 
Story Sampler

By Robert P. Hansen

Copyright 2014 by Robert P. Hansen

Smashwords Edition

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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# Connect With Me

For reviews, updates on my writing, excerpts from my novels, samples of my poetry, and links to my work online, visit my blog at: <http://www.rphansenauthorpoet.wordpress.com/>.

Follow me on Facebook at: fb.me/RobertPHansenAuthorPoet

Favorite me at Smashwords at: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/frummery>

# Additional Titles

Fantasy Novels

The Drunken Wizard's Playmates and Other Stories

Angus the Mage

Book 1: _The Tiger's Eye_

Book 2: _The Viper's Fangs_

Book 3: _The Golden Key_

Book 4: _Angst_

[Book 5 is the Aftermath series]

Aftermath

Book 1: _Aftermath_

Other Novels

_Installments_ (mystery / literary)

_Please Don't Eat the Penguins_ (science fiction)

_The Snodgrass Incident_ (science fiction)

Short Story Collections

Exploitation and Other Stories

Have You Seen My Cat? And Other Stories

Worms and Other Alien Encounters

Poetry Collections

2014: A Year of Poetry

2015: A Year of Poetry

2016: A Year of Poetry

A Bard Out of Time and Other Poems

A Field of Snow and Other Flights of Fancy

Last Rites . . . and Wrongs

Love & Annoyance

Of Muse and Pen

Potluck: What's Left Over

# Acknowledgments

"Baby Jesus" copyright 2006 by _Calliope_. Originally published in the Jan.-Feb. issue.

"Code 13 B" copyright 2012 by Robert P. Hansen. Originally published in the March issue of _The Fifth Dimension_.

"Exodus" copyright 2003 by the University of Northern Iowa. Originally published in the 2003 issue of _Inner Weather_.

"Plague" copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in _Alien Worlds: Beyond Space & Time_ #9.

"Playing Thief" copyright 2012 by _The Corner Club Press_. Originally published in Vol. II, Issue VII.

"Stranded" copyright 2013 by Robert P. Hansen. Originally published in the June issue of _The Fifth Dimension_.

"Sturgeon's General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health" copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in _Startling Science Stories_ #31.

"Washishisha" copyright 2011 by Robert P. Hansen. Originally published in the December 2011 issue of _The Fifth Dimension_.

"Worms" copyright 1999 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in _Exciting UFO Stories_ #5.

Cover copyright 2015 by American Book Design.

Special thanks to Ronda Swolley of Mystic Memories Copy Editing for the copy edit.

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Connect With Me

Additional Titles

Stories from _Have You Seen My Cat and Other Stories_

Baby Jesus*

Playing Thief*

Crossing Over

Natural Selection

Code 13 B

Stories from _Worms and Other Alien Encounters_

Worms

Sturgeon's General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health

Plague

Exodus

Stranded

Washishisha

Mock Turtle

Story from _Last Rites . . . And Wrongs_

Resurrection

Story from _The Drunken Wizard's Playmates and Other Stories_

A Skunk's Tail (or The Invention of Magic)

*"Baby Jesus" and "Playing Thief" were also published in _Last Rites . . . And Wrongs_.

About the Author

# Baby Jesus

It was the kind of thing that happens in ghettoes. That's what everybody said; that and "This kind of thing just doesn't happen here." It shouldn't happen anywhere, if you ask me, and when it happened in our little Iowa town (pop. 218), we just didn't know what the hell to do.

It started out this way: Reggie Pederson, my neighbor, was putting up Christmas lights just before dawn on the day after Thanksgiving. But I had fixed him. I had started at midnight, and as soon as I saw him outside, I flipped the switch and _voila_! My house lit up like a Christmas tree in heat. He paused, and even in the twilight of impending dawn, I could see Reggie's mouth drop open. Then he started muttering to himself. He was probably cursing me, but I couldn't quite make it out.

I had my normal lights, of course. Tiny white and green ones were hanging from the gutters like flashing neon icicles, flickering blue and red patterns were scattered through the hedges by the curb, a steady kaleidoscope of colors clothed the railing around the deck, and a three-foot-tall Santa stood by my door to bid everyone welcome. Rudolph and the other reindeer (along with three elves I named Pixel, Nixie, and Rocko) held the roof down. My driveway was candy-cane lane. All of this was normal, expected. In my house, I had a little tree with tinsel, ornaments, and a few lights; Christmas cards taped on door frames, window frames, and mantle; and a small plate of Oreo cookies (Me, bake? Ha!). I really don't have much of the so-called "Christmas Spirit," but I can't stand Reggie having one up on me. And that was why I had added the Nativity scene to my Christmas ensemble.

I put it to the left—pardon me, on the south side of the house, the one closest to the Pederson's. There really wasn't anywhere else to put it; my yard's not that big, and I had to have it where Reggie could see it when I turned on the lights. I bought it at an internet auction and had it delivered to my sister's place so he couldn't suspect anything. I'd brought it home in my 1999 indigo blue metallic Isuzu Hombre after Thanksgiving dinner (my sister's a _good_ cook), and left it there until after Reggie's lights had gone off. So, when I flipped the switch, the first thing Reggie saw was the Nativity scene: Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men, an Angel, a sheep, a dog, and a donkey all looking in at Baby Jesus nestled in straw under a wooden canopy. It took a long time to set it up with only a flashlight to help me, but I'd gotten it done. It looked pretty fair, all things considered, and filled up a good chunk of my lawn. The hollow statues are about half life-sized, and the paint had held up nicely during the shipping. There were a few chips, here and there, but they weren't noticeable until you got close. Reggie's look was precious, and, before he turned back to his own decorating, I took a quick picture for posterity. Or it would have been if my flash had gone off. A Kodak moment if ever there was one, and it came out a blurry gray blob. I showed it to Reggie, anyway, so I could gloat and say, with a straight face, "Remember this?"

This was the day after Thanksgiving, before it happened. We don't really know when it happened though, because, like most of the people in town, I left my Christmas decorations up until New Year's Day. That was when the shit hit the fan, so to speak, because it was on New Year's Day that I started taking mine down. I'd already boxed up the lights from the gutters, hedges, and deck when I turned to the Nativity scene. I carried Joseph, Mary, and the Wise Men into the garage and had just taken down the canopy when I noticed it. There was snow on the ground (it was cold, too; almost zero), and the color was all wrong. Baby Jesus, as far as I could remember, hadn't been wrapped in a pale blue blanket or wearing a topaz stocking cap with a cute little yarn ball on top of it. The one I'd put there was painted white with a beatific halo. So, when I bent over for a better look, I didn't see my statue of Baby Jesus. Instead, there was a dead baby in the manger, one that wasn't part of the package I'd bought on-line. Someone had tossed a baby away in my Nativity scene.

At first, I couldn't believe it. Then I got angry because it was _my_ Nativity scene that got violated. Then I got cold as hell because I'd stood still too long. That was when I went inside and called the Sheriff. Then I called the fire department. Then I called the news. Maybe I shouldn't have called the news, but my neighbors would have done it, anyway, and the money from the hotline would come in handy. Christmas isn't cheap, and neither is an ex-wife. Besides, the fire department showed up first. Or, more precisely, the volunteers pulled up one at a time or in pairs until all ten were milling around wondering what to do and telling each other not to touch anything. Mike Tavers, who had arrived first, had called them all on his cell phone. Then he called the Highway Patrol. Then the news. They told him they were already on their way (the news people, that is), and he was a bit disappointed that he wouldn't get the $500 for the tip.

Jim Norberg, a burly guy with a good heart, was crying when he started asking me questions. That was bizarre. I never thought of him, an all-conference halfback in high school, as the crying type, but the tears oozed from his hazel eyes, trickled down his pudgy cheeks, and formed tiny icicles that dangled from his salt-and-pepper moustache. I guess the numbness wore off faster on him than it did on us, and he needed to do something. I was too busy being queasy to cry. Sick to my stomach, as the saying goes. His voice caught, and he had to clear it twice, before he got his first question out. No, I told him, I didn't recognize it. No, I don't know who could have done it. Yes, lots of people came to look at my lights (I made the "must see" list of Christmas lights for the fourth time, by the way). No, I don't remember seeing anybody taking a closer look at the Nativity scene. But it must have happened before it snowed (Dec. 18th) because there hadn't been any footprints in the snow when I started taking down the Nativity scene. I would have noticed them. Oh, you might want to talk to Reggie about it. He got woken up by a car driving off a few weeks ago, so maybe he can help pin down the date.

Then the Sheriff showed up. He asked me the same questions, and I gave him the same answers. I also told him I hadn't smelled anything unusual, but it had been below freezing most of the time and the canopy gives lots of shade. He wanted me to show him what the Nativity scene looked like before I started taking it down, so I said, "Wouldn't it be better to leave the crime scene as it is?"

Crime scene, not the kind of thing you want to say about your own back yard—or side yard, for that matter. That was when he took out the yellow tape with bold black letters saying—POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS—over and over again. When he started cordoning off my front door, we got in an argument. That's when he said I couldn't be ruled out as a suspect, and I almost hit him. I told you I was angry. But he relented, and I went inside, fuming.

Then the Highway Patrol showed up, and I answered the questions again. When I asked if they ever compared notes, she laughed and said they would, later. In the meantime, did I know who the baby's parents were... ?

By this time, there were so many cop cars that the whole street looked like Christmas had returned for an encore. People—firemen, highway patrol officers, sheriff and deputies, and nosy neighbors—were coming and going as if they owned the place. My place. It was into this bedlam that the news reporter came and started asking questions. The same ones. Only, this time, the reporter also asked "How does it feel to find a dead baby in your Nativity scene?" Those were his exact words (I have a copy of the interview tape), and that's when I got arrested. I shouldn't have hit him, I know, but he did ask me how it felt, so I showed him. He wasn't very understanding. The money from reporting the news covered the fine for assault and battery and most of the court costs, so I figured we were even.

Well, the various investigators investigated, asked questions, and tromped all over my lawn for most of the day. I was glad I didn't have a coffee pot (I never touch the stuff), and by the time they left, I wished I didn't have a bathroom either. I do have a mop, though, and had to use it several times to clean up the melting, dirty snow. In the end, they left, took the baby, took the Nativity scene, and hauled me off to jail. (It's difficult to sweet-talk a reporter _before_ you slug him; you try it _after_ you've given him a black eye!)

It was while I was in the cell waiting for my court hearing (it was a holiday, remember?) and watching TV that the news came on. The reporter had a nice shiner and told the world about "Baby Jesus," the name they had given it instead of "Baby Doe." He never once mentioned how he got the black eye, but I couldn't keep from laughing when they were showing the footage of my interview and cut it off just before I slugged him. He finished the segment with "When I asked him how it felt, he said he was angry, very angry." His eye twitched a bit as he said it. Or maybe I just thought it did.

A few days later, after I'd paid my fine and done "time served," I saw a news update. The baby was dead _before_ it was put in the manger and had been healthy when it died. A few days after that, the name of the parents were released, but they weren't charged with anything. Apparently, they hadn't committed any crime other than "improper disposal of a corpse." There wasn't any abuse or murder at all—not that I was disappointed, exactly, since it ended a lot of speculation for the town gossips. The baby had just died one night in its sleep—the doctors call it "Sudden Infant Death Syndrome"—and the parents had been mortified. Worse, they didn't have money for a funeral, and when they were driving by and saw the Nativity scene in my yard, they hoped I would have enough Christmas Spirit to help them out. So they had left their baby and taken the statue with them. The father said they left a note, too, but I never found one. Maybe it blew away when it snowed.

When the police picked them up, the mother was rocking my statue back and forth, a bottle held to its mouth, murmuring lullabies.

No, I didn't want to press charges—as long as I got the statue back.

Somebody with more Christmas Spirit (and more money!) than me paid for Baby Jesus' funeral. (His real name was Kirk McDougal, but I'll always think of him as Baby Jesus.) The mother received psychiatric treatment at the state's expense. And me? I conceded Christmas to Reggie and auctioned off all my Christmas decorations on the internet. I made a bundle on the notorious Nativity scene, especially the Baby Jesus. Some people will collect _anything_.

# Playing Thief

He must have had two Y chromosomes. That's the only way I can explain it. Men with two Y chromosomes make the worst criminals because they usually aren't bright enough to get away with their crimes. That's what one of my psych professors said, anyway. She was talking about a study that criticized another study for saying that men with two Y chromosomes tended to be violent criminals. That's not true, even though there seems to be a disproportionately high number of men with two Y chromosomes in prison. It's really because they do stupid things. I remember this because of the story my professor told us about one of them.

This guy wanted some money so he decided to steal an ATM machine. He wrapped a chain around the machine and hooked the chain to his bumper. He got in his truck, revved the motor, and promptly pulled his bumper off. Well, the bumper, chain, and license plate were still there when the police arrived, and it was easy for them to track down the would-be thief. The video was just the nail in his coffin, so to speak, and after viewing it, the public defender, once he stopped laughing, took the first deal the prosecutor gave. So much for two Y chromosomes and the criminal mastermind.

OK, much of that last paragraph isn't really what the professor told us, but the gist of it is. There was a bumper and video, I just ad-libbed the rest of it to help you understand what criminals with two Y chromosomes do. I know, because I ran into one in a Laundromat—or more precisely, he ran into me.

It's a cheap Laundromat; I don't have a lot of money to spare on the better places. Too many student loans to pay back. It's only a few blocks from where I live, and I usually walk to it. The front door scares the hell out of me; it's got one of those big swinging arms at the top, and one of the bolts is loose. Someday, it's going to fall and hit someone in the head. I've left notes about it in the "Problems" box, but whoever owns the place doesn't care. If it comes down on me, I'll sue. (I've even signed the notes and made dated copies for my records.) Even so, I always enter cautiously and involuntarily duck.

Inside, there's only a dozen washers and dryers. Most of the washers look like they've been there since the 80s, but there are a few newer ones on the end. I try to use them as much as possible, which is pretty much always because I do my laundry at midnight on Sundays. It's a good time to do laundry, and I like the solitude. The few times others have come in, they've dropped their laundry in the washers, left, and come back to put them in the dryer. Usually, I'm gone before they get back again.

The dryers are a bitch. Sometimes they work, and sometimes they don't. I've left scorching notes about that, too, and they sometimes helps and sometimes don't. The owner has a rather cold heart, I guess.

There's not much to do while I wait for my laundry to wash and dry, so I always bring a book with me. The TV doesn't have cable, and the reception of the local stations is pathetic. There's not much on at midnight on Sundays, anyway, so it doesn't matter. The video games, though, are another matter, and I usually spend a dollar or two in the pinball machine before I get frustrated. I've never been very good at pinball.

There's a bulletin board by the door, too, and I've read the flyers posted on it a few times. One about confidential testing for AIDS. Another about church meetings. Lost dogs or cats show up, sometimes. The "approximate" time for the washers and dryers. Underneath the bulletin board is a little table that would feel at home in a junkyard. On it are magazines that were probably _stolen_ from a junkyard. I read part of one, once, a two-month-old copy of _Entertainment Weekly_ , and that was enough for me. After that (my first time there), I started bringing a book with me.

Well, this particular Sunday night I had just put my clothes in to wash and returned to the novel I was reading. It was Heinlein's _Moon is a Harsh Mistress_ , and I had finally gotten the knack of reading the pidgin prose of the narrator. He never uses "the" except in dialogue, and sometimes he uses an "Understood I" as a subject. If I hadn't read a lot of Heinlein's other books, I probably would have given up on this one after a few pages. Anyway, as I opened the book, I saw this guy out of the corner of my eye. He was walking toward the door—there was a big picture-window with "Suds Plus Laundry" painted on it—and had something black in his hand. The street light glinted off it, and I got a bit nervous. I generally don't like being around people, and that's why I do my laundry when I do it. Well, he opens the door and—

No. The hinge above the door does not break; the arm does not fall and clonk him on the head. True, it would have simplified everything if it had, but that wasn't my luck. Instead, he opened the door, brandished a knife, and said the one cliché no one wants to hear: "Give me your money."

Well, that was a problem. I hadn't brought any more than what I needed for my laundry. All I had in my pocket was two dollars in quarters. And lint. Lint never goes away; it accumulates. Especially in dryers like they have at Suds Plus. Anyway, I must have looked dumb because he repeated it, more loudly, and stepped closer.

I shrugged, stood up, reached into my pocket, and handed him my handful of quarters.

He looked at them, scowled, threw them on the floor—they clattered like the slot machines in the casino I went to once—and demanded. "I said give me your money!"

By now, you can imagine how frightened I was. It was bad enough to be robbed, but to be called a _liar_ , too? I looked helplessly at the few quarters still rolling on the floor, waved my hand, and said, "That's all I have."

"What?" he growled, as he took another step toward me.

"Look," I said, shoving my hands in my pockets and pulling them out. The only thing that clattered to the floor was my key ring. (The lint fell silently.) "Do you see any money?"

He opened his mouth to snarl something, and I half-screamed, "Look around you! Do you think anyone with money would come _here_?"

Something must have registered, because he looked around for the first time and thought about what I said. Maybe it was my fear that had sunk in, maybe not. But what he did next baffles me to this day. He started toward the dryers with his knife, turned toward me, and said, "Get out of here!"

Well, I didn't need any more coaxing than that: I left. After I was out the door, I looked in through the window and saw him prying on the coin box of one of the dryers. Then I ran three blocks to the gas station and called the cops. I was standing on the corner, waiting, when they showed up about fifteen minutes later. I watched from across the street as they went inside. The thief turned, dropped his knife, and that was that. No fight, no fuss, he just dropped the knife and shrugged.

After they cuffed him, I crossed the street and went in. The police were busy with their prisoner, and I had my keys and three quarters in my hand before they stopped me. "That's evidence," one of them said, taking the quarters from me.

"No," I said, shaking my hand and pointing to the floor. "I dropped two dollars worth when he came in. I need them to dry my clothes."

"No you don't," the thief said over his shoulder as they led him outside.

"Hand them over," the cop said, opening an "evidence" bag.

"Fine," I said, dropping the three quarters in the bag. "But I'm keeping my keys. If you take them, I can't get back in my apartment."

He thought for a moment, looked at the evidence around him, and said, "All right."

Ah, the evidence around him. The thief had been busy. He had jimmied open most of the dryers and a couple of washing machines before the cops arrived. His cache of quarters was scattered on the bench we fold clothes on, and the officer went over with his bag and started counting them. When he finished, I asked how much he'd gotten out of the machines, and the policeman shook his head. "A lousy twelve dollars," he said, glancing back at the vandalized machines. "And he probably did a couple hundred dollars worth of damage in the process."

Twelve dollars. A misdemeanor, I suppose. A slap on the wrist. Then the officer's partner returned with his note pad and started asking me questions. Later, I'd have to give a more complete statement at the station, but he wanted to get the basic facts from me while they were still fresh in my mind. When I got to the part where the thief threw my quarters on the floor, the buzzer for one of the dryers went off and we jumped. The second one went off a few moments later, and I stared at them and started laughing. After a few moments, the officer asked, "What's so funny?"

I pointed at the dryers and said, "Those are mine."

"So?" he said, still not understanding.

"They were in the washers when I left."

# Crossing Over

"I was running," I told the heavy-set man with a limp in his voice, as if he were talking around an unlit cigar. "I don't know why," I added, giving him chestnut brown hair, shiny like the coat of a sweaty mare after a brief run, and a thick moustache, the kind that dangles about an inch on either side of the mouth. No beard though; it didn't seem right. "I might have been running to something," I paused, raising my head. He would have hazel eyes, lightly flecked with burnt umber streaks, slightly dilated from his discomfort. "Or away from it," I finished, wondering if he would have an earring.

He jotted down notes, slowly, with a long, heavy stroke. Maybe he was doodling? I shook my head, mostly to clear away the image that was developing in my mind. "I shouldn't have been running," I said in a rueful, self-deprecating tone; at least, that was how I felt, and I did nothing to conceal it. "I ran into something," I added, pointing at my broken nose. "Something hard."

"The alley wall, perhaps?" His voice was gruff, just below the range of a tenor. "It will heal, though," he added, a tinge of harshness in his voice, the kind of tone a father would use with a wayward child who had played with fire ants and gotten stung. You know, the "I told you so" voice parents have mastered before the second child pops out. He didn't mean it, of course, and it was a barely noticeable deviation from the detached, not-quite-friendly, not-quite-unfriendly, utterly disinterested, completely bored tone the detective had been using up to that point. "I need the whole story. Start at the beginning, and leave no details out, no matter how trivial they might seem."

"All right," I sighed. "I suppose it started when I left home that morning. It was early, and the sun was warm on the left side of my face when I stepped outside. It was fairly quiet—a few cars idling, a few doors closing, footfalls of passersby, subdued chatter—all the normal range of sounds for that time of day. There was an overall chill in the air, a damp one, like what happens when a fog is lifting. The smells were normal: a touch of sea salt on the breeze, the foulness of exhaust, the pungency of new asphalt from one block over, the tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked bagels from the bakery on the corner. I wasn't tempted by the bakery, though; I had already eaten. Two eggs over easy, with toast, milk, and a little orange juice. The orange juice was a bit too pulpy for my taste, but I drank it anyway. The milk seemed watered down; like it always does when I buy it from the discount chain. I like to add a light sprinkle of nutmeg on my eggs, and I had overdone it that morning. They were still edible, but the nutmeg was too strong, it almost overwhelmed my taste buds, nearly drowning out the other tastes. The toast was pretty normal; I like it lightly browned with a healthy spread of butter. If I hadn't eaten, I would have stopped at the bakery for a custard-filled long john dipped in chocolate. I try not to overindulge, though, and keep my donut days to three a week, sometimes four."

He sighed and asked, "Is this really important?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. You said to start at the beginning, and that's what I'm doing. _Nothing_ that day was typical. I woke up earlier than usual, and, being a Tuesday, I normally had that foot long. Usually, I walk down the street to the bakery and catch the bus on the opposing corner. This time I walked up the street, turned into the alley to catch the other bus, the one that goes by the classic arcade. I don't play, of course, but I love the sounds of those old-time games, especially Donkey Kong and Pac-Man. I used to play them, years ago, and it brings back memories. So, when I'm feeling nostalgic, I stop by the arcade for a few of those memories on my way to or from work. That's how I was feeling on that Tuesday. Nostalgic."

"And that was," he said, rifling through his notepad. "Three days ago, right?"

I frowned. "So you say," I replied slowly. I had decided he had an earring. Not the normal kind of earring, though; he would never be ostentatious about it. A stud, put on backward so only the little pin would show. He probably had a nipple ring that matched it, but I stopped conjecturing at that point; some images are not worth pursuing, and this seemed to be one of them. "The morning you say I disappeared."

"As best we could determine," he replied, "you went into that alley about 8 a.m., and you came out of it a few hours ago."

