him where the bomb was placed and when it would go off. She reminded the caller that the detonation of a bomb could result in death or serious injury to many innocent people. She said, "He laughed when I told him that. He said that was the reason for placing the bomb. But he wouldn't tell me where the bomb was. Only that it would go off during the game."

Belchek ran his hands over his bald head. "The fact that he called to warn us, sounds like he was more interested in preventing the game from being played, than killing a lot of people."

Linda said, "Why would someone want to prevent us from playing?"

"If I knew the answer to that, I'd know who made the call."

On the practice field, the Rams were going through their plays when Coach Jones's whistle sounded. "Over here!" he yelled.

When the team members had gathered around him, Jones said, "That's all for today." He hesitated. "What I'm about to tell you is strictly confidential. Not a word to anyone, even your wives. I just got word from the front office there may not be any game Sunday."

Jones gazed into the sea of puzzled faces. A chorus of "Huh?" rose up from the players.

Todd Albright spoke up. "What's this all about, Coach?"

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone," said Jones. "But I guess you guys have to know. There's been a bomb threat."

Max Aries turned to Bobo Gamble standing next to him and whispered, "What's a 'bomb threat'?"

Bobo whispered, "I guess he means someone is threatening to blow up the place."

"You mean the stadium?"

Jones said, "I just heard what you guys said. The answer is yes. That's all anyone knows. So, go get dressed and beat it. The cops will be here soon to try to figure out what to do. And remember, not a word, understand?"

In the dressing room, Max asked Bobo, "Why would anyone want to blow up the stadium?"

Bobo's eyebrows shot up. "You been living on a different planet? Because this world is full of nuts. That's why."

Has he been living on another planet? For a moment Max thought Bobo suspected something, then concluded he didn't have the brains. He still thought it rather odd that anyone would want to destroy anything, much less the Rams stadium which gave the people of Cincinnati so much pleasure.

He finished dressing and walked out of the stadium door, when ten police cars pulled into the empty parking lot and at least forty men piled out of the cars. Wearing helmets with plastic face shields and bulky jackets on the back of which was printed in large letters BOMB SQUAD, they lined up in front of one who seemed to be in charge. He directed them in groups shouting orders. "You," he said to one group. "Cover the north end." Another group was sent to the south end. After all the men were dispersed, a police van pulled into the lot. From the van, half a dozen dogs were led out, each at the end of a leach held by a policeman. As one passed by, the policeman holding the animal's leach stopped. He pointed to Max's chest. "Hey, aren't you Max Aries?"

Max smiled and nodded.

"Gee," said the policeman. "Can I have you autograph? My kid's crazy about you."

Max said, "Sure."

While the policeman reached into his breast pocket for a pad and pen, Max said, "What are the dogs for?"

The policeman tore a page from the notepad and handed it to Max along with a pen. "These are bomb sniffers."

Max signed his autograph on the paper and handed it back. "Bomb sniffers?"

"Yeah, they're trained to sniff out bombs. Hey, thanks for the autograph, Max. My kid'll go nuts when I tell him I met you." The dog, straining at the leach pulled the policeman away before Max could ask him more.

Back at his "safe house," Max booted up his computer and scrolled through the information he could find on bombs. He learned how to make bombs, but that is not what he had in mind. He also found out that there were so many kinds of bombs he didn't know where to begin. The one thing that was common to most bombs is that they contained a timing device. "Because of the timer," he read, "Bombs can often be detected by a ticking sound emanating from them." Another type, the article said, were detonated by impact. Examples of the latter were the roadside bombs used extensively during the Iraq War. A third variety were detonated by remote control.

After spending an hour reading about bombs, Max concluded that there was nothing he could do to help. Besides, he doubted that the police would want his help.

The following day, Saturday, the newspaper headlines reported that police were seen scouring the stadium, but no one at the Rams' front office would give out information explaining their presence. When asked specifically whether the police were looking for bombs, the general manager only answered with "No comment."

Saturday afternoon, the mayor of Cincinnati called a press conference. Standing before a microphone, he explained that a bomb threat had been phoned in to the team the day before. "We're still investigating, but so far nothing has been found to confirm it."

Reporters pressed him as to whether the game was to be called off. His response was "No decision has been made as yet. But if there's any question of safety to the fans, the game will be postponed until we're certain there's no danger."

Meanwhile, the stadium was cordoned off, no one allowed in except the police. The Rams players were driven to a college football field for their practice session. There was even some speculation that the game would be moved to the University of Cincinnati stadium. But since only a few hours remained before the scheduled game, the team and city officials concluded that there was not enough time to arrange such a shift. Besides, the U of C stadium would not hold the number of fans who had already paid large sums for their tickets.

Next morning, Sunday, Max arrived at the stadium to get ready for the game if it was to be played that afternoon. The parking lot was empty except for a few cars that belonged to other players. Several Rams and Packers players stood outside the dressing room entrance. Max walked over to them. "What's up?"

