 
# **Contents**

Title

Front Matter

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Hamlet Quote

1 Wandering In The Deser

2 Being A Lawyer

3 A New Beginning

4 The Wave

5 Rocky Butte

6 Back In LA

7 David Understands

8 The Trial

9 The Quiet Time

Appendix:

Canice's Eight-dimensional Movie

About The Author
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**Love Story**

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**In The Cloud**

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**By Ken Renshaw**

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**Published by Constellation Press at Smashwords**

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Copyright © 2013 Ken Renshaw
All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9852731-9-4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons , living or dead is entirely coincidental. Cover design by Heather UpChurch

**Smashwords License Statement**

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

Constellation Press

1790 Ogden Dr.

Cambria. CA 93428

**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**

I would like to express my appreciation to Dr. J.K. Parker for her reviews, editing and encouragement. I am indebted to Dr. R. Targ and Dr. E. Rauscher developed the 8-space theory that provided the scientific basis for this book. Darlene Bowe's extensive and patient additions to story style were welcomed. David Strom contributions to the story structure were valued. Gayle Oksen's gave me encouragement with her review when needed most. I thank my fellow writers, and Paula Cizmar at Rough Writers for their support and comments. Midge Schulkin careful final editing amazed me. And special thanks to Heather UpChurch for her inspired cover design.

**DEDICATION**

To

Joycee

my

Muse

_And therefore as a stranger give it welcome._

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There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,_

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Than are dreamt of in your philosophy._

Hamlet

Act 1, Scene 5

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**1**

**Wandering In The Desert**

Things were not going according to plan. On this fine spring soaring day, I planned a simple sailplane lying task. Fly from CrystalSky airport to another airport forty miles away and back across the Mojave desert. Now, on my return trip I struggled. Over Rosamond Dry Lake all the thermals vanished. I was down to a thousand feet, flying in tight circles in weak lift. The gravity force from flying tight circles pushed me down in my seat. I was sweating, gripping the control stick with a wet hand. The lift petered out, and I widened my circles to hunt for other weak lift. No such luck.

I lost altitude. My attention turned to landing on Rosamond Dry Lake, an expanse of dry silt about five miles wide and five miles long. I would land near the western shore, within a couple of miles, walking distance of a highway, near scrub brush to tie my sailplane to if I had to abandon it and walk.

I had landed away from the airport before. A sailplane pilot always has a potential landing spot in mind, another airport, a dry lake, or, sometimes, a farmer's field where you might be greeted with a pitcher of lemonade, a beer, or a shotgun depending on who lived there.

Today, only dry silt greeting me.

I dropped my landing gear, set the flaps, glided down to about ten feet above the lake, and stretched my glide until I approached the shore. I stopped about a hundred feet from the border of lake, opened the canopy, took a big breath of the eighty-degree desert and sat, disgusted with my planning.

I was alarmed. The desert heat or dryness had done something to my vision. I had seen intense lashes of light, appearing first in my instruments dials, then on the canopy and along the wings.

Pilots can't have their eyes playing tricks on them.

There are only two real moving parts in a sailplane, the mind of the pilot and his eyes. The mind finds thermals and feels the joy of climbing at five hundred or, sometimes, a thousand feet per minute and then flying at a hundred miles per hour to the next thermal, ten or twenty miles away. The eyes have to see where to find that thermal.

I picked up my radio microphone and called, "CrystalSky this is King Romeo."

No answer! _Out of radio range! Shit!_

I undid my shoulder harness and parachute and climbed out of the sailplane. I took a big swig out of my water bottle, and labored to push the sailplane over to a clear area on the shore. The dry silt of the lake was a little soft and it was hard to roll the sailplane. I was hot a sweaty when I reached the shore. I sat in the shade of the wing to rest and drink more water. I ran my tongue over my lips and noticed my face was salty from the sweat of the day.

I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and tried again.

"CrystalSky this is King Romeo."

No answer!

"Any pilot, requesting a relay."

No answer. _Damn!_

I would have to walk to where there is cell phone coverage. Shit!

In the middle of summer, with a temperature of over a hundred degrees, walking would wait until the cool of the evening. Today, with the temperature in the eighties, it would be OK to walk if I drank lots of water.

I reached behind into the compartment behind the cockpit, grabbed my land–out pack, and pulled out an energy bar and a can of Gatorade. I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and tried again.

"CrystalSky this is King Romeo."

Disappointing silence.

"Any pilot, requesting a relay."

Damnable quiet.

My cell phone read, "No service."

While cursing my luck, I shouldered the pack and began walking toward the highway to find cell phone coverage.

It hadn't been a good day. I had left this morning with an unspoken disagreement with my new lady friend, Tina.

I was getting ready to leave my mobile home, next to the end CrystalSky airport runway, a short walk from where I kept my sailplane. I was saying goodbye to Tina, who is about twenty-five years old, five feet four, with olive skin, reddish brown hair, and a modestly proportioned figure. She is four inches shorter than me. She doesn't make me feel short. I really like her, except for her irritating lapses into airy-fairy New Age thinking.

"I should be back in early afternoon, about four at the latest. I have planned an easy practice flight." I told her.

She studied me with that strange stare in her big light blue eyes and said, "Maybe not. I'll fix a dinner that we can eat any time if you get back late. We will need beer. There are only two cans in the fridge. Is there a store at the country club center?"

Becoming irritated, I replied, "I don't really know–I am not a member. I didn't mix well with the wealthy, retired membership who live in condos on the golf course. Use my Porche to go to that service station down on the main highway."

"OK," she beamed. "Have fun flying."

I noticed I was stiff as she gave me a kiss goodbye.

After about a quarter mile trek across the desert, I saw a hill topped by a big boulder. After climbing to the top of the boulder, I took out my cell phone and looked. _Two bars! Hooray!_

I dialed CrystalSky airport operations. Celia, the high school girl who worked at the airport, answered.

"Hi Celia. This is Dave Willard. I need a retrieve from Rosamond Dry Lake."

"Hi Dave. Do you fly the plane with King Romeo on the tail?"

"Yes, can you send a tow plane over here?"

"The last student pilot has just started his lesson. He will probably make four short flights. Dan can come over to tow you back. He will be there in an hour or hour and a half. Exactly where are you?"

I read her the GPS coordinates I had written down before I left my sailplane.

"West end of Rosamond Dry Lake, I got it," acknowledged Celia.

"Since you won't be back until after five thirty, I won't see you. The office will be closed. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks, goodbye."

I texted Tina, "I won't be back until about 5:30. :("

I didn't use the cell phone to talk to her. It would have been admitting she was right in her intuition about me getting back late and needing beer. I didn't want to encourage her in making prognostications about my flying ability.

As I climbed down from the boulder, I noticed another flash of light under the boulder. _I'd better see my_ _opthamologist_ _and get that checked out._ I mused and started to walk back toward the lake.

_The weekend had started very well,_ I thought. _Tina and I were at a Black Tie reception at the Getty Villa antiquity museum in Malibu. She looked fantastic in her black evening dress, wearing just the right amount of make-up and her hair in a fashionable uplift bun. _

"I really want to look at the Cycladic and Greek vase display," she had said as we had cocktails and ate _hors d'oeuvres_ in the atrium of the Villa. She steered me to one of the side galleries, filled with large, well lit display cases containing clay–fired jugs, bowls and other containers. She pointed to a large jar and said, "This is from the Cycladic civilization, about 3,000 BCE, in the Aegean Sea. Notice the geometric carving on the jug. No figures are carved here."

I noticed Paul Jefferies, one of the senior partners in my law firm, and his young trophy wife, Elaine, had joined us.

Interrupting Tina, I made introductions.

"Please continue with your description," said Paul, "it is interesting."

Tina moved over to another case, leaned over, pointed, and said, "By contrast, this jar is from Athens, about 500 BCE. Notice how the black figures portray Theseus battling the Minotaur in the labyrinth on the island of Crete. These figures over here are the youths that were to be human sacrifices. Most of the jars in this area are decorated with scenes from mythology."

Paul seemed more interested in looking down the front of Tina's dress than noticing the Minotaur.

"This one, over here, depicts Hercules, wearing the skin of the lion he slew, delivering a mortal blow to Kyknos. These people standing around at the side are their relatives."

Paul seemed very interested in skin.

"Very interesting, thank you," said Elaine, looking very threatened by the interest Paul was giving to the lecture, and to Tina. She led Paul away.

_It had been a wonderful evening._

A slight desert breeze came up as I continued to walk, nipping on my water.

I continued to muse, _Maybe contrast makes good relationships. I am a patent attorney dealing with hard scientific facts. She is a high school teacher, dealing with ideas. If only she would leave this New Age mumbo jumbo alone._

Back at the sailplane, I looked out across the dry lake. There were still wavy mirages in the distance. It was mysterious that all thermal activity had stopped in this end of the lake.

The air in the Mojave boils like water in a hot pan during still summer days. Streams of bubbles rise from the surface and form into columns of rising air called thermals. Sometimes they join to form dust devils, small dirty tornados that suck up everything smaller than a person, often rising to ten, sometimes, fourteen thousand feet. I have seen pages of newspapers floating at ten thousand feet, apparently migrating to wherever newspapers go to die. Somehow, this area of the Mojave was set on _simmer_ today.

I placed my emergency pack on the ground as a pillow in the shade under the wing, and lay down for a nap. I closed my eyes and started to drift off to sleep.

Then, I heard a voice that startled me.

It said, "Take me to your leader."

I wondered if I was hallucinating and, if so, why did I have to do it in a cliché.

I looked around and said, "Who is there?"

"Over here," the voice said. "The speck of light."

A few yards away, lying at the border between the dry lake and the shore was a broken clear glass bottle, maybe an old Mason jar, from the days when people canned their own food, and used bottles for rifle target on desert dry lakes. Inside the bottle was a very intense bright speck of light, like the spot a welder makes when he is arc welding two pieces of metal together. It was a brighter version of the flashes of light I had been seeing this afternoon while flying.

Shocked, it took me a few moments to respond. "Am I supposed to let you out or something? Take you to what leader?"

"No," it seemed to chuckle, "I was only making what we think you would call a joke. I thought a burning bush would be too cliché. I was afraid that if we spoke directly into your head I couldn't have what you call a conversation. This spark is only a convenient focal point."

"A conversation?" I asked, wondering if the desert had dehydrated me and I was hallucinating.

"Come over and sit in the shade of this bush and relax. I apologize for startling you," said the speck of light.

I got up, wanted to run, but I walked over to the shade of a bush, sat down, took several long drags of water from my bottle, paused, and noticed that I felt a great sense of peace as I relaxed.

"Now, lets start from the beginning." I said, "If you are not a hallucination or a mirage, who or what are you?"

The speck of light shimmered, "I understand. With your scientific background and belief system, you will have difficulty understanding who we are and how it is that am communicating with you. I are communicating with you from another place outside space-time that you do not yet understand."

I grew more uneasy and then asked, "Who are you?"

The speck shimmered as it seemed to chuckle and said, "I have never had a body. I am un-incarnated intelligence who wants to have a conversation with you. "

"Are you like an angel?" I asked.

The speck of light replied, "That is sort of the right idea. However, in your civilization you have pictured angels as incarnated into bodies with wings and halos and draped them in flowing robes. I don't have a body to hang wings on. You have also made angels employees of your various, shall we say, tribal Gods. Think of me as a freelancer."

"Freelancer? Are you some sort of bounty hunter? Am I going to abducted?"

"No." The light blinked. "I come in love and peace to communicate with you."

"What do I call you," I asked

The spark of light replied,"I don't really have a name as you think of it. I perceive that there is some of what you call writing on the object you are holding. What is it?"

I looked at the top of the broken bottle I was holding and read the word, "Mason,"

The spark replied. "Then you may address me as 'Mason.'"

"OK Mason, but where are you?" I asked.

"I have a very different view of reality than that earthlings hold." Said Mason. "I am outside space-time as you know it."

"You say 'earthlings.' Does that mean you are from another planet?" I asked.

"Not really, where I live we think of 'earthlings' as a viewpoint, not as a place. It is what you might call a state of mind."

I wanted to run, call 911, or something. This must be a dream or a hallucination. _Am I loosing it? Is this a desert madness of some sort?_

"Why are you talking to me? Am I supposed to become a prophet or something?" I inquired with some trepidation.

"No, I don't want you to grow a beard and go around carrying a sign saying 'Repent! The End Is Near.' I want to explain some limitations of what you call science and expand your view of reality. I wish to communicate these ideas through ways you understand."

"Carrying on a conversation with spirits about physical science seems a little inconsistent," I observed in a lawyerly way. "You are nonphysical and science deals with the physical."

Mason replied, "I want to help you understand that much of what you consider outside your science really obeys the laws of your physics. That misunderstanding is constraining whole fields of endeavor, such as healing, interpersonal relationships, and even politics. But, that understanding is a goal and not the starting point. Let's start by discussing limitations on what your schools teach about physics. I can build on those ideas"

"OK, but I am confused," I mumbled, thinking to myself, 'I really should run or something.'

"First we will talk about what you already only partially understand, the ideas of space and time," said Mason.

"Oh, I don't understand all that stuff about Einstein's Theory of Relativity. I really don't want to go through all of the math and those weird concepts. One time, I had a patent case that involved Relativity and I had to search for a technical expert. I could never understand him, all I learned was that Relativity wasn't germane to the patent case," I said in a lawyerly voice.

Mason replied, "Einstein's mystique is part of the problem. People on your planet are reluctant to think much about space-time because Einstein raised the mathematical hurdle so far. He had only part of the answer. His mathematics professor, Minkowski, was closer to the answer with his theory of eight dimensions."

"I have never even heard of him," I replied. "If I don't understand Einstein's mathematics, how am I supposed to understand what his professor couldn't teach him?"

"That is what I would ask for you to find out about," said Mason.

I said to Mason, "I think you have the wrong person. I am a patent lawyer with a science background. I have no idea what you are talking about."

Then, I heard the distant sound of the Pawnee tow plane engine, my rescue, guided by GPS satellites, buzzing out to tow me back to CrystalSky. I was using technology as an antidote to my indulgence in flying an airplane without a motor. He saw me, cut his engine, and passed over me in a wide circle to check the landing conditions. I took off my tee shirt; held it above my head, let it flap in the gentle breeze to show him the wind direction. He wiggled his wing in acknowledgement, added some throttle, flew a landing pattern, touched down, and taxied toward me.

I turned to Mason. The speck of bright light had disappeared. I went over and picked up the broken bottle. It was only an old piece of glass. I dropped it thinking, _No point in taking this with me._

The pilot turned off the engine, opened the cockpit side window and stepped out onto the wing. It was Dan, a man in his thirties, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and a cowboy hat over ear protecting earmuffs. His face was wrinkled and dried like an old man, from years of living in the desert. He greeted me with a big smile but without a comment on my plight, pretending he couldn't converse with his ear protectors. He drew the tow cable from the reel in Pawnee out to its one hundred and fifty-foot length and then handed the end to me.

I latched it in the tow hook on the bow of the glider, gave it a jerk to make sure it was latched. He gave me a silent thumbs up and walked back to the Pawnee.

When we were both strapped into our cockpits, and I had gone through my brief checklist I gave him a thumbs–up. He started the engine, edged the tow plane forward until the tow lie was taut and waited for my signal. I moved the rudder from side–to–side, the signal that I was ready to go. We accelerated, and in about one–hundred feet I was airborne, flying. I pulled back on the stick and followed the Pawnee as we climbed a few hundred feet and started a gentle turn toward CrystalSky .

I felt relieved. This little hot, sweaty, thirsty, and disappointing incident was over.

At altitude, I relaxed a little bit and started to think about my contact, if that is the applicable term, with Mason. 'Maybe I am going to have to take some time off from flying until I get this sorted out. Light flashes and hallucinations may indicate some sort of neurological problem or a brain tumor. I'll make an appointment with a neurologist and maybe get an MRI to be sure. Flying is unforgiving of pilot error. I can't afford any lapses in judgment. What else was there to know about space and time? Hadn't all that been worked out by science?'

After I landed and rolled to my sailplane's parking spot, I got out, stretched, and began tying the wings down. I heard a cheery voice say, "Welcome back."

It was Tina who handed me a tall, cool can of Coors, walked over and, gave me a big hug and kiss. She was wearing tennis shoes, tan knee-length shorts, a white tank top, and a ball cap with her red ponytail sticking out above the back strap. I delighted in seeing she had nothing on under the tank top. She opened her piercing light blue eyes and said, "I heard the tow plane come in and knew you were back." She observed, "Is something the matter? Is landing in the desert that serious? I sense something else? A big disagreement? Are we OK?"

"Something strange happened," I said, my arm around her waist. Having her near was making me feel better.

We started to walk down the now deserted airfield to the country club trailer park. The airstrip is a mile long, paved for the middle half of its length, the rest is a sandstone colored swath bulldozed in the desert, strewn with small rocks, and bordered by desert chaparral and an occasional Joshua tree. My desert refuge is next to the airstrip, at the outer boundary of the country club.

"Right after I texted you, I took a nap in the shade of the wing. I was startled by a speck of light in a broken mason jar that appeared to be talking to me," I said incredulously.

"A what?" She replied.

I stopped and faced her: "I was taking a nap and then I heard a voice. It appeared to come from a broken mason jar, the kind of garbage you find all over the desert where people have camped." I repeated, " _There was a bright speck of light in the jar and a voice coming out of it_!"

"You must have been suffering from dehydration," she said with a laugh. "It takes forty days and forty nights wandering in the desert to get mystical visions." Then impishly added, "You have always been a quick study." She looked at me for a long time and then said, "You're serious. This is really upsetting you."

"I'm a scientist, a patent attorney. I deal in hard factual physical things. Voices do not come from inanimate objects. Furthermore, I saw specks of light all over the place as I was landing. This all must be some kind of retinal problem coupled with a dream during my nap. I'd better see my eye doctor next week. It must be some kind of eyestrain–related thing exacerbated by flying and the desert heat."

As we continued walking to the trailer, I explained, "But It seemed so real. It said its name was Mason." I repeated somewhat louder, " _There it was, a voice coming from a speck of light._ The voice said it was giving me a message from a consciousness that is not on this or any other planet. It said it wants me to study something about space and time. Why would I want to do that? It was a crazy experience! It must have been some kind of weird dream."

We walked silently for a while. I kept my distance, while she glanced at me quizzically. After a very long silence, she moved beside me, took my hand.

After a while she said, "Long before I knew you, I had a friend who took me to channeling sessions in North Hollywood. Have you ever been to one?" She asked, looking askance.

Her big blue eyes were open wider than usual with her eyebrows raised. I knew she believed in all this metaphysical stuff, but I hesitated to talk to her about it. She had learned that it was not a popular topic of conversation with me. This was a no-no place we would not go.

"No, can't say that I have," I said somewhat formally. "I think I need another beer."

She linked her arm with mine and said, "OK."

We walked the rest of the way to the park in silence. Coors therapy and the affection made me begin to feel better. We walked up onto the porch of the trailer, and she steered me to a deck chair.

"Sit here big guy," she said, "Help is on the way."

I drank the second Coors and looked at the desert while she made a salad for dinner.

CrystalSky is at 3,500 feet on the upslope of the San Gabriel Mountains, about a hundred miles north of LA. From my trailer porch, I can see fifty-and sometimes a hundred-miles north, sometimes forever across the Mojave Desert. On a crystal-clear morning, I can see the blue outline of the southern end of the Sierra Range. Although it might be 105 degrees during the heat of the day, the evenings cool off into down parka weather. On this night, the desert breeze was stronger than normal. Thermals wouldn't amount to much tomorrow.

Tina called, "let's have dinner on the back patio, sheltered by the mobile home, out of the wind."

We ate our salads and had a glass of wine without too much conversation. I was still silently mulling over the event of the day. Tina was also deep in thought.

As it grew dark we heard a pack of coyotes yipping as they pursued prey, probably a jackrabbit running for his life. Then, it was quiet.

I broke the awkward silence. "I love the evening sounds of the desert. Later, we may hear the sounds of the kangaroo rats shaking seeds off bushes. When I first came out here, I thought it was the sound of rattlesnakes, and was afraid to go outside at night."

Tina eventually said in a somewhat serious tone, "If it is not good soaring weather tomorrow, lets go to Rosamond Dry Lake and you can introduce me to your new Mason jar friend."

"I can't," I said. "It disappeared after the tow plane showed up."

Tina paused a long time and observed my expression. Then, got up from the table, walked over, kissed me, and said, "I think we should forget about this in the shower."

I woke the next morning seeing the sun brightly shown through the window, smelling coffee, and hearing Tina working in the kitchen. I walked in. She was wearing one of my tee shirts that came down to mid-thigh, and chopping vegetables at the sink. I hugged her from behind and kissed her on the cheek.

She shrugged her shoulders and pushed me away with her head saying, "Careful, I'll cut my finger or drop this knife on your toe. Get yourself some coffee."

I drew a cup of coffee, leaned my rear end against the counter, and glanced at Tina. She had her hair in a ponytail and had her usual mischievous expression on her face. I wondered if she was putting something unusual in the omelet. She glanced back at me with a questioning look in her eyes. "I was expecting a much bigger smile this morning after..."

I interrupted, "I apologize, I was thinking about what happened on the dry lake as I was waking up." I walked over and gave her a big kiss.

"That's more like it," she said. "Is it going to be a good soaring day?"

I replied, "No I don't think so. There is already a little breeze. Those high cirrus clouds are a bad sign. Also, I am still a little distracted."

"Good," she said, "One of the ladies at the pool spoke with me about the Devil's Punchbowl in the hills not far from here. It sounded interesting. It is supposed to have an interesting energy, er, rock formations. It is a State Park with trails and self-guided tours." She showed me the State Park page she had looked up on my iPad. "Pinyon Pines, chipmunks and California Ground Squirrels. It would be fun to go for a hike. They had a spot of rain up there last week and there may be some spring wildflowers in bloom."

"Sounds good," I replied somewhat reluctantly.

"I'll pack a lunch and clean up here and pack everything into the car while you go and put your little sailplane away. We can leave for LA from the park. I know a great place on the way home to have dinner," she added with some excitement.

As we ate breakfast, I could sense her excitement. "I love the desert." She said. "Desert tortoises, snakes, kangaroo rats bouncing around at night, coyotes yipping and howling...and then there are the wildflowers."

I was feeling better. "Snakes!" I exclaimed. I mused to myself, _Talking to spirits, forget it._

She thrust my hat and a bottle of water into my hand and practically pushed me off the porch to get me started to the runway.

CrysalSky is nearly on the San Andreas Fault. The San Andreas Fault is like a big rattlesnake that has its tail in the Sea of Cortez between Baja California and the mainland, and makes a serpentine arc up California east of the various mountain ranges to Palm Springs, and then curves around the San Bernadinos and San Gabrials, which separate LA from the Mojave Desert. It turns north again and runs inland to Silicon Valley, San Francisco, across the Golden Gate, to it's head in Bodega Bay. Everyone fears this snake when it wakes up.

The Pacific Oceanic plate slides against the Continental plate along the fault and pushes up the coastal ranges. The Devil's Punchbowl is near the fault, where the sandstone is crunched and pushed up into jagged sky–pointing layers. The park is in a three hundred foot deep valley in this contorted landscape.

"This is really fun," she exclaimed, as we drove with the top down into the hills. She was wearing brief jeans shorts she called her "Daisy Dukes" and a yellow tank top and her ball cap. "Here, drink lots of water today," she said as she took a sip from a bottle of water and handed it to me.

"I have often flown over here in my sailplane but have never seen it from the ground. The punchbowl is a good source of thermals," I said. "All that sandstone picks up heat in the sheltered valley and boils off into a thermal, sometimes the first of the day. See over there! That little wisp of a cloud must be over the Punchbowl."

Before I cold entertain many thoughts about going back and breaking out my sailplane, she looked at the map in her lap and said with excitement, "Turn left on that road up there. That sign says Tumbleweed Road. This is the way; we must not be far."

Soon, we were in the Park Visitors' Center parking lot. We walked to the small weather worn visitors' center, went in, spent some time looking at the exhibits of stuffed birds and animals and bought an area map. Outside, we began to walk down the loop trail into the Punchbowl. It was a spectacular site, a yellow sand, and gravel trail descending into a water worn valley in a jumble of broken sandstone layers pointing diagonally to the sky, with opportunistic small clumps of shrubs and bushes growing in the cracks. Tina was intent on stopping to examine the flora along the trail, reciting the name of each plant, and feeling the leaves and branches.

Tina said, "I love these Pinon Pines. They tower above all the rest of the shrubs and brush and seem to say to me, 'You can rise above everyone else if you try.'"

She turned to me and observed my far away look and said. "Are you OK? Are we OK? I feel as though you have gone away."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I am still preoccupied with what happened yesterday. I am still trying to work out the logic of it all." I didn't tell her of my medical concerns.

"You have told me stories of landing-out on other occasions. They don't seem to bother you much. I have many friends who wouldn't think it was so strange that you talked with an entity through a spark of light. One friend has a dog that channels advice to her."

I resisted, "In your world it might be OK, but not in mine–I deal with scientific facts and logic."

"Here, have some more water," she said handing me her water bottle. "Why don't you have a nap in the shade of that big overhang while I continue to explore the trail. It only goes on for about three quarters of a mile-I'll be back in no time-and then we can have our picnic. The ranger said there were some plants in bloom up there and I don't want to miss them. Just relax. Try meditating."

"Deal!" I replied, not having any interest in desert blossoms at the time. I walked over to the shade of the big sandstone slab, which looked like a slice of tan layer cake that had been hollowed out underneath by eons of flash floods. I stretched out on the ground, put my hands behind my head, closed my eyes, and listened to the high desert silence. I started to doze off.

"Hello there!" Said a voice. I sat up with a start and looked around, but saw no one. "Over here," said the voice.

A few feet away I saw a round, tan sandstone boulder about the size of a beanbag chair. I saw the brilliant spark of light in a crack on the underside of the boulder.

"It is Mason," came the voice from the rock. "We hate sandstone, it's so scratchy."

"Oh, no," I said under my breath. "Good day," I said diplomatically, wondering what was a proper greeting to intelligence from outside of space and time. I didn't add that I felt that this whole _conversation_ might be a desert hallucination, or a neurological difficulty.

Mason continued in a serious tone," You are having great concerns about your mental or physical health related to our conversation. Let us assure you that you do not need to see a Doctor of Medicine. You need to see someone with the title, Doctor of Mathematics.

"I hate to tell you, but I have thought it over. I really know nothing about Einstein and Relativity. You have the wrong person."

"No, you are perfect for what we would like to see happen. We would like you to prepare for something very important that will affect the lives of many, perhaps a good part of your civilization. Think of us as a client with a mission to earth."

"That's fine," I replied. "But, what would you like to see happen?" My lawyerly questioning strategy was kicking in. "And how could I put you on the witness stand? I can hear it now, 'My client in another reality is suing for infringement damages.'"

"Let's start with incentives," Mason replied slightly mocking my lawyerly attitude. "In this case, you will prepare yourself to be on the leading edge of the thinking of the future and get yourself recognized as a source of knowledge. Since we do not trade in your dollars, we can promise you personal benefits to be paid in personal growth, exposure to exciting new ideas, and dreams-come-true."

I was taken aback and realized Mason seemed to know my weaknesses. I was bored with my patent work, and had enough money to buy all the stuff I wanted, including a very expensive sailplane, but no real must-have dreams. I wished for something different in my life.

Mason continued with a much lighter, almost comedic tone, "We can talk about all this later. Now, how about those Dodgers."

I laughed and replied, "I'll think about it.'"

Suddenly, I was being tickled and emerging from a deep sleep. "Wake up big boy," chuckled Tina. "You were snoring so loudly all the wildlife was fleeing the canyon."

I shook my head, sat up and rubbed my eyes. I felt a surprising sense of peace.

"He's back?" said Tina after looking quizzically into my eyes. She brightened. "I have been told there is something in this desert air called 'Funk-be-gone' that works every time. This is the guy I have been dating. Come on, let's go have our picnic."

She grabbed my hand, pulled me to my feet, and began towing me up the path to the visitors' center. We went to the car, retrieved the cooler and Tina's wicker picnic basket, and went to a picnic bench in the shade of a Cottonwood tree.

"Isn't this great! Look at the view! Feel that gentle breeze! Smell the sage!" gushed Tina as she unpacked her wicker basket. She spread a red and white checkered tablecloth on the table, spread two blue plastic plates and silverware, produced two crystal flutes, which she filled with bottled water from the cooler, and, as a final touch, placed a cut crystal vase in the center. She produced a cluster of daisies from a bag in the cooler and said, "Don't worry Mr. Lawyer, I didn't pick these in the park. I picked these in the courtyard behind your mobile home."

She then produced a bunch of grapes, some cheese and crackers, and sandwiches, as she smiled broadly.

"I was expecting a bag lunch," I said

"Not for a beautiful setting like this," she replied.

I was struck by how beautiful she looked, even with little makeup, glowing with some inner exuberance. I seemed to see a yellow golden glow around her face, and feel a soft, beautiful vibration while I looked at her. I also felt a strange energy on my chest, right above my heart.

We ate without saying much. She was taking in the view and the day, and I was watching her.

After a while, I volunteered, "I had another visit from Mason today."

Her beautiful pale–blue eyes grew wide, she smiled with an expression of delight, and said, "What did Mason say?"

"Mason wants to be my client in some strange alien sort of way. My reward will be learning something valuable and having dreams-come-true." I said.

"Dreams-come-true is not all that bad," She said as she seemed to blush a little bit. "What dreams do you have?"

"I have to admit I don't have a big list now." I replied. "Everything seems good. Oh, win this big patent case I have been working on for a year and work the way up the letterhead of the firm. I have still to make that ultimate soaring flight. That kind of stuff. How about you?"

She looked a little embarrassed or maybe disappointed and said, "I love to teach. That is my dream. Beverly Hills is a good, safe school."

"Safe?" I asked.

"In many schools in LA, women teachers are at risk. The only problem I have ever had was with a husky rich kid from a Middle Eastern country, where his family was the ruling class and don't think much of women's rights. He accosted me in a stairwell, before another teacher came along and broke up what the kid called a 'party.' I am more careful now, but anyway, that was three years ago, not the sort of thing that happens at that school."

"I do love teaching. Also, I like to explore many new ideas, learn the secrets of life. There is a spiritual thing there. Maybe, there is a vine covered cottage with a picket fence and a golden retriever out there somewhere."

I silently observed that neither one of us mentioned anything about a relationship.

"I'm not too sure how a spiritual entity for a client fits in all that," I said. "I'm not ready to take that up with a Senior Partner yet."

She seemed to sense my sudden shift in mood and said, "I saw an Antelope Jack Rabbit today. They're bigger than a regular Jack Rabbit and have giant ears."

She looked at me inquisitively and said, "You want to talk about your Mason friend?"

"I am a little shaken by the experience," I replied. "It doesn't seem as if I am hallucinating. It seems too real to be a dream. There is no logical or scientific explanation for it. Do you have any explanation for it?"

She replied, "I have a metaphysical bent. You must suspect with my meditating. I have avoided talking about it because the subject seems to upset you, and I really enjoy being with you. But, I have been to channeling sessions and have a friend, Elise, who is doing a dissertation on the study of people who channel. Your contact with Mason seems to be some kind of channeling. Maybe you are the channel."

"I guess I'm not ready for any of this yet, I'll have to find out about this later," I replied with kind of a stiff tone.

"I thought so," she said looking away. "When you are ready...I know some people."

"Thanks," I said glancing at my watch. I noticed she had lost that beautiful glow.

After a long and somewhat awkward silence she said, "Maybe we could get back early. I really could use some more time to prepare for next week's teaching. Tomorrow is another school day," she said in a sort of stiff tone of voice.

We finished our lunch, without much conversation, loaded the car a drove to LA. She slept most of the way.

**2**

**Being a Lawyer**

Monday traffic was normal on Santa Monica Boulevard, typical of LA, everyone hectically driving above the speed limit of 45 with only a few car lengths between them, while conducting important business on cell phones. I wanted silence this morning.

I turned into the driveway of the Century City building, drove down two floors to my parking spot, took the elevator to the lobby, and joined the rush into the elevators to the upper floors. At my floor, I exited the elevator and walked down the hall to our office door. The spacious lobby had a modern feel, with large black leather and chrome chairs, large tan ceramic planters with well-tended plants, and a large mahogany faced counter, behind which sat Carolyn, a blond who wore makeup like a professional model, and today, a navy blue business suit and a crimson scarf tied loosely around her neck.

"Good morning Mr. Willard!" said Carolyn cheerfully as she covertly buzzed my secretary's phone to warn of my arrival and gave me her "you're the most interesting person...and I'm available" smile.

"Good morning!" I replied as I walked past her down the hall to my office. The mahogany–walled suite had two offices, in front of which the secretary, Zaza, sat at a chrome and ebony desk. Her desk, as usual, was clear except for a wireless keyboard and mouse, and display, and the single pile of papers she was typing from. She wore an almost invisible telephone headset.

Zaza Green, whose real name was Zahavia, is in her late forties, plump in a post-menopausal way, with grey hair in a perm style that she was probably married in. Her skin is sallow and wrinkled as it would be for a formerly pack-a-day smoker who had almost quit. Her blouse exposed some of her abundant cleavage of the type I really don't want to see. Her manner ran from businesslike to covertly hostile, and I usually got the latter. She wouldn't have been my choice as a secretary, but she came with the office. Someone had informed me she had earned a special "in" with one of the partners a long time ago.

"Good morning," she said in two descending tones. "How was your weekend in the desert? Did Flopsy go with you?"

"Tina Quail," I corrected.

"Flopsy, Popsy or Cotton Tail, I can't keep your desert rabbits straight," replied Zaza. "Are flowers in order?"

I thought for a second and replied, "Yes that would be a good idea. Send her a bouquet of daisies or something cheerful like that. On the card say, 'for a delightful picnic.'"

Zaza replied with slight scorn, "Popsy usually got roses. I have Tina's address."

I went into my office, and started going through my email. After a while, Zaza buzzed my phone, and said, "George Downey has arrived and is in the conference room."

"OK," I replied.

I was grateful that scheduled visitors were charmed by Carolyn and then shown to the conference room. I didn't like Zaza representing me.

George is one of the technical experts we often use in our patent trials. He has two PhDs that I know of and is an expert on electromagnetic devices. Today he was, as usual, dressed as a scientist would be expected to, with a tweed sport coat that he wore in all seasons, and did not quite match his slacks, with leather patches sewn on the elbows, and a plastic pocket protector with several pens in the inside pocket. He was tan with balding grey hair and intense blue eyes, and today, as usual, he looked very serious.

We discussed some of the technical issues in the patent case I was working on, and talked about how we could present the information in lay terms in a trial. As he was getting ready to leave, we were chatting about cell phones and where they worked and where they didn't, when I thought I felt some sort of vibration from him.

I started to think about Tina and how I seemed to sense her vibrations. I said to George, "Sometimes I feel vibrations from people. Do you have any kind of idea what it might be?"

George looked incredulous, and I knew that I had just said something that was outside his scientific belief system. I got the same reaction that I would have if I said that I had been talking to a Mason jar.

George said, "There is nothing in electromagnetic theory that would explain that."

I thought I observed that his vibration had dropped.

"What theory is that?" I asked.

George grew stiff and said, "Anything like that is against the laws of Physics as expressed by Maxwell's equations."

"Maxwell?" I inquired.

"He was a nineteenth century mathematician who wrote the equations about how all electromagnetic waves and even light behave. For the cell phones we were talking about, Maxwell's equations say that as you get farther from a cell tower, the signal, or number of bars you get goes down exponentially. If you are one mile from a cell tower and you move to two miles, the signal level drops by a factor of eight. If you move from one mile to three miles, the signal drops by a factor of twenty-eight.

"The human nervous system generates very low frequency signals, which can be detected with electrodes when thousands of cells, such as heart cells, fire in synchronism. Signal levels are so low they can't be radiated from the body with any strength that is detectable by even the most sensitive electronic instrument. I am not a physiologist, but I am certain that no antennas or sensitive receivers have been dissected from bodies. Although two human bodies might be jammed together there could not be enough electrical energy transmitted to be observable," George lectured.

I quickly thought of Tina, bodies jammed together, and then Mason. It was obvious George was getting upset so I tried to change the subject by saying, "How difficult would it be to learn about...?" I felt a kind of ragged feeling vibration coming from George.

George interrupted and said, "That's why all that crazy stuff about ESP is pure ignorance, superstition, or the tricks of charlatans. It is all against the laws of physics. It doesn't happen except for people with limited critical thinking skills and a gullible imagination."

I could see that George would make a great witness in a trial on this subject.

"Thanks, George," I said, steering him toward the door. His eyes were beady, and it didn't look as though he knew where he was. I walked him out to Carolyn to make sure he got his parking ticket validated. Carolyn did her shy act with her eyes lowered and chin down and started chatting and attracted his attention. He seemed to be coming back to normal so I said goodbye, shook his hand, and went back to my office.

I regretted that I had brought the subject of vibrations up with George. He got very upset. I'm sure he thinks less of me for broaching a metaphysical subject. Tina must be a bad influence on me. I am starting to talk like her.

I spent the rest of the morning working on my case.

After lunch, Zaza buzzed me and said, "Mr. Bracken wants to see you."

"Right now?" I asked.

"'Immediately' was what he said," replied Zaza with her sarcastic tone.

When I arrived at Phil Bracken's office his secretary, Patty, gave me a look that said something wonderful has happened. I walked into Phil's office, and he met me with a big smile and left his chair to give be an enthusiastic handshake.

"Congratulations! They settled! Have a seat," he said gesturing to a chair. "I guess after they saw your witness list and witness backgrounds they caved. They met with Paul in our Washington office and offered a settlement. Paul talked it over with his friend Robert Sampson, the CEO at Genstem and he said he would accept their offer. We won! Here is their offer."

He pushed a copy of the email across the desk to me. As I read it, I was surprised. It was more than I had expected.

"So, we don't have to trial." I said somewhat in a state of shock, feeling a letdown from having a whole year's work evaporate.

"Don't worry," Phil said. "Paul and the Washington office will take it from here. Why don't you take a few days off. You like to spend time in the desert this time of year. If they need anything, we can call you there. Have Zaza keep Patty informed of where to contact you." He got up and shook my hand again and said, "Good work! Congratulations! We will talk more when I get back. I have to leave for Detroit in a couple of minutes."

I walked back to my office still a little bit stunned.

Zaza greeted me with, "Patty told me the news. You're unemployed!"

That made me despair.

"I am going to the desert for a couple of days. You can call me anytime out there," I said. "You forgot your briefcase," said Zaza as I walked to the entrance.

When I walked into my apartment, I checked my phone for voicemail. I pressed the play code and heard Tina's voice:

"Thanks for the flowers. I called to thank you on your cell phone with no answer, and then I tried at your office. Your secretary said you had just left, and she didn't know when you would be back. I asked whether you were on a business trip. All she said is 'No.' She sounded very abrupt. Is everything OK?"

'That's Zaza,' I thought. I must have missed the cell call while I was in the parking garage. I knew that Tina was in class today, so I called her home phone and left a message, explaining that I had finished a case, was taking a few days off, and everything was fine.

On the way to the desert, I felt very alone and uncertain. I wished Tina had come with me. Zaza was right, 'I am unemployed.' Fortunately, I still draw a salary. Settling a case is like landing on a dry lake, stopping short.

It was just beginning to get dark when I got to CrystalSky. I parked the car and got my bag from the trunk. Glancing at the sky, I said to myself, 'Good evening, Hesperus!' Most people referred to the evening star as Venus. I like the Greek male version, Hesperus, because he is the leader of the stars as they march into the evening sky, obviously a great leader with that many followers, He has great organizational powers and gets everyone in place in the clear desert sky. I wondered if he was on Facebook.

It was already chilly. I hurried into the mobile home, put my bag in the bedroom, and went to the closet to get a down jacket, choosing the lighter one of two. I kept the warmer down jacket in a plastic wardrobe bag, bathed in the aroma of cedar chips and sage in the bottom of the bag, placed there to hide the scent of whoever had worn the jacket last, lately Tina.

I poured myself a brandy, went out onto the patio with the view of the desert, sat down in one of the white plastic chairs, put my feet up on a table, rocked back and looked at the zillions of stars in the clear desert sky. Despair was my only companion.

"Space-time," I said to myself, "there is a lot of it out there. Spaces are measured in millions of light-years. Time is measured in billions of years." I remembered that Einstein's theory of relativity and space-time had first been supported by measuring the bending of light from a distant star as it passed the sun during an eclipse. 'I don't see how there is a patent law case in the subject,' I said to myself.

I felt lonely.

I called Tina on my cell phone. She answered, and I said, "Hi, Tina, I am calling you from the desert. How are you doing?"

"Oh, thank you for the flowers. They are beautiful, my favorite kind; they were there when I got home from school."

I wondered what Zaza had sent.

Tina continued, "How is the weather out there? I got your message about taking a few days off. Is settling the case bad? You sound sort of down."

"It is beautiful, cold, and clear." I replied. "Settling a case is good–at least for the client–but I won't get to go to trial. That's where I really have my fun. Now, I get to start all over with a new client."

"More heavy scientific stuff?" Tina asked and then answered her own question, "Of course, that's what you do."

I sensed the cold tone in her voice. I asked, "Any chance you might like to visit the desert again?"

"I really can't right now; my end–of–school–year testing and grading, and my night school courses, will keep me buried until the end of the term," she replied stiffly. "There is someone at the door; I have to go now. Say hello to the kangaroo rats for me. Goodbye."

I felt deflated. I would have to start over in that department also.

"Too bad," I thought, 'Tina was fun to be with, unless she was talking nonsense about metaphysical things. No long-term future there.'

I sat quietly for a few minutes, just Hesperus and me, and watched his followers deploy. 'Hesperus, does your life ever come apart,' I wondered.

Then, I heard, "Good _evening_ (as you believe time to exist), we are happy to be able to communicate with you again."

I thought, ' _Oh, no. I don't need this now.'_

It was Mason, I looked around and saw a sandstone boulder that the landscapers had placed near the patio. It had a bright spark of light on the side of it. "Congratulations on the settlement of your patent case," said Mason.

"How do you know about that?" I asked, somewhat intimidated.

"For now, we shall only say that we could see it coming when we last communicated. It was a probable future."

"I believed winning the case was a certainty. I have to believe that when I am working on a case," I rebutted.

"That's the way it works," Mason's sound continued, " _Belief causes a probable future to manifest._ We will get to that later."

I was surprised. I was starting to feel that talking to a speck of light and an extra-dimensional intelligence was a natural thing to do. This time it couldn't be a dream.

"I have been sitting here looking at the stars and thinking about space-time," I interrupted, "That subject is about black holes, the Big Bang, galaxies, mathematics that few understand, not anything I am trained or interested in. It is too abstract for my thinking."

"You have correctly identified the problem," said Mason. "Space and time in the sense of the cosmos are incomprehensible to all but a few of your species. Let's talk about space and time in terms of what you call a movie film.

"There is a story recorded on the frames of the film. Suppose that story starts with a man looking at the stars in a desert, then moves to a woman talking to him on the telephone, in Los Angeles, then moves back to the man in the desert, then to a restaurant, where he has dinner. The next day he travels back to his office, the story ends with the man returning to the same desert where he talks to a speck of light. When the movie film in on the reel, stored in the movie company's vault, there is no time or space in the movie. On the film, frames in the desert looking at the stars come first and the frames of the woman in LA are next, and the frames of the restaurant are next etc. There is no physical time, there is only a sequence of film frames: there is only timing; some things happen before others."

"I can understand that," I replied. "When someone projects the film, there is the illusion of time."

"Correct!" Said Mason. "The illusion of time is only in the story. The director might have shot the film out of sequence, shooting the office scene first then shooting all the desert scenes, shooting in the restaurant, and then shooting the woman on the telephone. The timing of scenes was made in the editing room."

"OK," I said, "time is an illusion in movies. What has that to do with reality?"

"Let's switch the metaphor," continued Mason, "On your planet, there is something that we are amazed by, it is called YouTube. People make videos of something of interest to them, then add keywords, and upload it to 'the cloud,' of all YouTube videos. 'The cloud' is a the world-wide network of computers. As in the movie I described before; the video may have had only the illusion of time. Anyone can search for the videos by keywords or by the address and watch them. YouTube is a space-time system where you can watch a video taken at a give place, such as a corner near the World Trade Center, which is the spatial dimension, and at a particular time, nine o'clock on September 11, 2001, the time dimension."

"I understand about YouTube," I said, "and I guess it is a space-time system."

"That is the way reality works!" Mason said. "Think of what you call reality as something like YouTube. Lets call it _The Cloud._ Information on everything that happened or happens is in The Cloud."

