 
### Exchange Rate

### Clayton Spann

Copyright 2002 Clayton Spann

Smashwords Edition

Discover others titles by Clayton Spann at Smashwords.com:

The Line of Eyes

Lord Protector*

Restorer of the World*

Expelled*

Day Nine

Two Timed

Stoned

*Roger Ward Trilogy

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (except for historical figures), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To Richard and Deborah

Whose friendship I greatly value

Table of Contents

1 Manhattan Man

2 Blessed are the Geeks

3 Let George Do It

4 Positive Vibes

5 Seek and Ye Shall Find

6 A Starry Night

7 The Quick and the Dead

8 Born Again

9 Second Opinion

10 Gestalt

11 Faraway Island

12 Search and Destroy

13 Oh Canada

14 Cold Equation

15 Closing Bell

Prolog

April 1, 1989

The happy voice continued to address the two men.

Neither of the men could see who spoke, although the voice originated before them.

"We have selected you sapiens after a long and thorough search. You should feel honored."

The men sat side by side in their bedclothes on cold metal chairs. Because they could not move their heads, each could see only the knees and lower legs of the other. Each man strained his peripheral vision to determine who sat beside him.

Their skeletal muscles failed to respond even though the men saw that no restraints bonded them to the chairs. Each concluded what he experienced made sense only if dreaming. Yet both swore they were wide awake.

The men faced a pearly white floor. The gleaming, seamless floor ran without break to a distant horizon. From the horizon rose a magnificent, brilliantly lit blue sky. The men detected neither sun nor shadows.

"Listen carefully," said the voice from the invisible spokesman. "I shall now stipulate the requirements to execute an exchange:"

Both men had never heard a voice so full of rapture.

"You must arrange in advance for each exchange. You will telephone us by dialing your social security number.

"Each exchange will last exactly one hour.

"At the time of exchange you and the target sapien must reside within what you term the lower forty-eight states of your nation.

"You may exchange only once into a target.

"At the instant of exchange the target must occupy an enclosure no more than 25% exposed to open air. You must uniquely identify this enclosure. There is no size limit to an enclosure, as long as the exposure and identification requirements are met.

"You can transfer only mind, not physical ability, into the target. The target's mind will enter your body. If either body dies during the exchange hour, your mind also dies. The target's mind will be assigned to the surviving body.

"Means exist by which one of you can qualify for a continuous exchange.

"The exchange capability shall last one year. The year shall begin immediately upon your acceptance of this offer. To accept, or solicit clarifying information, call us at your social security number.

"We look forward to working with you in the coming months."

The two men waited, but the joyful voice sounded no more.

In the distance, at the horizon, a dozen boxcar-like objects were silhouetted against the sky. The horizon buckled into forested hills, then the hills grew into mountains. Light began to ebb from the glorious sky.

The men found they could now move. Each turned to view the other, but before their eyes could meet total darkness extinguished everything.

1

Manhattan Man

The packed mass of commuters pulled George Larson from the gloomy ferry terminal. A brisk wind greeted him as he stepped onto a curving ramp that descended into lower Manhattan.

Larson spotted a wino that stood beside a subway ventilation grate. The wino wore a filthy khaki jacket, and rope secured his baggy trousers. His bedroll lay on the grate along with accumulated litter.

During the past two months Larson had wondered why he continued to play the game. That grate was why. He didn't have a fraction of the money he needed to retire, and if he shifted into neutral gear he would soon sleep alongside the wino.

The wino was undoing his rope belt. Then the red faced, white haired man had his pecker out. Piss arched to splatter on dirty concrete. The eyes of the wino looked up defiantly toward the commuters. Eyes that said I hope you all die.

Larson noted that most people on the ramp just turned their heads. He didn't turn his. He locked eyes with the wino, until the worthless piece of shit looked away.

Larson muttered. He didn't know which was the sorrier spectacle: this refuse publicly relieving himself or the apathy of those trying to ignore him.

The wind pushed at his back as he walked northeast, toward the forest of buildings whose long shadows reached back toward the terminal. Above him hordes of cumulus clouds raced toward the Atlantic. Despite the wind, he didn't find the temperature bitter. Another reminder, along with the dawn that woke him earlier each morning, that spring was at hand.

A smartly dressed blonde at the intersection ahead caught his attention. For a moment he thought it was Lori. His heart hammered as hate surged, then he saw the woman wasn't as tall or as attractive.

He gathered himself and pressed on. Rounding a corner, he was surrounded front, flank and rear by men in dark business suits and women in clicking heels. They all walked briskly. Larson mindlessly kept pace in the march up Broad Street.

Near the stock exchange he abruptly broke ranks. He gasped and craned his head in wonder. The towering buildings around him had become shorn of everything except their steel girders. The sun shone through the latticework and its heat pressed on his cheek. Then the buildings flickered, and returned to normalcy.

Someone bumped him, bumped him hard. A mustached man in a three piece charcoal suit shouldered past and snarled, "Sightsee on your time, not mine."

Larson did a double take at the buildings, then hurried after the man.

He fell in step beside him and said, "Eat shit raw yellow faggot." Larson enunciated each word distinctly.

The man stopped and squared. "What did you say?"

The man put his face only inches from Larson's. Others streamed about the two, casting eyes at them, wanting to stop and watch the show, but they were already nearly late.

Charcoal Suit looked about his age, mid-thirties. He was as tall as Larson, and had broad shoulders. Probably played some football or Rugby in college. But the pinch of flesh lapping over his collar and the rounded face told of a body badly out of shape.

"Said I bench press 265 pounds. And that's ten repetitions, not just one heave. What do you press...faggot?"

The mustached face contorted, but no words emitted from the compressed lips. Or maybe a faintly murmured "asshole" did escape as Charcoal Suit walked swiftly away. Larson let him go.

Larson moved on, then shook his head as he remembered the flickering buildings. He must be losing it.

Of course, considering what he'd been through the past two months, he wasn't surprised. Maybe the only surprise was his mind hadn't played tricks sooner. That crazy dream the other night and now this. When did he start believing he was Napoleon?

He arrived at the corner of Broad and Wall Streets. Down Wall Street to his right he saw the entrance to the law offices of Hench, Mitchell, and Younger. To his left, toward the church, he saw the entrance to the bank. Winners step to the right, also-rans to the left. He stepped to the left and shortly entered Morgan Guaranty Bank.

The elevator lifted him twenty floors to the resident counsel offices. He nodded at the guarding receptionist, and strode over pale green carpet toward his office.

"Good morning, Mr. Larson."

Mrs. Hensley smiled primly at him. He smiled back. His secretary was one of the few people he liked here. She'd gone out of her way to get him settled those first weeks.

He chatted with her a few minutes, then shut the office door behind him. He opened the window blinds the cleaning people must have closed and briefly looked over at the pyramidal roof of the Banker's Trust building. He could see one of the Trade Towers off to the side. What he couldn't see was much sky. Still, it was better than the view at the firm, that of a black stone wall.

Larson settled heavily at his desk. On the desk lay the draft of a loan agreement he had deliberately left incomplete at four p.m. yesterday. He could delay a couple more hours and still finish the draft before noon.

He laughed ruefully. At Hench, Mitchell, and Younger the day was only half done by four in the afternoon. Here it was looked upon as great sacrifice if you stayed into the evening hours. At the law firm weekends meant the gift of two extra workdays. Here only a legal crisis threatening the existence of the bank would lure counsel staff in on a weekend.

It sickened him that the junior lawyers here made just as much as an associate at the firm. These people were second stringers. They were not hard men. They could not have survived a month at Hench, Mitchell, and Younger.

Of course, he hadn't survived either, although it had taken him eight years to fail. He was a second-stringer, too, just one with more endurance.

He took a deep breath. Forget the firm, he ordered himself. It's past, it's done, it's written. However close you came, you still failed. You gave it a great climb, nearly reached the summit, but just like those that got a quarter or halfway up you still fell off the mountain.

Larson forced his attention to the loan agreement. He reread the last several paragraphs, picked up a pen, and inserted changes. He made a note to recheck a reference to California code.

The phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver.

"Yes, Gladys?"

"Look down, George."

It wasn't Gladys speaking. A male voice, very pleasant and vaguely familiar, pushed into his ear.

"With whom am I speaking?" he said just as pleasantly. He tried to place the voice. It could be one of the VP's buzzing him directly, without going through his secretary. VP or not, it was bush protocol.

He didn't get a reply. "Who is this?" he asked with an edge to his voice.

"Why do you ignore us, George?" The person at the other end chuckled.

Larson's mouth twisted. Was this a colleagues' idea of a joke? He wasn't taking a thing from these minor leaguers. He readied to slam down the receiver and found his arm would not move. Then something bent his neck and he was looking at the floor.

Except the floor was gone!

Instead he saw the tops of heads. Some heads were quite near; he could make out hair parts, barrettes and bald spots. Most were much less distinct, and the most distant were only brown, black and yellow dots. It took him a moment to realize he was seeing bank personnel on the score of floors below him. Everyone was sitting or standing on thin air. All were continuing their tasks in the absence of floors, walls and furniture.

A cry arose from the depths of his lungs. It burst into the air only as a strangled whisper. A second, more violent attempt produced the same result.

The soothing voice again caressed his ear.

"You are not hallucinating, George. Accept the reality before you...and the reality of our offer."

Larson tried to wrench himself from the chair, but he couldn't even twitch his muscles. Involuntarily his head lifted. Above him more people sat or moved on air alone.

"George, you should see now that we are beings with the ability to deliver what we promise."

He must be going insane. All the stress, the pain, the despair, had finally driven him stark raving mad.

"No, my dear sapien, your rationality is intact. Your sense organs accurately report what they encounter. We are not altering your perceptions, although we could if we desired. We have instead altered the absorption characteristics of the structures about you. We believe this is a more impressive display of our powers."

His tongue had loosened enough to babble incomprehension.

"You are sane as the next of your species, George... whatever reassurance that provides. But we sense these visual gymnastics are not going to fully convince you of the validity of our offer."

The voice, the voice of the dream, cackled. "Therefore, we this day will cause: (1) a rise of 23.7 points in the Dow Jones Average on a volume of _exactly_ 200 million shares. (2) this afternoon—opening day for your beloved Yankees—the pinstripers will win 6 to 5 in eleven innings. The shortstop will hit two home runs. The second home run, the game winner, will link itself to Ruth. If you remain unconvinced by the time the sun sets, it would be better if you pass on our offer, ye of little faith. We will communicate no further. If you do desire to participate in the year of exchange, contact us by dialing your social security number."

A rush of air replaced the voice and walls popped out of nothingness to enclose Larson.

In the same moment the rigor mortis locking his muscles vanished. But all he could do with his freed body was to sit limply.

**T** he towering floodlights fought the blackness of the evening sky. In a great circle around Larson thousands of randomly speaking fans were producing a low roar of cacophony. He noted a good crowd was on hand for the second game of the season despite the cold bite in the air.

The batter, Sax, stuck out. A smattering of boos ensued. Then, as Larson rose from his kneeling position in the on deck circle, the abuse switched to cheers. The rich baritone of the announcer boomed: "Now batting for New York...number 23...Don Mattingly."

The cheers swelled to a crescendo. For a moment his knees refused to function, then a surge of adrenaline propelled Larson toward home plate. He felt the spikes of his black shoes dig into the hard rouge dirt. Both the catcher and umpire greeted him by first name.

He stepped across the plate and settled into the right-handers' batter's box. The catcher asked with all seriousness if he were going to switch hit this year. Larson said no, smiled sheepishly, and hopped back across the plate. From the Sox' dugout came a few hoots.

What a dumbass, he thought. How many years now had he known Mattingly was a left-hander? He did his best to assume Mattingly's stance and waited for the first pitch.

The bearded pitcher, a real moose, loomed high on the mound that was way too close. The pitcher wound and threw.

Larson watched astounded as the blurred white sphere rocketed toward him. He flinched, but only after the hissing, slithering projectile had slammed into the catcher's mitt. The umpire bellowed strike.

Holy shit! That ball could have caved in the side of his face. He had played ball in high school, but no one there approached this speed. This guy tossed a lethal weapon. For the first time he appreciated the courage of the big leaguers who routinely stood in the batter's box protected only by a little piece of plastic.

Larson resumed his stance a half step further from the plate. From the Sox' dugout someone immediately screamed about his happy feet. The pitcher threw again, and Larson stood helplessly as an apparent high toss dropped abruptly to cross the plate an inch above his knees. He'd never faced a curve like that either. Strike two.

More derision flew from the other dugout.

The pitcher threw another darting fastball. Larson swung, leaning away from the pitch despite himself, and knew he'd catch only air. But somehow the bat ticked the ball and it crashed into the screen behind him.

A major victory, even getting a foul ball off this guy. Then he remembered he possessed the body, if not the mind, of Don Mattingly. For an hour he owned all-star reflexes. So supposedly he could evenly battle this scowling behemoth on the mound.

A pitch approached, a curve, and Larson swung with correct timing but in a downward chop. The ball struck the ground before home plate, bounced over the pitcher, and dribbled between the crisscrossing shortstop and second baseman into centerfield.

Amazed that he had actually hit the ball, Larson stared transfixed. Finally screams from all around prompted him to run. Fortunately the centerfielder out of habit threw the ball to second and Larson was able to beat the relay to first.

As he settled on the bag he could see many grinning faces among the cheering crowd. He could see the lips but not hear the comments of the laughing first base coach who clapped his hands, then patted Larson's butt.

As the next batter, Dave Winfield, stepped into the batter's box, Larson checked the clock on the centerfield scoreboard. Eight-thirty. Fifty minutes still remained in the exchange hour.

He shook his head and smiled. If this wasn't real, then somebody had come up with a drug that was way ahead of LSD. It sure felt real, standing here on the field of Yankee Stadium, in a Yankee uniform, in the body of one of the greatest hitters in the game.

At the plate the pitcher had missed with the first pitch. The first base coach told Larson to get more of a lead. Yeah, he should. He was only one step off the bag.

This must be real. Everything the voice promised had come to pass. The Dow Jones Average, the two hundred million shares traded, the opening day score. He'd been able to catch the last half of that game at a bar, and just like they said, Espinosa hit two home runs. What really convinced Larson was that the game winner—an inside the park job—hit Ruth's monument in center field.

The count had pulled even at 2 and 2.

Were these guys really extraterrestrials? Human beings could manipulate the Dow Jones, the share total, even the game score. Espinosa's shot was something else, no way to rig that. Throw in the vanishing buildings, his temporary paralysis, his presence in Yankee Stadium, he had to conclude powers beyond human scope were involved.

Little green men, huh? Impossible, except he couldn't explain these events otherwise. And UFO reports had been coming in for forty years now. Guess some of them were legitimate.

The crowd erupted with a gigantic roar. Winfield had hit the ball deep to right; it was an upper deck home run. Winfield was jogging toward him, then slowed and laughed, motioning for him to run ahead. They jogged around the bases only steps apart. Larson knew it must look pretty silly.

Back in the dugout his teammates ribbed him mercilessly. He didn't mind. Here were his pinstriped heroes bantering with him, backslapping him. He almost asked for autographs. That would only make them laugh harder. Anyway, he couldn't take anything back after re-exchange.

The players soon returned attention to the game and Larson settled on the bench. Once again he eyed the confines of the dugout, which had obviously met the enclosure rule of the aliens. He'd been pretty sure before the exchange that less than 25% of the dugout was exposed to open air.

Of course, deep down he hadn't expected the exchange to occur, enclosure rule satisfied or not. But he had gone ahead and taken two sleeping pills an hour before the scheduled exchange. He'd been out cold—as he hoped was Mattingly now in Larson's Staten Island condo—when the appointed moment arrived. Then he was instantly conscious, slowly striding in cleats in the Yankee dugout.

The scoreboard clock said only forty-two minutes remained in this magical hour. No matter, there were twenty-four other players on the Yankee roster and he could come back here in any one of them. Hell, he could exchange into any player in the league.

It was dawning on him he could exchange into _anybody_. He hadn't expected the exchange to work, so he hadn't considered the possibilities available.

Why had the aliens conferred this ability upon him? They had said they chose him—and that person sitting beside him—after "a long and thorough search". Why them? Were the aliens like that man in the old TV show, "The Millionaire", wanting to see how he performed after the windfall? Is this how they got their jollies? Whatever their motives, he would turn this power to his own profit.

Shortly he began to consider how the power could help him fuck over Lori.

Larson emerged from his Seconal induced sleep shortly after midnight. Despite a profound sluggishness gripping both mind and muscles, he forced himself from bed into the barren living room of his condo.

He pulled open the sliding door of the picture window. Cold air swept in and washed over his face. He stood there several minutes, letting the chill revive him, and gazed across the harbor bay. On the blackness of the bay a ferry drifted. Beyond blazed the lights of the Trade Towers and lessor buildings of lower Manhattan.

When his head had cleared he reached for the telephone. His mouth dried as he dialed his social security number.

"Good evening, George," purred the answering voice.

Larson paced before the picture window. "I want to arrange another exchange."

"Certainly."

Larson let out a breath. "Lori Larson. Two a.m., April 7. In her apartment at 1101 33rd Street."

"Your request is registered. Anything else?"

"I want to clarify that as long as she lives, I get to return to my own body."

"We have so stated. There will be no modification to the originally proscribed rules."

"Good."

But he wondered. What if the hour in Mattingly's body had been a diabolical setup? What if the aliens let him into Lori, then denied him re-exchange after he finished with the razor?

He shook off a shiver of fear. Whether the aliens had set him up or provided his heart's desire, he would not cancel the exchange. He would never find a better means to right her great wrong. Risk resided in every decisive action.

His eyes swung to the picture of him and his former mate on the far wall. The picture he could not bring himself to destroy, despite his hate.

Larson sighed heavily.

Oh, Lori. I did love you. Not for your physical treasures alone, either. I had coupled with lovely females before you. You and I developed—so I thought—an intimacy I didn't know could exist between the sexes.

How brilliantly you acted.

She had performed with particular distinction this past Christmas when he gave her a diamond necklace. After Lori opened the box she showered him with protestations of love. She entwined the fingers of their hands, peered adoringly with those sapphire eyes into his and swore fealty. They kissed softly, then firmly, then with swirling tongues. They made violent love right in front of the Christmas tree. Larson remembered lying there spent, thinking how wonderful it was they could still erupt with such passion after five years of marriage.

All through those years she had honored him. True, she occasionally displayed the bitchy arrogance he supposed congenital to beautiful women. On the whole, though, she provided him delight. How could she not delight, with that malicious, delicious wit, and that take no prisoners exuberance? Add those looks...

God, male heads turned—no, jerked—when she and he made the scene anywhere. Mouths fell open, tongues dropped to the floor. She could pop a man's eyeballs and suck the breath from his lungs.

After getting over the shock of her beauty, the heads inspected him. Puzzled frowns immediately formed, for although Larson might be big and of brawn, he knew he'd never give Mel Gibson box office jitters. His features just didn't fit. His jaw was too heavy, his nose had been broken twice in lacrosse games, his black eyebrows were too bushy, and his cheekbones belonged on an Arab, not an Anglo.

So other men figured Lori was just marking time until she met them. They made the pass...and always got stuffed. Larson would say that for her, all through the five years, she never cheated, never even flirted. The secret smile she gave Larson in public said her heart and body belonged to him.

All through his grueling years with Hench, Mitchell, and Younger, she remained committed. She never complained about the innumerable evenings and weekends he worked. She knew the price he had to pay. She always supported him, pep talked him, kept him eager in his work.

Her undying devotion went on the critical list the day Larson learned he would be passed over for partnership. Last autumn the field in the eight year marathon had dwindled to Ken Bauer and himself. Bauer survived Heartbreak Hill and Larson had not.

One week! One fucking week and she was gone. On the seventh evening after the firm shot him down he returned to the condo—the condo they would abandon for a Connecticut house when his partnership came through—to find her and her belongings gone. A laconic note explained she had long contemplated the split, but lacked the courage to do so earlier. She wished him well in his future endeavors, and prophesied he would eventually agree their parting was for the best.

He well knew the perfidy of humans, but her abandonment stunned him. His desperate calls were ignored; she had actually summoned the police when he tried to force a meeting. She absolutely refused to acknowledge his existence.

It took another week before he broke. At first he tried to wall off the pain. He fought to lose himself in exhaustive work and exercise. He pretended he could shake off her body slam like he used to shake off a hard hit in football.

When he broke, he couldn't stop crying. How long had it been since he cried? He had actually cried for his mother. Who could cry hoping to obtain comfort from that hard and bitter woman?

Several days into his weeping Suzy came up. His sister was five years younger, but she had so much wisdom. She was able to dull the agony that was lacerating his innards and denying him sleep. She restored him, restored him at least to a state where he could function again in public.

Yes, he could function, but the hate would not go away. He couldn't stop fantasizing how he would take a baseball bat to Lori. Killing would be too merciful; he would club only her limbs, pulverize them, and leave her a cripple.

Unfortunately jurors would not exonerate his action. They would and must disallow such retribution. To do otherwise would lead to a run on bats in this city of swallowed frustration.

His new friends in prison would be no less willing to overlook the deed. Their perverse ethics applauded the cop killer and reviled the woman stomper. His fellow felons would seek him out, spread his cheeks and bugger him. Pressing 265 pounds would avail him little among that clientele.

He had bitterly resigned himself that Lori would escape punishment. He could pray for cervical cancer or that a future man she crossed would beat the living shit from her. Or for an auto wreck to render her a quadriplegic. Or for an encounter with another Ted Bundy. Futile fantasies all. Very likely Lori and her beauty would have continued to manipulate until finally age dimmed her appeal.

But guess what Lori; a higher court has awarded George Lawrence Larson compensatory and punitive damages.

Who will desire you, honey haired one, after I finish with the razor? That beauty is your million dollars in the bank, and I'm going to clean you out. That beauty, which opened so many doors for you, which provided the basis for your enchanting persona, will soon be gone. You join the great swarming mass who possess no edge.

"George? Are you there?" The alien's teasing voice pulled Larson back from his reverie. "Is there anything more we can do for you?"

Larson shook his head. "I don't think so. As long as you promise to honor re-exchange."

"We have not lied—or deceived—for thousands of years. The last of our species to do so no longer dwells among us."

Larson wanted to ask for more reassurance, but if they were going to trap him in Lori their word meant nothing. He would just have to take the chance. "I guess that's it. I'll call you after tomorrow's exchange."

"George! You're certain there's nothing more you wish to inquire about?"

Fatigue had returned to grip Larson and the insultingly humorous voice was beginning to piss him off. Even though he knew the aliens could vaporize him at will, he couldn't keep annoyance from his voice.

"I'd just like to go to bed now, okay?"

"Of course. We are, however, disappointed that you have not more closely questioned certain aspects of the originally stated rules."

"What do you mean?"

"George, George, you surprise us. For a man who deals with fine print daily, you have overlooked a key clause."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Think hard, George. Back to that night of our first encounter. Does the term 'continuous exchange' ring a bell?"

Larson strained his memory, but he couldn't remember much beyond the unreality—or terrible reality—of sitting in a cold chair before an empty blue sky. And the same impish voice offering entry into other people's bodies.

"I don't remember."

"Oh, member of the feeble minded sapiens race. We quote: 'means exist by which one of you can qualify for a continuous exchange'."

Feeble minded, huh? Give us sapiens a couple thousand years more, and we'll see who's on which end of the gun.

"What do you mean by 'continuous exchange'?"

"Shall we elaborate?"

"I'm sure you're dying to."

The being from a star in the direction of Sagittarius elaborated.

2

Blessed are the Geeks

Donald Phillips forced a smile as he and John Hansen walked into the semi-circular auditorium.

"You were flying," said Hansen. "You looked like Rod Dixon."

Phillips could not account for his miraculous performance at the road race Sunday. He had never sustained that pace previously, nor could he realistically hope to again. Perhaps it had been born of a once in a lifetime merger of physical and mental peaks, akin to the effort that produced Bob Beaman's great leap at the Olympics.

He still wouldn't believe it except that the official records said he had run the ten kilometers in 29:52. A sub five minute per mile pace. His old PR had been over thirty-six minutes, and that was four years ago.

He and Hansen found their way to an unoccupied row of seats. On the rostrum several of his colleagues were chatting with the seminar speaker, someone from NIH.

Phillips shook his head. "It was an anomaly. My time was two standard deviations away from my mean."

The yellow bearded postdoc beside him—as much an ectomorph as himself, but who had never broken forty minutes for the 10K—just laughed.

"Fluke or not, you ran it."

Phillips saw the auditorium was filling up. Despite the increasing congestion, colleagues who had sat beside him two months earlier found seats in other rows.

In the corridors of Gilmer Hall his colleagues also sought to distance themselves. They would nod, exchange a word or two, then hurry on. Distance lessened the chance they would contract the malady that had destroyed him. Well, his move this summer to the other side of the state would relieve their anxieties.

Most of his colleagues probably wondered why he bothered to attend the seminars. Any information he gained concerning gene regulation would play way over the heads of his future students at Tidewater Community College.

He supposed habit died hard. He had attended these presentations six years as a graduate student, four more as a postdoctoral fellow, and another seven as a professor. Many seminars were a waste of time, but often enough he learned something that aided his own research.

Except his days in research were almost done. So why was he here? Who did he fool?

A knot of scientists from Jordan Hall entered. Phillips was relieved that Janet was not among them.

The speaker host, Evers, called the assemblage to order. Phillips turned his attention to the man with the neatly trimmed red beard, little pot belly, and predatory eyes. Evers was just two years older than Phillips, and he had already attained full professorship—not merely tenure. Evers didn't even bother to nod anymore.

Evers welcomed the speaker to the University of Virginia. A brief rush of applause greeted the speaker as he stepped to the lectern. He was another in the series of postdocs who had applied for one of the two positions that opened up when Evers was awarded a Commonwealth chair in January.

This one, tall and stoop shouldered, looked nervous as he bent before the microphone. However his voice held firm during the first few sentences and soon animation lit his face. How often that had happened to Phillips, initial big audience jitters yielding to joy as he discoursed on the hard won fruits of research.

The speaker requested the first slide. The room darkened and a scanning electron micrograph of a muscle cell appeared on the screen. The speaker declared that he had isolated a gene whose activation appeared responsible for the differentiation of precursor cells into muscle fibrils.

Hansen smiled skeptically at Phillips and many in the audience exchanged quiet comments. Phillips refrained from smiling back, but he doubted the speaker's claim. Phillips felt it likely no causal link existed between the gene activation and differentiation, only correlation. However he was prepared to give the man the fullest opportunity to prove his case.

Another slide popped onto the screen, then another. The speaker's voice continued to wax enthusiastically. Phillips began to allow that Contran's lab—in which the speaker worked—might actually have stumbled onto a developmentally controlling gene. The odds weighed heavily against it, of course, but...

He detected a low snore to his right. His head, along with several others, craned in search of the source. Six seats away Kresser had his mouth open and eyes closed.

Phillips grimaced. If Kresser—a physical chemist—wasn't interested in seminars dealing with developmental biology, then he should stay away. Phillips could imagine how it looked from the stage, where the speaker was trying like hell to impress everyone and spotting a full professor, a former department chairman, well into an afternoon nap.

Then Phillips' own eyes closed—it felt like someone had pulled the lids down—and reopened after several seconds. The same slide was on the screen, but something was different. The screen and the speaker's position in the room had shifted to the left.

Phillips' eyes cast about him, then froze. His mouth flew open to exclaim.

Nothing came out. He commanded his arms and legs to propel him from the chair; they refused to obey. Only his eyes worked. They were locked on himself, who inexplicably sat six seats away to the left. He was sleeping beside John Hansen.

Then his eyes were pulled—yanked—back to the screen. Interposed between him and the screen were a series of letters and numerals. In midair they glowed softly green. It took a moment before his brain could derive their meaning. They read: DONALD—RISE—CALL US AT 479-74-6119.

Vainly he tried to cry out again.