Todd Albright said, "We've been told to wait out here."

Max said, "Is the game still on?"

Albright shrugged. "Nobody knows."

A security guard came out of the stadium door and beckoned the men in. "Mr. Heywood wants to talk to you."

J.J. Heywood was in the dressing room. When the men had formed a circle around him, he said, "I want to bring you up to date on this bomb thing. The police have gone over the stadium with a fine-toothed comb. They've looked into every crack and crevice. The dogs have sniffed away. The bottom line is that they've found nothing."

One of the players said, "So the whole thing is a hoax?"

Heywood turned his hands up. "It looks that way."

"Then the game is on?"

"I've talked to the Chief of Police, the FBI. I've even spoken to the guys in Homeland Security in Washington. They all agree that since we're convinced there is no bomb in the stadium, we can go on with the game. Of course, we'll be carefully inspecting everyone who comes in. We'll have metal and explosives detectors at all the entrances. No packages will be allowed in the gate. It's gonna be a big nuisance, but we have to be sure the people who come to see the game are protected."
Chapter 16

Game time. To Max's surprise, the stadium was full. Although there had been publicity about the bomb scare in the newspapers, radio and TV, apparently most of the fans were convinced that the people in charge knew what they were doing. If they were willing to let the game go on, the fans would show up.

Everyone who came in had to go through a metal detector, be sniffed by the trained dogs, and women had to open their purses for inspection. Cameras, packages and cell phones had to be checked at the gate.

The media personnel went through the same procedures. Laptops had to be turned on to be sure they were really computers. Network TV cameras were permitted on the field and in the press box only after they had been scrutinized.

Concessionaires had to remove all their wares from the cartons before they came in the gate. The inspection caused considerable trouble for the vendors of frankfurters. The bomb sniffing dogs were turned into drooling dogs when confronted with sausages. Finally, the dog handlers called off their animals, concluding it was highly unlikely that anyone would hide a bomb in a hot dog.

Not even the players were spared from search. After one player's gym bag was opened and inspected, he joked that he didn't know the dogs could sniff out steroids as well as explosives. Another said he doubted any dog could smell anything once he got a whiff of the dirty socks in his gym bag. Nobody laughed.

In order to shorten the time everyone spent in the stadium, pre-game warm-up was limited to calisthenics, jogging and simulated blocking. The usual passing and kicking drills were eliminated. The people in charge were anxious to get the game started as quickly as possible and get it over with.

The team captains met in midfield with the referee, and after the coin toss was won by the Packers, they chose to receive.

The players took their positions on the field, and the referee handed the football to the Rams kicker. He placed it on the tee and raised his hand to signal he was ready to kickoff.

Max, as a member of the Rams offensive team had been on the sidelines. The Rams kicking team started their charge downfield a step behind the kicker.

Suddenly, Max darted from the sideline, grabbed the ball from the tee an instant before the kicker made contact with it. Tucking the ball under his arm, he dashed across the field, through the tunnel and out one of the corridors leading to a stadium gate. The crowd in the stands, and the players and coaches on the field watched in stunned silence. While the amazed security officer guarding the gate looked on, Max dashed across the parking lot toward the river that ran alongside the stadium. At the river bank, he reared back and threw the ball toward the middle of the river. Just as the football hit the water, it exploded with a huge blast. A geyser of water erupted and shot twenty feet in the air.

In the stadium, the explosion could be heard, and a moment later a column of smoke and water appeared beyond the grandstand in the direction of the river. Several people in the stands started to rush for the exits, when Max charged through the tunnel back on to the middle of the field. In his hand he held a bullhorn he had snatched from one of the cheerleaders. He raised it to his mouth and boomed to the stands, "Please, stay in your seats! You are in no danger!"

Max turned to each corner of the huge stadium and shouted the same message through the bullhorn. After seeing the crowd resume their seats, Max returned to the sideline and handed the bullhorn to the cheerleader.

Coach Jones, turned his palms up. "Max, what was that all about?"

Max said, "I heard a ticking coming from the ball. I wasn't sure it was a bomb, but..." He strolled over to the equipment manager, selected another football from a box that held several dozen, and held it to his ear for a second. He shook it, sniffed it then tossed it to the referee. "This one's okay."

The game was almost an anticlimax to the excitement that preceded it. The Rams won 40-14.

The headline for Ham Gleason's column in the Monday Herald read: "Bombs Away!"