"But I _didn't_ disappear," I protested. "I—" How do I explain it to him? He hadn't been there, and I'm not entirely sure _I_ had been there. It felt like I was in a different place, and the things I encountered seemed to be radically different from what we have here. But I couldn't be sure. And if I told him what I thought had happened, they'd put me in a straight jacket and haul me off to the loony bin. That's what I would do with me. But, then, that would probably be a good place to be for a few days, so I plunged on. "I _shifted_. That's the best word to describe it. I was in the alley one moment, surrounded by the reek of garbage, and I noticed something unexpected: the scent of death. I have smelled it a few other times, and it isn't an odor I like. It's a rancid, overpowering odor, and I have a very sensitive nose. I gagged and fought back the urge to vomit. I've smelled a lot of bad odors before, and it only takes a few minutes to adjust to them, to push them out of my mind. The smell of death, though, that's far worse; it isn't something I ever get used to. Put a pound of hamburger on the window sill for a few days, and you'll get the idea. It stays with you."

"I know the smell of death," he muttered under his breath, not expecting to be heard. He _definitely_ had a nipple ring. And a tattoo of a dolphin on his right bicep when he flexed it; when it was relaxed, it looked more like a sardine.

"Whatever it was," I continued, "it had been dead for two or three days. Less than that and the decomposition isn't rancid yet. More than that and the odor begins to dissipate. This was a _strong_ smell—or, perhaps, the nutmeg had made my nose more sensitive than usual. I held my breath, pinched my nose, and continued through the alley, my ears grasping for any little sound, my fingers alert for any unexpected twinges, some little bump that shouldn't be there."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked. "Were you groping around?"

I laughed, "Are you kidding?" I said when I half-regained my breath. "If there was something decaying in the alley, _I_ didn't want to touch it." I shook my head. "No, I meant with my cane. I've walked through that alley a hundred times. I know where the garbage piles are. I know where the potholes are. I know the downspouts and puddles. I can walk it with my eyes closed," I added, feeling my lips curl up a bit on the left side of my mouth as I tilted my head slightly the other way. "Then my cane struck something, something soft, something that squelched."

"Ah," he said, and the scratching of his pencil stilled. There was a slight rustle as he shook his head. "That explains _that_."

"Explains what?" I asked.

His chair squeaked as he leaned backward, and a moment later he said, "You weren't the first to disappear, you know."

"Oh," I nodded. "I know. I heard about four disappearances in the news. But none of them had returned."

He shifted again and said, "One did. Just before you disappeared."

"I must have missed that news broadcast—" I paused, beginning to realize the implications. "Where?" I asked, my chest tightening a bit. "Where did he return?"

His chair squawked again, and when he replied his voice was a bit closer, as if he were leaning forward against his desk. "In the same alley from which you disappeared."

"Oh," I said, digesting the information and finding it distasteful. But I had to know. "When did you find him?" I asked.

He hesitated, and when he replied, his voice was a little less gruff, a little less bored. "The day after you disappeared," he said. "We found his body while we were looking for you."

I shook my head, and when I spoke, I said each syllable with great care. "The decomposition."

"Yes," he said. "The body was—" he paused for a moment, as if he were searching for the right word, then settled on "disfigured. It must have been your cane." He paused again before adding, "We'll have to take a look at it."

I placed it across the arms of my chair, my hands on top of it. "I need it," I told him.

More chair squeaks, this time as if a great weight had been lifted from it, and he walked around his desk to stand beside me. "Let me see that," he said, not quite to me. "There's—"

I nodded. "I know," I said, noting that his cologne had been applied with a considerable amount of restraint. It was rustic, and not altogether unpleasant. His breath, though, was another matter. "There is still a faint odor of decay."

"I tell you what," he said. "Let me send it down to forensics, and they can get the samples they need while we talk. I'll make sure they bring it back before you leave."

The heavy weight of his hand fell on my cane, and the smooth wood added a slight pressure on my palms as he gently tried to lift it from my grasp. I resisted, but said nothing.

"You know we have to do it," he said.

I nodded, but still kept my grip on my cane. "Not yet," I said. "I need it."

"Not in here," he said. "If you need to go somewhere—"

I shook my head. "You don't understand," I said. "You _can't_ understand. Not yet." His hand was still on the cane, but I refused to let him take it.

"Look," he said. "I have probable cause, and withholding evidence is a serious crime."

I shrugged and didn't let go. "I know," I said. "But I still can't give it to you."

"Why not?" he demanded as the pressure eased a bit.

I pursed my lips and shook my head. "You won't understand. I have to tell you what happened, first. Then, if you still want it, I will go with you to the forensic lab, and you can take your samples there."

"We can get you a different cane," he said, one last effort to convince me. But I didn't let go. "All right," he said, finally releasing his grip. "I'll have them come up here to get their samples." The light breeze told me he was returning to his side of the desk.

I waited for him to make the call, and then waited some more. Eventually, he prompted me to continue. I still waited. I was still looking for the words to explain what had happened to me. My fingers clenched my cane much too tightly, and I forced them to relax, one finger at a time. Eventually, I began, "When I was a boy, I watched cartoons. Just like everyone else, I suppose. And I remember this one. I don't remember which one it was, exactly, but I think it was Bugs Bunny; I watched a lot of Bugs Bunny when I was a boy. It doesn't really matter, though." I paused, my fingers felt as if they were glued to the cane, and in a sense, they were. It had been that way ever since I had returned. "Anyway," I continued, "it was one of those philosophical moments that sometimes pop up in cartoons. The character was looking directly at us, and then, when it turned, we find out it's a flat, two dimensional being. Maybe you've seen it? Or something like it?"

"Yes," he said, "but I don't know why you're telling me about it."

"Well, something like that happened to me," I said. "I was making my way around that—" I paused, forcing myself to say it "—the body, and I felt this sort of tingling sensation. The hairs on my right arm stood on end and tried to run away. It was exhilarating and perplexing. My left arm," I paused to lift it "felt normal, but my right," I paused again and lifted my right hand, fingers splayed outward. The cane dangled horizontally from my palm, and I shrugged. "It felt strange, as if it were being attracted to _something_."

He had stopped writing, and I didn't need to see him to know he was staring. I pretended like I was dribbling a basketball, and the cane never once left my palm. He gasped, and I smiled sadly before continuing.

"Something had grabbed my cane," I said. "It pulled." I paused for a moment, trying to think of an analogy. Then I had one. "Have you ever had a scarf caught in an elevator's doors? It pulls you toward it, and if you're not quick or lucky, you might get strangled. Well, it was like that. Something had grabbed my cane, and I was being pulled along with it whether I wanted to be or not. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I got pulled along with it, and we went _through_."

I heard him stand and walk around the desk again, and a few seconds later, he tugged gently on the cane. I felt it briefly disconnect from my hand, but only for a moment. I don't know how far away from my hand he got it before he began to grunt from the effort, but when I curled up my fingers like a hawk's talons ready to strike, he let out a gasp, and the cane returned to my palm with a sharp, painless slap.

"I don't really know how to explain it," I said, "except with that cartoon. I wasn't turned into a two-dimensional figure—at least, I don't think that's what happened to me—but it was something like that. I felt my body change, starting with my right arm. I don't know if it flattened me or not, but what started as a tingling in my right arm pulled the rest of me toward it, and I sort of pivoted on the _z_ -axis."

_"Z_ -axis?" he asked.

I heard someone come up to the door of his office, the soft steps of a man in loafers. He knocked, solidly, but not forcefully. The door opened, and, amid the sudden tumult of muffled telephones, typing, and conversation, the man asked, "Detective Green?"

"Garth," Detective Green replied. "Come in, and close the door behind you. I want you to take a sample from this man's cane."

"Why didn't you just send it down?" he asked as he entered and closed the door.

I had a sudden, strong impression of him, and I said, without turning or thinking, "Short-cropped black hair, carefully manicured eyebrows, and no moustache or beard. He left the wrinkled white lab coat behind, but brought a bag to collect the samples. He is wearing blue jeans and brown suede loafers with double-knotted laces. He slips them on and off easily, since it takes too long to retie them. His silk shirt is a light gray, short sleeved, and with a smudge on the left side of his collar. It has a hint of mustard on it."

"What?" Garth asked. "How did you know that?"

"More to the point," Detective Green interjected, "how did you describe him so well?"

I sighed and shook my head. "I don't know," I said. "Any more than I know you have a nipple ring and tattoo of a dolphin on your bicep."

"But—" Garth began, stepping closer. "Everyone around here knows about that tattoo. And you could have seen my reflection in the window."

"Yes," I agreed, sadly. "If I could see."

"What?" he said as he stepped rapidly forward until he was in front of me. "That's impossible!" Then he realized I was blind and muttered, "How—"

I shrugged again. "I don't know, Garth. I just had an intense impression of what you looked like, even down to your fly being open." A moment later, I heard a zipper close. "I don't _see_ you, not really; but my imagination has been far more active since I came back. Now, when I hear people talking, fleeting images of them come floating into my mind. Sometimes those images are rather intense, like the one I had of you."

"Perhaps," Detective Green said, "you should collect that sample."

Garth hesitated a long moment, then set his case down with a thump. It snapped as he opened it, and that balloon-being-stretched sound followed quickly after as he put on the latex gloves. When he tried to take the cane away from me, Detective Green said, "Don't bother. Just scrape some of it off and test the DNA. It should match the Tanner case."

"But—"

"Not now, Garth," Detective Green ordered. "I'm in the middle of his statement. After that," he paused for a few seconds as Garth collected the sample. Garth needed to use a better deodorant, but his hair smelled like apples—not _of_ apples, but like them; a slight metallic tinge told me it had been synthesized.

"Careful," I said as his scalpel—at least, that's what I assumed it was—scraped across the surface of the wood. "I would prefer not to have the cane damaged. Also, if you have something to clean and disinfect it, I would appreciate it. The scent is fading but still noticeable."

"It's evidence," Detective Green ordered. "I don't know of what, yet, but it is still evidence. In the meantime, why don't you continue? What," he shuffled a few pages of his notes, and then finished, "What is this _z_ -axis thing you mentioned?"

"Ah, yes," I answered. "The _z_ -axis is an algebraic term. The _x_ -axis and _y_ -axis are the length and width, and the _z_ -axis is the vertical height. I had stopped when I encountered the body, and the cane was being pulled toward something. I tried to drop it, but it wouldn't let me. Then, without moving, I was pivoted on the _z_ -axis, kind of like a door opening on its hinges. The cane was my hinge, and I was pivoting on it. I wasn't _moving_ , exactly—at least, not on the _x_ -axis or _y_ -axis—but I did _pivot_. That's when the tingling sensation surrounded me completely, and all the normal things went away. The scent of garbage. The intense rancidness of decay. The distant grumble of car motors. The faint tinge of donuts. Even the nutmeg was a memory. All of that was gone, and in its place..." My voice trailed off into silence as I tried to remember. It had already begun to fade. Mostly, I just remembered the running. I did that a lot.

"What are you talking about?" Garth asked as he put his sample in his bag and closed it.

"Wait," Detective Green said. "Take samples of his clothes, hair, and swab his mouth. Don't do anything with them, though. Just collect them for me."

I thought about protesting, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. So, I asked, instead, "What do you want them for? Am I a suspect?"

"I haven't decided that, yet," he said.

I waited for him to continue, but when he didn't, I asked, "Which question did you answer?"

"Both," he said, and I knew he was smiling. "But why don't you tell me about that other place," he prompted.

I nodded, slowly, and frowned as Garth began snipping samples from my clothing. "I'll try to minimize the damage," he said.

I shrugged. "Do what you need to. I'm going to throw them out later, anyway."

"That makes it easier," he said, snipping away.

"Scrape his shoes, too," Detective Green added. "I want everything you can manage."

"I'll treat him like a rape victim," Garth said, snipping a lock of hair.

I tried to ignore Garth as best I could as I started over. "I was running," I said. "I did that a lot while I was there. Funny thing, that; I never ran into anything. There were plenty of things there to run into, but I always seemed to know where they were. I didn't even need my cane. I couldn't _see_ exactly; rather, I _felt_ everything. It was as if my sense of touch had extended outward, all around me, and whenever I was about to run into something, I touched it. I think that's what's still happening," I mused.

"Oh?" Detective Green said. "You mean you felt Garth when he walked in?"

I frowned. "I suspect so," I said. "Colors have a particular feel to them. Normally, I can only tell if they are dark or light by their feel, but now it's much clearer. I wasn't always blind, by the way, so I do know what colors look like. As for the shape of things, I think that's the air circulating around them. If you pay attention to it, you can tell when someone walks by, but now I can sense how it compresses when I near things. That's what I think happened when Garth opened the door. The sudden shift in air pressure let me see around him. The acuteness of the experience has lessened considerably since I've been back, and I was taken aback by the richness of the experience."

"Since you've been back?" Garth asked.

"From the other place."

"Other place?"

"Exactly," I said, nodding. "Don't ask me where it's at, because I don't know. I _think_ it's at right angles to this one, but there's no way for me to be sure."

"Right angles," Garth said, scraping under my fingernails.

"He shifted on the _z_ -axis," Detective Green offered. "Why don't we let him tell us about it?"

Garth paused when he got to my right hand and realized the cane was attached to it. He tried to push it down, and I smiled. "Don't bother," Detective Green said. "It's attached to him, like a magnet."

"Magnet?" Garth asked, testing the cane before working his way around it to collect his samples. "It's made of wood," he muttered.

"I think," I said, "I was running in circles."

"Tell us what it was like there."

"Strange," I said. "It was almost completely silent. Even my footfalls sounded like I was running on pillows. The colors were vibrant, chaotic, rapidly changing. I couldn't _see_ them, of course, but I knew they were there. Warm and cold pulsations all around. There were no smells, either. _Nothing_. I couldn't see, I couldn't smell, and what sounds there were were so muted that they could just as well not have existed. But I could still feel things, and I think my heightened sense of touch overcompensated for the absence of the other senses. I had that happen when I lost my sight, and this was like that, only different. It wasn't natural—at least if we apply the rules of _this_ world to it. There, I think it was natural."

"It must have been disorienting," Garth said, putting his hand on my chin. "I need to swab your cheek," he added. I opened my mouth and let him do what he needed to do. "I think I'll get samples out of your nose and ears, too."

"Should I drop my trousers?" I asked, sarcastically.

"Well," Garth began, but I cut him off.

"I don't think so, Garth. And," I added, "if I sneeze, it's not my fault."

"I'll be gentle," he said, probing indifferently for the samples. "And if you sneeze, it will just give me another sample to process."

But I didn't sneeze.

"All right," Detective Green said. "You were running in a place you could feel but that was about it. Why do you think you were running?"

"I was scared," I replied, not knowing why I said it. "It—"

A sudden sense of dread ran through me; my shoulders scrunched in upon themselves and I shuddered. My breath caught in my throat, and my anal sphincter squeezed as tightly as it could. My toes scrunched up. My fingers quivered so much that my cane rattled on the chair arms.

"What is it?" Garth demanded, setting his gloved hand on my quavering arm. "What's wrong?"

I blinked a few times and my breath eased out of me. My hands stopped shaking, and I forced my muscles to relax. "Don't do that," I said. "Don't put anything in my ear."

Then I knew what it was that I didn't want to remember, and I told them. "It was like running in a dream," I said. "You know? Like when you're being chased by something you can't quite see? Something gray with shadow, amorphous enough to congeal into all of your fears wrapped together? That's what it was like there. Something gray. No, not gray, really; something without color. Yes, that's it. Something without color. Here I was completely surrounded by a kaleidoscope of rapidly shifting hues, and this thing approached me that was absent of all color. It reached out a tendril—not the kind of tendril that octopi have, but one like an amoeba stretching out a polyp to envelope a morsel of food. That tendril—"

I was talking too quickly, breathing too rapidly, and clenching my fists. I knew it, and so did Garth. It takes quite a while to process a rape victim, and he was still swabbing and snipping and scraping. "Easy," he said. "It's over. Whatever happened to you won't happen again."

"Ha!" I scoffed, glaring at him. At least, if I had eyes, I would have been glaring at him, so I let my voice do it for me. "How the hell can you know that?" I demanded. "If you had asked me twenty years ago that I would be scooped up out of this world and trapped in another one, I wouldn't have believed it possible. But I was, and who can say it won't happen again?"

"Easy," Garth repeated. "It's not happening now, is it?"

I continued to glare, then nodded, begrudgingly, I suppose, because he did have a point. I turned away from him, and snapped at the detective. "When that polyp touched me on my leg, my leg tingled, just like my arm had done, just before I pivoted. But it only tingled for a few seconds before it started to go numb. _That's_ when I started running."

"So, it was that thing that dragged you out of this world?" Detective Green asked.

"I think so," I said. "I know how strange it sounds, but I think it was fishing."

"Fishing?" he repeated. "What was it using for bait?"

That stumped me. It wasn't fishing, then. "Okay, maybe not fishing," I said. "But something like it. As I said, it was like an amoeba, and they send out probes to find food, and when they find it, it wraps its whole body around it. I was that food." When I said it, I knew that it was true. "I was its food, and when I realized that, my fight or flight reflex kicked in, and I flighted like my life depended upon it, mainly because it did."

"You ran," Detective Green prompted, and I nodded. "And you ended up back in the alley."

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I just ran. Eventually, I stopped running and realized how lost I was. But the thing wasn't following me. I don't think it could move fast enough to catch me, anyway."

"How did you get back, then?" he asked.

"I didn't," I said. "Not then, anyway. I was stranded in a completely alien world. I was lost. I had no idea how to get back to where I had arrived. I had no food. I had no shelter. I had no water. I didn't even know if that other place had those things. I knew it had air, since I wasn't dead, and I knew it had at least one monster, but that was about it. So, I started looking for the other things. It took a while. I don't know how long, since there didn't seem to be any day or night; it could have been all one or all the other for all I know. But eventually, I found some water—or, at least, something similar enough for it to be a substitute for water. By then, it didn't matter very much if it was going to kill me or save me, so I drank it. When it didn't kill me, I started looking for food. After what felt like a week, I found some."

"Wait a minute," Detective Green interrupted. "You were only gone a few days."

I nodded slowly. "So you say," I agreed. "But for me, it felt like a lot longer."

"How long?" he demanded.

I thought about lying at this point, but what was the point? He would either believe me or he wouldn't. "How old do I look to you?" I asked in lieu of an answer.

He took a moment before answering, "About forty five."

"Garth?"

"That sounds about right," he said. "Maybe a little older."

I nodded and asked, "What does it say my age is on the missing person's report?"

Detective Green shuffled some papers on his desk, opened a folder, shuffled a few more papers, and said, "You were born," he paused, then finished, "twenty-four years ago."

I nodded. "According to you," I said. "I was in that other place a long time."

"Twenty years?" he scoffed. "You can't be serious. You disappeared _three days ago_."

I nodded again. "Time doesn't work the same way there. That much I know for certain."

"Wait a minute," Detective Green said. "Let's go back to the amoeba thing. You said it tried to eat you, right? Is that what happened with the others?"

I shrugged. "How should I know? I never met anyone while I was there. What I _do_ know, though, is that there were more of those things in that place, and they were all fishing. Yes, I know that wasn't what they were doing, but I don't know what else to call it. Noodling? That might be better."

"Noodling?" Garth asked. He had finished collecting samples but apparently hadn't wanted to leave.

"I saw a documentary, once," I said. "These guys would stick their arms under water to catch river catfish. They'd put their hands in holes and wiggle their fingers to attract the fish, then bring them out after they clamped down. They called it noodling. That's what those things were doing: Sticking their polyps into holes to see what bit on them. I bit—at least, my cane did, and I was tugged along with it."

"That might explain how you got there," Detective Green said, "but how did you get back?"

I shrugged. "Patience, I suppose. Maybe desperation. I couldn't trace my steps back, but I kept looking. The holes, over there, are black. Literally; they absorb all of the colors cascading about them. I didn't realize this at first, though. I had been wandering around trying to find food, and I came across another one of those things. I saw its gray polyp being swallowed by a black hole, and watched it. I kept my distance, of course; I didn't want to be _its_ food, and after a while, it withdrew its polyp. That's when I realized what had happened to me. This time, though, it had something I didn't recognize, something that wasn't from here, something that wasn't able to run. It pulled it along with it until it was back in its lair, a concoction of colors that didn't shift as much as the rest of the area. The thing it took into its lair made noises for a while, but eventually fell silent. I watched for a little while, and then I decided to try my hand at fishing."

"You went noodling?" Garth asked.

I nodded, thinking back to the first time I tried it. "It was strange," I said. "I had no idea if it would work for me the way it did for that thing, but I was so hungry I had to try. I didn't even care if the amoeba thing came out of its lair and ate me. I didn't think it would, since it was still ingesting its meal, and from what I remembered of amoeba, I hoped it would have to digest most of it before feeding again. So, I stuck my hand in that black hole and wiggled my fingers." I frowned. "I didn't catch anything that time, but I tried again and again until I finally did. I don't know what it was I caught, but it nearly bit off my fingers. I can't blame it, really; I would have bitten me too. But it didn't stop me from eating it. Neither did the horrid taste of raw meat. After that, I started watching the gray things to see how they did it, and then I figured out a way to steal food from them. They were slow creatures, and all I had to do was avoid their polyps. I didn't worry much about food after that, but I won't tell you _what_ I ate."

"Did you eat people?" Detective Green asked.

I half-frowned, half-smiled. "That depends," I replied, "on what you mean by people. If you mean humans, then no, I didn't eat any humans. If you mean sentient, intelligent, human-like beings, then the answer is probably yes."

"You mean you ate dogs or cats?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "The only window to our world that I saw was the one I went through. The others went elsewhere, and I'm pretty sure I probably ate a few sentient aliens. But I can't be sure; I'm only guessing. I don't think it would have mattered, anyway; I only ate when I was _very_ hungry, since I tried to stay away from those amoebas."

"You did this for twenty years?" Garth asked, as if he believed me.

"Yes," I said. "But, somehow, I made my way back to the hole to our world."

"How did you know it was our world?" Detective Green asked.

I frowned. Should I tell him? If I did, what would he say about it? "Well," I said, hesitantly, then more forcefully. "I saw someone I recognized."

"Someone you—" he abruptly shifted gears. "Who?" he demanded.

"I didn't see her, exactly, but I knew her voice. She was screaming and protesting, but there was nothing she could do. The amoeba was already swallowing her up. She would be dead within minutes."

"Who?" he demanded more intensely.

I paused, lowered my gaze, and softly said, "Penny." I closed my eyes and tried to force the image out of my mind. "The thing was devouring little Penny Lange. She lives—" I stopped and corrected myself, "She _lived_ in the same apartment complex that I do, room 313."

Detective Green shuffled papers again. "She isn't on my list," he said.

"She will be," I said. "Once her mother gets home from work."

He typed on his computer for several seconds, pausing intermittently, and then declared, "There's no indication that she's missing."

