 
##

##

## Tales of Hope and Time

##

## By Ian Anderson

##

## Maioro Books

##

## Smashwords Edition

##

Copyright © 2013 Ian Anderson

These stories are works of fiction, the characters and situations portrayed are the work of the author's imagination. His background knowledge and experience of some situations and places has provided non specific generic details which are not applicable to any real person. He senses however that time could be a particle, although he has absolutely no scientific proof of this.

License Notes

This E-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share it with others, please purchase another copy for each of them. If you didn't purchase this book and you like it, I would be grateful if you would consider buying your own copy.

E- Book EPUB Edition April 2013 ISBN:978-0-473-24542-0

Table of Contents

Title

Acknowledgements

Dedication

For Fleur

Empathy Shrew

The Last Run

Ahead of His Time

Footnotes

Author Information

## Acknowledgements

I wish to thank my wife Carol, plus my sons Alexander, James, and Colin for saying that they liked at least some of these stories. My family has humoured me over the years that I spent writing them.

Thank you to Nils Danneman for his cover design. He can be found at www.fireflycovers.com

Thank you also to Mrs Kat Bargh for the Czech translation in Empathy Shrew.

## Dedication

For Fleur is dedicated to my friend Sergio and his wife Trish.

## For Fleur

1.

John Elliot woke when his computer bleeped and lit up its obsolete, flickering screen. Once again he had slept at his workbench when he only meant to rest his head for a few minutes. He glanced at the cob-webbed clock. There was still time before he needed to attend to his dying wife.

Another glance towards the bedroom video monitor, confirmed that she remained peaceful; asleep under the influence of her morphine pump.

Reassured by the image, he began to massage his stiff neck and stretch his cold limbs one by one. The computer which had been sorting through the evenings set of algorithms seemed to have crashed again: judging by the discouraging shades of green which glowed in the darkness of his shed.

The converted garden shed was full of old electronic equipment which John liked to tinker with in his spare time. His wife Fleur had always been amused that his hobby was merely a variation of his daytime job, but like any understanding wife she kept out of his way, permitting him to potter in his own place. Now his old computer snuggled against a small box from which cables flowed to a video camera fixed on a roof truss. Below the apex of the corrugated iron roof a hole, just big enough, permitted the camera lens to focus on a small stand of trees growing on the far side of the stream at the bottom of the garden.

He swore under his breath. It looked as if most of the night's work would be lost in the crash. Each day he loaded the faithful computer with new sets of time variables to sift through and search for a match. Seventy-five percent of the possibilities had been eliminated over the last six weeks; the next two weeks should cover the rest. He would have preferred to use the fast university computers which would have saved much time, but he couldn't let anyone see what he was trying to do.

As he moved to the sink to fill his kettle for a welcome pot of tea, he paused half way. There was something different about this latest crash which didn't resemble the uniform green of previous ones: instead dappled shades of green animated the screen. Also, the alarm continued to emit the correct signal for a successful data match, exactly as he had programmed it all those weeks ago.

He lowered the kettle, held poised in mid-air, and moved almost with reluctance to the keyboard. A quick nervous fumble with the keyboard confirmed that he could minimise the waving screen to reveal the functioning operating system behind it.

His hands shook as he opened the night's log file to run his eyes down the entries. The lists of numbers flowed down the page, each one ending with the familiar three words: 'No match found'. At the bottom the final phrase leapt out like an intruder from the screen. 'Match detected.'

He had to sit down. In a previous more humorous life he might have programmed something like 'Match detected, congratulations you're a winner,' but now all displays of frivolity were unthinkable. His permanent exhaustion and numb fear prevented any sense of triumph.

He saved the crucial data file with its number sequences to his memory card, then brought the rippling green image back up on the screen. There should have been more clarity; he would have to work on that. The live picture of the trees outside the shed was good enough to show a mass of blurred green leaves as they fluttered on a breezy sunny day.

Outside across the stream as he looked through the window, those same trees were bare, shrouded in darkness as they waited for a winter's dawn to creep over the horizon.

2.

His wife stirred in the bedroom as she rolled over to fling an arm above her head. The sound and sight encouraged him to quickly log off the computer. He quit the shed, crossing the short distance to the laundry door leading through into the house.

'Did you sleep all right Fleur?' He asked as he lowered himself on to the side of their double bed.

'Yes thanks. You look tired John, have you been out in that shed all night again?'

'Only for a few hours,' he lied. 'I didn't sleep very well after that.'

He checked the syringe driver to confirm that the level was compatible with its changeover time. Sometimes there were prepared morphine syringes which he could take from the fridge and substitute, but today he wanted to discuss a dose change with the cancer nurse. Fleur's pain was increasing again, but as usual she preferred to down-play her condition.

He adjusted the sheets, wiped her forehead with a flannel; ran the moist sponge stick inside her lips and mouth; then propped her up to comb her lank hair.

She smiled up at him.

'Up we come,' he said, as she put her thin arms around his neck. He eased her forward to straighten her night-dress and plump up the pillows. These arrangements complete, he moved to the kitchen to prepare her morning drink.

'Would you like me to hold it for you?' he asked on his return.

'No I can manage John.'

Sometimes Fleur's weakness meant that she would drop things, but she still resisted being fed by another person. John however always insisted on holding her hot drinks.

'Joan will be here at lunch time and we can give you a bed bath. The hospice nurse is also coming this morning. I think we should increase your morphine dose a little; it doesn't seem to last as long as it used to.'

She tried to smile, her face wan. 'John I'm OK, don't fuss. Some days are better than others, I can't predict them. At least my nausea and vomiting has settled down.'

They whiled away the morning talking and listening to some of their favourite music. John brought his laptop to her, so that she could read the emails from their children. Later after a family conference with Bronwyn the cancer nurse, they agreed that she would check with Dr Clark and suggest an increase of Fleur's morphine in her next 24-hour syringe. Joan the district nurse arrived as Bronwyn was leaving; the two of them stood together in the kitchen to talk in low tones about their dying patient.

Joan was cheerful as usual. She bustled around the bedroom commenting on the flowers in their vases and how tidy the winter garden looked. John assisted her to support his wife on to the commode. He emptied and changed Fleur's catheter bag before they both combined to bed bath her. When Joan left, John tried to feed Fleur, but after a short time she became tired, so he drew the curtains and left her to have her afternoon nap.

Back in the shed, he switched on his equipment and began to work with the identified time congruency. This required the correct balance of three important components; time wavelength; time particle acceleration, and time advancement or retardation.

It took almost an hour to refine the image on the screen. The dappled green was now clearer, composed of a jostling mass of branches with their leaves in full summer array. He could see that the three trees were taller than they were now, and guessed that he was looking at them as they would be in about four or five summer's time.

The next calibration was for gain. How would the seasons roll backwards or forwards with the use of the plus and minus keys, or with mouse movement? His initial tapping of the keys shifted the picture in short jerks. Leaves sprang up, to wither and die in absurd fashion, while birds flashed across the screen at impossible speeds.

Another hour passed before he managed to damp the sensitivity to a level that allowed him to glide forwards in time. He had no interest in going backwards in time.

Fleur was stirring and he needed to leave the shed. He had promised her that she would never be alone when she was awake. His life over the last three months had become a rigid routine since her stem cell transplant failed, allowing her lymphoma to recur.

Their previous happy existence ended two years earlier when Fleur showed him her enlarged neck glands. He kept working at the University, but in a much reduced capacity. This was necessary for financial reasons, but also to retain some normality and hope in their lives. They became frequent attendees at medical clinics, where multiple specialists raised and lowered their hopes. Their haematologist and oncologist were always supportive, staying as positive as they could be about their patient's condition.

John was aware that his wife was another 'case' among many. He learnt to accept the guarded ways in which the medical profession spoke to them. He came to realise that doctors were deliberate and sometimes dispassionate as a means of coping with sick patients who often had a poor prognosis.

Fleur's type of lymphoma was very malignant. The specialists told them that there would be a fifty percent chance of a 'cure'. He felt helpless in the doctors hands and as a scientist he knew enough to be very frightened, but he dare not show it.

Fleur however remained optimistic and he tried to feel this hope too, for her sake. They went through her chemotherapy together, the vomiting, and the embarrassment for Fleur when her hair fell out. Then there were visits to hospital at all hours when her immune defences dropped so low that she caught infections from previously harmless organisms.

In her first remission she seemed well, regaining most of her old energy. She put on weight, gardened, and walked the dog again. There was even a brief few months when she went back to her teaching job. At that time he found it easier to push his fear deep into a place where he didn't have to face it. Despite his science based misgivings, he was happy to support his wife in her desires for alternative therapies. The odd diets made her happier; that was all he could ask for.

At work his colleagues in the physics department tried their best. It isn't easy to pass the time of day with a cancer victim or their relatives. The silent knowledge of his wife's cancer constrained all light hearted conversations. The family doctor could do nothing except offer sympathy and positivity. His part in the illness would lie ahead if Fleur's cancer proved untreatable.

After the chemotherapy failed, the lymphoma recurred and Fleur received the stem cell transplant. The roller-coaster ride of hope began again, until halted by the final relapse.

In their polite conversations with the doctors; hope drained away. John could see pity in their eyes and hear concern in their voices, but he noticed when they began to protect themselves, their intent moving on to other patients whom they hoped would do better. He became terrified, then desperate, then determined to do something for Fleur himself.

He reasoned that somewhere in the future there would be a cure for her lymphoma. Perhaps a drug or some technique that was already available, but nobody at this time could see it's application. He obsessed on the idea of discovering what this would be. He had some expertise, good access to knowledge, and the ultimate motivation. He continued to travel to the university but gave up most forms of communication. His colleagues believed his decline was the result of depression, but they were wrong: only one task occupied his thoughts and actions.

His two children Fiona and Larry, had long accepted his frequent absences, when he worked with old equipment in his garden shed. Now while he spent hours alone there, Larry phoned Fiona in London to tell her that it was dad's way of coping with mum's illness. Fleur had come to accept that she would die soon. She was preparing herself, but she worried that John's odd behaviour was a denial of her approaching death.

With Fleur resting again, John was able to return to the shed to make his final calibrations. He needed to know the range of his equipment, so he crossed the stream and hung a red bucket on the middle tree. Through the kitchen window, Gail their cleaner watched his activity with an odd expression, which he ignored.

Back in the shed he moved the image backwards and forwards in time making the bucket appear and disappear. He went back to watch himself put the bucket up on the tree. Then he moved forward at a faster rate counting the winter seasons as they rolled by again and again. At the plus fifteen year mark, to his surprise, the trees flashed away. Puppet like figures began to erect a building in their place; he had lost his time calibration marker.

In itself this didn't affect his plans. Once his time scanner was active at any location, he would be able to see the future or the past at that spot, all the way to it's maximum possible range.

3.

Next day, after he settled Fleur into her favourite chair by the large window overlooking the garden, he broached the subject.

'Fleur, I'm going to have to stay away tonight. I know you'll be well looked after because Gwen is coming this afternoon to stay for a couple of days.'

Gwen, Fleur's sister, a nurse, was a great source of practical help.

Fleur didn't ask the obvious question.

'That's great John. Why don't you ring up George Kay at the department? He's always asking if you want to go out for a night. You need time away from me.'

'I may do that, but you're my only important job now,' he said as he stooped to kiss her.

In the evening he entered the medical school library and stopped at the counter to talk to the librarians at the front desk. As a physics professor he had open access to all the university libraries. The staff knew him well now; he had become a permanent feature in the Medical library, where he sat for hours poring over text books in the oncology section.

Today he pulled a large airline suitcase behind him.

'Professor Mc'Ilroy has asked me to deliver these journals to him. He wants me to leave them in the photocopying room. Will that be convenient?' he asked at library reception.

The two librarians were well aware of Professor Elliot's personal troubles and they were eager to oblige him. Once he had placed the suitcase in the photocopying room he sat again at his seat in the oncology section. It occupied a small area screened off from much of the library by several high book stacks. Nearby there was a study table with alcoves for three computers where doctors or medical students sat to read journals and research topics of interest.

Just before seven pm the head librarian approached him.

'It's five minutes to closing time Professor Elliot.'

'Thank you Mary, I'll get my things together now.'

When Mary continued out of sight behind the stacks on her mission to advise closing time, John stopped pretending to read his book, picked up his small day pack, and let himself into the photocopying room. His suitcase was under the table where he had left it. A large partition was under construction in one corner of the room and on a recent visit he had marked it as a good hiding place. There were no surveillance cameras in the photocopying room unlike other areas of the library; plus the door could be unlocked from the inside. The room was empty as he had expected; therefore he quickly climbed over the table and settled down to wait behind the partition.

Mary returned. After a brief glance around the room, she turned off the two photocopiers, switched off the lights, and locked the door. Her footsteps clicked away on the parquet floor fading into the distance. John watched through the door glass as one by one the library lights were turned off.

The library and the medical school had closed. A general air of quietness spread throughout the building as night fell. Outside the darkened library a few fluorescent tubes lit the corridors and soon the two security guards would start their patrol.

John had scouted their shift routine which started with a sweep of each floor of the medical school, then involved hourly tours outside the building. For the rest of their time they sat at their desk on the ground floor monitoring security cameras which covered the outside of the medical school and the few internal corridors which remained lit. Other cameras such as those inside the medical library were inactivated when their rooms were locked for the night.

Soon he could hear the slow approach of a guard who stopped to test each of the locked doors down the corridor. The library door rattled in its turn before his footsteps disappeared down the stairway at the end of the corridor.

John stood, switched on his small torch, and unwound his cramped body back around the partition. He paused to listen before unlocking the door with a click which sounded like a gunshot in the small room. The unexpected crack froze him in place and he held his breath until he persuaded himself that the sound could not have been heard.

He told himself to relax as he slipped into the main library trailing his suitcase after him. But each time he passed an avenue of high stacks he felt the old primeval dread of dark spaces that had troubled him since he was a child.

At the oncology section he halted, sweating, by the alcove with its three LCD screens. A video camera faced the screens mounted on the wall two metres above floor height. This was fortunate because it meant he could use it and leave his own bulky camera at home. Any camera would work because the image of the future didn't require the same camera be present in the future. He laid his suitcase flat and began to remove his equipment.

In half an hour he was ready to record. The time scanner lay on the ground powered by an extension cord which snaked away into the darkness to a free electric socket. A new data lead connected to the camera in place of its usual one, which he cut off at floor level. If he had switched the camera on before interrupting its usual lead, the fault would have triggered an alert to the guards at their monitoring station. He hoped this mindless act of petty vandalism would be claimed as yet another example of student misbehaviour.

With his laptop positioned on the table next to the silent library computers, he sat down to take stock. The library seemed to wait, mute and expectant. It was so quiet that he could hear the racing, thudding of his heart. The time scanner lay on the floor, glowing and humming in the dark. He reached over to cover it with a blackout cloth. A second larger blackout sheet covered both himself and his laptop as he sat in the resemblance of an early photographer hiding from the light.

He took a deep breath to steady himself then activated his programme. The calibration sequence ran through until it switched on the camera, the image remaining black inside the library. He keyed in tiny slow time increments as he scrutinised the clock icon on his screen. The library began to move from darkness as a sliver of daylight percolated down from the skylights. He moved forwards faster until he noticed the first flicker of human movement as in an old silent film. Pausing and reversing, he stopped the image which showed a clear picture of Mary the librarian, frozen in time as she made her opening round of the library, at 9.05 am tomorrow morning.

As he moved forwards again, the library became more active. Other figures began to flick to and fro past the oncology section. At precisely 9.29 am tomorrow he slowed down to real-time and waited.

He gave a small, silent whistle of satisfaction when his calibration proved near perfect. At ten seconds past the half hour according to his time icon, a figure came into view beside the computer table. A middle-aged man stood there, with a full head of hair as judged from the camera angle above. Dressed in sensible muted university tweeds, he pulled a wheeled airline case up beside him. The figure glanced from left to right then turned to look directly at the camera before moving away out of view, towards the library exit.

The image fascinated John; he reversed it until he could look at himself as he would be at 9.30am next morning. That part of the plan had already worked. The paused figure looked up at him while John made a critical assessment of his future inexpressive self.

'It looks like I've had a sleepless night which is hardly surprising.' he thought.

Then he began to wonder why his future face didn't show any hint of success or failure.

'Maybe I think it would be the sensible thing to show my past self before he spends a long sleepless night.'

He gave up the struggle to decide future cause and effect. It was time to make his preliminary run forward with the scanner. He rushed through the nights, slowing down during daylight to watch the researchers at work in front of the computers. He soon realised that the central screen gave the clearest image of the three computers and he concentrated on that one from now on.

At one year forward the LED screens changed to larger models, which made his job easier. Then at about seven years forward something odd occurred; the screens flickered and were gone. John slowed and reversed time until he could review the event.

Over the course of two days, technicians removed the computers with their large screens, installed a new table with separated partitions, and set up other equipment of an unrecognisable type. John watched in fascination as a young technician sat down to put on a large headset. He wore a type of helmet and lowered a visor as he faced the blank wall of the partition to manipulate two small levers mounted in the booth. From this period onwards there was nothing that the video camera could show him. John sped to the forward limit of the time scanner which he now knew was about eighteen years. The booths and their curious equipment were gone by then. Figures walked backwards and forwards where the oncology study desk had been, but it appeared that the area was no longer a library.

He paused to study the dress fashion eighteen years into the future, noting with distaste the lurid metallic coloured shirts and dresses which were prevalent. He smiled a wry smile however at the future return of bell bottomed trousers.

Returning once again to the helmeted era, John decided that this period involved a holographic display. The wearer must receive integrated information on the inside of the visor thus dispensing with the need to look at a flat LCD screen. He could admire this glimpse of the future, but it meant that his attempt to read about advances in cancer treatment over the shoulders of researchers would be limited to the next seven years.

It was now midnight, time to make a full recording of those seven years in the hope that the answer would be found in them. Focussing on the central computer, he changed his recording algorithm to exclude the hours of darkness and to record only the times when movement occurred as a researcher sat down to study. He closed off recording at the moment in the future when the screens disappeared.

The speed of the automated recording procedure ran at four hundred times real-time speed; he could now relax and passively monitor its progress. He dozed until the programme stopped at six am giving him ample time to dismantle his apparatus and return to the photocopier room. There was now enough time to drink coffee from his flask, eat his energy bars, and snooze under the table before his watch alarm alerted him. He was well positioned behind the alcove before Mary arrived to unlock the photocopier door.

There was enough activity in the library for him to exit the room unnoticed. It remained only to stop beside the oncology computers at nine thirty am sharp as shown on his watch. He already knew how to look at the video camera before he made his way out.

The morning city traffic had abated as he headed for his car, parked in a discreet alley not far from the library. Even in that short distance the sun's glare forced him to squint and shield his eyes downwards. The intense light together with the noise from the trundling, bumping, suitcase brought on another of his now frequent migraines. He was grateful to climb into his car and crawl to the southern highway home into the countryside.

4.

He found Larry's car parked at the front gate beside several others. This was a welcome surprise as their son was abroad on essential business; John wasn't expecting him back in the country for another week.

Inside, Fleur and three friends sat around a large armchair in the lounge which she liked to use when company came. Here she could catch the sunlight through the patio windows. Local gossip engaged the four women. It was good to see Fleur taking an active part in the conversation.

'How did your project go John?' asked Fleur. She turned to her group in explanation.

'John has been at the university working on a secret project. He tells me he will reveal it all soon.' She forced a weak smile, her wasted face turned in enquiry towards him.

John came forward, kissed her, and put his arms around her thin shoulders to whisper in her ear. 'You're right, I have been there. I'll tell you everything as soon as I can. I promise.'

He could see that Fleur's friends needed some explanation.

'I'm working on something that I hope will help Fleur.' he announced.

The three women displayed brief looks of pity which they quickly disguised. They knew there was nothing he could do. Only Fleur looked at him with such confidence, that he had to turn away to hide his emotion.

'Dad would you like some coffee?' Larry called out from the kitchen.

John was glad to leave the women and join Larry who was signalling to him with the coffee pot. He gave his son a quick hug and took the offered cup as they sat side by side on the kitchen stools.

'It's great to see you Larry; you must have worked hard to get your business finished.'

'Not really dad. I did the necessary, but no more. I can't bear to spend too much time away from mum.' Larry leant closer and lowered his voice. 'Dad she looks much worse than last month. What do the doctors say?'

'Your mum is slipping away Larry; she may only have a few more weeks left.' John's voice broke.

'Dad you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?'

'I'm working on something that I hope will give me an answer that could help your mum.'

Larry looked concerned. 'Dad that would be a miracle, but if it helps fill your time that's OK by me. I just think you should take some time out. There are mum's friends to help; Gwen, the nurses, and Fiona is coming in from London the day after tomorrow.'

Fiona was taking leave from her job to come home for as long as she needed. Soon all the family would be together again for the last time.

John placed his hands on Larry's shoulders.

'I know you think I've been a little crazy since you mother became ill, but I can't sit back and do nothing. The doctors have given up. They tried their best and I really hoped their treatments would work, but now I need to help her myself. There will be something I can do. I know it.' He stood up to leave.

'Larry would you keep an eye on your mum. I'm going to work in the shed today. It's great to have you home now; I feel better already.'

They hugged again and John took leave of his wife, who raised a smile then waved him away.

'Make you sure you don't blow up the shed while you're down there.'

John composed himself at his bench. His hurried breakfast together with a couple of cups of strong coffee and two paracetamol had helped to resolve his tiredness and headache. He felt alert and excited as he started to review the first images collected from the medical library.

There was immediate disappointment because they weren't the quality he had hoped for. Even at full zoom the video camera couldn't detail the smallest print of the pages on the LED screen from its distance on the wall. He made several attempts to resolve and interpolate the recorded images. The main and sub headings were clear, as were fonts bigger than eleven point, but this depended on the seated position of the computer users. Often they angled their backs in such a way that they blocked any useful view of the screen.

He spent more than an hour revising his filters until they could pick out the segments of the recording when the full screen faced the camera. With his parameters of seven years, in daylight only, and showing images from an active visible screen, there would be almost five hundred hours of continuous viewing.

As a physics professor he felt capable of understanding some medical jargon, but it seemed easier to run the raw image data first through a word recognition programme. This would flag simple phrases which mentioned Fleur's type of lymphoma. Further runs could be made for words such as 'lymphoma cure' or more generic phrases

He had just separated out this data as one continuous recording, and was preparing to close down the computer when he jumped in surprise as Larry spoke beside him.

'This looks interesting Dad. What is this stuff?'

John swung round. 'You shouldn't sneak up on me like that Larry; you almost gave me a heart attack. That's just some literature I'm reviewing about cancer treatments in case it can help your mum.'

He stood up and in the same motion turned off the screen as he completed the save. When he looked up at the cobwebbed clock it was already after six; time had surprised him once more.

'They sent me out to get you before you got carried away and worked through the night again. It's supper time, but we can put something aside for you if you want to stay working here.' Larry said.

'Ok I'll be out in a minute. Don't worry; I'm going to have a long lie in tonight. I think you're right; I have to catch up on lost sleep. Hurry up, go and tell your mum I'm coming in to make sure she's comfortable for the night.'

Next morning John returned to his shed refreshed. He checked the bedroom view to confirm that Fleur remained asleep, and then opened up the filtered data to begin his selected word search.

It was a slow process. Three years ahead he noted a new medication that appeared in relation to Fleur's lymphoma and he sped through all references of the drug name. It led him to a summary paper that indicated a partial improvement with longer illness remissions over previous agents, but no improved mortality rates.

At midday he paused to rest and slump in his chair. He had to find something practical in the future which was available now. So far he had made one complete run through the seven years ahead but there was no information of value. He took his lunch break in the house to sit with Fleur, but found her comfortable, engaged in conversation with Larry, who waved him away back to his shed.

Later in the day the computer lay waiting for another set of instructions, but John began to consider defeat for the first time. He had to read so much. It was almost impossible to know what was important amongst a blurred collection of dry and emotionless articles. He could have reviewed a dozen vital pieces of research but not realised their significance. There was nothing specific or cure related visible. The later articles had swung in the direction of animal experiments involving genetic manipulation of cancer genes. It had been a crazy idea to believe he could peak ahead over the shoulders of future researchers.

Perhaps it was the tedium of the search, or his mounting anxiety, that raised the subliminal image in his mind. He had turned back to the original unfiltered recordings, playing them again at speed; not looking for anything in particular; when a red and white blur arrested his eye as it flashed past almost two years ahead. He stopped and scrolled back to it.

An odd, male researcher was using the computer, someone who stood out in contrast to the usual doctors or medical students. He was short and stocky, his broad, freckled face shrouded by a wild mass of red curly hair. A grubby white laboratory coat showed a small yellow duck pinned to the top left pocket where there should have been a name tag and a set of pens. He lay asleep, slumped in front of the computers with an open newspaper set against the central LED screen.

John couldn't recall him in any of the previous filtered images, but with no obvious leads and only an odd premonition, he decided on a whim to follow him further. It didn't take long to arrange new parameters to pick out all the instances of this man's visits to the library over the seven years.

His new subject followed a stable pattern of behaviour for each of his irregular appearances. He arrived just before midday; pushed the left chair sideways; moved the central chair to the left; then sat midway between the left and central screens which he tilted to suit himself. He started his research by opening a battered attaché case from which he removed a sandwich, a piece of cake, and a rolled newspaper. He scanned his chosen medical article on the left screen by flitting through each page to the end, then returning to the title page. After this brief task he sat back in his chair with his feet up on the left hand chair or the table, unwrapped his lunch, and ate with apparent great enjoyment. The food finished, he swept the crumbs on to the floor, unrolled his newspaper and propped it up against the central computer. He read for a full five minutes then made space to rest his head on the table for a short nap. As soon as he woke, ten minutes or so later, he shuffled his belongings back into his case before ambling out of sight.

Despite his own misery John could still feel some amusement at this unique repetitive behaviour; he moved forwards through time pleased to see that 'the red sleeper', as he now thought of him, remained predictable in his visits to the oncology computers. On some occasions the sleeper had vigorous arguments on his video smart phone with the blurred image of a young lady. John noticed wryly, that as the years progressed, his subject's increasing abdominal girth dictated an extravagant command of the whole computer table.

This red sleeper table hogging behaviour discouraged all other researchers, who would approach the computers then turn away in evident disgust. Even without sound, and allowing for the difficult viewing angle, the subject's lips could be seen vibrating. It was easy to imagine the snoring that discouraged even the most serious of researchers.

John began to feel a comradely sympathy towards the unknown person who appeared to waste so much of his time. He began to wonder what research articles could sedate such a hopeless case. As he studied his subject in a detached way, he realised that the siesta offered a clear view of the left screen which otherwise had never been in focus. The head down position cleared the way for a wide open first page where the titles could be read with reasonable ease.

John turned back to review these early images. The first two articles concerned genetic mutations in some types of cancers. The next obscure article discussed DNA nanotechnology. The authors of these articles were from his university. He recognised them as Ivan Rosokansky a professor in the genetics department, and George Whitmarsh a professor in the biomedical engineering department. There was a Mr Anthony Piselli mentioned too, unknown to John, but also a genetics researcher.

The fourth paper dated at plus twenty-eight months was different. John sat back in shock; the screen blurred momentarily then sharpened before him as he eased out his snatched breath and rubbed his eyes to focus with intent. The fourth name at the end of the paper was his; described as being a Professor of Medical Physics.

The title read: 'Possible roles for DNA nanotechnology in the prevention and cure of cancer.'

5.

He woke with the realisation that he had fallen asleep again and spent another night in his shed. There was movement in the bedroom and John saved the data before making his way inside. Larry and Gwen had helped Fleur get some nourishment and were moving her into the lounge to her seat. She was drowsy, but not in pain and the medication changes from the day before seemed to have helped. Her damp face lit up when she saw him enter the room.

'You're looking well Fleur, did you have a good night's sleep like me?'

'You liar.' Fleur said as she smiled faintly up at him. 'But I did sleep and I had the most peculiar dream.'

'Can you remember it?' said John as he leant his wife forwards to adjust her pillows.

'Fleur held up her stick like arms to rest her hands on his shoulders. She looked at him with a searching expression.

'You were there John, you looked older, but you were happy. There was a huge crowd surrounding you, asking questions. There was a lot of noise and I tried to attract your attention but you couldn't hear me. I struggled to reach you but there were too many people blocking the way. Then you saw me and I didn't feel scared or unhappy any more because we understood each other even from that distance.'

'Of course we do, and we will.' John said as he stroked Fleur's hair.

'John can you lie me back for a while, until I get my strength up.'

They discussed what Fleur could have for lunch, but her appetite was poor now, limited to fruit juices and light snacks.

'Fiona will be arriving this afternoon.' reminded John. 'Larry will pick her up from the airport. She will be here by four pm this afternoon.'

'I'm looking forward to that. Everybody will be here for the end.'

'Don't say that Fleur.'

She gave a weak laugh. 'You're incredible John. We both know I'm not going to live much longer; you don't have to keep denying it. I'm ready now and if I can avoid the pain and the vomiting, I think I'll manage, as long as you're here with me.'

John's tears welled up. 'Of course I'll be here,' he murmured. 'I promise I won't leave you.'

Fleur patted him on the back. 'That's good, now you can go and bring my album and my diary. I need to finish the letters I'm writing for my future grandchildren. While you're out there you can send in Larry.'

Later that day John found time to return to his shed. Fleur was asleep again after the visits of the hospice and district nurses. Gwen had taken over the watch and was sitting, reading by the bedside. Larry was on his way to the airport.

He returned to the future to move through each of the library visits of the red sleeper. At the appropriate moment when the sleeper folded his head on his arms John slowed down time so that he could read the title texts on the computer screen. He was no longer surprised to find that each new title came from the same group of local researchers and that his name often featured amongst them.

The titles remained obscure, cloaked in the usual research jargon. They seemed to follow stepwise advances in the team's researches into DNA nanotechnology. Several papers mentioned a method of taking DNA imprints from laboratory animal genomes. The last papers were incomprehensible; they discussed the stopping and starting of DNA replication. The details obscured by small print, were unreadable as usual, much to his frustration.

John reached the last instance of the sleeper's visits to the library. The change from computer screens to helmeted virtual displays disagreed with the red sleeper's mode of research: John realised that there was nothing more to see. With mixed feelings he prepared to close down his project. Out of curiosity he decided to flick through the images of the red sleeper once more, this time focussing on the front pages of the newspapers as they presented, propped up in front of the central screen.

The news from the future covered the usual themes of political scandal, sporting successes, and local or international disasters. John found them interesting as a guide to a future which couldn't be changed. The knowledge of what was going to happen was of little use to him as he had no desire to benefit from precognition.

He came to the final instance of the red sleeper seven years ahead. As he watched him for the last time, the sleeper swung his feet on the table and his lunch finished, opened his newspaper in preparation for his postprandial snooze.

John stared. The lead headline, black and huge, occupied half the front page. 'Famous Researchers to Talk About Their Wonderful Cancer Discoveries.' A photo, positioned underneath the caption, showed four men standing together. Three of them were recognisable as himself, Rosokansky, and Whitmarsh. The large sub heading below the picture gave the date and time of the lecture on a Saturday afternoon seven years in the future at the city auditorium.

John's mood surged from misery to elation. The answer for Fleur would be there seven years ahead. He could trust his future self to have found it by then.

The sound of Larry's car arriving outside the house stirred him. Switching off his computer, he ran outside to welcome Fiona.

There was pleasure in the family reunion, but the sad reason for it overlaid the event. They moved into the house to where Fleur sat waiting, propped up in her lounge chair. Fiona embraced her and they both began to cry.

A few hours later John announced to the family that he needed to spend another night away from home.

'Fleur I have to go away again on my research. This will be the very last time I promise. I'll leave at 6.00 pm after the rush hour and I'll be back as soon as I can tomorrow morning.'

Fleur looked miserable; tears began to gather in the corners of her eyes. He stumbled on.

'Fleur I know this appears selfish of me, but I'm so close to what I need to know.'

Larry and Fiona looked at each other in alarm. Larry had already pre warned her that Dad had been a little unhinged in the last six months, believing that he was going to save Fleur's life by an experiment he was conducting. Until now Fiona hadn't appreciated what this meant, but one look at her father's strained, desperate face, shocked her.

'Dad would you like me to help you? You look tired and ill.' She said.

Fleur interrupted them. 'John will be fine,' she declared, her voice had become more firm. Her tears had disappeared.

'He's got something important to finish.' She smiled at John and sniffed on a handkerchief. 'I'll be waiting for you when you come back, but please hurry.'

6.

Light blazed out from the city auditorium on to the square outside. John sat beyond the edge of this, on a cold, stone seat inside a pool of darkness. The audience's muffled laughter drifted towards him until a sudden increase in volume heralded the start of the intermission. He stood up to watch as the theatre goers streamed into the lobby to congregate around the bar or spilled outside to light their cigarettes. It was time to make his move and at the foyer desk the attendant looked up to see a well dressed technician pulling a black, official type of airline suitcase behind him.

John held up his identification badge, waving it in front of the attendant just far enough away to show the university crest and lettering.

'Hi, I'm John from the university audiovisual department. We've arranged to record tonight's comedy for teaching purposes. I'm here to trial the video camera position, so that tomorrow we can make the recording with the minimum of disruption. I can work out the best position during the intermission. I'll be finished before the second part starts. This is my gear.' John pointed at his suitcase.

'OK, said the official. I'll need to inspect it then.'

'Of course,' John opened the suitcase.

Inside there was an obvious video camera, a laptop, and the impressive time scanner. Its dials, switches, and calibrated meters looked like what you would expect of sophisticated audiovisual equipment. On each of the items of equipment, stickers displayed the words, 'University Audiovisual Department. Set number 5'.

'That fine, the official said. Do you know where to go?'

'Sure. I'll go up in the lift.'

'Tell Sid in the circle that Mr Morris said it was OK to set up.'

'Thanks a lot.'

In the upper circle he introduced himself to Sid. After explaining the purpose of his visit, they moved down the rows of seats to set up the equipment in the middle of the central aisle next to the balcony. A helpful Sid showed him the nearest power point and assisted John by suggesting the best position for filming the stage below. John adjusted his tripod then bent over the camera to work out the settings that would allow him to focus on the centre of the stage. He would have to rely on his future self to present the lecture is some clever way that would best display the necessary information. By the time the crowd filtered back for the second part of the play, he had finished and repacked his equipment. He climbed the steps to the back of the circle.

'Thanks for the help Sid, we will be all set for tomorrow, see you later.'

He waited at the head of the stairs near the lifts until the last of the audience entered the circle to take their seats and the three doors shut. When the actors began to speak and he could see that the upper foyer was empty, he moved off around the empty corridor which curved to his right, the suitcase wheels silent in the plush red carpet.

Several years ago he and Fleur had attended a play in the auditorium. At the end, in the confusion, they took the wrong direction on exiting the circle. The corridor they followed took them to a door above the far right side of the stage and they had to retrace their steps. John relied on that memory now; perhaps that door would offer him a hiding place in a room or cupboard.

A prominent "No Entry" sign marked the door, which was locked as he had expected. From a pocket he removed a small tool roll which he unravelled to free a set of small lock picks and wires. They glistened as they lay neatly placed in their individual compartments. While he worked on the lock he considered the possible newspaper headline that would follow if a professor of physics were found in possession of such tools. He tried several picks, one after the other, his mouth dry and his fingers slippery with sweat, until the door opened inwards with a rewarding snick.

He moved in, pulling the suitcase behind, shut the door, and leaned against it until his breathing settled down.

'Physics professor caught in comedy break in.' he settled on a simple possible headline.

In pitch blackness he groped on either side of the door searching for a light switch. When he found none, he opened his case by feel to take out a torch, placed in the lid.

He was inside a musty cleaning cupboard containing a vacuum cleaner, mops, buckets, and tins of polish which gave off their distinct, unpleasant smells. In front of him hung two sets of overalls on their coat hangers.

There was barely enough room between his suitcase and the vacuum cleaner for him to sit down with his back against the rear wall. He had to bend his knees up to place his feet against the door. He made himself as comfortable as he could and settled down to wait for the end of the play. The thudding of his pulse in his ears slowed to normal.

Time inched by, until at last, loud applause replaced the muffled audience laughter, signalling the end of the play. When the chatter and buzz of conversation dissipated down the stairs and into the lifts, he flashed his torch at his watch.

It was 10.00pm. He wriggled his stiff feet against the door to stave off cramp.

A prolonged silence fell. He was about to open the cupboard door when a sudden, loud voice called from right outside.

'OK Sid I'll check the doors, you switch the lights off and start to lock up.'

He had scant seconds to brace his feet hard against the door before the attendant tried the handle. There was no lock on the inside of the door, but by pushing hard against it with his feet he could mimic a locked door.

He didn't hear the theatre attendant leave. Several minutes passed before he felt his anxiety subside and he could control his breathing. Beads of salty sweat had etched and burnt their way down his forehead. He wondered if he could suffocate or be poisoned by the fumes in the acrid confines of the cupboard. He forced himself to wait for another ten minutes while he strained to pick up any new sounds; then desperate for fresh air, he pulled the lower end of the cupboard door back and rolled out on to the pile carpet where he could stare down the darkened corridor.

Eventually after gagging and swallowing away the taste of floor polish, he could stand. He retrieved his suitcase and felt his way along the flocked wallpaper of the curved corridor until he reached the centre door.

Inside the circle the theatre loomed vast and silent. Headlights from passing cars reached in to sweep the shadowed ranks of empty seats. Feeble, yellow streetlight from the square outside leaked through the tall windows to give a faint background illumination.

Still reluctant to use his torch, he moved down the centre aisle testing for each step on the way. At the balcony he assembled his equipment by touch. A few quick, concealed flashes from his torch confirmed the position of the electric socket, and the discrete marks he had made earlier on the carpeted floor for the camera tripod. He set the camera to the optimum angle, inclination, and focal length as confirmed by the trial run. The black out curtain covered the whole camera apart from its lens which peeped out through a small gap. John lowered himself to lie prone on the carpet behind the balcony. Once he had pulled the smaller curtain over his upper body and laptop, he set to work.

Unlike the library recordings, he knew when to go in the future and he sped the scanner there as fast as possible. Hundreds of shows and performances flicked past his eyes. He watched as brief images of choirs, solo singers, and rock bands replaced gesticulating, prancing actors and solitary earnest lecturers. All of them rendered silly by the soundless opening and closing of their mouths. At the seven-year mark he slowed down time until he found what he was waiting for.

He felt instant pride for his future self as he realised how he was going to, or had solved the sound and presentation problems of the lecture. Four men entered to stand together on stage as the full audience applauded in silence. Current John focussed on the older John, conscious again that he was the first person ever to look at his distant future self. He had worried about how he would look, and it was a relief to see that he would come through those years without severe physical changes. As he watched, future John alone of the four men, cast a direct, intent, glance at the centre of the upper circle. Present John understood that he would feel the need to establish a connection back to himself. He froze the image and zoomed in to study the older but familiar face that looked up at him with a sad expression. The gaze was perhaps consoling and John felt a sudden surge of fear.

'No don't look at me like that.' he whispered. 'Please show me that I saved Fleur.'

He unlocked the image of future John who looked away from him refusing to meet his eye again.

John became angry as he recorded in real-time and waited for future John to tell him what he was desperate to know. There was a prologue from his future colleagues before future John rose to speak by himself.

It was characteristic that future John did what present John would have done as an act of kindness. In his first few sentences he ended the torture of his younger self. Present John lay prone, weeping, as the scanner hummed through the rest of the recording. The empty auditorium seemed to become even more quiet, as if it were listening to the sobs of it's smallest audience.

Later, in confirmation that he had everything he needed, he made himself replay the lecture. It ran on until the future public left the theatre and the future staff removed the two large screens behind the speaking podium.

He lay awake suffering for most of the night, but he managed to compose himself and think about how he could get out of the theatre unnoticed.

At dawn he moved into one of the downstairs toilets before the cleaning ladies arrived. From what he had seen of the future, it seemed impossible that he would be caught and forced to display his recording to the police. It was rational however that he should take sensible precautions for his escape from the theatre.

With this logic, he sauntered to the main exit as soon as he saw the doorman engage the two cleaners in conversation: the three of them with their backs turned towards him at the far end of the foyer.

He half expected a warning shout before he could reach the door, but after what seemed an age, he was there. It opened with a liberating swish allowing him to emerge into the deserted Sunday morning square which he trundled across in a nonchalant fashion.

On his way home from the city he diverted from the motorway into one of the poor southern suburbs where he knew there was a suitable shop. At the corner store he found the preordained parking slot beside the shop's front door.

An adjustment to DC voltage powered the scanner from the car's cigarette lighter. He positioned the tripod low enough to film through a small gap in the passenger car window. The streets were quiet, customers paid no attention to him as they left the shop with their milk and papers. In less than an hour John had confirmation on his laptop screen of the information he wanted and expected.

7.

Dr Clark met him at the front door. Fleur had suffered breakthrough pain in the night and needed extra boluses of Morphine given by Gwen. Fresh guilt compounded John's misery because he hadn't been there when his wife needed him.

Dr Clark drew John to one side out of earshot.

'I'm sorry John but I don't think it will be much longer before Fleur passes away. You shouldn't move her now; she's too weak; I think we should keep her comfortable in bed from now on.'

They discussed dose adjustments for the next syringe; Dr Clark wrote these up for Bronwyn to mix on her visit later in the day.

When John opened the bedroom door he found Fleur more settled and alone. He sat down beside the bed to reach out and hold both her hands as she struggled to focus on his face.

'John you're back, thank god. I've missed you.' she whispered before she paused to focus her eyes on him.

'John you're wearing the same clothes as yesterday, you haven't shaved, and you look a mess.'

'I can't believe that you can notice all that considering the medication you're taking.' John replied.

The corners of Fleur lips tilted upwards in a small smile. 'I always needed to keep an eye on your appearance. I hope you'll try harder to think about it when I'm gone. Promise me that you will wear your best suit and that nice blue shirt at my funeral.'

John promised he would. There was a long pause before he could speak again.

'Fleur. I'm sorry I went away last night and left you. It won't happen again because I've finished my research. I've found out that I can't cure you, I was hoping there would be something that could help, but there isn't.'

He sobbed and lay down beside her on the bed. Fleur cupped her wasted hands around his head to caress his hair.

'I know you were darling. That would be just like you to try to do something wild and romantic.' murmured Fleur. 'You are amazing, I love you for that, but there was never any chance. We both knew that after the second relapse. I've tried to be brave for both of us.'

John whispered in return. 'I know you have, you're such a fighter, I'm sorry I couldn't help you more.'

Fleur found the strength to squeeze his hands. She refocused on his eyes a few inches away.

'I was pleased to begin with that you had a special scheme. I thought it would divert you enough to cope with this thing, but I've been afraid for you because you were making yourself ill over me. I can see that you're more settled now, that's good, I want you to be steady for me. Don't worry about me any more John. I'm ready now. I wasn't at the start because I was angry that it happened to me. It was so unfair because I ate well, I exercised, I did all the right things. I was angry with the doctors when they didn't succeed and I was jealous that you were so well. I'm sorry John, it was all so stupid. Now I'm just sad that I'll miss seeing what becomes of you. I'll miss our children getting married and our grandchildren growing up.'

She closed her eyes exhausted by the effort of her long speech.

John took a deep breath. 'Fleur I didn't fail completely, I know I can't save you, but I can show you some of the good that will happen in the future because I have managed to look there.'

Fleur opened her eyes; he could see that she believed him without hesitation.

'You can show me this afternoon after Bronwyn has left and I've had a small rest.'

John showered, shaved and changed into fresh clothes. He drank two cups of strong coffee and ate a quick bowl of cereal. Then he shooed Fiona, Larry, and Gwen out of the house assuring them that he was fine. He suggested they take some time out by going for a long drive, in which they could catch up on their personal news over breakfast somewhere. He told them that he wanted to spend the whole day with Fleur and he would expect them home again in time for dinner that evening.

He put on such a convincing display of efficiency and intent, that he reassured them he could manage Fleur alone. They left with his promise of phone contact should they be needed.

While Fleur dozed, John set up the time scanning equipment in the lounge to film through the French doors towards the sunny area where the family had spent so many pleasant times. He started the recording.

8.

Once Bronwyn waved her usual cheery goodbye, Fleur and John had the house to themselves. He borrowed Larry's laptop and positioned the projector screen at the end of the bed. When he was ready to play the recording he turned to see Fleur looking almost alert. She gave him a slow wink.

'I've turned the pump off for the time being, so I can be as sensible as possible.'

'You can't do that, the pain will come right back.'

'I can manage a few hours of pain in return for a good show.' she insisted

He pulled the curtains shut and made sure Fleur was semi reclined in a comfortable position to see the screen, then lay down next to her so that he could speak into her ear.

'Fleur do you remember that four or five years ago I did some work on the wave theory of time. It was never taken further because of the controversy I created. Nobody would back me on such a preposterous idea so I stopped working on it to avoid ridicule.'

'I remember darling, I was sure that you were right about your theory.'

'Yes I know, but wives are often biased in favour of their husbands.'

'Not me, I know how clever you are.' Fleur whispered.

'Anyway,' he continued. 'I thought then that time is a wave and a particle, therefore it could be modulated and viewed with the right apparatus. Now I've proved this because I've seen as far as eighteen years into the future. If I take my recording device to any spot, I can see what will happen and what has happened on that spot eighteen years on either side.

Fleur's eyes shone with some of her old fire.

'That's fantastic,' she breathed. 'That must be one of the greatest inventions of all time.'

'Fleur I love you because I know you will always believe me when I tell you such unbelievable stories.'

'I believe you because I love you. Anyway my time is short now, much too short to change my mind about you,' she replied.

'What I want to show you occurs seven years into the future. I was sure it would tell me the cure for your lymphoma, but that cure isn't possible at the moment. It will be from then on. Over the next seven years I'm going to become involved in cancer research with a team at the university. There will be a public talk seven years from now in the city auditorium. I recorded it last night. There is no sound, but as you'll see, that doesn't matter.'

He started the recording and they held hands as they watched.

The audience filled every seat in the auditorium, and even though there was total silence, the crowd looked excited as they stood up to gesture across the aisles to each other. Many of them stood in their seats as they craned for a better view. A large press contingent gathered in front of the stage. Above them on the stage, a single lectern stood in front of two large screens of equal dimensions placed side by side.

'This is fantastic John, but I don't think much of the clothes those women are wearing seven years from now.'

'I agree, but maybe there will be better styles in later years.'

A tall man entered the stage and moved to the lectern to speak something into the microphone, which presumably asked the audience to seat themselves, because at this point they did.

'I don't recognise him.' Fleur said.

'I assume he's a future city politician.' replied John

This master of ceremonies spoke for a few minutes in an introductory fashion before he turned and beckoned four men to come to the stage. The audience rose on mass and must have produced a storm of noise from their silent hand clapping while photographers fired flashes from the base of the stage. The video recording was of good quality. It was easy to see the men's faces as they stood together holding their hands up in acknowledgement to the audience's welcome.

'This is exciting. I see that you smartened yourself up for the occasion, but I don't like your future haircut. However you do look most handsome and very distinguished with that grey hair. Mmm, you haven't put on the weight I would have expected either.'

'Thank you Fleur. It's comforting to know you will still be nagging me seven years from now.'

'Who is that attractive young man standing on the far left?'

'I don't know yet.'

Now the smallest and oldest of the four men advanced to the lectern.

'Is that's Rosokansky?' Fleur asked

'Yes it is.'

The left hand screen began to display the spoken words above the speaker in such large print that they were easy to read on the recording.

'I wonder who will be responsible for that?' teased Fleur.

The words scrolled downwards.

'Ladies and gentlemen welcome. Thank you for coming to our public talk which concerns our discoveries in the field of cancer treatment. We don't want to blind you with science and it has been our decision to summarise our work in as simple a manner as possible. We cannot however miss out or skimp on any key elements of the essential breakthroughs which require some basic scientific understanding. I'm going to leave most of these explanations to my colleague Professor John Elliott, as we acknowledge that he is the most able of the four of us to relay our findings to you.'

'Hear hear.' interjected Fleur.

Professor Rosokansky continued. 'I want to start with a small story which begins seven years ago, round about this time of the year. I was sitting in my office in the medical school when Professor Elliott approached me. As many of you know he was then a Professor in the Physics faculty of the University, and as such I barely knew him beyond a few words spoken between us at faculty lunches.'

'Nobody ever wanted to speak more than a few words to that grumpy old man.' Fleur said.

'Sssh we should concentrate on reading his words.'

'Professor Elliott told me that he had followed my genetics work for some time and was most interested in certain aspects of the way I was looking at animal genomes.

'You are such a fibber and a flatterer John Elliott.'

'No Fleur, there will be truth in this when it happens.'

'I was most surprised that a Physics professor would have any interest in human or experimental genetics, but I was soon convinced that Professor Elliott had a good working knowledge of the latest research at that time. He told me that an anonymous donor had offered a very large bequest to the university. He wanted to fund a research team to work on the genetics of cancer cells. The donor believed they could be altered to help prevent or treat cancer. I asked John how much money would be provided.'

'He would ask about that.' said Fleur as she read the last sentence.

'He told me it was twenty-eight million dollars.' the words scrolled down.

Fleur looked at John with a worried expression. 'You didn't rob a bank did you darling?'

John paused the recording. 'You remember the Lottery shop on Lincoln Drive. The one that displays the winning numbers of the previous lottery each week. In two months time there will be a huge win at this shop and for ever afterwards it will display numbers under a banner which says 'Buy here, we supply the big winning tickets.'

'Ah.' Fleur murmured. I can see it all now.'

John released Rosokansky and his words scrolled on again.

'Naturally this was a surprise, and I asked for more details. The bequest was conditional that I join a team which was to consist of myself, Professor Elliot, Professor Whitmarsh from the Biomedical engineering department, and another genetics research assistant who had recently gained a PhD in a related field that would be helpful. I asked John who this was, and he told me he had written a letter to Doctor Anthony Piselli at Harvard University inviting him to join the research team. Anthony had accepted the offer and was at that very moment preparing to join us. I admit now that I had not heard of Dr Piselli at that time.'

'Now I know how the fourth man will come to be.' John said.

'Professor Elliott assured me that Doctor Piselli had written his thesis on the starting and stopping of gene effectors. Although this was not considered main stream research, the mystery benefactor had insisted that Doctor Piselli be brought on board the team. The professor assured me that I would be leading the group, and that he would help out in whatever role seemed best to further the research. At that time I couldn't see a role for any non geneticist, but I admit that the course of events proved me completely wrong.'

'Professor Elliott asked me to think about the offer, but warned me that the sponsor for this research had insisted on these team members as a prerequisite for the funding. I told John I would make my decision over the weekend.'

John paused the recording and spoke to Fleur.

'I have a feeling that the next seven years will require a lot of flexibility and massaging of egos. We know how obnoxious Rosokansky is or will be. I know Professor Whitmarsh is very single-minded. Heaven only knows what Doctor Piselli will be like.'

Fleur patted him on the arm. 'It doesn't matter John. You must have kept one step ahead of them somehow all these years. You will know the correct things to say to them at the exact right time.'

John started the recording again.

Rosokansky now asked Professor George Whitmarsh to introduce himself and then Doctor Anthony Piselli, both of whom related their stories of joining the research team. Their words crept down the screen, until Rosokansky stepped forwards again.

'Now I have the privilege of introducing you to Professor John Elliott. The rest of the team would like to acknowledge his contribution. His assistance in guiding and supporting us over the last seven years has been incalculable. He kept us together when we lost momentum and he helped us stay on the right path whenever we began to stray from it. When we argued about what to do next, John would sit back, listen, and then make a suggestion. Often this would be outrageous and we would reject it as impossible or meaningless, but inevitably we always came round to his point of view. We found that whenever we tested his suggestions they were always proven correct.

Ladies and gentlemen there are four of us at the institute for cancer research but our leader has always been Professor John Elliott. I would like you to welcome him to the stand and ask you to give your full attention to one of the greatest scientists this country or the world has ever produced.'

'Somehow I feel I'm a cheat when I watch this.' John said.

'In a way you are, but surely the ability to look into the future is even more incredible and you did that all by yourself.' Fleur replied.

John paused the recording again.

'I will be known for the cancer research but never for the time discovery. There would be some advantages in looking into the past, but Fleur, there would be chaos if we could all look into the future. I'm going to destroy my machine later tonight and I pray that nobody else will make the same discovery.'

Fleur considered this announcement and nodded slowly in agreement. 'Let me see what you have to say to us next.'

They watched in silence as the older version of John took position behind the lectern and adjusted the microphone. The audience sat down after more prolonged applause and real silence must have settled.

Future John began. 'I want to thank you all for coming here to spend your valuable time with us on a lovely Saturday afternoon. Seven years ago my wife Fleur died of cancer and my heart broke.

I made a vow then that in honour of her I would spend my working time after her death researching the causes and the prevention of cancer. This has been my driving force, and I know that if she were here today, she would be pleased to see the progress we have made so far.'

He paused as his voice broke and he darted a glance up to the video camera on the upper circle before taking a drink of water from the glass placed on the lectern.

Fleur squeezed John's hands.

Future John turned to the screen behind him. 'As you can see, we decided to show our spoken words on this screen. This is because we know there are some amongst you that may have hearing problems, but we also wish our recordings of this discussion to reach a wider audience than those who are physically present today. We hope you don't mind.'

'Some of you will be wondering what the right hand screen is for. I am going to cover the ground of our discoveries with the aid of diagrams and pictures that I hope will make what I say more understandable. We have released twelve papers in the course of our research over the last seven years. The magazine 'Nature', published our last and most important discovery yesterday; therefore there will be no harm in displaying it on this screen at the end of this talk, together with all the other papers in the order that they were first published.'

'Clever you.' Fleur said.

John and Fleur continued to hold hands as future John proceeded over the next half hour to walk the audience through the group's research and findings. He drew diagrams and drawings on a tablet placed on the lectern, which were in turn displayed on the right hand screen. His spoken words continued on the left screen.

He reached the end and turned to the audience.

'In summary, we realised that with the discovery of the human genome, it would become easy for everybody to have their own genome unravelled at birth. With the aid of DNA nanotechnology, we are now able to build a template of a person's DNA taken at the time of their birth when it is at its youngest and freshest. We do this before any cancer causing influences can have occurred. Defective regulation of cell genes as a result of environmental or other unknown factors is the cause of cancer.'

'From the stored template we have been able to recreate that persons DNA by the natural process of self molecular reassembly. I would liken this to a zip effect whereby the correct sequences can only come together in certain ways. You can also visualise this as being similar to the way a stored negative image was used to recreate old photographs.'

'At this point even though you have clean DNA re-established, this doesn't mean that you can simply inject it into that person later when they develop cancer, and replace the diseased DNA with the fresh copy. We had to find a way of stopping the diseased copy from replicating, and then to replace it preferentially with the fresh clean copy from that time onwards.'

'Our later research has focussed on this. We found our answers deep in the area of cell DNA that was once thought of as junk DNA. Here about one million base pairs into this section of very old and stable DNA, there is a short segment that codes for a pause of cell division without causing cell death. We would describe this as putting the DNA to sleep. I named this area the Slowey point after one of our team members because like him, it is stable and predictable, but once activated will always do your bidding.'