The opening paragraph stated, "Yesterday, Max Aries the Rams' star, showed the football world that he can throw a bomb like (fill in the name of any quarterback you admire.) Although this one didn't score a touchdown, it probably saved the lives of the 48,000 or more people in Rams Stadium. The details are described on the front page of this newspaper and I won't regale you with a repetition. But we have to add to Aries' talents, his incredible hearing. He was able to hear the ticking of a bomb from as far away as many of us can see. Max Aries needs a different uniform from the one he dresses in playing for the Rams. He should wear one colored blue with a red cape. On the front of the top there should be a large 'S.' Oh, one other thing. He needs a phone booth in which to dress."
Chapter 17

On the road to the Super Bowl, the finals of the AFC pitted the Rams against the Patriots. The Pats with a record of 16-1 had lost only to the Buccaneers in the second game of their regular season. That game was won in sudden death in the third overtime period to a Buck's 60-yard field goal. The Patriots vindicated that loss by trouncing the Buccaneers 45-7 in their second meeting of the season.

Now, in the AFC championship game, the Patriots had home field advantage, and made good use of it. Every time the Rams had the ball, the roar of the crowd made signal calling almost impossible. In spite of it, the Rams with Albright passing and Aries receiving scored on their first possession. The Pats matched the score after taking the ensuing kickoff. By the end of the first half, it was obvious that this was going to be a battle down to the wire. The Rams had an explosive passing game, but a weak defense. The Patriots were more evenly balanced. They had gotten where they were because they could score points as well as keep the other team out of their end zone. The score at halftime was Rams 35 Patriots 30. The difference was that the Patriots had to settle for a pair of field goals on their possessions, while the Rams scored touchdowns. Even so, it was shaping up to one of the highest scoring games in playoff history.

A light rain blew in as the second half started. The temperature dropped to the low twenties and the rain turned to sleet—a typical New England sleet storm, expected to last the rest of the day. After the ball slipped out of Albright's hands for the second time when he tried to pass, the coach called for a timeout.

"Okay, men," said Jones. "Game plan's changed. From here on in we run the ball on every play."

He took Max out, and the backfield, in addition to the quarterback, consisted of a pair of running backs and a blocker.

The Patriots followed the same pattern, but their running game and their defensive line were far better than those of the Rams. With both teams slogging through the muddy field, the Patriots soon pushed their way into the Rams end zone to go ahead 37-35.

Max fidgeted on the bench. He desperately wanted to get back in the game, but a pass receiver needed a passer. As good a passing quarterback as Todd Albright was, unless he could get a good grip on the ball he couldn't get the ball to his flanker.

For most of the fourth quarter, the score remained unchanged. The runners on both teams slipped and slid on the wet and muddy turf. Each series of downs became "three and out." It came down to which team would outlast the other, and the Patriots held the advantage in the score. When the two-minute warning whistle sounded, it looked as though the Rams' season was coming to an end. The ball belonged to the Patriots. When play would resume they'd have it fourth down, six to go for a first down on the Rams 25-yard line.

The Patriots coaches huddled on the sideline trying to come to a decision. If they chose to run the ball for a first down and failed, they'd turn the ball over to the Rams with more than a minute to play. To punt the ball from their position on the field would likely put the ball in the Rams end zone for a touchback bringing it out to the 20-yard line where the Rams would have it, first down. Even with the horrible weather conditions, in the time remaining the Rams could get down the field and win the game with a field goal. On the other hand, a Patriots field goal would just about ice the game since they'd be five points ahead, and the Rams would need a touchdown to win. Normally, at this distance, a field goal would be little more than a chip shot for the Patriots' talented kicker. They decided to go for the field goal. But these were not normal conditions.

The two-minute warning came to an end, and the teams lined-up. The ball was snapped to the place kick holder, but it slipped from his grasp, rolled around in the mud and ended up at the bottom of a pile of players of both teams. When the referee finally untangled the mess, the ball was firmly in the grasp of one of the Rams. Although they had recovered the fumble, they were still more than sixty yards from the Patriots' goal line, and with the defense the Patriots had put up until now, there seemed little hope that the Rams could get close enough for a field goal and much less likely to score a touchdown.

Max was unable to remain seated. He paced in front of the bench like a lion in a cage. Somehow he had to get back in the game. He knew he could pull the game out for his team, although just how, he hadn't figured out.

On the playing field, both teams were now reaching the point of exhaustion. Playing in normal conditions is tiring enough. Trying to maintain footing in a sea of mud over a period of time requires super human effort. With one minute remaining, the Rams had the ball on their own 40-yard line.

Three attempts at running the ball got them nowhere. With six seconds remaining, Coach Jones called their final timeout and huddled with the team on the sideline. Although a field goal would be enough to win, the range of their kicker Hajak was, at most, fifty yards. An attempt from the Rams' present line of scrimmage was out of the question. Unless the Patriots committed a rules infraction, this would be the final play of the game "Okay men, it's Hail Mary time. Max, get back in there."

