 
Dead Ends and Other Escapes

Nick Zentor

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A collection of science-fiction and fantasy short-stories covering space travel,

time travel, advanced computers, alien technology, alternate dimensions,

mysterious phenomena, astral projection, and sentences in purgatory.

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Dead Ends and Other Escapes

Copyright: Coldpost-85, 2018

Note: Many of these stories were first published in the collection 'Dead Ends' in 1995.

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Contents

1. The Tour

2. Ghosts of Our Past

3. Reality Man

4. The Quarantine

5. Report for the Defense

6. Ice on the Moon

7. The Variant Edge: Regnazek's Ascent

8. The Escape Clause

9. Ghost-Wing Five

10. The Master Projector

11. The Time-Suit

12. The Refracted Man

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The Tour

One

The young man died, and his spirit exited his body, but could not escape the place with the dead body in it. The spirit sought a way to escape, but found none. Eventually, the spiritual guardians took notice and investigated.

"The body is not dead," one of them said, "that is why the spirit cannot leave this place."

"Why is the body not dead?" another said.

Shortly, another examined it, and checked a book.

"It is not time," it said. "This is not the proper time for it to die. Something is wrong."

They looked at the spirit, and the spirit became defensive.

"I don't know what's wrong," it said. "I was happy to leave it, but now what do I do?"

After a thorough study of the situation, 2 spiritual guardians stepped forward and one said, "We can find no physical or spiritual explanation for this disembodiment except one. Our mentors have suggested a 'tour' for the spirit. If the body still lives, after the tour, it may be open for reincarnation. Do you accept the tour, spirit?"

The spirit looked at the walls around it, and nodded affirmation. The lead guardian opened a door in a wall, and led the spirit out. The other guardians followed, and they went on tour in the spiritual realm.

The 'spiritual realm' was light and easy, for the most part, with lots of colors and a daylight overtone with a mysterious background. There were large honey-combed like structures, with various sized windows and valve-ways, tall spires in the bright indigo-violet sky, promenades and gardens.

There were also brightly colored bubbles floating about, varying in shades from light pink to light violet, at times almost translucent in the bright lights of the day. They floated as if with their own conscious direction, amongst trees that captured them and with winds that let them go free.

They led the young spirit along the promenade, passed through an underpass, to the most amazing waterway and canal-zone his eyes had ever seen. The promenade turned into a narrow bottleneck along the tight edge of the canal, into a slim highway strip, with a huge structure overlooking it built into the stone of a mountain.

"This is where care must be taken," one of the spirits said. "The high synergy flows hot along the edge, between the Za and the Ve, to the Ku. Stay on the side walk; we're not fit for a high-speed ride."

"Let's check out one of the shops," one of them suggested. "Maybe get ourselves some nectarine."

"Good idea," another said. "The spiritual tour would be incomplete without the good ole nectarine."

They all seemed mildly amused by this admission, and found an open shop with the cold-storage juices they wanted, received at a wall-vendor without need for cash payment or exchange. Apparently, such things were free in the spiritual realm. It got hot on the narrow strip, especially when on podal-extensor.

"Watch out for the gummies," another warned them, and laughed, like a kid in the candy store.

They each received a 'nectarine', which was a round, orange fruit with a soft shell and nectar-juices inside. It reminded the young spirit of one of the best peaches he'd ever had, crossed with a cold orange crush soda on a hot summer day at the beach.

They flexed their pods and enjoyed the nectarines as they returned to the sidewalk and continued on in what the young spirit thought of as a 'southern' direction, although he couldn't be certain the spiritual realm had physical laws with concepts such as north, south, east, or west.

Regardless of this, he was perfectly content to take the 'tour with these spirits, knowing that he could learn more, with time, about it all.

They took him to the area known as the 'Ve', which was a fantastic maze of parkways, promenades, gardens, and structures, which stretched for many kilometers before reaching something like a vast, rural territory known as the Ku. The tour would not take them to the 'Ku' because he was too young in spirit and it was his very first tour in the spiritual-realm.

Two

They followed the bottleneck to the area known as 'Ve' and expired with much relief. The narrow strip was a real job, even for them, as spirits in a spiritual realm. The young spirit felt the relief along with them, as they entered a wide veranda and a parkway with lots of free-floating bubbles, and trees. They crossed the veranda, entered the parkway, and one of the spirits pointed across the courtyards to a huge structure.

"The hall of records," he admitted, with an air of pride, as the young spirit gazed across a hundred meters at a huge pillared and columned structure carved out of the stone of the mountainside.

"Amazing," he admitted, and tried to focus, to get a clear picture for his memory, but some bubbles floated by in the near foreground and distracted him. His was a very young spirit, easily excited by the wonders of the spiritual realm, for the first time, and everything captured his interest well. But at times, he had a difficult time focusing his spiritual eye, and one of the other spirits had to help him along. It was just like being a kid again, visiting a new reality for the first time, but with a sense of odd deja-vu, and a sense of slight disorientation and displacement.

He was almost lost twice, but they found him, following some pink and purple bubbles through the trees, apparently wandering without care.

"It's like nothing I've ever dreamed," he reported to them, once rejoined with their party. "How long can I stay?"

"Of course we'd like to give you a larger tour," the tallest one said, "but you may be limited by your 'Ke'. With this possibility, we'd planned a short tour about 'Ve' and a quick return to 'Za' before your chord retracts."

"My chord?" he said

"Yes, of course," the spirit said, and explained. "It is one way we could tell your body is not dead. The chord is still attached. You can't see it, of course, but we can. Mind your key before it pulls you back."

They followed the parkway from east to southwest, and about, at least that's how the young spirit related to it, by general directions. After a few hundred meters, they neared the riverside canal-zone again, and one of the spirits pointed to a tower, by the water's edge, like a large light-house, with some kind of lever attached to another, smaller tower, on an island only meters further away.

"That's how we measure the tides," the spirit said, and before he could think twice about it, another spirit distracted him.

"Here's the magneto-pad," he said, "You'll like this. We can take this back to Za the fast way."

Suddenly, the young spirit cringed in the midsection, with pain, and doubled over.

"It's begun," a spirit said, "his ke is reacting."

Before they could stop him, the young spirit suddenly began flying away back the way they came.

"He's never gonna make it like that," one spirit said, with excitement, "not at the bottleneck. He'll crash far sure!"

"I'll get the skitter," the medium one said to the others "you get after him!'

The young spirit had the unavoidable compulsion to return to his body, as quickly as possible, but he was somewhat at a loss and wondered which way he'd have to go. The pain subsided shortly, as he realized he was lost, and wondered what had happened to his friends. The pain had driven him against his will.

Then he saw the canal-zone and recognized the edge of the bottleneck leading 'north'? It didn't matter what direction it was, he had to go the same way, follow it back the way he'd came.

He moved quickly with that decision, and followed the walkway at the edge of the road. He felt the pain again and gave himself a quick push, to fly on the wind over the high-speed strip. As he turned the shoulder and swung about northward, into the bottleneck, his speed was too great, and he got too close to the edge of the canal.

Before he could slow down his momentum carried him over the edge and out across the deep waters of the canal. He tried to fly away, but the gravity of the situation was against him, spirit or not. He blanked out of spiritual consciousness, as he met his fate head on, and plunged into the waters of the deep blue.

Minutes later, he awoke in his physical body, recalled where he was, thought about the spiritual realm, and spoke to the unseen spirits about.

"Thanks for the tour, guys," he said, sighed with the after-thought and reflected. "I guess you were right; I wasn't quite ready to die."

Finis

Ghosts of Our Past

One

I am not a very controversial man, I do not cradle thoughts about changing people's minds on things like government or philosophy, but I am a scientific man with a realistic perspective upon the world and I cannot deny what my own senses tell me is true, not when the evidence can be observed and touched, and has a real physical quality about it that cannot be ignored.

However, despite my very scientific realistic viewpoint on all things, my work took a very theoretical, hypothetical turn a few years ago when I made a discovery about the property of certain radioactive elements, when used in conjunction with gamma rays and DC electrical charge stored in cesium-140, an isotope of cesium. I would prefer not to go into the details of this mechanism at this time, to avoid straying from the point of this anecdote, for it is the experience that followed that is of tantamount notation.

What followed the experimental mechanism was a historical discovery of such controversial import that I may be putting my life in danger just by recording it and sharing it with the public. But, after a firm evaluation of my long life and present situation, I have decided the danger is well worth the value of such a recording. Besides, it is also quite possible that no one will believe me, and unless I can prove it, my position may be easily discredited by those who would wish my secret to be ignored.

Yes, I did say secret. It is a secret now, but if anyone reads this, then they will share that secret as well. But the actual experience will be mine and mine alone. Well, that isn't entirely true. There are perhaps some ghosts from the past that have the experience recorded within the dusty cobwebs of their ancient archives, at least one or two, I should think.

So, what was that experience? Well, it all began while I was working in my subterranean laboratory in Philadelphia. It was a place I rented fairly cheaply while the owner was looking to sell the whole structure, an old factory, but the market was a bit slow at that time. I'm an elementary chemist and an inventor of sorts. Most of my inventions have been computer-related lately, because the market is good, but my real interest lies more in the area of medicine. I would have become a regular chemist for a pharmaceutical company a few years ago, but I got demoted for playing with psychotropics. Okay, I guess I should have kept that part to myself, it doesn't help, I guess, to establish my legitimacy. But I didn't actually do the stuff myself; I experimented with plant and animal molecules and cells. A rival that didn't like me found out about it and I was accused of selling the stuff to kids, and well, even though it was a lie, it was believed by people enough to hurt my position.

Anyhow, to make a long story short, the pharmaceutical industry didn't want me after that and so I looked for another position, and found out how chemicals were used to process certain computer parts, and I had a new trade. So, there I was in the subterranean lab in the old factory, all by myself, doing some research in the electro-chemical properties of certain elements, and working with a computer I had hooked to a new, experimental power source, which I was hoping would function as a compact battery for portable PC units and laptops.

Well, I think maybe I failed to set the regulator properly or something and under-estimated the power. There was a small electrical spark, then a somewhat larger explosion and a puff of smoke as the circuits appeared to fry, the lights went out, and I was left in the dark looking for a flashlight.

But I couldn't find a flashlight. In fact, I couldn't find anything. I stumbled in the dark and fell on the ground. Not on the cement floor, but on what appeared to be the floor of a wood-land, covered with dead leaves. It was a very disconcerting experience. I thought the leaves were some papers which had fallen during the explosions and been crumpled up by the fall. But the floor should have been hard but was soft, and as my eyes began to focus, I could see that I was no longer in the laboratory. I stood carefully up and looked about, much to my amazement, to see that I was in the midst of a wood-land at night. I saw stars overhead in a dark blue night sky and the dark lines of trees all about.

Two

I swept about and saw a light in the distance, beyond the trees, and without any better idea as to what should be done in such a disillusioning experience, I began to walk for it, wondering where I was and how I had got there. By the time I reached the edge of the trees and stared at the light, which was coming from a large, early colonial-style house on a hill, I had reached the conclusion that the explosion had somehow knocked me out of consciousness and I had wandered away from the lab without knowing what I was doing, and my memory had returned only just as I stumbled in the woods at night. It was in no way a certainty, of course, but it was the only explanation for my situation that I could imagine.

I decided to go to the house on the hill to try and figure out exactly where I had wandered to.

When I saw the dirt road and nothing but a barn beside the large, ancient looking early colonial house, I realized that I had somehow been transported much further outside Philadelphia than I first imagined. It appeared to be some kind of farm-house, with an old wooden log-fence aligning the borders of its property, but the light from the stars and a quarter moon was much too dim to make out any more details. I saw nothing that resembled a garage except the barn perhaps, but the driveway was also made of dirt and it was hard to imagine any automobile had ever driven on it. It appeared much too stony and rugged for automobile traffic. As I looked at the light in the window and thought how strange it all was, I began to think perhaps I had somehow made it all the way into the Amish county, much further northwest in the Penn-state.

When I reached the front of the house, I suddenly felt very oddly misplaced and my gut told me I was in danger, so when I heard voices inside from the lighted window, I quickly snuck away to the side and down below the windows ledge, suddenly afraid that I might be discovered and charged with trespassing or something. My gut had told me something was terribly wrong and I had reacted, and I found myself creeping carefully in the shadows of the underbrush and flowerbeds aligning the exterior walls of the old house. I waited, listening, to hear only the mumble of voices, much too low to understand the words.

I dared to take a peak over the edge from the corner, with the utmost care and what I saw was almost impossible for my eyes to believe. Not only did the outside of the house resemble something from early colonial days of the United States, but the inside did as well. The light, I saw, came from a fireplace and a candle under a glass chimney top. In the corner beside the fireplace sat an old man with grey-white hair, wearing spectacles. Another younger man sat by the fire near him, in what appeared to be a chair set there for the specific meeting of the two. An old woman was serving the younger man some tea, and the old man was talking, with some obvious difficulty.

I tried to listen closely, but I couldn't quite make out his words, they were too low and feeble. But after the woman left the room, I peaked in again and saw the old man handing the younger man what appeared to be a paper, rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon. As I listened closely, the old man said in a much louder voice, which I could understand, "You must make certain that Madison receives this! It must not fall into anyone else's hands! Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Jefferson, sir," the younger man replied. "It will go directly to Mr. Madison."

"It has been signed by all the others," the old man said, lowering his tone some, but still clearly, "Madison will know what to do."

"All of the Sons of Liberty have signed it?" the younger man said, with intrigue. "And Mr. Franklin?"

"Yes, all of the sons," Jefferson said, "including Ben. I'm certain he would deliver it himself if he could. You do understand how important it is, don't you, Zack?"

"Yes, of course," Zack said, "something to do with our future economy?"

"Perhaps the only thing that can save it," Jefferson said. "Ben said it years ago, but nobody would listen. It was too radical an idea for us liberal folk when we drafted the constitution, much too radical. We were all set upon exploiting our newly deserved liberties after the fight with the Brits and we simply could not see that far ahead of ourselves. But the older we all became, the wiser and more conservative. It finally dawned on all of us that Ben was right, of course, as he always had been, so we each signed it and it was given to me to hold until the time was right. I would have submitted it to Madison earlier, but Hamilton and Burr got in the way, with that damn duel of theirs."

"Will Mr. Hamilton let it pass, sir?" Zack said, with some uncertainty.

"He damn well better," Jefferson said, "if he doesn't, we might as well sign all our descendants off to another age of tyranny in the hands of power-mad zealots and self-seeking privateers."

Zack looked at the rolled paper with the blue ribbon tied about it with suspenseful wonder, and said, "But how, how can any piece of paper be that important? May I ask, what exactly it contains?"

Jefferson began to talk lowly again and I could hear only a mumble through the expertly constructed window. I strained to hear the words, but his voice was much too low now. It was extremely frustrating, to bear witness to such a historical event but not be able to discern the most important aspect about it. For, as I strained to understand Jefferson's low muffled words, I realized that the paper that Zack had been charged with delivering to Madison was perhaps one of the most important documents ever to be delivered during the latter days of the post-revolution United States. I could only guess, from what I had heard clearly, that it had something to do with Ben Franklins very own theories on economics, and Franklin, as Jefferson admitted with final closure, was right about it.

Before I could hear any more, Zack was up and moving out the door. I hid in the shadows as he went directly to the barn, went inside, and a minute later, stepped out with a horse, hopped onto its back, and took off along the road down about the hillside. This was too much. I couldn't quite believe it. I thought it was a wild dream. I thought about that document with the blue ribbon, realized I had to know what was on it, hurried to the barn, went inside, found a horse, saddled it, and was out of the barn and off on Zack's tail before I thought twice about what I was doing.

Three

Zack had about 3 or 4 minutes on me, so I wasn't too sure I could catch up with him, but it wasn't exactly a race, so I figured if I pushed my horse a bit faster, I might have a chance. As it turned out, I was lucky. As I reached the edge of a town, Zack was trotting at a much slower speed, and I slowed down and stayed on his tail, far enough behind so that he would not notice me but I could still see him. As I entered the town, I was glad that I had been wearing my cobalt blue cloak rather than the lighter one, when this strange displacement began at my lab, for the cobalt was darker and would not be as obvious at night.

I followed Zack as he trotted at a medium pace along the dirt road, and the town became somewhat larger, with a few two and three-story structures. A couple of horse-drawn carriages with people passed, and a couple of men stepped out of what appeared to be a tavern. They watched Zack pass and then watched me as well. Then we reached what appeared to be the other side of the town, and a parkway, with what appeared to be a building under construction, still a stone and wooden skeleton of odd geometric shadows against the starlit night sky. When I saw where we were heading, I began to realize, from old pictures I'd seen as a young man at the library, that this was old Philadelphia, long before it had developed into a city.

Suddenly, a carriage pulled out from a dark alley at the edge of town, almost hitting Zack, and it forced the horse to make an abrupt halt, as Zack almost lost his grip and flew from its back. The horse settled and waited, as the carriage passed, and I signaled my horse to slow its pace. After the carriage had passed, another horse appeared from the shadows and approached Zack. The man on the horse spoke to him and he answered.

I carefully edged my horse to the side of the road and stopped it in the shadows at the other end of the last block of structures. I watched as another horse appeared with another man, and it appeared they were arguing with Zack. One of them pulled out a gun, an old flintlock revolver, and pointed it at Zack. I ducked into the shadows, stepped down from the horse, and peaked about the corner. The gun had convinced Zack to be more cooperative and they spoke with more civility.

I understood that Zack was anxious to deliver the document to Madison, but these two men, who were apparently some kind of government officials, weren't in any hurry to let him pass. Zack handed a paper to the one without the gun, but it wasn't the document. Probably some kind of early form of official identification. The man looked at the paper, looked back at him, and questioned him carefully, with much interest.

After a minute, I heard Zack raise his voice with objection to something the man said, then look at the gun in the other man's hand, and he followed the man, still holding Zack's papers, on the horses, to the other side of the road, where they all stepped off their horses and went inside the last building at the edge of town. I didn't like what I saw. These guys were being much too fascist with Zack and I smelled trouble.

Four

I left the horse, snuck quickly across the road, went through an alley between structures, snuck along the back of the structures, to the stone and wooden structure where they had taken Zack. I saw a lighted window at the back, peaked through it, through a thin curtain, and saw Zack sitting in a chair with the two men apparently interrogating him. One got too close, began to fish his hands into Zack's cloak, and Zack pushed him away with serious objection and stood up to defend himself. The other suddenly struck him in the jaw and he went back against the wall, in a daze. He began to recover, but the man struck him in the stomach and he collapsed in pain. As he huddled against the wall, in a painful stoop, the other man reached down and fished into his cloak. He tried to stop the man again, but fell forward as the man pulled out the document with the blue ribbon.

I had to know what was on that document, but as long as these two goons controlled it, that possibility seemed very slim indeed. I thought about getting closer, and stepped about the far corner of the structure. On the outer corner, there was a door. I put my ear to it and listened. After a minute, I could hear the words of the two men talking.

"Well, what's this then? An official document from the Sons of Liberty? Hmm, must be important."

"Maybe Hamilton should see it," the other said.

"Hmm, maybe... the kid says it goes to Madison... let's check it out first. Let's see what it says."

"Go ahead. Read it, I wanta know too," the other said, obviously the muscle of the two. The one with the brains agreed and read it aloud.

"You keep an eye on him," he said, "while I read it. Let's see. It says, "The economic figures prescribed by Mr. Ben Franklin in his journal have drawn the inevitable conclusion that, despite earlier pretenses about the accumulation of individual capital accounts in the hands of a few private businesses and companies, there must be an established limitation on such private wealth to prevent the possibility of it being used by unscrupulous businessmen and privateers to manipulate and maintain an excess of power over the political parties and government officials of this sovereign province and the country it is destined to create. While time may necessitate the future adjustment of such limitations, it has been presently agreed that no private citizen of the United States should, at this time, be permitted to accumulate any more than $100,000 in either gold, silver, or promissory notes, to prevent any chance of such exploitation and abuse of power as has been aforementioned.

"This theory of economics also takes into account the possibility of capital growth on a larger scale in the future, and a possible adjustment to higher figures in time, however, it must be absolutely mandatory that reasonable limitations on such capital wealth always be maintained according to Franklin's figures on economic theory, for the reasons given. For the future preservation of this sovereign provincial state known as the United States of America, and for the free people of this great nation, a secure government and a balanced economy are absolutely essential to the conservation of its highest principles of freedom, equality, and justice for all."

"Jesuiah Christ!" the muscle man gasped. "What the hell does it all mean?"

"Nothing," the brains replied. "It's nonsense."

"But it's signed by the sons of liberty," the other said, with a measure of astonishment.

"A bunch of old, feeble, senile men," the brains said, "who think they still run the government. No, it isn't important. It's obviously just a foolish final attempt by senile old fools to assert their unnecessary authority. One last breath of self-esteem and pride crying for respect and recognition for the glory days of their youth. We can't bother Madison with this. He's ready to retire as well, we don't need to tax his heart with these old foolish ramblings."

"What about Hamilton?"

"I'm certain he'd agree with me," the brains decided. At that point he stepped across the floor. I moved quickly back to the window to see what was happening and heard Zack shout out loud as the man tossed the paper into a fireplace. Zack stepped up and ran across the room to stop him, and the man turned about and grabbed him, as the muscle man stepped up and took him by the arm and pulled him away. Crying in gasps, Zack watched as the document burned away in the fire, helpless to prevent it.

"What do we do with this guy?" he said, as he forced him into the chair and held him there with both arms.

The brains man took a deep breath and let out a sigh. "We can't let him make any noise about this, it could hurt Hamilton. We'll have to find a place to put him, some place out of the way. Have him put on a stage to the Indian frontier, and make sure he doesn't find his way back."

"He's as good as Indian game, Mr. Pinkerton," the muscle man said. "You can count on me."

I gasped with shock and astonishment as I took the entire experience into account and decided to check the time on my pocket-watch. As I did so, the hands of the pocket-watch suddenly began to spin out of control and a powerful static electrical shock jumped from it directly through my hand, up along my arm, and into my body. My spine jerked as I passed out into unconsciousness. When I finally awoke, an immeasurable time later, it was in the early morning hours just as the sun was beginning to rise on the distant horizon.

When I finally gathered all my senses and looked about, I was on the filthy, cracked concrete of an alley, in the dismal midst of the edge of modern Philadelphia, not too far from the old library where I had originally looked at those pictures of old Philadelphia. By the looks of it, as I stepped out onto the dismal street, the shock from my pocket-watch had somehow returned me to my own time. I thought about finding a local store to get a cup of coffee and wondered about the incredible experience I had during the last night.

Would anyone believe me? It was doubtful, I realized it, but whether or not they did, there was no possible way that I could ever forget it, for it had made one of the most fantastic and amazing impressions within my mind that I have ever experienced in my life-time. For those old ghosts, for the original Sons of Liberty, the great fore-fathers of the United States of America, and for that poor, innocent and well-intentioned messenger that had been "disappeared" into the Indian frontier, I had to do my best to resurrect the truth and see that it received as much respect as could possibly be achieved.

Finis

Reality Man

One

Miss Holten's job was getting more and more difficult as the months went by. It wasn't easy, it was thankless, and it seemed to be getting more and more hopeless in the most recent of times. Would the problems with society; the homelessness, excess unemployment, drug addiction, disease, and crime, never let up?

For every one person she managed to help find a job, home, or new direction, there were 2 or 3 more in line the very next day. She was at her wits end and beginning to lose the smile she had managed to put on her face every day before going to the office for the past 4 years. She was beginning to lose hope, and that was not a good thing for a person in her field of social services.

Then one day, on the 17th of November, 2004, her assistant in the Riverside Social Services Agency, Mike Norton, opened the door, with an odd look on his face, and handed her a sheet of paper, and let a Mr. Fenvicker into her office.

Mr. Fenvicker was a long, dark-haired, bearded man of about 6 feet, somewhat well-rounded in the midsection, but not over-weight, and he wore faded blue-jeans and a gray sweater with a few holes in it, exposing a lighter shirt beneath it. His manner started out bitter and cynical, but upon looking at Miss Horton, he calmed and seemed to become more civil and curious and less disturbed.

"Take a seat, Mr. Fenvicker," she said, and he did so. "I'm Miss Holten. Do you know where you are?"

"Some kind of government agency," Fenvicker said, with a cynical sneer, and became casually attentive.

"We're not the government," Holten said. ""We're a nonprofit social service, run on contributions from some very generous organizations and people."

"Hmm, what do you want me for, as a guinea pig? Well, I refuse to cooperate!" he snarled and crossed his arms, with a frown.

"No, no, Mr. Fenvicker," Holten said, "nothing quite like that. We just want to help. Homeless people need help and that's what we provide. We can give you temporary shelter, food, and help you to find work and a permanent residence."

"Well, I could use something to eat," he admitted, "but I don't need any shelter. I do alright on my own, and I don't need any work to do!"

"But you don't have a place to sleep, do you?" she said.

"Sure I do," he said, "but that's nobody's business but mine!"

"But according to your file, you were arrested for vagrancy," she said. "The only reason you are here and not in jail is because the jail is full and they're not accepting any homeless people at this time."

"Jail, bah! Prison, police, fascists, to hell with it all!" he spat. "I'm no criminal. Why don't you all just let me be?"

"But, Mr. Fenvicker, the winter is setting in and we have to help all the homeless," she explained.

"Home is a state of mind," Fenvicker said. "I'm not homeless. All of reality is my home, or at least, it was, before the fascists took over. Damn fascists! I don't remember programming those monsters into reality. They're obviously some kind of virus, probably introduced by the competition. If I could only find the doorway... well, I could delete those bad asses in a good day's diagnostic."

Miss Holten looked at him perplexed, at a loss to respond. Now she realized why Norton gave her the warning.

"What did you say?" she said.

"I said the fascists are some kind of virus and... oh, what's the use! Nobody listens, everyone thinks I'm crazy," Mr. Fenvicker said, frowned, and looked down.

"Nonsense," Holten said, falling upon her years of experience with such hard-cases as this, "you're not crazy. You just have a strange way of looking at things. Perception of reality is not an exact science."

"That's quite true," Fenvicker agreed, suddenly smiling, and looked at Miss Holten with a measure of respect he reserved for rare exceptions in human society. "I knew there was something different about you, the second I walked into your office. You're a college-level IQ, aren't you?"

"Yes, I've had four years of college," she admitted. "But about you..."

"Four years!" Fenvicker said, with admiration. "Four years of study and foolishness for this? A tiny office in a nonprofit org? Why aren't you fencing your way through the corporate jungle, going for a bigger piece of the material pie?"

Holten smiled and looked at Fenvicker with casual reflection. While his general appearance seemed well on into the middle ages, his face looked, behind that beard, surprisingly young. She paused before responding, looked down at his file, suddenly thoughtful about her position and this particular 'oddball' case.

"Well, we're not here to talk about me," she said.

"Why not? Don't you count for anything?" Fenvicker said. "I really am puzzled, I must admit. I mean to say, I've met all kinds of people in this crazy, mixed-up reality, and Miss Holten, you are the first that seems completely out of place. Well, aside from the guy that looks back at me, that is, every time I look into a mirror."

"I look out of place?" she said. "Well, I suppose... how do you mean?"

"You're much too pretty, for one thing," he said, "to be stuck in a little social services office, attending to the dead-beats of the world. And with 4 years of college, you'd be a cinch shoe-in to a more prominent, profiteering company. Your looks alone would get you in; your intelligence would make you a close associate with the top-dogs in a matter of a week or two."

"Well, I'm not in it for material profit," she admitted, touching her hair a bit, adjusting to the sudden self-conscious situation Mr. Fenvicker had put her in. The interesting thing was, she didn't feel uncomfortable with the strange man, the way she usually did when reflecting upon her situation. It was odd, but not in a bad way, almost as if a close friend or her psychologist was visiting her, not a complete stranger. There was something about this man, something almost familiar, like he was an old relative or uncle she hadn't seen in years.

"Not in it for the profit?" Fenvicker said, with a note of surprise. "That's odd; I thought everyone was in it for the profit these days. Even the churches have begun locking their doors to the homeless, for fear they will lose their precious idols and get caught in the midst of their behind-the-door secret dealings."

"Yes, well, there are still some small churches," she said, "that are helping out. But they are full before sundown, almost every night. Now, as for your case..."

"Just give me some food and I'll get lost," Fenvicker said. "I don't need any shelter. I'll manage alright."

"I don't think I can do that," she said. "There's a condition here, on your profile, tagged on after you were arrested. The police have put us in charge of your case. It would be negligent and irresponsible for me to just let you go, at this time."

"Oh, well," Fenvicker said. "I don't want to get you into trouble, Miss Holten. You're already into this mess up to your ears, I can see that."

"Oh, I am, am I?" she said, with a smile that almost gave way to a laugh.

"Sure," he said, and explained. "I can see how hard you have it. Hell, I don't know why anyone so pretty and capable would put themselves through this kind of hell willingly, but, if it's what you have to do, I suppose... Wait, hold on a sec... you're not on some kind of probation, are you? Let me guess, you stole company funds and this is the punishment?"

Now she did laugh.

"That's it, isn't it!" Fenvicker guessed. "I don't know why I didn't see it earlier; I must be getting too much exposure to the virus or something."

"No, no," Holten said, suppressing the amusement. "Really now, this is getting too personal. I'm not on probation, Mr. Fenvicker. I'm quite free, I assure you, and this is my chosen position."

Fenvicker was taken aback by surprise, once again, and looked at Holten with more curiosity. "It's hard to believe, but, if you say so, I guess..."

"Now, we have to find a room for you," she said, and began looking at a list on a sheet of paper.

"Miss Holten, you appear to be a smart person," Fenvicker said, with a change of mood, "Can I ask you a question?"

She looked up from the papers and said, "Oh, I suppose. But I'm really only here to answer certain types of questions. Go ahead."

"If you had put something extremely valuable somewhere, then went out on a jaunt about reality, and then had a small accident, after which you couldn't remember where you put that valuable something, how would you go about relocating it?"

She looked up at him with eyes widening in wonder and didn't know what to say.

"What did you lose?" Holten said, with growing intrigue.

"Well, I wasn't supposed to tell," Fenvicker admitted, "But under the circumstances, I think I can make an exception. You're the first person to meet the spex for an actual engineer that I've come across since the virus became a danger to the system."

"Engineer?" Miss Holten said, "Well, I did take a course in computer designs in college, but I majored in the social sciences."

"Yes, of course you did," Fenvicker said. "But you possess greater potential than you are putting to practice."

"System? What sort of system are you referring to?" she said, still thinking about the words he used and wondering what this mysterious object he had misplaced was.

"We're in it, sister!" he said. "It's all around us. The danger is the virus and it's real! Go outside and take a walk and there are signs of its effects everywhere. Homelessness, of this scale, was never meant to be a part of the program. Nor was this war the government is waging or the law and prison-system it supports."

"Well, now you're losing me," she said. "I know our society has many problems, perhaps more than ever before, but what does that have to do with your case?"

"If I don't find the portal, Miss Holten," he said, "the virus will destroy the entire system, along with everyone in it!"

Suddenly, the office door opened, and Mike Norton looked in.

"Miss Holten," he said, "I have to see you, about the Grayden case."

"Yes, give me a minute," she said, even though she knew from the code word that it was important. Grayden was their code-word for urgent, used to avoid giving their clients any reason to get excited.

"He's on the net now," Norton said, meaning it couldn't wait.

"Very well," she said, stepping up, "please excuse me, for a minute, Mr. Fenvicker."

She stepped out of the office, followed Norton to a cubicle at the side of the large office space filled with a dozen cubicles, and with annoyance, said, "That was rude, Mike! You better have a good excuse."

"I caught some of those words," he said, "when I was going to see what was taking so long. Sally, this guy is some kind of out-patient psycho; I think we should call the local psyche ward and check the records."

"I don't know, Mike," she said. "What were you doing, eaves-dropping? Mike, I've told you to let me handle these things..."

"But I knew this guy was strange," he said, "and the cops admitted he was mixed-up in the head, but they didn't think he was dangerous. Still, you've been talking with him for almost twenty minutes now. Haven't you placed him yet?"

"I was working on that," she said, "when you interrupted."

"I'm going to check the online data-base," he decided. "He could be an escaped mental-patient, for all we know."

She thought about that. "Well, okay, fine," she said, "you do that. But don't waste too much time on it; we still have over 100 cases to process."

"I'm not the one who's wasting time," he said to her, "the line outside is almost a block long. At our present rate, we'll be doing over-time tonight, for sure."

"Okay, I get the point," she said, "I'll have this guy placed in ten minutes, promise."

She left him, returned to her office, thinking for a second, with some trepidation, that the man probably gave them the slip while they were having their dispute. But she was surprised and somewhat more relieved than normal to find he was still sitting there, patiently waiting. As she sat down at her desk and apologized to him for the interruption, she recalled the mystery he had suggested and tried to think of a quick resolution.

"Listen to me, Mr. Fenvicker, before we start on again about your problem," she said. "I think, at this point, the best thing we can do is find you a room. After we do that, then we can work on solving your case. Understand?"

Fenvicker thought shortly and said, "You're probably right. But I could use your intelligent objectivity, to find the portal."

"Yes, well, we're quite busy today," she said, "we have to process 100 cases and find placement for at least 2 dozen, and that is just the tip of the iceberg..."

"Oh, I quite understand," Fenvicker admitted, "I once had a position at info-retrieval, at the central nexus, and the processing line never ended."

"So, I think I've found a room for you," she said, with her finger on the desk, "just let me give them a call."

She used the phone, punched some keys on the pad, put the communicator to her ear, and spoke.

"Hello, this is RSS again," she said, "is that extra room still available? Good, good. Yes, I'll send him over this afternoon, in about half an hour? Fine, thanks again."

"Okay, we found a room for you, at the YMCA," she said, and quickly filled out a form. Less than a minute later, she handed a piece of paper across the desk to him, along with a plastic card, similar to a credit card.

"The paper is for your records," she said, "and the card will get you into your room and pay for your meals at the kitchens on this list." She handed him another piece of yellow paper with a list of addresses. "Go to any one of those addresses between 9 am and 4 pm and they'll give you something to eat."

"This is all very kind," Fenvicker said, accepting the paper and the plastic card, "but I really must find the portal as soon as possible. Will you help me? I don't know if I'll find another person with an engineer's IQ in time to stop the virus."

She shook her head with some mixed confusion and disbelief, wondering how she could have been taken in by this strange man's little mysterious problem.

"You don't believe me," he said, conclusively. "You are just like all the others, despite your beauty and intelligence. I was wrong about you."

He stood up, walked to the door, looked at her one last time, and said, "I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry for everyone."

He shook his head, decisively, opened the door, and left.

She sat there in bafflement, emerging from a suspended daze, as if she had been intoxicated by the very presence of the strange man, and with a sudden realization, quickly stepped up and went to the door, in pursuit. When she left the office and stepped into the larger office space, she couldn't see him anywhere. She walked quickly across the office space, stepped into the small lobby, and spoke to the security guard on duty at the intake desk.

"Did a man with a dark beard, in a gray sweater, just leave this way?"

"No, Miss Holten," the guard said, "I didn't see anyone like that."

She looked at the men and women sitting about the waiting area, went to the door, and stepped outside. She looked all about the area but couldn't see him anywhere.

"Where did he go to?" she said to herself, and stepped back inside. She returned to the office space, found Mike Norton, and said, "Did you see where that man went?"

"What man?" he said.

"The man with the dark beard, Mr. Fenvicker!" she said.

"Fenvicker? With a dark beard?" Norton said. "I don't recall seeing anyone like that here today."

"What? Mike, don't joke around, this is serious! He was just in my office. I gave him a card and a room at the YMCA!"

"Sorry, Sally. I've been kind of busy," Norton said, with sincerity. "I must have missed him."

"But you sent him to me, Mike! How could you miss him?" she demanded, without the slightest bit of humor.

"Sally, take it easy," Mike said, "we've processed thousands of people in just a few months. You've just mixed up the days."

He put his arm around her shoulder as she put a hand to her head, overcome by confusion, and he led her to the side, where they had a table with a small refrigerator and a coffee pot and snacks, for the rare moments when they had time to take breaks.

"Take five or ten minutes," he said to her, "you need a break. I'll cover for you."

"Thanks, Mike," she said, and sat down as he got her some water. "I just don't get it. I don't understand how a man like that could just disappear. It doesn't make sense, Mike."

"Nobody disappeared, Sally," he said, handing her a small bottle of cold water, "You just mixed up some cases."

"I don't know, Mike," she said, removing the cap from the bottle, "I don't know what happened." She drank the water and thought about it.

"Take a rest, you deserve it," he said, "I'll check back with you in 5 or 10, I'm in the middle of a case." He left her, looked back with some worry from his cubicle, shook his head, and returned to his desk.

Two

At the end of the day, Sally Holten still could not forget the strange man, despite the fact that she could not find the form she had filled out for his case and no one but her seemed to recall the man. But she did recall the fact that she had assigned him a room at the YMCA, and because it was the only thing she had to go on to follow up on this mystery, she decided to visit the YMCA and see if he decided to use the free lodging.

She stepped into the ancient lobby of the 40s era structure, which resembled a well-kept but somewhat fading, gray hotel, looked about, saw two people talking near some vending machines in the back, another talking on a phone in the opposite corner, half in and out of the dark, and approached the desk clerk. She had been feeling a bit more hesitant to question people about the strange man after facing so many doubters all day long. She persisted, however, still wondering why she alone could recall the man while everyone else had completely forgotten.

"Hello, Miss Holten," the desk clerk, a friendly man known as Jack said. "What brings you here tonight?"

"I assigned a room to a man today," she said, straight to the point, "and I would like to know if he made it alright. His name is Fenvicker. Can you please tell me what room he is in?"

"Fenvicker?" Jack said, and looked down at his desk, behind the counter. He flipped over some pages and shook his head. "Sorry, Miss. There's no Fenvicker listed here. Are you sure you have the name right? He may have used a pseudonym; it wouldn't be the first time."

"But no, no," she insisted. "I distinctly recall putting Fenvicker on his papers and his room tally. Are you certain? Please check again."

Jack did so and said, "As a matter of fact, we did get one from the RSS, just before 6 pm. But that was a Mr. Bandworth. He's in room 214, on the second floor."

"Bandworth? What does he look like? Gray sweater, dark beard?"

"No, this guy was wearing a trench coat, and he didn't have a beard. Want to talk to him?"

"Uh, no, never mind, that's not him," she said, and then thought again, that maybe the guy shaved his beard and found the coat. "On second thought, yes, I would like to see this Mr. Bandworth. Did you say 214?"

"Yes, just follow the steps in the back," Jack said, as she stepped to the back of the lobby. "It's down the hall, on the left, in the corner."

"Thank you, Jack," she said and went to the back. But before she stepped up, she heard someone say her name and stopped. She looked in the direction of the voice, and there in the dark corner, a man stepped out from the shadow, into the dim light of the step-well.

"Hello, Miss Holten. I'm very glad to see you." It was the mystery man with the dark beard, Mr. Fenvicker.

She stood there perplexed, as he stepped to her, wondering where to begin.

"Who are you and how did you manage to erase yourself from everyone's memory but mine?"

"Never mind the how, it's too complicated," he said, with a slight smile. "Wouldn't you rather know why?"

"Yes, that and the who," she admitted.

"Who isn't that important," he said, "besides, I tried to tell you earlier, but you closed your mind."

"Then why? Why are you?" she said, still stuck in the mystery.

"Let's start with why I picked you, shall we?" he decided, and seeing her nod affirmation, explained. "I said earlier you had the IQ of an engineer, a level of intelligence that could be helpful in solving our problem. That still holds true. I should add now, that one of your skills is solving geometric problems, specifically, first level puzzles."

"Of course, you mentioned that you had misplaced something," she recalled, and before she went any further, it dawned on her, and she stepped back toward the wall, and looked around shortly, then back at him. "You knew I would come here! You knew, after erasing everyone's memories except mine, you knew I would come. And now..."

"Now, there's no way you can deny it," he said to her. "You cannot block it out or refuse to believe, you cannot dismiss me as crazy. I am sorry, Miss Holten, for the mind-games, truly sorry. But I am desperate and I really do need your help. More to the point, all reality needs your help."

She looked down, her eyes blinked as she thought it over in near disbelief. For a moment, she thought she might be dreaming, and put her hand to her head.

"Let's find a place to sit, shall we," he said to her, "while I explain everything." He took her by the arm and led her, and she did not resist.

He took her to a tavern just around the corner from the YMCA, and they sat in a booth in the corner and shared a pot of coffee and a few doughnuts. It was not busy and they had all the privacy they needed to get everything straight with their heads. Fenvicker explained the situation and Miss Holten slowly, but surely came to accept everything he said as a matter of relevance not to be dismissed, but taken seriously, at least on one level of systematic engineering, if not more.

"So you see, Miss Holten," Fenvicker summarized, "the accident I experienced, due to this viral infestation, did not simply displace my portable com-unit, it also misplaced me in such a way that I cannot find the portal, the doorway which leads back to my station. Do you understand?"

"I'm not at all sure I understand what your 'station' is," she admitted, "but if it's as integral as you make it sound, it must be a vital part of the working system and environment. What I don't understand is why your own people can't help you, why you can't contact someone from the government, why you need me, in particular, when there must be many others more qualified..."

"No, there are no others, not here, not at this time," he said, and explained. "The government you refer to has nothing to do with the reality systems I work for. Those people, including the law-enforcement people we met earlier, are local programs that do not interact with the reality systems. Besides that, they appear to be corrupted by the viral infection and cannot be trusted. If I could reach Real-Net security, I'm sure they could help, but I can't do that without access to the system. There is an access console at the portal. That's why I need to find it."

"Okay, I think I understand," she said. "Do you have any idea at all where the portal might be?" She didn't really understand the 'reality systems' he was referring to, but she had decided to treat the problem like one of the computer puzzles she played when in college, just for the fun of it and to see where it went.

"All I can tell you is that there would be a binary set of dipolar energy sources," he explained, "but they would be hidden by camouflage, and the energy itself would be masked, such that it would be barely noticeable as anything but a low-radio deflector."

"Hmm, but then, it would have to be concave, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, that's true, but we'd have to be at just the right angle to discern it," he admitted. "The problem is, almost anything at all could be camouflaging it."

"Let's see," she said, and looked down at her coffee for a few seconds, and followed the pattern of wood-grain on the table around to the doughnuts. She picked up one of the plain doughnuts, and looked through the hole. "We know it is a source of low-radio deflection and we know it has to be concave. I think, by the process of elimination, we can narrow our search down, and limit the possibilities."

"Very good, yes," Fenvicker said, "now you're beginning to sound like an engineer. Now we can finally get some where." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and she was again quite surprised at how very young he actually looked behind that heavy beard. There wasn't a blemish or wrinkle on the man's face. It was only the beard that made him look old, along with his wise demeanor. Otherwise, she thought, he might be no older than she was.

That night, they took a walk to the local park, in the chill of winter, and by the process of elimination, took note of a dozen places where the portal could not be found.

"Very good, Miss Holten," Fenvicker said, now wearing a gray coat which she had insisted he wear, despite his insistence that he was not affected by the cold. Finally he decided he could use something to cover the sweater which he had been spotted in by the local police, to avoid further encounters with them. "I knew you would be an asset. It was quite fortunate that I found you."

"Okay, so I've helped. Don't you think you owe me more of an explanation?" she said, as they walked along in their winter coats, through the park, between the banks of plowed and shoveled snow.

"I suppose so," he agreed, thinking how very pretty she was but suppressing the fantasies, under the circumstances. "What would you like to know?"

"Why your company is unknown to the public," she said. "What is the nature of your clandestine status? You said you weren't connected to the local government. What about the Feds?"

"Hmm, yes... well," he hesitated. "Our connection to the Feds is of the highest priority."

"Like CIA or NSA?"

"More like NSA, but much higher," he admitted.

"So you're connected to defense?"

"Connected, of course," he said, "but probably not in the way you would think. The NSA itself has no real knowledge of our existence, just a few wild theories. Let me make it easier for you. Have you heard of Project Blue-book?"

"UFOs and ETs?" she said. "Are you saying that there are extra-terrestrials?"

"Well, yes, but my point is, there are things about the universe that common humans are simply not ready to accept. Project Blue-book proved that when all it resulted in was an escalation of the cold-war and industrial competition between super-powers. The USAF officially denied everything that suggested the existence of ETs for defensive reasons. They soon realized that they could selfishly hide anything of technological value whatsoever through the same 'defensive' rationale, while privately profiting millions off of it. When our people saw this, we knew that humans on Earth were not ready to take the big steps into the outer universe."

She suddenly stopped and faced him, and looked at him closely. "My God, you're not saying you're an alien?"

"I'm not saying that at all," he said logically, facing her. "I merely said that my people knew humans on Earth weren't ready..."

"But you know.... How is it that your people know these things?"

"My dear, it is very complicated," he admitted, "but I assure you, I am not an alien. So you may put that matter to rest immediately. What I am, as are all the people I work with, is in the position to provide intelligent guidance in these matters. But we can't possibly do so when the system is infected with a viral parasite. Understand?"

"So you are a branch of defense," she said. "Like system security?"

"Yes, we cover system security," he agreed. "That was the original reason why I entered this region, to check on a minor security fluctuation. After the accident, I was stranded and for over a year, I've been trying to get back to my station. That portal must be found before the virus gets through the firewall."

"Over a year?" she said, "if it has been so long, why haven't your people relocated you?"

"Without the portable com-unit," he said, "I am as lost to them as the portal is to me."

"But they must know about the virus, don't they?"

"I cannot say for certain," he admitted. "This virus is illusive. It is what we call a Trojan Imposter. It pretends to be important and takes over the system through its own security channels. That is why I said we cannot trust the police. Chances are we cannot trust the government either. The highest offices of the government, I suspect, have already been corrupted."

"But, if the signs are so obvious..." she said.

"But that's the point. They are not so obvious, they are very illusive," he admitted, and they began walking again. "The most obvious signs have been thoroughly suppressed by the mainstream media, acting as a propaganda machine for the corrupt leaders. As long as the leaders and the mass media deny the fact that millions are homeless, fascists are fighting a war under the false-flag of democracy and killing multiple thousands of innocent people, and the government itself has been corrupted by wealth and power such that it no longer serves the best interest of the people...."

