Twenty Second Century Fiction 3x2j6o

Table of Contents

Twenty Second Century Fiction

Peeps

THE MEDDLERS

GIRLS ON DIFFERENT PLANETS

Twenty Second Century Fiction

by John Blandly Copyright © MMXXI by J. J. Brearton AvantLifeGuard Books All Rights Reserved I Peeps II The Meddlers III Girls on Different Planets IV The Hungries Book I

Peeps

Chapter 1 Want to be a woman in a man’s world? Try filmmaking. That’s what Shiela was thinking as she entered Rip Tide’s lab. Shiela was 29, ready to give it up, but she thought she’d take one last shot—do one more film. She was in the Tide’s lab in the Center For SpaceFlight Innovation at the Low University campus in Troy, NY. Shiela lived vicariously through her scripts, young actresses and actors. Her new project, “Road Race,” required a lab—and now she was scouting a location—checking one out—at Low U—at the office/headquarters of astrophysicist, Dr. Riparious “Rip” Tide. She arrived a few minutes late. She kind of dreaded the visit—and on the other hand—was intrigued. All the Tide ever did was come on to her. His third wife, Waylon Jennings, was a pretty good actress. That’s how Shiela met him—and kept meeting him. He seemed to want it that way. “Shiela! You’re here!” Tide exclaimed, as she came through the door. “Keen observation, Rip.” Tide got up from his stool and gave her a tentative hug. She had to push him away a bit. Still, it was flattering. That was his M.O. It was hard to say how sincere he was—since she’d seen him hugging plenty of the young ladies— much younger that she was. “What do you think? Like it?” She looked around. “Nice.”

“Catch the view,” he said, pointing to the huge window that displayed a gorgeous sunset over the City of Troy. “Yeah, we’ll have to do something about the light.” “Do whatever you like,” he said, sitting back down on his stool. He silently offered her one. She walked around instead. “What are you doing here, Rip?” “Paper People. That’s what I call it.” “Paper what?” “People.” He offered no further explanation. She couldn’t help herself. She sat down on the stool next to him. He’d make a good actor, she thought. Tall, graying, bespectacled—he had the look of an old professor—a lecherous one. Tide thought Shiela wasn’t that bad looking for an older chick, as he looked her over. Tight ass—tiny waist—kind of flatchested—pretty, in a washed out, sun dried, bleached out sort of way. That’s all they did for a few seconds. Think to themselves, and look at each other. “Go ahead,” Shiela said. “Tell me.” “Tell you what?” “About the Paper People, or whatever you call them.” He stood up and started to walk around the lab himself, inspecting this beaker, pouring out that one. There was a quiet whir of an air conditioning system. “Okay,” he said. “You could be one of my Paper People—one of my Peeps—as the new lingo goes.”

“I knew there was a catch.” Shiela figured she’d never get the location without having to do something—as opposed to just paying money. Sometimes, that was the most expensive thing in filmmaking. “No catch. I’d never force anyone. It’s an open question as to whether it’s advisable anyway.” “What’s advisable?” “Being a Peep.” “Ow!” she exclaimed, and drew back her hand—or tried to. He had a hold of it, and it stung. “What are you doing?” He let go, and turned his hand over to reveal that he’d stuck her with a tiny needle imbedded in a small piece of cloth. He quickly rolled it up, placed it in a test tube, and stoppered it. Next, he placed it in a small refrigerator. “I’ve got your blood,” he said. “What are you doing? Was that needle disinfected?” “Brand new—totally sterile. We wouldn’t want it any other way.” She stood up now, a bit angry. “Listen, this is too much.” “You asked about my Peeps. Now you are one. Here’s the deal. The Innovation Corporation has a secret science project. They’re sending a probe to Alpha Centauri, and they want my Peeps.” “Oh, my god.” The next day, at the Shoestring Coffeehouse on 15th Street and College Avenue, Shiela told Deirdre about it.

“I know,” Deirdre said. “He did that to me too.” “You’re kidding?” “No. Johnny found out about it and investigated. It’s top secret, but he got the Tide’s ex-wife drunk and she spilled the beans.” Deirdre stared out the window abstractedly. “And I hope that’s all they did. Anyway—” “Tell me.” “Well, it’s supposed to be questionable—very questionable.” “Great.” “Yeah, I know.” “Did he make your hand bleed?” “Yeah, the back of my hand—just a little—like if a cat scratched it.” “I hope I don’t get cat scratch fever.” “Me too.” Gonzo questioned Tide in his jail cell. “It’s done,” Tide said. “What’s done?” “I had to do it. Who knows when we’d get another chance?” “But what’s the problem?” “They leak.” “What leaks?” “The consciousness—just a little—just a little so far. I mean, we did nursing home patients first—folks headed for hospice and the great beyond. I mean, why not? They were dying anyway. Now they’re launched.”

“What do you mean?” “It’s been launched already. And you know something? No one’s bringing it back. Because my Peeps are in control.” “Can’t be. What are you talking about?” “Problem’s always been water. We needed people without water—tiny payloads. Couldn’t be done with normal people. But my Peeps can bring it home.” “They’re in control?” “Yeah, but there’s a fail safe device. If they don’t get there before it turns around, it self-destructs. So they have to go.” “Where?” “Alpha Centauri. I just told you.” The prosecutor, Cohen Coen, stood angrily before Judge Bankdown, and pointed to Tide. “He’s sent people up in space! We can’t get them down.” Tide sat behind the defense counsel desk and smiled. Gonzo stood up. “There’s no evidence—none whatsoever.” “We’ve got witnesses,” Coen said. “Plenty.” “To say what?” Bankdown said. Coen exhaled, as if exasperated by the need to explain things. “He turned people into paper—or, like, into ink that’s put on paper—with, like, electrodes—kind of like circuitry—and it, like—runs the ship—and they can think—and, like, communicate—and we’ve heard from them—they want to come back.” “Well, bring them back,” Bankdown said. “They can’t!” Coen exclaimed, again angrily pointing his finger at Tide. “He won’t let them.” “I don’t have anything to do with it,” Tide said.

“Quiet,” Gonzo said, holding his hand over Tide’s chest, and pushing him back in his chair. “No evidence, Judge. Like I said.” She had really good legs. That’s the first thing Coen noticed when Special Agent Frisco entered his office on the third floor of the Rensselaer County Courthouse. When she sat down and crossed her legs, Coen knew. He’d do anything she said. “You can’t hold him here. He’s got to be released.” “Why?” “Because he’s one of them.” “One of who?” “The Peeps—the Paper People. He’s on board too.” “But I just saw him.” “I know. There’s two of him now.” “That bastard,” Coen said, staring out the window at Congress Street Park, between First and Second Street. “He’s thought of everything.”

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Chapter 2

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Rip was in the coffee shop at the corner of College Avenue and Fifteenth Street. Shiela walked in.

“Hi,” he said. “Sit down—please.” She had the same bent out of shape look on her face that he thought he had. “What’s going on?” she said. “I know. Have you had the same problems?” “Yeah,” she said. “It’s like I’m out there. Up there.” “I know.” He stood up. “Come on. Let’s get some coffee. Really strong coffee.” It didn’t help. They were both still wrecked. Their brains were torn in half. Half up there—half down here. “What should we do? You should be arrested for what you did.” “I know,” he said. “I have been.” Wordlessly, they sipped their coffees and stared out at the street while sitting at a long counter that ran along the windows. “This is wrong,” she said. “Maybe we should get a hotel room.” “Aren’t you married?” “What does that matter?” “I know.”

Chapter 3

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“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Your funds are here. Now, take off your clothes.” “My what?” “Hurry up. You’re just wasting time. Lift off—the countdown begins.” He snapped open a briefcase. There were dozens of stacks of twenties, fifties and hundred dollar bills. He put a pot on to boil. Soon, there was an oily, metallic smell. He removed his shirt and pants. He tore open a wad of currency and dipped a few hundreds in the boiling metal mixture with a tong, and applied them one by one to his body. Underneath each bill he inserted a wire with a flat clip on the end attached to a low silver console that ran along the wall. The ’s blue, red and yellow lights blinked on and off. She took off her shirt—then her slacks. “You may need to do better than that,” he said. He poured a bottle full of the mixture and screwed in a spray attachment. He tried it on his skin. “A bit warm—not too bad. It has to be warm.” He sprayed some on her thighs—her hips, and applied the doctored up one hundred dollar bills.

She sure was a trooper. Better than he could have imagined. Digital screens on all four walls mirrored their movements, and the cameras focused and unfocused automatically, as the lenses followed them. “The spray will be needed for the last application. It’s totally harmless, and washes off in seconds. A greasy substance will be needed to hold it in place for just a few moments, while the magnetic imaging goes forward.” “Exactly what is the last application?” she said. “It’s all for science. No one would pay attention otherwise. You’ll see—you’ll see the wasted time—the boredom otherwise. There has to be a payoff. It’s totally safe. A nice covering will be there—no danger. A hooded Merchant of Venice.” “I thought you said it was virtual.” “It is, but that has to be created. We are the creators.” “Why the money?” “You can keep it. Low interface—works just as well as anything else. It washes off, good as new. Just don’t use warm water.” “Oh, sure. I wouldn’t want it to shrink.” “Right.” Shiela had pale white skin and freckles. She was very blond. He’d known her for years, always liked her. They’d be up in space—as far as he knew—forever—longer than he had any right to ask anyone about—no, he had no right—if anything—they should have more company.

Chapter 4

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Soft, but bright fluorescent light allowed no shadows to be shown on the mirrored walls. The low humming cameras were the only sound. Rip sprayed the warm solution on Shiela’s back, and applied two more bills near her shoulders, two in the small of her back, and lightly fastened the thin plastic covered copper wires. She giggled as he put a greenback on her right ribs. “Ticklish?” he said. She didn’t reply. Now he pulled out just the top of the front of the left side of her bra and sprayed a light coating there, on her pale white breast, then on the other, and covered the top half with fifty dollar bills, while staring straight into her eyes. She didn’t blink. He gently pulled the front of her waistband and slid a warm hundred-dollar bill against her right hipbone, and another on her left hipbone. Two twenties were placed on the inside of her thighs, and a one hundred dollar bill on her ass on the back of each cheek. She was a fantastic actress, as he well knew. Nothing disturbed her. After all, it was on camera, but was it for all to see? It was at this point she decided to ask that question.

“Who gets to see the film? What is the distribution?” she said. “Your call, Shiela.” He was like that, she knew. “The editing?” “Air brush, if you want—colorize—I don’t care. We could be covered in aluminum. It’s the mechanics that I care about.” “Just like a man.” “As you wish.” “When do I get to do you?” “As soon as you want.” A buzzing sound was heard. Both of their heads turned to the door. There was another buzz. “Damn it,” Rip said. He went to the door and pressed a button on an intercom. “Who is it?” “Rachmaninoff.” His finger drew away from the button. “Damn it. It’s that bastard, Rachmaninoff.” They could hear banging from two flights down, as if they were crashing through the doors. “No time to waste,” Rip said.

He grabbed her in his arms and pressed her lips to his. She pulled away and ran for her clothes. Rip went back to the door and pressed the button. “Damn it, Rock—you bastard. I’ll be right down.” “We’ve got a warrant.” Rip ran to the console and quickly forwarded the memory. A minute and a half later, Rip and Shiela sat calmly on two stools near the window and watched Rachmaninoff and his uniformed logistical police force break down the door. Rachmaninoff raced up to Rip and slapped him across the face. “Where is it?” he demanded. “Too late,” Rip said. “You’re too late.”

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Chapter 5

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“It’s 3-D—no, maybe 4-D—yes, that’s pretty much how he explained it,” Frisco said, as she and Coen waited at the front desk of the Rensselaer County Jail. “I don’t get it,” Coen said. “It’s all crap to me. Why would anyone be interested?”

“He sold it to Thailand.” “For what? Why would he do that?” “For the money.” “Oh, naturally.” “Right. And they sold it to the Chinese. We just found out. That’s why we’re here. We thought it was the porn—the soft core porn.” “Porn? He’s doing porn?” A few heads turned among the fidgety people waiting there for visiting hours, sitting on the plastic chairs, putting items in lockers. “Not porn. It’s sexy though.” Coen looked Frisco over as she said the x word. She was staring out the front doors. She had a purple dress on that looked too tight, as if she’d gained a few pounds. She had a fantastic body though—bright red lipstick, dark, dark hair and eyes— kind of Latin looking—nice. Yes, he liked her. “I suppose that’s what Thailand wanted,” Coen said. “That’s what we thought, too, at first, but no. The Chinese bought it. Now, they’re using it.” “Using what?” “The Peeps—the Paper People. He’s encoded the paper with blood, DNA and ink. It’s read into the computers and projected—3-D, or, like he says, 4-D. Plus, it picks up everything the cameras do, back and forth—the skyline.” “What skyline?” “Alpha Centauri—its planets. It’s also a guidance system. You’ll need to understand this stuff.”

“Why?” “Because it’s his defense—that this is all for science.” Doors started slamming—a crashing sound was heard, and Tide sauntered out of the lockup. “Hey, Frisco,” he said. “How’s it going?” “Just shut up, Tide,” Coen said. “You’ve wasted enough of our time.” “Come on,” Frisco said. “Your buddy is waiting for you.” Frisco handed Tide a two-page document in a blue backer. Coen took his arm. “What, you’re arresting me again?” “You guessed it, Einstein,” Coen said. “Let’s go.” “You might say, we just need to keep an eye on you,” Frisco said. “You’d say that—not us.” Tide was escorted out the front door to a waiting black Ford Excursion, a gigantic four by four station wagon. It looked slightly dented—not in good shape. The back door was opened and Coen pushed Tide inside. Tide saw Shiela in the back seat. “Hi,” he said. “Yeah, hi,” she replied. Coen roughly pushed past them into the third row seat. Frisco got behind the wheel and clicked the door locks down. “Don’t try the doors,” she said. “I’ve got the safety locks on.”

“Whatever,” Tide said. “I’m just glad to get out of there. I mean, how much Oprah and Dancing With The Stars can you watch? It’s freaky in there.” “Listen,” Shiela said, as they started to roll out onto Fourth Street. “I want out. This is too much.” Tide looked at her as they bounced along the bumpy, potholed street. “Okay. No problem. We can get a body double.” He paused for a few seconds. “Hey, Frisco. You ever do any acting?” She smiled in the rear view mirror. “A little.” “Excellent. That’s all we need. Just act natural.” “Shut up, Tide, you maniac.” Coen slapped him in the back of the head. “One more word and I’ll try this night stick.” He brandished a shiny brown wooden piece of patrolman’s equipment, rubbing it on Tide’s nose.

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Chapter 6

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Rip was shaving. As was not unusual, staring into the mirror, he talked to himself. “Tide, you bastard—you lowlife. You gross—no, grotesque—yes, grotesque— no, horrific grotesque person. Repent. Kindness, Tide. Be good—honest.”

He prayed. The glory be. There was a knock on the door. Oh, no. Crap. What’s this? He went to the door, but didn’t open it. “Yes, what is it?” “Someone is here to see you.” “Who are you?” “The front desk—from the front desk.” “Oh. Who is it?” Electric shaver in hand—clad only in boxers—he didn’t feel like opening the door. “Your ex-wife. She says she’s your ex-wife.” Tide thought for a second. “Okay. What did she say her name was?” “She didn’t say.” “Okay. What does she look like?” “Blond.” Damn it. He had two blond ex-wives. He actually insisted that they die their hair. “More specific.” “Would you mind coming downstairs, Mr. Tide? Do you want me to tell her you’ll come down?” “Tell her to come up.”

“She said she—well, she said she’d prefer not to.” Tide thought for a second. Hadn’t he been praying just a few minutes before? Shouldn’t he follow up on his supposed new super improved personality? Yes. Yes he would. “Okay. Tell her I’ll be right there.” When Tide got downstairs, followed by a thin, young guy in a dark suit, he saw that it was his second wife, Mari, waiting there in the lobby of the Hoosick Street Hilton. He kissed her on the lips. “Hi, Mari. How’s it going?” “Good,” she said. “Your dad’s hurt. He fell.” “Where? What happened?” “At church.” “I told him to use the rear entrance.” “He did, but he tripped on the curb and smashed his face on the side walk. Somebody else coming in that way found him—brought him to the hospital. We’ve been trying to you.” “Oh, man. Sorry, Mari. I’m so sorry. Okay, where is he?” It was like having two broken hearts at once, seeing Mari, whom he still loved, and hearing about his father, with whom he had always had a tempest-like relationship.

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Chapter 7

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When Tide got to the hospital, closely followed by the guy in the dark suit, he learned that his father had already been discharged to a nursing home. “Clarissa was there,” his father said, when he tracked him down at the Niverville Health Care Facility. “She signed me out. Where were you? We shouldn’t have had to bother her—with those kids.” “I know, dad. Sorry. I—I—I had some government things I’ve been working on —and—” Tide looked out in the hall, and saw the guy in the dark suit. “What? What the hell have you been working on?” Tide just couldn’t bring himself to talk about how he’d just been in jail, or why. “Don’t worry about it, dad. The important thing is—you’re safe—and okay.” “Well, the hell with that. I want to go home.” Tide looked around. There was a guy in the other bed, snoring. “Let’s take a walk, dad.” After he’d rounded up a wheelchair, Tide and his father set out on a brief tour of the facility. Turned out, his father had been there three days already, and knew some of the territory. As they ed one big room and Tide looked in, he noticed it had many chairs, tables and transfusion bottles and tubes set up. “What’s this place?” Tide said.

“Oh, yeah. This is where the guys get their Viagra—intravenously—huge amounts.” “You’re kidding me? Viagra? Intravenously?” “Have you seen the women around here?”

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Chapter 8

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Shiela’s husband, Ronald, was a skilled outdoorsman, refused to use sufficient deodorant, and was completely repellent, as far as Shiela was concerned, during his lifetime, but once he was killed by a bear and chewed on by wolves, well, of course, he acquired that aura that most deceased husbands acquire as far as their widows are concerned, especially after she has seen the retirement benefits, life insurance, and social security payments. Yes, suddenly the guy is like a Mount Rushmore icon, and Shiela was almost able to shed a tear, thinking how she might be able to pay off her credit cards. So, yes, he was now, a day away from his eternal destination, a wonderful, wonderful man, as she sat in the office of the funeral home, trying to cry, cutting the frills from his arrangements, and wondering about plywood or plastic—kind of like the old days—when they asked you at the check out—paper or plastic? She stepped out into the hall and the outer door opened, and Rip appeared—the first one there. “Hi, Shiela,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” “Right you are, sweetie. Was he good to you?” He kissed her cheek and was about to go for her well-ed mouth with a massive French one when he saw the creepy funeral home guy behind her. He pulled away, but still held her hips in his hands. “Yeah,” she said. “Especially when he went fishing by himself.” “I’ve always thought you were awesome, Shiela.” The back door creaked, and a few old ladies entered. Rip turned and fled. He was not into death.

Chapter 9 THE INJECTION BOYS Sure, they looked innocuous—safe—harmless—but not to the unsuspecting reptiles of Zendar 2000. Now, there was Zendar 1000, Zendar 345, Zendar 888—but it was Zendar 2000 that had the biggest reptiles—so that’s why they were targeted. Why inject a mold—a spore—or something just a bit bigger—like a mouse or a chicken? No, they wanted something big—something with a large brain— something that could handle the DNA—the mitosis—the mitochondria. Who would want to be trapped in the body of a snail, or a clam? Yes, a nice big leathery skinned reptile—mmm—nice. Yeah, the Injection Boys weren’t big—just a few inches tall—glass, mirrors and antennas on top, wheels and feet and legs below, all metallic and shiny, with a liquid crystal display vibe—but they were extremely numerous—as it was figured their survival rate would be scant. Plus, finding and injecting a few reptiles—especially the Ratatatoos—that was expected to be rough. It was decided to try to do it at night, and equip the Injection Boys with night vision. Marty 146 was the first injector. He’ll go down in history, that boy, along with Murray 654, who set up the Ratatatoo. The Rats, as they liked to call them (yes, an odious nickname, is it not?) liked to sleep at night in holes under rocks, so dark that the night vision didn’t work. So, one night, Murray got a small bird, tied him up and dangled him outside a rat’s nest.

In the morning, Mr. Rat awoke, smelled a bird, came out, and Marty pounced on him, injecting a nice collection of human DNA, throwing the reptile off for a bit. Not too long after, reptiles were going to Wal-Mart—texting each other—and doing the usual human things—but not in the beginning. No.

Chapter 10 THE GAY WAVE

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“Don’t do it, man,” Yousef pleaded. Dr. Moriarity would have nothing to do with Yousef’s warnings. “I’ve invented it—I’m going to win the Nobel Prize, god damn it—and no one is going to stop me.” “Don’t do it!” Yousef yelled. Moriarity threw the switch. Now, everyone was gay. Yousef looked at Moriarity in a strange way. “Is that a new shirt you’re wearing? It’s nice. I like stripes.” “Holy crap,” Moriarity said. “How do I reverse this?” He fiddled with the gadgets, but it was no use. He made everyone in the world gay, except himself. It was horrendous! Certainly, it did not make sense—it was insanity, but consider this: Moriarity had a terrible crush on his research assistant, Lisa, who was a gigantic lesbo. Moriarity was so in love with Lisa, that he would destroy the whole world, if necessary, so that Lisa would find him acceptable.

He would overhear her talking to her girlfriends. Saying things like, “Yes, destroy those guys, perfect. Certainly, put them in jail, those bastards.” According to his research, the only way to change Lisa—make her heterosexual, was to change the world—flip it—make everyone gay—and everyone who was gay, straight. Sure, he was hesitant to do it at first, but then he discovered the x-ray shield, modified from dental office apparatus—that would prevent him from changing.

Chapter 11 SEASON ONE: THE BABOOSHKAS

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The TV execs were quick to deep six the ordinary names for the reptiles—the Ratatatoos, because of their nickname, Rats. Market research revealed that teenagers thought the Russian sounding name, the Babooshkas, was “cute.” The mind bending weekly shows featuring the Babooshkas mesmerized the world. City council meetings were halted—Senate committees were frozen in their tracks—baseball games suspended—as TV screens were brought out to view the way, way delayed telecasts, that the public couldn’t get enough of. Yes, the Peeps were real—had taken over—but to what end? The first Babooshka, “Bibby,” was seen hot on the trail of another unsuspecting Babooshka reptile. Commentators, after much discussion, determined that Bibby was a guy, because he was shown breaking off a branch, fashioning it into a four iron—maybe a three iron—and hitting a rock with it, like a golf club. The world went wild when he pounced on another babooshka and dragged her to his pad. The rocks rattled that night. Then, on week three, the reptiles were shown putting on clothes. Leaves, branches, all sorts of things were used at first, but then, of course, ultimately, the skins of furry animals became super fashionable, as guy reptiles with tiny fur loincloths hunted down animals and traded them with the female reptiles for you know what.