BE CALM—THIS IS MERELY AN EXCHANGE—OUR OFFER STANDS

It took him a long minute to make the connection, then he remembered. The dream! He had dismissed that hauntingly realistic encounter within an hour of waking.

Which should explain this impossibility now. He was asleep.

NO, DON—YOU DO NOT DREAM—RISE AND CALL US

The floating letters held him transfixed. When they finally vanished he found he could move. The panic that had seized him was gone, as though washed away.

He looked over at himself. He still slept beside Hansen, his mouth wide open, his head tilted back...just like Kresser.

Was he now in Kresser's body? The body wore a long sleeve shirt and a tie, and brown corduroy pants, but he couldn't recall Kresser's exact dress. Phillips touched the nose, the brow and the cheeks of the face hidden from him. He couldn't tell anything certain from that, either. Then he caught two graduate students across the aisle eyeing him. Smirks played on their lips.

He waited a moment, then rose and exited the auditorium unobtrusively as he could. Once outside he hurried to the nearest restroom. There at the basin mirror the narrow, hollow eyed face of Kresser looked back at him. He and Kresser stared at each other until a backpack toting undergraduate barreled into the restroom.

Phillips made for the payphone outside the auditorium entrance. He fumbled a quarter into the slot, heard the dial tone, and hesitated. Then he punched digits in the sequence of his social security number. Instantly a voice—there were no rings—purred in the receiver.

"Good afternoon, Donald."

The voice was the same joyful one in the dream.

Phillips' head swirled. He was almost certain he was awake. But here he stood in another man's body, which was an absolute impossibility. Unless the laws of physics as he knew them had become unglued.

"You are wide awake, Don. As for physical laws may we remind you of the epigram coined by one of the more enlightened of your species: "a sufficiently advanced technology will appear as magic to those existing in a more primitive state."

God, they were reading his mind.

"Who—who are you?"

"Interstellar travelers with a gift. A gift you ignore."

Phillips fought to grip what he was hearing. Could this possibly be true, that he was in contact with alien beings? He had previously dismissed reports of close encounters of any kind. Upon examination earthly explanation always existed for phenomena claimed unearthly.

A little chuckle. "We are definitely not of your species. We are sentient beings who fortunately followed a quite different evolutionary path to intelligence. Not that such is any concern at the moment. What concerns us is your dismissal of our offer."

Phillips shook his head. This was all a mirage. If he weren't dreaming, then he was hallucinating. Hallucinating with a vengeance. He must...

"Donald! Still you doubt. What more must we do to convince you? We were certain your impossibly swift run and this exchange into rude Kresser would sway your discriminating mind."

Phillips wondered if this was the result of a ghastly prank. Perhaps someone had put LSD or the like into his coffee. That had happened once to a professor when he was at MIT. The professor insisted he had just met with Max Plank and Albert Einstein.

The voice sighed heavily. "Tell you what, Don. You are an astronomy buff, you even considered it for a career before you decided on biology. Perhaps if we demonstrate our power to alter astronomical events you will accept that we are not of this planet...a very lovely planet, we must admit, despite its infestation by sapiens. You are aware that the Lyrid meteor shower is due in one week. We shall upgrade the shower to a storm and cause it to occur tonight.

"We offer this as final evidence we are who we say and that our offer is valid. If we do not hear from you within forty-eight hours of the storm, we will conclude you are not interested."

The voice vanished. Instead of a dial tone the sound of a seashell held to the ear filled the receiver.

In an instant Phillips was back in the semi-darkness of the auditorium. John Hansen sat unperturbed beside him. To his left the seat of Kresser was unoccupied.

About him no one had noticed the occurrence of an inexplicable feat. All eyes remained focused on the speaker, who was moving the pointer over a slide of an autoradiograph. Phillips wanted to stand and shout about what he had just experienced, but of course he didn't.

A few moments later he saw Kresser retake his seat. Kresser wore a look of bafflement.

Phillips had always enjoyed the intimacy of the Old Cabell Hall auditorium. Tonight, as he sat on the stage, with a packed house looking down on him, the intimacy bordered on the claustrophobic. Even though he wasn't yet speaking, most of the eyes in the female dominated audience were riveted on him.

A few feet from him the chairperson of the University's NOW chapter breathlessly rushed through her introductory remarks. The remarks were stretching into a speech. That didn't matter; plenty of time remained before re-exchange.

He suppressed a smile of wonderment. Incredible. Of course, incredible did not mean impossible. The aliens were right in citing Arthur Clarke's dictum. No miracle was involved in this exchange of personality. Merely the application of physical laws the human race had not yet uncovered.

The chairwoman paused and Phillips gathered himself to rise. Then she launched into another round of polemic. Phillips relaxed his leg muscles.

Several women in the audience stared at him in a way that he as Donald Phillips had never experienced. They wanted his body, no doubt about it, and weren't attempting to mask their desire. One was exceptionally attractive and Phillips wondered if the congressman were subjected to this temptation all the time.

Phillips of course knew the answer. The congressman was handsome and lithe, and _Washington Post_ columnists said few members of Congress exceeded his charm. The committee chairman was also unmarried, his career not at all harmed by a messy divorce five years ago, and was often seen in the company of starlets.

All his life Phillips had slaved to get a second look from a woman; this man had to work harder to keep from drowning in their attention. Bland best described Phillips' own morphology; gorgeous, almost pretty, the congressman. He didn't blame the congressman for taking advantage of nature's blessing.

What he did blame this politician for—who deftly picked from liberal and conservative causes—was his opposition to every piece of gun control legislation proposed in the last five years. The congressman championed the NRA line to the letter, defending the right of every red-blooded American to possess assault rifles and hollow nose bullets.

The accelerating slaughter within the nation had not changed his position one iota. The children accidentally shooting children, the teenagers deliberately gunning down teenagers, the adults massacring citizens of all ages, this he glibly claimed resulted from a weakening of morals rather than easy access to instruments of death.

Three years ago such an instrument had killed Phillips' father in broad daylight in a parking lot. A thug had traded a bullet for his father's wallet, and ended that fine man's life just days before his fifty-second birthday.

The ballistics report said the bullet came from a semi-automatic pistol made in Austria. Manufactured for use in their army. No reason existed for the ownership in this country of a weapon carrying seventeen rounds except to expedite crime, but the congressman had always vigorously fought import restrictions on firearms.

At last the chairperson concluded her introduction. A storm of applause greeted Phillips as he strode to the lectern. Nervousness rippled in his stomach. He had made public presentations before, but this was eerie, standing in floodlights, with perhaps five hundred eyes upon him. Included in the audience was a reporter from the _Post_ and a Channel 29 camera team.

Phillips cleared his throat. The congressman had carried no notes or flash cards. He didn't see any on the lectern. No matter.

"I am honored to have been invited to address you this evening. The subject of women's rights in academia is a most serious matter, and I intend to leave you with no doubt as to my commitment on this issue. As I have always felt that action speaks louder than words..."

He flashed a winning smile. Many lovely women in the audience responded in kind.

Phillips stepped from behind the lectern. He turned, swiftly dropped his trousers, and revealed buttocks to a momentarily silent Old Cabell Hall.

Phillips exchanged into Janet Brand with no difficulty. As usual she had been in her lab office at six o'clock. She reserved the early evening, when everyone cleared out for dinner and athletics, to read journal articles that demanded uninterrupted attention.

He walked Janet's body from her lab into the center corridor on the fifth floor of Jordan Hall. The corridor was deserted and most of the doors to other labs were locked. As he approached the common room, he put on the pair of asbestos gloves.

Inside the windowless common room he went right for the big Revco that had "BRAND" written on it. He opened the chest high freezer whose temperature gauge read minus 80 degrees Centigrade. He pried loose the ice encrusted cover that shielded the precious contents beneath. Cold rose to caress his face.

His breath clouded as he poked among the assortment of frosted boxes, tubes and autoradiograph cassettes. Whenever he found a container marked with the name of one of Janet's four technicians he removed it from the freezer. Those belonging to either of her two graduate students he left alone.

The technicians would receive their paychecks whether or not their autoradiographs and tissues survived. They would not contemplate suicide because the labor of six months was destroyed. Janet's technicians, like most technicians at the University, worked hard and diligently, but they worked their forty hours a week and went home to something else.

The graduate students, however, he would spare. Despite the critical value of their work to Janet he just couldn't cripple them this way. Both of her students were halfway through the five or six years of grueling toil required for a doctoral degree. A six month setback would devastate them. Phillips believed both had enough fiber to get up off the floor and continue, but he wasn't going to put them to the test.

"Janet?"

Phillips jerked his head to see Brian Wilson, whose lab was opposite the common room, standing in the doorway. He must have just returned from eating. Wilson was staring quizzically at the pile of material on the counter beside the Revco. Vapor rose from the material. By now Phillips had half the freezer's contents out.

Phillips resisted the urge to flee. He reminded himself that he, as Janet, had every right to be rifling through this freezer.

He smiled at Wilson.

"Wouldn't you know the Poly A I'm looking for is on the bottom?"

Wilson didn't smile back. He wasn't going to admonish a colleague, but Phillips knew how irresponsible Wilson must think it to subject tissues to unnecessary thawing. Degradative enzymes loved each degree rise in temperature. The prudent investigator thawed only what needed for the immediate experiment and zealously protected everything else.

Wilson left and Phillips went back to work. When he had removed all appropriate items, he resealed the Revco. He then opened each metal cassette to expose the X-ray film within to light. One by one the two score autoradiographs were rendered useless and the results of a week or more of difficult experimentation erased. Then on the counter he spread out boxes containing nucleic acids, proteins and whole cell samples to hasten their thawing.

As he walked back to Janet's lab he thought it was good Wilson had seen her in the common room. No doubt would exist as to the identity of the perpetrator of this sabotage. Janet's fervent denial would only compound the approbation that would fall upon her.

She would not lose her position in the Biochemistry department—tenure excused most everything short of felony—but this fit of self-destructiveness would ruin her reputation. He doubted she could attract any more quality graduate students or postdocs. Other investigators would politely but firmly refuse to collaborate.

All very fine, all very welcome. Phillips however regarded these blows as minor compared to the likely rejection of her grant proposal, which was due at NIH next January.

The NIH committees evaluating grant proposals relied heavily on published research papers to determine whether the investigator merited continued funding. Scientific journals published papers based on the pertinence and validity of the data contained therein. No useful data, no papers, no grant renewal. How well he knew that brutal sequence.

Through superhuman effort Janet still might overcome the delays his sabotage would cause. Janet wasn't as a quick study as he, but she possessed tenacity and excellent management skills. No doubt she would attempt redoing as many experiments as possible before January.

But a committee evaluated more than what they saw in print. Molecular biologists were a tight knit community; the word would get around about her psychotic act.

In the end the committee wouldn't gamble on her. There were too many other worthy grant applications on the table. The committee members would seize on any reasonable excuse to narrow the field.

A rejected grant meant an abrupt end to research. No more money for equipment, technician salaries or graduate student stipends. Janet Brand was out of business.

As a tenured faculty member the state would continue to pay her salary, but that would matter little. Like himself Janet lived for research. Let her now taste the same despair its termination had caused him.

Back in her lab Phillips went first to the torpedo like tanks which fed carbon dioxide to the cell incubators. He shut off the gas flow. He turned next to the liquid nitrogen carboy. From the carboy he pulled out ladles containing the replacement stocks for the cells he had just condemned to asphyxiation. The stocks would thaw and die within the hour.

He scanned the windowless cinder block lab for more targets. He debated turning over the 32P liquid waste container, but a floor layered with radioactive water would be pushing things too far. He didn't know who would next enter the lab, the grad students, or the cleaning people, and he had no desire to expose them to harm.

He returned to Janet's office. At the beginning of the exchange hour hadn't noticed the missing photograph; the photo of her and him at the Gordon conferences last summer. The picture had still been there when he last came to her office to futilely plead his case in those terrible days after they broke up. It was now replaced by a group shot taken at the conferences which did not include him.

Moisture accumulated at the corners of his eyes. He quickly wiped the wetness away. He hadn't permitted tears once in the two months since she threw him out. He certainly wouldn't cry now. But barbed wire still pulled through his intestines when he thought of her. How much better if she had never included him in her life.

That she took interest in him at all had surprised him. He offered little physically: an ectomorph with too high a forehead, too narrow a face, thinning brown hair, and no athletic talents besides long distance running.

He had only two prior relationships and neither was with a woman as attractive or intelligent. Janet was not glamorous, but that contrast of jet black hair with the creamy skin of her finely featured face easily caught men's attention. She also possessed a trim figure, and she knew how to use it in the bedroom.

Usually with good looking women he became hopelessly tongue tied. In the beginning he was at ease with Janet because he really didn't think he had a chance at anything besides an intellectual relationship.

His one extraordinary trait, a probing, high power intelligence, that did intrigue her. She loved—or so she said—his lack of cynicism and his cheerful curiosity. After so many encounters with other men, smug and worldly, she said found his unpretentious enthusiasm refreshing.

Their minds had clicked immediately and their bodies did a little later. His sexual initiation with Debbie would always remain special, but Janet took him far deeper into the realms of ecstasy. Strangely, amazingly, he was able to satisfy her. She confessed his shyness and his awe were a tonic after a series of skilled but jaded lovers.

A year ago last May he had moved into her house. The summer that followed he would remain the golden period of his life. She had truly cared for him then, that he believed despite the coolness that developed once the fall semester began.

During the fall he attributed her slackened ardor to the heavy demands required by teaching assignments and breaking in two new technicians. At the time Phillips denied her coolness had anything to do with the simultaneous rejection of his paper submitted to _Developmental Biology_ and the NIH rejection of his grant proposal.

He knew, and she knew, rejected papers often needed only careful revision and submission to a journal a little lower on the prestige ladder to secure publication. Grants fared similarly. Half the science faculty had experienced an initial proposal rejection. One then scrambled to meet the committee's objections, and several months later approval came through.

So Phillips didn't panic when he received the double setback. Three years before, he had to make some minor amendments to get his first grant renewal. Of course, the first renewal was usually not severely challenged. The second renewal, the aptly named competitive renewal, underwent much tougher scrutiny by the committee. At the end of six years the verdict should be in whether an investigator was worth his salt.

The chill in their relationship worsened as the year headed towards its end. The drop in temperature correlated perfectly with nature as November opened with the second rejection of his paper and December followed with final rejection of his grant proposal. No longer could he attribute the growing divide to her immersion in work, but he would not entertain the alternative explanation. What he ignored he need not acknowledge.

They still they lived and bedded together. They shared meals, passable conversation, and occasional sex. They outwardly observed the rites of companionship. He however noted they no longer spoke of a marriage date, a date they previously agreed would not too distantly follow his obtainment of tenure.

The masquerade ended on a day in February.

February fourth. A wet day, with a wind out of the northeast. The day she cast him out. A mere forty-eight hours after his tenure denial he was ordered to pack and leave. She allowed no appeal. From that day forward it was as if they had shared nothing other than a common vocation.

The lab clock said he had fifteen minutes left. From the bookshelf behind Janet's desk he removed an armful of loose-leaf notebooks. He wrestled the notebooks into a carrying position, then strode from the lab.

He met another of Janet's colleagues as he exited the elevator at the lobby floor. He explained she planned to work tonight at home.

Like Wilson, the bearded colleague regarded her questioningly, for most labs forbade the removal of notebooks. These records of experimentation were just too essential. Like Wilson, though, he did not chastise her.

Phillips gave grim thanks for another witness. He would throw the notebooks in a dumpster, and when Janet frantically sought them tomorrow this man would refute her claims to innocence.

Oh, Janet Sarah Brand. You discarded me like used Kleenex. You gave lie to all the endearments, all the sweet caresses, all the magical bondings of our minds and bodies. May what I have done in this one hour in some small way repay you.

Phillips hurried out the entrance of Jordan Hall into the second evening of the year graced by the extended illumination of daylight-saving time. His hands full, he was unable this time to wipe away a tear.

3

Let George Do It

Mahogany paneled walls, hurricane lamps, rose pink carpeting, spit and polish waiters, and enough foliage to start a rain forest. Yes, Delmincer's was all Larson had been led to expect. Including the prices. A man could file for Chapter 13 after eating here. Even beer cost six dollars a bottle.

The cocktail waiter returned with their drinks. If Larson had exchanged into Bauer before the orders were taken he'd have asked for something outrageous, like a triple Fuzzy Navel. Leave it to Ken to dare no more than scotch and water

But the night was young.

Ken's mentor, silver haired Matterson, raised his glass. Matterson's wife—blond, shapely, and twenty-three years young—raised hers. To his right Ken's red haired snot bitch of a wife eagerly followed suit. Smiles all around.

"Kenneth," said Matterson, "to the start of your march to senior partnership. I believe you'll enter our ranks even more quickly than I."

The foursome clinked glasses. Larson affected the same modesty Ken would have. That's what the partners had loved about Kenneth Bauer, in addition to his ability to assemble an impeccable brief. Ken never came on too strong.

"I wouldn't have made partner without your guiding hand," said Larson, "and if I advance further in the firm I'll also know who to thank."

Ah, Ken, you're so smooth. So unlike your rival George Larson. You, the face man; Larson, the heavy jawed ape man. Your golden throated voice to Larson's stevedore bass. Your St. Paul prep school to Larson's pedestrian Henrico High. Your Harvard to Larson's University of Virginia. Your wife's Wellesley to Lori's Ohio State. Your blueblood family line, three generations in Wall St. law firms, to Larson's municipal employee father.

The snot bitch wife, who'd always been cool to Lori, beamed. "Ken would be embarrassed to say it, but he regards you as a second father."

Matterson tut-tutted. His piece of ass wife nodded approvingly and patted Matterson's hand. She was his second wife. The first one had the gall to let her skin wrinkle and tits lower.

Larson smiled and winked. "But Dad didn't have your taste in cars or women." He turned his eyes to the peach skinned blonde with the darling upturned nose. "He didn't know when to trade in."

Everyone's smile died. Matterson looked sharply at him, Peach Skin looked down, and the snot bitch looked askance.

Providentially the waiter arrived to take their orders. All intently studied their menus.

After they ordered Matterson talked shop. How many times had that happened to Larson, office hours going on no matter what the social occasion? How well the firm conditioned its Pavlovian dogs to never waste a minute.

Matterson was instructing Ken about a petition they would file in an antitrust case. Larson noted that Matterson's eyes were flinty. Still smarting from Ken's faux pas, you sack of shit?

"Be sure you call Riddick tomorrow," said Matterson. "We'll want as firm a commitment from Justice as we can get."

Larson nodded. "No sweat, Matt."

Matterson's gaze grew flintier. Under the table someone nudged his leg. Probably Snot Bitch, whose milk skin face tried to hide distress.

Snot Bitch broke the silence by inquiring about the beach house the Matterson's were building in Nantucket. Peach Skin promptly took up the cue and the two of them chatted amiably, attempting to draw the men into the conversation. For politeness' sake Matterson offered a few nuggets of information, but it was plain he was pissed.

Senior partners. Deities whom you did not want to offend. They could break you easy, with no appeal. Or they could nurture and groom you, give you the edge needed to survive the eight year gauntlet and make partner.

Of the ten associates that entered the firm Larson's first year only he and Ken were in the running by the eighth year. Even though Larson's mentor, Laird, had died the previous year, other partners said they would go to bat for him when decision time came. Unfortunately none of these men, though well regarded, were of the inner circle like Laird...or Matterson.

A senior partner's affection was not easily gained. Larson had won Laird's with an above and beyond performance one night during his second year at the firm. Laird had yanked him and another associate off junior partners' tasks for an emergency assignment, the assembling of an appellate brief due on the morrow. That evening the other associate succumbed to intestinal flu and bailed out of the assignment. That of course finished his partnership prospects. Larson would have brought in puke bags and a chamberpot, and kept going. By dawn Larson managed to complete two men's work.

After that Laird put him on the associate fast track. Choice assignments that let him shine. As a good mentor should, Laird also guided him through the minefield of firm politics. Larson had seen more than one associate blow his future after misreading the relative strengths of partners.

Laird had looked out for him in other ways. When Larson joined the firm, he had been a raw talent. He could outwork anybody, but he lacked that veneer of polish Ken was born with. Larson did not present a comforting image to partner or client alike. He knew his size and facial features, really his whole manner, intimidated people and he had always rather enjoyed that.

Though he balked at first, he accepted Laird's advice that he project blandness. Off came his mustache, on went wire rim glasses and light gray suits. He kept his mouth shut much as he could, listened patiently, practiced bonhomie. It wasn't easy, but the lure of partnership and senior partnership kept him disciplined.

How well he remembered that bright spring afternoon Laird had spoken to him and Lori about partnership. Laird was having a lawn party at his estate south of Bernardsville. Larson stood with his arm about Lori, they'd been dating about five months then, and Laird had pointedly told her to hang onto this man. "He'll not only make partner, he'll make senior partner."

Larson and Lori had laughed appreciatively, but, yes, her eyes had lit up like a pinball machine. And she had played Larson like one...until he went tilt.

The firm played you for a sucker, too, but at least you understood that going in. Everyone knew it was a con game, a scheme designed to coax the maximum out of the very bright and very ambitious. Except everyone knew _he_ would be the one who secured a partnership after eight years' battle. And why not? Each virgin associate had overrun or outflanked the competition in high school, college, and in what they considered the supreme test of their abilities, law school.

Larson knew he would make partner, even before gaining Laird's stewardship. All he had to do was show his mettle. Which he did in spades. No one in the firm had compiled more billable hours than he over that eight year period. Larson, not Ken, made four contributions to the memorandum file...unheard of for an associate. His briefs, after the first year, were regularly flawless. By his fourth year partners had grown accustomed to giving his work only a cursory review so much did they trust his legal skills.

By the sixth year everyone knew the field had narrowed to Ken and himself. Ken worked very hard and produced errorless, well reasoned work but no one at the firm would argue it matched Larson's quality. However Ken, as a partner sympathetically explained after the blow, possessed through his family and his wife's family connections to the corporate world from which the firm drew most of its clients. Ken, with his sterling social graces, guaranteed much future business for the firm.

The con game. It had gotten even Larson. Milked him, raped him as it had all the lesser associates. He, too, lay among the dead, while Ken went on to enjoy all the fruits of their valiant labor.

Ken, dear Ken. Never friendly with him, Larson could understand that, they were in mortal contest for a partnership slot. Ken however never bothered to shield his class disdain for Larson. Larson was intruder riffraff, plucked from a pretentious southern university. Larson of the yeoman ranks did not belong.

Ken's red haired bitch wife had also been frosty. Never once had she addressed him or Lori first. She and Ken had not invited them to their wedding; nor did they accept invitation to his and Lori's nuptials.

Larson's dinner companions were now discussing an upcoming auction at Doyle's. Peach Skin mentioned a Theodore Wores painting she'd like to bid on. They debated the likely top offer, and Ken's wife asked his opinion on the matter.

"Fuck if I know," Larson said pleasantly.

Snot Bitch gasped out a "Ken!" Peach Skin again dropped her lovely blue eyes and with a glare Matterson skinned him alive.

"Kenneth, could we speak?" Matterson grimly asked. He curtly directed his head toward the alcove leading to the restrooms.

Oh yes, Matterson intended to ream Ken's ass good, maybe even remind his protégé that junior partners could be fired just like associates.

"Certainly."

The two men pushed out their chairs as the respective wives feigned nonchalance. Both no doubt wondered what on earth had gotten into Ken. Simple, ladies, something not of this earth had gotten George Larson into Ken.

As Larson stood he knocked his salad fork to the floor. He bent to pick it up, then dropped to hands and knees. He crawled forward, dipping his head so it cleared both the tablecloth and a dress hemline. He thrust his head to bull apart two knees while his arms locked tightly about a waist.

Peach Skin was too stunned to even squawk. Not until he had his face pressed tightly against her panties, his tongue and lips furiously at work, did the shrieks begin.

Matterson's savage shouts joined the shrieks, then many other voices rang out as Delmincer's fabled decorum dissolved in pandemonium. Quickly a dozen arms were tugging at his body, but, alas, they could not separate him from Peach Skin.

The two of them had tumbled from her chair, and she was now screaming hysterically. Her arms and calves flailed his back. Other, stronger blows struck, but few hit his head as it was wedged so protectively between her thighs and hidden by her dress. She must have absorbed much of the beating directed at him.

Finally he was torn free. A trio of waiters pinned him to the carpet, but he could lift his head enough to see a circle of gaping patrons. Several other waiters were restraining Matterson, who held a broken chair leg. A killing rage distorted his face.

On the floor beside Larson lay Peach Skin. She was balled up, emitting choking sobs. Her evening dress—probably a 1K job—was badly torn.

He drew in air, then bellowed, "Best pussy I ever ate!"

"Shut up," hissed one of the waiters holding him. An arm lock tightened.

They could bust Ken's bones all they wanted. Just so they didn't let Matterson loose before the exchange hour ended. That man would dash his brains.

Matterson did lunge again, and nearly succeeded in breaking free.

"You're finished, Bauer," Matterson screamed. "Gone. Show your face at the firm tomorrow, I'll kill you."

Larson grinned at him. "She's a great lay, Bob. Cunt like a vise."

More waiters were required to hold Matterson, and his own guardians hustled him toward the entrance. As they lead Larson away, he passed Snot Bitch. Uncomprehending horror played on her very pale face.

Larson spit into the face.

The next morning Larson called in sick, although he had never felt better in his life. He lingered at the condo until ten o'clock, then walked down to the ferry terminal.

He was pleased to find the earlier cloud cover had broken and that it was turning out a beautiful day. He regretted there wasn't an afternoon game at the Stadium.

Once in lower Manhattan he decided to walk up Broadway. He didn't know how far he'd go; he just knew he needed physical activity. The excitement of the previous evening still hummed within him.

Larson saw people staring and he toned down his grin. How he'd love to pop in at Hench, Mitchell, and Younger and learn to his astonishment of Bauer's unfathomable behavior. The firm no doubt buzzed with the news.

As Larson strolled he continued to smile but he again reminded himself that successfully trashing Ken—and Lori—didn't merit prolonged jubilation. Revenge, however sweet, wouldn't leave him financially better off at the end of the exchange year. Revenge wouldn't pay bills.

It was time now to get serious about securing enough money to finish this year in a position to retire. He doubted his initial hope—raiding other people's checking accounts—could pile up sufficient funds.

No, a thousand or two dollars per exchange wouldn't get the job done. Not for the kind of retirement he planned.

The 3000 shares of AT&T stock had promised a much better start. Bad form to brag about an inheritance, but thankfully Templeton let everyone in Resident Counsel know his good fortune. Larson had planned to phone in a sale order, then later exchange into Templeton to pick up the check.

All well and good, but mere possession of a check for $105,000 gained him nothing. No bank was going to fork over that amount in cash before the check cleared.

Nor could he very well deposit the check in his own bank account. The paper trail on the transactions would lead right to George Larson, and Templeton would charge fraud, forgery, the kitchen sink.

Perhaps the aliens would allow him to split an exchange hour into two fragments. If he could first pickup and deposit the check into Templeton's account, then withdraw funds later in the week after it cleared, that should work. No way then the bank could trace the transaction back to him.

Beside him on Broadway a Federal Express van had cut off a taxi, and a battle of honks ensued. Larson watched amused as the two drivers shrieked curses; the wog cabbie displayed an excellent grasp of English invective. But neither driver got out to pursue fisticuffs and their vehicles merged back into the general din of traffic.

Larson bought a burrito from a sidewalk vendor as he turned into the City Hall area. Nearby a bum rummaged through a trash can. The bum, who reeked pretty bad, sported a tangle of gray beard that reminded Larson of Michelangelo's paintings of God. Maybe the bum was God. Good disguise.

Larson strolled past the towering Municipal Building and into Foley Square. He stopped before the faded yellow exterior of the Criminal Courts Building. He decided to go in; he was tired of walking and had time to kill. Maybe he could find some interesting proceedings.

It irked and flattered Larson that the guards inside waved through the two people before him, then ran a metal detector carefully over his length. Did he look that dangerous? Well, with his power now he _was_ one of the most dangerous people around. As Ken and Lori could attest.