"Damn, you sound just like my sociology professor," she said, with a laugh, "who, by the way, was dismissed from his university post last year for his 'liberal' bias."

"What's so damn liberal about the truth?" he said, with surprise.

"Tell that to the ones who deny it," she said, with dry humor.

Three

They walked through the park, to the apartment complex where Miss Holten resided, and she invited him in for a place to rest for the night.

"Even if you aren't tired, I do need some rest," she said to him, as he led her into the structure, up a flight of steps, and down a short hallway to the last door on the left. She opened the door and they stepped inside.

"Well, we have managed to eliminate about 20 percent of the area from our list," he said, with some consolation.

"Let me take your coat," she said. He removed it and handed it to her, and looked about the modest apartment.

"Well, your working position may be Spartan," he remarked, as he stepped into her living-room parlor and took note of the comfortable furniture and post-modern décor, "but I can see you take care of your home-life well. Small and cozy, but not as meager as I might have expected."

"Well, I like to be comfortable," she admitted, and checked the time. "It's still early. Take a seat and I'll put on some tea." She left him and went into the kitchen, as he decided to sit in a comfortable chair under a reading lamp in the corner.

When she joined him, he was studying the fish in her 20 gallon aquarium.

"I see you like fish," she said, and stepped over to see how they were doing.

"They are, without doubt, some of the most beautiful creatures in the universe," he admitted, as she opened the top lid and sprinkled a little food on the water. The fish all darted immediately to the top and began feasting as if famished, an obviously regular ritual they had become accustomed with.

He looked at her and almost added, "aside from some human females," but decided it was a much too personal affront. He didn't want to ruin what had become a good working relation with the only human in reality capable of helping him solve the crisis. Instead, he noticed the bookcase against the adjacent wall and studied the books with intrigue.

"The water should be ready," she said, and left to the kitchen. When she returned, she had a tray with 2 cups and 2 containers, with sugar and cream, and a plate with some cookies on it. She set it down on the coffee table before the couch, against the wall where the small bookcase separated it from the corner chair. She sat at the end of the couch, where the coffee table was accessible from chair as well, and sighed with relief.

"It always feels so good to get home and off my feet," she said, and smiled.

"Yes, of course," he agreed. "I quite understand. You do work too hard, you know. But if you understand all I've been saying, you should also realize that that could change, if we put a stop to the virus. You see, the amounts of homeless cases you have been swamped by recently are directly related to the virus and the problems it has been causing."

"I think I see that, now," she admitted, and began fixing her tea. "But forgive me if I reserve some doubts. I really do need absolute proof before I can be 100 percent sure."

"Well, I suppose that is understandable," he said, "given the circumstances."

"Help your self, before it gets cold," she said, referring to the tea. He leaned forward in the chair and fixed the tea for himself obligingly.

"But surely, you cannot deny the fact," he insisted, "that things have changed drastically, from average to poor, for a majority of people in the past decade."

"Well, yes, it has become worse for many," she agreed, "but the mainstream continues to paint the picture of hope and prosperity while political pundits push the idea that things are actually getting better."

"Oh, politicians are the biggest con-artists in all reality," Fenvicker said, obviously. "Do you know why politicians make it a golden rule to always deny the worse?"

"Because as long as they maintain the idea that all is well," she said, "they stand a good chance of being re-elected. If they admit the worse, they often take the brunt of the blame and lose their bid for re-election. My sociology professor was quite keen on political science. He taught us well, until he was dismissed, that is."

"Sounds like a good, honest man," Fenvicker said, and sipped his tea.

"That was the problem," she said. "He was too honest. He told the truth and the board of directors hated him for it. The truth made them all look bad."

"Hmm, that should tell you something," he said, stressing a point. "Since when is it considered university policy to dismiss a professor for being honest and truthful? It's like destroying a military officer's career for putting his honor before orders which he knows are wrong. Corruption of this scale, Miss Holten, is a sure sign that the system is at fault and in need of purging. If it were up to me, I'd have the whole lot of them fired. But, fortunately, my job could make things a bit easier."

"How? What can be easier than firing them all for corruption?"

"If we locate the portal, I'll show you," he promised. "If it is a virus, as I suspect, and I am pretty certain it is, the system needs to be purged by our security program. The whole process may take no more than a few hours."

"This I have got to see," she admitted, "to believe."

"Of course," he said, and left it at that.

As they settled in to a night of quiet conversation and tea, Miss Holten relaxed and said something that had been on her mind ever since they first approached the problem at the tavern.

"I've thought about it and I think I can easily eliminate about 60 percent more of the area," she admitted.

"Really?" he said, with surprise.

"How well do you know the area?" she asked.

"Well, to be honest, I've only been able to cover about 80 percent of it," he admitted. "I was about to continue when the police officers picked me up for vagrancy. But as for the 80 percent I have covered, I really couldn't be sure because there were some obstacles preventing a closer inspection. I have taken note of those sites and intended to get back to them. I've been searching on the assumption that there would be no major obstacles but the truth is the virus has affected the infrastructure in ways that may have changed that. I can't be sure; there may be obstacles in the way of the portal due to the effects of the virus."

Miss Holten began to feel somewhat confused by Fenvicker's terminology and perspective, because it was more like he was talking about some kind of computer game program than reality as she understood it, but she maintained a handle nonetheless and played along. Perhaps, after all, she thought, there were things about reality that Fenvicker could teach her, things that could be quite valuable to the state of the world and humanity's survival.

"We know that it would be a low-radio deflector with a concave design. If the low-radio deflector was detected, the local authorities would probably get nosey and discover it. Seems to me, if you are intent upon keeping the portal a secret from the locals it would have to be hidden, camouflaged in some way."

"Yes, yes, that would be necessary," Fenvicker admitted.

"Well, the only way to hide a low radio deflector is with a low-band EM field. Which leaves only so many options. One, an energy plant..."

"No, an energy plant would be too obvious," Fenvicker said, "and too susceptible to intrusion. The idea of using an energy plant to cover the portal was in one of the initial engineering drafts...."

Suddenly, Fenvicker's eyes opened wide with astonishment and he stared out the window for a second, and then looked back at Holten.

"Miss Holten, you are a wonder," he said, "You've done it!"

"Done what?" he said.

"You steered me along the design maze, in ways I could not do by myself," he said. "You helped me recall something. You're right, about the energy plant, but until now I could not recall the specs."

"The specs?" she said.

"Yes, you see," he explained, "an energy plant generates a low EM field that has a very wide perimeter. It wasn't necessary to put the portal directly on the grounds of the plant."

"Yes, of course," she said, catching on. "It could be anywhere within the perimeter of the field..."

"Precisely," he said, "and I think I recall the exact specs now. Miss Holten, do you have an automobile?"

"Uh, well, yes," she said, "it's in the garage, out back. I only use it when I have long errands to run."

"Well, the area I'm thinking about is about 20 kilometers north," he said, "on route 59."

"20 kilometers? That would put it, around the Mt. Kongrade Park."

"Yes, just beyond it actually," he said. "Can we go?"

"Now?" she said, "but it's almost midnight."

"Yes, it is best we visit it at night," he said. "In the daylight, we might be seen. It's best we avoid detection by the local police. As I said earlier, they appear to be affected by the virus."

"Well, okay," she agreed, overcome by Fenvicker's sense of urgency and the wonders of the adventure he had taken her on.

She stood up and said, "Give me about ten minutes to change," and left him to go to her room. Ten minutes later, she returned, wearing blue jeans and a dark blue and green heavy cotton shirt. She put on her winter jacket, found the keys to the car, and they departed into the night.

As they drove out of the city, over a bridge to the other side of the river, and turned north onto route 59, Miss Holten expressed some doubt.

"You seem so sure the portal is there," she said. "How can you be sure and if so, why did it take so long to recall?"

"I was disillusioned after the accident," he admitted. "I lost my bearings and my perspective. I wandered for days and when I finally felt better, I found myself lost within the maze of the city. The city-maze can be very discerning. It was designed to make things more interesting to the curious and those with high intelligence. It was also designed to challenge the intelligence. After realizing I was actually lost within the maze of the city, and once it was also realized that a virus was present, I simply could not recall the exact coordinates of the portal. My memory had been confused by both the city-maze and the virus."

"But you suddenly recall the coordinates now?" she said, as they drove along the highway northward in the winter night.

"Bouncing ideas and perspectives off you, Miss Holten," he confessed, "is what did it. I can't explain it exactly, but you have a gift of objectivity and the ability to see things on a level I can appreciate. Sometimes, simply talking with someone who understands things makes all the difference. I believe its called word-imagery association."

"Yes, I think I understand," she said. "Are you telling me that all this time, for over a year, you haven't had anyone to talk to?"

"None who have understood as much as you," he admitted, and looked at her as she drove. "Together, Miss Holten, we may save the real world as we know it."

She smiled at the thought and they drove on in silence.

They passed through two towns and entered open country, as the road edged along the side of some mountains. They passed fewer and fewer automobiles along the way and it became darker, with only the street lights showing the way. There were mountains on one side and forest on the other, for about 4 or 5 kilometers. Then a few structures appeared; sparsely scattered rural outposts, a farm here, and a motel there, a few large houses. They passed the entrance to Mt. Kongrade Park, a small rural residential town with a single store, restaurant and fuel depot. Then there were more mountains and forest, and finally, after another 3 kilometers, they sited the tall towers of the energy plant to one side, just inside the edge of the forest, on the other side of a railroad track.

"It's just ahead, on the right, at the base of the mountains," he said. "There will be a small stone auxiliary station at the base of a pole, then some trees, and another clearing with grass. In the clearing there are two trees, just about ten meters from the base of the mountain."

She slowed as they sited the auxiliary station, they passed by the trees, and she slowed some more as they sited the clearing and the grass.

"There it is, stop the car," he said. "Park it on the side, just under those trees ahead. The evergreens will cover it from the street light."

She did as he instructed and stopped the car on the side, under the shadows cast by the evergreens from the overhead streetlights. He looked back and all about and said, "It's all clear. Let's go to it before a patrol car passes."

He urged her on and they left the automobile, followed the old cracked sidewalk under the evergreens, back to the open clearing of grass. There, only dimly lit by the light from the streets, at the back of the clearing, were two large trees, set apart by about ten meters, at the base of the mountains. She followed him into the clearing, across about 30 meters of grass, to the trees. He stopped in the middle of the trees and looked directly at the stone base of the mountain.

"This is it, Miss Holten!" he exclaimed, with obvious exultation and relief.

She stepped up to his side and looked at the stone face of the mountain, but could see nothing but the dim gray stone with some snow at the base.

"I can't see a thing," she said.

"You will, as soon as I make a frequency lock," he said. He raised his left hand and touched something on the wrist. Seconds later, a dark line appeared in the stone face and it grew to the size of a doorway.

"Come, Miss Holten," he said. "You deserve to see this."

He took her hand and led her directly to the dark opening. They stepped inside, a dim blue light lit over their heads, and the portal closed behind them. They were inside a small room no larger than an ATM. There was a lit up console to one side with a video screen.

"This is... amazing!" she said, looking over the small room at its obviously futuristic, high teck design. "I must be dreaming. How could this be?"

"It's as I explained earlier," he said, as he stepped up to the console and began touching the controls. "We're part of a very highly secretive organization and security of the system is one of our highest priorities."

She stepped beside him and watched as he went to work. A pattern of lines in the form of a basic grid appeared on the video-screen and several areas of red appeared within it.

"Yes, it's as I feared," he said. "It's a virus alright; a variation on the pseudo-Trojan. An admirable faker, it's infiltrated all of the local security stations. No doubt it's feeding off of its own self-importance, at the expense of the system and all of its free entities."

"Can you stop it?"

"Yes, but it'll take about an hour, possibly more, to complete the purge and eradicate all its corrupt components."

"Have a seat," he added, as the wall opened on the opposite side and a padded bench appeared with a table attached to its side. "If you're thirsty, there's a storage compart on the left, with some bottled water. I keep it stocked in case of just this sort of emergency."

She sat down on the bench, located the door to the compart in the wall to her left, opened it, and found the bottles of water. She removed one, closed it, and took a drink. He completed the commands for the removal of the virus and joined her on the padded bench.

"It's working," he said, looking into her eyes. "It's just a matter of time now."

"I don't understand," she said, "I mean, how can you neutralize a virus that's infected so many people from a remote station with a computer? Could you explain it?"

"It's done with a process that irradiates the entire system," he said. "The virus is neutralized with a combination of low gamma and high radio. Both of these radiations act together to disintegrate the viral strains."

"Are you honestly saying that everything that has been going wrong with the government, the corruption and abuse of power, is all due to this virus?"

"Yes, for the most part," he admitted. "Hard to believe, huh? Well, it really doesn't become obvious until all the symptoms appear and once that happens, it's too late to prevent it from spreading. This particular virus is quite insidious. It has spread like wildfire for over 20 sol-cycles. Uh, I mean to say, 20 years. Forgive the terminology; our organization has its own technical references. We learn to use them and sometimes forget to translate within local systems."

"Sol-cycles? I like that," she said, and wondered about the secretive man. "So, how did you manage to wipe yourself from the memories of all those people earlier today?"

"There are some things about me you cannot understand," Fenvicker said. "But I want you to know, despite the relative differences between your people and mine; I have thoroughly enjoyed the pleasure of your company."

"Getting mysterious again," she said. "You are one secretive mystery man, Fenvicker. So, assuming all goes well, what then?"

"The virus will be purged from the system and life will go on as it was intended," he said. "Everything will be okay now, Miss Holten. Both your world and mine will be much more secure."

"Your world and mine? But I thought you said..." she said in puzzlement.

"No, our worlds are close, but they are separated by about 1000 megahertz. When we realized the virus in your world was spreading into the edges of our own, we had to do something to stop it."

"1000 megahertz? You mean to say... would that be longer or shorter?"

"Longer, Miss Holten, much longer," Fenvicker said.

"How can it be, if you're frequency is so much longer, how can you exist on this reality plane?"

"I don't," he admitted. "I exist only as a temporary probe, sent into your world to fix the problem. My real body is beyond this bridge, on the other side."

"Dear God," she said with astonishment. "You've given me proof that there is an intelligent race like our own on another frequency of the universe! This is the most amazing thing I've ever experienced. If your frequency is longer by 1000 megahertz, then that means..."

"It means your lives, the lives of all humans in your world, are but a day in the life of my own. Goodbye, Miss Holten. Presently, we are in a small airlock bridge between worlds, and I can only hold this frequency for another milli-cycle. Have a good life, Miss Holten and thanks for your help. It has been an interesting pleasure. I don't think I'll be seeing you again."

"A day?" Miss Holten said, as she passed out into unconsciousness, realizing, from a physicist's perspective, the implications of what he said. "But that means... we're merely... insects... to you..."

When she awoke, she was in her bed at home and everything that had just happened was nothing more than a fading, subconscious dream. She recalled a strange man in the dream, a man with amazing powers and wisdom, a man who wanted to help her and all humanity. But it was all just a dream, or was it? She wondered about it, for some reason it was no ordinary dream, it was a dream she could not ignore. The thought of it fascinated her in much the same way a good book or movie fascinated her. There was something more real about it than anything she had ever experienced. As she woke up to the typical winter day, it was much the same as any other, and as she had breakfast and prepared for work, she had to admit it was just a dream after all. But later that day, the line of homeless people at the RSS was much, much shorter.

finis

The Quarantine

One

The oblong space-craft landed in a remote part of the planet in a field of weeds on a gradual slope, in the midst of a forest of trees.

"There is an abundance of life here," the spaceman known as Nulka said to his crewmates, Kelvo and Tovek. "I'm not certain, but the sensors appear to detect intelligent structures in the distance."

"How distant? Kelvo said.

"About 10 k-units," Nulka said.

"Tovek and I will investigate on foot," said Kelvo, who was in command. "Nulka, you will remain here and continue the environmental study. We can maintain radio-contact, but use it only for emergencies."

Kelvo and Tovek checked their portable units, decided the atmosphere was safe enough to go without helmets, and left the craft. They walked carefully down the gradual inclining slope and looked about with curious interest, noting the various forms of plant-life, small animal life, insects, and geological strata.

Kelvo stopped near the edge of the forest, crouched down, and examined a plant closely. He picked an insect off it with a gloved hand, and put it into a plastic bag, then added a small branch of leave it to the same bag. He stood up tall again, secured the bag at his side, in a larger bag attached to his belt, and then located an opening in the brush that led into the forest.

They walked slowly and curiously through the trees, stopping to take pictures with a small photo-recorder unit every now and then. It was a long walk through the forest, but they were explorers and collected data on the environment as they went. They encountered a babbling brook of water, strewn with large, stone boulders, and took a sample of the water in a vial, then carefully climbed across it, over the rocks, to the opposite side.

There they found a hilly meadowland, where the trees thinned out. They walked over brief hills, around crops of stone, through sparsely scattered trees, for a few k-units, and encountered a wooden fence. On the other side of the fence was a large field, with patches of weed and sparsely scattered plants of different varieties, and an oddly pungent mushroom-like growth which they chose to avoid.

Across the field, in the distance, were a group of four-legged beasts, which appeared to be grazing on the plants in the field. Further beyond the beasts, around a k-unit in the distance, was a red and white structure. They studied it with long-range field-spex and judged it to be of an intelligent design.

"This wooden structure blocking our way," Kelvo observed, "appears to be confining the beasts. I suggest we walk around it, just in case they are dangerous."

They did so; followed the fence south, for about 100 meters, and it curved about in the direction toward the structure. Another 200 meters, they crossed a dirt-road that led through a gate in the fence, and continued to follow it. Several hundred meters later, they reached the end of the fence and sited the structure less than 100 meters away. They stood at the edge of a cluster of trees and studied it closely.

There were actually several structures clustered together, some large, others small. There was a big, red, box-like structure, a tall, silver, cylindrical structure, another large, somewhat irregular white structure with many angles, 2 long, semi-translucent structures, and 2 or 3 smaller structures about it.

Two

As they observed the structure, a bipedal humanoid, not unlike themselves in physique, dressed in odd-looking garb, walked out of the multi-angled white structure, climbed into a 4-wheeled vehicle, and moved away from it.

"Apparent intelligence," Tovek said, probing with a sensor-unit. "The structure now appears to be vacant. Shall we get closer?"

"Yes," Kelvo agreed, and they walked to it. There were steps leading onto a platform with short walls, tall columns, and a roof, to a short rectangular entrance. They went to it, found the door locked and used a special device to open it.

Inside, they took more pictures, and studied its contents with curiosity.

"This appears to be a laboratory chamber," Kelvo said. "It has a variety of contained substances."

Tovek walked to another door, found it unlocked, opened it, and looked through.

"This appears to be a relaxation chamber," he said, "although I am not sure."

They both went into it. It was somewhat larger than the laboratory-chamber, contained a long, thin bed-like thing that may have also served as a chair, 2 large chairs that were similarly designed for comfort, and a few small, low-standing tables of wood with strange, thin, ornately designed colors, with hoods on the tops, and a large, wooden box with a glass side facing away from the corner, close to the wail.

"What is this?' Tovek said, curiously, studying the large box, which now appeared to have a control-console at its base. He played with the controls carefully, and suddenly, the glass side began to glow with colorful light.

"Some kind of communication device," he guessed, stepping away from it. They both stood back and focused their eyes on the colorful light. They saw moving pictures.

"Ah yes," Kelvo said, "Some form of video-monitor. Interesting. They obviously possess a high level of intelligence to have such advanced technology."

They stood back and observed the moving pictures with keen interest. A humanoid with features similar to themselves, possibly of a branch species of their own race, looked at them from a desk and spoke with a square video-like box flashing pictures behind him. The man looked down at the desk, at a sheet of paper, then back up, as he spoke in an apparently serious tone. Then he vanished and a new scene appeared. In it, several humanoids in green clothes were seen fighting in hand to hand combat.

The scene changed again and humanoids in similar clothes were seen shooting tiny projectiles from long barreled weapons. The scene changed again to show an extremely large long-barreled weapon, pointing at an acute angle from the ground into the air, with 2 humanoids in the same green clothes standing behind it, as it fired much larger projectiles a greater distance.

The scene changed again to show large explosions occurring and structures being destroyed, then dead and wounded humanoids getting carried from demolished structures to vehicles by humanoids in green with white and red arm-bands.

"It appears they have problems," Tovek said.

"Yes." Kelvo agreed. "I wonder how bad it is."

The man at the desk reappeared, spoke again shortly, and more scenes of violence appeared. This time, the scene was of several men in different colored clothes clashing outside a large, dark structure, with a crowd of people about. It was hand-to-hand combat, without weapons, until a bunch of men in blue and black appeared and began hitting them with long, black sticks. In the end, many bloody faces and a couple of men were carried away to different vehicles.

"This would appear to be a different fight," Kelvo said, "than the other."

The man at the desk reappeared, spoke shortly again, and more scenes of violence appeared. Kelvo decided to check out another chamber, while Tovek remained fascinated by the images on the video-box.

As Tovek continued to watch, he heard a noise from the door to the laboratory behind him, and turned about to see the humanoid in odd garb glaring at him with one of the long-barreled weapons pointing directly at him.

The man spoke harshly and gestured with the gun-point. Tovek did not understand the language, so did not know how to react. The man called out over his shoulder into the laboratory chamber, without turning and another humanoid in odd garb appeared with another long-barreled gun.

The second man pointed his gun at Tovek while the first man dropped his and stepped toward Tovek. The man forced Tovek to raise his arms over his head, and began touching his body up and down with the palms of his hands. As he did this, the second man suddenly yelped and collapsed to the floor. The first man looked back with surprise, then jerked and collapsed also. Tovek dropped his arms, turned about, and Kelvo was standing in the doorway to another chamber, with his stunning-device.

"Did they harm you?" Kelvo said, and put away the device.

"I don't think so," Tovek said, checking his body where the first man had touched him.

"We'd better go," Kelvo said. "There may be others on the way."

They walked back along the fence, then through the hills and trees, and across the stream. In the forest, convinced they were safely away from danger, they slowed their pace and conversed.

"This planet has a serious problem,' Kelvo said. "I fear it may be widespread. It may be out of control."

"If it is," Tovek said, "then what can we do? Can we provide a solution?"

"I do not know," Kelvo admitted. "We shall do a wider sensory scan from the ship. If it is as wide-spread as I suspect, I'm not sure we can help it."

Three

An hour later, they climbed into the ship and found Nulka monitoring moving-pictures on the video-monitor.

"I have managed to com-link with an artificial satellite," he said, as they returned to their stations.

More pictures of violence played across the video-screen.

"Then you must realize this planet has a serious problem," Kelvo said.

"Yes," Nulka admitted, "I have monitored a dozen different scenes of violence in the past hour."

"Tovek," Kelvo said, "prepare the ship for an orbital station."

"Gah-dam-mit!" Tovek snapped quite suddenly, much to his crew-mates surprise, and swept an arm out in midair in a most violent fashion.

"Tovek," Kelvo said "what is wrong?"

"Gah-dam-mit!" Tovek said again, and banged a fist on the console. "Why must you always give the orders?

"Because I am in the command position," Kelvo said quite logically.

Tovek shook his head, took a deep breath, and looked at Kelvo with dreamy eyes.

"What did you say?" he said to Kelvo, with obvious confusion, rubbed his eyes with a hand and felt his forehead.

"Tovek," Kelvo said, "I told you to prepare the ship for an orbital-station. We'll want to monitor satellites and discover how wide-spread the violence is."

Tovek's face twitched, he scratched it, and he sniffed. "Very well," he said with hesitation, and looked at the console.

Kelvo studied him carefully, and recalled how the strange humanoid had made physical contact with him.

"Nulka!" he suddenly said, with horror. "Quick! We must get Tovek to the stasis-chamber. Tovek has been infected! We must decontaminate, at once!"

"What?" Tovek said and looked at him through watery eyes.

"The problem is contagious!" Kelvo said, with extreme urgency. "Quick, get into the stasis-chamber!"

Tovek managed to get the message and did as Kelvo ordered.

Several minutes later, as they put the ship in orbit, Tovek was still in the stasis chamber, lying in a recliner, while Kelvo monitored the decontamination-process. An hour later, the process was complete, but Tovek had to stay in the chamber, for another check, to make certain the process of decontamination was absolutely successful. Time would tell.

Kelvo returned to the bridge station and found Nulka monitoring satellite reception on the video. He turned about and spoke to Kelvo as the other sat down.

"I'm sorry to say it has spread," he said, "over the entire planet. It has infected millions, possibly even billions of people."

Kelvo nodded sadly.

"Unfortunate," he said. "It is really a rather beautiful planet. I am sad for the environ-ment and the victims."

"Then there is nothing we can do?" Nulka said.

"It is too widespread!' Kelvo said. "We do not have the resources to decontaminate an entire planetary environment. Take note in the log. Planet G543 contaminated with plaque of violence, in contagion. I recommend a planetary quarantine, until such means exist to decontaminate on planetary-scale."

"Or if the planet still exists," Nulka said, with serious skepticism.

Kelvo looked sadly at the video and said, "What was it they called it? What name did the humanoids use?"

"Oh, I think they called it Urk," Nulka said, "no, correction, 'Urth'."

"Urth," Kelvo repeated sadly, and turned to the controls.

Shortly, they left orbit and headed back across space, homeward bound, away from the violent contagion, away from the planet known as 'Urth', and its vast population of unfortunate victims.

Finis

A Report for the Defense

I

It has been said by philosophers and religious people many times in the past, that Heaven and Hell are not simply the highest and lowest states imaginable, but they are also spiritual states of mind that are not necessarily subject to physical conditions. Given this semantic aspect, it has also been said therefore, that a man with no material wealth can be perfectly happy in spirit, while a man who has millions in material wealth can be completely unhappy in spirit.

This analogy may also support the state in which Able Blank found himself. In the case of Mr. Blank, he was neither poor nor wealthy to any extreme, but one could say he was more poor than wealthy, even if he was not starving. But even though he was not starving, at least not for food, and he had enough money to pay the rent and keep his used car on the road for another 6 months, he was without a doubt in a constant state of discontentment and suffering in depression.

Nobody understood just how much he was suffering, because lower-class people tended to think anyone with a car and money was lucky to be alive and had no right to complain, especially after the hard times everyone's grandparents and parents had. It was like that; if one complained when was not starving, then one was judged to be a spoiled brat, rather than someone who was actually suffering.

But the truth was Blank was really suffering. His state was not caused by a lack of food or lack of housing, it was caused by his failure to reach his goals in life and the loss of his girlfriend several years ago, a girl he loved so deeply he would have married her, if things had not gone wrong as they did.

Whether or not anyone else realized it, he was trapped in a state of suffering depression which was so constant and unchanging, it had long since ceased to be a life, and was much more resembling to a state of purgatorial limbo. Whether or not anyone else realized it, Able Blank was in Hell.

He had suspected this possibility for some time, ever since he attempted suicide a year after he lost Lisa. Then one night, while he sat in his small, low- rent, roach-infested apartment, something very strange occurred. He was recording his thoughts in a paper notebook; a habit he had taken to while tolerating his hopeless, mundane existence, a spiritual entity visited him, and confirmed his suspicions after all.

The entity appeared as a demon in the out-fittings of an old western gunfighter, black leather with silver buttons. It stood in the dark corner of the small apartment, across the room, just beyond the dim light of the lamp on the table by Able's side, looked at Able and shook its head in something like disgust.

"What a poor foolish excuse for a man you are," it said to him. "What a lowly thing, a waste of space and time. What are we going to do with you?"

"You forgot victim," Blank corrected him, and drank a spot of rum, suppressing the pain in the only way he could. He was drunk and mistook the demon's presence for his own wild imagination, or perhaps a reflection of his burdensome conscience.

"Victim, of course," the demon agreed, "a victim of circumstances, so you claim. But if that were exact, you would not be kept under such a cloud of miserable dis."

"But it is true, I swear to it," Able said, drunk but still quite depressed. Then he realized what he was doing, conversing with a strange demon, across the darkness of the small room, barely noticeable in the dim light of the lamp.

"How did you get in here?" he said, setting the bottle aside and staring with surprise at the demon.

"Never mind me," the demon said, "The real question seems to be 'how' did you get here, and for that matter, why?"

Blank blinked several times quickly, expecting the entity to disappear at any time, but it did not.

"You're not human," Blank said, "Who are you?"

"At the moment," the demon said, "I appear to reflect your troubled conscience. As that is the case, perhaps you should tell me how you got here, so that I may figure out the 'why'."

Blank explained it all as concisely and to the point as possible, about his mistakes and failures with life. The demon was not too impressed, and still quite uncertain.

"Hmm...," the demon said, "that's quite a story, if it is true."

"It is, I swear to it!" Blank said, with extreme conviction.

"Perhaps," the demon said, and paused in momentary thought. "But if your story is true, and you are not hiding anything, I do not think you belong in this place."

"No, damn right, I don't!" Blank said. "I deserve better. It's not fair that I have to live in such conditions. I deserve an apartment on the eastern side, at the very least. I deserve a job that pays 10 dollars an hour, not a mere 5."

"Oh, but that's irrelevant, Mr. Blank," the demon said. "Money or wealth cannot save your kind.

"You sound like a priest," Blank said, and drank another spot of rum, then shortly laughed. "If I had just 10 thousand dollars, I could get myself out of this hole."

"No, that is not so," the demon said, "As I said before, wealth cannot save you."

Blank stared at the demon in perplexion, and began to object.

"You don't understand, Mr. Blank," the demon said. "You appear to be suffering from a dislocated sense of perspective. What I am trying to say Mr. Blank, is that you are dead and presently reside in a state of Purgatory referred to as 'Limbo'."

II

"I don't understand," Blank said. "How can this be Hell? I mean, I have money, though it isn't much, I have a car, one would say that I have a certain amount of freedom, though, again, it isn't much. I also have a body that requires food, shelter, rest, etc..."

"All that is irrelevant," the demon said, "when one considers the dismal air of depression that hangs over you, is it not?"

Blank thought about that, with reluctance to admit the statement as true, and the demon continued.

"When is the last time you made a friend?" the demon said, "the last time you had a good job, confidence in yourself, a female companion?"

Blank shook his head with defeat. "I see what you mean," he said. "I haven't been able to communicate with people, never mind a female, outside of a government business agency, for years."

The demon nodded and said, "Believe me, my reluctant friend, you are in Hell."

"But it all seems so Earth-like," he said, still with disbelief.

"That is because it is a reflection of the Earth you left behind, "the demon said, and tried to explain. "You see, your crime, whatever it was, required that certain conditions be set upon your punishment."

"What about you?" Blank suddenly said, with suspicion. "If you know so much, why are you here?"

"My position," the demon explained, "is also a condition, of my own punishment. Because of my own crimes, I have been assigned within the position of your conscientious friend, and as such, I am required to help you."

"You're here to help? You saying there's a chance I can get out of here?"

"A slim one, Blank, very slim," the demon admitted, "but nonetheless a chance. If there were no chance, you would not be in the state of 'limbo'. Limbo is a state of Hell in which the residents are detained for final jurisdiction. Obviously, if you are here, as am I, both of us have yet to be judged."

"It's fantastic," Blank said, looking at the bottle of rum. "I bought this bottle just today at a liquor store, at a shopping center, and I'd swear it was Earth. Just last month I visited a government agency about welfare benefits, and had my case reviewed by a woman who had many questions. Are you telling me it wasn't Earth, just a reflection?"

"The agency was probably about as real as it gets, under your circumstances," he said. "As for the shopping mall and the liquor, and all the other things, they are more reflections of your past than any reality on Earth. However, this is all subject to perspective."

The demon stopped and cleared his throat, "Excuse me, but the truth is, I myself do not entirely understand the metaphysics involved, and philosophy is still somewhat new to me. Actually, ethics is my area. Suffice it to say, I can tell you more about the reasons why a soul is cast into Hell than I can about the mechanics of it all."

"Then there is a definite reason why I am here?"

"Most definitely," the demon agreed. "But from what you have told me, and what I have learned from the agency about your case, it seems there is some uncertainty involved. As I said before, that is why you are in Limbo rather than the burning stew itself."

"So how do I get out?" Blank said,

"Well, I've gave it some thought," the demon said, "and I think we should proceed by getting a detailed account of everything you did, in your life, before you died and were sent to this place."

"A detailed account of everything?" Blank said. He looked at the notebooks and type-writer. "You know, the funny thing is, I have been writing a lot down, ever since my life changed, ever since ..."

"Good," the demon said, "that's the thing to do. Write it all down, and include every-thing. We would not want to ignore something that might have had more to do with it than it appears to on the surface. In fact, from what I understand of such cases as yours, a complete book, with all the details of your day to day life, is the best evidence that can be presented in your defense."

The demon walked toward the door, then stopped, and added, "Oh Blank, it's important to do a good job. I mean, neatness counts. After all, I won't be the only one to read it. Now get to work, and I'll see you later."

The demon disappeared through the door without opening it, and Able Blank went to work.

III

Blank worked day and night on the story of his unfortunate life, for days that became weeks and weeks that became months. After 3 months, he had a type-written manuscript of 200 pages, done as neatly as possible. His demonic friend arrived one night as he was editing out the last of what seemed like an endless series of random typos, mistakes he had either over-looked at the time or ignored because he was too busy telling the story and making his point.

"Well, Blank," the demon said, huddling in the dark corner, away from the brightness of the lamp. "You've had plenty of time. Is it complete?"

"Yes," Blank said, and held the bulk of the script up where the demon could see it. As he did so, the walls of the small apartment seemed to vanish and a wind passed over them, a chilly winter air. He set the script down on the coffee table between them and looked around the area,

"Where are we?" he said, unable to focus upon anything in the dark, beyond his little corner of light.

"That's a good question," his darkly visitor said. "Nights in this state are my favorite times. It's the best time to see the real effects of Limbo. As for myself, I'm outside by the edge of a mountain, by the light of a campfire."

"That's what I'm seeing now,' Blank admitted, with curious intrigue, staying fixed in the corner, not wanting to move, for fear any motion would transport him back to the low-rent, run-down, roach-infested apartment.

"Interesting, isn't it?" his friend said, "Funny how the downside of mortals tends to be the only interesting diversion for some of its trapped souls in Hell."

"Yes," Blank agreed, "I'm beginning to see that."

"Well, don't get to like it too much," the other advised, accepting the manuscript. "If all goes well, this story you've hammered out will get us somewhere."

As the demon left with the script, Blank was overcome by exhaustion, felt positive the script would free him, and fell asleep.

The next day, he tried to keep depression at bay, anxious to hear from the demon. He waited for an answer all day and night. He expected him the next day, and the next, and before he knew it, a week had passed, without an answer.

Finally, after almost a month, the demon returned, as Blank was writing in the corner under the lamp at night. He tossed the script on the table and sat in the opposite corner. Blank didn't notice him until he saw the small campfire in the middle of the room, and the country mountainside scene appeared.

"Well," Blank said, "what's the word? Will they buy it?"

"No," the demon said directly, with cold negation.

"What?" Blank said, with shock. "They won't buy it? Why? What the hell is the problem?"

"Now let's get something straight," the demon said. "It's not my decision, so don't start blaming me!"

Blank was seriously disappointed, banged his fist on the table, grabbed the script, and shook his head. "I worked so hard, I worked for 3 months," he said, and decided to have a drink of rum.

"I know you did, kid," his friend agreed. "If it were up to me, I'd buy it and let you go. But it's not. I'm just a messenger, a copy man."

"So what's wrong with it?" Blank said, on the verge of tears.

"There are some details that don't quite make any sense," the other explained. "For example, the summer trip of 75. You claim you didn't want to go. You claim you wanted to stay with your girl. Why did you go, if you didn't want to?"

"I explained that," Blank insisted. "My parents wanted me out of the house. If I did not go, my step-father would have put me through hell. He was a recovering alcoholic. He needed time alone in the house with my mother."

"But you did not have to go," the other insisted, "not if your girl meant so much to you!"

"Damn it, it was a mistake!" Blank insisted. "I did not want to go, but at the time I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought it was the 'Christian' thing to do. But after I did it, after I left on the bus and went away, it hurt so much, I couldn't enjoy myself. I suffered all summer long, thinking of her constantly, wanting to be with her, but unable to...."

Blank put his head in his hands and wept. After a minute, he wiped it away and said loudly, "It was a mistake! Why must I be punished for a mistake?"

A cool wind swept across the scene, as the dim light of the campfire flickered.

"We all make mistakes, sometimes," the demon admitted quietly. "Sometimes they're only small and insignificant, sometimes they are serious. Yours, it would seem, was serious."

They were quiet for a few minutes, contemplating the dilemma, and then the conscientious gun-fighting demon got to the next point.

"Well, we know what the original big mistake was," he said, "but actually it's the things that came after that present more of a problem. For example, our records tell us that you became self-destructive and couldn't hold a regular job. Not to mention, your suicide."

"What the hell do you expect?!" Blank said. "My life was hell after I lost Lisa! I hurt so badly, I couldn't tolerate it!"

"Why didn't you get help?" the other said. "Why didn't you tell someone about your problem? Why didn't you talk to Lisa herself?"

"You don't understand," Blank said. "I thought I explained it all in the book. It wasn't 'macho', it wasn't manly, and it was not 'cool'. I had no parameters to use for the problem. There just wasn't any 'cool' way for me to tell anyone that I loved her and I needed her, not after that summer."

"What does being 'cool' have to do with it?" the other said, "If you loved her, you should have told her!"

"You don't understand," Blank insisted, shaking his head. "I didn't know how to tell her. I thought about ways to do it for days and months after. Every day and night I rehearsed different lines and approaches, but I never could settle on anything, and as time passed, she got further and further away. After a few months, it was too late."

"I'm sorry, Blank," the demon said. "But there are too many unanswered questions. The best advice I can give you, at this time, is to try again, and explain yourself better."

"Write the book over?" Blank said, "Do you think it will help?"

"If you revise it, do a better job explaining the details, and make fewer errors with the typing," the other said, "it could make a big difference. I can't promise it will, but I'd say it's your best shot. Unless you want to stay here, in Limbo?"

"What? Stay here in Limbo? No way!" Blank said.

"Then your only hope is to try again. The judges are always willing to review cases in Limbo; souls in Limbo have only 3 different ways to go. One, they can be reevaluated and freed, two, they can be condemned to the pits, or three, they can hang out here forever chasing their own tail and getting absolutely nowhere. It's your decision, Blank. If you like writing, then by all means, do it. I'll be around again to check on your progress."

A wind passed through the scene, the campfire went out, and the scene, along with its demon resident vanished. Blank sighed with a mixture of frustration and disappointment, and looked at his typewriter.

"My only hope," he said, took a swig of rum, and began picking through his notes.

IV

As the days, weeks and months passed, Blank found himself writing constantly, for lack of anything better to do. The revision of his life-story required much collective thought and detailed explanation. It was a depressing, regret-filled job, and became overly tedious, especially when he hammered on the typewriter.

He grew easily tired of using the typewriter, and the more tired he grew, the more mistakes he made. The more mistakes he made, the more frustrated he became. As a diversion from such unpleasant work, he tried his hand at fiction. During his previous life, he had enjoyed a good fiction story, especially science-fiction.

When the demon friend visited one night, about 2 months after his last one, Blank had not only completed the revision of his life-story, he had also written 5 short-stories and was working on a sci-fi novel. They chatted for about ten minutes, and then the demon took the revised manuscript and departed.

When he returned a month later, it was with more bad news.

"Not another rejection!" Blank said with disappointment, and cursed, "But I worked for 2 months, I included every detail!"

"But now wait, Blank," the demon said quickly, with less dejection. "It did get a better grade, this time. According to the judges, the story has improved. You did answer some of the important questions and they were much more interested this time."

"Really?" Blank said, with neutrality and intrigue. "Then what's the problem?"

"I said it was better," the other admitted, "but still not quite good enough. But it definitely proves one thing. You are getting much better at it. The improvement is a good sign. My guess is, if you just go through the whole thing one more time..."

"What, another revision?" Blank said with reluctant anticipation of the work.

"Yes, my friend, 3 may be your lucky number," the demon said, with some enthusiasm.

Blank shook his head, looked at his hands, and stretched the fingers out with a bit of writer's cramp.

"You know what I said about Limbo," the demon reminded him. "Your only chance..."

"Yes, I know," Blank agreed with reluctance. "It's either this or nothing."

The demon left him to his work, and Blank continued. He checked the notes and fictional stories in his notebooks, and hammered at the typewriter without end.

3 months later, the demon returned, took the revised script, and returned in less than a month, with another rejection, but much more enthusiasm. He told Blank he was really getting good at it. He told Blank the judges were very interested and looked forward to another revision. He told Blank that '4' was probably the lucky number, in his case. Blank had no choice but to revise his story again. But it was impossible for him to do it without spending his 'free-time' with diverse works of fiction.

Presently, Able Blank publishes an unpopular science-fiction 'zine' that makes absolutely no profit, but it gives him something interesting to do when he isn't working on his 'Report for the Defense'. He's on number 5 now, but taking it much slower. He has learned to contend with Limbo somehow, and he doesn't like to think about the past, because it only makes him sad and depressed.

He walks amongst the living, in a dismal cloud of melancholy abandon. People all about him are enjoying their lives, and simply ignore him as they would ignore a common stranger or a human statistical casualty of war. As long as they themselves enjoy life, they will never realize that he is in Hell.

Finis

Ice on the Moon

1. Lakeside Salvage

His friends thought he was crazy, but he was determined to go into outer-space. Dirk Colpark was not a very wealthy man, nor was he an astronaut, but he did have sufficient resources to at least try to reach his outrageous goal. Dirk Colpark was the son of a fairly fortunate sanitary engineer, and owner of the Lakeside Salvage Company, which specialized in heavy-metals and toxic materials. It had been an ambition of his to construct a space-going vehicle ever since he was a boy. Of course, no one took him seriously, so eventually he just decided to not talk about it.

His best friend, Alan Granier, whom he had grown up and went to school with, was perhaps the only one that shared his vision, but he was more practical and realistic, more down to Earth and grounded in the present matters at hand.

Nevertheless, Dirk managed to escape the hard realities and pursue his dream, and on May 27, 1998, he invited Alan over to the unveiling. There were 4 buildings on Dirk's lot, 3 of which were garages. He constructed the ship in the second largest, since most of his business was conducted in the main garage, as it was the largest, and the other was too small for the project.

"Now what's this all about?" Alan said to him, as he met Dirk at the main garage.

"You'll see," Dirk said. "Follow me."

They walked to the second garage and went inside. In the middle of it was a large, long object, covered by a cloth veil that went from one wall of the garage and stuck out through the large door at the other side, where a large tent had been set over it.

It had to be at least 5 meters wide by about 20 meters long.

"Dear God, Dirk," Alan exclaimed. "What is it?"

Dirk went to the side, untied a rope from the wall, and pulled it. The cloth veil arose toward the ceiling to reveal a great, long, grey metal cylinder, with one bell-shaped end and several fins, sitting on an 8-wheeled industrial-sized trailer.

"A rocket?" Alan said, with some disbelief and amazement.

"Not just a rocket, a rocket-ship," Dirk admitted. "With a control-cabin, large enough to fit 2 or 3 people, and a crew quarters of the same size, just behind it. Come, I'll show you."

They walked to the nose, which was sticking out the door, under the tent, and Dirk climbed up a step-ladder and opened the door. He stepped inside and took one of the seats.

"Come on in, it's safe," he said to his old friend. Alan stepped in and looked all about with amazement.

"Hey, it really is a ship," he exclaimed.

There were 2 seats side by side facing a control console and the forward nose-screen, which was translucent, and a third seat was set in the middle behind the others, with a console in the middle of the 2 forward seats. There was a door behind the third seat that led into the crew quarters. Inside the quarters, there were 2 beds built into the sides and a table and console with compartments between them.

"Of course, since there should always be at least 1 man on the bridge at all times," Dirk explained, "I felt it unnecessary and impractical to include a third sleeping-unit. It didn't quite fit into the overall design."

"Of course," Alan agreed, managing to maintain a cool viewpoint amidst definite amazement.

"But what about fuel? Will it actually work?" he voiced his doubts.

"There are 3 stages to the rocket boosters," Dirk explained, "One to get us free of Earth's gravity, one to get us on our way to the moon, the last to get us home. I assure you I have constructed everything well within the specs."

"But what kind of fuel are you using?"

Dirk looked at him, opened his mouth, but rechecked himself and stopped.

"Alan," he said, in a confidential tone, "I will let you in on everything, if you agree to one thing."

"Uh, gee, I don't know," the other said, with some uncertainty. "What is it you want me to agree to?"

"Agree to be my co-pilot," Dirk said, "and accompany me to the moon."

"What?" Alan said, with surprise. "Me? Dirk, I don't know what to say. Why me?"

"Because you are my oldest and dearest, most trustworthy friend."

Alan turned slightly red in the face, then looked out through the forward view-screen and shook his head.

"God, Dirk, I don't know," he said, "It's taken me by surprise. I'm not sure I can. I've got responsibilities here. I can't just leave it all, just like that."

"Why not? When's the last time you took a vacation?"

"Still, I really have to give it some thought," Alan insisted.

"Fine, give it some thought," Dirk agreed. "But in the meantime, not a word about this to anyone, understand?"

Two days later, Alan returned to the garage and met Dirk.

"So, are you with me?" Dirk said, "Or shall I find someone else?"

"I'm still uncertain," Alan admitted. "But I have managed to find some time for a vacation, 2 weeks from now. However, though the prospect does intrigue me, I still have some doubts. Would you be willing to go over everything with me to erase those doubts?"

"Sure I would," Dirk agreed. "Shall we do it now or later?"

"I have the afternoon free," Alan said. "Will 5 hours be enough time?"

"I should think so, depending of course on how specific you want me to get."

"Alright," Alan said, "let's do it."

So they spent the afternoon going over everything, from the nose of the control-cabin to the aft rocket-engines. Alan produced a book about rockets and rocket-ship technology and compared it all with the specs in detail. By 5 pm, they were sitting in the garage office, drinking coffee and going over the blue-prints one last time.

"Well, you seem to have covered everything," Alan admitted, "and I must admit, I am impressed. Now I see why you refused my offer to play cards all those Friday nights. How long has the project been in the works?"

Dirk paused in thought, and looked at the calendar on the wall. He thought about it for a moment, and answered.