I shrugged. I didn't need to have what I saw confirmed by them. I _knew_ what had happened to her. "While it was ingesting her, I made my way up to the hole and stepped through. I _tried_ to bring her with me, but I couldn't. I reached out with the hook of my cane and tried to get it around her arm, but all I got was the amoeba's polyp. I tried her leg, and the same thing. I even tried her neck," here, I shook my head and let my voice drain into silence. They could imagine whatever they wanted, but I didn't have to; I can still hear the snap of her neck chasing me through the hole. At least it was better than what would have happened to her. But the sudden give when my cane snapped back... I shook my head again. "I was stumbling backward, through the black hole, the polyp stretching out after me, trying to capture the larger morsel. Then," I finished, "I ran."

After a few seconds of silence, Detective Green made a brief phone call, giving orders to go to my apartment building and check on a girl named Penny Lange. After he hung up, he said, "Just in case there's something to your story."

I nodded, adding, _Or I killed her._ I probably would be thinking that if I were a detective listening to my bizarre story.

"Why didn't they eat Tanner?" Garth asked. "I mean, if they're eating people, shouldn't they have finished him off? He was still somewhat recognizable, at least in the general physical parameters."

I nodded. "I don't know what happened to him, since he was already egested before I was taken. But I did see a few of them regurgitate their meals. It didn't happen often, and usually a few minutes passed before they spat it back out. I have no idea why they did it, but once they had, they sent it back through the opening. Usually, they moved to a different hole after that."

"Makes sense," Garth said. "I wonder what it was about him that they didn't like."

"I wouldn't know," I said.

"There's something else that is nagging me," Detective Green said. "Let's assume for the sake of argument that what you've said is true—and I'm not saying it is. Why did you survive and the others didn't?

I thought about it for several seconds, then shrugged and pointed. "Perhaps it is because I have no eyes?"

"What would that have to do with it?" he demanded.

"The colors," I said. "I couldn't see them the way you do. I felt them, but that's different. I suppose they could have had a hypnotic effect. That would explain why they weren't able to fight back."

"I find it interesting that you have answers to all of our questions, particularly since what you are telling us is highly improbable."

I was expecting this; in fact, I was surprised that he had let it play out as long as he had. But I was ready for it. I nodded and said, "I know how it sounds, but I can prove it."

"How?" he demanded.

"I can take you to the hole and lead you through it," I said.

There was a long pause, then Detective Green said, "All right. Where is it?"

"It's in the alley, of course," I said, trying not to be patronizing. "But you can't see it. I can't either. But I can sense it. My cane will show it to me."

"Your cane," he repeated, then fell silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "Garth, why don't you run through those samples and we'll see what they tell us."

"And miss out on this?" The air circulated as if he were waving his hands around.

"You're assuming _we'll_ find something," Detective Green said. "I'm assuming _you'll_ find something."

There was a brief pause, then Garth said, "You're right." I heard the contents of his bag settle as he lifted it, and felt his sleeve rub against my arm as he passed. The door opened, and he walked out. As the door closed behind him, the phone rang, and Detective Green answered it. He said very little beyond "Hello" and "Are you sure?" and "I'll be there soon."

"Let's go," Detective Green said, rising. I did the same, and he put his hand on my elbow to guide me out. He was rushed, and his grip was a bit too firm for a guide dog, but I let it go. I was pretty sure he'd just found out that Penny Lange was missing.

* * * * *

The trip to the apartment complex didn't take very long, but his discussion with the frantic Ms. Lange did. She was rightly concerned, since _he_ had contacted _her_ about her daughter's disappearance before she—or anyone else—had even noticed she was gone. Then she had gone through her contact list calling everyone who could potentially know where she could be. By the time we had arrived, she had finished her calls and was quite angry. I understood her anger, and before I could think better, I offered my heartfelt and sincere condolences. I _almost_ told her I had killed her, but I couldn't bring myself to say it. Instead, I told her I had seen the thing that had taken her daughter, and that she had been killed by it. Needless to say, that extended the conversation.

Then Detective Green ushered me out of the room and asked me if I were crazy. "There is no evidence—"

"Aside from what I saw," I interrupted.

"What you saw?" he growled. "What you _saw_?" Then he was pulling me uncomfortably down the hallway to the elevator, a crotchety old device that sounds like a Rube Goldberg concoction. He said nothing else until we were outside, and he was hustling me toward the alley. I tried to keep up, but he was moving too fast, and I stumbled. He barely paused long enough to hold me up and half-carry me to its entrance.

My cane grew warmer as we approached, and I felt it pulling at my hand like a dowsing rod. He noticed, and pulled up short. "Where is it?" he demanded gruffly.

"There," I said, letting my cane point him in the right direction. "Slowly!" I protested as he bulldozed forward. He slowed down some, and when we passed the midway point, I moved closer to the exterior wall of the apartment complex. I couldn't see the apartment complex, of course, but I _could_ see the hole. It was a gaping black hole surrounded by lesser shades of gray. I stopped about five feet from it and raised my hand, letting the cane have its will with me.

My arm began tingling.

I stepped forward, and he gasped. I half-smiled. It must have been frightening to see the tip of the cane disappear. "This way," I said, moving forward another step. "Take my hand," I added, holding my left hand out. "You need to stay in contact with me if you want to go through."

He was reluctant, and I stood as still as I could, resisting the pull of the cane until he finally gave me his hand and stepped forward to stand beside me.

"You may want to close your eyes," I added, taking the last inevitable step toward the opening and allowing it to take me—us—in its grip. The folding process began, and after a few seconds, we were through.

The colors were all around us.

The polyp was reaching out, devouring the cane. Finding it inedible, it began searching for something else. I stepped aside and gave Detective Green a gentle shove forward. As he screamed, an unsavory thought ran through my mind.

I'm the bait...

# Natural Selection

David Jaeger eased his 2015 Toyota Prius into the first available spot near the entrance of The Intrepid Catholic Clinic, put it in park, and shut off the engine. His wife, head bowed, hands folded, moved her lips in silent prayer, and he respectfully lowered his head and waited. At length, she took a deep breath and they both quietly said, "Amen."

He opened his door, got out—it was a warm, sunny morning—and walked around the front of the car to open her door for her. She smiled, eased her long legs through the open door, ducked, pried herself out—with his help—and unfolded herself. Once outside, she stretched, smiled down at her husband, and said, "Thank you, dear." She resembled a warped wooden matchstick—tall, slender, topped off with brilliant red hair that shone like flame where the sunlight ignited it—cloaked in a loose-fitting sky blue blouse and navy blue slacks. The slight bulge in her midsection was barely noticeable, except to those who knew her well. The crucifix, small and unobtrusive, glittered as it settled on her chest, just between her modest breasts. She glanced at her watch, licked her lips, and said, "We're a bit early."

He nodded and took her hand in his. "I know," he said. "We'll have to wait." Beside her, he looked short and fat, even though he was nearly six feet tall and was well within his BMI scale. He had carefully manicured collar-length, feathered brown hair and wore a sleek black business suit—expensive but not outlandish—that screamed middle management. "Well," he added, stepping onto the curb, "we may as well go in." She nodded, falling in beside him, their strides melding into a long-familiar rhythm. He paused with his hand on the door handle, and looked into her troubled brown eyes. "Whatever the results," he said quietly. " _Whatever_ the results, God will see us through."

"I know," she said, forcing a smile. "But," she said, her lower lip quivering, "what if it's positive?"

"We've been through that a hundred times," he said, somewhat impatiently. "We'll deal with that when— _if_ —the time comes."

There was a gentle push on the door from inside, and they separated to allow the couple coming out to pass between them. It was an Hispanic couple. He was standing a bit away from her, his eyes ahead of him, ignoring both of them as he passed. His wife, slower, more deliberate, eyes downcast, lifted her gaze—her eyes were puffy and red—and half-smiled. "Excuse us," she said politely, then lowered her gaze again.

They gazed after the couple for a moment, then their hands instinctively linked as he caught the door and held it open. Once inside, he exhaled slowly, deliberately, and they crossed the short distance to the receptionist's desk. Jesus looked kindly down at them from above the receptionist desk, and he surreptitiously crossed himself.

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked from behind the counter. She was young, still in the trainee habit, with a dimpled smile and innocent blue eyes.

"We have an appointment," he said. "The Jaegers. They have the results," he added, unnecessarily.

The receptionist smiled—kindly, like Jesus—and turned her attention to the computer screen just below the counter edge. "Yes," she said. "You're Dr. Richards' 2:00 p.m. appointment." She made a few keystrokes. "You're a bit early," she added. "It will be a few minutes."

"That's all right," his wife said.

"You can wait in there," she said gesturing to an open area to the left. There were several love seats, artfully arranged to allow a modicum of privacy amid the congestion of the waiting room. Small tables stood between pairs of them, and on each table were two copies of the Bible. Reproductive prints of the _Last Supper_ , the _Creation of Adam_ , and a pieta hung from three of the walls, while the fourth was a large plate-glass window. There were two couples sitting together, quietly talking or praying.

"Thank you," David said, ushering his wife into one of the open love seats. It was a comfortable seat, well-cushioned, forgiving, intimate. They waited in silence, each entertaining their own thoughts, their eyes examining the contours of the tile floor.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jaeger," a voice intruded upon them. She was an elderly woman, probably near retirement, a bit frumpy, little makeup. A white smock—pristine at a distance, but as she neared, the remnants of an old coffee stain shaped like a crooked, bleeding comma came into focus; her name tag— **RITA** —was a bit tilted in her vain attempt to cover the bulk of the stain.

Mr. Jaeger kept his eyes sternly focused on his wife's white knuckles smothering his hand.

"Yes?" his wife asked, lifting her gaze to meet Rita's indiscernible hazel eyes, somewhat magnified by Rita's thick glasses.

"Dr. Richards will see you now," Rita said, her voice a deep alto. "If you will come this way," she said, turning authoritatively.

Mrs. Jaeger, the muscles of her jaws twitching, was the first to stand, dragging her husband's arm with her. A moment later, he forced himself to stand, and they followed Rita down a corridor. It was a familiar corridor, the one they had been escorted down when they had come in for the amniocentesis. Several doors were closed, some had tiny blue lights on them while others had green or red. They had expected to be ushered into one of the ones with a green light, but Rita led them around the end of the corridor and down a second hallway. They turned, again, at the end of that hallway, and into a dead end. It was fairly short, with two doors on either side. Three of the doors were open with green lights; the other was closed with a red light on.

Rita led them to the last door on the right, opposite the closed door, and gestured them in.

It wasn't the typical doctor's office room. There were no examination tables covered in a white sheet and plastic, no sink, no cupboards or drawers, no gadgets of any sort. There was a small table with a few chairs around it. A few pamphlets were neatly arranged on the table—almost obsessively so. An inverted five gallon water bottle with little paper cups waited just inside the doorway. It still had that antiseptic smell that pervades clinics. "Dr. Richards will be in to see you shortly," Rita said, turning on the blue light and slowly shutting the door.

"Thank you," Mrs. Jaeger said, her voice quavering in her ears, a bit too high-pitched, a bit too grating. She smiled, until the door was shut, then leaned into her husband. He squeezed her shoulder, gently, the gesture saying much more than the "I know," he whispered a few moments later. He repeated it, again, more for himself, this time.

After a long moment, they separated and moved to sit at the table. Mr. Jaeger looked at the pamphlets, read a few titles, and quickly turned them over. His wife clutched her crucifix and sat quickly down.

"What if it's positive," she said plaintively, her fingertip nudging one of the overturned pamphlets.

"God willing," he said quietly, "It won't be."

She lowered her gaze and repeated, barely audible, "But what if it is?"

He sighed. "We've gone over it a thousand times," he said.

"I know, but... What if our baby has it?" She looked up, her eyes troubled, hopeful, uncertain, scared, pleading—the same wild concoction of emotions that had plagued them since the day of the test.

He frowned. "Well," he said after a few moments, glancing down at the pamphlets. "We'll have to decide that when we have to decide that."

"I wish we never did that damned test," she blurted, biting her lip.

He nodded, slowly. "I know," he said. She had been reluctant from the start, but he had told her that it would be better to know, and he repeated it. "At least we'll know." He reached out and took her hand gently between his. "Regardless of what it is, we'll know what we'll have to do."

They sat in silence, their forehead leaning against each other. After what seemed like an eternity, the door handle turned, startling them. It opened, slowly, and Dr. Richards entered, closing it softly behind her.

"Good afternoon," Dr. Richards began, leaning against the door.

They nodded, and David said, "Hello Dr. Richards."

"We have the results," she began, leaning against the closed door. Dr. Richards was short, about five two, brunette, dressed in a white smock that did little to tarnish her voluptuous figure. She held a clipboard against her chest, her arms folded defensively around it, and her brows furrowed. "Are you sure you want to know them?" She asked.

Mrs. Jaeger gulped, turned pale, slid her hand from between her husband's and guided it slowly to her crucifix, rolling it gently between her fingertips.

He cringed, his fingers following her hand for a moment before falling flat on the table.

Mr. Jaeger nodded, slowly, deliberately. "Yes," he added, bracing himself.

Dr. Richards nodded. "Mrs. Jaeger?"

Mrs. Jaeger gulped, her hand dropping from her crucifix to settling gently, protectively on her abdomen. She took a deep breath and squawked a feeble, "yes."

"All right, then," Dr. Richards said. "The test results are positive." She paused, then her voice softened and she added, unnecessarily, "He will be gay."

Mrs. Jaeger sobbed, her hands moving up to her mouth as she attempted to retain some composure. "No," she said behind her clenched, crumpled fingers. "It has to be wrong."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jaeger," Dr. Richards replied, "but the test is 100 percent accurate. He has the combination of genes that has been conclusively linked to homosexuality. Everyone with this combination of genes is gay."

Mr. Jaeger nodded, blinking rapidly, and rasped, "Thank you doctor," he said. "May we have a few moments?"

"Of course," Dr. Richards said, turning and opening the door. Before closing it, she switched the light to red and said, "I'll be back in a few minutes to discuss your options." The door slid shut quietly behind her.

"Oh Davy, he's gay. Our baby's gay." She sobbed.

"Options," he directed his anger toward the door. " _What_ options?" he barked. "Abortion? That's murder. A gay son? That's an abomination. How do we choose between them?" A few moments passed, then, as the tears began to flow, he repeated, " _How do we choose?_ "

Several more seconds passed before Mrs. Jaeger, tears streaming down her cheeks, said, "Because," she gulped, reaching for the nearest pamphlet with a shaky hand and turning it slowly over. The title was, _My Baby's Gay: Now What?_

She took a deep breath and finished, "Because we must."

# Code 13 B

The _Granger Bee_ tumbled through space like a dead leaf caught in the currents of a river. Its trajectory had been—and continued to be—a low earth orbit, unless it ran full tilt into the Pacific Ocean before it pulled up. According to _The Scavenger II_ navigation computer, whatever it would do would happen in three days, four hours, and sixteen minutes.

"Jonah?" Captain Jasmine Gray said with a twisted sense of optimistic sadness.

"No response to queries, Ma'am," Lieutenant Jonah Tway replied.

"Life signs?" Captain Gray continued. A part of her always hoped there would be, but when a ship did a ballet dance like that...

"Negative, Ma'am. It appears to be a derelict."

Captain Gray sighed. "Very well," she said, "Match her speed, trajectory, and rotational vectors." The _Scavenger II_ began to twist in a rhythmic fashion, and Captain Gray fought back the instinctive twinge of queasiness.

"There, Captain!" Ensign Lev Latovski said. "It looks like a meteorite strike."

"Yes," Captain Gray said, "It definitely collided with something." There was a hole in the hull—a relatively small one, but even small holes could be disastrous in space, especially when it opened up the bridge like this one had.

"Captain," Lieutenant Tway said, "We've received confirmation from Space Central. They lost contact with the _Granger Bee_ two weeks ago. Shall I report that we found it?"

Captain Gray shook her head. "Not yet. Let's find out if there are any survivors, first. You and Lev suit up and check it out."

"Yes Ma'am," they replied in unison.

After they had left the bridge and were replaced, Captain Gray nudged the intercom button and said, "Michelle?"

"Captain?"

"Prepare for departure on a salvage mission."

"Yes, Ma'am, preparations are already underway."

A few minutes later, Lieutenant Tway's voice came through the ship intercom. "Captain?"

"Yes?"

"You can scratch the salvage plans."

Captain Gray frowned, "Survivors?"

"No, Captain," Lieutenant Tway said. "They're all dead; the ship's life support system was damaged in the collision."

Captain Gray's frown deepened. "Jonah, if there are no survivors, what is to stop us from claiming salvage rights?"

"Um," Jonah hesitated. "Code 13 B."

Captain Gray's eyebrows twitched upward as she repeated, "Code 13 _B_?"

"Yes, Ma'am. This is a Commission matter. Of course, we'll have to tow it in..."

_At cost_ , Captain Gray finished for him. "Why?" she said, pressing her fingertips to her lips. "Mister Tway, there hasn't been a violation of Code 13 B in over fifty years, not since the death penalty was attached to it. I don't know of any spacefarers who are stupid enough to take a risk like that these days."

"Nevertheless," Lieutenant Tway said, "the destruction of the ship was not due to a meteorite. The ship struck a diaper, and it has _identitags_ attached to it."

Captain Gray stared forward for a long moment, then said, "All right, Lieutenant, can you stabilize it?"

"I believe so, Ma'am. It will take a few minutes."

"Very well. How many bodies?"

"Seven."

_Seven dead_ , she thought. _That should never have happened_. "Bring their names, secure the bodies, and seal the ship when you finish. Cut its engines and we'll tow it in with grapples. I'll contact Space Central and alert Commission to the situation. Make it snappy—we wouldn't want to disturb the evidence any more than we already have."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Captain?" Ensign Liza Lauderman asked after Captain Gray finished her report.

"Yes, Liz?"

"What's Code 13 B?"

Captain Gray turned toward the youngest member of her crew. "Don't they teach it at the academies anymore?"

The ensign shook her head. "No, Ma'am."

"Code 13 B," Captain Gray said, "is the law prohibiting littering in space. Since the debris continues to move at the rate in which it is expelled from the ship, it becomes a space hazard with the potential to do what happened to the _Granger Bee_. Even soft debris is dangerous, since it freezes immediately. Now that the reclamation units are mandatory on all space faring vessels, whatever refuse is made is recycled. Now, there's no need to clutter up space with garbage. Hence, the punishment is severe for those who violate it."

"Oh," Ensign Lauderman said, turning to stare at the crippled derelict slowly tumbling over on the view screen.

# Worms

Worms. That's what brought them here. Worms. I know it sounds odd, but it's true. Really. I'm a worm-broker—at least, that's what they call me. I only owned one bait-house in Tennessee when they came—now I have sixty. They bought every worm I had—and paid in _gold_. So, I started buying worms from other bait-houses. They bought all those worms from me, too. Soon I was rich. All because of worms.

It was early summer when they showed up. Fishing season was well underway, so I had plenty of worms on hand. Or so I thought. I'll never forget that first Tuesday—or was it Wednesday? Can't remember—when I was locking up shop for the night. From nowhere, someone said, "Worms" and I nearly leapt from my shoes before I realized there was somebody standing in the shadows. "What?" I called, trying to give myself time to recover. "Who's there?" Talking shadows are unnerving.

Someone stepped half-way out of the shadows, stopped, and backed up again before I could get a good look at them. There were two of them, wearing a pair of overalls of some sort. Black overalls; all black. They stayed in the shadows and one of them repeated, "Worms."

"Sorry, I'm closed," I said, turning to walk home.

"Worms," the other one said, louder, throwing a coin on the ground in front of me. A gold coin—but not from here. _Egyptian_ _?_ Maybe. It didn't matter; it was gold. It _tasted_ like gold.

"Well," I smiled, "How many do you want?"

"Worms," they said, again, throwing down another coin.

I shrugged and brought them worms until I didn't have any more left. One hundred fifteen dozen worms, give or take a few. They didn't even ask for change, all they wanted was a box to put them in. Then I had to set it in the shadows—they wouldn't come out under the light.

One of them picked up the box and the other one said, "Tomorrow," and the first one finished with, "Worms." Then they were gone and I needed to find some worms. Lots of worms. Fast.

It took half the night and all the next day for me to round up the worms. I checked under all the usual rocks and debris. I watered the lawn and grabbed some more. I called all the local boys who supplied me with worms and told them I'd pay extra for rush delivery—all they could find. Then I bought all the worms I dared from the local bait-houses. So, when they showed up the next night, I had about three hundred dozen worms all boxed up and ready to go. This time, they tossed a handful of coins on the ground—ten in all—and said, "More, tomorrow."

I made some phone calls, sold a few of the coins, and was soon buying worms from three counties. I was careful, though, and didn't buy too many worms from any one dealer or sent somebody else to buy them for me. It wouldn't have paid for them to find out what was going on. I went through five thousand dozen—and they still wanted more. So I got curious about what they were doing with all those worms and, that night, I followed them to their spaceship. Yep, that's right, _space—ship_. They knew I was there, too. They asked me in—not in words, mind you, but I knew what they meant. It was weird. Real weird. Kind of a tingling in my forehead that pulled me toward the ship's door—and through it.

Inside, there were all kinds of shiny metal things but not any lights that I could see. A glowing metal bar was on the wall every now and then but it didn't help me very much. It was like walking in twilight. A bit chilly, too. And empty. I followed the corridor until I heard some noise—then I stopped.

"Come," one of them called. So I walked through a doorway and into a small room with a table, chairs, and the familiar smell of worms. And aliens. Two of them.

"Worms," one of them said, stepping away from the table. There they were; my worms, wriggling around in dishes full of some kind of goo. They offered me some but I declined, telling them I _raised_ the worms and couldn't possibly _eat_ them, too. It didn't stop them, though; they were hungry. For worms. _My_ worms.

We talked a little bit, then. Sort of. I talked, they replied in my head. I don't know how they did it, but it gave me a headache. Anyway, it seems that worms are a highly prized delicacy on their world—kind of like caviar or escargot here on Earth. (I wouldn't eat _them_ , either!) Anyway, they'd been coming to Earth every now and then to get a fresh supply. It had gotten a bit risky, lately, though; with all the technological advances us Earthlings have made, they had to be careful. They couldn't harvest them themselves anymore, the way they used to do, so they bought them from me. Of course, with the increase in danger, the worms were at a premium on their planet and they were going to make a lot of money when they got back home. That was good for me, too.

That pretty much sums up my little talk with the aliens. Then I left their ship, went home, thought about it for a while, shrugged, and went to bed. Why should I care about what happened to my worms? Eaten by fish or alien, what difference did it make? Simple: fish didn't pay in gold. So, I bought more worms and sold them to the aliens, too.

It went on for about two months and then, one night, they didn't show up. I tried to find them, but their ship was gone. So I had worms. Lots and lots of worms.

Damned aliens, anyway.

# Sturgeon's General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health

Try to Imagine:

You work the graveyard shift at a convenience store. Which store? It doesn't matter; it's one of the prototypical regional chains in Podunk, U.S.A. Got it in mind? Lots of aisles with over-priced candy, food, beer, sodas, toilet paper, lighters—everything a traveler might need, all stacked in neat little rows gathering dust. You're in Podunk, U.S.A., remember? Not much ever happens in Podunk.