The Rams' quarterback lined up in shotgun formation, about five yards behind center. All eligible receivers, including Max, were ready to charge downfield; the rest of the players would block opposing linemen hoping to give the receivers enough time to get downfield before Albright unleashed his pass and throw it up for grabs. Albright's range under ideal field conditions was about 60 yards. Under today's weather conditions, he'd be lucky to pass it 50 yards. The plan was for the receivers to gather at the Patriots' 15-yard line where Albright's pass would likely fall. If one of the Rams was lucky enough to get his hands on the ball, he had the option of running or, if he were about to be tackled, he with his teammates in the area could attempt a series of lateral passes to get the ball into the Pat's end zone. The "ifs" involved were mind-boggling. Gamblers who had bet on the Patriots were counting up their winnings.

The Patriots had no doubt regarding the Rams' intentions. They line up for a three-man rush. Everyone else was downfield to cover for the expected Hail Mary pass.

Albright had taken off his soggy gloves; the referee placed a dry ball down on the line of scrimmage, scurried away and blew his whistle. It was now or never.

Max was poised to run when, from the corner of his vision, he saw the center's snap squirt through Albright's hands. The quarterback, spinning around to try to recover the ball, slipped and fell on his back. Max immediately braked and dashed back. He got to the bouncing ball moments before the onrushing Patriot linemen. He evaded the linemen then reared back as though to pass. The opposing linemen stopped and threw their hands up to try to block Max's pass. They blocked empty air; Max had faked the pass.

What happened next will live on forever as legend wherever football is discussed.

Max took a few steps to the side, and dropped the ball to the turf on one of its pointed ends, then kicked it. A dropkick.

The football soared high in the air, unerringly on its way to the back of the end zone. Someone later said a gale force wind that blew momentarily toward the Patriots goal helped the ball along. In any case, the ball split the goalpost uprights passing over the crossbar with three feet to spare. The Rams had done the impossible; they'd scored a winning field goal from close to ninety yards. They had won the AFC championship. Super Bowl, here we come!
Chapter 18

The stunned crowd sat in silence. For fully three minutes the only sound in the stadium was the hum of the lights.

Then, while the Patriots trudged head down to the tunnel leading to their locker room, pandemonium broke loose on the field. The Rams players, coaches, trainers rushed at Max, pummeling him to the ground until Marv Jones, fearing serious injury to his prize possession pulled them off. Max was hoisted to the shoulders of a pair of players and carried into the stadium tunnel while the air was filled with high-fiving palms.

In the dressing room, Max, drenched with champagne, stood on a locker room bench. Reporters fired questions at him, but the din prevented him from hearing any until someone rapped for silence. A voice shouted, "Horace Hansen wants to say something."

The mob parted to allow an old man hobble on a cane to where Max stood. Eighty-nine year old Hansen was dean of the sports reporters. He had been retired for years but occasionally wrote a column for his former paper, the New York Post-Tribune. In a creaky voice barely audible, he said, "Where'd you learn to drop kick son? Last time I saw one was in 1931 when Albie Booth of Yale drop-kicked a field goal."

Max said, "Thank you, sir. I actually learned to do it when I was preparing for this game by going over some movies of old Patriot plays. I saw Doug Flutie drop kick for an extra point in a game against the Dolphins. I think it was in 2006."

He went on to say that for the past week, he had been going over to a high school athletic field in the afternoon when no one was around and practice dropkicking. "I did it because it looked like fun. I'm glad I had a chance to use it."

Next day, in his guest column, Horace Hansen explained that dropkicking went out of favor because the shape of the football had changed. "The older ball was rounder than the modern football. The pointier ball used today made it more difficult to have it bounce straight up. Besides, a kicker with a running start at a ball held on the ground could get more leg into it and kick it farther. But seventy yards! If I hadn't seen it, I'd never believe it."

***

Three thousand miles west of where the Rams fans were celebrating, "Big Mike" Donovan drummed the desk in his office in downtown Las Vegas. Donovan ran a bookie syndicate. Unlike the legalized bookmaking organizations, Donovan's ran by its own rules and always made money. "How bad off are we?" he asked Pug Sullivan, the flat-nosed fireplug seated in front of Donovan's desk.

"Almost wiped out. We couldn't lay off most of those Rams bets. They took us good."

Donovan grunted. "That damned Aries kid."

Sullivan said, "Well, we got two weeks until the Super Bowl. Maybe he'll break a leg between then and now."

Donovan gazed up at the ceiling. "Break a leg, hmmm. Maybe..." His voice trailed off

"You got something in mind, boss?"

"Yeah, yeah, lemme think. "

Donovan sat at his desk nodding into the air. Five minutes later, a grin broke out on his face. He rubbed his hands together. "Okay. Here's what we do..."

On Thursday before Super Bowl Sunday, Donovan was answering a phone call. "Yeah, this is Mike...My book is almost closed, but for you Charlie I'll take another bet. Who do you want...the Rams?...Okay, how much...Ten big?...That's heavy, but sure..." Donovan winked at Pug Sullivan, seated at his usual roost across the desk from Donovan. "Okay, Charlie I got you down for a dime on the Rams minus six points...Yeah the spread is minus six If the Rams win by more than six points you collect. Six points is a push. We straight on that?...Good, so long Charlie.