"6 years," he said, in retrospection. "That's how long it took to construct. Getting all the parts took another 5."

Alan whistled.

"11 years you've been on this, all by yourself?"

"Well, not entirely," he admitted, "some people helped with the minor systems, such as the air-conditioning and the computer-guidance, but I never told them what the big project was. That has been reserved for just us."

"Then why the third seat?" Alan wondered.

"Just in case," Dirk said.

"Just in case we take a third person?"

"That or just in case you don't want to go and I can't find a replacement."

"Huh, I don't get it," Alan said in confusion. "You saying you'd take this thing up all by yourself?"

"That's right," Dirk said, "it's my dream to go into space. If I have to go alone, so be it."

"I still don't get it," Alan said, "If you had to go alone, why 3 seats?"

"Think about it, Al," Dirk said. "In order to maintain proper balance, I'd be required to be centered. If I was in just one of those seats on either side..."

"I see, I see," Alan agreed, "The balance, of course. I almost forgot my elementary physics. Well, then, Dirk, I guess you really have thought of everything."

"Then you'll go?" Dirk said, with anticipation.

"I still have to think it over," Alan said. "Oh, you've erased the doubts, alright. Tell you what; let me sleep on it for a few nights. I'll give you my answer by Thursday, okay?"

"That's fine," Dirk said, "but one more little thing. You'll need to readjust that vacation. Our first possible launch-date will be in three weeks, not two, weather permitting, of course."

"Alright," Alan agreed. "I should be able to do that." He checked the time. "I've got to get going. See you Thursday?"

"Right, see you Thursday."

2. The Pepperkat

Alan met Dirk at the garage around 2 pm on Thursday. They shook hands as Alan agreed to be his co-pilot.

"I had to convince myself," he explained, "that we really had a working project here. After doing that, I realized I couldn't turn it down. Now tell me, how do you intend to get around the authorities? You must realize they'll probably detect us, even track us. I hate to mention what else they might do, but seriously though. What if they mistake us for a hostile missile and try to shoot us down?"

Dirk took a deep breath and sighed.

"Come into my office," he said. "There's one more system I still haven't shown you."

They went into the office; Dirk unlocked a filing cabinet, and fished out a cylinder of paper. He unrolled it, laid it flat on the desk, and set paper-weights in the corners.

"You promise now, to go with me, and keep this between us?"

"Yes," Alan agreed.

"This is the defensive-system," Dirk said. "There are 3 lasers; one in the nose and one on each side of the fuselage."

"Lasers? Dirk, that's fantastic!"

"Look, Al," he said, with serious conviction. "I've always known the damn government thinks it owns the air-space, but hell, if a man wants to go into space, and to the moon, well, he ought not to have to go through NASA. Heck, if the old Wright brothers had let the government tell them what to do, we may never have developed the ability to fly!"

"You don't have to tell me, Dirk," Alan said. "I agree with you completely. It's just all so... amazing! Like Flash Gordon or something!"

"We're decades ahead of the pioneers, Alan," Dirk said, "and the dreamers. We've got what it takes, and damn it, we can do it!"

Alan nodded with agreement

"Shall we drink to it?" he said.

"Why not? Let's celebrate the partnership and the project," Dirk said, opened a cabinet, and produced a bottle. "Fact is," he said, "I've been saving this bottle for just such an occasion."

He handed Alan a glass, poured the liquor in it, and then poured some for himself. Alan took a whiff.

"Brandy?" he guessed.

"Schnapps," Dirk corrected him, "Root beer schnapps. To the success of the project."

They toasted, drank, and looked out the office window, at the great, gray rocket-ship.

"So, Dirk," Alan said, relishing the liquor. "Have you given her a name?"

"Yes," Dirk admitted. "I call her Pepperkat."

They spent a week in preparation for the voyage; stocking supplies, water and oxygen tanks, testing equipment, making system-checks, etc... The round-trip voyage was estimated to last about a month, if all went as planned. This accounted for about 5 days in transit, 1 day in orbit, 2 weeks on the lunar surface, and 5 days to return to Earth.

Dirk was positively excited, and Alan could see the spark in his eyes, but for the most part, he was his old cool, collective self. Alan, on the other hand, without admitting it to his excited old friend, was still hiding some doubts beneath a cool, serious manner. Chief amongst those doubts was the UN's air-space authorities.

"Shall we test the lasers?" Alan said, a day before the launch-date.

"Yes, of course," Dirk agreed. "Since I will be piloting, I'll leave the defenses to you, alright?"

"Fine with me," Alan agreed.

They took their stations at the helm, Alan touched a button on the console, and a binocular eye-piece moved up and out of the back of the console, on retractable arms, to where Alan could bend forward and see into it.

Outside, just meters away from the nose, were a few pieces of junk metal where they had placed them for the test. Alan zeroed in on the pieces with the optical viewer, and fired the nose-laser. An intense red beam of laser-light shot from the nose and blasted holes in the junk. He switched over to the fuselage lasers, zeroed in on more junk, and did the same.

"Lasers working," he reported, with satisfaction.

"Good," Dirk said. "Then that's it. We're ready to move her to the launch-pad."

The launch-pad was a sunken pit of concrete in the lowest part of the junkyard, in a small crevice between hills, in the cover of trees. They hauled the rocket-ship by tow-truck on the 8-wheeled industrial-size trailer and raised, then lowered the ship into the pit by crane. They secured it to a tall, metal crane's arm, to keep it upright until the final countdown and lift-off.

"Zero-hour is 7 am," Dirk said. "Now let's go get some rest. We've got a big day tomorrow."

That night, they both slept in the garage, with an alarm set to awaken them at 5 am.

3. Into Outer-Space

The alarm woke them at 5 am, about 30 minutes before sunrise. They had coffee, eggs, and doughnuts for breakfast, and left vocal-records in the office, to be translated through the com-link to Dirk's secretary after the launch. The secret was due to hit the afternoon edition of the local papers. By that time, they should be through the air-space network of satellites and on their way to the moon.

At 6 am, they went to a panel-truck, drove to the launch-pad, and got into their space-suits. By 6:30 they were in the nose of the rocket-ship, at their stations, making final checks. At 7 am, they counted down from ten in the age-old tradition, and fired the initial rocket boosters on the zero-mark.

The Pepperkat blasted up slowly but surely, out of the pit, away from the crevice, into open air for all to see. The g-force was tremendous for the first 3 minutes, but somehow, they managed to deal with it, and their heavily-taxed motor-reflexes responded with sluggish delay.

Alan knew the air-space defenses were probably responding already, so he activated the sensors and awaited the blips. He touched a button on the side of the seat and it slowly tipped the seat forward, so that his head fit into the optical viewer. He checked the nose, then the sides, and detected 2 blips approaching from the west. They were probably air-force jets. Suddenly, another blip occurred in front of one, and it speeded ahead of it at a much greater velocity. Against the strain of the continuing g-force, he guessed it was a missile, zeroed in on it as it approached, with the side laser, and fired. The laser-ray missed the first time, he readjusted, and hit it the second time.

Sweat trickled around his forehead, ears, and eyebrows as another missile shot from the jet, then another from the second jet, and he quickly zeroed in on them. He hit one, and feared the second was going to get through, but managed to get it just in time. It was so close as he hit it that he imagined the shock of the explosion touched the Pepperkat's side. One more missile followed, and it got equally close before he hit it. None followed, the jets disengaged and it appeared they were in the clear.

He checked all angles, and detected a blip ahead of them. It was moving very slowly by the looks of it. Suddenly, the g-force was gone, and the gray atmosphere in the forward screen was replaced by deep, dark space and sparsely scattered stars.

"We're out," Dirk said, and took a deep, long breath. "We made it!"

"We're not in the clear yet," Alan reported, breathing heavily, still observing through the viewer. "My guess is, they're aiming a star-wars satellite at us now. I'm zeroing in."

"Oh no, they're firing lasers!" he cried. "Brace for impact!"

A bright red laser-ray shot at them.

"Damn them!" Dirk cried out, and grabbed the steering bars of the helm-control. "Hold on!"

He fired a control-jet and the rocket jerked to the side suddenly. The laser-ray shot by them and just skinned the outer hull.

"I've got a fix," Alan reported, with excitement, "Firing!"

A hot red laser-ray shot from the nose of the Pepperkat, and within a few seconds, it struck something in the distance. There was a bright explosion as the star-wars satellite was blasted into jetsam.

"Yes!" Alan exclaimed, taking a secondary breather, and then looked back into the viewer.

"I'm not detecting anything else," he reported. "I'd say we made it. We're through the net."

"I hope so," Dirk said. "Keep checking, just in case. I'm going to have to readjust our course. That close call set us off a bit."

"What stage are we on?" Alan said, with some confusion.

"Second," Dirk admitted. "We lost the first one shortly after breaking away from the gravity. You were too busy to notice."

Several minutes later, they were well on their way, 1,000 kilometers away from Earth, and it appeared they were in the clear. They both relaxed and grinned with satisfaction. The moon was days away and they were amazed to have made it into outer-space.

After the second stage burnt out, the Pepperkat's speed was at around 5,000 kph and unaffected by gravitational forces of any kind. In the vacuum of space, it was free to go without the need for propulsion. Dirk and Alan occupied themselves with system checks, light conversation, and a general over-view upon where they would land on the moon and what they would do after that fact.

"It will be difficult to be exact," Dirk admitted, "but the closer we get to the edge of the rough terrain, the better. So far, all of the lunar expeditions have chosen fairly smooth, wide open landing-sites. The reason for this has been to guarantee a safe landing on level ground. In my opinion, I think this is also the reason why those expeditions have failed to make any significant discoveries. Chances are, we'll find our trip to be much more rewarding if we get as close to the rough terrain as possible. Do you agree, Alan?"

"Yes," Alan said, "but what if the ground we land on isn't level? If the landing-craft tips, it could be damaged."

"I believe I've compensated for that," Dirk admitted, and explained.

"The landing-pods are telescopic and hydraulic. If we make a very careful, controlled landing, and the craft begins to tip, the pods may be adjusted to keep us upright."

"Excellent," Alan said, "why didn't NASA think of that?"

"They did," Dirk admitted, "only after the program was discontinued in 73, too late, unfortunately, to make a difference. They did, however, employ such a mechanism with the unmanned Mars-probe, in the 80s."

"Yes of course," Alan said, "then you think we can take our chances on rough terrain."

"Not too rough, of course," Dirk said. "I was thinking perhaps the edge of Mare Orientale and the Cordillera mountains."

"Yes, that sounds interesting," Alan agreed. "No one's been there before."

"Right," Dirk agreed. "That's one of the main reasons why I chose it as a landing-site."

He yawned and stretched.

"Shall we draw to see who gets the first rest period?"

"That's okay," Alan said, "you go ahead. I'm not tired."

"Fine," Dirk agreed. "But be sure to wake me if you need me. See you in 6 hours."

Dirk carefully unbuckled himself from the seat, climbed out, used the tether-line, and pulled himself back, within zero-gravity, to the crew quarters. To ensure the ship's balance remained steady, he secured himself in the sleeping compart on the same side as his seat was at the helm. He took some pills, sucked water from a tube, and laid back to rest, with visions of the lunar landscape within his subconscious thoughts.

For 24 hours, they worked and rested in 6 hour shifts, one of them always at the helm when the other relaxed in the crew quarters, eating, and reading, watching videos, or sleeping.

Somewhere around the 29th hour they experienced a meteor storm, but it was nothing too severe. Dirk was at the helm at the time and Alan shortly stirred from his rest, but within 10 minutes, the storm was over and they were in the clear again.

"That wasn't so bad," Alan admitted, with relief. "They're always so much worse in the sci-fi movies."

"Another common misconception," Dirk said, and explained. "The speed of a meteor in outer-space may be quite high, but without atmosphere, in a complete vacuum, there can be no friction to heat it up. Meteor storms in outer-space, therefore, are more like being hit by rocks covered by snow and ice rather than fireballs. With a strong enough titanium hull, any collision with ice-covered rocks will 99 times out 100 results in the disintegration of the rock rather than a hole in the hull. We're lucky not to experience that 1 percent exception."

During the 48th hour, it was obvious they were closing on the moon, with an estimated 48 to 60 hours before an assumed orbit. By this time, the two men were quiescent, for the most part, with nothing to talk about except the usual routine reports.

On the third day, into the 75th hour, they began planning their lunar trajectory and checking the necessary systems to see that all was well within the proper specs.

On the 100th hour, they were just 1,000 kilometers from the moon and ready to assume orbit. Together, they manned the helm and went through the proper motions. Alan fired the retros to decrease their speed, and Dirk steered the Pepperkat around the curve of the great, gray, lunar orb. Within 10 minutes, the Pepperkat was set well within a controlled orbit, 800 kilometers over the lunar surface.

"I've managed to put us on a general heading for Mare Orientale," Dirk said. "We should pass over it in approximately 2.5 hours. We'll make at least one pass-over, take some pictures, and orbit the moon again. I can't be certain how exact our course is. After the first pass, we'll be able to make any necessary adjustments."

"Understood," Alan said. "You think one pass will be enough?"

"Uncertain," Dirk admitted. "We'll just have to wait and see. At the most, we might have to make 2 or 3. Since our momentum will continue to move us, we won't have to worry about fuel consumption. It might be a good idea to make a few orbits, just for the sake of our personal lunar-charts. It's not every day we get to take a good, close look at the moon."

"Well, that's a fact," Alan agreed. "The video-cam's rolling, but at this speed, things are a bit of a blur."

"Later, if we slow down the recording," Dirk said, "we should be able to discern more detail. The nose-cam should be doing alright. Let's switch over and make sure."

Since they could see almost everything the nose-cam was recording through the forward view-screen, they'd almost forgotten to check it on the monitor. Dirk switched over and it appeared alright.

"That's much better," Alan admitted.

They studied the lunar landscape, seas, craters, and mountains, as it rolled by under-neath the Pepperkat.

"I don't think I can wait more than 3 orbits," Dirk admitted. "I have got to put my feet on it, and see it all from the surface."

"I know what you mean," Alan agreed.

15 hours later, on the third and final orbit, they fired the retros on approach to Mare Orientale and carefully steered the Pepperkat down. They swooped over the ancient sea at 2,000 kph, fired the retros again, picked her nose up, and began the careful descent, using the control jets to slow them. 10 seconds later, they fired the landing jet-brakes, detracted the landing pods, and studied the terrain below on the slow descent. Less than a minute later, the pods made contact with the surface and the Pepperkat began to tip to one side.

"Adjusting pods," Dirk quickly reported, and made the necessary adjustments before the ship tipped completely over.

Seconds later, in a sudden sweat, the 2 men felt the Pepperkat's pods were set firmly on the lunar surface, and they eased off the brakes. The Pepperkat relaxed on its pods, and the men let out their breath and breathed easy. Touchdown was complete. All systems were still in operation. They had made it.

4. On the Moon

They disembarked down the ladder of the Pepperkat, to the surface, to find they had landed on a gradual slope at the edge of Mare Orientale and the rugged Cordillera Mountains.

"Nicely on target," Alan commented, through the shortwave radio com-link to Dirk, as they both gazed through the helmet visors at the gray land all about.

"Yes," Dirk agreed. "Let's explore closer to the mountains."

The mountains were up a gradual slope about 100 meters away. They walked slowly and carefully, with suspended amazement, within the low gravity, up the gradual slope. After about forty meters it began to get rougher, with a few large juts of stone breaking through the otherwise even ground. They both stopped to take a few rock samples, which they put in bags attached to their belts, and to take pictures with the cameras built into their helmets.

When they reached the base of the mountains, amidst a ground uneven with great juts and small crops of stone scattered about, they looked up to the heights then back towards the sea.

"Fantastic," Alan exclaimed.

From the new vantage point they had attained, they could see far and wide across the ancient 'sea of Orients' to the distant craters and mountains. They took pictures and relished the grand sight.

Minutes later, they turned back to the mountains.

"Shall we climb it?" Alan said.

"Not from here," Dirk said. "Let's follow it north and see if there's an easier way."

They did so, with Dirk in the lead, and winded about juts of stone and stopped to take closer looks and samples now and then.

About 30 minutes later, they stopped for a rest and to share observations.

"It doesn't appear to be getting any easier," Alan said. "Do you think it will?"

"Don't know," Dirk admitted, "Doesn't matter. I believe some of these rock samples should prove rewarding. I'm almost certain some contain titanium, and possibly iron-silicates. Both are valuable, especially in the exploration of space. That's an interesting coincidence, don't you think?"

"What?" Alan said, stepping closer as he heard the question.

"The facts that man's first stepping stone into deep space should prove so valuable in helping him make the bigger steps beyond. Of course, it makes sense if you think about it; since the moon exists in a vacuum, it would naturally be abundant in the elements capable of withstanding such great pressures."

"Yes," Alan agreed, "I see what you mean."

"Still," Dirk took a heavy breath and added, "I would like to climb to a higher vantage point if possible, and see what's on the other side. The terrain is much rougher over there, according to our orbital observations."

After about 5 minutes of casual observation, they moved on again, and ten minutes later, discovered a point of interest. Dirk stopped and pointed toward a dark niche at the base of the mountainside.

"What is it?" Alan said.

"Let's go see," Dirk said, and led on.

They had to climb over the tops of several boulder-size rock formations buried at the base of the mountain, but what they found was worth the trouble. It was a cave, a 3 meter wide crack in the stone. They stepped in, with their headlamps on, and saw that it was deep.

"Shall we follow it?" Alan said.

"Yes, but be careful," Dirk said.

As they followed it in, it got somewhat narrower, then at a point several meters in, where it was only a meter wide, they stepped into soft ground. Dirk looked down as his foot sunk in.

"Dust accumulation," he said, took another step, and observed more closely. "It slopes up from here. Be careful. We don't know how deep it is."

He took another step, then another, and managed to peak over the top of the dust mound. What he saw on the other side amazed him; a great, wide cavern with stalactites, stalagmites, and juts of stone. He carefully climbed over the mound and to the other side. A minute later, Alan joined him, and they both stood on a ledge above a great bowl-like cavern of unseen wonders.

"We need more light," Dirk said, "to see by. It's obviously wide, but much too dark to explore with mere flashlights."

"Shall we go get the high intensity lamps?" Alan suggested.

"Yes," Dirk agreed, "but let's take a few samples first."

They took a few samples of the cavern-stone and the dust at the entrance, and then headed back to the ship.

Later, back at the ship, as Dirk studied the rocks and Alan developed the pictures, the latter discovered something peculiar in one of the photos.

"Kind of looks like another spaceship," Alan said, showing it to his partner. "I didn't think anyone else was here right now."

The picture was one of the distant angles taken of the wide sea from the base of the mountains. Dirk studied it closely. The peculiar object was apparently over the sea when the picture was taken.

"Neither did I," Dirk agreed, "At least, nothing known to the public. You're right, Alan, it does look like a ship. I can't explain it."

Neither of them knew what to make of the minor mystery, and decided to leave it be for the time. They took a 6 hour rest, and the next time they went out, the strangers were waiting for them.

5. Under Detention

The strangers dropped a net on them as they walked away from the Pepperkat to the mountains. The strangers shot them with something that penetrated their space-suits and stung. Within seconds, they blacked-out into unconsciousness.

Hours later, they awoke in hospital beds with intravenous tubes connected to their right arms. Things were fuzzy and their senses a bit blurred, but gradually, they began to realize where they were. Shortly after that, a nurse entered the room and began checking their vitals.

"Nurse," Dirk said, "where are we? What happened?"

"A doctor will be in shortly," the nurse, an attractive but cold brunette, told them. "He can answer your questions."

Dirk tried to get up but as he did so, he became very dizzy, and fell back against the pillow with relief.

"Careful," the nurse warned him. "You're not fully recovered. Don't try that again, it will only make your condition worse."

As he regained his senses, a doctor entered.

"How's it look, nurse?" he said.

The two of them spoke quietly near the door for a minute, then the nurse left and the doctor, a middle-aged gentleman with slightly gray hair, looked over them.

"Where are we?" Dirk said, once again.

"County General hospital," the doctor said, much to their surprise.

"You're both very lucky to be alive."

"County General?" Dirk said, with startlement. "On Earth?"

"Of course, where'd you think you were; another planet?"

"No, damn it! We were on the moon, Earth's moon. How the hell did we get here?" he demanded.

"Now, now," the doctor said, "don't lose your cool. It'll only make your condition worse and we'll have to sedate you. Stay calm and reasonable and everything will be fine."

"I'm calm," Dirk insisted, and took the doctor's advice. "I'd just like to know what's going on. How did we get here?"

"You were brought to us by a group of federal officers," the doctor said, and hesitated. "I don't know much else, except that which concerns your present state of health."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Alan said, as Dirk thought about the doctor's words.

"Well, I suppose I can tell you as much as I know, but only if you promise not to do anything stupid, such as try to leave before you're ready." He checked the chart on a clipboard as they both considered this.

"Do you agree to behave yourself?"

"Oh, what the heck, sure, we agree," Dirk said.

"Okay," the doctor said, and surrendered what he knew. "You were both involved in an accident which poisoned your blood with a toxic chemical agent. You were camping too close to a governmental laboratory when there was an accidental explosion and a breach in the security field. From what I understand, they managed to contain it, but a small amount got through and made contact with you. They found you unconscious and brought you here."

"You believe that story?" Dirk said.

"Of course, why shouldn't I?" the doctor said. "We've discovered traces of the chemical in your blood. If the dosage had been much higher, you would be dead. So do me a favor, guys, and don't give me any trouble. Just be happy that you survived, okay?"

At that the doctor went to the door, and said, "A nurse will check in with you in about ten minutes. She'll take your orders for supper."

After he left, Dirk looked at Alan.

"County General? Earth?" Alan said with obvious confusion. "That's impossible, Dirk. We were just on the moon! What the hell is going on?"

He looked past Dirk at the door, then in the other direction.

"No windows," Dirk said, as the two looked at each other again. "It could be a deception. We could still be on the moon."

"Why the deception?" Alan said. "They're humans, like us, aren't they?"

"It appears they are," Dirk admitted. "I don't know why, but it is a definite possibility, don't you think? This could be a deception."

Alan thought about it shortly.

"I suppose, I don't know," he said, still too confused to be certain.

"Think about it, Alan," Dirk said. "We were not in any chemical accident. That much is obviously a lie."

"True," Alan agreed. "But the doctor seemed to believe it. What if we are on Earth? What if the people who captured us returned us then lied about us to the doctor?"

"No, I don't believe it," Dirk disagreed. "The doctor's in on it. I have no recollection of being transported back to Earth."

"Still, there's only one way to be sure," Alan said. "We have to get out of here."

At that, the nurse entered, with a smile and a clipboard, and asked them what they wanted to eat. They ordered food, but were not very hungry and didn't trust the hosts. So they dumped it in a small disposal unit and quietly, planned their escape.

"Wait a minute," Dirk said and looked into the corner opposite the door. High by the ceiling there was a camera.

"Security monitor," Alan said. "Well camouflaged. We almost missed it."

"Now what?" Dirk said, as much to himself as to Alan.

"I don't like these tubes," Alan said. "Think they'll object if we remove them?"

"To hell with them," Dirk said, and carefully pulled the intravenous needle from his arm. Alan did so also, and they both tried to sit up. There was the dizziness again, but Dirk managed to overcome it by sheer will-power. Alan, however, fell back and moaned. Dirk sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and looked at Alan.

"Come on, Al," he urged, "you can do it. Don't let the bastards keep you down!"

"No, I can't," Alan said, shaking his head. "You go ahead. Find out the truth. It was your dream, Dirk. Don't let them make it a nightmare."

Dirk stood up, looked at the security monitor, and heard the door latch. Quickly, he moved to it, and hid behind it as it opened. A fairly big orderly stepped in and he gave the man a hard judo chop on the neck. The man collapsed, Dirk took his coat and pants, and left the room.

"I'll be back, Al," he said as he went. He stepped out into a sanitary hallway, looked both ways, and saw 2 more orderlies walking his way. He turned about and went in the opposite direction. The orderly's coat pocket had a plastic pass-key which he used to get through a set of doors, he went up a flight of stairs, and entered a lobby.

What he saw there suspended him. He had to stop to catch his breath and blink. They had been right. Across the wide lobby, through a large picture window, beside which a small group of people were sitting, was the lunar surface. He walked in a daze, slowly, across the lobby, gazing out. The orderlies caught up with him and grabbed him by the arms. He began to fight them, but another man intervened and put a stop to it.

"It's alright, let him go," the man said.

Dirk looked at the man. He was tall, noble-like, with dark hair and spectacles.

"I'm sorry for the deception, Mr. Colpark," he said. "It was necessary. We can't let the world in on our project, not yet."

6. The Lunaside Project

"Project?" Dirk said, "As in secret project?"

"Of course," the man said. "We call it the Lunaside Project. I am the head of security, Mr. Sudwell."

Dirk walked closer to the window and looked out. In the foreground there were more structures, in the distance, a few vehicles moving about, performing work.

"But we weren't bothering you," Dirk insisted. "We didn't even know you were here."

"We could not be sure of that," Sudwell said, and dismissed the 2 orderlies. "You took pictures, from orbit, did you not? We could not take the chance of those pictures revealing us."

"And now? What will you do with us now? You can't simply sedate me and expect me to dismiss it all as a dream."

"No," Sudwell said, agreeably, and looked out the window, into the distance. "I'm going to give you a chance to see it our way. Mr. Colpark, what do you think would happen if the public discovered the truth about our little project?"

"I'm not sure," Dirk admitted.

"I can tell you," Sudwell said. "Representatives of every nation on Earth would begin fighting over seats on the next shuttle. The 'rat-race' which we know of so well on Earth, would begin to infest this sanctuary and corrupt it."

"Inside of a year," Sudwell continued, "it wouldn't be a special project anymore; it would be the 21st century's answer to the tower of Babel." He paused to take a breath.

"We're not ready to accept large parties of people," he explained. "Not yet. The project is still young, in its earliest phases. Maybe, in a decade or two, we can open our valves to the public. But not today. Do you understand, Mr. Colpark?"

"I see what you mean," Dirk admitted. "But how do we fit in? If we agree to keep our mouths shut, can we return to Earth?"

"That decision is still in the works," Sudwell said with sincerity. "I can tell you one thing. The decision will only reflect your ability to cooperate with us. In other words, if you give us any trouble, it won't make things any easier on you. Now, let's start by arranging some regular quarters for you. Follow me, please."

Later, Alan joined Dirk in their new quarters; an 8 meter square apartment with a small kitchenette, bathroom, 2 beds, 2 chairs, and a tele-video unit. It also had a large picture window. Dirk stood by the window, looking out upon the small colony and the wide lunar landscape.

"So what do we do now?" Alan said. "What about our space-suits and the Pepperkat?"

"Sudwell has put us on parole," Dirk said, still looking out the window, admiring the very concept of such a project under construction on the Earth's moon, without any public awareness about it. "The door isn't locked, but I doubt we'd get very far if we try to escape. He has expressed a need for cooperation. We don't know what kind of fanatics these people are and we don't know the floor-plan to this place. I'm not sure we have much of a choice."

"So what about the Pepperkat? They haven't dismantled it, have they?"

"I don't think so. According to Sudwell, they haven't decided what to do with us yet. If they were to let us go, I'm sure they'd want us to take it."

"You believe them?" Alan said, with surprise. "Dirk, how could you, after that deception they played?"

"I'm not saying I believe them," Dirk said, and turned away from the window. "Alan, drop it, for now. We need to think this through. An operation like this has got to have government support. Mr. Sudwell is an American, so were the nurse and doctor. They're obviously quite intelligent; I don't think they'll harm us. The deception was probably the most civilized way they could conjure to deal with an untimely breach in their security."

"Exactly," Alan agreed. "So now the breach is definite. Don't you see? They'll never agree to let us go. Dirk, I don't want to stay. This was only supposed to be a month-long vacation."

"There's got to be a way," Dirk said, "A way to keep their secret and go home. There has to be."

"Hell, we can promise to keep their secret," Alan said, "but why should they trust us? Once we get home, free of them, what difference does it make who we tell?"

"Oh, but it does make a difference," Dirk said. "Sudwell told me that they might be ready to let the public in on it in a decade or two. Do you realize what that could mean for Earth and the people? A lunar colony, Al? We'll be stepping into the space-age, at last, opening the new frontier. Why, in 20 years we could have a settlement on Mars."

"So, why can't the public know about it now? Why all the secrecy?" Alan said.

"Personally, I think the military is behind it, and these people aren't simply fanatics, they're greedy republicans who want the moon all for themselves!"

Suddenly, the tele-video-unit was activated and the face of Mr. Sudwell appeared.

"Gentlemen, excuse me," he said. "The board should have a decision ready in about 8 hours. I suggest you relax and get some rest until that time. If you need food, there is a menu on channel 12. No need to leave your room, a droid-unit will serve you."

"8 hours," Dirk said, checking his time-piece. He sat down in a chair and took a deep breath. "All we can do is wait; we might as well relax."

Alan sighed and sat down, with a sense of defeat. "Promise me one thing," he said to his partner. "If they make us stay, you won't give up without a fight."

Dirk thought about that in suspense. "You can count on me," he finally agreed.

7. Big Decisions

They had some food, slept for about 6 hours, and awoke about 30 minutes before the scheduled meeting. When the time came, a security guard escorted them to the third and topmost above-ground level (most of the levels were sub-lunar), across a lobby and into a large conference room with a large oval table and about 8 to 10 people sitting around it.

Alan muttered a cynical remark to Dirk as they stepped in and looked across the large conference room table. There were 2 empty chairs at the end nearest them and the doors. The guard instructed them to sit, they did so, and he stepped to the side of the door behind them, where he remained standing.

Mr. Sudwell was in the chair to the right of them and an older, gray-haired man was seated at the far end near the windows. The man to the right of the elder at the end stood up, walked around the end by the windows, and stood in the corner of the room.

"The Lunaside board would like you both to know," the man said, speaking for all of them, "that we admire your genius. The uh, Pepperkat is quite a ship. Small, of course, but skillfully crafted and practical. We also admire your courage to dare the unknown."

He paused for a few seconds to let this sink in, and then continued.

"We have decided to give you an option. You can stay at Lunaside and work with us, or you can go back to Earth and declare yourselves."

"Declare ourselves to whom?" Dirk said.

"Well, Mr. Colpark," he explained, "that information can wait."

"No it can't," Dirk insisted. "I want the info now. I want to know whose hands we'll be placing our lives into."

The man was somewhat flustered by his objection, and the older man at the head of the table answered for him.

"NASA," he said, "Who'd you think?"

"I see," Dirk said. "I suspected it, but I wasn't certain."

"Dirk!" Alan said, in an urgent whisper to the side. "Don't believe it!"

"Not now!" Dirk hushed him. "What will happen to us, if we return to Earth and declare ourselves to NASA?"

"You'll be given jobs, good jobs," the standing man said. "you're obviously well-skilled..."

"I have a job," Dirk said. "We both have jobs. We came here on vacation. We didn't expect..."

"It doesn't matter what you expected," the speaker said. "What has happened, has happened. There's no avoiding the consequences. Our decision is final. Now you must decide. You may take a day to think it over." The speaker walked back to his chair. "If you have any questions, see Mr. Sudwell. Thank you for your cooperation. This meeting is at an end."

Mr. Sudwell and the security guard walked them out. After returning to their quarters, they had some questions for Mr. Sudwell.

"What do they want with us at NASA?" Dirk said.

"Well, under the circumstances," he explained, "we are willing to accept your word, your promise not to reveal us to the public. However, we think that unless you're constantly reminded of the importance of the promise, you may let it slip out carelessly."

"In other words, you want to surround us with security," Alan said blatantly, "to make sure we keep that promise. I don't think I'd be too comfortable living that way."

"Neither would I," Dirk agreed. "Although I must admit the prospect of working with NASA is somewhat tempting, I don't think what you have planned is the way I'd want it. Until you captured us, we were free citizens in a democratic state. What you have planned for us is nothing less than continual parole. I'm afraid neither of us, Mr. Sudwell, has ever felt comfortable being on a leash."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Mr. Sudwell said, "but in time, if you behave yourselves, you may gain more freedom. As I said before, in a decade or two NASA may be ready to open us up."

"A decade or two," Alan echoed, with an unfunny grunt, "you expect us to be on your leash for 20 years?"

"Please, Mr. Granier," he said, "you really must be more reasonable about this."

"Alright, I'll be reasonable," Alan agreed swiftly. "Why don't you tell us where the Pepperkat is?"

"Really, Granier," he said with cool surprise, "surely you don't think I'm authorized to surrender such information."

"Alan," Dirk said, "calm down. It's alright, Mr. Sudwell, you can leave us. We have to talk this over."

"Very well," he said. "If you need me, my directory code is on channel 10." He left them.

"Fat lot of fight you're giving them," Alan said, with disappointment.

"Listen to me, Alan," Dirk said, cool-like, "there's only one thing we can do." He guided Alan by the shoulder to the corner of the window and spoke quietly.

"We will promise to declare ourselves to NASA," he explained. "Then they'll give us the Pepperkat and we can go home. Don't you see? It's so simple. Once we're back in orbit of Earth, we splash down where they can't reach us, and take our chances. It's the only way. We obviously don't want to stay here, do we?"

"Right, okay," Alan agreed, "but we have to be careful. I'm not sure I trust them to keep the deal. I'll feel a whole lot safer when we're blasting away in the Pepperkat."

"I know what you mean," Dirk said.

The next day, Dirk and Alan were escorted to an airlock preps room where they put on their space-suits.

"Where's the Pepperkat?" Dirk demanded.

Mr. Sudwell touched a video com-link on the wall and the Pepperkat was displayed, resting on its pods on a smooth stone platform.

"Right outside, about 100 meters," he said. "You just have to pass through this airlock and you can walk to it."

The two spacemen looked at each other with anticipation through the visors as they tested the pressure-suit's systems.

"Alan?" Dirk said over the shortwave radio com-link.

"Yeah," Alan answered.

"It won't be long now," he said.

"Yeah," Alan said, "right. You ready?"

"I'm ready," Dirk said.

"Let's go," Alan said.

Mr. Sudwell hit the console unit on the wall and the airlock valve opened. They stepped through and into the airlock. The valve closed and seconds later, the airlock depressurized. As it depressurized, the two men began to feel a strange sensation.

"Alan, are you alright?" Dirk said, wondering if his friend felt as he did.

"I don't know, I think," Alan said, "I'm losing my strength."

"Something is wrong!" Dirk said. "Sudwell, open the valve! Something's wrong!"

Before he could say much more, he lost his sense of comprehension; everything was getting blurry and vague, as if he were falling into a deep sleep. Before he lost complete consciousness, he heard Mr. Sudwell's voice.

"Sorry, Colpark," the man said. "The board decided it was too risky. The project must be protected, Colpark. We're putting you on ice. Cryogenics, old boy. See you in 20 years. Sorry. Later, Colpark, later..."

finis

The Variant Edge: Regnazek's Ascent

Story translated from Colonel Zan Regnazek's Log

1.

The alien spaceship crashed at the edge of a desert, just a couple hundred meters from a complex of middle class apartments. The army evacuated the families from the apartments, secured the area about the crash-sight, and the air force experts moved in. I was ordered to stand permanent overseer duty, not so much because of any expertise with aliens or the unknown, but because of my top-secret clearance and the fact that they wanted me somewhere other than on active field-assignment.

My field activities were now a matter of government record and personal tragedy. It was true, though I could not admit it at the time, that the last field mission had left me under trauma and shock. I protested, pleaded with the general to keep me on the active list, but it wasn't all his decision. There were the doctor's reports to be considered as well. So I accepted the station with reluctance, and moved into the closest apartment of the evacuated complex, at the very edge of the desert, to oversee the alien spaceship while the experts ran their tests.

During the first few days, they worked on after sunset, through the night. After that, they only stayed for short periods in the day. It was sometime after the first week, during the night, that I began to notice something strange. Mental visions, transcendental imagery I did not quite understand. Visions of a spaceship very much like the one that had crashed, only it was somewhere else, not on this planet, somewhere vastly alien to any place on Earth.

What transpired after this initial experience was something like a very vivid astral, transcendental experience, in which I moved along a series of roads and passages over an endless land of alien constructs, blue, grey, and blue against a bright blue-white sky and a violet haze. It became very tiresome after about 3 kilometers, by my reckoning, and for the first time I felt legs under my fleeting body.

I stopped to sit on a blue-green mound at the edge of a field aligned by a visible force-field or fence-work, feeling the tension like sharp pins in my muscles and joints. Though I seemed to know the general direction of my heading, to a construct poking its height as a great, slanted tower in the distance, curiosity permitted a few careful looks beyond the force-field, and I studied strange oddly-shaped constructs over a hundred meters away, across a flat stretch of blue and purple weeds.

After a short few minutes, I regained my strength, and continued on. As I moved along, there were only two things on my mind, besides the fact that it appeared a longer journey than I had expected. One was the great, slanted tower in the distance, and the other was the extremely deserted condition of the environment. My mind was concerned with a bit of a mystery, about how the environment was completely vacant of all animal life-forms, and how the slanted tower might be involved.

The journey continued for what seemed like hours, but I had no time-piece to judge by, as I moved on with a compulsion until I felt the pain in my legs and had to rest again. So it went for hours and many kilometers, moving, resting, then moving again, all the time the slanted tower never seemed to get any closer. Strange, alien constructs all about the land, but no sign of animal life whatsoever. On and on I went, until I reached a wide crossroads and what appeared to be a transport line of tracks.

There I found a very odd resting place that reminded me of the skeleton of an old Chevy, without roof, without doors, without wheels or engine, merely the chassis, the frame, and the seats remained, like an aliens idea of benches at a depot, and the material appeared to be blue-grey plastic-metal. It was all very strange. As I sat down on one of the seats, I noticed the weeds were getting high, as if it had been deserted and unused for some time.

I rested my legs, rubbed them for a minute, and found a flask in my jacket. I drank from the flask, felt a tasteless, warm liquid enter my body that added strength. I gazed out across the wide crossroads, down each of the roads, leading off in different directions. I counted five, including the one I had traveled on, and then tried to find the slanted tower again. For a minute, I couldn't see it, and felt lost, for it was the only landmark I had to travel by.

I felt something like panic or danger and searched sharply into the distance. All the odd constructs in the near-distance were perplexing, cold, and alien. All of them were surrounded by force-fields and none appeared the least bit friendly. Finally, a violet haze gave way to the slanted tower again, in the distance. It still appeared very far away. I shook my head shortly, surprised at how greater the distance was than I had expected, and wondered if I could reach it before I was overcome by fatigue.

As I felt my body relax, reassured about the particular direction and road I had to take, the experience was transformed. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and when I opened them again, walls were taking form around me, closing my body in, and the odd, alien rest-depot had vanished. I had no idea at all where I was for a minute, felt a strong sense of deja vu, and realized I was sitting again in the apartment, at the edge of the restricted area.

What I had experienced was no simple dream, I was sure, certainly nothing like any dream I had ever experienced before. It left me wondering, with fascination, and amazement. One thing I felt certain about was that the crashed alien space-ship had something to do with it, because as I arose to look out the window, across the desert, the shape of it stood out like a missing key to a jigsaw puzzle. It was the same exact shape as the slanted tower in that strange, alien experience. What did it mean?

Transcendental Points at the Variant Edge

0. Rest Depot at Crossroads

1. Parallel apartment

2. Flight quarters at base.

3. Rustic Cabin in Valley.

4. Lattice in Space

5. Alien Construct unknown

6. Bridge of Alien ship

7. Pilot/Ego

8. Alien Vehicle

Note: All of the above points are somehow 'parallel' dimensions that intersect at the Variant Edge.

2.

I decided to keep the 'experience' to myself, as it did not seem to affect my position and I already had enough trouble with the doctors. As the sun was setting on the far side of the desert and the dark shadow of the crashed spaceship stood like a mountain in the distance, I made some coffee, and checked in with the Lieutenant over the video-com. Lieutenant Entomix was my second-in-command.

"The last crew just checked out," he said. "We're ready to close for the night."

"Proceed to secure all posts," I commanded, for the first time on the new assignment. He signed out and I got ready to visit topside H.Q. As I straightened my shirt at the mirror, I felt odd and realized something strange had been hanging about my consciousness ever since returning from the 'experience'. That strange something could only be described as deja vu; the feeling that I'd been in this very same place before, in the past.

I thought about it shortly while drinking the coffee, but couldn't quite place an exact position in my past that was parallel. It was a very odd feeling. I had such feelings, of deja vu, in the past, but, never as intense as now. Yet, for the life of me, I could not recall ever being in a place quite like the apartment at the edge of the desert. Perhaps as a child, I had been in a place vaguely familiar. It was uncertain, like a picture out of focus; I simply couldn't make an exact fix.

I finished the coffee, let the thought go, and went out to check in topside.

Ensign Fawnzio was alone at topside HQ, working at the computer. Topside HQ was the third-level apartment, in the same building as my quarters, only on the top, and faced inside toward a courtyard rather than outward toward the desert. To get to it I merely had to climb the stairwell up 2 levels.

Across the hall from it was Lieutenant Entomix's quarters, also overlooking the courtyard, where the regular details met 3 times a day before the changing of the guard.

On the same level, the 2 apartments facing out over the desert served as lounges and the meeting place of scientific teams and the top-brass. I was expected to act as host to some degree, but not until we had settled in and all preliminary details were complete. I did not look forward to that particular task, however the subject matter, the spaceship, could be seen well from the picture-windows, and it was bound to keep everyone's minds occupied enough to excuse my own absence.

"You can check out anytime, Ensign," I said, and went to check Entomix's desk over.

"I just have to give today's preliminary report to Lieutenant Entomix," she said, as the com-print was run off.

"Give it to me," I said, "I'll see that he gets it." She zipped it out of the printer, stuck it in a beige folder with several other papers, and handed it over. She saluted; I nodded and looked at the papers as she left. After seeing everything appeared in order, I set the folder down on the desk and stepped to the window.

In the courtyard below, the second shift was checking out. Minutes later, Entomix stepped into the office.

"Everything in order?" I said, not knowing whether to expect anything or not.

"Sure," he said, setting his hat down on a cabinet. "Though I should mention..." he stopped, hesitated, as he walked across the room.

"Fawnzio left, right?" he said.

"Yes, just a few minutes ago," I said.

He went to a table by the wall to get some coffee. "Well," he continued, "there was a rise in the level of radioactivity around the ship, about 2 hours ago. Not much, nothing dangerous, just a few micro-rads. We've been ordered to keep an hourly watch on it night and day, until Con-Grade authorizes a scientific team to sit in."

"Simple enough. Where's the team going to sit?" I said, realizing I might see a bit of friction there.

"They want the corner," he said, gesturing with the coffee in his hand to the northwest.

"All three levels?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Well, I don't see any reason for them not to work there. What about living quarters?"

"I'm not sure about all of them," Entomix admitted, "but I think we can count on some of them sleeping across the same hall."

"Right," I said. "We may as well give them both corners and the right side across the court, for living and working space."

"Done," he said, sat down at the desk and went through the folder.

I looked out the window, across the courtyard, noted the windows lighting up across it to the left.

"How many live-ins we got?" I said.

"Oh, looks like 26, counting the first shift, myself and you. With the scienteks, that'll be 34."

I swung about and thought about that.

"That's a lot of people to keep secure," I said. "Have any of them reported anything unusual at all?"

"No, nothing," he said. "Preliminary report says there's no sign of life within the craft, and radiation seems to have left only insect life about the 100 meter perimeter."

"Well, so much for what they want us to know," I said.

"How's that?" he said,

"Oh, hell, what's a prelim-report with a hot item like this," I said.

"I suppose," he tended to agree. "You think they'd keep anything from us?"

"No," I decided, and stepped across the room to look at the map on the wall, "No, nothing of import. But just in case, Entomix, you and I have got to stay on top of this, at all times. Understood?"

I turned to him, he closed the folder, and stood tip. "Understood, Colonel," he said, and checked his time-piece. "Now, I'd better get some rest. Tomorrow should be a busy day. If you need me, I'm right across the hall." He saluted and left.

I had the nightshift, just until I settled in. It was all a routine quarantine assignment, nothing the Lieutenant and I couldn't handle. Besides, I was around in the morning when the specialists arrived and on duty until 12 noon. Entomix would join me around 8 am and takeover when I went off, just in time for lunch.

I got some more coffee and went into my office, which had served as a bedroom for some family before the evacuation. I sat down and wondered about that microrad rise in radioactivity. I decided to call the sensor-net, located on the level below, facing the desert side.

"Airman, this is Colonel Regnazek," I said. "Any change in the rad-level'?"

"No sir, not since earlier. It's still at .567."

"I want to know immediately if there is any change, understood?"

"Yes sir," the airmen said.

I pondered taking a walk on the rounds, but decided to think over the 'experience' I had earlier. It seemed to me too much of a coincidence to simply ignore, but at the same time, I wondered whether or not the recent crisis I'd been through could also be related.

The 'crisis' was another thing. I didn't like to think about it. It wasn't a pretty thing to have in one's memory. It was terrible. When I recalled the sight of the victims, especially the children, something deep down inside me got stuck in pain and torturous hell. I hated myself, hated my life, hated the fact that I had survived while so many others had perished. Thinking about it, I found myself dwelling in depression again, alone with the agony and the pain. As I sat at the desk and looked at the coffee, the lights dimmed and I heard the cries inside my head.

A bomb had exploded inside one of the buildings where the women and children were spending their days. There were large holes in all the walls, bodies torn apart and scattered amidst the rubble. I was just outside at the time and I was hit in the head by stone flack. As I faded in and out of consciousness, struggling to get my motor-reflexes back, a young boy covered by blood walked out the door, said, 'Mom?' and fell down into the rubble. I wanted to help him, but I lost consciousness.

He died, along with several other women and children, including my wife and son. By some awful, terrible fate, I survived. But I wished I hadn't. It was a terrorist bombing, a very terrible thing, which targeted the families of high officials. 3 wives and 6 children, all of officials in the Air Force, had been killed.

It took me 6 months to get back on my feet and back into duty. They still were uncertain of me, but I had to do something, and so I was granted this strange assignment. The most capable officers had more important work, directly related with UN assignments in Eastern Europe and the 3rd world. This case was considered more laid back, since it was right in our own back yard.