All right. Graveyard has a few short peaks of business—and lots of long, dry valleys. The first peak is when the second-shifters get off work; the second is the influx of drunks when the bars close; then the third shift lunch-break; and, finally, the early risers. The rest of the time, it's the stragglers, the woe-be-gone, the between-stops truckers, and the sightseers from down South who get lost. You might see three or four people in an hour. Might. It's BORING. Oh, you've got to balance the books and clean the place and that will eat up an hour or two each night—which leaves about four or five hours of doldrums. Just to keep from falling asleep, you have to do something—like reading science fiction. Asimov, Vance, Zelazny (blending into fantasy, just for a change of pace), a little Heinlein to perk up the middle-of-the-week blues, and short stories on the weekend because you never know what might happen.

Then, one night, in the middle of Enemy Mine, you hear this whirly kind of noise, like when you were a kid twirling a yo-yo around your head as fast as it could go. Only, this whirly noise is right outside the store, and it's much, much louder. You turn, expecting to see one of those fancy new-fangled helicopters you've been reading about. The black ones. Then you see it.

Your first thought is about Dracons. The mental picture you've drawn from Longyear's descriptive prose is still very fresh in your mind. You see one of their ships gently setting down by the gas pumps and—

And you realize there really is a ship there, and something is emerging from it. Only, it's not a Dracon ship. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if Davidge is going to come to your rescue—but only for a moment. If there's one thing you know for certain, it's that Davidge won't be saving you. These aren't Dracons.

Two creatures detach themselves from the hull of the cauliflower-shaped craft, unfold their limbs—each one has three—and ooze their way up to the door like a water spider gliding on the surface tension of a puddle. One is about twice the size of the other—perhaps four feet tall—and you have a fleeting burst of confidence that you could take them if you had to. Then you get a good look at them as the larger one grabs the door handle with a six-inch talon and pulls it open. So much for overpowering them. Next option, please.

The smaller one enters first, bounding about on its three legs, its rotating eyestalks taking in everything. You are standing behind the counter with your back tightly pressed against the cigarette rack. As the aliens approach, you see that they have ridges of bone down their front, each one sprouting something that looks like a heap of spaghetti. They stand there and, out of sheer habit, you say, "Welcome to—"

You almost say "Earth," but you stop yourself before the cliché slips out. You finish with a lame, oft-repeated, "How may I help you?"

"Glagnock Trishnu," the larger one says; its voice deep and sonorous, coming from somewhere you can't see.

"Huh?" You stutter. "I-I don't understand."

"Glagnock Trishnu," the larger one repeats. As if it should suddenly be clear, it adds, "Artenni."

"Artenni! Artenni!" the little one coos, hopping from one leg to another and another, almost knocking off the counter display. This week, it's Marlboro Man.

Now, in a brief moment of interstellar understanding—perhaps the first in human history—you know what "Glagnock Trishnu" means. You point and say, "Down the aisle, first door on your left." You watch the little alien run out of sight, and a few minutes later, you hear the familiar sound of the toilet flushing. Then the little one is bounding back into view.

"Nutui," the larger one says. "Nutui," the little one echoes as they walk out the door. A few moments later, they reattach themselves to their ship and it leaves. You go outside to watch, but they're already out of sight. You stand there for a while, shrug, and go back inside. You walk past the counter and head for the storeroom to get the mop, just in case the alien made a mess. On your way past the counter, your eyes fall upon the abandoned story, and you pause. You reach out to pick up the magazine, glance at the page you were reading. Davidge, Dracons, Zamiss—all of it has taken on a different character; it's suddenly more real.

With a shudder, you toss the magazine in the trashcan by the door and think, no more Sci-Fi for me! A quick glance at the stars confirms your decision. "You see all kinds," you mutter to yourself. You shake your head and shuffle toward the bathroom, wondering what kind of mess you'll find.

"I think," you say to yourself, "I'll start reading mysteries. Nice, safe mysteries."

# Plague

"The complaints are becoming excessive, Minister," H'Juri's assistant stated, pointing at the muted screen in the corner. "These Earthers are becoming a nuisance."

"Understandable, S'Gashi," the Minister of Communication replied. "How are the web technicians progressing? What is the projected date for nullifying the interference?

"At present," S'Gashi replied, scraping his paws on the soft earth, "it is projected to be accomplished within a few solar cycles."

H'Juri nodded, patting the ground with exasperation. "It cannot be helped, then. Very well, S'Gashi, inform the Unity of the situation—perhaps other research can be more fruitful."

"Yes, Minister," S'Gashi scratched the ground and rose to leave. "At once!"

When S'Gashi had gone, H'Juri stared at the odd images scampering about on the communications screen. "They are strange, are they not?" the old Minister muttered, turning the volume back on.

"L'Ci!" the Earther called D'Zi screamed at the Earther called L'Ci and she scampered into the domicile with haste.

"A strange species, indeed," he muttered, punching the code for the Ministry of Science.

"Ah, H'Juri," the familiar face of P'Dana's assistant appeared. He rapidly scarped the ground, leaving two sets of gouges for a considerable distance. "P'Dana will speak with you at once."

H'Juri politely scratched the ground with one paw, deferentially awaiting the appearance of P'Dana. When he appeared, they exchanged the usual greeting of brothers and H'Juri asked, "Tell me, my brother, how fare the understandings?"

P'Dana's proboscis snapped out, snaring a large insect from the sky. As he munched, he said, "They are a most curious species, my brother, most curious, indeed. I have only recently discovered that they have an underutilized supply of insects that they fail to propagate. Perhaps even a greater variety than our own! It appears they have a fetish for mammalian flesh and vegetative matter and fail to capitalize on them as a splendid dietary resource. Most distressing. I recommended to the Chief of Ministry that we do not make contact."

"Ah," H'Juri murmured. "A pity. They are, as you say, a most curious species."

* * * * *

A dozen solar cycles later, the Minister of Resources interrupted all transmissions of the interstellar communications web to announce that it was true, R'Ndus IV had been severely decimated by the L'Gana virus. "It is only a matter of time," he said, "before their entire food supply will be destroyed. R'Ndus III has also been affected, though less severely, thanks to the quick response in establishing quarantine. Even so, the food supply has been reduced by nearly half. Unless we can circumvent the effect of the L'Gana virus, it is inevitable; with four planets of the Unity already dangerously depleted, a large percentage of our people will die."

After the broadcast, H'Juri sat for a time, resting his paws on the ground, palms up, signifying submission to the inevitable. When his brother called, he whispered, "P'Dana, my brother, is there nothing to be done?"

P'Dana gently scratched the ground with one paw, rolling a clod of dirt between his claws. "My brother," he said at last, "let us not abandon hope. It is true the L'Gana virus is destroying R'Ndus III and IV and has already crippled I'Lian I and P'Duris VI, but our own planet will be spared the starvation."

"It is not for us that I weep, my brother. Is there not something that can be done for our brethren who die?"

"H'Juri," P'Dana said, digging his claws into the ground. "Do you recall the Earther interference?"

"Indeed," H'Juri replied. "After the web technicians developed the blocking device, I have kept certain links open to receive their transmissions. I have been understanding them ever since."

"Then, do you recall my informing you of the teeming supply of insects?" P'Dana paused long enough for H'Juri to signal his remembrance. "Perhaps we would be able to find a species that could withstand the L'Gana virus. I will be discussing this with the Chief of Ministry, shortly."

* * * * *

"A satellite, surely," Alexi Levitov said, pointing to a stream of light cascading toward the Anderson's field. "But I haven't heard of any in that state of decay."

"No," Adrian O'Donnell replied, watching the stream of light change direction, level out, and lightly touch down. "I don't think it's a satellite. Shouldn't we investigate?"

"It's not our duty," he replied. "We're desk jockeys, remember? I'll call the home office."

"Where's your adventurous spirit, Lev?" Adrian asked. "Let's take a look, first. It might be nothing."

"But—"

"Look, Lev, this is my home; I have to find out what's landed over there. Besides, the Anderson's will be calling over here any moment—they known I'm here." It was true, too—she was surprised they hadn't already called. Perhaps they were sleeping—it was late, after all.

"All right, you win," Alexi said. "But just a look—and not a close look, either. I'll call it in on the way over. Deal?" Lev had already taken out his cell phone, so Adrian shrugged and started walking toward the car. About ten minutes later, they pulled off into the Anderson's cornfield, parked the car, and got out.

The field was sprouting up nicely; the corn stalks were about waste-high and, being dressed in shorts and T-shirt, Lev was getting nicked by their long, sharp leaves. Adrian was, too, but she wasn't griping about it—she had grown up on these farms and knew how to minimize the damage. The ship was at the far side of the field, and a bright light beamed out from one end of it. Something was standing where the light left the ship, but it wasn't watching them. Lev stopped, whispering a description into the phone, but Adrian moved cautiously forward.

When she was within thirty feet or so, she was able to see the creature better, and for all intents and purposes, it looked like a five-foot tall anteater. It was bipedal, pear-shaped, had a proboscis-like elongated snout, and was plucking moths out of the air with great skill. One thing was for certain: it wasn't human.

"Welcome to Earth," Adrian said. It was a cliché, she knew, but what else should she say? It jumped and wheezed—until it was able to spit out the moth it had been choking on. "My name is Adrian O'Donnell. What should I call you?"

It sat down, scratched the ground like a bull about to charge, tilted back its head, and made a funny noise. Adrian thought it was its name, but when she tried to repeat it, all that came out was gibberish. So she settled on Pidna. "Do you understand my language, Pidna?"she asked.

I t straightened, clawed the ground deeply, rose up on its hind legs and growled. "Of course I do, Earther—" it started, then stopped. "Apologies, Adrian O'Donnell, but your pronunciation of my name was most inappropriate. However, it will suffice as, I am sure, your vocalization apparatus does not conform to my own, thus making it impossible for you to be accurate."

"No apologies necessary, um, Pudnana. Is that any better? I had no intention of insulting you."

"Better, yes, but still incorrect. I believe, however, the former would likely be the simpler solution. You may call me Pidna, Adrian O'Donnell."

"In that case, call me Dee." By this time, she had moved in closer to see the ship better, particularly the light emanating from it. It was an oblong, metallic craft about twenty-five feet long and half that wide. The light was coming from inside a hollow tunnel, and bugs were flying inside, trying to reach the light. Before they could get there, though, they stopped in mid-air and fluttered to the tunnel floor. There, they were gathered up by an automatic sweeper. The bugs—they were still alive—were swept onto a conveyer belt that took them behind the light. As she watched, the light—it was sitting on a platform—moved forward a little bit. The ship was moving, too, in a kind of slow pirouette.

"Very good, D'ee," Pidna said, standing perfectly still. "And how might I address your companion?"

"Hmm? Oh," Dee said, glancing back to see Lev standing several feet behind her, his gun drawn. "Put that away, Lev," she told him. "Pidna will not harm us. Will you, Pidna?"

"Most assuredly not, D'ee. My journey here is a peaceful one intended to benefit both our species."

It still took a stern glare from Dee before Lev lowered the gun—and even then, he didn't put it back in the holster.

"This is Alexi Levitov—but we just call him Lev. You are free to do the same. Isn't that right, Lev?"

Lev nodded. "Yes." After a brief pause, he added, "I would not have harmed you, either," and put his gun in the holster with the snap undone.

"Nor could you have, L'ev. However, if you do not mind, I have need of another locale. This area seems to be nearly depleted. If you would excuse me?" Pidna did something with its hands—they were paws, really, remarkably dexterous ones—and the light went out, leaving them in the dark. A few seconds later, the ship rose off the ground—with Pidna in it.

"Lev?" Dee asked, wanting to be reassured by his presence. "We did see that, didn't we?"

"Yes," he sighed, "and I had to phone it in. That was rather stupid, wasn't it? With the ship gone, we're going to—"

Then the light blared out again, still close by but in another part of the field. We hadn't even heard it land.

"Hurry up," Dee said, moving toward the light, thinking about the moths.

"Pidna?" she called as they neared the ship.

"D'ee? L'ev?" it replied without moving away from its ship.

"We thought you were leaving!" Dee gasped, regaining her breath.

"Oh, surely not. This area has a considerable bounty to offer. However, in order to harvest it, it is necessary to reorient the luminescence. I will be here for one of your I Love L'Ci Show. Perhaps a commercial longer."

"I Love Lucy Show?" Lev asked.

"A sit-com from way back," Dee said. "It's about a half hour, maybe a little longer."

"Yes, yes," Pidna said. "I do seem to recall that you have segmented time periods. However, we were unable to agree upon the designations and their lengths. Thank you for the insight; I will inform them upon my return."

"You're going back, then?"

"Most assuredly so," Pidna replied, patting the ground. "Here, I do not belong. Perhaps I will return if the yield is sufficiently palatable and resilient."

"Oh?" Lev said. "And what if our leaders do not wish for you to return? What if they want to talk to you about it? You did mention it would be mutually beneficial...."

Pidna snorted. "Indeed. Should the yield be of sufficient quality and quantity, we intend to initiate trade with your world. It will be moderately embarrassing for us to trade with such an underdeveloped species, but, in the end, one must eat, yes?" To illustrate the fact, Pidna plucked another bug out of the air. "Ahh, it is not entirely unsatisfying. I must admit the prospects do indicate a favorable venture. Success, however, will be determined on my homeworld. It is time to reorient the luminescence."

By the end of the half hour, they had moved around the Andersons' field eight times, all the while trying to keep up with Pidna as the alien collected samples of insects. Once Pidna had finished with the field, it used a strange-looking device to collect a few specimens that had luminescent sensitivity. Then Pidna left.

By the time the field agents finally arrived, Pidna was gone and Dee and Lev had an unbelievable tale to tell. It wasn't very convincing—even with the aid of the crop circles Pidna's ship had left—until Pidna returned, a few months later, to negotiate a trade agreement and asked to speak with them....

* * * * *

"My brother, it is done," P'Dana reported. "We have returned from the Earther world with enough specimens to repopulate a considerable section of R'Ndus IV. If all goes well, these insects will be the salvation of our brethren. We will still need to supply food for a few solar cycles while they propagate; but with extreme rationing, the danger from the famine will soon be behind us."

H'Juri patted the ground in excitement. "That is good information, indeed, my brother. It is true, then, that a robust species was found? One that could survive the L'Gana virus and reproduce in sufficient quantity?"

P'Dana replied with equal excitement—he was scarcely able to believe it, himself. "Most assuredly so, my brother! It is indeed amazing that the Earthers had something to offer, after all. The species is a most hearty survivor and is even moderately palatable!"

"It is good, my brother; our people are saved," H'Juri sighed.

"It is indeed, my brother. It is indeed." PDana closed the transmission and glanced at the insects scurrying around his hind paws and haunches. They had been the only kind that had survived the L'Gana virus while thriving in the alien habitat. He eyed a nice, juicy one, and his proboscis sprang forth. A few moments later, he licked his snout and said, "A moderately tasty species indeed, these K'Ock R'Oches."

# Exodus

Journal Entry I

Mom says I should keep a journal so there's a record for our family history. I guess it's important but I don't know what to put in it. She told me to write whatever I thought should be in it. OK. My name's Thespis and I am the second son of Haon. So, now what do I talk about?

It is a bright, sunny day—too bright and too sunny. Dad says the Ozone layer is depleted and UV rays are getting through. Dad says we'll be going, soon. I hope so; I'm tired of being stuck inside all the time.

Journal Entry II

I heard from Largo, yesterday. He says the underground complex is cool and depressing. There's no UV rays, though, so he's OK. He says he'd like to be going with us instead of being one of the "Chosen Ones." I think I'd rather be one of the Chosen Ones instead of going to the neighbor planet. Sure, it's safe enough but, jeez, I'm scared. It's supposed to be cold, too. I'll find out soon; Dad says we'll be leaving next week. If we don't, the next window will be too late. Whatever that means.

Journal Entry III

The ship is ready and space is waiting. We'll be gone a long time. Dad says we aren't coming back. He says, if we do, we'll all die. There's twenty other ships going, each one with a different family. There will be fifty-six of us on Dad's ship, and it will get crowded. And smelly. Dad says I have to be good and not get in anybody's way. What if they get in my way? Dad says I shouldn't get angry because the ship is small and we all have to live together for quite awhile.

I have to say goodbye to my friends, now, because I won't have a chance when we leave tomorrow. We'll be too busy.

Journal Entry IV

We're in space. Getting here was dull. Dad made me stay in the room I'm sharing with my brothers and we all got sick. Being sick in space gets messy. But then we started feeling better. Space is a whole lot of blackness and really bright stars. I stay in my room a lot, studying. I don't like all the emptiness. It reminds me of Largo and my other friends. Especially my other friends, the ones who didn't get chosen. Dad says they'll all be dead soon and there's nothing we can do about it.

Journal Entry V

They did it. Dad warned them not to. Dad's a scientist and knows these things. He explained it to them but they didn't listen. He just shook his head and said nothing for a very long time when he saw the pretty plumes at the poles. Atomics isn't safe to play with. We knew what would happen, though, a big explosion and clouds of radiation and debris. That's what they wanted: clouds. Especially the clouds the poles produced. Vaporized ice and stuff like that. Home is already starting to cloud over.

Maybe they're right and the clouds will keep the UV rays out. I hope so. Lots of people are going to get sick from the fall-out.

Journal Entry VI

Dad's been busy taking readings. He says the planet is already 60 percent cloud-covered and the temperature is rising rapidly. At the rate it's progressing, everybody that wasn't Chosen will be boiling, soon. I hope my friends don't survive that long. I don't want them to suffer. I've stopped going in to watch Dad while he's working, but every time I look at home, I can see it for myself. There isn't any land anymore. All there is are clouds. Pretty soon, I won't be able to see that, either. We're getting farther away from home all the time and its shrinking.

Journal Entry VII

I can't see home anymore. I'm glad. It didn't look very good the last time I saw it. Dad just walks around frowning and shaking his head. Especially when he's taking readings. He told me yesterday the Chosen Ones are in danger, too. If the temperature doesn't level off soon, the tunnels they're living in will turn into an oven and cook them alive. I avoid Dad as much as I can, now.

Poor Largo.

Journal Entry VIII

We had a funeral today. Three of them. They killed themselves. One of them left a note that said they couldn't live any longer knowing that all the people they knew and loved were being burned alive. Dad made an announcement after that. He said we couldn't let it stop us from keeping our race alive. He said it was up to us to bear the burden of the race so our children can grow up and create a new one. I guess that means me.

Journal Entry IX

I can see our new home now. No details, it's still too far away. Some of the younger ones are getting excited about it. Me? I keep thinking of Largo and the others who died. Especially the ones who killed themselves. I wish I could join them. But then I think about what Dad said and feel better. Not much, but it's enough. Maybe this new world will be OK, after all. I don't know, though, it's a whole lot colder than ours was. Dad says we'll have to make a few changes in our DNA to allow us to live there. He said a whole lot more about it, but I didn't understand him. I nodded a lot, though, because he kept on talking.

We went to the lab and the doctors injected us with stuff that burns as it goes in. I asked them what it was and they called it "bacteriophages with recombinant DNA sequences" or something like that. It's supposed to fix my genes so I can breathe on the new planet. Breathe and keep warm enough to survive.

Journal Entry X

I can see the planet now. It looks weird. There's a whole bunch of blue that shouldn't be there. It makes me nervous. I like the green and brown, though, because it reminds me of home. It tells me there's land down there. Dad says the blue is water, but I don't believe him. There can't be that much water on a planet. It doesn't make sense. There's a lot of white, too. Dad says it's cloud-cover, and the reason for the odd color is because the clouds are filled with water, too! How does he know? I'm scared, all over again. We'll be making planet-fall soon.

Journal Entry XI

Mom read my Journal today. She almost didn't give it back. She said I was doing a fine job but not to let my father see it. I don't know why she said that, but I won't show it to him. He doesn't know I'm doing it, anyway. Mom says he'd approve, but if I showed it to him it would upset him. Then she comforted me—or herself, I couldn't figure out which. Maybe both.

We're going to be locked in our rooms again. Dad says it's time for us to begin our descent into the atmosphere and make a landing. It took us a long time to get here. Dad quit taking readings of our home a week ago because it didn't make any difference any more. When I asked him why, he shook his head and sent me away.

Journal Entry XII

We've landed but Dad won't let us out. He says he has to do some tests to make sure our DNA has been adapted to suit the climactic conditions. Or climatic? I don't know, he said it too fast. He asked for volunteers to be introduced to the atmosphere. I volunteered, but he wouldn't let me do it. He said, "Adults, only," and left it at that. I guess it was a good idea because two people died before they found out what was wrong. A lot of people volunteered after that. The doctors have to shut off some more genes and turn one back on before we can be let outside. I don't know how they did it.

Looking out the window is very strange. The green I saw from space is plants, not sand-cliffs. It scared me, at first, until I realized they were just like big colonies of lichen. Then I could look at them without thinking they were going to eat me. The sun is a lot dimmer, too. It makes it very difficult to see. Dad's going to have to work on that. In the meantime, he's asked for suggestions about a name for our new world. It seems important to him. We have the privilege because we were the first ones to land. The other ships deferred because it was Dad who made the trip possible in the first place.

I saw an animal. At least, that's what I think it was. It looked kind of like us but with too much hair. Its head was too big in the front, too. I laughed when it threw a rock at the ship. Then it ran away. When it came back, it brought others with it, and they ran up to poke the side of the ship with sticks. It was all very funny. They made some noises with their mouths that sounded like, "Urt," and that's what I suggested for the name of the world. Dad said he liked it, and it stuck.

Journal Entry XIII

I get to take my first step on Urt, soon. It's a big, new world, and once we leave the ships, we aren't turning back. Dad says we'll have to move quickly to get far enough away from the ship before the self-destruct mechanism goes off. I don't really understand why we have to blow up the ship but Dad says it's so we don't make the same mistakes again. He says, if we don't know how to make the technology, we'll forget about it and it will be lost forever. I hope so! I don't want to see my new friends dying from UV rays. Dad laughed when I said that. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh since before we left. He said it would be a long time before that happened because Urt has a lot more atmosphere than our old home had. He says it is rich in Ozone, the stuff that keeps the UV rays out. I'm glad.

Journal Entry XIV

I have to end this journal, now. We're going to leave the ship and it's going to blow up. The ship, not the journal. I'm taking it with me. Dad told us not to bring any technological gizmos, but Mom said I should bring my notepad, anyway. They had an argument about it and she won. She said we needed it. She said it was important for a people to have a history. I didn't know I was writing history. Dad said, all right, if it was history, then I could take it with me. Then he demanded to read it.

I didn't know what to do. Mom had told me not to show it to him, but a son does not disobey his father when he demands something. Especially on a new world and in a ship that's about to blow up. I handed it over and he read it.