On the second floor Larson wandered into a decrepit courtroom where arraignments were taking place. He sat on one of the hard wooden benches. A half dozen other spectators, looking bored out of their gourds, were scattered about him. At the front of the room with the high ceiling two attorneys huddled with the judge.

On a bench to the side of the judge sat several young blacks and Hispanics. All were in street clothes and not handcuffed. One got up to stand before the judge after a big white bailiff called out a name.

Larson watched as most were released on one dollar's bail or had the charges dismissed. The crimes were penny ante: failure to comply with a summons, failure to pay a fine, failure to not be a failure.

Larson's attention strayed and again he pondered the difficulties of achieving financial independence. The exchange power didn't give him as much edge as he first thought.

He had considered exchanging into a person both filthy rich and terminally ill. No problem at all to have this person write Larson into the will; the problems would arise after its reading. The true heirs would certainly challenge this bequest to a total stranger. He would face a legal fight royal, and the expenses could leave him destitute.

Exchanging into a healthy rich person presented similar obstacles. The person could award Larson gifts of land, money, securities, whatever, but his benefactor would certainly try to reclaim them upon discovering their transfer. Larson might or might not win a lengthy court battle; again he could only count on incurring litigation expenses.

He could exchange into a person who owned a valuable stamp collection or priceless paintings. During the exchange Larson could hide the objects for later pickup. The difficulties would materialize when he as George Larson tried to unload the booty. Any legitimate dealer would suspect stolen goods. Larson could chance a fence—getting maybe ten cents on the dollar, or worse, having the fence betray him to the police.

One thing he was beginning to appreciate, the aliens had set up the exchange rules to impede any easy path to riches. They intended to make him sweat for his gold.

Of course, none of that slight of hand was required if he could win the continuous exchange. He need not bother acquiring vast assets, he just could usurp the body of a person already owning them. He could permanently take over the flesh and bones of any member of the rich and famous. In addition, he could steal two decades of youth if he chose the body of a wealthy teenager.

Those wondrous aliens. Larson had to laugh. The pricks had specified the condition necessary to attain the continuous exchange in phraseology worthy of Hench, Mitchell and Younger: "At the end of the exchange year only one of the counterparts possessing the exchange power will be alive."

Now what were the odds of a person Larson's age dying by accident or disease during a one year span? All the people in his law class were still alive. Several in his undergraduate class had expired, one from cancer, the rest in auto wrecks. But that was out of a couple thousand people over a fifteen year period. A realistic assessment said neither he nor the "counterpart" would die via random chance before next April 4th.

He knew that, the aliens knew that. What they apparently wanted was for he and the counterpart to go at it in a fight to the finish. Guess watching him and the other guy fucking over third parties didn't juice them enough.

Of course, determining who was the counterpart had its own long odds. Many millions of men lived in the lower Forty Eight and it would take a lot longer than one year to determine his identity. Try decades.

The words "charged with a class B felony" caught Larson's attention. Standing before the judge in the sunlight streaming down through unwashed windows was a thin Hispanic.

The Hispanic, named Sanchez, had been indicted for 2nd degree murder, which the judge remarked carried a maximum sentence of life. Nothing about the emaciated, scraggly bearded young man indicated a killer—nothing except the utter absence of emotion on his face. As the bailiff led him back toward the room in which Larson could see bars, the judge said "good luck to you".

Larson almost laughed out loud. What about good luck to the guy Sanchez planted?

He had enough. He gave thanks he'd never considered criminal law.

Larson walked from the dreary courtroom into a deserted corridor. As he passed a bank of payphones one rang.

He knew it was the aliens. That he knew didn't surprise him; to put the idea in his head probably rated the least of their abilities.

He lifted the receiver.

"Good afternoon, George," a voice cooed.

Yup, it was his galactic buddies. "Hi, guys. What's up?"

"You had wondered whether we would allow you to split an exchange hour. We again must inform you that we can make no modifications to the originally stated rules."

"I didn't think you would."

"Such calm acceptance is admirable."

Larson repressed annoyance. "I can live with the rules the way they are," he said evenly. "Just so you don't change them somewhere down the line."

"No modifications, absolutely. But concerning the continuous exchange...we do feel you underestimate your ability to locate the counterpart."

Larson gave a short laugh. "Too big a haystack gentlemen."

"Not necessarily."

"I'm open to any helpful hints." He would need them. All Larson knew for sure was that the counterpart was an adult male and lived in the United States.

"Concrete evidence does exist."

"Come on. I gather an exchange was involved when the congressman bared his ass in Charlottesville, but that's not much help. There's no reason to assume that the location of the mooning and the location of the counterpart are related. The counterpart could have exchanged from anywhere in the country."

"Watch the news at six on Channel 4 tomorrow, George."

"What?"

"Just watch."

The line went dead.

4

Positive Vibes

Karen River was a goddess. Why women like Karen were denied him Phillips did not question; he merely accepted that they belonged to the warriors. He, the beanpole alchemist, must resign himself to erotic fantasy.

Except that now, thanks to the aliens, Karen sat before him in all the glory of her naked flesh. He occupied the body of her husband Paul, and he watched with a pounding heart as Karen ran her nailed fingers through the hair of Paul's chest.

Paul of course was a warrior: a brain surgeon recently appointed assistant dean of the medical school. Handsome and athletic, able and authoritative, articulate and charming, a perfect antithesis to Phillips.

The wife of this warrior belonged to that rare caste of women whose beauty struck like a physical

blow. The first time Phillips had seen the auburn haired beauty, at a ceremony celebrating the opening of the new hospital, the floor rolled as if he stood on a boat. Janet could thrill in bed; this woman could take life.

Only one lamp remained on in the bedroom, but it shed more than enough light to completely reveal the curved wonder of this woman. She and Phillips were facing each other on the bed. His hands cupped the fullness of her breast while her hands played with Paul's rigid organ. They both breathed through clenched teeth.

Phillips had chosen a Monday evening, when the couple likely had no function to attend. He drove by their house an hour before the exchange to make certain they were home. Back at his apartment he found his excitement so great he had to postpone exchange half an hour to allow the sleeping pills more time to take effect. He had drifted off uncomfortably near the moment of exchange.

He had worried all day how Karen would react when he as Paul asked for sex. Did the couple have a ritual, a special code word? Would she be in her period? Had they argued? Even if she were receptive she would have to sense something in her husband had changed. Would that spook her, and ruin his only chance for intercourse with this awesome woman?

The gods—or the aliens—must have been with him, for he entered Paul as he lay in bed reading a copy of _The New England Journal of Medicine_. Karen sat at a mirror combing her hair and was clad in the briefest of negligees. Paul wore only pajama bottoms. Surprisingly—or not so surprisingly—Paul was half erect. Within five seconds the erection became full.

In the mirror her eyes had met his and a little smile formed on her lips. He hesitated, then commanded himself up. He was her husband. He told himself to act like Paul: be bold, take charge, don't show weakness. Don't stumble with this woman like Donald Phillips would stumble.

With Janet he had been in over his head; with Karen he had a whole ocean over him. Karen belonged to that elite club of females who always looked through him and past him.

The goddesses had always looked past him. The warriors had also. Neither group treated him cruelly, they just ignored him. Alchemists undoubtedly were necessary but just didn't belong among knights and fair ladies.

Once, though, in his junior high school year the warriors did notice him. He had been the second best runner on the cross country team. The meets began and ended on the track that ran around the football field, and the runners started during the half time of home games.

The team's best runner sprained an ankle a mile into the course and it was up to Phillips to defend school honor. He took the lead by forcing too fast a pace. By the time he returned to the track his muscles were saturated with lactic acid and he breathed like an asthmatic. As he entered the last quarter mile, the other team's top runner was only five yards behind.

The football game had resumed, but all the people in the stands and many of the players on the sidelines screamed encouragement at him. Phillips needed the frantic urging, for he was running on absolute empty. Somehow he held on. Though he collapsed the instant after passing the finish line, his adversary never passed him.

Wonder of wonders, two football players rushed to lift him up. They made him walk, all the while praising his feat. When they finally let him down Phillips put his face to the ground and dry heaved. More football players came over to pat his back. For a week or so afterward they greeted him in the school hallways with nods of respect.

The women did not. The real women, that is. They continued their indifference. They, better than the men, knew he was not of the warrior caste. A dedicated messenger, yes, a messenger who over long distance brought news of what the warriors had done in battle. Messengers did not stir their ardor.

Other women had always noticed him. The ones nobody else wanted. Well, in high school and college he didn't want them either. He wouldn't give people the chance to snicker and say, see, look what a dog Don's dating. Not until Debbie had he let loneliness overcome his pride. Then people really could say, arf, arf.

On her best day, in the most flattering light, Debbie rated a four. Janet he could truthfully put at 7.5. Karen ranked a genuine number ten. Did not a logarithmic increase in desirability accompany each digit increment? The distance between Debbie and Karen rivaled that of the interstellar.

And now he would know Karen. All his life he had wondered what it would be like. He had hungered forever for a woman like this. Tonight he strode with the warriors.

On the bed Karen now had put her mouth on his organ. He fought desperately to prevent premature ejaculation. He lifted her mouth to his lips and stoked her magnificent breasts until the nipples were as hard as his organ.

Suddenly she rolled onto her back with knees hiked high and wide apart. Phillips' stomach plunged roller coaster like, and his nerve almost deserted him. Then her half whimpered plea rallied Phillips. He scrambled forward to cover her.

He entered with the first probe of his organ. Then unbelievably he was thrusting in the tight wetness of Karen Rivers, thrusting with the slow rhythm Debbie had taught him long ago. Mushrooming lust forced a faster pace and soon both of them were bellowing. His ecstasy gave no quarter and he asked for none.

Afterward they lay bathed in sweat. The sole movement on the bed besides chests demanding air was his quivering arms. He lifted his head and was amazed to see only white in Karen's open eyes. He had heard men brag about knocking their women out with orgasm; he had never accomplished it himself.

The bedside clock told thirty-five minutes remained before re-exchange. He would fight off the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under; he would spend every minute left viewing and touching this incredibly delicious body.

As he fondled her inert form, a voice told him he had just committed rape. He dismissed the claim. He had taken this woman with her consent, indeed, with her insistence. She had thoroughly enjoyed this union with her husband. The exchange would not damage their relationship. What did they say, no harm, no foul?

Despite Phillips' best efforts, sleep claimed him within five minutes.

Phillips jogged slowly along the path that wound through Penn Park. He basked in the verdancy that was unfurling on the surrounding hills. Greens of every shade fringed the black tree limbs that had too long dominated during the months of cold. Here and there the brilliant white and pink of dogwood bejeweled the landscape.

Spring. When life regenerated, when life input disorder and distilled order. This rite of regeneration had enthralled him for years. It was miraculous really, how these biological entities converted a disorganized mass of molecules into specialized building blocks and constructed the glory he saw around him.

Order from disorder. Every other process in the universe consumed order. Only biological entities could employ the energy cooling toward an ultimate inert state to create purposeful complexity.

A balmy breeze caressed him as he ran over the gravel path. He glided down a moderate slope, then easily climbed a small rise. Runners coming in the opposite direction smiled or raised their hand. A day like this had everyone appreciative.

Order from disorder. The goal towards which an intelligent entity should strive. The activities of an intelligent being should improve, not worsen, his society. The intelligent should build, not destroy.

Was that the aliens' challenge? To see if this particular human, a representative of mankind's most enlightened profession, could use exchanges for beneficial effect? If so, this representative had failed.

He had let an obsession for revenge set back the march of science. Janet's research was much more important than anything that happened to Janet herself. His destruction of months' worth of data harmed every scientist working on PKC biochemistry; it deprived them of knowledge they needed to confirm and extend their own work. He had thwarted progress.

And for what? It was ironic that now Janet stirred no emotion. He didn't care what happened to her, for better or worse. The abscessed tooth of his hate had been pulled. The pain was gone.

Now that he could think rationally, he wondered if he ever really been in love with her. Undoubtedly he had greatly desired her anatomy, and he enjoyed her wit and class. He supposed the strongest emotion tying him to her had been his own pride.

Her companionship announced he was more than a one dimensional academic nerd. Janet by his side said: look what I've won, look what sleeps with me, look what values me. It gave him the prestige outside the lab and classroom he'd always sought. Janet Brand had existed only to illuminate Donald Phillips.

What if before she threw him out an auto accident had disfigured her? Would he have remained at her side? He knew the answer to that now.

He also knew the answer concerning future exchanges. No more acts of revenge.

He would still partake of entirely neutral acts, such as his coupling with Karen Rivers, but otherwise he must resolve to behave responsibly. He would do only good works. The aliens had granted him incredible power, power that he must use to prove himself a worthy representative.

Phillips was pleasantly surprised to see the story had reached beyond the Charlottesville area. On the television screen the classy anchor of Washington D.C.'s Channel Nine news wore an impish smile.

"Did the Almighty make her do it? Well, Martha D. Henessey, owner of a low income apartment complex in Charlottesville, has in effect called herself a liar. Mrs. Henessey had planned to convert her 126 unit complex into condominiums. The Charlottesville area has grown rapidly in recent years, with real estate now selling only a little lower than here in the metropolitan area, and conversion would have netted her a real bonanza."

Footage ran of the dilapidated complex, which housed mostly blacks.

"On the morning of April 18, Mrs. Henessey and her lawyer met with representatives of a citizens' committee which had been attempting to halt the conversion. This committee had obtained a temporary injunction that delayed eviction of the tenants for the past three months. At this meeting Mrs. Henessey declared that her conscience could no longer permit her to seek profit at the expense of people who would likely end up homeless. For many years she had ignored her Christian duty. She had succumbed to the temptation of an ostentatious life style while the poor dependent upon her grew more destitute. She blamed Satan for the error of her ways.

"Mrs. Henessey then produced a two page document. This document offered sale of the apartment complex to the committee for the sum of five dollars. Yes, that is correct, five dollars American for property worth two million. Her lawyer—at this point in no minor state of discomfit, according to witnesses—tried to dissuade her." The anchor's smile broadened. "She countered by saying it was about time he acted according to his Christian faith. Did he attend St. Paul's every week just for show? Mrs. Henessey then gave the document to the committee chairman and stated the offer would hold for twenty minutes.

"The committee had no trouble meeting this deadline. The parties signed the sale document, had it witnessed, then shook hands. Mrs. Henessey then instructed her lawyer to see to any remaining details, and not to bother her further about the matter—if he wished to remain her lawyer. The sale was thus transacted and joy reigned at the complex.

"A happy ending to a happy story, you say? But late yesterday afternoon an enraged Mrs. Henessey appeared at the Charlottesville courthouse—with a new lawyer—and filed suit to void the sale. She claimed a cleverly disguised impostor had sold the complex. However her former lawyer says that he is absolutely sure that Martha Henessey accompanied him to the meeting. And Mrs. Henessey cannot account for her whereabouts at that time."

The anchor went on to interview a District lawyer who felt she had little chance of reversing the sale. A claim of temporary insanity might work, but he doubted it. The tenants, now owners of the complex, could rest easy.

Phillips nodded. He had spent the better part of a week questioning lawyers and real estate agents in preparation for the exchange. He wanted no margin for error. Failure on his part would mean scores of helpless people thrown onto the street. At the meeting he had taken the precaution of pressing a thumb smudged with ink on the sale document. Mrs. Henessey could not dispute her own thumbprint.

He had always detested people like Martha Henessey. He didn't begrudge her being born to wealth but he abhorred her use of it. All that money and the best she could do was to expand her father's thoroughbred farm. What a waste, all those lush acres of pasture surrounded by white fencing, all those animals that existed only to fatten the egos of those who themselves made no meaningful contribution to society.

Well, Mrs. Henessey had at last made a contribution. The aliens would be very proud of her.

5

Seek and Ye Shall Find

Larson was glad Al hadn't joined them on the after dinner walk; he could tolerate Suzy's husband only in small doses. He also wanted to spend as much time as possible alone with Suzy before he continued south in the morning.

They turned onto another street of the Falls Church subdivision. The houses and yards here were just the same as on Suzy's street. The dwellings of those who had settled for second best. It angered him that she lived in a suburb like this; she deserved so much better.

He hated that more than anything, even outright failure, settling for comfortable mediocrity. Suzy's husband, a federal bureaucrat, was expert in milking the maximum out of minimal risk. The man was only a year younger than Larson and all he had attained was a GS9 position. Al hunkered under

that position like a turtle under a shell. All Al wanted was to make it to retirement maybe a couple grades higher, then fart away the rest of his nothing life on the golf course.

At least he treated Suzy well. God help him if he ever caused her pain.

The warmth of the day had fled and a chill was creeping into the twilight air. Suzy buttoned the sweater she wore over her blouse. The street was delightfully quiet; it never got like this in Manhattan.

"I'm glad you're taking leave," Suzy said. "You need it."

"I guess I'm due."

She smiled ruefully. "You're eight years due."

He nodded. It was hard to believe the longest he'd taken off at the firm was six days for his honeymoon. The firm said you earned five weeks vacation a year, but you might as well stick your head up the dress of a partner's wife as abandon work that long.

"I wish you'd taken the time after Lori left. I don't know how you managed to keep working. It must have been agony."

"Work saved my ass. And you did, too. If you hadn't come up—". She had even slept in the same bed with him one night after he kept waking up crying. But she had always been there for him, as he had for her, going way back into childhood. She was the only one he felt anything for in his family.

"I was on the brink, I admit it. For the first time in my life I understood why people go on a rampage. Like that guy at that post office in Oklahoma or the one at the McDonalds's."

He saw his sister's eyes widen.

"No, I don't mean I approve of what they did. That was totally gutless, gunning down women and kids. Both of them were scum. But I could understand a bit what pushed them over the line."

She squeezed his arm. "That's behind you now."

"Yes. But I'm still pissed."

"You have every right to be. I hate Lori for what she did, too. I hope she falls madly in love and gets dumped the day before her wedding. If it's any consolation, as she gets older and her looks go, men are going to brush her off. She'd never be able to hold a man without her beauty."

The beauty is gone, Suzy. His sister would find that out soon enough. Suzy had said she and Lori's sister, a decent enough person, still corresponded on occasion.

Larson waved his hand. "She's just a footnote now. What really burns me is the firm. I was such a good nigger for them. I picked more cotton than anyone. I gave them my whole life between twenty-five and thirty-three. And they pat my woolly head, say nice boy, we sure appreciate your effort, but we got a new boatload of darkies and seeing as how we aren't going to make you a house nigger, we got to let you go." His fist balled and his overly developed biceps swelled to fill his upper sleeve. "I was such a fool."

"George, no. You—"

"I was. No way around it. Toting that bale to help pay for their summer homes and to make sure their kids have BMW's when they enter Princeton and Yale."

"George, it's done. Please look ahead. I don't want you to torment yourself any more."

He stopped. Her eyes were so full of concern. He hugged her quickly, then smiled.

"Oh, I accept what happened. I knew the odds when I started. It just that they changed the house rules once they saw how well I was doing."

She looked away.

Yeah, sour grapes. But they did fuck him over.

He patted her shoulder. "I'm okay. I accept. I'm moving on with my life."

"Do you really like it at your new job?"

At dinner, for Al's consumption, Larson had spoke glowingly of the bank and his new position.

"It's okay. My biggest problem is handling a 40 hour work week. Feels like I'm committing a crime when I leave for good at five."

She laughed. "You'll adjust."

They walked along, enjoying the dying light. A rose horizon in the west gave way to baby blue, then to royal blue, and finished in indigo to the east where the first stars had appeared. The air was clear and cool, and he could smell freshly cut grass. The budding leaves on the trees and bushes were a pleasant yellow green, and well advanced of the foliage in New York.

"Anyone you plan to see in Charlottesville?" she asked.

The question was perfectly plausible, but unsettling nonetheless. He answered casually.

"Maybe some of my professors. Probably stop by the frat house, but I imagine I'll be tolerated at best. I remember what a pain in the ass we thought visiting alumni were."

"Try to relax there."

"Don't worry. Unwinding is my game plan."

"This is your first visit since law school, isn't it? That's hard to believe, seeing how much you loved UVa."

He shrugged. "No time." He really regretted not making the 10th reunion of his undergraduate class. The firm...they had taken so much from him. When he returned to New York he would take much from them.

Suzy asked if he was planning to stop in Richmond to see their parents and Larson answered no. She didn't press the matter.

He turned the talk from himself to her. Yes, she still enjoyed her library job at George Mason University. Commuting from Falls Church was no problem; she had a side street route that took only fifteen minutes. Yes, the children were doing fine in school, Nancy especially, who had gotten all A's on her last report. Suzy again thanked Larson for the certificates of deposit he had given them for their college education. He said it was only a drop in the bucket. And it was. Twenty-five hundred dollars would probably buy a month of a semester when Nancy started college.

They rounded another corner and ahead he saw her house. There it stood in the dull illumination of the street lamps, a split level structure too cramped inside for a family of five. Filled with furniture and fixtures Suzy would not replace until the children graduated from college.

If he were successful in Charlottesville, he would buy her a mansion. He would buy the children a university to attend. He'd even buy out Al, then retain the best plastic surgeon available to reshape Suzy's looks and give her a chance to land a real man.

Just past Orange he saw the outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A sign a mile back had said "Charlottesville 23 miles", but the line of bumps—they were really blue—on the horizon told him he had really returned to the land of his prime time years.

God, this was beautiful country. He had forgotten how lovely it could be, especially on a sunny spring day like this. Everything was so incredibly green and lush.

Larson braked for another curve in the winding road, then returned to 55 on the straight-away. His foot itched to press the accelerator, but he had religiously observed the speed limit since leaving Suzy's this morning. He would not chance a traffic ticket.

He wanted no record of his presence here in central Virginia. No traffic violations, no paying by credit card, no use of his real name.

A car, a maroon Volvo with a UVa sticker on the back window, flew past him. "Virginia, the University" said the sticker. A Beta Pi Phi logo was under the sticker, and the license plate read HOOS 6. Yes, he was definitely back in Cavalier country.

Excitement again rippled through his stomach and Larson had to remind himself that a long way remained before he reached home plate. The story two days ago of the woman who vehemently denied selling an apartment complex for five dollars didn't close the case.

Even if it was likely that the counterpart did live in Charlottesville, identification could still prove a difficult matter. Larson had to hope he could find a case or two where locals had inexplicably fucked themselves over. Such cases would greatly narrow the field of suspects.

Larson had resolved to spend only two weeks in Charlottesville. That was plenty of time for the kind of search he planned, an entirely passive one. Either something would jump out and let him make the connection, or it wouldn't.

He would stick strictly to a document search. He would sift newspapers, newsletters, police blotters, tort action, psychiatric admissions. He vowed not to solicit information, no matter how tantalizing any lead his paper chase uncovered. Paper didn't warn someone had been prying.

He must in no way tip his presence. If the counterpart did live here, and got wind of someone trying to cross-link possible exchange events, the hunter could find himself the hunted. The aliens had undoubtedly reminded the counterpart about the continuous exchange, and he would be on the alert.

On the alert indeed. Larson laughed savagely. The counterpart would comprehend the implications of the alien's coyly worded addendum concerning the continuous exchange as well as Larson.

Larson gave thanks he had worked his exchanges in New York City, where major atrocity occurred routinely. There events like Lori's maiming and Ken's plunge under the table didn't find their way into the media. If the counterpart were on the lookout for such activity, the size and violence of the City had so far shielded Larson.

Which gave him pause. He had better wait until the final days of the exchange year to settle accounts with the partners. He supposed many intricate and diabolical schemes existed, but he preferred a direct approach. Nothing fancy, just wait until the last minute of an exchange at a partners' meeting, and have one of them whip out a magnum 44.

He would go for as many shots to the abdomen as sixty seconds would allow. Some partners might die, but most hopefully would live out their lives with colectomies, ruined kidneys, severed spinal cords, or combinations thereof, while rotting away in some exclusive nursing home. He should re-exchange well before security made it up the room.

Even in New York, such gunplay would rate out of the ordinary and make the national news. The counterpart would instantly suspect an exchange was involved. Of course, a day or two left on the exchange year wouldn't give him much time to track down the perpetrator. For added precaution Larson would depart the City and not return until after the buzzer sounded on April 4th.

The curves in the road were coming more frequently now as Route 20 twisted through rolling hills. On either side of the road ran long stretches of white fencing, and beyond the fences lay park like pastures. Occasionally he caught sight of sleek brown horses grazing in the pristine fields.

Somerset Estate, Canterbury Farms, Montage Manor. In each case their holdings reached back beyond the horizon. They were the kind of places he should own. With luck he would own a dozen.

A sign said Charlottesville waited seven miles ahead.

Larson slung his sport coat over his shoulder and put on sunglasses as he left Clemons Library. The sunglasses didn't ease the burn in his eyes. He was sick of looking at anything in print. And this was only day three of the search.

His stinging eyes focused on the shapely legs of a coed, who wore a pink sleeveless sweater and tight white shorts. Both her arms and legs were well tanned, presumably from time spent at points south during Spring Break.

The delectable eighteen or nineteen year old veered left to disappear into the brick colossus of Alderman Library. He didn't despair long, for a dozen other tasty morsels quickly registered in his field of view.

How lovely they were. High firm breasts, no cellulite in their thighs, waists impossibly narrow, complexions that glowed with health and vigor. The female students of his day must have been just as attractive, but then he was a kid himself, and the attributes of youth he took for granted.

The communal beauty had stunned him from his first steps back on the Grounds. Manhattan boasted some of the most beautiful women in the world. But they lacked the freshness and innocence of these girls. The coeds didn't yet have the hard edge, the cynicism, that even the City's loveliest wore on their faces.

Larson crossed the street. Ahead of him loomed the Rotunda, the architectural flagship of the University. As he strolled up a brick walkway, he had to smile. In his seven years here he had never once entered Mr. Jefferson's pride. Too many other things to do. And he wouldn't enter now.

He turned onto a pebble walkway that ran behind a brick wall enclosing gardens. Blossom laden branches of dogwoods and cherry trees overhung the low wall.

He paused to view the manicured lawn and flowers in one garden. This was where Gilliams had his wedding reception, which lasted long after Gilliams and the bride departed. He could still remember the buzz from that one.

Larson walked up a driveway toward the Lawn. Serpentine brick walls lined the drive. The smell of boxwoods behind the walls took him back to his student days even more potently than memory of Gilliams' wedding. The boxwoods he would always associate with the night when he and Anne Parker had climbed over the hallowed serpentine to go at it on the confines within. He really must have been crazy; if caught he'd have lost his Lawn room.

Larson stopped. He chided himself. There was only one way he would ever get that young again. And tripping down memory lane wasn't it.

So far he certainly wasn't making much progress toward recapturing youth. Three days of pouring over university and city periodicals had failed to produce any lead. The mooning and five dollar sale remained the only bona fide evidence of exchange behavior. He had come across a couple of other incidents that were faint possibilities, but more likely due to excess intake of alcohol.

One more day and he would have about exhausted the archives available at the University. Friday he would start at the courthouse, and he could use the weekend for some passive interrogation. Drop by the frat house, frequent some bars. Draw people into seemingly innocent conversations, tell them about the weirdoes in the City, see if they countered with any strange goings on in Charlottesville. The stuff of juicy gossip that made the rounds, but not print. He'd just have to make certain they volunteered the information without any prodding from him.

Larson approached the backside of the Lawn residences. He stepped through a narrow archway, then was standing under the West Colonnade. He was home. Before him lay the emerald grass of the Lawn, which ran in a series of long terraces from the gleaming Rotunda down toward Cabell Hall. Knots of students hurried up and down the Colonnade walks, while some others frolicked on the grass with a Frisbee.

A student paused to his left, then entered one of the Lawn rooms. Larson's own room had been further down on this wing. It was sort of laughable now, how eagerly he had sought the privilege of living in a small room with no central heating or toilet facilities. He had gotten used to burning firewood, but never to those February dashes to the showers. But it'd been one of the proudest moments of his life, when the brass plate bearing his name went up on the door of 51 West Lawn.