I said to myself, _I must be logical and scientific about this. I had a patent case involving the Internet one time._

The videos on YouTube exist physically. They are data bits on servers distributed around the world in data centers.'

"Mason." I said, "Where is The Cloud in physical reality?"

"This is where the metaphor breaks down. _Time does not really exist: it is only a coordinate in space-time._ The physical things happening are not stored, they are all happening as what you would call 'at once' in the Cloud. For example, at the space coordinates you know on your planet as the New York location of the World Trade Center. At the earth time coordinate, nine o'clock on September 11, 2001, the building is being destroyed. Change the earth time coordinate to August 12, 1964, and the World Trade Center is under construction. At those coordinates, everything is going on according to what you understand as your four-dimensional scientific laws of physics–what you are taught in your universities.

"Using the YouTube metaphor, one might say that the physical stuff in the video, as it is taken, obeys the laws of physics. If the video is of a cat doing something cute, everything in the scene obeys the laws of physics, for instance gravity, according to four-dimensional space-time. The video that is uploaded to the YouTube cloud is _information_. You can turn the picture upside–down and have the cat fall upward in that video. The video cat doesn't have to obey the laws of physics.

"We realize this is all very new to you. You need to find out about eight-dimensional physics, known on your planet as ' _complex eight–dimensional Minkowski space._ ' They explain how The Cloud works." Mason's voice trailed off. The spark of light on the boulder disappeared.

"Wait!" I said. It was too late. _Why is Mason telling me all this?_ I wondered.

I was confused, bewildered. I went back into the kitchen and poured myself another brandy. Back out to the patio, Hesperus had everyone organized in space-time. I wasn't.

The first light of dawn was just breaking when I awoke, still musing about my contact with Mason, wondering why I was involved in this, pondering the scientific logic of the whole contact. I made a cup of coffee, put on my parka, and started a walk out into the desert to clear my head.

It had been cold during the night, and all the cacti and sagebrush were covered by a fine coat of silvery frost, glittering in the first rays of the dawn sunlight. I scared up a long–eared rabbit that dashed away in jagged hops. The sun came up suddenly, and I felt the heat on my face. Frost evaporated. The new day was here. My head cleared as I viewed the hundred miles of desert to the North. Sunlight on the dark buttes and distant mountains spread down from the peaks to the valleys.

California City is eighty miles to the North, at the southern foot of the Sierras. In land area it is the third largest city in California, a dream of a developer in the 1960s, and boom years for Southern California. During that time, developers were buying worthless tracks of desert land, subdividing them, grading grids of roads, advertising, and selling lots on the promised it was the site of the next land boom. California City was laid out with streets, cul-de-sacs, a lake, and 52,000 lots in its master plan. It didn't boom. Some bought lots and then sold them to other suckers. Many lots are now in estates of the departed, with the beneficiaries having no idea what to do with them. Today fewer than 15,000 people live there, mostly employed by the declining Edwards Air Force Base, or at the nearby privately–operated prison, which is having trouble making ends meet. California City should be considered a tourist spot, a modern wonder, a ruin of gigantic proportions, not of crumbling buildings, but a ruin of lost dreams, gullibility, and greed.

These lost–dream developments are sometimes a glider pilot's salvation as a landing spot in an otherwise vegetation–covered landscape. One time, I landed in a one-mile long street, bulldozed out of the raw desert, fifty yards wide. A 747 could land there, but none ever have.

I had no dream for the day. Soaring wouldn't be any good today; my recent love interest sounded as if she was dumping me because of my 'superior logic,' my legal career was on hold. I felt like a California City lot.

Back from my walk, I had breakfast, read the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the LA Times on my iPad. The news didn't lift my spirits. I thought I would walk over to the office at the airport, find someone to talk to, and do some 'hangar flying,' reminiscing about past flights.

Nobody was flying yet on this quiet day. I left my trailer and began walking down the edge of the empty unpaved section of the runway; the part used only in emergencies when pilots decided to abort takeoffs. Desert sand was mixed with limestone rocks, and along the edge of the runway, opportunistic yellow flowers, the size of a thumbnail, were taking advantage of the recent rain to flower, bloom, and seed while they had a chance. Mesquite bushes lined the edge of the runway, separated by a few paces from each other, taking advantage of all the space available in the desert.

An open–air sun shelter, next to the airport office, had several wood tables and benches. It offered a shady place to sit while waiting for the thermals to begin.

At one of the tables the tow pilot, Dan, who had rescued me from Rosamond Dry Lake a few days ago, sat, apparently deep in thought staring into the open desert. He was wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts, a wrinkled long sleeve shirt, and his cowboy hat.

I said, "Hi Dan."

He looked toward me and nodded, "Hi."

"Doesn't look like much of a day," I observed.

Dan said, "Every day in the desert is good. Some are better for soaring than others. We are supposed to have a student pilot coming out this morning. He will need about four tows to practice landings."

I had often talked to Dan before. I knew he had a degree in something like English literature or philosophy and had decided the best way to put it to use was flying a tow plane and flying a water bomber when offered the chance. When there is a forest fire, the government contracts with independent companies to fly tanker aircraft, mostly obsolete military surplus carrier aircraft, many poorly maintained, to drop red flame retardant in the fire area. It is dangerous, high paying work, flying a few feet above the trees, through smoke, in unpredictable winds, and requiring exact flying skills. When I am on tow behind Dan in his Pawnee, I knew I am in good hands.

"Going to fly today?" he asked.

"No, it looks too weak to bother getting my bird out," I replied.

Dan smiled, emphasizing the wrinkles around his mouth, in his sun-dried face. "I think it was before your time, but we used to have a pilot come out here who would go up on days like this and fly cross-country for hundreds of miles. His name was Charlie Krill, and he worked at the Lockheed skunk works, designing high–flying spy planes like the U-2. We used to say he made his own thermals. One time, I asked him how he could read the weather so well and he said, 'Trust the force!' referencing the old Star Wars movies."

"I have never tried that," I joked. "Mostly, I trust my friend at the Weather Service at LAX who gives me my personal soaring forecast. Then, I plan my flights."

Dan gave me a look that seemed to say, 'And how is that working out for you.'

I suddenly had the feeling that my logical flight planning was like the California City urban planning, complete in detail but failing in practice.

Dan confirmed my feelings: "Somehow, Charlie had special intuition. The intuitive approach positively worked for him."

My cellphone rang. _Tina, I hoped_. I looked. It was Zaza.

Zaza announced, "Vacation is over. Bracken wants to know whether you can meet with a new client tomorrow at 9:00."

"Sure," I replied.

"I hope this does not upset any of your social plans," said Zaza sarcastically.

"I am alone. No problem, See you tomorrow."
**3**

**A New Beginning**

I was feeling better as I walked into the office lobby.

"Good morning Mr. Willard!" Said Carolyn cheerfully as she gave me her usual 'How wonderful you are here...and I'm very available' smile.

Zaza looked grumpy, as usual as she asked, "How was your long vacation?"

"A pleasant respite," I replied as I walked into my office. I began to look through my mail and email.

In a few minutes, Zaza's buzzer rang. "They are here," she said.

I walked into the conference room and saw Phil Bracken and very attractive blond lady.

"Dave Willard, meet Dore Hamilton," Phil said.

Dore was about five–feet two, with a very compact athletic look, about thirty years old, with brown eyes. Her streaked blond hair, parted in the middle, was cut in a manner that suggested she spent time in an expensive hair salon. She had a wide nose like someone of northern European descent. Her tan face with white areas around the eyes suggested she had recently been skiing. She was wearing a dark blue suit with a red scarf.

She smiled with a flash of recognition in her eyes as she shook hands, and said, "Pleased to meet you Mr. Willard," and immediately reset to an icy stare. I knew I had been 'made,' fully assessed, and judged.

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hamilton," I replied without losing eye contact. I could tell this was one tough lady.

Phil began, "Ms. Hamilton is an assistant to an old friend of mine, Vince Colson who has a venture capital firm in Palo Alto. Vince has funded a foundation, the Colson Foundation, to support investigation into paranormal phenomena and other pet projects. He wants us to take on a test case to try a county government for negligence in failing to utilize an available psychic resource to prevent the death of a lost child."

I though to myself, _Oh, no! More of this metaphysical nonsense, Why me?_

Ms. Hamilton sensed my reaction and said, "Mr. Willard, I expect that this is somewhat afield from your normal case and possibly makes you a little uncomfortable. Phil said that you are a master at presenting complicated scientific cases in terms that can be understood by lay juries. The Colson Foundation has sponsored scientific research that will provide the foundation for a scientific case that the psychic offered legitimate help. We believe the science is there to support the case. The science is esoteric enough that most people would never have heard of it. Phil says you may not be up on this realm of science. It is preferable that you can bring a fresh viewpoint, unbiased by many misconceptions shared by many who have a long involvement in metaphysical subjects, which might bring some biases or beliefs that would interfere with the scientific case. We want someone with a clean slate on the subject who can appreciate the skeptical viewpoint."

"I think I meet your requirements for a lack of knowledge on the subject," I observed.

Phil interrupted and added, "Dave has done this kind of thing before. Some of his patent cases involved subjects and technologies that were unknown a couple of years before."

"Good!" said Dore. "Would you be available to come to Palo Alto today to meet with Mr. Colson? He is to leave town tomorrow and is anxious for you to get started. We can have you back later in the day."

"Of course" I said, thinking of how I dread going through airport security twice in one day.

"Thank you Phil," Said Dore as she shook Phil's hand, "I have confidence that we have made the right choice in asking your firm to represent us. Mr. Willard, the travel arrangements are all set."

"Thank you for selecting Bracken and Stevens to represent you in this matter," added Phil.

"I'll get my briefcase," I said.

I waved at Zaza on the way out. "I am going to Palo Alto–be back tomorrow."

Zaza couldn't resist: "She is a hot one-I saw her when she came in. What is Flopsy going to think?"

"I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, playing it straight as always.

Dore was in the lobby texting. We took the elevator to the ground floor and got into a black chauffeured Towne Car, which was waiting at the building entrance.

"Excuse me, I have to check in," Dore said, and began texting on her iPhone.

I followed suit.

I was surprised when the driver turned north on the 405 instead of south to LAX. I didn't say anything.

In a while, we were at the Van Nuys airport, and the driver drove to a Lear Jet parked in front of a hanger. A lean uniformed pilot, surfer-length blond hair sticking out below his navy–blue pilot's cap, was standing by the steps into the airplane. He took the small suitcase of Dore's that the driver brought as we boarded the plane. I looked into the cockpit as we entered and saw a young blond lady, also in uniform with pilot's cap, apparently going through the preflight checklist.

The jet had six brown leather seats, two in the back and two pairs facing each other separated by the aisle. The airplane smelled like leather with a slight hint of jet fumes from outside.

Dore motioned to one of the two brown leather seats that faced each other with a small table between them.

"Thanks, Ms. Hamilton," I said.

I sat down, and we both fastened our seat belts as the jet began to taxi.

She smiled and said, "Make it Dore. I think we are going to spending a lot of time together."

"Dave," I replied with a nod.

We both looked out the window as the jet paused before entering the runway and began the takeoff roll.

"My parents gave me the name Doré, with the accent on the 'é' but I dropped it for everyone's convenience," she continued. "Dave, you have quite a spring tan for a person with your light completion. Are you a golfer?"

"No," I replied, "I spend a lot of time on the desert. I have a sailplane."

"One of those things where they tow you up in the air and then you glide down?" she asked.

"Yes, but sometimes we stay up for hours and fly cross-country. It is quite a sport." I added.

Dore stared at me for a second and then added, "I get that there is something competitive about that."

"Not really, it is something you do alone," I replied.

Dore stared at me again and then continued, "When you were in college there was something competitive. You are five–feet, seven–inches, and weighed something like one hundred sixty when you were in college. It was not football or any other team sport. Something competitive there...tennis. That is why you handle your briefcase the way you do."

I was shocked and answered, "Right! I was a Varsity tennis player."

"You will have to tell me about it sometime," she said without any indication of interest. "Please excuse my delving into your past. The energy was strong, hard to resist."

"Your tan looks like someone who has just been skiing." I observed.

"Right, very observant," she replied. "My partner and I were in Aspen for a week not long ago."

_My partner,_ 'I thought, _She might be gay._

"Her company has a condo there so it is very convenient," she replied.

I felt a sense of relief that she was setting some ground rules for our relationship, taking gender out of the equation.

"Have you had any personal experience with psychic phenomena?" she asked.

"My experiences are only from movies, TV, and Edgar Allen Poe reading assignments in school." I admitted.

"Good!" She replied, "A good clean slate to work with. Here is a book, a good starting point, written by Steve Manteo who is the psychic who was ignored by the Sheriff in our case. We will get to the scientific case later after you understand the phenomenon involved." She produced a hardbound book with a bright red cover, and the title "The Psychic Spy Who Never Had To Leave His Office."

_What have I gotten into?_ I thought as I took the book. _Good way to kill the flight time to Palo Alto._

The uniformed pilot with the blond hair poking under his cap appeared from the cockpit, served us coffee, and a sandwich, and returned to the cockpit.

"The pilots are a couple," confided Dore, "They are also writers who do screenplays in their spare time waiting for us and on layovers. I like the arrangement because I know they are not late hour partying when we overnight somewhere and are always fresh for our flights. I suspect that I am a character in some of their stories, but they have never have admitted it." Dore opened her laptop.

I was incredulous as I scanned the book. Steve Manteo had been an undergraduate at Stanford taking a lower division psychology course. One of their lab sections had an ESP test to see who could perceive large printed numbers taped to the entrances of different buildings on campus as their lab instructor viewed them. For example, at the start of the lab session the instructor, without announcing his destination, would walk to the location of one of the numbers such as at the campus post office. Students are asked to meditate and perceive the number that the instructor viewed. Although few in the lab section had any success in perceiving the numbers, Steve perceived nearly all of them.

The class did not know that the professor was doing both legitimate academic research and searching for candidates for a classified government sponsored research program at SRI, the Stanford Research Institute. Soon, Steve was interviewed by a researcher at SRI and asked whether he would like a part-time job. Since Steve was working his way through school, he accepted the offer. He filled out an employment form that he thought required an unusual amount of detail on his personal history and family background. A few weeks later he was called to a SRI office where he signed security pledge forms and was briefed on a highly classified psychic spy program under development for the CIA. He worked part-time until he graduated in architecture, after which he went to work for one of the CIA's classified contractors, known as Power Industry Consultants, or PIC.

He worked on the CIA–sponsored program for twenty years, spending hours each day perceiving assigned cold-war psychic targets, the location and activity of people of interest, or the nature of activities in buildings or factories in the Soviet Union. In the book, he was only able to give two examples of his work, which had somehow escaped the classification process, to describe the process.

I closed the book as I heard the jet's flaps go down in preparation for landing.

Dore closed her laptop and said, "Amazing stuff isn't it. The psychic spy program went on for twenty years, and nobody ever heard of it. The contractor Steve worked for had annual incremental funding from the CIA, which meant every year someone had to justify the program's effectiveness for it to continue. Our company funds startups. We positively don't continue ventures that aren't panning out. Someone high in the Government must have valued the program."

I nodded and looked out the window as we descended to the Palo Alto airport, trying not to reveal my skepticism about this whole turn of events in my life. I was still mulling over what I had just read.

I saw another black Towne Car waiting by the hangar.

Colson Associates was in a modern but unassuming building, on a slight rise, in an office park surrounded by trees that were leaving-out with spring foliage. One was in bloom with bright pink flowers. The building was finished in brown stained wood and had many windows.

An attractive receptionist sitting at a modern glass-topped table with a laptop looked up and greeted Dore. "Dr. Colson said to send you right in."

We walked into a glass enclosed room overlooking a large space, which looked like the waiting rooms in the private clubs that many airlines had at airport, where for an annual fee, or a first-class ticket, you could wait in luxury. Groups of overstuffed maroon chairs sat among carrels, and small tables filled the room. People sat around the room working on their laptops, clustered in quiet conversation, or talking on cellphones in semi-enclosed soundproofed cubicles. The color scheme of the room was maroon and grey, obviously the product of an interior design studio. There didn't seem to be any offices. It was a quiet but somehow busy place.

As we entered the glass room, a man of about fifty years old, medium height, slightly balding, salt and pepper black hair, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, tapped a button on his laptop. He closed the lid, looked up, and walked over to us.

Dore said, "David Willard meet Vince Colson." Vince Colson had a very relaxed demeanor, in a blue and white stripped button-down shirt with no tie, khaki pants, and black, leather-topped running shoes. As we shook hands, I felt as though I was going through a security scanner at the airport. With one piercing look he knew everything about me. _I had been 'made' again._

As we sat down at a glass topped table, Dore asked, "Latte, coffee anyone?"

"Latte," I said, as Vince nodded "yes."

Dore texted a message, smiled and said, "We have a 'den mother' who operates the coffee bar at the end of the building for everyone. As you can see, we don't have offices here. Everyone, including Vince and I, spends our days in what we call the 'uncommon area'."

"Is this the Foundation or the VC building?" I asked.

"Both," said Vince, "Mostly financial activity takes place here. The accountants keep track of which hat we are wearing by how we log into our laptops. You saw me switch my laptop identity as you came in. Right now, Dore and I are in the Foundation."

"Could you tell me a little about the Foundation?" I asked.

"I have enjoyed some business success because of what I, in my younger years, called 'intuition.' It was a skill I sharpened for evaluating ventures and people. With experience, I learned that somehow I could read a lot about people by simply concentrating on them and getting a feeling. I also seemed to be able to get a feeling about the probable future of a venture someone was pitching. As I investigated, I found there were many practitioners in other fields that used 'intuition,' such as a medical doctor who could mentally scan a person's body and sense pathologies. It was kind of my private secret for years.

"Then, about a decade ago, a fellow appeared at my office, saying he was a former member of a highly classified CIA psychic spy program that had been declassified. He claimed he had recently been making a killing in the silver futures market: a fact I later verified from other sources. I learned about the Remote Sensing CIA spy program and how the ex-spies were offering consulting services in many areas. I have used him over time to assess people and evaluate ventures. I use him to produce 'data points' that I combine with other information: providing me with another dot when I am trying to connect the dots, so to speak.

"I created the Foundation to further explore the general idea of remote sensing and other forms of unexplainable communication or foreknowledge of events. These ideas did not fit any known scientific paradigm. Most scientists would debunk the idea of any kind of ESP phenomena having any validity.

"I have been funding academic research to get us a reputable scientific paradigm. The Foundation now has the pieces of one.

"One of our consultants, Steve Manteo, the former participant of the CIA program I referred to, lives in the Sierra Mountains north of Sacramento. Last winter, he was driving home when he came upon a Rocky Butte Sheriff's Department search and rescue operation command post in a roadside diner, coordinating the search for a lost girl. He offered his help to find the girl, and the Sheriff just blew him off. He was about to leave, back in his car, when suddenly he sensed exactly where the girl was, that she was very cold, and crying. He took a copy of his book and a folder of credentials he had in the car, documenting his psychic spy CIA experience, including the picture of him and the President, and the letter of his citation for a Congressional Medal, signed by the Secretary of Defense, and showed it to the Sheriff."

Dore interrupted, "That is the book I gave you on the plane."

"Steve insisted in placing an 'X' on the map the Sheriff had spread out on a table and announcing that the 'X' marked the girl's location. The Sheriff got mad and said that the girl couldn't be in that area; they were concentrating the search where they were sure she had gone missing. The Sheriff ordered Steve off the premises and threatened him with arrest.

"Later that night, they found the girl frozen to death in the place identified by Steve on the map."

The 'den mother' appeared with the lattes, a bowl of fruit, and a bowl of healthy snack bars. Dore introduced her as though she was part of the family. "David, this is Maureen; she runs this place. David will be here working with us sometimes."

Maureen was fiftyish, grey-haired, a little frumpy, wearing a navy blue polo shirt, starched khaki pants, and a glowing smile. I felt like a teenager being served dinner by my mother.

Maureen smiled and said, "Pleased to meet you, David. Feel free to visit our coffee bar any time, and let me know if you need anything, anytime. That includes office supplies, secretarial support, travel arrangements, or someone to listen to you, or to bounce an idea off."

"Thank you, Maureen," I said as her smile beamed.

Dore added, "We try to keep an informal atmosphere around here and it is Maureen's job to inspire informality and enforce the policy."

Vince sipped his drink and continued, "Our corporate counsel has filed a civil suit on behalf of the parents of the girl against Rocky Butte County. We are seeking damages for negligence, for not using all resources available to prevent the death of the girl. Our counsel suggested we get Bracken and Stevens to handle the case. That is where you come in."

Dore nodded to Vince and said, "Here is the file on the suit. It is yours from here on out.

"We have a starting point for you. We have sponsored mathematical research by a LA mathematician, Candice Montgomery, for a couple of years. She has come up with a theory that can explain how ESP works. Now, we are underwriting a movie she has written, which can explain that theory to people with only eight–grade mathematics training."

"I know of her," I answered, "She delivers such interesting and entertaining lectures that students such as history majors who are not registered for her classes, sometimes crowd into her classrooms to hear some of her most famous lectures on subjects such as Statistics. I first heard of her at a professional seminar where she had the audience laughing uproariously while she explained Statistical Optics, not normally a very funny subject."

"I'll call her to introduce you and tell her to contact you," said Dore.

"You should go up to visit Steve, get to know him, and visit the area where the girl was lost. Dore, can you let Steve know about that also?" Vince added. "Dore will be your contact at Colson." Vince got up and shook my hand. "I am delighted that you and Bracken and Stevens are handling this for us."

Dore led the way out of the conference room, down the stairs, to one of the maroon chairs in the large room. She took a seat and motioned for me to sit down. Possibly responding to my puzzled expression, she said, "We all work here in the den." She paused, texted something on her iPhone, opened her laptop, pressed a key, and paused. "Your return transportation will be here in a few minutes. Are you comfortable with all this?"

"Yes, but I must say I have only started on this learning curve."

"Good," she replied. "We wanted a clean slate. But, I must warn you, the first time you discuss this subject with some scientists, you will run into what I call 'The Bigot's Protocol.' They will get incensed, maybe mad, turning red, and lecturing you on how any idea of psychic phenomena is pure gullibility. It is really a hot button with many scientists and other people. Don't be discouraged: they're wrong and we are right. It is like telling a southern tent-revival preacher there is no such thing as Salvation.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I am working for the company." She tapped on her laptop.

I thought briefly about telling her about Mason but thought better of it. As I opened my book I saw Vince walk into the other end of the room, sit down, and open his laptop.

In a few minutes, Dore walked me out to a waiting Towne car.

As I walked back into my office, Zaza said, "I thought you were going to Palo Alto."

"I did," I replied. "These people are fast company."

"Is there going to be an address in Palo Alto where I send flowers to?" Zaza inquired sarcastically.

"No, this is going to be 100% business."

"Mr. Bracken said to stop in when you got back." Zaza said. "Shall I check to see whether he is available?"

"Yes."

"You can go right now," said Zaza after a brief telephone conversation.

Phil greeted me with a smile, stood up from his desk, walked to his leather office couch, motioned for me to sit in an adjacent chair, and said, "Tell me about our new client."

"They are really fast company and seem to be able to make fast decisions. They hold meetings that are three and a half minutes long and make important decisions in a snap."

Phil smiled and said, "Vince used to be a Navy jet pilot, the top-gun type. He is trained to quickly assess things, make decisions, and take action. If someone fires an antiaircraft missile at you, you don't have time for a staff meeting; you simple begin evasive maneuvers. If you are coming in for a landing, all the gauges on the instrument panel suddenly drop to zero, all the red lights go on, and the flight controls stop working, you hit the eject button. It pays for a jet pilot to be decisive.

"If he hadn't liked you or failed to have an immediate feeling of confidence in you, he would have fired you on the spot. Congratulations! You have a client."

"Dore seems to be the same. I don't think she blinked her eyes for the first fifteen minutes of our meeting. I doubt that I will hear you complaining about an indecisive client."

"What do you think about the case so far?"

"I can handle it, but I will be a little uncomfortable about the subject matter for a while. Steve Manteo is a highly credentialed and decorated remote sensing psychic spy from the US cold war intelligence effort. He tried to help in a Search and Rescue mission in the Sierras. He told the Sheriff exactly where the lost girl was. The Sheriff blew him off and had him escorted off the premises. The search and rescue operation searched the wrong area, and the lost girl was found frozen to death later in exactly the place where the Steve predicted. The parents of the girl have a civil case against the county and the Sheriff, alleging that the Sheriff was negligent for not using all the resources available to him.

"I will have to show that remote sensing is a scientifically valid way to locate a missing person: Steve Manteo was qualified to find the girl and that he was correct in what he told the Sheriff."

Phil observed, "I sense you are a little uncomfortable with all this."

"Frankly," I replied, "I am a little bit afraid I will lose my scientific credibility among my peers in the patent law crowd. I might become the topic of jokes among my peers. Colson assures me that the scientific validity is there. Dore is making the introductions for me to meet with people who have been doing research in the field."

"Dave, we assigned you to this because if anyone can make the scientific case, you can. Let me know if you start to feel that there is not a good scientific case. We can pass the case off to one of the firms that specialize in legal circuses. Colson said he didn't want to go that way. He wants to establish the scientific validity of this psychic stuff, as well as help the distressed parents.

"Keep me informed," Phil said as he rose from sitting, signaling the end of the meeting.

I was sweating, and my hands were wet. I was apprehensive about where this was taking my career.

As I returned to my office, Zaza asked, "Are you a bad boy? You look white."

'No, everything is fine,' I lied and thought, w _hat in the world have I got into?_

I checked my email, then googled _Remote Sensing_. After reading a while, I thought of channeling and then thought of Tina. I texted her the message that I'd like to find out about channeling.

As I was about to leave the office, I got a call from Tina. "I'd be delighted to introduce you to channeling. You are in luck. One of the best, Herondus, is having an evening of channeling Friday night at a hotel down by the airport. I have a staff meeting after school, but I can meet you there. It starts at 8:00."

"Great!" I replied. "Want to make it dinner too?"

"Can't. I wouldn't be able to get there until after seven. I'll meet you in the lobby. Oh, by the way it costs fifty bucks."

"No problem," I replied. "My treat."

"In that case it will be one hundred bucks," she said with a giggle. "I have to go now. I'll see you in the main ballroom lobby of the Adventure Hotel about 7:30 on Friday. Bye."

"Bye," I replied as she hung up. She didn't seem very friendly. I wished I could see her. I felt a little bit empty.

Friday at 7:30, I was in the main ballroom lobby of the Adventure Hotel on Century Boulevard, the street that runs parallel to the runway at LAX. The hotel was one of the better ones at LAX. It had changed hands after the financial crash in 2008, had recently reopened after being remodeled and updated, now with a European-modern feel with backlighted glass panels, chrome fixtures, and chrome legged lobby chairs. I peeked in the ballroom and was surprised that it would seat several hundred people. A few people, early birds, were seated near the front, hands in lap, eyes closed, gently smiling: apparently meditating. Soft New Age music played. A door attendant said I couldn't go in until I had registered, and pointed to a table behind which two ladies were collecting money and credit cards and having people sign what looked like a legal form. I was surprised the people who were registering were very normal looking. Some were professionals in business clothes, others in jeans, and casual attire. Many looked as if they bought their clothes at those trendy stores on Melrose Avenue, where you can buy jeans with holes in the knees for a hundred-fifty dollars. I noticed two ladies with long brunette hair, combed straight, hair much longer than it might be naturally, and probably weaved at some expensive Beverly Hills shop.

_This is not New Age,_ 'I thought, _I had been expecting people to look more like the clerks in the health food store._

I saw Tina approaching, accompanied by another woman who was taller than Tina, with short black hair, in a kind of pixie cut, maybe in her early thirties, looking kind of academic, but with soft, friendly eyes They both were dressed as though they had come from a college classroom, in jeans, sneakers, and sweaters over simple tops.

_The old wingman trick,_ I thought. Women appear with a friend when they need protection from unwanted advances or conversations.

Tina walked up and gave me a kiss on the cheek and a firm hug and backed away to make the introduction.

"Dave, this is Elise Burton. Elise, This is Dave Willard."

"Hi Dave," said Elise, "Tina has told me all about you,"

I felt a little naked.

"Elise did her dissertation on the study of about fifty channels who have meetings around the LA area. Herondus is on the top of her list. If you want to know a lot more about channeling she is a good person to talk to. We had better register and stake out some good seats."

I quickly walked over and got in line for the registrar. Elise was behind me. When the registrar looked at me, I said "Three" and produced my credit card.

She ran my card and gave me three of the legal forms, which were also tickets, and brochures of upcoming events. I handed one to Elise and one to Tina. Elise looked shocked.

"You didn't have to...." started Elise, rolling her eyes.

"Yes he did..." interrupted Tina smiling broadly as she walked over, took my arm affectionately, and steered me to the entrance.

"All for research," I said, as we walked through the door to the ballroom.

The ambiance of the room was electric, like the crowd at a big football game waiting for the kickoff, or in a theater anticipating the start of a highly–acclaimed action movie. Old friends were greeting each other affectionately. Everyone was smiling and introducing themselves to people around them. It looked like many of the people were Hollywood types, the behind-the-camera kind. I saw an actor I recognized-probably from some sitcom-but didn't know his name. There seemed to be slightly more women than men. We sat down in a middle row, Tina next to me, Elise next to her.

Tina patted me on the knee, smiled, whispered, "I didn't tell Elise about Mason," and then put her hands in her lap, closed her eyes and apparently began to meditate.

'That's a relief,' I thought. I looked at the brochure. Tonight's topic was "The Logic of Illogic."

I thought, _I think I am being sandbagged._

The lady sitting next to me smiled and said, "Hello, I am Marilyn, isn't this exciting! Where are you from?"

"I don't live far from here," I replied. "How about you?"

"You're lucky-I'm from Vancouver. Are you here for the weekend workshop?"

"No, I am only here for this evening. This is my first time to one of these events."

She beamed, "How nice. In an evening, you will get some amazing information. However, in a weekend your life can change in some important ways."

I looked at the brochure and saw that tonight's session was a precursor to a two-day program, New Ways To Think About Thought, which cost nine hundred dollars to attend. I thought, _These people are serious._ I had always thought this New Age stuff was for hippies and bored housewives with nothing else to do but go to yoga classes and sit on the floor in cross-legged postures wearing designer yoga outfits. As I scanned the room, I calculated that the gross from this event was probably something like a quarter-million dollars.

Then, the room started to get quiet. The lights lowered, and a man walked onto the stage smiling and greeting people in the audience. He sat down in a comfortable chair in the middle of a small stage. Next to the chair on a table was a large bouquet of flowers, obviously the product of an upscale florist.

He sat down and picked up a microphone and smiled as he looked around the room. "It is a pleasure to back in Los Angeles and see so many old friends. But, you didn't come here to hear me so I will get out of the way and let Herondus come through. He closed his eyes and placed his hands in his lap. All was silent for about two minutes, and then he smiled, picked up the microphone, with his eyes still closed and said:

"Greetings on this _evening_ as you know time to exist. It is always a delight to visit with you in this space-time here, now, in what you call Los Angeles. Some of you have come from what you call far and others from what you call near, but it is a pleasure to share this group energy, a bright spot in space-time. Some have been sharing thoughts with us for years, and others are here for the first time: we welcome you all, to tonight and for those of you who will be staying the weekend. We have exciting things to share with you about what you call thought."

He paused and turned his head from side-to-side and then continued:

"But first, let us do a melding of all our energy. This is not a meditation. This is a chance for us to quietly spend a few moments with each of you. Close your eyes and sit relaxed while we greet each of you."

The soft music came on as I closed my eyes. I was thinking about Tina and then wondering about Elise, and then my mind and body relaxed. For a moment I felt a surge of energy, kind of like joy, but not exactly, and then felt very peaceful, and my attitude of cautious judgment disappeared. After a few minutes, the music went down and I heard Herondus say:

"You can open your eyes again."

Tina squeezed my hand.

Herondus continued:

" _The logic of illogic._ That is the kind of word construction of ideas, that you can have in your civilization, which we love. One idea swallows another in the same sentence.

"Many on your planet think that logic is the highest form of thought. It is only something that your human species uses to deal with the physical universe. _Logic does not exist in the structure of the physical universe: it is an overlay that your physical brain uses to interpret what you perceive as your surroundings._ The physical universe existed in the way it is long before your species acquired what you call logic through genetic evolution. In the vastness of what you call the space of the universe, and in the spaces within atoms, there is no such thing as logic. Logic is created in specific parts of your physical brain as your scientists are now exploring with what you call MRIs. People who have that part of their brain damaged can no longer think or act logically.

"The lion chasing prey, in what you call Africa, does not think logically, saying to herself, 'If I run this way the prey will run that way and then I can corner them over there.' The lion simply chases its prey without any internal verbal dialog.

" _Logic, language, or symbols only exist in your physical brain._ They are a product of activities in other parts of your physical brains."

"That which you call your subconscious mind, and your spirit level, is where all your true thinking occurs. _You, the spirit, think in abstract ideas, concepts, and pictures, and have no language, as you know it._ There are not English speaking, Spanish speaking, or Russian speaking subconsciousnesses or spirits. Language is added by parts of your brain. The human brain is a physical part of the body. _You as spirit, resident in a body, communicate ideas, concepts, and pictures to your physical brain that then translates them to language and logical structure._ When your body speaks, it is expressing a translation of an abstract idea. When your body hears another person speak, your brain translates the language to the abstract form understood by the spiritual you.

"In our world we are only what you would call spirits, we are in a non-physical realm. We can create the idea of an apple tree at will without going out to find one. If we want an apple we can create the idea of it in our hand, which we also create.

"In your physical world, if you want an apple, you must create a sequence of events that align with your logical view of the physical universe. If you want an apple, you must logically figure out where an apple is and then devise a logical strategy to go where it is and get it. If you find an apple tree, then you must logically figure out how to climb to pick the apple.

"You, as a spirit can create realities through what you call your imagination. You can close your eyes and imagine an apple tree, climb it, get an apple and eat it. If you have a good imagination, you can even taste the apple. _Spirit and your imagination aren't bound by logic._

"Many, let us say, of your tribes and cultures, some as large as nations, live according to ideas of thousands of years ago. If someone of note said something centuries or millennia ago many follow that idea without questioning it, even though the idea or practice is no longer relevant to the time-space they now live in. The idea is a rule, held in place with the logic that if you disobey, something bad will happen to you.

"You also use logic to create abstractions of physical reality in mathematics. Your engineers have used logic to create what you call computers that use logic in their hardware and software to conduct physical tasks, communicate, and bring you music, and pictures and stories on what you call television. Your computers don't think or feel: they do immense manipulations of logical elements you call bits; they are the ultimate form of logic.

"Spirits don't need to create the abstraction; they can simply create the reality. _Logic and language are, therefore, just a method of dealing with your limitations of physical reality._

" _Spirit (or your subconscious) operates in a pre-symbolic non-symbolic realm._ It creates ideas your brain circuits and your brain ware (all the stuff you have learned from your family or school) translates the idea into speech or symbols you draw, write, or type.

"Questions! We have given you a lot, of what you say on your planet, to chew on. For those of you who are here for the first time, let us say, the first three rows are for those of you who think you may have questions. If you have a question, please raise your hand, and our assistant will give you a microphone."

A man in a business suit raised his hand, waited for the microphone, and asked, "Some of our country's most important documents, such as the Declaration of Independence and our Constitution, depend on logic. Our society couldn't run without those guides. Aren't they our highest thinking?"

Herondus answered: "Those are, indeed, important documents for your civilization. The logic is in the expression of the ideas. The pre-symbolic thinking that the authors did before writing those was on the conceptual level: the meaning of rights, equality, freedom, etc. They added the logic as they put pen to paper."

A woman with long red hair raised her hand, was given the microphone, and asked, "When I am thinking a problem out, I talk to myself, and logically discuss about what I am going to do. Isn't that my highest form of thinking?"

Herondus answered: "Your subconscious is giving you the ideas that your brain and brain ware converts to sub vocal speaking. _The subconscious thinking happens during the sub-vocal dialog between parts of yourself."_

About ten people asked questions and received answers. Then, Herondus said, "We do not want to get, as you say, too technical about what is what kind of thinking. We want to emphasize that what may seem logical to you is not necessarily true, _because what you believe is logical depends on your education or training, your brain–ware._

"Once, in your space-time, the idea of a round earth was unacceptable: there was a set of logic that assured everyone that the world was flat."

Herondus looked at his watch and said, "Now, we would like to take a ten-minute break, and, when you come back, we will take you on a meditation."

All was quiet until the man doing the channeling opened his eyes and looked blearily around the room.

Everyone then hurried from the room or began talking to friends. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. As I was returning, I ran into Tina and Elise in the ballroom lobby.

"What do you think about Herondus?" Tina asked with an air of excitement.

"Frankly, I am a little overwhelmed. He has given me a lot to think about. Can I get a recording of the session?"

"It will be available from his website in about a week. The web address is on the meeting flyer," added Elise.

"We should go back in now," said Tina.

In a few minutes, Herondus began again:

"On your planet you have the idea of Superheroes, which appear in comic books, TV, and in your movies. Many of them have magic shields to deflect gunfire, laser beams, and other projectiles. Many on your planet use logic as your shield, to give you a certainty against all ideas that do not agree with your beliefs.

"Your radio and television political commentators can project great certainty that opposing viewpoints are wrong through logic, although their opposing counterparts can speak with equal certainty that their opponents are idiots. These certainties prevent real discourse or dialog where one party attempts to understand the viewpoint of others.

"On an interpersonal level, you may often find the people who demonstrate great certainty about what they know, are using that certainty as a shield to prevent anyone from knowing who they really are. Logic can be a great shield to prevent someone from finding out that deep-deep down inside you have some shame or that you believe you are not good enough.

"We will continue dialoging on that subject throughout this weekend. But now, it is time for a meditation."

The lights came down and Herondus led everyone through a guided meditation: Going to a meadow, sitting under a tree, and then proceeding through and exploration of the surroundings. I fell asleep after the first few minutes.

At the end of the session, as we were standing up ready to leave, it was apparent that Tina was leaving with Elise: the wingman thing was in play.

I said to Elise, "I would like to have lunch with you to discuss your research. It could be important to some work I am doing."

Tina smiled her approval.

Elise replied, "It will have to be tomorrow."

"I can do that," I said.

Elise gave me her card, and I said I would call her at home in the morning.

As we all exchanged hugs, I noticed that Tina's wasn't as stiff as when we met before the meeting.

I arrived early at Hernando's on Melrose hoping to get a good table.

Hernando's is one of those trendy sidewalk restaurants, with Mexican national colors in the awning, wrought iron tables and chairs, and separated from the sidewalk by only a thin iron railing. The place was filling with trendy Hollywood-type people wearing either business suits or designer jeans. Most of the women wore little makeup and had long slightly curled or straight hair.

Elise soon joined me, also wearing jeans, but not the kind in the Melrose shops. Somehow, she looked like an academic, or at least that was what she projected.

I rose and greeted her with a handshake that seemed appropriate. This was not a date. She was keeping a feeling of distance, probably treating me as if I were Tina's territory. We exchanged some small talk, ordered iced tea, and tostadas for which Hernando's is famous.

"Tell me about your project that involves something about channeling," she said drinking her tea.

"It is really not about channeling per se; it is about remote sensing. It involves a civil case. I would like to know about channeling to see whether it is related. What was your bottom line in your dissertation?" I inquired.

"Let me start at the beginning. About four years ago, a friend invited me to go to a channeling, not a big event such as we attended last night, bur a living room full of people in The Valley. I was expecting to see a bunch of weirdoes, but was surprised to see normal looking people from all backgrounds.

"When the channel arrived, I was surprised because he was so normal looking, with a slight build, probably of Mediterranean descent, wire-rimmed circular glasses, and wearing a black T-shirt with a Nike logo. He introduced himself with a mild voice. He took a lot longer to go into trance than does Herondus. Before he began to channel, he went through a few head movements as though he had to shake his head to form the channeling connection. Then, his entity, or the spirit, or whatever he was channeling, came through in a loud, gruff, choppy voice, talking a mile-a-minute. He said he brought us greetings from another civilization on a planet in the direction of, but not near, the Pleiades. He went on to say that their civilization was more evolved than ours and they wanted to communicate certain ideas to help us in our evolution.

"What I heard was very similar to ideas of eastern spiritual philosophies, with some interesting twists. Do you want to hear about those?"

"Maybe later. Right now, I am more interested in the phenomenon or mechanism rather than the message."

"I attended about sixty changelings in Southern California and then studied the channeled messages of forty of those channels. The entities that were channeled were quite varied, some were historical figures, some Greek gods, some were said to be Egyptian gods, and others were biblical figures.

"I won't try to give you all that data, I'll send you a copy of my dissertation.

"I concluded, after much study, that some of the channels were channeling their own subconscious, general knowledge, and belief system: the message was 100% theirs. Others were channeling the message of some external spiritual entity and then overlaying it with their own stuff: the message might be 10% or 90% theirs depending on the channel."

"Where does Herondus fit in that spectrum?" I asked.

"I think he is about 90% entity most of the time. I believe the form of the message is as Herondus was describing last night, pre-symbolic: it comes to him as abstract ideas and pictures. The channel's brain and brain–ware, as Herondus described it last night, converts the message to language. That translation process is where the channels education and belief system can filter the input.

"Another thing I found was that a person with a great intellect will channel a message of high intellectual content and a dull person will channel a dull message.

"How did you get interested in channeling? Tina has mentioned that you were not really too interested in psychic phenomena."

I replied, "I wasn't, until I started to have some unusual experiences myself. I am embarrassed to say that I have been having conversations with an entity or entities who call themselves Mason. Their voice appears to come from a spot of light that can be in broken glass bottle or under a rock,"

"I'd call that channeling!" she said with a wide grin. "Except, _you_ are doing the channeling. You might make it seem to come from the spot of light to agree with your belief system. People who hear voices directing them are often diagnosed as schizophrenics. You are surely not one of them. The spot of light appearing to talk is probably a dream kind of thing."

I felt relieved as I said, "Yes, it does happen sometimes when I am dozing off. Are there any hazards in doing this form of channeling?"

"Yes, but only for those like Darren Wileman who trance channels Herondus. He is great, but sometimes other trance channels go kind of bonkers after a while, and start saying bizarre stuff or get their own ego involved in the message.

"Since you are doing this semiconsciously you can evaluate what is coming through. If it starts to get really strange, tell the entity to stop coming through, or simply stop when it happens. It all is under your control. Does the message seem reasonable to you?"

I thought a minute and then said, "Yes, I received instructions on some scientific things about space-time that I should learn about. Then, a few days later, I get a legal case involving those subjects and am forced to learn about it. It is really strange."

She lit up with a big smile and said, "That may not be as strange as you think. I have heard of people channeling messages from the future. Maybe your 'Mason' is your future self, a guide from outside space-time or someone else from the future. I'd bet you'll figure this out someday."

The waitress brought our tostadas.

As I was adjusting my plate I added, "I hope I will. I am a little overwhelmed about this now."

"I am sure you will," she replied as she started to eat.

We engaged in small talk while we ate. As we were finishing, Elise said, "Tina is one of my dearest friends. How long have you been seeing her?"

"We were introduced by a mutual friend about two months ago. We haven't been together all that time because my travel for work has created some gaps in us seeing each other."

"You should be very careful with her: she is very vulnerable," she cautioned.

"Vulnerable? I don't understand. Is she weak? Do people take advantage of her?"

"We probably should have stayed to hear Herondus for the whole weekend. That was one of the things he is talking about. Men, particularly, need to understand the idea; it comes naturally to most women.

"I should have said emotionally vulnerable. Being emotionally vulnerable, for women at least, means being willing, or able, to put themselves out there emotionally and go into the depths of feeling, It is like playing Texas Hold'em poker and being able to go all-in. They are willing to bet all the chips, except they are emotional chips."

She saw the confused expression on my face and said, "Next time Herondus does a workshop we will have to go."

Back in my office, I had an email from Dore saying that she had contacted Candice Montgomery, and she would be giving me a call.

At mid-afternoon Zaza buzzed me and said, "There is a Candice Montgomery calling. I don't know which one she is."

I picked up the phone and said, "Hello, this is David Willard."

"Mr. Willard, I am Candice Montgomery, a consultant for the Colson Foundation. Dore Hamilton asked for me to call."

"Pleased to meet you," I replied. "I am working for them also. I will be representing them in a civil case involving remote sensing. Are you familiar with remote sensing?"

"Yes, I did a paper with one of the former members of the CIA remote sensing program a couple of years ago. That paper resulted in me being called on by the Colson Foundation to do some more work. We have had a nice relationship."