It also seemed that certain guys had attachments to particular females (who had readily become identifiable due to the strategic placement of their garments), and now, commentators avowed the need for a police force, as stabbings, ambushes, and guys hit on the head with rocks became commonplace. Yes, it was a jungle out there.

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Chapter 12

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“The world has gone insane,” Rip said. He and Shiela were sitting at the counter in the window of the College Avenue Coffee Shop. “I know. Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine. I still don’t like guys. How about you? Do you lust after girls?” “No. Not at all. How come we weren’t affected?” “The only thing I can figure is that when we got covered with the transmission fluid—” “Transmission fluid?” “Not the stuff in your transmission—gearbox—no, this is transistorized, snake oil stuff.” “Snake oil?”

“Just kidding. It’s magnetized—metallic—must have repelled Moriarity’s Gay Waves.” “I don’t know what’s worse—the Gay Waves or the Peeps.” “Why?” “I’m, like, on TV.” “I know. Me too.” “How did this happen?” “The funding—the damn funding. I had to split access with that bastard Rachmaninoff.” “Rachmaninoff—who is he?” “The son of a bitch sold our rights to NBC. Plus, he set up the Injection Boys. Invented those robot things.” Rip and Shiela stared down Fifteenth Street for a few moments in silence. The Rip got a troubling thought. “You haven’t been attacked by Rats, have you?” “You mean the Babooshkas?” “Yeah.” “Well, a couple of guys have been hanging around the rock, but they’ve been arguing—getting in fights—kind of cute.” “Cute? Oh, man. We’ve got to strap on the suits—see where we are—get out of there.” “Why?” “Why? I don’t want you being attacked by those Rats.” “You mean those other Rats?” “Right.”

Rip covered Shiela with the transmission fluid, smoothed it with his hands to a nice consistency all over her body—applied the one hundred dollar bills (still the finest apparatus due to the tiny metal anti-counterfeiting strands), and then covered himself, wired both of their bodies, and then they strapped themselves into the chairs for the virtual experience. It wasn’t pretty. Rip winced as a rock grazed his skull. Now, wham! A tree branch slammed into his chest and knocked his wind out. He doubled over as Shiela ran for the hills. Picking up a rock, Rip threw it and hit a Rat right in the forehead. The guy went down like a bag of dirt. Rip scurried away after Shiela, yelling in his high pitched, reptile voice, “Seeshee! Seeshee!” Yousef said, “What are you doing, boss? Stop it!” Yousef grabbed Moriarity’s arm, but he was too weak. Moriarity pulled back the reverse transponder—sparks flew! A world gone gay was no more! The Gay Wave was reversed!

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Chapter 13

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Rip yelled into the microphone, “Injection Boys, come in! Come in, Injection Boys!” He clicked on the receiver, but there was nothing but silence.

“Injection Boys! I’ve been killed. Do you read me, Injection Boys? I’ve been killed!” Shiela turned over in bed. “Will you get out of here with that? I’m trying to sleep.” “Oh. Okay. Sorry.” Rip put his mobile connection helmet on and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He still gripped the microphone firmly in his right hand. After all, he wasn’t left handed. Is this too much detail? “Injection Boys, do you read me? Do you read?” “Of course we read.” Rip heaved a sigh of relief. “We speak French, German, Mexican and American. Of course we read. We read Thucydities, Voltaire, Ionesco, the Encyclopedia Breartonnica—we read a lot.” “Okay—okay—I believe you. Do you have any idea what’s going on out there? I’ve been killed. Who picked these idiot reptiles?” “True,” the Injection Boy said. “They have turned out to be homicidal maniacs— far too true to their human origins.” “What do you mean, origins? They aren’t humans at all. They’re reptiles.” “Well, sure, that’s correct. What’s your point?” “My point is—look for something else. You got any birds out there? I’d like to be a bird.” “A bird? Well, yeah. We might have seen a few birds, but would you mind giving us something a little easier? I mean, they fly, you know.” “Of course, I know they fly. That’s why I want to be one. See if you can find a nice cardinal, or blue jay—or, wait—are there any humans around there?” “No humans. g off.”

“What? Come back here. Injection Boy, come back.” Nothing. He couldn’t get another response. Downstairs in the study, he decided to Rachmaninoff, to consult with him about contingent plans. “Rachmaninoff?” “Yeah, make it quick. I’m about to be sentenced.” “Really?” “Really. Like I said, make it quick.” “These Injection Boys are a pain in the ass. They put me in a lizard who got killed.” “So, speak to them—set up a meeting.” “Where?” “The Union building—on Sage Ave. Just promise them beers—they’ll show up.” “Here? They’re around here?” “No, but they’ll come.” Rip sat at a small table on the ground floor of the RPI Union building and waited for the Injection Boys. He set up three small plastic cups of beer for them. He looked at his watch. They were five minutes late. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men’s room door open a crack. A four-inch tall Injection Boy rolled out—or walked—it was hard to see. Now, he saw the Injection Boy meet up with three other Injection Boys who were under a chair next to the wall, partially hidden by some backpacks thrown on the floor. They seemed to be talking among themselves. Then they headed over to him. “Well, you finally got here,” Rip said. He could hear some squawking. On the floor, about four feet away, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. One by one, he picked them up and placed

them on the table. “You wanted to see us, buddy?” one of the Boys said. “Yes, thanks. Listen, what’s going on here, guys?” “First, pal, let’s get something straight. Why don’t we introduce ourselves?” The Injection Boy pointed to his associates, one by one. “This is Gloria, Beth, and Frank. I’m Steve.” “Wait,” Rip said. “Gloria and Beth?” “Yeah, that’s Mac Beth, actually,” one of them said. “You’re a girl?” “Yeah,” Mac Beth said. “It’s weird, I know, with the code name, but we do come in opposite sexes.” “Yeah,” Gloria said. “Our uniforms aren’t in. Plaid skirts—that’s what we’re getting. It’s like we’re from Scotland or something. Really freaky.” “Yeah,” Mac Beth said. “I wanted blouses, but they’re, like, too cheap.” “What do you need blouses for?” Frank said. “We might need them,” Mac Beth said. “Eventually.” “We don’t grow,” Steve said. “We just get worn out and get thrown away. Junked.” “So what? That’s crap,” Gloria said. “We might as well look good while we’re here.” “Hey, hey, hey,” Rip said. “Enough of this. We need to make plans. Are there any humans up there?” “There might be, but what would we do if we found them?” Frank said. Frank had a black helmet with blue stripes. Steve had a blue helmet with red

stars. Mac Beth had frayed wires sticking out of her pink helmet. Gloria also had frayed wires, but her helmet was orange and green pokadot. Rip couldn’t believe it. He could tell them apart. Staring closer, he saw they had nametags on. That would make it even easier. “We’ve been in with Rachmaninoff—just before his arrest,” Frank said. “Yeah,” Rip said. “What happened there?” “We don’t know, but we might be able to circumvent it. He’s got chips.” “Chips?” Rip said. “Yeah, implants,” Steve said. “Anyway, the plan is to test on human subjects.” “Really?” Rip said. “That sounds excellent.” “Right,” Frank said. “Trouble is, we got pockets of Gay Wave residue.” “What did you say?” Rip said. Steve looked around anxiously. “Yeah, the Gay Wave Reverse didn’t catch hold in some isolated locations.” “Really?” Rip said. “Here, let me pour you guys a short beer.” The mischievous—and I’m being generous in the description here—yes, mischievous—maybe, more exact—devious—horrific—grotesque mind at work Rip Tide—had shot up straight out of a cold hard sleep and said, “Inject my old girlfriend’s husband with Gay Wave stuff. Yes, make the guy gay!” Shiela hit him with a left hand to the temple, as she had learned to do when he was snoring. “Oh, sorry,” Rip said. “Was I talking in my sleep again?” Rip and Shiela spent a lot of time in bed together. Now, Rip’s team of Injection Boys, two girls, two guys, who now insisted he call them Injection Peeps, patrolled Anti-Atlanta in the search for Rip’s old girlfriend, Windy, and her husband, middle linebacker and Pulitzer Prize

winning poet, Handshow Makeshift. Finally, they were located sipping mochas in a StarBuckNaked Store. The front door opened a crack, and the four Injection Peeps slipped in. “Ow!” Makeshift exclaimed, as he was stabbed in the ankle with a needle. Windy stopped on her way to the counter. “Can I get you something?” she said to Makeshift. He looked startled, then said, “Look at that tan sweater that guy has on—the barista—it’s nice. Ask him where he got it. No, wait. I’ll do it myself.”

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Chapter 14

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Rip took Shiela aside and said, “What are these girls doing here—these old girls —in plaid skirts—like, parochial school girl skirts?” “Shhh,” she said. “Scrumptious will hear you. She cast this. They’re some girls she knows from the roller derby. I think they’re fantastic.” “What is she doing, casting against type, or, uh, like, typing against cast?” “Come on.” “But Shiela, these girls—well, they’re more like women—they have to be, maybe, in their thirties—tattoos, nose rings. They’d be kicked out of a parochial

school.” “Oh, come on. Things are different now. These girls can go down in age.” “I’m sure they can go down.” “Cut it out. We don’t want to deal with the teenagers—the mothers—the releases. Last film we did, Scrumptious lost the releases and we had to re-shoot the whole thing. They’ll be fine. They can look like high school girls.” “They can? What about tattoos on your thigh?” “What thigh?” “The girl with no bra over there.” Shiela and Rip looked over briefly at the four women, dressed in plaid skirts and white blouses, with wildly tinted, spiky hair, sitting on metal folding chairs, reading over their scripts. “She flashed me her thigh, like, two or three times.” “Yeah, well, maybe you were just flashing your eyes at her thigh.” Rip looked over again. “Yeah, maybe.” Suddenly, like, out of nowhere, completely blowing Rip’s mind, appeared Nancy Scrumptious, rendering him a blithering idiot, she was so gorgeous. “So, Rip, you’re here.” “Wh—wh—ya—yu-yup, I am.” She held up a mask, a black hat, and a cape. “What do you think?” “I love it.” “Try the mask on.” Rip put the mask on, the hat, then the cape. Ferreira, one of the parochial school girls, who were scripted to be women on a minimum-security prison chain gang, started to circle him, looking him over.

Another girl, Rusty, did the same. “Kind of old,” Rusty said. “Yeah. Tom Jonesy, though.” “Thanks,” Rip said. “Well, let’s get on with it then,” Scrumptious said. “Hit your marks!” Within minutes, the parochial school girls had their whips out, and were lashing Rip, saying things like, “Take that, you bastard. And that!” Rip, cornered, tried to fend them off with his cape. “What the hell? Is this in the script?” Shiela yelled to Scrumptious, “Keep rolling. Roll. Come on girls, you can do better than that.”

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Chapter 15

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Shiela had trouble reaching Rip for a few days. Finally, he picked up. “Where are you?” she said. “At the On Call, goddamn it. Where do you think I am?” “I had no idea. Are you okay?”

“Not much, thanks to your strung out skanky parochial school girls.” “What? Scrumptious’ roller derby girls?” “Listen, Shiela, can I get back to you? I’m right in the middle of an Elle issue.” “Elle?” “Yeah. You should get this magazine. Lots of hot girls.” “Why would I want that? Anyway. We need your studio.” “What? Not again. Not me. Not me this time.” “Listen, Rip, you owe me. the dollar bills—the hot oil?” “They were hundred dollar bills.” “Right—then up in space—to be a lizard.” “Okay—okay—when do you need it?” Shiela assembled the roller derby girls. “Alright, now, some of you girls have complained you don’t get enough lines. Today, we’re going to teach you how to deliver lines.” “Yeah,” Scrumptious said. “Get in a row in front of the mirror, so you can see your own expression. It works better that way.” “What the hell is this?” Bodacious said. She was one of the roller derby girls, and was looking over the script they’d all been given. “It’s a Mel Gibson rant. You’ll get the idea. First, I need you girls to get really angry—like your boyfriend forgot Valentine’s Day.” “Like I had a boyfriend,” Chonga, another one of the girls said. “Okay, like he just dumped you.” “Fine,” Chonga said. “Excellent. And he refused to give me back my DVDs.”

“Yeah,” Bodacious said. “Because he said he sold them.” “No,” Rumpy said, another girl. “He said he stomped them into the ground and then took a leak on them.” “That’s it girls. Now, you got it,” Scrumptious said. “Now, all at once, really angry, facing the mirror, really loud, and , you’re Mel Gibson, and you have a gigantic bag on, repeat after me, ‘you want to know who my therapist is? Don’t you ever speak to him! You hear me?’ Come on now girls, really angry.” The roller derby girls lined up in front of the mirrors, and in an incredibly loud, pissed off way, yelled, “You want to know who my therapist is? Don’t you ever speak to him! You hear me?” After a few rounds of this, the girls were drooling, sweating, and spitting on the floor. “Okay, girls,” Shiela said. “Now, I think you’re ready to learn the anti-crime warfare move. Once you’ve learned this, I know you’ll really want to try it out.” “Back up a little so you can watch what I’m doing,” Scrumptious said. “Now, a guy has come up to you from behind, maybe in a park, or after a game, whatever, he grabs your hips—” At this point Scrumptious shook her ass a bit. “You stomp on his foot—” Scrumptious acted out a vicious stomp with her right foot. “This makes him grab for his foot. While he’s doing that, you elbow him in the gut—” Scrumptious slams back her elbow. “Then, as he doubles up in pain from the gut slam, and this is really key, it’s an over the shoulder backhand fist punch to the face.”

“Okay, girls,” Shiela said. “Ready?” “Oh, we’re ready,” Bodacious said. “Let’s go,” Rumpy said. Scrumptious yelled out the instructions. “Okay, stomp—elbow—punch. Stomp —elbow—punch! Stomp! Elbow! Punch!” That Friday night, just by accident, Rip ran into Bodacious at his favorite bar, The Happen Inn. “What have you girls been doing?” Rip said. “Nothing,” Bodacious said, and then downed a beer in one gulp. “Want another?” “Sure.” Rip ordered another Molson’s. “I thought you girls were really excellent. Very good acting—in character.” “Yeah, thanks, Rip. What have you been doing?” “Well, I just got back from hunting alligators in the outback. Or vice versa.” “Where? That Australian restaurant? They got alligators in there?” “No, the real place. In Australia. The country—the continent.” “What were you doing there?” “I was doing missionary work with the Aborigines. Well, not all of it was missionary. Some of it was doggy style.” At about this time, Bodacious heard one of her teammates call out for her. She turned around and waved. Her blouse pulled up a little, exposing the tiny blue winged fairy tattoo in the small of her back, and thong sticking up just beyond her belt. In his enthusiasm, okay, maybe, lust, unable to restrain himself (he had

already had several refreshments himself), and inspired by his hallucination about Australian Aborigines, Rip took the opportunity to grab Bodacious from behind, and slam her into him. There was then a massive foot stomp, an elbow to Rip’s gut, then a backhand fist to the face. As she stood over him, Bodacious yelled, “You want to speak to my therapist? Don’t you ever speak to him! You hear me?”

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Chapter 16

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Rip was in Moe’s on the corner of College Avenue and Fifteenth Street, a taco place that had taken over the coffee shop. As he sat at a table finishing off a taco and a cola, he saw Shiela come in with a young boy and head over to the counter. When she’d gotten what she wanted, and started over to the tables, Rip got up. “Hey, Shiela. Over here. Come on, sit down.” Shiela looked at the boy, who was scanning the tables. It was pretty crowded, and the empty tables were messy. He shrugged. In a moment they had sat down with Rip. “This is my son, Robert,” Shiela said. “Oh, hi,” Rip said, extending his hand to shake. Robert looked up. He’d been

unwrapping his taco. He gave Rip a quick, but firm handshake. Rip was impressed. “I didn’t know you had children, Shiela.” “Wouldn’t hurt if you got to know people, Rip.” “Yeah, sorry.” Shiela sipped from her soda. Robert chewed on his taco and stared out the window. “Holy mackerel,” Rip exclaimed, pulling some tickets out of his top pocket and looking them over. “What do you know? I got two tickets to the baseball game tonight—the Valley Cats.” The Valley Cats were a single A minor league team located in Troy. He put the tickets in front of Robert. “Here. Why don’t you take your mom to the game?” Robert glanced at the tickets and then at his mother. He picked them up. It seemed as though he wasn’t sure. “You don’t have to go,” Rip said. “Give them to a friend. I get those tickets all the time. I know a guy who works there.” Robert put the tickets in his pocket and said, “Thanks.” Rip turned to Shiela. “Are you done shooting? I haven’t talked to you in a while.” “Maybe a few fixes—not sure. Are you okay? I heard you had some trouble.” “I’m good. No broken bones. I’ve walked better, though.” “The girls are a bit high strung.” “You think?” Two days later, Rip got a call from Shiela.

“I do need to use the space for a few shots.” “Okay. When?” “Next week—next Thursday at seven. Is that okay?” “Sure. Sure, no problem.” “Bobby liked the game. Problem was, my daughter Annie wanted to go too. She’s kind of jealous. I didn’t know if we could get a seat for her, so she had to stay home.” “Don’t worry about it. I got four more. We can go tomorrow night. What do you think?” Two nights later, Rip, Shiela, Robert and Annie were at the game. They got good seats down the right field line behind the dugout. Rip bought everybody hot dogs, soda and popcorn. At the end of the third inning, he asked Shiela if she wanted a beer. “Okay,” she said. “Come with me.” Annie was ten, and Robert was nine. Rip figured they’d be okay for a few minutes. Rip handed Shiela her draft beer in a plastic cup. It spilled a bit. “Whoa,” she said. “How come you never told me about your kids?” She took a sip. “It never came up.” “Are you married—divorced—what’s up?” “Their father was killed in Iraq.” “Oh, man. Sorry, Shiela.” He looked over at the kids, who seemed content

watching the game. “You have really cool children. I like kids a lot. When did this happen?” “They were young—three and four. It’s been a while.” “I really love kids, Shiela. They seem nice.” “You must have a few kids yourself.” “Me? Only one. My son, Gerry, is 23. He’s in San Diego going to graduate school. I don’t see him much.” Within the next three weeks, Rip played basketball with Robert and Annie twice, tennis once, and they took in two more baseball games. It turned out, Rip was obsessed by sports, and for the first time in years, had somebody to go to the driving range with. Four months later, Shiela and Rip were married. Of course, Annie was the flower girl, and Robert the ring bearer. Rip called Robert his wingman. As he kissed Shiela at the altar in front of the tiny chapel in Lake George, Rip said, “I’m so glad you stopped by the lab that day.” “Me too,” she said. “Next time, though, I’m going to have to use five dollar bills. Have to put the kids though school.” “Don’t you dare,” she said with a smile. Rip knew she was kidding. She was a really good actress. THE END OF BOOK ONE

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Book Two

THE MEDDLERS

Part I

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Chapter 1 Stolen People

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“How many people were stolen?” Frankie De Los Gravis said. “Twenty-five today, up from fifteen just yesterday,” Nancy Betman, the security chief, replied. Frankie looked out the window of Intelligence Headquarters in dismay. “China hasn’t sent in numbers,” Nancy continued. “It looks to be as bad there too.” “What do you suggest?” “General Stapleton definitely has some ideas.” “Okay,” Frankie said. “Bring him in.” So far, they had been unable to stop the Sirius Federation’s increasing interference, which had now escalated to taking people, both at random and in huge bunches. The Federation was stealthy, fast and had obviously good information. They were always able to avoid police. Frankie shook hands with the general as he came in.

“Any suggestions?” Frankie said. “Nuclear assault is the consensus,” he said. “What? Where?” “Right back at them.” “But how do we know our people aren’t there?” “We know places where we can cause economic damage.” “What chance of success?” “It has to work, on some level.” “Are these manned expeditions?” “Unmanned.” “Interesting.” He turned to Betman. “What do you think, Nancy?” “Yes, they must be put on the defensive. We certainly have shown we can’t defend ourselves. Only thing we can do is see how well they defend themselves.” “Yes,” Frankie said. “That’s good. How do you envision this—perfect mode?” “Unmanned attack, no doubt, that would be best. I’ve got an interesting report. A policy paper by one of our scientists,” Nancy said. “Who?” General Stapleton said, becoming a bit unsettled. “Not that Benjamin guy.” Nancy looked at the report. “Yes,” she said. “It is Benjamin.” “Oh, my god,” Stapleton said. “He has no credibility. Didn’t he come up with that x-ray shield?” “Yes,” Nancy said. “That was widely ridiculed, but just take a look at this. It is really original.”

The general snatched the report from her hand and looked it over. “This is absurd. Expeditions—manned by monkeys?” “That is the key,” Nancy said. “Monkeys?” Frankie said. “Yes,” Nancy replied. “Not actually manned, I guess. More like monkeyed.” “Monkeyed!” Stapleton said in a disgusted tone. “What have we sunk to?” “Maybe we should get the other people in here—General Sefcic and iral Half,” Frankie said. Nancy buzzed them in. In a moment, Sefcic and Half had taken seats around the large oblong table. They reviewed the written proposal. “I like it,” Half said. “How can they deal with it?” “How will they deal with it?” Nancy said. “That’s the question.” “Seems like you may just knock off a lot of monkeys,” General Sefcic said. “Yes,” Stapleton said. “That’s how I see it. We need something more forceful.” “Later,” Frankie said. “Let’s put off that possibility for later. In the meantime, none of this happened. We didn’t discuss this.” He turned to Nancy. “Start preparations.” “Okay, Commissioner. You got it,” she said, and quickly left the room.

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Chapter 2 TRIPLE-O SEVEN, OUTER SPACE SPY

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John Slic was lucky enough to get a parking space on Fifteenth Street right near the walkway over to the RPI graduate school buildings. He had just flown in from London for an appointment at the temporary UP Ministry Science offices in Troy, New York, his hometown, where he had been lucky enough to get a part time job. The university department where he had initially applied had shut down and moved out two years before. He couldn’t figure out why he had been called in for an “interview,” whatever that meant. He knew, however, there was no point in worrying about it, since what he didn’t know, he couldn’t talk about, and he didn’t want to talk about anything. He pulled the printout of the directions to the office’s new location from his jacket pocket, and headed for the walkway. Crossing Fifteenth Street, he headed west, and as he was instructed, past a giant engineering building. After walking one hundred feet along an elevated sidewalk, the RPI football field came into view, and he now saw another twenty-story building on his left, his destination. The concrete foyer was deserted as he stepped inside and walked to the elevator. Eight flights up and out into the hall, and he had still not met anyone. He soon came to the door he’d been looking for. There was a small white piece of paper taped on it saying, “Temporary Ministry Headquarters, Science Projects.” “John, you’re late,” Lucy Farthing said, as he opened the door. She sat behind a keyboard and computer monitor. “Sorry,” he said, and briefly kissed her on the edge of her mouth. She blushed slightly. “Is C.B. in?” he said.