He started across the Lawn on a brick walkway. Midway he paused to watch the group of students tossing a Frisbee. Three were females—all in shorts, all blond with swinging ponytails, all with hourglass figures. Each was as eminently fuckable as the next. What he would give to take one back to the Sheraton for an afternoon workout.

He stood staring and wasn't immediately aware of the person who had come up beside him. It was a cop. The patch on the shoulder of his uniform said he belonged to the University police. Larson was uncomfortably aware of the gun in a holster on the right hip. The bareheaded man had almost totally gray hair, looked in his late forties or early fifties, but he carried himself erectly and his body displayed no sign of softness. A bony beak of a nose protruded between the lens of aviator style sunglasses.

"Good morning, sir. Enjoying the view?" The cop smiled as he spoke. The smile was frosty.

Larson bridled. What business was it of his if Larson eyed some pussy? That reply, of course, never made it to his lips because rule number one still prevailed: no advertising his presence, which a run in with a policeman on the Lawn would assuredly do.

Larson smiled back. "I certainly am. This is a beautiful place."

"Are you an alumnus, sir?"

As long as he wasn't an escaped felon, what did it matter who he was? Larson wished he weren't down here undercover. He'd get right in this grit's face.

"Yes, officer. Class of '76"

The cop appraised him from behind the reflective lenses and Larson braced to be asked for some ID. Which he would yield without protest. He hadn't done anything and as long as he kept his cool the cop could only flap his yap.

"Visiting our town long?"

"A couple of weeks. I haven't been back since graduation." Larson sensed he was being too deferential, which would likely produce more suspicion than belligerence, so he put an edge to his voice. "May I ask why all the questions?"

"We like to keep on top of things." The cop wished him a pleasant stay in Charlottesville, then left. Larson walked in the opposite direction.

Christ, what was that all about? Every male over ten gawked at the coeds. Then he remembered he had gawked a lot over the past three days. Every time he needed a break he wandered the Grounds and usually ended up somewhere looking over the flesh. Yesterday at the courtyard by Newcomb Hall he had probably strained his eyeballs worse than in the library. The cop could have noticed him then, or earlier. Day after day of scoping would certainly arouse suspicion. That little chat had served notice we're watching you.

Larson suddenly felt tired. He wanted to sit down, but not back at a chair in the library. Maybe he should return to the Sheraton and take a nap. If he got too tired, he might miss something in the mass of print he was wading through.

On the way to his car two female joggers pranced past. Blond and ponytailed. God, were these bitches cloned? Somehow he kept his head from following the sweaty half naked flowers of womanhood.

Larson picked at his lunch. The air around him in the Newcomb Hall cafeteria buzzed with dozens of animated conversations. Larson, however, was lost in gloom. He had struck out.

Day after tomorrow he reached the end of his allotted two weeks. The search had come up a bust and he knew in the two days left he wasn't going to uncover anything. He could kiss the continuous exchange goodbye.

Oh, he could return to Charlottesville in several months to see if exchange-like events had occurred in the interim. But he doubted he would come back. Either the counterpart simply didn't live here or he had wisely sworn off exchanges that could point to his identity.

Larson sighed. Farewell, a return to youth. He was just going to get older and slower like everyone else, and hope he could avoid cancer or Alzheimer's before the end came. Farewell also to limitless wealth.

Larson moped over his food until he became aware of a woman who had stopped beside the next booth, which was occupied by four men. The woman and men were chatting pleasantly. She must have just finished eating as she held a tray with dirty dishes.

He appraised her. Probably late twenties, a bit on the thin side. She was attractive nonetheless. Real good legs and skin. He mentally stripped her and began to get an erection. He hadn't had sex since he left New York and it was about to drive him berserk. One more reason to get the hell out of town and back to his home court where the pussies were safe and easy prey.

The woman said she had to get back. As she strode by Larson tried and failed to make eye contact. Snot Bitch.

The men in the booth were also looking after her. One shook his head.

"She's the last person I'd expect to go off her rocker."

"Bill told me they're keeping one eye on their experiments and one on her."

"I still can't understand it. Nothing ever rattled her."

"Maybe that was the problem. She didn't let off steam."

"It's scary. What's even worse is her claiming not to remember a thing."

"She still does?"

Larson kept his eyes on his food and his ears on the conversation.

"Yes. She's sticking to her story. She remembers sitting in her office, looking at her watch and noticing it was five to six. She was reading JBC, then all of a sudden she found herself a mile away walking up Emmet Street—at seven o'clock. She couldn't remember doing anything in between. She said it was like an hour of her life had vanished."

"Maybe it did. Who knows how a psychosis works?"

Larson was having trouble breathing. No way around it, that woman had undergone an exchange.

Larson whipped his head toward the exit, but she had vanished. No matter. He could tail these clowns back to their offices, that'd tell him what department she was in. Hell, he didn't even need to follow them; he could pick out the raven haired bitch from the faculty photos in last year's _Corks and Curls_.

Holy shit, he had made the breakthrough. It would still take some careful investigation, but he had a real shot now at identifying the counterpart.

Larson savored the rush of euphoria until it dawned on him that mere coincidence could not explain this opportune eavesdropping. He believed in luck, both good and bad, but could he really attribute the adroit positioning of that woman next to his booth due to random chance? No, he detected a little backstage maneuvering.

The aliens must have set up this encounter. They had observed him drilling one dry hole after another and knew he was about to leave town. They couldn't let the game end like that.

A chill had wormed into his intestines. Yeah, they had arranged it. If they could transport his being into other bodies, then assembling six people in the same twenty square feet on a Tuesday afternoon in early May should present them with no particular difficulty.

Larson knew in turn what he should do. Exit stage left. Just get up and walk away. Hop in his car, hit 29 North, and never look back.

6

A Starry Night

After the seminar Phillips took the speaker upstairs to his lab. His old friend bantered on about the intricacies of the Antennapedia complex of _Drosophila_. Phillips tried to match Tim's enthusiasm; the enthusiasm for research Phillips used to radiate like sunshine.

Phillips was embarrassed as they walked into the tomb like quietness of the lab. Only one person was at a bench, and she was an undergraduate. Phillips took Tim over to Melissa and introduced the two. Tim politely asked the pretty brunette about her experiment.

Phillips knew the lab of a young investigator should resemble a beehive. As had Tim's when Phillips visited him at Georgia last spring. His staff included a postdoc, three grad students, and two technicians. They were climbing over each other in the small lab assigned most new faculty members. The cramped room hummed.

It was axiomatic a healthy lab quickly filled to capacity with equipment and personnel. A healthy lab never had enough room. Submarine like confines advertised that real science was in progress, that postdocs and grad students were willing to gamble their futures on your research prowess.

As you became recognized, they gave you more space. And again more people signed on and more equipment accumulated, until once more your lab resembled an anthill. That exasperating proximity always seemed to nurture rather than impede the lab's progress. The intimacy produced cross feeding that helped generate new ideas and approaches, and also improved experimental technique.

A spacious, easily traversed lab signaled a setting of the sun. In some cases, like that of Phillips, it indicated a failed young career. All talent had fled, nothing was being accomplished, and the space waited for the vigor of his replacement.

More typically, a somnolent lab was identified with the has-beens, the formerly famous and semi-famous; men who had made their mark many years ago. Now their minds were no longer agile and the rush of biology had passed them by. Any talented underlings had switched to more progressive labs, and the has-beens were left with only the second rate.

Phillips had vowed he would never hang on when he could no longer produce. He didn't have to worry about that now.

He and Tim went into Phillips' office at the back of the cinder block walled lab. Phillips quickly adjusted binds to cut the glare of the late afternoon sun. He then closed the office door.

"Amazing," Tim was saying. "That's a pretty ambitious project for an undergraduate."

"Melissa is a dedicated young woman." If only she had been his grad student instead of that volleyball obsessed incompetent Harmon.

"She's just a junior, you said?"

He nodded. Usually only fourth year students were allowed to undertake lab projects for credit, but Melissa merited the exception. "You two should talk about her doing graduate work in your lab. She'd be a real plus."

Tim said he would. They then talked about Tim's work. Nothing was said about Phillips'.

What a contrast. Tim was firmly rooted at Georgia, tenured, competitive grant renewed, and directing a lab that was uncovering nugget after nugget in _Drosophila_ developmental genetics. Phillips was being swept out to sea and would end marooned on the desert island of a community college.

It was ironic that their mentor, Kevin Lester, had privately told Phillips he expected Phillips to outshine Tim once their careers separated. As a postdoc team Tim and Phillips had brilliantly complemented each other. Tim, methodical and cautious; Phillips, innovative and in a hurry. What might have been antagonistic traits instead melded synergistically to produce two _Cell_ articles. They both respected each other and they both burned to wrench free Mother Nature's secrets.

Now only Tim would do battle with that tenacious mistress.

Tim must have read his mind, for he repeated the offer made in a letter a month earlier, that Phillips join Tim's lab in a post doctoral position.

Phillips softly shook his head. "No...I'm done. I had my chance and I fumbled it."

"It was just bad luck."

He smiled wanly. "Didn't someone say luck is the residue of design?"

Phillips knew he had suffered a run of misfortune, especially the nematode infection in the frogs. That delayed critical experiments four months. It was also bad luck that later a productive technician learned about the adultery of her husband and became worse than useless as she botched experiment after experiment. Fortune had not smiled on him either in his selection of a graduate student. But he knew what his brother, a wing commander stationed in Europe, would think although not say: a lab director, like a military officer, was responsible for what did or did not occur in his command.

"Don..." Tim's voice fought exasperation. "You're being ridiculous. You're good, very good. I think this department is out of its head to deny you tenure."

"You award tenure on production, not promise. You know that. What I did in grad school and as a postdoc just shows I can handle working under someone already established. I can't do it on my own."

"I don't believe that. You provided two-thirds of input for our papers. Yes, you did. Those two _Cell_ papers got me my position at Georgia."

"Which you kept...without any input from me."

"You don't belong at a community college. That's a travesty, considering your talent."

"Only thing I'm fit for now."

"You'll regret it later...bitterly."

"What else am I going to do? There were 126 applications to fill my position here. Some of the candidates had C.V.s that would shame us both. You wouldn't believe the number of qualified postdocs out there who want an academic position. What chance do I have, a bust, a failure? Who's going to gamble on me a second time with all that other talent available?"

Tim didn't refute him. How could he?

"Yes, the competition's brutal. But a _Cell_ or _Nature_ paper could put you back in the running. And I'd bet you'd have one after a year in my lab."

"Please, Tim..."

"I'm not offering you this position out of guilt or charity. I take only the best talent available...that's the only way to stay in business. And if I can get you, I'd consider it a steal."

For a moment Phillips actually considered the proposition. The prospect of working side by side again with Tim excited him. Then he considered they wouldn't be side by side, but Tim above and Phillips under. And everyone in the department, once they learned their former relationship, would consider the arrangement a mercy hiring even if Tim didn't. He would get only minimum respect.

"I appreciate the offer. I really do. But I can't accept."

Tim smiled. "Think about it. I'm not going to advertise for the position until late July."

"No...I made a commitment to Tidewater and I'm going to honor it."

Someone knocked on the door. Louis Petri, the seminar host, poked in his head to say Tim's presence was requested up in the Garrison lab. Could he drop by shortly?

Tim said of course. He and Phillips exchanged a final few pleasantries, then they stood and shook hands. Tim said he would see Phillips at Evers' reception that evening. Phillips said he would try to make it. Which he wouldn't. Since that day of disaster in February, when tenure was denied, he had avoided all social gatherings.

Phillips doubted he would ever see Tim again. High powered researchers and basic biology teachers didn't exactly move in the same circles. He wished Tim hadn't come. Tim brought back too many memories...memories of the glory days, when all was possible, even probable.

Phillips did give thanks his father lived to know of those glory days. That his father had not lived to see Phillips' pathetic failure was the only blessing in his death.

However, Phillips eventually would have to tell his brother about denial of tenure. Mike would be supportive, like he always was, but Phillips' shame would remain. Why couldn't Phillips have been a strong and able man like both Mike and his father?

Melissa interrupted his bitter reverie to ask a question, then he was alone again. He found himself staring out the window. From his third floor office he could see across the ravine, where wild azaleas were in bloom, to the expanse of Gilmer Field. On the field several student softball games were in progress. Ah, to be an undergraduate again...

The phone rang with explosive suddenness. He snatched up the receiver and answered with a curt "hello", instead of his customary "Phillips' lab. Phillips speaking."

A familiar voice happily greeted him, but it took Phillips a moment to realize the aliens were on the line. Perhaps they wanted to discuss why he hadn't exchanged since that day of the apartment sale. But they knew, they could read his mind.

"We know, Don. We must, however, alert you to a matter alluded to at your initial briefing. It is called the 'continuous exchange'."

Phillips didn't recall mention of that. Of course he didn't recall much of the exact wording used that night. But what did that matter now? He wasn't exchanging anymore.

"Continuous exchange?" he asked idly. "Does that mean for more than one hour?"

The alien chuckled. "Oh, yes. For the rest of the hours of your life."

"I don't understand."

"If you satisfy a certain stipulation, you may exchange permanently into any sapien you desire. Your mind remains intact, and you inherit their wealth, reputation, athletic ability, stature, etc., along with their body. Do you wish to know the stipulation?" The alien's voice rose to a higher octave of amusement, as if waiting to deliver the punchline of an outrageously obscene joke.

Repelled by the depravity in the voice, Phillips pulled the receiver from his ear.

The aliens cackled. "Oh, sapien, be assured you offend us infinity more. The stipulation is quite simple: survive your counterpart on midnight April 4th next, the continuous exchange is yours."

The line went dead.

It took Phillips several minutes to comprehend the ghastly implication of the "stipulation". The aliens were proposing nothing less than murder.

Nausea born of disgust grew in him. This past week he had tried to convince himself that these beings possessed of such capability had offered him the gift of exchange to allow Phillips to test himself against himself. These superior beings hoped that in the testing he would discover an inner strength, and feel a greater responsibility toward the fellow members of his species.

This past weekend he had reflected long and hard on the power of exchange. The power to effect good or ill was awesome. He supposed it stood to his credit he had only once attempted ill, with Janet. He had taken pride in his humbling of an irresponsible congressman and of righting the wrong of a callous landlady. And yet...

If the congressman were unworthy of his office, then the right to remove him rested with his constituents, not Donald Phillips. If Dorothy Henessey intended to evict helpless tenants, then it was the responsibility of the city community to intervene. Phillips in both cases had deprived many others of the chance to search their own consciences. He had not allowed them to face the issue and take a stand, and in taking that stand perhaps generate lasting reforms.

Phillips could even less justify his making love to Rivers' wife. He deluded himself if he believed the act morally neutral. He had taken a woman against her will even if she weren't aware of it. How did his act differ from the man who drugged his victim unconscious and violated her body?

He knew the exchanges had to end when he actively considered intercourse with a second man's wife. Sunday evening he had actually held up his right hand and vowed forbearance. This denial of temptation he believed was what such an advanced intelligence as the aliens sought. Phillips had fancied they would applaud his restraint, his demonstration that _homo sapiens sapiens_ could behave wisely and selflessly.

And now this! An invitation to murder. His vow had spurred them to offer an even greater enticement to commit harm. He didn't want to believe beings able to cross the stars were capable of such perversity, but what other conclusion could he draw?

He would never again contact the aliens. His exchange year ended today.

Phillips looked at his watch. Four forty. Close enough to five to get out of Gilmer Hall, go home and change into his running gear. He would go for a long run. Out across the bypass, maybe into that new subdivision.

Phillips put a few reprints into his briefcase, flicked off the light and stepped into the lab. At the front of the lab Tony was emptying a wastebasket into his trash cart. At the near bench Melissa was putting the finishing touches on her setup of a Northern blot. Phillips stepped over to inspect.

He pronounced the arrangement of paper towels, gel, and nitrocellulose excellent and Melissa smiled. Damn, she would have made a top notch graduate student. He asked her to lockup when she finished and said good evening. He also bid Tony farewell and Tony replied with a big smile. Phillips thought the response slightly odd, for the taciturn janitor rarely smiled.

As Phillips neared the door, Melissa shrieked. Phillips turned to see Tony's face twisted and a metal object—a knife blade—at the end of Tony's thick arm. The blade was sweeping toward his ribs. In the split second before the knife crossed the final foot of separation, reflex brought the briefcase around and up to intercept the blade.

Tony was a big man, well muscled, and the drive behind the knife thrust drove the blade into and through the leather bound case. The impact tore the case from Phillips' hand and all of a sudden he had lost balance. He sprawled on the floor.

Above him a furious Tony was trying to wrench the knife from the briefcase. The big black man swore as he fought to free the blade and all Phillips could do was lie on the linoleum floor and watch him.

Then Melissa was on Tony's back, with her hands gripping his thumbs. Tony for a moment was immobilized. He screamed for her, the fucking bitch, to get off or he'd kill her, and she screamed at the top of her lungs for help. Phillips just watched them.

Melissa was pulling furiously on Tony's thumbs and Phillips could see the muscles in his big arms flex as he futilely tried to throw her off. Panic swept the janitor's face as exclamations rang out in the hall. Then Tony hurtled backward and slammed Melissa against the edge of the sink. The edge struck her back at waist level. Melissa shrieked and toppled to the floor.

Tony reached for the knife again, but as he stooped three other people entered the lab. Tony took a quick look at them, and at Phillips, then sent the three gaping intruders tumbling like bowling pins as he shot out the doorway.

Phillips walked slowly from the entrance of the Barringer wing. The sun, although still up, was low enough so trees across the street threw shadows on the hospital. The air in the shadows felt very cool to Phillips, although a number of the people around him were wearing shorts.

He was afraid. He had kept trying to deny the obvious during the past three hours; first while at the police station giving a statement, next while waiting here for word of the extent of injury to Melissa.

People went berserk, but why would Tony try to knife him? Phillips had always been courteous to Tony, which certainly rated above the indifference many people on the hall displayed. He'd even given Tony a fruitcake or something every Christmas. The man hadn't responded with much warmth, or emotion of any sort, but that was Tony. Of course, the silent were often the ones who exploded for no apparent reason.

Maybe Phillips had committed some unintended slight, or maybe Tony regarded Phillips' courtesy as pity. Tony could harbor a twisted envy, hating Phillips for occupying an utterly unattainable position. Rage at his lowly status could have built up beyond containment, and Phillips' quickly bid good evening triggered release. That big smile could have advertised a mind at last snapped.

Phillips chewed his lip. How he wished he could accept that line of argument. It did provide relief, no matter how close he had come to getting stabbed through the heart. A Tony acting on illogical grudges meant Phillips would not have to flee.

He ventured up the street. He might be taking a chance returning to his car, but probably not. No one knew where he'd gone after the police station. Besides, if the other exchange person were behind this, the man had probably woken from drug induced sleep only in the last hour. If the—what had the aliens called him, the "counterpart"?—had regained consciousness, he would most likely be waiting in ambush near Phillips' apartment.

Phillips was forced to consider that the aliens' call before the attack was a warning instead of a lure. He had been too revolted to perceive the corollary concerning the "continuous exchange". Phillips could exist as quarry as well as hunter.

His last refuge of deniability, that how could the counterpart find him out of millions of other American men, vanished after a little analysis. The impossible was actually quite possible. Phillips had fairly screamed his location with the congressman revealing his buttocks and Mrs. Henessey's irrational sale. Both incidents made the national news. The combination would guide the counterpart to Charlottesville.

Phillips reentered the hospital at the Private Clinics door. At a payphone he dialed his social security number.

Even before he could ask, a chipper voice announced: "We can neither confirm nor deny your suspicions."

Phillips bit back anger. "He's here in Charlottesville, isn't he?"

"We can neither confirm or deny your—"

"You can tell me if you have told him about the 'continuous exchange'. I assume you can do that."

"What you know, sapien, he knows."

"Does he know who I am?"

"We can neither—"

"Alright, alright." Phillips' hand squeezed the receiver. Queasiness grew in his stomach. "Look, you have to at least give me an idea if he's in town. You know what decision I'm facing. I don't want to run the next ten months from a mirage."

"We can elaborate only on the rules of engagement. Your question does not fall within that scope."

"You've got to—"

"Dr. Phillips, you are blessed with more intelligence than most of your species. Do what you do best. Gather data, order data, analyze data, derive conclusions...and act accordingly."

Phillips took a deep, painful breath. He looked around. He made eye contact with a man, another custodian, who stood down the hall. The custodian averted his gaze and continued to lounge on his broom.

The receiver had become slippery in Phillips' hand. He tried to keep his voice level. "Look—I want out. I appreciate your selecting me, but I didn't envision a course of events like this."

A cackle. "Sapiens are not noted for their foresight." More soberly the voice said, "the rules of engagement will remain in effect until midnight April 4th next. Whether you exchange or not in the interim, that is entirely your prerogative."

"I don't want any part of this. There must be many people who would gladly replace me."

"Good night assistant professor of biology Donald Phillips. And good fortune." A dial tone ensued.

Phillips tried several times to raise the aliens. The dial tone persisted.

He stepped back into the evening air with a very dry mouth and a bladder that needed emptying.

So what did he do now? The aliens weren't going to be of help, far from it. Apparently they were enjoying his predicament.

So what did he do? Did he flee from imaginary terrors or did he ignore someone intent on taking his life?

The answer was simple. He fled.

He was driving right into the rim of orange fire on the western horizon. A brilliant point of light, Venus, hung in dark blue sky to the northwest.

A large green sign announced Interstate 81 lay two miles ahead. There he would have to make a decision. Which point of the compass to head. Take 81 North or South, or continue westward to pick up 250? Which way? Which way to safety?

By now, five hours after the attack, the counterpart had almost certainly thrown off his sleeping pill stupor. He would be ready to stalk his prey again, and angry at knowing how narrowly he had missed. At this moment the counterpart was probably trying to locate him in Charlottesville. Calls would go out to Phillips' apartment, the lab, people in the department, even the police. Sooner than later the counterpart would surmise that Phillips had bolted.

How simple for the counterpart to exchange into a police officer and have an all points bulletin issued. It could say Phillips was wanted for attempted murder. Details would follow on the description of both Phillips and his car.

All the counterpart needed was for Phillips to be held for a day before matters were straightened out. Even half a day would allow the counterpart to exchange into another policeman, this time at the jail holding Phillips. Phillips could see himself backing helplessly into a cell corner as the counterpart aimed his service revolver through the bars.

The 81 exits were coming close. Which way? North? What was there? Harrisonburg, Winchester, into Pennsylvania. South, Lexington, Roanoke, Bristol, into Tennessee. Straight ahead, Staunton, then over the mountains into West Virginia. Where best to hide?

At the last moment he took the I81 South exit. Why south? He had to choose something. No logic to it, but then it would be difficult for the counterpart to guess along with no logic. Phillips hadn't really thought about going west from Charlottesville, either. He'd just taken one of the seven or eight directions radiating out from the city.

He really did have to get out of the car soon. How soon? Within an hour? No, if the counterpart were from out of town, it would take him awhile to both identify and fix the location of a policeman. Then he'd have to return to his room, drug himself again, and hope the policeman hadn't left the specified enclosure.

Phillips probably had until midnight before they started looking for him. He'd like to think he had until dawn, that they would have difficulty identifying a car in the dark; but his driving one of the few cars on the road in the early morning hours would counterbalance that.

Phillips shuddered. God, that knife had come so close.

He couldn't think about that. He had to think about what to do before midnight. It was nine ten now. Lexington was about thirty miles ahead, Roanoke eighty. He could catch a bus in either place. Which one, then? Lexington was closer, Roanoke much bigger. More buses in Roanoke, they would run more often, and more people were around to get lost among. Go to Roanoke.

Above him the sky had turned almost black.

Was it really the counterpart? Couldn't Tony just have gone crazy? No, it was the counterpart. It all fit.

He screamed at himself to slow down. He was going over eighty.

He better get hold of himself. He had to think very clearly from now on. Any slips and...

That knife blade. Aimed right at his chest. Tony would have driven it in to the hilt. He should be dead now and laid out on a table in the morgue. The briefcase saved him, and that was only a fluke. Melissa saved him, too. Poor Melissa; she hit the sink so hard. At the hospital she didn't have any feeling in her legs.

Where was he going to go? Where? How was he going to survive? All he had was the $300 he got out of the teller machine. That would be gone in a couple weeks. And he had to hide for ten months.

How would he get a job? He couldn't use his own identity. The counterpart could trace him through his social security number. That'd be no trouble; the counterpart could exchange into whoever needed to get that information.

He better first think about tonight and tomorrow. He had to get through them before he could ever reach April. Where would he go on the bus? To a big city or a small town? Where would he be the hardest to find? He didn't know. Lots of police and private detectives in a big city, lots of curiosity in a small town.

He would just think about tonight, then. He would take a bus south. To Atlanta? Yes. But he'd change there, into another bus. He'd just take buses randomly; he'd get on the first one available, and not worry where it was headed. He'd keep taking buses—not planes—until he found a place to hide. Buses were cheap, he could go awhile on them.

The road sign said Lexington, 14 miles. Roanoke was 66. He gave thanks moderate traffic surrounded him on the interstate. He kept the speedometer needle just below sixty-five.

Phillips found himself panting. He forced himself to take slow breaths. He was safe in this car for a few hours and he'd be safer still once on a bus. He would try and park in a shopping center hopefully not too far from the bus station, where ever in Roanoke that was. But he would find the station, he'd just ask directions at a gas station. He was going to be okay. For a few days at least.

Ahead of him his car lights illuminated the concrete of the Interstate. Beyond a half dozen red tail lights neither approached or receded. Above the road hung a speckling of stars.

Abruptly even the feeble starlight vanished, replaced by impenetrable black.

7

The Quick and the Dead

Even though he was braced to enter a vehicle traveling at high speed, it took Larson a couple of seconds to get his bearings. In those seconds the car drifted from the curving right lane onto the shoulder. Beyond the shoulder headlights revealed a tree line. Just in time he yanked the steering wheel left. The tires squealed, but the car regained the road.

He cursed vehemently. That was close. Another couple of yards and it would have been his ass, not the professor's, kissed goodbye tonight.

The brush with death dampened his euphoria only slightly. He had won. He had kept his head despite the debacle earlier today. When it would have been so easy to yield to rage, to piss and moan about the incredible bad luck in the lab, he had remained in command of himself despite himself.

After he regained consciousness it hadn't taken much inquiry to tell that the professor had blown town. Correct move by the professor, although Larson had hoped Phillips would hesitate and allow another try at him in Charlottesville. Larson had planned to exchange into one of the University cops and drive to the prof's apartment. There he'd announce he had news of further developments in the case, then pull the cop's gun and pump a half dozen rounds into Phillips.

Finding the professor gone, Larson repressed rage and made himself think. The professor could have headed in any direction. If Larson exchanged into a lawman, he could attempt to order roadblocks, but it would take time to coordinate the proper exchange. By then the professor could have reached another state. And any order Larson issued would eventually end up countermanded.

But as he pondered, he realized he could catch the professor in a much more direct manner: by exchanging into him. All he needed to supply was the professor's location, or more correctly—years of legal work had taught Larson precision with language—the enclosure Phillips occupied.

Was not a moving vehicle as valid an enclosure as a stationary building? A quick call to the aliens confirmed his hunch, who said he must state only the license plate or vehicle ID number to uniquely identify Phillips' car as the enclosure. The license plates he knew from shadowing the professor in the days before the attack.

Larson laughed ruefully as he thought of the attack in the lab. All that careful planning, and he scored zero. It should have been over right then. He had the man cold.

How did Phillips get the briefcase around in time? If that bitch hadn't screamed. Brave girl, he had to give her that, jumping on the back of a buck who was twice her size and a dozen times stronger.

But it didn't matter. He had won.

Apparently he was traveling through countryside, which was good, he needed a remote spot. But he also needed to make a quick stop in a town. Where exactly was he? The road looked like an interstate, although he had yet to see any road markers. There! This was I81.