I drank the coffee, shook the memories away, and concentrated on the assignment. As I did so, the walls suddenly vanished, along with the desk, and I found myself back at the alien crossroads, drinking from the flask. This time, however, my perception was much higher. I looked for the desk, felt for it, but my hands touched the blue-grey plastic-metal of the alien rest-depot. I shook my head, looked at the flask, then all around.

It was real! I was really at the alien crossroads. It wasn't just a simple transcendental experience. It was real. But how, how did I get here, and why?

I looked into the distance and saw the slanting tower. I felt compelled to go to it. The compulsion was very strong, almost magnetic, but I decided to think it over, and calmed myself. Where was I? How did I get here, and even more important, could I get back to where I was before?

3.

I had no idea how I come to be at this alien crossroads, but I felt sure of one thing; the slanted tower/ship in the distance had something to do with it. I calmed my excited nerves, looked at my hands, and my clothing. I was dressed in what appeared to be a very weathered and worn, dark blue and grey uniform, somehow familiar but otherwise unknown and alien like everything else. This added to the mystery. I studied it closely. It lacked any details, except for a metal clip with a symbol on it, over my breast pocket.

I looked at the symbol. It resembled a sword stuck in the ground, at a slant, but it may have been something else. In fact, it resembled the slanted tower, only in the form of a simple symbol. It was strange. I recalled the flask, found it inside the jacket, in another pocket, and took it out. It was nothing fancy, just a silver-grey flask, apparently of the same plastic-metal as the depot frame, without any details.

I looked at the depot frame before me. It still resembled the remnants of an old car, but not quite as much now. Now it appeared to be just what I had recognized it as, some kind of rest-depot. I wondered if a monorail or train or something was due, and checked for the time. But I had no time-piece, and there was no clock about.

The area was quite deserted, vacant of all life or signs of life, with only a few patches of weed here and there about an otherwise sandy region. The road appeared paved, with what I could only guess, there were transport-tracks and alien constructs in every direction, in the distance, but absolutely no sign of animal life whatsoever.

I was led to wonder, as I look about. Should I explore this alien dimension, or should I stay where I am, close my eyes, and hope that when I opened them again I was back home, on Earth, at the Quarantine site where I was supposed to be?

I held the plastic-metal frame before me, ran a hand along it, felt something depress under my thumb, and suddenly, walls appeared around me. By god, yes, whatever I had done, I was back where I belonged. But wait! No, I wasn't exactly; I was in the apartment, where I had been earlier before my shift. How was it that I was now in the apartment, rather than the office? I looked around. Hold it! There was daylight in the window. But it had been night at the office just minutes ago. That wasn't right. What was going on?

I arose from the chair and looked all about. No, it couldn't be. I wasn't in the same apartment. It was similar, but none of my things were where they were supposed to be. This wasn't my apartment at all. Where was I? I looked for the videophone but couldn't find it. I looked for my luggage but could not find it. I did, however, find other things that were not mine, or were they?

I was confused, and recalled that many of the apartments were the same on the inside, and decided to go outside. I found myself at the edge of a desert, in the parking lot of what appeared to be the very same apartments, except for the fact that there was no quarantine, no security fences, no guards, and no crashed ship.

I looked all about, saw a few parked cars, saw no life except the plants and trees, and heard sounds in the distance, to my right. I looked down the side of the apartments, along the parking lot, and saw a row of trees crossing in the near distance. The sounds appeared to be children at play. This was very strange indeed. How had I come to be here, and where was here?

It didn't make sense. Why had I been transported to the alien depot then back to here? I couldn't figure it out. What was the reason? Was there a reason, or was it all some kind of accidental effect caused by the spaceship? Yes, that made more sense. It was an effect caused by the alien spaceship, it had to be.

I sat on the steps outside the apartments, looked across the desert, and thought it all through carefully. Then I recalled the depression felt by my thumb on the depot frame, just before being transported again. That was odd, but significant. Was it some kind of controls? If so, why weren't there controls here also? I thought about it briefly and decided maybe there were, if I only knew where to look.

I found it all quite difficult to believe, and continued to make careful sensory observations of everything. It was all real, I was where I appeared to be, but a lack for understanding the 'technology' or 'mechanism' behind it made me curious to explore further. I began to realize that I didn't really care so much about returning to my post anymore, and I was extremely curious to explore.

I thought it all through again, for the third time, and decided to return to the apartment. I did so, and looked at the 'easy chair' against the wall, in the living-room, where I had been seated. Perhaps the controls were there. I went to the chair, sat down, and examined its arm-rests. There was a grey button, in the blue padding. I pushed it, but nothing happened. It did not appear to be a control button, just part of the chair's design. I pushed it harder, still nothing. I looked all around for changes, but saw none.

I sighed in defeat, seeing no controls anywhere about the chair, and laid back to rest. I closed my eyes and recalled the alien depot, visualized the plastic-metal frame before me. I recalled reaching out, holding it with my hand, sliding it along, and depressing something with my thumb. As I thought about it, I could feel the same frame in my hand before me. I could feel it! I felt it, then felt my thumb depress something, and opened my eyes.

It worked! I was back at the depot! It was amazing! Somehow, I had managed to activate the depot-controls from the chair at the apartment. I sat at the depot, looked all about at the alien landscape, the constructs, and sited the slanted tower in the distance. I felt positive for the first time since the transitions began. I had used logical reasoning and made a discovery. I had learned how to get back to the depot. But could it also return me to my post back on Earth?

4.

I thought about it, and examined the frame carefully. I located several buttons, of the same blue-grey plastic-metal material, barely noticeable without foreknowledge of their presence, spaced equally along the frame. I reasoned that I had depressed the very first one to the far left before being transported to the parallel apartments. Realizing I needed more clues to prove a theory, I decided it would be necessary to try the other buttons. After all, one might transport me home.

I held the frame and depressed the second button. Walls again appeared around me, but not those of the apartment. I found myself sitting on a bed with my back to a wall, in a small room with one window. The small room contained nothing but a bed, a bureau with 4 drawers, a small refrigerator, and a few pieces of clothing on hangers near a door.

I recognized the place. It was almost exactly the same as my flight quarters on the Air-Force base that I was stationed almost 20 years ago. I stood and looked out the window. Another stone building stood across a parking lot and courtyard just 50 meters away. Pine trees and hedges aligned the courtyard between the buildings.

So this was where the second button put me. This was very interesting. I returned to my sitting position on the bed against the wall, closed my eyes, visualized the depot-frame, felt the button and depressed it. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. I was back at the depot. It worked! I breathed heavily with excitement, looked at the third button, and pushed it.

More walls appeared, but this was another room, somewhat larger than the flight quarters at the base, and much different. I sat in what appeared to be an antique den, with dark bronze trimmings and lighter grey walls, and many interesting artifacts. There was a bookcase, with perhaps 100 books, against one wall to the right, a bronze oil-lamp, an ornate silver and grey hourglass, a trunk with several odd bits and tools on it, a hot-plate with a pan on it, a coffee-pot, a small refrigerator like the one at the flight quarters, etc...

I sat in a comfortable chair and observed it all in amazement. It reminded me somewhat of an uncle's den that I had visited as a child, but it was different somehow. Of course, I couldn't recall the uncle's den in detail, but it was similar in decor and clutter. To the right of the far wall appeared to be an open door. It was bright like daylight beyond the doorway and I couldn't see out very clearly. I stood and walked to it and looked out upon a. wonderful scenery. I was situated above a valley of green trees, colorful flowers, and flowing water.

It was a beautiful sight. It appeared to be a perfect summer day. The sky was blue with puffy clouds overhead, and birds were chirping. Across the valley was a waterfall. Not just one, but two waterfalls; one small one to the left and one much larger to the right, separated by hundreds of meters.

I wanted to step out into it, but I reminded myself that there were still many buttons to check on the depot controls. I returned to the chair, closed my eyes, visualized the frame, felt for it, found it, and pressed the button. I opened my eyes, found myself back at the depot, and looked at the control buttons. The first had taken me to the parallel apartments, the second to my old flight quarters, the third to the wonderful valley. Where would the fourth take me? I took a deep breath, and depressed it.

Around me appeared a lattice of lines without visible walls. The lattice appeared to be everywhere, in every direction, as far as my eyes could see. I had no idea where I was. Nothing in my memory recalled anything quite like it. It was very alien and unknown. It was also somewhat cold. I didn't know what to make of it.

I suddenly feared that I had gone too far and might be lost forever. I quickly tried to calm down and concentrate on the depot. I closed my eyes and visualized the frame, felt it, and pressed. I opened my eyes with relief. I was back at the depot again. The fourth button was very strange. I wondered what that never-ending lattice was, and looked at the fifth. Would it be even worse?

I could only try it and find out. So I did, and found myself sitting in a very alien place, amidst very alien designs and decor. But there were walls about me and it was not cold, I felt some security. I looked about with fascination. I was in a large chamber of alien design. A control console was before me, and what appeared to be many other control units set within the base of the walls all about. It reminded me of a spaceship. Was it, could it be, the very same spaceship which had crashed in the desert?

I thought of this and examined it all carefully. It was mostly blue and grey, with silver and bronze patterns about the control units and aligning plates within the walls. The floor did appear to be slanted, at almost a 45 degree angle, although the chair and control console appeared level.

I rocked my body back and forth in the seat and felt the chair move with me, and the console with it. Apparently, because it was a spaceship, the control seat was set within some sort of gyro gears to compensate for evasive motions in a weightless vacuum. Clever, of course. I studied it all with fascination. I recognized video-screens, sensory scopes, computer consoles, etc...

I realized it was quite possible that I was on the crashed spaceship. So this was where '5' got me. I closed my eyes, visualized the depot, felt the frame, pressed the button, and opened my eyes. I was back at the depot, and looking at the 6th button. After that were 4 more. Would the 6th take me home? All I could do was try it and see.

I pressed it and the crossroads was replaced by a dark desert in the midst of starry night. The frame of the rest-depot remained, along with the frame of a room, of similar plastic-metal material, just a meter beyond it. I looked all around and the frame surrounded the depot, a perfect square cube. It was interesting.

I looked out into the desert, across a dark, alien landscape. There were mountains far to the left, about 100 meters away, and more to the right also. I looked at the stars carefully, but didn't recognize any of the patterns. I was on an alien planet. It was amazing. I sat within the cube and absorbed it all with fascination. Where was I? Was this the planet from which the ship had come, or was it simply a planet with an outpost on it, which was in range of the depot?

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a large, dark, shadowy object in the near distance, in the midst of the desert. I looked closely and saw the starlight define some kind of construct, with a definite geometrical shape. Clouds parted in the sky and a large, green planetoid or moon appeared in partial phase, a great curved semicircle of light amidst the darkness of space, and the shape in the desert became more defined. It was some kind of pyramid, with many colored levels. The base was bronze that turned red at its height, the second level, or steppe, was orange and yellow, the third steppe was yellow and green, and the final steppe, at the top, was green topped by blue.

As the clouds drifted across the starry night sky, I recalled the time and decided to return to the depot. This time, I didn't have to visualize the frame because it was here, with the same controls, an exact copy of the depot itself. I realized however that all the time I used the technique of mental visualization to return to the depot, I had never took account of the particular button. I had simply pressed the first one I felt. Now, given the real choice of selection, I didn't know which one to pick. Did it matter, or was it some sort of automated return?

I thought about it shortly. For the first time since beginning this wild journey, I actually felt I had to choose the right button, or risk getting lost. I sat and thought it over carefully. There had to be a logical pattern to it. After a few minutes, I decided to try the same button that had taken me here, going upon the logic that it acted as a two-way device, and could only go from one point to the other or back. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and pressed. My eyes detected the increase of light even before I opened them. I did so and breathed with much relief. My logic had been correct; I was back at the depot. This left seven, eight, nine, and ten.

I decided to rest a bit, had a drink from the flask, and thought it all over with intrigue. Obviously, I had discovered something extremely powerful; I just couldn't figure out why. Why me? It had something to do with the spaceship that crashed, I was sure of it, but why me? Why not Lieutenant Entomix or one of the scientists?

I recalled the terrorist bomb that had tossed a chunk of stone flack at my head and put me in the hospital for 4 months. Could it be related to the concussion; possible brain-damage? I could only guess. I really had no idea. I pressed the seventh button.

The walls of my office appeared about me. I sat at the desk. I looked out the window, it was night. My ears detected the videophone buzzing. I answered

"This is Sensor-net, Colonel," the airman said. "We just detected another rise in rads."

For a minute I couldn't quite figure out the fact that I really had returned to my post at the site

"Colonel?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "What is the level at now?"

"Point 5-7-5," he said.

"Alright, that's still not high," I said, "stay on it. I'll check in with you shortly."

He signed out and I sat back in my chair, wondering what I had discovered. I checked the time, to find that less than an hour had passed since the second 'trip' to the depot had begun, even though the trip altogether had easily lasted an hour, probably more. Which meant that time was a variable as well as space.

Suddenly afraid that I might be randomly transported back to the depot, I arose from the desk and moved into the outer office. What if I was transported back? Would the 7th control-button return me again? At the moment, I didn't care to put it to the test. I felt relieved to be back, but preoccupied by the amazing experiences. I got some coffee and prepared to make the rounds.

5.

I sat at the Lieu's desk, went over the daily report, and learned that the rad-level had jumped only once before I went on duty at 8 pm. The first jump it made was also only a mere fraction of a single rad-unit, so it was not considered an emergency situation.

It was, however, an obvious curiosity, duly noted as such in the report. The scienteks, a team of four with a work crew of six, left the advice of a regular monitoring to occur by our radio-units until they returned in a day, and we were authorized to report directly to them if the level went higher than 2 rads.

We were not told why this fluctuation was occurring, but I suspected it had something to do with the engine or core of the alien ship. Obviously, if they considered it an immediate danger, they would have stated so in the report. Nevertheless, I had an itch to settle with the Lieu, now that I got the general idea of the situation. It was just possible that he knew more, but didn't feel the need to surrender anything unless I ordered it from him.

I completed the report, checked the time, and finished the coffee. It was nearly midnight, and high time I made the rounds. The first thing I did was go directly down 1 level, to the sensor-net, and got the radioman's report on the situation.

"The first flux occurred at 6:15 pm. At that time the level increased from .561 to .567. The second was at 9:45, and that raised it to .575."

"That would seem to indicate that we may expect another increase," I said to him, and looked out the window, into the distance, at the set of spotlights reflecting off the huge alien vessel, stuck like a slanted mountain in the stretch of desert.

As I stared across the desert, I saw only the stars above and darkness surrounding the site, and realized how little I knew about it. I had to know more, I couldn't just sit twiddling my thumbs beside it all night.

"Did the scientists leave any papers or records here," I said to the man.

"No sir."

"Damn scientific eggheads," I cursed quietly. "They could've given us more info. Do they really expect us to just sit on a radioactive egg all night, not knowing what makes it tick?"

"I heard them talking," the radio man said.

I looked at him, trying to recall his name, as he fidgeted with the ears before the console, his eyes still on it, as the ever-sweeping invisible hand of the radar continued to survey the perimeter.

"It's Jenkins, isn't it?" I said, recalling the name on the report.

"Yes sir," the young man said.

"Well then, Jenkins. What did you hear?"

"Well, they were very hush-hush, but I did manage to overhear something about fusion and one of them seemed positively keen on the subject."

"Uh-huh, I see. Fusion, eh? That may explain the radioactivity, of course, but what about these random 'jumps'?"

"They were as perplexed as you are now," admitted Jenkins.

"Anything about 'engine damage' perhaps?"

"Not that I heard," he said. "If there were damage to a 'fusion' engine that would call for a def-con emergency wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would," I said. "Unless...unless it's just a minor leak, and they've got it under control."

I stepped closer to the window and stared out into the night, focusing on the spot-lit site over 200 meters away. I recalled the experience earlier, in which a very vivid dream-like state, I had been walking to it. It had seemed much further away, many kilometers, and therefore, also much larger.

Leaving the sensor-net to Jenkins, I made the routine rounds, with a strong desire to learn more about this unusual case. It was not the simple quarantine situation it had been when I was initially assigned to it anymore. Now it was something more, much more. I left the building and stepped out into the desert night.

I looked up at the stars, over the trees aligning the parking-lot; and I felt the strong sense of deja vu, once again. It had a very romantic flavor to it. But before it went very far, like a bird with a lame wing, it was cut short, and I watched it fall, into the trees, and down to the desert ground. Biting the edge of bitter disappointment, this time I avoided it, and looked out at the site of the ship.

I walked across the parking lot, climbed the brief hill, and stood by one of the trees, looking out across the desert. Surveying the area, I noted the high, wire-mesh fence with the gate and the sentry-post, the dirt road leading to it along the edge of the desert, through sparsely scattered trees.

There was one sentry posted at the gate, another just up the road, to the right, at the entrance to the desert which linked it to the parking lot and the apartment complex. At that point, there was a unit of 4 guards stationed at the security HQ, on the other side of a picnic area.

As I watched I saw both of the men at the 2 posts being relieved, and realized it must be midnight. There was no reason, accept standard protocol, for me to visit the security station. I had an urge to visit the ship, instead, but that was against the orders of my station.

So I took the walk, crossed 30 meters of parking lot, following the hillside which aligned the desert, and entered the picnic area, to stop and survey the area again. To the right was a fenced-in area, wherein was located a pool and patio, one of the luxuries of a middle-class complex.

Once again, there was that sense of deja vu, and this time, it was not simply romantic, it was personal. I felt light-headed, and decided to sit at one of the tables, before I lost my legs. This feeling was very, very strong. I closed my eyes, thinking to recall images, and when I opened them, I was back at the depot.

I sat at the alien depot again, at the crossroads, amidst the alien-structured land. Before me were the controls, the set of ten buttons along the blue-grey, plastic-metal frame, and in the distance was the great slanted tower. I was no longer shocked by the change, as I had been earlier. It was becoming somewhat more comfortable, and yet ever so amazing as it had been from the beginning. I looked at the set of buttons and recalled I had not yet tried the last three. My attention wavered on 7 shortly, as I recalled how it had taken me back to my working station at the site.

Should I try it again, to see if it still returned me to that post? Then I looked at the 8th button and wondered what it could do. Which should I push, 7 or 8? I thought the smartest thing to do was to use 7, but a more daring side of me was anxious to learn about 8, 9, and 10. So without further hesitation, I tried 8.

Within an eye-blink, a new console appeared before me, just under the frame, and a whole new set of controls. I was transfixed by the new console. It was a square of the same plastic-metal with a set of 6 buttons in a line at the top, a square of 4 buttons in the middle, and a line of 4 more along the bottom.

The function of this new set of controls eluded me, until I looked up again and saw that the 'depot' had been repositioned. It was no longer at the side of the road, it was on it. It appeared now to be some kind of vehicle, and it was pointed along the same road I had been walking, toward the slanted tower. But it was still stationary, like the depot. The new console apparently acted as controls.

I looked it over carefully and thought about it, then decided to try one of the lower buttons. I pushed the first of the set of 3, and the vehicle began to move. I was shortly surprised, then calmed as I realized it was moving at a constant, comfortable speed, in a perfect straight line, almost as if it were on tracks, though none were visible on the roadway.

As it carried me, I felt a strange relief, recalling how tired my legs were from walking earlier. I studied the fields and the structures about, as I was carried over the kilometers of alien land. After about 4 kilometers, the tower appeared much larger, and after 1 more, I arrived at its base and it towered over me like a mountain.

Then I saw that it was stuck directly on the road way, and wondered how to deactivate the vehicle. I tried the last of the set of 3 and the vehicle not only stopped, but the console disappeared also, and I was left sitting in the original depot-frame, as it had been before, only now it was at the very base of this huge slanted tower.

I gazed upon it with marvelous wonder for a few minutes, studying its sheer face of somewhat shiny metal, and the finer lines and intricacies of its surface. By the way it was planted into the ground, it was hard to tell if it were a spaceship that had crashed some time ago, and been smoothed over by weather, or if it were simply a great slanted tower, constructed by who and why I did not know.

Then I recalled the set of buttons, and the fact that 5 had appeared to transport me into some kind of alien ship. Was this that ship? I wondered if the buttons would work the same way, now that the depot had apparently been repositioned. I knew then that I had to find out, so I decided to try one of the buttons. Because I suspected that 5 did take me to this very same ship, into the control-bridge, I decided to try 5.

Seconds later, I opened my eyes and I was there, on the alien bridge. This time, I decided to stay for a while, and learn everything I could.

It took me hours, but I finally accessed video-records and learned enough to convert me from a down-to-Earth, cold-fact conservative, to a believer in the unimaginable and utterly fantastic. I learned that the depot-frame buttons, which were basic to the very console before the bridge as well, maintained 'fixed' coordinates at all times and that 1-3 were all points on Earth. '4' was described as a temporal-spatial fix, within a 'sector' of space-time, which was relative to the stars. I was no egghead and didn't quite understand it, but I recalled the 'lattice' that went on forever and thought of it as a point in outer space, rather than on any planet.

The 5th button was fixed on the ship's control-bridge, as I suspected. The 6th, to my utter surprise, was on one of the moons of Neptune. The rocky desert with the starry night sky, the phase of a green orb, and a colorful pyramid, outside of a square frame of the blue-grey plastic within which was another depot; that was fixed on one of Neptune's moons.

As for 7, it was described as being fixed on the 'pilot' of the ship itself, no matter where he was, when he was 'outside' the ship. '8' was fixed on a vehicle or depot of the home-planet, which existed at coordinates unknown. Coordinates Unknown?

9 and 10 were also fixed on the home-planet, also at unknown coordinates.

My mind accepted all this info as well as possible, and one of the first points that didn't quite make sense was about 7. According to the info, it was fixed on the 'pilot', yet this was also the button that had returned me to my 'present post', at the quarantine around the site of the crashed alien ship.

The thought occurred that somehow I had been fixed in the position of pilot of this alien vessel, but why? Again I was led to wonder as I had before. Why? Was it because I had made the 'discovery', because I had managed to pass the test? Test? What test?

I became curious about those last points, and decided to try 9. When I did so, however, nothing happened, and a series of orange symbols appeared on a blue-screen in the control console. I tried 10 and the symbols disappeared, and then reappeared again.

I studied the symbols, and recognized them as identical to others I'd seen in the records and on the various consoles about the bridge. I sat there full of amazement, wondered what to do next, and then checked the time. If it were the same time back at the site, my station would be expecting me soon.

I sighed, took a few deep breaths, and pushed the 7th button, as I closed my eyes. To my surprise, when I opened them, I was still sitting on the bridge of the alien ship.

Seconds later, there was some kind of alien 'count down', as orange symbols passed over the blue-screen, and before a minute was up, the engines were activated. Less than a minute later, the ship and I were in orbit of the Earth, and seconds later, moving away in space. I didn't quite realize at the time, but I was on a whole new mission, and it was greater than anything I ever imagined.

Finis

The Escape Clause

I

It all began beneath the hellish confines of a purgatorial cell in Limbo. The subject of this story, who can be anyman at all, but for the sake of this particular perspective can be called Dablank, was about as dead as a man can get in spirit without being completely lost to the wayward chaos of the infinite universe. He was at the end of his rope, in a precarious situation, dangling helplessly, unable to climb, facing almost certain oblivion, when one night, as he sat alone, he experienced a bit of inspiration. He looked across the small cell he was confined in and then at the small table beside his bed, where 2 books, one a bible and the other a notebook sat, under a small lamp.

Lately, he'd become obsessed with the dreams he was experiencing during sleep, wondered on and on for hours about hidden meanings, informative clues about the mysterious universe he found himself in, and possible traces of an escape from the hell it all put him in.

Getting out was the thing to do, of course, but it wasn't so simple. He'd been out of his cell many times, he'd roamed about the grounds, seen all the local sites. He'd even been to the big city of 'Dis' several times, for a little R and R. But he wasn't safe under such exposure to the elements, and the only secure place he had was the cell, so he always returned.

The cell was small and dismal, and there was no easy way out of it. He always returned because there was no where else for him to go. But of course, it wasn't simply the cell's fault. It was his own foolish fault, of course, for the mistakes he made during his youth.

His biggest mistake seemed to create a contradiction after enough time passed. The biggest mistake was following the directive orders of his guardians, during the summer of 1975, which resulted in the loss of his fiancée. The contradiction was a case of moral, religious ground. For it seemed hypocritical that he should lose so much after simply following the orders of his superiors, and long after that fact, still be subjected to the conditions caused by the loss.

Where was the Christian god now? Why had he been ignored, neglected, and forgotten?

All of this went through his head in a matter of seconds, constantly, day after day, night after night, with all of his humble prayers left unanswered.

Then finally, as he sat in the dimly lit grey cell of hell, and imagined pictures on the walls, something inspired him, and suddenly, he understood. He looked at the notebook on the table, opened the drawer and found a pencil, and began writing in the book.

"I am as I am, confined in this dismal cell of hell, in an unceasing waste of time through grey days and deep, dark nights, a lost soul without purpose, pointless and without reason. This is not a life, nay; it bears much more resemblance to the idea of death, a cold and lonely passage through a never-ending dark depth.

He stopped, set the pencil down, and relaxed. Now he understood. After years of contemplation and speculation, he finally understood. There was only one possible way out of the hell he was in. With thanks to such writers as Daniel Defoe and Edgar Allen Poe, he took a good, long look at the situation he found himself in, and began to write himself out of it.

Like Robinson Crusoe stranded on his desert island, Dablank began to see how very distant all of the other 'souls' had become, and how his own little island was right in this corner of purgatory, not too far from the river of Styx and the big factory of Dis. It wasn't exactly Crusoe's desert island, but he sure the heck was stranded. Furthermore, he was on his own, without any friends at all.

Granted, it didn't seem like much to go on after the initial inspiration, but nevertheless, he decided he had nothing better to do anyhow, and put his penmanship to work.

The next night, as he continued to scrawl himself through the second chapter of his book, in that eternal state of cold, solitary logic, under the deep cloak of night, something extraordinary happened.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a square of blue light appeared, on the grey wall across the cell, about 12 inches wide, and the light purple face of a demon appeared within it.

"Hello, Dablank," the demon greeted him neutrally, with only the slightest sign of emotion in his voice, as if he did this kind of thing a lot. "I see you've figured out an escape clause. Good for you. I was wondering how long it would take. Now that you've started the hook, it's time you were let in on the whole deal."

"Deal? What deal?"

"We've come to a decision about your case," the demon admitted. "You have a choice. You can either do another 20 years of hard labor, or you can act as an info retriever and try and write your way out."

"Write my way out?" Dablank said with surprise. "You're telling me there really is a way to do that? I mean, I had suspected the possibility, but it was at best a very long shot."

"Well, you get 3 points for guessing," the demon said, with a bit of witty humor, "Yes, there is a way to write your way out, but it has certain conditions. Are you interested?"

"I most certainly am," Dablank said, "I don't want to do another 20 years of hard labor!"

"Okay," the demon said, "the conditions are simple. You must commit your eternal soul to the work that you do. You must act the role of your protagonist or antagonist, whatever the case may be, towards the goal set by the plot and scenarios of the book."

"Huh? I'm not sure I follow," Dablank said, with uncertainty. "How can I do that if I don't have my freedom?"

"You can do it, after the book has been completed and accepted by the overlords responsible for your case," the demon explained. "But don't think it'll be all fun and 'games. Let me give you a bit of sound advice. You discovered the key just last night and you have been working in the right direction. Stay with it, work with it, get yourself settled with a working plan of action, and carry it through. Don't think you can simply write anything down and make it happen. It must he realistic, not unbelievable and all too fantastic. Use the material reality about yourself to make things happen, and make it look good. Understand?"

"So, what you are saying is, if I write a good, realistic story, it can get me out of here in the future?"

"So long as you agree to act as the main character," the demon said, "Yes."

Shortly after it was clear Dablank understood the deal, the square of 1ight with the demon disappeared, and he went to work.

II

DaBlank worked hard for 2 days and 2 nights, then hit a mental block, and could not continue. He sat with the story and read it over twice, and realized something was missing. It lacked tone and local-color, the decor of a scenario to set the mood, that sort of thing.

As he thought this over, he mulled about this and that for a few hours, then decided to have a drink of wine. After hours of dawdling about, he began knocking his head against the wall, as the wine went to him and he forgot the pen-work on paper completely.

After a few head bangs, he fell on the bed in the corner and went into a dream state. About 2 hours later, he awoke from a dream bordering on a nightmare.

He saw a castle-keep in the mountains, he saw a large, cold, barren stone chamber, and he was sitting on a bench or bed in one corner. But he was not free to move about the chamber, because his leg was chained to the wall.

The chain was heavy iron; there was no way for it to be removed without the proper tools. He had no such tools, and was fated to waste his life away in that cold, barren chamber, unless someone let him free.

He had not seen anyone in years. Food was tossed to him through a window by an unknown, probably one of the landlord's guardians or sons. Whoever they were, they did not stay long enough to talk, and so he was given no signs of hope for the future. It was impossible for him to know how long they would keep him this way.

At first, he thought it would just be a few days, hut those days turned into weeks, then months and years. He was getting crazy now, after the confinement in time, it was all beginning to test his sanity. He didn't know how much longer he could tolerate it. He had gotten into the habit of contemplating suicide, and had finally resolved a good method.

As he contemplated the method and approached it with ritualistic care, a bird suddenly appeared on the high window ledge and grumbled something almost intelligible to his ears.

The bird looked down at him and squawked, twice, then flustered a bit with its wings, and settled. As the bird settled, he stared at it and saw that it was blue and black, with fine lines of silver.

The sounds it made seemed to make sense. It was as if it were saying, "You don't mind if I sit on this window's ledge for a bit of a rest, do you, brother?"

"It's okay by me," he said, "I don't own the place; I'm just chained to its walls."

The bird looked down at him, and moved its head about with something like concerned interest. Its eyes focused on the chain and it squawked with surprise.

"I'll make a deal with you, friend," he said to the bird, "Yesterday, one of my food bags missed the target area and I can't reach it. If you come and fetch it, you can share it."

The bird looked at the bag, as he reached out with the chain on his leg taught straight. The bag was indeed about one arm's length out of his reach.

The bird squawked again, fluttered its wings, and dove down into the large chamber, and landed on big, talon legs with perfect ease. It walked across the cold stone floor to the bag, and he could see its true size. This bird was one of the biggest he had ever seen, with colors he had never seen before. Its beak was a large, sharp tool the size of a man's hand.

The bird reached the bag, stuck its head inside it for a minute, and squawked, then grumbled, and looked at him. It looked at the chain on his leg, then hooked the bag on its beak and dragged it over to him.

He broke a piece of fruit in half and tossed it to the bird. The bird accepted the fruit with gratitude and they both enjoyed a meal.

After that, he sat back on the cot and sighed, as the bird looked at him with obvious interest. It shook its head and grumbled.

"I sure wish you could help me out of this hell," he said to the bird.

The bird grumbled, stared at him, and then nodded twice. Then before he could figure out what it was saying, it took a few steps across the floor and took to the air. Seconds later, it perched on the ledge, looked back at him, grumbled something, and flew off.

He tried to relax a bit, had a bit of bread, and wondered what the bird had been trying to tell him. Was it possible the bird could help?

He fell asleep shortly, and then about an hour later, he heard the bird's squawk, awoke, and looked up at the window through hazy eyes. He saw the outline of the bird against the light of the setting sun, and the bird had something. It looked like a branch with fruit on it.

III

What occurred thereafter was an amazing thing. The bird flew down again to the stone floor, with the branch, walked over to him and dropped it on the floor by his feet. The bird stepped back, gestured to it with his head, and looked at the chain.

The branch was about 2 feet long, with three clusters of large, orange berries. The thicker end of the branch looked hacked to a point; as if the bird had chopped it off with the sharp edge of its big beak.

For a minute, he thought the bird was offering him some of its own food, but then he studied the orange berries more closely, and recalled the fact that they were poisonous.

His immediate thought was that it could be used as a poison to end this cruel existence once and for all, but then the bird grabbed the branch and carried it directly to the chain on the floor, attaching his leg to the wall.

He thought about it, the bird squawked twice, and began biting on the chain. After 10 seconds, it stopped and looked into his eyes. It turned its head at an angle as it did so, and he began to understand.

The bird was making a link between the branch of fruit and the chain, telling him it could help. He thought about it, recalled the poisonous quality of the fruit, and dug up an old chemistry fact from some logs in the grey, dusty records department in his brain. The fruit was known as Amperlite, and the poisonous chemical was also an acidic compound.

Of course, the acid! The acid in the fruit could help to break the chain. He picked the branch off the floor, fished an old bowl from under his bunk, and picked the orange berries from the branch. A minute later, the bowl was full of the berries. He dug out a piece of smooth stone which he had once tried to break the iron chain with, but the stone was too soft and the chain much too hard.

He mashed the berries with the stone, and all the juices filled the bottom of the bowl. He used a wooden spoon to remove the meat of the fruit from the juices, and as he did so, the spoon began to smoke a bit. The acid was working on it.

With all the meat removed from the juices, he set the bowl down on the floor by the chair, picked up the chain and stuck a few links into the bowl. The bird grumbled a bit and stepped back, as the links were submerged into the juice.

A minute later, the juice began to sizzle with tiny bubbles and a scent of invisible vapors filled his nostrils. He leaned back away from the vapors, as the entire bowl bubbled to a boil, and then fizzled out within a split second.

The bird grumbled and made an upward motion with its head. He removed the iron links from the bowl, and looted at them. They were half eaten away by the acid, but the acid was expired by the reaction before it was eaten away completely.

He tried the stone, used it like a hammer on the weakened links, but the stone was still too soft, and broke in 2. He pulled the chain tight, away from the wall and the links still would not budge.

"Now what?" he said, with frustration, and the bird stepped up to the chain, grumbling, to make a closer inspection.

It held the chain with both hands to the floor, and suddenly went to work hammering the weakened links with its beak, with lightning speed. 2 minutes later, it stopped, and stepped away. He was amazed to see one of the links was cut almost clean through. He grabbed the stone, hammered what was left of the link, and broke it all the way.

"Man, that's some tool you got!" he said to the bi rd, pulled the chain tight again with all his might, and a minute later, the link gave way and the chain broke free.

He held the shorter end of the chain at the shackle of his ankle, four links of slack which he could remove later with the proper tools, and looked at the chain attached to the wall. He stood and walked away from the wall, to the center of the chamber, turned about and cried out with Joy.

"I'm freee!!"

The bird squawked twice and took to the air. It landed on the higher window ledge, and looked back.

"Thank you friend, thank you for my life," he said aloud, with tremendous emotion. The bird squawked with satisfaction.

"I shall call you Amalek," he said to the bird, "a word that means 'great friend', for indeed you are that. You're the only bird I've ever known with great intelligence and skill. Thank you, Amalek, my friend."

The bird squawked twice, and flew away.

He grabbed the bag of food, went to the lower window, climbed out, and jumped to the tall grass of the ground. As he rolled over, on the grass, Dablank began to shake on his bed, back in his own little cell of hell. His reclined body shook uncontrollably, for about a minute.

He had no idea why it did so; it never did anything like that before. After it stopped, he settled down on the bed and stared into the dark. He had been dreaming, but it was like no dream he ever had before.

He decided to record it before he forgot it. After he did so, he relaxed with heavy eyes and thought about it with intrigue. He laid in silence on his bed, recalling the dream. It was about a castle-keep and a large, powerful bird.

He laid in silence and listened to the sounds about the area. He noticed something strange. The sounds were oddly different than how he recalled them. Where once there had always been silence, to one side, the re was the sound of someone working with things and making a small bit of racket, and in the direction where there had always been regular noises, there was only silence.

He found the remote to the video at his side, flicked it on, and a minute later, he sat up to see that he was no longer in the cold, grey cell. He was in someone else's well-furnished, colorfully decorated room. It was roughly the same size, but it was not his.

A minute later, a video-unit in the wall across the room alighted, in about the same place the square of light with the demon had been before. But the face which appeared was not the purple demon, but a friendly human.

"Dablank, man, you've done it!" the man said, with obvious excitement.

"What? What have I done?' Dablank said in a daze.

"The new formula, of course," the man said. "It works. This calls for a celebration. Give Vesa the good news and have her call Meg. We'll get together for dinner and cocktails."

"Uh, alright, yeah, sure," he responded, with hesitation.

"Dablank, are you alright?" the other said with concern. "You look a little pale."

"No, no, its okay, I'm fine," he said. "I just awoke from a nap."

"Oh. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. But news like this can't wait. Catch ya later."

The video went off and he sat in wonder,

He stood up, walked across the room to a bureau, looked into a mirror, and was happy to see it was his face after all. But where was he, and who was he? He found a thick billfold with a dozen c-notes in it, and smiled. That kind of money he could use. He found an ID, saw his picture, and read the info.

Wherever he was, it seemed he had a new life, and this one was a whole lot better looking than the last.

IV

He found a robe hanging by the door, put it on, and turned the light of a lamp on. He thought through everything that had passed since the time of his 'discovery' of the escape clause and the demon with the deal in the square of light.

The demon reminded him of the friendly guy that called him over the video-phone just minutes ago. There was a strange coincidence between the formula that the man mentioned and the 'escape clause'. It did appear now to Dablank, that he had indeed managed to write himself out of limbo.

He looked at the fat wallet, at the high-tek video phone, and a few technical books beside a chair in one corner. It was fantastic to think the 'formula' had worked. But the real question was, where was he now, and who was he?

He went to the door, with the urge to use the bathroom, and was further surprised to find himself in an apartment of some kind, with a somewhat familiar decor. To the right was a hall leading to a bathroom, and to the left, a hall leading to another door and a large living space. He heard sounds from the living space and wondered what it could be. He walked along the hall carefully, quietly, and entered the edge of the living space.

It was a large, ultra-modern living-room, designed for comfort and relaxation. On the other side was what appeared to be an adjoining kitchen, but half of it was hidden on the other side of a wall. The television was on, the sound low, and sounds were coming from the kitchen.

Suddenly, a pretty female in a kitchen apron appeared at the corner of the wall and looked at him.

"How was the nap dear?" she said to him, "Can I make you some java?"

She was a beautiful brunette, with a hair-style and figure reminiscent of the 60's. Apparently, this was the Vesa that the friendly guy mentioned. She was very familiar, but he hadn't seen her face very well, as she was busy in the kitchen.

"Java?" he said, almost automatically. "Yes, please."

As she turned away to the table, he was further amazed to see that she was bare naked under the apron, and her behind was completely exposed. She set a cup on the table, put some instant java in it, and disappeared behind the wall.

As she did this, he began to sense a trace of memory. This was all very, very familiar. Either he was having a strong episode of deja-vu or all this was something he'd known before.

This was quite a nice story he was writing, he thought to himself. But as he did so, it didn't make sense, and he had to sit down to think about it. He collapsed on the sofa, and thought it all through.

2 minutes later, Vesa brought him a cup of java, set it down on the table before the sofa, and looked down at him.

"You look strange," she said. "Are you feeling okay?"

"That's funny," he said, "Jack was just saying the same thing."

"Did Jack call?"

"Yes. He told me to give you the good news," he said.

"Good news?"

"The formula worked," he said, and smiled.

She reacted with pure delight, jumped down to the sofa beside him, and gave him a big hug and a kiss. As she did so, he relaxed and felt a warm rush of ecstatic relief. So he had, without a doubt, succeeded in writing his way out of hell. Obviously, hell was never like this.

"Jack wants to celebrate," he said to her, as she pulled away and looked at him. "But that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, it's just the 2 of us, alone, with a bottle of wine."

"Sounds wonderful," she agreed, "I better check on the dinner."

He sipped his coffee and watched the television while she prepared dinner. He thought back at where he had been, for so many years, and felt better than ever before.

Then suddenly, a rush of memory swept into his brain, and everything fell into place. Veza was the fiancée he had lost, over 20 years ago, just after high school, and this was one of the apartments they had checked out during his first year of college. He recalled the technical books in the room, and realized they were in the fields of chemistry and physics, both of which were his favorite fields of science.

Was this then the 'life' that he would have had with Vesa after earning a degree, if things hadn't gone wrong? It was a fantastic thought, but not much more fantastic than the idea of 'writing' one's way out of hell.

Vesa stepped into the living-room, removed the apron, such that she was fully naked, and said, "Dinner is served, oh great master." Then she laughed, and he got up, went directly to her, looked deeply into her eyes, and embraced her.

"I love you for all eternity, my dearest," he said, and gave her a big kiss on the lips.

They had dinner, relaxed with wine in the living-room, and it was the most comfortable night he had ever spent in his existence.

V

The next day, he awoke, in his new room, and wondered where Vesa was. Thinking she was probably making breakfast or something in the kitchen, he stretched and yawned, and for the first time in many years, actually felt positively thrilled about the new day. But before he stepped out of the room, the video-com was activated, and to his utter surprise, a familiar test-pattern appeared, then the demon.

"We don't know what you did," the demon admitted, as Dablank stepped up to it. "But you won't get away with it."

"What are you talking about?" Dablank responded, with confusion.

"You made some kind of unprecedented jump," the demon said, and smiled slightly, for the first time. "You went pretty deep in the archives. I'm not saying you did wrong, exactly. But we certainly did not expect it, if you get my drift."

"You're saying I did better than expected," Dablank said.

"Well, that's one way to put it," the demon admitted, "but the point is, they won't let you get away with it."

"Who won't let me get away with it?"

"The Overlords, of course," the demon said. "They expect a more formal commitment. They expect a long-term contract, a formal agreement to work for them."

"But I did my 20 years already," he objected.

"Not hard labor; info retrieval," the demon said. "I just thought I'd let you know, so that you aren't shocked when you leave the room."

"What do you mean, shocked?"

"Dablank, don't take it too hard," the demon said, with a tone of consolation. "You've got potential, they can work with that. Don't worry, do what they expect and you'll see her again. Believe me, Dablank, everything will be alright..."

"What? No, not Vesa!"

He quickly ran out of the room, into the living-room.

"Vesa?" he called, his nerves suddenly on edge. "Vesa?" He checked the kitchen, the other rooms, the bathroom, and she wasn't in the apartment. For the first time, he left the apartment, found himself in a hallway with another door directly across. To the left were steps leading up and to the right was another door that said 'storage' on it. He went through the door, found himself in a large, elongated, dimly lit cellar, with several storage compartments.

There was a somewhat familiar sound coming from the right, he followed the cellar-way 20 meters, around a corner, went through another door which was held open by a stopper on the floor, and looked across another 10 meters, to an open door with bright light, and the sound was much louder. He passed several more storage lockers, and peaked inside the lighted room. It was a 10 meter square laundry room with several machines. Standing by one of them, sorting clothes, a brunette stood with her back to him.

"Veza?" he said.

She turned about and looted at him with puzzlement. It was not her, it was another woman. "Excuse me?" she said.

"Tm looking for Vesa, my wife," he said. "Have you seen her?"

"Sorry, no," she said. "I haven't seen anyone. I think I'm the first one here."

He wandered about the complex, checking the grounds and facilities, but she was nowhere. He returned to the apartment with disheartened defeat. What had just yesterday promised to be one of the greatest days of his life had been denied him, apparently by the intervention of the 'overlords'.

He went to the room, saw the test-pattern on the video-com, and the demon appeared again.

"There you are," the demon said. "That was quite a reaction. As I said, don't worry. Everything will work out."

"Where is she, damn it!" he swore, his temper surmounting.

"She's fine, Dablank, just fine," the demon assured him. "You'll see her again, I guarantee it. Don't you recall what I said to you in your purgatorial cell?"

"What do you mean?"

"I told you it couldn't be all fun and games," the demon said.

"I seem to recall, yes, but what does that have to do with this?"

"Well, first of all," the demon explained, "when you accessed that ancient myth from the archives, it projected you much further than anyone expected. That is something the wizards themselves can't explain. The landlords reviewed your case, feared you were some kind of loose cannon, and decided to pull the plug before it went any further."

"So they took Vesa away, the bastards!"

"Yes," the demon admitted, and continued. "You must understand, Dablank, that technically, what you did was not possible. You haven't yet made any formal commitment. It is standard procedure with this kind of case to put you directly to work with info-retrieval."

"Hell, this writer's escape clause sure is complicated," Dablank said, accepting the hard-reality with reluctance again. "Why can't I just write whatever I feel like?"

"Now, Dablank," the demon said, "I've already explained all that. Do you want to take the next step or not?"

"Next step?"

"The formal commitment," the other said.

"What sort of commitment?"

The demon looked down shortly, as if reading something on a desk, and spelled it out for him.

"Your life, your wife, your future will all be granted to you, if you succeed in the retrieval of the Tranquan crystal-records, which are lost somewhere in the asteroids between Jupiter and Mars."

"What?"

VI

"That's impossible!" Dablank said, with great doubt. "How the hell am I supposed to get to the asteroids?"

"Ah, very funny," the demon said, "but I'm not laughing. You must recall how you got where you are, Mr. Dablank and I can't be expected to remind you. Do you have any idea just how far the Earth's space program is presently?"

"You mean ... of course," Dablank began to catch on. He looked at the technical books on the table by the chair in the corner. "After all, I did get myself here, didn't I? I'm not in purgatory anymore, am I?"

"Most definitely not, Dablank," the demon said. "Now, if we are agreed upon the terms of this arrangement, we need your identa-print for the records. Please place your hand on the test-pattern and remove it when you hear the tone."

The test-pattern appeared on the video-screen, and Dablank thought about the high price put upon his life. Why must things always be so complicated, he thought, and then realized there was no other way. If the overlords could take Veza away so easily, even while he controlled the pen-work, then they had more power than he could expect to oppose.

"I need some time to think this over," he said.

The test-pattern disappeared and the demon reappeared.

"What's to think over?" the demon said, "don't you want Vesa back?"

"Of course," he said.

"Then there's no other way. The Overlords, Dablank, have a way to block the escape clause. They won't let you write your way out unless you perform the task they have set."

"But it isn't fair," Dablank protested. "The task is much too high a price. I don't like it. I did 20 years of hard labor in the purgatorial hell-zone by Dis, for simply following orders in the first place. I lost my career, my wife, my whole life. Then after all that injustice, I manage to slip through an escape clause, spend one night with her, after all those years, and the next day you bastards snatch her away from me!"

"Calm down, Dablank. Don't get excited," the demon said.