It took him a long time and his face never changed once. He just stared at it, and when he was done reading it, he handed it back to me and said, very quietly, "Keep it." Then he walked away. After she touched my cheek to tell me it was OK, Mom followed him. I guess that means I'm in charge of our history, now. I hope I don't lose it. History's important to a people, just like Mom says. And our new home needs some history, too.

# Stranded

"Stranded" is a self-contained excerpt from my novel, _The Snodgrass Incident_.

Lilith Greenberg tugged gently on the tether attaching her to _The Junket's_ airlock, and the small shift in momentum propelled her gently toward the little survey ship. As she floated toward it, the braided carbon nanotube strands retracted into the shoulder pouch of her Evac suit. It hissed softly as it slithered around the spool, an unnerving sound that reminded her of an oxygen leak. She cringed and, as she had done a dozen times before on this mission, checked her oxygen level. The O2 pressure was normal, as it had been every other time she had checked it, so she returned her attention to the ship.

_The Junket_ reminded her of a black widow spider clinging to its prey, its eight titanium spikes – four on each side, evenly spaced – clung to the surface of the asteroid as if it were ready to wrap it in a silky cocoon. Between them, the body of the ship bulged with fuel and engine compartments, and at the nub near the end, the steady red pulse of the buoy deployment chamber shimmered against the black backdrop of space. The bulbous bridge, barely large enough for the pilot, tilted slightly forward from the body, its open airlock a gaping maw waiting to swallow her up. It grew steadily larger, and she positioned herself with her thrusters until the laser sight indicated she was ready for the airlock's cocoon-like embrace. She held her arms out in front of her, braced herself, and waited for the gentle clang of contact.

The airlock's shape mirrored the Evac suit's with barely a micron's difference between them, and they needed to merge perfectly for the seal to be complete. The first few times she had attempted it, she'd recoiled from the impact and had to waste thruster fuel before she had grasped the handholds. From those initial failures she had learned to ignore the contact and focus only on the handholds. She made a routine of it after that: brace herself, watch her handholds, make sure her timing was right when she closed her grip, and let the magnets suck her boot toes into the stirrups. Now it was second nature, and the suit merged seamlessly with the airlock opening with little effort on her part.

"Seal the airlock," she said, waiting for the spider's fangs to close around behind her. A moment later, the fangs injected their corrosive venom into the Evac suit's seal, dissolving the goo that held the two halves of the suit together. A few seconds later, the front half of the Evac suit moved forward six inches and pirouetted inward, allowing her to step out into the small, pressurized bridge.

She floated to the captain's console and retrieved the data from the suit's recorders, estimated the angle for the laser broadcast to Mars Base, and transmitted it. "Now to deploy the buoy," she said as she pressed the command sequence for injecting the device into the asteroid's nickel-iron core. The buoy was mostly a homing beacon, but it also contained a supply of moles – small machines that would tunnel through the asteroid preparing it for the larger machines that would follow later to harvest the metallic core.

"Well," she said, "another one down." She leaned back, and frowned. "Where's the ping?" she asked, listening for the sharp, resounding ping that had accompanied all of the other buoys. But there was no hammer-on-anvil sound. Instead, there was a dull thump, like a pillow being fluffed. "Odd," she muttered, "That's never happened before." She sat up and pressed the diagnostics icon, scrolled through the options until she found the buoy's deployment mechanism, and initiated it. The computer rapidly ran through its sequence of sensors and reported the mechanism was functioning properly.

"Strange," she muttered, frowning. "Maybe I should do a full diagnostic?" She returned to the main diagnostic screen, paused, and shook her head.

"No," she said. "Check the buoy deployment record, first." She had only begun the sequence when the proximity alarm blared to life and the navigation screen automatically overrode the diagnostics screen. She gasped.

There were two shapes coming toward _The Junket_. One was small, barely five times the size of the ship, but it was crumbling into smaller pieces, and they were fanning outward like a shotgun blast. The other was the bulk of the asteroid, rotating on its axis, a bulbous outcropping slowly coming into _The Junket's_ path. A digital countdown poised ominously above the image: 12 seconds.

Her mind whirled. _The Junket_ was surfing the splintering chunks like a wave. The asteroid was on a collision course. No time to turn the engines on. No time to get in the Evac suit. It wouldn't matter, anyway; if the ship were damaged, she couldn't repair it. Survey ships didn't carry spare parts. It would just take longer to die in the Evac suit. "Thrusters!"

Her fingers flew over the controls, initiating one thruster after another, trying to nudge _The Junket_ out of the asteroid's path. But the ship was sluggish; the anchors were still engaged, and the thrusters were not designed for the added mass. She wasn't going to make it.

The alarm grew louder and changed pitch – a distraction she didn't need – and she did the only thing she could think to do: she rotated the ship until the legs were facing the asteroid and braced for impact. It was a surprisingly soft bump, cushioned by the chunks of asteroid still clinging to the anchors, and she was almost ready to breathe again when debris began clattering against the hull. For a few seconds, it was like hailstones pinging against a flyer's roof, but then the larger chunks started banging against the underbelly of the ship. She gasped as they jostled the ship around, and her fingers flew over her console as she listened for the soft hiss of an oxygen leak. She took a slow, shallow breath and clung to the computer console as the battering continued for nearly a minute before dwindling to an occasional light rattle. No oxygen leak.

"Damage control," she said to herself, shutting off the klaxon and studying the warnings dotting the console. The engine seemed undamaged. There was a fuel leak. "Stop that," she said, sealing off the leaking compartment from the rest of the fuel reservoir. Two anchors had broken off; two others dangled uselessly. A few of the thrusters were nonfunctional. No hull breach.

She switched back to the navigation display, studying the asteroid and the debris cloud clustering around it. _The Junket_ had been batted by the asteroid and was drifting slowly away in a looping arc. She shifted to a larger view to study the debris cloud, used the functional thrusters to stabilize the ship, and repositioned _The Junket_ to a safe distance from the debris but within landing distance of the asteroid.

"Have to go outside," she said, shaking her head. "Well," she sighed, "No sense putting it off." She pushed herself toward the airlock and twisted in the air to back into it. She barely took enough time to make sure her hands and feet were properly placed before she sealed the lock. The sealant oozed into the grooves and the front of the Evac suit shifted into position and squeezed into place around her. After a few seconds, she checked the sensor readings to make sure the sealant had set and said, "Eject."

The clamps released the back of the Evac suit and peeled away. A moment later, the airlock decompressed and she was ejected a few feet into space. The Evac suit's thrusters fired automatically, stabilizing her in relation to the ship, and she tugged gently on the taut tether line until she could grasp the outer handholds. She belayed the tether from her shoulder pouch and scampered along the hull as if it were a cliff face, reaching here and there for small outcroppings, until she was under the belly of the ship. Once there, she pushed off and floated away from the ship, belaying the tether line to keep it slack.

"Damn," she muttered as the extent of the damage became apparent. "Damn and damn again."

Two of the anchors had been pulled from their sockets, leaving behind bits of wiring and shards of metal clinging to the tortured joints. Two others were dangling, boulders impaled upon them; something would have to be done with those before _The Junket_ would be space worthy. The other four seemed intact. The underside of the hull was riddled with dents and scratches. One of the fuel compartments had a jagged gash, but the fuel had long-since leaked out and frozen into a cloud of fine mist.

"All right," she said, firing the suit's thrusters to nudge her closer to one of the damaged anchors. The anchor was as thick as she, four times her height, and had three joints. She pulled herself up to the socket joint connecting it to the ship. She activated a control panel beside it, keyed the sequence to trigger the time-delayed explosive charge, and confirmed the command four times before the two minute countdown finally began. She pushed against the ship's hull and floated away, giving the anchor plenty of room, and waited. The explosion puffed, and the anchor floated free, its slight momentum moving the anchor slowly away from the ship. If it hovered too close to the hull, it would be a potential hazard, so Lilith cautiously returned to the joint, pressed her back against the hull, and pushed against the anchor's mass to increase its momentum away from _The Junket_.

Then she turned to the next damaged anchor....

* * * * *

Ed Granger studied the schematics and shook his head. It was an old design, reliable and unimaginative. The science labs were efficient, stocked with the best equipment that would fit in the tight little spaces, but it was far from what he was used to at Mars Base. He would have to be creative if anything strange happened – as it almost certainly would.

"Hi Ed," Meredith said as she entered the lab.

"Hello," he said, glancing up from his console. "I hear the roster's going to be posted tomorrow."

"Yes," she nodded. "But the scuttlebutt says you'll be on it."

"We'll see," he said, turning his attention to Meredith. "But it won't be an easy decision. You're just as qualified as I am – if not more."

"Hah!"

Ed raised his eyebrows as a sudden frown distorted the roundness of her face into a bitter oval that threatened to overtake her eyes. They were pretty brown eyes, and he'd had a great deal of trouble avoiding them of late. Lilith had been gone too long.

"Oh, I know," Meredith said, waving away his concern. "It isn't just science, you know. It's also chemistry. If they choose Lilith to be the commander, you're a shoe-in to be the science officer. If not," she shrugged. The round nubs of her shoulders undulated, and he found his eyes drawn to them.

"Lilith still has two months left on that asteroid survey for The Cartel. Mars Base won't disrupt that." _Two more months of temptation_ , he added to himself as he realized his eyes had strayed a bit too low for propriety. He tried to mask his interest – and discomfort – by turning his gaze back to the _Snodgrass_ schematics. "It's a quaint little ship," he said. "And that pod," he shook his head. "Small quarters and a lot of gadgets."

"True," Meredith said, sitting down beside him and tilting her head. A few auburn strands escaped the tight little bun that topped her head. "But _The Snodgrass_ mission isn't scheduled for departure until after she gets back, and she has a lot of time to read up on it while she's hopping between asteroids."

Ed nodded. "They've been sending her updates," he said, "but they've held back a lot of the mission details. They won't send any of those until they've made their decision. Besides," he added, "she's never commanded a ship before. Most of the other candidates have. If they take one of them, you'll be on it."

"Oh, really? Like you'd turn it down," she said, nudging his shoulder with her own.

Ed turned to her, and said, quietly, "Yes." As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. If Lilith was not on the ship, he wouldn't be either. He would be wherever she was – if she'd let him tag along. He shrugged. "It's a long mission." _Three years too long_.

Meredith stared at him for a long moment before reaching up to tuck the stray strand of hair back into her bun. "You miss her, don't you," she said quietly.

Before he could muster up a response, the intercom chimed in. "Central Control to Ed Granger. Central Control to Ed Granger. Priority 1."

Meredith's eyes widened as Ed leapt to his feet and ran toward the intercom panel and tabbed the button. "Granger to Central Control."

A moment later, a voice said, "Transferring."

The delay was longer than normal before an efficient communications officer rapidly confirmed his identity. Ed's fingernails dug into his palms as he went through the routine of providing his name, identity code, and security clearance. At length, a new voice asked, "Is the transmission secure on your end?"

"Securing," he said, punching in a few numbers before turning to Meredith.

"Of course," she said, making her way out of the lab.

He finished punching in the code and said, "Transmission isolated."

"Mr. Granger, this is Admiral Ashcroft. Our outpost on Ceres reports that long-range imaging indicates _The Junket_ has been severely damaged and is adrift in orbit around the asteroid it was surveying. We have not received any messages, and the status of the pilot—"

"Lilith," Ed whispered harshly, his forehead gently coming to rest against the communicator's console.

"—is uncertain. Your assistance is requested." There was a momentary pause, then Admiral Ashcroft said, "Pardon?"

It took him a few seconds to compose himself. "Lilith," he said. "The pilot's name is Lilith Greenberg."

"Yes," Admiral Ashcroft said. "It is. Do you know– No, there isn't time. We need your help. We're assembling a team of scientists to troubleshoot—"

"When do I leave?"

"—the problem, and you—" the Admiral paused a moment, then said. "The cruiser will arrive at South Port shortly. _The Fifth Wheel_. Specifics of the situation will be relayed and updated to the cruiser as they become available."

"I'm on my way," he said, toggling off the communicator. A moment later, he rushed through the lab's door and ran headlong into Meredith, almost sending them both sprawling to the floor.

"Sorry," he said, setting her down. "Have to go."

"That bad?"

"Yes," he said, turning away and sprinting down the corridor.

"Can I help?" she called after him.

He half-turned, "No—" and kept going until he slowed at the end of the corridor. He caught the corner with his hand and propelled himself around it.

* * * * *

It was bad. There was no way else to put it. The ship would fly, but landing would be difficult, if not impossible. The buoy mechanism was non-functional. The fuel leak had used up a fifth of her supply. Half the anchors had been separated or destroyed. If that were all, she could manage well enough to get back to Mars Base, but the communication laser was a garbled mess. No replacement parts. Her ship was a survey vessel – sleek, fast, and sparsely equipped. She could not contact Mars Base to revise the pre-programmed course through the asteroids. She had two options: continue the mission or risk flying out of the asteroids manually with limited information. Neither option was appealing. There wasn't enough fuel left to finish the mission, and she didn't relish the idea of dodging asteroids without the assistance of Mars Base's computers. If she miscalculated the trajectory to Mars Base even a fragment of a degree, she'd be adrift, lost. She had six hours to choose.

"Six hours," she muttered, "to find another way out of this mess. All right," she nodded to herself. "What's working? Everything inside the ship. The Evac suit. Four anchors. Propulsion. Thrusters. Supplies – two months of food, oxygen, and water. Eighteen buoys that I can't deploy. Me."

_Not much_ , she admitted to herself.

"Mars Base to _The Junket_. Please respond." Lilith jumped, reached for the console to keep from flying free. "Mars Base to _The Junket_. Please respond."

_"The Junket_ here," she said, then shook her head. "The laser's broken, Stupid. You can receive messages, but you can't send any."

"Mars Base to _The Junket_. We are aware of the accident and are working the problem from our side. If you are receiving this message, please respond."

She slapped the console. "Damn it, I _can't_ respond. The communication laser's toast. Without that, there's no way—

"Wait a minute," she said. "How did they know about the accident?" She frowned, brought up the navigation charts, and studied them for a moment. "Ceres," she said. It wasn't close, but she was within range of their telescope. "Maybe," she said, sitting back.

"Mars Base to _The Junket_. We are aware of the accident and are working the problem from our side. If you are receiving this message, please respond."

"All right," she said at last. "Respond I shall."

* * * * *

Ed Granger hurried up to the desk and Landis Schwartz waved him on. "Pad 3, Ed," he said. "It will be ready in five."

"Thanks, Landis," he replied. "Any word?"

Landis shook his head. "Whatever's going on, they're keeping it hush hush. All I was told is that you were coming and to rush you through."

"All right," Ed said. He turned and hurried to the air lock. It was already open, and he stepped into it. A moment later, the lock closed, and he waited.

"Five minutes," he muttered. _Accident_ , he thought. _What kind of accident?_ His thoughts raced, bouncing from one catastrophic scenario to another, each one becoming progressively more disparaging, until, at last, the outer lock opened and he rushed through the small tube into _The_ _Fifth Wheel_.

"Ed Granger?"

"Yes."

"I'm Deidre," she said. "When you're strapped in, we'll be on our way."

She had already started the take-off sequence, so he decided to wait until they were airborne before he pressed her for information.

"South Port, this is the cruiser _The Fifth Wheel_. Ready for departure," Deidre said into the communicator. After a brief pause, Deidre nodded and said, "Thank you, South Port. Will do." A few seconds later, the cruiser was airborne and making its way through the thin air of Mars.

"Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Granger. We have half a planet to cross."

Ed nodded. "A two hour trip," he said. "I've made it many times."

"Two hours under normal circumstances," Deidre said. "We'll be there in one."

"One?"

Deidre nodded and smiled. " _The Fifth Wheel_ is _fast_."

"I was told there would be details about the accident—"

Deidre shook her head. "Not for my ears, Mr. Granger. I'm just the cabbie. _That_ ," she pointed to the console, "is for you."

Ed looked at the console and saw that it had a biometric scanner. He put his finger in and felt the brief prick as it retrieved his DNA. A few moments later, the console came to life, and he saw the blurred image of the damaged _Junket_ orbiting an asteroid like a wounded grasshopper. He stared for several seconds before turning his attention to the data.

* * * * *

Lilith studied her handiwork and nodded to herself. "That should do it," she said. Then her suit beeped, and she nearly jumped into space. If it weren't for the tether....

"Okay," she said, "O2 levels dropping to minimum. Time to go inside."

Once inside, she went to the console and checked the time. "Thirty two minutes," she said. "Plenty of time for Phase Two." She sat down and began the arduous task of overriding the navigation computer's preset programming. Several minutes later, her finger poised above the final confirmation and she pressed it. "Well, there's no going back, now."

She entered a short sequence of commands into the navigation computer to be triggered precisely one minute after the scheduled departure time. The commands would fire the engines in a short burst, rotate the ship, pause for five minutes, then fire the engines a second time to return _The Junket_ to orbit around the asteroid. It was a simple maneuver, but it was much riskier than she would have liked. Even a short distance in the asteroid belt could be hazardous without proper guidance.

She held her breath as the first engine burst flared to life, but when the ship didn't explode, she let it out slowly. Then she turned the sensor display toward the asteroid and watched. "Now for the response," she said, watching the countdown as it dwindled form 30 seconds to zero.

The display changed dramatically at that point, as a series of explosions on the asteroid surface followed each other in quick succession. They were carefully timed to explode when the asteroid rotated to face the general direction of Ceres. With luck, they would be large enough to be seen by Ceres' telescope array – _if_ they were watching. If they weren't....

* * * * *

They were only a few minutes from landing at Mars Base when an update came in. It was terse: No reply. Explosions observed. Video upon landing. Ship schedule terminated. Status uncertain.

He had barely had time to begin digesting the new information when Deidre announced, " _The Fifth Wheel_ to Mars Base. _The Fifth_ — Yes sir, landing sequence initiation in thirty seconds." She turned to Ed and said, "Brace yourself, Ed. This is going to be a bit rough."

He nodded without paying attention, but when the torque of the ship's maneuvers nearly sent him flying across the bridge, he grabbed hold of the console and clenched his teeth. The ordeal didn't last long – perhaps half a minute – and then they settled to the ground.

"All right, Ed," Deidre said. "The airlock's cycling. Time for you to go."

He gulped, nodded, and rose to his feet on shaky knees. "Thanks," he said, taking a deep breath and making his way to the airlock. Once through, there was a scooter waiting for him.

"Hop on Ed," Toby Arnstaadt said. "I'll fill you in on the way to the briefing room."

Ed stepped onto the low platform and gripped the handles. "What's with that last update, Toby. It said there were explosions...."

Toby nodded. "Yes. On the asteroid. The ship's still orbiting her. You'll have to see them. We know it's a message, but we don't know what it means. Here," he said, tapping a code into the scooter's console. "Check out what she did."

Ed watched, raising his eyebrow as _The Junket_ fired the engines and moved several kilometers from the asteroid and stopped. "That," Toby said, "was not pre-programmed. It's manual. She's cancelled out the pre-programmed route."

"No," Ed said quietly. "That means...."

Toby nodded. "Yes. She can't finish her survey, and she's going to risk a blind shot to Mars Base. Keep watching."

Ed did, and when the explosions started, he tensed considerably. "How?"

"Alex thinks she's using the buoys. They have explosive charges to plant them into the iron core. But the oxygen and fuel," he shook his head. "We're not sure how much she used. We're assuming she kept enough in reserve for a return trip, but we don't know how much leeway she gave herself."

"At least we know she's alive," Ed said, "and _The Junket_ is still space-worthy."

"We're counting on that."

"What about a bullet ship?" Ed asked.

"No time," Toby said. "Even our most favorable estimates on her oxygen supply won't last long enough to get one ready and send it out."

"So, what am I here for?"

"We're almost to the lab," he said. "It's at the end of that next tunnel. Those explosions – we think it's a message, something more than 'I'm alive!', but we can't figure out what it is. What do you think?"

Ed replayed the sequence of explosions, but nothing came to him. "Perhaps if I saw it on a larger screen?"

"You will," Toby assured him. "We're here," he added, bringing the scooter to a stop. "Now, the reason you're here is simple. We need your ingenuity and your knowledge of Lilith. We need to know what she'll do, and, more importantly, what she _can_ do. You're going to help us find a way to bring her back without being able to communicate with her."

The door opened and a cacophony of voices scattered down the hallway. Someone inside looked up, and Toby nodded. The man – wiry, red-haired, tall – came over and ushered them inside. "Mr. Granger," he said as he led him to the table. "I'm Miggs. I'll forgo introductions for the others for now. We need your help."

Ed pointed at the large computer screen and asked, "Can I see the explosions? Close up?"

Miggs snapped his fingers and said, "Millie—"

She bent to the console and a few moments later, the first explosion flared across the face of the asteroid. It faded out, and when the asteroid's rotation brought it back into view, the second explosion – more like a flare, this time, as if it were a dud fizzling out – lingering until the face of the asteroid disappeared. The rest of the explosions – some short and powerful, others long and fizzling – followed suit until, after the seventeenth one, it fell into silence.

"Well?" The wiry man said, "Any thoughts?"

"It's a pattern of some sort," Ed said.

"We know. But _what_ pattern?"

Ed frowned. _What would Lilith do?_ he asked himself. _What_ could _Lilith do?_ Lilith was a generalist. She knew a little about a lot of things, like any good commander does. But her first love was navigation. Her second love was him. She was competent in the basic sciences – chemistry, physics, astrophysics, propulsion – the type of things she needed to know if something happened to her crew. But she was far from an expert in any of them and seldom cared about theory. She was practical. She was hands-on. Sometimes she was rash, but when she was, it usually worked out well. Intuitive. A bit reckless.

"She knows something," he said. "This is not a desperate act."

"What?" Miggs said.

"She has a plan," Ed said. "That is a message, and we need to figure out what it is. She's trying to tell us what she needs from us. We have to figure that out."

"All right," Miggs said. "Keep talking."

Ed tilted his head. "Lil is intuitive, decisive. Once she overrode the programming, her mind was set on that being the best course of action. _Something_ is wrong enough with _The Junket_ to prevent her from making it through the rest of her pre-programmed sequence. But when she took that little jaunt, she was showing us that she could still maneuver and that _The Junket_ could fly. The explosions are _partly_ intended to get our attention so that we know she's still at that asteroid, but there's more to it than that. If all she wanted was our attention, one big explosion would have been more effective."

"All right," Miggs said. "Amber, alert the computer bay that we're going to need time on short notice. Once we figure this out, they'll have to program her route to the nearest safe port."

"How long has it been since she set them off?" Ed asked, suddenly.

"With the time lag, about two hours," a large-boned brunette said from a console in the corner. "We've been trying to contact her ever since Ceres sent us word about the accident, but she's not responding."

"She's waiting," Ed added. "We're supposed to do something, and she's waiting for us to do it. She's an excellent navigator, and she would have risked returning on her own if the situation was bad enough." He frowned and looked at the brunette. "What did you say?"