Now how close was he to a town? He had no way to tell, he'd just have to stay patient and wait for a sign. He had kept his cool up to now; this wasn't the time to get agitated and lose his concentration. Or get stopped for speeding.

He lifted the professor's foot from the accelerator until the car dropped below sixty-five.

Several minutes later he saw a sign announcing the Lexington exit lay a mile ahead. He sighed in relief. His luck had swung a full 180o since this afternoon. He would have plenty of time. A town the size of Lexington should have at least one store still open that had a hardware section.

Larson swept off the interstate onto Route 60. Lexington lay three miles west.

His luck held, for on the eastern fringes of town stood a small shopping center.

Face against the bark Larson screamed as hard as he could, but only a gurgling sound managed to escape from the professor's gagged mouth. Saliva had drenched the cloth and liquid trickled unpleasantly down Phillips' throat.

He pulled hard with Phillips' arms. The chains rattled a little, but not much. Then he went limp. The upper chain slipped a few inches down the tree, then caught on a low limb. The chain held him fully upright. He jerked the counterpart's legs; again the metal links and locks rattled quietly.

Larson drew a deep breath. Then he writhed for several minutes as violently as the puny muscles of the professor's body would permit. He continued to twist and wrench at full force despite growing pain in the professor's wrists and ankles. When at last he stopped, primarily because of the inability to inhale enough air through the sodden rag, he found himself still in intimate embrace with the tree.

Breathing heavily, he relaxed against the tree. He didn't mind at all the sharp pains radiating through Phillips' limbs.

For the first time Larson noticed how dark was the forest. The branches overhead blotted out the sky. The flashlight had been off at least ten minutes and his night vision must have adjusted, but he couldn't even make out the surrounding trees.

He could hear, though. The forest was alive with the buzz, almost the roar, of insects and other critters. It was creepy how the darkness seemed to magnify the cacophony. He wouldn't want to be tied up out here even as a prank. The perfume like scent of honeysuckle didn't at all counterbalance the unnerving noise pouring out of the ink black.

After his breathing returned to normal, he noticed that the night air had cooled considerably. The sweat on his body had chilled, too. But that was okay. The last thing the professor needed to worry about tonight was catching pneumonia.

The end of exchange had to be very close. When he last looked at his watch, just before hurling away the flashlight, eighteen minutes were left. He had used maybe ten minutes to chain himself, and five more testing the bondage. He should return to his room in the Sheraton any moment.

Four hours later Larson, in his own body and in his own car, turned onto the narrow asphalt road. He drove slowly. The road with no shoulder curved back and forth and in some places trees were only a foot from the road. The car's tires crunched over stray gravel.

His headlights steadily searched. Swinging side to side, they cut into the pitch black to reveal dense ranks of trees.

He slowed further when the headlights at last revealed the little stone bridge. He crossed the bridge at no more than five miles an hour, then parked just beyond in a pocket of brush. He turned off his headlights.

Larson picked up the flashlight on the seat. As he stepped out and around to the trunk he found the night air even colder than when he left. Crazy temperature for May.

The flashlight located the tire iron in the trunk. Larson grasped the iron and turned toward the forest.

He would make this quick. By now fear had probably driven the professor out of his mind. Larson felt sorry for him, having to wait in this lonely wilderness to die, but there was no help for it. How much better for both of them if Larson could have made the kill in the lab.

A hell of a way to end. Having your skull crushed in the darkest hours of the night while chained to a tree.

But the guy knew the risks when he accepted the aliens' offer. It was a zero sum game, winner take all. One of us lives and one of us dies. If the prof had found him first, it would be Larson doing the dying.

The professor's car remained wedged between trees a dozen yards into the forest. That had been his biggest worry, that some redneck would cruise down this road and somehow spot it. Not really much chance, but after what happened in the lab, any chance was too much.

Larson stepped slowly forward. His flashlight alternately checked the few feet before him and probed ahead into the woods. The beam swept over a carpet of leaves and twigs, scattered underbrush, and the myriad columns of hardwood trees.

He counted twenty steps; the professor waited another two hundred further. The flashlight continued to push from side to side through the darkness. He didn't see Phillips yet, but he couldn't really discern anything beyond twenty or thirty yards. There were just too many trees.

At two hundred and ten steps he stopped. He panned the flashlight slowly, studying the nearby trees. He still didn't see the professor. Nor could he hear anything, except for the sounds of the forest.

He fought down unease. The man was out there, certainly very close. Upon seeing the flashlight, the professor had probably shimmied around to put the tree between his body and the light. He was probably hanging absolutely still. Hoping against hope that Larson would miss him in this dark, start wondering if he'd returned to the right spot, and maybe drift off to the left or right.

No, prof, I know where I am...and where you are.

Larson stepped another five paces forward. The light carefully inspected trees to his immediate front and flank. His grip tightened on the cold metal of the tire iron, and a colder bead of sweat trickled down his breastbone.

The light glinted off an object on the forest floor. The flashlight beam swirled around the object, and revealed a silver snake...a snake made up of little metal links. An intact lock was still fastened to one of the links.

Shock sucked the breath from his lungs. Larson stared in disbelief at the chains in which he had bound himself four hours earlier. Then his flashlight stabbed through the darkness, as he sought an opponent about to strike. But there was no one.

Then he heard something. Not close. Metal being struck sounded behind him, back toward the road. The banging sound continued and finally he realized somebody was doing damage to his car.

Larson charged toward the sound. He stumbled only once on the way back, and he closed the distance rapidly.

The banging stopped well before he reached the road. As he emerged from the woods the flashlight revealed an upraised hood on his car. Below the hood wires were askew, and the distributor had been smashed. A rock the size of a football lay in the mess.

He heard footfalls on the road, rapid footfalls. The flashlight swept up the pavement and he caught the faint outline of someone running, someone very thin. The counterpart, who else?

Larson sprinted after the man. Larson ran furiously, flashlight in one hand and tire iron in the other. But each time the gyrating light fell on the fleeing form, the hundred yard gap had not diminished.

He ran long after his lungs had turned to fire and his legs screamed for mercy. Finally he tripped and slammed into the pavement. Larson stayed there despite savage commands from his brain to rise and pursue.

8

Born Again

The back seat of the car was swallowing Phillips. Fatigue had never gripped him so fiercely. His eyes battled to stay open.

"Beautiful country, isn't it?"

The elderly woman in the front seat was addressing him. He forced a smile.

"Certainly is." He was about to add that these mountains of central Pennsylvania compared favorably to the Blue Ridge of Virginia, but he caught his tongue. When he hitched this ride in Harrisburg he told them he was a history graduate student from Princeton—who needed a lift to Penn State to do some summer research. The couple lived in Youngstown and swore they didn't mind dropping him off in State College.

He had to bless his luck getting rides, especially that first one on Route 11 as false dawn broke. Any

more light and the man might not have stopped considering the condition of Phillips and his clothes. Fortunately a dip in stream had gotten most of the stink out.

In Winchester he had drawn cash advances on his Visa card up to the limit. He had no doubt the counterpart would in a day or two learn of the transactions, but he absolutely needed the money and he wouldn't be hanging around Winchester. He also bought himself a fresh set of clothes and a small suitcase.

Another ride, by a trucker, put him in Harrisburg by one in the afternoon. He had wanted to crawl into a bed, but knew he better keep moving. He paused just long enough to eat at a Burger King. Then he was again seeking a ride, this time with a sign proclaiming Penn State his destination. This couple had him on the road by two o'clock.

The two men who had picked him up earlier looked more than able to defend themselves. This couple was another matter. He wondered why they were taking the chance. Phillips knew he didn't look very threatening, but neither had Berkowitz nor Bundy.

He guessed the couple were in their sixties. Both had a lot of gray in their hair and a lot of lines in their faces. Both wore anxious smiles and had been anxiously making pleasant conversation since leaving Harrisburg. Phillips tried to reciprocate, but he was so tired.

The highway—Route 22—indeed ran through beautiful country. The highway had initially followed a shimmering river and now paralleled a long ridge. The ridge walled a fertile valley resplendent with red farmhouses, huge multi-silo barns, cattle speckled pastures and fields of young corn. Above the pastoral paradise stretched a soft blue sky dotted with fluffy cumulus clouds.

"A day like this makes you glad to be alive," the woman said. She was looking right at him, and he acknowledged how the day certainly did.

He was glad, most grateful, that he still lived. Most thankful he did not sag against a tree in a distant forest with his head caved in.

He stifled a sob. The woman looked sharply at him and he smiled weakly. Then he just closed his eyes.

He had never experienced terror before. Not until last night in the woods. Not when his mother or father died, not when Janet cast him out, not even during the attack with the knife.

One moment he was driving and the next he was immobile in total darkness. The terror did not start then, simply because he couldn't fathom what had happened. Slowly he realized someone had gagged and chained him to a tree. The how and why of the matter continued to elude him for many minutes.

When he did at last comprehend, the terror obliterated rational thought. The terror consumed his being, became his being. How long he writhed in the chains and howled into the gag he didn't know.

His contortions ended when blinding light replaced the blackness. An angry voice assaulted his ears. And something smacked his face.

He went rigid.

The glare left his eyes, and then he could see the outline of a man. It was a big man, one who held a flashlight in one hand...and a rifle in the other. Then the rifle was gone, replaced by a knife, and the knife moved towards Phillips' head...where it roughly severed the gag. The bearded man in a baseball cap pulled the sodden cloth from Phillips' aching mouth.

Phillips begged, in sobs, for the man not to kill him. Please don't. He would do whatever the man wanted. Don't kill him; the aliens had to be lying about the continuous exchange. Please let him live.

The man with the big belly slapped him again.

"Come on, dickhead. Talk sense to me. What you doing out here chained like this?"

"Please don't kill me."

"Shit, I ought to, the trouble you put me to. Thought you was some animal in a trap." Then he laughed, though not kindly. "You must have been doing some yelling for me to hear you with that wad in your mouth. I was a half mile off."

Phillips blinked at the man. Wasn't this the other, the counterpart?

"W-who are you?"

"That's my question, dickhead." Then the man's face screwed. "You know you crapped in your pants?"

Phillips sniffed the air. The stench of excrement was very strong. He felt a wet weight in the seat of his pants.

"Who tied you up?"

Phillips thought furiously. An intelligible response wouldn't come. He stammered something.

"You start talking or I'm just going to leave you here."

Phillips' mind instantly focused. "No!"

"What the fuck's going on, buddy boy?"

"I'm from UVa. The University of Virginia. I teach there. I was kidnapped by some of my students who tied me to this tree. It was a prank, but it's way out of line. As you can see."

Another sneering laugh. "Yeah, I can see. What'd you do, flunk them?"

"No, no." God, this man had probably failed many times. "They were drunk. They kidnapped me and brought me here. Please get me loose."

The man stepped back a couple of paces.

"I'm about to puke the way you stink." Then suspicion crossed the man's beefy face. "How come a prank's got you pooping in your pants? You that afraid of the dark?"

"I-I'm all alone out here."

"You in trouble with a loan shark or something?"

"What? No, no. Not at all. I—"

"I don't know if I want any part of this." The man took another step back.

Panic seized Phillips again, and this time he was fully aware of a ball of feces slipping out his anus.

"Don't go. Please. Look, I have money. Check my wallet. I'll give it to you as a reward for helping free me."

The retreat stopped.

"How much?"

"I've got over three hundred dollars. It's all yours if you help me."

The man, keeping his face averted as much as possible, plucked the wallet from Phillips' rear pocket. The man thumbed through the bills packed inside.

"I'm still not buying this college prank bullshit."

"I swear it. Look at my faculty ID. See?"

The man inspected the laminated card bearing Phillips' photo.

"Something screwy's going on here. You're going to give me three hundred bucks just to shoot away those chains?"

"Yes. I promise. I really do."

"What's to keep you from coming back tomorrow with the police, saying I stole it from you?"

"Look, I'll write you a receipt. You're not the one who put me here. I know the people did and that's who I'll bring any charges against. Please help me."

Phillips futilely rattled his chains.

The man stepped away, and Phillips thought he was going. Then he raised the rifle.

"Pull your arms and feet away from each other far as you can. And bury your face in that bark."

Phillips did as he was told and two blasts followed in rapid succession. Suddenly he was falling, falling free. He landed on his back in a soft mat of leaves. His ears rang.

The man was standing over him, and had the flashlight in Phillips' eyes.

"Now how about that receipt?"

Shortly after five in the afternoon Phillips and the couple reached State College. Phillips apologetically declined joining the couple for dinner, and they dropped him off at an intersection adjacent to the university campus. The street signs said he stood at the corner of Shortlidge and East College.

He had never visited State College. Which was one reason he selected the place, since no link existed with his past. A college town would also have summer sub-leases available. An informal rental would make it very difficult for an investigator to track him.

Looking for a newspaper, he walked along East College Avenue. The local paper should have plenty of sub-lease listings now, right after graduation. With luck he could be in a place tonight. At the moment he didn't care much about the quality of any apartment except that it contain a bed.

Phillips found himself tiring. After a single block his gait had dwindled to a shuffle and he couldn't believe he was actually getting short of breath. He never got tired just walking.

He plodded on. Fast food restaurants, gas stations, and car dealerships cluttered the opposite side of the street. The clutter was alleviated somewhat by the splendor of the Nittany Mountains rising beyond.

On his side of the street loomed the Penn State campus. Stretching many blocks back, and hosting scores of buildings, it dwarfed the University of Virginia. Which was good. More room and people for him to get lost among.

After another arduous block Phillips reached a paper rack and bought a copy of the _Center Daily Times_. He dragged himself fifty yards to a providentially provided bench where he sagged onto the hard wooden planks.

For a moment he stared dully out into the street, where light traffic passed. Then he thumbed through the paper to the classified pages. The hope he might find a sub-lease this evening perked him up a bit.

Phillips read and found he could not concentrate. He tried harder to focus on the entries in the rental section. His eyes adamantly refused to deliver the information to his brain.

He discovered he was shaking, except now his quivering was born of fury instead of fear. Delayed, suppressed too long, the rage boiled over.

At last he hated. He hated the man to whom he had done no harm, who twice tried to kill him. He hated the man who would have killed him without hesitation or scruple. What manner of man—if one could call this beast a man—what manner of man would advance upon a helpless stranger in a lonely forest, ready to beat him to death with a tire iron?

Phillips' eyes burned into the air before him.

The same manner of man, of course, who had shot down his father. A type of man so depraved that another person's life meant nothing. The robber had seen his father only as an obstacle in the way of a wallet, and to the counterpart Phillips was only an object blocking the path to the continuous exchange.

His father's killer had never been caught. Phillips would also have died unavenged, if not for poor Melissa's bravery and the greed of a backwoodsman. The counterpart would have left no link between himself and his crime, and would today be celebrating victory untroubled by the slightest pang of conscience.

After his father's slaying Phillips had bitterly swallowed the frustration of retribution denied. But he would not have to swallow it in the attempt on his own life. This beast had revealed himself. He had left his calling card in the form of New York license plate VRS121.

Two dozen phone calls failed to land Phillips an apartment he could occupy that evening. Several people did promise availability on the morrow.

As the last twilight faded behind the lovely mountains Phillips stole onto the grounds of a church several blocks from the campus. Large bushes flanked both sides of the white brick structure. He found a place to bed down behind one particularly dense clump.

Light shone out open windows. An organ piped and voices raised in song. After one stanza a male voice demanded a halt; let's everyone get on the right key.

Phillips sat down with his back against the church. He was too tired to think and for awhile he just listened to the strangely comforting hymns that followed one another in swift succession. Eventually he fell asleep.

He awoke around midnight. The lights were out. Quietness surrounded him. The air was cool, but thankfully absent of the evil chill of the evening before.

As he sat snug against the church, he was again comforted. Strange, since he was not a religious man. He had last been in church at his father's funeral.

His father regularly attended service. His brother, too. Which was another difference between him and them. They believed in God wholeheartedly and, he must admit, more often than not put into practice the teachings of their faith.

He could never view religion as other than glorified superstition. It was a relic left over from the time when man could not otherwise explain natural phenomena. But religion had helped give purpose and direction to his father and brother's lives, and he didn't judge them the less for that.

Phillips wished his father were here now. They could discuss the predicament of his youngest son. His father always made the correct decisions. Of course, Phillips had little doubt his father would have avoided this predicament in the first place by refusing to accept the alien's offer.

He wondered what his father had really thought of him. His father must have considered him a disappointment. Phillips contrasted poorly with his brother Mike, who displayed the right stuff from the beginning. Mike, basketball all-conference and student body president in high school, fifth in his class at the Air Force Academy, early promotion list afterwards.

Almost a rerun of his father's life. In college his father had been football captain. In Korea he had commanded an infantry company and won a silver star. After earning a graduate degree in electrical engineering he had joined IBM and rose rapidly.

His father and brother were natural leaders. They possessed an inherent authority that made men eager to perform well. They were strong men, in the best sense, who would not tolerate incompetence or immorality. They demanded the best of those in their charge and gave their best right back.

His father had always said he was proud of Phillips. Was that fully the truth? Where did pride spring for a son inept in sport and romance, and who never held a school office except as treasurer of the chess club? Was not his praise that of a good man who didn't want to crush the fragile ego of his lessor son?

Was that partly why his father so strongly encouraged Phillips to pursue science? Science did not require leadership ability. A wimp with a good brain could still excel.

Still, most of the successful scientists Phillips knew possessed an innate core of toughness. Like Tim did, and Evers. His father must have suspected that his son's curiosity and brainpower would not be enough. He must have hoped Phillips inherited enough backbone, however recessively masked, to succeed in the field.

At least his father had held the field itself in high regard. His father once told him that if he had it to do over, he would have chosen science as a career.

Phillips believed that would have been a mistake. His father had the requisite fascination for how things worked, but successful science demanded introspection and patience. His father always wanted immediate results (a trait Phillips unfortunately did inherit). His father was a skillful motivator of men, but one couldn't motivate or order an experiment to work. His father would have found research in basic science frustrating.

If his father could have really done it over, Phillips bet he would have chosen space. He would have made a premier astronaut. When they lived in Atlanta in the late sixties, his father had taken them down to Cape Kennedy to watch the launchings of Apollo X and XI. Phillips always remembered that wistful smile on his father's lips as the Saturn Five thundered skyward.

Astronomy had served as a substitute for his father's celestial yearnings. As a child Phillips had been bundled up winter evenings and taken outside to peer through a telescope. He supposed his fascination with nature began then. His father waxed enthusiastically as he pointed out planets, double stars and nebulae to his sons, and spoke of mysterious phenomena like quasars and black holes. He would also speak glowingly of Galileo, Brahe, Kepler, Herschel, Huygens. He would smile at Phillips and say that those men, great as they were, had uncovered only a tiny fraction of what needed to be known.

Phillips lived his happiest days then, in the year just before puberty, before he so painfully learned his limitations, when he, Mike and his father divided evenings between star gazing and building a Newtonian reflector. It took them all winter to construct the eight-inch telescope, and when they finished they had fashioned a precision instrument.

They lived in Tucson then, and away from the city the stars were close enough to grab. A thrill almost akin to orgasm coursed through his body when they first turned the reflector to the heavens. Stars and nebulae so densely dusted the ink of the night he shouted out his wonder. If he ever believed in God, he did at that moment.

Those days he had also taken for granted his father's total devotion to him and Mike. His mother had died when he was four, and his father afterward spent every spare minute with them. Now Phillips realized his father had forsworn companionship with his contemporaries outside working hours. No hunting trips, golf rounds, or cocktail circuitry. No attempt either at finding another love. He didn't remember much about his mother, but Mike had told him his parents were very close.

The three of them. So often while growing up that's all it'd been. IBM moved his father every two or three years. Mike was capable and confident enough to adjust quickly to new surroundings. Phillips found it much harder. Eventually he would gain a circle of friends, but within a year IBM would transfer his father to another distant city.

In college, at MIT, for the first time he lived in one place four straight years. There he made some of his best friends. In grad school, at Chicago, he stayed five years and entered into his first sexual relationship, with Debbie. As a postdoc he was again on the quick move: two years at Yale with Tim, then fifteen months at Johns Hopkins before he won his faculty position at UVa.

In Charlottesville he thought he had at last found a permanent home. In his early days at the University, flush with his post-doctoral successes, he envisioned settling for good in that most pleasant of college towns. Tenure was a foregone conclusion. Finally he had found a place to sink deep roots.

Phillips sighed heavily into the stillness of the night. Once again he found himself rootless. And that he couldn't blame on the attack or on the aliens. He was finished at the University well before aliens seduced him with their sugarcoated poison.

He stood up. He pushed outside the bushes to urinate. Then he lifted his eyes to the moon that had just cleared a tree line. Clouds, silver illuminated, were slipping in relays over the half disk. He stood in the ethereal light and again gave thanks he lived.

So close he came to dying in the darkness of those chilly woods. How would it have felt to hang there helplessly as the counterpart lifted the tire iron to strike, his last moment of reality watching a metal bar rush toward his head?

But the counterpart had failed to bring him down. It was as if they had faced each other with dueling pistols, and the counterpart took the first shot and missed. The counterpart had trapped him through a direct exchange, but he could never again use that tactic.

Phillips however could. His pistol remained loaded. Now he must bring the counterpart within his sights.

9

Second Opinion

They drove past the grim gray walls of VMI. What a contrast, thought Larson, to the red brick antebellum grace of Washington and Lee University. Weird how two such totally different campuses lay right next to each other.

"Looks like a penitentiary," he said to Pete.

Pete chuckled. "Yeah. Can you believe people pay good money for the shit they go through there? At least at West Point it's free."

Larson hadn't seen Pete since law school. Pete looked pretty much the same, except that he was dressed in a three-piece suit. Pete'd been one of the worst slobs in their class. He still had all his mud brown hair and an unlined face. No budding tire around the middle, either.

"That sucks about your luggage," said Pete.

"Sure does. But they'll track it down eventually."

"Be glad to loan you some stuff. You're not that much bigger than me."

"Thanks. I might take you up."

They had exited Lexington and were headed north on Route 11.

Pete laughed and shook his head. "I can't believe you're traveling cross country by bus. That's the kind of punishment I'd reserve for felons."

Larson wondered if Pete really bought that story. Well, he'd buy it a lot quicker than the truth.

"You can't see any of the country from a plane. If you drive, you have to watch the road."

"Why not Amtrak?"

"More interesting characters on a bus."

"You're right there. Bet you'll have some stories by the time you make the coast."

Got some whoppers already, Pete.

"I sure appreciate you putting me up. I know it's an imposition me arriving unannounced."

"No problem. That's our business. You're going to like this place."

They turned off Route 11 onto the road leading to Goshen Pass. Pete said he and his wife lived a couple miles east of the pass.

The road wound through woods and rolling farmland. On both sides of the horizon rose the mountains that bounded the Valley.

As they crested a hill he could see south down the Valley. Down toward where last night he had endured the most costly failure his life.

Strange how he felt no rage now. Just resignation. It was all the aliens' doing, he was sure. No other way the professor could have escaped those chains.

After he fell down chasing Phillips, he had forced his spent body back to the cars. His own car was too damaged to revive, but he could still catch Phillips if he got the other car going.

He'd never hot wired a car before, and it took him more than a half-hour to get ignition. Then he lost a headlight wrestling Phillips' car out of the trees back onto the road.

He roared off in the direction Phillips had fled, but by then an hour had passed since Phillips outran him. He'd seen the guy running every afternoon, and the professor probably racked up six or seven miles in that time.

Larson went back and forth over every road in the vicinity. No sign of the bastard. Phillips had probably ducked in the woods every time he saw a headlight appear.

As dawn broke Larson belatedly realized he had to get out of Phillips' car. Phillips could trap him the same way he had Phillips.

Fortunately he remembered that Pete lived in Lexington. Several years back the UVa alumni magazine had carried a blurb about Pete teaching law at W&L. It went on to say he and his wife ran a bed and breakfast as a sideline.

Larson had parked Phillips' car in a municipal parking lot that possessed no meters or time limit signs. With luck the car would sit undisturbed several weeks. He did remember to wipe clean his fingerprints.

He had spent most of the day in the University library after he telephoned Pete. Pete was glad to hear from him and offered up front that Larson spend the night, but he had classes and conferences till late afternoon. Larson didn't mind the wait; he found a comfortable chair in the periodicals area and grabbed z's off and on.

Weeping willows circled the pond on Pete's property and a renovated farmhouse lay just beyond. A couple of cabins stood at the pond's edge.

Pete said he owned twenty-two acres. Bought them for under a thousand dollars an acre five years before. Land in the area of Connecticut where Larson and Lori had planned to build went for over thirty grand an acre.

Pete's wife Jill came out to meet them as they parked. She wore jeans and a flannel shirt and she filled them well. She was an attractive brunette and looked vaguely like Connie, the college girl who had initiated Larson when he was fifteen.

They had dinner at the end of an aircraft carrier sized table in a room sporting an impressive array of colonial furniture. The whole house impressed Larson. He wondered how a young couple could afford such a collection of what appeared high quality antiques.

They sat a long time at the table after dinner trading talk on their respective lives. Pete expressed no regret choosing academia over law practice. Why should he? Pete had it made.

In law school, when Pete revealed his intention to seek a professorship, Larson thought that choice a cop out. Pete like him was in the top ten percent of his class and made law review. Pete could have gone to a top firm in New York or Los Angeles. Larson had had trouble concealing his contempt.

Eight years and a failed career later Larson could entertain a different view. Who of the two had more realistically assessed the future? Who was the smarter, the more sensible? Pete had prospered during those eight years, and just as important, he had _enjoyed_ those years. What did Larson have to show for all his battling toil?

Yes, Pete had better evaluated the probable outcomes. With his job, with his woman. Larson had grievously overreached. Instead of focusing on achieving the maximum possible in light of his abilities, he had gone for the gold. The fool's gold.

**T** hey put him in the cottage they called the Farm Office. He fell asleep quickly.

He dreamed of Connie. She was between her junior and senior years at Old Dominion and she had eyed him steadily across the water of the community pool. Even at fifteen he was big and possessed a good body.

With no preamble she asked him over to her parent's house. Her parents were at work, and she led him down to the rec room and made them both Margaritas with way more tequila than mix. After they finished the drinks, she asked him to undress her.

That was about afraid as he'd been in his life. He really didn't know what to do. Oh, he understood the mechanics of screwing, but he'd never seen a naked girl live or gone beyond touching the breast. After his initial fumbling she took him through the numbers. Despite his inexperience he did manage to bring her to orgasm.

He didn't brag about his encounter to anybody. He took no pride in his conquest. Of course that was a laugh, Larson was _her_ conquest. And from what he learned later, just one of many.

She had used him. He was just a dildo with a body attached.

Women would use you, use you to the hilt, if you let them. They were masters at manipulating men. Men used women, but almost entirely in the context of sex. Women learned how early, or maybe it was just instinctive, to twist that male drive to their own end. Men were citizen soldiers in the battle between the sexes; women were the chill professionals. No woman's blood had run colder than Lori's.

Even his mother had used him. Used him as the substitute man in her life in place of his father. Used him to vicariously enjoy the success his father never achieved.

His mother had badgered Larson from late grade school on. Don't end up like your father, make something of yourself, I know you can do it, you're a fighter, you're not like him.

It was age seven that Larson fully realized how much his mother despised his father. Before that Larson thought she was just always in a bad mood. In a restaurant his father was served an obviously undercooked steak. His father didn't send it back, just proceeded to eat the half raw meat. His mother grilled him on why didn't he return the steak, and receiving no satisfactory reply, exploded with savage cries of "spineless coward, spineless coward".

Larson would have killed a woman saying that in public. Why hadn't his father struck her, or even just screamed back? Why in all the miserable years afterward had he stayed with her?

Larson had gotten out early as he could. After he left for first class year at UVa, he returned only at Christmas. After he started in New York, he'd visited just once despite his mother's constant attempts to evoke guilt.

From his mother to Connie to Lori, they were all cut from the same cloth. Connivers, drivers. The first thing they looked for in a man was where to attach the puppet strings.