She sounded rather formal, possibly defensive, so I explained, "They seemed in awe of your work. I have spent most of my career as a patent attorney working in the high tech area. The only thing I know about remote sensing is what I read in a book by Steve Manteo. Colson said they wanted me because they thought starting with a clean slate on the subject would allow me not to be prejudiced by other beliefs. They said talking to you would be a good starting point. I am your student. I also may want to use you as an expert in the civil case."

"That is good to know. I find it hard to deal with some people who have made up their mind that quantum mechanics is the explanation for remote sensing and ESP. But, I don't think I can do a good job talking about my research on the phone, without a blackboard, or visual aids. It is quite a way for you to come up here beyond Pasadena. I have some other business in your area first thing tomorrow morning. Can I meet you at your office about ten?"

"That's fine with me. Let's make it a lunch too," I replied.

She agreed and said she would send me the web address for her paper on remote sensing.

I downloaded her paper and thought, _Teacher is assigning me homework._

I spent the early morning studying her paper. It explained eight–dimensional space and gave an abbreviated theoretical treatment of how it pertained to remote sensing. It gave a general description of the CIA's remote sensing program. I looked at the references. She had been writing papers about eight–dimensional space for over a decade.

I spent time refreshing my memory on mathematical concepts with Wikipedia. I tried to read something about Relativity until my eyes glazed over.

I googled Candice and found that she had been born in Louisiana and lived with, or was raised by, Native American relatives. It didn't show her personal history, but somehow she earned her PhD in math from Tulane University.

At 10:00, Zaza buzzed me and said, "Your visitor is in the conference room."

Candice is of average height and a rather frail build. She was wearing a long black, pleated dress, matching her long straight black hair. Her bronze complexion betrayed her mixed racial heritage. She had amazing light blue eyes.

"Candice, how nice to meet you in person." I said. "I saw you present a talk on Statistical Optics last fall at a conference at Disneyland Hotel."

She reflected a minute and brightened as she remembered the conference. "Did we meet there?"

"No," I said. "There were only about five hundred people there. I don't know why you don't recall me."

She laughed and said, "I kind of go somewhere else when I lecture,"

"And you take your audience with you. I really enjoyed the lecture. Statistical Optics has never been the same for me since your lecture."

When Candice looked at me, it was as though I was the most amazing person she ever met. Her wide light blue eyes seemed to portray a mix of great curiosity and admiration. I had seen that look when she lectured at Disneyland, and had wondered if it was the result of overzealous plastic surgery. She looked natural in person. She was radiating curiosity and interest, as though something unknown and good were about to happen, something mystical.

While opening her eyes even wider she said, "Tell me about your science and math background to give me a frame of reference. Also, tell me about the case you are working on."

I complied, described my undergraduate scientific education, and described my more technical patent cases. Then, I described the Colson case and mentioned that the trial would be in a court in Rocky Butte County.

"It sounds like another Scopes Trial to me," she observed.

"We call it The State of Tennessee vs. Scopes," I joked.

"Well, in Tennessee, Scopes was guilty of challenging a belief system, Creationism, as described by the Bible, was challenged by a belief called Evolution. The Sheriff, who sounds like a redneck, probably has a high school science education, except for some forensic stuff in whatever sheriff's academy he attended. You are challenging his conventional belief system derived from what he learned in high school and has observed in his three-dimensional reality.

"They will probably throw some technically obsolete scientists at you in the trial to show that 'there is no scientific evidence that....' Instead of a contest between the Biblical beliefs and science, as in the Scopes Trial, you will have a battle between the beliefs in physics from a couple of generations ago and modern physics."

"I guess that is where you come in," I observed.

"That is really where the Colson Foundation comes in. They hired me to write a script for a film that would expose people to higher–dimensional thinking. It is a way, we hope, to bypass the waiting for bastions of old ideas to die or retire in academia.

"Lets get started," She said with a wide-eyed smile. "Tell me what you know about higher–dimensional realities. Give me a starting point,"

"I was exposed to the idea that time is an illusion and that reality is like YouTube."

Her eyes grew wide, and she said, "That is really interesting. I have never heard that analogy before. Please go on."

I explained what Mason had told me about a movie only having an illusion of time. Then, I explained about The Cloud.

"That is really good as an analogy. From talking to people who do remote sensing I have found that some have the belief that information is only accessible in space-time if there was a human observer, someone 'recording the YouTube video' so to speak. That relates to the old philosophical riddle, 'If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound if there is nobody there to hear it?' Remote sensors can't observe the tree falling unless somebody heard it.

"I like the idea of keyword assignment as part of the accessibility argument. I believe that much of our own memory recall may be the accessing of information from space-time. Physiologists haven't identified long term memory mechanisms in the brain with enough storage capacity to contain all we can recall from our lives. If you can recall the time when you were six years old and your dog Spot got run over by a car, there may be many keywords that can move you there. In The Cloud grief, tires screeching, dog yelping, screaming, red cars, dirt roads; all the sensory input you experienced at the time can be a keyword. Some would be stronger that others. The incident would have been of great enough interest to record. However, you probably wouldn't be able to recall feeding Spot his dinner the night before.

"Are you familiar with channeling?"

"Yes, I went to hear a channel last week. It was Herondus coming through."

"I am not familiar with him. Maybe long-term memory recall is a person 'channeling' himself from a different space-time. Psychologists and physiologists are beginning to find mechanisms for synchronizing neural activity between people. Experiments have shown that people can synchronize heartbeats, for instance. Perceptual synchronization is still on the to-do list. The field is stunted because any effects observed at a distance are against the old laws of physics.

"That brings me to the central thesis of my work in mathematics. Normal observation happens with one set of laws pertaining to four–dimensional physics. Information transfer happens according to complex eight–dimensional physical laws."

"Nice segue," I observed.

She laughed. "I guess I digress. I am a mathematician and not an experimental psychologist.

"Let me start at the beginning. When Albert Einstein was at the Zurich Polytechnic, a school for training math and science teachers for secondary schools, his mathematics teacher was Herman Minkowski who didn't get along with Einstein very well because Einstein wasn't very interested in mathematics and often cut his classes. Z-Poly was a small school, with only seventy-one students, eleven of which were in Einstein's entering class.

"Einstein barely graduated because he grew indifferent to the professors and courses offered. Since the head of the department refused to write the letter of recommendation required to obtain a teaching job, Einstein was unemployed for a couple of years, until a friend helped him get a job working in the Swiss Patent Office. Then, the hot technical topic for patents was synchronizing clocks throughout the railroad systems, so that all stations could have the same schedule. Einstein's office window looked out on a clock tower and a railroad track.

"Some people who have studied Einstein's biography have placed him in the Autism–Asperger's syndrome spectrum: that he only could think, or at least was most comfortable with visual thinking. When he 'over-thought' the idea of synchronizing clocks at railroad stations, he came up with his Theory of Relativity. He could visualize trains traveling near the speed of light and visualize what would happen to the clocks on board. Einstein's wife, also a mathematician at Z-poly, helped him in the math of his famous paper on relativity. Some say she did most of the work of converting the visual thinking to a scientific paper.

"The paper did not get much attention for a couple of years. Then, Minkowski who knew of Einstein's work took an interest in the theory. Einstein had been considering the three-dimensions of 'space' separate from' time' in his idea of relativity. Minkowski pointed out that time was also a dimension. He 'corrected' the math in the paper, in a way to make it compatible with other hot topics in physics, by making 'time' an imaginary dimension.

"You remember about imaginary numbers?" She asked.

"Yes, the square root of minus one." I had been doing my homework.

Shea continued, "To someone like Einstein who mostly thought in visual pictures, the idea of an imaginary number must have been a stretch. How do you visualize a train traveling at ten miles per (imaginary) second? It doesn't make any sense. Where is the train going?"

She laughed and continued, "Minkowski almost hijacked relativity and took it into the realm of mathematics from Einstein's physics. Minkowski, the mathematician, would have taken it into abstract mathematics where nobody has to visualize anything, where everything can be formulas. Unfortunately, Minkowski got sick and died.

"Einstein got to keep relativity. He didn't appreciate Minkowski's mathematical approach, which he described as 'too complicated.' He did keep the idea of imaginary time as kind of a dirty little secret in his mathematics. For instance, he couldn't have come up with his famous E=MC2 without using imaginary time. That expression wouldn't have become so famous if he had said, '...when time is imaginary, E=MC2.' Without Einstein's visual experiments, which became his hallmark, such as people on railroad platforms observing trains passing at near the speed of light, Einstein might not have become famous. His visual experiments made his ideas accessible to more people."

"Not to me, so far." I added. "I spent most of the morning trying to get my head around some of his concepts."

"Don't feel bad, you're dealing with a graduate level subject that requires lots of course units and a degree in mathematics or physics. The point about talking about all this is:

"First, Minkowski is a reputable source for ideas, a mainline mathematician, someone who is more than a peer of Einstein, not one of the kooks on the Internet, the self proclaimed mathematicians, pushing some incompetent theory unifying physics;

"Second, something can be true in physics although it can't be visualized, especially imaginary dimensions.

"I think the problem you will have in convincing a jury will be getting them to believe in eight-dimensional space. The Scopes trial was about Biblical beliefs versus scientific beliefs. The Rocky Butte trial will be about a belief in science as taught in high school a generation ago versus modern physics."

"Yes." I agreed, "But my cup runneth over Let's go have lunch and talk about something else for a while."

Captain Ahab's is one of those theme restaurants from about twenty years ago, with antique diving helmets, worn ropes, fishing nets, and oars decorating the walls. Our table was made of a recycled boat hatch, covered with epoxy over a variety of seashells. I thought the informality of the restaurant would be a welcome break from our stern office surroundings and a good place to talk and develop rapport.

We chatted as we read the menu and ordered. Candice declined my suggestion of wine. "Only on very special occasions, and, besides, I'm working today," she said, rolling her piercing blue eyes and chuckling."

"I guess I should abstain if I am going to try to keep up with you this afternoon," I added. "Tell me what you do when you are not being a mathematician or teacher?"

"We live right on the edge of the mountains of the Angeles National Forest in Altadena. We hike there and go to the Sierras when we have time."

"We?' I said quizzically.

"My significant other is Tom Watson. He is a Hollywood-type arranger and composer. He works at home most of the time on scores for films. We have lots of flexible time to enjoy being with each other. He also counsels people, helps them with their problems. We also meditate and have many close friends who are spiritually oriented. We have a wonderful life together."

"That's wonderful! I like your distinction between 'do' and 'have'," I observed.

She added, "I like to talk to attorneys, they listen to you. Many of my students seem to be in some other space-time when I talk to them. So, what do you do when you are not being an attorney?"

"I spend a lot time in the desert in a place called CrystalSky. It is over the mountains, north from where you live in Altadena. I have a sailplane and a little mobile home at the airport. I often soar for hours a day. From the porch of my mobile, I can see a hundred miles on a clear day to the southern Sierras. I must say I have learned to really enjoy the desert, the open space, the flora and fauna."

There was a pause. I felt that she was waiting for the "we" part.

Then, she continued, "My grandfather was a Native American. When I was little, we visited him in Oklahoma for a few weeks in the summer. We used to hike together, and sometimes we would sit and watch the soaring birds. He said you could learn a lot from them. Those visits contributed a lot to who I am. I learned to appreciate the connectedness of us to nature."

"How did that lead to a career as a mathematician?" I inquired.

"Part of mathematics is the search for unity. I think I got that appreciation from my grandfather. My grandmother on the other side of the family was from Louisiana and was a shamanic sort of person, real old school, with lots of ideas about magic. She taught me the magic of how to make up my mind about something, following intuition or my heart, and then letting it happen. That also is of value as a mathematician, allowing yourself to be vulnerable."

_Vulnerable? That is having a weakness that someone else could exploit,_ I said to myself.

She paused and looked at me with the expression I saw in Dore and Colson when they were sizing me up. I felt her mind switch gears.

"Enough about me. Tell me more about you. It sounds like the soaring thing is important to you. Do you take people for rides? Were there pilots in your family?"

"No. My father had a hardware store in a small northern California logging town where I grew up. My mother was a schoolteacher. They raised me with Midwestern Baptist values. Definitely, not a single shaman in the family.

"About five years, ago someone gave me a glider ride for Christmas. He clipped an ad from the L.A. Times. I tried it once and was hooked. Soaring is esthetically very much like boat sailing, except a lot more is happening. Most sailplanes are designed to carry only a pilot. It is not a social sport. They have two seat gliders for pilot training and giving rides.

"The International Aeronautical Federation has established badges, sort of medals, for different flight achievements, such as flying for five hours at once, gaining sixteen thousand feet of altitude, flying five hundred kilometers and things like that. I am working toward making an ultimate flight, achieving all badge goals in one flight. That flight will take skill, and a day with perfect weather. The trick is to be there, ready to go when that perfect day appears.

"Sometimes, I can't make it back to the airport and have to get retrieved by a tow plane or a ground crew. There are survival hazards in landing in the middle of nowhere in the desert when it is about one-hundred degrees."

Candice's eyes grew wide with interest or amazement as I talked excitedly. "You are passionate about this soaring thing! The possibility of ending the day on the desert in the middle of nowhere is an interesting vulnerability."

Lunch came, and we chatted only about the meal and food for a while.

I felt that I had to question Candice about vulnerability. "I am a little puzzled about your use of the term, vulnerability. I always think of it as a weakness that someone can exploit. In presenting a legal case, there may be logical or factual vulnerabilities in your arguments that can be attacked by the opposition. If a person had a burglar alarm installed in their house, and the kitchen door was not included that would be vulnerability. How does that pertain to being a mathematician?"

Candice though for a minute and then replied. "When I write papers, there are a couple of ways I can go. I can write a paper that is armored with footnotes and references to prove I was not doing anything innovative. And, if I worked at a university with a rigid review process, I would submit it to a faculty review process to further assure that I had not done anything the technically conservative head of the department would disagree with, and then I would submit it to a peer review journal and spend another two years dealing with comments and objections, some of which were from technically conservative guys who don't like new ideas, and then it would be published.

"There is very little vulnerability in going on that route. Few will criticize a paper that has been so expertly scrubbed and there is little danger to one's academic reputation.

"Or, if I teach at a state college, where the emphasis is more on teaching, and they kind of let me publish what I want, I can write a paper and publish it in any of the high quality journals that don't have the innovation-squeezing peer-review process. Then, I can move onto something else.

"There is a vulnerability in this process because, if you openly do something innovative, you are open to personal and professional criticism from many people. I publish what I believe in, and if people disagree with me that is their problem. If the work is useful, some people will build on the ideas. If the work is of no value, it will be forgotten."

She said with some apparent pride, "I have been doing papers on the implications of complex eight-dimensional Minkowski space for more than a decade. The Colson Foundation decided the subject was useful for explaining things like ESP and remote sensing.

"My students often scoff and object to my broaching the subject of ESP in discussions of eight-space. I tell them they can believe it, or not believe it as they wish, but eight-space will be on the final exam.

"Many of my papers reflect my grandfather's heritage by taking on subjects outside the normal scientific realm like ESP.

"By the way, when Einstein submitted his paper on Special Relativity to the university as a doctoral thesis, it was rejected by the 'old white guys' in the university as _too far out_."

I thought for a minute and then said, "I understand your philosophy here on the subject of professional papers. I am not sure how this would work in a trial. We always try to present an invulnerable case."

Candice replied, "Tom, my significant other, counsels many people on vulnerability. It is a frequent topic in our house. I have learned the value of being vulnerable in personal relationships."

"I don't understand," I admitted.

"It is somehow easier for women to understand than men. For example, I have told you a lot about my personal life, like how I feel about my Native American heritage, its use it in my everyday life, my philosophy of teaching and writing papers, and why I teach at a state college instead of a major university. I have exposed much of who I am and how I feel. In doing so, I could have been risking your judging me, or somehow changing my relationship with the Colson Foundation. That is vulnerability. I felt that I was safe with you. It is important that, if we are to have an extended professional relationship, you know who I really am and what is important to me. I didn't want to work with you for a few weeks, and then have you judge that I was irrational because my grandmother was a witch doctor. I don't have time for that."

She gave me a soft smile that seemed to say, _I am your friend._

I replied with a smile, "Your gamble, if it was that, paid off. I understand a lot about you and think we can work wonderfully well together."

I contemplated starting to tell her some more about myself. Then, the check came.

"We should get back to work," she said. "Ready for some more mind stretching mathematics?"

At my office we returned to the conference room and Candice began describing her movie.

"The Colson Foundation asked for me to write a movie script for an animation short film, for a TV show, a NOVA or Discovery Channel kind of thing. I wrote the script, and then turned it over to a professional screenwriter. The animation has been done, and the film is in final editing. I am supposed to review the final cut this week. I think it will be ready when the trial comes up."

Candice described the movie [included here as an appendix] to me in detail and then said. "What do you think?"

I replied, "I think that is an elegant explanation of an esoteric subject, quite suitable for a sophisticated audience like those that watch NOVA or the Discovery Channel. I understood it fully because I have had a lot of mathematics. I am sure that many of today's high school students would understand it. But, it might send a jury, particularly those who 'hate math,' into a spin of confusion."

"The jury doesn't need to care about or understand those mathematics. They do need to know that a valid, scientific, paradigm exists for the many kinds of information shortcuts we use and observe. I could submit the movie as evidence and have you testify that the theory presented by the movie is valid. Maybe one of the jurors will understand the movie and convince the rest of the jury it is OK."

Candice said, "Maybe we should 'cut to the chase,' explain what it all means. I like the metaphor of The Cloud. Outside of The Cloud, we have normal reality, four dimensions. Inside The Cloud, eight dimensions, there are shortcuts between places. We can call these _Cloud Distances_.

Let's try this. If Bob is in New York and his wife, Alice, is in San Francisco, their separation is about 2,500 miles. Their Cloud distance is not the same. There is a shortcut through The Cloud that is _zero miles_ for mind-to-mind communication. If Bob sends thoughts of love to Alice, because of their bond she can instantaneously get them. They don't need to use the cellphone.

"We all have something I call the ' _Magic Mirror of The Mind,'_ that operates through The Cloud. In fairy tales, some witches or sorcerers have magic mirrors that they can command to get information for them. You remember, 'Mirror-mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?' Well, the one we all have is more limited. We can say, 'What did I have for breakfast?' and our Magic Mirror of The Mind makes an information shortcut in The Cloud, from where you are now, to when and where you were having breakfast _You might think it is a memory stored somewhere in your brain, but it isn't._ Scientists with their MRIs can pinpoint areas in the brain active when you try to recall breakfast. However, they have not found any area that has the possibility of storing all the zillions of bits of information you can recall. This is a new idea. There is not much research on this yet because we think it is simply a memory stored somewhere in our brain. This shortcut idea does not fit the current four-dimensional scientific paradigm.

"Conventional scientists such as physicists, engineers, chemists, medical researchers, and others who believe that reductionist science has all the answers, are reluctant to believe that any psychic phenomenon can be valid, because it doesn't fit the four-dimensional scientific paradigm that is the basis for their belief system. They will have heard many anecdotal tales of people experiencing psychic phenomena, but will dismiss it as superstition, ignorance, or lack of education. 'Skeptic' organizations strive to debunk any claims of psychic phenomena. They are absolutely right. Psychic phenomenon can't exist in their four-dimensional belief system. However, they can exist in the eight-dimensional Cloud.

"One may say that The Cloud is a dark cloud over the validity of four-dimensional science.

"In the film, we show interviews of a few people who report their own psychic experiences.

"The first interviews are with people who inexplicably changed their routines and avoided accidents. We inserted some clips of normal people perceiving some event in future time, that we would call a _premonition._

"One is a businessman who refused to board an airliner because of his visions of it crashing. The airliner did crash on takeoff, and everyone was killed.

"The second clip is a housewife who, for no apparent reason, decided to pick her daughter up at school. The school bus that her daughter would have ridden was hit by a drunk driver, and several children were badly injured.

"The third clip is of a farmer who related that, on his way home from town, he decided to take an alternate route that he never used, past a lake. As he arrived at the lake, he saw a car with a woman and a child go off a bridge and plunge into the water. He was able to save them.

"Then, we have an extended clip of experiments at SRI with people remote sensing targets in the Stanford area. I believe you know about those experiments.

"Many university laboratories have done experiments with psychics and other people to test the ability to perceive things in space-time. Little of that research is highly valued in the academic community. Largely, these studies document, and compile statistics about observable psychic phenomena. That is, stuff that simply happens that has no scientific basis. UFO sightings fall into the same general category of studies. If there is no scientific basis, the subject can be ignored by the scientific community at large. Conventional science is an ostrich, hiding its head in a four–dimensional sand."

"OK," I replied, "I get the idea that shortcuts in The Cloud can be demonstrated by mathematics, and in experiments. The idea can be confusing to people without the mathematical training. I'll have to take some time to assimilate all this."

"I understand," said Candice, "This is quite a bit for one lesson. This is probably enough for one day."

I agreed. I walked Candice out of the conference room to the lobby to make sure she had her parking validated.

"Thank you so much, this has been enlightening."

"You might also like to spend some time with Tom, my significant other. He has quite a good business in counseling that involves space-time perceptions." She dug into her purse for a second and then said, "Here is his card."

"Thanks," I said, and she left.

Carolyn cheerfully gave me her "I am available after work" smile.

After about five minutes in my office, Zaza buzzed me.

"Carolyn says your cutie is back in the lobby and wants to talk to you."

I hurried to the lobby and saw Candice with her eyes opened even wider than before.

"Someone was hanging around my car when I got to the garage. Could you check it out for me? I think he was up to something, because he quickly walked away when he saw me. He went down the parking ramp instead of back into the lobby."

I gestured to Carolyn, "Please call Mr. Steel in building security. Tell him to meet us in the visitors parking area."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

Candice replied, "Not very good-he was too far away. I recall a white, male Caucasian, about five-five, stocky build, grey crew cut, round gold rimmed glasses, wearing khaki pants, and a white business shirt, no tie."

"Sounds like a very good description," I observed. "Dore said to report anything suspicious to her, so I have been kind of paranoid."

"I'll get security to make a report, and I will forward it to Dore if there is anything serious."

We took the elevator to the lobby and started to the door to the garage. Then, I heard, "Mr. Willard, is there a problem?"

I introduced Steel to Candice and she related her encounter.

"Let's check it out," said Steel. As we entered the garage, Steel asked, "where did you see him?"

"I was right here and he was by the driver's side of the car."

Steel asked, "Which car is yours?"

"That blue Volvo over there."

I thought to myself that it was not the most likely model for a car thief to choose in this building full of lawyers.

We stood back as Steel checked under the hood, examined the interior, and shined a flashlight underneath the body. In a few minutes he came over and said, "Two things unusual: There is some kind of symbol drawn in the dust on the windshield, and somebody wiped the dirt from the door, as though they were eliminating fingerprints. Otherwise, it looks as if everything is normal."

Steel pulled out his security radio and called someone. Then, he wrote down everything Candice had said. Soon, a guard appeared with a camera that Steel used to take several shots of the symbol on the windshield. I carefully examined the symbol. It looked almost like a Mayan hieroglyph, a square with a stocky stick figure, possibly a man, with its arms hanging down.

"Do you have any idea what this symbol is or pertains to?" asked Steel.

We both shook our heads to say no.

"Where is that Symbolist from the Da Vinci Code when you need him?" I quipped.

Steel offered to test-drive the car, and Candice agreed. Steel drove the car down to the next lower garage level. We could hear the tires squeaking and his gunning the engine and stopping.

After he returned he said, "It seems OK to me. Just to be safe, have someone check it over at a garage with a hoist. I could not see much with the car on the floor."

Candice replied, "It is due for a lube service. I'll have it done tomorrow."

Candice vigorously shook both our hands and thanked us, took the keys and left.

"I think I need a full written report. We are working on an unusual court case, and it might have something to do with it."

Steel nodded yes, and said, "Give me your keys and I'll check your car out."

I went back to my office. Carolyn gave me her 'later?' smile as I went in.

In a few minutes, Steel appeared in my office. He was carrying a little black box in a plastic sack. "I found this on your car. It is a GPS tracking device. Is it yours, or part of an anti theft system?"

"Neither," I said.

"It is a model that is used by law enforcement, not the cheap private detective quality. Do you want me to scan your car every day for a while?"

"Seems like a good idea."

I returned to my office and checked my email. I sent a brief email to Dore about what had happened. In thirty-seconds, I had a reply instructing me to send the report to a firm she identified as their security consultants, EB Services.

**4**

**The Wave**

I spent the rest of the week preparing my case, reading about remote sensing, and delving into the mathematics of The Cloud

Friday, just before noon, I got an email from my friend at the Aviation Weather Station at LAX, also a soaring pilot. She said that a late-season cold–front was approaching. Tomorrow, about noon, there would be a good chance for a mountain wave at CrystalSky.

I got excited. As the cold front approaches, the wind over the mountains forms a wave that can be tens of thousands of feet high. In the ocean, surfers on boards ride along waves that might be twenty-five feet high on a very good day. Sailplanes can "surf" along a mountain wave to great heights. I have soared to thirty–thousand feet on a wave. They are really fun.

I thought for a minute. Tina might be on lunch break now. I called Tina on her cell.

"Hi stranger," she answered. "What's up?"

"How is school going?" I asked.

"Great! I just finished a final exam in my night school class. This was the tough one, statistics, and a subject that I was really worried about, required for my Masters, one of my big hurdles in the program. Math is not my thing. How is your new court case?"

"It is getting very interesting and puzzling. Something strange seems to be going on. Several simultaneous related things are happening. i, there was Mason telling me to learn about space-time. Then, I get a new civil case involving psychics. I have had to read up on ESP and something called remote sensing. Then, you take me to hear Herondus who talks about the same things. Then, your friend Elise tells me that Mason may be related to me somehow in future space-time. Then, a consultant shows me mathematical theories that suggests there are shortcuts in space-time that we can use to perceive distant, future or, past things!"

"Watch out for them shortcuts. Duck when you see the next one coming," Tina giggled. "Really, I don't understand much about space-time and all that stuff. You know how I am on math. But, I do have an appreciation for psychic stuff. I thought you didn't like to talk about it."

"A couple of weeks ago, yes. Now, I have no choice. I am very interested."

"I guess it is too late to warn you about them shortcuts," she giggled again.

"I am going to the desert tomorrow, just for the day. Be back in late afternoon or evening. Would you come along and we could talk some more about all this? I'll even take you for what might be a spectacular glider ride."

"You have fallen out of your shortcut at a good time. I need a day off from grading papers and cramming for exams. You know how I love the desert. I do have to get back tomorrow night. About the glider ride: we have been intimate before, but won't both of us in that little cockpit on your sailplane be a little too friendly? You barely fit in alone."

"I will use one of the gliders from the flying school there. They have two big seats, one behind the other for instructors and students.

"Don't you have to prepare for your court case?"

"My time is really my own when I prepare for a case. I think I need some time for my mind to assimilate all the new ideas. Tomorrow is an unusual weather day, one that might happen only every year or two, producing a wave at CrystalSky. Flying on wave days is really fun."

"I'm in, if you can assure me there are really two seats. Can I bring a picnic lunch?"

"Wonderful!" I replied. "It might be kind of cold so bring a jacket or sweater."

After we made meeting arrangements, I hung up the phone and thought, _I really like this lady, I wonder where she buys her perky pills._ I noticed I felt a nice warm feeling in my heart region. _That's a new phenomenon. Some kind of shortcut connection between us?_

When I was a few minutes away from Tina's apartment, I called to say I was nearly there. She said she would meet me at the street so I wouldn't have to find a place to park. Again, I noticed this unusual feeling or energy around my heart. _Interesting,'_ I thought.

As I turned the corner onto her street, I saw her standing at the curb, wearing light blue jeans, white tennis shoes, and a brown patterned blouse. _That is a nice leggy look,_ I thought. She was rocking up and down on her toes, apparently in anticipation of the outing. She saw me, smiled broadly, picked up a picnic basket and a down jacket, and walked off the curb. As I stopped, she put the basket and her jacket in the back seat, and slid over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Tina always has an impish smile, as though she was up to something, or about to present me with a surprise.

She looked at me in mock seriousness and said, "Two seats in the glider–you promised?"

That broke the ice and I laughed. "I called the airport and they have reserved a two seater for us."

"Are we going to fly far or land somewhere else? Should I bring the picnic in case we get stranded on that dry lake?"

"No," I said, "We will take off and get towed toward the mountains. If we are lucky, there will be a wave we can fly back and forth on. We might fly for about an hour and land back where we started."

"What is a wave doing in the desert?"

"The wind blows north from LA into the desert in advance of an approaching storm. If it is at the right speed and direction as is passes over the mountains, the wind does a thing like water flowing over a rock in a creek. It flows down and then jumps up into a wave. This desert wave can go up tens of thousands of feet. You are in for a great experience."

Tina smiled her impish smile and said, "This sounds like fun, or maybe a little scary?"

"I think fun. For soaring, this is like a day off."

"Can you tell me more about your new case? Elise was quite impressed with your interest in channeling. Oh, what did you think of Herondus?"

I paused for a minute. "I must say I was impressed. One of my assets as an attorney is my B.S. meter. I can sense a scam or a lie or a fraud very easily. I had the feeling that it was all very real, although I am not yet too comfortable with the idea of intelligences speaking from other dimensions."

She interrupted, "Maybe your B.S. meter is really a psychic perception. You might be a psychic practitioner and not realize it. Have you heard from Mason lately?"

"No, but I have been learning about the things he suggested, out of necessity for my lawsuit. Events seem to be conspiring to lead me on that path."

"That seems to be the way things work for me when I am headed in the right direction," she observed. "And Herondus?"

"First, I was very surprised by the meeting itself. I expected the audience would be a few dozen New Age weirdoes or old hippies. They looked more like West LA or Hollywood types, mostly affluent, pretty together as a lot. I was expecting a more Haight-Asbury, San Francisco crowd than a Rodeo Drive or Melrose crowd.

"Herondus upset me a little bit by running down logical thinking. That is how I make a living! But, everything he was saying about conscious thinking being only a small fraction of our brain usage is supported by a whole lot of scientific research. I must admit that I use logical thinking to present a case for certainty, as a shield against people knowing what I really am feeling, That's what lawyers do. His whole idea of vulnerability is a bit foreign to me. I equate vulnerability to weakness, something one must avoid."

Tina wrinkled her nose and said, "Oh, I guess that is a guy thing, being the warrior, defending the tribe, protecting the traditional ways. That kind of vulnerability is concerned about making sure you don't have to experience something, such as being killed or having children or a wife carried off into slavery. That kind of vulnerability starts with, 'I don't trust you, so I have to defend myself against you.

"There is another kind of vulnerability that begins with trust. I encourage my high school students to practice being vulnerable in my creative writing class. When they have a writing assignment, I encourage them to write from their hearts, pick out topics that have personal meaning, explore ideas without worrying about what the other kids will think. In class, after the kids hand in their assignments, I pick a couple to read to the class, without identifying the author. The students trust me to protect their anonymity, although some times the topic is such that the other students can guess the author. Then, the students critique the writing. The authors can trust me to control the discussion to prevent malicious comments and bullying and make the criticism constructive. We sometimes get to address some very personal feelings. That is a good educational experience.

"My friends often talk about our emotional vulnerabilities in relationships. One of my friends allowed herself to trust a guy, she fell deeply in love with him and then had her heart broken when he dumped her. She is unconsciously having difficulty trusting and having that vulnerability with any man again. We always ask ourselves, 'Do I really want to risk really getting deeply involved with this guy, and possibly get dumped in the end? Is he honest with me, or will he mislead me into thinking we are developing a relationship, when from his viewpoint, I am temporary entertainment while he hunts for a mate that will fit into his professional goals or will please his parents with their ethnic or religious values?' We usually do this questioning on an intuitive basis: we go with our gut or heart and feelings. There is little logic in it. Maybe that is why we can be so vulnerable."

I sensed she was on the verge of a rant, so I interrupted. "Thanks, I think I understand a little more. But isn't this a genetic thing, instinctual, that is mostly in women? I can't recall ever having a conversation with one of my friends about fear of getting too involved because we might get dumped. Sometimes one friend who is getting involved with a lady will be warned, 'Be careful, you might get caught.' _Caught_ is the opposite of _dumped_." I was starting to feel a little uneasy about where this conversation led.

She paused for a long time before replying, perhaps intuiting my feelings.

"I think it is a fundamental psychological need of everyone to be known, recognized, and understood. People use various shields to prevent this, for instance, my friend, the one who got dumped, has all kinds of ways to ward off attempts to know who she is. Being known starts with trust, which she has little of, now.

"Oh, I have a good example of male vulnerability. In Herondus' weekends, he makes opportunities for the people in those first few rows to get help with personal problems. At the weekend I went to, there was a young man who said he was in love with a woman but somehow didn't feel quite right about marrying her. He wanted to know what he should do. Herondus started questioning him, like an attorney, in cross-examination. Every answer led to another insightful question. It became apparent to the audience that the man had irrelevant opinions and assumptions that were stopping him. Herondus made jokes, not malicious ones, of many of his answers to illustrate the man's error in thinking. Eventually, they got to the crux of the matter: the man had a big case of puppy love for his teenage baby sitter when he was eight. One day, after months of great rapport, which the man interpreted as love, the babysitter arrived very upset. When the boy tried to get his usual attention, the baby sitter locked him in the closet for two hours while she cried. The boy thought it was his fault she was unhappy, and felt shame for it, and decided to never to trust any one with his love again.

"After the man had this revelation he was happy again and thanked Herondus. Then, Herondus gave a little lecture to the whole audience about the issues in the man's problem and how they might pertain to our lives.

"The man had to be willing to be vulnerable to ask a question and then go through the public embarrassment in the dialog that followed. He had to trust Herondus to guide him to the answer of his most pressing life question. He had to be willing to know himself, no matter what might be found, and to be known by the audience."

"I can see how that works," I said. "But, being vulnerable isn't really about being willing to be embarrassed in a cross-examination, is it?"

"No, it's more a matter of going to the depths. My friend who got dumped has to keep everything superficial. She will only dip her big toe into a relationship. Being vulnerable is like being willing to wade into a relationship up to your waist with the possibility of going all-in, over your head."

She laughed and added, "Maybe you could give me a soaring metaphor. We are going to the desert, not the beach."

"OK," I replied, pausing for a moment. "Some power plane pilots take glider lessons only long enough to get _Gliders_ added to their pilot's license. Then, they never go gliding or soaring again.

"Some people take lessons, get their pilot's license, and then only come out for a few days of flying around the airport, never getting out of landing range.

"Others, like me, I guess, make soaring a life passion. We are willing to take our chances flying great distances over barren lands, sometimes ending up far from the airfield, or on a dry lake bed or somewhere."

She laughed and added, "Even risking conversations with Mason jars.

You have the idea."

My turning off the freeway to get gas interrupted us.

After our stop, when she got back in the car carrying two cups of coffee, she had her impish grin that suggested she was up to something.

"It's cold and the clouds look like rain. Are we really going soaring or is this some kind of trick?"

I laughed and said, "No, this is good wave weather."

"I'd better see this wave or else I'll never believe anything you say again. This had better not be some version of 'come up to my place and I'll show you my etchings.' Here, I have a treat for you."

She reached into her jacket pocket and produced two Snickers bars. She unwrapped the end of one and handed it to me. "Try this," She said.

"Oh, no thanks, I'm not much on sweets."

"How long has it been since you have had a Snickers bar?"

"I can't remember the last time I had one."

"Be vulnerable and try it. Trust me, they are good. There is little risk in eating a Snickers bar. Go for it! Trust me!"

I took a bite and said, "Actually, this is pretty good."

She unwrapped her bar. took a bite, and an expression of great pleasure came over her face. "Some times, I would do anything for a Snickers bar."

"I'll bear that in mind."

She laughed and gave me an expression of mock scorn, unbuckled her seat belt and slid over next to me and said, "Are we almost there, yet?"

After about a minute of silence while she subtly snuggled up to me, she said. "I know a fun game to pass the time. You concentrate on a picture of something and I'll try to tell you what it is. See if I can make a mental shortcut between us"

She paused and seemed to be sensing that I was a little uncomfortable with psychic stuff.

"Be vulnerable. Give it a try. Start now."

I quietly stared down the road.

After about twenty seconds she said, "It looks like something red, a red spot, and it's bouncing up and down, kind of like a yo-yo. What were you picturing?"

She saw the shocked expression on my face and said, "Come on, don't cheat, tell me."

"I was watching the red taillight on the car in front of us. It is moving up and down because the road is not perfectly level. That's amazing! Can you read my mind?"

"No, that is a kind of game my brother and I invented, for when we were kids, on trips with my parents. All I can get is vague images. I think I have an intuition about how you are feeling about things when we talk. For instance, right now you are a little upset, not with me, but with the idea that I can perceive what you are seeing."

"You're right about that. I understand about The Cloud and all that on an intellectual level, but it is against the scientific belief system ingrained in me by all my previous education and professional experience. I am going to have to get used to it. How do you change an ingrained belief system?"

"Exposure, and dialogue are what I use. These high school students I teach have some weird belief systems. The first step seems to be getting them off their certainty in what they believe. That is a vulnerability thing."

We were silent for a while as Tina looked at the scenery. The trip from LA to the desert starts with industrial buildings lining the freeway. That scene gives way to older housing tracts with an abundance of trees. Then, as one moves to the desert, the newer housing tracts have fewer trees. After that, the countryside turns to dry chaparral covered hills and occasional mobile homes. It always amazes me that people in these wide-open spaces seem to accumulate clutter around their houses: derelict cars, rusty horse trailers, oceangoing boats on cradles, miscellaneous building materials, and storage sheds. In places, there are the isolated tracts of homes, sitting like islands in the desert, surrounded by high beige cinder block walls, where the open space has been covered with cookie-cutter homes crowded together a few feet apart. People buy them because the homes are cheaper, and then spend enormous amounts of money and time commuting.

"I really don't know much about you," said Tina, "Where were you born, raised, and what was it like where you grew up, what were your friends like?"

We told each other stories until we reached the airport. I noticed that I felt closer to her. She was right, it took a little trust in her for me to openly tell her about myself. I did start to understand about trust and vulnerability.

As we turned on the road leading to CrystalSky Airport, Tina said, "It's overcast, you can't even see the tops of the mountains. It doesn't look like a soaring day."

I said, "It looks really good for a wave to develop. See how the clouds are moving fast from the direction of the mountains. If the wind shifts a little bit it will be just right for a wave. We had better be ready to fly when the condition appears."

We drove to the operations building, a slightly weather-worn mobile home with a swamp cooler on top, not running today. The door was open and inside I met Dan, the tow pilot. I arranged to rent the high performance two-place sailplane. Dan said he would send the office girl, Celia, to tow it to the takeoff line with the ATV.

Dan said, "The other day there was a strange nerdy guy out here who asked which sailplane trailer belonged to you. He looked it over for a while, but didn't get into it or anything, as far as I could tell."

"Thanks, I'll check it out after we are all ready to go in the two-place. Don't want to miss the wave opportunity. Was he a white, male Caucasian, five-five, stocky build, grey crew cut, gold rimmed glasses?"

Dan looked puzzled and said, "Yes, a friend of yours?"

"No, but please call me at home if you ever see him again."

As we walked over to our two-place, Tina observed, "Wow, the wings are really big and shiny, and they have these little ears going up at the ends."

"The wingspread is eighteen meters, nearly sixty feet. This one is a lot harder to put together than mine, which is only fifteen meters. These things at the end make it fly farther."

"Do I get to sit in front or back?"

"Front. I can fly from the back seat and see over your shoulders."

I completed my preflight check, inspecting the wings, tail, controls, and cockpit. Celia came over with the ATV and I hooked the rope to the big glider. Tina and walked holding the wingtips off the ground while Celia towed us to the staging area.

"Let's see how you fit in the front seat,"

Tina got in and I showed her how to adjust the seat belt and shoulder harness.

Tina joked, "Maybe I should have worn a sports bra. These shoulder straps don't do much for a girl's figure. They are more flattering if I spread them outside my bust line like this."

I replied, "They are not a fashion statement. You might not like the way they are squeezed by the harness when we hit a downdraft. Nobody is going to be looking at your figure. I'll be behind you, you know."

Tina, bent over and looked at the instrument panel. "Where are all the gauges? I have seen the cockpits of other airplanes and they have lots of gauges."

"In a glider all you need is a compass to tell you which direction you are going, an airspeed indicator for how fast you are going there, an altimeter, and a rate-of-climb gauge to tell you how fast you are going up or down. Gliders are all about flying, not gauges."

I asked her if she was warm enough and she said yes. We sat down next to the glider, leaned our backs against the hull, opened our thermos of coffee, and cupped our hands around the cups as we drank.

"What is there about soaring that attracts you to it so much?" asked Tina as she patted the sailplane. "It's kind of a guy thing, isn't it?"

"I had never thought of it as such, but I guess you are right. There are few female pilots. I recently read David Brooks' book, _The Social Animal,_ and he made the case that much of our behavior is derived from subconscious thinking. We have mental processes going on that we do not know about, exhibiting behavior that is often instinctual in nature, and displaying patterns of behavior we learn from parents, siblings or other role models. Maybe soaring is a primitive need for conquest, overcoming or harnessing nature, or maybe it is about freedom, as in free-as-a bird. All I know is that I need, no, must do it.

"Some guys own sailplanes, keep them in trailers tied down out here, but hardly ever fly them, like the people who have yachts that never leave the marina. To them, it might be an ownership-identity kind of thing.

"For me, I have to fly, and it is good to get away from the office and LA. It allows me to get away from whatever case I am working on and to think of something else. One time, I took off at 10:00, later felt hungry, looked at my watch and found it was 2:00. I had been too busy concentrating to eat lunch. There are thrilling aesthetic experiences to be had flying among the clouds. Today could be one of those days."

I looked atTina and said, "Somehow, I wanted to share that with you today."

Tina looked back at me affectionately and said, "I'm glad."

Dan walked over and said, "Look, the gap is starting to form in the eastern part of the ridge. Better get ready to go in a few minutes."

We got up and brushed the dust off our pants. I said to Tina, "You walk the wing tip so it doesn't drag on the ground and I'll push us into takeoff position."

We rolled the big plane to the center of the runway. I helped Tina strap herself in the front seat and got into the back seat, strapped my self in, and said to Tina, "I am going to go through my check sheet and then we will be ready to go. We will wait until the wave gets more established"

Before the wave forms, clouds are streaming over the mountains and the whole sky is overcast. Then, as the wind changes to the right direction, a gap a mile wide starts to form on our side of the mountains. It is as though someone unzips the clouds along the mountains and reveals the clear blue sky.

Celia came out to assist in our takeoff. She attached the Pawnee's tow cable to the glider and then went to the wingtip. I was ready to go so I gave her a thumbs-up.

I said to Tina, "Ready to go?"

She replied, "Yes, this is scary!"

I signaled Dan by wiggling my rudder. We started down the runway, and in a few seconds we were flying, staying low to the ground, to let the tow plane get flying and up to full speed.

Tina cried, "Wee, this is fun! I'm flying."

The tow plane began to climb. I pulled back on the stick to follow him. I said to Tina, "In a few minutes it will get turbulent and the tow plane will suddenly go up a hundred feet or down a hundred feet, and I will follow. It is like roller coaster ride, but won't last long."

There was quiet for a few minutes and then Tina giggled and said, "This is really fun! Look, there is the Devil's Punchbowl. It really looks different from up here."

In a few minutes we hit the turbulence near the wave. The tow plane suddenly shot up to forty-five degrees above us, and a second later we were pushed down in our seats as the sailplane was thrust upward. Then, the tow plane almost disappeared below us as it entered falling air and we soon followed, being thrust upward against our shoulder harness by the acceleration, heads nearly bumping on the canopy. We chased the tow plane down and then suddenly he was above us again. Immediately we were again pushed down in out seats.

After a few minutes of this roller coaster ride, as we were again being thrust down in our seats, Tina asked in grunt, "Are we almost there, yet?"

"Almost there," I replied. "In a minute you will hear a loud 'twang' when I release the tow rope. That is normal."

In a few seconds the turbulence vanished into an astounding silence. The tow plane stopped moving up and down and seemed to hover in front of us. "Twang!" I released the towrope and the tow plane turned to leave us. I turned the sailplane to fly parallel to the mountains. The air was as smooth as glass and the sailplane flew in astonishing silence.

"Tina, see that gauge on the right, pointing up at forty-five degrees? It is telling us that we are climbing four hundred feet a minute, while we are flying at sixty miles-per-hour. If we moved right, toward the mountains, the lift would decrease. Close to the mountain, we would lose altitude fast. We are in a thin band of smooth, climbing air. Off to the left is turbulent air like we came through on the way here. I'll fly that way a little bit and you will be able to feel the wingtip vibrate."