He hung up and chuckled, "Another sucker. Everybody's betting on the Rams and Aries. If they only knew, eh Pug?"

Pug said. "You sure everything is all set down in Miami?"

"Sure I'm sure. I just talked to my buddy down there. He's got his gang ready to move. Without Aries, the Rams are garbage. You can go to the bank on that."

On Friday, in Miami the Rams were into the last day of practice before their meeting with the Steelers in the Super Bowl. This time, they wouldn't have to worry about the weather unless there was a hurricane, and the predictions were for sunshine. Again and again, the team went through their plays. Although it was mid-January, the temperature had been unseasonably warm even for southern Florida, and their shirts were sweat-soaked. On the advice of the trainers, the players had been drinking gallons of Gatorade. Because in the past week there had been an outbreak of head colds, the trainers had been careful to make sure each player had his own drinking bottle with straw.

Max trotted off the field and reached for his Gatorade. The trainer handed Max his bottle. "Thanks." He looked up at the trainer. "Are you new. I don't remember seeing you before."

The trainer smiled. "Yeah. I just come on yesterday."

Max nodded, took a long swig, then gazed at the bottle. "Tastes funny."

"We're using a new brand," said the trainer.

"Oh, I see." Max drained the bottle. He took a seat on the bench and watched some of the men still running plays on the practice field. The bench began to tilt. Max tried to prop himself up to keep from falling over. One of the coaches stopped and looked at Max. "You okay?"

Max tried to speak, but couldn't make his tongue work. His eyelids grew heavy. He fell over, landing on the ground.

The coach was at his side in a moment. "Help! Someone give me a hand."

Ray Hendrix, the head trainer ran to where Max lay. He raised Max's eyelids, then yelled, "Get a stretcher!"

While he waited for the stretcher, the trainer watched Max's chest. His breathing became shallower, Max's face started turning blue.

"Oxygen!"

Fortunately, a tank of oxygen and mask had been alongside the bench, and periodically, the men would take a whiff to revive themselves. Hendrix placed the mask over Max's face, and gradually, his color improved. Less than two minutes later, two men in white suits pushing a gurney, a stretcher on wheels, were at his side. They lifted Max on to the gurney, strapped him in and started rapidly wheeling him out.

Hendrix yelled, "Where're you taking him?"

"Jackson Memorial."

"Great. That's the best. You get started and we'll be there in a little while."

Max was wheeled out of the stadium and bundled in an ambulance parked outside the dressing room exit. Siren blaring, the ambulance took off.

Ten minutes later, Hendrix and one of the assistant coaches got into a car and raced off. At Jackson Memorial Hospital they parked and dashed into the emergency entrance. A clerk behind a glassed-in counter asked if she could help them.

Hendrix said, "Where'd they put Max Aries?"

The clerk scanned a sheet of paper on her desk. "Who did you say?"

"Aries. A-R-I-E-S. An ambulance just brought him in."

"Just a moment. Let me check."

She got up and walked into a door behind her. Hendrix and the assistant coach fidgeted waiting until she returned five minutes later.

She shook her head, "I'm sorry. There hasn't been an ambulance here for the past hour. You sure he was going to Jackson Memorial?"

"That's what your ambulance guys told us."

She shrugged. "The hospital doesn't have ambulances. They're operated by EMTs—emergency medical techs from the Fire Department. You have to check with them. Maybe they had to take him to another hospital."

Hendrix gritted his teeth. This was turning out to be a real foul up. "Look miss, we're from the Cincinnati Rams football team. We're here to play in the Super Bowl. The guy we're talking about is—." He stopped. Why was he trying to explain to this paper pusher? "Let me talk to the head doctor."

"You want to talk to Dr. Standard?"

"Is he the head doctor?"

"He's executive director."

"Lead me to him."

"His office is down the hall to your right."

By now the Emergency Room was filled with reporters who had heard that Max had been taken to Jackson Memorial and clamored for information.

Hendrix and the assistant coach hurried down to the director's office. A secretary started asking them their business, but they had no time for any further delays. They had to find out where Max had been taken. They barged into the office and while the puzzled director spluttered, Hendrix explained the problem. "You straighten this out, Doctor, and there'll be a pair of Super Bowl tickets in your pocket."

With tickets going for more than a thousand dollars each—if they could be found. Dr. Standard was more than anxious to help.

Half an hour later, after a series of phone calls, Dr. Standard confessed that he'd run out of ideas.. No one had a record of an ambulance being dispatched to the stadium. Max had disappeared
Chapter 19

"You mean he just keeled over?" Detective George Terry, of the Miami Police Department was quizzing Ray Hendrix the Rams head trainer. They were in a small office outside the dressing room of the University of Florida stadium. The Rams had been using the university's athletic field for their pre Super Bowl practice. The detective was trying to get a lead on what had happened to Max Aries.