"It's been about two hours."

"No, after that."

"We've been trying to contact her ever since Ceres—"

"How?" Ed demanded.

"By laser, of course."

Ed shook his head. "No, no, I mean, what messages have you sent her?"

She frowned. "We've been requesting a response. It's set on a ten minute repeater."

Ed nodded. "What, exactly, is the message?"

"Well," she said. It's almost time for it to be sent, if you want to hear it."

"Yes," he said, moving quickly to her side.

"It's a simple request—"

"Shh," Ed said. "Play it for me. I want to hear _exactly_ what it says."

"All right," she said, punching in the codes to interrupt the repeater and turn the volume up. "Here it is: Mars Base to The Junket. We are aware of the accident and are working the problem from our side. If you are receiving this message, please respond."

Ed listened, and when it finished, he motioned for it to be repeated. When it finished, he started laughing – loudly and enthusiastically – and the room fell quiet, save for the echoes.

* * * * *

Lilith had never been very good at waiting. She liked to _do_ things. But there wasn't anything she _could_ do yet. So, she dozed. It was not a restful sleep, though; the message from Mars Base kept waking her up.

It was a monotonous message – tedious and wasteful. "Mars Base to _The Junket_. We are aware of the accident and are working the problem from our side. If you are receiving this message, please respond." If she got back, she'd tell them so. At the very least, they could vary it up a bit, make it seem more _human_.

She was about ready to shut off the communicator so she could get some real sleep when something changed. The message was different. The _messenger_ was different.

"Mars Base to _The Junket_. Mars Base to _The Junket_. Lil, this is Ed. I know you can hear me but can't respond. That's okay. We know what you want, and we've got the computers doing their calculations. Once we have them, we'll transmit the coordinates and departure times. We're not sure where you'll end up, yet, but it will be within your limits. Those explosions were awful clever, Lil. Sorry it took so long to overlay the patterns. Spelling out **REPLY** like that, one bit at a time...."

"Oh, Ed," Lilith said in the pause that followed. "Dear, dear Ed."

"Okay, we know you're short on fuel, but we don't know how much. We're assuming the worst case scenario with a little flexibility. That way, if you have more, it won't be a problem. Same with oxygen. That doesn't leave us too many options. We're trying to find a ship that can rendezvous with you, but it doesn't look promising. We think the computer will send you to Ceres. It's the nearest outpost, but you'll have to dodge quite a few rocks to get there."

"Listen, Lil," Ed continued after a moment. "We'd like confirmation that you've received this message, and it's going to be a bit tricky. We don't want to use up your oxygen, but the explosion needs to be large enough for Ceres to pick up. You'll need that last buoy and the following food packs...."

Lilith scurried through the larder tossing out the food packs as Ed named them off, and when he finished, he repeated them a second and third time. The instructions became more complicated at this point, since she had to do some chemistry with equipment that was never meant to be used to do chemistry. At the end of the instruction, Ed said, "Lil, you have to be careful with this. It's _sensitive_. You don't want to put the trigger in until you're ready to set it off. The buoy trigger will provide the primary heat source, but once the reaction starts, you'll only have about fifteen seconds to get clear of the concussion. You won't be able to set a timer on this one," he added softly, "and it needs to be set against the iron in the asteroid for fullest effect."

Lilith sighed. "Another Evac – more oxygen depleted." She shook her head. "There has to be another way." She sat back, her nose pinched and brows furrowed. "Another way...."

It took her an hour to rig up the device, and a two minute spacewalk to set it in motion. She hadn't liked the idea of trying to outrun a concussion wave, so she'd set up a contact trigger, secured the goo around the buoy the way Ed had directed her, and gave it a gentle shove toward the asteroid, adjusting the speed so that it would contact the exposed nickel-iron core deep in the cavern that had formed when the asteroid had shattered beneath her. Then she made her way back inside before her suit's oxygen had completely run out.

The explosion, when it occurred, was brighter than she'd expected for such a small device, and she smiled. "You've always been a good cook, Ed," she said.

Then she waited for the next transmission.

* * * * *

Lilith strapped herself into _The Junket_ pilot's seat and triggered the sequence to set in motion the navigational instructions Mars Base had sent. It would be a two week trip through the asteroid belt. The computer executed the first maneuver, a short jaunt to clear herself from the asteroid debris and set her along the way. Then _The Junket_ dipped suddenly as the proximity alarm blared to life – too late; the tiny asteroid had already streamed past _The Junket_ , barely a half kilometer from the ship. Lilith gritted her teeth and her fingernails dug into the arms of her seat as the ship jolted severely and the engines flared to life. The burst was a long one, this time, but then the thrusters kicked in, steering the ship along a slow roller-coaster ride through space. Most of the time, the shifts in attitude or trajectory were soft and easy to adjust to, but every time she settled into a routine, the computer would warn her of a pending acute adjustment, and she'd cling to her seat. Her instinct was to take manual control, to stop the spin or the g-force, but she knew that would be a mistake; the computer had its reasons, and usually they saved her life.

It was a bumpy two weeks, but at the end of it, _The Junket_ settled into orbit around Ceres, and she maneuvered her ship to the landing field. It was a rough landing with only half the legs working, but they keep it upright in the tiny gravity and secured it in place long enough for her to escape into the relative safety of Ceres Outpost.

Then she had to wait for _The Snodgrass_ to pick her up.

# Washishisha

_No, not again._ I sighed: commissions were down twelve percent. People were too secure in their belief that their ships would traverse space without incident. It was true, too—I knew it to be. The problem was, with space being as safe as, say, sitting alone in a dark room, what good were we? There were no fears for the Washishisha Wizards to banish.

"Memo," I said, knowing the computer would pick out my voice pattern from the residual background noises. It was infallible.

"Instigation Procedure Three. Two ships in close proximity—nothing more." I paused, wondering if I wanted to carry this burden one more time. "Two days hence. End and encode. Priority SLX3, send to private sector."

No sound of machinery churning to do my bidding; only silent obedience. Two days....

I sighed, returning to the analysis of the quarterly fiscal records. They did not cheer me up.

* * * * *

How long had it been? Eighty-three years? Yes, eighty-three years of hypocrisy since _The Barnacle_. I had been groomed, of course, by my father, but... _eighty-three years!_ I would be old, soon—perhaps I would talk to myself. An amusing thought....

"Grandmaster?" The voice was timid, uncertain of interrupting my reverie. I would have to remember to replace my mask before he noticed my fatigue.

"Yes?" The computer initiated the Vid-link as soon as I spoke. "Ah, nephew, what might I do for you?"

"Grandmaster," I ignored the formality, "I have a commission."

My chest grew tight with hypocrisy. My nephew. Soon, he, too, would become one of the Washishisha....

* * * * *

It was my first commission: _The Barnacle_. A small ship, surely, but one with proud lines and a dainty touch to her engines. It had star-drive, naturally, and was about to be christened when I arrived. I was late. _Not_ a good sign—my patron was not pleased. I gave no explanation, and he did not press me for one, despite his concern. A wise choice.

"Where will she be berthed?" I asked—the particulars were necessary.

"Pier six-nine-three-three-one in Space Dock Central," my patron answered.

I thought about the number and found no negative impulse—no positive one, either. It was ambiguous. I did not let my uncertainty show. "Mission?"

"One-way to Agri-World Complex to become part of the Patrol Force."

He was nervous. Good—more energy to draw on. The mission was routine—no anomalies, few—if any—risks. Hopeful, but not quite enough. "Pilot?"

"Captain Frakes Mannittee, Omega Class—top-of-the-line crew."

Pride? That could be problematic. The pilot's name was known to me—he had experience and considerable skill. Only one question remained: "Payment?"

My patron almost spoke—but chose not to. Again, a wise choice. He handed me a pouch and I pocketed it without checking the contents. There was no chance that he would try to cheat a Washishisha Wizard—we both knew better. I turned toward the craft.

I circled it three times, counter-clockwise, muttering the incantation as if I had done it a thousand times. I hadn't, of course—this was the first time. "Wa-shi-shi-SHA! Wa-shi-shi-SHA! Wa-shi-shi-SHA!" I began the gyrations on the third circle, continuing to chant, "Wa-shi-shi-SHA!"

I suddenly stopped cold and intoned some gibberish, occasionally throwing in words they would recognize—the captain's name, the ship's name (more than once), my patron, and so on. I was almost winded by the time I paused, again.

"May the space be kind and gentle to this fair ship, her captain, her crew, and all who sail within her!" The christening was completed by my writing " _The Barnacle_ " (thank God I spelled it right!) in script upon the ship's side. The chalk I used was a fluorescent blue that radiated nicely through the evening air. Quite compelling.

I gyrated around the ship—clockwise, this time—chanting, "Wa-shi-shi-SHA!" then circled twice more without gyrating. When I was done, I turned and walked away without word or glance for anyone.

As soon as I was far enough away to satisfy social convention, the assembled party began to cheer. I smiled—not in pride or joy, but in sadness. The poor, poor fools. I, a Washishisha Wizard, had done nothing more than chase away the demons living in their own minds. My magic was an illusion, empty of substance, full of promise. I sighed—the gem stones jingled softly at my side, bearing the full weight of my first commission.

My father would be proud.

* * * * *

"UNCLE!" Insistence? Insolence? I returned to the present, prepared to scold. "Are you all right?"

"I— " I paused, considering. "Are you aware of what we stand for?" He nodded. "Do you have reservations about your first commission?" He licked his lips and glanced away, bowing his head. "Your father?"

"Please, Uncle, don't tell him! He'd be devastated! He doesn't even know I'm a Mor—" He froze, realizing what he had almost said.

_Moralist_. They were not very popular within the Family. Still, there were some—but only in secret. They had approached me, through some very odd methods, just before _The Barnacle_. I would have turned them in if I had been able to recognize them. Even so, I suspect it was a test.

"Moralist," I whispered, furrowing my brow. My nephew was agitated, almost bouncing out of the range of the Vid-link. If only I had listened to them....

"... on't call me that! Please, Uncle! Not over _this_!" My nephew was gesturing wildly, almost becoming apoplectic.

Eighty-three years....

"Nephew," my voice was calm, flat, emotionless. "If we told them the truth, it would destroy the Family. The _whole_ Family. That, in turn, would create considerable social upheaval. You know this."

He was glum, almost teary-eyed. "Yes, but that doesn't mean _I_ have to perpetuate the lie!"

The core of the Moralist philosophy. If only he could understand—but, no, that was untrue. He _did_ understand—and so did I. If nothing else, I could save _him_ eighty-three years of moral anguish. "When and where is your commission? Which ship?"

"In three days, on Indus Planet Three. The _Vishnu Scavenger_." Pride? Despite his claim to be a Moralist?

"A worthy craft, nephew. Tell me, would you object if I handled this particular commission? I have another task for you. Some ... friends for you to meet. If you'd like...."

His uncertainty hung like the wrinkles of my skin. Then, quite suddenly, it vanished. "Of course, Grandmaster. I would be most honored to be of service to you."

Yes, I'm sure he would be. The "friends" were an "active" underground of Moralists who, through their own resources, were laying the groundwork for abolishing the Washishisha. Some exposed secret plots the public found amusing—but couldn't believe. Why would the Washishisha destroy ships? They _saved_ them! Others provided scientific evidence on the utterly safe methods of current space travel. Still others analyzed our ritualistic, magical formulae and found them to be complete nonsense. And so on. My nephew would become one of them.

* * * * *

The next day, I boarded the _Odysseus' Spirit_ , bound for Indus Planet Three. The captain and crew—and passengers—were quite pleased to see a Washishisha Grandmaster aboard, particularly one of my standing. Word was left that I was "going out" and could be reached by Vid-link if necessary. We were already in deep space when the message came.

"Heartland harvested. Excising Homer's Ghost in one hour." Code. Simplified and cryptic. I shrugged, despite the uncanny itch at the back of my neck.

Ten minutes later, the captain's voice—solemn and shaky—echoed through the passenger compartments. "This is the Captain. It is my sad duty to inform you that the _Farmland Express_ has been reported as missing and presumed lost. It is the first incident in over four years. She, like us, was an uncommissioned passenger craft. Fortunately, we have the protection of the Grandmaster on board...."

I quit listening—my itch had exploded into a burning fire. _Homer's Ghost_?! That was the code for—

There was no way to stop it. In forty-one minutes, _Odysseus' Spirit_ would meet with a little accident. A carefully masked meteor on collision course? An ion storm (mechanically generated) to fry organic matter? Perhaps it would be a bomb—simple, crude, effective. I started laughing.

Eighty-three years for _this_?! To give the order which would ultimately be my death—how utterly ironic! My amusement grew alarmingly as I shouted, "WASHISHISHA!" slapping my thigh. "WASHISHISHA! WAHSHISHISHA!"

Five minutes later—just a half-hour to live!—I called a friend in the media to explain what was about to happen and why. Given time, I might even be able to tell her _what_ destroyed the ship....

# Mock Turtle

Slithering across the horizon, at least three miles away, was a large shadow. Every now and then, it darted this way or that, or disappeared altogether. "Well?" Squire Hibbard, the youngest of the three observers, asked.

"A young one by the look of it," Sir Garamond replied. The wing-span is scarcely more than twenty feet."

"It will do, though, right?" Hibbard asked.

"Do? As an initiation, perhaps, but not for you. It isn't every day that the Briar Circle considers a candidate for Knighthood. _That_ ," the older man said, pointing, "is your dragon."

The young candidate looked in the direction indicated by the older man but could see nothing; a small hill was in his way. "Where?" he asked.

Sir Reginod chuckled. "It is a bit larger than the young one," he said.

Squire Hibbard, shaded his eyes, and looked more closely at the hill. It undulated. The _hill_ was the dragon. _His_ dragon, all curled up upon itself, snoozing.

Sir Reginod laughed heartily and slapped the candidate's back. "Don't worry; the size of a dragon is of no great consequence—for a Knight."

Squire Hibbard puffed up his chest, raised his blaster, and stepped forward to do battle with the dragon, trying to ignore that it was as big as a manor house.

"Whoa, there, Squire! Not so fast." Sir Reginod said. "We must warn the dragon, first, so he, too, can prepare." As Sir Garamond walked toward the dragon, Sir Reginod finished, "Besides, it isn't at all Knightly to sneak up on a sleeping dragon. Where's the honor in it?"

Sir Garamond reached the dragon, paused for a few moments, then started back. The dragon rose, stretched its wings out and fluttered them, casting a shadow around them as if they were a huge canopy of leather.

"He is prepared," Sir Garamond reported upon his return. "Go present your challenge and commence the duel."

The candidate, dressed in the uncomfortable, bulky armor of a Wannabe Knight, thumped his way forward as the dragon did a series of simple calisthenics that shook the ground. It took five minutes for him to reach the dragon—far too much time to realize how _big_ the dragon really was. Far, far too much time.

"Hail, O' Mighty Dragon," Squire Hibbard squawked.

"Eh?" the dragon replied, looking down. "What was that?" It asked, lowering its enormous head to snort.

Squire Hibbard cleared his throat, "Hail, O Mighty Dragon!" he bellowed, his voice ringing out in a rich baritone that floated just above the plain.

"Well-met!" The dragon puffed. "Are you here to challenge me?" The dragon chuckled, sizing up his opponent with brisk dispassion. "Aha! Anti-inflammatory shield and non-corrosive body armor. A wise precaution. Of course, you do realize they will provide you with little protection from my _teeth_ , don't you?" The dragon grinned, showing precisely what it was that the Wannabe Knight would have no protection against. "Perhaps it would be best if you decided not to challenge me? Perhaps you could leave the Knighthood, instead?"

Squire Hibbard was thinking much the same thing but said, "No. I challenge you in the manner and fashion of the Knights of the Briar Circle. Prepare to defend yourself." He lifted his blaster and fired—where the dragon had been a moment before.

"Ha!" The dragon cried from above—and behind—him! He twisted around, just in time to throw up the flame-retardant shield to absorb the dragon's fiery breath. A question rushed through his head: _Why did it breathe when it knew it would do nothing to my shield?_ As the smoke began to clear, the answer quickly followed: _A diversion!_ Squire Hibbard raised his blaster and pulled the trigger. He didn't even try to aim, the dragon's gaping maw was so close.

The dragon's head snapped back and it gasped, spitting out great globs of red dye.

"O Mighty Dragon," Hibbard said when it had recovered. He bowed graciously and added the ceremonial words: "You are dead. This duel is over, and I have vanquished you."

After the dragon spat out the last of the red dye, it bowed its head and replied with formality, its voice scratchy and harsh. "Very well, Wannabe Knight, I concede to you your victory."

"Thank you," _Will-be_ Knight Hibbard bowed and walked back to the two Knights of the Briar Circle.

"Well done, Would-be Knight," Sir Garamond said.

"Well done," Sir Reginod echoed with a heartfelt, heavy pat on his shoulder. "Meet us at noon tomorrow in the Briar Patch garden. Have you a name?"

Squire Hibbard nodded. "I shall be Sir Winniferd."

Sir Reginod raised his eyebrows and said, "Strange name for a Knight of the Briar Circle," he said.

Squire Hibbard nodded. "It was my mother's...."
Resurrection

Three weeks is a long time. It's even longer when you're used to being on edge 24-7. War is like that. You never know when some nut-case is going to try to get past the checkpoint with a bomb strapped to his chest. Fucking fanatics. The war would've been over years ago if it weren't for them. But this story isn't about them; it's about me.

My name is Corporal Henry Miller—scratch that, _former_ Corporal Henry Miller recently discharged from active duty. I did two tours in Afghanistan and called it quits. Then I had the bright idea of going home to the panhandle of Nebraska. It's a bit like Afghanistan: hot and dry. Not as much sand though. And no IEDs. No Taliban or Al-Qaida either, just rolling-on-the-floor-speaking-in-tongues Christians. They think believing in a different god makes them different, but I've got news for them: it doesn't.

I met a lot of Muslims in Afghanistan, and most of them were just like us: rural farmers trying to make a living from the land, hoping for grace, praying for rain. Some of them didn't like us, but that's okay; I didn't like all of them. Still, most of them are pretty decent folks.

Anyway, after three weeks of being idle, I'd had enough. But I didn't want to go to work, yet; farming doesn't cut it for me anymore. I'd seen too much to settle for that kind of life, again. It's not a bad life; it's just boring. I couldn't sit at home any more. Too much time to think about what I didn't want to think about and couldn't stop thinking about. So, I bought a Schwinn Meridian 26" Single Speed—it's a tricycle with a basket between the back wheels. Let them laugh. I could have bought a ten speed, but that would have been counter-productive: I wanted— _needed_ —to burn off some energy. So, I filled up my duffle bag with about a week's worth of civvies, bought a few bottles of water, and started off in a random direction. It ended up being east.

Nebraska, in case you've never been there, is about as flat as a crew cut and as boring as television snow. Mile after mile of farmland, mostly corn, a little milo, soybeans, and pasture. Same-old, same-old. Once in a while, you get a whiff of hog shit, and if you've never smelled it, you don't know why people get pissed off when a new hog lot comes to town. It _stinks_. It's worse than three-day-old corpses. Well, almost. That's a smell you don't forget. Once in a while, there's a stream or river and a few trees. It doesn't take long for the novelty to wear off.

Anyway, I'd been riding my bike for three days when it happened. I say "it" because I don't know what else to call it. It might have been a vision. It might have been a hallucination. Hell, it could have been a dream for all I know. It wasn't drugs. I don't do them. Whatever it was, it changed my life.

I'd been riding for three days, and my legs were sore, my ass was chapped, and I had found out what hemorrhoids are. I was beginning to wonder why I was riding a bike across Nebraska, but that just made me pedal faster. About noon on the fourth day, I came to a T intersection. To the left, the asphalt continued, and to the right was hard-packed gravel. I decided to take the gravel road. If you've never ridden a bicycle on a gravel road, it isn't easy. You can lose traction in an instant, spin out, and get a face full of gravel if you aren't careful. I wasn't careful. Fortunately, it didn't matter. The Meridian has three wheels, which makes it a lot more stable, even with poor traction, and I didn't quit flip it over. Maybe I should have turned left, but that's beside the point.

I was limping along at an embarrassing, doddering speed and noticed a dirt road branching off from the gravel. I'd seen a lot of dirt roads in Afghanistan, but this one was different. The dirt roads in Afghanistan have a lot of traffic, and sometimes they have IED's. You've heard of that "road less travelled" poem, right? Well, Frost could have been talking about this road. It looked like it hadn't been used in years. It wound its way into a small wood about a quarter mile away, and since I needed to take a piss, I decided to ride down it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I felt like the road had invited me to follow it.

When I reached the wood, I took the time to take a piss and drink some water before mounting my Schwinn again. I intended to turn around and go back to the gravel road but found myself pedaling further into the woods. I still don't know why I did that. About half a mile later the dirt road turned sharply left and passed under a large metal archway. You know the kind—black paint, calligraphy letters. I skidded to a stop when I saw what was beyond it: a cemetery. It took a moment to decipher the metal latticework of the archway, and when I did, it didn't make sense. It read: The Poet's Plot.

Now, I've seen my share of death—and yours, too, probably—and I'm not at all keen about cemeteries. I'm not afraid of death; when your number comes up, that's it. But cemeteries bother me. They bring back too many memories of too many funerals for too many dead comrades. It also reminds me of the enemies I saw through my gun sights. I don't know if they had funerals. Funerals are a luxury in war.

Well, for some reason, _this_ cemetery didn't bring up those things. Instead, I found myself getting off my Schwinn, grabbing a water bottle, and walking up to the gate. Beyond were carefully manicured rows of death's evenly-spaced teeth. No cavities. I stepped across the threshold, and everything changed. Well, not literally, not all at once, but it's as good a point to say everything changed as anywhere else is. After all, what happened next transformed my life, and if I hadn't walked under that archway, it wouldn't have happened. But then, again, if I hadn't bought a Schwinn Meridian—it's forest green, by the way, a nice contrast to the brown and tan of my desert cammie fatigues—it wouldn't have happened either. I could have said that everything changed at that point, too, but I didn't. Deal with it. It's more dramatic to say everything changed when I walked into a cemetery than to say everything changed when I walked into Wal-Mart.

The first thing that caught my eye was the orderliness of the place. All of the graves seemed to have been placed in precise, evenly spaced rows. The plots were big, about four feet wide and seven feet long with plenty of walking room between them. I'm good at judging things like that. Each grave had a tombstone carefully placed at the head of the grave. Or the foot of it, for all I know. Probably the head. Most graves are like that. Maybe it was at the foot of the grave, instead. It would make sense, in this cemetery. The tombstones were six-inch slabs, two feet wide and three feet high. They were all smoke-colored granite. It was like they had been chiseled from a giant stone slab and placed there by a machine. Or by the military. If you've ever been to Arlington, you know what I mean. I've been there. Most of my platoon is there, planted in a nice straight row, like peas. Their markers were white marble, though. These graves were like corn rows planted horizontally. There was one exception: a mausoleum at the back of the cemetery commanded everyone's attention. Everyone in this case was me. A cobbled walkway led to it, and I found myself quick-marching down the walkway before I even realized what my body was doing. I _watched_ my body walk that walk. The shrinks call it disassociation.