“He’s waiting for you.” At that moment, over the telephone speaker, came C.B.’s words, “Where the hell is he? Send him in!” “Got to go,” Slic said, tossing his hat at a coat-rack, missing. He started to go over to get it. Lucy said, “I’ll get it. Just go in.” “Thanks, Farthing. I’ll catch you later.” Stepping into C.B.’s office, Slic stood there, expectantly. “Sit down, John,” C.B. said. “You wanted to see me?” Slic couldn’t believe this was about the message he had sent C. B. “Yes,” he said. “Thanks so much.” “What’s it about?” “The number—I’d like a new number.” “What, you don’t like 4880?” “No. I’d like something with a little more zip.” “Like what?” “Triple-O seven, is what I’m thinking.” “Triple-O seven? Those triple-O’s aren’t used.” “Really. So why did I have to come all the way to see you about this? It was just a simple question.” “Well, Slic, you may be in luck. We have a little mission for you. Have you heard about Monkeyed?” “No, I haven’t heard about Monkeyed.”

“Good. Your request is granted, Triple-O Seven. Here are your plane tickets for Florida. They’ll explain it to you there. You’ll be met at the gate.”

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Chapter 3 JUICE

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“Triple-O Seven?” Slic heard a young woman call out his code name as he exited the ramp from the plane to Orlando. “Yes,” he responded. “Right this way,” she said, in a business-like manner, turning on her heel to head down the corridor to the main terminal. She put out her hand. “Juice,” she said. “Juice?” he repeated, while shaking her hand. “Yes,” she said. “Juice Gilligan, at your service.” “Oh,” he said. “That’s your nickname.” “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to hurry or we’ll be late.” Slic now watched her brisk pace, beautiful legs, high heels clicking. She turned to smile at him. It was no effort at all to smile back. She was breathtaking, with her jet-black hair, and bright red lipstick.

“We’re right over here,” she said as they got outside. She pushed a button on a small contraption she held in her hand and the lights flashed on a black four-door government-issue sedan parked at the curb. “Get in,” she said. She opened the front door and got in behind the wheel. Slic walked around and got in the enger side. She already had her seatbelt fastened and the car going. She sped off. “Always drive in your stocking feet?” Slic said. Juice grinned. She knew he was talking about how she’d removed her high heels. Slic also couldn’t help noticing how her miniskirt hiked up when she got into the car. She tugged it down a bit now. “Yeah,” she said. “I can’t drive in those shoes.” “Do you know about this project?” Slic said. “Yes, but I can’t tell you much about it. All I can say is that it’s been hugely successful. I’m to escort you to the ship.” “You are?” “I am.” “And you can’t tell me anything about it?” “No, I can’t. All I know is that they’ve run out of monkeys.”

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Chapter 4 SPACE CITY

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Strapped into chairs, Slic and two other men waited in a tense silence. They were on board the Star Shuttle Arctic One. A man in a gray metallic suit entered the room. He had a clipboard in his hand. “Men, welcome aboard. at all times that you are not in fact men, but monkeys. Do you understand that?” There was nothing but silence. One of the men said: “Understood.” “Excellent. Now, good luck to you.” Once out in space, able to unfasten themselves from their chairs, they began to move about. One man introduced himself to Slic. “Josh Rosney,” he said. “Botting, North Carolina.” “Oh, hi,” Slic said. “John Slic, Piscawen, New York.” “Where’d you see the ad?” “The ad?” “The ad for the job.” “What, you mean this job?” “Yeah. I’ve been out of work for ten months. The pay isn’t great, but what the heck. Except, what is this crap, being monkeys?” “I don’t know,” Slic said. He turned to the other man next to him. “What did you hear about it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just a monkey.”

Chapter 5 REAL TIME

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“Want to order a pizza?” Slic said. “A pizza? We’re out in space. Do they deliver here?” Rosney said. “I don’t see why not. Give them a call. Where do you want to order from? Is there a data resource here?” Slic and Rosney looked around. They were floating weightlessly. “No data,” Rosney said. “Okay, let’s call information.” Slic tapped a few buttons on the control . “Hey,” Slic said. “I’m getting nothing here. Houston? Houston, can you hear me? Cape Kennedy, come in.” “I think they changed the name on that,” Rosney said. Slic turned to their other shipmate. He had a nametag. It said I. X. Nekers. “Nekers,” Slic said to him. “Do you know how to operate this? Get a channel?” “I’m only a monkey. I don’t know anything.” “Right. Suit yourself.” “Hey,” Rosney said. “Did you hear that? I’m getting something.”

“Yeah,” Slic said. “I can hear it too.” Very indistinctly, in their earphones, they heard, “Last call. Last call for Super Bowl tickets. Free Super Bowl tickets.” “Free Super Bowl tickets!” Slic exclaimed. “Hey! Right here. Here we are!” “Okay,” the voice said, with a slight Chinese accent. “We’re bringing you in. Lest and Lelactation.” “Lest and Lelactation?” Rosney said. “Rest and Relaxation,” Slic said. “I think that’s what they’re talking about. Right? Right Houston?” “Light,” the voice said. “That’s Light. Just check into decompression chamber. We be docking in five minutes.” “What is this crap?” Slic exclaimed, when they boarded the ship for the Super Bowl party. “This is brutal!” Rosney exclaimed. “It’s nothing but bowling!” A tinny voice came over the intercom. “Super Bowl. You don’t rike Super Bowl? Can get Lestring.” The walls now televised matches between behemoth Japanese Sumo wrestlers. Slic and Rosney were distracted for a few moments, as they ate puffed cheese snacks that floated in the air. “Want right beer?” the voice said. “Right beer?” Soon Slic and Rosney were downing light beers, eating cheese snacks and watching wrestling. ments for Lucinda’s Luscious WebCam appeared on the screen.

Chapter 6 BACK AT THE OFFICE

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“We’ve lost them,” Betman said. “How the heck can you lose them?” Juice said. She was at mission control headquarters in Orlando, under the Space Flight Theme Park. “You know, I just don’t get it,” Betman said. “We’re picking up the audio. It’s all wrong—like the Chinese or the Japanese are behind this, but we know they can’t be. They’re having the same problems we are.” “I’m going up there,” Juice said. “You can’t go up there,” Betman said. “It’s too dangerous.” “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be lured in by Japanese Sumo wrestlers. Get the ship ready. I’ll be ready to go in forty-eight hours. Call me as soon as you get countdown.”

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It was 10 PM at the Daytona Beach Towers. Juice had just dozed off on the couch while watching reruns of downhill skiing in the Adirondacks. The phone rang. She quickly picked up. “Juice!” “Scoutie, how are you?”

She immediately recognized the voice of her old friend from flight school. It was two years since they had both been bridesmaids in Scout’s brother’s wedding. She hadn’t seen Scout since then. “Listen, Juicie, there’s this Orbital Laboratory Alumni Cocktail party tomorrow night. Will you go with me? I need someone to go with me.” “What happened to Mark?” Juice said. She was referring to Scout’s old boyfriend. “Can you believe it? I paid for this aerobic awareness training for him in Scotland. He never came back.” “You’re kidding?” “Not kidding. So, can you go?” “I don’t know. What time? I’m going up in space the day after tomorrow.” “Really? With who?” “Just myself.” “Freakish vacation. So, listen, it’s at 7. Can you go?” “Yeah, I think so, but I need to do some shopping.” “I’ll pick you up,” Scout said. “It’ll be fun.” The next night Scout picked Juice up at 6:30 and they stopped at the Daytona Mall before heading over to Cape Kennedy. Inside the Brearton Department Store Juice looked over some dainties. “Score,” Scout said. “Those are nice.” Juice had picked out a tiger striped matching underwear set. Scout saw some lacy bright blue ones, and handed them to Juice. “I guess you —the only thing of your own you get to bring is your underwear,” Juice said.

“I it well.” “Hey, Scout, are you working out? You look in shape.” They started walking back to the counter. “You know, I’ve been taking Busto.” “Seems to be working,” Juice said. She’d noticed that Scout seemed to have gained a few inches topside, while still looking thin. “Juicie, you should try it.” Scout poked Juice in the ribs. She was as flat chested as could be. “I don’t know,” Juice said. “Only problem—the thing about Busto—jeez, I’m horny as hell! It takes a while to kick in—the side effect—if it happens—but when it does—wham!” “Yeah, I heard about that.” “It’s a cruel world, Juicie.”

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Chapter 7 ARTIFICIAL

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Juice docked and entered the space station. There was one man aboard.

“Where’d they go?” she said. “Don’t ask me, I’m only a monkey.” “Like hell you are. Now tell me, where did they go?” “They went to the Super Bowl party. It docked here. They left. Didn’t you see it on video?” “Everything’s jammed. Haven’t you noticed?” “No. I’m just—” “I know. Don’t tell me. You’re just a monkey. Come here Cheetah, and help me screw out the dark black box.” Everyone knew about the black box, but the dark black box that screwed in, that was top-secret. It controlled nanodigital magnetic imaging of the inside and outside of the craft. Houston soon had the flight path of who they believed were the Siriuns, responsible for the recent kidnappings. It led to the far side of the Moon. “Clever,” Juice itted to herself, as she saw the mockup of the trail of the ship that had docked and had apparently taken two of their astronauts. “Okay, Cheetah, see you later,” Juice said, as she climbed into her cruiser and locked in the trace of the path to the far side of the Moon, following the earlier craft’s exact run. “She’s artificial,” was the next thing Juice heard said, in a disapproving tone. She was strapped down, clothed in only her brand new undies, on top of an uncomfortable flat metal table. She was in a brightly lit area that looked like an operating room. How the hell did she get there? That was her question. The Siriuns had fixed onto her Cruiser as soon as she crossed behind the limb of

the Moon. Two gigantic Fighter Ships pressed towards her. Juice quickly emptied her store of weapons to no effect. She had no backup—no communications with the ground. They tore through the outside hull like the clam borers they were, overpowered her, and drugged her into submission. Now she saw the Siriun, a tall, thin, dark haired man, holding up a measuring device to the light. Traces of her blood coursed through the instrument. “See, Akbar,” the man said to his partner, standing nearby. “She’s artificial.” His tail flicked back and forth. “I see,” the other man said. He was sandy haired and overweight. “Tainted?” “Not tainted. There’s just something new. We can’t trust this. We can’t trust her. We need to let her go.” Both of the Siriuns’ furry tails, sticking out of the back of their pants, slowed their metronome movements. They were thinking. Juice immediately recognized them as Siriuns. Their picture ID’s, hanging around their necks, showed that they were physicians. One said Dr. Akbar, the other, Dr. Huyton. Physicians, with tails, came from the Sirius system. Creatures of habit, they wore the ID tags, although there was absolutely no need to do so. “Right, okay,” Huyton said. “She can go back with that Slic guy—in the twoseater—they’re both with the government.” “You done with him?” “Yeah. Finished up yesterday. He’s worthless.” “He doesn’t have anything?” “I wouldn’t trust him. Didn’t even bother checking the guy. That’s a two-seater?” “Yeah, the Cruiser.” “Oh, okay. Right. We’ll have to send them back in time.” “Yeah. In time.”

Slic was brought in the operating room and told he would be sent back to Earth with Juice. “Fine,” Slic said. Dr. Huyton turned to Juice and said, “You’re free to go.” “Yeah. Thanks, doc,” she said. “What did you say?” “You heard her,” Slic interrupted. “It stinks around here.” He turned to Juice. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

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Part II

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Chapter 1 BACK IN TIME

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“We’re being sucked into the atmosphere,” Juice said. “I can’t hold it.” “What?” Slic said. “What do you mean?”

“The lines... see how the lines... the lines are lining up...” She grimaced, holding the gear now with both hands, trying to pull it back. “What lines?” Slic said. “You mean on the screen? Those lines? That’s our course, right? Our projected course?” “I can’t hold it,” Juice said. She had a tight grip on the control gear, pulling hard, beads of perspiration showing on her upper lip. For the first time, Slic was concerned about the Cruiser, its tight confines, and its ability to get them where they needed to go... home. All wires, lights, plastic and metal, the Cruiser rattled through space, and you had to call it a rattle, there was no other description for the sound. They kept their headphones on, but there was no communication. “Give me a hand,” she said. Slic grabbed the gear with his right hand and tried to pull it back away from the course something pulled them to. “It’s the god damn Siriuns again,” Juice said. “I know it.” She took her left hand away just long enough to run the back of her wrist across her eyes. “Let me get there,” Slic said. “Let me try for a while.” Getting a foothold on the instrument , Slic now held the control gear with both hands. Juice slid underneath him and into his chair, as Slic took her seat in front of the main instrument . “This is crap,” Juice said. “These co-pilot controls are no good.” Slic pulled back as hard as he could on the control gear. The lines wobbled a bit on the screen. “You’re getting it,” she said. “Here.” Juice jumped on his lap, feet held steady against the instrument , and

tugged hard against the control gear. Pulling with all their might, the lines of their projected course wobbled back and forth on the screen, quickly, then began to slow. “Still not enough,” Juice said. “We’ve got to back it up.” “Can we do that?” “That’s all we have left. If we run out of power, we’re cooked.” Now there was nothing but a flaming glow through the portholes, as if they were on fire, at thousands of miles an hour, at fifteen hundred degrees. “Damn it!” Slic exclaimed. “I haven’t got any coordinates.” Juice looked over the controls. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Where are we heading?” “If I could just ,” he said. “Try Utah, I guess. Bonneville.” If he had to touch down somewhere, it might as well be near his old home, where he knew the terrain. Slic would have to reenter and try to land in the Bonneville Salt Flats, without any signals, and no way, apparently, to communicate with the ground. “No hailing frequency,” Juice confirmed. “I’ll need to eyeball it,” he said. Slic and Juice landed just a few miles from Whiskers, Utah. They slowed the huge craft to a halt near the edge of the highway, Route 2003, and got out to stretch their legs. After about an hour of looking around, seeing no one, and being unable to communicate with headquarters, they decided they’d better hitch a ride with the first car that came by. Finally, what seemed to Slic to be a beautifully preserved 2009 Chevy pulled to a

halt before them. A skinny man with a wispy gray beard stepped out of the car and marveled at the spacecraft. “Wow,” he said. “Where’d you get that?” “Where do you think?” Slic replied. “Montgomery Wards?” “Montgomery Wards?” he said. “That’s been out of business for years.” Juice spoke up, having little patience for such small talk. “We need a ride.” “What, you broken down?” “Yeah,” Slic said. “Something like that.” Juice stuck her hand out to introduce herself. “They call me Juice.” “Oh, nice to meet you,” the man said. “Bert Guyer.” Slic now shook hands with him as well. “John B. Slic,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” On their way back to Whiskers, Slic got the first hint they were in for some trouble when he asked about the car. “You restore this yourself?” Slic said. “Restore it? Hell, I just bought it.” Slic shot a glance to Juice in the back seat. “Hold it,” he said. “Stop the car.” After Bert pulled over, Slic got out and walked around the front of the car to check the registration sticker. Sure enough, it had a 2009 registration and inspection sticker. Slic got back in the car. “What is it?” Juice said.

“Yeah,” Bert said. “What’s up?” “Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were legal.” No. Nothing at all, except that the sticker should have said 2039. Now, what was he going to do? “Listen,” Slic said. “Where are you headed?” “Whiskers, just like I said.” “Would you mind dropping us off? We have a little logistics problem.” “No problem,” Bert said. Bert was directed up Burdett Avenue, once they got to Whiskers. “Make a left at Sage Avenue,” Slic said. “Sage?” Bert said. “Where’s that?” “Wait,” Slic said. “Stop here.” Slic got out and surveyed the field that was soon to be Sage Avenue. And right off Sage Avenue was where Eaton Road would be—-8 Eaton Road, where Slic lived with his wife and kids. No, it wasn’t there. Not in 2009. He had to think where he lived way back in 2009. He got back in the car. “Sorry Bert,” he said. “Mellon Avenue. Take us to Mellon Avenue in Sycaway.” “Sycaway?” Bert protested. Sycaway was on the outskirts of Whiskers, on the other side of town. “Hey, can’t I drop you off somewhere? I’m supposed to pick up my daughter for soccer. The wife will be furious.” He looked at his watch. “I’m already ten minutes late.” Slic reached in a pocket and pulled out some cash. Good thing, he thought to himself, he always carried some money.

“Here,” Slic said, extending a 40,000 Yen note. “What the hell is this?” Bert said. “40,000 Yen. It should be plenty. Probably worth 400 bucks.” “400 bucks? I don’t know.” Reluctantly, Bert drove on. They soon pulled in front of 7 Mellon Avenue. Slic got out and surveyed the scene as Bert drove off. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. Yes, he’d been happy there. “What’s this?” Juice said, as she stood next to him. “My old house.” He went up and rang the bell. It felt funny, seeing as how he owned the house. The door swung open and there he was, thirty years younger. “Can I help you?” his other self asked. “John B. Slic, at your service.” In a moment Slic was back in his old living room, looking the place over. “Say,” Juice said, “Do you have a phone? We’ll need to call headquarters. I’d like to call my mom too.” “Knock yourself out,” Slic said, ignoring the fact that the question was directed to his younger self, who now said, cautiously, “Yes, come into the kitchen.” The kitchen door opened and Slic saw her, wiping her hands off in a towel—his wife, thirty years younger. Yes, he now knew what he saw in her. She was beautiful, in a strange, unusual way. Penelope came out of the kitchen, ignoring for a moment her present husband. She was squinting, still holding the towel. Slic gave her a hug. “It’s me,” he said.

He stared into her clear, green eyes and kissed her. He knew she was surprised, but she kissed him back, almost as if she was being polite. Now, his newer self pulled them apart. “That’ll be enough of that,” he said. “Just who are you?” “I’m you, John. I’m you.” Juice came into the room. “I can’t get my mother on the phone. I can’t get anybody.” “Never mind,” the younger Slic said. “Just call the police.”

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Chapter 2 SHOW CAUSE

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Judge Bo looked through the mail, but saw nothing interesting, so he threw it on the conference table, to be opened by Jessings, his clerk. A few minutes later, Bo was at his desk, going over his phone messages, when Jessings came in. “You got an order to show cause here,” he said. “So?” Bo replied. “Well, if you think it’s okay, you can sign it.”

“You looked it over?” “Sure,” Jessings said. “It looks okay.” Bo was all ready to sign it, but the better part of paranoia set in. He perused the papers briefly. “Jessings,” he said. “This is an order that directs a pony to show cause.” “Yes.” “Jessings, you can’t order a pony to show cause.” “You can’t?” “No, not the pony. You can’t order the pony to show cause. You can order the owner of the pony to show cause, but not the pony.” “Oh, it’s the pony. I didn’t actually notice that. I just wondered why he only had a first name.” “Jeez, Jessings,” Bo said. “Watch it, will you?” “Phone call,” Bo heard Judy, his secretary, say. She was standing in the hallway, telling him this. She still hadn’t figured out the intercom system. Either that, or she needed to read lips. She never gave him a message unless she was looking straight at him. Maybe, he thought, she just liked to see his reaction. Bo didn’t like getting phone calls. “Who is it?” he said. “The clerk. The hearing. The hearing date for the Meddler.” “Oh, no,” Bo said. “Not a Meddler.” Bo hated the Meddler cases. He’d been assigned to those cases. Meddlers were time travelers. They were only discovered when they disrupted things. Bo knew he’d soon get a visit from National Security. First there’d be the call from the Justice Department.

“They’re on their way,” Judy said. Before he could even arraign Slic, they were in his office. Deputy Pierce ushered them in. “Mr. Dodd and Ms. Freshy, Judge, from National Security. I saw their badges.” “Okay, Bob,” Bo said. “Thanks.” He motioned for Dodd and Freshy to take a seat. “He’ll need a psychiatric hearing,” Dodd said. “Like before?” “Yes,” Freshy said. “Just like before.” “You can’t say anything about this,” Dodd said. “Like before?” Bo said. “Just like before,” Freshy said. Because his identification was so messed up, Slic was at the Police station all night. Then Captain Nill, of the Whiskers Police Department, got a call from Marshall Kode. “We’ll get there by about 10 A.M. You can release him in our custody,” Kode said. “Where’s he from?” Nill asked. “We’ll post bail if necessary,” Kode said, ignoring his question. On a busy day the newspapers would often miss the mystery surrounding Slic’s release. The DA would not object. He’d been talked to.

What could the judge do, say that Slic was a time traveler, and that he had secretly met with National Security? No, he couldn’t do that. Someone might suggest that he have a psychiatric exam himself. Dodd and Freshy had already reminded him that they’d deny ever seeing him. “Insane!” Jessings exclaimed, when he read the psychiatric report. “Judge, this report says Slic is insane.” “Really?” Bo said. “This is unprecedented,” Jessings continued. “Except there was that one case. That case—what was that case?” “Not sure what you mean, Jessings.” “You know, that case—the guy was determined to be unfit for trial—a little case. Wait a minute—this may be the same Doctor. Who the heck is this Doctor?” “Jessings, I really need that decision.” “That suppression motion?” “Right. Let’s get that done.” It was pretty easy to distract Jessings. Lunchtime was soon approaching.

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Chapter 3 BACK IN TIME AGAIN

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Slic glanced at the framed, glass covered diploma on the wall in the outer office. It was Frankie De Francisco’s certificate for his degree as Doctor of Theoretical Astronomy, issued by the Latham, New York, Chamber of Commerce. After he sat down in Frankie’s office, Slic said, “You got your degree from the Latham Chamber of Commerce?” “Yes, I did,” Frankie replied. “Impressive.” “Thanks. So, what can I do for you?” “Well, I’ve been declared criminally insane and unfit to stand trial.” “I see.” “And it seems I’ve gone back in time about 30 years.” “Meddler?” “So they say.” “Who diagnosed you—mentioned to you—called you, a Meddler?” “I don’t know. The cop, when I was picked up, he was talking to someone on the phone—I think he mentioned that—Meddler. And when I was let out of the institution, they told me that. So, I’ve been trying to figure out what it’s all about.” “So, who referred you?” “Nobody. Just got your name from the outer net.” “The outer net?” “I mean the internet. You know, you’re the only Doctor that does counseling for

Meddlers in upstate New York.” “Really? So, what can I do for you?” “Well, it’s basically about my wife. I met her recently, thirty years younger, with my other self.” “Your duplicate?” “Yeah, I guess you could call him my duplicate. He’s the guy who got me arrested.” “I see. So?” “Well, I want to see her—get back with her. I’m all alone here. I just don’t understand it. They said if I ed her again they’d lock me up in the institution again.” “Where’s that?” “Saratoga Springs. Right near the racetrack. I was in a horse barn there. You won’t believe this. I was in the same stall that Funny Cide was in.” “You were in a horse stall?” “They said it was temporary. Just for the winter. Had a lot of space there—what with the horses gone and all.” “So?” “Well, I’d just like to get back to the wife and kids.” “You got kids?” “Yeah. Two kids.” “That’s great. Okay, listen. What you got to do is get back.” “Super. How do I get back?” “What happened, Mr. Slic, is that—here, let me show you this picture.”