Hendrix said, "Yeah. He had just come off the practice field."

"Did he complain of anything, like pain or dizziness?"

"No. He might have been a little dehydrated from playing in this heat. He drank most of the bottle of Gatorade."

Terry said, "Where's the Gatorade jug?"

Hendrix said, "It's not one of those big jugs. Each player has an individual bottle."

"Do you still have the bottle Aries drank from?"

Hendrix shrugged. "I don't know. I'll see if I can find it." He called an assistant trainer over and asked him if he could find Max's Gatorade bottle.

Five minutes later the trainer came back with a case of Gatorade bottles. Some were full, some part filled, some empty. "No one knows which is Max's, but he did drink all his, so it's probably one of these empties."

Hendrix said, "What's all this interest in the Gatorade?"

The detective said, "I'm just trying to find out why a perfectly healthy athlete would suddenly pass out. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was something in the Gatorade. We'll send these bottles to our lab and have them test the contents. Even the ones that are empty have enough drops of Gatorade so we can run tests on it."

The detective said he'd like to see all the assistant trainers. Hendrix went out into the dressing room and returned with five other men.

Detective Terry said, "Is this your entire staff?"

Hendrix said, "Actually, we have six assistants, but I can't find the sixth man."

The detective said, "Which of you gave Max Aries his Gatorade?"

Each of the assistants turned and looked at the others. One said, "He's not here. He's the one we can't seem to locate."

Hendrix said, "These five men and I came down with the team from Cincinnati. The sixth man, the one we can't locate is not on our regular staff. He's taking the place of our staff trainer who couldn't make the trip because he had a serious auto accident just before we flew down."

"How did you happen to hire the guy that's substituting?"

Hendrix looked puzzled. "You know, the guy came to the dressing room and said the general manager had told him to report to me. He said he was one of the U of Florida football trainers. I never checked. Maybe I should have."

Detective Terry nodded. "Yeah. Maybe you should have."

"Do you think he had something to do with Max's disappearance?"

"I have a strong feeling that you're going to find that the sixth trainer—if he's actually a trainer—has nothing to do with the U of Florida, and that your general manager didn't send him to you. And furthermore, when we test those bottles we're going to find that one them had Gatorade that was spiked."

"Spiked?"

"Poisoned."

The detective went on. "We couldn't trace the ambulance that showed up either."

In a small room in a farmhouse sixty miles from Miami, Max Aries lay in a deep sleep. Heavy chains were wrapped around his body locking him to the bed in which he lay. There were no windows in the room. Seated by the bed was a bearded man who looked like he weighed three hundred pounds. Thick muscles bulged out of the T-shirt he wore. In his lap was a rifle.

Responding to a knock on the door, the man got up, unlocked it admitting another man wearing a bandana on his head. He held a syringe with a needle. He gestured with his chin to Max. "He still asleep Gino?"

Gino said, "Like a baby. He hasn't moved in the past hour. I'm surprised he's still alive after all the junk they put in that drink."

"Yeah, but we're not takin' no chances he'll wake up. Just to make sure, I've got a shot of some heavy dope I'm gonna inject in his arm."

He rolled up Max's sleeve and plunged the needle into the skin of Max's arm. Max did not wince or give any sign that he felt the needle.

"That should hold him. In about ten minutes we'll have the concrete ready."

Gino laughed. It was a deep belly laugh. "You're makin' him a pair of concrete slippers? Why don't we just shoot him?"

The other man said, "I agree, but this is the way Big Mike wanted it. He thinks killing him would leave a bloody mess that might be traced. This way we take him out in the boat and deep-six him. He won't be found by anything but the barracuda."
Chapter 20

Super Bowl Sunday. The usual hype for the past two days had been overshadowed by Max Aries' disappearance. The city of Miami had been scoured. House-to-house searches had been carried out. The police found fifteen "wanted" criminals and four meth labs, but no Max Aries. Miami Bay and the many lakes and lagoons in the area had been dragged. Divers recovered 300 old tires and a submerged Chevrolet, but no Max Aries. The owners of the Rams offered one million dollars reward for information leading to Max Aries' recovery, no questions asked. But no takers came forward. Anyone who had placed a bet on the Rams and had given up six points, now rushed to cover their wager by placing a hedge bet on the Steelers.

Meanwhile, a Super Bowl game had to be played, Max or no Max. The Navy band marched on the field. Nancy Franklin sang the National Anthem. The team captains met with the referee at midfield. An astronaut who had just returned from two months on the International Space Station tossed the commemorative coin.The Steelers won the toss, chose to receive and game was on. On their first possession, the Steelers marched down the field against a Rams defense that seemed like paper.