But it was too late. Dablank was heated up with anger from the thought of all the years of unfair punishment and the frustration of so many things gone wrong. He had been known to develop something of a bad temper over the years, but he rarely un1eashed it. This was one of those rare times.

Out of nowhere he picked up a wooden club, stared with savage hatred at the demon on the wall video-com unit, stepped up to it, swung the club, and smashed the thing in just as the demon vanished and it went dead.

Before he was tempted to do any more damage to his room, he calmed down, dropped the club, and sat down in the corner chair with a feeling of dissolute defeat. He rested in quiet contemplation of his new situation, for about 20 minutes.

Then his old colleague Jack Vance let himself into the apartment, and stepped into the doorway.

"Sorry to hear about Vesa," he said.

Dablank looked up to see the man from the video who had delivered the news about the formula.

"Jack?" he said, still very dissolute. From Jack's perspective it would just be days since they'd seen each other, but for Dablank it had been years.

"Yes, it's me buddy," Jack said, stepped into the light of the room. "You okay?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Hey man, it'll be alright," Jack said, with consolation. "You know she still loves you. She's just doing her job. It's what she was trained for. Can't expect a girl with a doctorate in medicine to ignore an emergency."

Dablank looked at the man with confusion.

"Hell,' he decided, "we only just got married, Jack! We only spent one night together! One night, Jack?"

His friend Jack nodded with understanding.

"So now, what you planning to do?" he said to Dablank. "You're not gonna just do nothing?"

Dablank shook his head. "I don't know."

"Well, let an old friend make some suggestions?" Vance said.

"Like what, then?"

"Well, now that the new formula works," Vance said, "we can get that contract with Nasa. Dablank, old boy, we can have one of our boys on the next ship to Mars."

Dablank looked at him with wide eyes.

"That's quite a big step," he said. "You think it's possible?"

"Man, with your genius and my skill we can even get to the Jovian Moons," Vance admitted with a spiritual confidence that Dablank had reserved for the moment.

"Think about it. Veza will be waiting, after her own work is done. She certainly doesn't expect you to throw away your career because of a little emergency."

"Just how good are we in with NASA, presently?" he said.

"All we have to do is promise them the formula," Vance admitted, "and we can write our own ticket."

Dablank looked at the technical books on the table beside him, thought of Veza and the contract with the Overlords, and hopped onto his feet.

"Let's get to work," he said to Vance, and the 2 of them moved into action.

As he left the apartment with Vance, Dablank realized that he had made quite a jump out of Hell. For all things considered, even if Veza had been called away, he had managed to resume the life he had lost years earlier, and it was a much better prospect than the purgatorial cell he'd been confined to before he discovered the escape clause

finis

Ghost-Wing Five

One

Within the main administrative complex of the Kongrade Industrial Park, on the highest level of its silver and gray pyramid, 6 men and 2 woman sat around a large oval conference table, quietly looking through folders and sipping drinks, while the large husky man with a cigar sat looking about at them, one after the other, glowering with obvious impatience and uncertainty. He looked at his watch, turned to the woman closest to him and said, "Miss Carlyle, will you please find out what in Hazone's name is taking Vernier so long?"

The pert young woman tried the console before a small computer monitor attached to the table and went searching for Vernier, the chief engineer assigned to the Ghost-wing project, one of Kongrade's most significant priority investments.

In the west wing of the same complex, on the lowest level, below ground, in a large maintenance bay, Vernier sat at a bench on a platform overlooking the latest version of the Ghost-wing. He felt some satisfaction and assurance that the machine, both beautiful and coldly dangerous in its basic functional design, was for the time, finally suspended from its activities. He pocketed a disc with the results of his diagnostic on it into his smock's pocket, put the computer into low-energy inactive mode, and left the bay. As he was doing so, he took note of the time and realized he was running late for the conference.

He hurried to the nearest elevator lift and began his ascent to the pyramid. As he was heading along the hallway for the central elevator shaft, he received a bleep on his intercom cell-communicator. Indeed, he was late, and Mr. Kongrade would most likely be in a bad mood.

He stepped into the elevator to begin the ascent up the ten levels and thought about the Ghost-wing. It was one of the most fascinating engineering projects he had ever worked on, and he felt honored to be given it, but the latest model was truly turning into a bit of a problem for him. The term Ghost-wing, he imagined, might need some adjustment. The term Phantom or Ghoul might better apply with this latest version.

Minutes later, Vernier stepped into the large conference room and met the many faces with neutral expectation. While the girls were usually nice to him, most of the men were all too serious, especially Mr. Kongrade himself. Kongrade's investment in the Ghost-wing project was substantial. They'd not care to hear any more bad news, under the circumstances. The loss of 5 members of the company, including 2 of Kongrade's own relatives, to the Ghost-wing, had put everyone into a dismal mood. It was as if they were beginning to ask, all too often, 'who's next?'

"Well, man," Kongrade said impatiently, "What's the diagnosis?"

"The hard-drive won't answer to Kongrade's security protocols," Vernier said, and stepped up to the wall console and touched the controls. A curtain slid aside to reveal a large video-screen. He put the disc into a slot and worked the controls for a minute.

"It's as if it was programmed by another unit, but I can't configure the specs," he explained. A picture of the Ghost-wing's main computer appeared on the screen with a red circle around the main hard-drive. Vernier turned about and said, "I tried to purge it, but it wouldn't permit the action."

"Another unit? You're referring to primary security?" said Hodgkins, Kongrade's security expert.

"Yes," Vernier said. "If the program can't be purged or deciphered, the hard-drive may have to be completely disintegrated."

"Well, that's it then?" Kongrade said. "You're saying you can neither purge it nor decipher it?"

"Decryption could take quite some time," Hodgkins admitted, "if all these spex are correct."

"They are correct," Vernier said. "The Ghost-wing has one of the most advanced security systems ever attached to a game vehicle. The program in point is no less sophisticated. If anything, it is more complex."

"More complex than the original Ghost-wing security?" Novestrom, Kongrade's chief of operations said, with doubt.

"It does appear so," Vernier said, "otherwise, our own security would be more able to find a way to purge it. The point is, it should never have been able to bypass security and rewrite the software to begin with."

"So, what are our options?" Kongrade said.

"Unless we're willing to risk another 'accident' and attempt decryption," Vernier said, "we should disintegrate it."

"Wonderful," Novestrom said, with obvious sarcasm, "a million note state-of-the-art game vehicle, due for the junks. That's all we need now."

Kongrade and the others shook their heads with disappointment.

"Well," Hodgkins said, "we really don't want to risk another accident, now, do we?"

Even Kongrade himself had to admit to that conclusion.

"There's no way to decrypt her," he suddenly said, to be sure, "without activation?"

"The last accident occurred during low neutral activation," Vernier reminded him. "We'd need at least that much for a decryption dissection."

"Well," Novestrom said, conclusively, "It looks like we're going to lose number 5 from the line. At least we still have the original four."

Vernier nodded agreeably, feeling some relief that they were taking it so well. At anytime, however, he felt certain to receive some adverse repercussions. Mr. Kongrade, he saw however, did not appear inclined to point any fingers or cut off any heads at this time. The man appeared rather oddly suspended, as he looked at Novestrom and then back to the large wall-screen, still displaying the computer dissection. Kongrade stared at the display for almost a minute, while everyone awaited his commands.

Hodgkins began to clear his throat a bit, and moved a hand rather sharply for his cup of water. At that, Kongrade suddenly came out of it, looked about the room in a bit of a daze, and took notice of Vernier, still standing by the wall-screen's console.

"Yes, very well then," Kongrade said, as he sat up straight in his seat and looked at the folder before him, which contained all the basic information about the Ghost-wing project. "Hodgkins, make certain that Vernier is given the clearance to dispose of this, uh, reject from the line. As soon as that is done, I want diagnostics of all four of the originals, done in separate bays. We must be certain that this problem has not affected the other vehicles. Let's hope that we can clean the slate and make certain that nothing like this happens with our number six vehicle."

Two

As they departed the conference room, Hodgkins joined Vernier and they walked to the central elevator shaft together.

"Damn strange," Hodgkins said to him, as they stepped into the elevator and began the descent together. "I oversaw every security program installation to the Ghost-wing and I have no idea where this elusive mystery program came from. But this is a technical matter, to be sure, isn't it?"

"If by that, you mean," Vernier said, "that it's my fault, I have to admit the same. I have no idea where the program came from either. I suppose it could have been sleeping during the initial program installations and kicked in later."

"Sleeping on the hard-drive?"

"Not necessarily," Vernier admitted. "It could have been sleeping almost anywhere in the Ghost-wing systems and at a time, later, when it was activated; it seized control of the vehicle's security program from a remote configuration."

The elevator stopped on the second level and Hodgkins stepped out. Before letting the doors close, he turned to Vernier and said, "I'll see you in the Ghost-bay in 20 minutes. Don't do anything more with it before I'm there."

Vernier stepped back into the large maintenance bay and looked at the silver and blue Ghost-wing vehicle with the thin red-line along its sleek curvaceous body. He was suddenly conscious of how unpredictable and dangerous the machine was, and somewhat less compelled to study it than before. It was hard to believe that, as it sat there on the rotating platform, perfectly cold and still, lacking any activation level whatsoever, that in the last 2 weeks it had somehow managed to kill 5 of Kongrade's men in what they were calling 'freak accidents'.

He told himself that all energy had been disconnected from its engines, but with a vehicle as unpredictable and elusive as this, he could never be completely certain. He stood observing it from the bay's edge, wary of what might happen if he stepped too close to it. After two minutes of quiet contemplation, he shook off the mystery and stepped into his office at the side. He checked the time, sat at his desk, and waited for Hodgkins.

As he did so, he recalled the suspicious little file-note attached to the mystery program which was the sole thing about it that made any sense whatsoever. It was the only 'clue' he had to go on and had so far been nothing more than a dead-end. The file-note appeared after his second attempt to purge the mystery program. He located the note in the secondary disposal dump, where he had sent it to be quarantined, and accessed it again. The disposal dump opened to his cryptic command and he studied the file again, under quarantine.

"The Ghost-Wing technology was first designed by Pro Rayden Kronix in 2042. The prototype model was referred to as the Ghost-Rider-Seven. That model and its designer have both been disappeared; however, the Ghost-Rider's primary technology was annexed by Kongrade Industries after the disappearance in 2045. For more information on this subject, please refer to Pro Rayden Kronix personnel case files."

Well, Vernier had followed the lead and searched for case-files on Pro Rayden Kronix, but had failed to access any of it. When he attempted to do so, the case was referred to a page which told him he did not have authorization for access. When he attempted to get authorization, Kongrade's personal security avatar, the one wearing the Kongrade Shield of Arms, advised him to "turn back and dare not further along the path".

It was this reaction from Kongrade's personal security avatar that told him he was venturing into very dangerous cyberspace and with frustration, decided not to pursue the matter further. He shook it off as being none of his business, at the time, but over the course of days he'd begun to wonder who this Pro Rayden Kronix was and why his case-files were inaccessible. Clearly, if Kronix was the original designer of the Ghost-wing technology, as the Chief Engineer of the Ghost-Wing project, Vernier should have access. But he wasn't one to rock the boat, not under a man like Kongrade. Still, one would think that if Kongrade placed as much value in the project as he thought, it didn't make any sense that its Chief Engineer would be denied such access.

When Hodgkins arrived, he stopped and looked at the vehicle in much the same way as Vernier had, from a distance, with mystery and intrigue. Then he snapped out of it, looked toward Vernier's office, and walked to meet the engineer. Vernier stepped up and went to the cabinet at the back of the office as Hodgkins stepped in.

"Care for a shot, Ked?" he said, bringing out a decanter of dark bronze brandy.

"Good idea," Hodgkins said, agreeably. "If ever there were an occasion that warranted a medicinal respect, this is it. Kind of sad to see it off, isn't it?"

"Yes," Vernier agreed, and handed him a mug. "Our first Ghost-wing bastard."

"I hear that," Hodgkins said, accepting the mug. Vernier poured a spot and the security chief told him when to top it off. "That's good. Let's toast, shall we?"

"To the Ghost-wing project?" Vernier said.

"To our first Ghost-wing bastard," Hodgkins corrected him, and they both nodded and toasted with mutual agreement.

Hodgkins swallowed and turned to look out the office window at the vehicle sitting in the middle of the bay. Vernier joined him.

"How does one treat a computerized game-bastard on wheels?" Vernier said, wonderingly. "It seems a mighty shame that we have to send it to the junks."

"Yes, a mighty shame indeed," Hodgkins agreed. "An acme-level Ghost-wing, even a bastard, is still quite a prize. Must be worth at least 100 thousand to some collector."

"That much? You really think it could get 100 grand, even while disconnected from a power source?"

"Well, I dunno about that," Hodgkins admitted. "I suppose it would have to be activated at some point during the deal."

"That would be dangerous," Vernier said. "You know as well as I."

"Isn't there a way that it could be... restrained?" Hodgkins suggested.

"Restrained? Hmm... I, uh, suppose it's possible. You're suggesting a way to activate it without actually letting it loose on the road?"

"That's exactly what I am suggesting."

"Yes, it may be possible, but to what end?"

Hodgkins looked Vernier in the eye and said, "Fathers generally reject bastards and tell them to go to hell. They don't care what happens to them, as long as they don't have to be responsible for them. Uncles, on the other hand, are not so quick to judge. They would say, he's not all that bad, just needs some proper care and guidance. He needs a change of pace, a change of scenery perhaps...."

"You don't want to send it to the junks?" Vernier guessed. "Then where?"

"We'll get it out of here, alright," Hodgkins said. "I'll set it up. But I can think of a better place to send it, and there'll be a 50-50 split in it for both of us. How's that sound?"

"Well, I like the idea of not sending it to the junks," Vernier said, "but I'm not too sure about a profit deal. There'd be hell to pay if the old man found out."

"Don't worry about it," Hodgkins said. "We both might need the extra notes."

"Why would that be?"

"Are you glum?" Hodgkins said, and took another swallow of brandy. "Of all the members of the Ghost-wing project, who do you think Kongrade holds responsible for this?"

"Oh, yes," Vernier admitted, and sighed, then took another swallow of brandy and put the mug down on the desk. "I suppose you have a point. But do you think we'll be demoted?"

"Hard to say, but it's possible," Hodgkins admitted. "With a man like Kongrade, one can never be sure. But I think, under the circumstances, both you and I could use some insurance."

Vernier joined him at the window again and looked out at the vehicle, wondering who might buy it and surrendered. "Yes, I guess you're right about that. But I have no experience with sales, I'm an engineer."

"You leave that part to me," Hodgkins said. "I'll handle the sale; you prepare our bastard to be restrained while activated. Can you handle that?"

"Yes, I believe so," Vernier agreed. But as Hodgkins left him, he wondered if he had bit off more than he could chew with that agreement.

Three

Later that day, a large dark gray moving van parked outside the Ghost-bay and the number 5 'bastard' vehicle was adjusted to neutral gear and rolled out to it. A cable was attached to its front bumper and it was pulled by the cable up into the van. The van was closed and Hodgkins spoke with Vernier.

"Meet me at the main Junk's tavern at 6," he instructed. "Bring whatever you need to restrain it during activation and dress casually. We don't want you looking like one of Kongrade's engineers."

He left him at that, joined the driver in the van's cab, and departed the industrial park.

Later, after his shift, Vernier followed Hodgkin's instructions and met him at the tavern.

"Got what we need?" Hodgkins said.

"Yes," Vernier said. "What now?"

"Follow me."

Hodgkins returned to the van's cab and the van started rolling out onto the road, away from the tavern and the junkyard. Vernier followed.

Around thirty minutes later, Vernier followed the van through a gateway into what appeared to be a small mechanical business, with a large garage and a machine-shop. It was not a popular business, by the shape of its grounds, and it was obviously after hours, as the sun was setting and activity was quite low.

The van backed up to the garage and stopped. Hodgkins stepped out and met a man. Vernier sat in his vehicle for a minute and studied the man. He looked familiar. He had the dark skin and general build of one of Kongrades main competitors. No, Vernier decided, it wasn't him. But there was a resemblance. As he stepped out and walked toward the garage to meet the man, another man, somewhat taller, of the same dark complexion and pitch-black hair stepped out of the shop and walked over to the back of the van.

Vernier recognized this one. He was one of the other drivers. These men were the competition. They were the Middle Eastern team. Hodgkins was selling the Ghost-wing reject to Kongrade's main competition. Vernier stopped suddenly, in shock. He couldn't believe Hodgkins could do such a thing. It was the act of a traitor. When Hodgkins suggested they sell the Ghost-wing reject, rather than junk it, he never imagined who the buyers would be.

He stepped up to the men at the back of the van, as Hodgkins opened the doors, and took Hodgkins by the arm as they began to admire the vehicle sitting inside the van.

"Ked, what the hell?" he whispered urgently, dragging him away to the side. "How can you do this? This is the Algerzen Faction. They're one of Kongrade's main competitors!"

"So what? The damn thing is a bastard, right?" Hodgkins spoke quietly, as they faced off, around the corner from the back of the van. As they did so, the Algerzen began rolling it out down the ramp and into the garage.

"It's still a Ghost-wing!" Vernier said. "The technology is priceless. It's also something they can duplicate."

"Well, think about it," Hodgkins said. "The Algerzen didn't make it to the last match. You know why, right? Well, the fact is, they need a vehicle to get back in. They need a high-grade vehicle. They're not going to waste time duplicating anything. They want it for the road as soon as possible. It's their ticket back into the race. You know what the bastard is capable of?"

Vernier understood what Hodgkins was saying and nodded with some reluctance. He hated the idea of delivering state-of-the-art Ghost-wing technology into the hands of one of their primary enemies.

"Now, play along," Hodgkins said, "and don't blow our covers!"

Later, after the deal went through, Hodgkins paid the driver of the van and joined Vernier in his vehicle. They drove away as Hodgkins opened the sport-bag and started counting the notes.

"I hope you realize what you've done," Vernier said. "If the Algerzen duplicate that teck, they'll get an edge on us."

"They won't, they'll be too busy taming a bastard," Hodgkins said, "and even if they do, we'll be well on into the upgrades with number 6. As far as the contest is concerned, if they try to pilot number 5 they'll get a good taste of its demonic accidents."

"Hmm... you know something Hodgkins?" Vernier said, as they drove out onto the highway, "I don't know who the bigger bastard is, Ghost-wing 5 or you!"

"Stop cuddling with your conscience and look at all this insurance," Hodgkins said. "I managed to get 200 grand for it, so stop crying. That's 100 each. I think we both need a vacation."

Vernier was surprised, but had a harder time accepting the reward and consoling his conscience. He couldn't help but wonder what the Ghost-wing 5 would do to the Algerzens. If it killed just one of them, he'd have a hard time sleeping at night.

As Vernier drove and they both contemplated a vacation, Vernier recalled the strange file-note in his disposal dump under quarantine.

"Ked," he said, "Know anything about a Pro Rayden Kronix?"

"Rayden Kronix?" Hodgkins said, with intrigue. "He disappeared in 45. As a matter of fact, he was once considered quite an engineer, perhaps even brilliant, by Sirohan standards. The old man knew him, so I suspect. From what I've been told, they once attended the same Guild and courted the same girl. I'm not certain, but I suspect they were rivals of a sort."

"Kongrade and Kronix, rivals?" Vernier said, with surprise.

"Yes, I suspect, from what I've heard," Hodgkins said, and explained. "Apparently, after he disappeared, the old man stole his girl and married her."

"What? But, that doesn't quite make any sense," Vernier said, with confusion. "Or, maybe it does. Dear guard, Ked, its all beginning to make sense, in an ominous way..."

"What are you talking about? What's beginning to make sense?"

"The Ghost-wing 5, the way it has been acting," Vernier said, with an almost macabre tone. "Ked, the sole file I gained access to in the mystery program names Rayden Kronix as the original designer of the Ghost-wing technology!"

Hodgkins was suspended in thought with this news, and finally responded with shock.

"Holy Shanks!"

"The file also states that the Ghost-wing was annexed by Kongrade in 2045!" Vernier added. "Ked, our boss is a damn industrial pirate!"

Four

Jezra Algerzen sat in the Ghost-wing 5 preparing to activate it for the first test-drive. He patted the top of the console and said, "You are truly one of the most beautiful machines I have ever been honored to pilot. I will take care of you, I promise. I will not push you too fast. We shall take our time getting to know one another. You will see, I am not like the others. I understand you. I know you deserve more respect than they give you. We must be friends. We must learn to trust one another, and that takes time."

With that ritual of respect said and done, he turned the key and pushed the activation switch. The Ghost-wing 5 began to purr quietly. Jezra sat, closed his eyes, and felt the gentle vibrations in his legs and slightly elsewhere in his body. The perfectly formed body-glove seat absorbed most of the vibrations and shock, so it was very gentle and did not cause any discomfort. He sat and let it warm for a few minutes.

He opened his eyes and took note of the small video-screen on the main console. It was lit up light blue and a small green light was blinking on it.

"Ah, you are awake, I see," Jezra said. "Are you also willing to go for a drive?"

"Please designate pilot ID," a female voice, the voice of the Ghost-wing computer said, in a neutral, mechanical tone.

"I am Jezra, of the Algerzen," he reported. "My ID is SRN-725-894."

The computer's video-screen displayed some computations, and then displayed a picture of Jezra, along with a page of personal information.

"Very good, that is me," he said, almost laughing. "You have me, I am yours."

"Jezra, of the Algerzen," the female voice said, in the same neutral, emotionless tone.

"Yes?"

"You are not with the Kongrade Industries?"

"Certainly not. They are the western hemisphere's monopoly. The Algerzen Guild does not affiliate with them."

There was a pause in the exchange, and the video-screen went back to blue with the same green light blinking.

"You are thinking. I may explain something, if you want. I do not wish to be deceptive."

"Please explain how the Algerzen Guild possesses a Kongrade Ghost-wing vehicle."

"The Ghost-wing vehicle was sold to us. I do hope that is not a problem. We paid quite well for such a fine machine. Nothing too good for such a beautiful vehicle."

Another pause, the blue-screen, green light blinking.

Jezra sighed and tried to relax. He did not want to push her. He did not want to offend her. He only wanted to befriend her, and if he could not do that, well, then he wasn't as good a pilot as he thought. He waited with much patience.

Finally, the voice returned.

"Jezra, of the Algerzen," the voice said, and there was another pause.

"Yes, my prize," he said.

"I accept your position as my pilot. Together, we will defeat the Kongrades."

"Very good, that is good of you," Jezra said. "I am happy to be your pilot, very happy. Yes, together, we shall defeat the Kongrades, and the Algerzen will be back in the game!"

With that, the Ghost-wing 5 slid out of the garage and onto the roadway, for its first test-run, and there were no more accidents, not a one.

finis

The Master Projector

1.

LA, CA, 1984:

Victor Kosgrove awoke on the beach, shortly after sunrise, with a hangover. He forgot where he was and tried to recall the night before. He was at a party with lots of his friends and associates. It was the summer solstice celebration, held at someone's seaside estate. Who's? He couldn't remember. There had been plenty of booze, pretty girls, and even a little coke.

He had made friends with a sexy blonde with great breasts and thighs. They and a few other couples had all carried their drinks outside, onto the beach. After bulling and joking around for about ten minutes, the couples began wandering off for some private foreplay. The sexy blonde led him off along the beach to a secluded spot beside a bramble bush. They fooled about, had sex... and that's all he could recall. Apparently, after the sex, he'd passed out to sleep, but... how'd he get here?

He looked all about. The beach was one of those expansive public parks, a great, wide stretch of sand leading for hundreds of meters in both directions. It was at least 50 meters wide, from the sea to the parking lot, and there were stone-lined pits, for fires and cook-outs, sparsely scattered about. In the parking lot, set apart equally by about 100 meters, were moderately sized one and two-level square, stone structures, apparently containing showers, toilets, locker-rooms, and refreshment stands or restaurants.

Now he recalled. It was Huntington Beach, of course, but still, how did he get from the private cove where he was late night to Huntington Beach, which was at least a kilometer away? He couldn't recall. Had he sleep-walked all the way along the seaside last night? Funny, he'd never been known to sleepwalk be fore, but how else could he explain it?

He continued to look about and slowly got to his feet. The sand was fine, thick, and deep, not like the coarse stuff had been at the cove. He brushed his clothes off and checked for his wallet inside his jacket's inner pocket. Luckily, it was still there. He didn't need to lose that.

He suddenly noticed something peculiar that hadn't phased him earlier. The area was completely deserted. He checked the time. It was just before 7 am. Perhaps it was too early but..., no, something didn't seem right. There hadn't been any vehicles on the coastal highway on the other side of the parking lot, not a single vehicle had passed since he had awakened.

That was strange. He looked into the distance in every direction and saw nothing moving whatsoever, not even a bird. No people, no vehicles, no birds or other animals. How could it all be so lifeless and deserted? Perhaps, he decided, it was just one of those peculiar coincidental circumstances. In another hour, the world would begin to wake up. It just takes time. Perhaps more people had hangovers from the summer solstice parties than he expected.

He walked to the back of the beach, to the parking lot, followed the sidewalk along the short stone wall, and reached one of the structures. Outside, on the veranda, were picnic tables. He sat down to gather his bearings. He checked the time and looked southward, then north. Huntington Beach was actually closer to his company office and the refinery than his home, so he decided to walk to his office. There he could get a company car and he'd be back in business. He got a drink from one of the public water fountains, took a few headache pills, and started walking along the beach southward.

Thirty minutes later, he reached the edge of the oil-refinery and stopped. It was strange, very strange indeed. He still had seen absolutely no one, not a single soul, animal, or moving vehicle. Why was it all so dead?

He turned inland and began walking along the main road through the refinery. He passed over a bridge, stopped again, and looked out across the facility. There were a few refinery vehicles parked about the great, metal vats and it looked odd, as if the personnel had just suddenly dropped everything in the middle of the shift and abandoned it. There were hoses and tools lying about, bits of piping scattered about randomly, even a door left open to the cab of a truck.

But where were the people?

He thought about it and decided they simply had been careless about it, probably overly anxious to leave the plant and get to a party or something. That sort of carelessness, he decided, was inexcusable. Most of that stuff was company property. As CEO of the L.A. division, Kosgrove made it a point to penalize such careless workers.

He shook his head with disapproval and walked on. It was all so strange, he thought in reflection, as he gazed about at the vast oil refinery facilities. This was a perspective upon it all that he'd never seen before. Was it al I ways so dead and still at this time of the morning?

He was reassured to hear the 'hissing' of gas-pipes in the near-distance. At least some thing was functioning normally. He walked on, realizing as he did so that he'd never quite known the industrial zone to be so vast. It was as if he was smaller than he'd ever been before, on his legs for a change, rather than in a motor vehicle buzzing about it at a higher speed.

He was reminded of Einstein's observations that led to his theory of relativity. For the first time in his life, he seemed to understand just what Einstein had been observing. It was as if his walking perspective had a completely different life, apart from his riding perspective.

After walking for another 30 minutes, with still no sign of life, he finally reached the gate that led through the fence to the building that contained his field-office. But the gate was locked and there was no keeper at the gatehouse. He tapped his code into the console, but the gate remained shut, without response. He tried He tried again twice, without result, and called through the intercom unit. No one answered.

He looked at the gate and the fence. It was almost 4 meters high and had barbed-wire at the top. He had to get inside, but climbing the tall fence looked quite difficult. There had to be an easier way.

Where the hell was everyone?

He became frustrated. What the hell was going on?

2.

Victor Kosgrove was not alone as he thought. In fact, another man, an unfortunate failure of a man whose name is of so little import that we may refer to him simply as Zeto, for lack of a better word, had also awoke on the beach, just before Victor. Zeto had also taken the walk to and through the refinery, ahead of Victor by only 30 minutes.

Zeto was also somewhat puzzled by the lack of life, but his reaction to it, from the perspective of a man that had nothing to lose to begin with anyhow, was more of fascination. Zeto was fascinated by the 'prospect' that he was one of the last remaining humans on Earth

For Zeto, unlike Victor, was not wealthy in the least, but perhaps as poor and desperate as a man could get. In fact, all that he owned was the rags he had on and a small pocket-jackknife that he found useful for survival purposes.

As Zeto took the walk inland to L.A., thru the wide industrial zone, he was oblivious to the idea of doomsday; he was in fact, completely fascinated by it. For to the poor, penniless, worthless Zeto, it meant that all the cruel competition for property and food was gone and he was free to en joy it all without worry, free to claim a luxurious Beverly Hills mansion, free to raid the malls and supermarkets, free to collect motor cycles, guns, and cars.

But as he walked along the road, which was aligned by high, steel, wire fences and noted the security locks intact, he had some vague, apprehensive doubts. Zeto was actually a very smart guy, in things of a scientific nature. He was also a lover of science fiction, and his instincts told him that he could not be certain what had happened and if, as he suspected, indeed all the people were gone.

A side of him thought it was too good to be true, that even though he had not seen a single soul for several kilometers and about 4 hours, this did not necessarily mean they were all gone. What if only the ones in the industrial zone were gone? What if the place had been evacuated due to a gas-leak or accident of similar hazardous levels?

He stopped at a junction, looked down along the high, fence-lined streets in four directions and wondered if such was the case. He sniffed the air but detected no odors. He felt his stomach grumble for food noted a restaurant, and peaked in through the windows.

Even if there had been such a hazard, he realized, it would be standard procedure for a crew in safety suits to investigate it. Where were they? He saw no sign of such a crew. Were they already on the scene of the accident, lost somewhere amidst the real industrial vats and pipe works?

His stomach grumbled again. He tried the door. It was locked. Zeto shook his head in frustration. He was not a thief. He was not a criminal. He hated prison; he hated it so much he never resorted to crime. If such a hazard had occurred and there were still people out there somewhere, breaking into the restaurant could still be considered an act of crime.

"Dammit!" he swore and decided. "Oh hell, well I'm not hungry enough to be stupid. I suppose I can keep moving and try to find out what really happened before I resort to criminal ways."

He looked around with that old conscientious shame-faced humiliation that his mother and the church had whipped into his brain. Then he sited the gas station across the street and saw a hose.

"Might as well have some water. At least it's still free."

He walked across to the station, picked the hose up to his mouth and squeezed the trigger. The water was warm but it set well in his stomach, and seconds later, he was on his merry way eastward, to the grand city of L.A.

In truth, all in all, it appeared to be a nice day. The sky was clear blue; it was warm but not hot, and arid with a gentle breeze from the sea coast. Along with the possible prospect that he, 'the meek', had inherited the Earth, this was an area he'd never before ventured into and he found it all very interesting.

On the other hand, the industrial zone was much vaster than he expected, and the site of the high fences and concrete brick walls was getting slightly monotonous. However, when it eventually did end, he found himself in a quaint little town or villa, where the workers obviously went during their free time. There were more restaurants and gas stations and barrooms, even a couple of exotic clubs that featured nude female dancers for entertainment. He sighed as he stopped to reflect on this and noted that here too; all the places were locked up tight.

"Dang it all! What's so fun about being the last man on Earth if I can't even enjoy the sites and provisions?"

He stopped to rest, sat down on a bench at a bus-stop, and sighed in frustration. He thought about breaking into a place, but his conscience wouldn't let him. There was, after all, the theory of the gas-hazard and evacuation to consider.

'Oh well,' he thought, 'I'll rest my legs and then move on. The city can't be much further. I wish the hell I knew what happened.'

3.

Victor was hungry, recalled a restaurant ahead at a junction not very far away, and decided to walk to it. Ten minutes later, he managed to Dry open one of the windows in the back office and climbed inside. It was deserted, like everything else, and quite messy, as if it had been left in a hurry. He looked it over for several seconds, then answered the call for his rumbling stomach, and went looking for the kitchen.

As he sat and ate, minutes later, he wondered about the circumstances of the situation. He was reminded of a few sci-fi disaster novels he'd read in his youth, then suddenly, in the middle of a bite of scrambled eggs, a theory popped into his head.

It seemed quite fantastic; however, by the looks of things, it was a definite possibility that the country was in a state of emergency, possibly even a war. He quickly finished his food and coffee, and headed back to the office to use the telephone. As he did so, he noticed a newspaper on the Counter. The headlines spelled out one possible reason he had not thought of yet and his face turned red with self-conscientious suspicion.

"OPEC INTRODUCES NEW SYNTHETIC FUEL"

'No', was his first reaction, 'it isn't that, it can't be.' But he paused in thought and measured out the doubts. Finally, he decided, 'No, that isn't it. It's got to be something else.' With that conviction, he went to use the phone.

He returned to the office, looked out the window, saw the factories in the distance across a field, and sat down at the desk. He thought of the number to his company's main office, located at the top of the Turman tower in the city, just 15 kilometers inland, picked up the phone and dialed. But the phone was dead. He received nothing, not even a dial tone.

"This is too much!" he protested loudly to no one, then thought of another number, to another branch office in San Diego, and dialed again. Again, the line was dead.

"What the hell!" he cursed, tried another, and still got nothing.

"Must be the connection," he said with defeat and slammed the phone down. He checked the telephone's cable; it was plugged in, and sighed with frustration.

"Oh hell," he said, picked the phone up again, and dialed the operator. This time, he received someone, but unfortunately, it was a recorded message.

"We're sorry, but all our operators are busy at this time. Please hang up and call later, or try 411 for information."

He tried '411' and got another recording, this one referred him to '911'. He called '911' and got another recording, along with a set of instructional advice in the event of an emergency. He listened to the advice and the last part reminded him of his earlier suspicions.

"In case of a state-wide emergency, please contact your local national guard headquarters for assistance."

The National Guard; was that really necessary? Even if it was, could he make contact or would he just get another recording? He checked his wallet for the National Guard number, but couldn't find it. He looked in the phone book on the desk, and could not find it. He checked the desk drawers, found a list of numbers, but it wasn't in it.

Great. The '911' emergency line tells him to call the local national guard but he can't find the telephone number. That's just great! Now what?

'Now hold on, just wait, don't lose your cool," he reminded himself, and looked back out the window.

'What kind of emergency was this?' he thought, and began going through all the possibilities.

Oil refinery deserted. No traffic, no life. All but local phone-recordings were dead. Maybe he should shoot for the capital. Washington? OPEC had offices in D.C., sure, why not?

He looked up the number in his wallet and dialed it out. Not surprising, the line was still dead. But all that meant was that the local extensions were down. A storm could have that, perhaps, or sabotage? Could terrorists be responsible?

'Damn it!' he decided, and left the office. He stopped in the restaurant, looked out the windows to the deserted street, across to the huge plant, the vats, and towers in the distance. He gazed at the great industrial structures and his eyes became fixed on one of the huge white spheres containing gaseous elements that were used in the re finery and synthesizing of petroleum products.

"No," he decided, "it must be something else, but what?"

He opened the front door and left the restaurant with firm decision. He walked across the junction to a gas station, broke the glass on the door and unlocked it. Inside, he found a large pair of heavy wire-cutters and carried them back out on the street.

Back at his company, he used the wire-cutters to cut away some of the fence, and got inside. As he expected, he met with no resistance from security. Obviously, no one, including security, was present.

Minutes later he checked into his third-level field office, which overlooked the refinery facilities. Now, at least, he felt somewhat easier and at home. He settled down at his desk and began investigating the situation with professional expertise.

The first theory he was anxious to dismiss, the one the liberals had criticized so much, that the new synthetic fuel 'VZ50' might be responsible. He dug out the files he had on the new fuel and turned to the computer. As he did so, he felt a pang of pain in his head, took it for the hang over, and took some more pills with his coffee.

4.

Zeto moved on through the town eastward, over a bridge under which were railroad tracks, and thought he heard the sound of children playing. Oh the other side of the bridge he saw the remnants of a child's bike just lying there in the bushes on the side of the road, and he looked beyond it, over the bushes, anxious to see if there were children about.

All he saw was the vacant lots of very low-class housing, the kind he didn't think existed in the United States, extremely rundown, cheap little adobe houses of no more than 2 or 3 rooms. There were about 6 of them in the foreground, many more scattered in the distance. They were obviously immigrant 'migrant' workers homes, rented out by husbands and fathers, just recently from Mexico, who worked in the industrial zone.

He walked on with the near beginning of a tear of sympathy. He didn't know which to feel sorry for, that they had to live in such poverty, or that they may have lost the lowly, meek lives that they had. Or had they also been evacuated?

He walked on through the low-class neighbor hood, feeling somber and somewhat depressed by the memories that such an area provoked. Almost a kilometer later, the houses began to get a little bigger, but it was still very low-class. He walked somewhat more steadily, eager to leave the depressed sites. Up a gradual slope he went, through some trees, by a few small businesses, into what appeared to be a higher class area, but without houses.

It was greener, more natural, and more pleasant to the senses. He passed a small business and a gas-station on the right and sited a picnic area on the left. A picnic grounds, yes, and there still appeared to be some food or the tables. He looked all about as he entered it, saw that it too was life less, but the trash barrels were full of colorful trash, trash that had only just been put there, and there was careless, colorful litter scattered all about, as if waiting for the caretakers to come and clean it up.

He sited some food on one of the tables, a box of fried chicken, and went to it. He was relieved to find 2 pieces of chicken still in it, along with a biscuit and coleslaw. He' sat down and ate, suddenly realizing that he was very hungry. As he ate, the thought he heard some voices and looked up, expecting to see children at play, but no one was there. His senses were playing tricks with his mind. He thought about it as he ate and looked about the scene.

It was odd and interesting. By the looks of it, the picnic had either occurred earlier that day and had just abruptly ended, or it had occurred yesterday and hadn't been cleaned up yet. As he reasoned it out, he wanted to believe it had just ended, for it still appeared to be 'enhanced by the spiritual impressions of the people, it still gave one the feeling of the happy days of youth, the fun and games of family and friends.

He finished the chicken, carried the box with the biscuit and coleslaw, and went about the other tables looking for more. With much relief and thanks to the happy people who had the picnic, he discovered some burritos, some pie, and more chicken.

More than likely, the picnic had been yesterday and no one had gotten to cleaning up before whatever had happened. Whatever the case, Zeto was glad they had left some food for him. As he sat and ate, he kept wondering where everyone had gone and what had happened and every now and then, he half expected to look up across the picnic grounds and see someone there, as if it was just another day like any other. He sat at the table alone and ate, finally filling himself and taking his time.

It was all so strange, so very bizarre in a fascinating sort of way. There he was, completely and utterly alone, perhaps the last man on Earth, .yet it was as if the people were still about, in a spiritual form that he could not see or touch. It was as if they were there, displaced in time, by merely a second. It was as if he felt their presence, but when he looked at where he thought they might be, the second had passed and they were gone.

The day was sunny and pleasant, as it had been yesterday, and there were echoes of the picnic still hanging about in the ethers. He became slightly sad and stopped eating. For the past 2 years he had been a lone drifter, a homeless, family-less, friendless nobody, and now he felt a touching deep sadness that his life had taken such a sorry course. In his youth he had been to such picnics, and now, they seemed so distant as to be gone forever, along with all the good spirits that went with them.

For a minute, he almost cried, but he got suddenly tough and reminded himself how cruel the world had been, after the picnic days of youth. Picnics were for children and adults lucky enough to survive the chaotic mind-games and deceptive hypocrisies of the real world. He had not been so lucky. He was a casualty, a victim, and it did no good to cry.

He searched about the grounds and tables for more food, filled a box, stuck it in a bag, and hit the road again. He thanked the picnic spirits as he left, resuming a more positive air of neutral confidence and certain direction. If he encountered no one in the big city, then he'd be in more of a position to do something, as there were public facilities there, always open.

5.

Victor reviewed everything on the new synthetic fuel 'VZ50', with an eye out for anything that might suggest dangers that could result in a disaster. The project information was a bit obscure, on the public access level. Even though he was a CEO to the OPEC branch, he didn't have access to the details. That info was buried deep somewhere and required a 12 digit and 6 letter access code to get to it. He set the computer on automatic decoder and went to get some more coffee. The decoder was state of the art, had cost 50 grand, but still, it could take hours.

As he tried to relax and looked out upon the refinery he began to wish he'd taken that job with the desalination plant 4 years ago instead of with OPEC. Of course, there was a significant difference in the rate of wages and salary, but oh hell. He knew he'd been greedy and there was nothing he could do to change it now. Regrets. He checked the time, looked at the video-screen and saw that the decoder had the first 2 digits.

Damn, his head still hurt. Lousy pain-killers hadn't helped. He looked outside again and wondered. Then suddenly he gave himself a mental slap to the face and started.

"Damn! How could I be so slow? There should be video-records in security!"

He quickly took a gulp of coffee, set it on the desk, and left the office. Security was on the second level. 2 minutes later, he passed a plasti-card through the security lock and the door opened. As with everything else, the security office appeared as if everyone had just suddenly ran out in a hurry. There was an open box of doughnuts, half-filled cups of cold coffee, an open drawer. He pushed a magazine away from the monitor, almost knocked over a cup of coffee, and brushed half a stale doughnut away. He switched the monitor on and keyed the memory.

'Time index, please.' the computer relayed.

"Hmm...," he thought about it, and then typed. 'June 24, 1984, 2 am."

He waited while it searched, then the picture appeared, from the main Cam 1 perspective on the roof of the building, overlooking the refinery. It was night, dark, but there were plenty of lights about the area giving it the appearance of an artificial dusk.

He keyed Cam 2 for a closer view of the works. The 1st shift was on, there were men hitching up lines and pumping petroleum into rigs, men passing orders and tallies. Everything appeared to be normal, there was nothing unusual. He recognized the chief of operations, Dalton, taking his routine tour about, stopping to check with his seconds. It was just another ordinary night; accept of course that the new fuel was going out for the first tine.

He ordered the tape to fast-forward and after several rigs departed, around 4 am, suddenly, there was a flash of light over the entire video screen, and when it was gone, a second later, so were all the people. He backed it up and replayed it at normal speed. He watched with wonder as something extraordinary occurred at exactly 4:08 am and by the next minute, it had passed, and all the people had simply vanished into thin air.

"What the hell?" he said to himself.

He played it over again, and then checked Cam 1 for a wider viewpoint. The flash occurred over the entire refinery. He checked the other Cams to see how widespread it was, and for a possible source. All of the cameras recorded the same flash at the sane time, even beyond the edges of the refinery. It appeared to have been spontaneous and without any particular source. The same flash at the same time all over the area.

"What was it?" he wondered. "Was it caused by the VZ50?"

He returned to his office with another cup of coffee, cursed the persistent hangover, and found the decoder had the first 7 digits. Decoding the 6 letter word would take much longer. He checked the time, decided to get some lunch, and went down to the lounge on the first level. Now more than ever he needed to access the info on VZ50. There was a mystery to solve and he had to know the answers.

6.

Zeto had plenty of energy now that his stomach was full, thanks to the picnic remnants. He walked on along the tree-lined road, passed what appeared to be a high-tek, pollution-free factory, probably the kind that assembled computers, and reached a crossroads with another gas-station and restaurant.

Ahead was a junkyard on the left and on the right what appeared to be either an old, well-cared for private, corporate laboratory, or some kind of government building. It was made of stone masonry, surrounded by a metal-wire fenced-in lawn of very green grass, with sprinklers going, and boasted a proud American flag up high on a tall, metal pole, flapping in the gentle breeze.

In the midst of the industrial zone, it was a grandiose reminder of a proud American heritage and a strong work ethic. It was probably some kind of labor department, but he couldn't quite make out the sign across the lawn near the steps and didn't really care. It did, however, puzzle him somewhat to see the sprinklers still going. Would not they shut them off during an evacuation, or were they on an auto-timer and they just forgot about it?

He walked across the street, toward the sprinklers, suddenly realizing he hadn't had a drink since the gas-station several kilometers back, before the picnic grounds, and had built up a thirst. He walked across a set of railroad tracks that aligned the street on the right, to the fenced-in lawn. One of the sprinklers was located just inside the fence and some of the water was spraying through it. He felt the heat of the day as the sun climbed through high-noon, and bent over to catch the spray in his face.

He opened his mouth and wet his tongue, but the spray was too light for a good swallow. He stood up and wiped his face and thought about a way to get a better drink. By the railroad tracks he found an empty coke bottle, with the cap still intact. He picked it up, noted it was not old or dirty, and stepped back to the fence.

Zeto had lived long enough on the streets as a homeless wanderer to know that he had to make the best of what he could find. He squatted down by the fence, took the cap of the bottle, and reached his fingers in through the wire fence. He managed to turn the head of the sprinkler about so that the main stream of water went through it. He washed the bottle out, filled it, took a couple of swigs, filled it again, then stood up and replaced the cap, letting the sprinkler head return to its original direction. He smiled at how wonderful such simple pleasures in life seemed to make such a big difference to survival. Now he had food and water.

He looked ahead, into the distance, and saw the old central court L.A. tower peaking out over the factories and other structures in the foreground. The tower was quite a distance, just how far he was not sure, perhaps several kilometers, maybe more. It was quite a picture, especially in light of the unusual situation. He took another drink, and then began walking again.

As the old factory walls surrounded him on both sides and the tall L.A. court-tower appeared to be almost straight ahead, set just slightly to the left of the street in the distance, he recalled the old sci-fi disaster classic, 'The Omega Man'. If he was the last man on Earth, what would he find in the walls of the big city? He was slightly chilled to think of the possible dangers, but reminded himself that the Omega Man was just science fiction, not reality.

He tried to dismiss the ghoulish thoughts, but the grey walls around him didn't help much. Nevertheless, he moved on, committed to carry the adventure through regardless of the unknown dangers. He had to find out everything he could, and at the 'courts' of L.A., he felt certain he could learn more. He took consolation in the fact that if things were as bad as he feared, he could start to exploit the resources for the sake of survival. The Omega Man would do no less.

7.

After lunch, Victor decided to take a look at the grounds, check for residual radiation or something, a trace remnant of that mysterious flash. He let the auto-decoder continue. It had 10 of the numbers. He expected it would take as much as 2 to 3 hours more. To be on the safe side, he took his .38 pistol just in case, and as he did so, he was reminded of the science fiction disaster classic, 'The Omega Man', and didn't look forward to nightfall under the circumstances. The sooner he solved the mystery, the better. But would that repopulate the world?

Oh hell, he couldn't let it bother him. He cautiously walked across the lot to the refinery works, where early in the dark before sunrise the 1st shift had suddenly vanished within the mysterious flash. He carefully inspected all the controls and conduits, then went to the chief's control office overlooking the yard. If there had been a control breach, the computer in the chief's office may have detected it and put it on record. He walked up the iron steps, went inside, and sat down at the video console.