Frankie pointed to a large oil painting on the wall behind him. It was of an apple sliced in thin layers, top to bottom, several times, with the slices slipped off center, one this way, one that. “You painted this?” On the bottom of the painting was the signature, Frankie C. De Francisco. “No,” Frankie said. “My son did that.” “Nice.” “Yes, what I was saying was—you’re in the wrong universe.” “Wrong universe?” “Right. There are an infinite number of universes, and you can picture them as being side by side, like in this picture of a sliced apple. And if there was a worm hole—and if you were a worm, and escaped the cut, traveling from one slice to the other, now slipped off center, you’d be traveling in a different area—a different space, and therefore, a different time.” “Wormhole—I guess I’ve heard of that. But how do I get back?” “You have to retrace your steps, and get back to the cut, follow along that line until you find your original wormhole.” “How do I do that?” “I just told you. You have to retrace your steps.” Slic headed back to the stables. He got just short of exit 13 on the Northway when his Retro-Barracuda, provided by the government, did a 360 and slid into a ditch. It was snowing lightly. The road was slushy. He had it in cruise control, going 74. Lousy weather, Slic thought to himself, as he managed to get back onto the road. It was about 11 AM when he arrived at the stables. He pulled in back of #4 and looked around. The squat, one-story dark green wooden buildings, and their

quiet wood slatted sides, said nothing to him. Tall white pines showed a trace of wind. There was a small trainer’s room in #4. He knocked on the door. “What’s it?” Slic heard said from inside. The top half of the door opened. “I’m looking for Juice,” Slic said to the skinny old black man, whom he knew only by his first name, Jerry. “No Juice here,” Jerry said. “Do you know where I can find Juice?” The black man rubbed his chin. “Stewart’s, I guess. You head out right past the Northway over exit 14. Just go straight.” “Stewart’s?” “Right,” Jerry said. “That would be the closest.” “What do you mean, the closest?” “Closest place to get juice.” “Not juice to drink, I’m talking about Juice—,” he had to think for a minute. His memory wasn’t that clear. “Juice Gilligan. Do you know where she is?” “Never heard of her,” the old man said. “You know, you have a parole board meeting tomorrow.” “So, you do know what’s going on.” “Sure,” Jerry said, with the twist of a smile. “I know what’s going on. I just don’t know any Juice, wha-dya-call’er. Except the kind you get at Stewart’s.” Slic wasn’t convinced. That night he decided. He had to get back—to retrace his steps. He had to go back to Utah. The next morning he drove to Albany to meet with his parole officer in the FBI building at the end of 787, just off route 9W, on Hoffman Avenue. That’s what

the directions said—pretty easy, actually. A guard stopped him at the booth at the entrance to the parking lot in front of the FBI building. “Have an appointment?” the guard said. “Right.” “Name?” After Slic gave him his name the guard said, “Wait right there,” and made a phone call. There was a brief delay, and then Slic was told to go in the main entrance of the building. Once inside, he saw a woman behind a large reception counter. “May I help you?” she said. “Here to see my parole officer.” She looked at a directory and dialed a number. A dour faced man stepped out of a corridor to Slic’s left. “Slic,” the man said. “You’re on time. Right this way.” Slic was praying that this masquerade would soon end, but he was disappointed. “John Hall,” the man said, and stuck out his hand to shake. They shook hands. Slic could tell the man hated his job, shaking hands with parolees; yet, this was a special case, wasn’t it? “Any skills?” Hall said. “I’m an ant—a Spanish teacher.” Slic didn’t want to give his true profession—spy. After all, who could he trust? “No openings,” Hall said. “Looks like you’ll be flipping hamburgers. Here.”

Slic was handed a piece of paper, a form actually—he was surprised to see that —listing a Jacob’s Hamburger Stand in Wilton, New York. “Report there tomorrow morning at ten. Your next appointment here is in two weeks.” The next morning Jerry awakened him at 7:30 AM, as requested. But he didn’t drive to Jacob’s Hamburger stand. He headed straight to the airport. He had to show his parole board ID to buy a ticket. He knew that might be a problem. He was thankful that the government had graciously converted his future minted Yens into a bank with ten thousand dollars or more in it. But that was no bargain. Those Yen were worth $110,000. Granted, not until 30 years from now. He thought he’d save the argument about that to another day. Today he had to get to Salt Lake City.

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Chapter 4 Juice In 2009

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Juice rode shotgun in a tan 2009 Suzuki SUV. The vehicle rolled down the Mohawk trail into North Adams, agent Philings behind the wheel. When Juice looked over at him, he looked back, smiled, and raised his eyebrows twice. Juice wondered if it was some kind of a twitch. “You know,” she said, “I just don’t believe it.” “You just don’t believe what?” Philings said.

“That it’s 2009.” “Oh, it is. Believe me, it is 2009.” “Wait a minute,” she said. “Pull over at that gas station. I’ll get a newspaper. We’ll see what that says.” Philings slowed down and maneuvered into the Moscoil Gas station. He pulled in near the front door of the convenience store there. Just like whatever decade you want to be in, litter was scattered everywhere. Juice picked up the North Adams Chronicle. There were front-page reports of Julia Roberts’ reelection campaign. She was seeking a second term as President of the United States. The dateline read, April 30, 2009. “Convinced?” Philings said. She now saw he had entered the store behind her. “Wait,” she said. “This can’t be right. Julia Roberts was never President.” “Things might have been a little different where you were.” She turned hurriedly to the sports section. There it was, the Yankees beating the Red Sox. “Some things never change,” Philings said. “I suppose from where you’re from, the Yankees are on top too.” He now took the paper from her and gave the youngster at the counter a few dollars. Getting his change, he turned back to Juice. “Come on. Let’s get out of here, before you start something.” Dutifully, she got back in the car. Before long, Philings had turned down a side street and stopped in front of an apparently abandoned storefront. “It’s up there,” he said, getting out of the car. At a doorway next to the dusty shop window with the “available” poster in it, Philings put a key in the lock of a door. He opened it and Juice saw a stairway

up. “Come on,” Philings said. He led the way up two flights and again unlocked a door. He handed her the keys. The door slammed behind them. “Not too bad,” he said, adjusting the blinds to let some sunlight in. It seemed to have been an office, or some type of storage area. Boxes of junk were piled up everywhere. Philings went into another room, and then quickly stuck his head back in the outer room. “Here. You’ll be able to sleep in here.” When Juice got in the other room she was mortified. It had a small, unmade cot against one wall and large half-finished canvas paintings leaning against the walls and each other, haphazardly scattered throughout. “What the hell is this?” she said. “Best we can do. Sorry.” He handed her his card. “If you need anything, just give me a call.” “How about better accommodations.” “Sorry. This is 2009, you know.” With that, he quickly left.

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J. Finsterwald Drunkenmiller, an artist, clambered up two flights of stairs in a building in North Adams, Massachusetts. The J stood for Jehosaphat, so you can understand why Drunkenmiller went by his middle name, and more often, just Finster. He was carrying an electric guitar and a small amplifier. He planned to meet with his sister Christine and his

brother-in-law, Steve, to practice for a planned recording session. He had gotten the key months ago from an artist friend, Martin Corrigan, who was hospitalized in New Zealand with scurvy. Finster plugged in the amp. He heard water running. He was about to investigate when his sister came in. “Yo, Finsterbox. Finsterbugger, what up?” she said. “Hi, Chris,” he said. Finster utterly ired and adored his sister. To him, she was an inspiration—one of the only people in the world that appreciated, or understood, what he was doing. She carried underneath one arm a small electronic keyboard. Christine was an accomplished musician, having studied piano, and taught music, most of her life. Steve stuck his head in the door from the stairs. “Great,” Finster said. “Everybody’s on time.” “I’ll get the drums,” Steve said, and went back down the stairs. Finster and Christine had heard Steve play on an old children’s set of drums Finster had at a Christmas Day dinner. He was so good that Finster asked him to play the drums on a few recordings. “Still doing the art?” Christine said. “Yup,” Finster said. “Still up to my old tricks.” Silently, Christine looked over a few of Finster’s cartoonish paintings leaning against the wall, and chuckled. It could be said that Finster was inadequately trained and inadequately committed to his art. Yet, Finster, in the back of his head knew it was foolhardy to be committed to doing foolish things. He had no illusions, knowing that artists very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very rarely ever make a decent living selling their art. “Is that water running?” Christine said. Juice was alarmed. She heard voices. What could she do? How stupid of me, she thought to herself, not locking the door. She was in the shower.

Gathering the slimy plastic shower curtain around her brilliant, beautiful nakedness, she swiftly summoned the courage to jump to the door and attempt to throw the latch. At that very instant, Finster opened the door a few inches—just in time to see Juice’s lovely wet figure, swathed in a gray and pink not too opaque shower curtain, reaching for the lock. His fleeting glimpse of her in the bathroom mirror was abruptly terminated by her forceful slam of the door, and twist of the bolt. Finster went back in the main room. Steve, drumsticks in hand, immediately recognized from Finster’s expression that something was wrong. “What is it?” he said. “Um, nothing, I guess—some water running. Never mind, let’s get going.” It had been so hard to get together with Christine and Steve for this project, Finster was damned if he’d allow a woman in a shower to disrupt it. He plugged in his guitar and did a few chords. “Woman in a shower—” he sang. “I’ve got a woman in the shower—” “Here,” Christine said. “Do these chords—do the rhythm.” Steve was already slamming the drums. Christine picked up the guitar and showed Finster where his fingers went, something he had shown her before, but he could never . She gave him back the guitar and in a very rough way, he started playing rhythm guitar to the four-four beat that Christine played on her keyboard. “I got a woman in the shower—oh, yeah—woman in the shower—all wet—all wet, yeah. Woman in the shower—” Christine giggled. “Philings!” Juice yelled into her cellular phone. “Where the hell are you?” Thank God, she said to herself, I undressed in the bathroom. She now had jeans

and a black and white checkered blouse on. There was no answer, not even voice mail. Outside the door, Finster, Christine and Steve were into their second song, “Nazis in Vermont.” Juice could stand it no longer. She decided to confront her uninvited guests. “What are you doing here?” she said. She struck the usual pose in such situations, hands on hips. Finster stopped playing. He was mesmerized. She looked gorgeous to him, with her wet, ruffled hair. “Sorry,” he said. “We’re practicing.”

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Chapter 5 IN THE PRESENT AGAIN

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“Akbar,” Dr. Huyton said. “What are these?” Furry animals, in different sizes, different colors, danced about, punching and kicking each other, jumping up and down. “Well, they appear to be—seem to be—couldn’t be anything else but—but—” “But what Akbar?”

“Monkeys. They seem to be monkeys.” “They’re crapping all over the place. It’s a mess.” He looked up and two Barbary apes swung from the metal girders, their droppings raining down on Dr. Huyton and Akbar. Huyton stepped through their dung and out of range of the Barbary apes. He glanced out a window where the gleaming, glittering single blue and white eye of the Earth stared back at him. For a moment he ired its glistening presence. “Genius. Simply genius. I’ve got to give them credit. They’re smarter than I thought.” “Just look at their tails,” Akbar said. Huyton now turned to study the little beasts. Yes, they did have tails. Not all of them, but most did. Yes, beautiful, long furry tails. Huyton’s own tail now swirled rapidly. “I do see, Akbar. Yes, some do, some don’t. Interesting. None of those people have tails, right?” “Of course not.” “Right. Where are they?” “They’re in the basketball court.” “Good. Good decision. How are they doing?” “Milling about. Stewing.” “We’ve got to get rid of them.” Akbar’s eyes twinkled. “Get rid of them? What do you mean? Out the hatch?” “Out the hatch? No, don’t think so—environmentally. Unknown result. No standards. Likely repercussions.” “He-he! Goshies! Unknown result!”

“No, we got to get rid of them.” “But the humans—isn’t that what we came here for?” “We got what we want, now we have too many. It’s out of control. They’re out of control—but these monkeys—except for the crap—they’ve got to be easier to deal with.” “Except for the crap.” “Right. Except for the crap—but it’s a lot less crap—and then there’s the tail gene that we’ve been studying. I think we can use them.” “But grafting the gene—a monkey gene—isn’t there the possibility it would make people stupider?” “Stupider? So what. There’s plenty of use for a little stupidity. Now, let’s get rid of the people.” “Send them back?” “Right. No, wait. We can’t just send them back.” “What?” Akbar said, his eyes twinkling again. “Alter them a bit?” “Alter? No, not exactly, buggy-boy. We’ll send them back—but we’ll really send them back. We’ll send them back in time! Just like we did with those government agents. It’s in the instructions—the proper practices. It’s approved— safe and effective.” “Back in time? Brilliant! Just brilliant!” “Yes, thank you, Akbar. It does seem clever, if I do say so myself. That way, they won’t be able to report our activities, or, if they do, they’ll be viewed as lunatics.” “He-he-he! Goshies! Lunatics. Great!” Out at center court, Smeesh, Boodoya, and O’Heck looked over the disorganized gathering—women crying, men pushing and shoving each other. In one corner, a

man and a woman rolled around in each other’s arms. Ivan Boodoya began speaking earnestly to O’Heck. Ivan was from Russia. O’Heck couldn’t understand a word he said. He turned to Smeesh. “It’s madness!” O’Heck observed. He had been snatched on his way to court in Amsterdam, NY. Still, this scene stunned him. Boodoya walked away. “They’re out of control!” Smeesh said. He was one of a group from Ogunquit Maine. “Insane!” Ahmad Johnson, a black man from South Central Philly stepped up to add. “What we need is some leadership,” O’Heck said. “Just how would that be determined?” Smeesh said. He was a community college professor, good at asking questions. “Yeah, leadership,” Johnson said. “That’s what we need.” “You want leadership?” Senator Inouye said, raising his only arm. “I’m a senator!” “Your political connections will get you nowhere here,” Smeesh said curtly. “As you wish,” Inouye said, stepping back. “So, how do we decide?” Johnson said. “It’s got to be fair.” “Right,” O’Heck said. “Foul shots. That’s what we’ll do.” “Foul shots?” Smeesh said. “That’s ridiculous.” “I don’t know,” Johnson said. “I don’t want anyone on my team that can’t hit foul shots.” “That’s what I think too,” O’Heck said. He stuck out his hand to Johnson. “Frenzy O’Heck. Nice to meet you.” “Ahmad Johnson, Philadelphia,” Johnson said, shaking O’Heck’s hand.

“Okay,” O’Heck said, ignoring Smeesh. “Let’s line ‘em up!” “Okay everybody, listen up!” Johnson yelled. He had a distinctive presence. A General Electric engineer with a huge Afro, he had tattoos on his massive arms and shiny pendants hanging from chains around his neck. He was about six-five. He pointed to his right. “Okay, girls on the right out of bounds line, guys on the left.” There was noticeable grumbling. One woman was heard to say, “What’s he mean, girls?” The woman next to her yelled out, “What do you mean girls?” “Females,” Johnson yelled. “Get the hell over on the right out of bounds line.” The women started to murmur to each other, but slowly started to move to one side of the court. “What’s the right side?” one questioned. “Now guys!” O’Heck said. “Get on the left line. We’re shooting foul shots. Line up!” One huge guy spoke up from the crowd. “Who put you in charge?” Luckily, at that moment a basketball rolled by. O’Heck bent over to grab it. “You got any better ideas?” He now tossed the ball to the first guy in line. “Here,” he said. “Take some shots.” The man caught the ball on a bounce. He was John Wheeler, from Six Falls, Iowa, a pharmacist’s assistant. “Like hell I will,” he said. He then handed the ball to the next guy in line. Chuck Smedly, from Oronoco, Florida, grabbed the ball and dribbled quickly to the foul line. He took a shot. It bounced off the rim. “Hey buddy,” O’Heck said to Wheeler. “You think you can rebound?” “Like hell I will,” Wheeler responded.

“I’ll rebound,” Gerry Tunhill, from Rew, Nebraska said, getting under the hoop. “Okay,” O’Heck said. “Let’s get going.” He glanced down at the end of the court. Johnson already had the women taking shots. “I need a pen,” O’Heck observed, as he watched Smedly make a few shots. “Here,” Smedly said. “I’ve got a pen.” He held out a drugstore ballpoint. “Go write numbers on their shirts.”

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Chapter 6 ORIENTATION DAY FOR READERS

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Reader, my paranoia has set in. I can imagine you asking, how is it that we understand the aliens’ language? Why are only Americans taken? All right, get around the campfire, kiddies. The aliens, as we have already identified them, were physicians. They had a tendency for that type of malpractice related to lack of informed consent. Meaning, in their case, no consent. No one emerged from an encounter with these doctors with an appendix. It was gone in a jiffy. The incision was barely detectable. There was hardly any discomfort. Studies confirmed that meetings with the Physicians routinely led not only to the loss of an appendix, but many times plenty more. While unconscious, men and women had little way of knowing what products of their reproductive systems had been clandestinely removed. Gall bladders and spleens disappeared. Moles and birthmarks were no more. People lost weight,

and knew it was nothing natural. Nagging discomforts disappeared, but yes, there were those that never returned. The Physicians, from the Sirius system, 8.7 light years from Earth, spoke English. They were both advanced and backward, because although their science was superior, they had become immersed in the Earth’s culture, soaking it up, never getting enough, and ordinarily, about 9 years behind the times. Were they human? Could you observe their tails and think so? Well, go ahead. Think so. They were descended from humans, but were the result of those terrible precautions, and measures taken, that were thought necessary to preserve the human race. The time problem—the speed—that was the tough stuff that resulted in a peopling of the Sirius system with genius level doctors and scientists whose descendants were ordinarily no less accomplished, yet the experiments conducted to succeed—to survive, some may say, went wrong. Went wrong if you don’t like people with tails, or a populace that shamelessly copulates in broad daylight. Then they learned how to go back in time. Both bored with and obsessed by us, we must be thankful for their reticence to get further involved. Yes, they liked to take things and not give them back— parts of ourselves that we really didn’t need anyway, and yes, there were those people that never returned at all from their visits. Surprised that they took mostly Americans? Try deciphering the dialects of India or Java. , doctors like to get histories, and there are no better folks at giving details of their allergies than Americans. The interrogations tended to go like this: “Any allergies?” Dr. Hyton said to his newfound New Englander. “Why do you ask?” “Inform him, Akbar,” Huyton responded. “Goshies!” Akbar said, then slapped Guy Bigim, a Vermont native, across the face. “We haven’t got all day. Now, tell us if you have any allergies,” Hyton said.

Bedside manner was a chapter left off the curriculum in his training. “Go to hell,” Bigim declared. Akbar again slapped him in the face. “Okay,” Bigim said, a tear coming to his eye, “I’m allergic to nuts and berries.” “Excellent,” Hyton said with a smile. “Taking any medications?” Bigim looked at Akbar, who appeared ready to strike. “Naproxin. For my knee.” Hyton grinned and wrote in the chart. “Excellent. Excellent,” he said.

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Chapter 7 ON THE COURT

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O’Heck watched Inouye, the one-armed Senator from Hawaii, valiantly attempt some foul shots. One grazed the rim. “Senator,” O’Heck yelled over, once Inouye had finished his five throws. “Could I talk to you?” Inouye stepped over cautiously. “Any suggestions?” O’Heck said.

Inouye paused and looked over the scene. “Well, you’ll need the big men under the boards—under the basket—and the point guards—you’ll need to identify them.” “Right,” O’Heck said. “The little guys who can dribble.” “Right,” Inouye said. “And the big guys under the hoop.” O’Heck and Inouye now looked over the line of men and mentally picked out the tall ones. “You should also see if anyone has weapons,” Inouye said. “Weapons?” “Weapons may be helpful.” “Yes,” O’Heck said. “True.” He now turned to the men and raised his voice. “Anyone with weapons, please step forward.” There was no movement. “We will not take your weapons, we just need to see how many are available.” One man, then three, then six stepped forward. O’Heck and Inouye looked over their weapons. One man had only a nail-clipper. One had an automatic. Three had revolvers. Two other were carrying knives. O’Heck asked a tall black man, Odi Werri, to step closer. He had an eight-foot long spear, with red feathers tied near the tip. An impressive, muscular man, Werri looked like someone plucked from the Kalahari in Africa, as he was. O’Heck and Inouye decided to classify the men with weapons, “A” being a hand gun, “B” being a knife, and added these letters as a prefix to the men’s numbers. The guy with the nail clippers got a lower case “c” for effort. After all, anybody with car keys would likely be as dangerous. The women were also inspected. Two had handguns, one, a little derringer. Three had knives. O’Heck and Inouye gathered the men and women who had weapons together. “Ladies and gentlemen,” O’Heck said. “Guess what? You’re the military—but —I’m sure everyone will agree—no unilateral action. Wait for our

orders.” Snuzzy Werpring, the guy with the nail clippers, said, “And who’s going to be giving the orders?” O’Heck felt like saying, not somebody carrying nail clippers, but held his tongue. “That will be determined,” Inouye said. Note from author: Perhaps you have found what has gone before far-fetched. Just wait until you see what is to come. I say, expand your horizons. Consider the madness and outlandish behavior of our fellow man. Also, I hold up as an example to you the Old Testament. Is that science fiction? How about Samuel 1? In it is the story of King Saul and David. You all know David from his exploits in killing Goliath the giant with his slingshot. He actually cast aside armor and other battle gear at the time of his impending encounter, saying something like, “I don’t need no armor!” as if he was an Iraqi army officer or something. If you say, no way is David and the giant science fiction. That was just a good shot. Okay, read a little more of Samuel. The demented King Saul had this mysterious antipathy for David. He was always trying to get David killed. No sooner had David killed Goliath, than Saul said to David, luring him on by dangling a beautiful princess, Michal, before him, go out and kill some Philistines, and I need proof. Bring me back 100 foreskins. Do that, and you can marry Michal. What did David do? He brought back 200 foreskins. Michal must have been lovely. You have to wonder: what was his greatest accomplishment, killing the giant with the slingshot, or getting 200 foreskins? For all we know, the giant may only have been about six five, or six-six. Who knows? But the foreskins? It makes you think. What did he do, bring them back in a violin case or something, flip the latches, spring the top open, and say, here Saul, here are 200 foreskins. And how did he get them in the first place? Did he say, hey Philistines, I’m the guy that killed that giant, either surrender your foreskins or we’ll kill you. I suppose the Philistines might have paused to consider that for a second. Picture the mass circumcision event. Or, after a guy was killed, can you imagine David performing a circumcision? Kind of disturbing, don’t you think?