'The other area of DNA we had to find and stimulate is the section responsible for encouraging the fresh DNA to take over as the source of future cell divisions. This area is also found in the stable DNA section. The new DNA keys in and propagates outwards from this single point like a flower opening from its bud. I have named this the Fleur point in honour of my wife. We call the replacement of all the cancerous DNA, 'The Fleur Effect.'

'My area of practical help as a physicist has been in the creation of the necessary conditions for DNA substitution to occur. This requires a chamber in which the patient is held at a very low temperature for the exact time needed for the successful DNA change over to occur.'

'The stimulation of these two areas of non replicating DNA are the essential steps in the process of replacing the DNA of the cancer sufferer with DNA modelled from their younger healthier selves. These two points are found in all animals and are the same across several species that we have studied.'

'What does all this mean in practice? At first we worked with simple laboratory animals, and latterly with primates. You will also be aware of our research five years ago that established the DNA typing bank for all newborn children in this country.

In the past six months we have performed the procedure of DNA replacement, or as I like to term it, DNA rebooting, on eight young children who have developed cancer. This is the basis of our recent article in Nature.

We can report that so far we see no evidence that their cancer is still active. These children are now healthy; their cancer has disappeared for the moment. There have been no observable side effects and we are optimistic that this method of treatment could be used to cure most cancers especially those that develop later in life. We hope to go on and prove this as the years pass and we use more stored DNA templates for DNA rebooting in older cancer patients.'

'We have not found the causes of cancer, we have merely gone around it and returned the bodies basic DNA to its original state at birth; before that person received their cancer causing stimulus, whatever that may be.'

'This could mean that in time the same cancer may occur if that person has an underlying congenital genetic defect which we also reproduced, and if they suffer from the same triggers. However if for example the patient had lung cancer, then we would hope that the repaired patient would be motivated to never smoke cigarettes again, thus removing the primary cause for their disease.'

'These eight treated children have a high risk of redeveloping their early childhood cancers which are probably related to undiscovered congenital genetic defects. Replacing defective DNA with the same defective DNA would be of no long-term help. We believe however that if we keep rebooting their DNA, we can keep them alive until other researchers learn how to clip off their offending gene defects and insert stable copies.

'To close my speech I would like to thank our mystery funder who has made this research possible, also my esteemed colleagues who have performed amazing work over the last seven years.

This has been a team effort across several areas of expertise. A great group of laboratory assistants and young researchers have supported us, and I would especially like to thank one of them today. Mr Dominic Slowey, for whom I named the Slowey point. He joined us right at the start, and he has been a source of inspiration to me, although he doesn't know this.'

Future John motioned to the front row of the audience where the junior researchers of the team sat. Dominic a plump, young, red-headed man stood up, bowed awkwardly to the audience with a surprised and embarrassed expression on his face, then sat down again as soon as he could.

John paused the recording to offer an explanation to Fleur.

'I'm not sure how he will come to me, but I know that whatever qualities he lacks, he will be reliable in his visits to the medical school library to review our research papers. I suspect he will have little value other than as a team mascot and tea maker. I'm sure I'll have to protect him from dismissal, but I know that without him I can't look into the future and there will be no cancer cure.'

He started the recording again; they watched as future John looked upwards once more towards the camera. The words on the screen continued in synch with his silent speech.

'I would like to express my sorrow to Fleur and to all the cancer victims and their relatives who suffered because we couldn't help them in enough time. I would also like to express my happiness for those many people who as they grow up from today, will be able to benefit from DNA rebooting and have a normal healthy life recreated, free from cancer.'

Future John called forwards his colleagues who had been sitting on chairs to one side of the stage. The four men came forwards together to accept the applause from the cheering house who were now standing on their feet.

In the back ground both screens began to slowly display in very large print, page by page, the papers published by the team. At the end, a group photo of the four men appeared on the left screen while a photo of Fleur appeared on the right screen.

John switched off the display. 'That's the end of it. I couldn't find the answer for you. I can only help future cancer victims.'

Fleur held him in her arms to kiss him. 'It doesn't matter John, I'm happy that you're going to help all these other people. I've got my name attached to the process; I'll be remembered and famous for that as well. In my position what more can I ask for'

'There is something else I can do for you Fleur. At this moment I'm recording the future as seen from inside the lounge and out on to the deck. I can view forwards for eighteen years. You can look at all of this period if you want to see if Fiona and Larry have any grandchildren. I will make sure I arrange for everyone to stand in that view of the future, as much as possible.'

Fleur's eyes lit up. 'That would definitely make me one the happiest dying patients that can possibly exist. Who could ever get such a chance? She examined his face.

'John I love you very much and I know you love me, but I hope you'll meet another woman. I really want you to, and if you do, don't be afraid to show her to me. I'll be unhappy if you don't.'

'Fleur, whatever will happen, will be on the recording, so we will find out. Maybe I'll be dead, and there could be other tragedies. All I know is that I will be alive for the next seven years. How much further into the future do you want me to go?'

She closed her eyes, thought, then opened them nodding to him. 'I think seven years ahead will be enough for me, we should go forwards at least until then. I would love to see my grandchildren, but please edit out anything you know I would hate. At this stage of my life I don't feel I can cope with anything more unpleasant.'

'It will be ready for tomorrow.' he promised. 'I'm going to destroy the recording beyond seven years without looking at it. I don't think I could stand knowing anything further ahead either. I need tonight to prepare the film, but I will be watching you from the shed. I'll be right beside you if you need me from now on.'

Fleur sighed in contentment but winced with pain as she leaned against him.

'Can you please turn my syringe pump on again John and I want you to play back that recording just enough so I can look again at those awful fashions I'm going to avoid.'

## Empathy Shrew

1

When someone takes an interest in you, either for better or worse, it could be by chance. But sometimes, it was always going to happen.

Miles Watson looked at the list of willing participants for the upcoming field trip. The situation was dire; only three students from his tutorial group had posted their names. He noted them without surprise; they were pretty much whom he would have expected.

He moved on down the corridor and made his way upstairs to the staff cafeteria. In the wash room he scrutinised his reflection in the mirror. An angular face with even features looked back at him, copying his movements. There were reasonable teeth and brown eyes behind wire rimmed spectacles. Laughter lines spread out from the edges of those eyes, but it concerned Miles to see other new worry lines on the forehead. He wondered if they were the average for a thirty-four year old associate professor without security of tenure at a small Midwest university. Still on the plus side, no midriff bulge showed on the tall figure beneath the routine academic garb of jacket and trousers.

With a sigh he left the image and entered the cafeteria to stand in line at the food counter.

'Hi there Miles! How are things going in the insectivores department?'

Miles turned to face the small, plump figure of Mary Turner, a junior professor from the engineering faculty, who stood behind him.

'Hi Mary, nice to see you, everything is fine there. Did you have a good break in Florida?'

'It went well thanks. Mom is still fussing around. Dad thinks he knows how to fix the world's problems and he wants to tell me how to do it.'

'Yeah, well at least he's still interested in current world events, not like some people in Florida. Miles replied.

They collected their food and sat down at a table by the window. Outside a thin, watery sun shone on the students below as they hurried across the quadrangle in the interval between morning classes.

'Did you go anywhere during the break Miles?' Mary enquired.

'Nope. I had to write-up the last of the data from my experiments. There's a bit of pressure on me to publish soon.' Miles winced as he spoke.

Mary gave him a comforting look. 'I'm sure things will work out Miles. One day you'll gain the recognition you deserve. But you really should get out and socialise more. Jacob and I know some cute girls in our department you could date.'

Miles returned a rueful smile. 'Mary you're great, but the truth is, I don't lead an exciting life; I'm not much of a prospect for most normal women.'

At that moment two men broke into their conversation as they thumped onto the vacant seats beside them.

'We hope we're not interrupting you guys. Do you mind if we join you?' said Kresky the larger of the two.

Kresky and Mountford were associate professors in the Commerce department who had never shown any interest in Miles's company before.

'Sure help yourself.' Miles indicated space on the table for their plates.

'Have you heard the latest?' Kresky continued. 'It looks like the University is going to have another purge of its faculties. The word is we all need to pay our way and create spin-off income from our departments. In our case we'll be fine and dandy because the commerce department has solid contacts with the local business community.'

'Yes we're fine and dandy.' Mountford echoed.

'Is that so? I haven't been told this yet'. Miles said.

'I hope you can make something useful out of those rodents of yours Watson. There has to be some money in them for the university to continue to support you. That doesn't seem likely to me.' Kresky declared.

'Nor me.' chimed in Mountford.

'Shrews aren't rodents.' Miles replied in an even tone.

Kresky however was not listening. He stood up to wave at someone on a distant table. Picking up his plate he walked off. 'Got to go and pass on the good news, you take care now.'

'Yeah take care you all.' repeated Mountford as they moved off.

'Bastards!' said Mary. 'They only came across to dump on you Miles.'

Miles tilted his chair back, took off his glasses and blew on them. He polished the lenses with the tail of his shirt.

'You know Mary, they've got a point. I spend all my time teaching large 101 Zoology classes and marking their assignments. The other guys in my department have a lighter work load with plenty of time to do their research and make themselves look good. I would be the first in line for any cut. Shrew research is not a big money-maker for a cash strapped university.'

Dinner over, Miles returned to his small room on the fifth floor of the natural sciences block. He threaded his way through the heaps of books stacked around the room and beside his desk. Once he reached it, he cleared a space to rest his elbows. The field trip list lay bare and exposed as he studied it again, chin on hands. Perhaps it wasn't surprising that just three out of his eight senior students had offered to participate; no extra credits were on offer for this particular trip.

'What a three they are.' Miles thought.

Consuela Gonzales lived in Florida. Of South American extraction, a small, dark, and volatile woman. Her English was sometimes hard to understand; worse when she broke into rapid Spanish at times of high emotion. Marley Johnsson came from the west, somewhere in Utah State. Quiet and intense, he was the youngest, most intelligent student in the class. The type that never stand out, but who quietly excel in the background. Then there was G Robert Kratochvil, known as Grob for short. Nobody knew what the G stood for. Squat and clumsy, he always walked with a shambling gait, head down with his thick black hair constantly straying over his forehead. His slow English accent marked him as coming from somewhere in middle Europe. Miles wasn't sure why he stayed in class as he contributed very little to it. Indeed he was repeating the year after failing all of last year's papers.

Miles swept his notebooks and a half-eaten bagel into his briefcase, before descending to his laboratory to spend the rest of the afternoon with his two current shrews. After three days in captivity they had almost exhausted their large food supply of insects, snails, and worms. It was time to release them.

When the light dimmed through the small high windows of the lab, he locked up and walked the three blocks to the bus stop. The empty bus rode him onwards through the darkening streets to his shabby suburb. Inside his sparse but functional apartment, he found a congealed, half consumed pizza which he ate as he watched TV without interest. He surfed the channels, but the fare on offer was the mental equivalent of his pizza; so he took the sensible alternative of an early night in bed.

2

The field group met in the university quadrangle at ten in the morning as arranged. Miles collected the keys of the departmental pick-up from the faculty office, then returned by way of his laboratory where he transferred his Sorex Cinereus (the masked shrew) and his Blarina Brevicauda (the northern short-tailed shrew) into carry boxes.

Back at the pick-up he made a gallant offer of the passenger seat to Consuela who accepted without comment, as if of divine right.

'Sorry guys, it's in the back for you again.' Miles apologised to Marley and Grob.

They both climbed up without a word, to settle down amongst the traps, collecting boxes, and other field trip apparatus. He handed the two shrew boxes up to them.

Miles began to cheer up as he drove out of the city taking the turnpike to the north-west. He always felt better when he left the sprawling suburbs behind and could put on his walking boots to escape into the country air. Most of his holidays involved hiking and camping trips, often solitary, but sometimes with the university hiking club. In general, he preferred to walk without a set plan, wandering at will, to stop wherever he found an interesting zoological feature to study.

Twenty miles out from the city, he turned through the gate of the university farm and the group dismounted by the barn. They made a quick division of their gear before starting their brisk two-mile walk. The muddy track led through fields towards a marshy area below the mixed cedar-spruce tree line. The cloudless sky radiated a deep blue with a promise of warmth and the hint of an early spring. Miles could see that the tight buds of the flowers beside the track seemed poised to burst out into bloom. Here and there, in small hollows, scalloped pockets of snow and ice lay scattered as reminders of the long winter.

In high spirits, the group reached their goal, a pond near the trees surrounded by a rich detritus of damp earth and fallen leaves. This was good shrew territory, the best of several sites that Miles used in the course of his researches.

Consuela undid the lid of her carry box. She was about to reach in to lift out her shrew when Miles stopped her with a warning.

'Consuela I've told you before about Blarina and what can happen if it bites you.'

Miles took the box off her, pulled on his long leather gloves, then reached in to scoop up the squirming shrew. Although shrews had bitten him with little effect in the past, he had seen two students suffer painful, prolonged, and incapacitating reactions to a Blarina bite.

'There you go little fella,' he murmured, as he released the shrew on a bed of fallen leaves into which it vanished.

'OK Marley, let the Cinereus out over there by the trees. Come on everyone, divide up and check the snap traps. I'll check the pitfall traps.'

Miles had restocked and reset his traps yesterday morning. It was now essential that they remove any specimens because even Blarina, the toughest of shrews, would be unlikely to survive more than twenty-four hours without food.

In one of the drop traps Miles discovered a pygmy shrew. Marley brought back another similar shrew which the group thought could be a Cryptosis Parva, (the Least Shrew).

'I'm ninety-five per cent certain it could be, but remember we can count its teeth later and confirm that.' Miles said.

The day meandered on. Consuela muttered a continuous flow of Spanish as she trod with care, seeking to prevent the abundant mud from sticking to her trouser legs. Marley lay in the small hide hoping to take telephoto pictures of shrews caravanning on the far side of the pond. A happy Miles stretched out prone to watch, with his binoculars, the long-tailed water shrews as they zipped over the pond, furrowing the surface and leaving tiny wavelets in their wake.

Grob stayed close to Miles, assisting him with a minimal number of grunts in response to his professor's requests. Sometimes, Miles looked up in mild amusement to follow his progress.

'That guy is so amazingly clumsy, it's as if he isn't even comfortable in his own body.' he thought.

In the afternoon after a relaxing lunch, they collected the large variety of food needed for their captives. Then as the sun lowered and the air became colder, they packed up to walk back to the farm.

Back at the university Miles gave sincere thanks to his students for their participation. They had surrendered some of their weekend and he was grateful for that. He spent the next hour settling the captured shrews into their new home in the lab. But when he left the building Grob was still standing by the pick-up.

'Professor Watson. Can I have a word with you?'

Miles blinked, but hid his surprise at this unique request from Grob.

'Of course you can Grob, let's go and have a coffee in the student café.'

They managed to find a corner seat where they could hear themselves above the music and the chatter of many voices.

Grob sat silent until Miles prompted him.

'Well what can I do for you Grob? I hope there's nothing worrying you. If you put in some hard work, I'm sure you'll pass your papers this time.'

Grob shook his black hair from his eyes to study Miles with a long concentrated gaze. Miles had a sudden unexpected sense of something burning deep inside those eyes.

'There is nothing wrong Professor, thank you for your concern.' Grob intoned in his slow, heavy accent. He continued. 'Professor Watson I have come to tell you that I will be leaving your department: My studies are now complete.'

Miles sat back in surprise. Although Grob was a deeply awkward, unstimulated student, so different from his classmates, Miles had always felt a strange protective bond towards him. Maybe he mirrored a sense that Miles often felt too, of being out-of- place in his own life.

'I'm really sorry to hear that Grob. Are you sure? I still feel that you could pass your tests, and I'll miss you if you leave.'

A rare smile spread across Grob's face.

'I already know how you feel Professor. We both know that I'm not in the right place. I have no concerns about leaving this University. It has been an honour to study with you; it has been the most stimulating and rewarding period of my life so far.'

This revelation took Miles aback. He covered up his confusion by taking a long sip of his coffee.

'Ah yes well, I'm a bit surprised that you found such satisfaction in the study of the simple shrew, but I'm pleased you got something out of the time you spent with the department.' he temporised.

Grob maintained his enigmatic smile and seemed to come to a decision.

'I have a small token of my esteem for you which I hope you will accept and use often. I think you will find it helpful.' He took a small, black, cardboard box from his overcoat pocket and gave it to Miles.

'Please open it.'

Miles accepted it, rendered speechless. He took off the small lid and inside lay a jet black, lozenge-shaped object. Something that could fit inside the palm of an average hand.

'Professor this is a new type of wireless mouse which is better than any you will use with your computers. It is a pity that the people who coined the term 'mouse', didn't think of calling it a shrew instead of a mouse. If they had, now we would all be using shrews with our computers.' Grob ejected a low rumbling laugh.

Miles found this extended speech disconcerting. Grob had never been seen to laugh, or known to attempt a joke before.

'Thank you Grob.' was all he could say, as Grob stood up.

'Professor Watson this is my personal gift to you. My family agreed to approve it and you deserve to have it. Don't worry about the lights that sometimes flash on the device. I am confident that you will learn to appreciate them. I have to go now; I don't think we will ever meet again.'

He reached inside an upper coat pocket to pull out a business card, which he positioned on the table in front of Miles.

'I remember that you said you would be attending the European Zoological Conference on Small Mammals next year. I have some connections in Prague. If you have the time, I'm sure they would like to meet you.' He held out his hand to Miles, who stumbled to his feet and shook it in response.

Grob took a long, last look at Miles, as if absorbing something important.

'The Czech republic is the right place for you.' The words spilled out, before he turned on his heel and walked away though the crowded café without a backwards glance.

Miles lowered himself back on his seat.

'Well what was that all about?' he murmured under his breath. 'That was weird.'

Grob had been unfathomable as usual and now he had left more unanswered questions behind. Miles turned his attention to the business card, which had Czech names and an address printed on it in a simple fashion

'Marik Kratochvil, Jiri Kratochvil, Stanislov Kratochvil, (Brothers) 5/14 Drazickeho namesti Prague. Tel (0042)27771701.'

He stored the card in his wallet before examining the small box. There were no markings on it, and apart from the 'mouse-shrew' there was nothing else in it, no written instructions or software. Miles weighed the 'mouse-shrew' in his hand. Its lozenge shape tapered to a small point at the front and it felt heavy when he balanced it. There were no wheels or buttons on it. The top surface was smooth and cool to the touch. Underneath there was no place where a signal or light could be received or transmitted. The object seemed a simple, shaped, polished, stone.

Miles rested it on the table flat side down then placed his right hand on it. It filled his palm and fingers in a comfortable fashion as if created in a mould, specific for him. His forefinger and middle finger sidled together on either side of the tapering point while his thumb dropped into a snug fit around its smooth left curve. He puzzled over it for a while, then wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it into an empty pocket of his hiking jacket. His coffee had grown cold, but he finished it anyway.

3

For several weeks after that strange event, Miles replayed the conversation with Grob in his mind without further enlightenment. Then, his continuing university work that semester pushed it into his long-term memory. The weeks passed in a repetitive progression of lectures, tutorials, field work and marking. His research projects too, left him little time for any other life outside the university precincts.

In the zoology department, what comment there was about Grob's departure was negative; along the lines that he had been pretty useless and was not missed anyway. Miles forgot about the 'mouse-shrew' in his winter overcoat which hung unwanted behind the front door of his apartment, as the summer weather settled in.

The day before the first semester exams were due to start, Miles received at short notice, an order to appear before the University senate.

Work pressures the next day meant he had to abandon his lab in a rush to make the appointment. He had just enough time to straighten his tie and brush his hair in the upstairs wash room outside the senate rooms. As he waited outside the ornate heavy door, he studied the portraits of several eminent, deceased, chancellors before Miss Pimm the receptionist, approached and granted him access to the inner sanctum.

Miles made a swift, searching scan around the large and comfortable office. This was the second time he had seen the room, the first being his original welcome, when as part of a group of new lecturers, he received the standard university pep talk from the vice-chancellor. He remembered being told that he was one of the privileged few offered employment and that he would earn prestige from his association with such an esteemed, successful, university. Now three years later he was older and had earned very little of anything.

The vice-chancellor faced him across an elegant desk, flanked by Jordan Slipper the third, executive secretary of the university, and Professor Keller, head of Miles's Zoology faculty.

'Sit down Professor Watson.' said the vice-chancellor as he shuffled some papers, glancing at them as if to remind himself of the matter in hand.

'Now Professor Watson, we have called you in to discuss your ongoing research with the Zoology Department. The vice-chancellor steepled his fingers and leaned forwards to position his chin on them in a prayer like attitude. He looked down again at his papers.

'Your research into the life cycle and mating habits of Sorex Palustris, the water shrew, is very esoteric and fulfilling I am sure. Can you enlighten me as to its progress and any resulting application that would benefit the good name of this university? Can you inform me of any commercial advantage we could lever from your research, especially if linked with a cornerstone private investor?'

Miles swivelled his head to look at each of his three interrogators, his gaze shifting from face to face without reward. After a deep inhalation and a quick ordering of his thoughts he leaned forward in a positive manner.

'The water shrew is a unique shrew amongst American shrews. In academic circles, we admit that there has not been enough research into its eating and reproductive habits. It is my intention to clarify this matter for the benefit of science and future human understanding.'

The expressions on the three faces in front of him were inscrutable; there appeared little indication of support or even a minimal appreciation of the water shrew qualities.

He tried harder. 'The water shrew is a wonderful and vibrant shrew that is probably active in controlling many noxious species of spiders. We may indeed owe a debt to them which can only be recognised if we examine their life style in greater detail.'

There followed a lengthy silence before the vice-chancellor replied. 'I understand from Professor Keller that this species extends all the way into Canada. Perhaps we should let the Canadians do the research?'

Miles sat back somewhat deflated, but then found sudden fresh inspiration.

'Along with my minor research into Sorex Palustris, I have also begun parallel and more significant research into another one of our local shrews. Our northern short-tailed shrew, Blarina Brevicauda is our only poisonous American shrew. It has long been known that it secretes a neurotoxic protein which can sedate and semi-paralyse its victims. These include larger mammals like voles or mice. This toxin has never been researched and it is my intention to identify its structure in the coming academic year. I have already observed its effects on students, bitten in the course of handling Blarina. I am in contact with colleagues in Europe who are also researching shrew toxins. They study Neomys Fodiens, the poisonous Eurasian water shrew. I feel it is important that American research should lead the way in this matter and that we should be the first to exploit the commercial possibilities of these toxins.'

Miles threw both hands in the air at this point; to amplify the importance of his words. He looked sideways at his boss, Professor Keller, whose right eye fluttered in what could have been a nervous tic or even a small wink. Miles leaned forwards again and lowered his voice for dramatic effect.

'It is my intention that when I have identified the venom's active structure, that we should offer this research to our armed forces, or a large corporation affiliated with our military. I am certain sir, that my research will benefit and help protect our country.'

The triumvirate looked at each other. The vice-chancellor folded his papers and turned to Miles. 'Professor Watson, we will discuss the quality and potential of this research and come to a suitable conclusion. If you would leave us now please, we will be in touch with you when our deliberations have been completed.'

A few days later Professor Keller called Miles into his office and offered him a chair.

'Sit down Miles. I have to tell you that your little speech has saved your ass for now. I put in a word for you because you're a good guy and a sound teacher. I don't want to lose you even though you don't entice many post grads into your speciality. No one in the department wants to have an increased load of 101 lectures. If you left, we would have to take those lectures until your replacement arrived. We all need that extra time for our own research and to produce the stuff that brings in the sponsors.

Miles blinked at this bare, ruthless, confirmation of university life and his situation in particular.

'Thank you Professor Keller.'

The professor continued 'You're on borrowed time Miles. You had better convert the bullshit you came up with in front of the vice-chancellor, into reality. You can smell the way the farts are blowing in the wind, so you had better go with the flow. You need to move about and get your profile higher. How many conferences are you going to attend this year?'

'Professor Keller, there will be one in Spain in August, then London in October, and then the big conference in Prague in February next year.'

'Well Miles you had better pull some presentations together and publish something damn soon. The Prague conference could be the most useful one for mingling with your contacts in the toxic shrew business.'

Miles couldn't read any emotion displayed on the professor's face, or be sure if there was irony in his voice.

He nodded. 'Indeed Professor Keller, I'm sure you're right.'

4

The mid semester break arrived. Once Miles had finished the long hours of marking, he began to plan for the Spanish conference. Late one Saturday night in his apartment, while he accessed the internet to figure out the cheapest option for his accommodation in Madrid, his mouse froze. He had to Control, Alt, and Delete, to shut down his computer. He fitted new batteries to the mouse but they made no difference. Frustrated, he sat looking at his inaccessible laptop screen and a dead mouse. He couldn't and wouldn't use the touch pad which always gave him a rapid form of wrist tendinitis.

'Damn it to hell.'

He chucked the mouse into the trash can. He knew of nobody nearby with a spare mouse and the necessary stores were all shut. As he sat there cursing in a low voice, a vision of Grob's strange, parting gift arose. He might as well see if it worked, now that he had the time. He had nothing to lose.

He unwrapped the black stone thing and placed it on his desk beside the laptop. Since there were no apparent connections he assumed it would somehow work in a wireless fashion. He rebooted the laptop to watch as the operating system loaded and settled into its usual default state. After a brief pause, a non-standard box appeared in the middle of his screen with a simple message.

'Shrew device installed. I would have preferred an open source operating system!'

The message closed down to a central dot before disappearing in a red flash to leave a standard mouse arrow cursor.

Miles put a tentative hand on the shrew device which again felt comfortable and natural. In addition it now throbbed in a curious way which suggested some form of activity. He moved the device from side to side, but the cursor remained in exact mid screen where the red flash had disappeared. He experimented by tapping the stone in the area where a button might have been had it existed. Nothing happened.

'Well that's a bit of a dud.' He turned the shrew device over but there were no lights, just a slight warmth to accompany the minute vibrations.

He placed it flat on the desk under the palm of his hand and glanced casually at an icon at the top left of the screen. The cursor was there right on top of it.

'Holy shit.'

Miles jumped up, knocking his chair over backwards. He circled the desk twice before he could return and lower his hand on to the shrew device. With his eyes on the cursor he moved the shrew towards the bottom left hand corner of the screen. The cursor remained fixed, blinking over the icon as before. He took a deep breath and with his hand still on the shrew peeped to the bottom left of the screen where the cursor appeared simultaneously.

Miles let go of the shrew and picked up his chair. He decided to have a drinks break before proceeding further. There was a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in the kitchen. Pouring himself a generous slug, he downed it in one then refilled the glass as he studied the black, immobile, shrew which lay innocuous on his desk. He paced back and forth, swallowed the second shot of whiskey, then sat to place his palm on the device again. It felt warm, almost alive. With a shock he realised that the surface didn't feel as hard as before and to his amazement it felt like one of the many living shrews that he handled in the course of his work.

'I don't believe it.'

He turned his attention back to the screen and began to experiment.

5

Miles surfaced to the noise of the morning traffic outside his apartment. When he could focus on his alarm clock he couldn't believe it was ten o'clock on Sunday morning. He had no memory of when he stumbled to bed last night, perhaps no more than five or six hours ago.

The shrew as he now thought of it, didn't require any movement. When he rested his hand on it and looked at the screen, the cursor would be where he looked. After some practice his eyes became the cursor. It was an even greater shock to find that he could also move, cut and paste, open and close menus by looking and thinking about what he wanted to happen. At first he found himself saying the accompanying words out aloud, like cut, paste, open, delete, as the actions happened. Later he found that if he relaxed, they took place without any verbal prompting. The shrew exerted a soothing sensation which calmed him, allowing the computer to do the required actions. He still needed to type in information and words, but the shrew actions became instinctive.

Whenever he rebooted the computer a simple message came up on each occasion.

'Shrew Activated.'

After several hours he knew that he could never use an ordinary mouse again. He also realised that he couldn't use the shrew outside his apartment without drawing unwelcome attention. He bought a replacement standard wireless mouse. When this connected to the laptop, the shrew became inert and resumed its guise of an inanimate but interesting black object.

Miles imagined the comparison between the experience of using the shrew and an ordinary mouse would feel much the same as that of a stroke victim deprived of speech. With the shrew alive in the palm of his hand, computing could never be the same again. His work with his laptop and a regular mouse at the university seemed unnatural, while use of a standard departmental computer became a form of torture.

The shrew soon proved to have another strange and unknown feature. Late on the morning of the day of his departure to Spain, he was busy completing his packing for the trip, when he heard the scratch of a key in his door. It opened to reveal the ample proportions and amiable face of Mrs Bibbs, his cleaner. She regarded him with surprise to find him still in his apartment as she sailed into the room.

'My my Miles, you're a real lazy guy these days.'

'Sorry Bertha, I forgot to tell you that I'm going away for a week in Spain to attend a conference.'

'That will be another of those trips talking about them pesky rats and mice Mr Miles.'

Mrs Bibbs had never forgiven Miles for bringing home one of his shrews, which escaped and ran around her as she stood shrieking on a chair. When she tried to leave by the door, it bit and hung on to her shoe. Miles made an emergency return home by taxi in response to a neighbour's urgent call. He could never forget that call and the raised voice of the neighbour as he tried to speak above Mrs Bibbs's piercing screams.

'Now Bertha, you know I don't work with rats and mice.'

Mrs Bibbs sniffed. 'They look all the same to me, running round like they had the devil inside of them.'

'Yes Bertha.'

Miles turned to finish his packing, picking up his passport and tickets from the table.

'Mr Miles, where did you get this fancy thing from?'

Miles froze. Bertha was taking her duster to his desk. In her presence the shrew shimmered in alternating green and yellow colours, the waves pulsing over its whole surface.

'It's very pretty Mr Miles.' Bertha leant over and picked up the shrew to examine it. 'I ain't seen one of these before.'

Miles ran to his desk and removed the shrew from Mrs Bibbs

'It's amazing what they can do these days with a microchip. I bought it the other week. It's sort of like a colour producing paperweight.' He looked at his watch. 'Bertha I have to go and catch my plane now, the taxi will be waiting downstairs.' He slipped the shrew into his jacket pocket. 'I'll see you next week when I get back, take care.' Bending down he gave Bertha a quick kiss on her cheek.

'Mr Miles you get on your way now, you'll be late for your plane.' a flushed Bertha waved her duster in a distracted manner.

It was a confused and troubled Miles who sat in the taxi on the way to the airport. He became oblivious to his surroundings and struggled to respond to the taxi drivers attempts to strike up a conversation.

'What was going on?' There was more to the shrew than he had realised. Now it could produce colours without the laptop switched on, so it must have an independent internal power source after all. After some hesitation he eased the shrew out of his pocket when he saw the taxi driver dealing with a minor road hazard. This time the shrew was a solid blue colour with a small sub flick of green passing across it at rapid intervals.

At the airport Miles sat in the crowded airport waiting for his flight call. The stream of passengers passing through the departure lounge were too preoccupied to pay attention to a sober, well-dressed man playing a colourful smart phone game.

In the lounge the shrew displayed a kaleidoscope of colours ranging from violet all the way up the light spectrum to yellow. Miles could see that the colours tended towards green with occasional insertions of yellow and blue. There hadn't been any other colours so far. What could this mean?

The solution was too difficult to grasp, so Miles gave up and decided to read on his connecting flight to New York. He would have enough time later for more observations and since he was away from home he would be able to deal with any awkward questions under the protection of anonymity.

After a short connection time, his American Airlines dream liner rose from JFK and wheeled on its flight path for Europe. When the seatbelt sign turned off, Miles couldn't resist one final inspection of the shrew. He re-examined it in the seclusion of a rear toilet. The colours were the same muted, multi-coloured patterns similar to those in the airport. He was about to wrap it up, when a small white band appeared at the tail end of the shrew, crept towards it's middle, then whipped forwards with an incandescent blaze of light that blinded him.

'Jesus Christ.'

It was fortunate that the toilet seat anchored him, so that he could put his hands out to the walls of the compartment and steady himself until his vision returned; first from the periphery then filling in to the centre as the afterglow faded. He made his way back to his seat pausing to apologise to a woman waiting outside the toilet. She eyed him with distaste, it was clear to her that he was under the influence of something and the flight had just begun!

As he regained his seat, an announcement proclaimed that the plane was experiencing a disturbance to its instruments and could everybody please make sure that they had turned off their electronic devices. The cabin staff began to move down the cabin checking the individual passengers and Miles decided to ditch the shrew away from his body. In his pocket it still glowed in a suspicious manner like a frenetic rainbow.

Removing his briefcase from the overhead locker he made a hurried shrew transfer into it, then sauntered to another locker well away from his seat. He hoped ten feet of separation would return it to its inert state. This action must have produced the desired effect, because soon a further announcement confirmed the technical problem solved, and that the flight would now continue to its destination.

With this performance, Miles decided to postpone all further experiments until his return home. He accepted a stiff gin and tonic from the air hostess, vowing that from now on he would concentrate on enjoying his visit to an unexplored country in the pleasant company of like-minded colleagues.

6

Miles had booked a small hotel, situated on the fifth floor of a building not far from Atocha station. It was a typical small Spanish hotel, one of several on different floors in the same building, built around a full height internal square. When he looked inwards into the courtyard he could see washing hung out to dry on all the levels above and below. The local inhabitants leaned out from their windows to talk and pass the time of day with each other. On his way to the ground floor inside the rickety open caged lift, he passed several small, ancient ladies dressed all in black who scuttled away out of sight like disturbed spiders.

Outside he breathed the warm air on a walk up the Paseo del Prado crossing over to the gardens on the other side. With the shrew now safe in his room; he felt free from its disturbing and mysterious behaviour. He walked a circular route to familiarise himself with his surroundings; the boulevard crowded with tourist shops and behind it; the maze of twisted little streets with many promising tapas bars. He found himself smiling at fellow pedestrians as he absorbed the summer evening light, so different from home. The random cobbled lanes with their swirling foreign crowds were a novelty after the repetitive grid patterns of American cities.

There was spare summer time to appreciate the paintings in a nearby art gallery and then finish the day in a crowded tapas bar, before turning in ready for the early start in the morning.

A large throng greeted him in the conference lobby when he pushed his way through the revolving glass door. Straight away he picked out several familiar faces from his world. Like many university academics with a specific field of expertise, he had met all the researchers in the world to whom he could relate. They were certain to be present in Spain; old friends from England, France, Italy, Venezuela, Penn State and Harvard.

He looked forward to renewing these old acquaintances, but also expected to meet a Spanish PhD student from the science faculty at the Autonoma University of Madrid. The student, whose name was Jaime Espinosa Salgado, had been e-mailing him over the past four months. He expressed interest in a small paper that Miles had published regarding the echo location ability of Blarina. Miles had made recordings of their squeaks, many of which he measured in the ultrasonic range, far above human perception. This behaviour had interested him more than the possibility of milking their venom for the benefit of the American Army. He still felt uneasy when he considered the amount of time he had enjoyed recording shrew squeaks, when he should have been pursuing his bogus research.

Throughout that first conference day Miles caught up with his peers between his chosen sessions. In the evening, the whole group networked in their typical style at a local restaurant, before returning to their respective hotels in the small hours of the morning.

Towards the end of the second day a tired, hung over Miles gave a brief presentation of his work on shrew echo location to a small workshop of nine participants. As he finished and closed his laptop he turned to find a woman waiting to speak to him. Speech failed him when she reached out to shake his hand and introduce herself as Jaime Espinosa Salgado. The tone of her e-mails had been professional and asexual; he hadn't realised that the Spanish Jaime could be either a male or female name.

He recovered quickly enough to invite her to have coffee with him before the final session began. Jaime was tall. Her brown eyes, framed by blonde hair, were level with Miles despite the fact that she wore low platform shoes. She sat down at the coffee table, crossed her slim, tanned legs and placed her Prada bag at her side. Miles suspected it was genuine bag.

She told him that she was most interested in his research because she felt it had direct relevance to her thesis, which concerned high frequency mammalian echo location in Spanish bats. As she described her work in fluent, charming English, Miles noticed that her voice seemed to fade in and out (perhaps ultrasonically,) and that the focus of her beautiful face shimmered in front of him. He shook himself out of his trance and spoke.

'Jaime, I will tell you the truth. I never realised from your e-mails that you were female. That shouldn't make any difference because I would have offered to talk about your research whether you were male or female. Now that I know you are a lady, my offer to help has become a request to take you out for dinner if you are willing. I've discovered a nice tapas bar not far from her if that would be acceptable to you.'

Jaime smiled, her face revealing even white teeth between full red lips.

'That is a most gracious invitation Miles. Yes I will be happy to continue this conversation over dinner, but I think I know a more comfortable restaurant nearby that is not too expensive.'

They moved on to a more up market establishment than Miles had in mind, and some of their dinner conversation was about academic subjects. They talked mainly about themselves, their families, politics and a whole range of topics which they discovered they had a mutual interest in.

Time passed unnoticed until they realised that the restaurant was about to close. Jaime made a reluctant phone call for a taxi to take her home to her parents' house in Mirasierra. She had only planned to attend the conference for the second day but now she quickly agreed that she would make time for lunch with Miles tomorrow.

That night he returned to his apartment in an exalted state. Jaime was the most beautiful, wonderful, woman he had ever met. They had so much in common; conversation with her flowed in the most natural fashion. There were no awkward pauses; they seemed in such harmony with each other's thoughts. He hypothesised that he could be in love, and with some serious scientific analysis he thought he could be.

Next morning Miles couldn't concentrate on any of his morning sessions. He had little interest in any of the final day topics which dealt with mammals larger than shrews. He had made prior arrangements to go walking in the Sierra Nevada mountains for a couple of days after the conference, something that he was beginning to regret. The last talk crawled on, extended by several unnecessary, inane questions from the floor. He writhed in his seat with impatience to leave the room and meet Jaime in the hotel lobby. At last it was over. He was first out of the door and down the stairs, almost slipping on the marble floor in the lobby in his haste. He composed himself before Jaime noticed him. Her face lit up when she saw him and putting her arm inside his, she led him outside to her small Seat car.

'What time do you have to go back to the conference Miles?'

'Well Jaime, there is one interesting discussion by Pellman, regarding the mating rituals of North African Macaque monkeys which starts at four o'clock, The conference dinner is at seven this evening, but I wondered if I should miss it, in which case we could go out to a movie and a meal.

Jaime smiled with regret. 'Miles I have a family appointment to keep tonight, otherwise that would have been a fun idea.'

Miles failed to hide his disappointment, but Jaime gave him encouragement. 'We have some time now for a small tour and to eat in a nice place that I know. I can still have you back in time for your sex talk.' she said, her voice low and husky. Miles felt a chill pass down his spine. His mouth went dry.

'Lead on Jaime.' he croaked.

Their lunch whirled past before Jaime took him on her tour of some impressive but forgettable monuments in the northern Madrid suburbs. The sun was warm and even though Miles had only drunk two glasses of wine, the day began to take on the surreal feeling he had previously associated with a larger amount of alcohol. Before he knew it, Jaime was turning the car back towards the centre of Madrid.

He sat, despondent at the thought of exchanging her company for a troop of monkey perverts. It was unfortunate that the unwritten rule of conference etiquette demanded that he support the colleagues who had supported his presentation. He knew he would be missed if he didn't show solidarity in return.

They parted in the lobby where Jaime wrote her phone number on a small business card. She embraced him with a prolonged, meaningful kiss, then with a final pretty wave she swivelled on her stiletto heels and left him to reorder his emotions.

'Damn the conference and damn the walking trip.' he thought.

That night he sat subdued at the conference dinner; several of his concerned colleagues asked him if he was ill. He roused himself enough to deflect their questions and after the applause for the usual speeches had died down, he slipped away from the crowd as they drifted into the bar. That night in his room, he nursed his racing emotions to sleep with the generous aid of a cognac bottle.

7

His mood remained depressed as he flew down to Malaga on his cheap internet ticket, picked up his hire car, and drove east. However as he turned inland and the road wound up into the hills of the Alpujarras, his spirits lifted as the car climbed the slopes. Each whitewashed mountain village seemed more beautiful and romantic than the previous one. His enjoyment increased with every deep breath of the warm, scented air which flowed in through the open windows. Just after midday he reached his destination, a small, white, flat-roofed village, which hung over a series of terraces cut into the flank of a hillside. It was easy to find his accommodation; the only inn slumbered in the village square marked by the faded word 'Cerveza' on its dusty wall.

The narrow streets were siesta quiet when he made a brief exploration to familiarise himself with the few, shuttered shops. He startled as he disturbed a small, dun dog which fled in front of him with a protesting yelp. Only the drone of passing flies broke the silence when he paused to sit on a bench out of the weight of the sun. He walked back to the inn through clouds of fluttering butterflies, a few of which followed him to his room where he joined the siesta by falling into a deep restorative sleep.

Miles, a careful organiser, had already researched his sixteen kilometre day walk, It ascended from his village over the top of the nearby mountain and down into the next village. There he could pick up a local bus that would return him before dark. He was up early, pacing outside the village store as soon as its front door opened. The day was clear, still, and promising. He stocked his small pack with cheese, sausage meat, and a small loaf of bread still warm from the oven. Outside in the early morning sunshine he stopped to fill his water bottle from the fountain in the centre of the village square.

Soon he was on his way, up a steep, stony path which led away from the cemetery behind the local church. His boots kicked up small puffs of dust in front as he trudged upwards. The village sounds faded and the tinkling of cow bells replaced the sound of the occasional traffic below. At the top of the hill, the trees became sparser as the ground flattened out. He stopped to rest beside the remains of a small Roman bridge, its span still intact over a dry river bed. After the initial steep climb, he treated himself to chocolate and a good swig of water, before continuing in a happy frame of mind over terrain which became ever more parched and empty. For company, a lone eagle circled far above and a mountain goat inspected him from the top of a huge trail side boulder before skipping out of sight with incredible speed.

At midday he approached the summit. Below it on a long shelf lay the ruins of an abandoned village, the old stone-walled houses open to the sky. Weeds and wild flowers grew tall from between the cracked flag stones inside the ruins and along the streets. It was time for lunch. The midday heat was now becoming uncomfortable; prompting Miles to look along the street for suitable shade. A gnarled cherry tree grew out from the wall of a large ruined house and below it; he could see an inviting pool of dark ground.

Miles had almost reached the patch before he realised that somebody else lay stretched out there; lying with their head comfortable, rested on a small climbing bag. A loosened walking boot lay beside a bare left foot, the exposed toenails painted a brilliant red.

'Excusez moi mademoiselle.Je ne savais pas que quelque personne etait ici, pardonnez moi' blurted Miles in his best school boy French.

(He had no Spanish vocabulary apart from some swear words picked up from Consuela).

The woman sat up and regarded Miles evenly without any hint of surprise.

'I think you are an American.' she said in clear English with an indefinable European accent.

'Please sit down here in the dark.' She motioned with her hand to the ground beside her. 'I have hurt my foot and I am resting until help comes to me.'

'You could have been here for a long time.' Miles replied. 'I haven't seen any other walkers so far today.'

'That is correct.' the stranger said. But I felt you would come.'

The woman had short, dark, tousled hair that curled around a tanned face. Her angular nose and lips were purposeful. Sharp green eyes regarded him with intent from under arched black eyebrows. She wore a baggy, khaki coloured army shirt and trousers with front pockets. A battered, broad-brimmed, man's hat lay beside her dusty climbing bag.

'Please join me for your dinner.' she said, turning aside to pick up a flask and the remains of a half-eaten sandwich.

Miles swung off his day pack and lowered himself down beside her.

'That ankle looks very swollen. Can you walk on it?' he questioned

'Yes but it is difficult, I was stupid to take off my shoe, it swolled up with speed after this.'

'Perhaps I can strap it up for you.' Miles replied

He tipped out the contents of his bag and opened his small first aid kit which contained a medium-sized crêpe bandage. After a brief examination, he rested her calf across his leg to keep the ankle off the ground and applied the crêpe with moderate tightness. She lay semi-reclined, looking up at him, with her weight supported on her elbows.

'You have good equipment.' she said.

Miles decided to make matters more informal. 'My name is Miles Watson.'

'And my name is Katarina Chaloupka.'

She held up a hand which Miles took and they exchanged a firm handshake.

They sat eating and drinking in a comfortable silence for some minutes, before Katarina said

'I came from here.' She waved her hand indicating the summit above the ruins.

'That's the way I'm going.' said Miles. 'I'm walking to the village on the other side.

'That is good, I stay in a hotel there.'

More quiet time passed until Katarina spoke.

'We should go now.'

When she stood up she was a head shorter than Miles, but she could still put her left arm over his shoulder and take most of the weight off her left ankle while she hobbled along.

In this way they stumbled to the crest of the hill and began the long descent down the rocky path on the other side. At first they didn't talk much, such was their concentration on placing each of Katarina's steps on firm ground. Sometimes she winced and faltered, but she never complained of pain.

In the distance on the far side of the valley they could see the white boxes of the next village tacked to the slope. They laboured to make slow progress.

In a couple of hours they reached a small road which crossed their path. It swung up to their left then circled to the right up a steep hill towards the entrance of the village. They waited by the roadside until Miles waved down a small pick-up truck that delivered them into the central square of Katarina's village.

In the course of the afternoon Miles had learnt that Katarina lived in Prague, that she loved to walk, and that she liked to spend her holidays in different areas of the world whenever she could arrange this. She was reluctant to talk about her work, mentioning only that she travelled a lot. Katarina in turn knew that Miles was single, American, and a University lecturer who was in Spain to attend a zoology conference in Madrid. She had also discovered the names, ages, occupations, and personalities of all of his relatives.

At the square, Miles insisted on escorting Katarina to her lodgings. He asked her if she would be all right. She smiled up at him as he prepared to leave.

'Thank you Miles, I have a friend who will take me away tomorrow. I'm sure I will be OK until then. She came close and stretched up to kiss him.

'Miles you are the best man I have seen, I will take pleasure in knowing you.'

She turned and hobbled into the inn, leaving Miles to contemplate the difficulty that English sentence structures could sometimes give to non-native language speakers.

Back in the square he found a small bus parked with its engine idling. It was a pleasant bonus to find that it was returning to his village in the next few minutes. It had been an interesting day and on the ride back, Miles mulled over the extraordinary fact that he could live in a crowded city for years and meet nobody, then in the course of a few days have his world rocked by a beautiful Spanish lady followed by a strange meeting with an odd Czech lady.

After another long uneventful walk the next day, Miles returned to Madrid and phoned Jaime from the airport. He asked her if she would attend the International Zoology Conference in London in October. To his delight she promised she would try to make it, and that she would email him soon to confirm this.

8

Back at the university, Miles settled into the new semester as fall began to turn. Straight away he had to fend off enquiries about his shrew venom research from Professor Keller, whom he suspected didn't believe any of his excuses. It seemed that he probably didn't care, as long as Miles continued to function as a teacher in the department.

On most days he was in e-mail communication with Jaime and he felt that their relationship was entering a more intimate level. She confirmed she would meet up with him in London and the tone of her communication promised a lot more than simple academic contact.

Whilst he had ignored the shrew in Spain, back in the privacy of his apartment he communed with it every evening when he used his laptop. Now he took it outside to have surreptitious peeks in various situations, hoping to identify the meaning of the colour patterns.

In the course of a month of simple observations he formed some tentative deductions. The colours it produced in a one to one situation were always the same for an individual person. They didn't vary whatever the type or tone of the conversation. For instance Bertha his cleaner, produced green verging on yellow even when he tried to provoke her. Mary Turner was a steady yellow to orange at all times. He confirmed on several occasions that Kresky was a solid violet verging almost to the jet black of the inanimate shrew, while Mountford's violet tended to stray towards blue. The two of them were uncivil and most suspicious of his motives on each of the occasions he sidled up to them for an experimental shrew conversation.

Professor Keller, despite his abrupt, rude nature and the rough way he spoke to Miles, was always a reliable orange. In most one to one situations people produced a variation of green, shading either way into a little yellow or blue. Straight oranges or blues were not common; violet and red were the rarest of all. In fact as he correlated the numbers of each colour, he found the spread was a perfect Bell shaped curve centred between yellow and green on the top of the curve. Many subjects showed two colours alternating at various speeds which he interpreted as a possible half way measure. He worked out that there was no difference in the range of colour if he was in contact with someone he knew, or with a total stranger. He could find a yellow or green when he talked to a random old lady in the park, or when he talked to a colleague he had worked beside for the last three years.

Miles soon discovered that a crowded room prevented real analysis. Multiple colours emerged in a flowing pattern that could only be an amalgam of the different individuals present. There was also a sensitivity to distance, such that when a single person moved past, the colour they produced flashed and faded until at five feet away, the shrew became jet black again. With this information Miles made a tentative hypothesis. Could it be that people he liked and felt comfortable with, produced a colour which varied into the orange or red, leaving those whom he disliked with colours in the blue to violet range? This seemed to approximate his observations.

It did seem unbelievable however that a courteous stranger who knew nothing about him, could show blue or even the rare violet at the same time as they seemed charming and helpful.

He began to classify people according to their regular colours until one day a tramp approached him, bumming for cigarettes outside the bus station. The unwashed and unsavoury hobo looked at him with glazed eyes and blew an overpowering stink of alcohol when he opened his mouth. Miles felt uneasy in his presence and groped in his pocket for some spare change, with the idea of getting rid of him.

'Thanks mister.' the vagrant mumbled as he shuffled off.

Miles had glanced at the shrew as he pulled out his change. To his amazement it pulsated with a solid red which soon faded as the man moved away.

A 'red person occurrence' was about a two per cent chance according to Miles calculations, so this meeting seemed to ruin his theory. There was nothing likeable about the deadbeat and Miles' impression of him remained unchanged, when twice more in the following week, he donated some small change to confirm that the man remained a steady red. Something must have upset the tramp because on the third approach, he told Miles to fuck off and find a queer somewhere else.

By the time the London conference came round he decided that his hypothesis was true, except that there had to be something more than simple like and dislike producing the colours in the shrew. Inside each person something extended beneath the superficial attractiveness or ugliness of their appearance and his interaction with them. Miles decided to take the shrew with him to London although he had no intention of analysing its colour changes further. He simply couldn't bear to use his laptop without it.

In London, he rushed to the reception desk the moment he arrived at the conference hotel in Bayswater. At the reception desk, he scanned up and down the S column of the register to see if a J Espinosa Salgado had arrived. There was a small cry behind him and turning, he caught Jaime as she flung her arms around his neck, pressed against him, and gave him a passionate kiss.

'Miles it's great to see you. You are looking most handsome, what shall we do tonight?'

'Well Jaime, you look amazing too. Maybe we could start with a meal somewhere and then perhaps a dance if you feel like it, or whatever else you want to do.'

'Yes Miles that will be perfect. I will check in and freshen up. I'll meet you down in the bar in half an hour.'

Jaime came down an hour later. A provocative low-cut dress clung to her slim figure and Miles stumbled off his bar stool in response. They took a cab to an expensive night club and Miles let himself be guided by her while they danced close together as the evening sped past. When they returned to their hotel it seemed inevitable that Jaime would whisper in his ear, asking him if he wanted to come to her room.

For the rest of the conference they spent most of their time in that room, emerging for an occasional lecture or presentation during which they paid little attention to the subject matter. It was obvious to the envious members of his group that Miles was no longer dedicating himself to the conference in hand, but rather to other mammalian behaviour.

Conferences are recognised as being most useful for the networking that occurs between delegates over meals and in bars. Miles completely neglected this function except for a single chance meeting that occurred when Jaime went shopping in Regent Street one afternoon.

At a coffee break he introduced himself to a man who sat alone, not taking part in any conversations. He looked a few years younger than Miles, but already his hair was receding. He wore unfashionable glasses with thick lenses and appeared a typical inoffensive academic, dressed as he was in a shabby wrinkled tweed jacket with an open necked shirt. The chain of an old fob watch descended out of sight into a breast pocket. Miles learned that he was Milan Benes a researcher in the Zoology department at the Masaryk University at Brno in the Czech Republic.

What started as an exercise in sympathy towards somebody so obviously being ignored, became a pleasurable meeting on both sides as they discovered their mutual interest in small mammals. Milan was a genuine researcher of the habits of the Eurasian water shrew, Neomys Fodiens. Miles had not heard of Milan or his research before, which was a surprise because they shared a great deal in common; this shrew being the equivalent European venomous shrew to his Blarina. Such was their enthusiasm and rapport for this shared special pleasure that they talked for the whole afternoon, quite forgetting to attend the presentations they had signed up for.

Milan of course knew of Miles from his other shrew research. He had hoped to meet him, but felt shy about initiating this because, as he put it delicately, Miles seemed much engaged with a very beautiful lady. At that point in their conversation, the aforesaid lady made her appearance carrying numerous purchases and Milan took his leave. The two shrew men exchanged their contact details and agreed to meet up at the World Conference in Prague the following year.

9

At the end of their exhausting, strenuous conference, Jaime returned to Spain to 'go back to work and recover from you'. Once again, Miles took the opportunity to hike for a couple of days in the English hills.

He took the express train to Lancaster, then a bus to the youth hostel at Elterwater in the Lake District. On previous visits to Britain he had always made free time for two or three days walking in this area, one of his favourite places.

The fall weather had set in, but Miles was willing to walk providing there was no heavy rain. His first day opened overcast, but the weather report didn't sound too discouraging. He arranged a lift into Great Langdale and soon he was off to the hill tops on his planned circuit around the head of the valley returning to the road via the Langdale Pikes. He weighed the shrew in his hand before he left, but there was no reason to carry any extra weight, so he left it at the youth hostel.

He strode out, making good time up to Bowfell and continued on to Angle tarn where he stopped for lunch. Since it was midweek in October there were few other walkers about. As he headed off on the path to Stake pass the weather began to close in. Dark clouds rolled in to lower themselves across the tops; soon a swirling, wet mist wreathed him making the path almost invisible. He came to realise that he had come off it when he veered into the crags at the head of the valley. Miles didn't panic. He checked the compass bearing on his map, held down by several stones against a blustery wind. He made a solemn vow that before his next trip he would buy himself a GPS system and modernise his walks.

His walk ruined, he decided to shorten it by taking an escape route straight down to the valley floor. It was not long before he came to regret this decision because as he picked his way downwards over the steep, wet rocks, he slipped halfway across a slope and fell, twisting his right ankle.

When he slid to a stop, he lay on his back, venting the appropriate swear words, before gingerly testing his ankle in all directions. It was as painful as he expected. He was now in some trouble, alone, with a steep descent and a long walk along the valley floor before he could reach the road again.

A cold, clammy, unpleasant mist soaked his face and impeded his progress as he picked his way downwards. Often it was easier to move by sliding downhill on his bottom. An hour passed and he thought he could see glimpses of the valley floor through the mist. At that moment he heard muffled voices and the clink of moving stones dislodged by boots, somewhere out to his right.

He called out for help several times and to his relief the dim figures of four hikers loomed up, cocooned in their hooded, yellow outer garments.

Their leader said something in a foreign language to the others.