I steered a little bit left and then we could feel the shudder of the wingtip in the turbulent air. We had climbed through the gap and were now higher than the mountains, flying in smooth, clear blue air. We could see the flat sea of overcast to the South covering LA, stretching over hundreds of miles. To the North we could see the clouds forming over the Sierra range. Ahead, at the edge of the wave, a roll cloud was forming, a long, stationary cloud rolling in the lee of the wave. Wispy fingers of cloud, like waterfalls, streamed upward for thousands of feet, creating rainbows and sparkling in the sun.

"This is magical!" said Tina in a low voice, "Silently flying along something that looks like Niagara Falls, turned upside down. I can see forever over LA. Almost a spiritually transcendent experience."

"I agree," I replied, as I reached forward and put my hand on Tina's shoulder. Tina lifted her hand and placed it on mine. We flew like this for several minutes and then I started to feel a little turbulence.

I made a few slight turns and said, " I think we have to head back, we are at the end of the wave. Were about as high as we should be without oxygen and we don't want to get up to where the airliners fly. We don't have to worry about being here, airline pilots will avoid the wave areas. They like to keep their passengers from bouncing off the cabin ceiling."

I reversed course. As I got into the glassy smooth air, I returned my hand to Tina's shoulder. Her hand returned to mine, and we silently enjoyed the spectacular experience, riding both the wave of air and the wave of joy.

I flew to where we could drop out of the bottom of the wave and took a less turbulent route back to the field.

We rolled to a stop in the sailplane tie-down area, I opened the canopy and we both sat silently for a minute.

"That was amazing!" said Tina.

We both unbuckled our harness and climbed out onto the tarmac. Without a word Tina gave me a big hug, held me and said, "Thank you, I'll never forget that experience. But, now I have to visit the ladies' room."

I replied, "After I tie this bird down I am going to walk down to check out my sailplane trailer. I'll meet you there."

I suddenly felt uneasy as my attention turned to my sailplane. I closed my eyes, and saw, in a visualization, the vague outline of something scratched in the ground under my trailer. I hurried to the trailer, and there it was. A symbol was scratched in the hard earth under the back of the trailer; the same symbol drawn in the dust of Candice's windshield in the parking garage. I took out my cell phone and took several pictures. Then I took out my keys and opened the access door into the trailer. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. I checked the access door on the other end where everything also seemed normal. 'There might be prints,' I thought. When I looked closely, I could see the normal desert dust grime on the trailer around the doors had been wiped clean. 'I'll let Dore's security people know about this tomorrow.' I said to myself.

Then, Tina walked up and cheerily said, "Picnic time!"

The cold wind was coming up, driven by the wave-weather.

"We need a sheltered place for our picnic," I said. "We could go over to the patio behind the mobile home."

Tina dropped her eyes and said, "Not today, let's go somewhere out in nature."

"OK," I said, "That wasn't supposed to be a trick. I know just the place."

We went back to the airport office and I paid my bill and wrote a note requesting people inform me if Mr. White-male-Caucasian-five-five-stocky build-grey-crew-cut-gold-rimmed-glasses showed up again.

"What was that about?"

"I'll tell you at lunch," I replied."

We drove up a dirt road alongside the airfield to the end and then turned uphill on another steep rough dirt and desert rock road. Near the top of the hill, we came to the ruins. There, only the stacked river-stone walls of a barn remained, the roof of which was long gone, with a cement floor and an open side to the North where nearly all the rock wall had fallen. We went inside to where the walls sheltered us from the wind and it was warm in the sun. A clean, but weatherworn picnic table sat near the wall by a fire pit, which had apparently been made from some of the rock from the fallen walls.

I explained that a glider pilot I knew had cleaned the place up and used it as a place to park his RV when he came to fly.

"It is a beautiful view," said Tina.

Looking away from the mountains toward the Sierras, we could see the clouds were broken and spotty sunlight was illuminating patches of desert. As the clouds moved, the desert seemed engulfed by waves of light and dark.

"Why is this here?" asked Tina.

"I have told you about the great, greed-driven dreams for California City up north from here. This ruin is an earlier version of that. Almost a century ago, there was socialist-utopian-driven dream of building a planned city here. The logic of the idea was great, there was more rainfall then, so farming was possible. But, some of the movement joiners were not driven to do their share of the labor, and others were not driven to share their wives. The colony fell apart in a few years. Way down there, at the bottom of this ridge, there are still some olive trees, which have survived from that era."

Tina observed, "One has to be careful of what dreams one buys into, especially if they are based on greed, or something-for-nothing, or other men's wives. In spite of all that, the energy at this spot is really good. Must be happy cow energy."

She glanced at me, apparently thinking she had gone somewhere she shouldn't with me.

"You are right," I replied.

Tina looked surprised and said, "I thought you didn't believe in energies and things like that."

"It doesn't bother me now. There can be a shortcut is The Cloud to when there were happy people and happy cows here."

"I am sorry I didn't pack any milk to drink. We will only have coffee today," said Tina as she started to unpack the picnic basket. She gave me a mysterious smile I did not understand as she took off her down jacket.

Today, she had a different table setting. The tablecloth was blue and white checked and the plastic plates were white. The tumblers were stainless steel and said Starbucks on the side. She set out a crystal dish of olives, celery, small tomatoes, and radishes. She unwrapped sandwiches.

"I was thinking as we drove up here that I could write a narrative of the wave flight, all the turbulence, and then the beauty, and the potential danger lurking a few feet away, and then some more turbulence, and a glide to a smooth landing. Then I could give it to my high school students and ask them to use that as a metaphor to write a story about people interacting, teen age dating, ups and downs, for example."

I continued the thought. "I had never thought about wave flying as a metaphor. I have certainly had some turbulent relationships, though.

"Lately, my life hasn't been ups and downs so much. It is more like the overcast clouds of my life are unzipping, exposing a whole new blue sky of something I don't understand, and need to explore."

Without saying anything, Tina reached in the picnic basket, pulled out a magic marker and a napkin and wrote something on it. She pushed it across the table to me, put her chin on her hand, and looked at me with her impish grin. On the paper was a big "A+."

"Thanks," I said. "Oh, I almost forgot to mention, I had a premonition that proved to be true today. Before I went to check on my sailplane trailer, I had a great feeling of uneasiness and had a visualization of seeing something scratched in the ground at my trailer. When I got there, I did see something that alarmed me, a mystical symbol scratched in the ground. That symbol appeared on the windshield of one of my key witnesses car while she was in my office. Colson is having their security consultants check it out."

"Premonition, OK, extra credit for that," She said nodding and adding raised eyebrows to her grin.

"I love the desert," she added. "This has been a wonderful day. I do have to be back early tonight because tomorrow I have to correct papers and do grades. Maybe we should stop by your desert mobile home to let me freshen up."

She grinned mischievously and added, "Do you have any Snickers bars there?"

I felt that mysterious energy around my heart again.

Monday, as I entered my office, Zaza greeted me with a slight smile and said, "He has that look about him again. The desert flowers must be in bloom. Weekends, it must be Flopsy. No! I can't keep track. Flowers in order?"

I ignored her and said, "I am going to go to Rocky Butte for a court date on Thursday at nine o'clock, and to see Steve Manteo. Make me reservations for me to fly to Sacramento on Wednesday, getting there in the morning if possible. Get me a car, and make a reservation at some motel in Rocky Butte for one night. I'll be in court there on Thursday morning, and I'll drive out to see Steve in the afternoon. I'll play it by ear about where I'll stay Thursday night. Get me a flight back to LA in the early morning on Friday."

"Got it!" she replied. "Dore Hamilton is coming in tomorrow morning at nine, only for a half hour she said. She doesn't want a formal progress report. She said she wanted to discuss some security issues about the trial."

I spent the day in the office.

The next morning Zaza buzzed me and said, "Dore Hamilton just arrived and is in the conference room."

I put on my coat and hurried to the conference room, getting there as Carolyn was showing her in.

"Good morning Dave," said Dore as she thrust her hand out for a handshake. "How is the trial preparation going? Are you getting comfortable with the subject?"

Dore was wearing a navy blue business suit with a scarlet scarf tied loosely around her neck. She was giving me her icy stare and I knew I was being 'read.' In a few seconds her face relaxed and seemed friendly.

"Good to see you, Dore" I replied. "I am now quite comfortable with these new ideas. Dr. Montgomery was very helpful. I have a court date in Rocky Butte Thursday and I'll see Steve Manteo that evening and stay over as required."

Dore was giving me one of her highly practiced professional smiles.

"We can talk about that later. I'm sure you have it under control. I think we have some security issues we need to address. Our security consultants have been talking to your office security and have done some further investigations. It appears the trial has attracted the attention of a group of people we should be careful of. They call themselves Skeptemos, and claim to be part of a secret organization that has existed since the Renaissance. Their role is to stamp out bad science, which they define as anything but Newtonian science. They especially like to go after anything of a psychic nature.

"There are legitimate organizations, scientific offshoots, of otherwise reputable people that make it their business to debunk all psychic phenomena. These are not the same guys.

"Skeptemos seems to be more like the guys that get totally involved with online video games and that go to game conventions dressed as game characters, wearing tights or capes. From our reports, Skeptemos people seem to believe that there is a conspiracy to destroy Science so that evil people can take over the world with superstition and fear. They feel called-on to save the world. The 'secret' order doesn't seem to have been in existence for more than a few years.

"We traced the tracking device on your car to a person who has a website that touts some of the Skeptemos line. He is a retired Special Forces enlisted man. He fits the description of the man Dr. Montgomery saw near her car. He could be dangerous.

"Our security firm suggests that we rent a place outside Rocky Butte for the duration of our business up there. Then, we can have people come and go without notice and not stir the locals up. An isolated place would make the security easier. I'll take care of the arrangements."

I replied, "Somehow that doesn't cause me much concern, but I'll defer to your judgment. I am going up there next week for court date and to visit Steve Manteo. I am going to hang around town a little bit to get a feel for the place. I understand about small towns like Rocky Butte. I was raised in a small logging town in northern California. Everyone knows what everyone else is doing and the rumor hotline is faster that the speed of light. It might be wise to secretly put a local on the security payroll, someone who would know about all the rumors, and someone who can tell you about strangers that might be spending time there."

"I'll suggest that. Now, I have to get going."

I walked Dore to the lobby, shook hands and said, "Thank you for selecting Bracken and Stevens to represent you in this matter. This is a good change of subject to me and I am quite excited about it."

Dore looked at me without blinking (I was being 'read' again) and then smiled her professional smile and said, "We are very pleased with our selection."

I walked her to the elevator and said goodbye. As I walked back into the lobby, Carolyn gave me her 'You are such a wonderful man' smile.
**5**

**Rocky Butte**

****

I drove into Rocky Butte late on Wednesday afternoon, across the bridge over Butte Creek, which was swollen with the spring runoff from the snowmelt, and saw about what I expected. One main street with one cross street surrounded by pine forests. I was seeing small town America, only modestly changed from the 1950s: a sporting goods store, a grocery store, the River View and Rocky Butte Inn motels, two restaurants, a post office, drug store, a hardware store that advertised "Gold Pans and Mining Supplies" and "Satellite Dishes," two gas stations, an auto repair shop, two real estate agencies, a bank, and two saloons.

After six it was quiet and most of the businesses were closed. Only the saloons, The Claim Jumper and Diggings, seemed to be doing a good business judging by the variety of pickups parked in front, some looking as though they might be from the 50s. On the outskirt of the town, I saw a school, probably grades K-8 judging by the playground equipment, and then a little farther a Tasty Freeze, the kind with a service window, shaded parking areas in the back, and picnic benches on a small lawn.

I U-turned and went back to the center of town and turned onto the only cross street. In the next block, I found a funeral home, the Butte News newspaper, and Courthouse Square, which appeared to be the civic center. In the center of Courthouse Square, I saw the white courthouse, a Greek Revival Style building, a much smaller version of the Supreme Court Building in Washington DC. A granite staircase led up to a portico, at the second story entrance, a colonnade of four two-story columns supporting a triangular roof, with 1922 engraved above the colonnade. The four windows on each side of the portico suggested that one half of the second story was the courtroom, and offices were in the other half. I noticed a county office annex added to the back of the courthouse, a plain building, probably built when the county offices overflowed from the courthouse in the 1950s. There was a Sheriff's office with a separate entrance in the annex. Two patrol cars were parked outside.

The library sat on one corner of Courthouse Square, a red brick building, two stories high, with steps going up to the second story main entrance. It looked to be from the era of the 1920s, when Carnegie libraries were built.

Next to the courthouse block was a Pioneer Museum with an adjacent park with playground equipment, picnic tables, and an old locomotive, apparently from a logging train, at the side. A granite slab, engraved with eighteen names, stands memorializing those killed in the earthquake of 1872.

As I looked farther, I saw a white, old–fashioned church with a steeple. It looked like the pictures that I had seen of churches in Vermont, having a sharp steeple perched on a bell tower in the front, several gabled windows along the side.

In the Gold Rush days, Rocky Butte had a population of ten thousand or so. It was a booming place proving hotels, saloons, and ladies to absorb the miner's gold. It became the county seat during that time. The town burned down twice in the 1800s. Now, the sign at the bridge said its population was 687.

It didn't take long to see all of Rocky Butte.

My first stop was about a half mile beyond the church at the Sodastroms', the parents of Lucy, the girl who was lost. They lived in a small white house, surrounded by pine trees, with an unpaved driveway to a garage behind the house. A small barn and corral were behind the garage. A dark brown mare, I guessed it had been Lucy's, grazed on the spring grass in the corral.

Ann Sodastrom met me at the door, and I introduced myself. Ed who was sitting in a recliner watching TV, got up and introduced himself. Ann was skinny, and looked as though she had lost more weight than she should have. Her print housedress hung on her. Ed was also slight and lean, had a hollow look to his face and stooped shoulders.

I didn't want to add to their grief by discussing the case. I simply introduced myself and gave them assurances that their case would be successful. I asked questions about Rocky Butte, the church, what they liked about the area: I made small talk to get to know them and for them to get comfortable with me. I left after a polite amount of time.

I went into Bob's Cafe on Main Street for dinner and gossip. I sat on a swiveling stool at the counter. The only other customer was a man with a white beard sitting in a booth reading a paper over his dinner.

A waitress came over, looked me over carefully, and said, "What'll-y-have?"

She was about fifty, grey haired, wearing a pink, starched waitress uniform, the kind with a little tiara-like hat, a kind I had not seen since I was in high school. She had a name badge that said Agnes.

"Can I see a dinner menu?"

"Same menu all day, honey, special tonight is pork chops."

I looked at the bottom of the menu, and it said, "Free Wi-Fi for customers."

"You have Wi-Fi," I added.

"We're up-to-date around here," she boasted. "We even have cell phone service so visitors won't feel disconnected. You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I have a little business at the courthouse tomorrow and then I will visit someone up the hill."

"If you are trying to beat a speeding ticket, forget it. Judge Jeremiah Cartright, we call him 'The Hanging Judge,' doesn't have much tolerance for speeders. You might end up spending the night in jail."

"Where is the jail?" I asked.

"Over in the basement of the annex at the courthouse, behind the sheriff's office. The main county jail is up in Pine Mountain, where the county sheriff has his office. They need it more up there with all the tourists and skiers."

"I'll try to keep out of both places. How long have you lived here, Agnes?"

"All my life. My great-grandfather had a mining claim here, and my family has come and gone over the years. I was raised on a farm down the valley. I seem tied to the place somehow."

In a few minutes, Agnes brought me my dinner.

"You must be the fellow from LA that is staying over at the River View motel."

I was somewhat taken aback, but then I realized, in this slow season, before the vacationers arrive, anything was news. Everyone in town probably knew my motel reservation.

'Lesson number one,' I thought.

"That's right," I said. "I'd better get over there and check in. See you later, Agnes."

I could tell I was being carefully watched as I left. As I got in my car, I saw that Agnes was on her cell phone.

'This is like a police state,' I thought. 'Except the tyranny comes from the rule of boredom. The trial will give them something to talk about.'

After dinner, I decided to enjoy a walk on this fine Sierra evening. The late-day yellow sunlight made the green of the pine trees glow as I walked through the woods on what must have been a game trail through the brush and manzanita. The forest was quiet, the birds were having their evening rest, and it was perfectly still. I smelled the pines and kicked the pinecones lying in the yellow dirt as I walked. I heard Butte Creek tumbling down rapids and followed the game trail to the bank. I sat down by an eddy in the water, caused by a fallen tree and looked into the pool for small fish, maybe trout. The bottom of the pool was lined with polished, water-worn pebbles. I noticed a glint of light on one, which turned brighter as I watched.

Then I heard, "We bring you greetings on this _evening_ as you believe time to exist."

"Mason?" I asked.

"Yes, it is our pleasure to talk with you again."

The glint on the rock got very bright and turned into an intense blue-white spot, diffusing through ripples in the water.

"Mason, get out of there, you will get wet,"

"Ha-ha-ha....ha," came the reply, a full minute of infectious laughter.

"You made what you call a joke. Your planet is one of the few we have explored or studied that has a language that allows the joke. Tell me another."

I was dumbfounded and thought for a long time because I don't get exposed to many jokes in my work. Then, I said, "One time there was a man talking to his young son. He said, 'There once was this man with a wooden leg named Smith.' His son interrupted and asked, 'What was the name of the man's other leg?'"

There was a long pause and then Mason started again, "Ha-ha-ha....ha, what was the name of his other leg! Ha-ha-ha....ha," he went on. "But, it takes much energy for us to hold onto your location in space-time. We must get on to our reason for contacting you before we run out of what you would call time.

"Now that you have some understanding of The Cloud, we would like to tell you about a vacuum in your culture's understanding of human nature. You are actively connected to other people through The Cloud and continually share information. You are communicating, at the subconscious level, with people in what you call the present, the past, and the future.

"Your people sometimes acknowledge part of this as _Déjà Vu_. Some people acknowledge part of this as saying they have 'remembered' past lives, which should be other lives in space-time, since time is only an illusion, a coordinate in space-time.

"Your western scientists, unable to think beyond the limitations of Newton and Einstein's four-dimensional paradigm, have missed your subconscious connection through The Cloud to other experiences and learning from other individuals living in other space-time coordinates. The medical establishment cannot conceive of the information transfer between your body functions and those of bodies at other space-time coordinates.

"However, some people on your planet have created healing practices or pseudo–religions based on subconscious connections. However, since these ideas don't agree with your dominant scientific four-dimensional paradigm, the people are often dismissed as quacks. They are ignored or persecuted by the establishment.

"The implications of The Cloud are not limited to the narrow area of what you call space-time."

"Wait a minute. You have just overturned a couple of centuries of scientific thought. I need more time to assimilate this, or write it down." I said with some desperation.

"Don't worry, our friend, this information will be coming from sources you will encounter. Be open to the ideas as they come to you. Then, try to think outside the four-dimensional box."

"Don't leave me hanging here with all these questions. Give me some examples, please!"

Mason paused. "I am scanning through space-time on your planet for examples." After another pause Mason continued, "You have on your planet the idea of child prodigies. A child, at an early age, might go to a piano and start playing melodies and, with lessons, become very accomplished. Your Mozart might be an example. He wrote his first opera at an age of eleven. Prodigies are connected to other individuals through The Cloud and drawing on their abilities. Your planet has many students who are attending college at the age of eleven. Many go on to great accomplishments in their fields, they are born with the ability to draw on several lifetimes of experience and learning.

"Many students are credited with being gifted, or 'naturals' who have great acting or vocal abilities. They are applying many lifetimes of experience.

"In your culture you have the idea of linear time, and you might say that these unusual children have _past lives_ from which they are drawing experience. Maybe Mozart had been playing the keyboard instruments for _several lifetimes._ It would be correct to say he is playing the keyboard instruments in _several simultaneous lifetimes._

"Some people have incurable fears. A person might get attacks of anxiety from seeing even a picture of a tiger and hate cats. They may be drawing on the experience of being attacked and eaten by a tiger in another life.

"In your medicine, doctors find ailments for which there is no cure. Suppose there is a man with a painful, chronic backache. They try medicines and find nothing works. They do surgeries and it does not work. It could be he is connected through The Cloud to another person, in another lifetime who died in an accident where his back was broken. That idea is positively not scientifically allowable in a four-dimensional paradigm.

"We do not expect you to understand all this in, how do you say, a flash. Treat it as a hypothesis and see whether you find data to support it. We leave you now to your search.

"Ha-ha-ha....ha, what was the name of his other leg?" Mason laughed as he faded away.

"Wait!" I shouted, but Mason was gone.

I sat and stared at the pool for a while as I tried to grasp what I had just heard. Then, I went back to the River View motel, sat in a lawn chair, watched the sunset, and wondered about my life. I had been a mainstream science guy; believing in the truth of science I was taught. Now, I am caught up in an obscure idea of The Cloud, with contacts with spiritual entities, and events dragging me in directions I didn't plan. I certainly had put my career in a vulnerable position. Surprisingly, I was beginning to feel comfortable with it.

I watched the sky grow dark, and then I said, 'Good evening Hesperus.'

After leaving the motel on the drive to court, I had an idea. Why not introduce some false signals into the gossip grapevine? I stopped by the hardware store. Inside, I could tell the middle-aged lady behind the cash register knew who I was, and was watching me carefully as though I might be shoplifting. I picked up two $4.95 plastic gold panning pans, one red and one green, and two plastic vials. I paid for them with cash and wondered what the grapevine would report.

As I walked up the granite steps of the courthouse, I stopped, turned around and looked out into the square and thought to myself, 'this place has a different feel than the courthouses I have been in. Wait, that's a psychic observation. There is a solemnity about this place instead of the usual hustle and bustle.'

I entered the courtroom, sat down in the third row and waited for the session to begin. The clerk called the court to order and announced the judge.

Judge Cartright appeared, a short, balding, slightly obese man in his sixties. His jowly face reminded me of cartoon bears. When he spoke, I knew he was no Yogi bear: he was firm and his presence emanated control. Ours was the third case on the docket, after a DUI and disturbing the peace case. The judge called my case and I went forward, filed my papers and made the necessary motions. After the defense had done the same, the judge recessed the court and asked us to join him in chambers.

I introduced myself to the defense counsel, Dean Buttress, a slight man with a bald pate, hair combed over the top from the side. His face was puffy and had an alcoholic look. He was slightly stooped in a rumpled suit. He had a Hitler-style mustache that wiggled in a funny way when he talked.

In chambers, the judge was very abrupt. "I don't want you big city lawyers to turn this trial into a circus. I would prefer you not give interviews to media before or during the trial. Our economy depends of vacationing families, and we don't want this to be seen as a place where we lose children. We also don't want to attract New Age weirdoes. People around here make their living in the summers and will be inconvenienced by jury duty. So, I am fast tracking this case to get it over by the tourist season. I am scheduling the trial for one month from today."

I had the distinct impression that Judge Cartright was, indeed, a "hanging judge."

"Any objections.?"

We both said, "No."

"Then, I'll see you both in a month. I don't want to see any pretrial publicity. I can take care of the Butte News. Thank you, gentlemen." The judge rose and we both hurried out of the chambers.

I turned to exchange pleasantries with Mr. Buttress. He turned his back and walked away.

I drove to Bob's Cafe for a cup of coffee before the trip up the hill to Steve Manteo's. Agnes greeted me with a big smile, as though I was a local now.

"Coffee?"

"Yes," I said as I sat down on the same stool. "I didn't get sent to jail."

"I put in a good word for you," Agnes replied.

Then, a cowboy–hat-wearing man in a rusty pickup drove up. As he came in he said, "Agnes, I just came across the creek bridge and guess what I saw. Downstream, on the motel side, where there is that fallen tree, Otis Wilson and Bud Johnson are panning for gold. That claim belonged to old man Williams and he gave up on it years ago."

The next morning I drove toward Steve Manteo's place, passing Courthouse Square, going beyond the old church, and admiring the few scattered homes that gave way to forest. I briefly stopped by the Sodastroms' house to tell them of the trial schedule.

About fifteen miles out of town on the winding mountain road, I came to the Rawhide Cafe, the place where the Sheriff's search and rescue operation had set up headquarters when they searched for Lucy. It looked like an old fashioned roadside diner with a counter and a row of booths along one side. Next to it was a two-pump gas station and a small office that had signs in the window that said 'Fishing Gear' and, in neon, 'Beer and Wine.'

A few miles beyond the Rawhide Cafe my GPS navigator directed me onto an unmarked, dirt road, which led up the mountain for a mile or so, and then onto another unmarked dirt road that led me to Steve's, where the navigator announced, 'You have arrived.'

Steve's house was a log cabin, the kind made from brown-stained factory logs, perched on a hillside, with spacious deck on the front, a high peaked roof, with a satellite dish mounted on the peak.

Steve appeared at the deck rail and said, "Come on up."

I walked up the two flights of stairs and was warmly greeted by Steve, a six-foot-two bear of a man who looked like an NFL lineman, with a well–tanned face, sparkling blue eyes, and black hair in need of cutting. He introduced me to Georgia, a beautiful Latina –looking woman, with shiny long straight hair, large brown eyes and mouth, and thick eyebrows. She came out onto the deck with a tray of iced tea.

"Beautiful view," I said, taking a glass of tea. "You can see forever!"

"Physically, it is about fifteen miles to that ridge. Psychically, as you know, I can see a lot farther."

The three of us sat down at a picnic table on the deck and talked about Rocky Butte, the people there, and the aesthetic virtues of living away from civilization. I told him about my mobile home in the desert.

Georgia commented as she looked at me, or rather looked through me, "I pick up something about a dark-complexioned lady with reddish hair and piercing light–blue eyes," She paused, "and an exuberant attitude toward life associated with this desert place."

"Georgia, don't scare the man," exclaimed Steve.

"No, I am getting to be quite at home with ESP and people who have it!" I smiled at Georgia. "Her name is Tina, and she spends time with me. She seems to be kind of psychic. Sometimes, she can tell me what I am visualizing." I felt some pleasant thoughts about Tina.

I paused and then added, "Before this case, I never thought much about ESP. I do know I can read juries pretty well and can tell when I am going in the wrong direction in an argument, or when something is upsetting or confusing. I always called it intuition. I can also sort of feel it when someone is lying to me."

Steve added, "Georgia is much better than I at reading other people's mental pictures. I can hardly do it at all. But, she doesn't do the things I do. We all have our own special abilities."

Georgia looked through me for a second, then changed her focus to me, smiled a knowing smile, and then said, "I kind of thought so. I'll fix lunch while you guys talk. We insist on you staying for dinner and spending the night in our guest cabin up the hill. It isn't much, but the solitude is great."

"Thank you," I replied. "I'd be delighted to stay for dinner, but I have to get back to Sacramento tonight to catch an early plane tomorrow. Since the judge only gave me a month to prepare for the trial, I need to get back to the office."

Steve smiled and began to focus, "Most people have a surprising amount of ESP ability. They often don't recognize or label it. When they first started the remote sensing experiments at SRI, way back in 1972, they used people with recognized psychic powers, people who had been tested in laboratories, and well known professionally as quote, psychics. One day, they tried a remote sensing experiment using one of the secretaries associated with the project, somebody who had never participated in any sort of psychic activity. She could do it quite well. So, they developed a training program to use ordinary people who demonstrated psychic ability in tests.

"I was recruited because I did well in some psychic experiments we did in our Psych I class at Stanford."

"Yes" I said, "I read your book."

"Good!" said Steve, "I won't have to tell those stories again. Where would you like to start?"

"Tell me about the basic process of remote sensing."

Steve thought for while and then said, "I like to call what I do as psychic sensing because sometimes I can sense smells, noise, cold, and all the physical sensations, as well a visual images. I can also sense the nature of a person, such as very evil, and emotional state, such as sad, grieving, happy, or angry.

"I'll talk about two categories. The first is 'remote sensing' of unsolicited information that simply comes to me.

"Many people, at some time in their lives, experience unsolicited psychic events. Mothers will sense their child is in trouble and rescue them from some perilous situation; a person will, at the last moment, decide not to board an airplane that subsequently crashes; drivers will decide to take a different route to work on a day when, it turns out there was a horrific auto accident on the normal route. There are myriads of such stories. Although they are real to the people who experience them, science ignores the phenomena because they don't fit any scientific theory."

"The second process, which I spent years doing for US classified programs, is where they give you a target or objective that has nothing to do with you, and you go into an extended deep meditation, and sense basic things about a target. For instance, they might want to know what is going on in a building photographed by a spy satellite. They would show me the photograph or give me the geographic coordinates of the building. Then, I would start with sensing what someone in the building might observe at a sensory level: noises, colors, shapes, nature of objects, maybe something big like a ship hull; level of activity, such as busy or quiet. Over time, often a period of an hour, I would continue to sense the nature of activity, people building something, machines manufacturing material, or objects, etc. Sometimes, but not always, I would eventually get an image of the place. While I was in the deep meditation, I would be dictating my observations to an assistant who would guide me in gaining more detail."

"So this wasn't a flash process, like the unsolicited events?" I asked.

"Sometimes yes and sometimes no. Most of the time, it wasn't a flash process. My personal opinion, not verified by any studies, is that when I am remote sensing, I am getting the information from a person who is physically at the target. If that person is a 'good sender,' very involved in the activity, I get a lot of information. If the only person there is a half-asleep guard, I don't get a lot."

"Can you give me some examples?" I asked.

"Not very many. The program gave the customer tons of data, much of which was verified by other sources such as satellites or on–the–ground spies. There were many formal evaluations of the program, which led to the program being funded again year-after-year. All I can say is that it was very successful, and the President himself, actually two Presidents, saw data from the program. I don't think examples in those dark files will ever see the light of day. I think the longevity of the program is the greatest testament to the success of the program."

I interjected, "I saw the picture of the President awarding you a medal in the book, and read the citation that went with the medal. That award speaks of success."

"I wish I could tell you the story that led to being considered for that medal," said Steve with a wide grin. "It was a triumphant event.

"If you want examples of my abilities, I can provide you TV footage. I used to do kind of a circus act for TV shows to demonstrate remote sensing. I might have a dozen or so clips.

"Most of them are of me describing photographs in sealed envelopes. Somebody associated with the show, who did not know me, collected five eight-by-ten pictures of places and sealed them in unlabeled envelopes. On the show, they pick one of the envelopes and I perceive what is inside. I have been one hundred percent in accurately describing contents of the scene in the photos.

"In two of the demonstrations, they sent someone to some location in town and I described what they could see in the environs. In one of those, they had a remote TV crew at the location. After I made my description, they showed what was there. All these are on a DVD, so I can easily make you a copy.

"In the past decade, I have been remote sensing as consultant for a variety of individuals, companies, and occasionally some law enforcement agencies. I require a confidentiality agreement with my customers that have very strict nondisclosure provisions. I am never to disclose either the customers or their interests; they are never to disclose the source of information I give them, or that I have been in their employ. The agreement avoids potentially embarrassing situations and protects my privacy. I have produced some spectacular results for some people, but I can't disclose those either."

I asked, "Do you need a disclosure agreement from me?"

"Definitely, no! I consider this a public service, giving the Sheriff his comeuppance. I have to warn you that I will have to hide behind my disclosure agreements if any questions are asked about my confidential or classified activities."

"Thanks, I'll respect that, and object if opposing council makes any questions of that sort." I replied. "I have to decide what to give to a jury of lay people. I can't give them stuff that is too spooky or stuff that is too technical. I'll have to sort that out in the next few days. Tell me about the night Lucy was lost."

Steve's mood grew very somber. I could tell this was a painful subject for him. He began:

"I was driving back from Sacramento, it was dark, probably 8:30 or so, when I came to the Rawhide Cafe, down the road from here. There was a light snow falling."

"I saw the cafe on the way up here," I interjected.

Steve continued, "It was all lit up by headlights of patrol cars. Red lights flashing everywhere. I parked and went to the Cafe to see what was going on. There was the sheriff's command center van in the parking lot with a generator running. I could hear several sheriffs' radio channels. Paramedics stood outside an ambulance. Many other people were standing around: one person with tracking dogs, bloodhounds, I believe, was there; people in orange vests and hard hats, people with backpacks, rope, and rescue equipment, deputy sheriffs in uniform, and a local a Native American who lives near here. The sheriff and several other people were inside the brightly lit cafe, standing in front of a map hung on the wall, arguing. It was a very busy place.

"I walked up to the deputy guarding the door and said I needed to speak with the sheriff about helping. I told him I was a psychic and might be of use. He blew me off, saying that the sheriff was too busy to talk to the public.

"I went back to my car and got a copy of my book–the one that you read–and what I call my credentials folder that has the picture of the President and me, letters of commendation from high level military and government people, on letterheads with government seals, several news clippings about me helping find lost people, and letters of commendation for working with the police in solving missing persons cases. I showed the book and folder to the deputy who examined it for a while and then led me in to see Sheriff Bogend, a fat bastard with a scowl on his puffy face. His khaki uniform seemed to be straining at the buttons to hold his bulk, and his tie was pulled down in disorder. He was sweating despite the cold and seemed really stressed out. I showed him my book and credentials folder. He thumbed through them without really looking and handed them back to me. He did not speak with me, he looked only at the deputy and scolded, 'Damn it, why are you wasting my time with some fortuneteller. We have a lost child to find. Get him out of here!'

"The deputy, visibly smarting from being chastised, showed me to the door and said mechanically, 'Thank you, we do not need your services.'

"As I started to walk away, I saw a group of men wearing orange search and rescue jackets passing a photo around. I asked whether I could see it, and they passed it to me. It was the school 'picture day' photo of Lucy, a large copy that her parents had bought along with the small shots Lucy traded with other students. As I looked at the photo, I immediately felt a psychic connection with Lucy. I walked to my car and got in. As I sat, it came to me exactly where Lucy was. I could tell she had found shelter under some logs, or in a cave or something and was crying and very cold. It was vivid.

"I was mad. I got out of the car and walked back to the cafe. I pushed the deputy aside and went over to the map and drew an X on the map where Lucy was. When I turned around, the Sheriff and deputy had guns drawn, pointing at me. I said, 'I know where she is, here where the X is, about a hundred yards up Bear Creek from that old logging trestle. She is in some kind of shelter but is very cold. She may not have much more time.

"The Sheriff shouted in a tirade, 'We have her tracks in the snow going in another direction. Get Houdini out of here! If you come around here again I'll have you arrested. Don't go hunting for her yourself, you will be destroying her trail for the trackers.' Two deputies grabbed me by the arms and walked me out of the cafe, past the parked emergency vehicles, to the edge of the parking lot. One shouted at me, 'If we see you around here again or conducting your own search you will go to jail for obstructing officers in an investigation.' They pushed me into the street.

"I barely made it home because I was so occupied feeling Lucy's distress."

Steve was almost in tears and having trouble finishing the story.

"I couldn't sleep because of my concern. About midnight, she died and I could go to sleep, feeling her peace."

I was quiet while Steve sat deep in thought.

Georgia came out onto the decks, using her rear to push the screen door open, carrying a large tray loaded with sandwiches and fruit.

She looked at Steve and said, "You told him the story." She went over and kissed him on the forehead. He grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap as she screamed, and kissed her.

Georgia, appearing a little embarrassed, as she got off his lap and smoothed out her dress and said, "It is really hard for him to tell that story."

I replied, "I think the Colson Foundation wants to make sure nobody else has to tell similar stories."

Steve got up and got a glass of iced tea from the table and raised it in a toast, "I'll drink to that."

Over lunch we chatted about living in the mountains and desert, the wildlife we saw, the aesthetics of such a life. I told them about being raised in the woods in the small northern California logging town, and how the gossip grapevine worked, as it did in Rocky Butte. We got talking about college, and I told him about the Garabedian brothers.

"When I was in upper division, my third and fourth years of engineering school, I took some classes with a pair of identical twins, Erin and Eric Garabedian. They were really smart and could have been straight-A students by themselves. In that school, it was really hard to get A's. You had to study really hard and do seemingly endless assignments of problem sets to get good grades. Erin and Eric had a great advantage, they could study together, divide the problems sets of solving equations or doing engineering calculations requiring a lot of time. It seemed that if each of them studied half of the material they both knew all of it. When they took exams, they purposely sat far apart, and asked for the instructor to take note, because they would usually get the same score and miss the same problems: they didn't want to be accused of cheating.

"Somehow they psychically communicated. They could synchronize their thinking."

Steve smiled and said, "It doesn't seem unusual to me–that's what I would expect from twins. It is a very high bandwidth case, though."

"Bandwidth?" I asked.

"The electrical signals of the nerves in the parts of our brains where we process sensory data are of a very low frequency, a few cycles per second, a tenth or twentieth of the frequency on our power lines, sixty cycles. When I remote sense, I listen to recorded sounds through earphones to help me slow my brainwaves down to bellow five cycles. Information comes very slowly at those frequencies. Follow me and I will show you."

I followed Steve into an office off his living room. He changed some connections on his PC and then said, "Ten or fifteen years ago all our PCs communicated over dial-up phone lines. I have my PC connected to the low bandwidth telephone line that comes all the way out here from Rocky Butte. I am going to load the web page from The Rocky Butte News."

We watched as for about two minutes as the image of the newspaper web page loaded. First, with vague images and then text, then with the images gradually filling in and eventually becoming sharp and clear.

"This is how my usual remote sensing works. At first, there are only vague outlines and sparse sensory information. As time goes on, the pictures and sensory data fill in with more detail. I might spend a half hour 'loading a page,' so to speak. Remote sensors have to be trained and disciplined to not jump to conclusions about what is coming in. There is a lot of room for error if you do.

"I can't talk about my Government work, but I can give you a made-up example that shows the process. For a task they might give me a photo of somebody of interest, call him Mr. X. And I would go into meditation and report what I sensed. It might go like this, working with a guide to help steer me:

Me: 'An open place, no trees around. Northwestern part of US.'

Guide: 'A little closer on the place.'

Me: 'Somewhere people visit for natural wonders. A feeling of great devastation from fire. Many people standing around, waiting for something, sense of excitement, standing on a path of boards.'

Guide: 'Is the excitement about the fire?'

Me: 'No the fire was before, nature is repairing itself.'

Guide: 'Go back to the people. What are they looking at?'

Me: 'Some kind of white dome. White stuff coming out of the dome.'

Guide: 'What can they smell?'

Me: 'Not a pleasant smell, some kind of chemical.'

Guide: 'What can they hear?'

Me: 'Hissing and chugging sound. People talking excitedly.'

Guide: 'What kind of movement do they see?'

Me: 'Something white squirting from the dome, erratic.'

Guide: 'What kind of structures or buildings can people see?'

Me: 'There is something big and old behind the people.'

"If we continued on, I would gather increasingly detailed information. If we stopped right here, what I sensed may be of use to an intelligence analyst. If he had information from other sources that Mr. X had rented a car in Jackson Hole, Wyoming the day before, and entered Yellowstone National Park that morning, he might conclude that Mr. X was at the viewing area for the geyser 'Old Faithful.' With time, I might have been able to tell that it was 'Old Faithful' and the intelligence analyst could have used that information to verify the car rental and park entrance information.

"With my communication with Lucy, I didn't really have much detailed information. I knew where she was, geographically, knew she was very cold and sad, and that she was inside something made of logs. I didn't see any pictures. It was more like part of a 140 character tweet than a web picture."

Steve changed the connection to the PC and immediately the Rocky Butte News web page appeared.

"I am glad I have this satellite link now. It is thousands of times faster that the dial-up circuit."

"Steve," I said, "Let's go back outside. I'd like to bounce some ideas off you."

We rejoined Georgia who was sitting on the deck, reading a book,

"Are you familiar with the mathematician Candice Montgomery's work on eight-dimensional spaces?"

Steve replied, "Yes, I have looked at her papers and talked to her. Although I am not an expert on mathematical subjects, her thesis sounds good to me. I have to say: birds don't need ornithology or aerodynamics to fly; they simply do it. People doing remote sensing don't need eight-dimensional space: we believe in the phenomenon because of personal experience. We are not the audience for Dr. Montgomery's papers."

I paused for a minute and then said, "I thought I would present a little bit of it in the trial to refute any experts they might produce saying that there is no scientific evidence that remote sensing is real. The jury doesn't have to understand the theory. They only have to believe Dr. Montgomery knows what she is talking about. It is important to have the scientific viewpoint in the record for reference in other trials.

"I will make the jury believe what you do is real and, parenthetically, has a scientific basis. I'd like to give them an intuitive feel that physical reality allows psychic things that common science hasn't caught up with yet.

"I have been toying with the idea that a friend gave me: reality is kind of like YouTube. If someone sees something of interest they record it and upload it to YouTube, along with keywords for people to use to find the record.

"In YouTube time and locations (space) are only keywords used in identifying the video. I can access information across time and space in YouTube. The videos are physically stored on a server somewhere in the world, so they have a physical location. I don't have to know where the videos are stored to download the information.

"Eight-dimensional space-time, a concept validated by modern physics, provides The Cloud for accessing the information."

Steve thought for a minute and then replied, "The only thing I might add is remote sensing is like searching YouTube with a slow, 4.8 Kbit telephone circuit.

"For the trial, I suggest that you have me do a live demonstration of remote sensing. You can design it after you look at the videos. Don't prep me on what you decide as a demonstration. I like to be able to say I was not coached on what I will demonstrate."

Georgia interrupted and said, "It is now time for our afternoon nap and meditation. Let's adjourn until five. You can go up to the guest cottage and rest or simply enjoy the view."

At five, I walked back from the guest cottage and found Georgia busily setting the table on the deck.

"Did you have a nap?" she asked.

"Not exactly, I sat in that big, soft deck chair and snoozed in the sun. It was really relaxing."

"After the trial is over, why don't you come back and spend a day or two relaxing? It is especially beautiful in September up here." She smiled a knowing smile and added, "And bring that pretty dark-skinned lady with the pale–blue eyes. I'd love to meet her."

"I'll do that."

"And, Steve is a legally ordained minister. When you are in need of that kind of service," she added without looking up from setting the table.

Steve came out onto the deck and dropped into a chair looking a little blurry–eyed. Georgia handed him a cup of tea she poured from a pot on the table.

"Excuse me," said Steve. "I am not quite back yet."

He sipped his tea for a minute and then added, "Earlier, I remembered some other scientific experiments on remote sensing you should know about. Some academics have done highly structured, formalized experiments in remote sensing where the data is posted on-line for all to access at every stage of the process. They are quite conclusive. However, skeptics don't believe the results, because they don't believe there can be valid result to begin with."

"Send me the references and I'll check them out," I replied. "I need to know all the background I can before the trial."

Georgia interrupted and said, "Dave said he would come back and spend some time after the trial, and maybe bring his friend with him."

Steve smiled and said, "Wonderful! We can have some time to go on some hikes and I can show him how beautiful this country is. In my business, spending a lot of time in meditation, I need to ground myself in a beautiful place like this to keep balanced. When I worked in the Palo Alto area, we lived in a little cabin up in the mountains between Palo Alto and the ocean. I couldn't have survived without my daily nature fix."

As we had dinner, Steve asked me about soaring, and I told him my flying stories.

After dinner, Steve asked, "Do you want to know, in advance how the trial will turn out?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "it might spoil the fun."

I thought to myself, _Why am I disbelieving that he can do this_?

"I'll mail you the 'win/no win' verdict in a sealed envelope in a few days. You can open it when you want–before or after the trial."

"How would you do that?"

"Do you see that stump by the driveway? The morning after the verdict, I will have Georgia stand on the stump and show me one of either of two things: a long handled pick ax that means the verdict was in your favor, or the rag cloth mop head that means you lost the case. Tomorrow, I will go into meditation and synchronize my mind with myself, standing there in the future, and see what kind of sensory information I get. If the sensory information I get from my future self is 'firm, sharp, metal, dangerous, wood handle, rusty etc.,' I will know you won. If the sensory information is 'soft, cloth, limp, cotton, wet, etc.,' I will know you didn't win. I am quite good at this kind of prediction."

"If you tell me I won, and I relax in preparing the case, I might lose. Isn't that altering the outcome?"

"No. It might alter how or why you win the case, but, you will win the case. That is the way it works," said Steve with a shrug.

I thought for a minute and then replied, "Send me the prediction and I will choose when to read it."

By this time, I was feeling like Steve and Georgia were old friends of mine. I didn't want to leave this intensely friendly place. Reluctantly, I said I must leave, and we all had warm hugs, which are not a lawyer's normal way of saying goodbye to potential witnesses. As I drove away, I felt an intense pull to return.

I decided to stop by Bob's Cafe because I wanted to make Agnes think I am a good guy, and have her communicate it out the far reaches of the gossip grapevine. I wanted to lose some of my "outsider, big city lawyer status."

I was careful to sit at the same rotating stool at the counter.

Agnes came over and said, "What'll-y-have?" This time she had a slight smile of recognition.

"Just coffee," I said.

"Ya-got-it," she replied.

The cafe was empty except for a booth of three grey haired men, wearing their Stetson hats as they ate, exercising what I have heard are "cowboy manners." One was kind of looking me over.