Perhaps, not every one of his fellow warriors was into that stuff. A few of them might have said, “Whoa, David, do you really have to do that?” And we thought the American Indians were a little extreme when they scalped people. Rather, you might hope, David ran into one of those guys who do circumcisions and bought 200. That is, if those guys stockpile those things. You don’t even want to think about the condition of those foreskins after a few nights travel in the desert. I know I’ll never eat calamari again. Okay, the bible has been very popular for thousands of years. Certainly, the fact that men have knowledge of women occasionally does spruce it up, but I promise you, I will never, ever stoop so low (I hope) as to dream up some absolutely outrageously unbelievable foreskin adventure in order to sell my book.

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Chapter 8 IN THE PAST

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Frankie De Francisco picked up the phone. It was Slic. “Which way?” Slic said. “What?” “Which way do I go back?” “Either way. Whichever way is easiest.” Gregorio Hyu, the manager of the Incredible Butterfly Hamburger Stand,

grabbed the phone from Slic and hung it up. “Get out there and flip those burgers,” he said. “I told you. No phone calls.” “Okay, Greg. Okay.” Hyu gave him a weird look. “Those are nice khakis you’re wearing.” Oh, man, Slic said to himself. I got to get out of here. Back on the RPI campus, Slic got off the elevator at the sixth floor. It was the sixth floor, wasn’t it? He went up and down the hall. None of the doors had the paper sign on it that he had seen before. He tried the doorknob of the door in the middle of the hallway that he thought was the office. It wouldn’t turn. He then went back and forth along the fourth, fifth, and seventh floors. Nothing. Florida? Should he go there? Utah? Yes, he’d try Utah.

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Chapter 9 SALT FLATS

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After an amazingly long flight to Salt Lake City, involving a change over in Cincinnati, he rented a car and headed out to the Bonneville Salt Flats. He was tired. He had only four hours sleep the night before. His watch, still set to Eastern Standard Time, said 6:30 PM. Here, it was three hours earlier, hot and windy. Driving out Route 2003 to where he thought was the landing area he saw nothing. He drove back and forth, ing a car parked by the side of the road. He pulled over and looked back at the car. Yes, that had to be near it. He walked down the road. As he got closer, he saw a woman, walking around on the salt flat. It was she. “Juice! What are you doing here?” She hardly looked surprised. “Same thing as you, I suppose.” “Notice anything?” “Yes, it was here.” She pointed out footprints, and they followed them to the long marks left by the landing gear. Finally, he wasn’t actually going crazy.

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“Don’t get the hamburger,” Slic said. He and Juice were at the counter of Jup’s Super Freeze snack bar. “What?” “I used to work in one of these places. You never know.” “Okay, I’ll have a hot dog.” “Hmmm, I don’t know.” “Hey, I’m starving here.” “Okay, Juice.” He turned to the young girl at the window. “Two hot dogs, French fries and what, Juice?” “Ginger ale.” “Ginger ale and a diet Mularkey.” In a few minutes, Slic and Juice were sitting at a picnic table finishing off their lunch. “Is there a motel around here?” Juice said. “Right, yes, we need a motel. How about the C-Nick?” “Any good?” “No idea. Never stayed there, but I know it’s cheap. We probably should split the room. You know, to conserve funds.” Juice squinted into the sun. “I don’t know,” she said. “Whatever you think.” “Yeah, I guess this could take a while.” “How the hell could they only have one room left?” Juice said, a little pissed off,

as they walked down a macadam path to their room. When he opened the door, he saw what Juice was annoyed at. There was only one bed, but it looked to be queen sized. “I’m exhausted,” she said, and flopped out on her back in the bed. Slic looked around. There wasn’t a couch. He dragged a chair over in front of the TV, and turned it on. The only thing that came in well was a Spanish edition of the Newlywed Game. In the bathroom, he unwrapped the glass and poured some water in it. Not too bad. He took the paper off the soap and washed his hands. Back to the Newlywed Game—they laughed—the audience cheered. How could they? How could they understand what was being said? Why didn’t they speak English? He was getting tired. He looked over. Juice seemed to be asleep. The bed appeared to be big enough. Maybe if he got in quietly, slowly, she wouldn’t wake up. Then, there was only the problem of keeping his hands off her. He started to pull down the covers and heard Juice say behind him, “John?” He turned and she sprayed something in his face. That’s the last thing he could .

***

In the small, hot room where coffee and donuts were served, Slic crumpled a red plastic stirrer. “We need to —to make ,” he said to Juice, sitting across from him.

It was a bit awkward. They’d hardly spoken since he woke up that morning. He found himself alone in the bed, the water running in the bathroom. “Yes,” she said. “I know.” “Any suggestions?” “I’ve been looking for my communicator. That’s why I’m here. I thought I might have dropped it in the desert.” “Didn’t you have that at the house—my house?” Juice thought for a second. “Yes—yes, that’s right. When my communicator didn’t work, I tried your phone—or, I guess, their phone—” “My phone.” “Yeah, and now that I think of it, that’s the last I can seeing it. I think I may have left it on the counter.” “Well, I can’t go back there.” “I can.” “Yes, I guess you can.” Juice rang the bell and turned to look down the street where Slic was parked. She waited a minute, and rang again. She had no way of knowing the bell didn’t work. As he watched, Slic cursed. He’d forgotten to tell her the bell didn’t work. He opened the car door and yelled, “Knock! You gotta knock!” Juice nodded. She rapped the door a few times with her knuckles. Suddenly, it opened. “Yes?” Penelope said, standing there with a towel over her shoulder. She had a pink blouse on and rolled up pants. A TV set was blaring.

“Hi, Mrs. Slic. I think I left something here.” “A phone? Did you leave your phone?” Penelope did not bother telling the authorities about this, knowing someone might come back to retrieve it. “Yes,” Juice said. “What a relief!” “I know. Certainly no one wants to lose their phone—with all their phone numbers on it.” “You’re not kidding.” “Come on in.” Juice followed her into the kitchen and watched her get up on her tiptoes to reach in a high cabinet over the refrigerator. “Here it is,” she said. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Slic. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Penelope thought about asking about her duplicate husband, and paused for a second, wondering if she should offer a cup of coffee. She did have certain questions, eyeing Juice, far too attractive for comfort. “Is he with you?” Penelope said. Juice backpedaled. If Slic was caught visiting his home, it would be a violation —technically, “Meddling,” and land him in jail. She had to tell a little white lie. “No, he’s not here.” Of course, he wasn’t exactly here; he was down the street. “I’ve got to go.” Juice walked down the sidewalk, as she and Slic had discussed, past his car, and then went around the corner.

Slic backed the car up, and went down Coolidge Avenue to pick Juice up. He had noticed Penelope looking out the storm door for a second, watching Juice walk away. Then she slowly closed the door. “You got it?” Slic said, as Juice sat down in the car. “Got it.” Juice frantically punched in numbers. Nothing. “Let’s head out in the desert,” Slic said. In a half an hour, they were at the Bonneville Salt Flats again, right near where they had touched down. “Dial it now,” Slic said. “Then wait. There’s liable to be a delay.”

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Chapter 10 THE HERE AND NOW

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“We need an encounter,” Inouye said. “Encounter?” O’Heck replied. “Meet with them—attack—a surprise.” “Yes, that sounds good. But how?”

“You got pregnant women?” “I don’t know. We’ve never asked.” “Let’s check it out.” O’Heck approached Johnson. He was giving a dribbling drill to three women. “Johnson,” O’Heck said. “We need to assemble the women.” “For what?” “To find out who’s pregnant,” Inouye said. “Nothing is going to disturb those physicians more than finding out there are pregnant women on board.” “Now I get you,” O’Heck said. “But don’t they already know that?” Johnson said. “They might, but a premature delivery would sure be a problem.” “Hmmm,” Johnson said. “Hmmm,” O’Heck echoed. “Alright girls—I mean, women—is anybody pregnant? Hold up your hands.” Two women and one man raised their hands. O’Heck whispered to Johnson. “What’s he doing here?” “I don’t know, but he sure can handle the ball.” Inouye and O’Heck went up to the man for a closer inspection. Crew cut hair, wire rimmed glasses, baggy jeans, funny looking cowboy shirt—but wasn’t his shirt pushed out a little in front? “What do you know?” O’Heck said. “I thought you were a man.” The tomboyish woman said, “I am a woman, and I’m pregnant. Pregnant with Mao Tse-tung’s child.”

“The Chinese dictator?” Inouye said. “None other. My partner and I, Elissa, are having a baby. Mao had a really good sperm bank—all his own. We’re very exited.” “And well you should be,” O’Heck said. “What’s your name?” “Destiny.” “How apt.” He called the other pregnant women over. “Here’s the plan. One of you—maybe even two—has got to go into labor.” “I’m not going into labor,” Destiny said. “I will,” one of the other women said. “I’m sick of this!” “Well, you’re not actually going to deliver, I think, just pretend you have to.” “Oh,” she said, a bit disappointed. “Dr. Akbar!” O’Heck exclaimed. “One of the women is giving birth.” Dr. Huyton turned. “Akbar, didn’t I tell you to get them out of here?” “Oh, right boss. Sorry.” O’Heck and Inouye looked at each other in alarm.

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Chapter 11 PRESENT COMPANY EXCEPTED

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Akbar opened the door to the basketball court. Destiny was lying a few feet away, grimacing in pain. O’Heck held her hand and felt her forehead. Looking up at Akbar, he said, “She’s going into labor.” “Get away from her,” Akbar said, pushing O’Heck aside. “Ow—ow—ow—ow!” Destiny wailed. Akbar bent down and slapped her roughly across the face. Destiny stopped her muttering and held her hand to her cheek, shocked. As Akbar stood up, with a slight grin on his face, a mighty sliver of fiberglass gleamed for a second, and then slammed into his chest. Staggering back against the wall, Akbar’s eyes gaped wide open. The spear quivered and gave off the sound of its vibration. Blood gushed from his chest and smeared on the wall as he slowly fell. O’Heck looked behind him to see where the spear came from. Standing next to Odi was a white man, showing good form in his follow through. Odi looked over with surprise. “Good shot, Mustafa,” he said. “Thank you, your honor,” Mustafa replied. He rubbed his hands together, then ran his fingers through his carefully coiffed, blond dreadlocks. “Let’s go,” O’Heck said. “There’s no time to waste.” Johnson, carrying a forty-five, rushed in the door Akbar had just exited. O’Heck drew a derringer from his pocket and followed. Bursting into the control room, they saw Huyton franticly keying in information at the dashboard console.

Johnson pulled him out of his chair, and then O’Heck grabbed hold of his collar, and pushed him to the floor. Johnson pointed his gun to Huyton’s head. He made no resistance. “Don’t say a word,” Johnson said. “How many of you are there?” O’Heck demanded. Huyton didn’t respond. There was a tense silence, as they listened to the gadgets in the control room whir. “Okay, you can talk now,” Johnson said. “How many are you?” “Just two,” Huyton said. “Maybe only one, if you don’t let me help Akbar.” Johnson and O’Heck stared at each other. This wasn’t exactly the way they had planned it. No one was supposed to get killed. “Okay,” Johnson said, grabbing Huyton’s arm, pulling him up. “See what you can do.” O’Heck went through Huyton’s pockets. They found nothing but a scalpel and tubes of ointment. “Let’s search the ship,” O’Heck said, pulling Huyton down the stairs to the basketball court. Mustafa stood over Akbar’s body and had one hand on the spear. “Don’t remove that,” Huyton said. “Sorry,” Mustafa said, and with a swift, wrenching effort, pulled the spear from Akbar’s chest. “That is Senator Werri’s spear. I am only a diplomat.” Eyes squeezed shut by the grimace on his face Akbar exhaled an awful groan. “He’s likely done for now,” Huyton said. “Not very diplomatic of you, I’d say.” “We all have our own standards,” Mustafa said.

“We need to bring him to the operating room,” Huyton declared. “Men,” O’Heck said. “Please check the ship—see if there’s anybody else. Senator Inouye, please stay here with a few of the men. Someone guard the women.” The guy with the nail clipper said, “I’ll stay here and guard the women.” “Good,” Johnson said. “Let’s go, doctor. Where to?” “Up the stairs.” “You’ll need a stretcher,” O’Heck said. Final Note: I would like to just mention one thing, and then I promise, I will never, ever return to the subject again. This obsession of the Jews with the foreskin: how did we get into that? You might wonder when it happened—was it up on Mount Sinai? I’m guessing it was Moses and the rest of the whining, semi-warrior guys, standing around on the mountain, considering the clay tablets, and maybe somebody said to Moses, how do we distinguish ourselves as one of our people? Not just anybody should get to live in the land of milk and honey—the promised land—how do we know who belongs? Then Akitophel speaks up, “We could chop off our foreskins!” Just think about the debate that followed. Probably, at first, someone said, “Stone that guy.” Then maybe after they stoned him, somebody might have said, “Perhaps that was too harsh. I mean if you are into a secret society sort of thing, it has a certain panache.” “Panache? What’s that?” “Kind of like pancakes.” “Really?” “Yeah,” somebody else said, “I’m sure I like the secret part of it.” “Yes,” somebody else said, “what could be more secret?” So, that’s about it—I won’t ever, ever mention anything about this ever again. I promise. I will now continue with the history of the Siriun captives. I apologize for the unwarranted interruption. There will be no more completely unrelated

information to distract you. I hope.

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Up in the control room, they looked around. “Pretty cheap,” Johnson noted. “No stretcher.” Dr. Huyton took the accusation in stride, as O’Heck and Johnson carried Akbar’s bloody body to the upstairs lab. There was artificial gravity, but not much, so the transport was not difficult. “Put him on the operating table,” Dr. Huyton said, pushing a button. A shiny metallic platform shot out from a wall. O’Heck and Johnson dropped Akbar, not too gently, on the table. Blood continued to pour from his body. O’Heck and Johnson were covered with it. Dr. Huyton hit another button and the wall opened up, showing a four-foot by six foot opening. Dr. Huyton then slid the platform carrying his dying comrade into the opening. It shut automatically. Dr. Huyton pressed a few more buttons. “What are you doing?” O’Heck said. “He’s done for,” Dr. Huyton said. “There’s nothing I can do for him here. We’re really not equipped for trauma.” He stepped towards a window. O’Heck and Johnson followed him. They saw something being shot out into space like a large torpedo. “The guy wasn’t dead,” Johnson said. “He’s going to a better place,” Dr. Huyton replied. “You killed him,” O’Heck said. “I didn’t kill him, you did. But on the other hand, perhaps, some part of him will live. He’s going back to Sirius, where he belongs, like the rest of us, except he’ll

be frozen.” For a few moments, the three watched the missile disappear in the black distance. “What do you mean?” O’Heck said. “Like the rest of us?” “I told you. I’m the only one left.” “Yeah, we’ll check on that,” Johnson said. Inouye stepped into the cabin. “What happened to the injured man?” he said. “This guy—hey, what’s your name?” Johnson said. “Dr. Huyton.” “This guy, Dr. Huyton, just sent him into outer space.” “Okay,” Inouye said. “What else can he do?” O’Heck and Johnson turned to Dr. Huyton. “That’s right,” O’Heck said. “It’s time you got us back.” “What if I don’t?” Dr. Huyton said. Johnson looked at Dr. Huyton’s swirling tail—a furry, striped reddish baton. “Maybe we start chopping off pieces of your tail. Like, an inch at a time.” “Okay, I’m with you now. Let me get you back where you were.” “Now you’re talking,” Inouye said. Back in the control room, Dr. Huyton was busy with the controls. Johnson studied the group’s knife collection. “It’s going to have some problems,” Dr. Huyton said. “Some anomalies.”

“Anomalies?” O’Heck said. “What’s that?” “The ship isn’t working properly. There are a few defects. There could be slight differences you may notice.” “We don’t want any slight differences,” Johnson said. “Just get us back in one piece, with no problems.” A static filled sound came through a microphone. “May Day. May Day,” were the words they heard. “Can you hear me? Come in.” It was Juice. “Talk to her,” O’Heck said. “Yes,” Dr. Huyton said. “She’s one of yours. Do you want her back?” “Of course we do,” Johnson said. “That’s good,” Dr. Huyton said. “Because we’ll have to use her as a fix.” “A fix?” O’Heck said. Dr. Huyton glanced at him for a second. “That’s right. A fix. We need tracking.” He bent over and spoke into a microphone. “Hello. You’re coming in loud and clear. Brace yourself. It will be a few minutes—well, actually, hours. Just stay put.”

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Chapter 12 LANDING STRIP

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Juice stared into the dark, starry sky. She saw nothing. It was getting cold. “I guess we should have brought coats,” Slic said. They sat on some rocks and waited. “Brringgg! Brrringgg!” Juice’s nondescript ring tone wailed. “Two minutes,” a tinny voice said. In the sky a tiny light appeared. It grew larger and larger. Finally, it was massive. As it drew near, Slic and Juice ran in the opposite direction. There was no escaping it, however, as a massive edifice as gigantic as a football stadium slammed down on top of them. Slic felt himself sliding through greenish turf, wondering if it was real. As his body ed through it, he knew it was artificial—it had to be. Then he was standing on the forty yard line, staggering. Juice, nearby, also tried to get her bearings. A weirdly uniformed bunch of football players rushed them and ed by in their pursuit of a ball carrier, who was tackled near the five-yard line. Slic and Juice were pushed aside, blocked, and knocked over. They heard whistles. The referees called time out, giving hand signals. The oddly uniformed players, plastic looking, digitalized, started to ooze life. Fearful faces broke through their vaguely defined visages. “Where are we?” O’Heck said, in a blue and green uniform, the number four on

his chest slipping away, becoming more and more unclear. Three men picked themselves up from the turf. They were all number 11, had only one arm and looked like Senator Inouye. The public address system bellowed. “I’m sorry about the anomalies. It could not be prevented. You’ve got some duplication. I don’t know what to say about that. I liked the guy with one arm. He seemed smart, so I tried to limit it to him.” The Inouyes looked at each other in alarm. One clenched his only fist and held it high. “If you were going to screw up, couldn’t you have given us another arm?” There was no answer. Silently, the players, men and women, headed for the exits. Many of them used the rest rooms on their way out. The concessions stands were empty, ghostly sights, with tipped over plastic cups falling off the counters, and napkins drifting by on the floor. Juice recognized O’Heck. She ran up to him. “Simon,” she called out. “Is that you?” “Juicie! Yes,” he said. “It’s me.” They hugged tightly, though they’d only known each other briefly in flight school. She felt extremely randy. The Busto was kicking in. Slic stood about fifty feet away. His heart sank. “How did you get here?” Juice said to O’Heck.

“We captured their leader. He sent us back—but this is weird—he disguised us— I’m not sure that’s the right word—but all of a sudden—he had us in the basketball court—and we were changed into some video game—a football game —I have no idea how he did it—or, if we imagined it.” Juice stared at her phone. She dialed a number. “Mom,” she said. “Are you there?” “Yes, honey,” she heard a voice answer. “I’m here.” As soon as the radar blip ed, the military was all over them. Trucks drove up. Helicoppers landed. Juice, Slic, and O’Heck were identified and segregated. Everyone else was taken away. The abductees were loaded onto trucks, piled into airplanes, to be escorted everywhere. Yes, there would be the debriefing, and their brains would be ed. The tiny pills—some wouldn’t want to take the tiny pills—the forgetters—but they’d be hungry. They had to eat, didn’t they? O’Heck stood outside the gleaming, green and gray stadium, and looked back. “What is it?” Juice said. “He’s up there.” “Who?” Slic said. “I just don’t get it,” O’Heck said. “It was like we were in a game. That was the feeling I got. The last home game—the Hungries against the Meddlers. I was a Meddler.” “A Meddler?” Slic said.

“Yeah, look. Meddler Stadium.” Slic and Juice looked at where O’Heck pointed, to a place near the roof of the gigantic domed stadium. A huge message board carried a bright green, glowing message traveling by. It said, “Meddler Stadium.” “You have to it,” Slic said. “It’s way out of control.” “Yeah, there is one last thing,” O’Heck said. “We got to go get him.” “Who?” Slic said. “Huyton—Dr. Huyton. The guy who captured everybody in the first place.” So, it was back inside the eerie, desolate stadium, wind from the air conditioning system blowing down the ramps to the field. “I’m guessing he’s in the press box,” O’Heck said, turning to Juice. “What do you think?” “Yeah,” she said. Slic offered his own opinion. “He must be near the fifty yard line somewhere.” They found a tunnel that led to field level and walked out behind the goal post. They looked up on both sides of the stadium. There were glassed in skyboxes on both sides at the mezzanine level. To the left side, however, behind the benches, was the word, “Meddlers.” “The left side,” O’Heck said. “It must be home field side—the home locker rooms.” “How do we get up in the press box?” Juice said. “From the inside,” Slic said. “Let’s go back in.” They now turned and headed off the field and into the stands. Turning right, they found a ramp, and commenced a long winding walk up and around the stadium, trudging along the incredibly hard, plasticized, concrete surface. “What is this?” Slic said. “A mirage? I just can’t believe the detail.”

“Whatever,” O’Heck said. In a few minutes, after going up one and one half levels, they saw a narrow ramp leading to an office just under the upper deck, facing out onto the field. Walking out over the ramp, O’Heck tried the door. “Locked,” he said. Juice banged on the door with her fist. “Come on out,” she said. “It’s no use.” “Yeah,” Slic chimed in. “It’s no use locking yourself in there. You got to come out sometime.” They looked at each other for a few moments, wondering what to do. “Some of those people had weapons,” O’Heck said. “They’re all gone now,” Slic said. This time O’Heck banged his fist on the door and said, “Don’t make us get tough with you.” “We don’t even know for sure he’s in there,” Juice said. The door opened a crack. It was Dr. Huyton. “Can I help you?” he said. “You can help yourself,” O’Heck said. “Just come with us peacefully, and you won’t get hurt.” “Why don’t you step inside?” Huyton said. With that, like a gracious host, he ushered them into the luxurious offices of the life sized, digital-holographic Meddler Stadium. That’s how he described it, showing off the apparatus. “A wild new world,” Huyton said. “Just cut the crap,” O’Heck said. Huyton sat down in a large leather chair behind a massive black walnut desk. He pushed a button on a console before him. Suddenly the room was filled with the

ghostly images of smiling executives. “Hi, how are you?” one of them said. “Have you been to the buffet?” O’Heck brushed aside the guy’s hand. “Like I said, Huyton. Cut the crap.” Still the executives smiled. They surrounded Juice, marveling at her figure, looking at her up and down. “Hi, babe,” one said. “Whatcha’ doin’ for dinner?” Juice pushed him away. “You don’t like my friends?” Huyton said. “Who are these guys?” Slic asked. “Surely you’ve heard of my friends, the Hungries.” “Oh, my God, I thought so,” Juice gasped. “What?” Slic said. “They’re Hungries, or, from the looks of them, superimposed virtual Hungries. That’s right, isn’t it, Huyton?” Juice said. “Yes, of course, you’ve guessed it. But they’re almost as good as the real thing.” “Don’t bother us with this Hungries garbage,” O’Heck said. “Why don’t we talk?” “Okay, boys,” Huyton said. “Take five.” The shadowy figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, into nothingness, leaving only a lingering uneasiness, as was their signature. “I hope those kids don’t eat,” O’Heck said. “The fake Hungries? No, they don’t eat real food. You’re lucky about that.” “So, Huyton,” O’Heck said. “Just shut up for a second and answer a few

questions.” “Still the perplexing instructions,” Huyton said. “Yeah,” Slic said, and turned to Juice. “In fact, let’s skip the interrogation, and just take him with us. I got stuff to do.” “Right you are,” Juice said. “I got to go too.” “Coming, Huyton?” O’Heck said. Huyton reached out a finger for the control . Before O’Heck could stop him, Huyton pressed a button, and Juice and O’Heck were frozen in time. Now, everything took on a shadowy half-worldly, half-nothingness dreamscape. The lights dimmed. Images wavered. O’Heck and Juice appeared to stare blankly into space. “What are you doing?” Slic said. “I know a man of little competence when I see one,” Huyton said. “Excuse me?” “I’m stuck here. I can’t get back, but I don’t want to get back. Everything there is gone for me now anyway. It would take too long. I can’t return. I’ve done my job.” “Excuse me?” “Just so you understand—we haven’t really hurt anyone—just took a few organs —a little flesh—some reproductive tissue—reproductive things.” “Things?” “They are in good hands. We seem to need them more than you do—value them more—an ugly commentary on your sad, sad culture. I know who you are, Slic. I can read your mind.” “Like hell you can.”