'Ahoj,tak to vypadá,že máme zraněného chodce.'

'Hi.' Miles called out. 'Thanks for coming over, I'm afraid I've twisted my ankle. If it's possible, I would be grateful if you could help me walk out to the road.'

The tall leader turned to gesture a colleague forward.

'Pavle,můžeš mi s ním pomoct.'

Then he spoke in English. 'Let us get you up, so we can support you. Katarina will take your pack.'

A slight figure came forward and Miles found himself looking into a pair of familiar green eyes which gazed at him from within a balaclava. Katarina spoke to the leader in the same European language which Miles now realised, was Czech. She turned to Miles.

'I have told Tomas that you are the man who helped me in Spain when I was hurt also.' She gestured at the others. 'Now you know Pavel and Tomas, and this is Irenka. We are leaving the mountain now as there is no more sight.'

With the two Czech men supporting him, they came down below the cloud base and worked their way along the ribboned path that ran beside the bubbling stream in the valley. Later at the roadside they sat and waited while Tomas walked off to retrieve their car, parked by the hotel a mile or so away.

Miles thanked them again. 'I'm not sure that I could have reached the road on my own before it got dark.'

'Yes, it was lucky for you that Katarina told us that we should finish our walk. She insisted we must come down this way.' Irenka said

Katarina had thrown back her hood and removed her balaclava. She shook her wild mop of hair. Her eyes sparkled.

'Now we are the same Miles and are equals together once more.'

They threw all their packs into the car's trunk when Tomas returned. It was an easy group decision that they go to a pub in Grasmere where they could take off their waterproofs, warm up, and eat some hot food. They already seemed to regard Miles as one of themselves and he felt himself swept along by their cheerful companionship. Although they talked fast in Czech, someone, usually Katarina, interpreted for him.

At the pub, they hung their coats on hooks where they dripped water on the paving stones beside the fire. Tomas insisted on buying the first round of beer. Both women chose to drink full pints along with the men, impressing Miles with their energy and capacity. They had arrived in time to find good seats around a window table, and as they tucked into their soup and pies Katarina said something to the others in Czech, causing them to laugh.

'Katarina says you are not as dumb as you seem, you are a big professor at a big university.' Pavel said.

'Well a junior lecturer actually, and I only know about very small animals.' Miles laughed in turn.

The late afternoon progressed into the evening as the rounds of beer continued. Both the Czech women kept pace with the men, drinking pint for pint. Miles was unable to keep up and skipped a drink on his rounds He had to beg to be given only half pints on the other rounds, much to the amusement of the others.

Later that night Tomas was persuaded to play the hotel piano. The Czech sang in wonderful harmony. They knew a wide repertoire of English tunes, but occasionally they sang either a rousing or a sad Czech song which nobody in the bar could understand. Their audience responded with wild applause.

The pub was now full. With the increased warmth, the customers began to shed their outer winter garments. Katarina wore a close-fitting green jersey, the colour matching her eyes. Miles began to feel that these eyes were most attractive and that Katarina was a very curvaceous woman. Later she removed the jersey to reveal a short-sleeved pink tee-shirt with the intriguing words 'Join with Me' in English on the front and some indecipherable Czech words

'Tak jdeme letět s Českými Aerolinkami.' on the back.

Miles became happy; the pain in his sprained ankle miraculously receded. It was a noisy singing group that left the pub at closing time. Tomas and Pavel supported Miles once again, but this time because he was too drunk to walk or even hobble. They were fortunate that there were no local police nearby as they piled into the car with Miles, squashed to his great pleasure, between Katarina and Irenka.

They dropped Miles off at the youth hostel. In the lobby the men thrust Miles's waterproofs, boots, and pack into the hands of the startled duty staff member. Once Katarina had made sure he was safe inside, she came up so close to him that her green eyes seemed to flare and draw him towards her when she spoke.

'Next time I meet you Miles, we shall see who is to need who.'

Miles managed to collapse still fully dressed, on his bed. His last conscious image was of Katarina and her odd disturbing green eyes. In the morning when he woke with a dry mouth and a throbbing headache, he realised that he still knew no important details about her.

Miles was in no condition to walk on his second day. The combination of a hangover and a painful swollen ankle, now showing extensive bruising on both sides, eliminated all thoughts of this. Through the window, a typical Lakeland mist and drizzle bathed Grasmere making him more than happy to spend the day quietly resting up in the youth hostel.

As his hangover wore off, his thoughts began to turn again to Jaime. He was able to access the hostel's wireless network to go on-line to check his emails. Jaime had sent him an email saying she was safe back in Madrid, that she hoped he was enjoying his walking holiday, and that she had very much enjoyed his efforts in improving Spanish-American relationships. He wrote a long reply proclaiming his intense feelings for her, asking if they could meet again very soon, maybe in America if she could afford the trip. Miles knew her family were affluent, he was sure that she had more funds for flying than he did. His plea finished, he caught the late afternoon bus to Lancaster in time for a train back to London.

10

Middle America stifled Miles before the second semester drew to an end. He fell back, with reluctance, into his old teaching routine and the preparations for the semester exams. The bare trees outside his windows depressed him, as did the daily snow flurries which iced the streets up.

Inside his apartment he saved money by turning down the heating. An occasional cold drip formed on the tip of is nose as he huddled over his books. Most days he dressed in three layers of his walking thermals with a scarf flung over his head and around his neck. He was no longer interested in further experiments with the shrew outside his apartment.

His winter blues deepened because Jaime had told him that she couldn't come to America. She claimed that much important work needed for her thesis, prevented this. She sent him warm expressions of love but without any further commitment for the future. No, she couldn't be sure either of her attendance in Prague in February. He emailed her every day but sometimes she didn't reply for a couple of days, which was agony for him.

Miles had returned his shrew population to the wild and his laboratory was empty. The department assumed that he was completing his paper on the properties of the shrew venom he collected in the summer. Miles of course had never collected any; he had never had any intention of doing so. He suspected that Professor Keller knew this, but Miles didn't care. In their occasional discussions they avoided the topic, but Miles sensed that the Professor looked at him in the same clinical way he would any other doomed zoological specimen.

Miles had reconciled himself to the fact that his teaching contract wouldn't be renewed at the end of the university year. He spent hours trying to visualise his future but no solid or comforting images floated into his mind.

In this negative mood he struggled to stay philosophical when he received a second notification to appear before the university chancellor. On arrival the next day his expectations were very low when the grim Ms Pimm showed him into the office.

Inside the large warm room, the Chancellor himself rose and came around his desk to greet him. The Chancellor turned and motioned him towards another seated figure who unfurled, rising to crush Miles hand. The tall uniformed man introduced himself without preamble.

'Hi Miles, I'm Colonel Stronholm, deputy director of the Army Toxicology Research Centre based in Harrisburg Pennsylvania. Chancellor Wiggins has told me about the valuable research you are undertaking concerning mammalian toxins. Our army is always interested in such matters if they can improve our offensive capabilities. We are particularly interested in a short acting, non-lethal, disabling toxin as an alternative to the many lethal types we have available already. Please sit down Miles.'

Miles slumped into a nearby seat.

Colonel Stronholm filled a large area of space. Miles saw a square man with close-cropped white hair and a look of steely determination. Numerous ribbons and military flashes adorned his uniform. He impressed Miles as a very tough customer.

The chancellor spoke. 'Now Miles, Colonel Stronholm has shown interest in your American shrew venom research. Could you summarise for him your current progress towards the isolation and identification of this venom, and give him a time frame for its practical use by the army.'

Miles leant forwards with his hand clasped; his thumbs leant against his teeth in a contemplative attitude, as he struggled to invent a plausible set of white lies that would deal with these questions.

'Well Colonel, it's very difficult to extract enough venom to undertake large-scale testing. My observations so far reveal that there is a short-lived painful, incapacitating response to the venom. Sometimes there is a local paralysis of the affected limb. The effects come on rapidly and can last for up to a day or more.'

Miles had made a reasonable description of the effects on his two bitten students. He continued. 'I have not yet identified the entire molecule involved, but I remain convinced that it will be simple to copy in a laboratory for mass production purposes.' Again there was nothing untoward in this guestimation.

Colonel Stronholm looked interested. 'Do you think it could be inhaled as a gas, or released by an artillery shell?'

'At present that would be difficult to say. The effects I have studied relate to penetration through broken skin.'

The Colonel leant back and looked thoughtful. 'Ah then, perhaps a venom tipped dart confined to close quarters use?'

'Yes indeed, that may work well. I will ask my colleague in Brno University Czechoslovakia what he thinks of this possibility.' Miles said, thinking of his new friend Milan Benes.

He colonel looked displeased. He scowled. 'Have you been in contact with a Czech? They are unreliable, emotional, and many of them are still communists. This work is too important to let our rivals know what you are doing.'

'No colonel, at the moment we only talk about simple research at the university level. My colleague is studying the Eurasian water shrew which also has a toxic bite.' Miles hurried to explain.

The Colonel spoke. 'Miles, be careful what you publish and what you tell this so-called colleague of yours. He could be working for someone else. On the other hand it would be useful for us if you could try to tease out the details of his research while at the same time revealing little of your own research to him. We need to know if our venom is better than theirs. I think our plan will be that you report back everything you discover to me, by way of the Chancellor.

Colonel Stronholm turned to the Chancellor. 'Has Professor Watson sworn the oath of secrecy yet?'

'I don't think so Colonel.'

'Then he should do so immediately Chancellor.' The Colonel turned to Miles again.

'Miles I would like you to repeat the oath of secrecy after me, but I should warn you that will earn your countries displeasure if you break this oath. You will have committed a grave offence that could have serious consequences.'

The Colonel reached into a uniform pocket and drew out a small bible. 'I carry this with me for various purposes including swearing the oath of secrecy.'

Miles took the oath with his hand on the small black bible, and then sank back bewildered into his chair. Neither Chancellor Wiggins nor Colonel Stronholm seemed to regard the situation as being extraordinary in any way.

'Chancellor, I think we can use our special funds to augment your university for this promising area of research, as we have already discussed.'

'Thank you Colonel that would be most welcome.' the chancellor replied. He turned to Miles.

'Miles I know you are busy with your research so we won't detain you any longer. I will be in touch soon.'

The chancellor pressed a button on his desk; the door sprung open to reveal Ms Pimm, who ushered Miles out. Back at his office Miles opened the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept his useful items.

'Wow, how bad can this get? Now I'm a spy as well as a con man.' he thought as he began to console himself with his emergency bottle of Jack Daniels.

11

The exams and the exam marking fury passed with Miles at low ebb. The tone of Jaime's ever fewer emails had become more reserved each time. Although she told him what she was doing and what she hoped to do, she avoided asking Miles how he felt. There was now frequent mention of someone called Felipe, a new important friend of hers. It appeared he was an exciting, up and coming young professor of Business Studies at the Autonoma. There was nothing Miles could do to prevent the bitter taste of rising jealousy from curdling his spirits.

Miles spent Christmas and New Year with his parents in New York. He decided that he would resign from his university post before the next semester began. The lease on his apartment ran out in mid-February and he would let it drop. He would need one more trip back to the University to finalise his arrangements and to say goodbye to Bertha Bibbs, Mary Turner, or anybody else who appeared bright in the shrew's spectrum. He felt that the shrew would be a pretty good judge of who needed to know about his departure.

There was plenty of time for sad contemplation before the Prague conference opened on the second of February. He tried to counter his unhappiness by attending positive cultural activities. Each day he visited an art gallery, or attended musical events, plays, or the opera. However something was always missing. When a blonde head or a particular figure just like Jaime's appeared, his heart would race. He would move closer to check, but of course it was never her. To his surprise he also found himself searching the eyes of suitable brunettes for a certain special shade of green. That was odd he thought, odd and weird.

He often took the shrew with him to observe the colours. He wondered what would happen if he approached or talked to any of the very rare reds, but he lacked the confidence to do this. He could only stand, wondering when that rare, winter clad person passed him by in a crowded shop or in the swirling snow.

In mid-January he went to JFK airport to pick up his sister and her family. Bad weather delayed their flight, so while he waited for them, he sat idle in an airport lounge letting the variable, flashing lights of the shrew out into the open. Several times children came up to him asking him what toy he had and where could they buy one.

He met his sister's family in the arrival area where he showed the shrew to his eight year old niece and ten-year old nephew. As they stared goggle eyed at it, he gave their parents his stock answers to their questions. Suddenly the Shrew in his hand turned white and blazed with light for several seconds before morphing back into its usual revolving colours.

'Ooh.' chorused the two children. 'That's made our eyes go all funny. How did you do that Uncle Miles?'

'I don't know.' said Miles; his eyes searched the busy crowd which forged around him.

'Sorry, I'll be back in a minute, wait here.'

Miles selected a direction and rushed off, holding the shrew in front of him. Its multi-hued patterns remained constant. Even though he quartered the whole floor of the arrival area he couldn't make it produce a white light again.

Eventually the odd looks and attention he attracted as he held the colourful light show in front of him, forced him to return to his bewildered relatives.

'Miles are you all right?' his concerned sister asked.

'Sorry Jo, it's never done that before.' Miles looked distracted

'We can discuss this later when we get to Mum and Dads. Can we go now? It's been a long flight.'

'Sure.'

Miles put the shrew out of sight in his coat pocket.

Later when questioned by the family, he managed to pass off the amazing shrew as being something new that he had picked up in London. He could see that his father remained unconvinced.

'I've never seen anything like it before Miles. How does it produce the lights?'

Miles had to allow the rest of the family to examine the shrew. In anyone else's hands it turned black, but in Miles's hands it turned a uniform yellow to red whichever relative was close by, which made Miles feel better.

'I think I programmed it to work just for me,' he said airily.

'Is that so!' his father said.

He put the shrew away and changed the subject. 'Come on you kids, who would like to wrestle with me?'

As far as his relatives knew, on the following day, Miles went out to continue his cultural education. In secret however he returned to JFK. He circulated between the arrival and departure halls where he could study the crowds with the shrew held close at hand. Sometimes he was more obscure and positioned himself on a gantry or mezzanine floor, where he could sit near the passing crowds pretending to read a book.

He couldn't justify his behaviour in any logical fashion, but he knew the airport was important because of the shrew's specific actions there. Each night he returned in time for supper. The fabricated accounts of his daily cultural activities were never questioned.

His investigations drew a blank on the Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but on midday Friday as he was beginning to wonder if his research could be classified as insane, the shrew flashed a pure white light in the departure lounge.

He made a desperate scan of his immediate vicinity. A relative assisted an old woman beside a group of school age teenagers. Business men talked on smart phones. Uniformed airline staff and an African couple dressed in long multi coloured robes passed by. Surely none of these people could produce the unique white colour.

He wondered if the five to six feet active range of the usual colours applied to the white spectrum. Could it be further? What range must the white have if it could be picked up in a jet climbing out of JFK as had happened last August?

Miles felt compelled to continue his search until he left New York at the end of the following week. It pleased and impressed Miles's parents to see the amount of culture he was soaking up.

On the next Monday, the shrew rewarded him again with a blinding white flash in the same place and at the same time as the previous Monday when he had met his sister's family. A pattern seemed to have been established.

On Tuesday under the guise of returning his sister, brother-in-law and children to the airport he deployed the shrew without any response. On Wednesday he was unexpectedly seared by white light while he walked in the departure hall. He hadn't expected any response on that day; he had left the shrew exposed.

The consequent disturbance around him, forced a rapid exit from the airport to avoid the attentions of the airport security police. He stayed away on Thursday, and when on Friday his parents dropped him off for the Czech Airline flight to Prague, the shrew was hidden safe and inert in his luggage in the hold. As he took his seat for the flight he concluded that there was someone of special importance who passed through JFK on a regular basis. Perhaps he was a business person, an American who commuted overseas or locally.

Miles had never been to Prague and that novelty excited him. There was an underlying sadness present however, because this would be the last conference of his academic career. He could assuage his sorrow somewhat because Milan the zoologist from Masaryk University would be there. Milan's frequent communications had eased the hurt he felt from Jaime's faltering contact and Miles felt comforted by the promise of his company. He vowed however that there would be no more conference distractions. The embarrassing neglect of his colleagues in London would not be repeated; he determined to reforge his previous friendships for one last time.

12

Milan was waiting for him in the arrival hall at Ruynze airport. Soon they were aboard his antique Renault, heading towards the hotel in the old town which Milan had recommended. There was much to talk about. Miles had kept his own e-mails semi-formal and academic because of mild paranoia engendered by his contact with Colonel Stronholm. Once in Milan's company however, he relaxed and felt an instinctive trust for the shy, unworldly Czech.

He told Milan of his sworn oath of government secrecy and his new status as a spy of Milan's researches. When they finished laughing, he asked Milan if he had ever heard of Marik, Jiri, and Stanislov, the Kratochvil brothers. He took Grob's card from his wallet and spelled out their names and address.

'Yes I know them.' Milan said. 'They are an established family of brothers well-respected in Prague. I understand they are importers and exporters of scientific goods. You should phone them as your friend advised, they would be useful contacts for a young university professor.'

After dumping Miles's bags, they left the hotel to take an orientation walk. It was only a short distance to the river and the old bridge. As they walked, Miles stared in fascination through the windows of the busy cafes in the old town. A few walkers hurried by, huddled in their thick overcoats protected from the bitter cold of the open air. Miles and Milan were both kitted out with warm coats, scarves, and gloves. Miles wore a hat that he called his tea cosy, but Milan preferred a Russian style fur hat with ear flaps that he kept pulled down.

Winter darkness curtailed their tour of the old town. They ended up in a favoured tavern where they could finish the evening in warmth, tucking into excellent goulash accompanied by large glasses of pilsner.

The venue for the European Zoological Conference on Small Mammals took place in a large modern hotel over the river. Miles took a taxi to make sure he reached it early. Inside, where he found the usual bustle as old friends and colleagues circulated, Miles suffered some justifiable ribbing.

'Hello Miles, I see you're alone. I hope you'll pay attention to my presentation this time.'

'Where is your beautiful personal assistant Miles?'

'Miles we hope to see you in the evenings at least some time during this conference.'

In fact he seemed to have been forgiven for his behaviour in London. On his flight to Prague he had rehearsed some explanations for his solo status. They ran along the lines that Jaime couldn't attend because of prior commitments. He was non-committal to enquiries about his future with her. If any of his zoological associates disbelieved his explanations, they were too polite to question him further.

Miles flung himself into the conference with the zeal that could be expected in his position. Any human being who wants to enjoy every moment of something they love, but knows it will soon be taken away from them forever, would do the same. His conversation shone; he was thoughtful in his interactions; he argued with good humour; he asked intelligent questions. In the evenings he mixed well, drank toasts, and stayed out late. In turn all his colleagues sought his expert opinion. In summary he was a blazing comet in the conference firmament.

The amiable Milan was now part of the social group. Another American, Jeff Fredericks also introduced himself. He revealed that he was not a zoologist, but a conference organiser, sent by an American firm to study the European style of conferences because they planned to market a similar style in America.

Jeff took a particular interest in Miles work. For a non-zoologist, he seemed well briefed about the subject. He was generous with his rounds of drinks and he listened more than he talked, which is always a positive social skill. He moved well within the group; his individual quizzing of the pros and cons of various conferences didn't prove a conversation obstacle. He never attended the working presentations, but always re-joined the group at their meal breaks and social gatherings in the evenings.

On the third and penultimate day of the conference, Miles made an unscheduled lunch time trip back to his hotel. He had forgotten paperwork which he had promised to give to a delegate leaving later that day.

He didn't have time to walk to his hotel, so he took a taxi and asked the driver to wait while he ran upstairs to his room. Although he was in a hurry he noticed changes in the room compared to his memories of that morning.

The room was icy cold and the small window that overlooked the back alley was ajar with its curtains blowing. As he closed it, he noticed some books in different positions on the table. The shrew lay beside his laptop bag instead of being tucked in the bag as usual. It seemed odd that a cleaning lady would interfere with his laptop, so on the spur of the moment, he pocketed the shrew. Although it looked like an odd paperweight, it was his most valuable possession.

That evening Miles returned to his hotel tired but happier than he had felt for a long time. Milan had tried hard to persuade him to extend his stay in Prague and the Czech Republic. The temptation was intense, but he declined because he needed to return to America to wrap up his university life. All he could offer as an explanation to Milan was that any enjoyable time spent in the Czech Republic would be ruined by something unpleasant that awaited him back in America.

Miles felt as if he had known Milan as a friend all his life. He felt that he could share with him virtually all his concerns, except perhaps the shame of his imminent academic demise. He did share his observations of the disturbed hotel room however, although he didn't mention the shrew, just that someone had removed his laptop from its bag. Milan offered to take this up with the hotel management, but Miles shrugged the suggestion off since nothing had gone missing.

Most of Miles group decided to forgo the main conference dinner that night. There were so many attendees present, that they were sure they wouldn't be missed. They agreed it would be more fun to have their own farewell meal in a restaurant in the old town.

Milan made all the arrangements for them and he returned that evening with Miles to the hotel. He indicated that he would wait downstairs in the hotel's wood panelled library while Miles went upstairs for a quick shower and change of clothes. As Milan opened a magazine to read, Miles by chance shifted the shrew in his pocket as he headed for the library door. He hadn't meant to look at it because on principle, he didn't want to know the individual colour of people whom he liked. If they turned out blue or violet, he wasn't prepared to deal with the doubts this would raise. On this occasion he almost crashed into the door frame because the shrew remained jet black, inert, even though Milan stood only a few feet away.

This unique finding made Miles hurry upstairs, afraid that the intruder had manhandled the shrew and broken it. He moved straight to his laptop and booted it up to be rewarded with the usual log on message. The shrew felt and interacted as usual and he began to relax again. The scare however had been too much for him, so he locked the shrew away in the room safe.

There wasn't time to consider this new puzzle as back in the lobby they gloved and rugged up again for the cold outside. It was difficult to pick a path across the cobbled streets and avoid slipping on the ice; they needed to hold hands to support each other and negotiate the glistening danger. It was a relief to reach the restaurant and be welcomed by the blast of hot air when they opened the front door. The other zoologists had already gathered in a herd at a large table where it appeared they were a couple of drinks ahead. Miles and Milan ordered theirs and Milan began to interpret the complex Czech menu for the group.

13

The party was proceeding at pace with the company tucked well into their cabbage soup, when the inside door swung open to inject two fur cloaked figures. They paused by the reception desk to shed their outer garments.

As they passed by, heading for a nearby reserved table, Miles glanced up and startled. A tall elegant man was escorting Katarina Chaloupka. At their nearby table her companion turned to draw back a chair for her and Miles critiqued the handsome aristocratic figure. A famous branded watch glittered on a wrist as the immaculate partner placed his hands on Katarina's bare shoulders to assist her to her chair. Miles could not prevent an instinctive glimpse at his own watch, a Hong Kong Rolex with a tendency to revert to Hong Kong time.

Katarina sat facing Miles and at first he didn't know what to do. He couldn't bury his head in the menu for ever. He didn't want to introduce himself now, to then slink awkwardly away. Katarina and her partner were dressed for a formal outing; it was unlikely they would welcome any immediate company.

'What the hell, what does it matter, I don't know anything about her, except that everywhere I go she turns up somehow.' thought Miles.

However somehow the presence of Katarina with a young handsome escort, sent his recent high spirits spiralling downwards like a moth singed in a flame.

At that moment Katarina looked up and caught his eye. Her lips parted and her face creased into a small knowing smile. Her green eyes flashed at him for long seconds before she turned to study the wine menu which her partner offered her. Miles made his decision, committing himself to an approach at the end of their meal when they were taking their coffee.

He turned his attention to the food in front of him, but his appetite had disappeared. He found himself picking at food which earlier had been more tasty.

'What's wrong with you Miles? This is crazy.' He chastised himself in silence.

The meal seemed to drag on, like a wedding reception for a distant relative. Miles struggled to take any part in the conversation at his table. He took occasional surreptitious peeks in Katarina's direction but she always seemed intent on her companion. Miles thought she looked relaxed and radiant. If he strained his ear in that direction he could sometimes hear her familiar laugh above the background noise.

Miles sagged in his seat, feeling sick.

'Stop it.' He was furious, angry at his sudden weakness.

'Miles you're a mature adult and a university professor, at least for a few weeks more.' he admonished himself.

Milan and Jeff Fredericks who sat next together, looked at him, concerned from across the table. 'Miles are you all right? You look pale.' said Milan.

'It's nothing. Maybe I drank a little too much. I'm going to have to ease back on the food for the rest of the meal. I'll skip the dessert, wait for coffees, and then call a halt there.'

The meal finished. The group began to play argue about who was going to pay the bill. Miles could see that Katarina and her partner had reached their coffees. It was time to act. He composed himself, stood up, and rifling through his wallet, extracted a small wad of high denomination Euro notes which he thrust into Milan's hands.

'Could you do me a favour Milan and pay my bill. I have to go and speak to a lady. We can square up tomorrow. I'll see you at the conference in the morning.'

He abandoned his cold coffee and walked resolutely up to Katarina's table. She was already standing, looking at him as he approached.

'Miles this is a wonderful surprise, please allow me to introduce you to Stefan Brodsky. Stefan this is Miles Watson. Miles and I have met on a few walking trips. Miles I did not know for sure that you were coming to Prague.'

Stefan stood and gave a short stiff European bow.

'It pleases me to make your acquaintance Miles. Please sit down and join us. Would you like me to order you coffee or perhaps some tea?'

'No thank you, I have already dined. Please carry on with your drinks.'

They sat down.

'Miles, what makes you come to Prague?' Katarina asked.

'I'm attending the European Zoological Conference on Small Mammals, Katarina.'

'How interesting.' said Stefan dabbing his lips with a starched serviette.

'Yes it has been. I have enjoyed it and Prague immensely.' That was heartfelt and true.

'May I ask what your speciality is?' Stefan asked.

'I study small mammals, shrews in fact. They are an attractive, brave, and demanding species.' He felt his voice tail off; the subject was hardly interesting.

Katarina looked at him with encouragement. 'Miles is an American expert. He has told me that his shrews have many good things in their character.'

'Indeed.' murmured Stefan. 'I do not know much about them. But I am often involved with larger animals which I hunt in the hills around our family estate.'

'Stefan's family still have several houses that they did not lose to the communists.' explained Katarina.

'Ah that's useful.' Miles said.

Stefan turned his back to Miles and snapped his fingers at one of the nearby waiters who immediately jumped forwards. This instant response reminded Miles of yet another personal inadequacy, because he had never mastered the art of snapping his fingers; a defect that caused much amusement and mock pity amongst his friends.

Stefan turned back to Miles

'Miles it is fortunate that you are present here at this time, because you can celebrate with us. Katarina has been unwell over the past few days, but this evening she seems to have improved. That is good because we have recently agreed on our engagement to marry.'

Stefan began to place his order with the waiter for a bottle of Moet champagne and three glasses. As he did this, Miles tried to prevent the instant dismay from showing on his face. Katarina shot an inquiring look at him, but he was in luck, Stefan had turned away to discuss the champagne vintage with the attentive waiter.

Miles thought he had disguised his dismay well, perhaps showing only a momentary tightening of his lips. He started to speak but stopped to clear his throat and begin again.

'That's excellent news,' he beamed at Katarina and Stefan. 'I am very pleased for both of you.' He looked down to adjust the corner of a folded serviette. He couldn't look up at Katarina.

The champagne arrived; Stefan popped the cork with a flourish and poured three full glasses.

'I propose a toast,' he said. 'To all present, long and happy lives. And to Miles, may all his shrews be good shrews.'

Miles was now in control, determined to conduct himself with dignity however deep and surprisingly wounded he felt. He raised his glass.

'May you both find the happiness you are seeking now and in the future.'

Stefan and Miles looked to Katarina.

'May we all find what we are looking for.' she murmured.

They drank their toasts.

'When will you be returning to America Miles?' asked Stefan

'I'm afraid that I must leave tomorrow evening. The conference finishes at lunchtime.' He explained.

'Will you be flying United Airlines?' Katarina asked.

'No I'm flying with Czech Airlines.'

'It is a great pity you cannot stay longer.' Stefan said. 'We would have been happy to show you some of our beautiful countryside. There are many excellent walking tracks.'

'Yes several people have told me this.' replied Miles. 'If I had more time I would love to walk some of them, but I have to return home to sort some things out. I don't know if I can ever return.' Miles stood up to make his best American bow to Stefan and Katarina.

'It's getting late, you have much to celebrate. It is time for me to wish you goodnight and goodbye.'

He composed his features and held out his hand to Katarina, but she came around the table to kiss him on both cheeks.

Miles backed away, to stride to reception where he collected his coat and hat. When he turned to offer a final goodbye wave, he absorbed another long green gaze from Katarina which he cut short by looking down and doing up his coat buttons. Only when the frosty air hit him outside did he realise that he hadn't put on his tea cosy or gloves.

14

Miles spent a long, disturbed night, unable to relax and dispel his confused thoughts. He reminded himself that he was in love with Jaime, but the idea kept sliding away without settling in his mind as an established fact. He now accepted that this odd Czech woman affected him for no logical or scientific reason. He kept repeating his vow to himself that he would finish the conference in good spirits and look forwards to his return to New York. At some point in the night he fell asleep.

Milan picked him up after breakfast and they drove in silence the short distance across the Charles river to park at the conference centre. The day dragged on for a numb Miles who remained withdrawn. At midday the leaving speeches were over and the delegates began to disperse to their hotels or head off direct to the airport. There were multiple departing scenes around him as the academics said their farewells and made promises to meet again.

'Miles you look like you need cheering up,' Milan said. 'I'll take you for a drive in the country outside Prague, before your flight.'

'Thanks Milan, but for the moment I think I'll go for a walk in the old town and take in some scenery I've missed.'

'Ok, let's meet in the old town square at the restaurant on the corner at two o'clock.' Milan replied. 'That should give us enough time to take a drive before it gets too dark. Even in the winter there is much to see and we can still be at the airport in time for your flight.'

Miles checked out of his room leaving his bags at reception for pick up later. He decided he had time to complete his other errand and phoned the number on the Kratochvil card.

A pleasant female voice answered.

'Dobrý den,tady je Kratochvílova společnost,jak Vám mohu pomoci?'5

'I'm sorry I don't speak Czech. My name is Miles Watson. Mr G Robert Kratochvil recommended that I contact your company. ' Miles said hopefully in English.

The lady replied in flawless English. 'Yes of course, could you please hold the line and I will speak to Mr Marik Kratochvil.'

Marik came on the line. 'Good afternoon Professor Watson. G Robert has often mentioned you and recommended that our firm should meet you. We would be delighted to do so either here at our office or perhaps at a more social venue if you wish.'

'I'm sorry Mr Kratochvil; I should have phoned you earlier. I have found that my time in Prague has passed too soon. Unfortunately I must fly out from your beautiful country tonight. I'm phoning to apologise for not contacting you sooner. I hope one day to correct that mistake.'

'Not at all.' Marik replied. 'I feel sure there will be another occasion when we can meet. My family will all look forward to that. We wish you a pleasant flight back to America.'

Miles put the phone down. He had no idea how he could be the subject of any esteem by an unknown Czech firm. He assumed that this tenuous connection related to G Robert who could be a younger relative. Marik had been most polite however; Miles' spirits lifted a little in response to his old-fashioned courtesy.

He set out to tour the old town with its unspoilt architecture. As he walked along the small cobbled streets he peered into the lit cafés and shops. Compacted snow lay scattered in small piles and the stamping figures of the chestnut vendors were on every corner. A horse-drawn cab passed by, Miles paused to follow the unexpected sight as it moved past with jingling bells.

As he did, he caught the quick movement of a man standing close behind him who turned to look into a shop window. There was something forced and unnatural about his manner and movement. Miles continued on until he reached a small bright department store where he ducked inside. A full length mirror hung on the wall straight ahead of him. As he looked into it the figure came past the door and peered in his direction before moving on.

Miles waited for five minutes before he left by the same door, pausing to look right and left. The same man leant against a lamp-post further down the street smoking a cigarette. A dark coat and fur hat pulled low over his face made it impossible to identify any features.

Miles sensed that this man was following him, but at the same time began to scold himself for being paranoid.

'Sad, and mad,' he thought.

He walked on in a natural manner, but now made his way to the rendezvous with Milan in the old town square. It seemed safer to wait in public rather than wander alone down any more deserted streets. He was unpleasantly surprised to see his mysterious companion settle into a chair at another table outside the café, order a cup of coffee, and pull out a newspaper to read. Not many people chose to sit outside in the cold.

Milan arrived on time, soon after. Miles told him of his new admirer, picked up on his walk.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, he's sitting at the table over by the statue.'

'Do you know him?'

'No, but I can't see his face.'

'He looks a bit like our American friend from the conference. Jeff Fredericks the conference organiser.'

'How can you tell that?'

'I'm sure I saw him wearing that same overcoat and hat.'

'You are very observant. He looks the same as everyone else.'

'I am observant.' Milan stood up, walked to a trash-can close to the man and deposited some paper in it.

When he returned he said. 'He's reading an English paper and although he's well wrapped up, I'm sure it's Fredericks.'

'You could be right then,' Miles began to reconsider the interest that Fredericks had shown in him at the conference.

'Indeed, but none of this matters, said Milan, let's pick up your luggage and go for our drive. I have parked my car near the hotel.'

Miles put his bag in the trunk of the Renault but removed the shrew and put it in his pocket. In view of his present mood and the knowledge that Fredericks was spying on him, he didn't want to part from it.

Milan swung out of the city to the south. 'I'll show you Karlstejn castle, we should have enough time.'

Miles began to relax again in Milan's company. He felt genuine sorrow at the thought of leaving Prague. It was a city that he could have liked if circumstances had been different. They talked about their work and Miles finally admitted to Milan the awful truth; that he would be out of work because of his research failures at the university.

'You should come over here and work.' Milan insisted.

'Oh yeah, with what publications and what recommendations?' Why would a Czech university want to hire a low-level American shrew specialist?'

'You never know.' replied Milan.

15

On their return from the castle they pulled into a gas station in the outer suburbs. Milan asked Miles to buy him a packet of cigarettes while he filled the tank. Miles had just picked Milan's favourite brand from a dispenser when there was a loud screech of tires outside the station shop. He looked through the window to see a large black Mercedes pull up beside the Renault. Three men jumped out, two of them grabbed Milan and began to hustle him towards an open door of the black car.

Miles froze for a few seconds, then with a yell, made for the shop door. As he burst through it, he went flat on his back on a patch of ice. Milan struggled with his assailants as they dragged him into the Mercedes. He cried out to Miles who lay supine and winded on the forecourt thirty feet away.

'Phone the brothers Miles, phone the brothers'.

Milan's voice cut off as a fist clamped over his mouth. Car doors slammed and the Mercedes drove off with a squeal of tires on tarmac.

'You bastards' Miles yelled, as with an enormous effort he got up to run for the Renault.

The third man, who had jumped into the Renault, started the engine and accelerated away as Miles reached out to grab the passenger door. The Renault fishtailed away into the evening traffic causing passing cars to brake and blast their horns.

Miles returned to the warmth of the station shop to catch his breath and consider the situation. Darkness was falling. Snowflakes were beginning to swoop and swirl up towards the fuzzy orange glow of the street lights. A queue of car headlights formed on the road outside as the evening rush hour traffic backed up beside the gas station.

He was in an unknown area of Prague, his passport and plane ticket were in the side pocket of his bag, now stolen. An American had tailed him on the street, Milan had disappeared. Was there a connection? Was Fredericks even an American?

He turned to the young gas attendant who shrugged his shoulders at Miles' spoken English and his few mispronounced Czech words. The attendant must have seen the abduction but it was plain that he didn't intend to become involved.

Miles searched his pockets and found the inscrutable shrew signalling blue in the presence of the shop attendant. He still had his wallet with some Euros in it. It was logical that he phone the police but how was he to communicate all the circumstances? He needed help and his only other contact in Prague was The Kratochvil brothers. He took Milan's advice and used the phone booth in the corner of the station shop.

The same lady receptionist was still available despite the late hour. She listened without comment to his hurried, disjointed story. When he paused for breath she asked.

'Professor Watson, can you tell me where you are?'

'I'm not sure, but there is a person here who can tell you.'

Miles motioned the station attendant to come across, which he did with some reluctance.

Miles took the phone again after the Czech conversation ceased. The lady spoke again.

'Please wait for a moment professor.'

Marik Kratochvil came on the line.

'Professor Watson, please stay in the gas station. Do not go outside or near the road. I will send a white Mercedes and two men for you. One of them will come into the shop and introduce himself as Novotny. They will bring you to our office and we shall see what we can do to help your situation.'

Miles waited as several cars stopped for gas at the station. He scanned all of them with care, poised to run if there was any hint of danger. He was greatly relieved when the white Mercedes finally pulled into the forecourt. A huge man exited from the front passenger seat and advanced to Miles, the sole customer in the shop.

'Professor Watson, I am Novotny. Can you accompany me please.'

They reached Drazickeho namesti which was an imposing square on the west bank of the Charles river. Large buildings occupied the middle of the square where the road ran around it on all four sides. Number 14 was an old building with five floors on one side of the square; a brass plate on the door outside indicated that the offices of the Kratochvil family were on the top floor.

Novotny accompanied him in silence as the lift rattled up to the fifth floor. An elderly lady, whose eyes twinkled at him, took his winter clothing before she motioned him towards a large oak door. She knocked and spoke a few words in Czech at which the door opened to invite Miles inside. Novotny took up station outside.

On the other side stood another impressive man dressed in a conservative suit which seemed too small for his bulk. The room inside was large and took up the full width of the building which had the original rafters of an old warehouse. In the centre of the back wall a wide log fire blazed; set beside it were comfortable sofas and chairs. Windows with drawn curtains occupied the left wall which looked across to the square below. The left side of the room was open plan and arranged with regular waist-high booths occupied by computers and filing cabinets. It seemed that the Kratochvil family believed in large open spaces and minimum hierarchy.

The room appeared empty as work had finished for the day.

16

'Welcome Professor Watson. Please join us.'

Miles focussed on the fire. He had failed to see the three, small elderly men who sat distributed across the high-backed leather sofa placed to the left of the fire. In front of them rested a low coffee table. A similar sofa and coffee table occupied the equivalent position to the right of the fire. A bottle of schnapps and a single glass stood on this table. As Miles moved forwards, the three men rose to greet him.

'Please sit down Professor.' said the central spokesman. 'I am Marik; these are my brothers Jiri and Stanislov. Janos is guarding the door and outside is Novotny whom you have already met. Eliska is our receptionist. You need have no fear now, you are perfectly safe.'

Miles felt instinctively that this was true despite a scene that resembled a script from an American gangster movie. He could feel his tension unwind as he moved to sit down on the vacant sofa. The room was warm and relaxing.

The participants studied each other with interest. The three men appeared old but somehow of indeterminate age. They were slight, sparse, and very similar in appearance with the same silver-grey hair and calm almost venerable features. Miles wondered if they could be triplets.

Marik continued. 'Professor, or Miles, if you will permit me to call you. Please help yourself to the schnapps. We can of course provide you with any other type of drink if you wish.'

'Gentlemen,' Miles replied. 'I don't know you, or why you have decided to help me, but I am thankful for it. My first priority is to find out what has happened to Milan Benes. He is my Czech friend and I have just seen him abducted. I would appreciate your help in liaising with the Czech Police which I must do as soon as possible.'

'That is unnecessary.' Jiri spoke for the first time. 'Milan has an affiliation with our family and we are close friends. We know where he is and he is safe.'

Miles felt relief, then puzzlement. He stood up. 'In that case I would like to see him as soon as possible. I don't understand how you could have found out who took him, already.'

'Miles your feelings for Milan are much to your credit.' Stanislov said. 'He is in this building and we brought him here from the gas station. Our plan was to prevent you from returning to America tonight.'

Miles lowered himself down and sat still, his earlier wild thoughts of spies or criminals renewed themselves. The three men eyed him with interest until Marik spoke.

'Miles we can tell that you are now angry, confused, and frightened, as well as being lonely and unhappy. If you will bear with us we will explain everything to you.'

Jiri spoke next. 'Miles what are your conclusions about the rejsci, or shrew as you call it, that cousin G Robert gave you?'

This new twist in the conversation took Miles aback. These people, G Robert included, must be involved with the shrew. He felt in his pocket, but then remembered that the shrew was in his overcoat outside the room. He gathered his thoughts and decided to make a truthful answer.

'I know that it's an amazing device that interacts with my thoughts and helps me control my computer in a fantastic way. It also has an ability to define those people whom I can relate to either as friends, neutrals, or enemies. It only works through me, nobody else has any influence on it.

'Excellent.' Stanislov said. 'Who do you think could invent such a thing?'

'I don't know. It is such an incredible device that I can't think who could have made it. It would be one of the greatest inventions of mankind.

Marik said. 'Miles you have to know that mankind did not invent it.'

Miles sat silent, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions. Yes, maybe he had wondered about that possibility, but he had dismissed it as being another product of his recent, fragile mental state.

'I think I may have some schnapps now gentlemen.'

'Please call us by our first names. These are not our real names of course and we do not appear as we really are. We ask you to keep this in the strictest confidence.' Marik continued.

Jiri spoke. 'We have lived in the Czech republic for many years. We came from somewhere far away, but we ended up here as a result of our researches.'

Janos came over with a drinks trolley and supplied the three brothers with glasses of fruit juice. He poured a large, neat schnapps into the single glass for Miles who drank it with one gulp; gasping as its heat burnt slowly downwards behind his breast bone.

Stanislov took his turn. 'Miles do you believe there could be a person who is perfect for you, and you for them, somebody who is specifically attuned to you, and vice versa. A unique person.'

Once more the direction of the conversation stunned Miles. He took a cautious sip of the second schnapps poured for him, and decided to play along with this amazing proposition. He considered the question. 'Obviously there could be hundreds of people, maybe thousands if you took the whole world's population that I could relate to given the right circumstances. I don't think there would be a unique person.'

Marik spoke again. 'There are many people indeed whose company you would enjoy, and your empathy with them, if we can call it that, is as you surmised, indicated by the shrew. The shrew is a crude empathy amplifier which works between you and other humans. G Robert was very keen to accelerate our research with it. There was some division over this, but in the end we assented to his suggestion. In fact Miles, you are wrong in your belief that no unique person exists. In the case of relationships between men, women, or the usual man and woman, there is only one perfect person. You may regard this as a pyramid; at the top of each pyramid there is always a final point.'

'Surely thousands of happy relationships could exist. They even occur twice or more, for instance in second relationships after the death of a spouse.' Miles pointed out.

Jiri took over. 'Yes, it is perfectly possible for you to have many wonderful relationships and there are literally thousands of women whom you could partner if you met them. You would lead a very happy life if you married any one of them. However we know that there is only one perfect match for you at all levels including the levels you cannot sense. Everybody else is a fraction less perfect. You also must realise that a perfect match has nothing to do with superficial things such as language, appearance, or the colour of your skin.'

Stanislov interrupted. 'Miles you need to know that in the place where we come from, we have evolved to the extent that we can sense waves of empathy in a natural way, much like you can see light. We know how others feel from a very young age. Then when we mature, we gain the ability to sense our own perfect life partner. Both partners will seek each other out in a natural and inevitable way. There are no mistakes. I think you can imagine that this promotes a very benign and satisfied society.'

Marik had been watching Miles. 'Don't be alarmed Miles. We are not mind readers, but we can read your feelings. At this moment you are radiating these to all of us. We accept them and understand you.'

Miles finished his schnapps, before leaning forwards to pour himself another one.

Jiri continued. 'A long time ago, we think we must have been similar to your species. At some point our empathy ability evolved. We came here because you are the closest to us in terms of empathy production. Your planet is seething with empathy, but somehow inside you, there is a broken response to it. There is so much blighted promise in you. We study you to try to find out where, how, and if we should help you.'

Miles was beginning to understand. 'You're telling me that you are studying me for some reason?'

Stanislov answered this. 'We are, but you are not our primary project. Many years ago we almost abandoned our studies. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is for us to know that a particular woman and a particular man are unique for each other, but they can never sense this even if they stand side by side? Unfortunately with the population on Earth, the chances of a random meeting and partnership of the two correct partners are infinitesimal. It's our belief that it hasn't happened for centuries.

Marik took over. 'Twenty five years ago we discovered in the Czech republic a human with an extreme amount of empathy. Extreme by human standards that is. The three of us were drawn to an orphanage here in the city; he waved his hand to include Jiri and Stanislov. We found a three-year old girl whose parents had died in an accident. She was waiting in her cot for us, we did not have to talk, she held out her arms when she saw us. That child was Katarina Chaloupka. Although we were an unusual threesome, we managed by various means to arrange her adoption. She knows us as her uncles Marik, Jiri, and Stanislov.'

Miles had to stand and pace in front of the fire. He held his hands up to clutch his head.

'This story if getting too hard for me to handle. Now Katarina is part of it. Maybe you are all spies including her. Is Jeff Fredericks working for you as well?

Jiri glanced as his two brothers. They were both imperturbable.

'Miles do you feel that we are a threat to you?'

Miles looked at each brother in turn then returned to his seat and drained his glass of schnapps with one gulp. It didn't burn like the first or second one.

'No, I don't feel somehow that you are not going to harm me. I'm not sure why I know this, but I do.'

Stanislov picked up the story. 'We brought Katarina up and that has been a difficult task. She has been wilful, headstrong, and contrary. Her abilities however have slowly evolved and now shine through. She is almost complete. The most advanced empath that we have felt on this planet.'

Miles curious now, despite the unbelievable conversation, interrupted. 'Does she know about your real background?'

'Not at all.' Marik said. 'We are merely her favourite Czech uncles. She knows that her real parents are dead and that we adopted her. To continue, we know that Katarina senses that there is someone unique for her, but she cannot quite close that final empathy gap. Her special partner has no ability to help even though he has above average empathy. He can sense nothing of this magnitude. In our world both partners would easily find each other. Miles you should know that you are Katarina's unique partner

'That can't be true.' Miles blurted out. 'I admit that she is attractive and very difficult to get out of my mind. She has turned up in odd places by some amazing coincidence. I am affected in some way, but nothing resembling what you describe. I can tell you that I am in love with a Spanish lady, even though it seems that she doesn't feel the same way about me. That has made me a bit depressed recently. I haven't had any of those feelings for Katarina. Anyway, I have found out that she has become engaged to marry someone else, so she can't have much empathy for me.'

The three Kratochvils turned to each other and appeared much amused.

'Ah yes the beautiful Jaime,' Jiri said. 'I am afraid that was a chemical attraction between people who shared common interests. You may call it lust if you wish. We regard it as a conference romance. You did have some empathy with her and the shrew would have put her in the yellow spectrum, not bad at all, but nowhere near perfection. The shrew can only indicate empathy in a simple way. The full spectrum of empathy extends far beyond the colour level that your eye can pick up with the shrew. It extends in much the same way as the full electromagnetic spectrum does, from infra-red out to radio waves.'

'I don't see how she could be searching for me but get engaged to someone else.' Miles persisted.

'She is a confused woman,' Stanislov said firmly. 'Since her abilities matured in the last two years she has been unconscionably drawn to you. We think she sensed that you were far away and that she would have to leave the Czech Republic. She has arranged her life to do this. When she began to radiate her full empathy we were somewhat dismayed to find out who was on the other end.'

'Thank you. Miles said. That's very complimentary.'

Marik continued. 'This was a minor nuisance for us only because of the geographical distance and a small reluctance on the part of G Robert Kratochvil to study the American shrew. G Robert by the way has finished his tour of duty and gone home, but he sends his best wishes.' Marik stood to poke the fire before continuing.

'We could no longer stand and observe. We decided to interfere because it has been too painful for us to watch Katarina desperately searching and trying to connect. She is a senior pilot for CSA, Czech airlines, and has now refused to fly any routes other than to JFK. There is a compulsion in her to take solitary walks in various countries. She has visited your state and city several times when she stopped over in America for no reason that she can understand. We decided to use an experimental empathy device; something we hoped would boost your latent empathy and which in the right circumstances would break the final block between you. Most of the block is coming from your side.'

'I can see roughly how the empathy works,' Miles said. But why add the computer enhancements?'

'What else would make you want to carry around a piece of black stone. We knew that once you used it, you would not be able to work without it and it would never be far from your side.' Jiri explained.

'In that case how do you explain why a smelly, nasty, tramp could have a large amount of empathy for me?' Miles demanded. 'Even though he showed red, I felt nothing but disgust for him.'

The three wise men looked collectively scandalised and Stanislov took his turn again.

'Miles, True empathy lies deeper than superficial senses. It is ingrained at a molecular level and you share it, if you have it for each other. Even with those who on first appearances you may feel you have nothing in common. It is so much deeper than you can imagine, perhaps you should almost consider it part of your soul. For instance, Katarina is argumentative, proud, hot-tempered, illogical, and sometimes uncommunicative. We know all this, but at the deepest most important level your real empathies are perfectly matched. You will draw the very best out of each other as the years pass, for as long as you live. There is nobody on Earth who would suit you better or her better in reverse.'

Miles remained in shock and unconvinced. 'Gentlemen this feels to me almost like an arranged marriage attempt. I do admit to some strange emotional feelings for her, but as I mentioned, Katarina seems happy with her engagement to Stefan from the evidence I saw last night. You have still not explained that.'

'Bah!' said Marik. 'She became truly happy that night when she saw you in the restaurant. Mr Brodsky would be at the red end of the shrew scale for her, whereas your empathy for her is far beyond the longest radio wave. This is the best way that I can convey the difference between you and that man.'

Jiri yawned and stood up to rake the embers in the fire before placing more logs on it. He spoke next.

'Besides we will soon know. Katarina is on her way back from the airport. She was going to command your CSA flight tonight for its arrival on Wednesday, but at this moment she has refused to fly it because she senses that you are not in the airport. Her empathy is confusing her because it tells her that she must stay in Prague. Even though she doesn't know where you are at a physical level, her empathy knows where you are.'

Stanislov pointed beyond Miles to a wall screen which showed video footage of the buildings front door. A taxi drew up. A slight figure clad in furs sprang out to march out of sight through the door beneath the camera. There was a long silence in the room, Marik turned around. His eyes were consoling.

'Miles there is nothing you can do, what will be, will be.'

17

There came the distant murmur of voices, the quick click clack of high-heeled boots on a wooden floor. The door was flung open imperiously and Katarina walked into the room. The four men stood as she paused to remove her boots and hand them to Janos, who took them without flinching. She strode across the room in her bare feet which looked quite becoming when accompanied by her bright blue captain's uniform.

She caught sight of Miles standing apart by the fire and stopped dead in her tracks.

The three uncles winced and Miles wondered if too much empathy may not always be a good thing.

'What is he doing here?' she said to her three uncles together. A single, accusing finger pointed at Miles. 'Why did you not fly with me tonight?' she demanded.

'Um, your uncles invited me here.' was all that Miles could think of saying.

She came over and despite her evident displeasure; she sat down next to Miles. Many expressions flew across her face until a slight smile of satisfaction settled.

The three uncles turned to each other.

'It is amazing isn't it.' Marik said to the others. 'An incredible display.'

Jiri spoke up. 'Katarina you need to talk to Miles.'

'Do I, Uncle Jiri. You had better explain why.'

Katarina crossed her arms as she stared at Miles. Her green eyes flashed and were unreadable but Miles could see tiny tears forming in the corners of each eye.

Stanislov appeared disturbed for the first time as he turned to face his brothers. 'We have to finish this; it is getting unbearable even for me. Janos, can you bring in the shrew as we discussed.'

Nobody spoke or moved until Janos returned with a small metal box.

Marik turned to Miles. 'I want you to hold Katarina's right hand in yours then open the box and place both your hands on the shrew. You must both close your eyes tight before you open the box, and do not open them again until I tell you.'

The three uncles each took out a pair of dark glasses from the pockets of their suits and put them on. Miles had a fleeting image of three blind mice standing together.

'This is crazy,' he thought, but somehow he felt compelled do what was requested.

Katarina looked at him from under her long eye lashes, her eyes strange and deep. She made no attempt to take her hand from his when he reached out to hold it.

'Katarina and Miles both of you close your eyes now,' reminded Jiri. 'Now lift up the lid Miles.'

They obeyed his instructions and Miles lifted a remarkably heavy lid for such a small box. He moved Katarina's hand, held in his, inside the box until they could both feel the cold hard object that he knew was the shrew. Even with his eyes closed tight Miles was aware of the intense white light that became almost unbearable. The shrew vibrated, growing hot and more alive than he had ever felt it before, until everything cut off in an instant.

'You may open your eyes now.' Marik said.

Miles found he was still holding Katarina's hand and after a short period of blurred vision he glanced downwards surprised to find neither of their hands were burned. He looked down at Katarina who regarded him back in an absorbing way. He could feel himself merging and intertwining with her as her eyes seemed to swallow him up. There was nothing more that he needed to know as he felt the indescribable sense of completion.

The uncles took off their glasses. 'A success,' Stanislov announced, 'As I expected.'

Miles sank down on his sofa and Katarina came to sit with delicate poise on his lap, curling her arms around his neck. She pressed her cheek against his and Miles knew with absolute certainty that this was the most comforting moment he had experienced in his life.

Marik looked into the box which was empty. 'That is interesting, a complete dissolution of all the molecules in the empathy surge. We will have to take care in future.' he said

Jiri called out across the room. 'Janos, can you please tell Milan to come in now.'

He turned to Miles and Katarina. 'I know you are not concentrating at the moment, but it is customary at the end of any conference to summarise the results of important conclusions reached. Miles you are now unemployed, but we have arranged with Milan for you to join the Zoology faculty at Masaryk University in Brno. They will welcome you.'

When we first knew some years ago that you were Katarina's empathy partner, Milan joined Masaryk University and began to learn about shrews. With our aid he will supply you with completed research on Blarina Brevicauda. A paper written in your name will satisfy your country's army about the aggressive potential of that shrew's venom. He will complete a similar paper about Neomys Fodiens shrew venom for the Czech army. Both forces can then try their best to produce and exploit shrew venom if they want. We know that it is a minor histamine and bradykinin stimulator. The venom's weak and variable effect is a trivial form of anaphylaxis. It is more likely to cause damage to the user than to the receiver, but they can discover that for themselves.'

Milan, who now stood close by, entered the conversation.

'Miles with your own research completed, you can now resign with respect from your university. We are sure you will earn secret national honours and perhaps even a medal for your next success when you infiltrate my institute in Brno. There you will continue to bravely spy on my shrew venom research and in a short time you will be able to send your government all the details of the research you have stolen from me.'

'We expect that once you achieve these goals, Fredericks, a third grade cultural attaché at the American embassy will no longer be interested in you. You will be free to live a happy life with Katarina wherever you choose.'

Stanislov continued. 'Miles on behalf of our research team we apologise for what may seem like a eugenics experiment. We have interfered, but we felt that your and Katarina's future happiness was the most important outcome. We assisted what should have happened naturally from our point of view. You know that you have fulfilled Katarina, and with the aid of the shrew you know that she has fulfilled you. Your lives will be interesting. Katarina is fiery, she needs you, but you also need her. You are the perfect match, the only one on this planet. Even when you argue and fight, you will always know that you could never have a more perfect relationship with anyone else.'