Was one good woman out there? Suzy, of course, but what of one for him? Did an honest woman exist, a single non manipulator? Too bad the exchange power couldn't aid him in that department.

**T** he next morning Pete drove him to the bus station. It was a somber overcast day, with a touch of the Virginia humidity that would be growing as May neared June.

Pete had given him a small airline bag, which contained changes of underwear, two knit shirts and some toilet articles. Larson would repay Pete twenty fold when circumstances better permitted...which might not be until next April.

Pete walked him to the entrance of the station. He extended his hand.

"Drop me a line from the West Coast."

Larson shook the hand. Then he smiled apologetically.

"I'm not going to the Coast."

"You said—"

"Pete, I've got to ask that you don't tell anyone about my visit here. Nobody, even if my parents or sister calls."

Pete didn't say anything. But there was a knowing look in his eyes. Probably he and Jill had chewed over Larson's strange arrival.

"It's important, Pete. Please make sure Jill understands."

Pete's hands were in his pockets. "Are you in trouble?"

"Not with the law. But people are looking for me. Mean people."

Pete blinked. Then his jaw hardened. "Christ, George. You should have—"

Larson shook his head. "I wouldn't put you in danger. I left before anybody was looking for me, and I haven't traveled under my name. But these people could contact acquaintances to get a line on my whereabouts. Just say you haven't heard from me in years."

Pete's jaw still jutted. Then he looked around. A couple of townies lounging against the station wall eyed them.

"I've got to go."

"Thanks for everything, Pete."

Pete turned on his heels without even wishing Larson good luck.

Larson didn't blame him much for being pissed. But a little fear would help Pete and his wife keep their mouths shut.

Inside the bus station Larson checked out the schedules. A bus to Washington would arrive in an hour, a bus to Norfolk in two hours, and in the afternoon he could head toward St. Louis.

Which ever he went, it better be somewhere he'd never been before. And after Pete, he couldn't seek refuge from anyone else he knew. For ten months he must give Phillips no leads.

Larson bought a Pepsi, then sat in a bucket chair.

He laughed to himself. What a bunch of shit. If it wasn't his own ass in a sling, this'd be comical. Having to hightail around the country, running from some pointy head who now had blood in his eye. He bet Phillips had never thrown a punch in his life. But he also bet Phillips wouldn't mess up two chances to do in the opposition like Larson had.

Yeah, he would have to step lively and watch his back.

One thing he did know now, despite the past days' setback, he had selected the right options as far as he and Pete were concerned. Pete would have quickly fallen by the wayside at Hench, Mitchell, and Younger. Lori would have laughed in Pete's face if he asked for a date. Pete would have just dabbled with the exchange power.

Pete never risked. Oh, he would live comfortably and safely, but his whole existence would not amount to more than a fart in the wind.

Larson would have died a slow death as a law professor. The safety and comfort would have strangled him. A pretty but predictable woman like Jill couldn't have kept him interested beyond a year. The serene country they lived in would have atrophied him even more swiftly.

He'd been right always going for the gold. The more base metals just didn't cut it.

Even if on the run, he could still come out of this year with plenty of gold. The continuous exchange was probably beyond his grasp now, but millionaire status was not.

10

Gestalt

They offered coffee, but he politely refused.

"Can you think of any place your son might go, Mrs. Larson? A place special to him?"

Phillips had started out directing his questions to Larson's father, but the woman had quickly taken over. Phillips saw a lot of Larson in the mother. She was a big woman, with black hair, a heavy jaw and broad shoulders. Her dark brown eyes were piercing.

The contrast between her and her husband disconcerted Phillips. She leaned forward on the sofa, chin out and hands gesticulating. The husband, balding and potbellied, sat slack faced with hands limp on his thighs. The two sat a yard apart on the sofa.

"He loved the University of Virginia. He was there seven years, including law school. But surely you people know that by now."

Phillips didn't know the particulars of the NYPD missing persons report, except that Larson's employer had filed one two days ago. To gain access to Larson's parents Phillips had exchanged into the body of a Richmond detective and used the ruse he was acting as investigative liaison here in Richmond.

Phillips had preempted having a report filed for himself. He had gotten word—via exchange intermediaries—to his brother and the University that he was all right but would be on leave of absence for several months. Phillips did not need any official investigation into his whereabouts. It surprised him Larson hadn't contacted his own concerned parties.

"Our information at this point is incomplete. We just received notification of his disappearance. But I assure you we are working hard on the matter." Phillips made the detective smile at the woman who looked like she hadn't smiled in years.

"Are you? I don't like this line of questioning, 'where would he have gone?'. My son holds a very responsible position at Morgan Guaranty Bank, which is one of the most prestigious in the country. He would not desert that position."

"I wasn't suggesting that, Mrs. Larson. I—"

"His car was found in the Shenandoah Valley. Damaged. I'm sure foul play is involved."

"That's entirely possible. The police there are checking into that. But we also have to check into whether he disappeared of his own accord."

"For what earthly reason?"

Phillips saw the eyes of the immobile husband snapping from him to the woman and back as they spoke.

"Perhaps financial difficulties. I'm not making any allegations, but people have been known to leave town in a hurry where debts are involved."

"That's ridiculous."

"We have to look into every possibility, ma'am. What's important is that we find your son. Please, now, can you think of any place he might go...for refuge?"

Indignation still poured out of her face. Then the forehead knitted as she thought.

"He loved the Finger Lakes...that's in New York state. He honeymooned there and Susan—our daughter—said he always spoke of going back. He didn't get much chance, working for the Wall Street law firm where he was before the bank."

The Finger Lakes? Larson might have considered it. During the summer there would be thousands of transients to hide among. Phillips supposed that would hold for resorts in general; a stranger wouldn't stand out.

He wondered how many buildings were in the Finger Lake area. If he could get hold of some recent aerial maps, he could specify each building according to its geographical coordinates. He could then try them one by one as he attempted to exchange into Larson.

"Anywhere else? Anywhere he expressed a preference for...even if it was back in his childhood days?"

"We traveled once to Colorado when George was ten. The Rockies impressed him very much. We haven't been out of Virginia often since then." She cast a withering glance at her husband. "We haven't had the money to travel." The husband's lower lip twitched, but nothing else of him stirred.

"Was there a specific place in Colorado you spent time?"

"Yes. Colorado Springs. We were there a week."

"What about old friends he might stay with?"

She shook her head. "My daughter said she's called them all. They haven't seen him."

Or they weren't saying. He could get their addresses when he interviewed Larson's sister.

Phillips glanced at the detective's watch. He had twenty minutes left, but he wasn't sure he wanted to use them. This couple unnerved him, and he wanted the detective well away from their house anyway when re-exchange occurred.

One last question. "Are there any...well, any old flames of George's he might go to? Any, no matter how casual you thought them?"

The woman curtly shook her head. The man looked blankly at him. Time to go.

Phillips started to rise. The woman's voice snapped like a whip.

"That's all?"

"Well, yes. You see—"

"I see you've done nothing. My son could be dead and you come here asking worthless questions. I'm going to notify your superiors."

"Ma'am, I'm just doing what's assigned me. Other men are checking whether he's come to violence. Which I sincerely hope he has not." Which Phillips sincerely prayed he had.

"Has anyone spoken to his ex-wife?" Larson's mother asked. She accentuated the "ex".

Phillips would interview her after he saw Larson's sister. "I'm certain the NYPD has. She would probably be first on their list."

He fully rose and the woman did also.

"She may well be behind George's disappearance."

"What do you mean?"

"She has plenty of motivation to see him harmed."

It must have been a messy divorce.

"We'll check into that." Phillips saw he had fifteen minutes to go. He eased toward the front door.

"She was mutilated, you know."

He stopped.

"What?"

"Yes. Slashed all over the face." Phillips thought he saw the corners of her mouth flicker upward.

"Did your son do that?"

"No. But she probably blames him. In her twisted way. She was sleeping alone. If she had still been living with George, the attack probably wouldn't have occurred."

"W-when did the attack happen?"

"Back in April. She was a beautiful woman. I'm sure she holds George responsible."

Good God. This witch of a woman wasn't that far off the mark. Larson had to have been responsible; he'd exchanged and used the woman's own hands to slash herself. When the woman returned to her body, she probably thought she'd been attacked in her sleep.

What manner of man, you had asked.

Phillips didn't have to feign the gravity in his voice. "Thank you for your information. I have to return downtown now."

The woman followed, pursued him to the door. The husband had risen, but stayed by the sofa. He stared at Phillips with pleading eyes. Pleading for what?

Phillips got out quickly.

The solution came to him as he was shopping one evening at a Safeway in State College. As usual the solution popped into his head when he had temporarily shelved the problem and was engaged in mundane activity.

After interviewing Larson's parents, he had realized that Larson's failure to prevent filing of a missing person's report did not necessarily represent an oversight. Failure to contact family members meant Larson was acting with supreme caution. If Larson were wary enough to avoid communication with relatives and friends, he would also probably avoid familiar locations.

That would certainly render worthless Phillips' strategy of directly exchanging into Larson. Specifying buildings around the Finger Lakes or in Colorado Springs, or the homes of Larson acquaintances would not yield the man.

He put little hope in the alternative strategy, that of relying on private or public investigators to locate Larson. He didn't have to money to fund private eyes, and how did he trick police forces into sustaining a dragnet for a person charged with no crime? Even if he could come up with money or tricks, he knew that Larson—likely disguised—would have hidden himself well.

Once again Phillips had no idea from where the conceptual breakthrough sprang. It had always been a little frightening, that all his success in science was based on nonscientific revelation.

He possessed the gift and Tim did not. All the straight forward analysis, all the step by step deduction, they paled in the face of the sudden fusing of incongruous parts that allowed a researcher to finally see what had been there all along. The sudden unveiling made mockery of the orderliness implied by the words "scientific method".

With grim satisfaction Phillips carried two grocery bags from the store. He wore his own version of disguise, a broad brimmed runner's cap pulled low and the start of a mustache. If theory transformed into practice, he could reclaim his identity within a month.

The man with the close cropped hair and the steel framed glasses named Robert Grove stared incredulously at Phillips.

"All the returns?" he asked.

Phillips nodded at Grove, who sat across the desk from him. Phillips had hoped that the head of the IRS's computer center would command more respect from his subordinates. This one, who Phillips didn't know whether to call Bob or Rob or just Grove, was not bothering to hide his displeasure. But Phillips supposed he too might balk at processing over a thousand reels of tape.

"Every return. Individual, partnership, sub-chapter S, corporate. I want you to give it top priority."

Rob or Bob shook his head. "We're only half through the DIF updates. You know that deadline is the end of the month. Hell, I've already got my people coming in Saturdays."

What was DIF? Data Information Files? He should have checked up more on the Service's internal terminology. Had he plunged again into a project too hurriedly?

"I'm sorry about this. But it has the Commissioner's endorsement."

The man sighed heavily. He looked tired. "This really screws things up, Paul."

Paul? In science the lab head and his underlings were usually on a first name basis, but Phillips had thought things more formal in the business world. His brother would have never allowed such familiarity from a subordinate.

Phillips handed Grove a piece of paper. "These are the data field specifications for the summary tapes you will send to Penn State. Note that all they want is the street address and zip code. Leave out names, and the city and state. Ask me any questions you have about it now."

The man's lips worked as he read. His head continued to shake.

"You sure you want us to go through the schedules and depreciation forms? It'd make it a lot simpler to stick to page 1."

Phillips smiled sympathetically. "I know. But they want all the addresses we can generate. Let's just go ahead and get the job done."

"Why didn't these clowns task the Census Bureau? A request like this is a lot more up their alley. We're not a sociology data base."

Phillips shrugged. "I guess we can better provide the information they needed."

He had considered using Census Bureau records. Their address register tapes were stored at one location, unlike the highly dispersed address information possessed by the Postal Service and telephone companies. The register tapes however listed few commercial properties.

"This really stinks."

Phillips stiffened in his seat. He couldn't believe how this man was carrying on.

He put all the authority he could muster into the director's voice. "Grove, I don't want anymore back talk. Just get the job done. And get it done fast, because that's what the Commissioner wants."

Grove blinked, started to say something, then just nodded his head. After a moment he asked to what account code they should charge the project.

"Don't bother me with details like that. In fact, don't bother me with anything about the tapes. The only way I'll hear anything about this project again is if you screw up. So let's get going on it."

Grove stared at him a moment. Then he muttered a "yes sir" and left the office.

A secretary immediately appeared bearing a sheaf of paper, but Phillips instructed her not to disturb him for the next thirty minutes.

Phillips rose and paced the worn carpet of the office floor. He glanced around the room. He would have thought the head of what the Service boasted as their "electronic nerve center" rated a better office than this. Everything in here looked like standard government issue. The man did have a good view, though, of the Alleghenies west of Martinsburg.

Not much visible in the way of memorabilia, either. None of the diplomas ubiquitous in a scientist's office. No pictures or posters, just a wall calendar. Paul did have a photograph on his desk of two teenagers. Was he divorced?

For a moment Phillips felt a little ashamed. He was violating the privacy of a man he didn't know, whose body and position he was using like commodities.

But he had to do this to survive.

Phillips returned to the chair and drummed his fingers on the glass plate covering the desk. He hoped Grove would follow his orders to the letter. It would blow everything if Grove returned for further consultation.

If Grove did as he was told, the summary tapes should reach Penn State's Computation Center within a week. Then each day Phillips would—via remote terminal—run a program that assigned a specific time and the name George Larson to each address on the tapes. The aliens would not permit exchange requests with simultaneous times, but had said he could space them as low as a microsecond apart. During a mere minute he could seek Larson's presence at sixty million different addresses.

But he was constrained by the speed with which he could transmit exchange requests to the aliens. He could speak like an auctioneer and still manage only a hundred requests a minute. He needed a lot faster way.

Fortunately he was familiar with the National Science Foundation computer network. The NSFnet linked over three hundred university and government LANs. At UVa he had used it several times to search the database at NIH and also to exchange electronic letters with other researchers.

Penn State was in the network and the aliens said they would accept requests entered via that medium. The rate of transmission over NSFnet lines—200,000 characters per second—would allow him to send 150 million requests daily. That should easily cover every building listed on the tapes.

The tapes would contain only addresses on record with the IRS. Churches, universities, military bases, government offices all would provide safe ground for Larson, as would any residential or commercial property not identified on federal tax returns. Nonetheless the tapes would list the majority of buildings in the United States. Larson would eventually enter one of them.

When he exchanged into Larson, he would not make the same mistake Larson had. Larson delayed killing him. Phillips would initiate the death process while still in Larson. Sleeping pills were the obvious method; Larson would also probably have a supply for use in exchanges. If pills were not available, he could substitute some other form of suicide: wrist slashing, hanging, carbon monoxide. In each case he must carefully balance the time required to make the process irreversible against allowing sufficient time to re-exchange before death arrived.

When the opportunity arrived, Phillips did not doubt he would kill. Every time he remembered waiting to die in the woods his rage returned. This Larson was a monster, not only for what he attempted on Phillips' person, but for what he did to his former wife and to his former colleague in the law firm.

Phillips had a duty to stop him. Who knew what additional evil this man would perpetrate in the ten months left of the exchange year? Phillips was a scientist; scientists worked to enhance life, not take it. But any man had the right to destroy a pathogen.

He checked his watch. He had four minutes until re-exchange. He'd put his head on the desk. When Paul returned to his body, he would think he had dozed off. Hopefully the commander of computer operations would be too embarrassed to ask if he had really sacked out at work for an hour.

11

## Faraway Island

The man's wife had insisted on coming along, and despite her good looks she was quickly wearying Larson. A motor mouth. And argumentative.

"Let's have breakfast first, Karl. Arno's will be filled soon. I don't want to have to wait for a table."

Larson continued walking swiftly along Pleasant Street. His pace forced her to half trot. Ahead on the left, across the cobble stoned street, stood the mansions known as the "Three Bricks". Probably built by three swindling pricks. He did have to admit they looked impressive.

"Karl, answer me!"

Karl's wife had grabbed his arm. Her sweet oval face was twisted in anger. She stood with arms thrust down, fists balled, and leaned slightly forward at the waist. A very narrow waist it was, too. Karl's

wife looked good all over, especially in those khaki shorts.

"Don't you dare ignore me! What's the matter with you, anyway?" Her voice was a restrained shriek. "You just went to the bank yesterday."

Larson debated telling her to fuck off. But she might get incensed enough to follow him into the bank and stage a terrific scene. That he had to avoid at all costs, drawing any attention. Besides he still had more than fifty minutes until re-exchange. Maybe enough time to do the bank, do Arno's, and go back to the Folger and do her.

Larson apologized and kissed her. She didn't push him away, although she glanced around to see if anyone were watching. She needn't worry; the tree lined street was almost deserted.

"When we reach the bank why don't you go onto Arno's?", he suggested. "Save us a table. I'll be along in ten minutes or so. You can order me some juice and toast."

She sighed an okay.

They parted upon reaching the town center. Larson walked up the fan portico and into the lobby of the Pacific Bank. The lobby and the caged area where the tellers sat were quite familiar now. This made his sixteenth raid at the Pacific since he arrived on the island four days ago.

He stepped around to the Cash Advance window. Behind the cage waited the same horse faced woman. He exchanged pleasantries as he handed over Karl Norton's Citibank VISA card and North Carolina driver's license.

"How much would you like, sir?"

"Twelve hundred dollars, please. In one hundred notes." Larson smiled warmly.

The woman smiled back, but she was inspecting the card and driver's license carefully. Her eyes went twice from the license photo to Larson and back. Then she called in for a check on his credit balance.

The scrutiny did not raise Larson's pulse a beat. How could she deny him the advance? The person standing before her was indisputably Karl Norton, right down to the fingerprints. Besides, she should be getting used to ladling out these sums. All the other advances Larson had received at the Pacific were over eight hundred dollars.

So Larson complied with utter calm as she asked to see additional identification—for your protection, sir, this is a considerable withdrawal.

Larson repressed a grin as she snapped out twelve crisp hundred dollar bills. That brought his take to almost seventeen thousand dollars since arriving on the island. Not bad for a scheme he'd once dismissed as nickel and dime. After a couple weeks here he'd move onto another yuppie resort.

No doubt some shit would hit the fan next month when all his victims opened their VISA and MasterCard bills. In response the credit card companies might demand banks require even more ID, but they weren't going to suspend cash advances. The ill will would cost them more than the hundred thousand a month Larson hoped to rack up. They'd just raise their interest rates an eighth of a point.

After slipping the bills under the door of his room at a bed and breakfast only a block from the bank, he hurried to Arno's. The high swell in the wife's pin striped blouse had stirred him, and he still had thirty-six minutes to get her back to the Folger.

In the restaurant, which was filled to capacity, both whatshername and the toast were waiting. He gulped down his food. High Tits, however, toyed with hers...and ran her lovely lips. She droned about the band concert Sunday, about Sam and Jennifer coming on the ferry this afternoon, then how she'd like to browse the art galleries on the wharf. Larson fumed, but decided hissing "eat up, cunt" wouldn't hurry things along.

He forced himself to relax. He'd get some pussy one way or another. Just yesterday he had exchanged into a mark having intercourse. That had nonplused him, though only for a moment. He dutifully continued to thrust on the moaning woman underneath.

High Tits finally finished her eggs—he hated egg breath—and sipped on her coffee. A drop at a time, Christ. He might as well give up, he wasn't going to get her alone before re-exchange. Then he noticed she had stopped talking. Her clear hazel eyes were regarding him curiously.

He smiled. "What's the matter?" he asked, though he knew. Even a self absorbed a bitch as this had to detect something had changed in her man.

"Well...oh, nothing." She shrugged lightly, and then to Larson's amazement announced she wanted to go. Excitement rippled in his stomach.

They returned to their room at the Folger with twelve minutes left. After the door was shut, Larson gently kissed her. She gave a smack on the lips back, then went to the dresser and took out a bathing suit.

Larson moved beside her and unfastened the top button on her blouse. Her fingers removed his.

"Not now, Karl." Exasperation laced her voice.

She turned her back to him, took off the blouse, took off the bra, and started to put the swimsuit top on. Larson could see white breast, firm and shapely, in the mirror above the dresser.

Almost choking on desire, he stepped toward her with hands outstretched. She gave a little sigh of disgust and scurried away.

"Come on, Karl. You just had it last night."

Larson's voice came out husky. "Baby—" Did he call her that? "I need you now. I really do."

As he spoke she was setting an indoor speed record putting on a top.

"We don't have time. If we're going to bike to Surfside and get back to meet the ferry we have to leave now. I want to be out there long enough to get some sun."

"Please."

The shapely cockteaser rolled her eyes. "I'm going to finish dressing in the bathroom."

Larson didn't grab as she made her escape. Much as he wanted to club her down and plunge inside, he kept himself still. A brutal raping might make the news, news of an especially wrong sort when Karl swore he didn't remember what happened. Just the sort of news Phillips would be looking for.

He would let the teaser dress in peace. He almost felt sorry for this Karl fellow; she must make him sweat blood before letting him into the inner sanctum. God, he hated women like that. But he wasn't going to mess a hair on this one's head.

He supposed it didn't matter that much whether he screwed her or not. Getting Karl's rocks off wasn't going to relieve desire in his own body. Larson would come out of his drugged sleep as horny as he entered it.

The teaser walked out, resplendent in the skimpy two piece suit. What a piece of ass. Again Larson was sorely tempted.

"You aren't changed yet?" she asked crossly.

Larson just smiled. He gave thanks he would be out of here in a few minutes. He really did feel sorry for Karl.

On Saturday Larson rented a bike and cycled towards 'Sconset. By the time he reached the intersection of the bike path and the airport road his legs ached and he was short of breath. He shook his head in disgust; all that time in bed during exchanges had ruined his conditioning.

He rested several minutes. Whenever a biker or jogger approached he turned his head away. He wore wrap around sunglasses, a baseball cap pulled over his brow, and the good beginnings of a beard, but he still didn't want any eyes lingering on his face. Phillips might or might not have people out looking for him; he didn't want to give them help.

He probably shouldn't have come out during daylight, but what the hell. He was heading toward a remote part of the island. His pus was well covered up, and he sure as shit couldn't take the confines of that inn anymore. Besides, Phillips couldn't look everywhere. He'd be safe enough.

He wondered how long the prof would actively search. Sure, the prof had probably wanted his hide bad right after that night in the woods. But this was a big country and Larson had covered his tracks. Once Phillips cooled down, realized the long odds he faced in finding a disguised prey who had severed all links with his past—Larson hadn't even contacted Suzy, although he knew she must be worried sick—Phillips would desist.

Sooner or later Phillips would realize how much in dollars a thirst for revenge was costing him. Every day indulged in hunting Larson meant one less day available to build a nest egg. Phillips had probably been getting started on his own retirement schemes when Larson attacked.

A cool breeze continued to blow out of the east. While the breeze made biking difficult, he acknowledged it sure felt refreshing. Amazing that this island stayed so cool while the rest of the nation baked. What had it been in New York yesterday, 97o? Every night here he'd had to wear a sweater or jacket.

No wonder Matterson decided to build his summer home in Nantucket. No heat or humidity, no traffic lights or fast food joints, no wogs or grits. Just a place that oozed of people on their way up or already arrived.

Larson remounted his bike and pedaled doggedly over the gently rolling hills. Scrub pine bordered both sides of the road. A couple more times he had to rest.

Finally the pines gave away to the open expanse of the moors as he neared 'Sconset. The promotional literature in his room had said Nantucket was the only place in the country that had moors. He supposed it was a big deal if you wanted to know what Scotland looked like, but this made too bleak a landscape for his taste.

With effort he cycled up the last long slope into 'Sconset. After downing a can of soda at a convenience store, he cycled slowly through the town. He wished he'd brought a camera; the place was stunning. Cottage after gray shingled cottage had lattices overflowing with roses. Big roses, snow white or soft pink. Impeccably tended lawns vied for his eye, as did glimpses between the cottages of a dark blue Atlantic.

He secured his bike to a post where the asphalt gave way to sand and he walked toward the ocean. On either side of him rose dunes. On a path that wound through the dunes a couple strolled hand in hand. He watched the pair, who talked and smiled, and he grimaced.

Before him on the beach were other young lovers, and older lovers with scampering children, and one guy with his dog. Even the guy with the dog was doing better than Larson. Even blue balled Karl was doing better.

If he had made partner, he could be vacationing here...with Lori. He could be walking in those dunes with her right now. She might even be pregnant with his child. If he had made partner everything would be all right.

An arrowhead of pain stabbed in his chest. Stop it, fuckhead, you've been over that path a hundred times and you're still not partner. Lori's still gone. It's all gone.

He walked down to the beach. The surf rolled and crashed. A stiff breeze blew off the ocean and saltwater spray began to coat his sunglasses. The breeze blew so hard it chilled him even though the sun stood high in a cloudless sky.

He strode along the shoreline, dodging clumps of washed up seaweed.

No, he hadn't made partner. Which wasn't a surprise, really. He carried his father's genes. Much of his life he'd convinced himself otherwise. That ballless wonder couldn't have contributed; his mother must have conceived her son with someone else. Larson didn't look or act anything like his father.

But the blood of the ballless one was in him. Just enough contamination to deny him the top spot. He'd busted his ass so hard, from junior high on, so he wouldn't be like his father.

Hard to believe his father started out with promise. His father had graduated high in his class at William and Mary, then took a job with one of the best accounting firms in Richmond. He did well there his first years, but as in a law firm the hours and pressure were unrelenting.

With no warning to his mother his father quit the firm and took a position with the Commissioner of the Revenue. He explained to her afterward about how he just couldn't take it anymore at the firm. Besides, the junior accountants there had less than a five percent chance of making partner. The job with the city would provide stable employment, and he'd have much more time for the family.

His mother had fled a blue-collar background to marry this man. A man who appeared ambitious and who would rescue her from the seedy trappings of lower middle class life. Unfortunately an accountant in the Commissioner's office didn't make much money, and likely never would. Lack of pressure carried its own penalties.

Not like him? Just enough like him. Oh, Larson had to admit his failures were on a much grander scale than his father's. Larson had made it several times to third, while his father never advanced beyond first. But they didn't count triples as homers, and Larson had yet to cross home plate.

Larson's way of failure was worse. His senior year at UVa. he'd advanced to the finals in the A.C.C. wrestling tournament, then lost. In law school he had finished third in his class after leading the first two years. The same story with the law firm, with Lori...and with Phillips. Always so close, the prize in his grasp, and it slipped away.

Phillips was the worst loss of all. Larson had the man twice, utterly helpless, and twice Larson failed to deliver. Bases loaded, no one out, guy who can't pitch on the mound, and Larson fans. Boo, goes the crowd. Boo, go the aliens—what kind of fuck up we got here?

Thanks, Dad.

Larson stopped. His legs had grown heavy from digging through the sand. He took a seat several yards back on the beach. He stared out at the waves and whitecaps, and at the horizon of endless blue. He sighed heavily.

Couples and kids drifted past and the day wore on. Hunger stirred in his stomach, he had to piss, but he didn't want to leave. There was nothing back for him in that hotel room.

A dark haired woman who looked about his age approached to his right. She was walking slowly at the edge of the pounding surf. She wore a white one piece bathing suit that clung to her supply curved body. Larson did not see a ring on the left hand. As she neared she gave him only a disinterested glance.

Larson rose, an invisible hand on his back propelling him. Quickly he was in step at her side. The two of them continued on several yards, then she stopped.

"Yes?" She smiled at him with a "what the fuck is this?" smile.

Larson smiled weakly back. "I don't mean to bother you. I'm just—look, I'm here alone for the week. You looked alone, too. I thought maybe we could have dinner, or maybe just lunch. I'm not the sort who usually does something like this." He gave a little laugh. "It's such a waste to be alone in a place as beautiful as this."

He couldn't see her eyes through her sunglasses. Her lips were a straight line.

"I'll go away if you want me to. I didn't mean to bother you."

She studied him a moment, then held out her hand.

"I'm Carol Wilkerson."