“Funny how much you know, Mr. Slic.” “That’s Triple O Seven to you, buddy.” “As you wish, Triple O. So, like I was saying, we took a few things, did some surgery—it was all helpful, I assure you—” “You could have asked.” “Yeah, right, Triple O.” “Why do you need that stuff?” “Inbreeding, my friend. Too many doctors spoil the broth. Tails—you’ve seen our tails?” “We’ve noticed.” “That was the most benign mutation. You met Akbar?” “Who?” “The guy who got speared.” “Oh, yeah.” “The Akbars of our world. They are the problem. We need to dumb ourselves down.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “We’re from the future—your future. You’ll send us to distant stars some day— Alpha Centauri—Sirius—and it will only be the best and the brightest—the physicians. We are all physicians, haven’t you heard?” “So what?” “So, we just need to go back in time now and then, to get some spare parts, so to speak. Is there anything wrong in that?” “I guess you’ll soon find out.”

“Will I?” Slic hesitated for a moment. Huyton was about six foot six, at least half a yard taller than he was, and perhaps fifty pounds heavier. In a tussle, Slic doubted he could take him down. He’d have to use his head. “Of course, you’ll be entitled to an attorney.” “Of course, I know that. You’ll be able to find me a good one.” “How so?” “Don’t be so coy, Triple O. I know you’re a lawyer. I’ve got your pen.” Dr. Huyton held up Slic’s green ballpoint pen with white lettering, advertising his three phone numbers, three offices, one now defunct, in the Capital District, and his 800 number. “Where’d you get that?” Slic was stumped. “From our little consultation.” Slic now wondered if he’d drawn a will for Dr. Huyton. Did he have an estate? “Sorry,” Slic said. “That seems to have slipped my mind.” “Quite likely, since you were unconscious.” Slic was not sure if this was some kind of insult. “Our little Superbowl party—how’d that go for you?” Huyton said. Slic tried to . It was all a blank. “No matter, Triple O. I’ll go peacefully. I’ll even reanimate your buddies. Relax.” Final Final Author’s Note

Modern science has discovered many wonderful schemes for identification. There are techniques, such as, for example, scanning an Iris. You might say, how do you find all these women named Iris to scan and how do you go about it? Yes, I know, it is mind boggling, this new technology. Certainly, DNA has been talked about, but is it good enough, fast enough, more certain, at, say, a border crossing in Jerusalem? Fingerprints? Well, yes, that’s good, but you have to send them in to the FBI. No one, in the history of the world, has come up with a better identification procedure than us Jews—the circumcision proof. You want to come in? Drop your pants. And you know, if a guy would want to fake it—pretend he’s a Jew by having the procedure—well, we’ve decided, if you want to go that far fine—go ahead—you’re in. All of this is insufficient to describe the age-old problem that has troubled us Jews from time immemorial—women’s complaints about fairness. This began early on, as soon as Akitophel was stoned for coming up with the chop off the foreskin idea, and then the guys having second thoughts. So, after it became a given—and it became all the rage—women complained. At first Moses didn’t understand. He was really old. He’d forgotten that women didn’t have foreskins. They had to remind him. Moses was so old they had taken to strapping him on top of the camel. I’d just like to say, yes, he never made it to the promised land. We never even mentioned his funeral, or if anybody showed up. We are worried that the truth is that we just left him on the side of the road—and, you know, we didn’t want to put that in the book—but anyway, this was before that. The guys told Moses that the women were complaining—how come the guys get their foreskins chopped off? What do we get to show that we’re Jews? So, Moses went up on the mountain. He waited a little while and sure enough God spoke to him. Hey, God, Moses said, we’re having problems with the women. What’s that, Moses? God said. And Moses said, I said we’re having problems with the women. God said, I thought that’s what you said. What did you say? Moses said. I said I thought that’s what you said. Moses said—it’s really windy up here—

could you speak in my left ear—I’m a little hard of hearing in the right. Sure, Moses, God said, let me just tell you about women. Yes, Moses said, thank you, tell me about them—everybody would like to hear this, I’m sure. Okay, Moses, here it is, but first, I’ve got to tell you about barbers. Barbers? Moses said. Yes, God said, those guys who take Monday’s off. Okay, now I know. Yes, Moses, now, don’t interrupt. Like I was saying—back when men and women were living in caves—all the way back then—before 2000 square foot homes, driveways and SUV’s. What’s an SUV? Moses says. Oh, yeah, I forgot, God said. Anyway— back in the caves, it was decided that men needed to shave. The guys complained about being grabbed by the beard in battle. Of course, that was painful—just as painful as a guy having the hair on his head pulled. So, there developed the barbering industry. At first, they used fire—where guys’ hair and beards were burned off—and this was very satisfactory. The guys who had the hair on their heads and their beards burned off had a definite advantage in battle. For example, if you got a good grip on a guy’s beard, you could slam his head down on a rock really good. Jeepers, Moses said, I didn’t know you were watching all this that closely. God sees everything, God said, speaking in the third person, as God occasionally does. Now Moses, can I continue, without you interrupting? Oh, yeah, sorry God, sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay, so, God said, barbers were invented, but of course, the women complained. How come we don’t get to spend money having our hair done? And you know women have their ways of convincing men to do things. So, men were forced to give women money to have their hair done, even though they didn’t have to go into battle, because they were too busy dying in childbirth to do that. Moses, you writing this down? Yes, God, I’m chipping away at this rock. Good, where was I? Women dying in childbirth. Yes, so this made men very unhappy, like when their favorite woman had an untimely death giving birth, this made the men very angry, and there eventually were too many men, so they had wars, mostly about stealing women, and this helped to kill off a lot of men, which made the odds a lot better. This was before prisons, where they keep black men now. Excuse me God, Moses said, prisons? Oh, never mind, God said, I got a little ahead of myself. Let me tell you what the young men did then—to entice the young ladies. They’d give the girls little bags of rose petals, that the females could rub all over their bodies—to make them smell nice. This helped when it got really dark in the cave. There weren’t too many hot tubs then—and they didn’t take showers. So, God, excusing for the moment that you’re not making any sense, what do I tell the women? Oh, yeah, right Moses. Since I like you a lot—I’m going to give you a big tip. Tell the women that they can have the hair under their arms and on their legs shaved off. You’re kidding? Moses said. God never

kids, God said. You ever read any jokes in the bible? Well, no God, but what’s the bible? Never mind. Just tell the women you’ll give them money to shave their legs and under their arms so they can rub rose petals on themselves better. Once one woman does it—they’ll all want to do it. I’m sure it will be very expensive. They’ll like that. Thank you, God, you’ve been a big help, Moses said. God waved and said, you’re welcome, and disappeared.

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Chapter 13 HOW IT IS

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The coin, Jessings’ lucky coin, which kept Judge Bo from being reversed 55% of the time, was in mid-flight when Bo opened the door. “Jessings, what are you doing?” Bo said. “Oh, nothing, boss. Just... just trying to figure out what to get for lunch. “Fine. Call Bucky back. We got a call. Something about a case.” “Right, boss.” Jessings stuck his head in Judge Bo’s office. “A Meddler—in five minutes—downstairs,” Jessings said, handing over the transcript from the teleprompter. “Room 108.” O’Heck led his prisoner into the Supreme Court, Special Term, Part IV conference room.

“Name?” Bo said. “Huyton. Dr. Huyton,” the prisoner said. “Address?” “Sirius.” “Sirius? You aren’t... “ Bo watched Huyton’s tail flip back and forth. “Oh, okay,” Bo said. “And you’re O’Heck?” “Yes, Judge.” “Competency hearing?” “Of course,” O’Heck said. “You’ll be notified. Remanded to...remanded to...the Flamingo Ritz.” “But Judge, that’s for heads of State.” “Yes, I understand. We’ve got new regulations.” O’Heck wasn’t sure about that. He turned to Juice and whispered, “The Flamingo Ritz?” “It’s classified.” “Recess!” Bo said, and got up from the chair. His tail started to stick out in the back. It wanted to wag. He backed out of the room, into the hallway behind the conference room reserved for the Judges. “Okay,” O’Heck said, turning to Juice, as the Sheriff’s deputies took Dr. Huyton into custody, “want to get an early dinner?” “Sure,” she said. As they walked out together, Juice thought to herself, yeah, and maybe

something else. Oh, man, that Busto is really starting to kick in!

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Chapter 14 FINAL DETAILS

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Slic pulled up in a Black & White cab in front of his house on Mellon Avenue in Sycaway. It looked much the same. The cabbie took the government issued greenbacks without a squawk. Stepping onto the small flagstone front porch, Slic looked around and took a deep breath. It was a brisk September day. He pulled open the storm door, and made a mental note to put in the glassed in insert for the winter. Turning the doorknob on the front door, he found that it was open. Inside the house, he lingered on the small section of wood floor at the bottom of the stairs. He could hear music coming from upstairs, and a TV set blaring from the family room. “Hi, kids. I’m home!” he yelled. There was no reply. Going through the kitchen, he saw Marnie watching television on the couch. She

was painting her toenails. Her left foot was on a coffee table. Wads of cotton were stuck between her toes. “Hey Smush!” Slic said. Marnie looked up. “Dad!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?” She stood up gingerly, holding her toes aloft, and the tiny fingernail polish bottle in one hand, the brush in the other. He thought about giving her a hug, but eyed the fingernail polish brush warily. Her mind just went too fast for her feet sometimes. He squeezed her shoulders. “Hi, honeybunch. How’s it going?” “Where’ve you been, dad? Everybody’s been worried. Why didn’t you call?” “Hey, hold on. One question at a time.” “Okay, where?” “Well, I’ve been—I’ve been—listen, this is confidential, okay?” His fifteen-year old son, Del, now poked his head in from the kitchen. He was about two years younger than Marnie. “Hey, dad, where’ve you been?” “Okay,” Slic said. “Now, this is confidential, okay?” “Yeah, sure, dad,” Marnie said. Slic looked at Del, who rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever.” “Alright, I’ll tell you. I’ve been in outer space.” “What?” Marnie said. “What did you say?” “I’m serious. They sent me up in outer space. I was trapped—sent to the far side of the moon. It’s this job I got.”

“Oh, come on. Dad, please,” Marnie said. “Why didn’t you call?” “They sent me back in time.” “Oh, dad, please.” “I swear. I’ve been like a time traveler—a Meddler. I was right here—like two weeks ago—fifteen years ago.” “Dad, come on,” Del said. “You’re not making sense.” Slic looked around. “Where’s Penny? Where’s your mom?” Marnie and Del exchanged glances. “One—one question at a time,” Marnie said. “It’s the same question.” He went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Penny! Penny, are you home?” Slic ran upstairs and looked around. No one. Back downstairs, he went into the kitchen again, and said to Marnie and Del, “Where is she?” Slic noticed a note on top of the roll away dishwashing machine. Marnie reached for it, but he snatched it away before she could grab it. Now, he was in a wrestling match with her. Marnie, as usual, was incredibly strong. Before she got it out of his hand, he read the note. It said: “Went to Towbert’s with Marty. Love, Mom.” Slic watched Marnie crumple the note in her hand as she bit her lip. Del leaned against the wall. “Who is Marty?” “A friend,” Marnie said. “A friend? I’m gone a few days, and she has a friend?”

“Dad, you’ve been gone three weeks,” Marnie pointed out. “Really?” Slic thought for a second. He wasn’t sure. “You could have called,” Del said. “I told you. I was sent back in time. The phones didn’t work.” “Dad, please,” Marnie said. “Please, dad. Cut it out.” Slic stared at the crumpled up note in Marnie’s hand. He knew. He had to get to Towbert’s—to Penny—before it was too late. He felt for his car keys. They were still in his pocket. He headed out the front door. “Where are you going?” Marnie said. “Wait up.” Slic hesitated for a moment. No. This might not be good. He better go by himself. “Never mind, sweetie,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Slic went to the old Pontiac in the driveway and unlocked the door. Marnie stood at the doorway for a second and went back in the house. Slic figured he better get going. Marnie would probably call ahead. Towbert’s was less than five minutes away. He high tailed it out of the driveway, and, with the tires screeching, sped off to the restaurant. My God, he thought to himself, I’m gone a couple of days and she’s out with some guy at my favorite restaurant. It’s not like she could have had me declared dead. Could she have? It took him no more than a few minutes to get to Towbert’s, a little Italian restaurant in Center Brunswick. Every time he went there, Penny would tell him how the owner had left his wife to run away with the 17 year-old girl who

worked in Miami’s Pizza Parlor. Now the two of them ran the restaurant. Entering the front door, a hostess grabbed a menu. He glanced at her for a second. “Would you like a table?” she said. No time for that now, he said to himself, and walked to the rear of the restaurant, around a corner, and into the dining room. There was Penny, sitting at a small table. Across from her was a slightly overweight guy, with thinning blond hair. They both had glasses of wine in front of them. Slic figured they were waiting for their dinners. Slic went up to the table. “Can I take your order?” he said, forcing a smile. The guy was confused. Who was this guy with his coat on, asking this? “We already ordered,” the guy said. “So I figured,” Slic said. He grabbed a chair from another table. “Mind if I you?” The thin haired, slightly overweight guy was getting a little edgy at this point. “Well, yeah,” he said. “We do mind.” Slic turned to Penny. “We?” he said, in a questioning tone. “What are you doing here?” she said. “You know him?” the guy said. “Yeah, Marty,” Slic said. “She does.” “John,” Penny said. “Where have you been?” “Yes, sorry Penny. I know, I should have called, but —I’ve got a good explanation.”

“Yes, it better be good.” “I know—except—it’s kind of confidential.” Slic turned to the guy Penny was with. “Do you mind?” “Yeah, I mind.” “Just spit it out, John,” Penny said. “And it better be good, confidential or not.” “Okay, well—they sent me into outer space, and then—then I was sent back in time.” “John,” Penny said. “Oh my God. Stop this.” “I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve been working for the Feds—undercover— fighting the Siriuns—you know—from Sirius.” “From Sirius?” Penny said. “You can’t be—can’t be—” “Sirius! I’m telling the truth!” “Listen, Penny,” Marty said. “You want me to call the manager over—or the cops or something?” Slic was a bit pleased the guy didn’t feel like he wanted to handle it himself. “No,” Penny said. “Never mind. It’s my husband.” “Oh,” Marty said. Slic extended a hand to shake, always the diplomat. “John Slic. Have to compliment you on your good taste.” They shook hands tentatively. Just then, the waitress arrived with their order. She put the plates on the table. “Need another place setting?” she said. “Come on, Penny. Let’s get out of here,” Slic said. He wasn’t sure this would work, since he knew Penny probably wanted her dinner.

The owner’s wife appeared. “Penny Slic?” she said. “You’ve got a phone call.” Penny got up and went into the other room. There was an angst filled few moments of silence. “So,” Slic said. “Where are you from?” “How is it you know my name?” “I’ve been working with the Feds. We know a lot of things.” “Really?” “Yup.” At least a minute of silence ed. Slic thought to himself that maybe he should ask the guy to leave, or maybe punch him in the nose. He then thought about how this might look in the papers, and if it could lead to disbarment proceedings. Not only that, Penny’s date might not like being punched in the nose. After all, it was probably just a misunderstanding—not the guy’s fault—or was it? Slic forced a grin. So did Marty. They were both relieved when Penny returned. “Sorry,” she said to Marty. “Just my daughter.” “You don’t speak to me?” Slic said. “Don’t start,” she said. “Listen, Penelope. I’ll take you someplace else—for dinner. I swear.” “How could you?” she said, putting her crumpled napkin on the table. “This is it. This is the last straw. I’m sorry, Martin. I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” “I don’t know about that,” Slic said. “She’ll talk to whoever she wants to,” Marty said, gamely. “Yeah,” Slic said. “I guess she will.”

Nonetheless, Penny reluctantly got up from the table, put on her light jacket (Martin helped her with that), and briskly left the restaurant. She looked around for a second on the sidewalk outside. Slic motioned to the left. “It’s right here,” he said, pointing to the car. “I swear,” Penny said. “I’ll kill you, if I hear one more word about this outer space thing.” “I swear to God, Penny. It’s true.” “You idiot. You man!” she shrieked. They got in the car, and Slic circled out of the parking lot. Penny pounded him with her fists, as he tried to maneuver the car down Hoosick Road. “Hey,” he said. “How do you think I feel, finding you out with some guy.” “How you feel?” she said. “Feelings? You’ve got feelings?” It was like that all the way to Daisy Booker’s, the closest nice restaurant Slic could think of. He knew how angry Penny got if she didn’t have her dinner. Certainly, it was hard to explain—being out there—trying to earn a paycheck— fighting aliens from another solar system—living in a horse barn. Better to just keep quiet. The end of book two Book Three

GIRLS ON DIFFERENT PLANETS

CHAPTER 1 The Charges

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Derek Smithy was on a tanker destined for the Sirius System. They were to deliver a shipment of plutonium. His shipmate, Vertical Loooms, informed him that there would be trouble. “They’re going to arrest you,” Loooms said. “Arrest me? For what?” “Sexual harassment.” “Sexual harassment?” “That’s what I said,” Loooms replied. “But we’re all men here. What’s going on?” “Well,” Loooms said, “it’s not about here, I guess. It’s about that party at the last station.” “You mean the Christmas party?” “Yeah. You know that girl you were with?” “What girl?” “Well, I saw you. You know, she had black hair...”

“Chenille?” “I don’t know, but apparently you asked her out.” “Sure I asked her out. She said no. So what?” “Seems she was the wife of the station’s Supreme Court Judge.” “You’re kidding.” “Not kidding pal.” “Wow. What’s the penalty for that, sexual harassment?” “The death penalty.” “The death penalty?” “You keep repeating everything I say.” “Hey,” Smithy said, looking about warily, “I’ve got to get out of here. Where are we?” “About 100,000,000 miles from Sirius.” “When will they be here?” “About two weeks.” “Is there anyplace I can go?” “No,” Loooms said. “There’s no place. The only place around here is the Land of the Amazons, and you don’t want to go there.” “Why don’t I?” “You just don’t, that’s all.” “Why not?” “Because all the men are put in jail.”

“In jail? Wow!” Smithy paced the deck for a few minutes. Death or jail—it wasn’t a good selection. “Yeah, but they’d have to find me first. I’m going.” “You’re going?” “Do you have to repeat everything I say?”

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CHAPTER 2 The Escape

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Loooms and Smithy were out on the launch pad. Smithy got in the shuttlecraft and spun down the window. “Tell them I went out for a lottery ticket and never came back.” “What? Wait a minute.” It was too late to invent a better story. Smithy took off. For the next few days Smithy thumbed through reference books about the Land of the Amazons, actually the planet Antigone, one of the several habitable planets circling Sirius, the Dog Star. Much of the planet consisted of untracked jungle and rain forest. Smithy thought

this was as good a place as any. He headed for a plain far away from any civilization.

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CHAPTER 3 The Assignment

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Judge Bo was in his chambers when Hugh Hugh, the Chief of the Courts, was ushered in. After a few friendly greetings Hugh broke the news. “You’ve been assigned to represent Derek Smithy,” Hugh said. “Assigned? Assigned to represent?” “Yes.” “But I’m a judge. I can’t represent anyone.” “Under the new rules each judge must accept one assignment a year.” “Who made up these rules?” “The Chief Judge.” “Doesn’t anyone have a say in these rules?” “Well, we’ve had a lot of input. You know, the judges complain that they need trial experience. That when their are up, if they’re not extended or reelected, they’re out on the street, and, well, we all thought it would be a good

idea. To reacquaint the judges with the other side, so to speak, to keep them fresh. We just love the idea.” “I see. Well, who is this Derek Smithy?” “He’s been indicted for sexual harassment.” “How did that happen?” “Well, it’s funny, really. He’s been charged with sexually harassing your wife.” “My what?” “Your wife, Chenille.” “Chenille? My God. I can’t do that. There must be a conflict of interest.” “Oh, we’ve looked at that quite closely, but under the new rules, conflict of interest regulations have been suspended.” “Is it ethical? How can I represent this man?” “The ethical rules have been suspended as well.” “They have?” “Yes. We expected a lot of conflict of interest and ethical objections, and you know, the new rules just wouldn’t work if those regulations were in place.” Judge Bo thought for a moment. “Who is the judge? I’m the judge in this district.” “There will be an assigned judge.” “Who will it be?” “Judge Flack.” “Flack?”

“Yes. He’s very excited about this. He’s never been to the Sirius system. He thought he and his wife would get a little rest and relaxation.” “But Judge Flack – the lawyers all hate him. I hate him. Please don’t repeat this.”

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CHAPTER 4 The Land of The Amazons

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Derek found a clearing on a rock outcropping, high on the side of a densely forested hill. He saw nothing but dark green rolling hills. Birds flew around, insects buzzed, worms crawled. It seemed just like Earth. He slept on the rock for days on end, trying to ignore the sharp, crystalline, piercing white, light that appeared in the distance just after dark. He knew he was near civilization. He just didn’t know what to do about it. Should he run and hide? Should he get further away from the ship, which possibly had been tracked, and may have already caused a force of searchers to discover him and his craft? He thought about walking away from the ship but had doubts about the native food. What skill did he have killing, cooking and eating local flora and fauna? So, he stayed close to the ship, so that he could return to it for food and supplies, though, he knew, it would not last forever. He tried to travel over rocks to leave as little a trail as possible. He found a yellow, apple-like fruit that he could eat, along with some tasteless roots. He considered cooking and eating some large beetles that he found, but couldn’t do it.