I've experienced dissociation a few times in combat. You detach yourself from your body and let your body do its work unimpeded. No thinking required. My body was trained well. I watched it do some amazing things the day I got the Purple Heart. It was hit in the leg, but it didn't let the bullet stop it from slitting those Taliban throats. I didn't feel how much it hurt until later, when I was part of my body again. It took a while to heal up. Riding the Schwinn brought back the pain. My point is this: I disassociated when I saw that mausoleum and my body acted on its own, and I'm not responsible for what my body does when I'm not in it. No, I am not in denial—unless I'm in denial about my denial, but that's something the shrinks would say. Screw 'em. Anyway, I don't really remembering walking through the cemetery; I just remember being at the gate one moment and then being at the mausoleum the next. In-between is like a dream that happened to someone else; it was like walking through the open jaws of a shark, with its rows on rows of teeth ready to grind off large bits of flesh. Only, this wasn't a shark.

I looked back, longingly, at the gate of the cemetery, but I knew I wouldn't be going back there any time soon. I had to find out what was in the mausoleum. The way it compelled me to move toward it, I wouldn't have been surprised if a vampire or mummy was lurking in its grim shadows, waiting for me to let down my guard. But, that wasn't what happened, was it? After all, if I had been sucked dry by a vampire, would I be here writing this crap? Art therapy, my ass. What the hell does my shrink know, anyway? _She's_ never been in combat. But that's a different story, and she'd get pissed off if I wrote about _that_. Probably call it transference.

The mausoleum was large, a little over thirty feet in diameter, and it had a domed roof. The walls were gray granite carved smooth and masterfully set. Bland. Peaceful. It reminded me of a mosque I saw in a little village south of Kabul. We'd heard there was an Al-Qaeda cell hiding there, and we—well, I don't want to talk about it; that's a different story, too. Let's just say the mosque was more ornate and a lot more colorful. It was made of sandstone, the tiled floor alternated black and white like a chess board, and long, heavy, flowing curtains split apart the male and female areas. They were burgundy. The stains didn't show as much on them as they did on the white tiles. Both buildings were architectural masterpieces in the most unlikely of places. Both were on sacred ground. Both housed the dead.

The mausoleum had an opening the same size as the graves: six feet wide and eight feet high. There was no door. The interior was shadowy, cool. The only place someone could hide was behind—or in—the sepulcher in the center. It was precisely placed. It grew from the floor to a height of four feet, and the lid—if that was what it was—was the same size as the graves outside. I took a breath and cautiously stepped forward—and everything changed. Again. A part of me wishes I'd never gone into that mausoleum, never looked at the sepulcher lid, never read those lines.... But I did. Three long, crouching strides brought me up to the sepulcher, and two more convinced me that no one was lying in wait behind it. A key difference from the Mosque: they tried to hide behind everything. Once I was satisfied I was alone, I looked at the sepulcher, expecting it to have some poor bastard's name, birth date, and death date. It's routine. Almost every grave I've ever seen has the b and d dates on the tombstone. This one didn't. No name was given. No birth date. No death date. Instead, etched into the granite cover, each letter about half an inch deep, was a poem.

I've heard of epitaphs before. Famous people have them. Rich people have them. Poor people can't afford grave markers like that. The dirt poor can't afford grave markers at all. Anyway, this guy must have been pretty well off, judging by the length of the epitaph and its content. Here it is:

In this grave I do bequeath

my body to the ground,

But all the earth that lies beneath,

I donate to this town

to be used by other souls

so I am not alone;

But on their graves I do request

an epitaph in stone,

A verse or two that speaks of life—

whatever life they've known—

'T would be a kindness to their soul

for them to have a poem.

Okay, so it's not dramatic. So what if there was a poem carved into this slab of stone. It's not even that good of a poem—the "own" sound drowns me. But, it changed me. I mean, it's such a _simple_ thing, such a _practical_ thing, such a _considerate_ thing to do, giving people a place to be buried. So why did he have to screw it up by making them put poems on their tombstones? Especially trite little poems like—

"Hello—

If I'd had a gun with me, I'd have shot him. Who the hell is he to sneak up on me like that? But I was unarmed. I swung around, poised for mortal combat, and found a wizened old man leaning against the mausoleum entryway. He was wearing blue coveralls, and a rake dangled from his hand. "Who the fuck are you?"

Okay, in hindsight, it wasn't the most appropriate thing to say in a mausoleum, but I hadn't felt a rush of adrenalin like that since my last mission, the one that gave me the Purple Heart and sent my buddies to Arlington. It took a moment to remember I wasn't in Afghanistan, and it took a lot longer than that for my heart to stop racing. Maybe it was his blue coveralls that kept me from killing him. Anyway, there's nothing quite like that mad rush of adrenalin, and for the first time since I got back, I felt _alive_ and ready for action.

He shrugged, cocked his head to the side, and said, "Call me Ishmael." His eyes twinkled as he said it. "I'm the caretaker." His voice was a wispy baritone. He nodded toward the sepulcher. "That's the founder's plot, one of the oldest graves in the cemetery. They say his name was Alfred Fennicore, but I wouldn't place much stock in that. He didn't have any family, and there aren't any surviving records. All we have is hearsay from the grandchildren of the grandchildren of the people who knew him. If their accounts can be trusted, he died of stubbornness in 1831."

"Stubbornness? How the hell does someone die of stubbornness?"

Ishmael shrugged. "Like I said, hearsay."

"Well," I said after a moment, "it doesn't matter. He's dead either way."

"True," he agreed. "I suppose it doesn't really matter how one dies, after we're done dying."

"Wait a minute," I said, "1831? I thought Nebraska wasn't settled until the 1850s."

He shrugged. "Parts of it were. Small settlements. Are you going to be here long?"

It was a good question. I hadn't thought about it. It was my turn to shrug. "I saw the dirt road," I said, not really answering him. "I was curious."

He half-smiled and tilted his head again, "Have you checked out the headstones? Some of them are quite poignant. You can learn a lot about someone from an epitaph."

"No," I said. "I wanted to see what was in here, first."

He nodded. "You should read a few before you go." Then, still leaning against the entryway, he pivoted away. A pair of soft leather, brown gloves flapped in his back pocket as he disappeared around the corner. I stood there, absentmindedly running my fingers over the smooth-edged troughs of the etched lettering of the sepulcher cap. Perhaps a minute passed while I stared out the empty doorway, wondering if he was going to come back. Then I decided it was time to leave the mausoleum.

When I got outside, I glanced around, but the cemetery was deserted. There weren't any vehicles by the archway. I sniffed the air: if he'd left by the dirt road, no dust cloud had followed him. It was as if he had never been there. Maybe he hadn't. Regardless, I decided to take a look at a few of the tombstones to see how "poignant" they were. I picked the first one at random, mainly because it was near the mausoleum. My curiosity was rewarded with the following verse:

Epitaph to a Whore

Herein lies Miss Jamie Beck,

naked to the last;

We buried her upon her back,

in tribute to her past.

I don't know about you, but I think it's poignant. After all, do you know _anyone_ who wasn't buried on their back? We're all whores, in the end, aren't we? Whores to money. Whores to time. Whores to governments hell-bent on killing each other. But this little lady—yes, _lady_ —practiced that age-old art of selling her body to service men's needs. And men do have needs. I know, when I was in Afghanistan, I had a few. Whores, that is. Those hijabs cover up a lot—literally, they were fat, ugly whores. But I didn't mind. I was horny. I needed it. Besides, I could have died the next day, the next minute. But I didn't. It was cheap, too. I made sure to step around Miss Beck's grave when I moved on to the next one; she had had enough men on top of her when she was alive.

The tombstone beside hers was for the undertaker. It's an important job. If you've ever been around unburied, rotting corpses, you know what I mean. Here's the epitaph:

The Undertaker's Plot

His duty to this tiny town

was done with joyous sorrow:

Embalming all the dead around

and digging every barrow.

Now we've placed him in the ground—

the new man comes tomorrow.

Sad, isn't it? It doesn't sound like he was very much appreciated. Look at how easy it was for them to replace him. Men should not be replaceable. I had a professor, once, who used the word fungible in philosophy class. I had no idea what it meant until I looked it up later. It refers to two interchangeable commodities of equal value. Fungible things can be replaced without loss. Light bulbs are fungible. One burns out, no problem: put in a new one. Fungible. I _hate_ that word. Soldiers are fungible. Blow one up, and there's another one ready to take his place. Shoot him, and here comes another tin soldier ready for target practice. That's what we are: tin soldiers. _Toy_ soldiers. Commodities. There was another poem in the graveyard that was like that:

Sally's Place

Her diner fed a million men

with meals too hot and salty;

Though we're sorry that she's gone,

the new cook is a beauty!

At least they were _sorry_ she died. At least they _noticed_ her. But it didn't take very long for them to get a new cook, did it? Poor Sally. Poor _fungible_ Sally. She got replaced by a brighter light bulb.

I was too angry and disgusted to pay much attention to the next few epitaphs I looked at. They must not have been very good, though, or I would have remembered them. Fungible epitaphs. But, near the end of the row, I was brought up short by this sad little poem:

May 3, 1895

A baby, dead before it lived,

encased in knotted pine;

A nameless boy for which we give

as only marks in time.

My anger dissolved into tears before I even realized what was happening. The tears streamed down my cheeks as if I had been sprayed with mace. It doesn't make sense, does it? I mean, I didn't know this baby, so why was I crying? Sure, it's sad, but I've seen death up close and gory without flinching. So, why did this headstone, this poem, this sad little verse hit me so hard? I kneeled down, put my hand on the smooth granite surface, and gently traced the date over and over again. I don't know how many times I did it, but eventually I pulled myself away and moved to the next one. My vision was blurry. It was difficult to read. But at least it didn't strike any more raw nerves. Maybe it should have been titled "The Poet's Plot" instead of the cemetery, but it wasn't. It was a lonely little quatrain waiting for attention. I tried to give it mine.

I was the poet for this tiny town,

commissioned every time they broke the ground

to write a verse or two for everyone,

but now I guess my writing days are done.

I wrote poetry, once, a long time ago, in the time before the war. Most of the poems were silly, the kind of things children do. I thought about being a writer back then, but boot camp cured me of that idea. Boot camp, bullets, and IEDs. How can I write good poetry when all the imagery dancing in my head has bits of flesh dangling from it? In Afghanistan, I tried to write an uplifting verse but a suicide bomber took over and blew it all to hell. Who's going to print a poem like that? Blood flows through my poems, now. The blood of the dead. The blood of the dying. The blood of the innocent. The blood of the guilty. The blood of a nameless two-year-old boy.

I almost left the cemetery at that point but stopped just before I got to the archway. I was being stupid. I was getting all worked up over epitaphs. _Bad_ epitaphs. I had a teacher in high school who said good poetry was like a painting without a frame: the words are static and the reader provides the context. Without the context, all there is is an image lost in space and time. I think he meant poetry was relative and that each person brings something into the poem that isn't really there. Take this one:

A Stranger's Grave

A stranger rests with troubled soul,

his name unknown to us;

He wandered in one rainy day

and got hit by a bus.

It's a simple poem. Some anonymous vagabond gets killed, and they treat him like he's one of their own. They bury him in the cemetery and send him off with a quaint little verse. What did _I_ think about when I read this poem? I thought about the bus that blew up outside of a restaurant in Kandahar, killing twenty three civilians. I thought about the multitude of strangers I met, any one of which could have a bomb strapped to its chest, a gun under its flowing robes, or a crucifix dangling from its throat. I thought about the time it rained and how it sizzled in the hot, dry dust. I thought about the bus that dropped me off at boot camp, the bus that took me to the airport when I got deployed, and the bus that brought me home to Nebraska. I thought about the faces of the strangers I killed. I thought about a lot of things the poet didn't know a damned thing about. I am the stranger. The war is the bus. The context for the imagery.

Bad poetry just sits there, doing nothing.

Most of the poems I saw in that cemetery were short, no more than a stanza or two in length. But there was a longer poem that caught my eye, and I carefully maneuvered my way around the graves so I could read it. It was surreal.

In Memoriam

His heart was calloused to the bone;

his eyes were steely gray;

His legs were stumps of knotted pine

with feet of molten clay;

His arms were hewn from granite blocks

with hands of corded twine;

His thoughts were muddy riverbeds

when he was so inclined;

His ears were molded tin and zinc;

his back was steel and ice;

And frozen blood ran through his veins

in currents of device;

He lost his tongue in battle

as cancer stole his face;

His body cried, "No more! No more!"

and left the human race.

Staff Sergeant Greer was like that. He was the kind of soldier who could stand up in the middle of a firefight, impervious to bullets flying about. He wasn't. Impervious, that is. We all found out when a sniper's round shattered his skull. I don't think of people like that anymore. No one is invulnerable. No one. In the end, Staff Sergeant Greer was no different than that two-year-old boy who died during an air strike just before we went in to cancel the Taliban's lease. He was still breathing when I got there, if you want to call it that. It didn't last long. How could it? Half his chest was gone. Half his face....

I don't know how long I stood there rereading that poem. It was a _good_ poem, heroic, hyperbolic. I liked it. Staff Sergeant Greer would have liked it. He was that kind of man. He didn't worry about dying; he wasn't afraid of it. "Why worry about dying?" He'd ask. "Everybody does it. It's _living_ that matters." Sage advice for a soldier. We live fiercely, we die fiercely. And when I die, I want an epitaph like that one. Lie about me when I die. Make it sound like I was someone who wasn't fungible. I don't want a poem like this one:

The Stonecutter's Grave

His chiseled features fill this yard

with marble i's and t's

so firmly set in stone he carved:

May He Rest In Peace.

Don't get me wrong; this isn't a bad poem. I'm sure the guy would appreciate it. But a man is more than what he _does_ , isn't he? I _was_ a soldier, but now, ... I'm not. I don't carry a rifle. I don't go on patrols. I don't have to follow orders. I don't shoot people. I still jack off, but I did that before I became a soldier. Maybe they'll write an epitaph about that when I die. "He was a masturbation machine" or some such. Maybe they'll bury me with my dick in my hand. I wouldn't complain. I'd be dead. Even if I weren't dead, I wouldn't mind.

I don't deserve a heroic epitaph. I don't want an honest one. They'd have to say I called in an air strike. Maybe I should have a light-hearted poem like this one:

One Last Toast

We'll miss him very much indeed,

despite his vulgar ways;

So, to our local drunken bum,

a toast we all have raised:

"In the ground you've gone, my friend;

in the ground you've gone;

Let's have another round on him—

there's plenty going round."

I've heard the stories. Soldiers come home and they don't fit in civilized society. They can't forget what they did. They can't talk about what they did. They can drink. A lot. They drink to forget. They drink to numb themselves to what they can't forget. They drink to remember the ones who didn't come home. They drink because it's a weekend furlough that never ends. Furloughs are like that. We don't have a lot of time to recreate on furloughs so we pack in the fun when we get it. Drink, sex, drugs—we take what we can get, as much as we can get. But when the furlough's over, we go back to the base. We go back to routine, to order. The routine comes back to us. Discharge is one big furlough with no end in sight. I remember reading Frederick Douglass's autobiography, and he said the same thing about slaves. The owners would give slaves time off around Christmas, provide them with lots of whiskey, and they'd drink themselves stupid. They couldn't deal with being free. So, when it was time for them to be slaves again, they were happy. It gave them order. It gave them structure. It _freed_ them of the responsibility to make choices. It hits soldiers the same way. That's why I re-enlisted the first time. But I can't go back there again.

Just before I left the cemetery, I saw a simple little poem on a corner plot grave stone. It was only sixteen words long, but it spoke volumes. See for yourself:

The Widow Granger

Surcease from the sorrow;

Surcease from the pain;

Surcease for the widow

Who never loved again.

Surcease. It means something has stopped. It's an end of things. I like this word: _surcease_. I find it comforting. An end of suffering. An end of loneliness. An end of everything. It is appealing. It's better than solace. How long did it take her to find surcease? Her husband had died. She was consumed by grief. It had to be a long time, otherwise, the poet wouldn't imply that she had opportunities to love and passed on them. Did she _find_ surcease, or did she _make_ it happen? I knew three vets who made it happen. I've thought about it, myself, even had the pistol under my chin a few times, but I'll never do it. Surcease from the war. Is she at peace now? I like to think so. The surcease of this narrative is coming up, but first I have to tell you about _it_. We haven't gotten to that part, yet.

I was exhausted when I left the cemetery, and it took me a little while to get my balance on the Meridian. It's a good thing it has three wheels. By the time I was back on the gravel road, I had worked through the cramp and found my stride again. I didn't know how far I'd have to go before I found the town, but I didn't think it would be very long. About a half hour later, I rode into a sleepy little place and found a quaint little diner named Sally's. I felt like I knew the place. I chained my Meridian to a parking meter and went inside. It was a little after four.

I sat at the counter and a cute little thing, barely five foot tall, with brown hair and shallow blue eyes set a glass of water in front of me. She had dimples when she smiled. Her name tag jutted out from her pink blouse. Jasmine. After she took my order—steak, eggs, hash browns, toast, and milk—I watched her saunter to the thing they hang orders on and spin around to the cook. She was worth watching. Not bad for a forty-year-old. We flirted a bit when she brought my food, and I took my time eating it. Afterward, I sat and drank water at the counter. That's when I mentioned the cemetery.

"That old thing?" she said, laughing. "No one's been out there since they filled the last plot, back in 1960. Except the old caretaker. He kept it up until he died in '93. The new cemetery is at the edge of town. Some of the old timers still put poems on their gravestones, but the younger ones and newcomers have abandoned it."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Are you going to have a poem?"

She frowned. "I never thought about it. I might, if I'm still here."

"What would you have it say?"

She shrugged. "I'm not a poet."

"If you were?" I drank the last of my water and set the glass down.

She shrugged. "Refill?"

I shook my head. "I've had enough. I still need to find a place to sleep tonight. Any ideas?"

She paused long enough that it was meaningful. "I suppose," she began, "you could check with Taggart. He has a spare room that he might let you use. He'll probably charge you for it though. He's down the street, the brown house just past the gas station. Otherwise, you can go down the gravel road until it turns to asphalt. There's a motel about six miles from there."

I cocked my head and asked, carefully, "Are those my only options?"

She paused, again, and wiped the counter down for the fourth time, then said, "Yes. I can't think of anywhere else you can stay."

"All right, then. How much do I owe?"

She told me, and I paid my bill, adding a sizeable tip in the process.

By the time I had unchained my Meridian, I had already made up my mind about where I would sleep. I rode down to the gas station and bought a notebook and pen. I don't know why I did it. When I came out, I looked at Taggart's place—a light was on—but turned around. I don't sleep well on strange beds. I have nightmares. I'm jumpy in the morning. I pedaled to the dirt road and turned onto it. I would have gone to the motel, but I've slept outside in combat zones; sleeping in a mausoleum wouldn't bother me. It would protect me from the elements. As for the dead, I've seen them. They don't walk. They don't talk. They just lie there in their own filth and rot away.

It was twilight when I reached the front gate of the cemetery, but something had changed. A lot had changed. _Everything_ had changed. The archway was rusted. The _P_ of _Poet_ was dangling, pretending it was a _d_. The graves were overgrown with weeds. The gravestones were dirty, some were chipped. The dying sunlight played across their surfaces, leaving behind splotches of shadow in its wake. Dried leaves cluttered around the floor of the mausoleum. All in all, it looked like the cemetery was in considerable decay. _It_ was nothing like what it had been before. I _almost_ decided to go to the motel. But my leg wouldn't have it. Besides, riding a tricycle at night on a gravel road is risky. Not as risky as driving a Humvee in Afghanistan, but still risky. I laid down on the sepulcher, thought about the waitress, and did what soldiers do. Then I fell asleep.

I slept fitfully, and for the first time since I had gotten back, I didn't dream about being in the war. I dreamt about an old man in grass-stained blue coveralls, brown leather gloves flapping from his back pocket. He was leaning in the mausoleum entryway. He was smiling. It was an odd kind of smile, slightly tilted, amused. But the amusement didn't reach his eyes; they were sad; they were kind. They were a bit pissed, perhaps because he would have to clean up my desecration.

I dreamt of a frumpy old woman throwing salt over her shoulder. The salt landed in a bowl of chili, and she turned around. From behind, she looked like Jasmine, which didn't make sense, since she outweighed Jasmine by at least a hundred pounds. She turned around and set the chili on the counter in front of me, smiled, and said, "I know where you can stay tonight, sweetheart." Her breath smelled of Tabasco sauce and rum.

I dreamt of standing in a long line of men, patiently waiting to enter a bus named Jamie Beck. We were all undertakers. We were all named John. We were fungible. When it was my turn to enter the bus, she looked like Jasmine. She charged the same price as the steak, eggs, hash browns, toast, and milk. Plus a generous tip.

I dreamt of a poet chiseling away at a slab of stone, cursing the mistakes he had made and couldn't correct.

I dreamt of a little boy....

When I woke up, I lay there shivering for a long time. The sun had risen, and I saw the cemetery clearly for the first time. In the full light of the sun, it was dilapidated, overgrown. I sat there a long time. When I finally moved, I took the pen and notebook out and stared at the first blank page. My fingers trembled as the tip of the pen touched the first ruled line, just shy of the center. I wrote the word Aftermath on that line, and beneath it, I penned these lines:

Death becomes redundant

when body upon body piled on

body melt into soup under

the hot tropical sun.

So what if Afghanistan isn't in the tropics.

# A Skunk's Tail  
(or The Invention of Magic)

Umfarg, who was named after the sounds his mother made when she had him, tried very hard not to pee his loincloth. It was _difficult_. He had drunk quite a bit of water during the night, and when they came to a stop to rest for the day, he had rushed into the brush to relieve himself. Unfortunately, when he got there, he was not alone: a skunk was also there.

Now, as a rule, Umfarg avoided skunks because they tended to make him smell _bad_. Of course, he'd only met a few skunks—three to be exact—and that was when he was younger and didn't understand that they peed smelly stuff on him when he pulled their tails. Pulling tails was _fun_. Smelling bad _was not_. When he put these two together after the third time, he did his best to restrain his urge to pull their tails. He had done so well, in fact, that it took almost no effort to refrain from pulling _this_ skunk's tail. But—

He had to pee.

He _really_ had to pee. And a curious thought ran through his mind, and it was one of those rare instances of curiosity that had plagued him throughout his childhood: What would happen if he peed _on the skunk_?

Okay, by now, you should realize that Umfarg is not the normal kind of ogre. In fact, he was rather small for his age, too smart for his own good, and, well, _curious_. Ogres generally just stomped on things that puzzled them or made them smell bad, but Umfarg was different; he had to _understand_ things. Not that he did it all that well—ogres, after all, are not too bright—but he did try. So, he lowered his loin cloth, took aim—and, well, you can guess what happened next: They peed on each other. And Umfarg, much to his dismay, smelled bad again.