He ordered the computer to report any faults in the systems of the refinery. Nothing. He ordered it to check its records and analyze the nature of the mysterious flash.

'Flash of radiation chemolectric in nature.'

"Chemolectric? Extrapolate."

"Spontaneous chemolectric incineration of unknown gaseous atmospheric element."

"Unknown gas? Speculate. Could such a reaction cause the disappearance of human life?"

"Unknown. Low probability. Reaction may be the side-effect of greater unknown cause. Further information is necessary for further analysis."

"Could any of the elements or compounds in the refinery be responsible?"

The computer read, 'Please stand by for complete analysis,' and he waited patiently for a response. After 2 minutes, the response came.

'A highly improbable combination of several elements and compounds may cause chemolectric reaction in atmosphere; however, nothing known can cause the disappearance of human life.'

"What about VZ5O?"

'VZ5O information access is classified. Please input correct code for access."

He stopped and checked the time. Nothing more he could learn here. He decided to head back to the main-office building and check on the decoder. By this time it had all 12 digits and the first letter to the word or letter combination. As letter combinations were more difficult and it would probably take at least an hour or more, he thought of the next logical step.

He decided to take a drive into the city to see how widespread the effect was. Luckily, there was a company car available. He found a set of keys in the security office and went down to the garage.

Minutes later, he was on his way to L.A. on a vacant highway. It was around 2 pm. Suddenly he sited the scene of an accident under an over-pass bridge, and decelerated until he was about 10 meters away, and stopped. It was one of their rigs and the wreckage was blocking the way through the underpass.

"Holy crack!" he cursed, as he stepped out side. It was, by the remnants of the markings, the new synthetic fuel, VZ50. As he stepped closer with caution, he immediately wondered if this was the source of the mysterious flash.

It was odd, not like any ordinary gasoline tanker accident. He wished he knew more about VZ50. By the looks of it, the new fuel was 100 times more combustible than any others. The metal of the tank was ripped open in several spots, large, gaping holes, and there were discolored bubbles in the remnant body of metal.

He stepped closer and put his hand out, then very carefully touched a flayed shard that was sticking out from one of the rips. It was cold. He got smart, went back to the car, and got a pair of gloves from his briefcase. He returned to the wreckage, took hold of the shard, and pulled. To his surprise, it came apart from the other metal like foam rubber being torn. The consistency of the metal had been changed. It was no longer hard and heavy, it was soft and light.

He returned to the vehicle with the shard of transformed metal; put it in a bag and in the trunk of the car. An analysis of it at the lab might tell him something. He turned the car about, drove away from the wreckage, back the way he came, until he found a place to cross into the other lane, then drove on the opposite side, in the 'wrong way', under the bridge and on to the city.

It seemed somewhat suspicious now, even if he dutifully agreed to not question -for details earlier, that even as a CEO to a major branch of an OPEC refinery, he was kept in the dark about 'VZ50'. He was suddenly very suspicious. This was just the sort of thing terrorists might be responsible for.

8.

Zeto walked and walked for hours eastward along what appeared to be one of the longest and straightest streets in Los Angeles. He passed kilometers of factories, encountered an occasional gas-station and garage, usually at intersections and crossroads, and continued to see the tall court tower in the distance. It was the best landmark he had to guide him, for the area he was in he had never passed through, to his knowledge, ever before in his lifetime and he had no map to go by.

It was about as grey and gloomy as it could get on such a bright, warm, sunny summer day. There were no trees or plant life, save for an odd growth of weeds in the corner of an intersection and a rare bush inside the fence outside a factory building.

He stopped to rest after his legs complained of being tired, but only after he located a rare bench at a bus stop at one of the crossroads. He took a drink, gazed all about, at the vacant gas station, through the tightly locked gate of a factory, and wondered still if he really was alone amidst it all or if there were others hiding away behind locked doors inside some of the buildings. He looked into the distance at the great court tower and tried to guess how far it was away, how much further he had to go.

He took another drink of water, which was by this time getting warm from the heat of the day, and marveled with sci-fi fascination at the thought of being the last man on Earth. In an ironic kind of way, he had been just that now for over 2 years, ever since he lost touch with his family and friends and took to the road as a poor, homeless wanderer. He was anxious to get to the courts and discover the truth.

In his sorry, misanthropic way, he actually was hoping he was alone, that it would stay this way, for recalling how it had been with all the people, he was convinced, at least for himself, that it could only be an improvement. After all, to the populated world he had been judged a useless bum and a loser, and discarded like a piece of waste by society. But under the circumstances of a depopulated world, he could be anyone he wanted to be: a wealthy playboy with a fancy sport-car, a powerful gunslinger on a motorbike, even a king with in a Beverly Hills castle.

Yes, he really was anxious to know the truth. He rubbed his legs, took another swig of water, got on his feet, and continued on along the old grey, industrial zone road. The first thing he had to do, if it was as he hoped, was get a set of wheels. This walking was getting tiresome. With persistence and anticipation to discover the truth, he continued on. He passed by about more factories and about a kilometer later, reached a town-square with department stores, shops, restaurants, hotels, and a grocery store.

In the center of it all was about 100 meters of trees, grass, and parking-lot. He stopped in one corner as he entered, looked all about for signs of life, and saw nobody, not a thing in motion. It was deserted like everything else.

9.

At his main office at the top of the Turman tower, 50 levels up overlooking the wide, vacant lifeless city of L.A., Victor accessed a special record left to him by his father, to be viewed only after his death or in the event of an emergency of equal level, such as his disappearance, kidnapping, assassination, or terminal illness.

The picture of his father appeared and below it a key of possible events. He pressed the 6th key, the event of a state of emergency, and 3 seconds later, the image of his father reappeared in conscious attention. Below him another set of keys contained the nature of the emergency.

Victor wasn't exactly sure about that, but decided he could review all of them if necessary. He decided to go with key 4, which was for man made disasters. It appeared to be the best guess. A new set of keys labeled the man-made disaster. He pressed key 5 for experimental projects. A new set of keys named the corporations responsible. He pressed 3 for OPEC.

Finally, his father began talking.

"OPEC is a highly secretive corporation, Victor, and I don't know every pet project they have been working on, but I do know that they've been trying to synthesize a cheaper, more efficient rocket-fuel for decades.

"In order of potential dangers, this is OPEC number one. If they manage to succeed, the formula would be the hottest item in the corporate spy network. In terms of capital, any 3rd world country would pay billions to get a hold of it. I don't have to remind you how hot the first nuclear bomb was, too hot to handle. The lucky bastards that get a jump on it could literally take over the space-program and monopolize on the moon, and that's just the non military potential.

"Well, son, if I've given you a lead out of the mess, press 0 to terminate the program. If you wish to proceed, press 1."

Victor pressed 0 with firm resolution.

"It's okay, Dad, save your breath. I think you've hit the nail on the head," he said, and spun about to look out the window in thought.

"Synthetic rocket-fuel," he said decisively, "So that's why all the secrecy!"

As he thought about his next step, he heard his father speak again. He turned back to the video with surprise, and saw the more recent familiar mug of his elderly father.

"Victor?" the old man said. "What's wrong? Why did you access the emergency program?"

"Father, it's really you?" he said with surprise "Where are you? You're alive?"

"Yes, yes," the old man said. "I'm safe, at the mansion."

The old man studied his son's face with puzzlement.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Don't you know? It's fantastic! Last night something happened and everyone vanished."

"What? Really? I just got out of VR therapy. I had no idea. Did you say everyone vanished? How?"

"I don't know exactly, but you gave me a possible lead in the experimental projects of OPEC."

"OPEC? Are you referring to the rocket-fuel?"

"Yes, that's it! One of the tanker-rigs was in an accident, and on the security records at the refinery there was a flash of light, all over the place, at around 4 am."

"Accident? Flash of light?" the old man repeated.

"Yes. I'm still not sure what it was. But after the flash, everyone was gone."

The old man nodded soberly, with keen thoughtfulness, and replied.

"Victor, what do you know about the rocket-fuel?"

"Not much. I don't even know if it was rocket-fuel. They were shipping it under guise of VZ5O, the new synthetic fuel just introduced. I think that's what they did, but it's just my best guess."

"Yes, yes," the old man agreed. "That's very probable, just the sort of thing OPEC might do."

"Victor," the old man decided, "I think I may know what happened, but I'm not sure. Can you get the details on the rocket-fuel?"

"I don't know. I can try. I have the decoder on it now."

"Good. Get to work on it immediately and call me back here the minute you've got something."

He was about to sign out, but had another question.

"Did you say 'all' the people vanished?"

"As far as I can tell, yes. I haven't seen a single soul all day. The city of L.A. is completely deserted."

"Yet you survived?"

"Yes, and you. What about the rest of the family?"

"I've been in the VR all night. I haven't had a chance to check."

"How's the heart?" Victor said.

"Better, much better. Son, you get to work on your end. I'll check on the others and talk to you later."

10.

Zeto looked into the structure closest to him, through a set of glass doors, and saw it was a grocery store. The thought of all that food with no one to claim it made him step up to the doors and try to get in. But it was locked, like every thing else. He looked in upon the food with growing temptation, then sighed in frustration, and went to a bench on the street side and sat down.

The town was locked up tight and vacant, like everything. What a shame he could not overcome his conscience, break into some place, stake a claim and enjoy it. But the evacuation theory still took precedence over all else, and he would simply have to wait until he reached the courts and continue to resist temptation.

As he sat on the street bench and sighed with wonder, he felt as if strange eyes were spying upon him from the buildings. That was how it was with his conscience. When ever he had the urge to act upon temptation and commit a sinful, criminal act, it was as if there were eyes spying upon him and traps getting ready to snare him if he did so, with him, the poor, innocent victim, as the prey. Because his fear of imprisonment was so strong, he was forced to resist such temptation.

As it was, after all, he was free. True, he was penniless, poor, in need of a shower, a safe place to sleep, and a new set of clothes, but at least he was free. That much, he decided, was enough to keep him from stealth and other criminal ways. For sure, he decided without a doubt, being free was by far superior to being imprisoned like a slave and whipped to work by gun-toting masters, even if it meant sleeping outside under the stars and scavenging for food outside restaurants and going without a shower for days or even weeks.

He opened his bag of food, picked out a burrito and ate it, once again becoming fascinated by yet another possible post-disaster scene. As he looked across the square upon the many small businesses, hotels, and shops, he noted the fact that there were not very many vehicles. There were about 4 in the parking-lot at the center and 3 or 4 elsewhere, parked outside buildings, on the streets and in between buildings.

Of course, if the disaster occurred during the early hours morning, before sunrise, that was not so unusual, since most of the people would have probably been at home in their private residences, outside of the town-square, at that particular time. On the other hand, the lack of vehicles also supported the evacuation theory, as it would have been necessary for the people to use them for the quickest escape.

Then he recalled one of the most recent 'nuclear devices' constructed by the military and became very suspicious. The device was known as the 'neutron bomb'. The neutron bomb, it was said, was designed to eliminate all human or animal life which was exposed to it, without the physical destruction of property.

'Dear God,' he thought, 'was that what happened? But if so, why was he, alone, still alive? Why didn't the neutron bomb eliminate him also?'

He was puzzled and uncertain. Was he somehow protected from the bomb's effect by his location at the time? He recalled he had slept on the beach last night. Was he protected somehow by the salty air or some other such unknown element present at the time? He again became anxious to know the truth, arose from the bench, and moved on.

No matter what the case was, Zeto was fascinated. This experience was truly the most exciting adventure of his life, and seemed to make up for everything else that had gone wrong. For a poor, homeless, friendless nobody, who had known more than his share of desperation, his spirit was high.

11.

Victor returned to the refinery in the company car. As he drove back onto the highway, he realized he still had a headache. In the morning he had taken it for a hangover from the party last night, but he hadn't really drunk that much had he? As he recalled, it began to seem somewhat obscure, almost as if it had been only a vivid dream. But that wasn't right, because he was sure he had only four drinks before the blonde and him went of f alone on the beach.

Was it possible he had been drugged? That might explain how he failed to recall how he got to Huntington Beach, and furthermore, if some undercover job did occur with the refinery, whoever was behind it naturally would have wanted the CEO out of the way. It might also explain the persistent headache. He popped a few painkillers again.

Minutes later, he drove into the industrial zone and through the refinery gate, which he had left unlocked. 2 minutes later he returned to the office and sat down with a slight curse, as he felt another pang in his head. Apparently, the painkillers were not working, for the headache persisted.

He suppressed the pain with relief to see the access code had been broken and the com-link was on standby mode. He keyed it to the VZ5O program and the OPEC symbol was displayed, then the word 'VZ5O' under it. What followed was a short bit of historical documentation and some garbled information about the OPEC refinery's ongoing process of synthesizing oil, petroleum products, various gasoline, etc. . . . Finally, the subject matter VZ5O was set at the top of the screen, a scientist's voice said something about its revolutionary uses, and a long, 6-lined formula for the proper synthesis of it appeared.

Victor keyed the com-link to stop and carefully studied the formula. He keyed the print-out and received a hard-copy. He studied it carefully for a minute then keyed the program to continue.

After what seemed like the ending, a test t pattern occurred, then after about 10 seconds, another segment of documentary material. Only this subject was rockets. He watched curiously for a minute and another formula occurred under a different heading. The heading was Phyrolene 65. He stopped the program and made another hard-copy.

A minute later, another test-pattern occurred, and then the program ended. He put the 2 copies in his jacket pocket, checked the time and felt another pang of pain in his head. This time, it was so intense, he almost fainted. Odd, the pain seemed to be increasing when the painkillers should have been decreasing it. He recovered, got a drink of water, and checked time again.

It was half past 4 pm. He went and got another cup of coffee, trying to suppress the headache by disregarding it, and decided to take another pain killer. Then he sat down at the desk and called his father on mansion's hotline. He waited patiently for a minute, and his father answered. He noted at once the lines of heavy stress the old man's face.

"I've got what we need," he said. "How are the others? "

"I've been unable to locate Keith and Janet, but the others are alright. We've set ourselves up here, all but 5. 3 are on the way. As I said, Keith and Janet could be anywhere. How are you holding up?"

"Alright, except for this headache," Victor admitted. "Regular painkillers don't seem to be any help."

"How soon can you get here?"

"I'll leave immediately," he said. "If route 44 is all clear, I should see you in about 2 hours."

The old man shook his head. "Haven't you got access to the leer?"

"I don't know. I could check the hanger. Why? Is 2 hours too long?"

"Maybe not, but it'll be cutting it close," the old man admitted. "Dusk will occur around 7."

"Dusk? Are you implying that by nightfall the problem may get worse?"

The old man almost glared at him, but looked down and said, "Get here any way you can, son, as fast as you can. There are some things I have to tell you."

He paused, then added, "Oh, and if the headaches continue, don't use regular painkillers. Try something natural, like mint tea, or ginseng."

Victor looked at the old man with wonder, as he signed out. The old guy was acting very odd, but under the circumstances, that wasn't too surprising. Things to tell him? Like what, he wondered.

He left the building, hopped in the car, and drove out of the refinery. His father seemed to be concerned about the coming of night as if he expected things to get worse. He decided to take the man's advice and go for the leer-jet. It was only a 5 minute ride to the airport and he could think of no reason why the jet would not be accessible. Of course, he'd have to fly it himself, like he did years ago before attaining his CEO status, but that made no difference.

He felt another pain and thought about the man's medicinal advice. Should he stop by a natural food store on the way? He checked the time. No, he decided. It was going on 5 pm. The jet could get him to the estate in 15 minutes. He'd just have to tolerate the pain.

Within minutes he arrived at the air-port and drove directly to the hanger. He had the jet outside and fired up in another 3 minutes. It was fueled up and ready to go, as it was expected to be at all times. 2 minutes later, he steered it out on the runway, fired the jets, raised it up over the field and was on his way.

12.

Zeto walked on. On the other side of the town-square he passed a large warehouse on the left and a village of small, modern, low-income houses on the right. The houses had small yards but plenty of trees, bushes, and colorful I flowering plants. Compared to the houses he'd seen on the edge of the refinery, these were luxuries, but at the same time, it was obvious they were still small and low-class. Upper-lower class houses, if one could imagine such a thing.

He didn't stop to observe more closely, and around 100 meters later, the village ended at the edge of highway overpass. He walked under the overpass, read some of the graffiti on the cement and concrete walls (the name Lefty was most prominent), and found himself at the urban edge of the big city, on the other side of the highway.

He walked on with more caution as he observed perhaps the most colorless area he'd ever seen yet. Old, tall, 10 to 20 level buildings with lots of windows, many of them boarded up, were everywhere, on every corner, taking up as much space on the blocks as possible, with narrow alleys of concrete cracked in a thousand ways; half dirt and dust little lots with old, run-down automobiles, and the only color... faded ads and signs in the dusty windows of ground-level little convenient stores and seedy little dives.

There were no trees whatsoever, absolutely no green plants, the place reminded him of the exhaust chamber of a giant engine, or the filter way of a giant air-conditioner, and it was in a desperate need of a cleaning. The liveliest thing about it was the paper litter on the streets, caught in a warm, little breeze from the highway underpass.

He walked on, acting more and more like the Omega man with the seconds. The blue sky was so obscured by the tall grey buildings that it appeared grey also. He wondered what time it was and guessed it to be going on into the late afternoon, maybe around 4 pm. He felt oddly brave but a little naked, like the gunslinger without his guns, as he walked on towards his destination, through a section of old L.A. that he suspected would be seething with cops and cons, undercover dicks, and prostitutes, if it were an ordinary day.

But ordinary it was not. It was so dead and vacated that by this time he really was beginning to suspect the worse. Was it the neutron bomb or an emergency evacuation? Of course, the fact that he had never, to his recollection, ever passed through these parts before (even though he did experience many odd feelings of deja vu), made him wonder if maybe it was dead like this on particular days of the week or month, in which case it would not be all that extraordinary after all.

This lack of knowledge added to the uncertainty and mystery, but told him nothing. There was one place just a few blocks away, however, that he felt certain would tell him something more definite. That place was the main street bus terminal. If the bus terminal was vacant, then it would be almost certain a major disaster had occurred.

He moved on with certitude, anxious to reach the terminal and get some answers. It wasn't so far now, just a few blocks away. In the next block, outside a restaurant, he came upon his first glimpse of real color in the old grey section yet. A small patch of cherry tomatoes was growing in the dusty dirt between the building and the sidewalk.

The little, round, red fruits were quite friendly and inviting amidst this great, colorless space. He picked one for good luck, tossed it into his mouth, and moved on again with the same simple pleasure he'd felt with the sprinklers outside the industrial labor department.

He stopped on the corner of the next block and heard music coming from the left. It was barely audible, but the first sign of life he'd encountered yet. He looked about, trying to recall if he should turn left now or go on to the next block. He decided it didn't matter, since if he was wrong he could simply use the next street over and turn right. Either way, it was the right general direction, and besides, he wanted to check out the source of the music.

He turned left and walked in the direction of the music. As he walked, it gradually became louder. He crossed a street and on the next block, discovered the source. It was coming from a small bar-cafe in the ground-level of another old, multi-level structure. He peaked in through the window, saw nothing, and then tried the door. It was locked tight, as he half expected.

He looked in through the window for about a minute and studied the interior of the place. It was a quaint, seedy little joint. He saw no one; it appeared vacant like everything else. Apparently, someone had left the radio on. But if the radio was still playing music, didn't that mean there were still people alive?

Not necessarily. Some stations used automatic recordings which were timed to play whether or not a DJ was on duty. Such appeared to be the case. Someone had left a radio on and it was still playing automatic music. As he turned away and continued on, he sited the bus terminal just 2 blocks away on the rite. Finally, he'd get some answers.

13.

Victor set the jet down on the private landing strip in between the Sierra hills and signaled the underground hanger doors. They opened and he steered the jet carefully in. He left the jet as the hanger doors closed, passed through a set of doors and walked the 20 meter corridor to the mansion's sublevels. In the lower laboratory, as he passed, he saw Doctor Neufield, his father's personal physician, working at a computer. He stepped into the lab carefully and Neufield looked up. He walked across the lab and spoke to the man, who appeared also to be under heavy stress.

"Hi Doc," he said, "What've you got for a splitting headache?"

"Victor," the doctor said, with an effort to smile, and raised an outstretched hand as he got to his feet.

They shook hands as Victor said, "How's the old man?"

"Unfortunately, we're all under a little more stress than usual, including your father," Neufield admitted. "Take 2 of these, for the head ache," he said, handing him some larger than usual pills. "They are organic supplements with no adverse side-effects. They suppress the pain but you may still experience some stress. I have nothing for the stress yet. But your father has an idea that you can help. I'll call him down."

Victor took out the sheets of com-print with the chemical formulas as Neufield sat down at the desk and called the old man. Seconds later, he looked up again and said, "He's on his way."

The old man arrived as the doctor and Victor were studying the formulas.

"Well, what've you got?" he said, as he stepped up to the desk with the sagging, tension-ridden face of a man that had aged years within a day, and took 2 pills for the headache he had.

"It appears your theory may be correct," the doctor admitted.

"Theory?" Victor said. "What theory?"

"This may be somewhat complex for you, Vic," the old man said. "I suggest we both sit down while I explain."

They drew up chairs about the desk while the doctor worked hard at the computer.

"Son, this may be difficult for you to understand, and I think its time I told you all about it. I would have told you earlier, but your role with the natives was going so well, I thought it best to wait. Of course, I could not have fore seen an accident of this scale..."

"Natives? Father, what are you getting at?"

"I'm getting at the true relativity of our world and our people, Victor. It's not quite what you were taught in school."

He paused and licked his lips, then breathed heavily. "Could you get me some water? My mouth is very dry."

Victor went to a lab sink near the wall, filled a cup with tap-water, and carried it to the old man. As the man drank, he asked, "What is the 'true' relativity, father?"

"We are Zanterrans, Victor," he explained. "We came to Earth over 12 thousand years ago, after our home-planet, Zantera, was destroyed. You and I, the doctor and the others, we survived the accident because we are not like the natives. The natives are pholosians. They depend upon certain gaseous elements sustained within electromagnetic fields to survive. The 'accident', we believe, damaged the master-projector of those elements. That's what happened when the flash occurred around 4 am and they all disappeared. Pholosians are composed of different elements, elements somewhat 'lighter' than our own. Without the master-projector, those elements become unglued, unable to maintain the humanoid form. Now, the reason why they simply disappeared completely, without leaving any trace of residue, we believe may be attributed to the 'reaction' which occurred when the truck hauling the tank of rocket-fuel had the accident. The rocket-fuel caused certain vital gases in the atmosphere to ignite and combust. Those gases were vital to the environmental systems of the pholosians, in fact, are present within their physical bodies on a molecular level. So, when the gases combusted, so did they."

Victor sat there and absorbed the information with amazement. He had always suspected his family was different than the commoners, somehow superior, but he had not expected this.

"How many of us are there?" he said, accepting his father's words without question. The old man took another drink of water.

"There are presently, at our last census, 1,012 of us, scattered all over the planet. After I talked to you earlier today, I succeeded in contacting our people in Washington DC. They have assured me that they will do everything possible to maintain order with the people. But we, son, are the only ones who can prevent the situation from getting worse."

He turned to Neufield and said, "How's it look? Have we got what it takes to make repairs?"

"I'm not sure. I think so. Give me some time," Neufield said.

"Father," Victor said, "if the damage has not affected us, why are you in such a hurry?"

"But the damage has affected us," the old man admitted. "Those headaches are the first warning signs. We have 2 main worries after nightfall: Our sad outcasts, the Nexians, who have also survived the accident, and the possibility that we could all go completely insane."

14.

Zeto walked on with his eyes fixed ahead towards the terminal. It looked as vacant as everything else, but it was possible there were people inside. As he crossed the street from left side to right, still 2 blocks away, another man appeared, much to his cool fascination, from the street to the left. He slowed down but kept his surprise in reserve. So someone else had survived after all?

The man was heading in the same direction as it turned out, and very gently, reflecting Zeto's same cool air of introverted fascination, walked up beside him and said, "Say brother, I know where we can get some free food. Have you got a knife?"

Zeto maintained his cool repose, reached in to his pants pocket, and removed perhaps the most valuable possession he owned, a small, pocket jackknife. He stopped walking, looked at the guy, judged the man friendly with swift intuition, and handed the jackknife to him.

The man received it, gave a slight nod, and motioned across to the corner lot of the next block before the terminal. There was a dumpster overflowing with crates and discarded fruits and vegetables.

"They throw the stuff they don't sell out at the end of the day," he said, as he led Zeto to the pile. "But some of it is still good to eat, if you get to it early enough."

He stopped by the pile, bent over, pulled out a large cantaloupe melon, squatted down, placed it on the stone pavement, and used the knife to cut it into pieces. He wiped the knife off on his pant-leg, closed it, handed it back to Zeto, and took a bite of the melon. He stood lip, handed a piece to Zeto, Zeto accepted it with thanks, and they both walked on, in the same direction, to the terminal. Zeto was not very hungry, but the other man was, and he ate some nonetheless.

Behind the calm, cool-like cover, Zeto wanted to exchange information with the man, but he did not get the chance to formulate the right words. They walked and ate, and a minute later, they arrived at the terminal.

"Stay cool, brother," the man said, and quickly disappeared inside.

When Zeto followed with more caution, he saw the man nowhere, as if he had just vanished on the other side of the door. Zeto stayed cool, as the man suggested, and walked up a few steps, to another set of doors, opened them, and stepped inside the terminal's main lobby.

To his cool, emotionless surprise, there were others inside, but only a handful. It was by no means a busy day. Some of the ones sitting in the seats closest to his entrance looked up, with faraway glints of mixed wonder and confusion. Some of them looked quite lost.

He recalled the fact that he hadn't washed for days and walked directly to the restrooms. Suddenly self-conscious of his ragged appearance, he went directly to a sink and looked into a mirror. The reflection that looked back was somewhat shocking. There was so much dirt on his face he could have passed for an Indian or African. His hair was tied back in a ponytail but still a mess of loose hair and frizzy split-ends. He had the beginning of a beard and moustache, but with all the dirt, it hardly showed.

Along with all that, his shirt and pants were dirty, dusty rags. He washed his hands and face, combed his hair, and when he was done, discovered that a good portion of the dirt had actually been a deep suntan. As a result, he still resembled a dark-skinned Indian, and that seemed cool, because he'd always respected the Indians. He walked to the water- fountain, got a drink, and left the restroom refreshed and relieved.

His legs were weary and he needed to rest. He went to the closest seat and sat down, anxious to think about the day and what the situation was all about. Unfortunately, his need to rest his legs overcame his gentler discretions, and a couple of people closest to him looked at him with disgust, and he heard someone whisper, to his immovable fascination, "It's a bomb!"

He wasn't sure how to interpret this, but seconds later, 2 security guards began walking toward him. They were staring straight at him, and one was talking into a radio-unit. Zeto quickly assessed the situation and guessed that the 2 guards were planning to capture him and throw him out of the terminal, as they so often did to 'loiterers' without tickets.

"Damn it all!" he cursed, and arose on his weary, tired legs, and walked with some reluctance to the doors.

"What the hell's their problem?" he said to himself, stepping out onto the street. "Can't a guy get a little rest? There weren't even more than ten people in the place anyhow!"

He thought of the park benches about the public service courts, several blocks away, and slowly but surely made his way for them, thinking now only about getting off his feet and resting for a spell. As he made his way along the deserted, lifeless old city street, for the courts and the park benches, dusk descended.

There still were no people outside, no vehicles, and no life. It was strange that there should only be a handful of people inside the terminal and absolutely no one else outside. But by this time, Zeto was just too tired to think about it.

It took him longer than he would have expected to reach the courtyards, his legs complaining and feet dragging through invisible glue the whole time, but when he finally did, he got a drink from one of the public fountains, and had his choice of a dozen benches within the fresh, well-kept garden of a courtyard, and seconds later, was free to rest, off his feet, at last, and reflect upon the mysterious day without any fear of private security guards.

15.

"But father, why?" Victor said, "Why should we go insane after nightfall?"

Before the old man could reply, the doctor said, "Got it! I now know how we can fix it, but we have to go to the Master-Projector plant."

"Quick," the man said, checking the time. "It is nearly 6 pm. We'll have to work fast! I'll explain things on the way Victor."

"We'll need 2 more hands, at least," Neufield said, as they walked out of the laboratory.

"Upstairs, quick, the elevator," the old man said, "we can take Kevin and Jack, they're probably in the lounge."

The 3 of them stepped into the elevator, the Old man set the controls, the doors shut and it ascended.

"Why should we go insane?" Victor said again with confusion. "What is he Master-Projector?"

"Not now, son," the old man said. "I'll explain in the monorail-tube. It's at least a 10 minute ride to the plant.

On the second-level, above ground, they went Victor looked along the rectangular chamber to the large, luxurious, neo-Gregorian lounge, Victor tailing along with a load of questions on his mind.

Those questions increase as they entered the lounge to find a mixed party of 12 men and woman lounging about in chairs with expressions of anxiety, confusion, despair, gloom, and pain. All were sorely negative; there wasn't a positive one amongst them.

"Kevin, Jack," the old man barked as he entered their midst and looked around. A man with anxiety and another with gloom looked up in response. The others didn't even react to the old man's presence.

"Come on, we've got work to do. Quick, let's go, before the night takes us all!"

Kevin and Jack arose dutifully, if slowly, still wearing the same faces, and let the old man usher them to the door.

Victor hesitated and looked at the remaining people. So these were all Zanterrans, like himself, he thought, and noted that the females all wore expressions of fearful gloom and seemed frozen in suspended animation. He stepped toward one he recognized and said her name. She twitched with a sharp pain and her face fell into her hands, as if hiding her eyes from an unbearable sight. It appeared she did not even see him.

"Victor!" Neufield said from the door. "Come quick! We must hurry!"

Victor dutifully followed the doctor, and the 2 of them joined the others in the elevator. They descended to the basement level again and crossed it to the area opposite the lab. The old man pressed a set of keys on a wall console, and a section of the wall itself arose, exposing a secret doorway.

They walked through the doorway as dim lights revealed a large chamber. In the center was a monorail vehicle, a long, slender, smooth metal tube, like a horizontal rocket, mounted on a single thick, heavy iron rail to see an underground tunnel leading away into the distance.

Once the 5 men were inside and seated, with Neufield at the controls, the old man turned to Victor and continued his promised explanation. As he spoke, the vehicle began to move.

"The present sickness we are inflicted with," he said, with weary eyes, "increases ten-fold and more with the night. The Master-Projector functions and serves us by relieving us of our negative introves. The pholosians refract those negative introves and dilute their potency. As the Master-Projector functions, it projects the psychic-neural signatures of the negative introves through the network of antipodes..., which are situated all over the area, into the field where the pholosians dwell, and the pholosians absorb and refract those signatures."

The old Man paused to take a drink from a bottle he'd picked up in the lounge, while Victor absorbed the information with fascination.

"But how is such a thing possible?" Victor said. "How can one projector care for an entire planet?"

"You're right, one cannot," the old man agreed. "There are ten such Master-Projectors in all, 2 on this continent. But the continental sets are units. They depend upon each other because 1 is not strong enough and the people are randomly scattered. Already, the loss of the western states has caused hysteria and panic among the pholosians of the east. Our people in Washington are covering it as well as they can, claiming it to be a temporary loss of power from the failure and shutdown of power-plants. But the longer the Projector is down, the worse it gets."

"Are the continents affected as well?"

"So far, I don't think so. We've put a temporary freeze on imports and exports, but if it goes for too long, they'll suspect something far Worse than we're admitting. In the long run, if we don't restore the projector, enemy pholosians tight see it as a chance to invade. If we manage to restore the projector and the pholosian population, we need not worry about any of that."

The old man paused to catch his breath, check the time, and take another drink.

"Another few minutes," he said, and looked forward through the translucent screen, at the dimly lit tube, as the vehicle shot through it at 80 kph.

"Once the projector is repaired," Victor said, "the pholosians will reappear?"

"I wish it were that simple," the old man said "No. We have a storage bank of various tissue and blood samples from all of those that did exist. We'll have to clone every one of them to restore a perfect balance. The process will take days, but so long as we get the amplective-reflex leaders out first, our sanity should be retained. That will be our first order of business after the projector is repaired."

The man sighed heavily and checked the time. "Any minute now," he said, and took a couple of pills.

"You said something about others who had survived like us, outcasts that pose a threat?"

"The Nexians," the old man admitted, "are the only other people who are not pholosians. Once, they were a part of the Zanterran people, but they were outcast for various reasons. Most of them served as lower-caste workers before the pholosians were properly trained to fill those positions.

"Now, most Nexians are randomly mixed in with the pholosians in the lower classes. Many of them may not even be aware of their true nature, due to the fact that their guardians before them may simply have neglected to tell them, or did not know it themselves. Most of them are kept in the dark, just as I did so with you, son, for various reasons. For the Nexians, the reason may be so that they do not feel the persecution of their ancestors and not cause any more trouble."

"You said they could be a problem for us, under the circumstances?"

"Yes, because they are not burdened by heavy negative introves, as we are, so they could survive the night and we would be vulnerable to their power to take over."

"They're not burdened by negative introves?" Victor said with surprise. "Why is that?"

"Oh, they have variable amounts of negative introves, just not enough to drive them crazy," the old man admitted. "It's only a theory, but it is thought that they may simply lack a moral conscience and have greater control over such introves because it is closer to their true nature to be evil."

The vehicle began to slow. Minutes later, they entered the Master-Projector plant, located the damaged components, and went to work.

16.

Zeto sat on a bench at the colorful court yard, completely alone amidst the descending night. He felt relief to be off his feet and resting.

'What a day it had been', he thought, and wondered. 'What a fascinating day.' Seeing the handful of people at the terminal, and especially the pushy security-guards, had somehow destroyed his fantasy of being the last man on Earth, and now he was just too tired to contemplate it. Nonetheless, as he sat there alone, still wondering where all the people were, the little Omega man inside him felt some disappointment, and tried to pretend, under the circumstances, that most of the people really were gone, and tomorrow the world would be just as vacant as today.

He slept on the bench that night, and the next day, his dreams were terminated. The city slowly, but surely, came alive again, repopulated again and back to 'normal'. Unable to forget yesterday's mystery, he decided to himself, 'There's got to be a story in it some-where.'

finis

The Time-Suit

I

Roland Denkon had the special suit constructed, originally, as a revolutionary suit of 'armor', to protect him in the event of a war. It wasn't until after its completion that he discovered it had an extra special property. Much to his amazement, he could not resist utilizing it, at least as an experiment to test that extra 'power'.

It was in the winter of 1998. He was a middle-aged, eccentric, failure of a scientist, with little more than a pile of hand-me-down junk-matter to work with, and slowly but surely, he was going broke. If he didn't find a new source of income soon, he'd lose his hand-me-down little, suburban house to the local tax-collectors.

He had always dreamed too much, as his now deceased parents had accused. He was beginning to see how right they were. He should have been more practical and less of a dreamer. His careless dreams had gotten him nowhere, and the winter of 98 was the most difficult yet.

With the property-taxes overdue, for the third year straight, he realized he was facing a deadline. It was unlikely the government would give him another year, and he saw no way to get the money to pay.

It all seemed quite hopeless, until the New Year's Day. On January 1, 1998, he put the new 'armored' suit to the test, and got the 'shock' of his life.

Roland Denkon's suburban residence was a meager, little, 7-room, lower-middle class house in a small town outside of Springfelt, Massacusets known as Tagalon.

For some time Roland had been unemployed and living off his life-savings and a small 'inheritance' from his deceased parents. The situation made it appear that he was squandering the money away on food and foolish little material things, while neglecting utility bills and property-taxes. But what did they expect?

Did he not work on low-paying jobs for 20 years, doing other people's 'dirty work' for small change and getting nowhere? What did they expect? Surely they didn't expect him to continue to waste the remaining years of his life in that foolish way?

They had already forced him to waste his youth on all work and low-pay (which translates, in laymen terms to 'no-play') jobs. It would be utter stupidity for him to continue wasting the years of his life away with such pointless futility!

It was with these conclusions that he formulated his new resolutions, after the mother died in 94, leaving him alone in the house. He convinced himself, with a burst of spiritual confidence, that it was time he put his full potential to work. So he did just that. The 'suit of armor' he constructed in the autumn and winter of 97 was the kind of break through he needed.

In all honesty, he did have fears that a war might occur, due to the failure of the economy to 'balance', as the politicians had promised for too long. For this, he expected a 'revolutionary' suit of armor would have a great deal of value.

As he thought about it, wearing it with a surge of pride, he carefully relished an optional alternative, in case such a war did not occur. It was possible, he realized, to go to work as a secret-agent, with such a powerful armored-suit.

He called the suit of armor, the 'electromanta'. It was a light-weight suit with secret elements, such secrets he never disclosed in any written account, for fear of industrial spies who would not hesitate to destroy him for it. He did take account that certain rare-earth elements, metals and fibers, and man-made synthetics, were involved.

It appeared as a suit of mostly silver and grey, with lines and planes of blue and black here and there. The electronic control-device, which gave the wearer access to several modes and phases of functional operation, was attached to the left forearm and wrist. To use the controls and trigger the various phases or modes, the user had merely to touch various keys and buttons with the right hand.

On the eve of the New Year's Day, while all the children, young and old, were busy playing with their Christmas toys, he too, though quite alone in that old house, shared in the spirit, as he prepared to put the electromanta to the test. On the eve of New Year's Day, 1999, while all the children, young and old, were busy playing with their Christmas toys, though all alone in the old house, he too shared in the spirit, as he prepared to put the 'electromanta' to the test.

He looked at himself in the mirror, feeling for the first time in his life, much stronger, like a real tough winner, rather than the sore-loser he had been for the past 20 years. He resembled a regular gentleman-warrior, as well as a man from the future. He was reminded of the 'Lensmen' of Doc Smith, or the legendary 'Flash Gordon' and 'Buck Rogers'.

They were just fictional. To his utter amazement, he felt a strong surge of confidence to realize, that his power was real. The electromanta, he already knew, was the most revolutionary suit of armor to the date, but what of the various phases and operational modes?

He picked up the helmet and carefully put it on over his head. He secured and fastened it to the collar, with wonder, as he continued to view his reflection. He already knew what it was capable of; it could deflect most conventional weaponry, including force-3 explosions, it kept water and fire out, it was air-tight, it could counter-balance the pressures of the vacuum of outer-space, etc...

The final test was radiation. He was sure it could withstand low-level radioactivity. Now it was time to test the higher-levels. He touched a set of keys on the forearm controls, pressed a button, and triggered the high radiation. About 30 seconds later, much to his amazement, he 'phased' out of his home at Tagalon, and appeared in the middle of a field of weeds and sparsely scattered trees.

He had no idea exactly what had happened, but one of the first things he noticed was that wherever he was, it wasn't Tagalon. The 'snow' of winter was gone, it was much warmer and there were flowers on some of the trees.

Whatever had happened, it was much, much more than was expected. But could he reverse it, and return home? Or did he even want to?

Roland Denkon stood in a field of weeds with sparsely scattered trees, and wondered where he was and how he'd gotten there. He looked all about, in every direction, and observed all the sensory criteria, within a mixture of amazement and suspense.

Somehow, accidentally, he had stumbled upon an extra power to the high-tek suit of armor. It had reacted to a higher level of radiation, and somehow, transported him to another space-time.

He looked into the distance. Across the field to the northwest were mountains, around ten kilometers away. To the east were hills and the north more mountains, to the south more fields.

He decided further analysis was necessary before jumping to any conclusions. The portable computer built into the helmet, and the unit attached to the belt, gave a better picture of the scene. It was 50 degrees Fahrenheit, the atmosphere was rich in oxygen and microscopic airborne spores, which he discerned as pollen, from flowers, and the man-made pollutant content was nonexistent.

He checked to make sure and zeroed in on the distance with the video-zoom built into the helmet's visor, and checked all quarters for signs of civilization. There were none. Wherever he was, it was far from civilization, at least the civilization of the late 20th century he knew so well. No signs of chemical pollutants meant no cars, no factories, no combustion combines or engines whatsoever.

That didn't seem possible. According to scientific studies taken in the latter half of the 20th century, man-made chemical pollutants were so high in the atmospheric content that they could be detected anywhere in the atmosphere about the planet Earth, accept for such places as remote islands in the middle of the oceans or the South Pole.

He wasn't on an island or at the southern pole, he was sure of that. Either the studies were wrong, his sensors were malfunctioning, or he wasn't anywhere in the late 20th century of Earth.

Was it possible he had traversed time, into the past or the future?

As he speculated, he noticed something that favored such a possibility. The general structure of the land was almost too similar to his hometown land to be a coincidence. The mountains to the northwest and the north, the hills to the east, and fields and flatland to the south. It was all very much like his home land, except of course, for the lack of civilization.

He recalled the river to the north, less than a kilometer away, a tributary branch from the larger river to the east about 2 kilometers away. He had visited the river many times in his youth. He knew it well, and if his theory of time-travel was right, there was a good chance the river was still in the general area.

So he turned north, studied the area, and decided to check it out. But before leaving the spot he was in, he decided to 'mark' it. If his guess on the time-traversing theory was right, that spot was placed directly inside his den in another time-period.

He pulled a few clumps of weed and made a circle about 2 feet-wide in the soil. Then he stuck a stick in the middle and shaved the bark from the top. He should be able to spot it from 50 meters with the video-zoom.

He walked through the weeds northward, with the visor open, breathing the fresh air with something like careless abandon. He was anxious to prove the time-travel theory correct. The idea was fascinating. Whether it was right or not, clearly something fantastic had happened, and Roland was full of a spirit of adventure he hadn't felt since his youth.

He hiked across over 100 meters of weeded fields, and then reached a small desert, about 50 meters wide. He crossed the stretch of sand, reached more weeds and trees, and walked for another 50 meters. The trees became thicker and larger, and more mixed. There were huge oaks, elms, and pines, budding a leafy roof high overhead. There were less weeds, but a few crops of ferns and berry bushes scattered sparsely about.

For a minute he began to have doubts. In his own time the trees and forest was not so dense and vast. There was a drop-off just 20 meters beyond the desert. But it was not as he expected. He was about to explore new speculations, when suddenly the land dropped down a steep hill and there it was.

The river, obviously, had shifted like a snake over the long periods of time. Of course, the question now was, how long a period of time?

II

He stood by a huge oak at the top of the steep incline and looked out across the river. It was somewhat wider, but not by much, and across it were lowland, a partial wetland, and more trees and weeds.

Beyond the lowland were hills and trees, some 2 to 3 kilometers in the distance. He studied the distance carefully and still detected no signs of civilization whatsoever. There were birds flying about, making a bit of noise now and then, muskrats swimming at the side of the river, and an occasional squirrel or rabbit scurrying about. But there were no humans or signs of human habitation.

As he dwelled on the possibility that this natural wonderland might not have any humans at all in it, the idea gave him a feeling of great relief. If there were no humans in such a paradise, then he had absolutely nothing to worry about, for the first time in his long, cruel life. He breathed in the fresh air and relaxed.

He sat beside the huge oak and gazed out across the river. Recalling his knowledge of geology, he realized that by the placement of the river, he had traversed into the ancient past. In the years to come it was due to shift southward, tearing away the side of the higher land and the forest with it, until it was just 10 meters from the edge of the desert.

He estimated he had traversed anywhere between 500 and 1,000 years!

It was still only a guess, but it was the best one he had. Exactly what the year was, he did not know. But he did realize there was a good chance that 'natives' were about somewhere, American Indians, perhaps Mohawks or Mohicans.

It was shortly after realizing all this that he detected a thin trail of smoke, in the distant hills, to the northwest.

Roland recalled in detail all that had been done to 'cause' the 'effect' of this time-transversal and wondered if it could be reversed. It had something to do with the level of radioactivity the suit was exposed to.

If such an exposure sent him back in time about 500 to 1,000 years, how would he react to another exposure? Could he control it somehow to return him to 1998 or would it send him further into the past?

Suddenly, he heard a cry, a human female cry, by the sound of it.

He looked northwest, in the near distance, and saw some people at the edge of the river, down the incline, in the cover of some trees.

He zeroed in with the video-zoom and saw what appeared to be a dark-haired female in a struggle with 2 men while 2 others sat by and laughed. The female was a copper-skinned Indian and the men were Europeans.

She was obviously a captive, being held against her will, for the men's amusement as a slave. Denkon didn't like what he saw.

While one pinned her arms to the ground, the other sat on top of her. She cried until the one on top stuffed a piece of cloth into her mouth, and prepared to rape her.

Denkon couldn't just sit by and let this sort of thing happen. No, he just couldn't. His mind warned him of the unpredictable consequences of meddling with the tiniest factor in history, but he decided one more or less rape of an Indian girl couldn't make all that much of a difference.

He followed the edge of the incline in the cover of the trees for 20 meters and it sloped down gradually toward the river. At the bottom of the slope was the party, about 30 meters away, by the river's edge. He went on down the gradual slope, carefully sneaking from bush to tree to bush again, and got as close as possible.

He observed the campsite. There were 2 canoes tied to the trees, in the water at the river's edge. The men had crude flintlock rifles, and wore the skins of animals. They appeared to be trappers, of European descent.

He had to stop them from raping the poor Indian girl. He reached inside the suit's jacket and pulled out a trandart pistol. The trandart pistol was a good idea, an excellent tool for the occasion. He rather felt like killing these savage invaders for this violation, but he had no idea how the death of them might affect the future.

So he took aim with the pistol and shot one, then two darts, and the 2 men engaged in the rape collapsed. Before the other 2 caught on to what was happening, he shot them also. In less than a minute, all 4 of the men were unconscious on the ground.

It was a good thing he had a large supply of trandarts, he thought, and carefully trotted down the brief slope to the campsite. By the time he got there the Indian female had managed to push the man off of her and got on her feet.

She took the rag from her mouth, threw it down at them and spat, then looked at Denkon as he stepped in under the shade of the trees.

"It's alright," he said, and stopped. "I'm a friend."

She was obviously surprised by the sight of him in the black, grey, and silver suit of armor, and quickly jumped for the safety of one of the canoes. As she untied the rope, Denkon looked at the men, crouched down beside them, and recovered the trandarts. With a bit more of the tranquillizer, they could be reused.