Larson fumbled getting his hand out. He cursed inwardly, but his awkwardness seemed to relax her more.

"Kevin Mills."

"Where are you from, Kevin?" They started walking again.

"The Big Apple." No harm in telling her that; eight million people lived there and he'd be on more solid ground the more truth he told. "And you?" he asked, though he knew from her accent.

"Newton. That's a suburb of Boston. Do you live in the City, or just work there?"

"Both. Hope you don't think that makes me doubly nuts."

She laughed politely, but also with some warmth.

They walked on along the beach. After a quarter mile she and Larson agreed to have dinner at the White Elephant.

Sunday morning they had a late breakfast in the Indian Room of the Overlook Hotel. A disheveled but satiated Larson had left her room and hurried back to his inn for a shower, shave and change of clothes. In the shower he had whistled to celebrate the previous night's fireworks. Five climaxes; he hadn't matched that frequency since college days.

He didn't think he'd want more than a weekend fling with her, though. She'd been married twice before and had broken up with a live in at the beginning of the summer. He wasn't sure why she volunteered such information; he didn't tell her about parting with Lori. But she did know her business in bed.

In the Indian Room they had to wait twenty minutes for one of the half dozen tables. They sat in an adjacent room filled with memorabilia from Nantucket's glory days. While Carol studied the knickknacks, Larson browsed through several magazines set on an antique coffee table. The publications were what he expected on an island infested with bluebloods: _Town and Country_ , _Vanity Fair_ , _House Beautiful_ , and one actually called _Old Money_. He shook his head.

The breakfast wasn't bad. They both had blueberry pancakes shaped in the form of whales and squid, and freshly cooked fried bread dough. A shot sized glass of juice cost a dollar, though.

Over breakfast they discussed what to do before she caught her plane at six that evening. Larson wouldn't mind returning upstairs to her room. She suggested they poke through the Main Street shops. Larson nixed that, he wanted to stay out of the central part of town. They settled on spending a couple hours at the Jetties, and the rest of the hours in a bedroom.

Larson picked up the check, paying with one of his crisp C notes. They were leaving just in time, for a family with two whining toddlers sat down at the nearest table. Carol whispered how she detested small children. Larson wasn't particularly fond of other people's kids, but he still wanted some of his own. Maybe when this year was over, with things back to normal, he could start looking for someone to have children with.

As they stepped out the entrance, towards the sloping gardens that fronted the hotel, something clasped his right calf. His head jerked down and he saw his leg unencumbered. He tugged, but his foot remained on the wood floor of the Indian Room.

"Kevin?" Carol was looking back at him with puzzlement.

"Uh—I can't seem to move my leg."

He tugged hard to no avail. What the fuck was going on? Was he having some sort of seizure?

"Is something the matter, sir?" One of the waitresses had appeared at his side.

"I don't know. I can't move my leg."

A manager appeared, looking really concerned. Looking please don't let anything happen which could bring a lawsuit concerned.

Carol's hand was on his shoulder. "Do you have any feeling in the leg? Is it asleep?"

As Larson reached to pinch his calf, the corduroy cloth covering it disappeared. Exposed was a thin, lightly haired limb not his own. Everyone around him gasped. Larson stared at the bared flesh, then understood.

His arms flung out to grip either side of the doorway. He pushed with the arms and with the leg that was outside the building. His right leg inched forward. A pain grew in the calf, which quickly intensified to charley horse proportions.

"Pull on my shirt!" he screamed at Carol. He had to repeat the order, with expletives, before she grabbed and yanked. He heaved mightily and the two of them stumbled down the steps of the entrance walkway to sprawl on the garden lawn.

The manager, waitress and patrons hurried to see if they were okay. But Larson was up and running before they reached him.

12

## Search and Destroy

As eight pm drew near Phillips slid into the crawl space at the rear of the apartment. Inside the yard high confines he opened a metal footlocker. Phillips twisted into a fetal position as he carefully climbed into the footlocker. Once settled he secured the top from the inside with six punch code locks.

Then he waited in the pitch black.

He could hear himself breathing. Fresh air filtered through the score of holes he had drilled. They should allow enough air for even a desperately writhing Larson.

Phillips didn't particularly care for these flirtations with claustrophobia, but imprisonment in the metal box did allow him to lay off the sleeping pills. Rendering himself unconscious two or three times a day had required more and more dosage. Plus it had gotten harder to shake off residual grogginess when awake.

The luminous hands of his wristwatch read four minutes till eight. His muscles knotted in anticipation. His palms grew wet, his heartbeat rapid.

Phillips was certain he nearly exchanged with Larson this morning, even though the aliens of course would neither confirm nor deny the contact. His right calf had felt like it was being torn off.

During the brief contact, Phillips had not fully understood. He later concluded that at the instant of exchange Larson was only partly within a specified enclosure. The aliens would not pinpoint the exact enclosure, but they did tell him during which millisecond the thwarted exchange occurred. The addresses requested during that interval were located in the states of Massachusetts and Rhode Island.

Phillips had immediately generated a new list of exchange requests. It would encompass only New England, New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. The truncated list would allow him to attempt a fresh exchange every two hours.

Although Larson had undoubtedly fled, he probably did not realize the extent of his peril. Larson most likely believed Phillips somehow traced him to a specific locality. Once out of town, Larson would assume he was momentarily safe. He would not conceive of every building in a nine state area as a mortal threat.

Sometime tonight or tomorrow Larson would step into a listed enclosure somewhere in the nine states—for lodging or food, or to relieve himself. The longer Larson stayed in that building the better the chance for exchange. If he stayed for two hours Phillips had him cold. Larson would find himself plucked from a chair or a toilet into this metal box. He would begin his final hour of life.

Phillips tensed as the second hand approached eight p.m. The second hand swept into the minute between 8:00 and 8:01. It completed the minute with Phillips still in the footlocker.

He dismissed his disappointment as by feel he punched the codes freeing the locks. He would exchange before dawn, he knew it. When Larson stopped to sleep, Larson would remain in an enclosure too long.

Phillips returned to the living room of the basement apartment. All the shades were drawn. He lifted a shade to peek out the window. It was still plenty light this June evening. He ached to get out into the daylight, the daylight he had avoided ever since taking up residence in this apartment.

Tomorrow he could return to the daylight for good.

After Larson died, Phillips would keep his pledge and not exchange for the remainder of the year. He would stick to the pledge, no matter what additional temptations the aliens devised.

Nor would he claim the continuous exchange. He admitted the prospect of trading bodies with an established biologist like Evers did tempt him. But he had no right to anyone else's life. Evers had earned his success, and Phillips had earned his failure.

Phillips knew he would never again head a lab. However he would swallow his pride. He had conducted stellar research before and he could again. When this business with Larson was settled, he would contact Tim and accept his offer.

These weeks away from the lab he had discovered how much he missed science. It was in his blood. As it had been from the time his father first showed him the glories of the night sky.

As they studied the heavens his father had preached about the nobility of science. Phillips still concurred; science was the finest achievement of Western civilization. Since the thirteenth century, when Roger Bacon lit the guiding torch, science had ably demonstrated the potential of man. The progress emanating from science stood in shining contrast to the catalog of war and exploitation fostered by Western men since the Middle Ages.

What an honor roll science could boast these past seven centuries. In biology alone dozens of holy names graced the pantheon. Who would not bend his knee to Schleiden, Darwin, Rabl, Spemann, Morgan, Avery, Delbruck, Crick?

Phillips knew that scientists possessed the frailties of those engaged in other professions. Yet his colleagues on the whole were honorable and selfless men, consumed with obtaining wealth of knowledge rather than coin. They formed a brotherhood whose fierce competition far more united than divided.

His colleagues accepted with a faith that bordered on the fanatic that man's purpose and destiny lay in his own hands. Man's salvation depended upon man alone. While that tenet frightened and infuriated others, his colleagues through the centuries had boldly taken up the challenge. And so far won.

Phillips wanted to remain a member of the questing brotherhood. Formerly he envisioned himself playing a towering role. While a graduate student he believed he could settle for no less than a Nobel prize. Now he would settle for a paragraph's mention in a biology textbook. If he discovered only one significant fact he would have done his part. Let him leave one foothold in the cliff face that was developmental biology. Others behind him could use the foothold to climb a little higher. Someday another would reach the summit based partly on his contribution.

He would accept whatever stature in science came his way. There was nothing else he loved in life, nothing else that truly mattered. He was born a scientist and would die one. Though if biology achieved enough in the next half century, he would not have to die at all.

Phillips shifted nervously in the woman's body as he waited for Debbie to emerge from the Mutagen complex. Other workers had begun to file out the gate.

He knew he should be back in the apartment in State College, arranging for the addition of more enclosures to the database. But he had to get out of there. The walls were closing in. An hour's respite wouldn't cripple his effort that much.

He diverted his eyes from the gate to gaze upon the splendor around him. He had never been to Colorado before. Here, in Boulder, the Rockies soared high into a purple blue sky, the few clouds stark white. A refreshing coolness hung in the dry air. He was glad Debbie lived in such an inspiring setting.

Was that her? His stomach tightened as he spotted a woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to the one he'd lived with nine years ago. She was still as slender and her chest as flat. She still wore the same solemn demeanor. As she drew closer, walking swiftly towards the bus stop where Phillips waited, he saw the same plain face bordered by the same plain short brown hair.

Debbie joined the half dozen other people at the bus stop. Phillips stood behind her, and his gaze dropped down her left arm—the forearm displayed the same too pale skin—to her fingers where his eyes locked on the wedding ring. He ached at the sight of the gold band, which meant she was forever gone. Which of course she was, whether married or not.

His earlier inquires had revealed she now had two children. He remembered how she pledged to never pressure him about children, that she'd be willing to wait the necessary decade or more. Phillips had told her he wouldn't have room in his life for children until after he achieved tenure; they were too disruptive. He also remembered how warmly she reacted upon encountering other people's offspring.

He sidled up to her. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

She looked a little startled, then glanced around to be certain the woman was addressing her.

"Yes, it is." She didn't smile, but that didn't mean unfriendliness. Even when pleased she rarely smiled.

"You're Debbie Thorton, aren't you? I'm sure you don't recall but we briefly talked at the Christmas party."

Her brow wrinkled as she strained to remember. "I'm sorry, I don't."

"I'm Rebecca White. You were telling me about your two little girls. How are they?"

"Oh, they're fine." It was clear Debbie was still trying to place this middle-aged woman before her. A person Phillips doubted she had ever seen, as the woman didn't work at Mutagen, just lived in a house two blocks away.

"Do you have pictures of them? I don't mean to be so inquisitive, but I just adore children that age."

Phillips noticed some of the other commuters glancing at them. Debbie did too, and he remembered how self-conscious she was. He cursed himself. Again he had brought her discomfort.

Debbie hesitated, then reached into her purse wallet and took out a small color photograph, a family posing. Her husband and two daughters smiled, Debbie did not. However, she appeared content. Phillips hoped she was. The two girls were quite appealing, even if they had inherited too much of Debbie's looks. The husband looked a decent, responsible sort.

"You have a wonderful family."

Debbie took the pictures back, thanked Phillips, then turned to see if the bus was coming—and indicating the conversation was over.

Phillips ached to continue, continue until the remainder of the exchange hour was up. So many questions. The biggest being, are you happy, Debbie? Is the pain I inflicted upon you at last gone? Or does the hurt lie just below the surface?

Do you love your husband, Debbie? Do you love him with the total devotion you loved me? Or did I wrench the capacity for that devotion out of you? Are you now only partly committed, wary, unwilling to risk the whole of your heart again?

The bus came and the commuters surged to board. Phillips followed Debbie on. She took a partly occupied seat, and Phillips could get one no closer than several rows away. He stared at the back of her short cut hair. That hair had been longer probably only once, when he had asked to let it grow to her shoulders. The increased length had not improved her looks.

Did she ever think of him? For good or ill, did she ever reflect on their time together? Or was memory of him banished to a walled off recess of her brain?

He had lost his virginity with her. Lost it at the belated age of twenty-four. He was a graduate student in Cameron's lab, she a technician. After she initiated him, they lived together until he secured his doctorate two years later. A man had certainly never possessed a more devoted mate those years. Then he dumped her.

At the fourth step Debbie got off. Phillips almost bolted after her. But he kept his seat, and cast a last longing look at the thin figure striding up the intersecting street into a suburban subdivision. Go home, Debbie, to those who genuinely love you and will not desert you.

The bus sped on and Phillips slumped in his seat. He remembered his unease whenever he and Debbie went out. He was embarrassed to be seen with her. He had also been ashamed she was only a technician. No place in his future existed for a person of such limited intellect and ambition. At the time, however, she did provide companionship, sexual release, and someone with whom to split the rent.

He had broken her heart, no way around it. The pain Janet caused him was token compared to that he must have inflicted on Debbie. His pain was born more of humiliation than loss of love. Debbie had suffered true grief. That wonderful woman, who could give so completely of herself, he had kicked aside.

Those had been the glory years of his life, and he hadn't even suspected it. That woman really loved him, just for himself, not because of his accomplishments or projected accomplishments. His denial of tenure would have concerned her solely because of the anguish it brought him. She would have stood by him even if he were reduced to selling cars for a living.

Phillips looked at his wrist to check the time, and saw the woman wore no watch. He asked the person across the aisle. Twelve minutes to go. Time to say goodbye to Debbie. Time to return to the elusive task at hand. A task completely beyond Debbie's ken, that of hunting down and killing a fellow sapien.

Phillips ran through humid night air. He ran hard over the side streets of the College Heights area. He passed house after house where people sat inside comfortably, unworried and unhurried.

He was worried because tomorrow he would exchange into the Attorney General of the United States and order the Director of the FBI to help hunt one George Lawrence Larson. He was hurried because he now realized Larson had escaped his enclosure net.

Phillips increased his pace. He wondered how much of his story, if any, the Director would buy. Because the words were coming out of the mouth of the Attorney General hopefully that would invest them with validity. The Attorney General was reputedly a man above reproach. And the Director a good soldier.

He would tell the Director that he had consulted with the President himself on this matter. He would explain that foreign intelligence services had learned George Larson was using his position at his bank to launder drug money. Larson had connections with highly placed financial officials in both Latin America and Europe.

Apparently a drug overlord had discovered Larson was diverting some of the funds to his own Swiss bank accounts. Larson escaped an initial assassination attempt and had gone into hiding.

It was imperative the United States locate this man first. In exchange for immunity the man would probably yield information that could incriminate corrupt officials in half a dozen countries. A major victory in the drug war hung in the balance.

He would order the Director to place all known acquaintances of Larson under surveillance. The Attorney General realized this would force a major diversion of Bureau resources but they had to locate the man. He also wanted the Director to request all law enforcement agencies be on the alert for Larson. He would emphasize that when either the FBI or other agencies spotted Larson they were not to move to capture him. A specially formed team, which would remain secret because the foreign sensitivities involved, would seize Larson.

The Bureau was to enter any information regarding Larson into a data bank accessible via the NSFnet. Phillips would provide the Director with the passwords necessary to access the data bank. It of course went without saying that the Director would treat this mission with the utmost confidentiality.

Would the Director cooperate? Phillips was asking a lot. But Congress had gone bananas over the drug mess and money was flowing freely to combat it. The Director might throw himself enthusiastically behind a project that promised to reel in some big fish.

Phillips halted at a red light. He jogged in place waiting for it to turn. Sweat poured down his bare chest. A green light had him off again in a near sprint, but he wasn't tiring.

He wondered how Larson could have escaped the enclosure trap. During the past two weeks Phillips had gone into overdrive listing additional enclosures. Schools, boats, vehicles, churches and convents, government properties, condemned buildings, shelters for the homeless.

He even tried campgrounds. The aliens said they would allow a tent as the defined enclosure. He must specifically identify the exact tract of land where the tent stood. Phillips could cover a campground, or any remote area, by listing various combinations of geographical coordinates.

And he still hadn't caught Larson. How could the man have so quickly surmised that _all_ enclosures were lethal? Larson should have slipped once. Perhaps the aliens had alerted Larson; they had tried to alert Phillips before the knife attack.

At least he did have the counterpart on the run. Larson could hardly attempt to exchange from inside an enclosure now. From outside would be dangerous, too. Thugs could slit the throat of his immobilized body or animals devour him. A Larson prevented from exchanging would find it difficult to counterattack.

How long, though, before the man adjusted to his predicament? Phillips did not underestimate his foe in the slightest. Larson had already proven himself brutally resourceful. Sooner or later he would find a way to safely exchange.

Phillips swept onto East Park Avenue. Across the street music drifted from the dorm rooms of summer session students. More of the unworried and unhurried. A half mile ahead stood dimly lit Beaver Stadium. Would Phillips be alive when the Nittany Lions opened their season there in the autumn?

If he did not get Larson now, with his twin advantages of the enclosure net and a nationwide search, he would never get him. If he didn't get Larson, the man would get him. This he knew. That soulless man would regroup and seek him out.

Phillips ran on through the close summer night.

13

Oh Canada

Larson slowly drove the Harley over the dirt road. Even at twenty miles an hour a heavy cloud of dust trailed him.

On the right ahead a two story white farmhouse sat far back in a field of waist high corn. Swaths of sunlight were cutting across the field, as the sun battled ranks of towering cumulus clouds. A wall of yellow birch woods ran to his left.

His head sweated inside the helmet. Even here, in this semi-wilderness above the Adirondack he would not remove the helmet. He would obey all traffic regulations to the letter; indeed, he would obey anything and everything to escape the attention of law enforcement official and vigilant citizen alike.

He should be getting close. The yahoos back at that road store had told him a sign marked the border. No fences or guards, just the trust between two good neighbors to monitor this remote crossing. Larson did not doubt, though, that _they_ had established their own watch here in the upper reaches of New York state.

Larson could feel the presence of the aliens, even more uncomfortably than the damp heat pressing against his scalp. They waited in box seats to see whether their stooge would really quit the arena, actually forfeit a prize that promised paradise on earth.

Did escape just come down to this, his simply exiting the field of play? Did the aliens require he physically remove himself from the game, instead of pleading for release while still the United States? He prayed so. He wanted out, wanted out bad.

He passed the farmhouse. At the end of the cornfield more dense woods waited on both sides of the road. The birches cut off the sun. He slowed even more as the cycle pushed into deep forest shade.

Finally he saw it, a waist high circular sign. There were some red letters on it he couldn't yet make out. Probably said "good riddance, Canuck".

He halted. The cycle rumbled as he looked around. It was spooky here. The thin trunks of the mustard colored trees surrounded him like prison bars. He was utterly alone—except for the pricks from outer space. They were waiting. Waiting to see if the sapien would leave the exchanges behind.

This sapien would. On the other side of that sign Phillips could not reach him. The guillotine blade would no longer dangle above his neck. Wasn't that a fair trade? More than fair. Everything was gravy after that near grab in Nantucket. Time now to pick up his few chips—$26,000 in cash advance thefts—and blow town.

In Canada he would have no trouble getting a job. He was expert in U.S. commercial law; he could latch on with any big firm doing trade with the U.S. Despite all the activity of the past ten weeks he was still a member of the bar in good standing. No crimes had been charged to his name.

Larson picked up a rock. He hurled it toward the sign. The rock landed on the road well beyond. He half expected the aliens to have erected an invisible barrier at the border.

He could hear the aliens laughing. Laughing at his fear, laughing at his incompetence. Laughing at how he had botched the whole thing.

Larson gunned the machine. A throaty, deafening roar filled the darkened lane. Then the big motorcycle leapt and hurtled toward Canada. Larson braced, still expecting a barrier. Twenty yards, ten yards, none.

He sped into Canada without incident. Beneath the helmet visor his mouth let out a volley of war hoops. He was free. Free to pursue a second class life, but alive.

God, how great to be able to enter buildings again. Get a real shower, lie in a bed, eat cooked food. Best of all, he could take a dump where God intended instead of squatting in the bushes.

He roared along the road, bouncing over its uneven surface. The yahoos said this goat trail went on several miles past the border, then fed into a hardtop. Then ten miles to some wide spot called Wallis. Hell, he didn't care how small the burg was if it had a tavern and the tavern accepted American green.

A field opened up on his left, filled with another crop of corn. Another white farmhouse appeared. He saw a distant figure waving to him. Larson waved back. Hi, Canuck, got a daughter you want seeded with Yank blood?

He was sweating even more inside the helmet. No wonder, the friggin' sun now shone on the front of the helmet. The blazing orb above made him squint even through the tinted plastic of the visor. Well, he'd be back in the shadow of the woods soon. And he could take the helmet off, he wasn't a fugitive anymore. He—

Larson abruptly braked and a choking cloud of dust swirled about the beast of a machine. Larson let the cycle crash on its side as he hopped off. He flung back his visor. His eyes shot up to the sun, then to the road, then to his wristwatch.

It was 11:10 a.m., Eastern Daylight Time. But that really shouldn't matter. Even at one p.m., with the sun at its zenith, he should not see the sun when heading north. This road ran north-south. Coming up to the border the sun hadn't bothered him at all. So how come, still heading north, the sun had hopped in front of him?

He hurled down his helmet, booted it, then screamed up at the sky.

"Motherfuckers! Motherfuckers! Motherfucker alien pricks." He screamed until he was hoarse, then cried a little.

Several minutes later he rode back to the border. There he dismounted and found, yes, that just like light reflected from a mirror, when he marched north into the demarcation line he marched back out headed south.

In the warmth of the early afternoon cold sweat trickled down Larson's chest. He pulled the phone cord taut so he stood beyond the overhang. The overhang and porch floor of the road store didn't appear to form an adequate enclosure, but he wasn't about to take a chance.

"You wanted a contest," he said evenly, though his throat muscles pulled tautly as piano wire. "But you don't have one any longer. It's completely one sided now."

The aliens had been curt the last few times he spoke with them. Today they were in eminent good humor.

"Not necessarily," they chirped.

"Sure it is. I can't even step into a telephone booth." He couldn't venture into any enclosure, not building, shack, tent or cave.

By now Phillips would realize that. He would know Larson was forced completely out in the open. With his exchange powers Phillips could have every cop in the country looking for him. Looking for a man who couldn't hide.

"I'm sure you planned on Phillips and I providing entertainment a lot longer than three or four months. The way matters stand, this theatrical will close real soon."

"Not necessarily."

Larson gripped the receiver very hard. He fought to keep his voice dispassionate.

"I don't have a chance. I know it, Phillips knows it, you gentlemen know it."

"What chance did your counterpart have that fine day in May?"

Larson continued to sweat. They weren't going to give him any sort of a break. Maybe a week or two more show with him and Phillips was all they wanted. Then they could move onto to play some other suckers.

"You helped him. You put that woman in the lab. And you got him out of those chains in the woods. I know you did. What I need now is the favor returned."

"We did not intervene in either event."

"I don't believe you."

"We, unlike sapiens, always tell the truth." A little chuckle. "Even when it hurts."

How he would like to hurt these pricks. If but he had the power. "The fact remains," he said with only a hint of hiss in his voice, "that my ass is absolutely grass. Maybe I've got only an ant's brain compared to yours, but even I can figure you want more of a contest. So what about it, are you people going to help me out of the quicksand I'm in?"

"You unfairly debase yourself. Your intelligence rates higher than that of an arthropod. We favor analogy with a rodent."

"Ha, ha. You little green guys should be writing for David Letterman. Now give me some useful advice."

There was a long silence. Larson looked about warily. A couple of beer sipping locals on the porch were staring his way. He eased his back to them. His free hand rubbed to loosen paint chips from the wood siding of the store.

Finally the alien spoke, this time harshly.

"Twenty-six percent."

"Twenty-six percent? What do you mean by that?"

"Twenty-six parts out of a hundred. Understand, rat brain?"

Rage so choked Larson he could get out only a few slurred expletives before the aliens hung up. He flexed to rip the receiver from the phone, but caught himself.

Yeah, rip it out and end up in a hick jail. No way Phillips didn't have jails covered like everything else.

His head spun. He sat down in the uncut grass at the side of the store, certain he was going to die.

That night it rained. Larson stood naked beneath the lattice of a power line tower. He was grateful for his first shower in a fortnight.

Cool water ran down his body. After awhile he began to shiver and he knew his clothes would have to go back on soon. Of course within fifteen minutes they would also be soaked. Why the fuck hadn't he bought a raincoat?

He longingly eyed the tent. It was still in its coverbag, which rested on the rear of the cycle. How great to get in the tent.

Hunger pangs rumbled. He wished he had more than the bread and peanut butter he'd gotten those smirking beer swillers at the store to buy for him. He'd had to give them five bucks for the favor. The story was probably making the rounds in the area. That he didn't need, anything that drew attention.

Cocksucker aliens. How did they expect him to fight back? He was just a lamb for the slaughter now. He couldn't fight back if he couldn't exchange. And how could he desert his body for an hour here in the wilderness? He could re-exchange to find his eyes pecked out by crows. He wondered what a fox would do.

The rain wasn't letting up; it looked like an all night soaker. How great if he could be dry. And lie down to sleep. He hadn't had a good night's sleep since Nantucket.

He again eyed the tent. Should he chance it?

Yeah, if he wanted to die. He didn't doubt that Phillips had the computational power available to test for him in a tent on every square yard of the country.

Then Larson smacked his head. What had the aliens said, twenty-six percent? So simple, so obvious. He _was_ a rat brain for not thinking of it sooner.

Larson yanked the tent from the bag. He set it up, then used a hunter's knife to cut away a side and a half. He scrambled in and put on clothing.

He lay facing the opening. His hand remained on the knife. Before sleep claimed him he thought, yes, a cage formed by chicken wire or the sort would do the trick. It would protect his body during an exchange hour but not qualify as an enclosure.

Yes, he was back in the game.

He slept.

14

Cold Equation

Phillips did not slow as the pickup approached the trailer camp. Only a few of the residences in the weedy field were regular mobile homes; the rest were trailers set on cinder blocks. He also saw a scattering of outhouses.

His head did not turn as he passed. He kept driving on Route 55 toward Wymer. Around him the Alleghenies rose into a partly cloudy sky.

The backwardness of the state continued to amaze him. Pockets of deprivation existed in the counties surrounding Charlottesville, but poverty in West Virginia appeared the norm.

Phillips stopped outside a gas station-grocery store in Wymer. The gas pumps were the old hump shouldered ones. He cut the engine and waited.

He'd wait and drive back to Harmon in half an hour. The next drive by Phillips would try to tell if any of the trailers failed to meet the enclosure requirement. At least one of them had to, if Larson was still there.

He watched West Virginians push in and out the double screen doors of the store. Everyone had a friendly greeting for his fellows.

Phillips suspected the counterpart remained. The FBI report putting Larson at the camp had been filed only two days ago. Phillips just hoped Larson was so tired of running he would stay put.

After thirty minutes passed Phillips returned to Route 55. He quickly came up the backside of a truck hauling gravel. He didn't pass on the one straight stretch; staying put behind the truck would allow him a leisurely scan of the camp.

When he reached the camp he saw that one trailer, near the rear, had its roof raised. It was a pop-top. Some sort of netting covered the gap between the pop-top and the rest of the trailer. The windows were shuttered over.

Phillips' heart skipped a beat. In his excitement he had to fight stepping on the accelerator and zipping around the truck.

He followed the truck to Harmon, then turned on Route 32 toward the Canaan Valley where he had rented a cabin.

Shortly before noon Phillips settled into position.

Even with the conditioning provided by running, Phillips' legs were rubbery from the climb. But his vantage point here—not that far from the summit—allowed a straight look down into the trailer camp. From the safety of four miles distance.

He peered through the telescope at the shimmering image of the trailer closest to the pop-top. The young woman living there had returned home minutes ago. This morning he had watched—through binoculars from a closer spot—as she had carried a pot and a carton of milk into the pop-top trailer.

Phillips wondered how much Larson was paying her. It wasn't enough, as it helped save his life. Or would have saved his life except for the alertness of a local policeman, who likely spotted Larson before he moved into the pop-top. Phillips doubted Larson had returned outside since.