"How do you like Rocky Butte, so far?" asked Agnes.

"I like it a lot, so far," I said. "I am from a small logging town like this in northern California. I like small towns."

"Did your friend find you?" asked Agnes. "He was in here yesterday asking where you might be. I sent him to the courthouse. Millie, the clerk over there said he wanted to see stuff about the court case you are here on."

"What did he look like?"

"He had a stocky build, like a farmhand, grey crew cut hair, gold wire-rimmed glasses, like boy scouts wear.

"Millie said you have a case against Sheriff Bogend for roughing up some guy. Bogend is a real bastard. I hope you fix him. He hassles people around here often. He is not much of a tipper, either."

"I don't really know who the guy is. He is probably an insurance investigator," I replied. "The judge isn't giving much time for me before he hears the case. I might rent a place up here for a combination of vacation and work. There are many vacation rental homes around here, aren't there?"

"Lots. Most of them are managed by agencies in Pine Mountain. There are several dude ranches around here. Are you going to bring your family up with you?"

"No, I am unattached. I'll be alone. I like to get a little solitude when I get away from LA. It brings me back to my roots."

"Maybe you can find some time for a little gold panning and meet some of the local girls. People are panning again because of the current price of gold," said Agnes, looking at me inquisitively to see whether my expression changed. "I can introduce you to a beautiful widow-woman friend of mine."

"I might try some prospecting for women and gold if I have time. I will mostly sit around, sometimes coming in here for your dinner special."

I looked at my watch and then said, "Good coffee, but I'd better get going,"

As I started to drive away, I saw that Agnes was on the cell phone. When I got to the edge of town, before I got out of cell phone coverage, I stopped the car, and sent a secure email to Dore. It said, "The man from Skeptemos was in Rocky Butte inquiring about me and visiting the courthouse. I met with the Sodastroms and Steve Manteo. Now returning to LA."

**6**

**Back In LA**

Monday morning, I was back at my office. As I walked into the lobby, I noticed that Carolyn looked a little disheveled. She didn't even greet me. I noticed a small overnight bag behind her desk. I guess 'I'm available for the weekend,' hadn't worked out as expected.

Zaza greeted me with, "If it isn't the mountain man! How is rabbit hunting in Rocky Butte? I have heard stories about those Sierra mining towns. Meet any dance-hall girls?"

"All business. There is gourmet dining at Bob's Cafe. Here, I brought you a gold pan."

"A pretty yellow one, I have been wanting one of these. Irving needs a new hobby. I have been trying to get him away from our TV set."

"How was your weekend?"

"Irving watched TV. Period.

"You just had a call from someone named Dan at CrystalSky ." She handed me the slip of paper with his phone number on it.

"He is one of the tow pilots. I hope nothing has happened to my sailplane."

I called Dan. He explained, "Dave, I don't know what this means, but, you remember that funny guy with the grey crew cut and gold rimmed glasses I saw checking out your sailplane trailer?"

"Yes, the one you told me about the day I flew the wave."

Dan continued, "The other day I flew up to the soaring operation on Ogden to deliver a tow plane that had been down here for overhaul. While I was there, I saw Charlie Sears from Santa Fe assembling his sailplane. You remember him from the regional contest we had here at CrystalSky last year?"

I replied, "Yes, I talked to Charlie quite a bit during the contest. How is he doing?"

"He was spending a week flying at Ogden. He was taking his bird out of the trailer and putting it together. The funny guy with the grey crew–cut was helping him. I went over and talked to Charlie a while and got a good look at the guy. He is really uptight, like a marine on guard duty. I couldn't figure out why he was there. He positively didn't look like a pilot. You might like to give Charlie a call and find out what the story on the guy is."

"I will," I said, "I have Charlie's cell number. Thanks. Let me know if you see the stranger again."

I called Charlie and told him that Dan had seen him in Ogden. We chatted about flying and Ogden weather and soaring conditions. I asked him about the man Dan saw helping him assemble the sailplane.

Charlie replied, "I had never seen the man before in my life. He walked up and was just standing around so I asked him whether he would like to help me put the wings on. He was very interested in how everything went together, as though he was a mechanical engineer, but didn't seem to know anything about flying, and was not very interesting to talk to. After we got finished he left and drove off in his white van."

"Did you find out any thing about him, where he was from, or what he was doing there?"

"No, he was not a very personable guy. Why the interest?"

"Dan saw him hanging around my glider trailer at CrysalAire He thought he looked suspicious."

Charlie continued, "I think 'suspicious' is a good description of him. Maybe 'creepy' is better."

I thanked Charlie and told him about my wave flight before I said goodbye.

I emailed a report of the incident to EB Services.

Zaza buzzed me and said, "Bracken wants an update on the court case and is here this morning. Shall I see whether he is free?"

"Yes."

After a short call Zaza said, "OK to go up there now."

As I went in, Phil motioned me to sit at a chair in front of his desk and said, "How is Sodastrom shaping up?"

"We have a trial date in a month. The judge warned me against any pre-trial publicity. He doesn't want the tourist town of Rocky Butte to be publicized as a place where it is unsafe for families. The liability insurance company's lawyer, who will be defending the county, didn't impress me.

"I think there is a good scientific case for remote sensing and a trained psychic being able locate people. I'll put the science argument first when the jury is fresh, so they can absorb it as we go along. Colson has commissioned a video that explains the theory in a way a lay jury can understand. Their consultant, Dr. Montgomery is also an excellent witness.

"The Sodastroms will make good witnesses. They look very tragic. I will put them up late in the trial."

"I visited with the psychic, Steve Manteo, and he will also make an excellent witness. I will arrange for him to make some sort of demonstration."

"I will present this differently from a logical patent case. Instead of a 'you must logically find....' type of case, I'll appeal to the jurors' feelings. As part of that, I will rent a place up there and try to develop the idea that I am kind of a local. Maybe I'll even go to some local softball games."

Phil picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me. He showed some concern in his eyes.

"Dore sent me this email that shouldn't go out of this office, about her security concerns. Apparently, some man has been stalking you and might try to intimidate you and some of your witnesses. Her security consultants have found that the person is on the FBI's radar. The suspect is Special Forces trained, with experience in explosives. He is linked to bombings in other states, and is considered very dangerous. He seems to be associated with a group that makes it their duty to prevent acceptance of what they consider unscientific theories, which will lead the world back into superstition and fear.

"Dore gave me the link to their website. Here, I will put it on the flat screen TV."

The website opened with a montage of heroic medieval figures, knights wearing white tunics with red crosses emblazoned on the front, carrying shields similarly decorated, barbaric figures marching with firebrands, riding in fierce groups. The montage ended with a heraldic crest with the same hieroglyph we had seen drawn on Candice's windshield and into the dirt near my sailplane trailer. The montage looked as though it had been lifted from a Discovery Channel program, or similar special on the Knights Templar.

The voiceover described how the group, Skeptemos, was carrying on the ancient tradition of fighting the forces of evil, this time the fake-scientific people, agents of evil, who were destroying pure science with the impure theories that promoted superstition and fear. Destroying pure science would plunge us back into the chaos of the Dark Ages. The montage showed violent scenes, probably from TV coverage of unrest in the Middle East. It included 'villainous' clips of the bearded faces of turbaned Iranian and Arab leaders.

"That is kind of scary," I said.

Phil responded, "The good news is the so-called movement consists of only a few nuts, true–believer types. Someone is adept at making a website. We are not dealing with an al–Qaeda here. Skeptemos is probably only a few loners, at least one with explosive training, probably addicted to medieval video games.

"Colson has retained a high-end security firm to develop a plan to protect you and your witnesses, the kind of firm that might be hired to protect a visiting head of state.

"Vince Colson told me he had some Pentagon jobs that brushed against the classified world. He probably has some friends who advise him about spooky matters. He has weighty concerns about industrial espionage. We can be confident his security consultants will know their job.

Phil looked concerned as he said, "Are you OK with this kind of scenario?"

"As you know, our high-tech patent work has made us the target of some professional industrial espionage organizations, including some from foreign countries. If the security firm can keep the bombers away I can live with it."

Phil seemed relieved as he said, "Good, I'll tell Dore you are comfortable with the situation."

Back at my office, I texted Tina. "I am back from the mountains. Dinner Saturday?"

I checked my email and there was a message from Candice saying she would have the first cut of the movie on a DVD on Friday and wanted to get it to me.

I replied that I had to be at UCLA Friday at noon. I could stop by Cal State in the afternoon and pick it up.

Candice emailed back, 'I am going home at noon on Friday because I have a light day. Why don't you come visit us at home in the afternoon-Altadena isn't that much farther than UCLA- and you can meet Tom. He is very interested in what you are doing. He can give you some ideas about the space-time travel he does with his clients.'

I replied that I could be there about two-to-three, depending on the Friday afternoon traffic.

She texted me the car GPS navigation information to get me to her house.

Tina texted me a message: "Dinner sounds great. Pick me up at 7:00? Let's go to Hernando's for margaritas."

I replied. ":-)"

She responded, ":-x"

I worked for a while and then Zaza came in and announced,

"Bob Bennet who is working on that big new drug patent case wants you to join him in the conference room. He wants to introduce you to someone from his clients' company. You are supposed to brag about the settlement of Genstem."

I walked into the conference room, and Bob introduced me to Sam Perris, the Chief Scientist at ChralMed, his new client. Sam was about six-feet six, weighed over two hundred fifty pounds, with silver hair, and had piercing stern grey eyes. He was dressed in a well-tailored blue suit. I was intimidated as he towered over me, shook my hand with threatening eye contact and a grip worthy of a dockworker. He said with a stern deep voice, "Pleased to meet you."

As we sat down on at the conference table, Bob said, "Dave, outline your Gensten case, the one where we won the client a huge settlement."

"I already know about that one," interrupted Sam before I could open my mouth. "We encourage you to do as well or better for us. Our case should be worth many times the Gensten settlement."

Bob started to say, "Bracken and Stevens has every confidence..."

Sam interrupted in a big voice, "We expect nothing but the best. The scientific issues of our case are complicated but clearly in our favor. We want your best minds. Are you going to be helping Bob? Dave was it?"

I replied, "Bob will have whatever resources he wishes to call on at Bracken and Stevens. Temporarily, I am assigned to another case that will be over in about ..."

Sam interrupted. "What kind of case is more important than ChralMed's?

"None! This is a prior commitment. The trial will be over in about a month."

Sam inserted with an angry voice, "What kind of trial is over in a month?"

It is a liability case involving...."

Sam put his hands palm down on the table. "You are not working on ChralMed's case because you are on some _slip_ _and fall_ liability case?"

"It involves a child's death and a former CIA psychic spy."

Sam stood erect, as if called to attention.

"Well, then, more power to you. Go after this so-called psychic. I am a member of a skeptics' organization dedicated to exposing fraud by all claimed psychic practitioners. There has not been one instance where we could not expose trickery or faulty data analysis of any claimed demonstration. Get the bastards. They're the scourges of our age"

Bob was looking chagrined. His eyes were saying, 'Help me out here.'

Sam's face got redder and his eyes glared. He spoke in a louder voice, "All these claims about ESP are a bunch of crap. ESP is against all laws of physics and reason." He was shouting.

"It's a good thing we have skeptical scientists dedicated to disproving all bullshit claims of ESP and other paranormal activities."

I could tell he was starting on an even longer tirade. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, pretended to read a text message and said, "Pleased to meet you Sam. I am afraid I have to excuse myself for another meeting."

As I left, Sam continued his rant at Bob. I thought to myself, "He's your grizzly bear. You get the collar on him."

I had previously decided to get a second opinion of Candice's work from someone in the scientific community. I contacted Dr. Peter Gallagher, an elderly physicist at UCLA who, in the process of retiring, had taken on the role of 'expert witness' in legal cases. He had been a good witness in one of my patent cases. I wanted to sit down with him and see what he thought about Candice's work. We had arranged to meet at his office at UCLA. Peter arranged for guest parking for me and emailed me a map of campus.

UCLA has been in a period of great expansion in the past decades. Big, boxy industrial looking buildings with no unique features were side-by side in the new area. It appeared that UCLA had decided not to waste money on architects when they built the new additions. As I drove through, I thought how dismal an isolated researcher must be, working on a small grant, in a warren of offices in nondescript buildings. Strangely, Google and Apple have centers that are like campuses, while UCLA has research centers that look like high-rise industrial parks.

Peter's office was in Sihler Hall, one of the older buildings in the original part of campus, looking as though it had been built in the nineteen thirties– a red brick exterior, white cement trim, only three stories tall, situated overlooking an open space with lawns and trees. I walked up to the third floor to Peter's office. His small office, looking out on the green space, crammed with books, was somehow very tidy and organized.

Peter was a jolly–looking gray-haired man, balding, paunchy, wearing a worn sport coat and a sport shirt with a bolo tie.

"Good to see you again, Dave. Sit down. Any trouble getting parked?"

"No, I'd forgotten how beautiful it is in this part of campus."

"I'm lucky, I guess, on being on a faculty committee that requires me to be up here. One of my friends calls the new part of campus as 'E2L-ville' since, for many people down there, English is a second language. 'Big Research Dollar Granteese' is the native language. They need to build and fill those buildings as fast as they can. Big science means big research bucks, which means _prestigious positions,_ which means _prestigious university._

"Up here, we still deal with something called education.

"But, you didn't come out here to talk about how it was in the old days. I read Dr. Montgomery's papers and I am quite impressed. I had a couple of my peers also look at them. Nobody could find any scientific flaws! But, the eight-space paradigm is the kind of thing that would be hard to get accepted. Much of that big science juggernaut on the south campus would have to reorient its direction. Many people in many prestigious positions would have to significantly alter their programs. They would have to add crow to the south campus cafeteria menus because many people would need to eat it.

"The first law of science is: _you never can convince someone about something new if it will cost them money, from grants or department budgets._

"The second law is: _academia never accepts new ideas until the old ones retire._

"Dr. Montgomery's ideas are perfectly sound. It will probably take a generation or more for anything like that to get academic acceptance. However, I'll be glad to testify to her paper's soundness for you."

"Good!" I replied.

Peter looking into the distance added, "Right after I graduated, I had to serve my ROTC commitment. It was toward the end of the war in Vietnam. I was assigned to a menial job in an aircraft carrier.

"A Carrier Task Force is an amazing thing to see in action. The carrier carrying the Flag officer is at the center. Around that are screens of destroyers, and sometimes missile frigates, tankers carrying fuel oil, supply ships, etc. Tens of thousands of men going the same direction.

"If the man on the bridge with the stars on his shoulders says, 'change the course by thirty degrees,' slowly but surely, all those ships change to the new direction, without altering the formation. It is awesome!

"Changing the scientific direction of those people in the block buildings in the south campus would be much more difficult!"

"Maybe our trial will add some stars to shoulders of those who might like to try." I replied.

"It could change the practice of medicine by having doctors consider symptoms and maladies that might originate from other space times!"

Peter and I discussed the case and his suggestions on how to approach it for a while, and then I left.

It took an hour to get to Candice's house in Altadena, built on the rolling hills on the border of where the land gives way to steep brush–covered mountains, above Pasadena. Some parts of the neighborhood looked as though it had been built in the 1930s, with porches where people sat and conversed with passing-by neighbors. Others built in the 1960s with low sloping roofs and stained wood siding, in a modern style, which had concealed entrances and no street side windows. It seemed the third generation monolithic faux Mediterranean stucco homes with intimidating entrances were replacing some of the older homes. The streets were lined with an assortment of palm trees from the thirties, when they were considered exotic plants, and an assortment of cypress and pine that were adapted to a semi-desert environment.

Candice's house was of one of the 1930s California Bungalow Style ranch houses, with river rock work around pillars in front of large porches, where people used to sit on hot days before air conditioning. It was elegantly and apparently lovingly restored and maintained. Candice met me at the door.

"Come in Dave, welcome to 'almost the mountains'."

"I love your house!" I paused and looked around the living room.

"I love all the reddish natural wood trim against the forest green walls. Great Mission furniture! Is that picture by one of the California Impressionists?"

"I'm impressed. Yes that is a Joanne Cromwell painting from the same era the house was built. We also decorated with authentic period furnishings. This is a 1930s house in most respects, except for the plumbing, wiring, kitchen appliances, air conditioning, and Tom's electronic music studio."

"I can tell," I replied.

Tom came into the room.

Candice made introductions

Tom was a skinny, fortyish man with long, dark red hair pulled back into a ponytail, a bulbous red bushy beard and, small wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing sandals and a black T-shirt with a Yamaha logo. He had a delightful sparkle in his eyes.

"Pleased to meet you, Tom, I have been admiring your house. It seems very authentic except for the tech upgrades."

They gave me a tour of the house and then suggested we enjoy the afternoon on the back patio. We enjoyed some iced tea and talked about living with wilderness right up against the back yard and the variety of animals about.

I thought of my mobile home in the desert and said, "I have a mobile home in the desert at a place called CrystalSky, about 3,500 feet elevation, on the other side of the mountains in your back yard. I have a view across a hundred miles of desert, to the Sierras in the North and toward Las Vegas in the East. The day after a rainstorm, the desert will be a carpet of little yellow wildflowers. In the evening, I can hear coyotes.

"The mobile home is next to an airfield. I keep a sailplane there. I soar in the mountains and into the desert, sometimes for six hours in one day"

I noticed Tom was looking at me with the same gaze Georgia Manteo used when she was sensing something psychic.

Tom interrupted, "Sailplanes are those things with two wings. Aren't they called biplanes?"

"No," I replied. "My sailplane has a single, long wing fifteen meters from tip-to-tip. They're sleek. Since there is no motor to house, the fuselage is only big enough for a man in a reclining position. Mine is made of gleaming white fiberglass and composite materials. They can glide a long way. If I were twenty–thousand feet above us here in Altadena, I could glide to Las Vegas.

"Often, I find myself soaring with hawks or eagles. I enjoy that sense of freedom."

"That sounds like quite a sport," Tom smiled.

I was a little embarrassed. "Excuse my enthusiasm. I can go on for hours about soaring and my adventures."

"It sounds like quite a passion," commented Candice. "Talk about vulnerability–flying to Las Vegas without a motor. How does this fit with your lawyering?"

"It's the antidote!"

They laughed.

Candice said, "Lets go back to lawyering. Tell Tom about your case."

"On the surface, it is a liability suit by the parents of a girl who got lost and died in a snowstorm. The suit is against a sheriff who ignored a credentialed psychic who told him exactly where a lost girl was. The girl's life could have been saved if the sheriff had acted on the information.

"My client, Colson–also Candice's research sponsor–wants to make it a test case to show that the psychic was doing something explainable by science. He wants to open people's eyes to the idea that, with The Cloud, as I am calling it, or eight-dimensional paradigm in physics, ESP is scientifically legitimate.

"I find that all manner of information about psychic phenomena is coming my way. I have witnessed and learned about channeling, I have found the lady in my life can pick up my mental pictures. I find that I am now able to tune into and feel vibrations of people. Of course, Candice's work on eight-space is a foundation for all my scientific thinking and acceptance of all these new ideas. Then, I said to Tom, "Candice says you do counseling involving space-time perceptions. People's space-time perceptions will fit right into the puzzle I am working on."

Candice excused herself and said, "I'll leave you guys to talk about this."

Tom looked pleased and started, "People have been doing counseling involving space-time perceptions for a long time. For example, I read about a famous faith healer in the 1980s, who would have a person identify some problem, such as _being mad at mother,_ and then ask for them to visualize the last time they were _mad at mother_. Then, they would tell the person to visualize Jesus coming into their visualization, taking them by the hand, and then walking backward in time to the previous time they were _mad at mother._ They repeated the walk backward to the earlier time they were _mad at mother_ , which might be some time when they were a toddler and got spanked. Then, they would deal with the emotion in that time frame and the feelings of being _mad at mother_ would be gone. I have left out some of the details of the procedure."

"There have been hundreds of kinds of this general class of therapy, that I call 'sequential recall,' used by various people over the years. Some interventions, particularly those that were highly structured, could be very effective. Some people make significant changes in their emotional life in short times with this kind of therapy. For some, it can be the result of a weekend or weeklong workshop, for others it can be a matter of months of one-to-one counseling. Usually, tremendous change can happen by getting rid of a few really big issues."

"Keep going!' I said, "I'm very interested in how this all relates to space-time."

Tom thought for a minute and then said. "I think I know of a good metaphor. Lets take a little walk in the back yard."

We got up, and Tom led the way to a clump of avocado trees in the back of his yard. He led the way through leaves and branches to a wooden fence.

"Here, meet Mr. Spider, as Candice calls him. He is hiding up in that corner of the web, under that leaf."

Tom pointed to a large, very elaborate spider web woven between branches of a tree and the fence.

"His web is beautiful when it is covered with morning dew. After we first discovered him, or her, we don't know, we would swat flies and them bring them out here and throw them in the web. Mr. S would scrabble out from his hiding place and jump on the fly. Mr. S monitored the threads coming from his corner and when one _vibrated_ he seemed to know exactly what part of the web to scramble to. He has information connections to the entire web. His attention is consumed in being aware of all parts of his web."

"My metaphor is that _we live in a web of space-time, a web of life_. We have threads from where we are now to many places in our life. We normally call those places memories or subconscious memories, childhood memories for example. Our information threads are tied to emotional incidents that were of significance to us. Those threads are interconnected to other similar emotional incidents, similar to the cross–ties Mr. S has in his web. For many people, all their attention is tied up in a web with these information ties. When you talk to them, you have the feeling they are not really there. Sometimes, people are living their lives consumed with one idea that their web is tied to, like a spider with a one strand web."

"I think I get the idea," I replied, "the web is the set of connections someone has through the eight dimensions I have been calling The Cloud. Would you give me some more examples?"

"Suppose your mother shouted at you that you were _not good enough_ while spanking you when you were six years old. The idea might not be in your conscious mind, but still be connected to hundreds of later times when someone told you, implied, or made you believe you were _not good enough_. Your whole life might be organized around making up for being _not good enough_.

"In space-time therapy, we would have you clear out the information web tied to the present and all the times when being _not good enough_ came up. Sometimes it is very simple, and sometimes hard, to take the web of associations apart. Sometimes, simply recognizing the script, being _not good enough_ , is the hardest part."

"I get that" I replied. "More examples?"

"Here is a real example of how an incident can dominate a person's life, which I surmised from reading the newspapers about a billionaire who recently died. This man, John, and his younger brother, Paul, and their father were all working together in a family business, which, as I recall, was a retail furniture store. His father announced he would retire and said he would pass the business on to Paul. When confronted by John, the father says, 'I am giving the business to Paul because I don't think you will be responsible enough to make money and keep the business going. You will never amount to anything.'

"John left the business and struck out on his own, seriously dedicated to proving his father wrong. Although his father died a few years after John left, John worked ruthlessly, never achieving any real relationship with his many wives and assorted children, until he became one of the richest people in the world. He died a bitter, lonely man, but he did make his father wrong.

"Let's go back into my office and talk some more. I don't want to disturb Mr. Spider."

We walked back into the living room where Candice was reading or working on her iPad. Tom told Candice that we had visited Mr. Spider and were now going to his office.

Candice asked, "Is Mr. Spider OK?"

Tom nodded yes as we walk down the hall.

Tom's office was decorated in the Craftsman Style, with dark blue walls, and dark wood wainscoting and trim. His desk, facing the wall, had three large, now dark, computer screens, a keyboard, a MIDI piano keyboard, and a couple of devices, possibly miniature drums, set to the side. As I looked around, I saw that there were some black speakers concealed in the decor.

"This is where I do my composing and my counseling,"

"It looks very tidy," I replied. "I would expect all kinds of mixing boards and instruments, piles of music scores, microphones, music stands."

"They are all in the computer these days. I find that I work best when there is not paraphernalia around for me to attach my web of attention. Have a seat.

"Let's see, we covered the general idea of the web. There is another aspect of that idea that many people have trouble with. From your description of your recent studies, it feels safe to expose you to these ideas. Sometimes, with some people, as you work back to the original emotional incident in their childhood, they find there is a connection to an earlier time. For instance, a person going back to a root incident of being spanked might find there is a connection to an earlier place in space-time, where they find a person being flogged while tied up in some colonial setting.

"Here we run up against four-dimensional space-time limitation of many people's thinking. Some people who are not trained in logic and science have no trouble with the idea of what most call 'past lives.' A very large number of people in other cultures believe in that sort of thing. Scientists would be more apt to explain such perceptions as 'hallucinations.' A logical friend explained to me that past lives or transmigration of souls, as believed in some cultures, is impossible because the world population has grown. There would not be enough lives in some year such as 1000 BCE for everyone in 2000 CE to have a past life. There are also questions of the physics of how information or souls get moved from one life to another. Candice's eight-dimensional, or The Cloud, as you call it, provides shortcuts for information transfer between space-time points that may be other lifetimes."

I interrupted and said, "In the trial we will avoid confusing the jurors with too much on the complexities of eight-dimensional physics. We will introduce the idea to give the argument scientific validity and then refer to it as The Cloud."

Tom continued, "Instead of your soul being attached to that _previous–life person_ , and somehow migrating through time into your body of today, it is more as though you are _channeling_ ideas from that _prior–life person_. Their soul is their's and your's is your's: there is only a channeling connection.

"By the way, I have had clients whose whole nonprofessional lives had been tied up in some hobby, such as owning a sailboat, who found ties to lives in earlier times, such as the great age of sail in the eighteenth century. Typically, they might spend enormous time and money maintaining a sailboat without ever taking it away from the expensive slip it occupies. Once they deal with these perceptions, they no longer need to own a sailboat.

"I remember one client who had a web connection to someone who was swept off the deck of a sailing ship by a wave coming around Cape Horn during the Gold Rush in 1849. He perceived the wave, _fate_ had prevented him from striking–it–rich in the gold fields. The client had difficulty in this lifetime establishing or realizing goals because he believed _fate_ would stop him from achieving those goals. He lived on a sailboat in a marina. He did move on with his life after he dealt with the connection to the 1849'er. He even sold his sailboat and bought a house."

I added, "I love hearing about all this. It fits so well with what I have recently learned. Tell me more about your process of having people 'crawl' through the information of their web."

Tom smiled and said, "The best way to demonstrate the process is to do it with you. Want to try?"

"I'm game."

"Then, close your eyes and relax...."

The next evening, I called when I was a few blocks from Tina's apartment building so she could meet me downstairs. As I turned onto her street I saw her crouched down petting a dog, apparently being walked by a neighbor. As I drove up she patted the dog on the head, gave it a small kiss on the forehead, smiled at the owner, and turned toward me with a big grin.

I reached across the seat and opened the door.

As she slid in she said, "Oh, I love Goldens. They are such loving dogs."

"You look beautiful,' I said. "that shade of purple is perfect for you."

She looked at me questionably for a second and then brightened into a smile and said, "You surely are in a good mood tonight. Full of Sierra sunshine...or moonshine. You must have had a really good week."

"I did, indeed. Rocky Butte was an interesting place. I really met some interesting people.

"I have to go up there next Wednesday for the trial. I want to be there, acting like a local for a while before the trial starts. The trial shouldn't last more than a week."

As we drove, I told her about Rocky Butte, the Judge, Agnes, and the gold pans. She listened with great interest. I was about to tell her about Steve and Georgia when we got to Hernando's.

After we were seated and had ordered margaritas and food, I started to tell her about Steve and Georgia. "Steve is my main witness in the trial, the remote sensor that tried to help find the lost girl. He and his wife live in a mountain cabin, almost off the grid, at the end of unnamed dirt roads above Rocky Butte. They have a fantastic site with a view of the mountains. They are a wonderful, loving couple; amazingly comfortable and affectionate with each other. They are quite a contrast to the uptight lawyers and trophy wives I meet here in LA. Georgia seems to have unusual psychic powers. When I was talking about my mobile home in the desert, she seemed to pick up pictures of you being there."

Tina smiled in a kind of surprised way. "They sound great. You now seem to be quite comfortable with these ideas about psychic powers. That is a big switch. We couldn't have even broached the subject without you being uncomfortable a few weeks ago."

"Since my first contact with Mason, I have acquired an immense amount of information that has altered my viewpoint. The physics, the logic, the people, and my personal experiences have all come together. I have no trouble with the subject. I used to think all this stuff was outside the realm of science and was simply delusional. Now, I think all of this stuff is within an expanded realm of science. People in the scientific world are delusional if they hold onto the conventional four-dimensional view of reality and say psychic phenomena is nonsense!"

Tina replied delightedly, "Although I don't understand all this mathematical stuff, I think it is wonderful that you are having all these new understandings. Who would have believed.... Wow! The energy level coming off your body is amazing."

"I haven't got to the best part yet. I told you about Dr. Candice Montgomery. I visited her and her husband in their home in Altadena. Her husband, Tom Watson, a Hollywood-type composer/arranger, also does personal counseling in something he calls space-time therapy. He explained to me how we are like spiders in the center of this web of information, with filaments connected throughout The Cloud. Some of the filaments are connected to what we call conscious or subconscious memories in our lifetime. Some people in therapy trace filaments to other space–times. Tom doesn't call them 'past lives' because that implies the reincarnation thing, souls transmigrating from body to body in a timeline. Tom says that filaments connect people in space and time that have an emotional connection for some reason. He thinks there are a variety of reasons for this connection.

"I asked him how it works, and he said for me to do it and find out. We started with a sore knee, which bothers me when I play squash, and ran the thread back to a childhood injury when I fell on my knee. Amazingly, my knee hasn't hurt since the session with Tom. Then, we did some emotional threads, like the last time I was really pissed at Zaza, which went all the way back to my second grade. I was kind of on a roll so Tom kept going on a variety of things. After, two hours, a strange thing happened: I went earlier on a thread, through childhood, and then I saw a vague picture of another young man that I thought was a brother-not my brother in this life-standing next to an ancient biplane, the kind they fly in movies about World War I. The vision didn't last long so I didn't get much information about him. At that point, we had to stop because I felt an incredible surge of happiness. I was blown away, so excited about this exploration I booked another session tomorrow afternoon."

Tina looked startled and asked, "Was that a past life? I have a friend who did past life therapy and claims she was all kinds of people."

"Not exactly. Tom says it was a connection to another person in space-time. No DNA or reincarnation implied. _It is connection with a space-time that holds some idea, emotion, unfinished business, or physical injury that I need to address._ Tom says it is unnecessary to understand the big picture of why this connection exists. We can get rid of all the web attachments of information with negative emotional power."

Tina observed, "I have never seen you like this. Is there more? Your energy is about to blow me right out of this chair."

Then, our margaritas came. Tina told me about her week teaching. I gradually settled down from my high. We chatted while we ate, and I observed that Mexican food was very grounding.

As we finished, Tina said, "I love how you are changing with all this space-time stuff."

"I also learned how these new friends have homes that express ideas in space-time. The log cabin above Rocky Butte, the surroundings, the love, the solitude, and privacy are unique in space-time. Candice and Tom's place in Altadena is very true to the Bungalow Style and the Craftsman idea of detail, workmanship, and integrity. When I walked into the place, I felt intense feelings that this was somebody's loving home, a caring creation, a unique place in space-time.

"In reflecting on the subject, I recalled that my mother tried to maintain the family house as it was at the time when my brother and I were in high school, my father was alive, and we were a close family. When she passed away, our rooms were about the same as when we went to college, with drawers filled with our high school sports jerseys, Boy Scout uniforms, and silkscreened T-shirts from the various events we had attended.

"When I look at where I live now, my apartment, all it says is 'expensive address,' 'talented interior decorator,' and 'big furnishing budget.' The place is no more to me than a suite at a five star hotel would be. I am not connected to it as the people I visited are connected to where they live."

Tina grinned and added, "You are changing. I'd like to meet Candice and Tom and see their house sometime."

"I'm going there tomorrow for a session with Tom. You could come along. I'm not sure if Candice will be there. You might have to sit around alone for a couple of hours."

"It sounds great. I have a pile of unread books on my Kindle to entertain myself. I'd like to see Altadena. Maybe, we could stop by the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena on the way home. It is time for me to have another Impressionist fix. Have you ever been there? There are good places to eat in Old Pasadena, sidewalk cafes and bistros. It's pleasant to wander around and shop this time of year. Have you ever been to the Norton Simon?"

"Not for a long time. It might be a good way to ground myself after spending an hour or two traveling in space-time with Tom."

I paused and then said, "One of the things I like about you is how much space you occupy, how you can mentally go to Altadena and then flash over to the museum, go through it, probably visualizing some of the paintings and then move through the list of sidewalk cafes, probably recalling the menus, and then go shopping, all in less than a minute."

Tina tilted her head down in mock coyness, glanced hesitantly at me and said, "You left out how I started the day, I was in my place, making breakfast for you."

I felt that pleasant glow around my heart, raised my hand, and said,

"Waiter, check please."

It was a beautiful day in Altadena. A late spring cold front had passed through during the night, clearing out the LA haze and smog, making the sky sparkling blue, dotting the mountains with a procession of small puffy clouds. I observed that this would not have been much of a soaring day on the desert, it was a good day to be doing something else, particularly with Tina.

As we drove through Altadena on the way to Candice and Tom's, Tina was admiring and commenting on the variety and architecture of homes, Victorians from the early days of Altadena, old bungalows from the depression era, some of which might have been the prefab kits sold from catalogs by companies such as Sears and Roebuck. Small tracts of thirties houses were in a stucco Mediterranean or Spanish style. We seemed to agree on what was ugly, and what was well done. I was having fun.

When we got to Candice and Tom's, Tina said, "Oh isn't that darling, so well done, with river stones covering the foundation and pillar bases. I'd bet they came from a nearby creek. I see what you meant when you described it as a home that somebody loves. Look at the detail, those stained glass panels; the old–fashioned windows with the three sections at the top; the way the beams and eaves are notched and fitted together.

When we walked up to the front door, I saw a note taped to the glass. It said, "Dave, I am with another client. Go on into the living room and make yourself at home. Coffee, tea, and a bowl of fruit are in the kitchen."

As we walked in, Tina exclaimed, "Oh, this is just perfect. Pasadena and this area have Craftsman homes. Local artists make Mission Style furniture and ceramics in the Craftsman tradition. Notice the dark hammered copper light fixtures! Look at the green ceramic vases, the finely–crafted bookcases, couch, rocking chairs. The door and window trim are without ornamentation, made of only flat boards, precisely fitted together! The light–green color of the walls, sets off their dark natural stain. The facing on the fireplace is made from custom tiles. Oh, this is really wonderful!"

"And," I added, "that picture is by a California Impressionist."

Tina went over to the picture, examined it carefully and said, "This could be a Payne because it looks as if it could have been painted of the view from the back yard. Those mountains look the same. Payne liked to paint around here. Look at the detail in the wildflowers."

I was puzzled and asked, "How did you get to be such an expert on California Impressionist paintings?"

Then, we heard Tom saying goodbye to his client, a well–dressed lady, at the front door. Tom came into the living room and greeted us with a hearty welcome."

I introduced Tina as Tom looked at her intently.

Tina said, "I brought along lots to read. I'll sit right here as quiet as a mouse while you go away."

Tom grinned and said, "Make yourself at home, and use the kitchen to make coffee or tea. There is a big bowl of fresh fruit that needs to be eaten. You can sit on the back patio if you wish and enjoy this beautiful day. The bathroom is right down the hall. We will probably be a couple of hours. There is a trail that leaves the back yard and goes up the hill to a viewpoint. Watch out for snakes."

Tina replied, "Thanks, I think I will do all those things. I know how to look out for snakes. Dave told me about Mr. Spider. I think I'll visit him. I'll be careful not to disturb him."

"He is behind the avocado tree at the end of the yard."

We went into Tom's office.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later we emerged. I looked around and found Tina taking a nap on a chaise lounge in the shade on the back patio. As she heard the screen door open, she sat up and smiled.

"Back from space-time travels?'

"Yes, it was really amazing."

"It looks like it. You are really radiating that amazing energy." Tina exclaimed.

I thanked Tom, we chatted a bit and then said our goodbyes. As we walked to the car I said to Tina, "Why don't you drive. I am still a bit distracted, not totally back in present time."

"Still feel like going to the Norton Simon?" She asked.

"Yes, I think that would be perfect. How about something simple for lunch?"

She thought a minute and then said, "There is a little latte and snack bar in the courtyard at the museum. They have sandwiches there. How about that?"

"Great."

After we drove away Tina asked, "Do you want to talk about what happened in your session?"

"Yes, that would probably be a good idea. I am still trying to assimilate what I experienced in visiting that space-time.

"It was some time at the beginning if World War I and we were in Germany. My brother, he was about 20, and I, about 22, were fascinated with learning to fly a biplane that a local man flew. He sold rides and gave flying lessons. My recall skipped until when my brother was killed in a crash of that biplane, when a wheel came off in landing and the plane flipped over. I experienced intense grief. I got back to that space-time because Tom ran me back on a grief thread that started from the time when our family dog died in this lifetime.

"Then, I followed the thread of 'crashing airplanes' and skipped to when I was flying in a German biplane squadron. The other pilots were a scary, brutal bunch of guys, fiercely and ruthlessly competing for some award or prize for shooting down enemy airplanes. I could feel their vibrations of anger. I was caught up in the game and shot down many airplanes. Everyone thought it was a noble endeavor; we were like knights jousting for honor. I re-experienced several dogfight scenes, machine-gunning other airplanes, following them down to the ground to make sure they crashed and burned. I could hear the sound of the biplane motors, smell the engines, and feel how the airplane responded to controls. I feel as though I could get into one today and know how to fly it.

"I'll have to read up on the era. There was confusing stuff I don't understand. I have a sense that there is more of that story to be recalled from that space-time."

Tina's eyes were wide as she asked, "Do you really want to follow all that by looking a Monet's _Water Lilies?_ "

"Yes, I need a change of space-time."

The Norton Simon Museum sits on Colorado, the main street of Pasadena, on the path of the New Year's Day Rose Parade. As we walked up to the unassuming grey–tiled building, we passed several bigger-than-life Rodin bronze sculptures in a courtyard. We could see through the glass lobby into the garden with a large pond, hundreds of trees and shrubs, and many pieces of sculpture worked into the landscape. Two exhibition wings connected to the lobby. We went directly into the garden to have lunch.

As we sat at one of the garden's wrought iron tables, enjoying a simple lunch, Tina said, "I love this place, where we can sit and look over the pond and see works by Rodin, Laurens, Henry Moore, Hepworth and Maillol and others. What a visual feast!"

"I'm impressed by your knowledge about art," I commented.

"My course work for my masters degree has included quite a few art history and art criticism courses. As I have really learned to look at art, I have found a different level of appreciation. With some artists' works, after I look at them a while I start to feel the emotion of what the artist was experiencing when they painted the picture. For instance, one of my favorite pictures, _Sous Bois_ , by Cezanne, in the LA County Museum, shows a scene in a wood. As I study the picture I can smell the leaves, feel the humidity, feel the love of the scene, and marvel at the shapes of the trees. It is as though I am getting into Cezanne's head.

"Another time, I visited the Rothko Chapel in Houston, a chapel that features big panels, almost black, painted a short time before Rothko committed suicide. The chapel was supposed to be a place of meditation for people of all faiths. All I experienced was Rothko's utter despair, a sense of total failure, one of the lowest vibrations I have ever experienced. When I left there, I almost felt suicidal. Even now, when I think about the visit, I can feel Rothko's despair. Aargh! I have to keep my mind out of there.

"Maybe that is a feature of great art: it takes you into the artist's head."

I observed, "You know, a couple of months ago, I would have thought you were being irrational, talking about experiencing dead artist's emotions by looking at their paintings. Now, it all seems perfectly reasonable to me."

Tina leaned over and squeezed my hand, and gave me a look that I shall never forget. It was as though we were suddenly bound together.

Then, she looked a little embarrassed and said, "Lets go into the galleries."

We spent about an hour looking at the Impressionist and Post–impressionist paintings by Manet, van Gogh, Matisse, Monet, etc. without saying much. I did notice that the vibration I sensed from her changed significantly when she looked at some paintings.

After a while, Tina said, "Let's walk in the garden, I am getting visually saturated."

As we walked into the garden, I said, "Maybe that's one of the features of great art, it is a ticket to travel in space-time to be perceptually with an artist, or a person, in another place in space-time."

Tina didn't respond; she simply gave me another version of the look she gave me at lunch.

The garden is surrounded by high brown tile surfaced walls, the same height and color as the as the museum. In the center there is a long pond, covered with patches of water lilies and edged with a variety of rushes and reeds. A wide variety of trees, some in bloom, filled the garden and shaded a path that meanders around the pond. Bronze and granite statues are placed around the pond and under the trees. The late afternoon sun reflected off the pond and projected a soft ripple of light on many statues.

As we walked from statue to statue, we didn't talk much. We looked at each statue for a minute or more, sometimes walking over to read the nameplate, and looking at the surrounding plants or trees. We came to a large dark metal statue of a nude woman, maybe double life-size, who appeared to be tumbling sideways into the patch of lavender surrounding the base, her arms stretched out in the air, her feet flailing with only her hip touching the base.

I went over to the nameplate and read aloud, " _Air._ "

Tina said, "By Aristide Maillol, right?"

I nodded yes.

"Tina, I kind of feel like this when I am around you, at times like today, like I'm about to tumble."

"Me, too," she answered. "Into a bed of lavender isn't all that bad."

I took her hand and said, "I think we should live together. I want to be around you as much as possible."

She turned and put her hands on my cheeks, gave me that look again, smiled her mischievous smile, said, "I would like that. Your place or mine?" and gave me a long kiss.

"We will work that out," I said with a big smile.

"Is this only until you go off to war next Wednesday?"

"No," I said looking directly into her eyes, "I'm glad you are such a careful listener. I plan for this to be for much longer and..."

She cut me off and said, "I must warn you I'll have to redecorate your place a little bit, definitely adding some art work."

"No Rothko's, I hope."

With a sly grin she said, "We'll see."

We decided to start our togetherness at my place. Tomorrow was a legal holiday, my office was closed, and I didn't want to go there anyway. We stopped at Tina's, picked up a few things, and then went to a market. Tina said she wanted to cook a really fine dinner. I, feeling very domestic, was comfortable with the idea. Somehow, all of a sudden, I felt as though we were a pair. I thought to myself as we climbed the stairs to my apartment, 'Look at me, carrying bags of groceries full of real food into my apartment, walking behind someone else who lives here.'

Tina cooked a marvelous dinner. We ate by candlelight to the sound of romantic music, my contribution. It was a marvelous evening. I fell into the lavender.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of Tina humming and the smell of breakfast and coffee filling the air. I lay in bed and reveled at my new domestic scene. We lolled and loved away the day, my best-ever holiday.

In the late afternoon, we were sitting on the couch in the living room still in out bathrobes. Tina, leaned her back on me as I read a book, and she was working with my iPad.

"I have been researching German World War I flying," said Tina. "At the start of the war, nobody was very experienced as a pilot. Also, they hadn't figured out how to have the machine guns shoot through the propellers. The machine guns were mounted on the top wings of the biplanes so it was difficult to reload them. They had to stand up in the cockpit–that must have been scary–or use cumbersome track sort of things to pull the guns down to the cockpit to reload. It sounded very awkward.

"At the start of the war a medal, nicknamed the Blue Max, but officially the _Order Pour le Me'rite_ , was awarded to pilots who shot down eight enemy aircraft. There weren't that many enemy aircraft to shoot down, and they had to spend too much time messing with their guns during a dogfight. Eight _victories_ , as they called them, were an achievement.

"Later in the war, they invented a way to shoot the guns through the propellers, so the guns could be sitting right in front of the pilots where they could be reloaded or unjammed easily. There were also more enemy aircraft to shoot down. They had to raise the award level to sixteen.

"Even later in the war there were thousands of enemy aircraft, many piloted by boys with only a few hours of training who had no flying skills to use evading attackers. They had to raise the award level to thirty.

"Here is a picture of the medal," she said as she handed the iPad to me.

I looked at the picture and felt my heart sink. "Wow!" I said, "That creates an emotional response in me. That must relate to the experience in my space-time recall with Tom." The medal was a blue cross with gold eagles filling in the space between the arms of the cross. On the arms of the cross were the words, _Pour le Me'rite_.

"That award must be why everyone was so competitive in my recall. I can really feel the energy on that. I must have been striving to win the medal," I said as I handed the iPad back to Tina. "A strand of my 'web of life' must be tied to that space-time if I can feel intense emotion from looking at the medal."

Tina turned a few pages on the iPad and then handed it back to me saying, "Look, here is a picture of one of their old airplanes."

As I looked at the picture, my body again reacted and I felt an emotion of loss or of grief. "That must have been one of the kind of airplanes I flew." I closed my eyes a few seconds and thought about the airplane. "Wow! as I think about it, I know exactly what is smells like, the sound of the engine, the exhaust fumes. I also can perceive the jolts on my rear end when it taxies." I paused for another moment and said, "I also know exactly how it flies, the response of the stick, and the G's as it turns and rolls. I can hear the machine guns. They are really loud.