Ham Gleason, seated in the press box shook his head in frustration. He spoke to nobody in particular. "This is pathetic. The only way the Rams are going to stay in the game is to match the Steelers' offense point for point."

Another sports writer sitting alongside turned to Ham. "Without Max Aries, forget it."

Ham said, "Tell me something I don't know."

For the entire first half, Ham sat dejected, cheered only by several miscues on the part of the Steelers. A fumble recovery by the Rams on their own six-yard line saved them from a certain Steeler score. A Rams interception of a Steeler pass in the Rams end zone saved them from another. The half was played entirely in Rams territory. Their possessions were a series of "three and out." Three short gains or even lost ground, followed by a punt.

If it were not for sloppy play on the part of the Steelers, they would have run away with the game. The halftime score: Steelers 19, Rams 0, did not represent the superiority of the Steelers.

In the locker room at halftime, the coaches tried to make corrections. But even the most optimistic among them knew they were backing a lost cause. Todd Albright tried to bolster their morale. "Let's win this one for Max, " he pleaded. The other team members met his plea with half-hearted cheers.

High in the press box, Ham munched on a hot dog. If not for a superb halftime performance by his favorite heavy metal band, Circle of Fire, he would be totally depressed. He could visualize tomorrow's headline screaming: "Mismatch in Miami." He was almost glad when play resumed. Soon the massacre would be over and he could fly home.

In the Atlantic Ocean, about a mile offshore from where the Super Bowl game was being played, a cabin cruiser slowly plowed its way. In a cabin below, Max Aries dreamed he was lying in a swaying hammock. His eyes fluttered open, but he had trouble focusing. Did he hear water running? Was the sound that of a car engine?

He tried to move his arms, but found they were held. He was unable to move his feet as well. When he could finally open his eyes, he saw that heavy metal bands encircled his wrists. A heavy chain connected the two bands. He raised his head as far as he could to look down at his legs. His feet were encased in a large square gray block that looked like a stone.

Max lay back, trying to piece together what he could. He recalled being on the practice field, then coming to the bench for a drink. Then nothing. Suddenly, it came to him. He should be playing in the Super Bowl! What was he doing here, wherever "here" was?

From somewhere not too distant he heard a voice saying, "I think we're far enough out. Let's toss him overboard."

Another voice said, "Are you sure he won't wake up?"

The first voice answered, "With all that dope in him, he ain't wakin' up like forever."

He was a prisoner! He was on a boat and people were planning to throw him overboard!

Max strained at his bonds, trying to free his hands. He had bent steel bars, but now he felt weak. Must be the "dope" they'd given him. He lay back. He needed a little more time to regain his strength. He heard, "Okay, let's go. It'll take all three of us to heave him." So there were three of "them." And time had run out.

Back at the Super Bowl, the Rams caught a little break. Receiving the second half kickoff, Marcus Collins, their kick return specialist sped down the sideline, evading Steeler tacklers, and outrunning the kicker to score their first points. The Rams were finally on the board. Given the momentum, the defense awoke holding the Steelers on downs on their next possession. A couple of completed Rams passes and a long field goal and suddenly they were back in the game, although still on the short end of a 19-10 score. A pair of holding penalties along with a roughing the passer infraction all by the Steelers, served to keep the score unchanged through the rest of the third quarter. With fifteen minutes left in the game, the Steelers leading by nine points felt confident enough to play conservatively. No point risking injury when they held the dominant hand. And speaking of hand, they needed only to jog in place and collect a Super Bowl ring for the thumb since they already had won four.

Max heard the door to the cabin creak open. He closed his eyes to feign sleep, hoping he might some way gain the strength to break his steel manacles and attack his captors.

Okay," a voice said. "I'll take the head end, you two take the other end and the concrete slippers."

Someone had his hands under Max's head and neck and started to lift. Suddenly, a foghorn blast came from outside the boat. A voice on a bullhorn said, "Heave to. This is the Coast Guard."

Max felt his head drop back to where it had been lying.

One of the men yelled, "The Coasties. We're sunk!"

Another shouted. "Let's outrun 'em."

A third voice said, "You out of your mind? This tub can't outrun a cutter. Our only hope is we cover Aries up with a tarp and pray they don't look under the tarp."

Max felt a rough material thrown over his face and body. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps and voices outside the cabin in which he lay. A voice said, "Sorry to inconvenience you, sir. We're doing a routine check. There have been some drug runners in this area."

"We understand. I can assure you we have no drugs aboard, except for some aspirin, ha ha."

"We'll just have a look around and you can be on your way, sir."

Max heard footsteps, heard the cabin door creak open and a voice said, "Nothing here. Okay, you pass inspection. We'll be going. Sail safely."

Max knew his chance was now or never. He took a deep breath and with all his strength yelled, "HELP!"