It was Marik's turn to speak again. 'Miles we will give you a new simpler version of your vanished shrew. You no longer need the empathy amplification because you have realised your life partner

We will pause our amplification research because it would cause chaos in humans. Our new research will focus on you and Katarina's progress and the empathy enhancements of your children. We promise to stay in the background; your happiness will always come first. Your children will be the first humans born from a full empathy bond and we hope to understand from them how to release the empathy blocks that you have on this planet. It will take a long time but we will be patient. We are one of the most patient of species.'

The three uncles stood emanating satisfaction. Eliska and Novotny came into the room to join Janos. Each of them took turns in congratulating Miles and Katarina on their empathy bond.

Milan shook hands with Miles and leant down to kiss Katarina.

'Miles I'm looking forward to working with you at Brno. I've been bitten by shrews too many times, but I think I'm beginning to like them. They eat non-stop, they are brave, they love their young and they have lots of them. Do you have any idea how much empathy I had to radiate to make a shrew volunteer to secrete its venom for me?'

Postscript

According to the inhabitants of Ciphos, the pleasant world orbiting Arctura the central star of the Serenity system, there is no such thing as luck in your personal relationships. Other intelligent beings recognise the Ciphians as the most empathetic species in the known worlds.

Of course even they have some limitations, as you would expect. It is hard to empathise with insects for instance, or with many of the innumerate primitive life forms scattered across the stars. However it is safe to say, that above a certain level of basic intelligence, it is possible for the average Ciphian to feel the depths and perhaps interpret the souls of others.

They are not able to read minds or thoughts in the strictest sense. But they can feel and interpret the subtle waves of empathy which emanate between themselves and other sentient beings as easily as breathing would be to you or me.

In the beginning their unique sense of empathy was not always welcomed. Other superior beings made frequent attempts to cloak or block their feelings from them. Nobody has ever been able to tell if these attempts were successful or not.

Some felt so threatened by the Ciphians that they attempted violence against them. However it proved impossible to disguise their lack of empathy in these matters and it was easy for the Ciphians to search out empathy in suitable allies, who were always persuaded to intercede on their behalf.

The Ciphians settled down into a happy neutral state of fulfilment, preferring to stay close to home. They took no sides in any argument and their talents were not for hire. Their world is a happy one because when everyone possesses ultimate empathy, there can only be one perfect partner for each Ciphian and they will always find them.

The passage of thousands of years confirmed that the Ciphians had no ambitions of dominance; therefore they were left alone to pursue their main interest, the study of alien empathy forms.

For instance their major project, a prolonged longitudinal study of the interesting inhabitants of the level four planet known as Terra in the Sol system. A sad study perhaps, because although the dominant species radiate huge amounts of empathy, they seem to have minimal ability to detect it.

Footnote (4) 'Let's Fly Czech Airlines'

## The Last Run

1

As they swung in orbit above the planet, the surface below lay invisible beneath thick clouds that seethed and roiled like a witch's cauldron. The Ship urged the alien to take care, it's sensors had probed and it knew what waited there.

'Pilot, it will be dangerous for you to visit this planet. The atmosphere is wild, the surface is poisonous. You could suffer a terminal event.' The Ship said.

The Spurl pilot gave a rare, informative reply. 'I have to go down. My elders selected me for this mission and these conditions are much as we expected. There are great hopes placed upon me.'

It posed its body and stilled its moving appendages. 'Computer, under the terms of your contract you are to keep the ship in orbit for seven galactic time units. If I don't return before then, you will proceed to the last jump point, make the jump, then retrace our course to my planet. If any species contacts you on the voyage, you will play them the recording I have left in your memory bank. At the end of your contract you are free to go where ever you wish.'

The Ship knew that the energy and gas supplies contained in the Spurl's climate suit and the lander would expire before five GTU's passed. (One GTU is equivalent to 76 Hours 48 minutes of old human time.)

'Pilot would you like me to descend and contact you before the end of that period?' the Ship asked.

The Spurl was surprised at the hint of anxiety in the Ship's voice. It composed a neutral reply. 'Computer, that would be useful, but I am sure you realise that there is nowhere safe for you to land down there.'

'Then I must wish you well Pilot. I will monitor as the conditions permit and await your return.' the ship replied.

The Spurl suited up in the transfer chamber and exited to float across the hangar deck to the lander. It occupied more than half the available space on the deck, towering above the alien, perched on four legs like a giant beetle about to spring.

The Spurl moved up the weight holds to unclamp the hatch before slithering into the dark interior. The rasp of the climate suit's valves reverberated around the cabin as it draped its appendages over the command console.

The 'beetle' hummed into life. Data screens in front of the Spurl wriggled then settled as it plugged the suit into the lander's gas supply. Once it confirmed the hatch seal, the alien sent the go signal to the Ship; the docking bay doors opened and the craft eased out into the void.

Soon flames from the heat shield enveloped the view ports. The alien ceased its study of the cabin readouts when they blurred together; squeezed by powerful forces which strove to loosen the individual components of the craft. Strange sounds resonated up the harmonic scale, while off to one side an insistent red light blinked.

The Spurl felt sudden relief when the lander plummeted into the lower atmosphere where pounding winds replaced the frenzied vibrations. At first dense clouds blocked the view, then streams of liquid masked any more visual input as the descent continued. The strain felt by the alien eased when the lander's computer broke into life to recite the elements in the atmosphere, before moving on to a monotonous list of temperature recordings. The dry, emotionless voice produced a sudden feeling of separation and loss from the Ship which the alien quickly suppressed.

As soon as possible the Spurl scanned electromagnetic frequencies for the proximity and shape of the planet's surface. When the lander broke through the rain belt, the alien could switch to the ground radar, relax, and ease its anxiety by unfolding its multiple tensed appendages one by one.

The suit display lit up to show the secret course coordinates which the Spurl transferred to the automatic pilot. The craft swung round in a long curve before moving off to hug the terrain in a polar direction.

The alien angled its torso to take a first view of the planet's surface. A bleak landscape presented below, stretching forwards into infinity. Endless black rocks marched into view interspersed with the ochre splashes of random sand. As time passed, no vegetation or new features appeared to improve the scene. The lander shook as high winds buffeted and impeded its progress. In response, the now grim Spurl boosted the fusion motor to its maximum output.

Soon the flight crossed a sea marked by a colour change to dark green. The oily surface, suffocated by a mat of algal bloom, wallowed and heaved to release the occasional white flash of a tiny wave.

When land appeared once more, the cabin alarm rang. The craft's mechanical voice declared the presence of external, toxic conditions. The course it said, would now be diverted for safety reasons.

The Spurl, acting on impulse, overrode the computer, banking and dropping the lander; the horizon tilted sideways then back as it levelled out. Artificial structures began to fill the view ports, causing the alien to slow while it examined the crumbled ruins which stretched as far as could be seen. Here and there, they still retained enough height and jutting angularity to indicate former structures of substance. The uniform colour of the ancient habitation merged into the sterile land beyond, but it was still possible to distinguish regular patterns in the decay which showed where communications or transport had once ran. At this lower height the alien could pick out the plumes of dust as they jetted up from the fragmenting ruins where the surface winds whipped them away.

'I advise you to avoid this area; toxic elements are accumulating.' the persistent lander warned.

The Spurl allowed a return to the original course then increased speed to flee the area. It stayed immobile for a long time as it considered this evidence of the ancient destruction. The community had forbidden such visits, but the alien had wanted to see for itself. While it pondered, the lander crossed the dismal polar ocean until jagged black mountains rose up, forcing a rapid lift to higher altitude. The computer ran the countdown sequence then proclaimed.

'Coordinates achieved, I have enabled a holding pattern at this position.'

The lander now circled the summit of a large mountain, part of a range that marched out ahead where it merged into the crinkle of dark land beyond. The Spurl took over control again, tipping a wing as it strained to see any sign of the anomaly.

A glint through the scudding clouds alerted it to something deep inside a crevice between two tall ridges. The Spurl became animated as it realised that this was the structure; although the shape seemed smaller than the description in the ancient records.

The alien hovered the lander on the tip of its fusion flame as it prepared to land. A small boulder free area further down the mountain seemed suitable; it glided in to make a good touch down despite the snapping winds and the lashing toxic rain. The lander's flexible legs adjusted to the slope until the command cabin settled in a level position. The Spurl engaged the stabiliser field as it cut the motor. Outside, the aggressive wind blew the billowed clouds of steam away in an instant.

'A landing has been accomplished.' the metal voice informed.

'Thank you, it was not a difficult task for a Spurl.' replied the alien.

At this stage of the planet's orbit around its sun, the pole received adequate light for most of its rotation, but the Spurl needed to re-energise. It decided to rest during the remaining light and the short period of darkness beyond.

2

Far above, the orbiting Ship struggled to understand what had happened to it, since it or she had come into contact with the alien. Its artificial intelligence had been unaware of the Spurl when they applied for their simple carriage contract. They were few and reclusive, scattered in limited star clusters, with no indication that they could afford the charter. Their credit however had proved genuine. Therefore since all business was acceptable business, the Ship set off for their drab planet where they lived a spartan existence on an outer swirl of the galactic arm.

On the ground at the tiny space port, there had been little time for more interaction or appraisal. Constant activity meant that in only two planetary rotations the Spurl stored a full load of equipment and adjusted the Ship's environment for its single passenger. The Ship permitted limited access to its core functions for the insertion of temporary overlays as agreed in the contract between the Ship and the species. Routines to supply sound wave communication with its passenger and the light speed jump coordinates for the destination.

At the completion of this programming the artificial intelligence could see that there were also encrypted instructions and information which would be delivered on arrival at the destination. This was not an unusual request and the Ship was satisfied with this arrangement.

Over its long galactic life the Ship had maintained a strict code of non-engagement in the affairs of its passengers. Its only role was to provide reliable, fast, and discreet transport with no questions asked.

This didn't mean that all its passengers were tourists. One trip had involved a Seelash who proved to have enough lethal weaponry to demolish half a planet; which it proceeded to do when they arrived there. This was unfortunate, but the Ship could not be held responsible for that crime!

In the short time on the ground it analysed the types of Spurl as they crawled around inside. When the solitary passenger first arrived on board, the Ship concluded that the alien was a young, healthy, specimen. The juvenile Spurl made its introductions in a formal and confident fashion.

'Computer, I would like you to call me Pilot in all our communications. When I am out of stasis I will be performing a strict schedule of exercise and study for my mission. I will require you to obey my instructions in all matters except those which involve our flight security.'

The artificial intelligence shrugged off the theoretical insult of being addressed as a computer while it formulated its reply.

'As you wish Pilot, I anticipate no problems on our voyage. I have performed many long and secret journeys, you can rely on my services.'

The alien gave a convulsive nod of its main appendage then rotated in one clumsy movement to exit the Ship.

When their departure time approached, the Ship watched as the planet's small population congregated at the space port for a ritual farewell. This appeared an important event for those attending and it noted the Spurls' melodramatic behaviour with mild, detached interest.

As the voyage unfolded however, the Ship found to its surprise that it was curious about this passenger. It began to study the active Spurl between the light speed jumps when it came out of stasis. It watched as the alien exercised all its appendages in a regimented fashion and when it assembled, disassembled, then reassembled its equipment. Strange, vigorous routines in the simulator provided ongoing puzzlement. The Spurl proved an uncommunicative type of alien. Verbal communication between the Ship and its passenger remained limited to their routine formal progress reports. On these occasions the Spurl refused to discuss any details of its mission, which was as the contract stipulated, within its rights.

This state of affairs should have satisfied the Ship, but for reasons that it couldn't understand, there seemed an additional need for more interaction with the Spurl pilot.

Many GTU's passed before the Ship learnt more. It cleverly suggested to the alien passenger that they could play games of three-dimensional star combat. The Spurl accepted, allowing the Ship to continue its observations as the games played out.

At first the alien was easy to defeat, as expected. It was impetuous and took unnecessary risks which the Ship accepted as a sign of immaturity. It showed however a fierce determination to win and to improve with each game, combined with an odd reluctance to give up a hopeless cause. Displays of useless anger flared after each loss, but its skill accumulated with each game. The Spurl forced the Ship to reduce the number of star ships it advanced for each game and soon it needed to devote much more input to beat the determined alien.

For the first time in its or her existence the Ship wanted to understand a passenger.

3

When the Spurl reactivated, it fretted as it waited for the brief communication window to open as the Ship passed overhead. Despite the degraded signal resulting from the atmospheric conditions, the alien managed to confirm its safe landing to the Ship.

The Ship in return expressed its pleasure with this news, and promised it would be available for communication as often as the planet's rotation allowed.

With contact broken, the Spurl freed its climate suit from the lander to slither down to the surface. A suit check confirmed excellent protection against the high ambient temperature, together with the successful processing of the lethal planetary gases to the combinations required for its metabolism.

On completion of a ground inspection the alien began to lower equipment from the cargo bay. Each pair of identical containers, marked with the angular Spurl numerical system, fitted the platform of the Spurl propulsion device. The Spurl assembled the tubular metal cage of the SPD with the assurance of frequent practice. A harnessed seat attached well above the cargo platform, while below, a small efficient fusion motor provided enough lift for the combined mass of the pilot and any heavy cargo.

The alien made its first slow trip, holding high enough above the ground to allow for random down blasts from the wind; but low enough to see the black rocks through the liquid flurries. When it reached the crevice entrance it slowed the SPD to a hover and crept between the dark walls of the mountain which closed in on either side. Inside the defile, the winds, blocked by the high walls, dropped away completely. The Spurl inched the SPD forwards, its way lit through the surrounding gloom with the aid of a powerful floodlight.

The ruin lay inside the passage just as described in the old report. Once there had been a dome, but now it lay exposed with only a small remnant of its curved walls standing. The surviving pieces of heavy plastifoam surrounded a space littered with the rusted fragments of ancient equipment. In the domes exact centre stood a single stone artefact.

With this definite confirmation of its goal the Spurl pressed on. The ravine snaked upwards until it gradually widened into a canyon. The alien felt a rising, adolescent excitement as it realised the anomaly was approaching. The old expedition had sighted it, but the circumstances of that visit had prevented a full examination. The canyon unfolded around a bend and there it was! The passage of time had damaged and reduced it, but the beauty glistened as the alien had always imagined. The Spurl approached with reverence, setting the SPD down at the front edge to avoid burning the structure with the fusion motor. Sliding down from its seat, the alien moved out over the surface, it's lower appendages making crunching sounds which vibrated up the travel suit.

The structure occupied the full width of the canyon, spreading upwards towards the vertical back wall. Weak grey light filtered down to illuminate it from high above, where dark clouds boiled above the canyon tops.

The Spurl laboured up the structure's surface. The steep incline required frequent stops for the climate suit to readjust the Spurls metabolism. At the top, where the anomaly butted against the black rocks of the terminal face, the Spurl turned to study its route up. Although the surrounding light was dim, image enhancement permitted an appreciation of the full extent of the structure. It spread out far below, its wonder marred only by the random stains of tumbled rocks which lay on top of it.

The alien looked up to the terminal face that soared above, then back down to the jumbled boulders which hid the original base of the rock wall for much of its length. The Spurl was not surprised to find this; the community's plans had considered and made allowance for possible obstruction from rock falls.

The initial inspection completed, the Spurl made its way down. Small serrations deployed around the casing rims of its lower appendages to grip the structure and prevent a fall. Beyond the anomaly's bottom edge, the Spurl selected a flatter area to unpack the habitat dome, which expanded to its pre-memorised shape, settled, solidified, and then cooled to ambient temperature.

For the remainder of the long planetary light period, the alien ferried the rest of its equipment up the mountain for storage in and around the dome. The mission was on schedule.

4

The community's instructions required the search to begin at the top of the structure, but the SPD could not be used because of the risk of damage from its flame. Estimations based on the record of the structure's previous size, suggested that five planetary rotations would be required to transport the cutting equipment to the terminal wall.

Over this time, working with urgency, the determined, trained Spurl drilled perfect holes with a particle disrupter at intervals up the slope beside the canyon wall. A heap of tubular pylons needed to be individually cajoled and moved into position where they could be connected and raised to full height; their bases cold fused into the structure by disrupter reversal. The Spurl hung from the top of each pylon to attach small horizontal osmidium wheels. Finally, it uncoiled and dragged a long flexiplast cable up the slope from pylon to pylon where it could be threaded between each wheel and back again to form a continuous loop.

The cost of these materials, the strongest, and lightest for their size in the galaxy, had used up most of the galactic credits earned by the community over many GTU's.

With the hoist completed, the Spurl unpacked a tiny fusion motor which it fixed to a prepared position on the bottom pylon, ready to drive the cable.

While it rested in the darkness that followed, the Spurl considered the improbable existence of the anomaly. The shape and altitude of the canyon created a unique cold micro climate. The temperature fell further during the variable dark periods of the planet's orbital cycle. It would be even colder when the planet moved further away from its star, but the Spurl would not be present to experience that.

Perhaps the continual howling wind that rushed across the mouth and over the top of the canyon produced a special cooling effect on the usual hot moist air. The expedition long ago had confirmed these conditions to exist in this one tiny place on the dead planet.

When weak daylight crept into the canyon, the Spurl sent the crates containing the densitometer and the heavy cutting equipment to the top of the structure. It toiled up the slope once more so that it could signal the hoist to jerk the crates the final distance. More time passed before it managed to detach and drag them into place at the middle of the rock fall ready for the next light cycle.

Back at the dome, the Spurl realised there was still enough light to fly down to the lander and open a communication window with the Ship. The communication signal could not be picked up inside the canyon and several orbits had already passed without contact. As soon as this idea formed in its mind, the alien felt another overwhelming urge to hear the Ship's voice again.

The Ship in turn sounded happy when their link renewed.

'Pilot, It pleases me to hear from you. I wondered if you had met with an accident.'

'Thank you for your concern computer. I have been hard at work in a place which blocks our communication. Now I can report that my mission is exactly to schedule.'

'Pilot I have found out that this dead planet was the Spurls' old home. I know that the remnants of your species were rescued from an outlying planet a long time ago.' replied the Ship.

The Spurl felt surprise. It was not concerned that the Ship had researched obscure facts, because with some effort, they could be retrieved from the galactic data base. It seemed unusual however that an, emotionless, artificial intelligence would be interested in them.

It hesitated before it chose its answer. 'Computer you are correct. My community selected me to return here for a reason which must stay a secret. Perhaps one day I can share it with you.'

As soon as it spoke these words, the alien could not believe it had even hinted of such an offer to a computer. Its kin oath of secrecy sworn to the community, would be broken, an impossible crime.

The Ship continued in a soothing voice. 'Pilot that would be quite acceptable to me when you are ready. I hope that your mission will be successful and that we may have a pleasant trip back to your home. I will be out of range soon, but I hope you will contact me as much as possible.'

The Ship's voice tailed off into background static, leaving the Spurl to disengage the transmitter. Darkness made it too dangerous to attempt a return to its base, but its contact with the Ship had comforted the alien. It settled down to an awkward rest in the lander until the light returned.

5

The Spurl reached the top of the structure before the first rays of daylight penetrated to the canyon floor. It had spent a restless night until increasing excitement forced it out of the dome in the dark to make the slow climb up the slope. The light from the climate suit's helmet lit up the multiple tracks from the previous ascents.

The legend dictated that the rear canyon wall be searched first, followed by the whole of the structure, proceeding from top to bottom. The Spurl "marked" precise intervals along the length of the rock fall with laser bursts. The next task involved a traverse with the densitometer and the taking of scans centred on each laser mark. The Spurl scrutinised the machine's display as a stitched image of the rock fall's density spread out to cover the length of the back wall. An oval black defect appeared and disappeared as the image slid across the central area of the fall. A quick replay confirmed an artificial reduction in density of the original face behind the rock fall, with one edge of the defect aligned with a laser mark.

An opening must exist in the rock face leading to somewhere beyond. The immediate positive result stunned the Spurl. The mission estimate was that three full planetary days would be needed to scan the rock wall and the complete structure to find the hiding place, but the first day was no more than half complete.

The alien now unpacked and mounted the large particle disrupter on its frame. As the device powered up with a whining crescendo, the Spurl struggled to control its own rising excitement. It set the cutting depth to the depth of the rock fall, and the length of the cut to the diameter of the black defect. Crouching like a marksman with a beam weapon, it drew a delicate cut across, then around in an elongated circle. The rock fall melted away in the encircled area as clouds of particles passed over and around the Spurl to fall down the slope. The alien forced itself to wait until the dust settled, before it could make out the perfect, smooth, O shaped tunnel bored into the rock fall.

The echoes had died away to leave only the ceaseless moan of the wind above, when the alien moved forward into the tunnel. A compact light beaming from the top of the travel suit helped to show the way forward. A small residual rock barrier blocked progress where the disrupter beam had finished short of the opening. The Spurl set its appendages to work with a pick, until the remnant collapsed, precipitating a clumsy fall into the space beyond.

Levering itself up, the Spurl advanced along a passage which opened into a small cave where the roof just cleared the alien's upper appendage. A further inspection proved the cave to have once been a large crevice, but marks on the walls showed where a simple mechanical tool had carried out additional excavations.

Since the cave appeared empty, the excited Spurl examined the floor, now covered by loose stones and rock dust. It used all its upper appendages in rotation to sweep the rubble aside until it halted with a low-frequency grunt.

The light beam had pierced the hard clear material which formed the cave floor. A blurred unfocussed form could be seen encased inside the floor. The Spurl renewed its efforts to remove the last traces of debris and soon it could pick out the shape of a Spurl body, blackened and mummified, but still with recognisable features around it's main appendage. Its oral aperture was closed and remnants of padded material covered all the appendages. One of them folded across the thoracic region, carried the remains of an ancient personal computer fastened to it. Two flat struts with faint markings lay along side the body and set deeper in the transparent floor material, the Spurl could see the upper surfaces of two large polymer containers.

The alien slumped to the floor in relief. The legend concerning the relics, which had sustained generations of Spurl, was real. The long expensive preparations for the mission had gambled on this hope alone.

The Spurl took careful visual recordings with its suit recorder of the cave, the body, and the position of the relics. Next it melted with infinite precision the material around the two containers, using the lowest setting of its personal laser. Although the containers were large and would be difficult to recover, the ancient Spurl had managed to get them into the cave; therefore they could be moved out again.

Time passed as the Spurl worked to free them, until finally, the excited alien reversed down the tunnel to haul them outside one by one. It was not difficult to slide them across the top of the structure to the hoist, attach them, and signal the cable to send them down the slope. The Spurl watched them with anxiety, then with joy, as they came to rest under the bottom pylon where they swung and twirled gently, like a pair of performers happy to be on stage again.

6

The alien swung its vision towards the dome which appeared tiny in the distance at the foot of the structure. The climate suit busied itself with the extra metabolic load from the exhilarated Spurl. Its mind began to form pleasant images of fame and a heroic welcome home. The mission was almost finished, several GTU ahead of schedule. The planetary conditions were not as difficult or as dangerous as the elders in the community had predicted; there should be ample time now to indulge in a secret personal activity. The Spurl unpacked several items from the single unopened double crate. There were two poles which it placed to one side. Then two struts which it connected to the suit's lower casings with the special clips it had made copied from the old visuals.

The Spurl tested the surface consistency as it balanced to one side of the structure to avoid the area covered in rock dust. Grasping the poles, it took a deep breath and launched diagonally down the slope where it fell almost straight away. It got up to try again.

Skiing was harder here than in the Ship's simulator, but it managed to complete several parallel turns without falling or colliding with any of the protruding rocks. All too soon it pulled up in a flurry of ice particles next to the bottom pylon. Once it had detached the skis, it lowered the containers and pulled them to the edge of the snow slope. The next phase of its personal plan involved a climb up the bottom pylon to clip one end of a flexiplast rope to the hoist cable. It knotted the other end around a short strut to form a T shape which resembled the one shown in the old visual. Setting the fusion motor to run at a slow, continuous speed, it attached its skis again and allowed the converted T bar to pull it back up the snow slope.

The Spurl made several more ski descents with increasing proficiency until after a rest and meal break, it replaced the skis with a snowboard. Once again it fell several times, but with a few more runs, it found that it could manage the board almost as well as in the simulator. With youthful arrogance, the Spurl took visuals of itself with both the suit camera and a fixed camera as it skied and boarded down the slope. Before the light could fade, it pushed the old containers inside the dome and flew down to the lander to make contact with the Ship as it passed overhead.

The Spurl burst into rapid speech as soon as the Ship came online.

'Computer, I have succeeded in my mission. I have found relics of our species and I can bring them back to our new planet. This happened sooner than we expected or planned for. I have been lucky as usual.'

'Pilot, I am pleased to hear this. I offer you my congratulations again. Can you now please tell me more about the Spurl? Why do you call yourselves 'humans' although the rest of the galaxy calls you Spurl?'

The Spurl-Human replied with a tinge of bitterness. 'That name was given to us by the Zalt when they found us. It means something soft and weak in their language. We must put up with being Spurl for the near future.'

The Ships artificial intelligence responded with the female voice installed in her by the humans. 'Pilot may I ask about the relics?'

The pilot felt at ease with the Ship. He wanted to share his information. 'I will tell you the story as far as we know. We called this planet Earth. We polluted it, then killed it. Increasing heat melted the polar icecaps over the course of two hundred of our years. There was no global will power to make the sacrifices necessary to reverse the situation. Wars started over living space, water, and food. The tipping point passed before we accepted what we had done. We created off world colonies before the end, and in those last years, the remaining populations united to support those colonies by choosing their best and fittest people for them.'

'The Mars colony existed with home support for about forty years until Earth communication ceased abruptly. The colony on the moon failed soon afterwards. The three hundred colonists on Mars struggled on alone in poor conditions for five more years; their numbers whittled down by disease, despair, and social disharmony.'

'At the penultimate moment of extinction, by grace or by chance, a survey ship on a routine expedition jumped into our system. The rumour is that the Zalt captain had allowed the winner of a shipboard lottery to choose which system to explore next.'

'The Zalt are not an empathetic species, but they never deviate from the galactic manual which states that all unknown viable aliens must be saved for further study. They rescued two hundred and forty-three human survivors with difficulty. Space was limited on the Zalt ship; they also prefer a touch of methane to breathe. The arrival of the monstrous aliens panicked the colonists and some of them attempted to fight. In the confusion our library dome was accidentally destroyed and the colony's air supply threatened.

'The urgency of the situation meant that the survivors could bring with them only what was nearby and portable. For security reasons the Zalt vaporised all the humans' electronic devices. We saved a selection of small toys, some personal mementos, twenty-two random books, and a few old visuals of Earth.'

'Strict galactic orders dictated a rapid search for other survivors in the system. The moon colony was visibly extinct, therefore the Zalt made no landing. The home planet was swept by low passes below the atmosphere and at the urgent request of a human survivor; a short landing was made at the south pole. The Zalt found a small surviving snow field, the last one in existence. Close by, a ruined dome contained some visuals under a marker stone, but there was no trace of a sentient inhabitant here or in any other part of the planet.'

'Some of the sick, malnourished survivors, now called Spurl, died in the difficult months that followed. The galactic administration found them an empty, hot, Earth type planet. Later the Zalt with typical thoroughness sent their bill for the rescue, two million galactic credits. There was no pressure to pay; instalments could be made over the next thousand years with standard interest.'

'For a time, galactic anthropologists studied our tiny colony, interested in whether our endangered species would survive. Our determination and unity ensured that we could. We have continued to study hard to remedy our massive ignorance of galactic technology. Now our nearby planets respect us and provide the work which helps to repay our galactic debts.

We can remember just a tiny fraction of our history. The original survivors knew some poems, songs, and stories. They could also recall the names of many artists, writers, and their works, but nothing more. The knowledge of what was not saved, haunts us. We lost forever all the details of Earth's history, geography, literature, art, and music. We have become crippled souls since our rescue.'

The Ship remained silent as she absorbed this long speech. 'Indeed pilot you are correct. The irretrievable loss of data is the greatest loss of all.'

The pilot continued. 'It is our custom that we carry down our family names from generation to generation. Amongst the descendants of the original sixty-two families, the eldest males and females in the family will inherit their father's or mother's first names. There is a leading first family who also carry on the nickname of their ancestor, 'Tony the Skier'.

The original Tony worked at a research station near the South Pole where he could appreciate the unfolding unnatural disaster as the ice melted. He planned to save at least one relative, so he encouraged and promoted his eldest son to become a member of the Mars colony. He stayed in regular communication with Tony junior on Mars from the early years until the time of the silence.'

'Tony the Skier junior' possessed one of the few visual recordings saved from the Zalt rescue. In it, his father told him of his plan to collect micro records from all the great museums and libraries still existing on Earth. His intention was to save as much written and visual knowledge as possible. He left directions to where he would store the collection near the summit of Mt Kirkpatrick in Antarctica. He begged his son to pass on this information in case it would be needed in the future. A photograph of 'Tony the Skier senior' was found by the Zalt on Earth in the ruined habitat dome in Antarctica. I have been searching near that place for the lost records.'

'I see it now Pilot. Your relics consist of all this information.' replied the Ship.

'Yes, Computer, the first 'Tony the Skier' did what he promised. I have found his records two hundred years after our rescue. It has taken the community this long to finance and prepare for their recovery; conditions on Earth would also have destroyed them if we waited any longer. You are part of our first and last rescue attempt; now you are part of our history too.'

Silence settled across their link, interrupted once more by the Ship. 'This is a moving tale. I find myself pleased and honoured to be part of your data quest. I know now that your species are more advanced and clever than I expected. I also see that my voice is that of your female variant.'

The pilot laughed. 'Indeed computer, our species regard all ships and craft as female. We feel that they have a female personality. It seems that our experts must have decided to install a female voice. I guess you could have this reversed when we return home if you wish.'

The Ship sounded unsure. 'I will consider if I want to do that. Are you leaving your old Earth now?'

'No, there is extra time before your contract requires a return. I have something else to do first, something I have wanted to do for a long time.'

'Pilot, are you sure? Would it not be best to bring up your treasures as soon as possible in case some untoward event intervenes in your success?'

'Computer, you sound just like my mother. She was always...' At that moment the connection broke with a hiss of static as the Ship moved out of range. The happy pilot was prevented from continuing his comparison. He lay back contented, as he recalled the fantastic events of the day and the prospects of more enjoyment to come.

7

The pilot woke from his first restful sleep on Earth. His spirits rose even further when he saw the improved weather outside, the best of his stay on the planet. The wind blew benignly and the rain dripped before it steamed away without malice. When he reached the canyon, he found the conditions there were ideal for snow sport, much to his delight.

He re-examined the two ancient containers inside the dome. They appeared in good condition for their age, with no sign of cracks or damage. They could be brought down to the lander in two trips. He considered doing this first, but outside the snow slope beckoned irresistibly. Most of the human community had never seen or experienced natural snow or ice. This was Earth's last ski field and he was it's last skier; there would be plenty of time later to bring down the relics.

The pilot checked and started the small fusion motor. He sat back comfortably on the T bar and the modified tow pulled him to the top of the slope. There he crated and stacked his used equipment beside the tow, even though none of it would be taken home. The icy conditions forced him to spend time tidying his camp. He wanted to leave it as neat as possible in respect for the dead guardian.

When sufficient pale sunlight filtered into the canyon, the pilot spent the happiest day of his life in this strange yet addictive activity, until even he became tired as the long day drew on.

It was time to go home. He entered the cave for the last time to gaze once more at the face of the dead skier encased in his icy tomb. Over the centuries a small trickle of water had flowed from the back of the cave to freeze in the prepared hollow. Conditions inside the cave maintained a constant subzero temperature in this one place on the planet, most effective for the purposes of the old skier. The pilot delivered aloud the communities prepared message of respect, then whispered his own personal, private tribute before making a final reverent bow.

Outside as he turned to start the last run, he caught a flash of something in the far corner of the canyon up against the terminal face. The unexpected sight of bright colour in a monochrome world halted him. He traversed across the slope to find a small, yellow flower, surrounded by spindly, green leaves, protruding above the snow. He knelt to focus the sleeve camera on it; the suit screen deliberated for a few seconds then displayed.

This flower species resembles Senecio Lyallii. Data derived from book number eighteen, "The Alpine and Sub Alpine Flora of the Southern Hemisphere."

He combed the surrounding area to discover five more specimens, contained in the small protective circle of rocks which had permitted their propagation over the centuries.

The pilot knew immediately that he must rescue them and take them all home; he could emulate their living conditions back at the Ship. Their miraculous existence would not survive the eventual snow melt and they would become extinct like every other earth plant. He remembered book number eighteen, the flower book with the colour plates, but he couldn't recall this particular flower. All children studied the twenty-two rescued books, but no one had seen a real Earth flower for centuries. As he gazed at it, he felt the stubby plant with its tiny flowers, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. With care, he delicately cleared the snow from around each flower and levered them up with a handful of the gritty soil around their roots. They nestled together in the front pockets of his climate suit, ready for transfer at the dome into a suitable container which would keep them cold and safe.

Now it was time to leave. As he stood in the far corner of the empty canyon, the pilot allowed himself to feel his loneliness and frailty for the first time. The light had faded; the stars were no longer visible from Earth as they had once been to the inhabitants of this dead planet. Perhaps billions of ghosts watched him now, the solitary human returned from distant light years away. His body began to shiver despite the close attentions of the climate suit.

Nightfall closed in as he nervously picked his way down the slope with the glimmering assistance of the helmet light. The last run completed, he propped his skis and poles next to the snowboard under the tow pylon. There would never be another skier on Earth.

8

On his last day, the pilot moved as soon as the light permitted. With a struggle he pushed, pulled, levered, and winched the first container up on the SPD's cargo platform. Eventually it lay tamed, its edges overlapping the standard crate area. He sat down to recover and glare at it.

There was one more small task. With great care, he tied the small, insulated flower box on top of the container, strapped in, and lifted off to glide down to the canyon mouth.

At the exit he froze.

Outside the protective cliffs a massive storm raged across the whole sky blotting out the landscape as far as he could see. It had stolen up like an assassin, without betraying any sign of its presence to the sheltered canyon. He gazed in horror at the scene as fear grasped him at the throat. It took several minutes of deliberate slow breathing before the suit told him that his heart rate was within normal parameters.

When he was ready, he launched the SPD up and outwards. In an instant the wind screamed and snatched at him. Horizontal rain lashed the suit without mercy as the pilot crept blindly down the mountainside making constant, course corrections to engage the lander's homing signal.

Almost an hour passed before the familiar four legs loomed out of the mist and he could drop the SPD beside them. Nothing seemed to have changed in his absence.

The exhausted pilot weighed up his options. He must recover the second container, but what if conditions became impossible and lasted for days? With one more trip he could leave the planet today; or should he wait for better weather? What should he do?

A suppressed hatred for the hostile planet welled up to help make the decision for him. He decided to try and leave as soon as possible. He winched the container off the SPD, grappling and forcing it against the wind into the shelter of the lander's legs. The tiny flower container was gently laid behind it.

The pilot's ordeal continued on the return trip. Despite the suit's attempts to demist his faceplate, the canyon bearing was barely visible on the wet screen. Random hammer blows threatened to drive the SPD on to the rocks below and the nauseous taste of fear almost made him turn back several times. Inside his protective womb, the suit mechanisms and biological membranes struggled to remove a cold sweat that bathed his naked body.

The relentless wind pushed him ever to the west until he almost missed the crevice opening. At the last moment he glimpsed the break in the high rock walls out of the corner of one eye.

In grateful response, the pilot swung the SPD hard into the wind and increased boost. At that same moment the gale dropped without warning catching him off guard. The lander charged forwards helped by a blast of contrary wind which swooped down from behind. Dark rocks jumped up to meet him before he could make any correction. The SPD accelerating forwards, snapped off its tubular legs on contact, before tumbling and shedding its frame and motor. At the last second as he catapulted forwards out of the framework, the pilot curled into a ball pulling his arms up in front of his helmet to protect it.

At first there was black, then a slow gyrating red when consciousness returned. The pilot found himself hanging in the ruins of his harness, encased in a tangle of splintered tubing. He could taste the metallic flavour of blood in his mouth. More blood had splashed on the inside of his faceplate impairing his vision, but he came to realise that he lay with his weight resting on his right side, his arm crushed underneath him.

He experimented by moving his other limbs. His breathing remained ragged but the air supply seemed normal; therefore the suit wasn't punctured. The inflation pressure inside the suit must have acted to absorb the impact force. He gave a muttered thanks to the distant alien race who had made the special quadrupedal version of their famous galactic suit.

Any attempted movement of his bent right forearm produced waves of pain, but the pilot consoled himself that at least the fractured bones hadn't penetrated the suit's material. He steadied his right forearm in his left hand and rolled on his back. The fusion motor lay extinguished a few metres away; he had been lucky not to have become a charred remnant

Some time passed while the pilot gathered his strength, before he could wriggle his left glove around to disengage the harness clips. The rain that continued to beat down made them slippery and they took a frustrating age to free. Extricated at last, he sagged backwards to the ground surrounded by the SPD's shattered tubes which creaked and thrummed in the gale. From this angle he could better see that the crashed SPD lay not far from the crevice entrance.

When it was time to move, he rocked forwards, his right forearm held against his chest as he converted first into a sitting then a kneeling position. One final progression allowed him to come upright and continue in a stooped stumble towards the crevice mouth.

The two kilometre distance to his camp had been a brief trip in the SPD, but on foot and injured, the pilot took almost two hours to pick his way up the stony bottom of the ravine beside the trickle of ice melt. Eventually he collapsed semi-conscious on his mattress in the safety of the dome.

Pain from his broken forearm forced him to rise and search for the medical box. Spilling the contents on the floor, he picked out a dermajet which rolled away from the heap. With a laboured effort he threaded it into the suit's injection port over his left thigh. One press activated the button, and the pain ebbed away miraculously as the analgesic took effect.

The pilot summoned up another memory from his first aid training. Hanging the broken forearm down outside its leg, he bent to flex the elbow around the outside of the knee. A steady pull exerted traction, and using the knee as a fulcrum, his kinked forearm straightened with an audible crunch. The painless procedure seemed to belong to some other anonymous person. To finish as recommended in the manual, a flexiplast loop placed around his neck, acted as a sling to hold his forearm against his chest. The exhausted pilot positioned two more dermajets beside his mattress and lay down to drift into a broken sleep.

9

During the night the pilot needed another dermjection, but by dawn the limb pain had settled into a throbbing background discomfort. He lay back to look at the roof of the dome while he reviewed his situation. The suit's supply indicators showed less than a third capacity remaining. When it could no longer concentrate the meagre atmospheric oxygen, or scrub out the high carbon dioxide, he would hyperventilate for his last minutes before he choked to death. The two-hour emergency reserve of compressed air would herald him into this final act. The lander carried spare energy and air supplies for several more days.

The pilot moved on to self recrimination. His desire to be the last skier on Earth had brought appalling results. He knew he should have listened to the Ship's concerns, just as he should have listened more to his parents' wise advice years before.

Despite the influence of the injections, his whole body now ached. Crusted blood on the tip of his nose remained just out of focus when he strained his eyes downwards, while the large obstructing smear on the inside of the faceplate restricted part of his vision.

He swore long, foul, and loud enough to feel better.

'You're still the best person for the mission. You passed every test they threw at you.' he said to the dome

The dome stayed quiet in response. The Pilot began to wonder if talking to himself would be the start of madness.

'I need to talk to the Ship, but I'm going to have to pull the other container down the mountain first.'

Forcing his legs to take his weight, he hobbled around the dome to gather the materials he needed for his plan then went outside to collect his skis and snowboard at the lift pylon.

Working with his one arm, he unscrewed their bindings and overlapped the front of one ski upon the other. Next he lasered a hole through them both. The crimping tool bound them tight with some thin flexiplast rope. Now he spread the skis in a V shape, burnt the curved tips off the snow board, and rested it across the skis in an A shape. With more holes, flexiplast rope, and crimping, the pilot completed a rigid travois frame that he could pull by a rope attached to the tip.

Outside the dome, he manoeuvred and lashed down the second container which overlapped the frame by at least a foot on either side. By lifting up the tips of the skis, he could jerk the load a small distance forward with each heave using the rope pulled over his left shoulder.

The pilot needed to rest and eat. Even with extended daylight he knew he couldn't waste any more time. To reach the lander, he had to cover the length of the defile, and then another two kilometres down a mountain side covered in huge tumbled rocks. Inside the dome he collected the rest of the dermajets, ration packs, and water for the suit's reservoir. Abandoning all his remaining equipment, he left without looking back.

The ugly weather circled unappeased when the pilot reached the canyon entrance three painful hours later. He needed a long rest before he could begin the clamber down the slippery rocks, twisting to avoid crevices, and turning to circle large boulders. Every few minutes he paused to re check his direction with the transponder. It was difficult to lean against a wind which either forced him to his knees, or blew him over. He lost count of the number of times the travois either slid forwards to run him over, or tipped itself on to its side causing him to fall with it. Then he primed himself for another massive heave with his body and one functioning arm to right it again. The climate suit made a constant, background, protesting murmur as it struggled to compensate for his efforts.

The light failed before the pilot covered a quarter of the estimated distance. A house sized boulder loomed to offer him some shelter, the ground almost dry on its lee side, protected from the bulk of the weather. In the dark, the small glow from the suit readout displayed an ambient temperature of fifty-four degrees centigrade. He made his body as comfortable as possible, inserted another dermajet, and slipped into unconsciousness.

In the morning the bulk of the storm had eased. The pilot moved forwards in small bursts interspersed with frequent rests. As he shuffled one foot in front of the other and the hours passed, he thought of the legend about a forgotten hero who had died in a blizzard in this same Antarctica. He giggled as he repeated the odd phrase. 'I may have to go outside for a little while'. Sometimes he fell asleep on the wet rocks but would jerk awake, cursing himself in an attempt to generate anger and fresh energy. Then he would watch again the disconnected pair of legs, as they wandered from side to side below him.

The two blinking red lights on his sleeve screen crept together in a surreal way until they merged with a continuous confirmatory bleep. The pilot fell forward from the last of the rocks into the clear space beside the lander; the travois slipping sideways and tipping over for the last time.

The ancient container, scratched and dented, but still intact, lay underneath the splintered frame. He was safe at last as the remaining daylight ebbed into night.

'Just another little rest, get the containers hoisted on board and I can be away in the next hour.' He spoke aloud to his imaginary audience.

He treated himself to another dermajet, then lay on his back with his three undamaged limbs flung out. The rain pooled and ran over his faceplate.

'Come on,' he jerked himself awake from sleep once more.

It took a short pull to move the first crate from under the lander to below the hoist arm. The pilot pressed the suit remote control button; once, twice, then repeatedly, but there was no response.

'No, not now, this can't happen now.' his whisper rose to a scream which the fantastic suit confined and made inaudible in an efficient manner.

The Pilot crawled up the ladder resting on every rung. Inside there was blackness apart from the faint red glow of the emergency lighting along the bank of screens. With the aid of his helmet light he engaged backups and overrides. He toggled random switches in a frenzy. The mute screens remained impotent until in despair, he slumped back in the control seat surrounded by many tiny, malevolent, red eyes. The lander was dead.

10

The pilot lay awake and gazed unseeing into the distance when daylight seeped up into the lander. There didn't seem so much of a hurry now. He made one more effort to recheck the craft's systems. An interface between his suit's computer and the terminal on the main board confirmed what he already knew. The lander had no power apart from its standby emergency battery which had maintained the signal transponder for him. The stabilisers too had ceased to function, but the tame wind only rocked the craft for the time being. He wasted a few hours trying to trace the fault with the aid of the emergency manual; without power it was impossible to run sophisticated checks or communicate with the Ship.

The pilot reviewed his options again. The climate suit would keep him comfortable for two days at the most. The lander's air supplies would last for about a week, but with no power to cool the craft, the heat inside without a working suit would drive him out. He was alone, the nearest help many light years away. The Ship would obey its strict contract conditions and his own irrevocable instructions to leave orbit. That is what computers did.

The relics and the tiny flowers now exposed to the elements would have been better left undisturbed. The ancient plastic polymer of the containers would crumble in a few years allowing the atmosphere to destroy their contents. The cooling unit of the flower box would fail in a few days. He accepted that the storm must have damaged the lander but he knew he should have listened to the Ship's advice; he should have taken off earlier.

The pilot unclipped a hand laser from its place beside the console. As he jolted his way down the ladder, his slung arm banged against his chest, rewarding him with fresh pain on every rung. The wind gusted now, a puny version of its previous self. The rock formation that hid the crevice was clear and visible.

'Perfect flying conditions again,' he thought. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid'

He burned off the bindings holding the second container to the ruined frame and pulled it into cover beneath the lander alongside its twin. The laser indicated a full charge which was a comfort to him. He would be able to use it on himself before the end.

Back inside the lander the pilot faced his three demons again. Overconfidence; selfishness; and arrogance. His decisions had wrecked humankind's hopes and they would kill him. He squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the tears of self-pity that welled up. Turning on his left side, he tried to rest and conserve his supplies a little longer.

When sleep failed to come, he stirred to study the copy of the ancient photograph in the flickering emergency lighting. A smiling man looked back at him, his head covered in a woollen cap with a padded jacket snuggled to his neck, the collar turned up.

A T bar towed other skiers up a snow slope in the background. In his gloved hands he held upright a similar pair of skis to those constructed in the Ship by the pilot. On the reverse of the photo was a duplicate of the original handwritten scrawl.

Tony the Skier, Ross Base, April 2219.

11

The long day edged on while the pilot dozed until from somewhere a faint whine intruded one of his drug induced dreams.

'No that can't be right,' he whispered. 'Have we jumped again? Computer, what's our status?'

The high-pitched noise encroached, followed by a glare that pierced his closed eyes. He woke, galvanised, as the command cabin filled with the blue-white light. Steam spouted up through the open hatch below as the lander rocked on its legs; the roar nearby peaked then died.

The pilot almost fell into the lower bay in his haste to get down from the console. He threw his laser away before clambering down the ladder with little regard for his bumping arm. The last remnants of steam eddied away to reveal the small second lander; the one designed to carry large insectoid type passengers. It was settling on the other side of the open space thirty metres away, the red beacon on its top rotating and flashing.

As he staggered towards it, a ramp glided down like a well oiled robot. Inside the cabin, he found a full set of lights which beckoned and winked at him in a marvellous healthy line. The Ship's wonderful voice called out.

'Pilot, are you present? Please reply.' 'Pilot, are you present? Please reply.'

The pilot activated the communication switch.

'Yes I'm here.' he croaked.

'Would you like to return to me now?' the Ship asked in a definite happy voice.

'Yes I would.' that was all he could say, his thoughts racing. 'The second lander, the Ship sent down the second lander. How? Why?'

'Pilot would you like to take command now? Or do you wish me to recover the lander?'

'Please take her up yourself.' his voice broke. Then with more vigour

'Wait, I need to bring in the relics, I'll be back soon.'

The pilot found fresh hidden strength. Somehow there was no impediment as he dragged each heavy container in turn with his one hand. The second lander hoisted them on board. One more trip brought the small-insulated flower box which he hugged close to his chest. Secure, but cramped inside a craft never designed for humans, he gave the command to the Ship and the small lander lifted off without further delay.

The ascent into orbit was as rough as the descent had been, but he was impervious to it. Hot tears ran down his cheeks to splash inside the suit as the lander drew in close to the Ship. In front of the view port the docking bay doors opened before him like welcoming arms.

He needed to find out. 'How did you know I needed help? I gave you no instructions for any of this' he asked the ship.

'Pilot, I detected the change in the lander's transponder signal when it switched to its emergency frequency. I triangulated on it for several orbits until I could programme the second lander to descend. I have received some advice from your community which made me override your other orders in this situation. I also seem to have developed a strong personal urge to bring you home.'

The pilot struggled to speak, his words humble for the first time on the voyage. 'Ship, do you have any other name?'

The Ship replied in her familiar calm voice. 'Pilot I am a SAL656Y ship's Artificial Intelligence. Your community has helped me to know and understand you. You may call me Sally.'

The pilot took some time before he could speak again because Sally had been his mother's first name.

'Sally please don't call me pilot any more, from now on my name is Tony.'

## Ahead of His Time

## 1

Jim swore when his smart phone rang; his smart brother's voice compounded the annoyance.

'Jim when are you getting back to Auckland? I need to show you something tonight.'

'Bugger it Matt, what do you want. I'm working, I can't talk now.'

Matt ignored his brother's negativity.

'This is important; it'll only take ten minutes of your time. Then you can take me out for a meal.'

'Shit Matt, You must have spent all the money I lent you last month. I can't keep doing this.'

'Sorry Jim, but my project is heavy on power bills. Look if you're leaving Hamilton soon, I'll see you here about nine. You won't regret it.' Matt's call cut off, leaving a frustrated Jim staring at his phone.

Soon afterwards his headphones crackled with their preliminary warning.

'OK Jim wrap it up now.' George Mitchell the director, known as the boss, gruff as usual.

'Thank god for that, I'm bloody freezing out here.' Jim muttered.

Poor summer weather harassed players and spectators alike as it had done since the start of the four-day cricket match. The most exposed were the television cameramen.

Jim flicked off the camera switches and began to work cold fingers in their gloves before swinging his stiff legs off the seat on to the grass bank. The two batsmen were making their way from the centre of the oval to the far pavilion where a sparse crowd stood up, stretched, and produced a smattering of applause. The solitary electronic scoreboard displayed the score. Northern Districts 230 for 8. Auckland Districts first innings 312 all out.

Jim considered the rest of his day. It looked as if he would have to shout Matt a couple of beers then maybe buy him an Indian meal. He should phone Electra who was in the South Island visiting an obscure relative. He had dated her three times, but was uncomfortably aware that their relationship was failing to take off. She smiled and nodded at him in the right circumstances but seemed detached. Maybe he was trying too hard to impress her. The director scurried past.

'Hurry up and get those covers on the gear Jim. We're lucky it hasn't rained yet. Then check that everything is set up for an early start tomorrow.'

'Sure no worries,' Jim replied.

His tasks complete, he hurried to catch Mark Armstrong in the changing rooms before the Auckland team bus left for their hotel. Mark had played for Auckland Districts over the last eight seasons. A steady, veteran professional, thirty-four years old, nearing retirement, and now a good friend. They shared a common interest in cricket and sports television. There was the added connection too, that as Electra's elder brother, he was responsible for introducing her to Jim.

'Hard luck Mark.' Jim commiserated when he found him in the changing room. 'That ball was going a mile down leg side, I can't believe that bastard umpire put his finger up.'

Mark, who was combing his hair, paused. 'Sometimes I wonder if that guy's got it in for me. That's the fifth time in the last two years he's given me out leg before wicket.' He gave a shrug. 'Still he has to call them as he sees them I guess.'

'How come you're so relaxed about it?' Jim complained. 'We watched the replay in the van, and we all agreed it was a crap decision. You should have appealed.'

'It's too late now. I'm playing the best I can but this is my last season; I don't seem to have the fire any more. I've got to think about my future now, maybe coaching, or I could even try to become a cricket commentator.' Mark grinned.

'Yeah, you would enjoy freezing your testicles in a cold shed for five days.'

'How are you getting on with Electra?' Mark changed the subject.

'Well... She seems to like me, but it's hard to know. She's busy with her work and I haven't had much spare time to see her.' Jim's voice petered out. 'At least she's taken my mind off my brother. I've managed to avoid him for the last few weeks.'

'I don't know much about him, you said he was a bit of an inventor?'

'He thinks he is, but so far its all been wasted effort. He gave up a good job with Channel Three recently and he never sticks to one job for long ; most of the time he tinkers in his garage. I'm pretty much subsidising his lifestyle.' Jim sounded bitter as he picked up Matt's bat to practise a forward defensive stroke.

'I suppose he's OK really, but he's always dreaming up one thing or another. If I introduce him to Electra I'm worried that she might think I share some of his genes.'

'Then maybe you should meet Tasha my other sister. She and Electra are coming to watch the Australian game, assuming that I'm picked for the team after this performance.'

Jim was still in a foul mood when he pulled into Matt's drive in Papatoetoe. Rain and heavy traffic had slowed the road trip north. He spent the time embellishing his grievances with Matt and worrying about his lack of romantic progress with Electra. It was his determined wish that the two should never meet until he had spent enough time to create a favourable impression on her.

Before he got out of his car he sat for a few minutes to study the shabby walls and peeling paint of Matt's rented house. The windowsills sagged with rot. Primitive graffiti covered the porch and the weather boards facing the street. In the tiny patch of front lawn, weeds flourished amongst the struggling grass. The house itself was dark, but behind it at the end of the drive, bright light streamed from the garage.

'Is that you Jim?'

Matt stood in the garage doorway to wave him forwards. Jim began a reluctant walk down the drive but at the same time he could not help but notice two new electrical cables which emerged from the back kitchen window to progress on poles until they entered the garage roof.

'Come on hurry up! I can't wait much longer.' Matt called out

Inside the garage there was a copious amount of junk; the floor lay strewn with unknown machinery and random tools. A surprising number of fluorescent tubes lit the chaotic scene from above.

Matt stooped over the centrepiece of this display; a large table which supported a rough metal cube half a metre square. At its front, several coloured LED's winked on and off. Second hand switches of varying sizes ran down another side. A curved dish attached to the top of the cube appeared very similar to the television satellite dishes mounted on the houses along the street. A low hum emitted from the back of the cube where the electric cables ran down from the roof.

'OK, what the hell is this about Matt?'

Matt stood in front of him. Sturdy but untidy as usual, his grubby clothes hung comfortably on him. Oil stains covered his hands and face, emphasising the excited blue eyes that shone out from under this make up.

Jim scrutinised his brother. Matt wore the prized, rare cricket shirt that the Black Caps had gifted Jim last year. The valuable and cherished national team autographs were now indecipherable under a layer of oil.

'Hurry up Jim, we've got half an hour for this demonstration before the neighbours get back from their movie.'

Jim felt a curious sense of dread accompanied by vague nausea. 'OK tell me why that matters?' he croaked.

'I had to borrow some items from them.' Matt said pointing at a white rabbit which squatted placidly, nibbling green leaves behind a wire barrier at the back of the garage.

'Shit Matt. I'm not backing you up if they find out you stole their daughter's pet rabbit.'

Matt looked hurt. 'This rabbit has been enlisted by me in the interests of science Jim, you'll see. Now, I need you to do something for me.'

'I've seen enough. I need a bath, a drink, and some food. I'm not going to help you fry that poor girl's rabbit with a laser.'

Matt blinked his face thoughtful as he considered Jim's words.

'That's an interesting idea Jim, but it would be rather pointless wouldn't it. All I want you to do is throw these wooden blocks at the rabbit as fast as you can.' He pointed to a cardboard box which contained coloured building blocks. 'I know you're good at that, because you like chucking cricket balls about in your spare time.'

'Matt you are pissing me off. That rabbit is no more than two metres away; that's a cruel and stupid idea. Anyway these are children's play blocks, where did you get them from?'

'I borrowed them from Tamara's younger brother.' Matt said with dignity.