Weeks ed without incident. He talked to the birds, the small furry chipmunk sized beasts that ran around, and at night watched the piercing light. Soon he began calculating how far away the light was and how long it would take him to reach it. He ventured toward it, as far as he could, after going a reasonable day’s travel from the ship. He finally estimated it would take at least two days to reach it and for a round trip, he would need about 4 days worth of food. He set out, carefully memorizing his trail so that he could return. Halfway there he panicked and doubled back, unsure if he knew the way. Again he set out, more confident this time, and found a high spot among rocks and trees where he could look out. He could see there was more than one light. It appeared to be three windows from a dwelling place shining brightly at night. He wondered how a native could live so far out in the wilderness without security, and considered hidden traps and warnings. Halfway there he paused to search for another day’s food. Soon he had gathered enough apples and roots to last another two days. He stayed high along hill ridges when he could, so he could keep an eye on things, but saw nothing. He got within a quarter mile and decided to camp for the night. He cursed his forgetting binoculars. He set himself up on a high point but he couldn’t see anything. The next day he drew closer and stared at the house from the woods. It was just like other houses on Earth, but with a remarkable number of flowerbeds and gardens. Still, no sign of life. That night he climbed a tree waiting for darkness. After dark he carefully crossed the lawn and crept up to a window. He could see

a figure moving about. He hid in some bushes. After a few hours all the lights, except in one room, went out. He crawled to the right of the window, his back to the wall and peeked in through the window. To his amazement he saw what appeared to be a half-naked woman being attacked by a machine on a bed. He looked away and considered whether he should help her. He looked again, but this time it didn’t seem like the woman was being attacked. Was it possible? The woman seemed to be making love to a machine! He watched the house for two days. The second night he tripped on a garden hose and fell in a bush. When he got up, and looked back in the window, she was staring right at him, surprised. He ran for the woods. He heard what sounded like shotgun blasts. Something flew out trapping him in a heavy black nylon net. He struggled for a few minutes. Spotlights went on. He noticed the woman, halfhidden behind a corner of the house. Derek tried crawling out from the net but then something poked in his side. He turned to see the woman, surprisingly young, pointing a rifle at him. “Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t make me shoot you.” She didn’t seem nervous.

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CHAPTER 5 Thistle

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Thistle had lived on Antigone, the Amazonian planet, all her life. It was summer.

She was taking two months off from her graduate school program to harvest strawberries at her mother’s farm in Alexia, a rural area 150 miles from the state capitol, Antigone City, where her mother worked in the Corrections Department. “What are you doing here?” she said, still pointing the rifle. “Nothing,” Derek replied. “Just looking for food, I guess.” “At my house? How did you get here?” “Get here?” “Yes, and what kind of accent is that? Where are you from?” Derek noticed she had a very odd accent herself. As if she spoke French. “Well,” he said, “I’m not from around here.” He knew he had to think quickly. He didn’t know what to say. “I’m a refugee—a political prisoner. I’m not from this planet.” “A political prisoner?” “Well, almost a political prisoner.” “What do you mean, almost?” “It’s complicated. You want to hear it?” “Maybe later,” she said. Thistle noticed that he was still moving about, looking over the net, trying to get away. She ran back to the house and went inside. In the front closet, on the top shelf, she found the dart gun. Grabbing a bag of darts, she ran out and found Derek near the net’s edge. Picking up the rifle, she fired a shot in the air. Smithy stopped struggling and he stared at her. He wasn’t sure if she would shoot him, but he decided it wasn’t worth taking a chance. Thistle put down the rifle and loaded the dart gun. It was used to shoot turkeys when they were caught under the net. Catching wild turkeys was the farm’s other

sideline. Thistle’s mother never could bring herself to slaughter the turkeys herself, so she just sedated them and penned them until the turkey people came. Thistle circled Derek. She was looking for a good spot to shoot him. She aimed at the back of his thigh and shot. He yelped from the pain and grabbed his right leg. He saw the dart sticking out. Quickly loading the gun, she circled around and shot him in the back. He yelped again, “Ow!” and squirmed around. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Hold on, this is not necessary.” He pulled the dart from his leg. He was feeling queasy. He whirled around and she shot him again in the leg. “You’re going to kill me,” he said. He pulled the dart out of his leg and lay face down on the ground. He then reconsidered, as she shot him again in the back. He tried to get the dart out of his back. “You’re going to kill me. Stop it,” he said. He was groggy now. He decided he better play dead before she killed him, so he tried to pretend he was ed out. It wasn’t too hard. His head was swimming. She stood over him for a few minutes. She was worried that she might have killed him. She ran back to the house, grabbed an old cordless phone in the kitchen and called the police. “I shot this guy with darts,” she said to the policewoman who answered the phone. “I’m at the strawberry farm. Please come out here.” “Where are you calling from?” The policewoman asked. “Four Northstar Drive. Please come quick.” Thistle put down the phone and went out to Derek. She pointed the gun at him, crouched down and studied him. He had dark hair, cut short. She estimated he was about 6 feet tall. He probably weighed about 180 pounds. She thought he was good looking. Very good looking. Her next thought was she wanted to keep him. Why had she called the police? Of course, she had to, but now, she started to think of ways to keep him. She was not betrothed as yet to a prisoner, since she had sued and won her case against the young man her mother had arranged for her to marry. No. House arrest.

That’s what she wanted. She would ask the police to handcuff him. But he could still run away. Then he must be put in leg irons. Yes, that’s what she wanted, leg irons. She heard the sirens. In a few moments three squad cars arrived. The policewomen jumped out of their car and ran over to Thistle. “Cuff him,” Thistle said. One of the policewomen pounced on Derek, grabbed his arms, put a knee in his back and cuffed his wrists behind his back. “Leg irons,” Thistle called out. Another policewoman ran to her car and got leg irons out of her trunk. “Get these darts out of me,” Derek said. “You’re going to kill me.” Thistle was surprised to see he was conscious. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s get the darts out.” They started pulling out the darts. Suddenly, Derek threw up. “He hurled,” one of the policewomen exclaimed, and kicked him in the side. “Hey,” Thistle said. “Yeah, hold on,” one of the other policewomen said, grabbing the officer who kicked him, pulling her away. “He puked on me,” she said, pointing to her sleeve. Thistle pulled the last dart out of his back. He was doubled over with dry heaves now. She put her hand to his forehead. Then, she held his shoulders.

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CHAPTER 6 Policegirls

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The three police officers, Chief Crystal (Magnum), Lt. Cheyanne Ng* and Lt. Ellen $Adam, surveyed the situation for a moment. “Which car do we put him in?” Lt. $Adam asked Chief (Magnum). “Yeah,” Lt. Ng* added, “Once he’s through puking his guts out.” She dabbed her sleeve with an embroidered pink handkerchief. “My car,” the Chief said. “Let’s go.” “Wait a minute,” Thistle said. “Leave him here. I want to hold him here.” “What, are you crazy?” Lt. Ng* said, not too sweetly. “I want to hold him here under house arrest, I mean, I made a citizen’s arrest.” “I don’t know about that Ms....Ms....What’s your name?” the Chief said. “(Tragg),” she replied. “With a parenthesis.” “A parenthesis?” the Chief said. “Really?” “Right,” Thistle said. “Why?” “No reason,” the Chief said. “Anyway, we made the arrest. He’s an escapee and we’re bringing him in.” “He’s not an escapee,” Thistle said, starting to plead. “He’s a refugee, a political prisoner. From another planet.” “Another planet!” Lt. Ng* exclaimed. “Geez!”

“Let’s go girls,” the Chief said, grabbing Derek’s arm. “She’s right you know,” Derek said, gasping for air. “I am from another planet.” Lt. Ng* grabbed his other arm helping the Chief bring him to her car. Lt. $Adam kept her right hand on her holster and stood between Thistle and the other two officers. “So, exactly what planet?” Chief (Magnum) said, making small talk. “Well...well, I’m...” Derek hesitated. In the back of his mind he thought about the charges that he had just so recently fled from. He decided to become circumspect. “I’m a refugee. Totally. A complete refugee,” he said. “That’s a weird accent you got there,” Lt. Ng* said. “You making that up?” “Read him his rights,” Chief (Magnum) ordered. “Just leave him here!” Thistle yelled, trying to get around Lt. $Adam, who held her back. “One more move and you’ll be charged,” Lt. $Adam said. Thistle paused now, and realized her hopes were probably ridiculous. However, it bothered her to watch the officers handcuff Derek to the metal shield between the front and back seats of the Chief’s car, and cuff his legs to the manacle bar on the floor of the back seat. “Be good,” Thistle said to Derek, as the officers shut the doors of the car. The Chief started the engine. Thistle leaned forward into the open front enger side window and said, “I’ll help you.” “Shut up, stupid,” Lt. Ng* said, pushing her away. The Chief drove off.

* * *

“Thissie!” Thistle’s mother exclaimed when she heard Thistle’s voice on the phone. “How are you?” “I don’t know, Mom,” Thistle said. “I met this guy...” “Well. Finally. You’re finally going to the meetings.” “No, Mom. Not the meetings. I didn’t go to the meetings. This guy, well...I actually caught him at the ranch.” “He escaped?” “No. I don’t think so. I think he’s got an Earth accent.” “An Earth accent?” “Yeah. He said he’s a refugee.” “Wow. That’s unbelievable. Is he there now? What’s his name?” “His name?” Thistle thought for a moment. She didn’t know his name. “I don’t know his name,” she said. “Well. Ask him.” “Yeah, well...” Thistle paused for a moment. “The police have him.” “The police?” Thistle’s mother said. “I see.” “So, I want to get him back.” “You do?” “What do you think?” There was a brief pause. “The police will hold him as an escapee.”

“I better go down there,” Thistle said.

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CHAPTER 7 The Interrogation

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“Can I see him?” Thistle asked the desk sergeant when she arrived at the police station. “Who’s that?” the desk sergeant asked. “O.K. Right,” Thistle said. “Let me see the Chief then.” After waiting about a half hour, Chief (Magnum) came out. “What can we do for you?” the Chief said. “I’d like to see him.” “Really?” the Chief responded, nonchalantly. “And I’d like to know his name.” The Chief hunched up her shoulders. “Okay, come on in.” Thistle was led to a back room with six desks. She paused for a moment. Lt. $Adam and Lt. Ng* were sitting down, typing up reports, talking on their telephones.

“Come on” the Chief said, walking her to a private office in the back. “Have a seat,” the Chief said, motioning to a chair. Thistle sat down and watched the Chief settle in behind the desk. The Chief leaned over, putting her crossed arms on the desk. “Here’s the situation,” she said. “We ran him for escapees. Came up empty. We had this National Security Warrant for a guy named Derek Smithy. He fit.” “Derek Smithy?” “Yeah. Checks out completely. They’re coming to get him.” “Oh,” Thistle said. She had her head down, running her fingers through her hair. After a moment she looked up. “What about tresing?” she said. “He’s not one of ours.” “You’re not going to arrest him?” “No, we’re holding him on the warrant.” “You’re just going to let him go?” “Sure.” Thistle thought for a moment. “What about a citizen’s arrest?” “Oh, really? What do you want to do that for?” “Well,” she said. “I like him.” “You like him?” “Yeah. I like him. Can’t I file a complaint or something?” “What for?” “Tresing.”

“Did you have signs?” “No. I didn’t have signs. Do you need signs?” “You need signs.” “Oh, boy,” Thistle said. “Suppose he looked in my window?” “Peeping?” “Yeah,” Thistle said. “Peeping!” “You caught him peeping?” “No. But he might have been.” “You want to interrogate him?” the Chief asked. “Absolutely,” Thistle said. “Alright,” Chief (Magnum) said, a little wearily. “I suppose you have that right. He’s in here.” Thistle was led down a hallway to a steel door. The door was open and inside she saw three cells, with bars painted white, their paint peeling. Inside one was Derek Smithy. “You can talk to him here,” the Chief said. “Just wait until I get Ng* in there in case there’s trouble.” “Ng*!” the Chief yelled, somehow pronouncing the name. In a moment Lt. Ng* appeared. “Yes, Chief,” she said. “Keep an eye on them,” the Chief ordered, and then left. Thistle stepped up to the bars. There were two large benches and a toilet. Smithy was sitting on one of the benches. He looked forlornly at Thistle and said, “Not you again.” “Listen,” Thistle said. “They’ve got you on a National Security Warrant.”

At this Smithy stood up. “A National Security Warrant?” “They’re coming to get you.” “Oh,” Derek said. He sat down again, dejectedly. “Why? What’s going to happen?” Thistle asked. “Nothing,” he said. “They’re just going to execute me.” “Execute you?” “Right.” “For what?” “Sexual harassment. I asked this Judge’s wife out on a date.” “Wow,” Thistle said. “That’s pretty severe.” “Oh, yes. They’re very severe.” “Suppose I could keep you here.” “What? To rot in jail?” “No. You can come out to the farm.” “The farm?” Smithy asked. He knew he was in a spot. He turned it over in his mind. “I need to ask you a few questions,” Thistle said. “O.K. What?” “Did you look in the windows?” “The windows?” “My windows.”

“Yeah. I guess I did, so what?” At this point, Thistle was curious. “What did you see?” “I saw you and some wooden machine.” “You mean the mechanical man machine?” “I don’t know.” Thistle had a weird feeling. Almost like she was turned on. “Did you see the mechanical man machine and me?” she asked, slowly and deliberately.

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CHAPTER 8 Loooms Again

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“Loooms!” Derek exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Loooms was rolling what looked like a locker into the cellblock. “Hey. Just don’t give me any problems,” Loooms said, and set down the locker on end. “Problems? I’m the one with problems. They’ve got me locked up here.” “Right. Like I said, don’t give me any problems. I’m here to get you.”

“Why you?” “You want someone else?” “Someone else?” Derek thought a minute.

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CHAPTER 9 Court Appearance

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Judge Hugh handed Bo the paperwork. Bo would have to leave immediately for the Traveling Community, a ship where Smithy was to be brought. He didn’t have time to speak to Chenille. After an almost two day trip Bo arrived at the Traveling Community. He was checked through Customs, a grueling procedure that many thought was reason enough to stay home. Bo figured he had about 24 hours to find Smithy and prepare for the first court appearance. He sat in the Customs’ office and looked at the papers. The anonymous incident report from the pre-Sirius station constituted the charges against Smithy. The Traveling Community, presided over by Judge Flack, was on a fixed earthbound course and was nearing the station where the charges originated. A preliminarily hearing would be held to determine if Smithy would be released and allowed to continue his journey to Sirius, return to Antigone, or be held for

trial. Judge Bo read through the charges. Most serious felony charges were anonymous. That was no defect. The charge was undoubtedly a capital offense, in this now Draconian culture, where yelling at a cat could draw a ten-year prison sentence. They were nearing the Pre-Sirius Station, where the trial would be held, since the witnesses had to be there, if any. He had to check the bridge to see how much time he had, and to take a look through the legal computers. When he got to the law library, he learned that the case would be heard in a few minutes. He rushed over to the Judicial Center. Bo now sat in the back of Judge Flack’s courtroom, waiting for his case to be called. The bailiff started bringing in the shackled prisoners. The Bigshot Police escorted the first prisoner. The miscreant was brought before Judge Flack. Since the Bigshot Police were there, Judge Flack knew it must be a serious offense. “What is he charged with?” Flack said. “Failing to take down his Christmas lights.” “And you’ve just arrested him?” “Yes.” “You mean he’s had them up this long?” It was February. “Yes, Judge. He’s received several warnings. “Well, he’ll get no more from me. Thirty days or three thousand dollars and the removal of the lights.” “Oh, my god,” the man said. “What did you say?” The Judge sneered angrily. “I’m sorry, Judge, thank you, but can I get a trial? An attorney?” “You want a trial? An attorney?”

“Yes, Judge, please.” “You’ve got five minutes. Next!” The man turned to the police officer. “Is there a phone here? A phone book?” “No phones,” he responded. “Universe versus Smith, number 20009,” the bailiff stood up and announced. Judge Bo quickly hurried to the front of the courtroom. Smithy was brought out of the back room before Judge Flack to be arraigned. “Do you waive a reading?” Judge Flack asked. “Yes, your honor, we waive a reading,” Judge Bo said. He had a copy of the charges. He didn’t need to have Judge Flack read them. “Bail?” Judge Flack asked next, glancing over at Loooms, who only shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just a constable,” Loooms said. “I was asked to bring him here.” “Where’s the prosecutor?” Flack asked. “No idea, Judge,” Loooms responded. “I will prosecute,” Thistle said, stepping forward. “You will?” Flack said. “Who are you?” “My name is Thistle (Tragg).” “Thistle Tragg?” Black repeated, annoyed. “Where did you come from?” “I came from Antigone...with the prisoner.” “So?” “He is my prisoner.”

“What do you mean, he’s your prisoner? This constable, Mr....Mr.... what is your name?” Judge Flack had turned to Vertical Loooms. “Loooms, Vertical Loooms, L-O-O-O-M-S, with three O’s.” “Three O’s?” Black squinted, and wrote something down on his pad. “Alright,” he said, “Mr. Loooms, I thought this man was your prisoner.” “Well,” Loooms said, “he is. Quite right. But he is also Miss...Ms....” “That’s Thistle. Thistle (Tragg). With a parenthesis.” “Oh” Loooms said.” “Right! Like I was saying Judge. He is actually also Thistle’s ...can you explain that?” Loooms was looking at Thistle. “Sure,” Thistle said. She turned to Judge Flack. “On Antigone, all men are subject to arrest. They are imprisoned.” “They are?” Judge Flack asked. “Yes, Judge,” she said. “Remind me not to go there,” Flack said, without the slightest trace of a smile. Judge Bo had about as much of this as he could take. “She can’t prosecute. She’s not on Antigone now.” “Good point,” Judge Flack said, “but I’ll reserve on her request until we can find out where the government’s prosecutor is.” “Next!” Bo headed back to his seat and watched Loooms escort Smithy out of the courtroom. The door slammed behind him. Bo turned and headed for the door. When he got there a bailiff and Thistle met him. “I need to see where my prisoner is,” Thistle said.

“O.K. Fine,” the bailiff said, and opened the door for her. “I’d like to see my client,” Bo said to the bailiff. The bailiff held his hand out. “You’ll have to wait until they’re all brought downstairs. You can check at the front desk.” “The front desk?” Bo asked. “Out in the hall.” The bailiff pointed to the doors leading to the entrance.

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Chapter 10 Thistle Sees The Judge

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Thistle hung around the courtroom for a while trying to determine what to do. Finally, she asked one of the clerks if she could see the Judge. The clerk said, “I’ll check.” A few minutes later a uniformed officer came up to Thistle. “Thistle Tragg?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “The Judge will see you now.” Judge Flack again noticed Thistle’s striking beauty as she entered his chambers.

She was about 5'9”, thin, and her hair was straw-colored, short and straight. “Sit down, Tragg,” the Judge said, watching her carefully as she did. “He is my prisoner, and I want to bring him back to my planet,” she said. “Smithy?” “Yes.” “Well, if he’s not executed I suppose you can, but you’ll have to wait until then.” “So, if he’s not executed, I can have him.” “Yes, assuming there is no other sentence, or if he’s acquitted.” “So, if he’s acquitted I can have him.” “Sure. Absolutely.” “I would like to guard him. Is there any problem with that?” “No problem. Go ahead. Guard him all you want.” “Thank you. What are the chances he’ll be acquitted?” “Not good. I’ve just been informed Yolanda Bigg is the D.A.” “So?” “Well, they say if you land Bigg, you land hard.” “What, she’s tough?” “The toughest.” “Oh, great.” Yolanda Bigg was not only tough, she came just as d. Big. Some said, huge. Six foot 2, she hovered around 220 pounds. She had a tendency to use everything, even her size, to her advantage.

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Chapter 11 Thistle Guards Smithy

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Thistle started to check in through the slammer, the new weapons detector they had on board, and she realized it would take too long. She decided to leave her large suitcase in her room and just go through to the cellblock with a small leather bag. As it was, it took a good 30 minutes for the security guard to examine her computers, TV and telephone, not to mention her cosmetic case. As she walked down the hall to Derek’s cell, she thought how weird this culture was—all these men walking about—all the empty cells. The only one occupied was Derek’s. His cell was the last one on the end. Video monitors turned to follow Thistle as she approached the cell. When she walked up, she saw Derek lying on a cot. He had a newspaper in his hand and his head was propped up on a rolled up blanket. He turned to look at her. Putting her things down in a corner opposite his cell, she sat on the floor and looked around. The whole place was painted white. The bars were metal. The toilet in the middle of Derek’s cell obviously provided him with little privacy. “What are you doing?” Derek asked. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just sitting here. I’m guarding you, actually.”

Derek thought about this for a few moments. He thought that he should be annoyed, yet, for some reason, it intrigued him. “You don’t need to guard me. I’m not going to get away,” he said. She just stared back at him. He couldn’t meet her gaze. Too powerful. Too strong. He went back to reading the newspaper. He tried to, anyway. But he couldn’t. He read the same sentence over and over. It didn’t make any sense. He put the newspaper down. He saw that she had a headset on. When he put the newspaper down she looked up and took the headset away from her right ear. “Did you say something?” “No, I didn’t.” He watched her going through her bag. He watched her take out a sweater and a pair of pants, roll them up and place them in the corner. She then lay down on the floor and put her head down on the rolled up sweater and pants. After a few minutes she turned on her side and took off her headphones. He could hear music coming from the headphones. She closed her eyes and in a few minutes she was asleep. Asleep! Derek couldn’t believe it. She snorted a few times, and snored lightly. He sat up, staring at her. He noticed the remarkable curve of her hips. Her arms curled up in front of her. He wished he could go into such an untroubled sleep.

Chapter 12 Jury Selection

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Thistle entered the back of the courtroom. Bo was addressing a flat video screen attached to the wall. He seemed nervous. The video protected an image of twenty people. It was a live broadcast. Thistle turned to a guard near the door and whispered to him. “What is that?” she asked, pointing to the screen. “That’s the jury. They’re picking the jury.” “What do you mean, picking the jury?” “Selecting the jury. They’ll get it down to 14. Twelve and 2 alternates.” “They’re not here. Why aren’t they here?” “Not enough people around here. The jury pool is 300. You need hundreds for a criminal trial.” She heard the gavel slam down and Judge Flack say, “Adjourned to the PreSirius Station.” Smithy was led out of the courtroom. Thistle followed him. After Smithy was checked through to the cellblock area, two security guards stopped Thistle when she went through the detector. “Where are you going?” one of the guards asked. He was tall, ugly and mean looking. “I’m going in to guard my prisoner.”