Now, smelling bad is part of being an ogre, but smelling _skunk_ bad is not. But it wasn't the first time, and he knew what to do about it. First, he had to roll in the mud—feces would be better if he could find it—to cover up the foul odor with something more pleasant. Then he would have to find some of those funny-looking big red berries. _That_ was a problem. The pesky humans had brought them into the area, planted them, raised them, ate them, and guarded them. Not that he was afraid of the humans; he wasn't. Ogres don't feel fear unless dragons were around. _Those_ scared the pee out of ogres. But they knew where they stood with dragons: Hide or be eaten. It was better to hide. The humans, though, were _mean_.

Now, meanness, to an ogre, is a friendly greeting. But when the ogres tried to exchange pleasantries with humans, the humans tend to get out of hand. It was not a proper greeting to poke ogres with pointy objects (it just made them mad); proper greetings involved growls, fists, head butts, spit, pee, and other bodily functions. Maybe a little mud-slinging among relatives, if mud is handy. The best greetings were the dirtiest ones, as ogres saw it, and a little pain among friends was frequently well-placed and well-received. But the pointy things caused _injuries_ , and sometimes even _death_. That was rather un-ogre-like, since ogres generally didn't kill things unless they ate them. Or when they needing to be stomped on. Like skunks.

It was a _bad_ smell.

So now Umfarg, his nose clogging up with the foul odor, was in a bit of a pickle. He could go back to his nomadic ogre group and try to explain why he hadn't stomped on the skunk before it peed on him, or he could find some mud (fairly easy to do; it was usually by streams and rivers, and one was nearby) and look for some of those red berries to spread all over his body. That would be the tricky part; the red berries would be near the humans, and he didn't like the pointy things poking him. Skunk pee smell was better.

He took a step toward the camp and stopped. If he went back, he'd have to tell them why the skunk had peed on him. He thought hard about it for several seconds (it always takes ogres time to think hard) and turned around. There had to be humans near the water, somewhere....

* * * * *

Arbid was a strange boy. Everyone said so and that made it true.

He would sit for hours on the front porch of his parent's cabin and stare at nothing. Every now and then, he would wave his arms about aimlessly, grabbing at the empty air as if he were swatting at flies. He never said anything, not a single word. Ever.

His mother said he would grow out of it, but his father knew better. Arbid was already twelve, and if a boy didn't talk by then, it wasn't going to happen. All Arbid did was take up space. He couldn't even feed himself. If his mother hadn't forced him to eat, he would have starved long ago. But his mother was kind, and his father loved that kindness, so he left Arbid alone, even though Arbid annoyed him. Still, every now and then, he often thought about taking Arbid deep into the woods, sitting him on a stump, and leaving him there. But he knew it wouldn't work. He had tried it—six times—when he was much younger, and every time Arbid found his way back home before the wolves or bears ate him.

Then one day, everything changed.

Arbid was sitting on the front porch waving his fingers around in the air, playing with something that wasn't there, just like he always did. His mother had spent much of the morning by the creek pounding the breeches, tunics, and undergarments on the rocks, rinsing them, pounding some more, rinsing, pounding—it was hard work. It took time. Then she had to lug the basket of wet, heavy garments back to the front porch. The younger children had helped some, but the older ones had gone with their father into the woods to collect firewood.

It was a nice, warm day. The sun was shining. There was a slight breeze. A perfect day for drying clothes. She set the basked on the front porch beside Arbid and touched his shoulder. He didn't respond to it, so she let it linger as long as she dared. Usually he screamed like he was on fire. It was a good day.

She smiled. It was a small thing, but an important one. A bit of human contact with her strange little boy, the son that was so different, so distant, so special. Even though he never said anything and had never done anything, she loved him the most—and the other children knew it. They were not happy about it, but they tolerated it because she was their mother too, and she loved them all—just not as much.

After this brief indulgence passed, she sighed and started draping the breeches over the porch railing, arranging them from smallest to largest so they would catch the most breeze and sunlight. She had just finished the third one when she noticed the bear.

Now bears in the wood are not unusual. Nor was it particularly odd for a bear to enter their clearing or come near the cabin. Usually, they ran away when she made lots of noise. So, she made lots of noise. She yelled. She waved her hands. She dumped the basked and used it as a drum (not a very good one, though; it was woven out of dry reeds). She expected the bear to run off into the forest like all the other bears had done, but it didn't. Instead, it reared up on its hind legs and roared. It dropped down and ambled toward the cabin, its huge shoulders rippling with power, dwarfing its head—until it paused to open its maw and roar again. It had big teeth. _Very_ big teeth. She screamed. She screamed again. She grabbed the old, dull axe they kept by the door and stepped forward—

"Stop!" Arbid muttered, his hands moving rapidly in the air in front of him.

Now, think for a moment. Here Arbid was, talking for the first time _ever_ , and his mother didn't know if he was talking to _her_ or to the _bear_. Maybe both. It didn't matter; she stopped— _and so did the bear!_

Arbid smiled—something else he had _never_ done—and _looked_ at his mother. Another first! "See?" he said before turning back to face the bear. "Go away," he added as he made a very intricate series of gestures. When he finished, fire—at least, it _looked_ like fire, sort of, but not quite—erupted from his fingertips and streaked toward the bear. When it reached the bear, the fire-but-not enveloped it, singed its fur, and caused it quite a surprising amount of pain. By the time it finally fizzled to smoke-but-not, the bear was already fleeing into the forest.

Arbid's smile grew as he said, "Now I understand it."

His mother fainted.

He patted her head and smiled.

Yes, Arbid was strange.

* * * * *

Umfarg was lost. That was bad. Ogres don't like to be lost. Lost ogres get angry. Umfarg was angry. Being angry, Umfarg forgot to think about where he was going or where he had been, and he got more lost. Pretty soon, he had no idea where he was or what to do about it. Worse, he was in human territory, and that was dangerous. Not that danger bothered him; it wasn't like he was afraid or anything like that, but danger made him want to pee, and that reminded him of why he was still looking for the big red berries. That made him angrier.

"Breathe," he muttered, not sure why. When he did, all that happened was the smell overwhelmed him. Bad skunk pee smell, covered in good mud smell, is still very pungent. He tried not breathing for a while, but that just made him light-headed.

Then he broke through the branches into a clearing and stopped. It was one of _their_ clearings. The trees were broken off and gone. The trunks had been stacked up, and there was the smell of smoke—just strong enough to be noticed above the bad skunk smell and good mud smell. There were faint voices coming from in the pile of logs. There were big red berries, lots of them—which was _good_ —right beside the smoking pile of logs that was making all the noise. _That_ was bad.

The sun was shining. Ogres don't like the sun. They see better in the dark.

Ogres are not good at slinking. Every time they try to slink, they stumble into things, grumble, pick up the thing they stumbled into, and throw it. They slink worse in the daylight, when they don't see so well, and bump into more things. Thrown things make a lot of noise when they land.

He _needed_ those red berries.

He tried to slink.

He _tried_ not to grumble when he bumped into things, but he was already angry. Angry ogres grumble easily. Sometimes they yell. Often they stomp things.

The first thing he threw hit the pile of logs, and all the other noises stopped.

He was throwing the second thing when one of the humans stepped out of the pile of logs to say hello with a pointy thing. Umfarg growled in response and, as was customary when meeting someone for the first time, added ample spit and virulent threats of great pain and suffering to his greeting. He moved forward, bumped into something else, growled again, picked the thing up and threw it aside. He didn't throw it _at_ the human with the pointy thing, though; he didn't know him well enough for that yet.

The human, who was quite a bit a shorter than him, quite a bit smaller than him, and a lot less hairy than him, was grumbling in a most friendly manner, approaching Umfarg with the pointy thing out in front of him.

"Need berries," Umfarg said, pounding his chest. "Red berries!" He had said it in ogre-tongue of course, and the human looked at him like he had said, "Grgldrgrd. N-Drgrd!" because, well, that was what he had said.

Umfarg moved toward the berries, which were right beside the human with the pointy thing, and fully expecting the human to let him have the berries. After all, he _had_ asked politely.

He was just about to the berries when the human leapt forward in greeting and swung the pointy thing at him. Umfarg dodged—ogres are good at dodging when they have to be—and roared, "GRGLDRGRD! N-DRGRD! GNINODR!" The last he added in explanation (it meant skunk pee), but it didn't seem to translate very well, since the human lunged and swung the pointy thing at him again.

This time, Umfarg didn't dodge. He could have dodged—all the other ogres said he was agile—but decided to grab the pointy thing and pull it out of the human's hands instead. It was a bit risky, but he managed it fairly well and tossed the pointy thing aside as he reached for the red berries. He plucked a couple of handfuls, squashed them together, and started smearing the juice on his body where the skunk had peed on him, letting the juice soak into the mud. After all, the greeting phase _was_ over, and he _had_ told the human what he was going to do....

* * * * *

Once Arbid started talking, it was difficult to make him stop. The problem was, nobody understood him. They understood the _words_ , but not the way he was using them. He tried to explain what he saw, what he had done, how it had worked—but they just looked at him and shook their heads. "Strange boy," they said.

"Don't you see it, Papa?" he had said. "All the pretty strands of color? The patterns they weave together? See this one?" he said, pointing at nothing in particular and running his fingers through the air as if he were feeding wool into a loom. "It's a pretty blue, and it runs through the sky with little threads branching out all over the place. This one," he added, cradling the fingers of his other hand like he was picking up a bucket of water, "is a rustic brown and stays close to the ground, often burying itself into it. Now," he added, moving his hands as if he were braiding his sister's hair, "if you weave them together and pull—" it looked like he was pulling on a non-existent rope, one that seemed to offer quite a bit of resistance—"you can make a little dust devil when you let go." He spread his hands, fingers splayed as if he were releasing the rope, and, as if on cue, a slight breeze rustled through the cabin, lifting dust from the dirt floor and swirling it around like a tiny dust devil.

Now, if it had been anyone other than Arbid, who had never once spoken before that day, who always stared into nothingness for hours on end, who was his mother's favorite though she denied it, his father would have tried to smack some sense into him. But it _was_ Arbid, and he _was_ talking, even though he was talking nonsense, and there _was_ a dust devil in the cabin, and the windows were shuttered and the door was shut. So, his father didn't smack him. His mother didn't faint, again—although she thought hard about doing so. And his siblings stared at their strange little brother, their mother's favorite, wondering what they should do. Then Arbid grinned, and they backed away from him.

Then something hit the cabin wall hard enough to knock the mud plaster loose from between the logs.

"By the gods, Arbid—"

But Arbid wasn't smiling anymore. He was looking into the nothingness that so fascinated him, looking at the point where the thing had hit the wall, looking _through_ the wall. "Ugly colors," he muttered. "Bad colors."

Then they all heard it. _Something_ was in the clearing, something _big_ , and it was _throwing things_.

Arbid's father did what any woodsman would have done: he grabbed his axe and went to the door to see what was there. "Ogre!" he half-gasped, half-shouted before turning to command his family to stay put. Then he stepped outside, screaming "Go away you foul beast!" He punctuated this command by waving his axe about him in a threatening manner.

It was a big ogre, at least a head and a half taller than him, but his family—

He stepped forward, and the ogre growled "Grgldrgrd. N-Drgrd!"at him as it approached.

"Get away!" Arbid's father cried, menacing the creature with his axe. "Scat, you foul beast!"

But the foul beast didn't scat. Instead, it came at him, and—

That was when Arbid's father noticed the stench.

Part of it was familiar—skunk, stagnant mud—but the rest was the worst odor that had ever assaulted him! It was like sulfur, rotten eggs, and dung all wrapped around a three-day-dead fish sprinkled with garlic and urine.

His eyes watered.

His family—

He swung the axe in a wide arc—and the ogre jumped back and to the side, just out of range. Then a deafening growl erupted from it, and it pounded its chest.

Undaunted—except, perhaps, by the new scent of decay that its breath had brought—Arbid's father stepped forward and swung his axe as if he were making notches in the trunk of a tall tree so he could climb up to trim off the limbs. It was a good swing—and the ogre simply grabbed the axe and pulled it out of his hands.

He froze. What else could he do? Trees didn't take axes from him. Sometimes the axe stuck in the tree and he had to pry it out, but it never took the axe from him. The ogre had. If the ogre had wanted to, he could have chopped him into little bits, skewered those bits on a stick, and roasted them over an open flame. The ogre could have squashed him, stomped on him like he was a bug. The ogre could have just stood there, letting the stench waft over him until he succumbed to its foulness and fell faint. The ogre could have done all of these things while he stood there frozen in place, but it didn't. Instead, the ogre tossed the axe away, stepped over to the garden, grabbed great handfuls of tomatoes, squashed them to a pulp, and started rubbing that pulp all over its midriff, legs, and—most peculiarly of all, inside its loin cloth. (Well, we'll call it a loin cloth, but that's being a bit generous.)

Now, this went on for about a minute before Arbid's father realized the axe was lying in the grass about twenty feet away. A few seconds later, he unfroze and scurried over to pick it up. That's when the other ogres barged out of the woods, banged into things, picked those things up, grumbled, and threw them hither and yon with a great deal of unfriendly intensity.

Arbid's father didn't freeze this time. This time, he ran.

* * * * *

Umfarg gleefully squashed the red berries, their juice drenching his body, drowning out the bad skunk pee smell. The red berries smelled, too, but it wasn't nearly as bad as skunk pee. It was a sweet kind of smell that nauseated him, but he fought the urge to retch. Retching was un-ogre-like. Ogres prided themselves on the fact that he could eat _anything_. Besides, the berry smell would wash off.

The human who had said hello with the pointy thing was standing close by watching him, but Umfarg ignored him. Even when the human went to pick up the pointy thing, he didn't pay much attention. After all, they had already finished their greeting, and once he finished smearing the red berries on his body, he would be on his way. What way that would be was still up in the air, since he was lost, but he would leave soon regardless: The sunlight was much too bright.

He had almost finished when he heard the familiar grunting, grumbling, shambling, bull-dozing entrance of his fellow ogres. They growled their greeting to him, threatening to pummel him for leading them astray. They greeted the human with friendly thumping—or tried to: the human ran away before they could finish. _That_ was not a friendly response. Running was for prey, and it always hungered the ogres when something fled from them. The ogres, though, were well-fed for the time being, and humans did not at all taste very well. Too stringy.

Umfarg turned and shouted, "Skunk pee! Red berries!"

A couple of the newcomers shouted "Followed skunk pee!" and laughed heartily. His parents shook their heads, and his father came forward alone to bop Umfarg on the side of his head. "Stomp skunk!" He grumbled before returning to the others.

Umfarg, in pain, accepted the fatherly greeting and finished rubbing the rest of the berries onto his body.

Then everything went strange.

Now, strange is a relative thing for ogres. Some ogres think eating fresh food is odd. Others think peeing on skunks is weird. Ogres who like basking in the sun, now, _that's_ strange. This was even stranger.

Here they were, politely keeping their distance from Umfarg, when all at once, they started dancing and singing! Now, ogres _do_ dance, and they _do_ sing but only at night, and only on feast days or when they are drunk. Since ogres seldom get drunk (brewing alcohol is a human thing) and since feast days only happen when they find really big prey, this singing and dancing was strange. It was even stranger because the dancing wasn't normal. They weren't banging their heads together; they weren't hitting each other on the chest; and they weren't grumbling or growling the usual friendly threats. What they were doing was yipping and swatting at their bodies, seemingly at random without any of the normal disharmony.

That wasn't the strange part, though. Odd, yes, but not strange. The _strange_ part was what happened next: They fled into the woods. That had never, ever, _EVER_ happened before!

Then something bit him. Sort of. It felt like a bite—or maybe an ember burning him? Yes, that was it: he'd been struck by a burning ember. He swatted at it—that's what you do when embers burn you—but there was nothing there. Then another one bit him. He swatted again, but there still was nothing there. Then a whole bunch of bites all at once, all over him. He tried to swat them all at once and almost fell down. He got angry.

More bites.

More swats.

More anger.

Then he felt something new, something ogres weren't supposed to feel when there were no dragons around: fear. Something was eating him, and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't see it. He couldn't hear it. But it was there, and it _hurt_ —and not the good kind of hurt, like when you butt heads with a friend, but the bad kind of hurt that left a mark. There were lots of marks. There was nothing there making the marks, nothing there to stomp on, nothing there to smash—and _that_ scared him.

He ran.

Sort of. It was too bright to see clearly, and he banged into lots of things. He careened toward where he thought the other ogres had gone, and made it out of the clearing. Whatever was eating him had followed him into the forest, but it eventually quit chasing after him. He ran a bit further before finally stumbling to a stop against a tree. The other ogres were nowhere to be seen. He was lost. Again.

An hour later the other ogres found him, and his mother thumped him with a fist to his chest. It hurt. Not the good kind of hurt, either. Then she did it again to make sure he would stomp skunks whenever he saw them. He would, too....

* * * * *

When the other ogres entered the clearing, Arbid's father almost dropped his axe. What good would it do against _them_? It hadn't been much use against the first ogre, and these were half-again as tall and wide as it was!

He hurried to the cabin, got inside, and used the axe the best way he could: he swung it at the closed and locked shutters on the back window and broke them open. "Out!" he shouted to his family. "Run!" he said, picking up the youngest and half-tossing him outside. "Hurry!" he said, grabbing the oldest by the shoulder and giving him a shove. "Take them to Mungo's!" he ordered as the second oldest scuttled past, just avoiding a shove of her own. "Don't look back!" he shouted as he helped the little ones out. "Don't!" he snapped as his wife hesitated and he lifted her protesting body through the window. "Run!" he added as he climbed through to follow.

His wife hesitated, staring after their running children, and came up short. "Arbid?" she asked, studying the children's backs and bobbing heads as they ran in a staggered line. Her husband nearly fell as he leapt to the side to avoid running into her. He came to a stop, turned around, reached back to grab her—but she was already running back to the cabin. "ARBID!" she screamed, but to no avail.

"NO!" Arbid's father called after her. "Ogres!"

But she wasn't listening. Arbid was in trouble!

She had almost gotten through the window when he reached out to pull her back out. "Go," he said. "I'll fetch him."

"But—"

"Go!" he ordered, giving her a harsh shove. "The other children need you—"

Still, she hesitated. Arbid was her favorite, the one she loved the most! But the other children.... She nodded, reluctantly, and scampered after her other children. They knew the way to Mungo's, but they _needed_ her. Arbid....

* * * * *

Arbid was intrigued.

He had never gone anywhere outside of the clearing (except when his father took him into the woods), and he was familiar with all the pretty strands of color that were there. The green permeating the plants and trees. The blue blanket of the sky. The white lattice of snow and cloud. The flickering, angry red of the cooking fire, the sun. The brown of dirt. The myriad combinations of color that arose when these strands merged together, overlapped, intertwined. Even the chill black that wove its way around and through the compost, smothering the butchered animals, the tree stumps—all of these were familiar to him. All of them were normal. But these colors....

It wasn't really that they were so different—they were shades of gray, black, dark brown—but the combination of them was disquieting, unnatural. They pooled together, moving as a clump into the clearing, and the other colors seemed to want to get away from them. The blue strands of the sky parted, allowing them to pass beneath them. The brown flattened and buried itself in the dirt as they trod on it, but it couldn't quite escape. The green, the life-giving green, quivered as it passed and withered where the clump touched it. The black and gray of the compost pile stretched outward, trying to merge with it, trying to consume it or be consumed by it. Only the warm red strands of flame seemed to be unaffected, seemed to penetrate into the lumpy mass as if it belonged there.

He needed a better look.

He took a step toward the door.

His mother didn't notice.

His father was outside.

He made his way to the front porch and sat down in his favorite spot. He tested the old, familiar strands, but instead of feeling their muted power held in abeyance, they tingled, as if they were alive with energy.

He studied this new dimension of the strands. He toyed with them. He _tasted_ them. He wrapped them around his finger, his arm. He drew them in....

Then the clump of new strands came into view, nasty, writhing, black and gray blobs that he didn't like.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "You don't belong here." He reached out with his mind to draw a distant white strand toward him, toward the blue he already held in his fingertips, the brown wrapped around his forearm, and waited for it to respond. He really didn't know how he knew it would respond, that it would obey him, but he did it anyway, and it did obey him. He was so focused on luring in the white strand that he didn't even notice his father running past him, leaping up the porch steps and almost breaking down the door as he barged through.

He didn't really see the ogres; they were covered in the writhing miasmic mesh of unfamiliar colors, and even this was only in his periphery. He had tunnel vision, and it was focused on the approaching white strand. It was gaining speed, and when it reached him, he plucked at it with a pinky and began weaving the three strands together, gently tatting them around the deep red strand to form a complex network of knots held loosely together in a radiating spiral. He worked feverishly, adding knot after knot, each one trapping a twisted loop of the pulsating strand of flame.

He almost lost himself in the process, almost forgot why he was doing it, almost—but not quite. He looked at the spiral disc, held onto the strands at the open end, and flung it outward, toward the encroaching, offensive blob, letting the strands flow through his fingers like a fishing line. Just before it reached the blob, he let go of the strands and they began to separate, gathering whip-like speed as the strands approached the knotted spiral disc—which had been engulfed by the gray-black-dark brown clump. When it struck the first knot, it paused—and then the strand of flame broke free, releasing some of its energy in a sudden puff of invisible flame. Where it struck, it punctured through the strange mass of color, allowing some of the energy from the other strands to permeate it, to push it just a little bit away.

Another knot gave way.

Another.

He reached out for the strands and called the white one back before it could escape. He began weaving....

* * * * *

Arbid's father stood in the doorway and stared.

He stared at the fleeing ogres.

He took a breath.

He stared at Arbid.

He took another breath—and another.

He stared at nothing, trying see something that only his son saw. He couldn't.

He stared harder.

He took another breath, a deep one.

He still couldn't see it. Whatever it was.

He stared at the garden. The ogre had mangled the tomatoes into oblivion. Everything else was fine, but the tomatoes....

He stared at nothing, again. It was better than staring at the tomatoes. He _liked_ tomatoes. They were a staple in their diet. His children needed food. His children—

"Arbid," he said.

"I know, Dad," Arbid said. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

Arbid's father shook his head. He still couldn't see it. "I have to go to Mungo's."

Arbid smiled but didn't say anything.

His father turned around, went inside, and climbed out the window. It would have been easier to walk around the house, but he didn't want to disturb Arbid.

Arbid was strange.

Arbid frightened him....

###

Thank you very much for reading these sample stories _._ If you enjoyed them, I hope you will consider purchasing the collection(s) from which they came. Also, a review would be much appreciated! Thanks again!

Robert

# About the Author

Robert P. Hansen teaches philosophy at a community college and writes fiction and poetry in his spare time. His work has appeared in various small press publications since 1994.