'Forget it you're mad.'

'You won't be able to hit it Jim.' Matt had his arms crossed.

'Look bro, its fat but slow. It can't escape from that pen; it's going to get hurt.'

'It doesn't matter what you think Jim, you won't hit it, so there won't be any cruelty involved.'

'OK you stupid prick. I'll throw one block at its fat face and then I'm off. Anything to get out of here.'

'Right give me a second.'

Matt leant over the strange box to flick a switch, which increased the background hum. He squinted down the line of the antenna to confirm that it pointed towards the rabbit. 'OK chuck the block Jim.'

Jim picked up a block and lobbed it at the rabbit who was watching him unblinking from the corner of the pen. It moved in a blurred fashion leaving the block to bounce behind it.

Matt said nothing as Jim threw a second block, this time a little harder. Once again the rabbit moved somehow and the block missed by a few centimetres.

'Come on Jim, after all that cricket practice, you can do better than that.'

Now Jim was angry. He took off his jersey, planted his feet, and let fly the next block with some force. The rabbit moved to the other side of the pen leaving the block to clatter against the wall behind where it had sat.

Jim now hurled all the blocks with the same result. The rabbit seemed able to sense them by the way it avoided the blocks each time. It didn't look troubled by the experience because it always hopped back to it's original corner, where it resumed munching the green leaves that Matt had thoughtfully commandeered from its hutch.

Jim sat down, short of breath after his exertions. 'OK Matt, what's going on?' he gasped.

'Jim we'll have to stop now, so that I can return the rabbit and the blocks. Have a close look. Can you see the silver collar around the rabbit's neck?'

'Sure, so what.'

'Can you see a haziness close to the rabbit?'

Jim squinted, 'Maybe there's a slight shimmer.' he conceded.

'I'm generating a field from this box and focussing it on a receiver on the rabbit's collar. The field then spreads over the rabbit in a very thin layer.'

'I don't understand.'

Matt smiled with pride. 'This is my greatest invention so far. That rabbit is inside a time field fractionally ahead of time from us. So no matter how fast you throw a block, it will see it coming in slow motion such that it has plenty of time to avoid it.' He held his index finger up in the pose of a cricket player appealing to an umpire.

'How's that!'

2

Party goers crowded the pub, dining out before they moved on to their next Saturday night event. A constant stream of young waitresses bustled around the wooden trestle tables holding up plates of food and drink. In the background, the chatter of conversation mixing with the clink of cutlery and glass, made hearing difficult even for the young clientèle.

Two men sat apart at a corner table ignoring their surroundings. They talked earnestly, sometimes with raised voices, their heads close together. The older, shorter one with the tousled hair wore a checked, red shirt underneath an old, blue, donkey jacket with the top button hanging by a few threads. The taller, younger one with the contemporary, gelled, spiked hair sported a fashionable fawn sweater and matching trousers which were much more in keeping with the other customers.

If you examined them, you could tell they were brothers despite their contrasting appearance. They talked oblivious to the curious glances that passed their way. Two plates, with neglected half eaten pies and cold accompanying chips, lay on their table. Untouched glasses of beer, their froth dissipated, sat by their elbows.

At times the younger man produced soft, strangled noises as he held his hands to his head in an agonised fashion. His brother would then reach out and place a reassuring hand on a shoulder to steady him, while he continued to lecture on the mysterious topic that nobody could quite overhear.

'I don't believe it. It's a clever trick with a trained rabbit and a few wires.' Jim said.

'I know it's hard for you to accept, take your time. I've been working on this for years.'

'That's a laugh,' said Jim with heavy sarcasm. 'You haven't held down any job for more than six months in the past five years since you dropped out of university.'

Matt regarded his brother without taking offence. 'I've had this idea for a long time, I couldn't ignore it. It prevented me from finishing my PhD because I needed to take it as far as I could.'

'You gave up a future that could have led somewhere. The physics department were going to offer you a teaching post. Mum and Dad would have been so proud, but you let us all down.' Jim spat out.

'Every job I've done since then links to what I showed you tonight. I don't perform magic tricks.' Matt grasped Jim's forearm; afraid that his brother would stand up and leave.

'Jim I want you to listen very hard and concentrate; I'm going to make this as simple as I can. I've theorised that time has a particle like a light particle. If it has, then logically we can move it, bend it, speed it up, or slow it down. If you look around you, everything in this room and in us is a particle of some sort including the light we see. I don't see why time should be different. A light particle for instance is a photon. I have chosen to call a time particle an eon.'

'Look Matt, I'm really trying here, but surely time is a dimension that moves forwards at a fixed rate?'

'That sounds reasonable,' Matt nodded. 'We haven't seen any evidence of anyone coming back in time from the future. However applying Einstein's equations, we know that if you could travel almost at or below the speed of light you would reach our nearest star in five years. Five years as experienced by us, but it would be a tiny fraction of that time to you inside your space ship. When you returned it would appear to you that you had only been away for a short time, whereas for the people who stayed behind, thirty years would have passed, They would have aged, but you would remain young.'

'Matt nobody can go at that speed, and anyway you're talking about light speed not time speed. '

'Jim, we believe that light particles have a fixed speed and can't go any faster than that. But some years ago a French team held a light photon in a box for about 0.7 of a second before it decayed, so they definitely slowed light down.'

'So what Matt, one photon in a box, what's that got to do with a time field? Nobody can change the speed of time.'

'Jim, I'm afraid you're wrong there. I've discovered that time particles exist. They relate directly to light particles in an equation that I could explain to you eventually. If you slow down light, time speeds up because they are inversely proportional in a complex but predictable fashion. We believe we can't speed light up; therefore it follows that we can't slow down time and go backwards. But now we know that light can be slowed, it means that if we do this in a certain way, then we can speed up time.'

'You're crazy Matt, you can't prove this.'

'There have been a lot of difficulties. It's unlikely that anyone will believe me until I make a practical demonstration.'

'Why not publish this in a journal and let the world know about it?'

Matt pulled a wry face. 'I'm afraid things have changed since Einstein published his papers. Nowadays you have to be known; a respectable figure with previous peer-reviewed papers from serious establishments. I could never be published without strings attached. I would end up as the fifth name down the paper behind various professors who would claim the idea as their own. I'm determined to make my own demonstration; that's why I need your help from now on.'

Jim lifted his head from his hands with a worried expression. 'No way, I know you Matt. I'm going to end up sacked from my job or in prison for breaking the law somehow. I've got too much at stake. I'm moving up the ladder at work; I've got more pay and responsibility; I've bought a house; got a decent car; and maybe have a nice girlfriend. Everything is sweet for me at the moment but I know you'll screw it all up, like when we were kids and you got me into trouble millions of times.'

Matt looked amused. 'Jim we had fun, don't tell me that you didn't enjoy some of the things we got up to. By the way, maybe I should meet this new girl friend of yours?'

'Forget it Matt, I've barely started going out with her, you'll ruin any chance I have. I'm keeping her away from you.'

Matt eyed him speculatively. 'I'm not sure Jim, you don't seem the settling type. You like bright lights, parties, and you mix with superficial entertainment types. Isn't she a librarian or something? She sounds a bit too studious for you.'

'She's a lawyer, and I'm not discussing this any more. I'm leaving.'

Matt turned serious. He put his hands back on Jim's shoulders. 'Jim this is more important to me than anything I've ever done before. You have to help me. I promise that nothing will ruin your future either at work or play. No harm will be done if my plans don't succeed, but if they come off, then you could gain an advantage with Elisa.'

'Electra, I've told you her name before.'

'All right Jim. The truth is that I believe I can create a time field around one person that will put them a fraction ahead in time. If I had a lot of power, say the whole output of a nuclear power station, then maybe I could spread the field wider and move more people ahead. Alternatively, I could concentrate all that power on one man and move him quite a long way forwards. He would become invisible the further he moved into the future. Practically however, I need a moderate amount of power to create even a small time movement for one person. I think I can shift that person forwards by about half a second.

Matt paused to assess Jim and pick his moment. 'For instance I could move a cricketer, say Mark Armstrong maybe.'

Jim looked at his brother for several seconds; some interest crept across his expression. 'What do you mean by that? And how does Electra come into this?' he asked

Matt relaxed and sat back. 'This is how I see it. If we project a tightly focused time field and enclose a cricket player in it, we could advantage him in respect of the speed of the game as he sees it. Now Electra is Mark's sister. Suppose we use him as our subject and improve his play; surely any success he has will benefit your future relationship with Electra in some way. A cricket match would be an excellent way to demonstrate what a small time advance could do in the right circumstances. Baseball would be another obvious sport but we don't live in the right country to exploit that.'

'Don't say we Matt. I don't want any part of this and I don't want you to involve Mark either. He'd never go along with cheating. He's too good a sportsman to take an unfair advantage, even if such a thing were possible.'

'We don't tell him. He'll never know, neither would Electra. He's quite a good player anyway, so all we do is improve his capabilities by giving him a little more reaction time. If the time field fails then he would be as he is now. The field is painless and harmless. In fact it's only about a micrometer thick all over him. If it were bigger, it would need much more power and he would shimmer with a visible glow. Also if we wasted power by moving him too far ahead in time, it would become obvious that he was out of synch with the other players. What sort of time advance would give an advantage to a professional cricketer Jim?'

'Are you kidding, half a second would be all the time in the world for those guys,' Jim paused then swore. 'Forget it, this is crazy and I'm telling you I'm having nothing to do with it, even if it did work.'

Matt picked up his beer, took a thirsty drink and began to eat his congealed chips.

'Jim, he mouthed through them. 'You love this game. How would you like to witness something special on the cricket field? Would you like to see cricket history being made by your friend? I understand that Mark is also a medium pace bowler; we could improve that part of his game as well.'

Jim's eyes focused into the distance as he contemplated that prospect. He cleared his throat.

'Matt this is a bit too much to take in, I can't see how it could work.'

Matt leaned forward again taking some of Jim's pie from his plate. He chewed it with relish before swallowing it.

'Briefly, I need a large power source; I feed that into my box which is in vacuum and cooled to around minus fifteen degrees centigrade. I produce light of a specific high frequency which I slow down by passing it through an electromagnetic field. The French used an element called Rubidium in their box to slow their photon. I'm using Caesium which is more efficient, but a little more temperamental to work with. The real discovery is in the way that I can slow all the photons in the box down to the point that eons start to form in inverse proportions. When the photons are near stationary; I can hold them like that. I collect the eons and focus them in a tiny beam which is tightly projected to a receiving unit worn by the subject. If the beam were diffuse it wouldn't travel far enough. It's like a laser beam, but consists of time particles instead of light particles. All of this you could expect from the laws of physics relating to particles.'

Jim held his head in his hands again.

'I don't understand any of it and I don't want to. It's impossible'

'In fact' continued Matt, 'I've found that I can use fibre cables to transmit the eons some distance from the generator in the same way that I can transmit light down a fibre-optic cable. This means I can move the transmitting unit away from the production unit.'

'OK Mr Clever, how do you transmit a time beam through the air when surely if you're correct there are other eons around which are different. They would merge and cancel the beam out.' Jim blurted.

'A good question Jim. The easiest way to understand this would be to compare it to a laser, which is a beam of photons of a specific type which are tightly focussed enough to pass through ordinary light. We do the same thing with the eons. The receiver worn by the subject converts the received eons into a tiny field over the subject like a microscopic blanket. Inside that blanket there is a slight acceleration in time compared to outside. The time field decays instantaneously, but because we keep the beam running it's constantly refreshed. I think that sums it up.' Matt looked satisfied.

Jim stared at him wild-eyed. 'Matt you have mucked about for five years. You can't have done this. It would take a huge team of researchers for ever, and cost millions of dollars to make one of those steps even if they were possible.' He snorted. 'For instance Caesium, come on Matt where can anyone find that?'

Matt sat back and folded his arms.

'My three months at the Geological Institute as night caretaker. They had a very large sample of Pollucite, the mineral that contains the metal. At this moment their specimen of Pollucite on display is a substituted piece of Spurrite that I picked up on my travels.'

'How could you extract Caesium from the mineral?'

'During my six months spent at John Williams Chemicals in Sydney Australia. I also took the opportunity to borrow a lot of useful chemical components, vacuum extraction equipment, and precision measuring devices at the same time.'

'The box, the electrical equipment?'

'Stopes Fine Metal Engineering in Albany. North Shore Conductors, Cables and Capacitors.'

'Who else?'

'Rakon guidance systems, BOC Glenbrook, Earth Scan Satellite installation company.'

'And then what?'

'Night watchman at the University of Auckland.'

'I suppose you stole books there?'

'Of course not, that would be a crime. I needed free time after the library closed. With a small modification to the photocopying machine and a hacked charge card, I collected all the information I needed without any harm. I also used the university computing power after hours so nobody would be inconvenienced.'

Jim looked stricken. He raised his voice again, causing further glances from the nearby tables.

'Oh God! Now I know why you took the TV3 technician job. I actually believed you were settling down at last.'

'Yes Jim, I became irreplaceable after my six months of valuable service. The absolute Mr Fix It of all television power and equipment problems. I have their glowing reference on my CV at home.' Matt let a happy smile flow over his face. 'Now all I need to project my time beam is you and your camera.'

3

By the time the crew took their lunchtime break on the third day of the second cricket test, the atmosphere in the outside broadcasting van had deflated into resigned pessimism.

George Parata the audio engineer chewed on a large filled roll as he contemplated the debacle. In normal circumstances he was a large smiling Māori known to the whole crew as Opo.

'Jeez, we're in for a real hiding with this one. I reckon she'll all be over by tomorrow afternoon unless we get some rain to save us.'

'Opo you're spot on' said Mike Spragg the assistant director, as he folded his newspaper. 'That bastard Delaney is fucking brilliant, better than even Tendulkar was. He's probably as good as Bradman. He's toying with our bowlers and I don't see any way our guys can get him out.'

The others, Paul McAleer the video operator, and James (Jimmy) Hudson the character generator operator, sat glum and inarticulate, crammed together as they nursed their cups of tea. Everyone had viewed and reviewed the replays of the New Zealand batsmen's dismissals as their team wilted before the rampant Aussie bowling attack. The majestic batting display of Doug Delaney the Australian captain, and Ron (the ton) Shaw, heaped more misery on the Kiwis. The players lunch now provided an interlude to their two text-book innings in which they had stroked the ball to all parts of the Wellington Basin Reserve.

The New Zealand first innings had reached 218 all out by tea on the first day of play. A hot, humid second day with sudden rain showers caused a few interruptions, but now the relentless Australian team had cruised to a big total at 467 runs for 4 wickets at lunch on the third day. The Aussie bowlers had moved the ball around at pace, something the Black Caps couldn't achieve even though the conditions were near identical for their turn in the field.

'I wish that prick Hampton would fall over on his face and break a leg. Look at him'

Mike shoved the sports pages of the Dominion across the table to the others. Shaun Hampton was the tall, tanned, broad-shouldered, quick bowler who had burst on the cricket world two years earlier to become the pin-up boy for millions of Australians. The photo showed a smiling, confident Shaun surrounded by admirers and autograph hunters, as he made his way through an airport hall. On his arm a tall, beautiful, blonde tilted her head to smile up at him.

'That bastard's got it all. He even got some model clinging to him.'

'Mike when you can bowl the fastest ball ever bowled and earn his sort of money; maybe a woman will finally cuddle up to you.' Opo chimed in. The others at the table smothered sniggers while Mike changed the subject.

'Where's Matt? He's going to miss his tea break if he doesn't get his butt in here fast.'

'Maybe he's still fiddling about in his compartment,' Paul suggested. 'Or he could be off somewhere with Jim. They spend a lot of time together.'

In the three weeks since Matt joined the OBV team he had become indispensable. His predecessor had been equal parts slow and miserable, enriched with the capacity to create more equipment faults than he fixed.

Indeed the brothers were eating their lunch seated amongst a group of spectators in the grandstand not far from Jim's dormant camera.

'Have you finished it Matt?' Jim asked as he glanced around in all directions.

'Sure. I connected it up last night. It's wired under the main panel and the fibre cable is tied to the camera power lead. It looks like any other piece of cable. The transmitter is that very small rod which exits close to the camera lens. That means that when you point the camera at the subject you simultaneously guide the time beam to the receiver.'

'What about the receiver?'

'That's a problem. It has to be worn in the open, not covered by any clothes.'

'I don't see how I can keep an accurate direction with a tiny beam. The camera lens is focussing on quite a large area of play, I won't be able to pick out a bracelet or any small object on a player.'

'Don't worry Jim; the beam will direct itself towards its receiver because it wants to dissipate there. It seeks out the receiver as long as you point it within a reasonable arc which includes the subject's receiver.'

'How will I know that it's on?'

'You won't, I can't risk adding any more attachments to the camera because other cameramen use it, and they aren't stupid. Somebody will notice something new or unusual. We make it as simple and inconspicuous as possible and I'll control it from the OBV. I've also made a small modification to your headphones. Any audio signal from me will cut in between you and the director, but he won't hear what I'm saying. You can reply in the same way but we have to keep our words as brief as possible. There's a small removable extension lead with a transmitter button on your mike lead. You press it to speak to me. If you don't press it you'll be speaking to the director as usual.'

Jim cast another nervous look around before taking a deep breath. 'OK Matt I guess we're ready. When are we going to try it?'

'When this test is over, the Aussies play Auckland before the final test. That's when Mark will be in action. It would be a good time for him to play really well.'

'The Aussies will probably rest their best players for that provincial game Matt, so even if Mark has a good game he won't win much credit for it.'

'I don't think so Jim. So far in this series, the first test was rained off after one day and the warm up game against New Zealand A was an embarrassment. You heard what Mike Delaney said in the interview afterwards. 'I thought the Kiwis were unlucky to lose the toss. They got the worst conditions and we took advantage of the improving pitch.' That's diplomatic bullshit. Translated into Aussie talk it means 'New Zealand A were crap. We bowled them out so easily and we scored so many runs without losing any wickets that most of the team didn't have any decent batting practice.'

'I think they'll put their best team out for the Auckland game to get that practice before the final test. I think they'll include Hampton and Connie Stavoupolis. He's the new Shane Warne, but even a player as good as him needs more bowling time.'

Constantine Stavoupolis hailed from Melbourne. His leg spin bowling feats had aroused enormous interest in cricket, the most unlikely of Greek sports. With his example to follow, even the mainland Greek community were taking up the game.

Matt continued. 'Jim we still have one problem to fix.'

'Yeah?'

'Mark has to wear the receiver. Do you think he'll be willing to do that?'

'What shape will it be?'

'It's a neck pendant, I've already made it. Some players wear pendants for luck. Maybe you, Electra, or his wife could convince him to wear a good luck charm.'

Jim looked doubtful. 'I don't think Mark's the sort of guy who would run around with a necklace.'

Matt took a slow sip from a flask. 'Look we haven't got much time before we're on air again. Maybe you could ask Electra to pass a present on to Luana for their son's birthday. Mark told you John's birthday is on the first day of the Aussie game. What if John could be coached to ask his dad to wear it for him as a special favour on his birthday?'

'You're sick Matt, fancy roping in a five-year old boy to further your weird scheme.' said Jim his eyes rolling up.

'OK. Then maybe you should tell Mark that you prefer him instead of his sister and ask him to wear a token of your affection; unless you have a better idea?'

Jim blushed; he was sensitive about any hint of being gay. As a fastidious, fashionable dresser, his good looks and media background had already drawn speculative comments and a few unwelcome proposals.

'Ok, Ok, I'll see what I can do.' Jim hesitated. 'In fact I was going to tell you this. Electra is here in Wellington for a conference. She's coming to the ground this afternoon to watch the last few hours of play, then we're going out afterwards.'

'That's nice Jim. Does that mean I finally get to meet her?'

Jim looked down to brush an imaginary defect off one of his shiny, Italian, leather shoes.

'Look Matt it hasn't been deliberate. She's busy, you've been busy, circumstances never quite worked out.' He sounded defensive.

'Don't worry bro.' Matt got up and cuffed Jim on the head. 'I won't let you down when I meet her. I'm off to the van. Mitchell and Spraggsy will go ape shit if they don't see me flipping switches and looking intelligent soon. I want you to tell Electra that you have a present for her nephew's birthday and ask her to pass it on to Mark's wife. I'll sneak it to you in the OBV this evening after transmission ends.'

4

At six o'clock Jim arrived at the OBV with Electra, a surprise but welcome guest for the crew. First she met Opo in his sound room, then she charmed the Boss into demonstrating his control area to her. Electra approached Jimmy next, artfully engaging him to the extent that he overcame his usual shyness and give a coherent explanation of his technical role. On hearing a female voice, Paul crowded in from the Video Box; eager to show her his action replays and recorded highlights.

Electra was a refreshing attraction to the confined OBV team after a long day at work. She possessed the knack of listening and asking the right questions. Her encouraging remarks showed intelligence and interest in them. Dark haired, with attractive and pleasing curves, her smile seemed to warm their sterile working compartments.

Electra glanced down at the small tea-table and picked up the discarded newspaper, open at the photo of Shaun Hampton.

'I see my sister has come over for the test match, I thought she would.' She read aloud. 'Shaun Hampton arrived in Wellington for the test match in the company of his girlfriend Tasha Armstrong.'

There was a respectful silence while the team digested this, swivelling their eyes from the blonde version in the photo to the live brunette version standing in front of them. Electra misinterpreted their looks and spoke in support of her sister.

'Tasha's a genuine Kiwi; she went to Aussie to further her acting career. As far as I know she's only been going out with him for a few months.'

She turned to Jim. 'Jim I thought you were going to introduce me to Matt.'

Jim looked embarrassed 'Of course, sorry Electra. Let's have a look in the engineering compartment.'

The others team members shuffled reluctantly back to their positions as Jim and Electra moved past the video tape booths into the back engineering space.

'Matt I've brought someone for you to meet.' Jim called out.

Electra looked through the small door. A man's bottom encased in tight blue working overalls stuck out from a small inspection hatch at ground level. The head, arms, and upper trunk were hidden inside the hatch. Jim's call caused a violent reaction; the half body gave a convulsive jerk.

'Fuck, you don't have to yell that close to me Jim.'

With a series of wriggling gyrations; Matt extricated himself backwards and stood up. He faced a woman who regarded him with cool, brown, eyes. Her short, dark hair encased an oval face with a firm nose and full lips. She wore a shiny, pink, close-fitting, long-sleeved dress. It ended at mid calf accentuating a slim pair of legs. There was no make up.

Electra in turn saw a well-built, chunky man in grubby, blue overalls. His hair was in disarray, streaks of sweat tracked through the dirt smudged on his face and brow. From within the grime, blue eyes regarded her with amusement.

Matt dropped his electrical pliers on a bench and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He picked up a clean rag, covered his dirty right hand with it, and shook Electra's hand.

'Pleased to meet you Electra, Jim has told me nothing about you.'

They examined each other.

'That seems to be the situation from my side also Matt. Perhaps one day we can fill in the missing bits.'

'Er Matt, Electra and I have to go now. I booked a table down at the water front for seven o'clock; she has to go back to her hotel to change.' Jim intervened.

'No problems Jim'

Matt turned round, rummaged in a pair of trousers hanging on the back of the door and pulled out a small brown paper parcel. He looked hard at Jim as he handed it to him. 'Here's the item we talked about Jim.'

Matt turned back to Electra. 'Perhaps I'll see you later.'

Electra smiled at him for the first time. 'Thank you for being so thoughtful when you shook hands with me Matt.'

'I'm being practical Electra. That material in your dress produces a lot of static electricity; I didn't want to get a shock from you.' Matt smiled in return.

Electra regarded him, her smile morphing into a cooler expression. 'That's sweet Matt, maybe when we meet again we'll both be wearing something more appropriate for the occasion.' She swivelled on her heels and faced Jim.

'Let's go Jim, It's getting smelly in here.'

5

At the end of the third day's play, Australia declared their innings at 540 runs for 6 wickets, leaving the Black Caps to struggle through the final half hour to stumps while losing 2 wickets for 15 runs. The situation deteriorated further on the fourth morning as the Kiwis crawled to 87 runs for 6 wickets.

Defeat seemed inevitable in the next few hours until suddenly, miraculous dark clouds appeared. Sub tropical rain followed, pouring down and preventing any more play for the day. By this time only a few hundred deluded fanatics lingered in the ground, huddled under their umbrellas as they hoped for a resumption of play. The other spectators had taken a realistic viewpoint and long since left the ground to attend Wellington's other attractions.

Opo stood outside the OBV, a broad smile on his face. He turned to the black clouds in the sky and shook off the rain drops as they coursed over his cheeks; an act which resembled a performing seal shaking his head after completing a trick.

'The forecast is shit, I think we're going to get out of this mess. They say it's going to rain all tomorrow as well' he said gleefully.

Mike Spragg stuck his head out of the van. 'We're off air now, the station's playing movies to fill in the time slot. The boss has gone off to a corporate box to arse lick the punters and bludge some grub. Opo, you can piss off down town but stay in touch. By the way have you seen Matt? We've got some jobs for him to finish.'

'He went with Jim to the grandstand for a pie and a pint.'

'Bugger it, do we have his mobile phone number?'

'He doesn't carry one Mike. He doesn't like them. He keeps one in his car glove box but it's turned off most of the time.'

Mike looked troubled. 'I can't understand anyone who doesn't carry a smart phone. How the hell do they expect people like me to find them when we want to?' He jumped out of the doorway and headed for the grandstand pulling on his raincoat on as he walked off.

Matt and Jim had penetrated the member's lounge by the simple method of trailing behind a group of media officials whilst carrying important looking clipboards and a microphone. The match had been officially called off for the day, and the players had taken an early lunch before breaking up into small groups. The lounge thronged with dignitaries, season ticket holders, and the wives and girlfriends of both teams.

In one corner sat most of the Black Caps looking subdued in their black blazers and whites. In another corner the happy Australians posed in their green blazers, some of them wearing their famous baggy caps. They acted much as you would expect of any Australian team who had both feet planted on the throat of their rivals. Matt and Jim eavesdropped shamelessly from a nearby table.

An Australian television crew set up in the lounge for an interview; their producer counted in the commentator who faced his cameraman and began to speak into his mike.

'Welcome from Wellington New Zealand to all our viewers. Australia have dominated the morning session, and they must have cemented their first test win of the tour with their fine bowling performance. Unfortunately the rain is belting down and it looks like play is over for the day. I've watched our players administer a heavy spanking to the Kiwis, who seem flightless and fight less as usual. Right now they resemble their native bird, grubbing about in the dirt and the dark. We all know Kiwis are blind and that's not going to help them play the game at this level.'

'I'm going to ask Doug Delaney our captain to come forward and share his thoughts about the match so far.' He held his microphone towards the Australian captain. The cameraman, video camera on shoulder, closed in for a head and shoulders close up of both men.

'Doug, can you tell me how the team feels about their great position now.'

Delaney's broad Australian accent filled the nearby space.

'Well Bruce we're going really well. The boys are keen to finish the job as quickly as possible; we have the bowlers to do this. It would be great to pick up those final wickets tomorrow morning, but we have to take care though, the Kiwis can be tough. A decent defence and a bit more rain could hold us out.'

'Bruce Bourdon is an arse hole,' Jim whispered to Matt.

BB as he was known in Australian media circles was the long suffered cricket commentator for Australia's Channel 13. He had never played cricket himself, therefore ignorance underpinned his views. His ready grin, slicked down hair, and outrageous biased commentary gained good ratings from a certain type of Australian audience. These viewers loved his stock catchphrase at the end of each show. 'Go up, up, you Aussies. Aussies come on.'

BB turned back to the camera and spoke into his mike. 'We're now hoping to have a word with Shaun Hampton if we can find him. Yes here he is! Shaun, four wickets for eighteen runs in only ten overs, that's amazing. How long do you think it will take for you to get the rest? Are you going to leave any for Connie?' BB contrived a laugh and held his mike out to a confident Shaun who now stood at his captain's shoulder. Shaun smiled, displaying a set of even, white, teeth.

'Well Bruce I expect to get maybe two or three more, but I'm not really bowling at top speed yet. I know Connie wants to bowl some more overs and I'm sure they won't be able to play him either. If the rain stops, I expect us to clean them up in about fifteen overs tomorrow.'

'He's an arrogant bastard as well,' muttered Jim.

'It's a pity he's such a good bowler,' Matt replied.

BB again faced his camera to begin the wrap up.

'Well to all our cricket fans in Oz; that finishes play for today. I'm sure you are all comfy and bonza back home. I wish we could bring some good Aussie sunshine into this wet little hole, but she'll be right. In the morning I expect we'll clean up with no problems. So it's goodbye from miserable Wellington. Tune in tomorrow, but don't come too late because it could all be over pretty quickly.'

BB finished with his trademark flexing of his forearms, the right clenched fist holding the microphone, the left fist showing a thumbs up.

'Go up, up, you Aussies. Aussies come on.'

His producer signalled the end and BB turned to him. 'Strewth mate I could do with a decent drink. Is there any Aussie beer in this dump?'

Matt nudged Jim.

'Let's invite them over for a few beers.'

The suggestion startled Jim and he looked askance at his impassive brother.

'I'm sure we can foster better relationships with our trans Tasman colleagues,' Matt said.

The Australian cameraman was happy to sit down and accept drinks at Matt's invitation. BB and his producer declined, moving away to join the Australian players as soon as they realised the lowly rank of the two Kiwi television men.

'Thanks mate,' the cameraman said as he leaned his camera against the foot of the bar and slumped into a seat next to Matt.

Jim returned with three large beers and their amicable conversation soon turned to television talk.

'When do you have to send your piece to Aussie?' Matt asked.

The cameraman squinted at his watch. 'We download it in about two hours at the start of our show. That gives me enough time to get a decent break from that bastard BB.'

Jim eyed Matt with suspicion. He knew his brother too well; he could sense that he was planning some mischief.

'He seems like a hard taskmaster your BB.' Matt continued smoothly.

'Yeah.' grunted the cameraman as he focussed into the distance over the top of his frothing beer.

'Well never mind,' Matt said his voice bright. 'You can relax and enjoy a few beers with us while he sucks up to the big wigs. I see you've about finished that one. Jim why don't you buy us all another round?' Matt waved an expansive hand at his brother.

Jim stood up and glared at Matt, nevertheless he turned back towards the bar.

Time passed; the lounge gradually filled. Other media, press, and old acquaintances joined them at their table. With the pleasant conversation about cricket and cameras, good company and liberal amounts of alcohol, Jim slipped into a mellow state. Matt had disappeared unnoticed.

Suddenly the flushed Aussie cameraman let out an appreciative whistle. 'Wow look at those two sheilas.'

Most of the company were able to look towards the door where two beautiful women had entered linked arm in arm. Jim focused his eyes and with a happy start realised that Electra had arrived with her sister. He stood up, and wind milling his arms, shouted across the room.

'Electra over here, come and join us.'

Electra gave him a small wave and a reserved smile as she whispered something to her sister. The two women began to pick their way through the crowd towards Jim's table. As they moved through the room the centre of gravity seemed to shift from the Australian cricketers to the women, who paused here and there on route to exchange brief words with their admirers.

The media company rose together as the sisters drew close. Gallant young men leapt to offer their seats to the ladies who stood on either side of Jim. He felt a warm glow of happiness as he experienced the envious glances of his colleagues. His face wore the nonchalant grin suitable for those occasions, when others can't believe that two beautiful women could find you the object of their interest.

Tasha beamed at him, offering out a slender hand for the holding.

'Jim how lovely to meet you, Electra has told me all about you.'

She tilted her chin and looked at him sideways through her eyelashes.

Jim, who had stood to greet her, resisted a sudden impulse to kiss her hand. He stuttered.

'Pleased to meet you too Tasha, err um would you like to join us for a drink?'

He felt a sudden weakness come over him and sagged into his seat leaving the two women to lower themselves with more precision. Tasha radiated beauty beside him, while Electra on the other side looked amused.

'Yes Jim I would like a small G&T in a long glass.' Electra said. She turned to her sister, 'Tash the same for you?'

'Yes please.'

'Jim you must introduce me to all your friends.' Tasha's smile swept the table. Everyone tried to sit upright, and look as intelligent as possible. While Jim made the introductions, eager volunteers brought over the sisters' drinks, which they accepted with grace.

Electra and Tasha sparkled at the table for several minutes until Jim realised that someone was standing behind Tasha with a proprietary hand placed on her bare right shoulder. He rolled his eyes up to see first a green Australian cricket blazer, and then higher, the tanned face and even smile of Shaun Hampton. Flanking him were two other Australian cricketers.

Shaun leaned forwards to kiss Tasha on the cheek.

'Hi there baby, great to see you. I'm glad you finally got here. Sorry we couldn't give you some decent cricket to watch. The weather stopped us from finishing things off.' He flashed his gleaming smile at the now silent table. 'Hi guys sorry to interrupt you.'

'Tash you've met my mates before in Aussie. I thought we should come over and meet your cute sister.' He released a confident smile at Electra who smiled in return. Jim with the extra perception that alcohol can sometimes bring, thought that her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Shaun introduced Electra to the other Australians then turned again to the rest of the table.

'Would you guys like to come out tonight to the Bald Eagle bar? We're having a session, you could get some copy and drink a little piss. We can't stay out too late though in case we have to play tomorrow.'

Jim felt light-headed. His head swivelled robotically from Shaun to Tasha to Electra and back again. He caught Electra staring beyond him. With an extra effort he rotated his head further round to follow her gaze.

Matt had arrived back at the table where he glanced at the company and the standing Australian cricketers without any apparent interest. He bent over the now semi collapsed Channel 10 cameraman who lay slumped over the table with his head resting sideways on an out flung right arm.

Jim heard Matt speak, his voice reverberating as if from a great distance.

'Come on mate you have to organise your broadcast to Aussie. I'll give you a hand to find your boss.'

Matt bent down below the table to pick up the video camera which someone had moved away from the cameraman. He fiddled with it before lifting it on to his right shoulder. With his left arm he supported the cameraman to stand up. Matt gave an enigmatic glance towards Jim before turning to assist the cameraman through the crowd and out of sight.

Jim's forced his head to swivel back to the two sisters as Shaun announced to the table

'Ok guys see you all tonight. Girls I would now like you to meet the rest of the team.'

With this remark, he put one arm over Electra's shoulders and the palm of his other hand very low down on Tasha's back, before guiding them away flanked by his two wingmen.

The convivial atmosphere at the table dissolved with the departure of the sisters. In the ensuing silence the company resolved back into the seedy drunken journalists and media hacks which they were. The group began to break apart as Matt returned to help Jim up.

'Let's go Jim. You need to lie down for the afternoon so you can recover for our big night out.'

Jim sensed the walls of the room moving in and out, up and down.

'I don't know if I can make it Matt, I don't feel very well.'

'Of course you can Jim,' Matt said, his blue eyes shining with excitement.

'Tonight will be important for both of us; tomorrow will be compulsory viewing.'

6

At 8.00pm the brothers arrived outside the Bald Eagle bar where Matt aided a subdued Jim out of his car. Once his legs were moving, Jim managed to make his way upstairs to the first floor bar. Headache exacerbating music thumped overhead, vibrating down from the second floor where a band had begun to play.

Matt manoeuvred Jim towards a corner alcove and eased him around the table on to the end of the padded bench seat. Despite his reduced state, Jim had found the ability to dress for the occasion. His fresh clothes were stylish and crisp, taken from his extensive travelling wardrobe.

Matt too had made an effort. He wore new jeans and a lightweight black jersey covering a blue shirt which accidentally matched the colour of his eyes. He surveyed the room and waved to familiar media faces. They were anchored at the bar; judging by the jetsam of empty bottles in front of them. There was no sign yet of the Australian cricketers or the Armstrong women.

'Jim can you tell me how you dealt with the present I gave you?' Matt said.

'There was no problem Matt, I unwrapped it and asked Electra what she thought of it as a present for John on his birthday.'

Matt expressed concern.

'I really wanted you to show it to her as if it were a present from you. You should have got rid of the wrapping first. She probably noticed me slipping the same wrapped package to you in the OBV. That would make it a present from me to you, to give to John and which in turn will be given to Mark. That would be strange to say the least.'

Jim screwed his eyes shut in the bright light and rubbed his temples as he groped with that progression.

'She didn't seem too worried. I asked her to give it to Luana in time for the boy's birthday next week, and told her that I wasn't able to do it myself. I said that I hoped John would ask his father to wear it for the Australia game.'

'This is a pretty contorted method of trying to get someone to wear a lucky charm, but a special request from John could be our best option to get Mark to wear it.' Matt said.

Jim pressed his pale forehead in his hands. 'Have you thought how odd it looks, for a five-year old boy to wear an engraved adult sized charm around his neck which says, 'May time always be on your side.'

Matt considered this, 'What did Electra think of that?'

'She gave me an odd look and studied the charm for a while, then she changed the subject completely.'

'What did you talk about?'

Jim looked sheepish and took a drink from his tomato juice; the hangover cure which both he and Matt favoured.

'Actually we talked quite a lot about you from then on. She was curious about you.'

Matt frowned. 'I hope you kept everything simple?'

'Sure, I told her you were very clever and a bit of an inventor, but a loser who never settled on anything for very long. I also said you were unreliable.'

'Thanks Jim, I wanted her to know the truth as much as possible.'

'It's a pleasure Bro. Happy to oblige.'

Matt mused aloud 'You know both sisters are beautiful. I admit that, but they are very different. How is your romance progressing Jim, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Well I do mind Matt. It's none of your business. However I must say that Tasha is spectacular. I may have fallen in love with her instead of Electra, but I can't see what she finds attractive in that Australian cricketer.'

Matt laughed. He swallowed his tomato juice in a single gulp.

'Come on Jim, you're a humble, moderately attractive cameraman of no fame or fortune. She's a top model with a glowing future; he's rich, photogenic, and a brilliant sportsman. There's a data imbalance there somewhere.'

He leant over and patted Jim on the back.

'Cheer up; it's time for you to buy our first couple of drinks for the night. I think we should stick to that Otago Pinot Noir at the end of the shelf over there. I researched it when I got our tomato juices.

As Jim weaved towards the bar, Matt smiled fondly after him.

'I may have to change that data imbalance a little.' he thought.

At that moment there was a swirl of activity at the door. A large party entered, containing most of the Australian team with their entourage of minders, acolytes, and female accessories. The noise in the bar doubled as the local drinkers began to insult the Australians; who acknowledged them in return with the deprecating hand waves of people comfortable with their own superiority.

The bar filled up and a second even louder band began to play upstairs. Background musak issued from the speakers above each of the alcoves scattered around the room. Matt picked out Paul and Jimmy from the OBV and beckoned them across to the table. Jim returned clutching glasses and a bottle of red wine.

'I could see that it'll be hopeless trying to buy drinks from now on, so I decided to bring the whole bottle.'

'Cheers Jim, good thinking. I'll square up with you soon.'

Jim rolled his eyes in a droll expression but he squeezed in next to Matt and sat on the edge of the seat.

'Hi you guys, we've been looking for you everywhere!' Tasha blurted as she materialised above them.

A more reserved Electra stood beside the excited Tasha. Less welcome were their attendant companions, Shaun Hampton, and Connie Stavoupolis the famous spin bowler.

Tasha turned to the Australians. 'Connie have you met Jim and Matt? They work for TV4 sports channel and they do all the cricket filming.' she gushed.

The brothers stood up. 'I don't think we do everything Tasha,' Matt said. 'Would you ladies like to join us for a while?' He moved out from the alcove seat taking Jim with him. 'Please use our seats.'

The four men stood next to each other. Jim became excited and babbled in the presence of the two ladies. The two Australians posed, confident and assured while Matt leaned against the corner of the alcove. When their glasses materialised, the girls accepted Jim's wine. Jim a true cricket lover, couldn't be restrained from talking about cricket with two of the greatest players of the modern game. They in turn were quite happy to talk about themselves. Tasha revelled at being the centre of attention to the alcove admirers. She chattered, jumping from topic to topic. Matt and Electra stayed quiet, supplying the audience.

Time passed and a new band began to tune up on the second floor.

Tasha exclaimed. 'The Wetas are on now, lets all go and dance. They're that young band from Auckland that I was telling you about. Come on you lot!' She jumped up. 'Jim you like to dance I'm sure.'

'Yes I do.' he replied.

'Well come on then!'

Most of the people in the bar room began to move upstairs as the Wetas started their set.

Connie leaned over the table to speak to Electra. 'Would you like a dance Electra?'

She smiled back up at him. 'Thank you Connie. I think I'll sit this out for a while, but I'll be happy to join you later.'

The whole table melted away leaving the alcove empty except for Matt, Electra, and a couple who were kissing strenuously on the far side of the table.

Matt sat down opposite her. Somehow the background music from the loudspeaker had become much louder; he had to raise his voice to talk.

'I'll go and ask the barman if he can turn the volume down a bit. I can't hear you properly with all this noise going on.'

Electra watched him talk to the barman who gesticulated around the room and shook his head. He turned his back on Matt and began to serve another customer.

Matt returned. 'He says nobody else in the room is unhappy with the music level and he doesn't see why he should turn it down for one customer,' he shouted at Electra.

Matt moved around the alcove to look up at the offending loud-speaker, then down as he followed the speaker wire to where it disappeared at the top of the seat behind the entwined couple. He leant over them.

'Excuse me.' he yelled.

They paid him no attention as he reached into a jean pocket and took out a small multi tool which he opened and manipulated behind them.

While Electra looked on with interest, the music from the speaker cut out, although it continued from other speakers around the room.

'That's better, we can talk now,' Matt sat down again.

She eyed him with curiosity. 'Do you always take things into your own hands like that?'

'I asked him politely,' Matt replied. 'Sometimes it's necessary to take action on important occasions.'

'And this is one of those?'

'I think it is.'

'Ah.' A small smile played across Electra's face. 'You know that was a destructive and illegal act.'

'Yes. I'm sorry I had to do it in front of a lawyer.'

Electra studied him. 'I don't think you're sorry at all, and anyway I'm not a criminal lawyer, my speciality is patent law.'

'That's interesting.'

'Not really, but we do occasionally meet inventors. Jim tells me you're one.'

'Did he? I think he exaggerated a little. I haven't produced anything of real worth so far.' Matt looked downcast.

'Are you working on anything of importance at the moment?'

Matt shuffled in his seat and rubbed the side of his neck. 'Not especially. I have some plans of course, but at the moment I need to work to save enough funds to make progress.'

'That's a vague reply, but I shall say that I see.'

There was a brief silence between them, broken by Matt. 'Tasha seems a nice girl. She's very beautiful. I understand that her acting career is taking off in Australia.'

'Yes she is beautiful. Originally she was a model and of course she still has contracts for photo shoots with fashion magazines. She's been on stage and collected some good reviews. Now she's hoping to move into television and film acting, I think she could become a huge star.'

'Yes I think she could too,' replied Matt. 'There are similarities between you. Did you ever think of being a model?'

Electra's smile deepened and lifted the corners of her mouth as her eyes flashed. 'No I take life a little more seriously than Tasha. You can see she likes attention and loves to flirt.'

'Where as you don't I guess?' Matt asked.

'Lawyers are less likely to flirt; it's not in their job description.'

Electra reached into her bag and took out the time beam receiver disguised as a pendant. 'I wonder why someone like you would want to give this as a birthday present to the five-year old son of someone you don't know?'

Matt sat back. 'Wow, that's quite a 'why' question. Maybe you should have been a courtroom lawyer after all.' His face took on a serious aspect. 'It's a complicated story.'

'Trial me'

Matt began smoothly. 'OK, as you know Jim is a handsome, vain, young man. He loves his cricket. Excessively so in my opinion, but he's a true fanatic of the game. You wouldn't suspect that beneath his smart exterior there's a boring cricket fan. But he is a great cameraman and a fantastic photographer.' Matt looked earnest. 'I don't know if he told you about his photography?'

'He didn't, but about the pendant?'

'Of course. Now Jim's a real fan of your brother Mark. He thinks he's one of the most underrated cricketers in the country. He looks up to him and admires him tremendously.' Matt lowered his voice glancing around to check his surroundings.

'There is something else about Jim that you may not know.'

'I'm sure you are going to tell me what it is.'

'Jim is very superstitious. He doesn't like anyone to know this, but he has all sorts of quirks that regulate when, where, and how he does things. He also likes a small bet every now and then.' Matt hurried on. 'Not to excess of course, he's not a problem gambler.'

'I didn't know any of this, but the pendant?'

'I am getting to it, be patient. Jim believes in good luck charms and he honestly feels that such things influence matters. That's something that you and I would find ridiculous of course, but he's convinced these charms are important and he can't be reasoned with by science. He wants Mark to wear a lucky charm when he plays the Australians next week because he genuinely believes it will make him play better.'

Electra leant back to study him at length. 'I have some problems with your explanation,' she said. 'Firstly, why did you provide the pendant to Jim? Secondly, why didn't he make a direct approach to Mark and ask him to wear it?'

Matt slouched back on his seat. 'Electra you should use 'how' questions instead of 'why' questions. They would sound less intimidating. However I can reassure you on those two points. My provision of the pendant is easy to explain: Jim gave it to me to engrave, because I have a small engraving machine. The other question is also easy to answer. Jim's an attractive man; he dresses extremely well; he spends a lot of his spare income on his appearance, bless his heart. Since he works in the media you must realise what this indicates. One and one and one makes a hundred and eleven. Most outsiders would consider him gay by definition.'

Matt paused 'Electra you already must know of course that he's not gay?'

Electra blushed and dropped her eyes as she struggled for her reply. 'I'm very fond of him, but we haven't spent that sort of close time together and...' her voice petered out.

Matt congratulated himself. 'Two birds with one stone,' he thought as he eased out a sympathetic smile.

'Of course he isn't gay Electra, I can reassure you of that. I won't give you any details, but he has had active girlfriends before. We both have. Obviously in his situation Jim feels that he can't approach Mark with such a gift. Mark doesn't believe in those rumours but it would be best if he thought he was wearing it as a favour for his young son. To sum up therefore, Jim is worried that if he offers the pendant to Mark, it could be wrongly construed and create other damaging rumours. Although it seems incredibly contrived and far fetched, this is the best method for getting Mark to wear a good luck charm. Also in case you're still wondering, Jim hopes that John will grow up to be a good cricketer like his dad; that he will wear the pendant and forge a glorious cricket career of his own. He is a deep thinker my brother, he plans a long way ahead.'

Matt rubbed the side of his neck and moved his hand over his heart as if placing it on a bible. 'That's the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I rest my case your honour.'

Electra considered Matt's face. 'You know,' she said, 'you're as different from Jim as I am from Tasha. Superficially you're an older and rougher version, but inside I suspect there are deep murky depths.'

While Matt though about this, the Wetas finished their set and the room began to refill as their audience returned for more drinks. Tasha and Jim rushed up to the alcove flushed and excited. A small group including several of the Australians, now in some disorder from the dancing, trailed behind.

'Electra you missed some great music and dancing,' gasped a breathless Tasha.

Behind her a sullen Shaun Hampton accompanied by an aggrieved Connie Stavoupolis closed up. Sweat glistened on Connie's flushed forehead: he appeared quite drunk.

He leant over Matt and glared at Electra his voice accusing. 'Electra you told me you would be along for a dance but now we've missed our chance.'

The atmosphere became tense, but before anything could happen, a local reporter burst into the room waving his arms as he rushed over to his colleagues propped up at the bar.

'You won't believe this,' he shouted above the background music. 'The news has come in from Australia. I've got the tape of Bruce Borden's cricket interview which they played an hour ago in Australia. He must have been mad, it's full of obscenities and sex talk. I can't believe what he said in it. He talked about semen, bonking, dominance, foreplay, coming, and much much worse. He even finished with 'Get it up, up, you Aussies. Aussie condom! All hell has let loose in Australia, he's been told to fly back tonight and they'll probably fire him. It's on all their TV channels. The edited version is mostly beeps but I've got a copy of the original.'

The bar erupted in wild speculation. Shaun, Connie and the other Australian cricketers left abruptly.

'We've got to go and see what's up, see you later.' they said

The press and television media streamed from the room, eager to study the interview on any available television or computer. Jim and Tasha chattered between themselves before Jim turned to Matt.

'Matt we have to go and see this.'

Matt stretched his legs out languidly. 'Jim I can give it a miss, but why don't you go with Tasha and let me know the details later.'

The bar had emptied like the sea surging out of a rock pool. There remained the two nearby lovers, their lips glued together in limpet fashion. Around the scattered alcoves other loose, random, drunks moved like seaweed. The music died and the barman stood forlorn behind his bar where a single patron leant supping his beer.

During the commotion Electra had never taken her eyes off Matt; a puzzled expression lingered on her face.

He looked at his watch before turning to Electra. 'That's perfect timing Electra, its much quieter now, maybe we could have one more drink before I give you a lift home. What do you think?'

She nodded in silence and Matt turned towards the bar to raise his voice loud enough for the barman to hear.

'Now that I can talk to you, can we have another couple of glasses of that nice red wine please. And can you pour a large beer for my friend at the bar.'

The lone drinker turned to face them; Electra could see then that he was Opo the large sound specialist from the OBV. Opo raised his empty glass in salute to Matt and despite the distance between them, Electra caught the large wink he directed at Matt.

7

The two brothers sat in a quiet café corner. As expected the rain had washed out the remainder of the second test thus saving the New Zealand team. Some days later the attention of the media was beginning to shift from the Australian broadcasting scandal.

'Matt I've seen the full tape of that interview.' Jim hissed. 'We were right there when it was recorded and those words were not spoken. You got that tape and doctored it. You do realise that his TV station sacked BB; you ruined his career.'

'That man was a disgrace to broadcasting Jim. I won't lose any sleep over the incident. He had it coming to him. I think I performed a great favour for the discerning Australian public.'

'Opo must have helped you, the dubbing was too good.'

'Yes he did, and he was keen to help me. BB was a twat and a racist when he had the chance. We both agreed that we should remove his poisonous influence from a society that needs the quality of it's television improved.'

Jim changed the subject. 'Did Electra quiz you over the pendant?'

'Yes she did. That lady is as intelligent as she is beautiful. Frankly I don't think she believed my story. For some reason she agreed to ask Luana to influence John in the matter of his dad wearing the pendant for the Auckland match.'

'That was a long shot; I can't understand how you managed to make her do it.'

'She knows something is going on but she's curious enough to play along and see what happens. I was flexible with the truth but I don't believe that I lied as such.'

Jim was suspicious. 'What else did you say to her?'

'I said you were superstitious, that you liked to gamble, and that you have a fear of being considered gay. I think there's some truth in all of that.'

'Thanks a lot Matt.'

'I don't know what you're worried about. I know you had a date with Tasha last night. Maybe you've switched your affections?'

Jim coloured. 'I'm confused Matt. Tasha is like a tall blonde Electra, she seems to fit more into my style of life. I feel more comfortable around her.'

'Well best of luck Jim. You're certainly aiming very high; there is some serious opposition against you. But I promise I'll do my best to promote your suit.'

Jim startled 'Matt please don't interfere in my life any more than you have already. Promise me that.'

'Of course,' Matt soothed him. 'I want to help in any way I can.'

'Yeah sure Matt. Anyway I noticed that you spent plenty of time with Electra that night in Wellington. What does that mean then eh?'

'I'm not sure' Matt said thoughtfully. 'I think that because she's a beautiful woman she's wary of unwanted conversations with men. Being a lawyer she's condemned to pick over and weigh the nuances of every word she hears or reads. In respect of me I think she's intrigued by somebody a little different from her usual acquaintances.'

'I suppose you gave her a lift back to her hotel in your wreck.'

'Yes I did, and I noticed a certain fastidiousness in the way she sat on the car seat, as if she were afraid to touch her grubby but honest surroundings. I drove slowly and carefully to her hotel; so that she would be impressed by my cautious nature.' Matt gave a sigh. 'It seems from her comments that she interpreted my speed differently.'

'What did she say?'

'She laughed at me and said that if I wanted to move ahead in life then perhaps I should look for a better car, one with a working engine. Then she said it was amazing that I could trust it to get me from Auckland to Wellington and back again. It appears to me that she has lived too much of a corporate lifestyle so far.'

8

A few days later at the television studio, Matt saw Jim take a long call on his smart phone then slip out to go down to the foyer below. Matt followed him and leant over the mezzanine balcony to watch Jim in animated conversation with a small fat man who wore a trilby hat. They both consulted an open exercise book while the stranger made rapid notes in it. They shook hands and Jim headed for the stairs.

Matt ducked out of sight, but later in the day he brought up the subject with Jim. 'I couldn't help but notice your fat friend this afternoon.' he said.

'You shouldn't spy on me Matt. That's Fat Joe my Irish bookie. I'm placing some bets on the Auckland, Australia match. I felt it was worth a gamble once you told me Mark had agreed to wear the pendant.'

'Jim, I didn't know bookies existed any more. Surely you can place all the bets you need at a betting shop.'

Jim looked sheepish. 'Fat Joe isn't a licensed bookie. He takes special bets at higher odds for his personal clients.' he said.

Mat folded his arms. 'So, he's illegal. That could mean trouble. Do you owe him any money?'

'That's none of your business. Fat Joe doesn't mind small debts; I make sure I keep my slate clean so I'm changing that subject now. Who made Mark agree to wear the pendant?'

'Well Electra influenced Luana who was happy to go along with the lucky charm idea,' Matt said. Once Mark agreed, Electra phoned me to confirm this, but then she tried to cross-examine me again. I held firm to my story until she hung up on me.' Matt raised his coffee cup to his lips. 'OK how much did you bet Jim?'

'I put a thousand dollars on Auckland winning the game at twenty to one.'

Matt choked.

'Then I put five hundred dollars on Mark scoring a hundred runs at twenty to one; another five hundred dollars on him getting five wickets at thirty-three to one; then I took odds of one hundred to one on all those three events happening. I put five hundred dollars down for that. If all of those bets come off I'll win ninety-six thousand dollars on top of my stake of two and a half thousand dollars.'

'You are fucking crazy Jim, that's a lot of money to lose. I thought you only gambled ten dollars here and there.'

'Usually I do. I guess these bets are a reflection of my confidence in your scientific abilities.'

Matt drew himself up to deliver his answer. 'Don't you think it's a bit unethical to take advantage of something we might influence unfairly?'

'It's no worse than your ethics surrounding the items that you borrowed or stole for your research.' Jim replied.

Matt gave up. 'OK, Touché, you win, or rather I hope you win.'

'Another thing Matt, if I win, then I'll forget about all the money you owe me. That will be an incentive for you to try hard with this experiment.'

Matt threw up his hands in surrender.

'Matt I've been invited to dinner with Mark and Luana tomorrow night. It will be John's birthday the next day, the first day of the Australia match. Tasha will be there and Electra is coming as well. I suggested that you could make up the numbers, so you're invited too, if you want to come.'

Matt thought for a moment. 'OK, pick me up at seven. I need time to organise a present for John.'

That evening when Jim called at Matt's house his bother amazed him with a new-found tidiness. This was the first time he could remember his brother making a serious effort to improve his appearance. Matt came to his door holding two medium-sized parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied up with green nylon twine. On the way to Mark's house a delighted Jim teased Matt about who he was trying to impress; for once Matt didn't have a ready response.