"Let's change the subject or do something else. This subject is freaking me out."

"'Freaking–me–out' is not good." Replied Tina. She squirmed a little bit and then exclaimed in a false southern accent, "Oh dearie me, just look how my bathrobe is falling off my shoulders. What am I to do?"

As I walked into my office on Tuesday, I didn't even notice Carolyn doing her thing because I was feeling so good. When I got to my suite, Zaza wistfully sighed her "Good morning." Then, she looked at me and said, "OK, this looks like a dozen long–stemmed roses sort of day. Did you get Flopsey and Mopsey and Cottontail together somewhere? OK, I get it, one dozen for each, one for Saturday, one for Sunday, one for yesterday."

"No flowers," I said. I saw a puzzled appear on Zaza's face.

Zaza said, "You have an unexpected visitor in the lobby. He said his name is Mr. Burton. Do you know who he is?"

"No, can't say I do. Is he there now?"

"I'll check," said Zaza as she buzzed Carolyn.

"He's there."

I walked into the lobby and a tall man in a dark navy blue suit and dark aviator glasses rose out of his chair and said, "Mr. Willard?"

I said, "Yes," as he handed me his business card. It said 'Mr. A Burton, Special Representative, EB Services.'

I stared at the card for a minute until I remembered who EB Services was, Colson's Security consultants, and then nodded my head in recognition.

"Please come into my office," I said.

"Can we take a walk?" he said.

"OK," I said. I then turned to Carolyn who was pretending to look another way, and said, "Tell Zaza I will be gone for a while." I followed Mr. Burton to the elevator, and we got in without him saying a word. As we rode down, he didn't speak. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him staring at the door.

As we exited the elevator he said, "Lets go out into the plaza."

Our Century City building is situated on the edge of a park-like plaza that is shared with two other high-rise buildings. The plaza has a central fountain and many benches under trees or next to landscaped plots for people to relax or have lunch. I followed Mr. Burton to an isolated bench where he sat down.

"Please excuse the precautions, they are part of our business. As you know, we have been retained by the Colson Foundation to provide security for you and your key witnesses from now until the end of the trial. I am aware of Dr. Montgomery's scare at your parking garage, the discovery of surveillance devices on your car, the person seen around your equipment at CrystalSky airport, and at Rocky Butte, and in Ogden. We know who he is. We have a plan for your security and the security of your witnesses at Rocky Butte.

"First, we would like to provide surveillance of your equipment at CrystalSky airport. It sits in the open and we would like to park some sort of vehicle in the vicinity that we can conceal a surveillance camera in. Do you have any suggestions?"

I thought for a second and then said, "I sometimes rent a jeep sedan from the tow pilot, Dan, to tow my sailplane trailer for off-road retrieves. Rent Dan's jeep and park it near my trailer. It would not seem out of the ordinary since a credible coat of dust covers it. You can trust Dan. Tell him you are doing it for me so I can catch whoever has been messing around with my trailer."

"We will do that," Burton replied. "Now, here are the arrangements for Rocky Butte.

"We have leased an upscale Dude Ranch near Rocky Butte, which has a main house and five first-class cabins. You can stay in the main house with a couple of our people. Buster, one of my operatives, will be your bodyguard. His wife, Sofia, will be a bodyguard, and will prepare the meals for the witnesses and other visitors. The pair are experts at what they do.

"Your witnesses and other visitors, such as your firm's staff, or people from Colson, will stay in the cabins and we will provide transportation to and from the Rocky Butte Courthouse. Witnesses and visitors will fly commercially to Sacramento and then will be flown, by us, on a chartered light plane to the airstrip on the ranch property. Witnesses can bring spouses or _significant others_ for their stay, but nobody goes into Rocky Butte for anything but court business." Burton paused, and I interrupted.

"How about me, can I bring my _significant other?_ " (I was delighted at saying that.)

Burton didn't flinch, but I thought he was mulling over the fact that they hadn't found a _significant other_ in checking me out.

"And," I added, "I need to go into Rocky Butte to mingle with people so that they will consider me more like a local. The local grapevine is an asset I intend to use. The grapevine gave me the intelligence that there was someone checking up on me, the guy that was also spotted in Ogden."

Without pausing Burton said, "Of course, in answer to both requests, but, your guest shouldn't go into Rocky Butte during the trial. We don't want to risk a hostage situation. Whenever you go into town you must be accompanied by our man or his wife, your bodyguards."

"Fine," I replied.

"I understand you want to go to Rocky Butte day after tomorrow."

"Yes, I plan to drive up. I have to take a lot of stuff."

"No, we would strongly recommend flying. Our man will pick you up at the airport. Fly from Burbank to Sacramento on Air California." He took out his iPhone and texted a message. Can you make the 9:15?"

I said, "Yes."

He then said a courier would come to my office tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 to pick up any packages of material I needed in Rocky Butte. His phone buzzed, he read the text message and said, "You are on the 9:15.

"No one is to make their own reservations, but everyone should use their own name and passport when they travel."

"This afternoon, a courier will deliver a letter of travel arrangements and instructions for you and another letter for your witnesses, and spouses or _significant others_. We insist on making travel arrangements for everyone who will visit the ranch. Anybody arriving unexpectedly will be substantially inconvenienced."

"I get it," I said. I thought _Shot-on-sight._

"Fine," he replied. "It is a pleasure doing business with you. We are certain everyone will enjoy the arrangements."

He stood up and shook my hand and said, "Have a safe and successful visit to Rocky Butte."

As he walked away, I wondered if everyone Colson did business with was so wishy-washy.

When I got back to the office, Zaza said, "Who was that? Carolyn said he was so spooky she was hiding under her desk. She thought he was one of those Men In Black, like in the movie, and he would zap her memory or come back and machine gun the place."

I told Zaza he was Mr. Burton–I never got his first name or even saw the eyes he had hidden under his glasses–from EB Services, Colson's security consultants, here to discuss arrangements for people coming to Rocky Butte for the trial. I briefed Zaza on what Burton had outlined and the arrangements. I didn't tell her about my _significant other_ arrangements.

As promised, the courier arrived with the letters. I emailed Candice that I was sending her detailed travel arrangement by a courier, that we had rented a Dude Ranch, and that I hoped Tom could join us at our expense. I did the same for Peter Gallagher at UCLA. I also invited Steve and Georgia to come spend a couple of days at the ranch, to make sure he was readily available, and described the security concerns.

When I arrived home, the apartment was filled with the lovely smell of something cooking. There were candles on the table with a vase of flowers, and place settings of unfamiliar plates.

"In here," I heard Tina call from the kitchen. As I walked in, I saw her stirring something in a large frying pan, also not mine.

"Thai stir-fry," she said as she walked over and greeted me with a big, long sensuous kiss. "Just a minute, I am almost finished, she said turning back to cooking and then turning off the stove. "Pour the wine."

I poured the wine and gave her a glass as she wiped her hands on a towel.

She grabbed me around the waist, backed me up, pressed me against a cabinet, and looked up, batted her eyes and then said in a husky voice, "How was your day, big boy?"

"Great," I stammered. "Look, I have a surprise for you. If you want, you can join me at Rocky Butte. We have rented a dude ranch there, complete with caretakers and a cook. The client will provide transportation and make all arrangements. When is school over?"

"Friday." She paused and then asked. "Can I come up Saturday?"

"That will be wonderful!"

She pressed me against the cabinet again, so hard I could hardly breathe, turned slightly and unbuttoned her blouse, then pressed against me again, looked up, batted her eyes and said, in her fake southern accent, "Oh dearie me, dinner won't be ready for a while. Oh! What should we do?"

**7**

**David Understands**

****

Wednesday, as instructed, I took the 9:15 Air California flight from Burbank to Sacramento. As I was waiting at the baggage carousel, I heard "Mr. Willard?" I turned around a saw a very athletic looking cowboy, about five foot two, maybe thirty years old, wearing worn jeans, a well worn Stetson hat, a large silver belt buckle, scuffed cowboy boots worn down at the heel, and a striped shirt with mother of pearl buttons down the front and on the flapped pockets. His face was very tan and weathered looking, with wrinkles that made him look older than he was. He had intense blue eyes.

"I'm Buster Cabot. I am here to provide you transportation to the ranch," he said, with a Texas cowboy accent.

He gave me his card that read "Buster Cabot, EB Services, Inc." I observed there was no title.

"Pleased to meet you," I replied, taken somewhat aback. I was expecting a uniformed Towne Car driver instead of a cowboy.

As we watched the bags circulate on the carousel, Buster volunteered that the ranch was about an hour and a half from the airport. When my bags came Buster took them saying, follow me and continued out the terminal door. We walked to the first floor of the parking structure, identified as short-term parking. Buster walked over to a large green pickup truck, a GMC from the days when there were two large headlights, only one on each side, probably the 1960s, with rust showing everywhere through the faded green paint, including rust holes at the bottom of the doors and rust on wheels that had long ago lost their hubcaps. He put my bags in the pickup bed alongside a tool compartment and some oily looking agricultural equipment. As I opened the door, it squeaked and them clanked as I closed it. Surprisingly, the interior was well–kept, obviously redone. We drove away on the airport road. Buster was quiet and concentrating on looking out the rear view mirrors. When we came to the Exit-Return interchange, at the entrance to the airport, Buster took the Return branch and we circulated through some of the service and car rental areas.

After we finally departed the airport, Buster said, without the Texas cowboy accent, "Sorry for the delay, I wanted to make sure no one was following us. I should introduce myself. I will be in charge of your security at the ranch and your personal bodyguard."

I wondered if EB Services was some kind of low-budget operation.

Buster continued, "EB Services is sort of my day job. It fills the time between my gigs as a stuntman."

"Like in the movies?" I asked.

"Yes, I have done a lot of Westerns, but they are not doing many anymore, so I play bad guys in movies where there are many fight scenes. I am a martial arts expert and even was in a Jackie Chan movie. These days, I do work where I am in a harness supported by wires in acrobatic fight scenes, the kind where you run up walls and jump over buildings. This truck is a movie truck. It didn't get looking like this on its own. It is sometimes rented from me when I am on a movie. Also, it has a special suspension and a good engine."

He pressed on the accelerator pedal, and it sped up like a sports car.

"It handles well in chase scenes, real or in the movies. It won't attract much attention in Rocky Butte."

He reached underneath the center of the dash. Something clicked and a compartment dropped down. In it was a gun, not a western type, more like you see bad guys in modern movies carrying. Next to it was a small red cylinder that looked like a miniature fire extinguisher.

"Is that real?" I asked

"Yes, and it is licensed and legal. That cylinder is bear spray. It is a harmless pepper spray that is designed to stop a grizzly bear at thirty feet. It is useful for protecting yourself when it wouldn't be appropriate to shoot somebody, or take the time to break some bones."

I noticed that he had a particular delight in saying, "break some bones."

"If you know the secret latches to pull, I'll show you later, the back of the seat folds down and there are two shotguns there."

"Just like in the movies," I observed. "Who are you usually protecting when you are not protecting lawyers in small towns?"

"We have all kinds of clients. I have another persona where I do the black suit with microphones up the sleeves kind of thing, and drive armored limousines. We do mostly executives and entertainment people, rock stars, and all that. Sometimes, it is some important person from a Middle Eastern country. We have had quite a bit of special training. I don't get to use my truck very often. However, you will not get any less thorough protection than some foreign minister."

"Tell me about the ranch and the arrangements."

"The Rocky Butte Adventure Ranch is about ten miles south of town, off on a dirt road two miles from the highway. It has a main lodge where you will stay, and six rather plush hunting lodge–type cabins where visitors will stay. We will all eat family style in the main lodge. My wife, Sofia, will cook and serve as a bodyguard. She is also highly trained in martial arts and works as a stunt person in the movies."

I added, "I'll be careful not to complain about the cooking."

Buster didn't flinch or laugh as he continued, "Your witnesses have been instructed to make their travel arrangements through us. They will fly to Sacramento as you did and then will be met by our representative. Don't worry, they will be wearing limo driver clothes and have town cars. They will be taken to another small airport where they will board a small twin-engine chartered plane that will fly them to the dirt strip on the ranch. I understand you will be having a guest."

"Yes, Tina Quail," I replied. "She will come Saturday and stay for the length of our time here. My legal assistant, a young attorney, Elizabeth McKenzie, will be joining us also and staying in one of the cabins. I guess she can ride with me when I drive to court."

"We must insist on Tina staying on the ranch and out of Rocky Butte until the trial is over. We do not want to risk any sort of hostage situation. Sofia will be her companion when she goes for a swim, hike, or ride."

"Will I have a car, or is this my transportation?"

Buster laughed and then said, "No, we have prepared a lawyer-proper car for you. Nothing fancy, a Chevy Camaro about two years old."

"Prepared? Secret compartments with guns?"

"No, we have added a few security features that I'll show you later.

"We have some information, photographs etc., on the guy who has been stalking you. Our intelligence from a reliable source says he is working alone. He is code named 'Mr. S.' He doesn't appear to be very smart."

"Reliable intelligence source?" I asked.

Buster didn't respond, but went on, "We have also rented an old farmhouse on the way to the ranch, off the same dirt road. You will let it be known around town that you are staying there. One of our guys, call him your stunt double, Cody Stevens, will stay there and provide a nice welcome for Mr. S if he shows up.

"We will also have two of my guys in town staying at the Riverside Motel. You will probably never meet them. They will be doing things for me and might provide transportation as needed. Also, Dore has a person with a San Jose Times press pass who will be attending the court sessions. She will keep Dore informed on what transpires in court. You will get a copy of her dispatches."

I was quiet for a while. I thought about the other Mr. S in Candice and Tom's back yard.

"Buster, I compliment you on your planning. It seems very thorough. I won't have to worry about anything but the trial."

"That's our job," he replied.

"By the way, what does the 'EB' in EB Services stand for?"

"Executive babysitting, or so I have been told."

The rest of the way to Rocky Butte was spent talking about movies he had been on and some of the interesting cases I had worked. When I mentioned the Norton Simon museum, Buster knew all about it and discussed his favorite picture there, The Rag Picker by Manet. Apparently there was more to Buster than this cowboy persona.

After we turned off the highway onto the dirt road, we drove for about a half mile through the pine forest and then turned onto a driveway that led to a clearing with a boxy two-story farmhouse, apparently dating from the early 1900s. It was well maintained, painted grey, with white shutters, a new roof, and short eaves like the houses in New England. Four sycamore trees, very green with their late spring foliage, surrounded it.

"You should look around inside so you can talk as though you are familiar with the place. Inspect the kitchen in case you have to describe it to someone. It looks as if it has been recently redone."

Inside, the house was attractively furnished. I surmised that it was a vacation rental property by how the kitchen was equipped with dishes and cooking utensils.

We got back in the truck and drove the mile and a half to the ranch through the pine forest.

The gateway to the ranch had two posts and a lintel made of logs. The lintel across the driveway mounted several sets of long steer horns. A wrought iron sculpture on the top of the lentil pictured bucking horses ridden by cowboys in Stetson hats twirling lariats. In the center was a large letter R with a bar underneath it, apparently the ranch brand.

The road from the gate wound downhill past a meadow filled with spring wildflowers to a slight rise where the ranch house sat, a factory-made log house, with logs turned to uniform size and machine-made notches in the corners where the walls connected to the front. It was two stories high with two dormer windows protruding from the roof that extended over a large covered porch. Four rocking chairs sat on the porch.

As we pulled up in front, I saw a woman sitting in one of the rocking chairs. She got up and came out to greet us, kissing Buster, and then turning with a hand out to introduce herself.

"Hi, I'm Sofia, you must be Dave Willard. We are here to make sure you have a safe and enjoyable stay."

I was surprised at the strength in her handshake, more like a man's than a woman's. Sofia was dressed in a plain blue denim dress, and a heavy silver and jade necklace about her neck, and a variety of matching bracelets, and belt. Long black braided hair fell down the length of her back. A dark complexion and brown eyes gave me the impression that she must be Native American.

Buster laughed. "I haven't seen you in that getup since we left Taos! It looks good." He turned to me and volunteered, "We were out there on a western shoot. Although Sofia is of Portuguese descent, she gets cast for some Indian roles. That was her reservation–diva costume. Wrong tribe for Rocky Butte, though."

"I think it's cute," replied Sofia.

"Here, Dave, I'll show you around. This is the main lodge, and there are six cabins nestled in the woods, three on the other side of the meadow and three in the woods behind the house. Down below there, in the back, are caretakers, maids, and hands quarters plus a barn and five horses in the corral. Two maids, who don't speak much English, and a wrangler, Ben, are there. We gave everyone else a vacation–security convenience to make sure nobody would be going into town telling about our operation. If you or your guests would like to go riding, they can see Ben. He also has a Jeep for rides to and from the airstrip or over to the lake where there is a swimming beach, and a few rowboats and picnic spots. People don't need to be escorted, unless they want to be, anywhere on the ranch."

We then went over to a dilapidated–looking pickup, with a camper shell on the back parked near the lodge. Buster walked around back and then opened the camper shell door. There was no roof on the camper, and the shell was filled with a satellite dish.

Buster volunteered, "This provides secure high speed internet service. We are too far out in the boonies for cable or DSL. The rig also has a miniature cell site so you and your guests can use their phones. The lodge has its own satellite TV."

We went into the lodge. The walls were varnished logs, the furniture, deep–brown leather with the wooden parts made from whitish branches, something like birch. On the walls and the floor were rugs woven in an Indian style. A large river rock fireplace filled one end of the room.

_Very Western_ , I thought. 'Tina will like the fact that there are no mounted animal head trophies on the walls.'

Buster showed me a bedroom off the kitchen. "This is where we will sleep, handy to respond to anything."

Then, he went to a heavy wood plank door and opened it. "This goes to the wine cellar. We can use it as a safe room. It has a heavy lock on the inside so nobody can get in. If anyone needs to take refuge, this is a good place.

"You and your guest will stay in the suite upstairs. There is an office area up there with a small conference table. We put your boxes that the courier picked up at your office up there. The satellite rig in the camper provides Wi-Fi so you and your guests can have Internet access anywhere in the house."

Sofia invited us to follow her out onto the porch for lunch, carrying a platter of sandwiches. "I have iced tea," she said. "But there is beer in the fridge if you want it. Feel free to go into the kitchen and get anything you want at any time day or night. This is your house."

"Thanks," I said. "By the way, where is the car I will drive?"

"Cody is bringing it up tomorrow."

After lunch, I excused myself to rest and get settled in.

Sofia said, "Dinner at six, happy hour at five."

Unknown to Dave, somebody was using this night to visit CrystalSky airport and tamper with Dave's sailplane.

Mr. S drove his white van with the lights off, in the light of the quarter moon, down the dirt road to where the enemy kept his sailplane trailer, thinking to himself, _I will destroy this agent of the forces of evil, those who would move the world back into superstition and fear by promulgating false beliefs in the name of a false science. The attorney will die a deserved, terrible death._ He chuckled to himself. _The Skeptimos Order will honor me for this feat._ He visualized the ceremony. The members in their hooded white robes, emblazoned with the flame red crosses, would chant and place a wreathe of laurels on his head.

Mr. S parked his van near the sailplane trailer, went into the back and pulled the black curtains over the windows. By a dim light, he assembled his bombs. The first was a flare that made a poisonous smoke, one that was intended for killing gophers and varmints in their tunnels or dens. The second, a half stick of dynamite, was rigged to detonate two minutes after the smoke bomb. He laughed to himself as he set the smoke bomb altitude detonator to go off after the sailplane had gained two thousand feet above the airport. He used a marking pen to draw the Skeptemos symbol on the duct tape holding the bombs together.

After turning off the light, he left the van for the sailplane trailer. Fortunately, an outside night-light on a nearby hangar provided him with enough illumination to do his work. He put on surgical gloves to prevent fingerprints, and used the key he had made from a wax impression to unlock the trailer. He slowly opened the trailer, reached in and removed the cockpit canopy. Watching pilots rig their sailplanes in Ogden had carefully planned his procedure. He gingerly placed the bombs behind and under the pilot's seat, in a place that wouldn't be discovered in assembling the airplane.

He removed the parachute and turned it over and, placed a locking pin in the ripcord to prevent it from being pulled to open the parachute. The parachute was carefully replaced in the cockpit and the canopy was restored. He closed and locked the trailer and returned to his van.

Mr. S was jubilant as he drove away, laughing to himself about the cleverness of his plan. When the attorney took his next flight, being towed to altitude, the smoke bomb would go off filling the cockpit with black, poisonous smoke. If the pilot could open the canopy in time to not be overcome, he might try to fly the sailplane back to the field. The second bomb would kill the pilot if he tried that. If he managed to bail out, the parachute wouldn't open and the attorney would fall in terror to his death. He wanted to be there to observe his creation.

The next morning was a beautiful Sierra morning in Rocky Butte. Dave woke up at six and went down stairs in my running suit. Sofia was alone in the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee and sitting in a chair with her legs pulled up under her bathrobe.

"It's cold," she said. "Pour yourself some coffee while I make breakfast."

I poured a cup of coffee and then said, "Don't bother with breakfast now, I am going for a run. How far is the lake?"

"About a mile. Go past the stables and turn right at the fork in the road." She went to the cupboard and took out a canister of bear spray tucked in a little hoister on a belt. "Here, take this with you, it's good for lots of things."

"Is there a bear problem here?"

"No, but you may never know what you might run into around here. Had some rumors about Sasquatch."

"I know about him. Remember, I was raised in a logging town in Northern California. I understand he can be a really bad one."

I didn't think she had Sasquatch in mind, so I didn't protest.

I had a pleasant run to the lake, taking it easy to get used to the thin air at this altitude. It was refreshing to be among the tall trees, hear the wind in the branches, smell the pines, and run on a carpet of dry needles. It is very different from running in LA. I decided to rest and enjoy the view of the sparkling lake and the surrounding pine forest. I sat down on a soft bed of pine needles underneath a tree, shifted my weight to remove a small pinecone underneath me, leaned back on the tree, and relaxed. I closed my eyes and was enjoying the sun on my face when I heard an airplane. I looked up and saw a single engine airplane a couple of thousand feet up, flying off to the East. I closed my eyes again and listened to the fading engine noise and relaxed, thinking I could easily nap. My mind drifted.

Then, I started to see pictures, in my minds eye, of biplanes circling, as if dog fighting, with the sounds of machine-guns and engines revving and slowing as the planes climbed, turned, and dove. I felt a sense of fear and intense concentration. I sensed I was flying a biplane and pursuing another airplane laboring along, an observation plane, one with a pilot and a machine gunner. It didn't seem to maneuver to evade me.

I made one pass with my machine guns blaring, saw the pilot and gunner slump down, and saw the smoke begin to pour from the engine. I circled to make sure it went down and then saw the machine gunner emerge and start turning his gun in my direction. His gun apparently jammed, and he was pounding on it. As I closed in I saw that the gunner was a mere boy, with a look of terror in his eyes. I couldn't fire my gun. As I passed by the plane, I could see the pilot's head slumped over the side of the cockpit. He also was a mere boy, and judging by his displayed aeronautical skills, someone who had only been trained to take off and land before being sent out on a reconnaissance mission. I was fighting against children!

I moved away and watched the plane go down and crash in flames. I realized that trying to win the Blue Max was not the result of engaging in dogfights between chivalrous knights of the sky; it was awarded for murdering children.

I believe I dozed for a while, and then the vision came back. I was at an assembly of military personnel on the parade ground of the airfield, and the commandant was cutting off my medals and insignia. I felt totally disgraced. Then, I sensed that I later died in a trench as an ordinary infantryman.

I woke up and cried openly. I slowly walk back to the ranch house, assimilating what I had experienced traveling in space-time, wondering why I had been exposed to such dreadful visions

When I entered the kitchen, Sofia glanced at me, then looked at me carefully and said, "You OK? Did you really run into Sasquatch?"

I replied, "I'm OK. I just recalled a terrible time when I lived in that logging town, when I discovered a dead body in the woods." That really had happened: it was a passible explanation.

"I'll bring you your breakfast. Go into the dining room. Buster is there with Cody who drove your car up from LA."

Buster introduced me to Cody who didn't look like a western movie stuntman at all. He was five–feet, seven–inches, about one-hundred-seventy pounds, brown eyes, and wearing a short haircut, carefully made to appear spiky. He looked exactly like me!

Buster explained, "Cody is your, shall we say, stunt double who will be living at the farmhouse we stopped by up the road. He is well trained, like all members of our organization, and will give Mr. S an appropriate welcome if he shows up."

I looked in astonishment at Cody and said, "Are we related? You look like you could be my brother."

We went outside to the black Camaro parked next to Buster's truck. Buster handed me the keys. "We have modified the alarm system. Since we wouldn't put it past Mr. S to tamper with your car, you have a special electronic door opener on the key chain. It has two indicator lights above the door open button. If either of those is lit, don't go near the car. The yellow light indicates that someone has been in the car since you locked the door. The red light indicates that someone has had the hood open since you turned off the engine. If either of those lights is on, walk away. I'll probably be nearby to take care of you. This is a very important instruction. Also, don't give your car to anyone else to drive unless it is at my instruction."

"I get it," I said wondering what this was all about. "I want to go into town for dinner tonight at Bob's Cafe. I will plant the idea that I am staying at the decoy farmhouse and pick up any the gossip."

"Good, I'll follow you in my truck. You can get the townspeople used to the idea that this is your car."

As I went back in the lodge, Sofia appeared carrying a hanger with a white Hawaiian shirt with hula girls on the front and back.

"Wear this into town," she said. "It may not be your usual style, but we want you to stand out. It is part of the plan."

That evening I went to the town to have dinner with Agnes at Bob's Cafe. I parked my Camaro in front of the cafe and went in. There were eight people in the cafe, four men in Stetsons sitting at one booth. Three women in simple dresses, maybe belonging to the men, sat at another booth busily gossiping. A man wearing a Caterpillar Tractor ball cap occupied a booth at the end of the restaurant. The ladies noticed me and bent over in secret conversation, perhaps speculating on who I was.

I sat at the counter, and Agnes walked over and announced, "The dinner special is pork chops, best in the county."

"I can't pass that up, and I'll also have an MGD," I replied.

Agnes announced, "One Miller Genuine Draft coming up." She slid the order slip onto the carrousel at the service counter and brought me my beer. "I didn't expect you 'till next week when the trial starts."

I saw Buster drive up in his green pickup.

"I came up to do a little relaxing before the trial. I have rented a place ten miles down the hill, off a dirt road. It was a farmhouse and is now a vacation rental."

Agnes thought a minute and then said, "Is it a boxy grey house with white shutters?'

I nodded yes. Buster came in and sat at a booth, without either of us acknowledging each other.

"That is the old Williams' house. They used to own many properties around here. I heard they fixed it up, some."

"You're right. It has a fine new kitchen, and it looks as though it has been repainted and has new furniture."

The ladies were huddling again.

The cook rang the bell, and Agnes retreated to deliver some orders.

I sat alone for a while, heard the bell ring again, and watched Agnes bring my special.

"Looks good," I said.

"Best in the county. You staying there alone?"

I nodded yes as I took my first bite.

"Get you anything else?"

"No. This is good," I said.

I noticed that Buster had the special also.

After Buster left and was sitting in his pickup, using a toothpick, and seeming deep in thought, I paid my check and left, leaving Agnes a big tip.

As I drove back to the ranch, I saw Buster a good distance behind me. I turned on the dirt road, and then Buster followed me for a while, passed me, and then stopped by the driveway to the 'old Williams house.' I stopped behind him and saw Cody come out from behind a bush and walk over to my car. He was dressed in the same hula shirt I was wearing.

"You can ride with Buster the rest of the way."

I stood and watched Cody drive my car into the driveway before I joined Buster.

"This will be the routine," said Buster.

"What is he going to do all the time hanging around?"

"Cody is a screen writer. Two of his scripts have been made into movies. He is working on the rewrite of a script he has recently sold and is going into production this summer. If someone could peek into the window of the 'old Williams' place' they would see a man hard at work on his laptop, looking ever so much like a lawyer preparing a case. He even has a bunch of law books laying around."

As we drove to the ranch, we exchanged views about the best pork chops in the county and other worldly matters.

I spent Friday getting ready for the trial. I went to the courthouse to file some papers and then went to Bob's Cafe for lunch. I noticed Buster drive by but not stop, I talked to Agnes briefly, and had their luncheon special, an open-faced chili hamburger. I commented to myself that I couldn't get food like this on Melrose Avenue.

I thought to myself, _I'll bring Tina here for a treat and celebration after we win the case_.

When I left for the ranch, I noticed Buster following me as I left town.

After we made the switch with Cody at the Williams' place, I got in the truck and asked Buster where he ate lunch.

"I had fine dining at the Tasty Freeze."

"You know how to live," I observed.

Back at the ranch, I worked for a while and then decided to have a nap in the brightly colored hammock behind the lodge, strung between two trees at the edge of the woods,

I was dozing off, enjoying the sun reflecting off the needles of the pine trees, listening to the wind of the trees and some raucous jays.

Suddenly, I was back in the space-time of my biplane years. I was standing in my desecrated uniform missing the patches, talking to a beautiful lady dressed in a white lace dress and wearing a floppy wide brimmed lace hat that I could see the sun's rays through. She was angry, scolding me, and shaking her finger at me. I couldn't get what she was saying, but it was making me feel sad, rejected. Then, I felt betrayed! This was someone I had trusted and loved. She walked away, and I felt my heart sink or maybe it was a heart attack. The pictures faded and all that was left was a profound sense of despair.

I drifted off to sleep feeling that great feeling of despair. When I woke up, the despair was gone. As I rubbed my eyes, I decide that I felt good, as though a burden had been lifted. I stayed in the hammock for about an hour mulling over my vision, eventually rising into a rather joyful mood.

I sat up, put my feet on the ground and took out my cell phone. Yes, I had two bars here from Buster's local service. I called Tom who answered right away. He said he was composing but wouldn't mind a little interruption. I explained where I was.

I explained my two visions, the dogfight ending in my disgrace and the argument with the lady in white.

Tom said firmly, "I thought I told you not to try this at home. You can really get screwed up with attention stuck in some space-time." Then, he said, "Go over the last part of each vision slowly."

I did as he listened.

"You are OK," he said. "From sensing your vibration from here, I can tell you have dealt with whatever that was all about. It is OK to think about what it all means, but don't go back there again. If you sense you are drifting into another space-time, do something to wake yourself up. It would be an extremely bad habit to cultivate, sooner or later you might get very sick. Don't aimlessly wander through space-time, OK?"

"Agreed," I replied. "Is there anything I need to watch out for now?"

"Not especially. If you start to drift, grab onto and sense and observe some objects around where you are. That will ground you. When can you come in again?"

"I might be up here a couple more weeks."

"Be careful. Is Tina up there with you?"

"She will be here tomorrow."

"Good. Tell her to punch you or slap you if you start to drift off. Better yet, tell her to kick you in the balls. That will really ground you. Nobody travels in space-time bent over in pain. Take this seriously, it can be dangerous. I have known people who never really get back. Let's get together as soon as you get back to LA."

"Thanks," I said. "Goodbye."

I walked around picking up and examining pinecones and feeling and closely examining the bark of the trees, until I felt confident I was in present time. Then, I walked to the lodge and went in. Buster was stretched out in one of the easy chairs, listening to music on his iPod.

He sat up, fumbled with his iPod to turn it off, and said. "What's happening?" He paused, looked at me with puzzling expression. "You look like a cat that has just eaten a double order of canaries."

"Oh. I was snoozing in the hammock and had a really interesting dream."

"She arrives tomorrow doesn't she?"

"Yes, but the dream wasn't about her. I was kind of traveling in space-time to World War I, flying biplanes and that sort of thing."

"Was that good?"

"Yes, I think so. I think I am learning some lessons from traveling there."

Buster smiled and then picked up his iPod, and said, "I think I can travel in space-time with this thing, sometimes. When I listen to a superb performance by a superb orchestra under superb conductor, I feel as though I am transported to the mind of the composer and feel his emotionality. I was listening to Mahler's fifth symphony. It is a real emotional roller coaster ride."

I observed. "That is an interesting idea. I saw a PBS show about Leonard Bernstein. In an interview, Bernstein said when he conducted he never remembered anything about a performance from the time he was offstage, waiting to make is entrance, until the time he was taking his bow at the conclusion. He said he gauged his performance by how close he thought he came to becoming the composer."

"That sounds like some sort of channeling, which is a form of space-time travel."

Buster added, "An excellent performance transports the orchestra and audience to the composer's emotional space. I guess that would be in some other space-time when the composer was creating the work. There are relatively few performances that do that for me. I often will buy five CD's or versions of something before I find one that is worth listening to. I have learned which conductors and orchestras can do good jobs on certain composers."

"You surprise me, Buster, with your knowledge of art and music."

"I have a master's in Art History. I don't reveal that too many people. It might be bad for the tough man persona. "

Buster's eyes suddenly went from soft to hard and he cracked his knuckles. "Colson hired the tough guy. He is here except for these unguarded moments."

Buster laughed as I said, "You have to be tough to enjoy fine dining in Rocky Butte."

I was excited, anticipant. Tina's plane was coming in at 2:30. We had lived together for two wonderful days, and it felt as though we had always been together. The four days of separation was an eon. I thought I could feel her energy of anticipation in being together again.

I rode to the dirt airstrip with Ben in the Jeep. Ben didn't say much, he was an authentic silent cowboy type. He was slim but muscular, about six feet two, with chiseled features, about thirty years old. I didn't expect that he had a master's degree like Buster, although people like Ben often surprise me.

The bright Sierra sun was stronger than I was comfortable with so I moved over into the shade of a pine tree. I was careful to not allow myself to drift in space-time, heeding Tom's warning. I sat for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet and my anticipation. The distant sound of the twin engine airplane interrupted my reverie.

As it circled low over the field, checking wind direction shown by the windsock, I felt my sense of excitement at seeing Tina increase. The airplane disappeared and then, a long minute later, appeared over the trees at the end of the runway, landed and, taxied to where we were. The engines sputtered to silence. Tina was sitting in the back seat and Elizabeth McKenzie, the young attorney who would be my assistant for the trial, sat in the front.

Elizabeth climbed out first, dressed in a business suit. I shook her hand and said welcome. Tina jumped down and ran to me and gave me a big kiss. I felt whole again.

Elizabeth said, "That's a relief. Tina and I talked on the plane, but I didn't know how she fit into the operation. Carolyn is on a week-long vacation, and I feared I might find her up here."

I laughed and said, "Thanks for thinking so much of me."

She looked at Tina and said, "You are obviously in a much bigger league."

Elizabeth is a tall lady, six foot two, and a whole head taller than I, with a low maintenance, short haircut, very athletic and looks like and was a member of the US Olympic women's volleyball team. She still trains, wears very little makeup, and generally looks stoic. Although she is very outspoken, and does not have the tact to deal with clients well, she is a great legal researcher and has great powers of observation. It must be her volleyball training that gave her the ability to sense everything going on between everyone in a room. She reads juries.

I said to Tina, "The lodge is about a mile away. I see you are wearing tennis shoes. Want to walk?"

"Sure."

Elizabeth was eyeing Ben with great interest as he loaded the baggage. She seemed to be fascinated by the fill of his Levis.

I said, "We will walk. Elizabeth is staying in cabin two. Show her around the lodge and then take her to her cabin. We will be there in about a half hour."

We hugged and then kissed. Tina said, "I really missed you. It feels like we have been separated for months."

"Me too, although, when I think of you, I am kind of where you are, I feel your marvelous energy."

As we walked holding hands, Tina told me of the frantic activity in ending the school year. I told her about fine dinning in Rocky Butte, about how Buster and Sofia were our bodyguards. She displayed mock disappointment when I told her she wouldn't be able to enjoy the fashionable eating establishments in Rocky Butte until after the trial. I did promise her a night on the town after the trial, including dining and clubbing at the _Claim Jumper_ and _Diggings_ , if we could talk Buster and Sofia into going with us.

I related my recent space-time travels, "I have had some more interesting new visions. The biplane thing got cleared up more. Apparently, I was a Word War I German fighter pilot vying for the Blue Max. Early in the war I believed I was involved in some chivalrous combat, a modern version of medieval noble knights jousting in armor. Later in the war, as the allies put more airplanes in the air, it turned into wholesale slaughter of untrained pilots. I had this incident where I saw the people I was shooting down. They were mere boys. I refused to fly and kill innocent children. They apparently court–martialed me, publicly tearing the insignias and rank from my uniform. I was sent to the infantry to die an inglorious death in trench warfare.

"In another vision I saw a woman, someone I loved, scolding me for disgracing her, and dumping me. I felt very betrayed. Maybe that is where some of my trust issues originated.

"I think some of my passion for flying sailplanes may be related to those World War I times. I may be still trying to prove myself and get the Blue Max, the order of _Pour le Me'rite._ I don't think I have lost my interest in flying, but it will be different, maybe less serious, and more fun."

Tina replied, "Wow! You are getting a lot out of this space-time travel. Did you talk to Tom about this?"

"Yes, I did. He told me to be careful not to do it alone, unguided. _It is possible to get mentally stuck out of present time._ He said that you could help me stay in present time. If I start to drift in space-time, you should do something to get me grounded, such as take me to bed and jump on me."

She chuckled and then added with a wry smile, "Oh, the sacrifices one must make out of duty."

We walked quietly for a while, arm-in-arm, interrupted with side-hugs. I was relishing having her near.

Buster and Sofia greeted us when we got to the lodge. Sofia looked delighted to meet Tina. "It will be so good to have another woman to do girl–talk with. Here, let me show you around."

Buster and I chatted for a while, and he related to me that his men in town had picked up the gossip: 'a lawyer had moved to town and was buying the old Williams' place.'

I laughed and said, "The subterfuge is working."

He also commented that Elizabeth looked very athletic. She asked him which trails to use for a five-mile run.

Sofia and Tina returned from the kitchen, and Sofia said, "Tina has given me some ideas for dinner. Buster and I need to go into town to get some things. We will be back in a couple of hours."

"Stay close," Buster admonished.

We walked out upon the porch, watched them drive away. Tina turned to me, looked intently and said with a giggle, "Emergency! He is drifting out of present time. Must take immediate action."

Dinner was a delight. Trained martial arts specialists, art and music lovers, Hollywood stunt people, an Olympic athlete, and a pilot can be jolly dinner companions.

Sunday, while Elizabeth and I worked preparing for the trial, Sofia gave Tina karate lessons, and Buster went to the Williams' house and town.

**8**

**The Trial

**

Monday morning, Buster drove Elizabeth and me to the Williams' house where we picked up our car to drive to court. Buster asked for a five-minute lead and drove off in his pickup.

Elizabeth briefed me on what she had discovered searching the Internet. She said, "Sheriff Bogend's father was a Bible-thumping southern evangelical preacher. If we probe in that area, we might expose some irrationality, strong beliefs in the Devil and fundamentalist ideas. It would be good to get him to launch into a Bible-thumping tirade.

"We should also try to eliminate anyone with fundamentalist beliefs from the jury. I will study the panel as you probe prospective jurors on the subject of devils and witches. Also, you should probe for people with strong beliefs about the validity of logic and science: ask whether anybody has degrees in science and find out if anyone subscribes to technical journals or scientific magazines such as Scientific American. One of these country people might be a retired rocket scientist. We don't need a juror who will decide to provide scientific leadership in the deliberations."

When Elizabeth first saw downtown Rocky Butte she said, "Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas, any more."

I pointed out the nightlife spots and opportunities for fine dining. Elizabeth replied, "I would say that this is about as far off the end of Melrose that one can get."

As we parked our car in the courthouse parking lot, I noticed Buster and another rough looking character sitting in his pickup.

As we walked alone up the empty steps of the courthouse, Elizabeth admired the building and said, "Stick with Dave Willard and you can end up in the big time! You go ahead, I'll handle the all the reporters"

The courtroom looked as though it had not been modified since the courthouse was built in 1922. The walls had waist–high, dark wood wainscoting below beige walls that led to a ceiling of pressed tin patterned squares. Two windows and four hanging shaded light fixtures provided the light. The room had seating for about a hundred, and the usual jury box, tables, and judge's bench. At the front, under a portrait of George Washington and the County Seal, awaited the witness box, and court reporter's desk, flanked by American and California State flags.

The jury pool was sitting in the first few rows of the spectator area, being instructed by the Bailiff.

I greeted the Sodastroms as they sat at our table and introduced Elizabeth. Then, we introduced ourselves to Dean Buttress, the defense attorney who was there alone.

Ann and Ed Sodastrom looked quite distraught. I stood between them and Elizabeth as I explained how I regretted having to put them through all this again, but it should be over in a few days.

Elizabeth observed after we sat down, "Dean Buttress looks like a typical third–string attorney assigned to a case in the boonies that nobody else wanted. The insurance company must reckon that their liability is very small and the Rocky Butte jury will think a few hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. His eye movements look like those of an alcoholic in a hung-over condition."

Judge Cartright appeared and, after the formalities, we began jury selection. During the questioning of the jury, I noticed Buster in the back row and his associate sitting in the middle.

Midway through the jury selection, Elizabeth whispered in my ear, "A lady just came in who looks like a reporter. It must be the San Jose Times reporter that will be sending trial summaries to Dore."

Jury selection was routine. At 12:30 after the jury was seated and instructed, Judge Cartright declared a forty-five-minute recess for lunch after which he would hear opening statements. Elizabeth and I retired to a conference room with our sack lunches brought from the ranch.

"Really the big-time," said Elizabeth as she unwrapped her sandwich and opened her canned drink. "Other courts give you an hour and a half for lunch."

"Stick with me," I smiled. "In one of our previous meetings, the judge indicated his desire for long court days. He said a short trial was in the best interests of the participants and the community.

"I think the jury selection went well, thanks to you, Elizabeth."

She replied, "I think we have a good jury. Family values, no fundamentalists, no amateur scientists, and all seemingly rule-based. I don't think there are any wild cards in there. Jurors number five and nine, the older ladies, were looking at Buttress disdainfully, maybe recognizing and disapproving of his alcoholism. Those two well-dressed men with untanned faces that we dismissed must be the local clergy."

"Thanks for your expert observation and help with that, Elizabeth. Now, I think I will have some quiet time to get ready for my opening statement."

At 1:15, Judge Cartright reconvened the court and we made our opening statements. I then presented witnesses to establish the dry fundamentals–that Lucy had died of exposure, where and when she was found, and what attempts were made to resuscitate her. At just before five-thirty, Judge Cartright adjourned for the day.

On the way home Elizabeth observed, "Judge Cartright helps us generate a lot of billable hours in a single court-day."

At the old Williams' place, we gave our car to Cody, who was dressed in slacks, tie, and blue dress shirt, looking like me.

As we joined Buster in his pickup, Elizabeth whispered to me, "I am now really in the big-time."

As we entered the parking lot at the ranch I noticed a big blue Ford SUV. Inside the lodge, Tina who had been talking to Candice, enthusiastically greeted me. Peter Gallagher had also flown in.

Over wine and cheese, elegantly served by Sofia, I related the trial proceedings today.

I said I would start the day tomorrow with Ed Sodastrom's tragic account of the evening to set a tragic tone for the trial.

I would put on a retired deputy sheriff next, followed by two members of the search and rescue team to establish that the search effort was not well–organized, and establish that Sheriff Bogend was not doing the best possible job. Then, I would put on Sheriff Bogend and try to reveal how his personal biases interfered with his professional judgment. If there were time left, I would put on Candice, and then show the movie, followed by Peter Gallagher. I said I didn't expect that we could get to Candice and Peter tomorrow. They could stay around the ranch, and we would call them to court if needed. I said Steve Manteo would arrive tomorrow morning and stay over as required.

Buster added that he had a SUV outside, and a driver would be here tomorrow for everyone to use when they needed to get to court.

Everyone went back to conversation.

I said I was going upstairs to freshen up before dinner. Tina joined me.

After a dinner of good conversation, Elizabeth, Candice, Peter, and I went to the study to go over testimony. Elizabeth produced her laptop and showed us the reporter's dispatch to Dore reporting on the day's events. It included my opening statement that Elizabeth read aloud:

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury:

The question here is whether Sheriff Bogend was negligent by not using all available resources in the search for the missing girl, Lucy Sodastrom. Failure to use all available information and search resources resulted in Lucy's death.

We will show that Mr. Manteo, using his psychic powers, informed Sheriff Bogend of Lucy's location, down Bear Creek. Sheriff Bogend failed to even consider or act on Mr. Manteo's volunteered information before Lucy died of exposure.

Any reasonable man would have sent two or more of the ten qualified search people standing idly in the parking lot waiting for an assignment. It would have only taken two people a half hour to walk down the Bear Creek trail to Lucy's location and verify if she was there or not.