He checked the men's belongings and found what he was looking for; a small pouch with silver and gold pieces. He checked the year on one of the coins. 1504.

His guess had been good. He had traveled back in time almost 500 years!

He looked out at the river, lost in the mystery and wondering if he could get back to 1998, then looked again at the Indian girl.

She had decided to stay, but seemed ready to hop into one of the canoes at a second's notice. She was young and beautiful, perhaps still a virgin.

"Are you Mohawk, or Mohican?" he said.

She stared, blinked, but didn't appear to understand.

"Mohawk?" he said, pointing to her.

She looked down at the ground, about the site at the 4 unconscious men, and then answered.

"Mawagan," she said. "No Mohawk, Mohican," she said, shaking her head, and pointed across the river, waved, denoting distance.

"Mawagan?" he replied.

"Mawagan," she agreed, nodded, and pointed westward, up along the river.

"I see," he said. "You're of the Mawagan Tribe, to the west."

"You," she said, with a careful nod, "no tribe?", and shook her head.

"Me?" he replied, wondering how to answer her. "I'm Denkon. I have no tribe. It's just me, alone."

"Alone?" she said, "Denkon?"

He nodded, and decided to sit down for a rest. The men would be out for at least an hour. No reason why he couldn't enjoy a bit of a breather. He removed the helmet and felt the cool, gentle breeze on his forehead.

"You? Mawagan?" he said, curiously.

She decided to step away from the canoe, but still feared the men even though they were unconscious.

"It's alright," he said, waving. "They're out of it. They won't bother us." He took a flask out and had a swig of water. He decided to hold on to the 4 caches of silver and gold he'd taken from the men, as she stepped closer and crouched down.

"Lakuna," she said, pointing to herself.

"Lakuna," he said and nodded with a smile. "A pleasure to meet you."

She nodded.

"Lakuna give many thanks, Denkon," she said carefully, showing a slight under-standing of some of the English language. "Denkon powerful, mighty warrior. Denkon, go Mawaga, with Lakuna?"

She pointed up the river westward.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," he said. "I really should head back home."

"Home?" she said. "Where home?"

"Quite a distance, that way," he said, and pointed up the slope southward.

She wondered about that, then heard a bird call, and looked up the river.

"I go," she said, standing up.

He stood up as she took something from around her neck and handed it to him.

"Denkon, save Lakuna, many thanks," she said, as he accepted the gift. He looked at it, smiled to her; she turned about and went to the canoe.

He watched her leave, examined the gift, a necklace of string-leather with beads and a blue, opal-like stone, and wondered how this particular incident might affect the course of future time.

He pocketed the gift, tied the 4 caches of coins to his belt, watched Lakuna as she rowed away, then headed back up the slope.

It was time he was getting back, he decided, if possible. If so, the coins might help pay off some of the debts back home.

When he reached the top of the slope and retraced his steps, he hit upon a great idea of how the suit might be used to gather money to pay off the debts to his house and life in 1999.

But first, he had to find out if he could get back.

III

It took some time to figure out why the suit had transported him into the past. He crossed the desert, walked east, and sat on the side of a brief hill, overlooking the stretch of sands. Though quite a distance, around 200 meters, from the campsite by the river, he kept a sharp eye out for the trappers, just in case they decided to explore inland.

It was going into the late afternoon. He sat on the hill and worked with the portable computer unit.

Eventually, he had a good idea what had happened, why, and how it might be reversed. He reached the conclusion that a mere fraction of the radioactivity that sent him into the past, something like .001 rads, should reactivate the transitional state and send him back to his natural time-period.

He rechecked the figures and started to walk back to the marked spot in the midst of the field of weeds. The necessary fraction of radioactivity could be generated by the battery that powered his video-recorder unit. It was scientifically reasonable, but whether it would actually work or not, was not certain. All he could do was try.

He reached the spot with the mark, gazed all about the wide region, and made one final recording with the video. Satisfied with all the 'proof' of his transversal through time on record, he removed the small battery from the helmet, put the helmet on and secured the visor. Holding the 'harmless' radioactive battery in his left hand, he punched a set of keys on the forearm with his right hand, to activate the proper phase.

Then he closed his eyes and counted to 10. When he opened his eyes and saw the den around him, it was a great relief. He opened the visor, breathed in deeply, and looked at everything carefully. It was just as it had been, before the time-trip.

Except for the time. It had been 8 pm. Now it was 10 pm. Apparently, only 2 hours had passed in the 'home-state', even though, according to his personal chronometer that he carried with him, almost 4 hours had passed during the trip to the past.

He removed the helmet and checked the video calendar. The day was the same, so was the year. He sighed with relief, as it appeared reality had not been altered by his action in saving Lakuna, and decided to have a cup of tea.

He removed the suit, replaced the battery within the helmet video-unit, put the kettle on, and recalled the caches of old coins. He settled down in his favorite chair and examined the coins.

There were 20 gold pieces and 28 silver pieces, all of them dated from 1498 to 1512. So, that meant he had been in the past somewhere around or after 1512.

It was amazing. He relaxed with the cup of tea and looked all about the den with wonder. To think, he had discovered the ability to travel into the past! It was an amazing feat, more than he ever dreamed possible, and if it were not for the coins and the leather necklace, he might of thought it all only a strange dream.

The coins, he estimated, were each worth ten times their original value, perhaps much more. Together, he could get perhaps 3 or 4 hundred dollars for them. That kind of money sure could help to pay for a few things.

But the question he had now was, could he do it again? Could he travel into the distant past again?

He rested with the thought, had something to eat, got some sleep, and the next day, he contemplated the amazing feat again. He worked out the computations as precisely as possible, seeking more exact 'control', and prepared to put it to another test.

If it could be done again, he realized it was a chance to save his own life from inevitable destitution.

The tricky part however, was the exactitude of coordination. He could not be certain the test would respond the same each time, because of the high level of radioactivity involved, and in some cases, precise and exact coordination was necessary.

All he could do was try his best, give it his best shot.

So he adjusted the proper coordination, punched the set of keys on the wrist controls, and suddenly the house vanished, there was a flash of bright, blue light and then it was daylight. He stood in the weeded field again, only this time it was different.

He opened the visor and noted the orange, yellow, and red leaves on the trees. It was not spring this time, it was autumn. Not only that, but the trees were different, larger than before, much larger. Apparently, the reaction had delivered him to a later period, after 1512, by many years.

He had set the level of radioactivity as close and exact to the original test as possible, yet this time it had delivered him much further ahead in the future.

He took a deep breath and looked about, wondering what the New Year was. By the looks of it all, especially the increased size of the trees, he estimated it somewhere in the middle or latter 1500's.

It all appeared still quite wild, unsettled, and vacant of human life. From what he recalled in the history books, Indians were sparsely scattered about the region and Europeans hadn't begun to settle until well into the 1600's.

He recalled the mark in the ground he'd made the first time, stepped aside, looked down, but there was no sign of the bare spot or the stick. There was no trace at all. The area was filled in by weeds again. Along with this, the size of the trees suggested many years had passed.

He walked to the top of a brief hill to the east and looked into the distance. There was a trail of smoke rising, across the hills to the east, in the distance. It was either from a chimney or a campfire, judging from its steadiness, and it didn't seem very far. Perhaps no more than a few hundred meters.

He decided to investigate. He was anxious to know what the year was, and also, he was led to wonder if any more gold was available. He removed the helmet, breathed in the fresh, mildly cool air, and began walking to the east.

100 meters later the ground dipped a bit into a small gulley with a stream, around where in his own time there had been a highway, and on the other side was a brief 20 meter-wide stretch of sand and brush weed. He crossed this sandy patch, the weeds returned, and the land rose into a brief hill.

He went to the top of the hill, stood by a tree, and spied into the distance.

The main course of the river could just be seen through a gap in a thick forest of big trees, over 100 meters away. Somewhere in the forest, by the side of the river, was a fire and people.

IV

Whether the people by the river were European settlers, trappers, or Indians was unknown, but he intended to find out.

He caught his reflection in the visor of the helmet as he removed it, and realized his appearance would seem somewhat extraordinary and unbelievable to their eyes. He did not want to stand out like that, and he had prepared the suit for just such an occasion.

The 'electromanta' was a very versatile creation. It included all kinds of secret compartments and pockets with 'extra' tools and handy things. He looked about, moved down the hillside eastward, into the cover of thickening trees, and stopped beside a large, stone boulder amidst tall weeds, leafless brush, and patches of sand.

There he set the helmet down with the visor reflecting in the light of day, and adjusted his personage. He pulled a black cape out of a compact unit, opened it up, and tossed it about his shoulders.

He pulled a black bag of the same material out and put the helmet in it, and adjusted a dial on the wrist-controls to tone down the silver that high-lightened the black and grey armor about his chest, arms, legs, and shoes.

With the cape tied firmly about his neck and breast, he examined the reflection in the visor. Now he appeared as merely a well-dressed traveler, from almost any century.

He walked eastward, through the thickening forest, which turned from oak, maple, and elm into mostly pine trees. The pines were thick, tall, and straight, and provided a mixture of deep shade and filtered sunlight. He walked carefully, then stopped 20 meters in and spied ahead.

There was an open field with a small log cabin, the sound of someone chopping wood, and the river, just 20 meters beyond, stretching out across the distance for at least 100 meters.

There were 2 men standing outside the cabin, one with his back turned toward the trees looking to the river, the other sideways to him. They were conversing quietly.

He removed the helmet from the bag, put it on, and zeroed in on the men with the video and audio sensors. He focused on the words and tuned in the conversation. It was difficult to make out because they were not turned in his direction, but he managed to catch enough bits and pieces to guess the rest.

It appeared to be just small talk, nothing important. Then another man appeared by way of the riverside, and spoke to them. The words were so clear he could not doubt them.

"I've the blankets, John," he said, speaking to the man who was gazing to the river. "Where do you want 'em?"

"Under the lean-to, by the salt-barrel," the one known as John answered, turning his head to the cabin and pointing.

The man went back down to the riverside, the way he'd entered the scene, to fetched a large canvas sack from a canoe, and carried it up to the side of the cabin. In the shade, at the side of the cabin, he set the sack under the lean-to by a barrel. He then went back to the canoe, returned with another sack exactly the same as the first, and set it on top of the other. He made this trip 2 more times.

4 sacks of blankets.

Meanwhile, Denkon had caught bits and pieces of the continuing conversation, and learned something astounding, something shocking. Something about giving blankets to the Indians. Something that didn't sound right, it sounded crafty, all too clever and sinister. The last remark from John, as he turned to the cabin, sealed the deal.

"That spot north uh here be a regular gold mine once we got it," he said, and laughed.

Denkon relaxed his nerves and eased attention as the men parted and he put together all that they'd said.

Apparently, these guys had their eyes set on a particular piece of land, land that was presently in the hands of what they referred to as 'heathen injuns' with obvious distaste, and somehow, he gathered, the 4 sacks of blankets had something to do with it.

He didn't like it. He sensed another violation upon the native 'Indians' was in the making. He didn't like it at all.

As he thought it over, he recalled a most recent historical report uncovered in 1994 by members of the KNP, a society of people devoted to knowledge and the truth, all democratic liberals with enough independent power to expose corruption and injustices which the conservative republicans chose to ignore and keep hidden.

The report was about something the 'legendary' folk-hero 'John Smith' had been involved with, and it had to do with a 'gift' of 'smallpox-infested' blankets to the local Indians.

That incident had occurred around the winter of 1612.

Was this the case, Denkon wondered? By all the wild, unpredictable laws governing time-travel, had he somehow been delivered to that precise time and space?

He waited in suspense in the cover of the pine trees, and then noted the wood-chopping had stopped.

He thought about everything the men had said and concluded they planned to take the blankets up the river to the Indians at the break of dawn the next day.

It was late afternoon; the sun was descending on the horizon to the west. He returned to the large boulder at the edge of the forest, and wondered what to do.

The hands of fate had indeed delivered him into a situation that he could not ignore. He felt an urgent need to prevent the violation.

The night was bound to be cold, but the suit of armor, the 'electromanta', would keep him warm. Among its many functional units was a small portable heating-unit, built into the belt, which was wired into the fabric of the suit, and capable of fending off below-zero temperatures, if necessary.

He removed the helmet, sat down by the boulder, and thought about the situation. He knew that somehow he had to stop those blankets. But the real problem was the smallpox virus itself. It seemed unlikely that the blankets were already infested. It was more likely the virus was contained within a vial of glass, and would not be put on the blankets until just prior to the immediate delivery.

This meant therefore that burning the blankets that night, which was his first idea, would not necessarily stop the act, probably only delay it, until Smith got more blankets. That might take Smith some time, but it was not certain he wouldn't still try it. Denkon had to either get the vial somehow, or stop the blankets just prior to the point where they changed hands. He thought about it as the sun was setting.

It occurred to him that he could probably go directly to the cabin, over-power the men, tranquillize them, then locate the glass vial and take it away. But something like that was bound to be blamed on the Indians, and certain to make Smith and his men very angry. It would not be such a good thing to make such men crazy with vengeance, as the consequences could have far more drastic effects than the violation of the smallpox-infested blankets alone.

No, he had to do something that would prevent the violation without making matters any worse.

He realized what had to be done, took note of the setting sun, and reacted swiftly. He carried the bag with the helmet quickly north along the edge of the pines. There was still enough light to see by, but not for long.

He moved quickly and carefully, to keep as quiet as possible. 5 minutes later, he reached a 'branch' of the main river, the same branch he'd been to 100 years before, where he'd rescued the female Indian from the trappers.

He followed the river eastward to where it met the main, checked the time, and decided to cross it before all the light disappeared on the horizon.

He put on the helmet, secured it, stepped into the edge of the water, and activated the oxygen. The suit's portable backpack contained various units, including a 2 liter titanium tube of oxygen, which was necessary for the 'Aqua-mode'.

He checked everything over, made certain the suit was air-tight, and walked into the water until it was over his waist, then dove carefully under and swam. Less than 5 minutes later, he reached the land at the other side, and emerged on to it.

There he found a place to rest for the night, removed the helmet, settled down, and waited for the sunrise.

V

Denkon wasn't tired enough to simply fall asleep, even though he thought it might be a good idea to get some before sunrise. Under the circumstances, he was too excited to nod off, so he enjoyed the last slipping rays of the sun on the horizon, observed the fall of night, and enjoyed the moonrise.

As he sat under a tree overlooking the moonlight on the water, his thoughts wandered and touched the far-flung romance deep inside somewhere. It was all so fantastic, to realize where he was, 400 years in the past, before the formation of the United States, while America was still within the hands of the nature-loving Indians.

It was probably better their way, he decided, and reflected on what it had become, in his own time, late in the 20th century, in the hands of the parasitic Capitalist people.

The ways of the 20th century 'Americans' that stole the land from the Indians were so different, so exploitative, greedy, and careless. The 20th century Americans didn't harmonize with nature, they found ways of using it, abused it for selfish gain, manipulated it for artificial purposes, and destroyed it without care. It, nature, was not measured as an equal to man, it was simply thought of as so much raw material ready for man to do whatever he wanted with, whenever he wanted to do it.

Not only nature was treated that way. The 20th century people were so cruel at times; that they even treated each other that same selfish way. Denkon knew it from experience, and he saw it as something of a social disease. He had been abused and victimized in his youth by older people and some people his own age.

It was odd to recall how weak and helpless he had been in his youth, compared to how he had eventually become so many years later. It was all so chaotic when he was growing up. He had been led to think that the systematic order of society was as perfect as it could get and yet, at certain times during his teenage years, things had happened that alienated him from it, drove him off the 'playground' and into the 'forest', where he spent so much of his time alone and confused.

Roland Denkon, quite simply, had failed to be good enough at any of the 'masculine' activities, and his father, who had a problem with alcohol, thought of him as nothing but a useless bastard.

But Denkon had a strong interest in the sciences, and did a lot of reading, whether his father realized it or not. As a result, over the years, one of the things Roland did do was accumulated a great deal of knowledge, and in his own peculiar way, put that knowledge to work with his hands.

There was one major mental block to that knowledge, and it impeded his progress after high-school. It was a lack of algebra. He had dreams, in high-school, of going to college and majoring in a field of science. But one of those 'things' that were not supposed to happen in a good society did happen.

For years after the fact, Roland was led to believe that he was simply 'stupid' when it came to algebra. But with the help of a 'spiritual guide', and a loose association of local classmates, he made a discovery in 1985, ten years after the 'thing' happened.

What he discovered was that the 9th grade algebra teacher had 'neglected' to teach the class all that was required for them to learn. The man had wasted too much time out of the room, 'goofing around' with delinquent students.

After 'neglecting' the class, the teacher went on to pass them all with good grades anyhow, to make himself look good and insure the full payment for his 'service'. It also turned out to be the man's last year as a teacher at that school.

Apparently, no one had ever quite put all the pieces together to that clever maneuver by the negligent man. When the students were unable to grasp the complexities of math and science classes that followed 9th grade Algebra, they were led to believe they were simply too 'stupid' to understand it.

Roland's dreams of majoring in the science field were destroyed before there was any way he could possibly prevent it. Nevertheless, he did not lose all interest in science, simply the exact 'math' about it. In time, he went on to prove that some scientific things could be done without needing all that exact math. Eventually, he managed to gain access to a computer, and learned how to let it work out most of the details.

All this took years, however, and during those years he suffered terribly from humiliation, poverty, minimum-wage menial labor, and homelessness. He stepped out of the house of his parents as soon as he got a job after high-school, and rented the cheapest rundown apartment in the big city he could find.

He worked as a janitor, long hours with low pay, and spent most of his free time reading and learning new and different things. But the whole time he grew sicker and sicker of himself, because he had failed to enter the science field in college, due to his low grades in all algebra-related classes.

His confidence was at an extreme low-point around that time. His family considered him a failure, his mother was disappointed with him, his father considered him a bastard, and girls didn't want anything to do with him.

So he struggled in the poverty pits of society for years, holding all the worst dirty work for small-change jobs. He learned it was necessary to be very cautious about choosing friends, after he learned that simply being 'friends' with the wrong kind of people could result in a jail sentence. After that he avoided making friends as much as was possible.

But it was not easy. Doing dirty work for small-change and being a 'loner' at the same time was next to impossible. There were times when he got very careless, hung out at city bars, wasted all his savings getting drunk, and woke up with a hangover in the park. When he began waking up in the local 'cage', under charges of disorderly conduct, he became suicidal, and had to stop to think really hard about his lowly disposition.

He spent a lot of time watching the river flow after that, wondering what had become of his life and why. One day, after being homeless for 2 years, he returned to the house of his parents and requested that they permit him to live in his old room and try to put his life back in order.

The father didn't like it, but his mother was a Christian, and she could not turn him away. He gave himself quite a kick in the butt after they let him in, and he pushed himself as he'd never been pushed before.

He had his hair cut, showered, shaved, and went out and looked for a job, and he didn't quit until he found one. It was just another dirty work for small-change, all work and no play, back-breaking, menial waste of time. But he did it, kept at it, and because his parents went easy on the rent, he managed to save some good money for once in his life.

With the money he saved, he began to put his latent 'genius' to work. He had ideas, revolutionary ideas, and he didn't care what the 'college' brats thought about them.

As he recalled it, one of the major mental blocks he had to overcome to discover his latent genius was a severe lack of confidence accompanied by a feeling of inferiority. The simple fact was, the social system had rejected him as a failure, and he had accepted the judgment, and let it direct his dismal downfall into degradation. When his father had called him a useless fool, and said he would never amount to anything, he had believed it.

But over the years, he had managed to see through that inferiority complex and learned things that many people did not know. One of those things was basic astrology. Not the astrology of personal forecasting, but the astrology of the ancients that led to mathematics, algebra, and astronomy. It came to the point where he could see amazing things just by gazing at the night sky.

He was inspired by visions during his middle and late 20's, and with the courage to reject the attitude of a society that had rejected him, he worked with his genius alone whenever he wasn't working for money to pay the bills.

It was in 1986 that he first discovered the basic elements needed for the 'electro-manta'. After that discovery, the construction of that amazing suit of armor became his passion. He used the savings from his job as handyman at a small department store to pay for all the materials he needed.

It took him almost 5 years to perfect the first phase, but during that time, he put it through tests and upgraded' it after every test. The fact that it was basically a form of 'armor' to begin with, capable of deflecting knives, bullets, arrows, and the flack of explosions, gave him a great surge of confidence. Such a discovery surely proved that he was not the useless loser society had judged him to be after all.

He stayed away from the house and his father as often as possible, because his father obviously hated having him around. But during the times when his father and mother were either away at work, visiting friends or relatives, or on vacation, he worked like a mad scientist on the electromanta.

After he completed the first phase, the 'armor-mode', he decided to wear it outside and put it to the test. He wore regular clothing over it to hide it from the eyes of a society and a law that would have labeled him some kind of trouble-making weirdo, or an escapee from an asylum.

Because the electromanta made him larger and stronger, he was not looked upon as the 'weakling' he was before. He was no longer a little man, he was bigger, and knowing this gave him confidence.

Finally, he had self-confidence, and it was a good feeling. When people threatened to treat him with disrespect, he looked them in the eyes and convinced them it wasn't a good idea, that they would regret it, and it worked. They could see that he was nobody's fool, and he received the kind of respect he'd been wanting all his life.

Not long after that, his father died, and then his mother. They were both old. He had been the last child of 5. He did not grieve for his father, but he did for his mother. In the final years of her life she had been good to him, respected him for what he was, a late starter, for whom manhood had taken more time to develop than with most.

He found himself all alone in the house, a situation he never dreamed would happen, and with all the time he needed to work on the electromanta. Money, however, became more of a problem. His mother had left almost 3 thousand dollars to him, but the government quickly took that away as payment for the unusually high 'property taxes' and 'mandatory insurance'.

His mother had died in 1992. By the year 1996, he was so poor he was unable to pay the property taxes and going further and further into debt. Then in 1997, he lost another job after disagreeing with the manager, and he couldn't even collect unemployment benefits. He went even further into debt as he squandered the last of his savings on food and worked constantly on the electromanta, alone, in the house.

Then the final phase of the electromanta had delivered him where no man had gone before, on a trip through time, to the past 'pioneer' days of early America. Lost in deep-rooted romantic emotions, he still was finding it all somewhat hard to believe. It was almost as if there was some unknown, powerful force directing his steps into the past, for such cosmic reasons as were unknown to him. It was as if he were a special 'agent' of the almighty, on a secret mission to undo the wrongful injustice of the early European settlers of the 'new world'.

Denkon realized that some alterations of the past could have drastic effects upon the present. The worst effect conceivable could result in the erasure of his own birth, and in theory, this may erase his existence. But there was an unavoidable paradox to this conclusion.

If he was never born, how could he have traveled back and changed the past to cause the erasure? The way he answered this is to conclude that his birth and existence could not be erased, but his so-called 'life' might be altered, to conform to the changes that occurred.

So, ultimately, because the 'life' he had was nothing much to lose, he was willing to take the chance, if there was a good enough reason.

VI

He nodded off for about 2 hours, and awoke to the sound of birds as the sun was rising. It was nearing the time to act. He had a cookie-bar and some juice he'd brought with him for breakfast, and prepared to do what had to be done.

He walked further north along the riverside, located a small peninsula of land with a large tree on it, sticking out from the edge of the land into the river. The spot was just what he needed to await the men in their canoes.

He sat under the tree and spied into the distance, southward. He saw the men, loading the sacks in the canoes. He had feared they might use horses to transport, but without bridges, crossing the river at this point was next to impossible.

So canoes it was, at least until they got closer to their destination. Since they would be rowing upstream, against the current, it should prove fairly easy for him, in the electromanta, to interrupt their ill-fated passage.

He prepared the 'hydro-mode', spied into the distance, and waited.

About 30 minutes later, they were in the canoes and on the move. Denkon hid on the sandy shoreline, behind the peninsula, and spied over it. He rechecked the trandart pistol, practiced the aim, and patiently anticipated the act he was about to perform.

This was it. This was the kind of thing the experts on time-travel said should not be done. Altering the past, they said, could have drastic consequences on the present.

But in this case, Denkon had thought it all through and decided it didn't matter. He had nothing to lose in that present, and his position, with the electromanta, seemed like it was destined. It seemed all too much of a coincidence that his temporal placement had been so exact. It was as if he was destined to undo a terrible injustice, a violation of the original American natives that should not have happened.

Within 10 minutes, the two canoes were nearing the peninsula, just 40 meters away. Two men were in the first, rowing steadily, while one man was in the second, with most of the cargo.

Denkon took aim over the top of the peninsula, waited until they were within 20 meters, and then fired the trandarts.

The man in the second canoe was alarmed to see the 2 men ahead of him suddenly stop rowing, drop the paddles in the water, and collapse into unconsciousness. He picked up his rifle, suspecting an Indian ambush, and then collapsed also, as a trandart hit him the chest.

Denkon put away the gun, and went into the river to fetch the canoes before they drifted downstream. He swam quickly, managed to catch the first, and was glad to see the second was tied to it. He tied the rope about his waist and swam with all his strength for the shore.

Reaching the shore, he removed the rope from his waist and tied it to a tree. The man in the second canoe with most of the cargo was Smith. He went to him, checked about his person, and found what he was looking for. A small glass vial with about an ounce of a cloudy liquid in it, secured with a cork.

He rechecked the man again, just in case he had more vials, but found none. Obviously, Smith planned to secretly transfer the evil substance to the blankets just prior to passing them on to the Indians.

Denkon looked at Smith, wondered what he'd do when he discovered the vial missing, and stuck the vial in a secure pocket.

"You'll just have to manage without it, Mr. Smith," he said, and walked away from the scene, inland.

He followed the river back south, the way he'd came, crossed the narrower tributary, and walked back across the autumn colored paradise, to his spot.

As he prepared to return to his home in the future, he wondered if it would still be there, and if it was how his action on this day would affect the reality.

Roland Denkon stood in the spot in the weeds between the trees, and activated the temporal-mode of the electromanta. The world around him, as seen thru the visor, was accelerated forward, and after a minute, the house appeared around him and he phased into 1999.

He noted at once that the interior decor was different, as well as some of the furniture, and it was not at all messy. This den was a close parallel, with the desk and his favorite chair in the same spots as they had been, but it had obviously been 'altered' by the action he took in the past.

He removed the helmet, set it down on the desk, which had been littered with papers before but now was tidy and well-organized, and went to the kitchen. The kitchen was also of a different decor, early American with an ultramodern flare to it, and in excellent condition. He went to the cupboards, opened them and checked the contents. As with everything else, it was a close parallel, but some of it was alien to the previous reality.

The tea, once he located it, was of a label he'd never seen before. That was interesting. He made some tea, took it to the den, and decided to check the desk. He was still very much the kind of man who took notes and kept a log. He found a gentleman's leather-bound logbook, something he hadn't had before, and read it.

He was still Roland Denkon, he was still a major in the field of science, he still designed and constructed the electromanta, his parents had died and left him the house, but he wasn't poor anymore and he wasn't in debt to the government. In fact, the government appeared to owe him, for a contract he had completed just a month ago.

With fascination, he thought about how well the 'new reality' had turned out, and looked out the window. At once he noted another major difference. He walked to the window and looked out across the street. There were no houses directly across the street, as there had been before. Instead, now there was a field of grass and weeds with sparsely scattered trees.

The closest house was about 100 meters away, at the end of a street ranching off the main. He looked out the windows of the kitchen, to the side, and again, the closest house was over 100 meters away. It was the same in every direction except the north. To the north, there were no other houses at all, only a large barn-like garage, an old truck beside it, and about 40 meters of grassy field that led to a forest.

The previous reality had contained much more suburban, residential houses and apartment buildings.

He drank the tea and looked out at it all with amazement. It was still the right time, the first day of January, 1999, and if anything, the new reality seemed to be much better for him than the previous reality. So he judged his position secure, removed the entire 'electromanta' suit of armor, and relaxed.

Then there was a knock at the door.

After washing up and refreshing himself he put on a grey and blue tweed jacket. As he looked out the window with amazement, there came a knock at the kitchen door.

He wondered who it could possibly be, and with some reluctance, answered it.

"Good day, Professor," a young man of perhaps 18 or 20 said. "I just thought I'd stop by to see if you planned to attend the KNP at the college tomorrow."

"Uh, well, I'm a bit busy, but, I haven't decided yet," he responded with uncertainty.

"Is everything alright?" he said, with a concerned look. He appeared to be quite familiar somehow, like a close friend, but Denkon could not recall his exact identity.

"Yes, everything's alright," he said, and suddenly recalled his manners. "Won't you enter for some tea?"

"Well, sure," the young man agreed, but hesitated. "Uh, professor, remember that cousin I told you about?"

"I'm not sure," he said, "Why?"

"She's waiting in the car," he said. "You still want to meet her?"

Denkon had no idea what the man was talking about, and didn't know what to say. The young man smiled and said, "Come on, Pro, it is the perfect time. You really should meet her; I just know you'll like her."

"Well, alright, I guess," he said finally.

The man went across the yard, through the bushes, to a car parked under a tree. There was a dirt road leading into the field where before had been a paved side street with two other houses and a 'Lion's Club' brick building. It was a rare 'dry day' in winter and not too cold either, with the sun shining.

The familiar young man returned, a minute later, with a beautiful, dark-haired female.

As they stepped into the kitchen, Denkon stared at her with amazement. She had a light bronze complexion, wore a knee-high skirt and jacket of purple and yellow, and she appeared to be of Indian descent. But the thing about her that really surprised him was the close resemblance she had to the Indian girl he had rescued in the early 16th century. She looked just like Lakuna.

He said the name to himself as he looked at her with wonder.

"Professor Denkon," the young man said, "this is my cousin, Velesa. Velesa, Professor Denkon."

She smiled brightly, and said, "I am honored to know you, Professor. Please excuse my uniform; Armand was taking me to field practice."

Denkon realized he'd been staring at her and excused himself.

"Uh, Velesa will be going to the KNP with me, tomorrow," Armand said, "isn't that right cousin?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "I'm looking forward to it."

Denkon tried to keep from staring at herby looking about the kitchen. This was quite a major change in reality. He needed time to adjust.

"Are you going?" Velesa said to him.

"Going where?" he said, forgetting what they were talking about.

"To the KNP at the college tomorrow?" she said, still smiling.

Suddenly, his mind clicked as he put the pieces together. The KNP at the college, tomorrow. Velesa, a beautiful young female who appeared quite attracted to him.

"Yes, I think I probably am going to be there," he decided. "Would you care for some tea?"

"Uh, we'd better not," Armand said, "she has her field practice within the hour. We should get going now."

He smiled at Denkon, and winked, then took Velesa's arm.

"See you tomorrow, Professor," she said pleasantly, as Armand led her out the door. Before he stepped out himself, he turned and gave Denkon a hand signal and a smile, as if to say, 'it's all set, friend," then stepped out and departed.

So, thought Denkon, in this reality I made the professor. Wow, this is more like it. He checked the time, went to the den, and relaxed in his favorite chair, to read more of the log. He had 24 hours to prepare himself for tomorrow, and no time to waste.

He thought of Velesa. Yes, this is definitely more like it.

Finis

The Refracted Man

One

Random Ecks was only a fraction of a man, and he was quite disappointed by that fact. As such, he was also unable to 'win' at any of the competitive social 'games' that people played, including the games called 'Get a Job' and 'Get a Girl'. What else was there? Oh yeah, 'Get Money', but that was much the same as getting a job, actually. Obviously, all of the highest paying jobs were the hardest to get.

Miserable. He was miserable. Nobody knew just how miserable he was. Nobody cared. It was next to impossible for him to make any 'friends' in the miserable state he was in. Yet, if he could not make any 'friends', how could he explain to them that he was so miserable? This was a problem that made the aspect of 'socialization' much more difficult than it should have to be.

Not that he really cared to make friends with any of the ugly 'males' he was surrounded by. What misery, what hell! After 30 years of lousy, low-paying, dirty-work for small-change jobs, he was still nowhere. It was a relief to escape the house of his stepfather, but now, to be stuck in some of the cheapest apartments, in one little room, surrounded by ugly men in rooms all the very same size.... it was not easy for him.

The worst thing about it was the bathroom and showers had to be 'shared' with dozens of other 'ugly' men, and some of them acted as if they were the only ones in the whole apartment building, as if he wasn't there or didn't count. It was the ugly ones with the big, fat egos that he hated the most, but usually, they were also the ones that were in and out in one or two months.

He was sick of ugly men. He desperately needed a female companion, but he had so little to offer them that they had no interest in him. He barely had enough money to pay the rent, the bills, and put food on the table. He was lucky if he had enough left for a bottle of cheap wine after everything else was paid for, never mind dishing out fifty or a hundred for a prostitute.

He had done that before, when he had more money, and found the girls to be greedy as hell. They demanded the money first, and then they ran out the door as quickly as possible. In short, they took him for all they could get and gave him practically nothing for it. It was a waste of money. To heck with prostitutes. Now he understood why some guys abused them. It wasn't just prostitutes. All females were greedy. That's why he never had any. Because they all wanted money that he didn't have.

To hell with this life, he decided. To hell with this world. To hell with it all.

It was plain to see that he was a loser. He had been born that way. His older stepbrother and stepfather had both abused him. When he was 18 he began to see it all so clearly. The only reason they let him live in the first place was so that he could do the dirty-work for small-change. That was it; it was all he was good for.

At the age of 26, after traveling across the country and roughing it, homeless most of the time, for 3 years, he returned to the house of his stepfather, and the old man almost had a heart attack, when for once in his life, Random stood up to him without fear.

His mother managed to connect him with a job, in a pet-store, taking care of the animals. It was a dirty job, cleaning the cages constantly, but it was money, and a chance to start his life again. But even though he was older, and wiser, life was still quite difficult.

He had been a fairly adequate artist in his youth, and he decided to try his hands at 'animation', and dreamt of making a career in that field. He could not imagine cleaning animal cages all his life.

But after 4 years at the pet-store, his animation had gone slow and then one day, he lost his job when the store closed. He went on unemployment, and presently, he was still seeking another job.

It was hell. He was sick of his life. He was so miserable he was wasting all his spare change on cheap liquor and drinking his time away. It had been so long since he'd had a female companion, he couldn't remember what it was like. It was this fact that made him all the more repulsed by the closeness of so many ugly men.

He was going insane. He was contemplating suicide. He had even constructed a gun from junk metal and was prepared to use it on his miserable head. Animation was too expensive a hobby. He had not enough money for the necessary supplies. After losing his job at the pet-store it went slower and slower, until it went nowhere. As he drank himself into a stupor, he played with the idea of turning himself into a cartoon character, and quietly laughed at the thought. If only it were that easy.

Two

Random was raised to believe that because he was in 'America', he was 'free' to choose his own direction in life. With this belief, he devoted his studies to his desire to be a scientist. Unfortunately, for all his devotion, something 'major' went wrong with 9th grade Algebra.

No, it wasn't him. It was 'neglect' from the instructor. If the teacher had taught the class everything he was supposed to, Random would not have failed 9th grade Geometry, or done so poorly in all the math-related subjects following, including physics, chemistry, and science in general. One cannot become a scientist without the mathematics to back it up.

The instructor very cleverly passed everyone with flying colors, and thereby managed to 'fake' it by the heads of the faculty. It was his last year, but he fixed it so that he got paid for the job even though he didn't do it. It was most unfortunate that his students suffered from the fall-out of his neglect, and did poorly in all math-related classes thereafter.

It wasn't until after graduation that he heard the others talking and discovered the truth. All those years, he thought it was his fault alone, that he was not good enough to do the complex calculations. Suddenly, 3 years after the fact, the truth was out, but it was too late to do anything about it. Gone were his dreams of being a scientist.

Before he could change his plans, he entered a cheap college and the next step after everything else. It seemed like the thing to do at the time, but his lack of algebra did not help. He failed 'Finite Math 1' completely, and 'Chemistry 2' made him look like a total idiot amidst the others, who were all more qualified for the work.

He had no time for 'Night-school', because college classes and 2 different part-time jobs left him with barely any time to rest. He had another interest in Art, but his lack of talent and severe distaste for 'commercial art' made it seem very unlikely he could ever go anywhere in the field.

Nevertheless, he spent some time painting, drawing, and sculpting with clay, and over the years, gradually became better with it.

While slaving away most of his time on all the hardest, most back-breaking, lowest-paying jobs available, the little free-time he had left over found his interest enter the field of 'Animation', and slowly, but surely, he developed his skill. But he lost his job at the pet-store after it closed and suddenly, he was looking at poverty and the possibility of homelessness.

Wherever he went, people treated him like a subservient loser, and he grew cold and alienated. Too many people were suffering all at the same time, and no matter what excuse a guy had for being down and dead-beat, it was for the most part ignored, because everyone had problems.

His dreams of being a scientist were shot away to hell, his devotion to intelligence and knowledge appeared a lost cause, as he was pitted against a maddening crowd of mindless muscle-heads and morons. His brains helped some, but the bigger guys with muscles and guts always seemed to take the cheese and win the contest.

Complaining didn't help. No, his complaints did no good; they were merely facts as 'he' had known them. The people that owed Random reparations for the damages done to his life ignored his complaints, no matter how many times they were repeated.

Ultimately, it was his 'fearless' perspective upon the hard reality that managed to get him through it all. This fearlessness was born from the realization that he really had nothing to lose. The idea that he had nothing to lose came from a general overview of his life and an existentialist philosophy about it. He had even gone so far as to use existential reasoning to reach the conclusion that he was in fact more 'dead' than 'alive', following a more exact semantic aspect.

From a semantic perspective, he did not know the true meaning of 'life', but he was quite certain that the experience he was involved in was not 'life'. Life was not suffering. Life was not pain. Life was not hunger. Life was not confusion. Life was not poverty and homelessness. Life was not insomnia, anxiety, and nervous tension.

Yet all of these were dominant factors in the experience that he had been led to believe was 'life'. No, he realized, he was not alive. The dominant factors in his experience were not the 'positive' ingredients of life, but rather, the negative factors of death and hell. If one could trust 'semantics' to get closer to the truth than all else, Random had reached a dire impasse in understanding.

Three

One night, he had a very peculiar dream. He dreamt that a whirling vortex of energy tore the door from its hinges at the end of the boarding house hallway and sucked him through it into another world. He awoke in the dark of the predawn hours, around 4 am, after experiencing the 'shock' of that subconscious vision.

He could not sleep, so he decided to see what was on television. It was then, as he flipped through the channels, that he noticed something very strange. Most of the channels were showing down-time spectrums and test-patterns, but a few of the channels were airing programs and movies. But it was like nothing he had ever seen before.

One of the programs opened his eyes so wide he thought they might pop out of their sockets. For it was the most x-rated program he'd ever seen. He quickly popped a tape into the VCR and set it to record.

With eyes bulging and tongue hanging half way out of his mouth, he found it almost impossible to believe. How could a regular television station air such sexually explicit material? Surely the FCC would consider this an illegal broadcast? Yet, there it was, right before his conscious eyes!

It had to be one of those rare 'blooper' broadcasts, being televised by somebody who had a bone to pick with the station for losing their job or promotion or something. It was probably engineered without anyone else's knowledge.

Such things had been known to occur, but the last time he'd heard of it was during the 70's. This was the sort of thing that a station could lose its license for. The FCC was not likely to tolerate it. It was a good thing he was taping it. Such a rare catch could be quite valuable after the fact. He expected the plug to be pulled and the program cut off any second, but it continued.

Random watched with amazement. He'd never seen anything like it. It was some of the naughtiest x-rated stuff he'd ever seen. It appeared to be basically, on the surface, just another 'nudie' talk show, with a scantily-clad, big-breasted brunette for a host, with her huge boobs resting on a desk for all to admire.

Most of the guests appeared to be females in the nude. Some of them wore garters, nylon stockings, g-strings, and jewelry, but no clothes covered any of the breasts. It was obviously an x-rated, 'adult' program. As Random watched it, he began to seriously consider the possibility that he was either dreaming, or he was in a strange, new world.

He let the tape continue to record and examined his room. All appeared as it had been before the 'dream'. Then he looked out the window and received the shock of his life. It was different. It was changed. It was not the same place he had been before.

Where before there had been a walkway, a parking-lot, row of bushes, and more buildings, now there was over 100 meters of hills and trees leading down a gradual slope to the seaside. The closest structure he could see was around 100 meters away, down the hillside, to the left, by the side of the sea.

He listened and heard some birds chirping, signaling the nearness to sunrise. But nothing else could be heard at all, save the gentle waves breaking on the coast. He checked the time. It was nearing 5 am. One of the neighbors had been an early riser, and Random expected to hear the man anytime now, but that was before...before what?

Before he was somehow transported in space and time, to another reality?

Was it possible that the reality he had been transported to was so different, that such things were accepted practices and activities amongst the natives that inhabited it?

He was reminded of some of the exotic cultures of his previous reality, and some of the 'bizarre' things that they practiced, such as a sister and brother performing incest as a rite of spring, or visiting friends being required to suckle the breast of the head female of a tribal village, etc...

Such 'practices' and 'customs' had seemed extremely odd and difficult to believe for the so-called 'civilized' Europeans and Americans who had first encountered them. Yet, as weird as they were on the surface, such customs were quite mild compared to some of the even stranger things.

Random looked back at the television, and seeing more, tried to understand how such activities might be quite acceptable in a reality far-removed from the reality he had known of as home. Home?

As he thought of the concept of 'home', he suddenly realized that he had never felt very much at 'home' in his previous life. He had in fact, felt very alienated, even in the 'house' that he was raised in. The parents were always fighting. The 'stepfather' had treated him like a bastard, not as a 'son', and driven him out of the house at an early age, not yet prepared for the cruel world that he was forced to deal with.

No, he had never felt at 'home' where he was before, he had always felt odd, unwanted, and out of place. But where was he now? Was it possible that this 'new reality' was home? Or was he simply cast as a visitor in another strange, alien world, by some unknown phenomena that transcended different realities of space and time?

As the sun began to rise and the sky was brightening, he got dressed and went out to explore. The first thing he noticed, right outside his door, was that the 'boarding house' was not at all the same.

Rather than the long, narrow hallway, he found a shorter, wider, and more exotically-decorated hall, with fewer 'doors' which were all set much further apart. The room to the left where the early rising neighbor had been was not there, nor was there any room at all. Instead, there was a door that led into a stairwell. 5 meters beyond it was a window with exotic blue and silver curtains, and an ornate, wooden table, with a vase full of flowers set upon it.

He took the stairwell to the ground floor and stepped outside. A large stone patio aligned by dark, metal railings, over-looked the sloping hillside and the sea. There were tables and chairs on the patio, and what appeared to be some form of exotic orange fruit was growing in one of the nearby trees at the patio's edge.

He stood at the railing and looked out over the hillside and down to the wide sea. He expected to see some early risers, but didn't. It all appeared rather vacant of human life, and that seemed odd.

It was all very strange. Something similar to a strong feeling of 'deja vu' capped the tip of his consciousness, as if he was somehow familiar with it all, but it was still very obscure. His stomach told him he was hungry, so he went back inside to get something to eat.

He forgot what floor he was on, and proceeded through the stairwell, to the door on its other side, and suddenly felt lost again as he entered the ground-level and walked along the hall to a wide lobby. Just around the corner to the left was what appeared to be a lunch-counter with several stools. Behind it was a coffee-pot, a microwave oven, an ice-box, and a translucent sliding-door to a cabinet, which contained several dishes of pie, pastries, and doughnuts.

Something told him he could help himself, so he did so, poured some coffee and selected a piece of pie, and he thought nothing of it until he sat down and started to eat. As he ate the pie, he suddenly stopped and reflected on what he had just done.

For some reason, it had seemed perfectly natural for him to simply help himself with the food, although now that he thought of it, it was something he'd never done before, in the 'previous-reality'.

As he thought of that concept, 'previous-reality' seemed to make a great deal of sense, and he felt suddenly enlightened. He was self-conscious about what he was doing, looked all about the lobby for the 'eyes' of others who may have witnessed his act, then said, 'previous-reality' to himself, upon seeing no others about, and continued to eat.

Half an hour later, as he relaxed with a full stomach, he still saw nobody else about. The place was oddly vacant of human life, and he wondered why. He checked the time. It was going on 6 am. He went out the lobby doors through the main entrance. There was a traffic circle aligned with bushes and trees, and beyond it, a field and more trees, with many colorful flowers.

The 'hotel', as he now realized it to be, not the meager 'boarding house' of the 'previous reality', appeared to be at the top of the hills by the seaside.

But where were all the tenants?

Random was still finding it all very difficult to believe, as if it were an amazingly vivid dream, but gradually, from a close observation with the senses, he was beginning to see it as something else, something real. He was beginning to accept the possibility that he had experienced a reality-change, and in comparison to the 'previous reality', the 'new reality' was paradise.

Four

Random spent the morning exploring the hotel and vicinity, and found no other humans whatsoever. He located the manager's office, discovered the door unlocked, after there was no answer to his knock, and went inside. The office was luxurious and exotic, with wall to wall carpet, a large desk with a computer, a television, VCR, and stereo system, and the room adjoining it was a small apartment with bathroom and shower. It was all perfectly normal, except there was no manager.

He found keys to all the rooms in a desk-drawer, and went to each one. He knocked, received no answer, then used a key to open the door and check every one out. They were all neatly furnished and luxurious, no 2 exactly alike in decor, and they were all quite empty. Of all those he checked, 2 levels of 12 rooms each, only 2 appeared to have been lived in, not counting his own.

That was another oddity. His 'room', the one he had 'arrived' at the new reality in, was not an apartment like the others. Neither was it luxurious. It was just a single room, a near exact replica of the one he had resided within at the boarding house. That was odd, but then so many things were, under the circumstances.

One of the 'apartments' which had appeared lived in, with clothes on the bed and empty food containers in the kitchen, was on the top level, at the opposite end of the hallway where his 'room' was located. He did a bit of detective work about the large, 3-room, 'penthouse' like apartment, then went out on the balcony and spied into the distance. The sea was opened wide and beautiful, to the distant horizon. There were a few birds, but no boats or traffic on the coastal road, no sign of any humans whatsoever.