A voice shouted, "Sandy that came from the cabin. Go check. You three stay where you are! You move and you'll be picking lead out of your backsides."

Max yelled again, "Here! Under the tarp!"

The cover was lifted from his face and a Coast Guardsman looked down on him. "Well, I'll be—. Aren't you...?"

"My name is Aries. Max Aries."

At the Super Bowl, the offensive coordinator in a booth high in the stadium peered through his binoculars down at the field. The phone at his elbow rang. The excited voice on the other end was that of the general manager. "They've found Max! He's on his +way. Be here in five minutes! Send the equipment manager into the dressing room to get his gear ready."

"How? Where..?

"That's all I know."

The offensive coordinator relayed the message to the bench and watched the equipment manager dash through the tunnel toward the locker room.

A Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter 1200 feet in the sky over the Atlantic raced toward the Miami shoreline. Inside, a Coast Guard Machinist Mate was cutting through the last steel manacle around Max's wrist while a second Coast Guardsman held out a uniform shirt and trousers for Max to wear. He had been wearing only his underwear shorts when they plucked him off the cutter. Aboard the Coast Guard cutter, while waiting for the helicopter, a Coast Guardsman had split the concrete encasing Max's feet before he was hoisted by chest harness to the whirlybird.

The orange and white helicopter now hovered above the Super Bowl stadium parking lot, gradually flying lower and lower. His chest again encased in a harness, Max Aries was lowered to the ground. After the harness was removed, Max gave a quick salute to the helicopter crew and dashed into the door to the dressing room.

"Welcome back, Max," yelled the equipment manager. "Here's your shirt." While Max pulled his jersey over his head, two equipment people helped him on with his cleated shoes. Another handed him his helmet and shoved him out the door. There was no time for him to put on shoulder pads or other equipment.

Number 87 ran out of the tunnel, on to the Rams sideline. A cheer that gradually rose to a deafening roar rose from the stadium as the crowd recognized Max Aries.

The scoreboard read: Steelers 19, Rams 10. The clock showed six minutes left in the game.

With Albright pitching, and Aries catching, the numb and confused Steelers stumbled while the rejuvenated Rams paraded downfield toward the goal line.

Before the Steelers could recover their composure, the Rams scored, recovered an onside kick and scored again. All within a span of five minutes. With less than a minute left, the Rams iced the cake with a field goal. Final score: Rams 27, Steelers 19. Not only had the Rams won the Super Bowl trophy, they had beaten the six point spread.
Chapter 21

Ham Gleason sat at his desk in the Herald building. It was two weeks after the Super Bowl game and he was thinking about the column he was about to write. He had the material, the background, he tried to fit it into words.

In the days following the Super Bowl game, Big Mike Donovan in Las Vegas, along with his gang in Miami had been arrested in connection with the kidnapping and attempted murder of Max Aries.

But now, Max Aries, hero of Super Bowl XLV had disappeared again. Drenched in champagne, Max had held aloft the Super Bowl trophy while photographers took picture after picture immediately following the game. Excusing himself, he had showered, dressed in the borrowed Coast Guard shirt and trousers and while everyone's attention was directed at Coach Marv Jones, Max slipped out the door. That was the last anyone had seen of Max. Back at the Rams stadium in Cincinnati, the equipment managers cleaning out Max's locker, found only a stack of checks, Max's paychecks dating from the day he started to the day after the Super Bowl game. They had never been cashed. Under the rubber band holding them together was a handwritten note, unsigned. "Thanks but I don't need these."

Ham still deep in thought, doodled on his computer. Just for fun, he "Googled" Max Aries. Less than a second later he got 12,467 hits. Aries the Ram, he learned was a Greek god, son of Zeus and Hera, also known as Mars, god of war, by the Romans.

"Adventurous and energetic; pioneering and courageous; enthusiastic and confident; dynamic and quick-witted."

Ham's brow furrowed. Could...? He smiled to himself. Shook his head. "Nah."

A copy of the Cincinnati Herald sat on the desk at Ham's elbow. If he had glanced inside he would have seen, buried on page 19 the following article:

Astronomers on Mt. Palomar in California reported today that surrounding the constellation they called Oh Ess Yew, a huge ring has been observed. It appears to be made up of gases, but one of the scientists said there appeared to be lettering on it that he could not identify. Laughing he said, "It has the appearance of a giant Super Bowl ring."
Acknowledgments

Four aliens have provided information to give this work authenticity. You know who you are. and I respect your wishes to remain anonymous Special thanks go to Dr. Yaar. His research has been published in Interplanetary Biology from which I have quoted with his permission. To all of you, my sincere Ω⌂≈∆∞—or in Earth language, thank you.

About the author

Barry Friedman is a retired orthopaedic surgeon. Since his retirement he has written eight novels and two non-fiction works. Friedman and his wife live in Souther California