Rocky Butte County has a written policy describing how to proceed in emergencies, including search and rescue missions. That policy states that all available resources should be employed.

Sheriff Bogend did not use the standard of conduct that required him to use all available resources in the search for Lucy. Law enforcement officers are trained to act on all manner of information: tips from anonymous sources, "hunches" from experienced people, etc. Sheriff Bogend failed to act as a reasonable man could be expected to act, deploying idle search and rescue people to walk a couple of miles on an improved trail to check out a credible tip.

We will expose you to a complicated physics theory that explains how psychic phenomena, such as employed by Mr. Manteo, is scientifically legitimate. You do not have to understand the mathematics of this theory: all you should decide is if the expert witnesses that will testify are scientifically credible and up-to-date on the advances do science.

We would like you to understand that Mr. Manteo is highly credentialed as a psychic resource. He has served as an intelligence resource of the US Government for over twenty years, dealing with the highest level of government, including two Presidents. We will review his credentials, those credentials presented to Sheriff Bogend on the evening of Lucy's loss.

We will show that Lucy's death could have been avoided if Sheriff Bogend had not negligently refused to act on available information and fully used his available search resources."

Elizabeth paused and then added, "Here is the defense's opening statement:"

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury:

We all go to the movies and watch TV. Some popular movies and TV series have mediums and psychics solving complicated criminal cases. Those stories all come from screenwriters. None are ever a real on-the-scene coverage of a psychic solving a case. In the movies, Superman can fly; Spiderman can swing through Manhattan on treads of webs; mediaeval Merlins can conjure Dragons; and psychics identify killers. You all can rely on your own experience to know what is fact and what is fiction.

The essence of this case is whether Sheriff Bogend should have listened to a stranger, claiming to be a psychic, diverted his search and rescue resources down Bear Creek, and lessening his search in Sheffield Valley where tracks indicated Lucy had gone. Sheriff Bogend acted as a reasonable man should and concentrated on searching Sheffield Valley.

We will present scientific experts who will testify there is absolutely no scientific evidence that psychic phenomena exists as a means to find a missing child in a situation such as this. Science can show that there is no physical way for a man at the Rawhide Cafe to receive communications from or know the location of a child two miles away.

Many law enforcement agencies have had experience with so-called psychics who have volunteered to help solve cases. We will describe a study that polled law enforcement agencies all over the country and concluded that, in the words of one respondent, 'Psychics are of little value in investigations.'

"You must find that Sheriff Bogend was not negligent in his search for the lost girl."

Elizabeth finished reading. She outlined the general strategy of the trial to the group. She passed the laptop to me to read the reporter's comments to Dore that preceded the opening statement:

To Dore Hamilton

Subject: Summary of first day of trial.

It took me a long time during jury selection for me to figure out that Mr. Willard was not a local country lawyer. He did a good routine of 'I was raised in a small town like this and am a country boy at heart...'and 'we need to use our horse-sense in evaluating this case.'

However, when he questioned witnesses, I could see the razor-sharp mind of a lawyer from a long letterhead law firm coming through.

"It worked," I thought.

Tuesday was a more exciting day in court. As Elizabeth and I drove back to the ranch after the day in court, Elizabeth said, "Here in the big leagues we sure put in long days. You should get hazardous duty pay. I thought the good Sheriff was trying to kill you with those hatred beams from his eyes. Did you see that his hand started to go down for his gun before he apparently remembered he was not wearing his belt. Several members of the jury were cringing at his anger in his answers to your questions. Before we came up here I thought you were a patent attorney, you should specialize in personal injury, _slip and fall_ cases."

"Thanks," I said. "I noticed my nemesis in the back of the courtroom after lunch today. He was the guy with the crew-cut grey hair and the gold-rimmed glasses. Buster was sitting right behind him and Buster's other man was sitting two seats away. Did you see him?"

"I saw him. I thought he was weird. Not a Rocky Butte local. He had a terrible vibration, like a crazy man. He was making faces in response to what people said like an undisciplined third-grader."

Exhausted, we didn't talk much the rest of the trip.

When we made the car switch at the old Williams' place, I climbed in and asked Buster, "Do you know who that guy sitting in front of you was? He is the man who has been stalking me."

"We had Mr. S. under surveillance before he even got to the courthouse. We made sure he was thoroughly searched by security at the entrance to the courthouse. You know that person in the blue lab coat that runs you through the metal detector?"

"Yes, the same man every day," I observed.

Buster smiled and said, "He also works for us. Don't worry about Mr. S. I assure you we have him covered."

Buster didn't elaborate.

After we were in the lodge having a glass of wine, Elizabeth downloaded the reporter's dispatch to Dore. It said:

To Dore Hamilton:

Subject: Summary of second day of trial.

The day started with Ed Sodastrom's tragic report of the evening Lucy was lost. Here is an excerpt:

While we were finishing dinner, about six o'clock, at the Rawhide Cafe, on the highway north of Rocky Butte, Lucy asked whether she could go to the area behind the cafe and make a snowman. A light snow had begun falling and there was about an inch of snow accumulated behind the cafe. When we finished dinner and went to get Lucy, she could not be found. We found her tracks in the light snow but lost her trail. We searched and called for Lucy with no response. Alarmed, my wife, Ann went back into the cafe and called 911 while I continued the search.

Sheriff Bogend and his deputy arrived at the cafe at about a quarter after six. After a brief search, they called the county for assistance in a full-scale search operation and set up a command post in the cafe. By seven, county resources began to arrive, including search teams, paramedics, and communication equipment.

Two search parties began the search for Lucy. Sheriff Bogend believed that Lucy has gone down the trail into Sheffield Valley and sent the first search parties down that trail. A deputy told us that one party reported that they had found faint tracks. Sheriff Bogend directed a full-scale search into the Sheffield Valley area.

We sat in the cafe for a while until Ann became so stressed that we moved to our car in the parking lot. I got a blanket from the trunk, and we sat in the back seat waiting for word. About eight a man with three bloodhounds on leashes knocked on our car window. He asked whether we had any clothing of Lucy's. I gave him her extra sweater, and he let the dogs smell it. After searching around behind the cafe for a short time, the dogs began heading to the Bear Creek trail. I saw Sheriff Bogend come out of the cafe and shout at the man. After some discussion with the Sheriff, the man and his dogs returned to the parking lot.

About eight thirty, a man we now know as Steve Manteo arrived on the scene. We noticed him because he was such a big man and was not wearing heavy clothing like the search and rescue team members. He talked to the deputy outside the cafe for a while and then was led inside to talk to the Sheriff. We were watching him intently because we thought he might have had some news. Sheriff Bogend looked angry and had his deputy escort Mr. Manteo back to the parking lot.

In the parking lot, Mr. Manteo talked to some men of the County Search and Rescue team. We saw that they showed him the picture of Lucy we had given the Sheriff. Mr. Manteo viewed the picture and then went to his car and sat for a minute. He got out of the car and went back to the Deputy, outside the door, spoke for a few seconds and then pushed the Deputy out of the way and went into the cafe to the topographic map hung on the wall that the Sheriff had showed us earlier. He marked the map as the Sheriff came up and was shouting at him, with his gun drawn. Two deputies took Mr. Manteo by the arms and drug him out to the parking lot. Mr. Manteo sat in his car for a few minutes and then drove away.

At midnight, a Deputy drove us home because Ann was collapsing.

At a little after 2:00 am a deputy came to our house and told us they had found Lucy and that she had died.

Both Ed and Ann Sodastrom, along with several members of the jury, were visibly weeping, so the judge called a ten-minute recess.

After the recess, Ed Sodastrom was asked whether there was anything he would like to add.

Ed continued, 'This case is not about money for us. We have all we need. We would like to put all Sheriffs and the people that insure them on notice that they should use all resources, including psychics if necessary, for finding lost children.'

Dean Buttress stood and said, "I object...." Judge Cartright interrupted, "Sustained."

Mr. Willard quickly asked, "Is there anything else?"

Ed continued, "We shouldn't have to be here." He slumped dejectedly in his chair.

After an appropriately long theatrical pause, Mr. Willard said, 'Thank you."

Testimony continued with a member of a volunteer search and rescue team who said he had been on dozens of S&R efforts. He described the search scene as chaotic. He stood idly by from six forty-five until nine o'clock. When asked to rate the organization of the search from one (totally disorganized) to ten (very well-run operation), the S&R man scored the night as a three.

A retired deputy sheriff, from the neighboring county, now living in Rocky Butte, had heard about the search effort on his police scanner radio and gone to volunteer for the search effort. He supported the idea that the effort was disorganized, the Sheriff had failed to act on several suggestions by the professionals around him. He gave the effort a five.

The next man to testify was Tim Holtz, the bloodhound handler that Ed Sodastrom described above. He said that he had come as a volunteer after hearing of the search on a police scanner. He said he had acted on his own in starting his search with the dogs. He was going to talk to the Sheriff, but when his dogs smelled the sweater, they were off on a charge on Lucy's trail. From his experience, one should follow the dogs when they want to go. The Sheriff called him back and accused him of interfering with police work and said he would be arrested if he continued his own search. He said he stood around in the parking lot until his dogs got too cold. Since it seemed apparent that the Sheriff would not call on him, he went home.

When questioned about his credentials, Mr. Holtz said he had only recently moved to the area and was unknown here. He said he and his dogs had worked for seven years off–and–on for law enforcement agencies in the Sacramento and Northern California area. He was well instructed in the California Incident Control Procedures and knew he had to obey the Incident Commander, the Sheriff, when told to call off his dogs.

When asked whether the Sheriff had asked about his credentials, he said, "No, all he did was rant threats at me."

Sheriff Bogend's testimony was ideal for the case. The sheriff admitted he had heard of other police Departments using psychics in missing person's cases but had no personal experience with psychics. The Sheriff kept getting angrier during the detailed questioning, When asked why he didn't use the bloodhounds, the Sheriff said he did not know the dogs, how well they were trained, or the reputation of their handler. He said that he had called for bloodhounds from someone he knew and had worked with in Pine Mountain: they didn't get there until much later, at which point, too much snow had fallen. When the issue of the bloodhounds was perused, the Sheriff admitted that he figured the handler would later want to be paid and he didn't want to go through the paperwork for using unbudgeted or non-county resources. The county already had a dog handler on contract.

When quizzed about whether budgetary considerations had entered his decision not to take Mr. Manteo's advice, he got very angry and shouted, "He isn't a county recognized contractor. Search and rescue is a job for people on the County payroll."

Mr. Willard was cool and let the jury observe Sheriff Bogend's embarrassment for a long minute before he dismissed the witness.

In cross-examination, the defense attorney tried to restore Sheriff Bogend's credibility, but, the damage was done.

Steve Manteo was called after the Sheriff. He recalled his experience the night of Lucy's loss. His testimony was right along the deposition you provided me in the background papers. At the end of his testimony he was visibly moved, almost crying. The jury saw that.

Candice Montgomery was called and did a good job of explaining how people can mind-to-mind communicate at a subconscious level through The Cloud of eight-dimensional space. I had read the background paper by her that you gave me. I really understood her ideas after her testimony. The jury seemed attentive throughout her testimony.

She said that because of the lateness of the hour she would delay showing her video tomorrow morning.

Dr. Peter Gallagher testified that he and some of his colleagues had reviewed her work and could find no fault in it.

The judge adjoined the court at five–fifteen.

Wednesday of the trial went quickly. Mr. S. and his chaperones, Buster and his associate, and the lady reporter from San Jose were in attendance. Elizabeth noted that several new reporters, identifiable by their laptop computers, had shown up. There were only a few other spectators at the trial.

I started by showing Candice's movie; the jury was interested and amused.

I then called a Deputy Sheriff who gave the timeline from the Incident log.

I then called the Search and Rescue Team member who had found Lucy. He said by one-thirty in the morning the search was about to be called off, and things were disorganized. He said that on a hunch, he and his partner had decided to search down Bear Creek. Nobody seemed to be in control then so they undertook the search without the Incident Commanders permission.

I congratulated him on his initiative.

I then called Jill Franklin, the Rocky Butte Manager of Emergency Services Department. She verified that the County had a written policy to use all available resources in emergencies such as a search and rescue incident. She said that it was reasonable and on–policy for Incident Commanders to use civilians in search operations. I asked whether the County might not be concerned about liability lawsuits from civilians who were injured during searches or rescues while under direction of county personnel. She said there were "Good Samaritan" laws that covered that and the Incident Commander would further be insured by a small county self-insurance pool, which covers smaller claims, and was further insured by a very large policy with the California State Association of Counties, Excess Insurance Authority.

Surprisingly, Dean Buttress didn't object. I continued. "Does that mean there is a very large liability dollar policy covering Sheriff Bogend and any settlement would be paid by a State-wide insurance pool?

Jill replied, "Yes."

"That means that in emergency situations, any liability the Incident Commander creates is insured against. He is not risking County money that is used for paying teachers, fixing potholes, or keeping the libraries open."

Buttress looked as though he would object but didn't.

Jill replied, "Yes."

"Is there any problem with paying search professionals who show up, such as bloodhound handlers, if they later bill you for professional services."

"Not if their fees are customary and reasonable. We have to get many approvals for off-budget expenditures, but we do it all the time."

"Thank you," I said, wondering if Dean Buttress drank his breakfast today. I decide to go for it.

"One more thing, Ms. Franklin. I'd like to clarify the idea of acting as a reasonable person during an emergency.

"Let me give you a hypothetical situation: Suppose you had a cattle ranch and we were in the middle of a drought and the cattle were dying of thirst. Further, suppose you have an unused well drilling rig on your property. Then, a man who claimed he was a water dowser showed up and said he had dowsed your property and that water could be found if you drilled a well at the far end of your corral.

"Wouldn't a responsible person, who might or might not believe in dowsing, drill the well at the end of the corral if it wouldn't cost too much?"

I was shocked Buttress was letting me get away with this.

Jill responded, "Yes, It would be irresponsible for the man to let his cattle die of thirst solely because he didn't believe in dowsing."

"The person should act?"

She answered. "A reasonable person would take action"

I said, "Thank you."

Judge Cartright adjourned court for a forty-five-minute lunch.

We adjourned to our conference room for our bag lunches. Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief and said, "I can't believe that Buttress sat there while Jill told the jury a huge amount of money was in the pot and that it wouldn't come out of county funds. He sat there while you drilled hypothetical wells. Amazing!"

Elizabeth made a cell phone call to our next witness.

After lunch, I noted that there were about fifteen more spectators in the courtroom who looked more like housewives than reporters.

Elizabeth seemed puzzled, "The local grapevine must have been listening to my cell phone call."

After the court reconvened, I called Janice Silver, a thirty-something looking lady, dressed in a modest sundress.

I asked, "Ms. Silver, please explain to the court how you know me."

"My friend, Ann Sodastrom, called me and asked if I would organize a child-finding demonstration for the court. My daughter Kerri is, or was in Lucy's grade, and I know all the mothers in the school class."

The defense attorney, Dean Buttress jumped to his feet and objected, saying, "One of the main issues in this trial is scientific credibility: a simple demonstration is not scientific proof of the legitimacy of psychic phenomena."

I was surprised Buttress was awake and responded, "The scientific credibility of 'psychic phenomena,' in general, is not an issue in this trial. The issue is limited to Mr. Manteo's credibility. This demonstration works toward that end."

"Overruled. I'll allow the demonstration," responded the Judge. "I'd like to see this myself.

"Please continue, Ms. Silver."

"I am the president of the PTA, and Ann thinks I am a good organizer. She gave me your phone number, and asked for me to call you in Los Angeles. During that call, you asked for me to get three other parents from Lucy's class to participate in the child–locating demonstration. All they had to do was hide with their daughters in separate location somewhere in town."

"Have I or any other person, contacted or talked to you about this?"

"The phone call to LA is my only contact with you before now. The other attorney, that lady over there, Elizabeth McKenzie, met with me briefly. She gave me and explained some written instructions for the child–locating demonstration. I have them here."

"Would you read them aloud to the court, please."

She read, "Please contact and identify three other parents of children in Lucy's class who would be willing to participate in a one hour demonstration. Only you and the other parents are to know of the planned demonstration. They should give you a copy of the their children's classroom portrait, taken last spring when they had 'picture day' at the school. On a given day during the Sodastrom versus County of Rocky Butte Trial, you will be asked to call each of the other three parents and ask for them and their children to leave home and go to a place of their choosing in the vicinity of Rocky Butte. Each place should have strong visual clues, a place you would recognize if given a photo of that place. They should stay at that location for one hour or until they are called on their cell phones. They and their daughters may engage in any normal activity to entertain themselves while they are at the place."

I asked; "Were you given any other instructions?"

"No"

"Do you have the three pictures?"

"Yes."

"Please write the name of the child on each picture and the cell phone number of the person who is with them."

She wrote on the back of each picture, and I entered them into evidence.

Then, I asked, "Do you know or know a Mr. Steve Manteo?"

"No, I have never met or had any contact with him that I know of."

"Thank you very much for your assistance in setting up this demonstration."

I then called Steve Manteo who was dressed in a grey business suit and tie.

I gave the three pictures to Steve and said, "Here are pictures of three classmates of Lucy's. Their names are on the back. Do you know any of these children or families with the same surname?"

Steve examined the pictures and then said, "No, I don't know any of these children nor do I know any families with the same last name. I haven't had any contact whatsoever with any of them that I know of."

I then gave him map of Rocky Butte and vicinity and said, "Each of these children is somewhere in the vicinity of Rocky Butte. Will you please mark on the map where you perceive the three children to be and describe what the children are doing?"

Steve took the first picture in both hands and then closed his eyes. Everyone in the courtroom was in complete silence, and I could feel the tension building. Then, Steve opened his eyes and turned the picture over, read the name, marked an X on the map, closed his eyes and said, "Kerri Legar is in a building, she is near a high arched window, looking out. She is unhappy and doesn't want to be there. She is with her father. I can perceive that she is on the second story, looking out the window at something moving by."

He took the next picture, read the name, closed his eyes for a while, marked the map, closed his eyes again, paused, and said, "Amie Archerfish is in the outdoors playing. She is happy, having fun. She is going back and forth, like on a swing. She is at the school on the edge of town, in the playground."

The audience murmured and Judge Cartright was about to bang his gavel and then, as Steve took the third picture, the audience grew quiet.

He looked at the third picture, closed his eye for a minute and then said, "Janet Nestle, is here," as he marked the map and then again closed his eyes. In a minute he said, "Janet is enjoying something to eat, cold. She is not inside, but under some sort of roof or arbor. There is a blue structure nearby. There are objects, probably cars going by. She is at the Tasty Freeze on the edge of town."

I had earlier arranged for the clerk to have a speakerphone on her desk. She dialed the number on the back of Kerri's picture. We, including the jury, heard, a male vice answer, "Hello, Richard Legar here."

"Mr. Legar, this is David Willard calling from the courthouse. Where are you and is Kari with you?"

"I am in the library on the second floor. Kari is bored and driving me nuts. Can we go home now?" Richard Legar answered in a very stressed voice.

"Yes, thank you very much. Your service to the court is appreciated."

Then, we called Joyce Archerfish and she verified that her daughter, Amie, was at the school, playing on the swings. Dorothy Nestle verified that her daughter was at the Tasty Freeze on the edge of town.

I entered the map Steve had marked into evidence.

Opposing counsel declined cross-examination.

I thanked everyone and then rested my case.

The judge declared a forty-five minute recess for lunch.

The defense then presented its case.

First, Dean Buttress, presented his scientific expert witness, an emeritus Physics Professor, Charles Young, a gentile, kindly looking man, from the Bowdon University of California. He gave the expected expert testimony that there is no physical way for Lucy to communicate her status to Mr. Manteo over two miles away. I impeached his testimony by asking what year he was awarded his PhD (1973) and how long it had been since he published his last scientific paper (more than fifteen years) and if he had ever done any theoretical work that dealt with more dimensions than four (no). He said he had never heard of Minkowski and then admitted he had not kept up with advances in physics for the past ten years.

I was amazed at how poorly this witness had been prepared by Dean Buttress.

Dean Buttress called Altos Kozinsky who described himself as president of the Sacramento chapter of an organization dedicated to exposing frauds in claims of paranormal experience. He cited a study that surveyed Police Departments of the 60 largest cities in the United States and Canada. The published report said that only forty percent of the departments said they ever used psychics, and none said they had ever received information of great value.

In cross-examination, I asked Mr. Kozinsky what his profession was.

"Real estate broker," he replied.

"Did you study science in college?"

"No, I didn't go to college."

I asked, "When was the study you described done?"

He said, "1973."

"Do you know of any similar studies since 1973?"

"No."

"Was it published in a peer–reviewed journal and reviewed by scientists not involved in the study?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"Who published the study?"

"Our organization."

"The organization you described as dedicated to 'exposing frauds in claims of paranormal experience'?"

"Besides being 'dedicated to exposing frauds in claims of paranormal experience' what were the author's academic credentials?

"I don't know."

"Was Mr. Manteo mentioned specifically in the study?"

"Not that I remember."

"Does this study have anything to do with Mr. Manteo?"

"Yes, it shows that all psychics are frauds."

"Thank you," I said. "I would like to recall Professor Charles Young,"

Dean Buttress looked as though he wanted to object but couldn't think of why.

I asked Professor Young to listen while the clerk read back the questions and answers of my cross–examination of Altos Kozinsky.

Professor Young listened and then I asked him, "From the testimony you heard, does this study provide scientific proof of fraud, according to academic standards?"

Professor Young looked embarrassed as he said, "No.'"

"Thank you."

Dean Buttress rested his case.

Judge Cartright said, "I will hear closing arguments tomorrow morning. This court is adjourned."

As we walked down the courthouse steps, reporters pushed microphones in our faces and shouted questions. We responded, "No comment," and explained that Judge Cartright had asked us not to comment on the case to the media. Both Elizabeth and I noticed that a TV reporter had Janice Silver on–camera in an interview.

As we drove home, Elizabeth reviewed how the jury reacted to each point in the case and we talked over points to be made in the closing statement.

We got to the old Williams' place, gave Cody the car, and joined Buster in his pickup and drove to the ranch.

At the ranch Tina and Sofia were sitting on the porch, sipping wine.

As I got out of the car, Tina, dressed in a white jogging suit, ran over and gave me a welcoming kiss, stepped safely away and executed a series on punches in the air, orchestrated by guttural "Yah, Yahs," and made a head kick in the air. "He-ah!" Sofia was standing nearby, laughing.

"I can tell you ladies didn't spend the day sitting on the porch embroidering doilies," I observed.

"Go ahead, big boy, make your move!" snarled Tina.

Buster stepped forward, laughed and said, "I think we should change the topic of conversation. Steve drove home after his testimony and everybody else left on the afternoon plane."

Elizabeth interrupted, "I think I could use a good kick in the head about now. Do you have any whisky in the house?"

When we got to the old Williams' place on our drive to court on Thursday morning, Cody was not there to switch cars with us. There seemed to be several other dark colored cars in the driveway near the house.

Buster said, "I'm driving you to court today. Cody is fine. Everything is fine: actually, everything is really good. Keep your mind on your lawyering. I'll brief you later about this when I have all the facts."

Judge Cartright called the court to order and asked for me to give my closing argument.

I gave my closing argument, and Dean Buttress gave his. The Judge gave the jury his instructions, and the jury for left for deliberation. Court was adjourned at eleven o'clock.

Elizabeth commented after watching the jurors leave, "I think we are in good shape. The only jurors who looked at Buttress did so in apparent disgust. Several looked compassionately at the Sodastroms. I think they will elect the juror number eight as foreman. That would be good because he looks like a gentle, reasonable person."

We retired to our conference room. I checked my text messages and found I had a message from Zaza. It said, "Highest priority emergency: Call Phil Bracken immediately."

I called Phil. He said, "We have a bad situation here. Sam Perris, the Chief Scientist at ChralMed, our major client, happened to be in Sacramento yesterday. He said he saw you on the evening news declining to comment on the Rocky Butte case. Then, he saw an interview of a woman, a mother who had participated in some sort of demonstration. According to Perris, you put on some kind if rigged demonstration proving that ESP works. Perris is threatening to fire us from Bob's ChralMed case because our firm lacks scientific integrity. Is this true?"

I said, "I did have the CIA psychic do a demonstration where he successfully located three children. The demo was absolutely not rigged."

Phil replied, "Well, settle the case. I'll take care of Vince Colson. Get it out of the news. We can't afford to lose ChralMed. It will ruin our credibility with other clients. You must realize how important ChralMed is to our future."

I answered, "It is too late. The case went to the jury this morning. I have no way to find the opposing counsel. He is probably in some bar around here. The verdict will be back before we could even begin negotiations. Too late to trigger a mistrial. The Judge wants this trial over. There is nothing I can do." I thought to myself, _Except hunt for a new job._

Phil still sounded mad when he said, "Well, I'll work on damage control. Goodbye!"

I thought, _That really did sound like goodbye_.

"Your face is pale! What was that about?" Asked Elizabeth.

I explained.

Elizabeth, looking shocked and worried, peeked disdainfully into her lunch sack. "All this and we also get free sack lunches."

The door opened and Buster walked in a with a picnic hamper.

"No sack lunches today. Since you can't leave with all the media out there, Sofia made you something special."

Elizabeth grabbed the hamper and started unpacking it with little exclamations of delight.

Buster cheerily announced, "We have some really good news. Didn't you notice that Mr. S was not in court today? He is staying with our friends at the FBI. He will probably be under their care for a long time."

"Last night Cody was awakened about three o'clock when the infrared perimeter alarm went off, the one we installed around the whole Williams' place, He checked the surveillance video cameras and saw somebody he didn't know entering the parking area in front of the house. The Camaro was parked a distance from the house to allow better video surveillance. The person, it later turned out to Mr. S., quickly jimmied the car door open, reached in and popped the hood. Cody woke up Billie, our second man staying at the Williams' house. We found out later that Curt, our man tailing Mr. S that night, was in the woods behind Mr. S. They all watched as Mr. S. placed a bomb under the hood connected to the ignition and then placed another device at the front of the hood. Mr. S. very gingerly closed the hood. He then went around and taped another device to the bottom of the gas tank. He did a little dance of apparent delight and then went into the woods.

"Curt was waiting for him and took him down without much of a fight. Billie was right there to help. They handcuffed S. and went through his pockets and found the detonator transmitter. Cody called his FBI contact in Sacramento. An FBI bomb specialist and investigative team got to the Williams' place by nine this morning. I joined them there after I dropped you off at the courthouse.

"The FBI bomb specialist, Eileen Wolf, is a short, stocky, determined looking lady. Good casting for a bomb specialist. She reviewed the surveillance tape, and then spent a half hour in Mr. S's van workshop studying his tools and bomb plans.

"When she returned to where everyone was gathered at a safe distance from the car, she said. "I can remove the gas tank bomb safely. In the van workshop, I found out that the perp used C-4 instead of dynamite in making his bombs. He left a spare bomb like that used under the gas tank in the van so I know what were up against there. I can remove that one safely with my robot. I found a block of C-4 in the van. I can tell that he used enough under the hood to be lethal to a driver, but not enough to make a big crater or do much damage to the house or knock trees down. I recommend we remove the gas tank bomb to preserve forensic evidence as much as possible and then blow the two other charges."

"I volunteered that it was a movie car and had many custom features, including a remote control starter. When we were all safely in the woods, I pressed the remote control and blew the car. It didn't blow up like the ones in the movies in a ball of flame, it just sat there and made a disappointingly small noise, convulsed, and spit out the windows.

"The FBI took both the van and what remained of the Camaro away to their evidence lab. Cody left, taking a few days on a fishing vacation. That part of the operation is over, and so is Mr. S.

"Now, let's celebrate" He produced four canned martinis and a six-pack of beer from the picnic basket. "You can have a two martini lunch, like attorneys in Beverly Hills are supposed to have."

I smiled and said. "Only beer for me, thanks. Martinis are a wonderful idea, but I have some emails and reading to catch up on."

Elizabeth smiled and scooped up all four cans into her arms and said, "I'm through for the day, aren't I, boss?"

I smiled in approval.

Later, Buster drove us back to the ranch. When we went by the old Williams' place, the van was gone and all cars, including the Camaro, were missing from the driveway. As Elizabeth and I strained our necks to look back, Buster volunteered, "Someone will be up to brief us tomorrow, after they put the whole situation together."

"When we arrived at the ranch Tina and Sofia were again sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, wearing prim gingham dresses, apparently knitting. They demurely nodded and said, "Welcome home," without getting up.

"Actors!" said Buster as we went in and the screen door slammed behind us. "I'm sorry, Tina may never be the same after Rocky Butte."

I went upstairs and changed into my western clothes. When I came down, Tina greeted me with a small curtsy and handed me tall drink. In a Texas accent she said, "A mint julep for you sir, after your hard days work." Everyone else was standing, laughing, with juleps in hand.

Elizabeth, looking a little bleary-eyed, interrupted. She opened her laptop and said, "Here is the closing statement as transcribed by the reporter in her report to Dore if anyone wants to read it.

Sofia took the laptop and sat down on a couch, joined by Tina.

They read:

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,

We have seen that Lucy wandered from the vicinity of the cafe, walked down Bear Creek, and sought refuge in a log hut in a fishing camp. The coroner testified that she died of exposure between 11:00PM and 1:00 AM. She was not found until 2:00 AM.

We have heard Search and Rescue team members testify that they waited around in the parking lot of the cafe for several hours before they were deployed in the search. They characterized the management of the search effort as disorganized.

We have heard the testimony of Mr. Holtz that his bloodhounds had started tracking down the Bear Creek trail before he was called back, severely reprimanded and consigned to wait in the parking lot until he went home. Sheriff Bogend did not act on this critical indication of where Lucy could be found. He testified that he didn't want to employ Mr. Holtz in the search because he was not a contracted County resource, and his employment would require undesirable paperwork later.

We have heard Mr. Manteo's testimony that Sheriff Bogend refused to act in examining or considering his credentials as a person who could assist in the search. After marking the exact spot where Lucy would be later found on the Sheriff's map about 8:45PM, the Sheriff, at gunpoint, and with a threat of arrest, ordered Mr. Manteo off the premises and ordered him to not to make his own search.

The Sheriff decidesd not to act on these two corroborating indications on where Lucy was.

You have seen the folder containing Mr. Manteo credentials, including letters of commendation from law enforcement agencies, citing his success in locating people and crime scenes, and the Presidential citation awarding him a medal for his twenty years of psychic spy work for the US Government. This folder was presented to Sheriff Bogend on the night in question. If you had seen these credentials, would you, as reasonable people, refused Mr. Manteo's offer to help?

You have hard testimony by Mathematics Professor from LA College and a Physics Professor from UCLA that the psychic things that Mr. Manteo does can be explained with modern university level mathematics and physics.

You have seen him demonstrate his abilities in this courtroom, locating classmates of Lucy's who were hiding somewhere in Rocky Butte.

Sheriff Bogend's failure to act on Mr. Manteo's information, and the bloodhound's identification of a track, resulted in Lucy not being found until after she had died of exposure. We should expect a person in charge of a search and rescue effort to uphold the standards of conduct that require them to do everything in their power to find the lost person.

Mr. Manteo has testified that he has been employed or used by ten law enforcement agencies in the search for missing persons. Using psychics is within the standards of conduct of law enforcement agencies.

Sheriff Bogend should have acted on Mr. Manteo's information and sent a couple of the qualified search people standing idly in the parking lot on a half-hour walk down Bear Creek to check out the tip. Any reasonable man would have done that. It would not have been a strain on Sheriff Bogend's time or resources.

Sheriff Bogend failed to act according to the accepted standards of conduct to do what any reasonable man should do and use his excess personnel to perform an early search down Bear Creek and find Lucy alive. He was negligent.

Your verdict will be Rocky Butte telling all members of the California State Association of Counties that it can be negligent to ignore qualified psychics in emergency situations. Let Lucy be remembered. I urge you to speak loudly.

I thank you for your kind attention during the trial.

The next morning, as I went down for breakfast, Buster asked whether I could stay at the ranch for a couple of hours. He said someone was coming about ten o'clock to brief me about Mr. S.

Elizabeth volunteered to go to court to be available for jury questions.

I happily agreed to delay going to court and went back to bed.

At breakfast, Tina said, "Do you have the letter predicting the outcome of the trial that Steve sent you? You said you were not going to open it before the trial. Can't you open it now?"

I thought for a minute and then said, "I don't see why not. Seeing the letter can't change anything I did or might do in the trial." I went upstairs and got the unopened letter from my bag.

I came back to the table and theatrically paused, opening the letter and holding it to my forehead. I started to say, "I predict this letter says...."

Tina blurted, "Open the damn thing!"

I opened it and read, "I saw a pick."

I handed the letter to Tina.

"What does that mean, 'a pick'" Tina demanded.

"It means Steve foretold us winning the case."

Tina bounced up and down a shouted, "Whoopee!"

When I hadn't joined in, Tina scolded, "After convincing the jury of the validity of Steve's abilities, do I sense disbelief? You hypocrite!"

"Yippee!" I shouted. Tina and I danced around hugging each other.

"What's going on here?" Sofia asked as she ran out from the kitchen. "Everything OK? Tina, Is this man bothering you?"

"We won! Dave Willard won the case," Answered Tina.

"The jury is back so soon?"

"No, we were celebrating Steve's prediction."

Sofia didn't respond. I heard the front door screen bang and looked to see Buster come in.

"Dave, let's take a ride to the airstrip. We have a visitor coming in. Excuse us ladies?'

As we drove to the airstrip, Buster listened to his iPod and didn't volunteer any information on the visitor.

Soon after we arrived at the strip, we heard an airplane in the distance. When it circled over the strip to check the windsock, I noticed it was not the twin-engine Cessna that I and the other visitors had flown in on. It was a black, high winged, twin turbine jet. When it taxied up to us I saw, a company logo painted on the side and words that said, California Energy Transmission. I was puzzled until it stopped, the door opened, and I saw Mr. Burton get out. He was wearing a black suit, his reflecting aviator sunglasses, and his professional inscrutable expression.

He shook my hand and acknowledged Buster with a nod.

He said mechanically, "Mr. Willard, we trust you have had a pleasant and successful stay and that the arrangements were convenient."

"Yes, to all three questions." I replied.

"The FBI has our Mr. S in custody. On Wednesday night, the man you know as Cody was awakened by the peripheral alarm system we installed at the decoy house. He watched on the surveillance camera as Mr. S proceeded to open the door of the black sedan. He then opened the hood and installed three bombs in the car, one in the vicinity of the driver's position. The bomb was rigged to go off when the car was started.

"Cody and two other men who work for me took Mr. S. into custody before he reached his white van parked hidden in the woods. They held him until the FBI arrived from the Sacramento office and took him to Sacramento detention facilities.

"The sedan you were using and the white van are in the custody of the FBI.

"Mr. S is being held and will be tried in Federal Court for his activity here and other places. All evidence points to him working alone. You need not worry about him anymore.

"With your permission, and the knowledge of Dan, your associate at CrystalSky, we placed your sailplane under surveillance. Surveillance video revealed that Mr. S entered your sailplane trailer and placed an explosive device within the sailplane. He also altered your parachute so that the ripcord wouldn't function if you bailed out."

"Does the FBI have my sailplane in their big evidence locker with the white van and black sedan?"

"No, the FBI removed all the explosive devices. An FAA aircraft inspector has completely gone over your airplane to assure its safety and airworthiness. The parachute was examined at the FBI laboratories and then repacked at a certified FAA facility. It was placed back in your sailplane in its original location.

"We also had your mobile home under surveillance during the time your sailplane trailer was being monitored. Neither Mr. S. or any other person has entered your mobile home."

"Is the mobile home bugged now?" I asked.

"All of our surveillance devices have been removed," he replied. "Since we did not enter inside the structure, we did not determine if other surveillance devices had been placed there. You might wish to make your own inspection.

"Any other questions?" Burton asked mechanically.

"No."

"Then, we thank you for your cooperation and indulgence in our assignment," Burton said as he shook my hand, nodded to Buster, and climbed back into his airplane.

"I'm glad he is on our side," I confided to Buster as the airplane taxied away.

Buster silently stood as though at attention, like a soldier in a military ceremony, until the airplane took off and was on it's way.

In the Jeep on the way back to the lodge, Buster confided that he had only met Burton in person three times, that this must have been an important job to get his attention.

I said, "I think Vince Colson thinks that getting these ideas of space-time out into the scientific community is important."

As we drove up to the lodge, Tina and Sofia were engaged in karate exercises on the lawn. I said to Buster, "Tina looks like a full–fledged karate expert. How did that happen in a few days?"

"Sofia has a black belt, sometimes teaches at an academy, and often works intensively with actors preparing for a movie role. She says Tina is a natural. I'd be careful to not get her really mad from now on. If you need to have an argument, do it over the telephone."

"I'll get my briefcase, and we can go into town to wait for the verdict."

"It's now OK for you to drive yourself in the SUV. Burton has called off the bodyguard detail. But, I'd like to go with you. After sitting through the trial, I am eager to see how it turned out."

In the courthouse, I joined Elizabeth and the Sodastroms in a conference room.

Ed Sodastrom asked meekly, "If we win the trial, we will get some money, right?"

"Yes, but the case might get appealed, and that could take years before you get paid."

"Well, Ann and I have been talking. We don't really need money. We would like to create some sort of memorial or scholarship fund for the children of Rocky Butte."

"That's a wonderful, loving idea! Our law firm will keep you posted on how the appeals process is progressing. When we get closer to a final judgment, please contact me personally and I will be happy to set up any trusts or take care of any agreements that are necessary, pro bono...at no charge to you.

"You and Ann might as well go wait at home–we have no idea how long the jury will be out. You are only a few minutes away; we can call you when the jury comes back. Be ready to come on a moments notice. Elizabeth will call you if the jury doesn't reach a verdict today and goes home for the night."

"Thank you," said Ann. "I think Ed and I need some rest." They left, not walking as slowly and looking so forlorn as they did at the start of the trial.

I thought to myself, _I have really changed–caring about clients. I must be becoming human._

There was a knock on the door, I answered and saw Buster as I stepped outside.

Buster grinned, "Sofia called and asked whether the girls could come into town and have lunch with us."

"It's a great idea. I think the bailiff is taking the jury to Bob's Cafe so we can't go there. I'm not sure I trust the food at the other restaurant. There is also the Tasty Freeze."

Buster frowned so I added, "Tell them to bring a picnic lunch and we can have it in Pioneer Park here in Courthouse Square. I'll ask Elizabeth to join us. The bailiff showed me a way to out the back trough the new building that we can use to avoid the media."

Buster listened to music, and Elizabeth and I read for a while until my cell phone rang. I answered and said, "Thank you."

"The jury is going to lunch."

Elizabeth scurried from the room and said, "I'm going to read the jury. I'll catch up with you at the park."

"No tampering," I warned and Elizabeth simply stared coldly at me.

Buster and I snuck out the back of the county building. At the park we saw Tina and Sofia sitting at a table, with five plates and a picnic laid out, having a glass of wine. They were both again wearing gingham dresses with bows in the back: Sofia had come with a whole trunk of costumes from movies.

Buster joked, "You girls could get arrested for drinking in a public park."

They looked at me with a puzzled expression and I said, "It's OK, I know the Sheriff."

Tina faked a guilty expression and hid her glass under the table and then said, "We don't want to run afoul of the Rocky Butte law. Georgia, put the wine bottle back in the paper sack. We will pass it around, taking turns."

Elizabeth walked up and said, "The jury is in a good mood. Everybody's smiling. They have agreed on something. I sensed they might be thinking about the penalty now."

Tina made a motion like she was going to pass the wine bottle in the sack to Elizabeth and then stopped and said, "No we will use wine glasses, risk it!"

As we were eating, I asked Buster, "What are you going to do next?"

"The ranch is rented until the end of the next week so we will stay here and do some day hiking. I've got to get back in shape after sitting in a courtroom all week. You are welcome to stay with or without our supervision. Then, we will drive back to LA. Our agent called and said we both have a gig on a movie in the Colorado Mountains for most of September. How about you?"

"Does that SUV we have been using have to get back to LA?"

Buster replied, "Yes, it is rented from a movie prop house. No hurry in getting it back, it is rented for the month."

"Tina and I decided we would like to drive back through the gold country. Neither of us has ever been there. Maybe we will go through Yosemite. Then, we will stop at CrystalSky for a few days and I'll see whether my sailplane still works."

My cell phone rang. It was the court clerk saying the jury was back from lunch and was continuing deliberation.

"When will they come back with a verdict?" Tina asked.

Elizabeth volunteered, "It's Friday afternoon. Some of the jurors play on the Rocky Butte Claim Jumpers' softball team. It has an important league game tomorrow morning. There will be a verdict today."

Tina and Sofia said they were going to tour the Pioneer Museum and then see the sights of town.

Elizabeth, Buster, and I snuck back to the secret passage into the courthouse. In the conference room, Buster sat in one of the antique captains chairs, rocked back, put in his ear buds, pushed his Stetson down over his face and had a nap. Elizabeth and I read. At four o'clock, the clerk called and said she had seen the bailiff come out of the jury room and get some of the formal papers that the jury had to fill out. They would have a verdict soon.

Inside the courtroom, tension filled the air. All the spectator seats were filled. Reporters had their laptops open and were talking to each other.

The Sodastroms joined us in the courtroom and soon Judge Cartright appeared and banged his gavel. Hush fell over the court.

The jurors filed in. Nobody smiled.

Judge Cartright asked, "Has the jury elected a foreman?"

"Yes, sir," Said juror number eight.

"Have you reached a verdict?"

"Yes sir," said the foreman as he handed a piece of paper to the bailiff.

The Judge put on his eyeglasses and read the slip of paper. He paused with a look that could have betrayed disagreement, and handed the paper back to the bailiff.

"Read the verdict," commanded the judge.

The foreman paused and glanced at the other jurors. They all looked timid or almost embarrassed.

"We find in favor of the plaintiff."

Noise filled the courtroom.

Judge Cartright stood and banged his gavel and called, "Order! Or, I will clear this court."

We all held our breath.

The jury foreman said in a loud voice, "We award the plaintiff twenty–million dollars."

Chaos erupted in the court, Reporters were pushing to leave the courtroom.

Judge Cartright again stood and banged his gavel and called, "Order! Order!"

As the judged was thanking the jury, I heard a gasp and tuned around to see Ed catching Ann.

"I'm OK." she said. "My knees just went weak."

The gavel banged. "This court is adjourned."

Elizabeth gave me a hug as I stood there stunned, and cried, "We did it boss!"

Ed and Ann's Sodastrom cried as they shook our hands and said, "Thank you! Thank you!"

Normal color had returned to Ed and Ann's faces for the first time since I had known them. I tried to say goodbye to opposing counsel, Dean Buttress, but he was gone.

I motioned to the bailiff to come over. I said, "Will you take the Sodastroms out the back entrance of the county facility to avoid the media?"

He agreed.

Ann gave Elizabeth and me a tearful hug. "Thank you!' she reiterated as Ed led her off following the bailiff.

Elizabeth and I gathered up our briefcases. Buster led the way, nudging reporters out of the way as we left the courthouse. On the steps, several reporters, and two TV crews pushed microphones in front of us. "Mr. Willard: Carol Tipton from NBC: Congratulations! Do you have any comment on the verdict?"

"I congratulate the jury on reaching a fair verdict. No amount of money will bring Lucy back, end the Sodastrom's grief, or restore their health.

"This verdict has created one lasting memorial to Lucy: this verdict will put all California counties and sheriffs on notice that it is negligent to ignore any reasonable person who claims to have knowledge of where a missing person is, even if they claim to have psychic powers."

"Thank you," said Carol.

As we continued down the steps, dodging reporters and microphones, Elizabeth quipped, "A press conference after a verdict already: this is more like it."

Back to the lodge, Sofia, who had poured each of us glasses of champagne, greeted us at the door. Tina, still dressed in her red gingham dress, ran over and gave me a big kiss and hug. Everyone was jubilant.

After a few congratulatory minutes, Tina and I sat down at the table with Sofia who was still dressed in her light blue gingham dress. Tina and Sofia were snickering about something, and I sensed it was not about the verdict. I noticed that Tina was resting her hand on an ice pack.

Sofia laughed and said, "We might have a new client for you: an assault and battery case."

Tina giggled and said, "It was self defense, perfectly acceptable conduct in the Wild West."

Sofia continued, "After we had seen the sights of Rocky Butte we decided we couldn't leave Rocky Butte without a little honky-tonkin, so we stopped by the Claim Jumper to have a beer, cowboy-style. We were sitting alone at a table, minding our own business, enjoying glasses of Claim Jumper Pale Draft Beer when Tina excused herself to go to the Ladies Room. I heard a little commotion and saw a big cowboy sliding down the wall, bent over in pain, holding his bloody nose. I saw Tina disappearing down the hall to the Ladies Room. Some of his buddies took him away. I heard a lot of groaning. In a couple of minutes Tina reappeared from the hall walking demurely, as though nothing had happened. The cowboys gave her a lots of room to pass."