That wasn't such a bad thing, considering all the problems he had with human society in the previous reality. He sucked in the briny air and felt like he had finally managed to do something he'd wanted to do for years. Take a vacation, away from the human race.

His curiosity compelled him to explore the 'new reality' and reach an understanding of his position within it. The other apartment that appeared lived in was the manager's room itself, which contained clothes in a closet, a notebook in a drawer in a bedside table, and a few personal affects in the bathroom. He read a few passages in the notebook, and didn't know quite what to make of it.

Apparently, the manager kept notes about the place, but what they meant was beyond him. The notes referred to a phenomenon called the 'refraction', which was described as a 'crack' in the universe. Apparently, the manager had been concerned that the 'crack' might occur too close to the 'island', and destroy him. According to his notes, the 'crack' had already taken his family and friends, and left him alone, the last man on the island.

The final passage took note of his loneliness and thoughts of taking a boat to the mainland. He had communicated with his sister's husband, who lived and worked with her on the mainland. According to them, the same phenomenon was slowly but surely wiping the humans off the planet. There were no other passages, and no way of knowing if the man had left by boat or if he'd been destroyed by the 'crack'.

It felt very odd for him to realize now that he was the only human on the 'island', and quite possibly, the entire planet. The island appeared to be quite large, since in every direction he looked, it appeared to be a 'mainland' itself.

Around noon-time he returned to the hotel lobby, switched the television-video on, and sat down in a comfortable easy-chair. He flipped through the channels with the remote-control, recognized some of the programs, a sitcom rerun and a cartoon, but didn't recognize other stuff, such as x-rated soap operas with nudity and sex, and other programs where people freely played about, in the nude, in the sunny parkways and inside shopping malls and recreation centers.

He almost got caught up in one of these 'nudist' programs, but then stopped flipping when one channel was televising what appeared to be a very serious news-report. He set the volume higher and listened closely.

"...At approximately 4 am, eastern standard time, scientists at the Palomar observatory reportedly witnessed what appeared to be the largest solar-flare in recorded history. The eruption from the surface of the sun has extended beyond the planet Mercury and is having effects upon the electromagnetic fields of Earth."

The report switched over to a group of seriously concerned scientists, with looks of surprise and puzzlement, and then one of them appeared before the camera and spoke with some explanation.

"We're not entirely certain how extreme the alterations of the magnetic-field are, however, there have been cases of satellite displacement and effects upon our network communications, and radios. The full effect may yet be forth-coming, since the main body of the flare has yet to reach our planet. We do advise every one within the western hemisphere to stay out of the sun, under cover, today, until the flare's passage and/or until we determine it to be safe."

The scientist vanished from the screen as a picture of the solar flare appeared, erupting from the surface of the sun and shooting away out into space. It was huge, but impossible to determine how large from such a distant angle. Random estimated it to be perhaps ten times larger than Earth itself.

'4 am?' he thought, out loud to himself. Funny, that was around the same time he had that strange dream.

The picture returned to the newsroom but before the man said anything else, the channel went all static, and then a test-pattern appeared. Along with the pattern, there was an odd, dull monotone that reminded him of something from long ago.

He looked closer at the pattern as the monotone continued, and read the words over it.

'EBS: Emergency Broadcast System'.

Suddenly, having caught his full attention, a man's voice spoke.

"This is not a test. The Emergency Broadcast System is in effect. All citizens are urged to seek shelter immediately. This is not a test. For your safety, please proceed to one of the local fall-out shelters immediately. We repeat, this is not a test."

Random almost jumped to seek such shelter, but thought twice and stayed put. He switched to another channel and it was still airing a regular program. So were the others. There were other channels on the air, all with regular programs. If he was to take the EBS warning seriously, shouldn't all the networks be carrying it?

He flipped through all the channels and returned to the original one with the news report. The EBS warning and test-pattern was gone, and the news was on again. It was not about the solar-flare, it was just regular everyday stuff. That didn't appear right. He waited for more news about the solar flare, for several minutes, but there wasn't anything about it. Then he looked closely and noticed the digital chronometer at the bottom of the screen. The date wasn't right. It was yesterdays date. That meant the news report wasn't live, wasn't even updated, but was in fact nothing but a recording.

It was a recording, of course!

He had an idea and suddenly flipped thru all the channels slowly, one after the other. None of it was 'live', it was all a recording. That meant... it was quite possible that even the news report about the solar-flare was a recording, right up to the EBS warning!

He recalled the manager's notes about the phenomenon he called a 'refraction', and began to piece it all together. Suddenly, he had a serious suspicion that he understood it all now, but he needed more evidence to be certain.

If his suspicions were correct, the 'crack' had snatched him last night, but rather than destroy him, it had 'transported' him across space and time. As for the solar flare and the EBS warning, that had been the very high-point of the phenomena, which somehow, the people of this island had known about for a longer period of time.

He didn't have all the answers, but enough to give him a good idea what had happened. As for how and why it had transported him to the island, he didn't know, but the strong sense of 'deja vu' was still there, along with something forming within his subconscious, something like memories that were long forgotten.

These 'memories', if that's what they were, along with the 'deja vu', suggested the possibility that he had been on the island before, in this hotel, high on this hill. Whatever the case, he had to admit, it was a welcome relief from the rundown, low-income housing he'd been forced to reside within during the previous reality.

He looked outside, up at the clear, blue sky and friendly, fluffy clouds, and decided to make himself at home.

Five

There was a large, fancy, pond-shaped pool on the other side of some tall hedges to the right of the hotel. Random decided to wash away the sweat caused from exploring about the place. Compared to the 'previous reality', this hotel on the hill by the sea was paradise, and he could not help but feel good about it. It was the vacation he had been desperately in need of for the past 10 years.

As he swam, he felt more vitality and body strength than ever before. For the first time since entering this reality, he noticed how different his physical body was. It was odd that he hadn't noticed it before, he thought, and realized he had probably been too mesmerized by the scenery to notice.

Now that he had come to accept the new setting and felt more at home, the swim had the effect of making him conscious of his physical body for the first time, and he found an amazing change there as well. He left the poolside, dried him-self with a towel, and went to a nearby restroom.

As he looked at himself in the mirror, he was shocked into disbelief, but then he recognized his familiar eyes, dark hair, and familiar face. It was his head alright, though a bit more tanned and full. The body, however, was much more muscular. In the previous reality, he had been bonier, paler, and lacking in muscles. Now, he had a body that appeared much healthier, more masculine and more muscular.

It was amazing. Not only had he experienced a change in realities, he also had some kind of change in physique also. He wondered how such a thing was possible, but decided it was best not to question it too much. The answer, for the moment, was beyond him. It was hard enough simply thinking about the effect of the solar flare and the 'refraction' phenomena recorded by the manager.

He returned to the poolside, went to the bar, made a rum colada drink, and relaxed on a lounge in the sun. It was paradise, he decided, but there was one thing missing. A female companion. Of course, in the previous reality he had gone without such a companion for most of his life, after he lost Lianne, when he was 17.

It had taken him years to overcome the loss of Lianne, but after that, he eventually learned to cope with solitude altogether, more so because the circumstances forced it upon him, than by any choice of his own.

Nevertheless, he had learned to contend with that solitude somehow, and the only difference now was, he was no longer alone in hell, he was alone in paradise. He felt positively relieved about it, as he looked over the trees into the blue sky. Not about being alone, but by the fact that he was no longer surrounded by ugly men, and he was free to enjoy the scenery and the facilities without needing any money.

'Oh, Lianne,' he thought aloud to himself, 'if only you were here now.'

He spent almost 30 minutes basking in the sun, drinking rum coladas, then decided to check out the manager's apartment again.

Once inside the office, he turned on the video, and sat at the desk. He checked the desk-drawers, and received another surprise. There was a photo ID of the manager of the hotel, and the man looked just like he did! In fact, as he looked at it closely and studied the physical data, he suddenly had a rush of deja vu, and realized all at once that it was him!

There was a sudden flash of something like memories across his consciousness. But they were all fragmented, disconnected, broken up, and difficult to put in perspective. But one thing was for sure now; at least he thought it was that he was in fact the man in the photo ID. Somehow, he was certain he was the manager.

But how was that possible? He had been in another reality just yesterday. How could he have been the manager if he was somewhere else, across space and time, in an entirely different reality?

He wondered about this, as bits and pieces of thoughts and imagery brushed across his consciousness like wind on water. In confusion, he looked up at the video and saw that the news was being broadcast again. He expected something new, such as an update of the solar flare situation, but it was the same news report as before, a recording playing over again.

He watched it through. It was all the same as before, all the way up to the static that led to the EBS warning. He switched the channels, found a technical bulletin, and checked the date. It was yesterday's date.

Apparently, yesterday's news reports and bulletins were repeating themselves, possibly the programs also, but he hadn't been around the paradise reality yesterday, so he could not be sure. But if the final news report was repeating itself, then that meant... that meant nobody was at the station to change it. It was set on automatic, apparently rewinding itself and everything, without human monitoring.

He turned to the computer decisively. His knowledge of computer usage was limited, and he had never been online in the previous reality, but if ever there was a time to learn, it was now.

Six

Random tried getting some 'live' online for almost 2 hours, but only received recorded material. He also received a special report about the solar flare and the fact that it had some affect on satellites, the ionosphere, and telecommunications. So it was possible there were people out there, but not within reach because of the electromagnetic disturbance caused by the solar flare.

Finally, there was reference to the 'refraction' that the manager had mentioned in his personal notebook. Scientists described it as a light phenomenon within the atmosphere which caused visual distortions between large sections of space. It also appeared to have caused people to lose direction and become lost from their homes, families, and work places.

That provided more of an explanation about what had been written in the notebook. Apparently, the 'refraction' had caused all of the manager's family and friends to get lost. The manager himself, which Random began to realize was him, even though the memories were still too fragmented and disassociated to be recalled in any orderly way, probably had to 'hold the fort', so to speak, and never left the hotel, so he was never 'lost'.

But how could they get 'physically' lost on an island? Wasn't it possible they were somewhere out there, just unable to find the way back to the hotel? If this were the case, one would think they'd eventually find their way to it, if they kept trying. Obviously this 'refraction' was more serious than the scientists or the news media, was willing to admit at the time.

Random gained access to the manager's computer files, read everything, and began to recall things. As he read the files, it was as if key information was filling in so many 'blanks' in his memory, and many things began to fall into place.

Suddenly, he recalled something extremely important, and the image of it in his mind echoed with suspended intrigue. It was some kind of 'power plant', known as the 'Solspire'.

The 'Solspire' was a huge, temple-like structure, on the other side of the trees, at the very top of the island. There was a walkway that led from the far side of the pool, through a garden, through the trees, to the top of the island, and the Solspire.

He realized at once that he had to check it out. The Solspire held important answers to everything, he was certain of it. He checked the time. It was almost 6 pm. Soon the sun would set. He was hungry. He decided the visit to the Solspire could wait until tomorrow. If the refraction caused people to lose their way during daylight, he could well imagine how much more of a problem it must be in the dark of night.

As he thought about the 'Solspire' in awe, he recalled a secret set of files on a secret coded disk. He looked down at the corner of the carpeted floor, beside a large potted-plant near the window, and stepped to it. He squatted, grabbed the corner edge of the carpet, and pulled. The Velcro gave way, the carpet pulled loose, and he folded it over.

There within the floor was a sunken safe, a square foot of grey metal with a set of digital keys in one corner. He thought shortly, and a little tune came dancing through his head, accentuated by images indented by the set of notes within the tune. He tapped the tune out on the proper keys, there was a click, and the door was released.

He slipped a finger under the edge of the door and opened it. Inside were a few different small items, including a billfold, a wafer-thin key-card, and the secret coded-disk. He took everything, realizing it was all vital to the Solspire's function.

He closed the safe, reset the rug, and returned to the desk. He loaded the disk into the computer and checked the directory. He accessed every file and learned not only of the Solspire, but also of the phenomenon known as the Refraction.

Along with all else, he learned that the Refraction could be predicted, to some extent, due to the close proximity of the Solspire. According to the closest calculations, it never occurred more than 3 times in one day, and had a period between 38 and 45 hours before vanishing completely for 12.

What this meant, to his plans, was that it wouldn't be safe enough to leave the hotel grounds for another 24 to 31 hours. In other words, he had to stay at the hotel for another day, and leave some time in the early morning of the day after. He decided to see what the kitchen had to offer for an evening meal, and left the manager's apartment.

Like everything else in the hotel, the kitchen and dining-rooms were large and luxurious. There was a large cold-storage locker stocked with boxes of frozen food, and a closet full of cupboards with plenty of boxes and cans. There certainly was no chance of going hungry. He estimated there to be enough food for 3 or 4 months, at least. That was a welcome relief.

He put some frozen fish filets in a microwave oven, a pot of chili on the stove, and went to the lounge to relax for 20 minutes. He couldn't shake thoughts about the situation, but couldn't let it trouble him either. He was somewhat emotionally confused, in a mixture of serious mystery and wonderful relief.

The mystery was the phenomena of the refraction and the situation it created. The relief was similar to what a soldier experiences upon leaving the war and returning 'home'. For Random, it meant the long nightmare of the previous reality was over at last. The suffering in purgatorial limbo was ended.

He could not feel bad under such circumstances, the relief was too strong. Paradise was much too wonderful a place to feel bad in. Another day of relaxation at the hotel would surely not do him any harm. He welcomed the chance to take it easy for another day.

He went to the bar room, fixed a rum colada, and looked out the window, across the traffic circle, and over the trees. In the distance, he sited the top of the structure known as the Solspire, a round dome of blue-grey stone. The answers were there, he was sure of it. His thoughts settled as he relaxed. He'd rest easy tonight and tomorrow, then visit it the next day. It would have to wait. The timing of the refraction permitted no security until then.

He was certain now, that he had been here, at this hotel, on this island before. He no longer had any doubts. The strong sense of deja vu, the memories, and the photo ID supported it. He drank the rum colada, and gazed out the window into the distance, compelled by the deja vu into a flight of romantic emotions.

The Solspire had the answers and maybe the solution also. He was certain of this. He carried the drink to the lounge, set it down, checked the time, and went to get the chili and fish.

As he ate in the lounge, and watched the video, he began to recall Lianne, and memories of his family and friends returned. He thought about them for a moment, recalled the time they all spent together, by the poolside and elsewhere about the hotel. There was a rush of positive feelings about the memories, for the moment, but when it ended it left him suspended in shock and sadness. This led to thoughts about the refraction and the Solspire. The need to reach the Solspire was intensified more than ever.

The sun was setting low on the horizon and it would soon be night. The idea of being alone in the hotel at night was somewhat discomforting, under the circumstances. He recalled that he had lost his girlfriend, Lianne at night. She was one of the first to go.

What if the 'crack' or 'refraction' occurred during the night, and displaced him again?

He tried to relax while the sun set, made another drink, and decided certain precautions would help him feel more secure. He had all the keys to all the doors. He went all about the hotel locking each one of them, even though it might not stop something like the refraction. On the other hand, it couldn't hurt, and it did add a stronger sense of security which helped him relax more at ease.

He also turned some of the lights on, before it got too dark. Getting into his fourth rum colada, he recalled a secret room in the basement, where there were heavy-metal tools and weapons.

He located the key in the manager's office, went down into the basement, below the surface of the land, unlocked the door, turned on the light, and stepped inside. The room served as a small workshop and munitions storage.

There were power-tools on a work-bench and all kinds of piece-work hardware in drawers and on shelves. He located a heavy, metal foot-locker, opened it, and inside there were about 5 or 6 different guns. For his purposes, he selected a .357 magnum.

He locked the room, went back to the manager's apartment, and surveyed the situation. It suddenly occurred to him that there was a good reason why he had first entered the 'hotel-reality' by way of the small room in the corner on the second-level. Under the odd circumstances, the manager's apartment was not the most secure place to sleep. It was too obvious and centralized.

If the island was invaded, and the hotel was checked out by a hostile force, the manager's apartment was bound to be one of the first rooms that would be checked. The small room in the corner of the second-level, however, would be one of the last rooms they'd check.

He carried some food and drink to the second-level corner-room, went inside, and prepared for bed. As he opened the door, he looked down the long, wide, luxurious hallway, to the far end, and recalled the 'apartment' that had appeared lived in. Now he recalled it all. He had been the one who was living in it. He had 'lived' in the apartment and only 'slept' in the smaller room.

He entered the small room and once inside, he discovered an extra measure of security, to go with the gun. It was a Kevlar armored-vest, capable of stopping knives, bullets, the flack of explosions, etc...

He made another drink, turned on the video, and settled down for the night.

Seven

It wasn't easy resting. He wasn't tired enough to simply fall asleep, so he sat up in bed watching the video, looking out the window now and then, wondering, with anticipation of the sunrise.

He finally managed to nod off without even realizing it, around 4 am, then awoke around 10 am, with the video still on. Relieved to find the crack had not taken him again, he went to the lounge, had some coffee and a French pastry.

He spent the remaining morning hours within the lounge and at the manager's desk rechecking some of the computer files, and after lunch, went out to the pool for a swim and a little sun. He roamed about the grounds, with admiration for its exquisite, exotic beauty, during the afternoon, and returned to the manager's office to do some more research around 5 pm.

He went to the lounge about 6 pm, entered the bar, enjoyed a couple of drinks, and went to the kitchen for an evening meal. He decided to make it big and fancy, something to be enjoyed for a couple of hours. He made a variety of exotic foods, and took it to the lounge as the sun was setting around 8 pm. Never before in his life had he enjoyed such an exotic meal.

By 9 pm, he was stuffed, had another few drinks, and relaxed before the video. Around about 12 pm, he went to the top level, spent about 2 hours relaxing in the 'apartment', and then retired to the 'safe-room', at the opposite end of the hall. He slept about 6 hours and awoke about 8 am. He had breakfast in the lounge and prepared to go to the Solspire.

He packed a bag with some survival supplies; food and water, medicine, a jacket, extra clips for the gun, etc... Knowing it was possible that the refraction might still cause him to lose his way, since it was not 100 percent predictable; he wanted to be well prepared for whatever awaited him. He recalled that one of his friends had been lost after going to the Solspire.

It was a risky move for him to make, and he was somewhat reluctant to leave the security of the hotel, after only 2 days of relaxation, but he was compelled by curiosity as well as the need to solve the situation. He was certain the Solspire held some kind of secret power and he had to know what it was.

As he was walking by the second extension of the pool, which reached into the edge of the gardens, he suddenly felt disoriented in the head, his vision was blurred, and he almost fell down. He sat down at one of the poolside tables, and after a minute, regained his sensory coordination.

Random was surprised to see a girl in a bikini climb out of the pool, pick up a towel, and dry herself by one of the other tables. He watched as she took a seat and had a drink, like it was just another day. How was it he had not seen her before? Had she only just arrived?

He stood up, looked around, and saw no others. She was alone, as was he. He recalled the minute of disorientation, and realized he had just experienced the refraction. He looked back the way he'd come, and saw nothing different. He was still at the hotel; nothing apparent had changed, except that the girl was now present. He walked over and greeted her, wondering who she was and when she had arrived.

"Hello," he said, as she looked up.

"Hi, stranger," she responded, with a sly smile.

"I wonder, are you alone, or did you come with others?"

"I came with a friend," she said, "why?"

"Well, the hotel has been deserted for some time," he admitted, "I'm a little surprised to see you."

"Really?" she said. "Well, it seems like a beautiful place. I'm sure that more will be along, it's just a little off season."

"You could be right," he agreed, and looked at her with interest. She was a sexy blond and somewhat familiar, but he couldn't recall a name.

"I'm Random," he said, "I'm the residing manager, at present."

"Oh, good," she said positively. "I'm Thalia. My friend went to see about getting a room. Didn't you see her?"

"No, I must have missed her," he admitted. "But I left the main lobby open, perhaps she went inside."

"Well, no hurry, the day is young," she said, and looked into his eyes. "Won't you join me for a drink?"

"Well, I'd love to, but," he hesitated, and looked across the garden, along the stone pathway leading to the Solspire.

"Come on; keep me company," she coaxed him, "at least until my friend returns. After that, you can find a room for us."

"Well, I'd really love to," he apologized, "but I have to get to the Solspire. I should not be gone too long. You're welcome to use the lounge and kitchen facilities. Feel free to get something to eat, but you'll have to fix it yourself, it's the cook's day off."

"Oh, I see," she said.

He started to go and she stopped him.

"What's the hurry, Random?" she said, and stood up to flex her muscles. "I don't understand. You're not very friendly for a manager. The least you could do is walk me to the hotel."

She walked up to him, with her breasts bulging, the small bikini top stretched to the limits and exposing the voluptuous beauty beneath it. She walked to him and put her arms around him before he could stop her.

"How about it, big boy," she said, and put her hand into his crotch. "You may not get another chance."

He was tempted to do as she wanted, for it had been quite a long time since he'd had any sexual pleasure, but suddenly, he recalled the urgent need to get to the Solspire, and broke away from her.

"Sorry, but this is important," he insisted, as he moved from her. "It has to do with the refraction. I may be able to fix it. Go ahead and enjoy the facilities. I should return by early afternoon."

He quickly walked away from her, before she could object again, and followed the path through the garden.

Eight

As he followed the stone walkway through the garden, he was unable to shake the image of Thalia from his thoughts. There was something very peculiar about the look on her face as he left; something plastic and masked, as if she were hiding something. But before that, she'd seemed so bland and stereotypical. It was quite a contrast.

The odd, subtle change of her expression haunted him, as he moved on, along the stone path, amongst a garden of flowery bushes, grassy knolls, small trees, and a few juts of stone. It appeared his mention of the 'refraction' had affected her mood.

He wondered what she knew about it, decided it might have been wise to question her about it, and hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he should go back? He stopped, turned about, and looked back the way he'd come.

Sudden shock hit him to see that the garden and trees continued into a thick forest, and the hotel was nowhere to be seen. He quickly walked back, several meters, and still saw nothing but thick trees. A wave of heaviness fell upon him, and he was disoriented. He fell against a large boulder of stone, off the side of the path, into the grass.

His senses returned, after a minute, as they had before, and as he looked up, he saw a narrow streak of shining silver-grey, sticking out of the ground beside the stone. His eyes focused on it. It was a sword. His hand reached out for it, as if he naturally needed to hold it, to gain strength.

He stood up and pulled it out of the soil with him, and looked at it carefully, lost in a flight of ancient, romantic thoughts. Not a single thought nor any words came to him as he held it, and wondered what to do.

Suddenly there came a sound, a noisy intrusion, from deeper into the garden, and he looked that way.

On the stone walkway, several meters on, was a man with a sword, in green and yellow clothes, standing ready to confront him. The man laughed, cast the sword about before him in the air, and then laughed again.

"Random, is it?" the man said loudly, and laughed again. "The sword will decide your fate today."

The man charged at him with the sword leading the way. Random was taken by surprise, but quickly regained his bearings, and raised the sword in defense. The swords clashed, he managed to deflect it, and the man fell against the stone as he jumped away.

As the man pushed away from the stone and attacked again, he suddenly recognized his face. It was his step-brother, the one that had humiliated him in the previous reality, the one that made him into a fool a hundred times.

"Jargis!" he swore, and deflected another blow.

"Aha! He recognizes me!" His step-brother announced, swept the sword about, and then danced at him.

Random quickly recalled how much he had grown to hate Jargis over the years, after being subdued by him beneath oppressive lies and deception. In his mind, he had thought of killing Jargis a thousand times over, and now he had that chance. There was no law to stop him from the vengeance that he craved, for in this land, on this island now, there was only the chaos of the refraction.

He deflected another attack from the sadistic step-brother, and gathered together a rush of anger and vengeful ideas.

"This time, I win!" he swore, and suddenly stepped into a fit of swordplay that only his dreams could imagine. The sword and his legs acted like clockwork, in fast-forward, and within seconds, he forced the sword-arm of Jargis away and down, as if it had suddenly taken on the weight of an anvil.

"Satan's skill!" Jargis cursed, and tried to dance free of the fatal blow.

But he was not fast enough, and the lightening sword hacked through his shoulder. He lost strength in his arm, and his hand dropped the sword. Before Random could spin about again, Jargis did a roll on the grass and recovered the sword.

"What devil's strength!", he gasped, and laughed again. But it was plain to see that was weak-ened.

"Let me pass, Jargis," Random said, "or it will be the death of ya!"

"Not a chance!", Jargis swore, summoned more strength, and attacked him again. With little effort, Random danced around him and tripped his feet. He fell to the grass, did a roll, and quickly regained his feet.

Random gave him a swift back-arm jab to the jaw as he arose, and he went over backwards to the ground again. He struggled for a second, looked up at Random, and his head fell back to the grass. There he lay, unconscious and bleeding, but not dead.

Random had the point of his sword over Jargis's chest, but he withdrew it as the man went under.

"I did so want to kill you, dear brother," he said, with hatred, as he left the man unconscious on the grass.

He hurried on through the garden, wondering how the time was passing. For something had occurred to him during the fight, and it had to do with the delay. It was very important for him to get to the Solspire as quickly as possible, because at this point, space was not the only dimension under refraction. Time was also.

Both Thalia and Jargis had slowed his progress to the Solspire. In delaying him, they made time accelerate faster. He looked at the sun in the sky, as he entered the edge of the forest woodland. It was already noon. In normal time, no more than 2 hours would have passed since he left the hotel around 8. By the placement of the sun, it was already 12. The delay caused by Thalia and Jargis had cost him 2 hours.

As he entered the thickening trees, felt the coolness of the shade upon his sweating body, he slowed his pace with suspicion. He realized the possibility of others, ready to delay him yet again.

A minute later, there came a loud bang out of the trees ahead, and something hit him in the chest. He fell backwards from the force, force, and felt a pain over his right lung. He'd been hit by a bullet, but he was alright. The Kevlar vest had stopped it.

He rolled off the walkway into the cover of the trees as another bullet hit the stone, and pulled out the .357 magnum.

Nine

In the cover of the trees, on one knee, he peaked around a tree trunk and caught his breath. There was pain over his right lung, but it was subsiding. There was no blood, since the Kevlar had prevented the bullet from penetrating his body, but he knew from the pain there was a large bruise, from the forceful impact against his body.

He felt lucky that no bones were busted. The clutomite, under the Kevlar, had managed to absorb most of the force. It was a good thing he'd been smart enough to wear the armor, even though the heat of the day was making him sweat beneath it to the point of discomfort. Better to suffer a little discomfort, he reminded himself, than a lot of pain.

He looked ahead through the trees. Following the stone walkway would be suicidal, now, so it appeared he was due for a bit of guerilla warfare. He checked his gun, held it in both hands, ready to aim at anything that got in his way, and crept away from the underbrush, to another tree.

He went from tree to tree, on a zigzag course, edged his way forward with sharp eyes and extreme caution. Several trees later, the trunk of a tree was hit and a bullet whizzed by his shoulder. He went down behind the tree, and quickly peaked around it from the other side.

At the top of a hill, on the other side of the winding walkway, he saw the sniper, about 30 or 40 meters away. He quickly aimed and fired twice at the man, then ran to the right and then forward, putting more distance between them.

The bullets hit the stone boulder that the man was hiding behind, and he took cover. He didn't see Random move this time, and when he looked out from his station, he had lost him.

Random stopped as quickly as he'd started, in the cover of another tree, several meters later, and took aim again. From the new angle he had a better shot at the sniper, as the man looked out from the cover of the stone.

Random thought he recognized the man, as he took aim. The man looked in his direction just as he fired, and took a quick dive.

Random took the opportunity to gain more ground then, and ran through the trees another 30 meters. He sited the blue-grey structure of the Solspire in the distance, through the trees, and stopped to take cover as another bullet whizzed by.

He peaked around the tree and saw the man again, moving parallel to him, on the other side of the walkway, from tree to tree. Anger arose in him again, as it had with Jargis, as he thought he knew the sniper's identity. The man resembled the ugly step-father who had abused him during his youth. The elder 'guardian' who had treated him like a bastard, neglected him as he sought help with the pains of youth, and cursed him with a demon's alcoholic breath until he was pushed out into the world unprepared for the dangers that awaited him.

Random cursed the image of that stepfather for all the nightmares the ugly man had given him, and felt the urge for vengeance again. He recalled how the humiliation from the step father and the intimidation from the step-brother had worked together to defeat his ego and destroy his confidence at an early age.

He felt all the hatred for the step-father swell inside him. The ugly man had been such an evil, sadistic guardian that Random had suffered countless nightmares in which he was forced to submit to his power, dozens wherein the ugly man had killed him.

"Now, I shall kill you!" he spat at the man's ugly image, imprinted like a scar within his brain. He peaked out from the tree and took steady aim. He waited for the ugly man to make another move, and as he did, fired twice.

The second shot hit him and he went down. Random quickly ran through the trees, directly to the other, and found him on the ground, his gun arm bleeding near the shoulder. He pointed his gun at the man's ugly head, as he came within 5 meters.

"If you move, you're dead!" he shouted, ready to shoot at point-blank range.

"Random, is it?" the ugly, old step-father said, and laughed. "If this is about the refraction, you're too late."

Random felt a wave of disorientation and fell against the trunk of a tree for support. As he regained his senses, the step-father was raising his gun. Random reacted swiftly, did a dance around the tree, aimed, and fired.

The old man took the bullet to the head and fell back to the ground, dead, just as his own gun went off. The shot missed Random by a meter.

"I've wanted to do that for years," he said, and looked up at the sun.

It appeared the delay had cost him another 2 hours. He sited the Solspire in the distance beyond the trees, and continued on to it. He followed the stone walkway, but stayed to one side of it, in the cover of the trees, to be on the safe side.

As he left the trees and entered the garden of the Solspire, there on the grass, under a fat Eucalyptus tree, stood another man.

Ten

The man under the tree on the grass was Delkon, the friend who'd been lost after going to the Solspire.

As Random approached him, he appeared to still be lost.

"Delkon?" Random said, with the gun still in his hand, lowered but still ready to defend, just in case this was another trap.

"Random?" he responded, with a look of disbelief and confusion.

"Yes, it's me, Random," he admitted, and stepped closer to the old friend, realizing it had been years, from his own perspective, since he'd seen Delkon. He was beginning to understand everything now, as he got closer and closer to the Solspire. He recalled that it was the refraction that had cast him into the previous 'painful' reality, and he had actually spent around 30 years there, in the body of a young man who'd been forced to suffer humiliation and degradation without end.

"Random," Delkon said again, sighed with some confusion, and then looked sharp. "Uh, you can put the gun away, Ran."

"I'm not so sure I should," Random disagreed. "I've been attacked twice already in one day."

"I see," Delkon said, with a measure of understanding. He looked about, with arms out wide. "Well, I'm no threat, and the area's been deserted since I got here. You look like you could use a rest. I've got a cooler here, full of beer. Or would you prefer juice?"

"A cooler?" Random said with doubt, and looked in the shade of the fat tree. There was indeed a 'cooler' as Delkon had said, of green and white plastic, set there as if intended for a picnic.

"Were you planning a picnic or what?" Random said, trying to be easy without lowering his guard.

"Why not?" Delkon said. "It's a beautiful day for it. I'm only sorry there aren't any girls."

"Delkon," he said, as if it were some kind of joke. "Don't you realize how serious this is?"

"Oh, sure," Delkon responded, his mood mellowing. "I guess I've never really been able to take it all as seriously as you. I mean, a man can't waste all his time working..."

"No, but this is different," Random insisted. I'm going to the Solspire. You want to go with me, you're welcome to come."

"Uh, well," he looked with uncertainty. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

Random suddenly raised the gun into a half cocked position.

"Why?"

"It's the refraction, Ran," he said, sincerely. "It gets worse closer to the central axis. I just barely escaped it, after being lost for almost a month."

"Only a month," Random said, curiously, "You were lucky. I was lost for over thirty years!"

"30 years?", Delkon said with disbelief, "Dear man, that's fantastic! I only just left you at the hotel 3 weeks ago!"

"Unfortunately, time has been refracted as well as space," Random said, and looked at his time-piece.

Delkon took the opportunity to get a beer from the cooler.

"Sure you don't want one? They're still cold."

"No thanks," Random said. "Are you saying you've been to the central axis?"

"Almost," Delkon admitted, "but I ran into a real meanie; some old guy with a ray-gun, in a black cloak. I think he's insane. He almost killed me. I was lucky to escape."

Random looked at the sun in the sky. By the sun's reckoning, it was going into the late afternoon, even though his time-piece read at 11 am.

"I can't waste anymore time," Random insisted. "I've got to go now, and get there before night falls. Are you coming, or not?"

Suddenly, there was a glimmer of light to their left, and it appeared to be moving across the garden toward them.

"Here it comes," Delkon said, and picked up his cooler. "Good luck, Random. Let's hope you do better than I did."

As the wave of light hit them, they both lost orientation, and when Random recovered, Delkon was gone.

Delkon was nowhere in the area. Random could not waste time looking for him, and guessed that the refraction had transported him away in time and space. Why it had not done the same to Random, he was not sure.

He felt drawn to the Solspire as if it was a powerful magnet, and surveyed the garden before it. Across 100 meters of grass, flowery bushes, and exotic trees, the blue-grey structure of the Solspire stood; a hexagonal base 30 meters high with a domed roof, like some kind of astro-nomical observatory.

Actually, it did act as an observatory, but that was only one of its functions. The main function of the Solspire was something unknown to most of the people of Earth, and it was that function in particular which was responsible for the refraction.

The Solar flare which occurred was an unexpected event, and had an apparently unexpected effect, upon the Solspire's main function.

Random realized now, recalling it all, as he stood in the garden and cautiously walked to it. The Solspire was a unique form of Solar Power Plant, which magnified the power of the sun's radiation to such intensities, that it made all other conventional and nuclear power plants obsolete. That was not all it did, however. It also emanated powerful radiations as a side-effect.

It was the side-effect radiations that were emanated that made it something more powerful than any other resource on the entire planet. For those emanations were like a fountain of youth, and the people on the island around it did not age, at least not as quickly as people elsewhere. Random recalled it all now. Before the refraction, he had lived on the island for almost 200 years, and yet his body was still that of a young man of 20.

The refraction had been caused by the Solar flare. The Solar flare had over-loaded the energy-cells, the main crystal over-heated, and cracked. The crack had caused the emanations to refract, and the power output had lost control at the same time.

In other words, the Solar flare had caused the main crystal to crack, and that crack had affected all of the main power-functions, including the 'fountain of youth'.

He realized however, even as he put all the various aspects of the situation together, that there were still certain things he did not quite understand. In particular, it was the effect which had sent him, and countless others, to transcend space and time, which he did not understand.

He stopped beside a palm tree, 10 meters away from the traffic circle and walkway outside the Solspire's entrance. He saw no one about, the place appeared completely deserted, but it was possible the old guy with the ray-gun was in there, somewhere between the outer hallway and the central axis.

Random swallowed some water from a flask, and put a full clip into the .357 magnum. He didn't know how well the conventional pistol would do against a ray-gun, but he had no other choice but to try.

He knew what had to be done, and wondered why this madman with the ray-gun had neglected to do it already. Anyone with access to the central axis could make the adjustment. Why this old guy appeared to be preventing that adjustment was beyond his understanding. What was the point in letting such a reckless refraction of time and space continue?

Without further delay, he ran across the 20 meters of grass and stone pavement to the entrance, opened the door, and stepped inside the hallway.

As he moved quickly along the hallway east, toward the doors leading inward, a girl cried out his name. He looked up at a catwalk, crossing the hallway, high overhead, just as a ray of light passed his head.

Taking cover around the corner of a doorway, he peaked out to see the old guy in the black cloak, high on the catwalk, struggling with a girl. The sound of her voice and the long black hair told him who she was.

The madman had Lianne.

Eleven

Random couldn't shoot, because the guy had a rope around Lianne and held her too close with his free arm. Apparently, he had intended to take Random by surprise, but Lianne had called out to warn him.

He peaked out again to see the man pulling her along the catwalk, headed in to the central hall. Random tried to take aim, the man stopped, and fired again. The ray glanced off the wall by his head, and he duck down low as it missed.

Quickly decisive, he decided to take an indirect route, headed in through the door at his side, and passed thru a lounge. There was no door from the lounge directly into the central hall, but there was a door to the records department, and another door hat led from there to a corridor, and that corridor led to the central hall.

It was a good thing he recalled the inner maze of the Solspire, otherwise he would have been easily lost.

He followed this route and entered the west end of the hall. He snuck along the hall to the north side and climbed an escalator to the second level. Access to the central axis was there, but so was the catwalk that the man was on with Lianne.

He cautiously crept along the corridor toward the central axis, with the gun ready on the defense. As he followed the hall around the axis, to locate the valve-way, a ray hit the wall and he took cover.

"Quit while you still live, Random," the man said, as he hid around the curve of the main axis control chamber.

"Let the girl go, and I'll think about it," he said in response.

The man laughed.

"Not likely. She's my insurance," he said. "If you don't quit, I may have to kill her!"

Random's gut became knotted as he thought of that.

"Why?" he said.

"Why what?" the man said.

"Why won't you let me adjust the Solspire?"

"Think, man!" The other insisted. "Can't you see what has happened? All the tyrants of Earth have no power against it!"

"In time," the man insisted, "every major government and dictator will be as powerless as the common fools they enslave! It's the beginning of a whole new world order!"

"You're mad!" Random said. "This won't make things better. It'll only make it worse!"

"That's what you think, Random," he responded, "but I know something you don't. I have the key to a new order. If you give me a chance to explain, you too may understand."

Random was confused. What key? What new order? Did he really understand something more, something Random needed to know?

"What are you talking about? What key?"

"The key to the refraction variable," the man said.

"But the refraction is out of control, and it's causing chaos," Random insisted.

"You don't get it, do you?" The man said. "Those who control the refraction, control the world!"

"Control the refraction?" Random echoed. "What can be gained from that? Who wants to be cast away from their home and family that way? It's utter foolishness!"

"No, you don't understand," the man said. "Pity, neither did Delkon. Am I so alone in my foresight?"

Random didn't like the sound of this. The man sounded disappointed. He had to think of some-thing.

"Let the girl go," he decided, "and I'll drop my weapon and check out your findings. Then, maybe I'll understand."

Suddenly the man appeared, out of nowhere, a meter away in the opposite direction.

"Drop it!" he commanded, pointing the ray-gun, as Random reacted.

"Then what? You kill me?"

"Nonsense," the man said. "With the power of the refractor, I don't have to kill anyone. I can simply transport them away, far away from here."

Random looked at the man and thought he recognized the face, though it was heavily bearded.

"Nostern!" he said, recalling the man, and lowered the gun.

"You recall? Good, I'm flattered," the man said. "Before the refraction I was a simple trader. My boat, if you recall, was from the old school, a hand-me-down junk. If my master hadn't run it into the reefs in a raving, drunken blunder... oh, well, it's an old story. The point is, I survived because I was smart, not from any charity dished out by the upper echelons. The first wave of the refraction cast me right into the Solspire's garden, and I gained access to the axis before it occurred again."

"You certainly learned fast," Random said.

"Yes, I'll take that," he said, referring to the gun, stepped closer and held out his free hand.

Random had no choice but to let him have it, if he didn't want a ray to blast through his chest. The Kevlar vest could not protect him from that.

"Now, come," he said, and pointed in the direction of the valve-way to the control chamber.

Nostern led him through the valve and into the central axis control chamber. There he found Lianne tied to a chair and gagged.

After noting her, he immediately noticed several video monitors around the room, displaying the various channels and programs he had seen earlier at the hotel.

"I hope you have had a chance," Nostern said, "to enjoy my selection of programming. I think it's so much better than the all-work no=play trash that the networks fed us before, don't you?"

"You lined up these programs?" Random said with doubt.

"Well, not all of them," he admitted, "a few of the movies and most of the '4X' stuff. I had to tap into some very hard to reach, remote sectors, but it was worth it. Don't you agree, dear?"

The last remark was aimed at Lianne, and Random grew distraught.

"You can untie her now," he said. "You've got me."

"Well, perhaps," Nostern agreed. "I'm not the sadist you think I am. Go ahead, you do it, but leave her hands tied. I'm not quite sure what I have planned yet."

Random removed the gag and untied her, then said, "Tell me about it, Nostern. You say you have the key to controlling the refraction. I find that hard to believe."

He freed Lianne's arms and legs from the chair, and said, "Can you prove it, without using either of us as guinea-pigs?"

Twelve

"I don't know if I can trust you," Nostern admitted, "though I really wish I could. Do you know, if I wanted to, I could send the both of you to any one of these 'sectors'? How'd you like making a living as a Fourex variety couple? Did you know, they make more money in 2 years screwing around than a factory worker makes slaving over the same machine for 5?"

"No, I didn't," Random admitted.

"Is that the world order you want restored?" Nostern said. "An order that forces some people to waste their lives away to pay the rent and keep from going hungry while others do nothing but play, in ways that are 'forbidden' to people in different sectors?"

Random understood what Nostern was saying. During the 35 years he'd been 'refracted' away from the island, he saw how difficult life was for the common lot of lower-class workers. Nostern wasn't exaggerating. The differences between the wealthy and the poor were enough to make some people hate the world order. It was becoming clear that Nostern was one of those people, just as he had been during the 'previous reality'.

"You think you can change all that?", said Random, doubtfully.

"Oh, it's already happening," the man said. "The refraction is causing the world order to fall to pieces."

"Causing chaos, sure," Random agreed. "But chaos is worse. Have you any idea the hell it is putting people thru? Some of those people don't deserve it. All people, not just the wealthy hypocrites, are suffering."

"Well, that may be so, but not for much longer," Nostern said, and decided to take a seat by the control-console. "You see, I do plan to make adjustments, eventually. Tell me, how was your experience with the effect?"

"Painful," Random admitted, and took a seat beside Lianne, looking at her and recalling the experience.

"Really? I'm sorry," Nostern said. "What happened?"

Random told him how he'd been cast away from the island, to one of the working states on the mainland continent, for over 30 years, and suffered humiliation and degradation the whole time.

"Interesting, very interesting," Nostern said, with absolute sincerity. "So you must understand some of the points I've been making?"

"Yes, I do," Random agreed. "But I don't understand how the refraction is going to make it any better."

"Well," Nostern said, decisively, "Then I think it's time I explain."

He stood up and walked to the very center of the chamber, where the hub of the axis was placed, a 3 meter-wide heavy metal receptacle in which the rays of the sun were focusing and being amplified by super-conductive crystals and powerful lenses.

"You do understand the main functions of the Solspire already," he said, "so I won't bother with all that. What you don't understand is that the refraction, caused by the crack, can be adjusted by the crystals in any number of different ways. It can even be completely erased, at any time, by the filters."

"Yes, that's what I planned to do," Random admitted.

"So, you do know, just as well, that it can be reactivated at any time, also."

"I suppose so," Random agreed, "I hadn't looked at it that way. I'd planned to repair the cracked lens after the adjustments."

"But repair isn't necessary," Nostern insisted. "Not with the filters."

"What if the crack gets larger? With the amount of radiation passing through it, it may get much worse."

"I believe I've compensated for that," Nostern said. "I used the super-glue."

"The super-glue?" Random said, with intrigue, wondering about that. "I hadn't thought of that either."

"No, because you planned to erase the refraction completely by repairing the crack. But I've explained to you that such reparations are not necessary. We can use the filters and the crystals to control the refraction, turn it on and off any time. Now do you understand?"

Random thought it all over and did understand.

"The Solspire has a new function!" he said with sudden amazement.

"Exactly!" Nostern agreed.

"But what about the controls?" he said, suddenly suspicious. "Whoever has access to the controls has absolute power over the entire planet. Surely, Nostern, you don't expect to act as such a tyrannical dictator!"

Nostern sighed, returned to the console, and sat down.

"Alas, this is why I needed you," the man admitted. "I cannot waste my life here, controlling the world from a high tower forever. I need to live, to enjoy the island, sail on the seas. Do you understand now, why I needed your trust?"

"Someone has to be at the axis, at all times," Random said, seeing the whole truth now. "To keep it secure and monitor the refraction."

"And to make adjustments whenever such adjustments are necessary," Nostern added. "Unfortunately, Delkon did not listen, did not understand. But I think that you, Random, do. Perhaps it is because of the 30 years you spent in hell. Delkon had no such experience, but you did."

"Yes, that's true," Random agreed. "But even the three of us cannot share control alone. We need others who can be trusted. Finding such people will not be easy."

"No, it will not," Nostern agreed, "it'll take time. Shall we try someone, put them to the test?"

"The test?" Random said.

"Yes, my friend," Nostern said. "What do you think you went through, trying to get to the Solspire?"

"You mean, the blond at the pool? The sword-fight? The gunfight in the woods?"

"I mean all of it, my friend," Nostern admitted, looking at him. "Everything you went through the minute you decided to try and get to the Solspire, including our little gunplay inside."

Nostern went to Lianne and untied her hands. "Thank you, my dear," he said to her. "Seeing you made Random perform with intense passion. Perhaps he really does still love you after all."

Lianne looked at Random.

"It's been too long," he said, "but yes, I still do."

"She understands, don't you girl?" Nostern said.

"I was lost for 15 years," she said, looking into his eyes. "Once, during that time, I thought I'd found you, but then you were gone."

Random understood it all now, everything.

"The same happened to me," he said to her, "I thought I found you also, but I lost you. It was like losing a vital part of me. It hurt too much."

He understood all of it now, and with that understanding came another deja-vu.

He turned to Nostern and said, "Everything is clear now. I remember everything. As soon as you've made the adjustments, you may go. Lianne and I will stay until you return. Then perhaps, we may put someone else through the test."

"Affecting adjustments now," Nostern said, and typed a set of keys on the console. A minute later, he arose, and walked to the side of the axial hub.

"I'll return in 3 days," he said, checking his time-piece, and seconds later, disappeared as the refraction cast him away from the Solspire, to the sector of his choice.

"It's been too long," Random said, went to Lianne, and took her in his arms. "It's time to erase the pain."

They hugged and kissed for several minutes, then separated and looked into each others eyes.

"I'll go prepare the Solspire suite," she said, and moved to the door. "As soon as you have secured the axis, join me. We have much more pain to erase."

finis

All of the stories in this collection were written by Nick Zentor between 1991

and 2010 and cannot be republished by anyone without his permission.

Dead Ends and Other Escapes

Copyright: Coldpost-85, 2018

Other Books by Nick Zentor:

Alternatives

Fool's Errand: Redemption