Shortly the straw blond woman, dressed in the skimpiest of shorts, emerged from her trailer and walked toward the pop-top. This time she carried what looked like a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and a two liter bottle of soda.

The woman knocked, then opened the door of the rust streaked pop-top. She didn't return outside until fifteen minutes later. Had she and Larson made quick love? Maybe Larson was also paying for that. The woman walked very slowly back to her own trailer.

Twenty minutes later the woman, still in shorts and a sleeveless blouse, got in an ancient Buick and drove east on 55.

Phillips returned his attention to the pop-top, in particular to its roof. By his calculation, based on admittedly imprecise estimates at this distance, the pop-top would provide no more than 20% exposure to open air. The windows were covered. Since the trailer had its floor off the ground, an opening in the bottom could provide needed excess.

More than 25% exposure had to exist, for he had failed to exchange when he specified the pop-top as an enclosure.

The warmth of the day was turning to heat. The sun had climbed almost directly overhead and an earlier breeze through the trees had died. The heat, though, didn't match the sauna like conditions that had prevailed the last two weeks in State College...and the whole East Coast. The people here might be poor, but at least they enjoyed the benefit of living at 3000 feet.

Phillips maintained his watch through the afternoon. People came and went at the camp, but no one approached the pop-top. He wondered how Larson was doing in there. Couldn't be very pleasant. No electric or phone lines ran to the pop-top and he doubted Larson had any running water. A chamberpot probably served as his bathroom.

Not that Phillips could summon any sympathy for the man. He didn't delude himself that Larson was still very dangerous. He bet Larson had a cellular phone. Larson could exchange, probably was exchanging, as his counter search for Phillips began.

Such a narrow margin between victory and defeat. The FBI led hunt had collapsed the day after Phillips received the report about the trailer camp. Phillips was fortunate the ruse survived long as it did.

The woman returned around four-thirty. She carried two bags of groceries to her trailer. Twenty minutes later she took another meal over to Larson. She stayed but a moment and exited carrying a big black garbage bag.

Phillips remained at his post throughout a surprisingly chilly night. A half moon rising after midnight greatly aided his surveillance. Before or after midnight, though, he could detect no activity around the pop-top.

He watched again the next day and the pattern of the woman's behavior repeated. Finally at dusk he quit the mountain. He headed for his bed in the cabin in Canaan Valley.

Across the Valley an ugly black sky loomed beyond the brilliant green of sunlit mountains. Jagged spikes of silent lightning shot from the fleeing storm line. Behind the cabin, to the west, blue sky had returned. Water dripped from the cabin roof and the surrounding mixture of pine and hardwood trees. A refreshing coolness suffused the air.

Phillips stepped back into the cabin. He would have loved to stroll the paths cutting through the area, but he still had to observe precautions. He must hide his face one more day.

Instead he strolled the cabin floor and grimaced as he did.

He could not deny it. Poison was the tool of the cowardly and the treacherous. Defeating an enemy, no matter how vile, by such means stained the deed with dishonor. Warriors would battle hopelessly by sword before succumbing to such an ignominious weapon.

But Donald Phillips would wield this weapon. If he wanted to live—which he did—if he was worthy to live—open to more debate—he must employ the ignoble weapon.

Tomorrow he would kill a man. A man he didn't hate anymore. A man he feared, yes, but who he would let live if he could.

He had considered the "merciful" alternatives. He might exchange into Larson and have him commit a felony. A Larson behind bars until next April would solve the problem. Then Phillips realized that even in prison Larson would have access to a phone and sleeping pills.

He had considered rendering Larson unconscious, then blinding him. Surely that would prevent any attack. And yet...a sightless Larson could still exchange into the sighted.

Phillips wished he could hate Larson; it would make tomorrow much easier. Try as he might, he could no longer summon fury at the man who had strode into the woods with a tire iron.

Larson's attempt to murder Phillips had involved no animosity. Phillips could even allow that Larson acted partly in self-defense. Larson had to assume the counterpart would seek the continuous exchange.

Phillips couldn't ignore the evil in the man. But how clean were his own hands? Hadn't revenge and lust motivated Phillips' early exchanges? And now it would be he who did murder.

He was a scientist. A scientist should stand a little taller, see a little further, than others of his species. History had recorded few crimes associated with these men who sought truth and banished ignorance.

Yet tomorrow a scientist would kill as cold bloodedly as the lowest Mafia thug. Phillips would partake in that callous act that so many other human beings committed; the act he had so self-righteously condemned. He had once told Tim if all men were scientists, the killing would end.

Tomorrow the aliens would exult. The taking of life by one of its supposedly more enlightened members would confirm the sapiens' bestiality. Over these three months they were certainly getting the proof they wanted. What depravity he and Larson had exhibited: mutilation, rape, sabotage, character assassination, and shortly, homicide.

Let them exult. Phillips had no choice in the matter. If he did not kill Larson tomorrow, Larson would kill him on a later morrow. That was axiomatic. When, not if, Larson regained the upper hand he would allow Phillips no third escape. Either Phillips lived, or Larson lived. Mercy to Larson meant suicide.

Perhaps the aliens had hoped Phillips would sacrifice himself on the altar of a greater principle; that he would find killing so abhorrent, so profoundly immoral, he would stay his hand. Perhaps this was the revelation they sought. If so, they would not find him the instrument.

Every biological entity had the right to its life. If another organism attempted its destruction, the entity had the right, the duty, to resist. No species or member of a species survived by offering its throat. The biological imperative required one either fight or take flight. And from this arena Phillips could not flee.

Tomorrow he would fight, and live.

"I would have expected better from you."

"Indeed?"

"Our species would not toy and amuse ourselves with another intelligent species."

"We would not do this to the intelligent either."

"We are, I freely admit, an immature race. You supposedly are not."

A soft laugh. "Sapien, sapien. Immature is far too benign a pejorative to apply to your kind."

Phillips shook his head. "You always speak of us with such contempt."

"Surely you do not require elaboration as to why."

"We are a young species. You know we are only five thousand years into civilization. Surely you were not saints at that stage."

"Only a species that commits atrocity needs to invent the concept of sainthood."

"You know how we evolved. As hunter-gatherers. Hunters must kill to survive. Perhaps you were fortunate enough to evolve as gatherers alone, or stumbled onto agriculture early. You are certainly wise enough to judge us in the total context of our development."

"Your past, sapien, we can live with. Your _present_ is another matter. You grow ever more perverted."

"We—"

"Ever more. As of now we have discovered thirty-one sentient species within our domains. Some display a rather fierce nature. None, however, have rivaled the abominations committed by sapiens. Your current century alone appalls everyone."

"It appalls us. But whatever happened at Auschwitz or in Cambodia, those were the work of a few who were truly perverted. You know the rest of us aren't like that."

"In each of you is the seed of a Hitler."

"No! There is far more of the spirit of Lincoln in us than that fiend. And we're getting smarter everyday. For all the blood and horror you've seen the past ninety years, the human community has progressed enormously. You can't deny the advances we've made, both scientifically and socially. We're coming of age. If we don't blow ourselves up, the next century we will make a fit life for everyone on this planet. I believe that, I truly do."

"Children believe much."

"Children need help. Instead of this shameful manipulation, why don't you give us some guidance?"

"You are beyond redemption."

Phillips couldn't believe the depth of revulsion in the voice. He went on to argue on behalf of nobler side of man, his courage in adversity, his sense of community and comradeship, his love of family, the benevolence espoused by his religions. "Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, were men. We differ from them only in degree, not kind."

A fury rose in the alien's voice. "Who do you think sent _them_ among you?"

Phillips shook his head. "No..."

"Yes. And how do you sapiens respond? With jihad and crusade, with Holy Inquisition and auto-da-fe. You debase everything you touch."

"We are learning!"

"We have learned—that you are an infestation. Your wretched species will never get beyond the confines of this solar system."

"You haven't the right. You—you're more perverted than us to use us like you do."

A rasp. "Sapiens are _slime_."

The line went dead.

15

Closing Bell

Larson paced the floor of Lisa Simms' trailer. His moist right hand gripped the snub nose .38 revolver.

It was fifteen minutes to noon. She should be returning shortly. He prayed again that the mind of Donald Phillips would occupy her body.

This made the fifth day of waiting. The fifth day since he had exchanged into a Tucker County deputy and reported sighting George Larson. The fifth day of waiting for Phillips to take the bait.

The confines of the trailer were growing oven-like, despite the whirling presence of a ceiling fan that blew air out through a vent. The sun beating directly down on the metal roof would make for another searing afternoon. At least things cooled off fast once the sun went behind the mountains.

Keeping a yard back Larson peered through the screen door of the trailer at Route 55. Still no sign of leggy Lisa.

He wondered if Phillips had discerned that the combination of the screen door, windows, and vent prevented Lisa's trailer from qualifying as an exchange enclosure. Certainly Phillips had already found that the pop-top—where Larson must be holed up—did not meet the requirements.

The prof would focus on Lisa once he failed to exchange into Larson. Phillips had observed her bringing three meals a day to the pop-top. When Phillips at last exchanged into Lisa, he had many options. From a knife in the back to the more subtle means of poisoning a meal.

Because her trailer was out as an enclosure, Phillips would have to exchange into Lisa elsewhere. That condition was essential to Larson; he couldn't be on guard every moment he and the woman were together. Larson need suspect Phillips was in her body only when she entered the trailer.

Larson knew he was betting his life on reading Phillips correctly. Phillips, in an exchange proxy, could slip into the trailer park with an Uzi. After finding the pop-top empty, he would then storm this trailer. Or he could hire a hit team to do the job. But Larson didn't think that was the prof's style.

He was betting his life, too, on his bleached blonde helper playing her role. She was getting 5K now, 5K after. She planned to use that money as her ticket to enter a secretarial school in the Washington area. Lisa had a hard set to her jaw, and wasn't any bimbo despite just reaching twenty. She wanted out of her nowhere life so bad he felt certain she would follow his seemingly weird instructions to the letter.

In her shoes he'd also want out of this dead end state. The place looked like the Russians had already hit it. When he won, if he won, he'd never be back.

Larson stiffened as her car pulled off the highway. He moved back around a partition and held his gun ready.

The car door slammed. The screen door squeaked she stepped inside.

"Atlanta Falcons," she barked in her hill twang.

Larson poked his head around the partition. His hand remained on the gun, out of view.

"Buffalo Bills," she next intoned. "Chicago Bears, Dallas Cowboys."

Larson put the gun in his rear pocket and managed to hide his disappointment as he moved fully into view.

Damn fucking Phillips, what was he waiting for? He must know Larson wouldn't hang around the trailer camp forever. Maybe at dinnertime he would make his move.

If the prof was going to make a move at all. Phillips might be too chickenshit. He had squandered an opportunity that night Larson chained him to the tree. When Larson returned to the woods, Phillips could have attacked him with the advantage of surprise. Phillips instead chose to run.

Lisa set to work making Larson's bogus lunch. Larson asked again if anyone had inquired at work about a stranger at the trailer camp. They hadn't.

"You want me to stay awhile over there again?"

Larson almost said yes, then shook his head. Absolutely no variation in routine might plant suspicion.

"You can come right back."

"You want me to stay awhile here?" A touch of softness entered her voice. "They don't need me back until one." Her hand motioned toward her bed.

Caught off guard, Larson didn't know what to say. His five days here she had given no hint she desired sex. He'd avoided any impropriety, in part because tenseness had robbed him of urge, but mostly because he couldn't afford to jeopardize their agreement.

Now that she mentioned it...she didn't look half bad, despite some crooked front teeth. Those shorts showed her off well.

If she really were interested in some nooky, that might work to his advantage, sexual gratification aside. If he could get her a little sweet on him, that'd provide an extra guarantee of her fidelity. He wondered if she'd ever had a lover who could zing a woman like he knew he could.

Larson smiled. "Let's talk more about that this evening. When it's a whole lot cooler."

She nodded. "Yeah, we'd roast now."

When she left at quarter to one Larson debated catching a quick nap. He still hadn't slept well, keeping an ear open all night for anyone prowling outside. Would an hour hurt? It would if Phillips decided to sneak poison into his food while Lisa was out. Larson couldn't put it past Phillips to exchange into one of the neighbors and just mosey over here under the guise of a social call. What a delightful surprise to get inside and find Larson catching z's.

Larson desperately battled fatigue as the afternoon heat grew. Once he actually did drift off, and upon waking he cursed himself savagely. All thought of sleep vanished for good, however, when he saw the dough faced hag two trailers over talking to a woman who wore a yellow sun dress. The woman was his sister Susan.

Ice water thrown on him couldn't have jolted him more. Larson stood transfixed as the hag pointed to the pop-top trailer, then to Lisa's. Suzy's anxiety filled face turned toward the trailers, then she was striding swiftly his way. The hag stood hands on hips watching.

How—how did she find him? She was going to ruin everything coming here. She couldn't—

Phillips! That was Phillips inside her. Phillips had exchanged into her to get him to drop his defenses. He bet Phillips had a hidden gun or knife.

His sister knocked on the door of the pop-top. Receiving no answer, she cautiously opened the door and poked in her head. She looked bewildered as she retracted her head, then she was heading toward Lisa Simms' trailer.

Larson whipped out his gun. He hid behind the partition.

A knock at the screen door. "George? George? Are you in there? It's Suzy."

Larson almost groaned upon hearing the voice of the sister he had missed so much. It sounded just like her. But that was what Phillips would count on, emotion overpowering vigilance.

The screen door opened. Larson held his breath as footfalls tapped on the on the trailer's metal floor.

"George?" she queried plaintively. "Are you there?"

When Susan stepped around the partition Larson grabbed her from behind. One arm swept over her chest to pin both arms, the other brought the gun to her temple. He lifted so her feet were off the floor.

Despite the surprise of the attack, and the gun pressed at her head, relief swept her face.

"Oh, thank God! George, you—"

"Shut up!" Larson vised her with his arm. He pressed the gun hard against her skull. "What was our dog's name when we were kids?"

She craned her neck and looked at him as if he were crazy.

"George, let me go." Her voice exited in a wheeze.

"What was its name?" Larson's finger tensed on the trigger.

"What are you—"

" _The name_!"

Her eyes at last registered peril. After a moment's delay she croaked, "Muffy."

"How did he die?"

Again she looked, or feigned looking, with incomprehension at him. If she answered the dog was run over by a car he would pull the trigger.

"He drowned."

Larson's trigger finger loosened infinitesimally.

"How did he drown?"

"George—"

"Tell me fucking how!"

"He drowned in the rubber pool."

"And whose fault was it?"

"Daddy's."

"How did it happen?"

"He—he fell asleep in a lawn chair in the back yard. George, please let me go. I can't breathe."

Larson pondered. It had to be his sister. Phillips could never learn that. Nobody in the family had spoken about the dog for twenty-five years. Larson still didn't understand how that worthless turd had slept through the little dog's cries.

Before he lowered the gun he asked, "How did you know to come here?"

"The police told me. A missing person's report was filed in May. This was the first word they'd heard on you."

"When did they tell you?"

"This morning. I took off from work and drove right up here. George, why are you here? What's happened the last three months?"

It made sense. The sighting he had made on himself had filtered back—albeit five days after the fact—to whoever had handled his missing person case. He should have anticipated that, blocked it. Now Suzy had very likely blown his cover.

Larson lowered the gun and released her. She immediately clamped herself to him and started crying. Larson found a lump growing in his throat and he held her tightly.

"George, I was so worried about you. I was so afraid someone had killed you."

"I'm still alive." For the moment.

"Why did you ask me those questions about Muffy?"

"Because I'm probably losing my mind. Don't worry about it. Look, Suzy, you've got to get out of here." If Phillips were watching the trailers, he would have to know by now that Larson was in here, not the pop-top.

"What's happening? Why do you have the gun?"

"People are after me. I've had some business deals go sour. You've got to leave now." He moved her toward the screen door.

"George, please—"

He gripped her shoulders hard. "It's dangerous here. You have to get in your car and drive all the way back home. Don't tell Al, or Mom, or anybody about seeing me. For your safety as much as mine."

She continued to embrace him. He stroked her black hair, now damp from the heat of the trailer.

"I don't want you to look for me anymore. If things work out, I'll be in touch in a couple weeks. If I have to keep hiding, it won't be until April I can see you. I'll explain everything then."

He pried her off. Despite the heat her face was ashen. Her dress was soaked with both their sweat.

"Go, Suzy. Now. I promise you'll hear from me by April."

She protested but Larson cut her off with a kiss to the edge of the lips.

"Go now. If you value my life."

She fled out the door. She looked back in anguish several times on the way to her car. He caught sight of the old hag watching Suzy from her trailer door

Larson held onto the gun as his sister drove off. He went from window to window, trying to spot any suspicious movement outside. The trailer camp and the surrounding fields and hills were dead in the afternoon heat.

He poured two glasses of water into a parched throat, then continued to make the circuit of the windows. He wondered if he should bolt now. If he could catch a quick ride on the highway, a Phillips nested in a lookout spot might have a tough time following him.

But maybe he should wait. It was entirely possible Phillips were right now readying to exchange into Lisa, and had missed Suzy's visit. If Phillips weren't in Lisa when she returned after work, then Larson would slip out of here in the dark.

Goddammit, why hadn't he considered the missing person's report? No matter how hard a person planned, there was always a detail overlooked. He just hoped this one didn't cost him the ball game.

Larson sat down. God, he felt tired. The fading of the adrenaline rush must be draining all the energy out of him. That and this blast furnace heat. The heat made it hard to breathe.

The gun slipped from Larson's hand and thunked on the floor. He just stared at it. When he leaned to retrieve the weapon, he continued forward and rolled from the chair. A sudden coolness comforted the right side of his body, where he lay curled on the metal floor.

He tried to get up. He couldn't. He reached for the gun. His hand wouldn't move. An icicle of fear shot through him as he wondered if he were having a heart attack...or a stroke. All the pressure he had been under...no, it wasn't fair. Phillips couldn't beat him like this.

Lisa's party line phone lay directly in his line of vision. He couldn't even inch toward it. Would Lisa return home in time to get an ambulance? And what if Phillips were inside her then? He could almost laugh along with the aliens at that prospect. Fucking aliens.

His breathing grew more labored.

It couldn't have been five minutes later that he heard the screen door open. He could twitch a couple fingers in response, nothing more. Let it be Lisa in Lisa, please.

The hag stood over him. At any other time the past five days he would have snapped her neck for entering, but this was a godsend. Her curiosity must have gotten the better of her after Suzy's frantic visit.

She knelt beside him. She stunk to high hell, but that didn't matter. Then she picked up the gun.

"I need it to protect myself," he shouted in a voice he knew came out a whisper. "Please call an ambulance. I think I'm dying."

"You are dying, George."

George? Their eyes met and then he understood. The shock almost killed him right there.

"Yes, it's me. Don Phillips."

The hag had her face only a foot away. Her three toothed mouth harbored a major case of halitosis.

"No..."

"I'm afraid so. I'm also afraid you've absorbed enough pancuronium through your skin to bring death within half an hour."

The hag pointed to a series of reddish spots on his haired chest. Larson didn't remember anything scraping him there.

"I posed as a policeman to tell your sister that you were at the trailer camp, then I exchanged into her as she drove here. I applied spots of glue to the back of her dress. On them I put some glass powder coated with pancuronium. That's a neuromuscular blocking agent; it works similarly to curare, though about five times more potently. I'd hidden the poison in her car yesterday. I was out of her before she reached Harmon. Ten minutes ago I entered this woman."

Phillips was speaking quite matter of factly. Larson couldn't detect any note of triumph.

"Call me...a doctor," Larson wheezed.

"You know I can't."

"Please."

"If I could, I would. If I did let you go, I'd end up where you are now. You'd trap me eventually."

"No!"

"You almost trapped me here. I almost exchanged into Lisa Simms two days ago." Phillips held up the gun. "I almost let you empty this into me."

"A doctor...please." Larson could barely get the words out.

"But I made myself take pause. Something I should have done more of in running my lab the past seven years. And as I paused and pondered, it made ever less sense that you would occupy the other trailer. Her taking sustenance to the pop-top would rouse curiosity, and curiosity breeds wagging tongues. Why would a man desperate to avoid detection take the chance? In the final analysis her behavior made sense only if you were laying a trap."

That's bullshit, thought Larson. The plan was sound. "The aliens tipped you."

"No. It's the same to them which of us dies."

Larson summoned all of his ebbing strength to speak. "After the night in the woods...I gave up trying to trap you." Larson struggled to refill his lungs with air. Phillips bent so his ear was next to Larson's mouth. "After Nantucket... I tried to leave the country...the aliens wouldn't let me."

Phillips pursed the hag's lips. "I'm not surprised. If it's any comfort, I hate them as much as you do."

"I promise I won't...try to find you...I just want to live."

"So do I, George. That's why it will end here."

"I promise..."

"I'm sure you mean it with all your heart—now. But when you're free again, you'll try again. The continuous exchange is too much a lure."

"I won't..."

"You're too smart and too dangerous. I narrowly escaped here, when I thought I held all the cards. I wouldn't want to engage you on even terms."

"I'm finished with...exchanges." Just let him keep the balance of his cash advance money and he'd lay off exchanges for good. He swore it.

The hag shook her head. "If our situations were reserved, and I was begging for my life—would you spare me?"

"Yes!" Larson rasped.

"I know, you know, you wouldn't. You would kill me."

"I'm finished with this!"

"I am too...after I take measures to make sure Lisa Simms doesn't get blamed for your death."

"What about Suzy?"

Phillips nodded grimly. "It's to your credit, under these circumstances, you can think of her welfare. One reason I used her was because I knew how much she cared about you. I wanted her to see you one last time."

Larson almost cursed him. If the fucker was so concerned about Suzy, why had he placed her in such jeopardy? If she'd reached to scratch the back of her dress...

"Don't worry," Phillips said, "I'm going to exchange into her husband and dispose of the dress. There'll be no connection."

"Help me."

"I'm sorry. I truly am."

Larson could see in the hag's eyes that the counterpart _was_ sorry.

But that didn't do him a whole shitload of good. He needed an antidote, not pity.

Phillips put a knobby hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "There was never any other way out of this, George. One of us had to die for the other to live. I can't change that."

The foul smelling hag rose.

"Oh, God, please..."

"Goodbye. If there's a god, I hope he'll judge you taking everything into account." Phillips cast eyes upwards. "And also judge the aliens."

Phillips left despite Larson's last rasped pleas.

After the terror passed, Larson accepted. Fittingly he had finished again in second place. In the exchange game, like aerial combat, second place got you only posthumous awards.

Beaten by a pointy head. Beaten by someone he should have mopped the floor with. Except it was he who lay dying on the floor now. Like they said, the proof was in the pudding.

As unconsciousness pulled him away into a strange serenity, he wondered who Phillips would choose for the continuous exchange.

Epilog

Continuum

Phillips looked up at himself. He had never really studied himself whole; the flat image returning from a mirror or photograph had compressed the actuality. His features were blander than he supposed; his body more frail. His structure in three dimensions suggested much lack of substance. Not the best exterior to pass on to another.

A tortured anxiety now distorted the bland features.

"Dr. Phillips, I just don't know. I haven't slept any the past two days thinking about it. I—I just don't think I have the right."

Phillips smiled. "It's yours if you truly want it."

The distress on the face told how very much she did wish to occupy his body. But the girl's sense of decency and honor were generating what could develop into a crushing burden of guilt. Phillips must make certain she did not trade one mode of crippling for another.

"Melissa, you think the gain is unconscionably lopsided in your favor. I assure you it's otherwise. You will forfeit fourteen years of your life. You leave an attractive face and body for one that can best be termed mediocre. You change sexes, with all the problems attendant in that. You take ownership of a person recently denied tenure and whose career prospects are not encouraging. You give up the years at graduate school you so looked forward to."

"I also get to give up that," she said. Pale green eyes flicked down to where Phillips sat. To the wheeled chair he had coexisted with ever more adeptly the past two days.

"Yes." Phillips ran the girl's hands over the padded armrests of the chair. "That's why I'm hoping you will agree to take my body and status, with all their liabilities."

Pure agony rippled across the face. "How—how can you want to be stuck in that thing? You've only been in it two days; think about all the years to come."

"In fifteen years—when I'm back at the age I am now—perhaps they will have found a way to circumvent damage to the spinal card. So this chair may not be forever."

"What if it is?"

"Then it is. I freely choose the chair and your body, Melissa. I'm not lying, or trying to repay you for saving my life. Me in you means a second chance. I'll do everything right this time. I'll have a lab of my own again, and it will become one of the best in the nation. Giving up my legs is a fair price to pay for that."

"I just—"

"I want the trade, Melissa. But I will accept it only if you truly want life in my body. I want you to do what's best for you. Don't think of me. Make your decision based on Melissa Harding's desires and hopes."

The tormented person before him hung her head. When Melissa lifted it, a pair of tear tracks ran down the cheeks.

"I don't want to go back in that chair."

"Then you don't have to."

"I know how much you loved running. How—"

Phillips raised his hand. "I love science. I love research. In your body I will have the opportunity again to reach for the top in what I love." Phillips smiled as warmly as he could. "This seems a very equitable exchange, Melissa. Both parties gain their major objective." He lifted Melissa's arm. "Shall we shake on it?"

Phillips' body hesitated, a few more tears flowed, then the body slowly put out a hand. They shook.

"It's done. You are Donald Phillips now. Good luck with the rest of my life."

Melissa dropped to her knees and threw both arms around Phillips. She was really sobbing now. Phillips patted her back, his former back. A tremor of apprehension at the finality of the decision lingered in his intestines. He hoped it would pass. But the decision was made.

Yes, he would do things right this time.

It was just like the movies. Concrete and steel, redneck guards and lousy food. Except the movies didn't have the sounds of people buggering each other.

At least nobody had tried anything with him. Tony was a big man, built like a pro linebacker. Yesterday in the yard his muscles had bench pressed over three hundred fifty pounds. People gravely nodded when Tony walked by and gave him wide passage.

He could take it here. After scrambling for his life in the woods and fields, and in the trailer, he could do Mecklenburg standing on his head. The concrete held the summer heat so it never cooled off, but the only place hotter than the trailer was hell. If the food was more fit for dogs than men, at least he had some. If the bed was too short and the mattress too thin and his cellmate snored in the hundred decibel range, he could at least sleep without fear. Three hots and a cot and a weekly shower. A lot better than the alternative.

Those wonderful aliens. One moment he lay in the trailer, the next he sat again in that metal chair on the endless white plain. Again facing the happy voice of an invisible speaker.

Such a deal we got for you, George. Die and find out if there's really a Satan, or trade bodies with that janitor you framed. Your choice, George. You have sixty seconds to decide.

He made the choice in five.

They meant such a deal for Tony; out of the joint, white to boot. Bet that fried his mind. Although the aliens—sweet aliens, he hoped their home sun went nova—would probably ease Tony through the shock.

Tony'd do all right. He'd get Larson's severance pay and deferred income from the bank, plus his condo. Though Tony might find it difficult to put to use Larson's bar membership or suave good looks.

Tony's body had five years till parole. Larson figured to still be ahead of the game then, because Tony was only twenty-two. Twenty-seven when he got out vs Larson's thirty-four now. Of course, the minor handicaps remained of returning to the world with black skin, no high school diploma, and as an ex-con.

First things first. He had to make parole the initial review. Mecklenburg would never see a more model prisoner; he would absolutely tow the line. He'd show everybody he had gotten his head right. No failure to communicate here.

When he got out, he still owned his best possession—his brain. He'd be a superman in the black community. While Tony's conviction would keep him from returning to law, he could probably enter something like construction. Get some job experience, then maybe move into rehabbing abandoned ghetto properties. There was plenty of aid out there for minorities trying to set up their own business. Once he got going, and made connections with white liberals always ready to back a rising darkie, he could move into the construction big leagues.

No, he wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot. This time he would cross home plate. He would live in the big house on the hill. He would marry a woman who really loved him—he didn't give a shit if she were black—and he would father children he'd be proud of and who would be proud of him.

Look out soul brothers and honkies alike, Tony would drive this pitch deep into the stands.