Tina laughed and said, "He groped me. I hit him reflexively. I didn't even know I did it until I saw his nose and felt my knee in his crotch."

I said, "Sofia, you might have created a monster."

She replied, "You should have seen that room full of cowboys. Casting directors can't assemble a group as ugly as that. For an instant, I thought the two of us were going to have to fight our way out, back-to-back, doing karate kicks. I was saying to myself, 'Where is my fight choreographer when I need him?' Tina, have you ever thought you would like to be in the movies?"

She looked at her swollen hand and said, "I think I would rather deal with Beverly Hills High juniors than make a living doing that."

We all laughed and drank more champagne.

Buster's cell phone rang, and he walked outside on the porch to take the call. Without saying anything, he went down the steps and drove the SUV down the hill toward the lake and airstrip.

Steve and Georgia drove up to the lodge and joined the celebration. Steve was beaming. "I knew it would be a win, but not that big. I hope that nobody else will ever have to tell my sad story."

Georgia then added "Steve said your dark-complexion lady with reddish hair is here. I'd like to meet her."

I replied "Yes, come meet her." I led Georgia over to the table where Tina was sitting. She arose and introduced her. They seemed to form an instant connection and were soon chatting about metaphysical activities in LA. I noticed Georgia was giving Tina the stare that meant she was reading her pictures. Suddenly, Georgia broke into a big smile and continued on with the conversation.

I went to Steve and said, "I was a little tense during your court demonstration. You seemed so calm. Weren't you nervous about performing on–command in that environment?"

Steve said, "I sort of cheated. I went into meditation the night before and traveled in time to the demonstration. I perceived where each of them would all be hiding and what they would be doing. The only thing I didn't know before the court performance was the names of the children. I was able to recheck my conclusions during my testimony."

I replied, "Oh, I guess I should have known that. Excuse me for thinking so linearly."

I noticed a vehicle making dust coming down the road from the entrance to the ranch. It was some sort of white delivery vehicle. Sofia walked out of the lodge, talked to the driver, and directed him to the back kitchen door. She came back in, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back into the living room with a fresh bottle of champagne. She said, "The caterers have arrived."

"From Rocky Butte? That was fast!"

Sofia smiled, "From Sacramento, I placed the order this morning."

"How did you know....?" I asked.

She smiled and turned her head inquisitively and said, "I called Steve. He said the verdict would come back in early afternoon, and it would be cause for celebration. You of all people seem to doubt his predictions."

Two minutes later a man and a woman dressed in black uniforms appeared from the kitchen carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres.

Then, to my great surprise, Buster drove up in the SUV. Vince Colson and Dore got out, wearing business suits.

I greeted them at the door and received vigorous handshakes and congratulations.

"How did you time getting here now?" I asked Vince.

Vince grinned and said, "Steve had alerted them that the trial would be over this afternoon. We timed our flight from a business meeting in LA to Palo Alto so that it could be diverted here when final word came. We selected the particular jet for the trip to LA so that our pilots would be comfortable landing here at the ranch airstrip.

"We wanted to be here to congratulate you and the whole team. I consider this an enormous win in our crusade to widen the scientific paradigm. My security consultants say that we are rid of that Skeptemos guy for good. You know, he put a bomb on one of our airplanes a couple of weeks ago. We have a good surveillance system at our hangar, mostly to know whether somebody places industrial espionage eavesdropping devices on our plane. It works for mad bombers too. Our video surveillance clearly shows it was your guy. That's how we got the FBI involved."

Dore excused herself and went over and gave Georgia and then Steve a hug and then began chatting with them. I had never seen her enjoying herself before. She was usually all business.

Dore made the party rounds, spending time taking to everyone. She seemed to already know everyone except Elizabeth and Tina. She spent quite a while talking to Tina. I could see that Tina had been fully assessed and that Dore seemed to like her.

Vince joined Steve and Georgia. They talked animatedly like old friends.

After about a half hour, Dore looked at her watch and then pulled Vince from a group conversation. They came over to me.

Dore smiled approvingly and said, "Is there some place we can talk in private?"

I led Vince and Dore to the TV room and closed the door. Dore turned to me with her fixed stare and said, "We would like to offer you a position as the CEO of the Colson Foundation, directing our further missionary efforts encouraging scientists embrace the eight-dimensional paradigm. Here is our formal offer."

She handed me a letter that I opened and scanned. "This is very generous," I said. "I need to discuss this with Phil Bracken before I reply."

"Of course," said Vince. "I have already talked to him as a courtesy. He said he would be reluctant to see you go but is amenable to the idea."

I thought to myself, _This is a win–win situation. I get a new job and Phil gets to tell Sam Perris of ChralMed that I am no longer with the law firm. Sam will think he won and got me fired._

Vince continued, "You can set up your office anywhere you like, as long as it is near an airport. The LA area is fine."

Dore added, "You will report to me for most matters. The first effort will be establishing research grants to various universities, similar to that with Dr. Montgomery. You will have other legal responsibilities, but, as far as we know we don't have anymore trials like this one on the horizon."

Vince then said, "We can talk details later. Let's get back to the celebration," and led the way out to the living room.

After a few minutes more of socializing, Dore nodded to Buster, gathered up Vince, and walked over to where Tina, Sofia, Elizabeth, and I were talking.

She said, "I understand you are taking some well-deserved vacation. Don't worry about responding to that letter until you get back."

Vince added, "Good luck with your soaring, I have always wanted to try that."

After we all exchanged pleasantries, they left. I noticed that Dore's goodbyes to Tina were particularly warm. She had passed.

Soon, the catered dinner was served. It was quite a party.

The next morning, it seemed as though everyone was sleeping in. I woke Tina and told her that we needed to go into town for our last breakfast in Rocky Butte. There was one more thing I had to do.

At Bob's Cafe we sat on stools at the counter, somewhat to Tina's surprise. Four rough looking cowboys, wearing their cowboy hats, sitting in a booth, told Agnes something while she was taking their orders. She shrugged her shoulders, came over to us, carefully looking Tina over, and said, "What'll-y-have?"

"Two scrambled eggs," I responded. Tina added, "The Denver Omelet."

Agnes looked me straight in the eye and said, "Congratulations on creating Rocky Butte's first millionaires and putting the Sheriff in his place."

"Thanks, but that is not exactly true. Their suit will be locked in appeals courts for years to come. The insurance companies will try to drag it out forever. The Sodastroms will not get a penny for years. People shouldn't try to hit them up for donations or grub stakes on mining ventures. They don't have any new money. Tell all the potential kidnappers of Ann and Ed that unless they want to hold captives for years, there will be no money for ransom."

"Is that really true?" She sounded surprised.

"And, our law firm doesn't get paid from the settlement until the Sodastroms do. I am not leaving here with a fat paycheck from the settlement. I did not come here and get rich off the Sodastroms' hard luck."

"Is that really true? That's disappointing, for the Sodastroms, I mean."

Agnes leaned down as if she were going to share a confidence with Tina and said. "The boys over there think you were the girl who beat up Chester Dawson at The Claim Jumper yesterday. Is that true?"

Tina bent her head down in mock embarrassment and replied in her fake southern accent, "I was at The Claim Jumper yesterday with one of my lady friends and I saw those big cowboys scrabbling about something. How could somebody like little old me beat up a cowboy who weighs twice as much as I? Well, I'll say."

"I'll tell them," replied Agnes.

As we got back in the car, I said to Tina, "You have created another legend for Rocky Butte. You're probably the biggest thing since Sasquatch was sighted. I don't think any locals heard about Mr. S's little surprise. Buster had requested the FBI keep the affair secret for a while. He didn't want to risk having the car bombing interfere with the trial."

"We visited the Sodastroms briefly, and returned to the Ranch to pack up. We said our goodbyes to Buster and Sofia, with Sofia, and Tina acting as if they were long lost sisters."

Elizabeth would stay a few days to clean up some paperwork, and take Ben up on his offer to give her riding lessons.

She blushed slightly and added, "Ben also said something about learning something called 'wrangling.' Do you know what that means?"

"I'll expect a full report when you get back to LA," I joked.

Elizabeth smiled, "I need to take something back: Catered dinners, fine champagne, clients who fly in Lear Jets, twenty–million dollars, Tina, that's big time. I am delighted I got to assist." She offered her hand.

"Thank you," I replied, and shook her hand.

As we drove away Tina said, "Well, that's one more chapter in our lives."

_That is more true than you think,_ I thought. I didn't want to discuss Colson's letter until I had sorted out a whole bunch of things.
**9**

**The Quiet Time**

****

We had a leisurely trip through the Gold Country in the foothills of the Sierras where the California Gold Rush happened, through the sleepy towns, so isolated from cities that they did not become bedroom communities. They've maintained the character of an early California small boomtown, isolated from the changes in industry and immigration.

We had fun panning gold, riding logging trains, swimming in ice-cold rivers through tame rapids; being tourists.

At one point Tina observed, "I was expecting we would rush back to CrystalSky and your sailplane. Here, we are playing tourist."

I replied, "That's where we are headed. Somehow it doesn't seem so urgent now."

I wanted to talk to Tina about my letter from Colson. I though it was such a huge subject that it required a spectacular setting to discuss. I suggested to Tina that we go to Yosemite, it was not too far off our route, and neither of us had been there for many years.

We spent a day and a half in Yosemite Valley, mostly hiking. Since we were both consumed by the excitement of exploring the beautiful place, for the first time since we were kids, I didn't find a suitable, quiet time to discuss grown-up plans with Tina. Reluctantly, we started the drive to Southern California.

After we drove out of the Valley, we came to a sign for the turn to Glacier Point. I said, "Let's go there. There is a place there that is one of my favorites."

We drove for about a half hour over an area that was mostly grey granite outcroppings with scattered clumps of trees. We came to the Washburn Point turnout and parked. We walked over and sat on a low granite block wall.

Tina exclaimed. "This is really spectacular! Look how dark it looks down in the valley below us and how the shadow is creeping up the other side of the valley. Are those the falls we hiked up where there was all the mist? Look at how golden Half Dome looks in the late sun."

I recalled to Tina, "The last time I was here, a geology teacher, standing on that boulder over there, lectured his class. He was really in his element, talking about eons of time, the glaciers grinding their way through the valleys, He was silhouetted in front of hundreds of miles of Granite Mountains. I had never really thought about it, but geology has a lot to do with space-time, the four-dimensional kind. Speaking of space-time....."

I reached in my pocket, produced Colson's offer letter.

Tina read it with astonishment and said, "What does this mean?"

"This will be essentially a new career for me. It will change my life plan. Stand up a second." I stepped to the ground and held her hand as I directed her to stand on the wall.

She looked surprised, slightly alarmed, as though she thought I might push her off the wall. The golden light of the late afternoon sun made her face and hair glow.

"I am making big decisions and changes in my life, and I would like you to be part of them. Will you marry me?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Or more succinctly, Yes." She jumped down, threw her hands around my neck, kissed me for a long time and then pulled her head back, looked me in the eyes and said, "That means yes...maybe I should clarify that, Yes, Yes."

After a lovely and emotional few minutes, and some disapproving looks from a couple of elderly grey-haired ladies who drove up, Tina asked for the keys to the car, dug in the picnic basket, and produced a wine bottle and two glasses.

"Easy for me," I said, "I'm the designated driver and we have a bit of mountain road to go on before we get to our hotel."

We held hands, looked at each, conversed with tears in our eyes, as the remnants of the late afternoon cumulus clouds turned gold and faded to night.

Back to the main highway, I noticed Hesperus leading his invasion of the night sky. It seemed as if he wasn't as alone as before.

We arrived at CrystalSky in late afternoon the next day. I drove directly to my sailplane trailer, opened it and was looking inside when Dan drove up and walked over.

"Everything is OK. That FAA inspector nearly took everything apart. That other man with him paid me to help. You got a free annual aircraft inspection and then some. They took the parachute away and brought it back with a certified repack. It's back where it is normally stored. I have to ask you a favor."

"Sure, but first, I would like to introduce you to my fiancé, Tina Quail."

I caught her off guard. Dan got an 'Oh my God!' kind of stare and handshake.

"I have talked to the field owner, and he would like to keep what went on out here quiet. He doesn't want other sailplane pilots worrying about the safety of their equipment."

"Agreed, I think everyone has already forgotten about it. I know I have."

I mused to myself that some people in the FBI and Mr. S. would be thinking about it for a while longer.

Dan started to walk away and turned to say, "We have a great soaring forecast for tomorrow. You will want to get ready early."

"Great!" I replied.

The bright sun coming through the bedroom window woke me. I quietly slipped out of bed and got dressed. I walked out to survey the sky and I felt the warmth of the sun on my face. Not a hint of wind. I went inside and found there was an email from my friend, the weather person, at LAX: she said there would be strong soaring conditions for the morning with a twenty-five-knot northwesterly wind developing in the late afternoon.

"Sounds good," I thought. 'It looks like flying north up the Sierras will be good for an out-and-return goal flight.'

The Fédération Aéronautique Internatinale or FAI has awards for soaring achievement. There are silver, gold, and three diamond awards. My goal has been to make a single flight in which I achieve the silver, gold, and all three diamond awards. To do that I will have to fly out to and return from a stated goal two hundred and fifty kilometers (155 miles) away, gain five thousand meters (16,368 feet), and be in the air for five hours. This might be the day.

Somehow being awarded a small gold pin with three diamonds to wear on my soaring cap seemed rather unimportant now. I wanted to make the flight for fun.

I said to myself. _That's how I will do it: forget all the hard planning, the calculations, and the logic. I'll use my intuition and simply flow with it._

Tina and I hurried through breakfast and got an early start so we would "put together" before it got hot. Tina insisted on joining me for assembly, saying, "I am now going to make sure the wings are bolted on and you don't take off without your little bottle of water and lunch."

The sailplane trailer is almost twice as long as most cars, a big cylinder about five feet high, which opens like a giant clamshell. Inside, the wings are stored alongside the fuselage. Everything is mounted on dollies and is easily rolled around and assembled.

Dan stopped by and showed me where Mr. S. had put his surprise package. No sign of anything unusual now.

I told him my soaring goal for the day and he, acting as an official observer, loaded the information into the flight-recording computer in the sailplane. Upon my return, he would read the computer and officially verify that I had made the flight I planned.

He walked away and returned with a pickup with a tank in the back. I took the hose from the tank and began pouring clear liquid into openings in the top of the wings.

Tina asked, "What are you doing now. You don't have an engine, so why do you need to add fuel?"

"I am filling these long bladders in the wings with water to make the plane fly faster in strong conditions. I'll drain them out later in the day if the weather weakens."

I was ready to fly. We sat under the shade of the wing and waited, holding hands, feeling the love flow between us, and having quiet time. It was midweek and no other pilots were here this early.

At 10:15, I noticed a small wisp of a cloud over the Devil's Punchbowl.

"Look up there, above the Devil's Punchbowl. That wisp of cloud indicates that there is a thermal there. It will be time to start soon. Let's push the plane out and get ready to launch."

When Dan saw me moving onto the launch area he started the Pawnee, taxied to the launch area, stopped a couple of hundred feet in front of me, and turned off the engine. He unrolled the tow cable and handed me the end that I attached to the bow of my sailplane. "It looks as though you can get an early start. Let's wait about ten more minutes."

I put on my parachute and climbed into the sailplane. Surprisingly, I was feeling butterflies in my stomach. I was sweating in the ninety-degree heat as I stuffed my sweater behind the parachute.

Tina was fussing with my shoulder straps and telling me where my lunch and water were. I loved it. She volunteered, "You will be home late but very happy. Can you accept that prediction?"

"Gladly" I gave her a nervous kiss goodbye, closed the canopy and, gave 'thumbs up.' Tina held the wingtip off the ground, Dan started the Pawnee and we were soon airborne. We circled once around the field to gain altitude and then turned toward the mountains. There was no significant lift until we got over the Punchbowl. It was there, but weak. I released the tow cable, Dave dove away and I started to circle.

Somehow, flying was different now: I was not getting uptight about getting away on my cross-country trip. I was enjoying the scenery, the joy of flying, and a quiet sense of freedom. High performance sailplanes make no noise as they fly. Anything that whistled would waste precious energy. Stealth is important when you don't have a motor

As I looked north to the Sierras, the Mojave was what soaring pilots call a "blue hole," a large expanse of air with no clouds, no thermal activity. It was still too early to leave.

When I reached nine thousand feet I looked at my watch and saw that it was 11:15. I was joined in the thermal by a hawk, which made one circle with me and then turned and began soaring out into the Mojave.

I said to myself, "If the hawk says it is time to go, it is time to go," and turned my sailplane to the North, starting my journey. It is always easier to let someone else make such decisions.

I picked my way from weak thermal to weak thermal for forty-five minutes and found myself down to fifteen hundred feet above Rosamond Dry Lake. Despair was settling in.

_I'm going to have another visit with another Mason jar down there,_ I thought. Then, I saw a dust devil moving toward the lake and thought, _I'm saved!_ Over the dust devil I found a very strong, narrow thermal requiring me to execute nearly acrobatic fifteen-second turns pulling a couple of g's. At first, I barely gained any altitude, but by a half hour later, I was up to ten thousand feet. _Saved!_

I had been flying for an hour and a half and only gone about thirty miles with two hundred eighty to go. Ahead, cumulus clouds were forming above hills and mountains. Things were looking better. I found a powerful thermal over a small blood-red cinder cone mountain, the home of the Silver Queen Mine.

As I circled, I remembered the time I had been forced to land near Silver Queen and had been greeted by a miner, the kind of rusty pickup driving, shaggy bearded, grimly clothed, shotgun–carrying kind. He had that wild look in his eyes, like one of the attorneys at my firm, which comes from a life driven by selfish greed. I had to pay him fifty dollars and a six–pack of beer for "crop damage" to his dry, barren field before he would let me remove my sailplane.

I topped-out of the thermal at fourteen thousand feet and sped north. The crisp air at high altitude made me feel good, and I was having fun. I put on my Cannula oxygen feed.

I passed the Mojave Airport on my right. I could see the rows and rows of a graveyard for airplanes; most wearing the paint jobs of the airline they retired from. They were stored for scrap and salvaging parts. Here in the dry desert air they age slowly, like ones' discarded toys from childhood.

To the West of me, the barren tan Mojave Desert ends at the up rise of the Tehachapi Mountains. The area was calm today, a good sign for soaring. Most of the year the Northwest wind is funneled through the Tehachapi pass to make this one of the windiest places in the state. I could see hundreds of power generating wind turbines, row after row, lazily turning, waiting to do their thing.

I was now at the southernmost end of the Sierras. The lift was getting stronger, and steadier, rising from the barren east-sloping faces of the low mountains. I didn't have to search for thermals; I could easily maintain altitude.

To the right, in the distance I saw California City, sprawling, still waiting for the boom times of the last century to return.

To the north of California City I saw the Honda automotive test center, dozens of laboratory buildings and the seven–and–half mile high–speed oval track where people had driven autos 24 hours a day in high speed life tests. It was now abandoned, for sale, a suitable major industry for California City.

Now, I was flying over low mountains stippled with green trees. Ahead, I saw Owens Peak. Judging by the clouds, it would be a great source of lift today. I sped up, looked at my watch, saw it was now 1:30, and felt my stomach complain. I had been too busy to think of lunch. I ate my sandwich and enjoyed the views, Lake Isabella to the West, nestled among low mountain ranges; and the magnificent Owens Valley to the North.

The Sierra Mountains are a massive block that tilted up eons ago. The Sierras rise slowly, over a hundred miles or so, on the western slope, On the eastern slope they fall precipitously, going from high points at Mount Whitney (14,000 feet) and surrounding mountains, to the Lone Pine in the Owens Valley (3,700 feet) in only fifteen miles. A couple of dozen miles to the East, two ranges of high mountains arise, the Inyos and the White Mountains. Their highest peaks are only a few feet lower than Mount Whitney. Death Valley, the lowest place in the United States, is only a few more miles to the East.

These tall granite mountains heat the air rising from the low areas and produce magnificent thermals.

Circling at seventeen thousand feet, barely below the ragged bottom of a cloud, it was sixty degrees in the cockpit, time to put on my sweater. Soon, I was at Olancha Peak overlooking the Owens Lake bed.

During the Gold Rush, Owens Lake was full of water. A steamboat ferried miners to the eastern shore and hoped–for riches. Now, it is dry, dust–blown. Early in the twentieth century, the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power (DWP) bought most of the land in the Owens Valley, drove out water hungry farmers, dammed the river, and piped the water to LA, so people could water their lawns.

A few small towns that predate the DWP stewardship remain in the valley, mostly dependent on the tourist trade. Flying past Lone Pine, the gateway to Mount Whitney. I could see Mount Whitney below, a few miles to the West. I was tempted to fly over it and buzz the people on the summit who got there the hard way.

I was now flying over Manzanar, a National Historic Site, where in 1942, after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, ten-thousand people of Japanese descent, many of which were American-borne children of American Citizens, were interned in a concentration camp of flimsy tar paper-cover wood barracks. These people were rounded up, mainly in Los Angeles, dispossessed, and shipped to Manzanar, without any legal proceedings, simply based on their apparent ancestry. In 1945, at the end of Word War II, when the camp was closed, they were released, given bus fare back to Los Angeles, a few dollars, and no apology.

All that remains from Manzanar today is a historical center building and a national disgrace.

In about a half hour, about 3:00, I was approaching my turning point, the town of Independence, and the county seat of nearly nothing, about the size of Rocky Butte. The lift was weakening. I circled to gain altitude. At seventeen thousand feet I turned east for the dash across the valley to the Inyo Mountains, which spawned a street of clouds that went south toward home.

Air that goes up must come down; the rising air over the mountains comes down in the valley. For about ten terrifying minutes my altitude dropped to within couple of thousand feet of the bottom of the valley. At the bottom of the Inyos, I found weak lift, circled slowly and tried to assuage the adrenaline flowing in my body. I looked at my watch. It was 4:00, uncomfortably late in the soaring day for someone only half the way around the course. The lift slowly increased and then got strong as I went south. Soon, I was at eighteen thousand feet again, traveling at ninety-five knots, silently scraping the bottom of the cumulus clouds.

Pilots have to be careful not to get sucked up into the clouds. A sailplane pilot decided to explore flying into a thunderhead during a legendary flight in Germany seventy years ago. A half hour after he entered, his frozen body and the shards of his splintered wooden sailplane fell out of the bottom of the cloud. It might be a legend, but I have decided not to try it myself.

In about a half hour, I could see that I was nearing the end of the street of clouds and the Mojave Desert ahead looked like a big blue hole with no sign of any lift. Twenty miles away, I saw a very large, isolated, cumulus cloud, perhaps topping thirty thousand feet. It was yellow in the late afternoon sun and bent over by the late afternoon wind. I flew fast over the sinking air, loosing thousands of feet of altitude, to get under the cloud, into being sucked up at nearly a thousand feet per minute.

I did a calculation. There would be no lift between here and CrystalSky, ninety miles away. There would be a tailwind. I would need to get to twenty-five thousand feet to glide home. Cloud base was at eighteen thousand feet, and I wouldn't risk going into the cloud. Then, I remembered the thunderhead was bent over by the wind, and there would be a stream of wind flowing up the windward side. When I got to the ragged underside of the cloud, I flew to the upwind side and sure enough it was there, a river of air flowing up and over the side of the cloud. Tacking back and forth near the cloud, occasionally speeding up to keep clear I climbed steadily. At twenty-three thousand feet I was sure I could make it home. I called Joshua Control, the station that controls the airspace over Edwards Air Force Base and the test ranges, and asked for permission to overfly. It was granted. It was 5:00. All the test pilots were dead, retired, or in a bar at California City; I had the airspace to myself.

A minute later, I heard Dan at CrystalSky call me.

"King Romeo. Where are you, we were worried?"

"I am eighty-five miles out. Starting my final glide."

"Did you say eighty-five?"

"Yes, I'll be there in about an hour. Would you call Tina for me?"

"Wilco," He replied. I could hear cheering in the background.

As I settled into the long, quiet glide, I reflected on the day, the excitement, and the occasional terror. I was achieving my flight goal, maybe a life goal, maybe an inter-life goal. I would get an FAI gold badge with three diamonds, an alternative to the Blue Max without having to kill anyone.

I had traveled in space and in time, from noon to evening, from CrysalAire to Independence. I had traveled in space-time, fulfilling the goal from another space-time.

I thought of Tina and could feel her love through space. I recalled our time at Rocky Butte and could feel her love from that space-time. I also felt that she was worried.

I felt Tina's vibration change from worried to joy: Dan must have called her and told her that I was safe and on my way home.

I thought of Mason and his task and dreams-come-true now remitted to me: love, marriage, and new job, fulfilling future; possibly a vine covered cottage, with a white picket fence, and a Golden Retriever.

I glided on wings of gratitude.

When I neared CrystalSky, about 6:00, I found I had a thousand feet to spare. I radioed Dan.

"I'm about a mile out, can I do a high speed pass?"

"Go ahead, everyone with any sense is on the ground."

A high-speed pass is similar to a victory lap in auto racing. A mile off the end of the runway, I went into a steep dive, sped up to one hundred ten miles per hour, leveled off a few feet above the ground and, flashed by four people waving at the runway side. I pulled up into a steep 2g climb, coasting up to fifteen hundred feet, and circled to land. I rolled to near my trailer, stopped, popped the canopy open, jumped out, and ran behind another trailer to pee.

Back at my sailplane, Dan who quickly examined my flight recorder data to see that I had done as intended met me.

"Looks great, congratulations!"

Tina appeared with two six packs of beer and a surprisingly tearful, giant kiss and hug.

We all drank beer while I savored the retelling of one of the great tales of flying.

Tina clung to my arm.

As we walked to the mobile home after the celebration at the field, I stopped several times and held Tina in a loving embrace. I was having difficulty in staying in my body, feeling that I could simply soar away, without that big thing I left tied down at the airfield.

After a long silence, Tina said, "I think I have found a secret about Love in learning about The Cloud from you. These past few days my love for you has grown and made be unable to feel where you begin and I leave off. Our bodies are separate but we a spiritually merged. It is as though we share one heart. Our bodies are four-dimensional and our love is in The Cloud. It is not limited in distance."

We stopped, I pulled her close, and said, "You are also starting to talk like me. Today, I felt your love from the other side of the Mojave Desert. I didn't even think about dimensions. You were simply there."

"But, I can't think about it now. I need to get grounded!" I laughed.

Tina replied, "I have just the thing." She steered me up the stairs to the deck of the mobile home, and pushed me into the love–seat on the porch.

In what seemed only a second, she reappeared with an ice bucket with a very fine bottle of champagne, and two flutes. "You do the honors," she said as she thrust the bottle into my hands, and then held out the two flutes.

"Pop!" it went and I quickly poured the foam that happens opening champagne at high altitude.

Tina laughed in delight as I filled both glasses.

I was only being held down from flying away by the weight of the bottle. We one arm hugged for a long time as our glasses and spirits bubbled.

"A toast!" I said. "To you, love of my life! My guiding spirit through a most important period of change in my life! To your love and companionship I will cherish the rest of my days."

We hugged and cried in joy. Then, cried some more.

Tina pushed me away, and held up her glass. "And to you, love of my life who perfectly compliments me and has expanded my horizon and taught me the delight of adventure that I look forward to sharing with you for the rest of my life."

We hugged and cried some more.

"I've got to sit down," I said.

"Me too."

We both sipped our champagne and dried our eyes.

After a long pause, when I could again speak, I said. "We should get married?"

Tina put down her glass, took mine, and then took both my hands in hers and said, "I think we just did."

We celebrated everything that night.

A month later, after a round of celebratory receptions and parties thrown by our associates and friends, Tina, Elise, and I flew to Sacramento, rented a car and drove to Steve and Georgia's. Tina and I stayed in the guest cottage. The next morning we all drove a few miles away to a site on the top of a hill. A Native American medicine wheel, a large circle of large stones containing a smaller circle of smaller stones was sculpted on the ground. A flat–topped darkly–speckled granite boulder was in the center. Four radial lines of stones aligned with the four compass directions joined the center and the circles.

Steve took his place in the center while we waited outside the wheel. Tina and Elise on the South side, Georgia and I on the North. Steve stood on a round, and did a short magic ritual opening the circle with the spirits of the four directions. Then, Elise and Georgia escorted us to the center.

Tina and I both noticed an intense spark of light coming from one of the crystals of mica in the boulder under Steve. Tina pointed at it and glanced at me questioningly and then smiled. I replied with a nod.

After a brief ceremony in which we exchanged rings, Steve pronounced us Husband and Wife.

We walked to the shade of a nearby tree, and Georgia produced a bottle of champagne for teary-eyed toasts and hugs. After a while, Tina said, "Was that spark of light on the boulder Mason?"

With delight I said, "You heard and saw him! That's fantastic. Did anyone else see or hear Mason?'

Only Tina replied, "I didn't exactly hear him. I felt an amazing feeling of love, happiness, and congratulations, all mixed up together. I also had the feeling he, or they, were laughing about something. A leg? There was something about touch."

I hugged her with delight. "The leg thing is reference to a bad joke I'll tell you later. Mason was saying, 'We will be in touch.'"

We went back to celebrating with our dear friends. After a few minutes, Tina led me away from the others and made me stand on the granite boulder at the center of the circle.

"One more thing," she said, "Read what I had engraved inside your ring."

I took my wedding ring off and read the inscription:

**Pour le Me'rite.**

****

****

**Appendix:**

**Canice's Eight-dimensional Movie **

(Not Essential to The Story. read only if you are interested in eight-dimensional mathematics.)

Film: Cast: Narrator and historical and contemporary characters.

The show opens with a real person, a commentator who is a well known physics professor (having appeared in PBS scientific programs) who sets up the idea that we will learn how to calculate distances in spacetime and explore other concepts of space and time.

In the first scene we have an animated character, Pythagoras who is a Greek, in a toga, being asked by a Nero-looking character to calculate the distance (d) from the entrance in a Greek temple to the farthest corner. He measures the distance from the door of the temple to the back wall (x) and then measures the distance from there to the corner (y) and then the animation shows him calculating the hypotenuse of the triangle, mumbling his famous formula, 'the square of the hypotenuse is the sum of the squares of the two sides.' He scratches out a formula in the dirt on the ground:

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2 and continues mumbling to himself.

Then, he decides to calculate the distance from the door to the top of the wall in the far corner. He scratches his head, and then he measures the distance up the wall (z) and then adds it to his formula,

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2\+ (z)2

and then dances around in delight.

Another character who has modern dress, a baggy sweater, tennis shoes and wild hair comes in. It is Einstein. He tells Pythagoras that if we put the temple on a big chariot traveling at a speed of (v), we can calculate the distance from the door now the upper corner where it will be (t) later. All we have to do is add one more term to Pythagoras' formula:

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2\+ (z)2\+ (vt)2.

Cut to the temple sitting on a giant chariot. Einstein hits the horse on the rump and it charges off. We see a line connecting the door of the temple before it started moving stretching to the corner of the moving temple as it moves away.

Pythagoras says, "That is interesting, but who would ever do anything with that?"

Einstein is seen scratching his head as the scene fades.

The commentator then adds:

"That is about how far we can go visualizing spacetime. There was no evolutionary advantage for our species to evolve with the ability to visualize more dimensions than we can see. Quite a bit after the time of Pythagoras, mathematicians decided their equations didn't have to limited by what they could see. They can have equations that describe any number of dimensions and geometries. Einstein's mathematics teacher at his college, Herman Minkowski, liked to play around with a higher number of dimensions than four. One of his sets of higher dimensions is now called complex eight-dimensional Minkowski space, which we will call eight-space for short. Mathematicians like to name things after their originators. Pythagoras's theorem is named after Mr. Pythagoras, for instance.

"Like many things in mathematics, the idea of eight-space lay around unused for years. After the turn of this century, a mathematician found eight-space could be used to explain many mysteries in physics and expand the field to explain some no-no topics such as ESP. Until this new explanation came along, most physicists would write you off as crank if you even mentioned ESP, because there was no scientific explanation for it. All psychic phenomena were considered the product of ignorance, superstition, and unscientific thinking. Few credible scientists would touch the subject for fear of being ostracized by their peers.

"Knowledge of eight-space may change the way we think about many things, so lets explore it further. We have to first address the idea of the word 'complex' in eight space, the idea of complex numbers. If you went to k-12 school in the last decade, you know all about complex numbers. However, chances are your parents and surely your grandparents don't know about them In 1545 an Italian mathematician, Geroiamo Cardano was trying to solve an equation but nothing worked. Lets let Geroiamo explain."

Switch to another animation. Our character, Geroiamo, is dressed like the men we see in Shakespearian plays, wearing puffy sleeved shirts, pantaloons, tight pants, pointed toe shoes.

Geroiamo is sitting at a table scribbling away on equations. He keeps muttering and swearing, wadding up his paper and throwing it on the floor, starting over. His cleaning lady comes in to clean up and asks him why he is making this mess. He explains that he is trying to solve this equation, and he keeps ending with an impossible number, the square root of minus one.

The cleaning lady picks up a piece of paper, unwads it and stares at it for a minute. "You mean this number here, minus one that looks as though it is under a table or awning?"

"Yes,'" says Geroiamo. "There can be no number that, if multiplied by itself, can make a minus one. A minus times a minus is always a plus."

The cleaning lady looks at the paper and says, "But the number is right here. Why don't you simply call it a number and stop making such a mess."

We see Geroiamo showing his equations to friends. They all laugh derisively and ridicule him for only being able to solve the equation with a fictitious or imaginary numbers. They say, "Who will ever do anything with that?"

The commentator returns and says:

"As Geroiamo found the imaginary numbers convenient to solve problems, other mathematicians found it convenient to use them. After a while, certainly by the start of the nineteenth century, nobody thought anything bad about using imaginary numbers. Engineers used them in designing and analyzing bridges.

This brings us to Einstein in the early twentieth century:"

In the animation, we see a child Einstein working on a formula. Old Pythagoras is looking over his shoulder. He says, "You are only twelve years old, do you think you can prove my theorem in a new way?" Einstein hands Pythagoras the paper and Pythagoras reads it a while, and then dances around joyfully saying,

"He did it! He did it! It has been a thousand years since anyone did anything original to prove my theorem. But who will ever do anything with that?"

The commentator returns and says, "In 1901 Einstein submitted his doctoral dissertation, an early paper on his theory of relativity. Here, we see what happened."

A young Einstein, recognizable by his not-yet wild grey hair, walks, in a dejected slumping mode, into a room where there is a professor, identifiable by his academic robe.

"Why so glum?" asks the professor.

"Professor Minkowski, my doctoral dissertation on the theory of relativity was rejected because it was too far out. Those old fossils want me to write a paper on old stuff that they will be comfortable with."

Minkowski says, "I read your paper and thought it was quite good. I think you should make _time_ an imaginary number so your theory will fit with other new stuff going on physics."

Then, we see Geroiamo walk in saying, "Good suggestion, imaginary numbers can be used to solve all kinds of problems."

Einstein replies, "In all due respect, I don't like imaginary numbers. I don't know how to visualize them, and particularly imaginary _time_ , and that is how I think."

Minkowski adds, "That's one of the differences between working in math and physics. Mathematics doesn't need to relate to anything you can see. Physics, especially among the old guys on your dissertation committee, has to relate to something you can measure. Your relativity theory doesn't have any experiments to go with it. Why don't you dust off that old paper you did about the size of atoms."

Einstein replies, "That paper has a great amount of measurement data. That should satisfy the old goats."

The commentator returns:

"In 1905, Einstein was awarded his doctorate. Around that time, he was working on a paper about mass and energy."

We see Einstein in a baggy sweatshirt and tennis shoes with his wild uncombed hair. He is scribbling on paper, scratching his head, pulling his hair, getting up and walking around in a circle.

Pythagoras in is toga walks in and asks, "What is the problem?"

Einstein says, "I am working on a paper about inertia, mass, and energy, and can't get the right formula."

"Why don't you use my old one that you proved as a kid?" advised Pythagoras. He goes to the blackboard and writes:

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2

Einstein says, "Yes, but I think I will use the one with the three dimensions plus a time dimension."

He goes to the blackboard and writes one more term:

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2\+ (z)2\+ (vt)2.

Einstein scratches his head and says, "If I replace dimensions x, y, z with symbols that mean momentum, mumble, mumble, mumble."

Einstein fills the blackboard with symbols, erases, writes again and finally steps back.

(E/c)2= (Mc)2 \+ (p1)2\+ (p2)2\+ (p3)2

He steps back and says, 'The p's are momentum: if the mass isn't moving we can make those zero and then reduce the equation to:

E=Mc2

Who will ever do anything with that?" he questions.

The commentator returns and says, "That's the way Physics and Mathematics are. People create or discover things that may not be of much use in their time. Sometimes much later it gets used. Remember, in 1905 when Einstein came up with this famous formula, most people rode in horse-drawn buggies and the airplane had not been invented.

"Now, we will address another idea that was way before its time, higher dimensional spaces, specifically Minkowski's eight–dimensional spaces. We will let Geroiamo help out in the explanation."

We see Professor Minkowski in his academic robes speaking before a class, and drawing on a blackboard."

"Let me introduce you to an eight-dimensional concept of spacetime. The first four dimensions are those of common experience. We can have one dimension of front-back, one of left-right, one of up-down, and another for time that could be before-later.

"Let me illustrate with this three-dimensional checkerboard."

Professor Minkowski goes over to a structure that is four 8 x 8 regular checkerboards, one above the other, separated by plastic legs.

He places a black checker piece at the corner of the bottom board and says,

"Here, we have a three dimensional space. For now, we will let velocity equal zero. The piece can move forward or back, let me call that x, right or left, let me call that y, or up or down, let me call that z. Let's call this corner the zero of all dimensions. Now, I will move this piece up four, to the top layer, forward four spaces, and left four spaces. It is now at z=4, y=4, x=4. How do we figure out how far the piece has moved from the zero corner?"

Pythagoras appears in his toga from the side of the stage. He says, "All you have to do is use my theorem."He writes on the blackboard:

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2\+ (z)2 \+ (vt)2= 16+16+16+0=48

Minkowski produces a calculator from his pocket and says,"d equals the square root of 48 that is 6.93. If we had moved the whole checkerboard structure through the time dimension such that vt=1, then d would be 7 even."

"In these four dimensions, shown here, all of what you might think of as normal physics taught in our k-12 schools applies."

Minkowski then places another set of four checkerboards, made out of clear plastic, on top of the other four, with the zero corner located where the piece is at 4,4,4. He says, "Here, we are adding four mote dimensions that start from where the piece is in after moving in the first four. Since we used our normal four dimensions in the bottom checkerboards, we have to use imaginary numbers here."

Geroiamo walks in from the side of the stage and says, "Don't worry about the idea of imaginary numbers: they are simply another kind of numbers that are convenient for mathematicians."

Minkowsky continues, "The physical piece, here at location x=4, y=4, z=4, can't move into the imaginary space. That is the law of physics. However, information about the piece can move into all eight dimensions. It can be up here in the imaginary space at ix=4, iy=4, iz=4."

The commentator returns to say, "Here, we have to say that this is a new theory. To prove Pythagoras' theorem, all we have to do is go out and measure a bunch of triangles and see whether it worked. We know that Einstein's E=Mc2 idea behind all our nuclear power plants. Later, we will show you examples of how information travels in eight–dimensional space."

Minkowski returns and continues,

"If our physical piece is at location x=4, y=4, z=4, and has eight-dimensional information about the piece at coordinates of the x=4, y=4, z=4, ix=4, iy=4, iz=4 and t=it=0 (so we don't have to bother with time here) the information then, we can calculate the information distance between the zero corner (on the bottom checkerboard)."

Then, Pythagoras reappears and says, "We can use the eight-dimensional form of my formula." He writes his formula mumbling to himself:

(d)2= (x)2 \+ (y)2\+ (z)2 \+ (vt)2\+ (ix)2 \+ (iy)2\+ (iz)2 \+ (ivt)2

He says, "Since we are letting t=0.we can rewrite this as:

(d)2= (4)2 \+ (4)2\+ (4)2 \+ (0)2\+ (i4)2 \+ (i4)2\+ (i4)2 \+ (0)2 "

Geroiamo jumps up and says, "Since (i)2=-1,

(d)2= 16 + 16+ 16 −16 −16 −16 = 0"

Minkowski returns and says, "The eight-dimensional information distance between the starting square on bottom checkerboard and the physical piece is zero."

Einstein returns and says, "When I first learned about all of this I was a little tyke, when the words Pythagoras and hypotenuse were beyond me. My uncle, Herman who lived a few miles away, explained it this way:

To get to my house from your house, you have to go down the highway for four miles, turn left on the crossroad and go three miles, and there you are. Or, you could not go by the road and take the shortcut across the field directly from your house to my house. You calculate how long the shortcut is by squaring the distances on the two roads adding them up and taking the square root. 42+ 32= 25=52. The shortcut to my house is 5 miles.

I like the word shortcut better than hypotenuse."

Minkowski says, "I agree, lets not confuse people. Let's call the distance the shortcut distance."

The commentator returns and says, "What does all this complicated mathematics mean? It means that, in eight-dimensions there is a zero-distance information shortcut from the corner square to where the checker started to where it is on the fourth level. If you were at the starting square and wanted to know some information about the physical piece (if it is heads-up or heads-down) The information could come through the shortcut.

"You don't need to care about or understand all these mathematics. You do need to know that a valid, scientific, paradigm exists for the many kinds of information shortcuts we use and observe.

"We all have something I call the 'Magic Mirror of The Mind.' In fairy tales, some witches, or sorcerers have magic mirrors that they can command to get information for them. You remember, 'Mirror-mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all.' Well, the one we all have is more limited. We can say, 'What did I have for breakfast," and our Magic Mirror of The Mind makes an information shortcut in spacetime, from where you are now, to when and where you were having breakfast You might think it is a memory stored somewhere in your brain, but it isn't. Scientists with their MRIs can pinpoint areas in the brain active when you try to recall breakfast. However, they have not found any area that has the possibility of storing all the zillions of bits of information you can recall. This is a new idea so there is not much research on this yet because we think it is simply memory. This idea does not fit the current scientific paradigm.

"Conventional scientists such as physicists, engineers, chemists, medical researchers, and others who believe that reductionist science has all the answers, are reluctant to believe that any psychic phenomenon can be valid, because it doesn't fit any scientific paradigm that they know. They would have heard many anecdotal tales of people experiencing psychic phenomena, but will dismiss it as superstition, ignorance, or lack of education. Many will present an angry response to the mere mention of the idea."

The film now shows interviews of a few people who report of their own psychic experiences.

The first interviews are with people who made changes in their routines, for no special reason, and avoided accidents. They had a premonition.

One is an executive who refused to board an airliner because of his visions of it crashing. The airliner did crash on takeoff, and everyone was killed;

A second clip is a housewife who, for no apparent reason, decided to pick her daughter up at school. The school bus that her daughter would have ridden was hit by a drunk driver and several children were badly injured.

A third clip is of a farmer who related that, on his way home from town he decided to take an alternate route, that he never used, past a lake. As he arrived at the lake, he saw a car with a woman and child go off a bridge and plunge into the water. He was able to save them.

This is followed by an extended clip of experiments at SRI with people remote sensing targets in the Stanford area.

The commentator returns. He is talking in front of a slide show of people in laboratories involved in psychic research. He says:

"Many university laboratories have done experiments with psychics and other people to test the ability to perceive things in spacetime. Little of that research is highly valued in the academic community. Largely these studies document and make statistics about observable psychic phenomena, stuff that simply happens, that has no scientific basis. It falls into the same general category of studies of UFO sightings. If there is no scientific basis, the subject can be ignored by the scientific community at large. This scientific response is as though science is an ostrich, hiding its head in a four-dimensional sand."

The movie ends with a picture of an ostrich with its head in the sand.
**About The Author**

Ken Renshaw lives with the love of his life, at the edge of a pine forest ,overlooking the ocean, listening to the sound of the surf, in Cambria California.

He was Chief Scientist and Marketing Manager at a company that manufactured communications satellites. His job was to sell commercial satellites to companies like AT&T and its foreign counterparts.

The trouble with selling satellites is nobody can see them.

All he had to sell were the beliefs about satellites his company could build. His real job was being a "peddler of beliefs" to very technical customers.

He made a lifelong study of recognizing the beliefs and patterns in peoples' lives. This led him to write a book, "The Secret of Your Life Script" about how beliefs make the same things happen to us over-and-over.

He decided that we are entangled in a psychic cloud that guides our everyday existence. He shows this in this novel,"Love Story, In The Cloud"