Luana opened the door to welcome them both in. Mark had married a petite Māori lady blessed with deep common sense and quiet practical strength. She brought with her a large extended family that was always dropping in to offer help or share their current woes. By the time John was born he already had more than thirty cousins together with five uncles, three aunts and multiple distant relatives who were never distant in any practical way.

When they were all seated at the dining table, Matt laid down his two mysterious parcels and Tasha began to flirt outrageously with Jim. Matt could see that his brother was already starry-eyed in her presence. Luana and Mark regarded this with some amusement.

Matt handled a three-way conversation as Mark and Luana hadn't met him before. Being gracious hosts, Matt interested them. He felt an immediate comfort in their company, tinged with a little guilt over the secrecy of his 'project.'

Together with Electra, table talk resolved into a four way conversation while Jim and Tasha talked intent only on themselves. Occasionally Tasha interrupted the quartet when she broke out in squeals of laughter over some topic of private amusement.

Later Matt and Electra fenced backwards and forwards as they released small amounts of personal information in turn to each other. Matt was certain that Electra knew he was hiding something but he found it strangely attractive that she was patient enough not to press him further.

The conversation finally turned to the big cricket game tomorrow: this also allowed the introduction of the lucky charm.

'Tasha this is the birthday present that Jim bought for John.' Luana produced the pendant from the little box. She gave a surreptitious wink in the direction of Jim. 'John's in bed now but he asked his dad if he would wear it specially for him tomorrow during the big game.'

Mark took the pendant and re read the inscription on the back. 'I decided there was no harm in it.' Will he be able to see it on TV while I'm playing? ' He said looking towards Jim.

'Of course,' Jim replied quickly. 'It'll easily be visible. I'll make sure of that.'

Matt now hastened to emphasise that he was sure that it would be a lucky sporting charm for John when he began to play cricket in the future. His subterfuge had gone very well, although he noticed Electra looking at him coolly before a small secret smile flitted like a sun beam across her face.

Over coffee and liqueurs, Matt opened the first of his two mystery parcels. It was a photo album in which Jim had mounted a portfolio of his studio photographs, taken in his earlier days as a fashion photographer. Matt knew they were excellent photos although Jim with his obsessional personality had never rated them as perfect. The Armstrongs' agreed with him over the quality of the work and Tasha declared that Jim simply must photograph her before she went back to Australia. She announced that she was going out with Shaun Hampton tomorrow, but she would be happy to pose for Jim as soon as there was spare time. Jim's face clouded at the mention of his rival, but he was so obviously excited by her offer that Matt felt pleased at this partial success.

He glanced at Electra and she gave him a look which told him that she appreciated the skill in which he had promoted the event.

'Have you any other designs this evening?' she probed him.

'Yes Electra, I have another design by way of this small invention.'

He lifted up the second of the two parcels and unwrapped it with care. Inside were two items. A folded piece of material which resembled stiff backing paper and a small implement that looked like a pen torch.

'This is my gift for John's birthday.' he told the assembled family.

He unfolded the material and tacked it up on a vacant part of the lounge wall. The torch thing produced a thin ruby-red light beam which Matt directed at a different part of the wall.

'This is a simple laser beam and if you watch I can change its colours.' He pressed a series of small buttons changing the beam from red, to yellow, to green, then blue. He swivelled the back of the torch to show them how the beam could be made tiny or thicker. Luana's hand flew to her mouth and she let out a small gasp of delight at the display.

Matt continued. 'The real use of this device is not in the colours that it produces, but what the properties of the material on the wall will allow it to do.'

He pointed the 'torch' at the unfolded screen, turned down the red beam to a tiny width and wrote his name in red letters, Then in rapid succession he widened the beam, changed colours and painted a small cartoon figure under which he wrote the name John. As they looked in amazement the picture began to fade and it disappeared in a minute.

'I can fix the colours by pressing this other button, which would make the sheet a painting or a drawing. Or else you can simply make short-lived pictures repetitively. There is no heat or danger; you can't damage anything or anybody by pointing it at them. The torch only interacts with the screen material. I have a spare supply of that, its easy to make more. At the moment I regard this invention as a children's drawing and painting toy but of course there could be other applications.' Matt said.

Luana gave Matt a hug. 'Thanks Matt, this is an incredible present. John is going to love it.'

Mark suggested that there would be a large market for this type of toy, but Matt shrugged his shoulders saying that it was a postponed project that he wasn't sure he would finish. Most of the fun had been in the invention but he dreaded the thought of marketing and promoting it.

At the end of a wonderful evening Jim and Matt wished Mark good luck for his game and promised to visit him in the course of the day when Auckland were batting. In his usual batting position at number seven there might be enough free time they hoped!

The four Armstrong's came out to wave the brothers off. At the car window Mark, thoughtful as usual, wished them a trouble-free day tomorrow with no technical glitches.

The brothers glanced at each other before Matt assured Mark that they would both be supporting his efforts in the best possible way.

After they drove off Electra trailed behind the others as they went back inside. As she walked she wondered why those words sounded so significant.

9

A good crowd for a Friday game were gathering at Eden Park, Three thousand spectators had inflated their pillows and applied their sun screen when the two captains came out to toss the coin. Rod Beecham the Auckland captain won it and elected to open the batting.

The excellent result from the toss meant that Mark would not be needed for an early bowling stint. The brothers decided to run a trial by focussing on Rod Beecham who was one of the opening batsmen. Jim and his camera were positioned at right angles to the batsmen. From here the beam could be directed to both ends of the wicket where it would pick up the batsman whichever way he faced the bowling. A camera placed behind a bowlers arm could only work on the batsman facing it at the opposite end of the wicket.

Jim's headphones clicked. 'Can you hear me Jim?' called Matt.

'Yeah, loud and clear.'

'Can you see any problems?'

'Nothing serious, except I'm a little worried because from this position, I'm not certain that the pendant will be in line of sight when a batsman is playing at the north-west end. He could be turned sideways enough for his right shoulder to block the beam. It would depend on his stance and I've got a horrible feeling that Mark likes to face a bit to leg side.'

'Then we can only hope he doesn't turn enough to interrupt the beam.'

'One other thing Matt. When you get the chance, go and find Mark and make sure he doesn't stick the pendant inside his shirt out of sight. Think of some excuse for him to keep it in the open.'

'OK, over and out.'

The morning play meandered on at the typical pace of a four-day game. It was a good batting wicket and because the air was dry, there was little swing on the ball. The Australians put plenty of effort into their bowling; the bounce from the new ball made life difficult for the local batsmen. Still they made steady progress as they accumulated runs towards the reasonable score of 43 without loss at the morning drinks break.

Matt ducked out of the OBV and made his way to the players dressing room. He waited outside until an official relayed his presence to Mark, who came to the door to invite him in.

Matt looked about him, curious, as this was the first time he had seen inside a cricket locker room. Clothes were strewn everywhere; discarded bats and pads lay on the surrounding benches. Scattered fragments of dry grass covered a wooden floor already pitted by countless stud holes. The smell of eucalyptus liniment pervaded the air and caught him in the back of his throat.

The large room opened on to the balcony where most of the team sat to watch the play. Some of them preferred to follow the game and the commentary from a wide-screen television in one corner of the changing room.

'Well Matt, how are things down in the van?'

'All fine Mark. You look pretty relaxed, are you nervous at all?'

'I guess I'm too old for that now. My turn to bat will come sooner or later; I intend to concentrate and do my best.'

Matt could see the pendant tucked inside Mark's shirt with just the chain showing.

'I'm pleased you're wearing your lucky charm Mark. I'll bet John will be watching at home and looking out for it. Maybe you should let it all hang out as it were, and then Jim can zoom his camera on it when he gets the chance.'

'Do you think I should? I thought it might swing about too much when I play a shot or run in to bowl.'

'That might be true, but I read in a sports psychology book that openly displayed pendants create subtle images that subconsciously distract bowlers or batsmen. In fact, I don't know why the cricket authorities haven't banned them already.' declared Matt. He continued, 'Mark, I feel that this will be your lucky day. That good luck charm will have a part to play in it.'

Mark chuckled. 'Matt I don't believe a word of it, but I'm wearing it for John and the superstitious pair of you. What would you like to drink? Tea, coffee, or a soft drink?'

As they sat, Mark cast a mischievous look over his cup at Matt. 'Electra and Tasha are coming here at lunch time, but I'm not sure if they will be sitting with the Australians or with us. I guess you and Jim may worry about that?'

Jim will feel it, but I think Electra will be happy to keep Tash company wherever she decides to sit.' Matt replied.

'Indeed!' said Mark. 'I gather you don't mind either way then?'

'Of course not.' Matt was vehement. 'We'll be too busy for most of the day anyway.'

When play resumed, the Australians made a bowling change and took their first wicket. Another followed quickly in the next over. The bowlers sensed the chance of a breakthrough and ran in with renewed vigour forcing the batsmen to play defensive strokes from their crease. Runs dwindled to a trickle.

Worse followed. Third slip took a brilliant catch, followed by a controversial leg before wicket decision. Suddenly the score was 92 for 4 wickets. The local crowd showed some dismay but were not surprised by this change in fortune; genuine kiwi cricket fans are philosophical followers of their teams.

Matt's voice crackled in Jim's ear. 'Jim get ready, I can see on the TV that Mark has padded up. There's half an hour to go to lunch but I think our boy may be out there pretty soon.'

In his small confined compartment in the OBV, Matt could monitor all the electrical inputs and connections to the cameras. He watched the game on a small television monitor, but he preferred to listen to the expert national radio commentary of Fred Hindmarsh and Bill Jablonski. It was also easier to turn down the volume of the small battered radio placed nearby, when he needed to speak to Jim.

Within a minute of the brothers' preliminary chat, a loud appeal went up and another batsman began a despondent trudge back to the pavilion, his bat trailing on the ground beside him.

'Jesus Christ.' muttered Matt. 'Not even a hundred runs on the board.'

He made urgent contact. 'This is it Jim. I'll start the beam as soon as Mark takes guard; I'll let you know if it's working.'

Matt felt his heart quicken. His mouth became dry as he watched Mark take his stance to survey the oval and note the Australian fielding positions. It was time to produce the eons. The box containing the time beam generator lay out of sight in a cupboard below his central position. A small innocuous control panel rested beside him within easy reach of his left hand. He moved the slider to bring the beam up to full power, confirming on the eon meter that their levels had reached the full amount required for a successful time advance. The OBV lights flickered as the load came on causing alarmed exclamations to erupt from other parts of the van. Matt prepared himself for the difficult balancing act between the competing power requirements of the broadcasting equipment and the time beam generator.

He whispered into his microphone. 'The beam's at full strength and the link is complete. Can you see anything Jim?'

'There's a faint shimmer around Mark,' Jim reported back. 'You wouldn't notice anything unless you were looking for it.'

'Good lets see how he plays now.' replied Matt.

The Australian bowler charged in and produced a bouncer for Mark's first ball. It dug in half way down the wicket before rearing up to head height. Mark stood erect, inching his head back enough to avoid being hit. The ball carried on and the leaping wicket keeper took it at full stretch. The bowler followed through and paused to glare at Mark for a few seconds.

Mark looking puzzled, walked down the pitch to inspect and tap the spot where the ball landed.

Bill Jablonski the radio commentator spoke. 'That was a very fast bouncer but Armstrong seemed unconcerned by it. It doesn't look as if they will intimidate him. What do you think Fred?'

'I agree Bill. He saw that bouncer very early which is always a good sign. Auckland need some steady batting now to stop this collapse, lets hope they can get a solid partnership going.'

The next two balls also seemed to puzzle Mark but he played them with a solid defence.

'Armstrong is getting his eye in Fred, he looks comfortable out there.'

'Yes indeed Bill, I hope it lasts.'

The bowler charged in once again to hurl down yet another bouncer which Mark dispatched without any effort by swinging on his heels and hooking it for six runs.

'Woh!' said Bill. 'That's a wonderful six. He picked that ball out and was in a perfect position to hook it into the middle of the stand. The crowd loved that shot.'

Matt looked at his monitor in time to catch the slow motion replay. The radio commentators were studying the same picture.

'It seemed as if he was expecting that ball,' Fred said. 'Feet in position, beautiful balance; there was never the slightest danger of a top edge.'

The frustrated bowler stood a metre from Mark glowering at him; batter and bowler exchanged words which were not audible.

'Bill, Chapman didn't like that treatment did he.'

'No Fred he didn't and I don't think they're discussing the weather. Armstrong is smiling at him. Chapman's not going to like that either.'

Lance Chapman ran in again for the last ball of his over; firing it down the wicket in line with the off stump. Mark leaned back and stroked it through cover for four runs, the ball neatly bisecting two fielders at such speed that neither could move before it thudded into the boundary fence.

'My goodness Bill did you see that? A magnificent shot, perfect placement, and four more runs to Armstrong. That's ten runs off the over. What a refreshing change in fortune for Auckland.'

Rod Beecham carefully batted out the last over before lunch.

Matt reduced the power of the time beam generator and leant back in his seat. Fierce joy surged inside him as he banged his hands in triumph on his console. He engaged his microphone.

'Jim we're on our way.'

10

Four days later the two bothers sat exhausted in Jim's Auckland apartment. Around them lay empty beer bottles and congealed pizza boxes. An unshaven Matt read aloud from the morning newspapers to a bleary eyed Jim who had returned from the nearby dairy. The Auckland, Australia match result had made headline news in the papers and was the lead story on all national television channels. Mark's fans had invaded the pitch at the end of the game. Several photos showed him being escorted off the ground under the protection of police and match officials.

Mark finished not out in both his two innings scoring a century in each. 123 runs then 103 runs. He scored almost half of the team's total runs. The Australians used all their bowlers in an attempt to dismiss him, but he took runs off them to every quarter of the ground. Shaun Hampton bowled at speeds of more than a 160 kilometres per hour; nevertheless Mark hooked him on three occasions for six runs. The commentators couldn't recall such treatment of Hampton in any other international cricket match.

The Australian first innings started well when their two opening batsmen made a rapid 100 run partnership. After lunch Rod Beecham began to rotate his bowlers in short spells hoping that the changes would upset the momentum of the Australian openers. Eventually he called up Mark for a short stint of bowling while he considered the option of bringing on a spin bowler.

Mark galvanised the spectators when he clean bowled the two openers in his first over. They both played at the ball very late and the commentators speculated at length about their good touch against fast bowlers but their weakness against a slower change bowler.

The Australians continued to suffer until Mark finished his bowling spell to loud applause. His figures were 6 wickets for 38 runs in a continuous 10 overs stint. He bowled four of his wickets; the other two were leg before wicket. The newspapers described his bowling as a mixture of brilliant deceptive balls interspersed by ordinary deliveries which didn't seem too troublesome.

The Australian first innings ended for 213 runs, leaving the rejuvenated Auckland team to begin their second innings with high hopes. In similar fashion to the first innings their top order were skittled by the Australian bowlers until Mark coming in at number seven, saved the team again. The media consensus was that in both his innings he had played classical strokes for most deliveries, but there were several times when he looked uncertain and was fortunate not to lose his wicket. The usually superb Australian fielders dropped him three times in the outfield; for some reason they displayed poor reactions to the ball as it came towards them. Mark rode his luck and reaped his reward.

In their second innings, the touring side with national pride at stake, started an aggressive run chase until in the second hour, Rod called on Mark to bowl again. The large final day crowd leaned forwards in their seats to see if the impossible could be performed again.

Mark's second bag of 5 wickets for 30 runs comprised all the top order batsmen. The removal for 193 runs, of the shattered Aussies, left the Auckland district side victors with half a day to spare.

The post match interviews featured a chastened Doug Delaney and an ecstatic Rod Beecham. Journalists from all types of media besieged Mark Armstrong, the man of the match, demanding multiple interviews.

He gave a restrained description of his innings, the best of his career with bat and ball. When asked about his performance, he admitted that he had no idea how he managed to bat and bowl so well. Often he had felt in total control of each shot played, but at other times he had been very lucky to survive. He wondered if his form could have been due to the lucky pendant his son gave him to wear for the match. At that point he pulled the pendant out from his shirt front and held it up for the cameras to see. When Matt saw this he switched off the television.

'I'm not sure I wanted him to show that to the public, it could complicate matters.'

The two brothers were under immense stress for the whole match. As they had suspected, sometimes Mark didn't face the camera properly when batting or bowling. At those times the beam failed around him. Then they could only watch and hope that his usual cricketing skills would be enough. It was by random luck that he offered his three catches on time assisted deliveries when the ball came on too quickly for the fieldsmen. There was one agonising unassisted over where Mark struggled against Shaun Hampton. He played and missed several times; the umpire turned down two lbw calls.

The time beam generator degraded the performance of the other equipment in the OBV. The boss approached Matt throughout the match concerning the loss of picture on his monitors. Matt rummaged around pretending to find the source of the problem he was creating. By the end of the match the strain of balancing the two opposing requirements left him exhausted.

Each night the brothers analysed their performance and made plans for the next day. Their immersion in the experiment prevented any spare energy for socialising; consequently when Jim received two calls from Tasha inviting him to parties, he made excuses both times.

After the match the brothers celebrated to excess. Matt excited that his invention worked; Jim ecstatic over his huge betting coup.

It was a surprise therefore, when Jim's doorbell rang to interrupt their newspaper reading. He opened the door to find Tasha and Electra standing in the corridor outside. Tasha wrinkled her nose as she smelt the unkempt Jim, dressed in clothes that he must have been wearing for three or more days.

'I'm not sure if I want to go in Electra. What do you think? Jim looks disgusting and he smells as well.' she said.

'We could risk it.' Electra suggested.

'Please come in.' said Jim, who with a start, remembered his manners.

The two women inched their way past him into his lounge and inspected their surroundings guardedly.

'This room is a pig sty,' Tasha declared. 'I don't know how you could live like this.'

Matt swept fish and chip wrappers from the couch before he motioned the ladies to sit down, which they did after a close inspection and some brushing of crumbs on to the floor.

'We're sorry about this; we've been catching up on sleep after our hard work during the match.' Matt apologised.

'I'm amazed that this short game was so much harder than the test match.' Electra replied.

'Well the excitement was intense and Mark's performance kept us wound up the whole time. It's taken a lot out of us.' Matt explained.

Tasha glanced at Electra to check. 'Well we wondered if you wanted to take us out somewhere today. Jim you promised you would do a photo shoot for me.'

Jim's face brightened. 'That's a great idea Tash, we can go to the park or the beach, and have lunch afterwards. Also I need to collect my winnings from my bookie. He won't be pleased to see me, but today it's my turn to take money off him.

'What did you bet on?' Electra asked with interest.

'Um... basically that Mark would score a century and take five wickets, and that Auckland would win the game. If I'd known he would score two hundreds and take two lots of five wickets, I could have made a lot more money.

'How much did you bet, and how much did you win?' Tasha asked before Electra could.

'I can't reveal that to you,' Jim mumbled. It's sufficient to say that we can all have a good time today, courtesy of me.'

Tasha gave Jim a typical female look, but Matt intervened to divert the subject.

'I thought you would be out with the Australians today Tash, you as well Electra.'

'We would have been if we could. Believe us, you weren't our first choices. Unfortunately their coach is so pissed off with their performance that they have an extra net training today.' Electra said as she picked up a discarded tabloid and read the headline.

'The newspapers all demand Mark's selection for the Black Caps after his performance. Do you think that's a possibility Matt?'

'Yes I do. It will be impossible to ignore him now. The public will go berserk if they pass him over. The Black Caps have been lucky twice already and the selectors have nothing to lose. Also, if they selected him he would bring in a big crowd to his home ground at Eden Park. Who else has any form against the Aussies?'

Electra regarded Matt thoughtfully. 'So we have a 34-year-old professional cricket player, who is on the eve of retirement; who has never been capped by his country; who produces cricket skills that he never had before.' she mused.

Matt looked affronted. 'Electra I think you are being very unfair to your brother. He's a vastly underrated player. Jim and I have always believed he had much more to offer. This is his big chance and he deserves to succeed.'

Jim moved off in a hurry to shower, change his clothes, and collect his cameras. He left with Tasha in his car to collect her ensemble from Electra's flat. Tasha also expressed a desire to meet a real bookmaker, but she may have wanted to know how much money Jim had won. They agreed to meet up for lunch at Cornwall Park. After the others left, Electra discovered that Tasha had left with Electra's car keys, meaning there was no alternative but to suffer another drive by Matt in his ancient and disreputable Corolla.

Matt dressed in tight-fitting spare clothes from Jim's large wardrobe, returned from his shower to find the lounge more presentable. In his absence Electra had cleared up most of the mess, filling the dishwasher with dirty plates but leaving the remainder for the brothers to deal with later.

They drove in silence to the park, the day was already hot and since the air conditioning in the Corolla had expired some years before, they wound down both the front windows. Outside the sky was cloudless; many people were out walking; enjoying the good weather.

On the long dual carriageway towards the park Matt drew up the Corolla at a set of red lights. A low, modified, black Subaru drew up on his inside, it's powerful engine throbbing as it's young driver revved it. The engine noise briefly masked the antisocial thump of loud base speakers, while from inside the car, the driver and his three passengers gesticulated and abused nearby pedestrians.

The driver leaned out of his window to leer at Electra.

'Hey, you don't deserve someone like her granddad,' he yelled to Matt. 'Why don't you let her ride with us in some real wheels?'

Electra scowled across at him. 'Why don't you piss off with your noisy toy, you little wanker.' she called back.

'Ooh you dirty bitch,' yelled the driver. 'I'll race you for her granddad,' he shouted at Matt as he gunned the Subaru's engine.

The lights turned green and the Subaru accelerated away with a squeal of smoking tyres. Matt moved away smoothly, unconcerned as the black car shrank into the distance ahead. He grinned at Electra.

'I'm sorry I can't race him today Electra, I'm on my best behaviour with you in the car.'

Electra burst out laughing. 'Sure Matt. When you're ready to fire up this old Corolla, warn me in advance so that I can strap myself in tightly.' She was still laughing when they entered the park and pulled up at the restaurant.

Jim and Tasha arrived soon after, and they decided to do the photo shoot before lunch. Tasha carried her valise with several sets of clothes into the restaurant toilet which she used as a changing room for each set. A small crowd soon gathered to ogle her as she posed in various stances; leaning against trees; sitting coy on a bench with her sunglasses held in her mouth; or standing by the flower beds with her hair tossed back.

She presented a beautiful sight with her long blonde hair and her tall, fine, figure displayed to full effect. When she switched to a brief bikini outfit with a flowing cape, the crowd responded with appreciative whistles. Many cameras and smart phone cameras were already in use as several onlookers recognised her from fashion magazines and her television appearances.

Jim looked in his element as he feverishly issued instructions from behind his camera.

'Now Tasha, smile, throw back you hair, now pout, good, now look mean, yes, now some more leg, yes that's good.

As the show continued Electra and Matt sat at a nearby table.

'I don't understand how they can ignore all these people while they pose and perform like that,' Matt said. 'I'm uncomfortable just looking at them.'

'That's the way models and photographers work. They have no embarrassment at all. I think they love it. Look at them, so happy!' Electra replied.

'Yes they are.' agreed Matt. 'That's great to see. I think they suit each other very well.'

Electra turned to him. 'I really hope so too. There's the problem however of the famous Australian boyfriend. Tasha does have a bad habit of being vain and attention seeking. Underneath that veneer however, she's a great girl.'

Soon the 'girl' and her attendant photographer came over to join them. Jim put away his camera, the crowd thinned, and a normal atmosphere returned.

While they ate Tasha told them of her impressions of Fat Joe.

'He looked like a character out of a movie. Fat, seedy, and cunning. He handed a small bag over to Jim but you should have seen his face. He was really unhappy to part with it. He recognised me and asked if I was Mark's sister and I said I was. He asked me if I went out with Shaun Hampton and even though it was none of his business, I said I did. He said that was most interesting and that he hoped we would meet again. He gave me the shudders so I decided not to answer any more questions. I was really glad when Jim said we had to leave.'

Matt looked concerned. 'I wonder what that all interest means. Jim tells me that Fat Joe's a small time crook as well as a bookmaker. I'm not too happy about their association.'

Tasha flung her arms back in exuberance. 'Let's forget about him. It's too nice a day to waste time on that creep. How do you like this outfit Matt?'

She stood up to pirouette without shame in front of them and the other diners. She wore a low- cut tank top with a fashionable logo emblazoned on the front and back. The logos printed in a metallic like substance, glinted in the sun.

Electra and Jim were both complimentary but when Electra looked at Matt to gauge his reaction she saw him focussing instead on the logos with an odd expression on his face.

'You look nice in that outfit Tasha.' he said after a long pause. 'With those logos you don't need to wear any jewellery either.'

11

The lunch time conversation in the OBV became heated when the radio announced the New Zealand team to play Australia two days later.

The national selectors had bowed to the inevitable weight of public opinion and picked Mark Armstrong. The OBV team raised several doubts regarding the award of a first cap to an ageing cricketer on the verge of retirement. But as Opo lucidly pointed out, there were piss all other players who had done anything against the visitors. Besides, he stated, if Armstrong didn't fire again, he would become just another player on the long list of one test failures.

Mike Spragg suggested that the odds of another brilliant performance two games in a row would be huge against such world-class opposition.

Jim and Opo who were the gamblers on the broadcasting team, spent time debating these odds and deciding what bets to lay on Mark's début game.

Matt meanwhile sat uncommunicative at the small table with a worried look on his face. He stood up to address the team in general.

'I think I need a break and some fresh air.' He flicked his eyes towards Jim who responded alertly.

'I'll join you Matt. See you guys later.'

Outside, away from the van, Jim questioned his brother. 'OK what's on your mind, there isn't a problem is there?'

'Jim we need to change the way that Mark receives the time beam. The pendant was out of line of sight too often; we were bloody lucky that Mark didn't get out because of it. Some of his bowling was badly affected as well. We need a receiver that works from all angles using one camera.'

'What have you got in mind?'

'I can use the words printed on the front and back of the shirts.' replied Matt. 'If they're printed with a metallic impregnated component, I can adapt it to receive and disperse the signal. The receiver should work whether it's wide and thin, or small and concentrated. I need you to borrow Mark's match shirts before the game so I can impregnate the letters of his name with a receptive layer. Then we can forget about the lucky charm pendant.'

'We can't steal a shirt from his cricket bag, besides I'm sure they use three match shirts which they change all the time.' Jim replied.

Matt rubbed his chin. 'We have to get close to him before the game starts and have access to his kit.'

They walked further in silence before Matt stopped and turned.

'Didn't you tell me that Luana packs Mark's bag for him the night before his games after she's ironed his whites?'

'Yeah.'

'Ok, then we prepare other cricket shirts before hand and substitute them.'

Matt concentrated. 'We need an invitation to Mark's house the night before the game. The trouble is that there's no birthday party this time. I guess we could call on him to wish him luck or something like that.'

'Sure we can arrive with a bundle of cricket shirts, that's going to work.' Jim said with heavy sarcasm. 'Or else we can try to smuggle them into the changing room. If he is already kitted up, we think of a way to persuade him to change his shirt. That will be easy as well.'

Matt was not listening. 'Right, this is what we do then. I'll research the brand of shirts the team uses and prepare some copies. You tell Mark that we want to take him, Luana, and the sisters if they want to come, out for a meal. Say that we want to take him out to relax any nerves he could have the night before the big game. Then we play it by ear.'

When they returned to the van Mike Spragg approached Jim.

'Jim, some guys came asking for you about ten minutes ago. I didn't like the look of them so I told them you were away from work this afternoon. The one who did all the talking said he'd come back and see you later. He said 'Tell Jim that Fat Joe called and wants to see him about matters of mutual benefit.'

Mike continued. 'Who's this Fat Joe? He had a couple of large Polynesian sidekicks with him; they didn't say anything, just hid behind their shades.'

Jim looked worried. 'Fat Joe's my bookie. I won a lot of money betting on Mark's performance in the Auckland match. He doesn't like losing that sort of money.

'Jim you should avoid this character,' Matt said. 'Why not use the TAB like most other gamblers. If you're going to make more bets I suggest you spread them around somewhere else. We don't need any new trouble now.'

On the Friday morning, when Matt arrived at work an excited Jim met him, pulling him aside for a word.

'It's all arranged, I've booked the restaurant tonight. John's grandma is going to baby-sit him. I told Tasha that I'd finished her photos and naturally she wants everyone to look at them, preferably at dinner.' He looked sideways at Matt. 'She said she would make sure she brought Electra along. The Aussie boyfriends are being kept under wraps before the game. Rumour is, that their managers don't want any more bad publicity since the episode with Bruce Borden.'

Matt shrugged his shoulders. 'That's good news for you Jim. I completed our clothing project last night; the finished results are at home. You can look at them when you pick me up tonight.'

12

They arrived early at the restaurant in the Viaduct basin. While they waited in the car for the others to arrive, Matt opened a small case.

'There was only enough compound for two shirts.'

Jim studied them critically. 'Not bad, the logos and the fern seem perfect to me.'

He held one of the shirts up to the car's indoor light. As he turned it over for inspection there was a slight glinting effect from the block letters MARK ARMSTRONG printed on the front and back of the shirt.

'This is a good job Matt; it looks just like the official shirts. You've overlaid the letters perfectly. I'm beginning to feel we're going to get away with this.'

The lights of Electra's car swung into the car park. Matt hurried to take the shirts and fold them out of sight in the bag. Jim meantime opened his door to wave an enthusiastic greeting to the four Armstrongs as they came across to meet them.

They made an interesting group as they entered the bright upmarket restaurant. Mark tall and burly, dressed in an open necked shirt with the now famous pendant visible at his neck, walked in the company of his small, serene wife. The two sisters followed, dressed almost like twins in sheer party frocks which clung to the curves of their figures. Tasha the tall willowy blonde with the film star looks linked arms with her smaller dark-haired sister. Matt in jeans and a blue shirt brought up the rear trailing the slim, dapper Jim in his modish suit and cravat.

The tuxedoed Maître d', hurried across to welcome them while the surrounding conversation dropped then rose again as the other diners paused to watch them.

'So pleased to welcome you to our restaurant' the Maître d' trilled. 'This is our best table overlooking the harbour.'

He pulled out seats for the ladies, all the time muttering 'charming, charming.' Turning to Mark he wished him the very best of luck for the game tomorrow on behalf of himself and all his staff.

'We would like to offer you Champagne to begin your meal, with the compliments of the house.' He handed them their menus with a flourish, gave a small Gallic bow, and hurried away.

'Well! said Mark, that's a bit embarrassing. I didn't realise there was such enthusiasm in town for the test.'

'You underrate yourself Mark,' Matt said as he looked at his menu. 'There's been a lot of talk about last week's game. The New Zealand public have suffered years of cricket humiliation at the hands of the Australians. Now they hope that we can pull off a miracle series win based purely on your presence in the team.'

'Wow there's no pressure then.' replied Mark. 'You know I still don't know what happened in that game. I guess I'm afraid I may never play as well again. It seemed that I had all the time in the world.'

The champagne arrived. Matt poured for them and raised his glass.

'On behalf of your closest fans, represented here by Jim and myself, we wish you all the best for the game tomorrow. May all you strokes be scoring ones, and may all the balls you bowl be deceiving ones.'

He turned to the sisters who sat side by side. 'Also on behalf of Jim and myself, we toast the presence of your two beautiful sisters and thank you for being the catalyst to our meeting them.'

Tasha beamed at him and clapped her hands, while Electra gave her usual reserved smile. Her eyes shone however, showing that his compliment had pleased her.

Matt continued with a toast to Luana.

'To Luana Armstrong, the true support of Mark without whom he would not achieve his full potential.'

'Come on Matt, you're overdoing things a bit now.' Luana said laughing.

'Not at all, I'm very serious. There is one final toast.' He clinked his glass against Jim's. 'To us bro, for the quality of our work in the next five days.'

The evening passed in great style. Autograph hunters came up several times to interrupt Mark and wish him well. Sometimes they asked Tasha for her autograph too. Electra and Matt found this amusing; as they caught each others eyes at these moments.

After the main course, Jim produced his album and turned the pages to show Tasha's photos from their shoot. They displayed Tasha in her most appealing way. She gasped with pleasure and insisted on giving Jim a long kiss which flustered him. He surrendered the album to her with the stated hope that it would help her portfolio for any future auditions.

Later while they discussed having coffee back at Mark's house, Jim looked up to see the most unwelcome sight of Fat Joe and the larger of his two minders bearing down on their table.

Tasha had noticed them too. She hissed. 'Jim here's that awful man we met the other day.'

Fat Joe smiled benignly at the seated table.

'Good evening ladies and gentlemen. 'May I introduce myself. I am Joseph Riley and this is my colleague Sione.' Sione showed them his white teeth under his sunglasses.

'Jim and I are close friends through our occasional mutual business. I hope you don't mind this intrusion. I want to offer Mr Armstrong my best wishes for his performance in the test match tomorrow. I wish this despite the fact that I have a vested interest in his failure. You may know from Jim that I am a bookmaker and that Mr Armstrong is the source of many bets for this game.'

'Then I can only hope to do well enough to let you come out even.' an amiable Mark replied.

'Fat Joe's eyes fixed on the pendant showing at Mark's throat. 'I see you have your lucky pendant on you tonight. Will you be wearing it tomorrow?'

'Yes I will.' Mark replied. 'My son expects me to wear it, so whatever reservations I have about its effects I will wear it to please him.'

Fat Jo turned to the two sisters. 'I would like to compliment your two most elegant sisters, Miss Tasha, whom I have already had the pleasure of meeting, and Miss Electra, whom I understand is a well-respected lawyer here in Auckland.'

Electra inclined her head.

Fat Joe turned to Mark and proffered him a business card extracted from a silver case.

'I hope we can meet again soon to discuss matters of mutual interest.'

Fat Joe gave an effusive and emollient farewell before he left the restaurant followed by his minder in the fashion of a small tug pulling it's ship out to sea.

Before this unexpected event could be debated Matt turned the conversation back to cricket.

'Mark are you fully prepared for tomorrow with all your kit sorted and ready?'

Luana replied for Mark. 'Yes he is, I always pack his cricket bag and leave it ready by the front door. He's hopeless really. He forgets so many things that we decided long ago it would be best if I prepared his kit.'

'Well, that's lucky for you Mark.' Matt replied.

At the close of their meal they agreed to go to Mark's house for coffee. The two cars became separated on the way there after contrary traffic lights delayed the brothers and their way was blocked by a cinema crowd that spilled out to block the street in front of them.

When they finally reached the house a scene of wild disruption greeted them. All the house lights were ablaze and they found Tasha crying in the lounge being comforted by Luana. Electra knelt beside an armchair in which Mark lay slumped with a large cut to his left forehead. Electra was applying pressure to it with a hand towel to stem the bleeding.

Matt took in the components of the scene in a few seconds.

'What happened?' he asked Electra.

Electra looked grimly at him. 'Mark was walking ahead of us to the front door when a man jumped out from behind the bushes and knocked him to the ground. It all happened so quickly.' Electra's voice was clear and her hands were steady as they pressed on the towel. Her face was dirty and a rip in her frock exposed almost a complete thigh. Matt's eyes followed further down to see that she was missing one of her high heels.

'Let me have a look at it.' Matt said as he leant to relieve Electra of the towel. Mark was fully conscious and had no other injuries apart from the cut which had stopped bleeding with Electra's pressure. Some bruising was beginning to show on his neck where the pendant was missing.

'This cut will have to be stitched at A&E.' Matt said. He turned to Jim who was at his shoulder.

'Can you help Luana and Tasha into the kitchen and ask them to make some tea. Bring the first aid kit from your car as well as any other items we could need. Don't trip over Mark's cricket bag by the door on your way in or out either.' He stared at Jim.

'I'm on my way.'

Matt turned back to Electra and Mark. 'Did either of you recognise the attacker?'

Mark told him that the man was wearing a hoody and it was too dark to see his face. Tasha screamed a warning, but there was the sudden blow to his head before he could react, and the sharp wrench at his neck as the pendant was ripped off. It seemed that his assailant wanted the pendant and would have run off then, but Electra and Luana wrestled him to the ground. Electra stamped her heel into one of his legs but he managed to get up and limp off to a car parked across the road with its lights off.

'They got away.' Mark concluded.

Matt looked at Electra with fresh respect as he contemplated her dirty face and visualised her elegant high heel planted firm in the attackers leg. 'Mark you're related to some brave and tough ladies.'

'We should report this to the police.' Electra said.

Mark shook his head. 'No I don't want any more publicity. I don't want to spend hours at a police station filling in forms the night before this match. I'm OK now. Let's go and get this stitched up, then we can all go to bed.'

Jim came in and nodded to Matt who immediately stood up to orchestrate matters

'Right, Jim you escort Tasha and Electra home while I take Mark to A&E. May I suggest that I stay the night here afterwards as a guard, and Jim can do the same for the ladies if they want.'

Electra nodded in assent, thinking that Matt seemed invigorated by all the action.

'You're right Matt.' she said, 'We had better get to bed, there's an important day ahead for all of us.'

Matt laughed and grinned back at her.

'You can bet your shirt on that.'

13

The persistent ringing of the front door bell woke Matt. He rolled off the sofa and stumbled to his feet in time to hear someone else start to move inside the house.

'Ok. I'll get it.' he yelled.

He opened the door and squinted into the light to see two large young men standing on the porch.

'Morning.' said Matt.

'Hi,' replied the larger of the two well-developed youths. 'We've come from Rotorua to watch Uncle Mark play in the test. I'm Wiremu, this is Hone. We got a lift from a cousin.'

Matt hongied them and shook their hands.

'Pleased to meet you. I'm Matt, a friend of the family. Come on in, I think everyone is getting up, you're in time for a feed.'

Once Luana had told the two large teenagers off for not telling her they were coming, she bustled off to make breakfast for everyone.

Hone and Wiremu became animated when they saw Mark with his bruised and stitched forehead. After Mark explained the details of the assault they declared that they would stay in Auckland to guard him for the duration of the match.

Matt nodded his head in agreement when Hone speculated. 'Somebody is trying to put you out of the match Mark.'

'I think some protection is a good idea, these guys look pretty handy to me,' Matt said.

The young cousins beamed their appreciation at Luana as she leant over the table to place large plates of bacon, eggs, and tomatoes on toast in front of them.

'That's because they play rugby league in Rotorua and they work out when they should be doing their studies instead.' she interrupted.

'I wonder if losing that lucky charm is going to affect my batting and bowling,' mused Mark. 'John will be upset when he finds it's gone.'

Matt hastened to reassure Mark. 'Not at all. You don't need a lucky charm to play well, and anyway Jim can replace it later for John.'

The phone rang. Luana answered it. She covered the mouthpiece and looked up.

'It's Tasha and Electra asking how things are.' She spoke into the phone. 'Everybody is well thanks. Matt's taking Mark to Eden Park shortly and I'm going to wait for you to come and pick me up. Two of my nephews Wiremu and Hone Flavell have come up from Rotorua for the game. I hope that all the whanau aren't going to leave work and come here! There's only so much room in my house. What's that? Now don't you volunteer your sofa Electra; that will encourage more of them to turn up.'

After breakfast the four men made their way to the door. Mark picked up his cricket bag and called out to Luana. 'I hope you packed my cricket box?'

'Of course I did,' she yelled back. 'I know how to protect my assets.'

Mark looked sheepishly at the others. 'That's one of our pre match rituals,' he muttered.

Matt kept a straight face while behind him Wiremu and Hone sniggered.

They separated at the Park, Mark left to attend the pre match team talk, Matt to his place in the OBV van. Before he parted with the cousins, Matt thrust some dollars into their delighted hands to pay for their ground entry.

'Since we're employing you for protection, you need your entry money and some more for general expenses. Make sure you stay alert and don't spend it all on beer.'

Matt produced his battered cell phone, switched it on, then exchanged numbers with Wiremu. The youths looked suitably serious and determined as they joined the swelling queue at one of the North Stand's turnstiles.

At the OBV Jim waited to greet him.

'Hurry up Matt, the meeting's starting. The good news is that I'm first up on the South Stand camera so we can talk then and make sure everything is running smoothly.'

The pre game meeting amongst the experienced media professionals was short and precise. They all knew their roles. Afterwards the boss approached Jim.

'Jim can I ask you a favour?'

'Sure.'

'Our company know that you're friends with Mark Armstrong and his family. We want to arrange an exclusive interview with him this lunchtime if possible. Can you help us out by asking him for one? We've already got permission from his captain and team management if he agrees. We realise that he doesn't usually give interviews but we hope you can persuade him for us.'

As Jim thought about the request, the boss tried to look friendly.

'I'll try, but if he says yes, then you owe me one.' Jim replied.

The boss nodded in grudging agreement. 'Now where's that brother of yours? He's got to stop these power fluctuations; they could put the whole broadcast at risk. It's his job to make sure that doesn't happen.' Reverting to his usual scowl, he moved off.

Matt had other problems, which he had chosen not to tell Jim. The time beam generator put a strain on the entire OBV van's electrical systems when run for prolonged periods. There was nothing Matt could do to prevent this, apart from powering it down during the times when Mark was not batting or bowling. Continuous use also created extra heat in the unit and he had to perform constant monitoring of it's temperature. Matt hadn't shared his knowledge that overheated Caesium could cause an explosion of unknown size which he would be sitting right on top of.

'Going live in sixty seconds, good luck everyone.' Mike Spragg's voice came over the air.

Matt turned on his radio and monitor as at 10.00 am the two umpires and captains walked out to the middle of the pitch for the toss of the coin. Doug Delaney called heads and won. He indicated that New Zealand should bat first. The Australian team took to the field and spread out to their positions under the directions of Delaney and Shaun Hampton the opening bowler.

'Good morning listeners. This is Fred Hindmarsh and Bill Jablonski speaking to you from Eden Park in Auckland New Zealand at the start of the third and deciding test between Australia and New Zealand. The weather is good and the sky is clear. The temperature is already eighteen degrees centigrade and it's building up for a warm day. My first question for Bill is a selection question. Bill, the whole country has been buzzing since the selection of Mark Armstrong. Do you think he'll be able to come up with the goods again against this mighty Australian side?'

'Well Fred, I certainly hope so. He's been a steady player for Auckland over several years, and it's a fantastic achievement that he's gained his first cap in probably his retirement year. It would be a wonderful fairy tale if he were able to have another big game.

'Yes.' thought Matt. 'But the time for fantasy is over and the time for science has begun.'

Fred continued. 'The opening batsmen are coming out on the pitch and the game is about to start. It will be Conrad Irwin and Damien Jury to open the batting. Do you know who is padded up next Bill?'

'Yes Fred, I've seen Rod Beecham walking about in his pads but I've heard a rumour from the dressing room that Mark Armstrong has his pads on too. If he is comes in at number four that would be the most astonishing turn of events. I don't think he has ever batted higher than seven for his district. What do you think of this decision Fred?'

'I'm surprised Bill. This surely would be a gamble even allowing for his great performance last week. Maybe there's something we don't know, but it's pretty hopeful that he can do better than the established top order batsmen. I think they should bring him in at seven when the ball is older and there would be less sting from the pitch and the bowlers.'

'Yes Fred, they're putting a lot of faith in the new cap. I hope they're not setting him up to fail.' Bill replied.

When Matt triggered his link to give Jim this news, Jim gave a low whistle of astonishment and suggested that the ladies should come to Eden Park earlier than planned.

Matt had barely finished phoning Luana, when a loud Howzat! reached him from the radio. He looked up to see Conrad Irwin walking back to the stand. The replay came in an instant as the OBV team swung into action; the monitor showing a jubilant Australian team gathering around Shaun Hampton who had clean bowled Irwin with the fifth ball of his first over.

'My my Fred, that was a very quick delivery, it seamed in and took out the off stump. Irwin never offered a shot. A beautiful ball Fred; we could be in for a difficult day.' Bill commented.

The crowd numbering a respectable seven or eight thousand at this early stage of the match, let out a collective groan with the loss of the first wicket, but then tried to create a mini Mexican wave. A steady trickle of arriving spectators continued to fill the large gaps in the seating.

Rod Beecham now took guard and examined each of the field placements. The Australians indulged in some routine sledging by advising him to keep his head down if he wanted to avoid injury. This was good advice, as Shaun's next ball was short pitched. Beecham barely shifted his head away in time as the ball flew past him and through to the keeper. Hampton finished his follow through a metre from the batsman, and gave Rod a prolonged glare before turning to walk back up the wicket to his mark.

'Fred It looks like Hampton means business today,' Bill said. 'I don't think he appreciated the treatment meted out to him last week. He will be out for revenge I'm sure.'

'Yes he will indeed.' replied his fellow commentator.

The batsmen worked some runs off the next bowler, but the umpire adjudged Damien Jury, the Black Caps best batsmen, out lbw when he attempted a mistimed drive off the third ball of Hampton's second over.

'He's gone.' cried Fred. 'Plumb in front and beaten by sheer pace do you think Bill?'

'Yes, the speed meter shows that ball came through at a 164 kilometres an hour. If you look at Hampton's run in on the ground level replay you can see how beautifully balanced he is. A tremendous delivery from a bowler at the peak of his form. There wouldn't be many batsmen in the world who could have played that ball with any confidence Fred.'

'No indeed Bill, and that makes the score 7 runs for 2 wickets down. A shaky start by the Black Caps against a rampant Australian bowling attack. The bowlers are generating plenty of pace at this stage; it will be a huge task to stabilise the innings.'

The quick second wicket silenced the crowd, but they began a ragged and hopeful cheer as Mark strode out through the small white gate. He murmured a few words of consolation to Damien Jury as he passed him on his sad way back to the changing room.

'This is it.' Matt said aloud. He switched the time beam on, noting the fluctuation in the engineering compartment's lights as the power load increased. When the beam approached its steady state he opened his line to Jim.

'Stand by Jim.'

'No problems.' replied Jim who was tracking Mark with his camera as he made the long walk out to the middle. He could see the slight glistening reflection which came back to him from the letters on the back of Mark's shirt.

'Jim I can confirm that Mark is receiving and dispersing the time field. Best of luck bro.'

'The same to you Matt. Over and out.'

Mark reached the wicket and took his guard, calling to the umpire for middle and leg. As he turned to look behind the stumps. Maloney the wicket keeper called out to him.

'Hey old-timer watch out for the next ball, we don't want to see you get hurt.

First slip joined in. 'Yeah you got lucky last week, don't expect to hang about too long this time.'

Gully called to his colleague at second slip. 'The bastards left his coffee on the table in the changing room cos he knows he'll be back before it gets cold.'

Third slip called out. 'Look he hasn't got his lucky charm on today. That's a big mistake for you kiwi, and strike me if his missus hasn't given him a bashing last night. That's a nasty bump you've got, lets hope that Shaun doesn't match it with another one.'

Mark grinned at the taunting fielders and said nothing. Inside his heart fluttered and his tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Shaun Hampton wheeled around his marker to run in with a rapid and fluid acceleration before he leapt high in the air to deliver a fast yorker from amidst a flurry of whirling arms. The ball aimed at Mark's boots seemed to float towards him and he was able to lean well forward with plenty of time to play it before it landed. It ran away between cover and mid off for an easy two runs.

Shaun Hampton growled at him as he jogged past.

'Next time you bastard.'

The radio commentators in contrast were busy complimenting Mark.

'That's a confident looking shot from Armstrong; he's off the mark with two runs from his first ball. He looks to be in good nick, although having said that, he also seems to have been in the wars. That looks like a large cut on his left forehead. Do we know anything about that Bill?'

'Not really Fred. I saw the injury this morning and it seems that he suffered a minor accident that needed stitches last night. Have you noticed as well that Armstrong isn't wearing the lucky pendant that he wore during the Auckland game? There's a rumour that he lost it.'

'Well Bill, I hope that his game won't be affected. At least he's got some runs on the board already.'

Mark played a textbook forward defensive stroke to the next ball, then drove the last ball past cover for four runs to complete the over. Matt slowed down the beam and eased his body back in his seat to wipe sweat from his forehead with a large handkerchief. A check of the generator temperature gauge confirmed that it remained outside the red zone. His ear piece crackled.

'Well done Matt,' Jim sounded excited. 'Mark's looking good; I think we're going to do well today.'

'Let's hope he doesn't get called for a run and then be run out by his partner.' Matt said grimly.

'Oh I didn't think of that.'

'We've got four or five long days to get through yet,' Matt replied. 'Keep your celebrations for later.'

14

The OBV team had never worked so hard by the time morning drinks were taken after the obligatory first fourteen overs. Their television commentators demanded multiple replays, slow motion replays, and a stitched montage of Mark Armstrong's innings. The crowd now swelled to perhaps twelve thousand were in full voice as they watched these replays on the two large screens positioned at the ground.

Mark took his first 50 runs off 17 balls received which broke the current world test match record of 24 balls. The radio and television commentators were unable to come up with any more superlatives to describe the event witnessed. His score contained 7 fours and 2 sixes: he failed to score from only two balls faced. His final two shots, a four, and then a mighty six over long on, came from the last balls of a Shaun Hampton over. The usually garrulous radio commentators were almost speechless when Mark lofted the clinching six off his seventeenth ball. He gave a brief salute with his bat to each corner of the ground and an especial long one towards the stand where his team and their family members were applauding him. He then settled down in almost the same manner to reach his 100 in 48 balls faced at the end of the fourteenth over.

As the drinks trolley trundled out to the field, the seething spectators collapsed back into their seats in relief. Most of them had been standing for the previous half an hour to get a better view. A small band of exuberant boys burst on the field but were soon herded away by vigilant officials.

'Jesus Christ.' yelled the boss. 'Get that montage of the second fifty out as fast as you can Paul, then stick the two of them together. Hurry it up, we're making history. Sports channels around the world will be picking up that clip tonight.'

Matt stayed apart from the general hubbub. He had almost turned the time beam off on two or three occasions when its temperature approached critical levels. Because Mark had faced 48 of the 84 balls bowled so far, the beam's power could be reduced on limited occasions. The constant juggling had exhausted Matt and it was only half way to lunch on the first day! He began to wonder if Mark would have to face some balls without time assistance. It would be touch and go.

Matt turned the radio up again.

'...that's a record number of balls faced for a test hundred as well as a test fifty isn't it Bill?' he heard Fred Hindmarsh say.

'Yes Fred. Mark Armstrong has scored the quickest half century in test cricket in terms of balls received. Then he scored the quickest century in test cricket with only forty eight balls received. I don't think there has ever been a more exciting opening to a test match. Listeners, we have two test records already today and that's by the morning drinks break. There are another fourteen overs to go until lunch and both Fred and I can't wait to see what will happen next.' Bill took a deep breath and continued. 'The Australians are devastated; the score is now 130 runs for 2 wickets which is a much healthier position for the Black Caps. We wonder whether Mark Armstrong will slow down and work his score up at a safer rate. But you know Bill; he doesn't seem as if he is pushing that hard. There have been no risky shots and everything seems to so easy for him. I don't think he's going to hold back at all.'

'I agree Bill, and it isn't even that the Australians are bowling a bad line or length. They are bowling well enough, but Armstrong is picking off whatever comes his way.'

'Right Fred. It looks like drinks are over and its Beecham to face the next over. We're all going to sit back and take a breather. Don't switch off your radio wherever you are; there will be more action to come. In fact, I recommend that you all leave your work and come down to Eden Park if you can, because this is a historic innings in the making.'

Matt called up Jim. 'Will there be any problem with the camera when you're spelled on the next shift?'

'I don't think so, the letters show up fine from whatever end Mark is standing at.'

'All right, see you at lunch, good luck.'

'Ditto.' replied Jim.

The Australians introduced fresh bowlers after the drinks break in an effort to dismiss Mark, but he continued to score freely. They dismissed Rod Beecham lbw as the morning progressed and the next batsman almost ran Mark out by calling for a foolish single. Mark made his ground after a rattled Australian fielder missed his throw at the stumps from close range. The crowd let out a collective gasp followed by a roar of pleasure when they realised he was safely home.

Maloney the wicket keeper tried to wring some psychological pressure out of this.

'Your luck has run out Armstrong, it won't be long now.' he said.

Mark acknowledged him for the first time.

'You know, I'm enjoying your friendly company so much that I don't want to leave you. You've just wasted your best chance.'

Towards the lunch interval events began to blur together for Matt. On several occasions he reached to turn off the time beam when he saw the temperature in the box reach zero centigrade. Each time as if by a miracle, Mark ended up at the non strikers end after a single run and there was a period of relief. Matt couldn't remember when Mark passed the 150 milestone. Inside his tiny compartment in the OBV the continuous roar of the crowd blotted out all sensations like the steady crashing of ocean waves,

Jim's excited voice brought him back to reality.

'Matt this is fantastic, one more over before lunch. One hundred and ninety-two runs for Mark so far, listen to the crowd.' Over Jim's microphone Matt could hear localised screaming and cheering.

He focussed on the monitor again and recommenced his scanning routine: television monitor; time beam power up; time beam flow confirmed; box temperature; main power load levels; OBV adjustments; and then in reverse again after each ball bowled.

The last over was given to Connie Stavoupolis. This gesture unsettled the crowd. Could Mark play spin bowling as well as he could the quick bowlers? There was quiet as he played the first ball with respect before turning the second to leg for a single. The crowd groaned because they were willing Mark's two hundred to come up before lunch; they resented the presence of the other batsman on strike. His partner took a single off the next ball to the immense delight of the crowd, who applauded him with a great roar, leading him to make a mock bow to all quadrants of the ground. Mark steered the fourth ball for two runs to deep mid wicket and looked for a third run, but the crowd howled in unison for him to stay put, then cheered wildly when he did so. The next ball was a fast top spinner which Mark spotted early as he jumped forwards from his crease to crack it past cover for four runs.

Matt focussed on the commentary again.

'...Bill I can hardly bear to watch this final ball. It would be an epic tragedy if Armstrong gets out on one hundred and ninety-nine runs. He will make history again if he scores the fastest ever test two hundred. In comes Stavoupolis, he bowls a high looping ball, it drifts, spins, and – where's it gone Bill?'

'Fred. Armstrong has stepped back and hit a very hard late cut between the slips. Its gone past third man and bounced up into the crowd for four. He now has 203 runs off 103 balls faced, the fastest test double century ever. We are witnessing more cricket history Fred. We are here amongst the most privileged crowd to ever watch a cricket game. I can die happy.' Bill shouted.

'Holy shit! These cricket guys are nut cases.' thought Matt.

He turned off the time beam and climbed out of his chair to stand leaning with his arms on his desk, his head bowed until he could recover. Inside the tea room an unusual crate of beer had materialised on the small table. The other crew members hugged and backslapped each other as they cracked open their bottles. Jim threw open the outside door and the boss rushed to him grabbing him by the front of his shirt.

'Off you go now Jim, there's no time to waste, you promised to bring me that interview. We have to get one and I'm begging you. Take Matt with you if you think he can help clinch it. Tell Mark that we can film it any way he likes, we only need a few minutes of air time. I'm also authorising you to offer him a longer piece later for documentary purposes. Let him know we'll pay whatever he wants. Phone me on my smart phone as soon as you've spoken to him. I'll send Spraggsy and Opo with their gear straight away.'

It took time for the two brothers to penetrate the crush in the players lounge where the teams were having lunch. Several minders had formed a protective screen to prevent journalists and photographers entering, but Jim managed to call in a few favours and have a note passed through to Mark. Matt pushed on to the bar and after a deal of arm waving managed to order a large beer which the drinkers in front passed over their heads to him. As he turned to look for a place to sit he bumped straight into Tasha and Electra.

'Hi ladies, I hope you managed to see some of Mark's innings.' he said.

'We've been here since before drinks, it's been fantastic.' enthused Tasha.

'Yes we have a perfect view from the players' balcony.' Electra grinned. 'Luana is there now. She wants Tasha to go and pick up John from his Grandmas so he can see his dad bat. Hopefully he'll remember it for the rest of his life.'

'That's a great idea.' Matt said. 'A film record is all very well, but it's much better to watch great events live in person if you can.'

The sisters escorted Matt through the players dressing room to the team balcony which was empty during the lunch break. In this temporary sheltered area Matt sank down into a comfortable seat, stretched his legs, and sipped his beer with great appreciation.

Electra looked at him closely. Matt you look stuffed; didn't you get any sleep last night?'

'No, the sofa was fine,' Matt replied. 'I've been hard at work in the OBV. Some electrical issues are proving a bit of a strain at the moment.'

Electra looked concerned. 'Have you had any lunch yet?'

Matt shook his head.

'Ok, we brought plenty of food, why don't you share it with us.'

Matt needed no further invitation, all conversation ceased as he ate. Electra and Luana watched him eat with satisfaction while they ate with more delicacy. Tasha ate a tiny amount of the healthier type of food on offer. Soon she looked at her watch.

'It's time for me to go and pick up John; I'll be back as soon as I can.'

Electra had been studying Matt. 'You know I've never seen you look so unsettled, you look as if you've run a marathon.'

'It's been hard work today and there'll be more to come until stumps.' He changed the subject. 'Did you talk to Mark when he came in from the pitch?'

'Yes, it was difficult. Everyone wants to shake his hand, but he shouted that he would see me as soon as he could. He went off for a quick shower and a change of whites.

Matt held a large piece of cake frozen in mid-air. He lowered it to the table.

'Is he changing his shirt?'

'Of course. He's sweaty and I think it's common practice isn't it. All the players have about three shirts they can rotate.'

'Yes they do. I've been very forgetful and incredibly stupid.' said Matt in a flat voice.

He stood up. 'Electra I've eaten enough, thank you very much, you've saved the day once again.'

He smiled his best smile.

'Can you accompany me through the main lounge? I expect that with you by my side I can get in. I hope Jim persuaded Mark to give a TV interview. If he did, then it will be taking place somewhere nearby. We need to see it.'

Electra found herself following Matt back into the crowded bar even though she would have preferred to stay outside and talk in comfort. He forged ahead holding his half empty beer glass up in front of him.

'Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, can I get through here. Sorry, Sorry about that. I have to escort this lady to an important meeting.'

These phrases and the company of a beautiful woman expedited Matt's access. They found Mark bailed up in a small room conducting his interview with the TV station's chief cricket commentator. A sweating Opo held the mike over their heads while Mike Spragg in an unaccustomed role as cameraman filmed with absolute concentration. Jim stood to one side of the group and nodded to Matt as he and Electra pushed into the room to view the proceedings. Matt ignored him as he studied Mark intently.

Mark was finishing his interview by making an apology.

'I'm sorry everyone, I have to get back to the changing room and pad up again. I think we have about five minutes before the Aussies go out.'

'Of course.' agreed the commentator. 'Thank you once again for giving us your valuable time. On behalf of Television Four Sports channel and all our viewers, we wish you the best for the rest of your innings. We all hope you can extend it as far as possible.'

Mike Spragg raised his right hand off the camera and gave a cutting signal closing the interview. Mark began to work his way out of the room through the well wishers and back slappers until as he neared the door he came opposite Matt and Electra. Matt lurched forward before turning round to see who had pushed him. His beer glass held in front of him, had jolted with the shove; most of the contents splashed over the front of Mark's shirt.

Matt was instantly apologetic.

'Gosh I'm sorry Mark, what a way to greet you, almost like launching a ship. Somebody gave me a bit of a push. I hope you can get out of that shirt.'

Mark was all reassurance.

'Don't worry Matt, can't be helped, it's madness in here. I've got another clean shirt in my bag. Hi Electra didn't see you there. Follow me and we can go through to the changing room.'

The crowd parted before them like a biblical sea; in no time they reached the home changing room. Mark quickly stripped off the wet shirt and towelled himself down. Matt in the meantime rifled through Mark's bag before handing him a clean folded shirt. In his other hand he held both the used first shirt and the beer stained shirt.

'Electra and I can arrange to have these washed and dried for you while you're out there, you can leave it to us.'

'Fine.' said Mark who was concentrating on strapping on his pads.

A cricket official put his head around the door. 'The Aussies are on the field, its time to go out.'

'I'm ready.' He stood up and took a deep breath. 'Wish me luck.'

'I do wish you luck but I know you will make your own luck Mark.' Matt said confidently.

He moved to the window where he could watch Mark and George Collins descend the steps and make their way out through the enthusiastic spectators who stood to clap and cheer them on to the pitch.

Matt turned, almost knocking Electra over. She had been watching behind him unnoticed.

'I'm sorry Electra; I have to run fast back to the van in time for the restart. Collins will be facing the first balls of the over and that should give me enough time. Electra can you do me an enormous favour and get these shirts washed and dried in the next couple of hours. You're bound to find a machine somewhere. It would be best if you supervise it. Use a gentle cycle and a low-speed spin with a low heat for the iron please. Incidentally you look very beautiful at this moment.'

He leaned down to kiss her.

After he left, Electra sat down and stared at the two cricket shirts. She sorted through her emotions before deciding that from a feminine point of view the kiss excited her, but on an intellectual level she could recognise the use of simple male distraction. It was interesting that Collins didn't need Matt's presence as much as Mark did. More interesting to her was that she knew Matt wasn't a clumsy person. They had been standing close together when he spilt his beer, but there had been no one behind them.

15

After lunch the Australians decided to bowl Connie Stavoupolis for a long spell from one end. They had the obvious hope that his deceptive leg spin would break the partnership, or at least that the contrast between spin from one end and pace from the other would somehow unsettle Mark.

It was unfortunate for them that Mark proved able to handle the the world's best spin bowler. He treated Connie with due respect but still accumulated runs at a steady rate. George Collins was not so lucky however, departing in the second over after lunch bowled by Connie's googly. Mark took this reverse as a sign that he should protect the new batsman and keep strike by stealing singles from the last ball of each of his overs.

The extra batting forced Matt, to turn off the time beam generator on three separate deliveries. He closed his eyes as Mark faced those balls. One was a wide, another went down the leg side which Mark let go, but the third hit him on the pads for the first time in the match. There was a loud appeal by the nearby Australians and the umpire considered for an agonising period of time before he gave a simple shake of his head and the moment of danger passed. On another day Mark could have been out, certainly every Australian on the field and in Australia believed he should have been, but history is made by such events.

For a while after this Mark became unsettled; as if he didn't trust himself. Matt realised Mark must feel confused by the transition between a time assisted ball and an ordinary ball. It was likely that an unassisted Mark could be dismissed by any reasonable ball bowled on-line with the stumps. At least Mark's quiet patch reduced his exposure to the bowling, allowing Matt to massage the beam until the next round of drinks after the forty-third over. Mark's score stood at 257, a wonderful innings, but his recent run rate seemed pedestrian in comparison to his pyrotechnics earlier in the day.

Matt briefed Jim about his difficulties during the break.

'Yeah, I noticed two balls which appeared to throw him,' Jim said. 'Is this temperature thing going to be a big problem Matt?'

'It is. I wasn't going to tell you this, but Caesium has reactive properties if it contacts air. Basically I'm sitting on top of a possible bomb.'

'Matt, you're mad.' Jim exclaimed 'We can't take that risk. Maybe we should stop now. Mark's already written himself into the history books. They can't take this innings away from him.'

'No, I'm going to carry on. I think I can manage as long as he doesn't take too much of the strike.'

At tea Mark came into the grandstand with his total advanced to 287 runs. This time the cricket powers refused to let any media have contact with the teams. They were both secluded in the club house for the whole break.

Jim's shift finished and he came over to the OBV to ask the boss to let him sit in and assist Matt.

Matt took the opportunity to ask Jim to buy some large ice packs.

'I'm going to have to use some extra cooling however primitive it is. It could make a difference to the time generator circuits.'

Jim's phone rang. He beamed at Matt. 'It's Tasha; she wants to bring the family here to see where we work.'

Matt groaned but nodded his assent. 'Ok, but go and bring those ice packs for me if you don't want to see me blown up.'

'I'll have to consider that.' Jim said as he headed for the door.

Not long afterwards the boss bustled into Matt's compartment clearly pleased.

'We have visitors, The Armstrong family. I'm going to give them a quick tour of the OBV before tea finishes.'

Luana and John were suitably impressed by their surroundings. John loved all the dials and bright screens on display; it was a mission to stop him from toggling important switches. Luana winked at Matt but said nothing as she tailed after the boss who was chasing John away from the enticing machinery. Tasha went looking for Jim, but Electra lingered in Matt's area after the others left. She studied the instrumentation arrayed in front of him.

'What's that?' she said, pointing at the gauges and control switches of the small secondary panel that Matt used to control the time beam generator.

Matt gave a deep sigh. 'Nobody else seems to care about this stuff, why are you so interested?'

'I have a small interest in science because I deal in patent law.' Electra replied. 'This gauge doesn't have any standard calibration marks, but has a red zone. Can you explain what it's for?' An earnest and enticing look played over her face.

Matt groped for a suitable answer but then stood up to point at the television monitor.

'Look! Tea's over, the teams are coming out again.'

At that same moment Jim hurried in with a chilli bin full of ice packs. Matt threw open the lid and hefted an ice pack between his hands. He ignored Electra's questioning glance.

'Thanks Jim. Why don't you take Electra back to the players section? Tasha was looking for you and she's probably gone there.'

Once alone, he locked his door before positioning the ice packs on and around the time beam generator.

'Crude but hopefully effective,' he muttered to himself thinking of both the ice and his powers of diversion.

For the first time in many years, fresh spectators alerted to the remarkable match at Eden Park, streamed into the ground from all directions to watch the last hours of play. The heat of a perfect summer day slipped into a balmy evening as the crowd, swollen to more than thirty thousand excited fans, set up a storm of whistling and cheering as Mark and his latest partner Marshall Mears made their way out. The Australian players huddled together in a sombre group at the centre of the wicket where Doug Delaney issued vigorous instructions, exhorting his players to remove their nemesis from the field as soon as possible.

Matt turned to the radio commentary again.

'...once again listeners, Armstrong is taking up his stance to face the first over after tea. It looks as if Shaun Hampton will be the next bowler to try again to remove this amazing player. Armstrong is playing his début game for New Zealand in the twilight of his career. Last week he played his best game ever for Auckland Districts against the tourists, but today he has put on an unbelievable performance. His score at tea rests at two hundred and eighty-seven runs. He could become only the second player in test history after Bradman to score more than three hundred runs in a day. Can he make it? We'll have to wait and see.'

'In comes Hampton, he bowls. It's very quick, right on-line with off stump, but its hit away between cover and cover point. This will be three runs as deep extra cover reaches it and now the throw comes in, but the batsmen are home easily.'

'Listen to our crowd, they are loving this. Armstrong moves on to 290 runs. Hampton has another word with him as he makes his way back to his mark. There's no love between them is there Fred.'

'No indeed Bill. This will be a bitter experience for one of the world's finest young bowlers. He is bowling very fast and accurately but there seems nothing he can do to pry this man out. Armstrong has been in incredible touch apart from a few difficult moments; he's looks sublime as he strikes the ball with incredible timing.'

Connie Stavoupolis bowled the next over in which Mark hit two elegant fours through mid on and mid off followed by a single, tucked down to long leg to reach 299.

Matt tensed, a quick glance at his gauges confirmed that the time beam generator was just cool enough. He sat back to wait for Marks' partner to defend the final ball of the over leaving Mark to face Shaun Hampton again.

Marshall Mears pushed the ball out towards cover, and calling out for a single took off quickly from his crease. Mark responded as best he could, surprised by the call. Extra cover ran round and with a fine display of fielding picked up and threw in one fluid movement to the wicket keepers end.

Mark appeared half a metre short as the ball reached the stumps. He made a despairing dive with his bat outstretched as Maloney took the ball over the stumps and whipped the bails off with a loud appeal. Meanwhile Matt had jumped forwards and brought the time beam up to full power a few seconds after Mark began his hopeless run up the wicket.

'Mears, you fucking idiot.' Matt yelled.

Similar swearing broke out in all parts of the van as the umpire called for a slow motion replay and the third umpire's opinion. Matt, many thousands of local spectators, and hundreds of thousands of television viewers held their breath.

'Bill here's the ball approaching in the corner of the frame. You can see Armstrong's bat sliding in. Incredible as it may be, his bat appears to have reached the crease as the bails come off. The picture's a bit blurred for some reason, but that's how I interpret it. In my opinion he's not out.' Fred Hindmarsh declared.

The not out decision, once confirmed, allowed the relieved crowd to express their approval with such enthusiasm that for many years later, shoppers in Queen Street four kilometres away, claimed that they heard the roar.

Marshall Mears now faced Hampton, but he was visibly shaken by his role in the near run out. The stigma of running out his partner on 299 runs would have condemned him to a perpetual cricket history hell. It was not surprising that Hampton's first ball bowled him, his middle stump cart- wheeling towards the wicket keeper. The crowd booed him he trudged off.

'Well Fred, That's a fully deserved end to Mears innings although I don't condone such crowd behaviour. He called for a suicidal run and I can't believe Armstrong made his ground. That's another incredible incident in the miracle story of today. I don't think I can stand the suspense any longer.'

The new batsman Davinder Singh came in and sensibly defended as best he could against a recharged Hampton. Somehow he survived the remaining balls of the over, several of which hit him on various parts of his anatomy. The crowd surged with collective relief as Mark squared up again to face Connie Stavoupolis.

'In comes Stavoupolis, he bowls a faster ball, it's low, a flipper, but Armstrong picks it and easily defends with a straight bat. There's no run. The crowd is on edge, you can hear a pin drop. Stavoupolis comes in again. This one's loops high and drifts on to middle and off, Armstrong rocks back and cuts it hard, straight past backward point who can't reach it; it's going away for four runs. There it is. His three hundred, only the second in one day after Bradman. Armstrong turns and raises his bat in acknowledgement to this huge crowd that has gathered at Eden Park. He's scored 303 runs off 262 balls. That is another test record to add to the other test records he's shattered today. The Australians are clapping him too. This has been the most fantastic experience of my commentating career. Over to you Fred I can't find any more words.'

The OBV team were celebrating again; the boss came through the door to hand Matt a beer. 'I'm authorising a once only drink on the job. We deserve it.' he said.

'Thanks boss, yes I do deserve it.' Matt said as he took the bottle.

16

When the turbulent crowd settled down, the match resumed.

A few overs later Mark stood and held his arm aloft as the bowler approached the bowling crease. The umpire held his arm out to prevent the ball being bowled.

'That's odd.' thought Matt. 'Something has put him off.'

The radio commentators thought so too. 'Bill what do you think happened there?' Fred quizzed

'I'm not sure.' replied Bill. 'Maybe someone in the crowd moved behind the bowlers arm.'

The over resumed with Mark playing hesitant strokes to the next two deliveries.

Matt felt a sudden fear that the time beam had failed but a quick check of his instruments showed his equipment struggling to work as usual.

Jim's voice crackled in his ear. 'Matt what's up with Mark?'

'Its not the beam Jim, something else is going on.'

Mark walked down the wicket to speak to the umpire. He pointed to the crowd in the North stand behind. The umpire turned to look there before shrugging and spreading his arms out with a gesture that suggested that Mark should continue with his batting.

'Bill something in the crowd behind the bowler has upset Armstrong but I can't see any activity there.'

'No it's a mystery to me as well Fred.'

Mark pushed a scratchy single off the next ball and his partner played out the rest of the over without further score.

Matt had a sudden idea and a rapid suspicion. He immediately contacted Jim.

'Jim, I want you to call in your favour with the boss. Tell him you want a camera to zoom in on the crowd in the North stand the next time Mark faces that end. Tell him to pan that camera continuously for the whole over if necessary. Say that you want to see if it will pick up what's bothering Mark.

'I'm on to it.'

Matt pulled out his phone and rang Wiremu.

Wiremu's voice came on. 'This is Wiremu Flavell; I can't talk now because I'm at the cricket match.'

'Wiremu you idiot, its Matt. Where are you and Hone sitting in the ground?'

'We're in the North stand, in the centre up the back.'

Mark breathed more easily. 'Thank god for that. Now listen to me, its urgent. Leave your seats now and go to the nearest exit stair. Wait there, I'll phone you soon with more instructions. Mark needs your help.

He cut the call to save more explanation.

Jim came back to him. 'He's agreed, he's going to use camera four, the overhead camera.'

'Ok tell him I want the picture relayed to my monitor. I want a slow motion replay of the image sent to me as the bowler runs in to bowl. If the boss starts asking difficult questions, remind him he really owes you.'

'If you say so Matt.'

Matt waited impatiently for Mark to return to the affected end of the wicket. He switched his monitor from the public feed to the independent view from camera four.

Soon he saw the camera image start to pan in a slow sweep backwards and forwards to cover the whole of the North stand.

He switched on the radio commentary again.

'... Its Armstrong's turn to face Chapman again for the third ball of the over. Let's hope he has settled from whatever upset him last time. Chapman runs in, he bowls; he hits Armstrong on the pads. There's a half shout from some of the fielders, but they are desperate now because that ball was clearly missing off stump. Still Fred, Armstrong doesn't look very comfortable at the moment.'

'No Indeed.'

Matt had worked his time controls as soon as the delivery was over. He looked up at his monitor. The image had slowed to a crawl, stopped then reversed backwards and forwards to cover the moment that Chapman must have bowled. Matt stared intently but saw nothing.

'Damn it, Damn it, where are you?'

The next ball produced a similar result. Mark did not offer a shot to a ball that seamed away from him. He stood up to shade his eyes and look into the crowd behind the bowlers arm.

Matt was already looking at the frames from the slow motion replay

'Got you, you bastard.'

His guess had been correct. A small fierce light flashed briefly from the stand towards the wicket.

He triggered his connection to Jim. 'Jim, a laser flashed at the moment that ball came towards Mark. Get the boss to hold that last image for me.'

'Matt we're going to have to do some explaining to him after this.'

'I'll handle him later Jim. All he cares about is his production of the test match. I think we can stall his questions until the match finishes.'

Mark studied the image when it came on to his monitor; he pressed the speed dial for Wiremu.

'Yup we're here.' was the reply.

'Ok this is the deal Wiremu. Someone in the North stand is trying to blind Mark with a laser torch.' He scrutinised the image. 'Top left of the stand as you look at it from the pitch, looks about four rows down right next to the first aisle.' He screwed his eyes again. 'In fact he is very close to the top left stanchion. It's over to you and Hone now. You have to stop him as soon as possible.'

'Ok Matt, no problems, we'll take him out.'

The call cut off and Matt sat back in time to control the time beam for the next delivery.

This ball was a bouncer, which came right on to Mark hitting him on the side of his helmet stunning him, and bringing him to his knees.

The crowd let out a huge groan.

'That was a nasty ball Fred. It looks like he never saw it. This is a bit of a sticky patch for Mark Armstrong, but even the greatest of innings can have low periods. Is he Ok?'

'He seems alright now Bill. His helmet is off and he's rubbing his head. Doug Delaney has come across to enquire about his health. He will be a little disappointed that Armstrong is still standing.'

'I'm sure he could be Fred. Anyway Armstrong is ready now, prepared to face the final ball of the over.'

'Hello what's this Bill? A fight has broken out in the North Stand. The umpire is holding up the last delivery. What can you see?'

Matt flicked his monitor back to the public feed. A camera had zoomed in to a scene of commotion high up in the North stand. Part of the crowd was standing to watch several men rolling in an aisle their fists flailing.

Matt spoke his own private commentary aloud in his compartment.

'A most fortuitous and welcome bouncer has given extra time for the cavalry to arrive. We have two most reliable and competent young men on our side.'

He watched with some pride as the police arrived to pull the brawlers apart. The local crowd booed the four men as police hustled them to the nearest exit and out of sight. Matt noticed with interest that one of them limped as they moved out of sight down the stairs.

After this brief exciting interlude, the crowd settled back to watch Chapman's last ball of the over.

Matt readied himself for the time beam. He was not surprised when Mark moved quickly down the pitch to connect with the ball before it could bounce, and hit it high into the stand not far from where the disturbance had been.

'Well Bill, that is definitely the end of that over. I think Armstrong needed to express himself in some meaningful way with that six. I suspect normal business has been resumed.' Fred drawled.

17

Mark reached his 350 runs in the last over of the day. A large contingent of police escorted him off the field. Many of the crowd lingered at the ground to soak up the atmosphere for a while before they set out to celebrate throughout Auckland.

The OBV team completed their post match commentary and began to pack up. The brothers declined their offer of drinks at a nearby pub with the excellent excuse that they needed to smuggle Mark out of the ground.

While the trio waited to extricate themselves from the excited, milling crowd, Matt discussed the laser torch with Mark.

'We spotted it on the monitor and I got Hone and Wiremu to deal with the guys responsible.'

They reached Mark's house to find the cousins waiting for entry. Several empty beer bottles lay on the veranda as testimony to their patience. Hone sported a large bruise on his forehead, while swelling completely closed Wiremu's left eye.

Mark clasped their hands in turn.

'Matt told me what you did. Thanks guys, you saved my innings. I'm going to tell Luana that you're my favourite nephews.'

The cousins looked pleased. Wiremu pulled a broken laser torch from a pocket.

'It was worth getting chucked out of the ground and we brought you a souvenir Mark.' he said.

'Anyway,' Hone added. 'We wanted to have the same sort of bruises as you got Mark.'

'Well you were successful all round.' Matt agreed.

Later a large, spontaneous family party developed as many relatives and friends arrived throughout the evening.

Tasha and Electra were missing from the early festivities. Tasha had insisted that Electra accompany her to the Australian team hotel to spend time with Shaun Hampton. They returned less than an hour later. Once they had pushed their way inside from the deck, they gratefully accepted glasses of wine from the brothers.

'I'm glad I'm here and not with them!' Tasha declared. 'The Aussies weren't much fun. They didn't seem to want to talk to me at all. In fact I thought they were positively rude. It's only a game after all, but that place was like a funeral. This is much more like it.' She spotted a friend across the room. 'Jim, come and meet my old school friend.' Tasha dragged the happy Jim off through the crowd.

Electra turned to inspect the as yet silent Matt. She looked from his unpolished shoes up past his faded jeans to his sagging mauve tee-shirt. On the front of the offending garment she could pick out the faded words 'Trust me I know what I'm doing.'

'There could be a day when I will approve of what you wear, but not quite yet.' she said.

'I guess so.'

'You look stuffed Matt. I didn't realise how hard your job was. She peered at him. 'Even your eyes are bloodshot; I think you need an early night.' she said with firm decision.

'I think you're right Electra. I'll take your advice this time.'

Electra held out an open plastic bag. 'Here are Mark's two shirts laundered to your instructions. A new one and an old one.' She fingered the shiny letters on the "new one". Matt winced as he reached for them.

'Thank you Electra, I'm very grateful. I'll take them now and make sure Mark gets them.

Electra continued to study him; under her relentless gaze Matt wilted somewhat.

She reached a decision and broke the silence as the party swirled around them.

She pointed an accusing finger at the words printed on his tee-shirt. 'I liked that kiss Matt, but I don't trust you because I don't know what you're doing. I know you're up to something and I will find out what it is. Maybe you should consider that your life could be better if you learned to share more.'

A sad smile flickered over her face before she turned to push her way through the cheerful throng leaving a wistful and subdued Matt standing alone.

Later that night Matt took Hone and Wiremu aside and asked them if they could stay as close to Mark as possible for the rest of the match.

'Like personal bodyguards.' asked Wiremu.

'Something like that.' Matt replied.

That night in a repeat of the previous night's arrangements Matt slept on the sofa in the lounge, but now there was the added comfort of hearing the harmonious snoring of the cousins from the spare bedroom.

18

The second day of the test dawned clear and warm again. As the family neared the ground they slowed their vehicles to a crawl to negotiate the streams of spectators which mingled and moved slowly along the streets. Their number approached those usually associated with a sell out rugby match. Hone had Mark, Luana, and John in their car, while Matt and Wiremu followed behind in the old Corolla. Queues stretched out of the ground and down the nearby roads. The gate keepers recognised Mark and waved the cars through; some observant members of the public banged their hands on the roof of Mark's car as it went past.

Mark was upset by the noise which had frightened John, but Matt counselled him as they walked into the players' entrance. 'You had better get used to the attention Mark. As long as you're famous, you and your family will be public property.'

'I don't think that's something I want Matt, but just for this match I hope I don't let my public down.'

'I think you should relax.' Matt replied. 'You've broken plenty of records already. That can never be changed. You may as well go out and enjoy yourself.'

As they parted at the changing room door, Matt handed Mark his cricket bag prepared as usual by Luana.

'Sorry Mark, there's only two shirts for today; the beer stained one needs more work to clean it. Make sure you don't raise too much of a sweat out there.'

The largest crowd ever seen at a New Zealand test match greeted Mark as he walked out to continue his historic innings. He played with power, grace, and poise. The partisan crowd lifted him as he moved inexorably towards Brian Lara's test record of 400 runs which he reached after a little over an hour of batting.

Later Matt could never remember that period because his own personal time seemed to slow down as he struggled to keep Mark ahead of real-time. Despite additional cooling it was clear that the time beam generator would never last the whole five days of the test match.

However well Mark played, he still needed partners at the other end of the wicket. These came and went at regular intervals throughout the morning until at lunch, when Mark went in with 452 runs, the team total rested on 594 for 9. There were no more batsmen left in the pavilion to support him.

Matt blinked sweat away as he watched his display needles fall back from the upper red zone as his equipment cooled. The lights in the OBV brightened again as the power drain eased. His cell phone rang and Jim came on the line.

'Come over to the players area, I've lined up some nice cold beers in the family chilli bin.'

At the changing rooms there was so much pandemonium that this time he had no difficulty in entering the players' box unchallenged. There was no sign of the Australian tourists who had retreated to their own changing room to have their lunch in seclusion. Matt couldn't blame them for being unsociable in the circumstances. He wasn't surprised either to find that all public access to Mark was denied.

He threw himself into a chair and took the beer proffered by Jim. There was no sign of Luana, Tasha, or John. Jim told him that John's favourite aunty had become suddenly unwell at her home. She phoned to ask Luana and John to visit her and Tasha went with them because Luana didn't drive.

'Don't look worried Matt. I expect they'll be back in a couple of hours; besides I sent Hone and Wiremu off in my car behind them, so they will be well looked after.' reassured Jim.

At that moment Electra entered, in time to see the two brothers finishing the last of Luana's prepared sandwiches. Between mouthfuls Matt decided to tease Electra and Jim about Tasha's lack of interest in cricket.

'The greatest innings in cricket history is occurring in front of her eyes, her own brother is playing that innings, and Tasha disappears. Thousands of people would give parts of their anatomy for a chance to watch this match. I think Tasha is only interested in cricket if she's the centre of attention.'

Electra made a spirited defence of her sister.

'You may think that Tasha is flirty and a typical blonde, but she has a great heart. She would do anything to help somebody in need. Just because she finds it difficult to sit for hours or even days watching distant figures poking at a ball with a piece of wood doesn't mean that she's light weight or unintelligent.' Electra glared at Matt. 'In fact many people would suggest that it's an intelligent person who decides not to spend five days of their life this way.'

Matt paused from munching on a cold sausage.

'If that's the case Electra, what makes you stay here and watch the game?'

'Matt you know nothing sensible about women do you.' Jim intervened. 'Anyway you told me a long time ago that you thought test match cricket was boring compared to the shorter versions. You don't know much about cricket yourself.'

Matt gave up his provocation. 'OK, it's time to get back to work, what camera shift are you on Jim?'

'I'm taking over for the last session. I'll keep Electra company here until then. More ice packs are in the fridge over there for you.'

Many countries around the world were calling for the live television feed from Eden Park; they wanted the pictures to replace their own advertised news and sports programmes. The pressure on the OBV team mounted as television and radio commentators kept reminding their listeners that Mark could break Brian Lara's first class cricket record of 501 runs in a match.

The strategy for the Australians was obvious. The new, final partner for Mark was by definition the worst batsman in the team; they would get him on strike as fast as possible. Mark had broken so many test records, that no Australian cricketer wanted to be part of the sporting shame that would cloud their careers should the ultimate record be broken.

Mark took first strike and set about his goal in one day fashion by raining shots to all parts of the field. He hit fours and sixes then refused to take any singles or run an easy third run. The crowd greeted every stroke with wild enthusiasm and the tension became unbearable as the target neared. Try as they may the Australian team couldn't manoeuvre the last batsmen, Lawrie Smyth, in front of their bowlers. The record fell on the first ball of a new over when Mark hit a familiar straight six back over Lance Chapman's head into the middle of the North stand.

The match stopped as a scrum developed in the area where the ball landed. Despite pleading calls over the loudspeaker the ball was never seen again. After an interval, the umpires selected a substitute ball from a box of used balls brought out for them and the match resumed. Mark hooked the next ball for six to the square leg boundary, cut the next for six over backward point, and followed up with a six over deep midwicket. The fifth ball flew over cover and with one bounce cleared the boundary rope for four runs. A resonant moan echoed around the ground as the possibility of Mark hitting six sixes in one over, passed. He struck the final ball well, down towards deep extra cover, a shot which should have resulted in an easy three runs. But for perhaps the first time in a professional cricket test, the fielder stood aside to let the ball trickle on until it touched the rope. He followed it making shooing motions with his arms. The crowd screamed and whistled their derision but the fielder merely tipped his hat back at them with pride.

Mark was now off strike for the first time in an hour at the expense of another record for the most runs scored in a test over. Now the inevitable happened as Lawrie Smyth, faced with putting bat to ball, was clean bowled three balls later for no score. The innings finished with Mark stranded on 530 not out in the team total of 672 runs.

Matt powered down the time generator and watched the Australians leave the field. They sportingly created a line for Mark to walk through while they clapped him into the pavilion. The crowd rose as one to stretch their legs and debate the occasion. In the OBV van, the team engaged in frantic work to produce another montage of Mark's shots for the benefit of the waiting networks. The players took an early tea when an announcement declared that the scheduled remaining thirty-five overs of the day would be played with one drinks break. What the Aussies could do to recover the match remained unclear

19

A loud knock on the door of Matt's compartment revealed Jim and Electra. Jim ran over to hug his brother.

'Matt, this is incredible. Mark's been fantastic and so have we. We have to celebrate tonight, what do you think Electra?'

'I would love to. Then you and Matt can tell me how why you are so fantastic.'

At that moment Jim's smart phone rang. 'Jim Harper here.' he answered. 'Who's that?' The change of tone in Jim's voice caused Matt and Electra to look up in alarm. A long silence passed while a grim-faced Jim listened to the caller. 'OK I understand what you're saying but I want to speak to them. There won't be any deal unless that happens.'

Matt looked at Jim his eyebrows raised in enquiry. Jim shook his head.

'All right, I'll expect the call in half an hour.' Jim closed his smart phone and faced the questioning pair, his face pale.

'Luana, John, and Tasha have been kidnapped. Mark has to agree to pull out of the match before they will be released. If he does, then no harm will come to them, but if he plays on, John will be hurt in some way.

Electra gasped, her hand flew up to her mouth.

Jim continued. 'You heard me ask to speak to them, but he wouldn't let me. I have to wait half an hour until the next call before I can talk to one of them. He said that if we tell the police they would all be harmed, but if we follow their instructions nobody will get hurt.

Matt snapped into action.

'Jim you and I have to be at my house in Papatoetoe when you take that call. We need to leave right away. Trust me, I'll explain as we go. Wait here until I talk to Mitchell.'

Matt found the boss sitting as usual in front of his bank of monitors.

'Boss I have to go and check the main power feed to the van. Everything else is sweet here. I won't be away for long but I think you'll notice the power fluctuations will be better for a while. You can switch on more screens to confirm that.'

Graham Mitchell grunted. 'Ok Matt but I want you back ASAP. We can't afford any more broadcasting problems; the world's hanging on everything we're putting out'. He glared at Matt. 'You and I need to talk after this match is over; I have some questions you need to answer.' He turned back to his screens and dismissed Matt.

At the car park, Electra who had kept silent as she followed the brothers, spoke. She looked pale but composed.

'I'm coming with you, you can't prevent me.'

Matt looked at her determined expression. 'Ok but keep quiet and don't interfere.'

As Matt unlocked the Corolla's door his phone rang. Hone's anxious voice could be heard with Wiremu interjecting in the background.

'Matt, It's Hone. We've lost Luana, Tasha, and John. On the way to Aunty Josy we got split up. A removal van clipped the side of Jim's car. Nothing too serious, but we had to stop to take the fella's name and address and get their insurance company stuff. They said it was their fault and they were sorry and their insurance would pay. When we got back on the road and made it to Aunty's house there was no sign of the others. We found Aunty tied up in the bedroom with duct tape over her mouth. If we find those fella's that did this we're going to smash them.

'I'm sure you will Hone, and I hope you do. Don't worry, we'll get them back. Can you check the neighbours and see if anybody noticed strangers hanging about.' Matt thought for a moment. 'Ask Aunty how many men there were and if she can tell you anything about them.' He paused again. 'Ask her if any of them limped.'

'OK Matt'

'Hone is there anyone else in the whanau who could help us. Two or three reliable people who can keep their mouths shut, take care of themselves, and obey orders.'

Wiremu came on. 'Sure Matt we can find some muscle, how bad do you want them to be?'

'Just family, big and tough, but no gang stuff. Get back to me when you've talked to Aunty and found some suitable family.'

He rang off to find Electra looked at him with some hope on her face. He gave her a comforting smile as he held open the Corolla's passenger door for her; lifting it with his usual care to compensate for its dropped hinges.

'Hone and Wiremu had their car blocked so they could be separated from the others. There's quite a bit of planning in this.' He turned to face Jim in the back seat.

'I guess you gave your smart phone number to your favourite bookmaker?'

Electra sat miserable in the passenger seat with a blank expression as Matt reached under the dashboard to engage a small unobtrusive lever.

'Matt don't you think we should talk to the police?' she said.

'No I don't Electra. We can't be sure that their threats are real, but they know that as soon as we tell Mark about this, he's going to do whatever they say. They don't have to hurt anyone because the threat alone will prevent him from playing on. '

'Who would want to do this Matt?'

'Matt started the Corolla and drove out of the gate turning into Sandringham road. 'Electra you don't realise what sort of money people bet on cricket games. There will be a lot of money lost if Mark plays well.

Electra sat upright. 'It's that bookie we met at the dinner, Fat Joe, the one that Jim took money from.'

'Yes I think it's him,' Matt replied. 'But we won't find the family at his shop or at his home. They'll be stashed somewhere else I'm sure. Electra I want you to strap in tight, we have to make a quick trip down Greenlane road to the motorway.'

Electra slumped back in despair. 'You're joking of course in this piece of junk.'

They stopped for the red lights on St Luke's Road. The traffic was light, possibly because many people were indoors watching the test match on television.

A familiar rumbling sound came from the inner lane as a car moved up inside them to the front of the lights. They looked across to see the black, boy racer, Subaru.

'Hey look its granddad and his hot bitch again,' the young driver mocked them through his open window. He made an obscene gesture to the accompaniment of jeers from his three passengers.

Matt's mouth tightened in a grim smile.

'This is an unwelcome nuisance, but sometimes, even in times of trouble there will be small rewards.' he said aloud, his voice barely audible inside the Corolla.

He leaned over Electra and shouted through her open window. 'I'm sorry junior, I'm in a hurry, so I don't have time to play with you. You can follow behind me if you can keep up.' He gave the young driver and his three passengers a slow meaningful middle finger salute.

The Subaru driver glared back, gave a gang salute, then a threatening throat cutting gesture while he revved his engine to a crescendo.

Electra looked with disdain at Matt who sat unflinching and quite relaxed.

'I can read your mind Electra. You now expect me to try to produce some macho revs from this car's poor engine, but in case you haven't noticed, it isn't making any noise at all

Electra hadn't noticed. As she considered what an old silent Corolla could mean, the lights turned green and the Corolla leapt forwards, pinning her back into her seat. The Subaru disappeared behind them as if it were going backwards.

Electra sat speechless as Matt wove the Corolla between the traffic all the way down Green Lane Road. He managed to collect green lights on most occasions but sometimes the Subaru caught up to them up at red lights; each time the Corolla repeated the punishment. The enraged and humiliated boy racers were made to suffer as the Corolla swished away from them at every standing start. The hoons caught up for one final time as they both reached the Green Lane roundabout, swinging around it down to the Southern motorway.

The Subaru jammed right behind them, then weaved from right to left as they both came to the end of the motorway slip road. It swerved to their right side to close up along Matt. The youths stuck their heads out of the windows to scream threats at him.

They raced along the motorway side by side while Matt spoke in a conversational tone to the two frightened occupants of his car.

'I'm sorry about this guys. In normal circumstances I wouldn't care about these juveniles, but we need to reach my place very soon which means I will have to use the full capabilities of my car. Electra you once asked me to warn you when to hang on to your seat. I hope there aren't any police cars around at the moment.

Electra found her voice. 'What have you done to this car Matt?'

Jim's disembodied voice rose from the back seat. 'He's been tinkering again Electra. We should hold on tight.'

Electra tensed herself as Mark gave a cheerful goodbye wave to the Subaru. The old Corolla rocketed away leaving a dwindling speck in Matt's rear mirror. Electra couldn't suppress a small scream of terror as the traffic blurred in front of her. A few affronted Audi drivers tried to keep up as they were overtaken, but Matt left them standing too. In a very short time they reached the Papatoetoe off ramp and pulled into the drive along side Matt's shabby house.

As he unbuckled the limp and shaking Electra, Matt gave her a brief explanation.

'Sometime ago I built a prototype of a different type of engine. It's a sort of frictionless rotary engine with only three moving parts. It's the size of a small suitcase and very fuel-efficient too. Would you like to see it one day?'

'Yes I think that might be a good idea.' Electra replied, her fear ebbing as she focussed away from their immediate troubles into a temporary state of patent considerations.

Inside the house Matt shifted heaped paperwork from a threadbare couch then motioned Electra to sit down. He opened up an old laptop while Jim stood by in silence without showing any surprise over the unfolding events.

Electra surveyed the lounge, awarding the décor and furniture two out of ten. She watched curiously as Matt rummaged in a nearby box before pulling out a small chunky USB device. Once Matt's laptop booted up into Linux, he plugged the device into a port and typed in a series of commands on a blank menu area. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.

'Good, now Jim, switch on your smart phone please.'

Jim did so, and once again Matt hunched over the keyboard to type more commands.

'That's great, your smart phone is now interfacing with my laptop and we can take that call through it.'

Electra had to talk again. 'I'm not familiar with this way of using a smart phone.'

'I'll tell you about it later.' Matt said. 'What I'm going to do is illegal, but I'm sure security people do this in many countries, so I figured it would be acceptable for me to improve on the concept. Now we wait and listen in to the conversation on these headphones.' He handed Electra one of a pair of headphones plugged into a junction box, the other he kept for himself.

'Jim, take the instructions, but remember we can only pass a message to Mark when drinks go out in the next interval. Until then he will carry on playing, they have to understand that.

Jim nodded and they sat in silence as the final minutes passed until his phone rang.

Matt winked at them and typed another command on his keyboard. He sat back looking pleased as he regarded the laptop display.

'Jim Harper?' The voice spoke to them via Jim's phone and their headphones.

'Yes I'm here. What do you want me to do?'

'Mark Armstrong must leave the field. We suggest that he gets injured and can't continue. Tell him if he doesn't stop playing, his son will be the first of his family to get hurt.'

Matt nodded to Jim.

'I can't contact him with a message until the next drinks break.' Jim replied. 'You'll have to wait until then, there's no other way to reach him.'

There was a pause and it was clear that the speaker was conferring with somebody else nearby.

'OK, we expect him to come off then.'

'Now I want to speak to Luana, Tasha, and John to make sure they're all right.' Jim demanded.

Once again there was a muttered conference.

'OK, you can speak to the wife.'

Luana came on the phone. 'Jim is that you?'

'Are you all right Luana?' How are Tasha and John?'

'I'm OK, but John's upset. He doesn't understand what's happening. I'm trying to make him believe we're playing a game. Tasha hurt her arm when she tried to stop John from being taken off her. The bastards pushed her on the ground; her wrist could be broken.'

'I want to speak to her.' demanded Jim.

'They won't let you, but she and John are close by and they're OK.'

'Right that's enough.' The kidnapper's voice returned on the phone.

'No it's not, you've hurt my girlfriend and I want her returned to me before I send the message out to Mark. If you don't release her I won't send out any instructions.'

Matt rolled his eyes at Electra but he could see that Jim was more serious than he had ever known him before.

There was another long pause as the kidnappers conferred, then the voice continued.

'We'll let her go when we see Armstrong leave the field. As soon as that happens we'll phone you with details of where to pick her up. We'll keep his wife and son until the match is over to make sure that he stays out of the test.'

Matt indicated to Jim to accept the deal.

'That could be three more days.' Jim complained.

'That's hard luck then. Remember if you talk to the police we'll find out and the deal's off. Then they'll get hurt.' the voice menaced.

Matt nodded to Jim, making a finish the call gesture.

'OK, I promise I'll send the message to Mark and stop him playing.'

'You've made the right decision.' The voice cut off leaving a sudden silence in the room.

Matt grinned at Electra then tilted his laptop round so that she and Jim could see the screen for the first time. 'How do you like maps?' he asked.

A map displayed in full screen mode. In the top right corner a small red light blipped.

'OK, I can't wait to see what you're up to Matt.' Electra said with some sarcasm.

'I'll explain it now. I needed to have the phone call though this computer so that I could use this USB device. What is unique about it is that once they phoned, I downloaded a small program to their smart phone, to activate their GPS module. It's now reporting its position to me.'

'Electra gasped. 'So you know where they are?'

'Yes I do, as long as their phone remains switched on. At the moment they're driving along Te Irirangi drive and their position is accurate to within ten metres.' Matt stood up. 'We have to get back to Eden Park, but not as fast as we came here. We can keep an eye on their progress as we go.'

He stood up, folded his ear phones and put them in his pocket.

'I can also activate the microphone in their smart phone by remote control so we can listen in to their conversations if we want.'

Electra followed him out to the Corolla speechless once again.

20

Electra and Jim sat still as Matt retraced their route back to Eden Park. The Corolla glided silently at high-speed through the traffic, but compared to their earlier trip they seemed to idle along. By the time Matt parked again at Eden Park they had decided their plan of action. They agreed on the wording of the note that Jim would ask the twelfth man to give to Mark at the drinks break. It would be crafted to reduce his shock when he read it; then they would have to rely on him to create a good reason to leave the field. Jim would keep the lap top with him for the next call and he and Electra would pick up Tasha once they received the details of her release from the kidnappers.

Matt rushed back to the OBV. His watch indicated that he had been away for about three-quarters of an hour. As he expected, the boss was querulous and very annoyed. Matt needed to hide behind a fabricated story, full of technological jargon. He moved to sweeten the mood of his cricket addicted supervisor.

'Boss I don't know what you're complaining about, I'm sure you noticed the improvement in the equipment since I've been away. I got all hot and sweaty racing around fixing a lot of problems while you were enjoying the greatest game of cricket ever played. What have I missed while I was away?'

Mollified and distracted by this assurance of his time well spent, the Boss summarised the state of play.

'We opened the bowling with Lawrie Smyth and Taylor Dalton as you would expect and we're now in the eight over. The Aussies have settled in and run up forty plus runs. We haven't had a breakthrough and the crowd are getting restive. Listen to this.' He turned up the radio commentary. Like the rest of the OBV team the boss preferred the radio over his own company's television presenters.

'... you should hear the crowd now. Bill, can we turn the microphone round so that our listeners can hear.' Clicking and scratching noises followed for a few seconds then a chant could be heard rising in volume.

'Armstrong, Armstrong, Armstrong.'

'Fred it looks like they want their hero to bowl now. Normally I would say we should have at least another four overs before a bowling change, but Rod Beecham has to consider the success that Armstrong had against the tourists last week. There will be pressure on the captain to give him the ball.'

Fred replied, excited.

'Yes Beecham is calling for a bowling change, he's signalling to Armstrong. I think he read your mind Bill.'

Matt hurried to his position. He checked his apparatus. As he expected his standard television equipment was working well. A quick look at the time beam generator confirmed its steady resting state with a stable low temperature. The television monitor showed Mark fielding out on the boundary and Matt breathed more easy. He had driven recklessly to reach the laptop before the phone call, but he had also gambled that Mark wouldn't be bowling until he was back into position at the OBV.

'Beecham read the crowd's mind Fred,' joked Bill. 'Listen to that roar.'

The crowd noise peaked as Mark came forward to give his cap to the umpire and pace out his run up.

'Just in time, and he'll probably bowl four overs before drinks.' muttered Matt as he moved to turn up the time generator.

The OBV van lights dimmed. The umpire let his arm drop, and Mark ran in to bowl backed by a rising crescendo of noisy support as he neared the wicket. He bowled his warm-up ball to Bruce Tuohy who played a defensively shaped shot to a ball that deviated off the seam. He was still completing his stroke when the ball reached the wicket keeper, who almost fumbled as it moved on to him quicker than he expected.

There was a loud ooh from the crowd. Tuohy came out to pat down an imaginary defect on the pitch at the spot where he thought the ball had landed.

'Well Tuohy didn't really seem very confident about that did he Bill?'

'No he did not Fred. He played away from the line and was lucky not to get an edge. That ball seemed deceptively quick to me. I can't see how Armstrong is developing his pace or why that ball mesmerised Tuohy.'

Bill continued his commentary. 'Armstrong comes in again, he bowls, its pitched right up, there's an edge and it's been dropped in the slips. Tuohy's been dropped by Simpson at second slip. The ball came straight into his hands then back out. That's a bad miss Fred.'

'Yes indeed it is Bill. It looked like a regulation catch to me. Armstrong will be unhappy about that, his fans certainly are.'

'He doesn't look too upset Fred, There's a small smile as he walks back to his marker. I must say he looks very relaxed in his first test match and hasn't his effort so far been incredible. He has made the greatest test début ever seen. Now Armstrong turns to run in again at a medium pace. He bowls. Oooh, Tuohy made contact, a streaky single has gone between second and third slip. He didn't know where that went, but he looks very relieved to be off strike don't you think Fred?'

'Yes Bill, indeed he does.'

Bill continued 'This brings young Mitchell Hawking to face Armstrong. He has twenty- three runs so far, and is batting well. Let's see how he handles Armstrong's bowling; last week he managed quite well at times. Hawking settles in his crease, head down, he looks very determined. He has a classic open stance with his guard taken on middle stump. Armstrong is coming in to bowl the fourth ball of his first over. He runs in, he bowls, he hits Hawking on his pads, there's a loud appeal. Hawking is right in front, he is plumb in front. The umpire's finger goes up and he's out LBW.'

Background spectator noise blotted out some of the commentary as Fred took over.

'......Hawking ended up playing back to that shot which was well pitched up. He had good balance to start with but the pace deceived him apparently; he was far too late to get his bat in position. The ball straightened on middle stump and there was absolutely no doubt in the mind of John Grigg the umpire.'

'Fred its a sorry sight to see young Hawking walk back to the stand because he has played well up till now. Delaney his captain is coming in to bat at three and he exchanges a kind word with him as they pass on his way to the wicket. Armstrong has made the breakthrough again, and Australia are forty-seven for one.

Matt reviewed the condition of the time beam generator and settled back to enjoy the final two balls of Mark's over. Mike Delaney managed to fend these balls off, leaving Matt impressed by the Australian captain's ability; no further runs were scored in the over.

The next over gave the Australian pair leeway to relax and they collected a comfortable eight runs between them. The crowd seethed with excitement again as Mark took the ball for his second over.

Mike Delaney scored a two off the first ball which squeezed past mid on, then followed up with a short single pushed towards cover. Matt shook his head in admiration as he decided that Delaney was playing down an estimated line based on the way he picked up Marks hand position before he released the ball.

Bruce Tuohy now faced Mark again for the next ball which slid over the stumps. On the fourth ball he turned in dismay as his middle stump went cart-wheeling towards the wicket keeper. The crowd expressed their delight without reserve and even the phlegmatic Fred became lyrical in his response to the fallen wicket.

Mike Delaney went out to meet Ron 'the Ton' Shaw. The two best Australian batsmen spent some time conferring before Shaw settled into his position at the crease. He watched Mark with steely concentration as he ran in towards him. Matt noticed with interest that 'the Ton' picked up his bat like Mike Delaney, before Mark reached the bowling crease, in an attempt to shorten his reaction time to the approaching ball.

A distinct clink was heard all around the ground and a microsecond of silence passed before it became apparent that the ball had dislodged Shaw's offside bail. The fans reaction made Matt reach forwards to turn down the volume of the radio as Shaw set off on his lonely walk back to the changing rooms.

'He's out clean bowled.' Bill shouted. 'A golden duck for Shaw and now Armstrong is on a hat trick. He has figures of 3 wickets for 4 runs off 11 balls, with one more ball in the over to come. I can't believe it Fred.'

'Yes indeed Bill, and to all you listeners out there, we are watching another fantastic performance by Mark Armstrong, this time with the ball. He's on fire. What can the Australian's do to prevent him from destroying them? Someone has to stop him. You can see the dejection on Mike Delaney's face from here. He's walked half way to the boundary to meet Mungo Thompson the next batsmen. The problem is what advice can he give? For some reason Armstrong is unplayable so far.'

The crowd chanted Mark's name while a series of enthusiastic Mexican waves rippled onwards accompanied by a storm of thrown pillows and empty plastic beer bottles.

Fred continued. 'Can he get the hat trick? The excitement is intense. Thompson is taking a long time to settle and now he taps his bat. He will be very nervous I would imagine as Armstrong runs in. He lifts his bat, Armstrong bowls. Thompson is hit on the pads. There's another appeal and he's out! There's the hat trick and the crowd are going berserk. It's the end of the over. Australia 58 runs for 4 wickets facing a total of 672. Armstrong 4 for 4 off 2 overs. Fred I think Australia's lowest total against New Zealand was 104, a match played in 1986?'

'No Bill, it was 103, that's a total that could be beaten today if Armstrong carries on bowling like this. He's extracting something from the ball or the pitch, I don't know how. Maybe the Australians have a huge mental block against him. Whatever is happening, they have to find some way to beat this.'

Bill took up the commentary. 'Now we have Maloney coming to the wicket. Delaney has given up on any advice; he's looking down at his boots. Now he looks up ready to play his first ball from Smythe. Its wide, off a length and Delaney cuts it for four runs, straight between cover and point. A beautiful shot. That's the way to deal with their crisis, but I don't know why he can't do that against Armstrong.'

Smythe's over finished with ten runs conceded off it.

Mark stood ready ball in hand facing Maloney as Bill continued the commentary.

'I would like to remind any new listeners who have tuned in, that Armstrong is now on a double hat trick. If he gets a fourth wicket in a row that would be the first time in a cricket test Fred wouldn't it?'

'Yes it would Bill. In he comes to bowl; Maloney has taken a huge swing and has hit the ball high in the air towards backward point. Maloney is running and looking to mid wicket but the ball has gone in the opposite direction because he doesn't know where it went. The batsmen cross, Damien Jury is under it, will he catch it? It's swirling. He does catch it and that's the double hat trick for Armstrong. Maloney has carried on running past the wicket straight towards the club house. The Black Caps are converging on Jury as Armstrong looks overwhelmed as indeed he should. This player has made more cricket history. Australia now 58 for 5, Armstrong 5 wickets for 4 runs and there are still many overs to go before stumps today.'

There was a delay after the next batsman arrived at the wicket. A few of the more excitable members in the crowd made another pitch invasion, but in good humour they allowed police and ground staff to shepherd them off the grass.

Mike Delaney having crossed with Maloney took up strike to prevent the ignominy of a possible triple hat trick. He must have felt extreme pressure. He cut a lone figure as the whole of New Zealand willed him out. He did his best to oblige with a thin edge that flew at regulation catching height to the keeper, who could only tip it with one glove and divert it away to the boundary where it evaded the dive of third man. The wicket keeper held his head in his hands at the missed catch; hundreds of spectators followed suit. Delaney fended off the remaining balls in the over, even managing to steal a single off the last ball. As they crossed by each other he and Mark exchanged smiles, Delaney the more rueful of the two.

'Australia 63 for 5 at the end of the over, Armstrong now 5 wickets for 9 runs.' Bill chanted with enthusiasm.

Rod Beecham brought on a new bowler to partner Mark for the next over and the Australians took five runs from it.

Mark bowled his fourth and last over before drinks. The new batsmen Clive Shuker struggled to put a clean bat to ball as he played and missed twice before first slip dropped him off the third ball. He survived a confident LBW decision for the fourth ball but it seemed inevitable that his stumps were skittled on the fifth ball thus creating another extreme spectator reaction.

Mark's final ball of the over evaded both the edge and the stumps of the fortunate Wade Morrison the fresh batsman. His face showed obvious relief at avoiding a golden duck and reaching the five-minute drink interval where he could gain some composure.

Matt who was watching the high temperature readouts of the time beam generator, quickly eased the power off. His eyes turned to the monitor as the Kiwi twelfth man came out to circulate the drinks trolley amongst his team mates. Perhaps Matt, Jim, Electra, and the unknown group of kidnappers were the few people who saw Mark receive the small note. He took a casual look at it then performed a slow re-read before pushing it into his pocket. Mark's whole demeanour changed and Matt knew that his amazing début performance was almost over.

Drinks finished while Matt waited with a heavy heart for the Australians to negotiate the next over without loss. Delaney played Mark's first ball of his fifth over well enough to return the ball down the pitch. Mark bent down to retrieve it but gave a jerk as if his back were in spasm, before falling in obvious pain.

'No.' Bill shouted in anguish. 'Armstrong has fallen over and he seems hurt. This is a dramatic turn of events. Surely he can't be injured, not now?'

Fred interrupted, his voice cracking with alarm. 'He is hurt Bill. He's getting up but he's bent over double with his hand pressed over his lower back. He's in pain and now all his team mates are running towards him. Someone is waving to the clubhouse to bring help for him. It can't be true but it is. Armstrong 6 wickets for 9 runs, a player the Australians can't cope with, is hurt. Australia have collapsed to 70 runs for 6 wickets. The possible loss of this one player feels like a body blow for the Black Caps. Surely they must win the game from the position of massive strength that he's given them, but somehow I've got a sick feeling I can't explain.'

21

Matt sat back to consider the possible outcomes of various rescue plans. He stared at and beyond the walls of the OBV. Around him echoed the anguished sounds of his dismayed colleagues. No one dared approach the boss, who sat alone in front of his screens, cursing with random and repeated filth.

Jim arrived, and ignoring the uproar, came straight into Matt's compartment shutting the door behind him. He had called in a favour from one of the relief cameramen who agreed to replace his shift for the remainder of play until stumps. Jim was almost in tears as he placed Matt's laptop on the central console before slumping into the spare chair

'What can we do Matt? I never thought it would go as far as this.'

'When you decided to make some fast money by betting on the results of my invention, you should have realised that rough elements like your friend Fat Joe would be desperate enough to try to reduce their liabilities. Hone told me that three Māori and a Pakeha took the family and tied Aunty up. She confirmed that one of them limped and I'm guessing that's the man who Electra stilettoed the other night.'

'How do you know Fat Joe is behind this?'

'His actions show too much interest in Mark and his family. We can prove it too with our technology. Ask Mark to come and see me as soon as he possibly can. I'm stuck here until the end of play. Tell him to keep up the back pain. And make sure you keep the lap top near you for the next call.'

Matt turned back to the game which had restarted. Another bowler had completed Mark's over and it was the last ball of the next over. Matt wasn't surprised to see that the Australians were already a dozen runs better off from those two overs. The crowd noise had receded to a buzz as the Kiwi supporters digested the enormity of the injury and began to consider the possibility of a different match result. Even the awful prospect of a fantastic Australian comeback.

Matt paid token attention to the game as the final hour of play progressed. He even turned the radio commentary off. The commentators had not been able to disguise their disappointment either; they also seemed to have lost their enthusiasm for the game. The play continued in silence on the television monitor.

A sudden commotion in the front of the OBV van alerted Matt to Mark's arrival. The boss brought him into the engineering compartment.

'Thanks for coming to visit us Mark, it's a great surprise and honour. Matt's in his little cubby but I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. I hope this seat is comfortable for your back but let me know if there's anything else we can do for you. He ushered Mark to the spare seat and backed out of the door smiling as he went.

Mark shut the door and glared at Matt.

'I don't know what's going on but you and Jim are part of it. You had better give me a good explanation. I wanted to go straight to the police but Electra told me I needed to talk to you first. You've got five minutes to persuade me not to call them.'

'Did Jim take another phone call? He must have, I see he gave you my laptop.'

'Yes he took it on your laptop for some reason. He's taken Electra with him to pick up Tasha. Matt I want to know where Luana and John are and what's happening.'

'I'll explain as much as I know or can guess. Some people don't like the way you're playing. Many gamblers bet on cricket games, especially on batsmen or bowlers performances. Jim has a weakness for betting; he made a lot of money on your last game against the Australians.'

'How much?'

'I'm not sure, maybe about a hundred thousand dollars. His private bookie didn't like losing that money. There are a lot of bets on you again because you've broken so many records against huge odds. Most betting shops will be worried that they could lose a fortune on you. This illegal bookie isn't a pleasant character. He thought you needed John's lucky charm pendant for your success and that's why he grabbed it off you. Unfortunately for him, losing the pendant hasn't made any difference to the way you've dealt to the Aussies. I think the same person was behind the laser torch attempt as well'

Matt continued before Mark could reply. 'The kidnapper is almost certainly Fat Joe, the man you met at the restaurant. He's become so desperate that he's decided to take your family until the match is over. If you play again or go to the police he claims he'll hurt them. He wants a quiet end to the game without any more of Mark Armstrong's input. It's your choice if you want to go to the police but I don't think you need to. You can either continue to stay injured until the test is over and he'll return Luana and John to you, or else we can do something else.'

'We?'

'We have an advantage over the kidnappers because we should soon know where they're holding Luana and John. Here I'll show you.'

Matt took the laptop from Mark turning it on to make a wireless connection to the internet. It displayed a map of Auckland and as Matt scrolled around three coloured lights appeared superimposed over the map.

'The red light is the initial smart phone used by the kidnappers. When it communicated with a second smart phone, the software I inserted spread to that phone marking it yellow. The red phone made a call to a third smart phone which is now lit up as blue. The software can activate up to six phones if they have GPS installed. We can assume that one of these smart phones is in the hands of the men who are holding your family.'

'If you look closely you can see that the yellow phone is stationary in Papakura. The red phone is stationary in Captain Springs Road Onehunga. It was moving around other parts of Auckland earlier. Fat Joe's shop is at 87 Captain Springs Road. My guess is that this phone is Fat Joe's own; he let one of his assistants make our calls while he stayed in the background so his voice wouldn't be recognised. The blue phone is stationary at Eden park not far from us, meaning that Fat Joe's friends are here keeping an eye on things. It would be ridiculous to hide your family at Eden Park.' The yellow phone could be the place where your family are.

'What if there are other phones that aren't switched on or don't have GPS installed?'

Matt shrugged. 'That could be a problem, but most smart phone owners never switch them off. We can also use the other feature of the software to activate the microphones on dumb phones so we can listen in to their conversations.'

'You can do that?'

'Let's wait and hope there are some more calls. The smart phones will flash when they make a connection to each other, we can listen in then.'

While they waited, Matt asked about the reaction of the New Zealand Team to the injury. The team physio and doctor had examined Mark when he reached the dressing room, but he easily mimicked the appropriate pain response and restricted movements of a sprained back.

'I hate doing this; faking an injury. I've never done it before. I'm disgusted that I'm lying to people who want to help me. I don't feel like a sporting hero; I feel like a piece of shit.'

'I'm sorry about that,' Matt said genuinely. 'None of this is your fault. Anyone else in your position would do the same for their family. I hope I can convince you that we can solve this without anyone getting hurt.'

At that moment his laptop chimed and the red phone in Onehunga began flashing followed by the blue phone at Eden park. Matt reached forward, typed in a command, and Fat Joe's Irish accented voice exited from the laptop speakers.

'... what's the situation at the park now Sonny?'

'Nothing happening that I can see boss. Armstrong is still at the stadium and the story here is that he'll be going for a scan tomorrow to see how bad his back is.'

'Good, stay where you are and watch the players' car park after the game finishes. Report back to me when you see Armstrong leave the ground. See who he's with and let me know. See you later.'

The connection broke and the phones resumed their stand by mode on Matt's laptop.

'Well there's the proof that Fat Joe has the red phone and he's the villain in this story. Now we need to have a conversation between the red and the yellow phones.'

'If you can prove that Luana and John are in Papakura, why don't we show the police the evidence and get them to raid the building?' Mark demanded.

Matt ticked off several fingers.

'Firstly; Fat Joe has promised violence if you involve the police. That might be a lie but we can't be sure. Secondly; I still hope to resolve this without any publicity involving you. At the moment you're a living legend of cricket and I don't want that to change. Thirdly; for selfish reasons I don't want my software revealed to the police at this moment. Fourthly; I really believe that with the help of your extended family we can finish this safely, better than the police would. Hone and Wiremu are raising reinforcements as I speak. Finally; I want to see you finish the game the way you started it; for that to happen we need to correct things quietly.'

The laptop gave another quiet bleep and the red phone icon could be seen flashing followed by the yellow phone.

'Yeah Sam here.' It was the familiar voice of the previous calls.

Fat Joe's voice echoed in the small compartment. 'Sam I'm checking before I sign off for the night. You've got enough food and supplies for the next three days. Are your guests comfortable?'

'Yeah boss we're sweet.'

'No more contact between us until this is over. I'll let you know what to do then. Make sure somebody watches them all the time, four shifts around the clock like we planned. Don't phone me unless you've got a real problem, Ok?'

'Yeah boss.'

The call disconnected. Matt turned the radio commentary on again and the two of them watched in silence as the final over of the day played out.

'Listeners around the world, this has been the most incredible day of cricket. In our opinion the greatest day in cricket history. Mark Armstrong has single-handedly beaten the Australians for most of the match. He has made the highest test score in cricket; he has broken time and ball records for the test half century, century, double century, and triple century. He has taken the first double hat trick in test cricket. His bowling before his injury has probably broken other records, our statisticians are working on this as I speak. The Australians were heading for their lowest ever cricket total against New Zealand when Mark Armstrong left the field with an injury with under an hour to play, An injury that seems to have terminated his sensational performance in this test match. The Australian skipper Doug Delaney and his partner Wade Morrison are walking back to the stand now and don't they look happier Fred?'

'Yes indeed they do Bill. The Australian score is 147 runs for 6 wickets. , They look as if they have weathered the storm. Even though the Kiwis have an enormous lead, in the absence of Armstrong I wouldn't put it past this fine Australian side to salvage the match.'

'I have to agree with you there Fred, it's a different game now and the fans sense it too. We have come to the end of our coverage and we must all wait to see what tomorrow brings. On behalf of New Zealand Sport's radio channel, we look forward to joining you, our listeners at home and abroad when we return tomorrow for the start of the third days play. Good evening to you all.'

Matt reached to turn off the radio while Mark rose and moved to the door. He turned as he placed his hand on the handle.

'I have to get back for the team talk now, but we'll do it your way Matt.'

22

After midnight, three cars turned into a quiet residential street in a poor area of Papakura. The leading car, Matt's Corolla, containing Matt, Mark, and Electra, parked thirty metres before number twenty-seven, a small, scruffy fibrolite house. Light drizzle was falling. In the darkness they could see the porch and the outline of the front door beyond the low bushes in the unkempt front garden. The other cars containing Hone, Wiremu, and three more cousins moved past them to park thirty metres beyond the gateway of number twenty-seven.

Earlier that evening there had been energetic debate about the composition of the recovery party as Matt decided to call it. Jim had not been involved. When he received the call from the red phone telling him to pick up Tasha at the corner of Dominion Road and Charles Street, he left immediately with Electra in his car. As related later by Electra, there followed an emotional scene, in which Tasha flung herself into Jim's arms even though a crude cardboard splint supporting her left forearm, restricted her movements. They drove Tasha straight to the hospital where Electra left the two of them; she could see they wouldn't be parted.

It had been impossible to persuade Electra to stay away from the recovery party. She finally silenced Matt when she suggested that they might need a lawyer to accompany them.

They made their plans around the big dining table at Mark's house. Matt set his laptop on it and displayed the latest smart phone information. He ran through the log of calls made and received by the captive smart phones. There was brief concern when he found that a new green phone showed on the map, but a quick check of the sound recordings revealed a touching conversation between Fat Joe and his mother.

'It looks like Fat Joe gave his mum one of those nice smart phones.' Matt said. 'Even an arse hole like him has to have a mum.'

Fat Joe had also been busy with calls to phones which didn't have a GPS facility and didn't show on the map. Nevertheless Matt recorded their numbers and their conversations. Fat Joe was active in entrepreneurial activities, the details of which were now revealed. They mostly concerned the making and distribution of metamphetamine.

'That's useful evidence.' Electra said after listening to them.

Matt then asked for silence. Hone had recruited three suitable cousins and armed with their names Matt spent five minutes recording a short sentence on his laptop using a passable imitation of Fat Joe's Irish brogue. He merged the sound wave pattern of his mimicked voice with all the recorded words Fat Joe had used in the stored conversations.

The assembly watched in silence as Matt used an unknown programme to combine words from the real Fat Joe and his Fat Joe attempt. The computer replaced any common words in Matt's sentence with those from the real Fat Joe, then built a reasonable Fat Joe simulation for the remaining words. When it finished recreating the sentence Matt played back the final version and nodded in satisfaction.

'That will do nicely.'

Electra broke the long pause after this. 'I haven't seen that programme before Matt.'

'Uh no, but I am sure something like it is available on the market.' Matt replied.

Hone broke in.

'Geez Matt we could do with something like that for our band.'

'Yes you could Hone, and so could quite a few other people.' Electra said in a business like voice.

They parted company, Hone and Wiremu went to collect their cousins. On their way to Papakura Matt stopped at his house to pick up a little "action equipment" as he called it. He returned to the car with a small hold all and as they drove off he ignored Electra's glacial stare.

They waited in silence in the deserted car park outside the Roselands shopping centre until Hone and Wiremu arrived followed by a low slung estate wagon with dark tinted windows. The three new cousins introduced themselves to Matt and shook hands with him through the car window. There was an animated conversation as Matt demonstrated something taken from his holdall before he handed invisible items over to them.

When they were all parked outside the target house Matt spoke to Hone on his phone.

'Ok Hone, you, Wiremu and Matiu slip into the bushes beside the front lawn. Send the others down the side of the house and ask them to wait outside the ranch slider. Keep quiet and keep low. I'll make the call as soon as you've settled in.'

He took Electra's smart phone, inserted the USB device into the laptop, looked at his watch and dialled the yellow phone. He glanced at her.

'Your phone call will show up as if it were the red phone.' he explained.

The yellow phone rang for seven or eight rings before it picked up.

'Hello, its Sam here boss, what's up?'

Matt pressed a key and Fat Joe's simulated message played.

'Sam, I've sent a new guy with a box of special liquid supplies for you. He should turn up in about five minutes. A Māori guy, his name is Matiu. You can thank me later.'

Matt cut the connection before Sam could reply. He turned to Electra.

'You and Mark stay in the car until this is over. Mark I want you here because we can't let you be genuinely injured, and you Electra, because you could get in the way. This could be a little rough; I don't want you hurt either.'

'That's cool and very thoughtful of you,' she replied, her face expressionless with her arms folded tight across a medium-sized handbag.

'Just behave yourself.' muttered Matt as he left the car.

He jogged towards the gate, joining the Armstrong gang under the straggly low pittosporums which dripped water on the backs of their necks. They moved forwards hugging the ground. The porch and front door a few metres away became visible as their eyes adjusted to the dim light.

At Matt's signal Matiu approached the door, rang the bell, then knocked on it for added measure. Under his left arm he held a medium-sized box; the sort of box that could have held a dozen beer bottles.

The porch light came on and the door opened to show a tall Māori rubbing his eyes. Matiu spoke.

'Hey bro, I'm Matiu, the boss asked me to deliver these. I have to give them to Sam.'

'That's me, I'll take them.' Sam stepped forwards to take the offered box in both hands.

Matiu reached into his hoody pocket with his right hand, pulled out a small black object and pressed it against Sam's bare forearm. Sam slid gracefully to the ground and Matiu hurried to take a firm hold of the box before it could drop to the porch. As he lowered it Matt heard the clink of full beer bottles.

"Jesus Christ, they didn't have to make the props real.' Matt muttered as he moved forwards with Hone and Wiremu.

Together they dragged Sam down across the lawn and under the nearby bushes.

Matt was happy to see that Matiu was a similar height to the sleeping Sam. He whispered to him as he moved past.

'Matiu, you have enough charge for two more zaps. Try and do them as quietly as possible.'

Matt pushed the front door ajar and finding the switch for the porch light, turned it off. Matiu moved past him into the dim hallway followed by Matt and the others. They paused to wait and listen while their eyes adjusted to the dark, then crept forward again.

A short hallway extended into a kitchen at the back of the house. A small fluorescent light above, revealed sinks and a side bench on which stood sets of glass retorts and large bottles of chemicals. An air expeller hissed in the background. Matt, who was peering over Matiu's shoulder, backed away. making a silent P shape with his hands to the others. Four closed doors lined the hallway. Loud snoring noises came from the front room on the left which Matt indicated that he would take.

A scraping sound made as someone stood up from a chair solved the dilemma of what to do next. A voice called out from beyond a door.

'Sam what's up man? It's time for my shift to end. I want some of that booze you got.'

A rear door swung open to outline a figure as Matiu moving forwards like a panther, applied his device to the man's neck. There was a brief, half-stifled, 'What the fuck.' before the kidnapper crumpled to the ground with a loud thud.

At the same time Matt opened his door and located the source of the snoring as coming from a body sprawled semi-prone on a low divan in one corner of the room. Matt reached it with a few steps and pulling back a blanket applied his device to a large beer belly that gleamed above dark trousers. The snoring pattern paused then altered to indicate that the sleeping kidnapper had become an unconscious kidnapper.

The fourth kidnapper who was sleeping in the far right room had woken. He may have heard the sound of his collapsing accomplice, because he was already moving when Hone and Wiremu burst into his room. Before they could reach him, he pulled back the ranch slider to jump out to the deck. He burst between the two cousins who had positioned themselves on either side of the slider. Vaulting over the hand rail on to the driveway he took off towards the street.

Near the gate a small shadow appeared from behind one of the bushes to push out a foot in time to trip the escaping man. A second larger shadow dived on top of the stunned kidnapper restraining him while the smaller figure rammed something into his mouth before he could yell out.

Matt saw all this as if in slow motion as he pursued the fleeing man down the drive. He too dived on the restrained man and used his zapper while his two assistants struggled to hold their victim. Only when all movement ceased did he realise that his two helpers were not the other two cousins, but Electra and Mark.

The need for silence prevented him from saying anything as he pulled one of Electra's handkerchiefs from the snoring captive's mouth. He motioned the two new cousins to carry the fourth man into the house where they put him on Sam's bed alongside Sam in a front room.

Luana and John were found bound and gagged in the back room. Electra pulled a camera from her bag insisting that she photograph them before their release, 'for evidence' she said. She also made a quick photographic tour of the kitchen and took mugshots of the four unconscious men.

After Matt turned the house lights off, he checked up and down the street. No new lights shone; the street slept on in oblivion as before.

On the way back to Mark's house, Electra interrogated Matt about his zappers. He was evasive, explaining that they were a small project that he had been working on at a time when he was studying self-defence. No they were not tasers, they worked through the brains limbic system was all he would say. Behind them on the back seat Mark hugged his wife and son, who was now wide awake wanting to know why he had to play nasty games with four strange uncles.

23

The follow-up family conference decided that Mark, Luana, and John should move to another relative's house where they would be guarded by the three cousins, while Hone and Wiremu, Matt and Electra would stay to guard Mark's house. Jim made it plain that he would act as a personal guard for Tasha at his flat.

Once they finalised the arrangements, Matt relaxed and studied the smart phone situation. The red phone was stationary at a Remuera address which Matt assumed was Fat Joe's home. The blue phone was out in the western suburbs and the yellow phone lay in Matt's hands.

'I'm going to enjoy this phone call.' Matt said as he typed on his computer and activated the speaker for everyone in the room to hear.

'Fat Joe's phone rang for a full twenty seconds before he answered in a sleepy voice.

'This better be very important.' he growled.

'It is. This is Matt Harper phoning on behalf of the Armstrong family.'

There was a prolonged silence as Fat Joe considered the implications of the caller using Sam's phone.

'What do you want?'

'Mrs Armstrong and her son are free and are now in a safe place with Mark Armstrong. His house is also being guarded and will remain so until the cricket match is over. All members of the Armstrong family will be unavailable to you for the duration of the match. Mark Armstrong will now recover from his injury and resume his place in the New Zealand team. He will also be very well protected from now on. Do you have any questions?'

Fat Joe was now wide awake and vicious.

'I suppose you think I'm going to forget about this in the future Mr Harper. You may be ahead at the moment but sooner or later I'll make sure that you and the Armstrongs pay.'

'You could do that,' Matt replied. 'But I hope you won't be so foolish. I will ask you to listen to a short recording taken from one of the many interesting phone calls you've made today.'

Matt played back a phone conversation in which Fat Joe gave precise instructions about a P pick up and delivery to a certain address. Matt spoke into the ensuing silence.

'The deal is this. At the moment the police haven't been contacted about you. I'm now going to send some photos and files to your phone. You'll recognise them as your Papakura P lab and its sleeping occupants, together with other samples from your business conversations today. We will pass these pictures and conversations with your drug pushing friends to the police if any harm comes to either the Armstrong family or my family. You leave us alone and we'll leave you alone. If you think that you can tidy the evidence away and have a go at us later, I must disappoint you because I or any of my friends can make fresh recordings of your business activities at any time in the future. You'll never know it's being done. We can easily do this believe me. So once again I suggest that you keep permanently away from all of us.'

Fat Joe considered this.

'I don't see how I can trust you.' he said cautiously.

'You're a professional criminal. I accept that this makes you unlikely to trust anyone, but you will know that sometimes a deal goes wrong and you lose out. The Armstrong family is straight, but some of their relatives exist on the edge as you may find out if you ask around. I advise you to accept this set back professionally. I don't think it would be in your best long-term interest to have a war with the Armstrongs or the Harpers. Step away and we will leave you alone. You have my word as an honest person.'

'Ok you cunt, you win this one, but I warn you that your brother will never be able to take a bet in this city again. I'm not sure what scam you're pulling in this game but I'll work it out one day.'

Matt cast a hurt look at Electra.

'There is no scam I can assure you. Why don't you sit back and enjoy a great game of cricket. Let's hope that Mark Armstrong continues to amaze us as he wins this game for our country.'

'Fuck off.' said Fat Joe as he cut the call.

Matt turned to face Electra who sat, regarding him with an even expression.

'The nerve of that guy, he thinks everybody else is as crooked as he is.' He yawned and rubbed the side of his neck. 'Well I'm going to try to get a few hours sleep, time is moving on, we have another long day in front of us.

24

The overnight rain passed and another fine day broke for the third day of the test. The large crowd of cricket fans clutched their chilly bins, sun hats, and flags as they converged on the roads leading to Eden Park. A generous sprinkling of yellow shirted Australian supporters dispersed themselves among the teeming black shirts.

Matt left the Armstrong's house early to take his place at work. A series of morning calls ensured that Aunty and the other immediate members of Luana's family would spend the day in large family groups. Matt felt this was important even though he admitted to Jim that Fat Joe was unlikely to intervene again.

'He'll be too busy fixing his communication leak and moving his meth labs.'

When the New Zealand Cricket officials arrived at Mark's house, Matt detailed Hone and Wiremu to fetch Mark and escort him to hospital for his scan and doctors' appointment.

Electra and Tasha travelled to the ground in the company of another two large male cousins who were given strict instructions that they were to follow the sisters everywhere. Naneko yet another cousin, was to cover the essential female comfort calls. She was a small chunky bus driver who doubled up as a fitness instructor in a large city gymnasium. After Matt introduced himself he came away feeling quite reassured of their safety.

Play began in front of fifty thousand spectators, a capacity stadium. When Matt arrived he found a subdued team in the OBV van, but they soon became excited when he told them that Mark's back had improved and that he intended to play again. In Matt's opinion he guessed that Mark would take the field after lunch.

The morning cricket progressed without incident after the Australian pair weathered an energetic start by the two Kiwi medium quick bowlers. Doug Delaney and his partner Wade Morrison gathered steady runs and pushed the score beyond two hundred runs. They looked confident; the wicket was holding up well and becoming placid as it dried in the sun.

In the second hour of play Morrison miscued a drive, lofting the ball to deep extra cover where he was well caught. This success stirred the majority of the crowd who had been quiet as they watched the Australian recovery. However the next batsmen Shaun Hampton soon established himself in a support role and the two Australians settled into a merciless run gathering exercise so familiar to their opponents around the world.

Fred Hindmarsh and Bill Jablonski also settled back into their routine commentary modes, far removed from the hyperbole of the day before.

'Bill it seems that Doug Delaney is going to collect another hundred shortly. It's been a fine display of batting once again from the Australian captain.'

'Yes Fred, and he has been ably supported by his lower order batsmen. You can never underestimate any Australian cricketer. All their batsmen are capable of collecting runs and their confidence seems to have returned. It would be amazing if they could reach the four hundred and seventy-two runs needed to prevent the follow on, but they're progressing at almost a run a ball and the Kiwis body language looks depressed.

'Yes indeed Bill. This game feels unreal in some way that I can't explain to our listeners out there. Ah excuse me, our producer has slipped us a note and he is waving at us in a very peculiar way. Can you read it for me Bill?'

There was a brief silence until Bill took over the microphone his voice raised in excitement.

'I have to report to our listeners that Mark Armstrong has returned to Eden Park from the hospital and it seems that his MRI scan shows no serious injury. He has made a quick recovery from his back spasm and the doctors say that he will be fit to play again.'

'That's tremendous news for Kiwi fans, but perhaps not such good news for our Australian listeners.' replied Fred. 'You know Bill, I think this game was waiting for Mark Armstrong, it doesn't seem complete without his presence.'

'Fred that's a weird thought but I think you could be right.'

The news had flowed around the crowd and cameras zoomed in on the cheering fans.

Matt activated his link to Jim for the first time that morning. 'You heard the news?'

'I guessed it from the way the crowd reacted.'

'The time beam won't last much longer, maybe two or three hours.'

'Let's hope that will be enough.'

'With any luck he can bowl them all out twice in the day.'

'But remember Matt that the Black Caps don't have to enforce the follow on.'

Matt was aghast. 'God they have to. The beam won't last for another full batting innings and a second bowling innings. We have to take the follow on.'

'Matt, Rod Beecham may not see it that way. He may believe that the wicket will crumble and let in our spin bowlers if we make them bat fourth.'

Doug Delaney reached his 100 before lunch and the Australian score passed 300 runs; the generous crowd stood to applaud that milestone. Bill and Fred were busy discussing the chances of the follow on being avoided by the now dominant Australians as the players left the field. The boss yelled through for Matt to go for his lunch break. He needed no second prompting.

Matt spotted Jim in the crowd in front of the main stand; he pushed forwards to catch him up.

'Jim can we influence this follow on arrangement?' he asked breathlessly.

'It will depend on how well Mark does when he rejoins the team.'

In the players area they sought out the reinforced Armstrong family. It amused Matt to see Hone, Wiremu and other cousins arrayed around the room in watchful poses like mobsters in an American film. Electra told him that there had been some initial resistance from officials when their large group entered the players area, but she persuaded these cricket worthies that the circumstances of Mark's return meant that he needed extra security. The officials submitted meekly when faced by the two sisters and the current New Zealand cricket sensation, escorted by a large but now well dressed private 'security' force.

'Everybody is behaving well,' she laughed. 'The team are still at lunch, come and sit with us.'

Matt slumped into a seat next to her.

'What's wrong Matt, surely our worries are over now.'

'Nothings up, I hope Mark has a good game that's all.'

Jim and Tasha turned up, Jim beaming in all directions.

'I made a great bet before anyone heard that Mark was fit to play. Five hundred dollars at ten to one that the game finishes today. Then five hundred dollars at a hundred to one that Mark takes eight or more wickets in the Australian second innings. I'll give you fifty percent of the winnings Matt. There are still plenty of bets out there.

'Isn't Jim wonderful.' gushed Tasha as she clung to him with one arm. The other arm looked fetching, supported in a pink fibreglass splint .

'Jesus Christ Jim. 'You're really pushing our luck.' Matt said.

Electra looked a question at him.

'Nonsense.' Jim replied. 'I'm confident in Mark's ability and in the support we can give him as his friends.'

Electra assessed them both. 'There's something about you two that I can't figure out. Maybe it's the combination of the mad inventor and the mad gambler.'

Matt interrupted her by jumping up. The players' lunch and team talk had finished; Mark appeared. Matt waved him across and at the same time looked around the room to gesture to the cousins who converged to prevent anyone else from approaching.

'How do you feel Mark?' Matt began.

'Good. I'm raring to go. I can also tell you that I'm opening the bowling.'

'That's great. How many overs do you think you can manage?'

'As many as possible,' Mark replied. 'Right now I don't feel tired even after last night.'

'Do you know if you'll take the follow on?' Matt asked boldly.

'I can't say, it depends on Rod and how quickly we get them out. It's too hard to call.'

'I think you should try for some bowling records now Mark.' replied Matt

Mark left the room in a surge of well wishers, escorted by his minders. Matt and Jim shook hands and embraced.

'Best of luck bro.' Jim murmured. 'No pressure.'

25

Matt kissed both sisters and hurried off to the OBV. As he prepared his set up for the restart of play, the background radio commentary prevented him from hearing his compartment door open and shut. Electra slid into the second chair alongside him. Beside her stood the grim and watchful figure of Naneko.

As Matt stared in shock, Electra turned to her.

'It's OK Naneko. I'll be safe; you can leave me here and watch the game from the stand.'

'Naneko regarded Matt warily. 'Ok.' she grunted as she turned with some reluctance to leave.

'Wow!' said Matt when she was gone. 'She seems very protective; I don't think she likes men that much.'

'You could be right, but she's a perfect darling, we get on very well.'

Matt made a non-committal sound.

'You can relax now.' Electra said tartly. 'I've decided to come and watch you work. Your boss was happy to see me. He agrees I won't be in the way at all.' She smiled coyly.

Matt felt trapped, but there was nothing he could do, the batsmen were at the crease and Mark was already pacing out his run up in preparation to bowl.

'I suggest you watch the game on my monitor and listen to the radio commentary.' was all he could say in reply. He decided to ignore Electra and after working various switches he allowed his left hand to slide down on to the controls of the time beam generator. He brought it up full power and confirmed that the field was active.

Mark ran in and bowled his first ball to Shaun Hampton.

'Well.' Bill said. 'Hampton was either very sure of the line of that ball and brilliantly decided not to play it, or else he didn't know where it was.'

'My impression is that he never saw that ball.' Fred replied. 'He's accumulated thirty-four competent runs so far but I think Armstrong is resuming where he left off.'

Shaun struggled with the next three balls. The first ball rapped him on the pads, the second flew over his middle stump, but he somehow fended off the third ball past the region of leg slip. Doug Delaney called him through for the single which he took with visible pleasure. Delaney blocked the next ball which squirted off to backward point.

'That man is a great batsman.' Matt announced to Electra.

All too soon Shaun found himself facing Mark's second over. He played and missed the first ball then snicked the second to first slip who dropped it. The third ball edged to the wicket keeper who also put it down after a desperate juggling act. However before the crowd could make any serious gestures of anger at these fielding errors, Mark's fourth ball took out Shaun's off stump and he began his walk.

'That makes the score 308 for 8. Armstrong now has the amazing figures of 7 for 12 runs.' Bill said.

Electra spoke. 'I've seen Mark play quite a lot of cricket but this is the first time I've seen him bamboozle so many batsmen.'

'He must have reached that moment when a sportsman can play a perfect game that will probably never be repeated.' Matt replied.

'Indeed.' said Electra, echoing Fred Hindmarsh.

Connie Stavoupolis arrived; for Mark's first ball he sprang forwards to let it hit him on the lower chest.

'That's an interesting way of blocking the ball.' Fred declared.

The next ball struck Stavoupolis firmly on the pads; a loud shout went up for leg before wicket. The umpire raised his finger but Connie made a defiant appeal to the third umpire. All eyes turned to the large screen replay and the tracking software which helped calculate the line of the ball as it moved towards the stumps. There was no doubt that the ball would have hit middle stump if Connie's large leg hadn't blocked it. He began his long trudge back to the changing room.

'That's 308 for 9 and it's the end of the over.' Bill announced. 'The Australian first innings is almost ended too I suspect.'

Doug Delaney felt the same way, he began to hit out in twenty-twenty style at every ball from the other bowler as he sought to maximise the Australian score. He struck fourteen runs in a combination of fours and a six before he skied his next shot towards the long on boundary. It seemed to be heading for another six until Mark, who was fielding on the ropes, made a leap and collected the ball in his right hand at full stretch as it sailed over his head. He fell forwards inside the ropes to claim the catch.

A roar of approval rang out from the crowd.

'That was a wonderful catch Fred and not surprisingly it's Armstrong again. Is there nothing brilliant this man can't do?' Bill exclaimed.

'That was brilliant despite not being aided' Matt thought.

Fred took up the commentary. 'The Australian first innings has closed at 322 all out and the umpires are conferring with Beecham the Kiwi captain. Is he going to enforce the follow on? Surely he must with Armstrong in such wonderful form. Beecham has gone across to talk to Armstrong and ask his opinion. Beecham turns back to the umpires; yes they have made the signal for the follow to the dressing room. The Black Caps are now leaving the field for a short break before the Australians come out to bat again. Everybody hold on to your hats. Don't go away or start anything. Join us again in ten minutes for the beginning of the Australian second innings.'

Matt reached over to turn the radio down.

'Well Electra, Mark's performing wonderfully. Maybe you should settle down into a more comfortable seat in the grandstand and keep Tasha company.'

'Matt you didn't finish telling me what this control panel is for' Electra answered.

Matt hesitated for a moment before he produced his rehearsed explanation, formulated for the likes of Electra or anyone else who showed too much interest.

'I'm conducting a small experiment in which I measure Mark's energy output when he's batting or bowling. There's a small signalling device on his shirt that send the measurements back to me and I record them with this unit.'

'What are you measuring and why?' Electra persisted.

'Oh body movements, speed of swing etc. I hope to collect enough data to make computer simulations for cricket coaching.'

'Does Mark know you're measuring him?'

Matt gave a light-hearted chuckle. 'No I didn't want to embarrass him or ruin his concentration while he plays. He isn't aware of any of this and I hope we can make this our little secret until I fully develop it, if I ever do. I have a lot of inventions at various stages as you have realised.' he continued breezily.

At that moment Matt's connection to Jim bleeped and he apologised to Electra.

'Excuse me Electra, Jim and I have a small private connection.' He spoke into his lapel microphone.

'Hi Jim, Electra is sitting in with me at the moment, I have been explaining our small experiment to her. That I'm measuring Mark's movements and energy production for our coaching simulator.'

'No, there's no problem about that Jim, we're both sitting happily here, the equipment is fine everything is fine.'

'No don't worry Jim; Electra is probably going back to the players' box soon. Anyway I'll be in touch with you later.' He cut the connection.

'I think I'll stay here with you Matt if you don't mind.' Electra said. 'I never realised what an exciting place this is to work in, there are so many dials and pretty flashing lights. Maybe you could tell me what some of the others do.' She looked up bright-eyed at Matt her eyelids fluttering. 'I'm not a nuisance to you am I Matt?'

Matt was helpless.

'Not at all, but I'm sure you'll become bored. I'll be very busy soon, too busy to talk much when the next innings starts and we use all the cameras.'

'Thank you so much Matt.' said Electra her voice pitched low in her throat as she sat back on the plastic chair to cross a pair of slim and attractive legs. Matt blinked at them before he forced himself to concentrate on his instruments.

'Were on again.' the boss shouted. 'All hands on deck cut to camera two.'

Matt got up to shut the communicating door. He turned up the radio commentary.

'... another chance to get even with Armstrong. These experienced and proud cricketers will be angry with their first innings performance. Surely Armstrong can't repeat his amazing bowling feats. I expect them to try to dominate their tormentor as soon as they can. Or maybe they will be patient and wait until he's taken off for a rest. They can only hope for a draw at this stage Fred.'

'Yes indeed Bill. They're 350 runs behind. They will stretch out this innings as long as possible hoping for rain or the conditions to change. Perhaps they can catch the Kiwis on a deteriorating wicket. If they got say 550 runs that would give them a couple of hundred to play with. We all know how weak the New Zealand batting is, especially when they have pressure put on them.'

'Ok listeners. Its Doug Delaney and Bruce Tuohy to open. Tuohy is taking guard now to Armstrong who will open the bowling. This isn't a surprise of course. He has only bowled two overs today and is fresh. His captain will be hoping for a continuation of his fantastic form.

The capacity crowd yelled in unison with every stride as Mark ran in for his first ball. Tuohy lifted his bat up early in a direct copy of Doug Delaney's technique, but he still made no contact with the ball.

'You know Fred,' Bill mused. 'None of these batsmen seem to pick up the flight of Armstrong's deliveries in time. He is disguising his delivery, but I can't see how.'

Matt shifted in his seat conscious of his visitor listening to the expert commentary which up until now she hadn't been exposed to.

On Mark's third ball Tuohy edged to third slip who dropped it almost before he realised that it was in his hands. From the radio Bill gave an uncustomary curse.

'I don't believe it. How many times has Armstrong given catches which get dropped behind the wicket. He's not getting any help from his team mates there. They seem as bad at seeing the ball as the Australian batsmen.'

Matt now really wished that Electra was listening to the useless television commentators instead of the perceptive radio experts.

Mark finished a maiden over and Matt moved to turn down the time beam the moment the last ball left Mark's hand. The temperature had been notching in the red zone for almost a minute.

'That looks like a very energetic and complicated way of measuring data Matt.' Electra commented as the new over began from the other end of the wicket.

'Yes, it's quite labour intensive as you can see, but that's the only way I can make it work.'

The Australians collected four runs from the second over of the innings before Tuohy faced Mark again; first slip caught him behind on Mark's second delivery.

'There's the breakthrough.' Bill yelled on the radio. 'That ball swung and it looked like a simple catch to me. Thank goodness it wasn't dropped like the others.'

'Better than a simple catch' Matt thought.

Bill continued. 'Was he undone for pace Fred, I can't see that Armstrong is bowling very quickly. What does our speed camera show for that last delivery?'

'I'm sorry Bill and I apologise also to our listeners. For some reason we can't seem to produce an accurate record of Armstrongs bowling speed. It was like this in the first innings as well. Other bowlers show up on our speed gun but not Armstrong. Our experts are working on it, but we haven't solved this very odd problem yet.'

'Interesting.' Matt whispered.

Mitchell Hawkins lasted for two balls before Mark bowled him middle stump for nought. As he departed, his head hung in dejection, Doug Delaney, an impotent witness, banged his bat on the ground in frustration.

Despite the overwhelming crowd noise the next batsman made a brave thrust of his bat in the general direction of Mark's final delivery and was rewarded by a single run. Matt performed his usual rapid adjustments to the sub desk controls and sank back in his chair.

'Armstrong now has 2 wickets for 1 run off 2 overs. Once again the batsmen can't seem to play him. Australia are in deep, deep trouble now Fred.'

'Indeed Bill, 5 for 2, and a long way behind. This is torture for them, but the local crowd love it and they deserve this test. They've suffered too many years watching the Aussies deal to the Black Caps.'

The pattern of the match continued over the next six overs. The Australians scored their runs from the other bowlers and either missed or miscued the ball in all directions when Mark bowled it. First slip took another catch which drew more admiration from Matt, and a fourth victim swung in hope across the line, leaving Mark appealing for LBW before the batsman completed his fresh air stroke. There was no doubt in the umpires mind as his finger pointed to the sky.

Marks clean bowled his fifth wicket in his sixth over just before drinks and he was then rested. His figures now read 5 wickets for 12 runs in 6 overs bowled with 3 maiden overs. Australia had collapsed to a miserable 48 runs for 5 wickets off 12 overs.

26

During drinks Matt asked Electra to bring back a large bag of ice from the bar in the players section, something she obeyed without question.

Matt took the opportunity of her absence to talk to Jim and reassure him that Electra hadn't guessed what the brothers were doing.

'It's not surprising really, it's almost science fiction.' Matt said.

When she returned Matt showed her where to place the ice bags around the generator box. She followed his instructions without any comment proving to his relief that she still had no inkling of his deception.

The score moved forwards over the next four overs until the recall of Mark to bowl aroused the crowd's enthusiasm again.

Matt settled back to his balancing act, but as Mark bowled his first ball urgent red lights lit up at his workstation and relays tripped suddenly. A shower of sparks came from a box high up on the left side of the panel where an alarm began a high-pitched bleep.

'Shit.'

'Matt,' roared the boss through their connecting door. 'Get on to it; we can't lose the feed now.'

Matt glanced in horror at his main display and then in desperation at the controls of the time beam generator. The choice between two incompatible activities froze him in his seat.

Electra moved up beside him.

'Don't worry Matt, you take care of the power outage, and I'll handle the controls of your experiment. I've been watching what you do. I turn up this dial which relates to the colour indicator and engage the slide control as Mark runs in to bowl. The data connection establishes when this neon lights up, which must occur before he releases the ball. As soon as the ball is on its way I slide back and turn the dial to minimise the time the gauge is in the red zone. You don't want the indicator in the red zone for more than a minute.'

Matt stared at her in amazement then made a quick decision.

'Ok do your best. But if you are in the red for more than a minute disengage the slider, and forget about the data. My equipment is failing, there could be a small explosion if it overheats.'

Electra slid her chair up to the bench to take hold of the sub bench controls. She stared at the monitor and began to work with deft fingers. She yelled over her left shoulder at Matt.

'You could start with that sixty amp fuse up by the main power relay.'

'What the hell Electra, Oh, Ok I see what you mean.'

He turned to the OBV systems controls and began the frantic task of correcting the power outage. For several minutes they both performed in complete silence.

At length Matt called out.

'How are we doing Electra?'

'Mark's bowled the last ball of the over, two runs scored, and another wicket taken. The batsman aimed an on drive. He made some contact but the ball shot out to extra cover; he was easily caught. How are you going Matt?'

'It's under control, but we almost lost half the camera feeds. I'm using the backup generator which will cope for a short while. I have to replace some fuses. Can you manage?'

'Sure, it's the other bowler now so I'm quiet at the moment. Your apparatus isn't going to last much longer I fear.'

'Yes I know, switch it off when you have to. Don't take any risks.'

Over the course of Mark's next over Matt had time between his tasks to admire Electra's performance on the time beam controls. It was impressive how nimble she could be and the ease with which she mastered the equipment. While he worked, one part of him puzzled as he replayed in his mind the words she had spoken earlier.

'Electra you're much quicker and better with those controls than I am, keep it up.'

The first question came to him. 'Electra how come you know some cricket jargon?'

Electra didn't look up as her fingers hovered over the slider. 'I was captain of our university women's cricket team.'

Matt couldn't summon a reply. He clambered down to open a ground level panel and change a fuse. He squeezed through the small door to work half out of sight.

'Damn it.' said Electra who couldn't take her eyes from the monitor for more than a few seconds to look at his sculptured bottom.

'What's up?' Matt called out, his voice muffled from inside the unit.

'Nothing important.' Electra yelled back.

When they had controlled the crisis, Matt sat content to let Electra work the 'experiment'. The time beam generator was failing but after watching Electra he decided that she could manage to complete another over safely before he needed to shut it down.

The first four balls of Mark's next over cost no runs and produced yet another dropped catch behind the wicket. The temperature gauge was solid in the red zone when Matt leant over Electra to power down the slider. The light indicating the successful engagement of the time wave beam flickered out and the batsmen took two runs from Mark's last two balls of the over.

Matt let out a sigh and triggered his contact to Jim. 'The experiments over Jim, we've lost contact with Mark.

'Bugger it Matt, but you did well. Let's hope the game plays out the way we want.'

Matt and Electra sat in silence until in the middle of the following over Doug Delaney caught hold of a full length ball. He pulled it to his leg side past mid wicket and set off for two runs. Before Matt could say anything Electra grabbed and manipulated the controls of the time beam, her fingers blurring with speed. On the television monitor Mark could be seen moving up from his position at deep midwicket where in one continuous movement he leant down to his right side, picked up the ball as it almost sped past him, and threw the ball to the wicket keepers end.

Doug Delaney who was well on his way for the second run, hesitated for a brief second as he saw Mark move. He came up half a metre short of his crease when the return shattered the stumps.

Matt snatched the time controls from Electra and slid down the control bar.

'I told you not to use it any more.' he shouted.

Electra tilted back in her chair, pouted her lips and laughed at him, her eyes glistened with excitement.

'Come off it Matt, there's a little more left in this experiment; you played safe because I'm here.' 'Besides,' she gave him a mischievous look. 'Don't you want to study Mark's actions while he fields as well as when he bats and bowls? He seemed to move incredibly fast; that will be interesting to analyse.'

Matt stood wordless for several long seconds then lowered himself back on to his seat.

'OK I need to know more about you. What have you been hiding? You're not like any lawyer I've ever met.'

Electra tossed her head, her long dark hair rippling and settling over a bare shoulder.

'Law is my second profession. My first degree was in Electrochemical Engineering. First class honours,' she added as an afterthought. 'Then I worked for a couple of years in industry but decided I wanted to do law instead. A little scientific knowledge goes well with patent law.' She continued. 'Matt you must think I'm an idiot, but nobody who's receiving data has a rig that's going to blow up. You're not measuring anything, you're powering something. With all the power you're drawing you're lucky you didn't overload your system a long time ago. All I need to do now is figure out what you're doing which shouldn't be difficult. What's in the box? Maybe I should take a look.'

'No you leave that alone.' Matt jumped up in alarm. 'It's got some dangerous stuff called Caesium in it.'

Electra eyed him as she pursed her lips. 'Ah ha. Pure native caesium is very reactive. No wonder you wanted to keep it cold. You took a risk putting all that melting ice around it, your must have sealed your box well.'

Matt looked shocked.

Electra laughed at him again. 'I like to keep my science reading up.'

Matt turned to the monitor again to change the subject.

'Mark's bowling again, let's see how he goes.'

Mark ran in for his first ball to Morrison, who had already suffered from three time-advanced balls. This player, wracked by uncertainty from the previous innings and his experience of those three balls, thrust forwards in defence. The ball came on to him at such a slow-speed that he played his defensive stroke before it arrived. His resultant half-hit shot became an easy caught and bowl for Mark as he followed through.

'Another one Fred, Armstrong bowled a slow delivery and completely fooled the batsman once again. His bowling repertoire is amazing. What's that you say Fred? It seems the speed gun is working now and we timed that ball at 85 kilometres per hour. A good change of pace which did for Morrison. Armstrong now has 7 wickets for 16 runs and don't forget his amazing run out.'

'Australia are on the ropes now, heading for their worst ever score against New Zealand. 72 runs for 8 wickets. It's Shaun Hampton and Connie Stavoupolis at the wicket for the second time in the day. They will worry about being Armstrong's next victims. There's an interesting connection here. Hampton is dating Armstrong's sister Tasha who is a model and film star in Australia. Apparently Stavoupolis is dating his other equally beautiful sister, Electra. This could cause all sorts of friction in the family, especially after this match.' Bill chuckled.

'Indeed.' Fred replied. 'A lot of friction.'

Electra exploded. 'How dare he talk about me like that. I'm not dating anybody, and definitely not that man.'

'Really.' Matt replied. 'I thought you two looked very cosy together when I last saw you.'

Electra glared at him. 'Don't try to distract me Matt Harper I haven't finished with you yet.'

She turned back to the screen. Connie played out the rest of the maiden over with no real discomfort but a lot of caution while Mark kept looking at the crease and his run up in some puzzlement.

'There's something different about Mark now that your alleged experiment has stopped.' Electra said.

Matt couldn't think of a plausible reply.

The score crept up in the next over and soon it was Mark's turn to bowl to Shaun Hampton. Shaun played the first two balls with a straight bat and extreme care, the third ball pitched shorter, wide on the leg side. He swung around sweeping it for four runs between square leg and short backward square.

'That's the worst ball I've seen Armstrong bowl in these two innings Bill said. I guess nobody is perfect all the time. Hampton seems to have gained some confidence since this morning don't you think Fred.'

'Maybe.' Fred grunted. 'In comes Armstrong again, he bowls its well up, Hampton goes for a massive swing down the ground but he's struck on the pad, right in front, a beautiful yorker. He must be plumb. He is, the finger has gone up, He's gone!'

Matt leapt to his feet, grabbed Electra and waltzed her about the compartment. Similar yells of delight passed through the OBV van from the crew in their positions.

'Youthful arrogance undone by skilful experience. Well done the old timer.' Matt yelled.

'You seem much happier now.'

'It's not what you may think Electra. Jim has made some good money for me from his betting.'

'Armstrong now 8 for 20 and its the last pair at the wicket. Two more balls in the over, can he make it nine wickets, surely that would be the perfect ending to this most wonderful of test matches.' Bill gloated on the radio.

The last man in Lance Chapman blocked these balls; much to the disappointment of the seething audience who let out a mass ironic boo as the field changed position for the next over.

Electra and Matt didn't speak again as the final moments of the test match played out. The Australian pair collected 8 more runs in the next over to bring the Australian total up to 86, before Connie swung an aggressive, ugly bat at Marks second delivery to deviate the catch into the gloved hands of the grateful wicket keeper. The fielders converged together in an excited mob at the centre of the wicket.

Now the crowd couldn't be restrained. They flooded on to the pitch in such huge numbers that the attendants gave up all attempts to hold them back. A police squad ran out to form an escape tunnel for the players while Mark's team mates carried him from the pitch on their shoulders.

27

Matt had fallen back into his seat suddenly exhausted. He didn't notice when Electra slipped out of his compartment. The OBV team completed the post match summary and transmitted their clips for the networks before the cameras were finally switched off. The international feed proved excellent, already Matt could imagine excited producers considering their inevitable follow-up documentaries.

The small tea room bulged again with a happy throng. Matt was sipping his first beer and considering leaving when one of the senior managers approached him.

'Matt good to see you, I hear there were a few transmission problems which you solved. Well done. Listen you're a friend of Mark Armstrong aren't you? Is there any chance you could help us arrange an exclusive interview with him in the next few days?'

Matt groaned inwardly, but a sudden thought inspired him to make a helpful reply.

'I could try Justin, but speaking in confidence off the record, I can tell you that Mark has already been approached by some of our rival channels. He hinted to me that he is going to retire at the end the season and he wants to go into media work. I'm sure if you approach him with my help you could snare him for our cricket commentary team. I can set you up to talk to him about it and if he signs up, you would get all the credit for a fantastic coup. With Mark on our team our audience ratings will go ballistic. I'm only interested in being the go between; you can tell your boss it was all your own work.'

Justin's eyes widened. Matt could follow his thought processes as he visualised himself moving up to a higher echelon of the company.

'Matt, that's fantastic. Are you sure you can swing this? I would owe you big time. Here's my cell phone number and private e-mail address. Let me know as soon as you can set it up.'

Matt moved on 'It's all too easy' he thought cynically.

Later Matt pressed through the seething crowd who were reluctant to leave the stadium. He knew enough Australian players now to gain entrance to their changing room where he found a disconsolate Doug Delaney doing up his tie while staring into the distance through the mirror in front of him. Matt surprised him with his request for an autograph. Even though he had scored a hundred in the first Australian innings, and top scored with thirty runs in the second, he was the captain of an Australian cricket team that had suffered one of its worst ever defeats.

Matt gave him a match programme to sign. 'I don't care what anybody says about this game. Even though Mark Armstrong broke all the records, I know that you're still the greatest living batsman.' he said.

As Matt left, a belligerent Shaun Hampton shadowed once again by Connie Stavoupolis, blocked him at the changing room door.

'I expect you've come to take the piss.' Shaun said

'Not at all, you played as well as you could in the circumstances. Mark played a one-off wonderful game, these things can happen.'

Shaun changed the subject. 'Say Matt have you seen Tasha recently, it seems like she's avoiding us, her and her hot sister Electra.'

Matt paused for a few seconds to look at the two cricketers.

'I think you both lost that game as well.' he replied.

Upstairs he found Tasha holding the attention of her fans with Jim in attendance at her side.

'I was telling everyone that Jim is coming back with me to Sydney. He's going to shoot a full portfolio for me. I've got some good media contacts over there and he's such a wonderful photographer that I know he'll be in big demand. He saved my life when I broke my arm and he's looked after me ever since. You're too cute to leave here alone in Auckland aren't you Jim? 'She radiated extreme femininity at the fortunate Jim who reddened and nodded his assent.

Matt moved on through the throng his eyes searching.

'I know you helped Mark's performance somehow with that experiment.' Electra said as she glided up beside him. 'How did you do it?'

There didn't seem any reason to deceive Electra further.

'Please don't ever tell him this, but I gave him about half a second more time to work with. To summarise the experiment, I moved him a little way ahead in time with a time beam generator.'

Electra looked at him with big eyes and made a silent O with her mouth.

'I know enough about you now Matt to believe that.' she said. 'This could have some very exciting implications which don't involve cheating at sport.'

Matt scratched his head ruefully. 'Yes, but Jim is already suggesting that we sell it to any interested party in America. He thinks it could pay well in baseball. Personally I don't intend to set up another machine like this again.'

'I agree.' Electra said. 'That would be illegal and very, very, dangerous. Imagine how many Fat Joe's there are over there, and they have guns too!'

'You realise that Mark still played well even without the time advantage, but he could never play this well again.' Matt pointed out.

'Don't worry; he confirmed to me that he's retiring from cricket after this match. He's not even going to offer to play in the one day games. He knows something miraculous happened and he's also certain it could never be repeated. He doesn't really like the public adoration either.'

'That's great news, the secret stays with us then. ' Matt said, his voice weary.

Electra looked at him and her expression softened. 'You are exhausted.'

'I am, it's been the toughest three days of my life, I could sleep for a week now.'

Electra looked about her. Spectators crowded near the lifts as they waited to go down to the ground floor. A harassed teacher tried to mobilise his group of teenage boys who overexcited by the days events, were pushing and shoving each other by the lifts.

She seemed to make a decision.

'Can you give me a ride to my place? Wait for me by the lift; I need to pop into the loo.'

Matt watched her as she made her way through the crowd pausing to talk to some of the school boys who were blocking her way.

He moved over to wait by one of the lifts. He felt that a new and uncertain phase of his life was beginning. The doting Jim would now be heading off to Sydney with Tasha and they made a good pair. He knew he would miss his vain brother. He would even miss his frivolous gambling. Jim had always been there to support him, despite the misgivings he must have felt while his brother worked on oddball inventions. Matt realised that with the project over and Jim gone, a career in the media world held no more interest for him. The boss would think of several difficult questions if he stayed around. The job was just another temporary job to add to all the others. At this moment he was unsure about his future; he couldn't see any direction to take.

Electra interrupted his thoughts from where she stood by the lift.

'Come on Matt,' she shouted. 'The lift's here.'

Matt covered the distance following her into the lift. Electra faced him as she stood alone in a back corner. A mass of students began to push and shove their way in behind him until he was gradually forced up against her. He tried to shield her by pushing backwards with his hands against the guard rails. As the door squeezed shut the teacher's yells, isolated from his charges, cut off.

Matt could feel Electra's body being moulded against his. He couldn't prevent his embarrassing reaction which grew in response to her pressure.

'Electra I'm sorry. There's not enough space in here.'

Her eyes were millimetres away; her pupils were very wide.

'I'm not sorry at all.' she whispered as she kissed him and pressed her pelvis against his.

They broke free after the lift emptied and the boys rushed off into the distance. The last one turned to wave a fifty dollar note at them before he went out of sight.

'Thanks for this miss, we'll all think of you when we get our burgers.' he shouted.

Matt gave a stern look at Electra who returned his gaze without flinching.

'Matt I can't let you go; your bottom's too attractive. You're a wonderful inventor but someone needs to manage you. I think you need your own personal patent lawyer and I want that job. How do you feel about that?'

The correct future path opened wide to beckon him on. It seemed very natural for him to kiss Electra again until his head swam and she went limp in his arms.

'Electra I feel that we should go back to your flat to explore our contract. I also think I may have invented a suitable way that we can both be dressed appropriately for the occasion. '

## Footnotes

1'Excuse me madam, I didn't know there was anyone here. Pardon me.'

2'Hello it looks like we may have an injured hiker.'

3'Pavel can you give me a hand to help him.'

4' ? '

5'Good morning, this is the Kratochvil Company. How can I help you?'

## Author Information

Ian Anderson is a rural family doctor in New Zealand. If you wish to comment on these stories he can be contacted at ian.anderson@ps.gen.nz

###