“Says who?” “Judge Flack gave me permission.” “He did?” He looked her over carefully and glanced at the other guard. He grabbed her arms and said, “See if she’s got a tail.” “A tail?” the other guard asked. “Yeah. See if she’s got a tail.” The other guard pulled up her blouse in the back where it was tucked in, pulled back her belt and looked down the back of her pants. Thistle was speechless. She couldn’t believe this was happening. “Do you see a tail?” the mean guard asked, staring Thistle in the eye. “No tail,” the other guard said. “Turn around,” the mean one said, spinning her with his hands. “Hold her,” he said to the other guard, who grabbed her arms. Thistle pulled away and the other guard got her in a bear hug. Smiling. Grinning. She felt the mean guard pull at her pants from behind, then her panties, as if he was looking down them. She struggled to get away and pushed hard against both of the men. “You can’t do this,” she exclaimed. “I want to see your superior,” she said, as they let her go. She tucked in her blouse and they just smiled at her. “I’m in charge of security here,” the mean guard said. “Just making sure you’re not a Meddler. The Meddlers have tails. Just doing our job.” “Shouldn’t they have a woman do that?”

“You’re not on Antigone now, girl. You want to go in there, you’re subject to search.” “You’re going to search me?” “No. You’re all right. Go ahead.” Thistle was burning mad. She went into the cellblock, but she was losing her stomach for the whole deal. She sat down delete to think things over. Smithy was sitting on his cot. “What happened?” he said. Thistle said nothing, but dried her eyes. She had shed some tears. She was very angry. “I heard something going on,” Derek said. “Are you O.K.?” “Just shut up,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to your kind right now.” She looked up to see a huge woman standing next to her, holding out papers. “You’re being subpoenaed. You have to appear at the Pre–Sirius Station. Sign this.” The woman held out a pen. Thistle recognized her as the prosecutor. Thistle signed a copy of the subpoena and gave it back to her. “What if I don’t show up?” Thistle asked. “You’ll end up in a cell next to him,” she said and nodded towards Smithy. “I’ll call you when you’re needed.”

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Chapter 13 No Tail

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After Thistle told Smithy about the incident with the security guards he shook his head in dismay. “It’s not right. There’s something wrong with that. Meddlers don’t have tails.” “That’s what they said.” “You should see a lawyer. Maybe sue those guys.” Are there any lawyers around here?” “I don’t know. Why don’t you see my lawyer, Judge Bo? He’s a lawyer.” “Maybe I will.” “Sure, you should. Heck, he should be here this afternoon. I’m not sure though, because I think I’m going to the Pre-Sirius Station.” At that moment Smithy noticed Loooms rolling in a large green plastic locker. “Well, what do you know? Here they are,” Smithy said. “Just don’t give me any hassles,” Loooms said. In a few minutes Smithy was secured into the locker. “I’ll see you over there,” Smithy said to Thistle. “When Judge Bo comes in you can talk to him.” Thistle sat in the corner and watched Smithy being rolled out of the cellblock. She quickly realized she didn’t want to be left alone with the guards. She picked up her things and followed Loooms as he pushed Smithy inside the locker. As she ed by the guards, she heard the older, mean guard say, “No tail.”

Then she heard the other guard say, “Yeah. No tail.” They started chuckling. Thistle followed Loooms down the narrow corridors to the shuttle gate. Loooms stood the locker on end and said to Thistle, “It’ll be about an hour. Maybe more.” Thistle went back to her room and got the rest of her luggage. She wondered whether what she was doing was foolish—a foolish quest. Yet, she was subpoenaed. She had to go.

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Chapter 14 Amore

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Thistle, Bo and Loooms headed out to the Pre-Sirius Station in the large shuttle bus. Behind them the Traveling Community disappeared into Sirius’ bright glow. Northwest of Sirius, Amore’s white starlight contrasted with Sirius' harsh yellow light. You knew you were getting close to Sirius when you saw Amore, its twin star. But none of the engers had any interest in what starlight shone upon them. “Where’s Smithy,” Thistle asked Loooms.

“In storage,” he replied, just before they all ed out from the G-forces.

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Chapter 15 Judge Bo's Apartment

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Judge Bo had one of the nicest apartments on the Pre-Sirius Station. It even had a small window looking out the starboard side. The luxuriousness of the apartment was in large part due to the position Chenille had as Artistic Director. She maintained a small office in the apartment. When Judge Bo arrived home from the Traveling Community it was about 11 p.m. The lights were on and he found Chenille in bed reading some film magazines. “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “No, thanks,” he said, putting down his briefcase in the hallway and entering the bedroom. “Did you eat?” Chenille said. “No. But my stomach is very queasy.” “Do you want a beer?” “Yes. That would be good. Thanks,” Chenille got out of bed and left the room. Bo was dumbstruck. She had on a flimsy see-through blouse, and frilly pink panties. Chenille rarely walked around half-dressed. After almost 19 years, he

still found her amazingly large tits fantastic, her large nipples mesmerizing, and her now just slightly overweight figure tremendously appealing. He was fascinated by how thin her arms were from elbow to shoulder, contrasting nicely with her huge knockers. He hung up his suit and tie and undressed. He was in his boxers and shirtsleeves, and had just sat down on the bed when she reentered the room. There was a loud whoosh from the top of the beer can as she snapped it open and strode toward him. She put the beer down on the end table and pulled out a drawer. She grabbed a shirt and held it up. “Here,” she said, “put this on. I just got it for you.” “What is it?” “Pajamas.” Dutifully he put the shirt on and sat back down. She perched on the end of the bed. “That looks great,” she said. “I have to talk to you,” he said. “Go ahead. Shoot.” “Well, it’s about the case.” “Oh, stop worrying about that.” “I wish I could, but his life is at stake. He could be killed.” “Sorry, I know you’re worried. What is it?” “Well, I need to know what he said to you that night.” “He asked me out.” “He did?”

“Yes. Sure. Asked me to go to the movies that weekend.” “What did you say?” “I said I didn’t know. That he would have to call me. That I’d find out if I could.” “And then what?” “And then nothing. When the reception was over, he left. And that was it.” “Did you report him or something?” “No, silly. I never reported him. Who said that?” “No one. I just don’t know how this started. Did you tell anyone?” “No one. Except maybe the maitre d’.” “The maitre d’?” “Yes, I thanked him. He catered it. He asked me how it went. I said great, and I just mentioned, I think, that somebody asked me out. I was flattered.” “Flattered?” “Sure. Flattered.” “By the way, did you intend to go out with him?” “Well, not alone. With you, of course.” “I see.” Bo leaned back in bed to think all this over. Chenille crawled over and lay down on top of him. She reached over and snapped off the light. “Don’t worry about all this now,” she said. “Get some rest.” He hugged her playfully. They rolled over on the bed. He stated kicking the covers away.

He heard clicking, whirring, and snapping. There were a few whispers. Bo sat up abruptly. “My God!” he exclaimed. “You’re filming this?” Chenille chuckled briefly. “Well, it’s part of the project.” “Holy smokes!” Bo said, and fell back in bed. “Not the project!”

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Chapter 16 Escape Attempt

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Thistle, toothbrush in hand, had just stepped out of her door when she heard, “Step back, lady!” She then saw a determined Smithy run past her. Two uniformed police officers took aim and fired. Smithy was knocked down flat on his chest. Thistle ran up to him. The police officers were holstering their weapons and talking into communicators. Smithy had the right side of his face on the plasticized metal floor. Drool pooled from his mouth. His eyes were closed. She lifted an eyelid. His eyes had rolled up. “You idiots! You killed him!” she yelled. The two officers strolled over in a desultory manner. Thistle turned Smithy on his back. She pinched his nose and blew in his mouth

—once—twice—nothing. She pushed on his chest and blew in again. His eyelids fluttered. He gasped. Smithy awoke to see Thistle coming back from his lips. She had a toothbrush in her hand. She seemed so beautiful. “Where—where the hell am I?” Smithy said.

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Chapter 17 Witness in a Miniskirt

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Bo had barely got out the last word of what he hoped was a stirring opening statement when he heard Judge Flack loudly state to the prosecutor, “Call your first witness!” The prosecutor stood up, stretched her majestic frame, turned to the back of the courtroom and said, “Chenille Bo!” Smithy was startled to see spotlights come on, cameras mounted on wheels or suspended in midair, deftly following Chenille as she made her way from the back of the courtroom past the lawyers’ tables to the witness stand. Judge Bo had to stretch and look over a camera to catch sight of his wife. He was delighted. As he had suggested, she wore the most low-cut blouse and tiniest miniskirt in her wardrobe; an outfit probably a decade old, and now tightly pinching her voluptuous figure. Judge Flack looked on with a prurient gleam in his eye. A slight smile cracked

his face. Chenille crossed her stunning legs and looked up at the prosecutor sweetly. Alertly. “State your name and address for the record, please,” the prosecutor said. “Chenille Bo. I’m stationed here. In the Pre-Sirius Station.” “And your occupation?” “I’m the Artistic Director for the Station.” “Are you married?” “Yes.” “And who is your husband?” Judge Bo stood up. “Objection, your honor. Irrelevant.” “I will tie this up. It is highly relevant.” “I’ll allow it, “ Flack said. “Assuming it is later connected. Overruled.” “And who is your husband?” “Judge Bo.” “And what is his occupation?” “He is a Supreme Court Judge.” “Stationed where?” “Here. Here in the Pre-Sirius Station.” “And you love your husband?” At this point Chenille shifted a bit in her chair. She tugged at her skirt. “Yes. Yes, I love my husband very much.” She looked over at him. “I love him with all my

heart.” Judge Bo stood up. “I love you too, sweetie bunch!” he blurted out. “Judge Bo, please!” Judge Flack exclaimed, exasperated. “You can’t stand up here and declare your love for the witness.” Judge Bo, embarrassed, sat down. “I’m sorry, Judge. Just got carried away, I guess.” “I guess so,” Judge Flack said. “Continue.” “So, you love your husband?” “Yes,” Chenille replied. “Objection,” Judge Bo stood up and said, “Asked and answered.” Then he had an inspiration. “I move for a mistrial. The witness just said she loved the defendant’s attorney. And he said he loved her.” “Judge Bo,” Flack said, obviously irritated, “you can’t stand up and say things and then use them as a basis for a mistrial. Motion denied. Continue.” The prosecutor was really on a roll now, Bo felt. He was sinking fast. She’d probably done all this just to disturb him. It worked. He was getting that rotten, biting feeling in his gut that he always got when he was losing a case. Just like back in the old days, when he lost cases left and right, trying cases his law firm's bosses had no other way of getting rid of. He finally had to use Chenille’s connections to get out of it. Chenille’s s were superb, high placed, and he sped through the appointment process. He just couldn’t understand how he ended up back here slugging it out, and getting killed. He looked over at Smithy. His client was turned around in his seat, peering at someone in the back of the courtroom. He waved. She waved back. The prosecutor caught this. “Judge. Please. I’d like the courtroom cleared of all witnesses. All subpoenaed witnesses.” “Of course,” Flack responded.

“Thistle Tragg,” the prosecutor said. “She’s been subpoenaed.” Thistle was pointed out and asked to leave. Another sickening wave of defeat flowed over Bo. Now the prosecutor had displayed her total control of the courtroom. There seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

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Chapter 18 Damaging Testimony

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The projector broadcast Loooms’ image in the witness stand. It quivered slightly. The technology was old, expensive, and a bit unreliable. Because of that, Bo knew that such devices were reserved for star witnesses, and he sharpened his attention. Yolanda Bigg looked on in a calm, almost unconcerned way. “State your name and occupation for the court,” she loudly directed the witness. Loooms looked around, but not at Bigg, as he apparently had no direction to focus his sight. “Lieutenant Loooms. First Mate, storage transporter.” “And where are you stationed?” “The Sirius Storage Transporter.”

Bo, emboldened by the fact that Loooms did not appear to be looking at Bigg, stood up. “Objection, your honor. What are those...those manacles? Does he have manacles on his arms?” “Sharpen the focus,” Judge Flack directed. Loooms’ artificial, smoky image in the witness stand, projected there from another location, possibly a million miles away, started to darken, and the quivering stopped. Manacles on his arms and ankles could be seen. “I need to question the witness,” Bo stated. “Proceed, but first a few questions of my own,” Flack said. “You are restrained, is that correct?” “Correct,” Loooms said. “The jury is to disregard the fact of restraint,” Flack turned and stated to the televised image of the jury, then continued his questioning. “Are you medicated, or under the influence of any drug?” “None,” Loooms said. “Proceed,” Judge Flack stated, turning to Bo, and handing off to him an opposition witness freshly cleaned and shaved, so to speak. Now, Bo had no real questions, except, “Who has placed these manacles on you?” “Objection, irrelevant,” Bigg stood up and said. “Sustained,” said Judge Flack. “No further questions,” Bo said, feeling he would be cut off every step of the way. “You work with the defendant?” Bigg continued. “Yes,” Loooms said. “I used to.”

“Used to? Until when?” “Well, a few months ago. No. It must have been weeks. Wait a minute.” “What caused you to stop working with the defendant?” “Nothing. Nothing stopped me.” “Judge,” Biggs turned to the Judge and said, “I need to treat him as a hostile witness.” “Objection,” Bo stated. “He is a friend. A Co-worker,” Biggs said. “Who says he is a friend?” Bo argued. “The objection is overruled,” Black said. “He is a Co-worker. Former Coworker. That’s enough.” “Isn’t it a fact that you informed him of charges against him?” Bigg continued. “Yes. That’s true. But they are only charges.” “I’d ask the court to direct the witness to answer the questions and not opinionate.” “Just answer the questions, Lieutenant Loooms. You are subject to perjury sanctions.” Flack said. “And what did the defendant do when you informed him of the charges?” Bigg continued. “Nothing.” “Nothing? Didn’t he flee?” “He left. He didn’t flee.” “He fled, didn’t he? And gave a false excuse.”

“Well, I don’t know.” “He did didn’t he? “Lieutenant Loooms. Answer the question,” Judge Flack angrily shouted. “Yes, yes, he fled. He gave a false excuse. I’m sorry, Derek. Sorry.” “Thank you. No further questions.” Bo knew he had to cross-examine just to deflect this killing evidence of guilt. He didn’t know exactly how, but Loooms was essentially a friendly witness. Not biased. No clean angle—liable to say anything. He had to try something safe. Bo stood up. “You ever see Mr. Smithy harassing women?” “Objection!” Bigg exclaimed. “Never!” Loooms spoke out. “Irrelevant, Judge,” Bigg said. “We are not interested in other occasions. It is immaterial.” “Sustained. The jury is to disregard the answer.” Bo was thrown off his line of questioning. He proceeded nonetheless, until he could think of something else. “Did he ever harass you?” “Objection.” “Sustained.” “Did he ever it to harassing Mrs. Bo?” “Objection.” “No,” Flack said. “Overruled. I’ll allow it.”

“Do I answer the question?” Loooms said. “Yes, you do,” Bo said. “Did he ever it that he harassed Mrs. Bo?” “Never,” he said. “No further questions.” Bo knew he scored. He dared go no further. “Darrell Snipe,” Bigg announced. The bailiff opened the back door. A black clothed, skinny man walked into the courtroom and up to the stand. Smithy leaned over to Bo and whispered, “This guy’s no good. He’s a rat. A crook.” “What?” Bo asked. But there was no time. “State your name, occupation, and address for the record.” “Darrell Snipe, concessionaire, Pre-Sirius Station.” “What is your concession?” “I am the maitre d’ for the restaurant.” “The cafeteria?” “Yes, the cafeteria.” “You know the defendant?” “Yes.” “Point him out.” “Right over there. Sitting next to his lawyer, Judge Bo.”

“Thank you. And you know Mrs. Bo?” “Yes, I do. I arranged a reception. A fund- raiser for her theatre group.” “At the Pre-Sirius Station?” “Yes. It was no more than a few weeks ago.” “And was Mr. Smithy there?” “Yes. He was invited. He was a distinguished guest.” “Objection,” Bo said. “Hearsay.” “Yes,” Judge Flack said. “How do you know he was a distinguished guest?” “He was on the program.” “Sustained. The jury is to disregard,” Flack said. “Did Smithy speak to Mrs. Bo?” Bigg asked, completely unflappable. “I would say so.” “And how do you know that?” “Mrs. Bo told me. She said he asked her out.” “Move to strike. Hearsay,” Bo said. “Yes, Mrs. Biggs, I’m inclined to strike this testimony.” “Recent report. Res Gestae. I will provide scientific evidence of its issibility.” “Alright. I’ll reserve.” “Did you see them together after that?” “Yes, I did.”

“Where?” “At the lounge. The next day.” “That’s a lie,” Smithy said to Bo, angry and upset. “No further questions,” Bigg said. “I never went out with your wife,” Smithy said to Bo. “Never. He’s lying. He’s a crook. He’s been selling the garbage.” “Selling the garbage?” Bo whispered. “Any cross?” Flack asked. “Just a minute, your Honor.” Bo stalled for time. “No minutes,” Flack said. “You’re up or he’s dismissed.” Bo stood up. “Mr. Smithy knows you’ve been selling garbage.” “Objection,” Bigg said. “That’s no question.” “Sustained.” “You’ve been selling the garbage, haven’t you?” “Objection.” Bo leaned over to Smithy. “Who has he been selling the garbage to?” Smithy whispered to Bo, “I don’t know—the Hungries, maybe. There’s a shortage.” Flack watched Smithy and Bo. “Overruled,” he said. “Answer my question,” Bo said.

“No. No, I haven’t been selling the garbage.” “It’s short, isn’t it?” “Only in Mr. Smithy’s mind.” “So, you are aware of the shortage?” “I’m not conversant with Mr. Smithy’s mental processes.” “He has claimed there was a shortage to you?” “No, he hasn’t.” “That’s a lie,” Smithy whispered to Bo. “We had a big argument about it.” Bo knew he would continue to lie. He decided to take care of it later. “No further questions.” “Dr. Ni Nonni Nonni!” Bigg yelled out.

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Chapter 19 Sabotage

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Dr. Ni Nonni Nonni was there to testify as an expert, to say that a prompt report, as occurred with Mrs. Bo, was proof of the veracity of the .

Try as he might, Bo was unable to convince the court to disallow the testimony. When the prosecution rested, all Bo could do was call Smithy on his own behalf. He considered calling Mrs. Bo, but it was too awkward, and dangerous. The only scoring Bo felt he did was with Smithy’s testimony about Snipe. Of course, Smithy testified he didn’t harass Mrs. Bo, but that testimony was expected. But as to Snipe, Bo felt he had something. “Do you keep records of your pickups from the stations?” “Yes, I do,” Smithy answered. “And does that include the Pre-Sirius Station?” “Yes, it does.” “And what were your findings for that station?” “We found a shortage—a shortage of food waste. There was the same amount of people there, but much less food waste. It was against the statistics. Food waste is...it has a tendency to increase. A decrease shows pilferage, and worse, sabotage.” “Sabotage? How so?” “We have security concerns about the Hungries. A robot population, viewed as parasites, they consume garbage and have been known to cause food shortages, even starvation, when they overrun space communities. Decrease in food waste can mean the presence of Hungries, and everything from actual sabotage, which has occurred before when food waste has been sold to them, or merely a lack of security.” “And who are the Physicians?” “The Physicians are time travelers, often accompanied by Meddlers. Each is innocuous, ordinarily, but they can be precursors, or a sign of the Hungries. Physicians have tails. “Hungries, originally designed to be fueled by waste, or so the legend goes,

travel from planet to planet, eating everything in sight, unless they are stopped. The Physicians, well, they’ve been known to harvest organs.” “Have you reported the shortage to Mr. Snipe?” “Yes, he’s in charge of the cafeteria and the food waste.” “And what was the result?” “He denied it.” “How could he do that?” “He couldn’t. A shortage is a shortage.” “Thank you. Nothing further.” Bo thought he had scored heavily. Biggs didn’t have anything to counter his attack on Snipe. The closing arguments went as expected. Biggs hammered away at Smithy’s flight to avoid prosecution. In his closing argument, all Bo could say, but he thought this was persuasive, was that you cannot create a crime by running away, if there was no crime in the first place. After the judge charged the jury, they retired to deliberate, and the video screen on the wall only showed the three selections offered to the jury: Death, life imprisonment, or three weeks in Bermuda. When Smithy noticed the three selections, he turned to Bo, “What is this, three weeks in Bermuda?” “Well, if you are acquitted, you get three weeks in Bermuda, kind of as a bonus. You don’t like that? You want Hawaii? I can get you Hawaii.” “Yeah, sure,” Smithy said. “Make it Hawaii. It is a bigger island.” “Absolutely. By all means.” Bo stood up. “Judge, I move to change the selection from Bermuda to Hawaii.” “Any objection?” Flack said.

“No objection,” Biggs said. She sat quietly, confidently. The video screen was changed.

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Chapter 20 Depth Charges

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Judge Flack closed proceedings at 5:00 p.m. The jury continued to deliberate. Bo went back to his apartment. Smithy went back to jail. Bo and Chenille decided to go to Faux Leau, the station’s restaurant, for dinner. As soon as Bo stepped inside and glanced toward the entrance, he questioned his decision to come there that night. Snipe, the maitre’d, was there. “What’s the matter?” Chenille said. “Nothing,” Bo replied. Chenille saw Bo staring at Snipe. She immediately became angry. “I think I’ll harass him a little.” “Better not,” Bo said, holding her arm as they approached Snipe. “Table for two,” Bo said. Snipe looked up, very nonchalant. He’d seen them come in. “Forty-five minutes,” he said.

“Forty-five minutes?” Chenille exclaimed. “No problem,” Bo said, pulling Chenille into the restaurant, “we’ll be at the bar.” Bo mentally calculated the number of drinks and time factors regarding Chenille, who often, when drinking, became boisterous. “One cola and a glass of champagne,” Bo said to the bartender. He noticed Yolanda Bigg at the bar. Bigg turned to her left when she heard Bo’s voice. “Judge Bo,” she said. “So nice to see you out tonight.” “Likewise,” Bo said. “You’ve met my wife, Chenille?” “Of course,” Bigg said. “Have you met Sheena Droip?” Bo and Chenille looked past Biggs to see Sheena lift her glass in salute. They said hello. “Sheena’s a secretary in our office,” Bigg said. “I don’t suppose I could buy you a drink,” Bo asked. “No you can’t,” she said, “but I’ll have one with you.” In a moment she had ordered scotch, a double, neat. She slurped the last oyster from a tray of a dozen before her. “Could I get you some oysters?” Bo said. “Not likely,” Bigg said, “but I will have some more.” Soon, another dozen oysters were delivered. “You’re looking well,” Bo said, cordially. “You’ve lost some weight, haven’t you?” “Thirty pounds,” Biggs said, gleefully. Bo had to it, she did look stunning. Tall, fake tan and all. She wore a very short skirt.

“No wonder she has to stand,” Chenille said, commenting on the skirt, as she noticed Bo noticing, when Bigg turned to talk to Droip. “Do a depth charge with me?” Bigg asked Bo, when she turned back. “Not me,” Bo said. “I’m fine with that. Get me one,” Chenille said. Soon, a tall beer and a shot glass of whiskey were placed in front of each of the contestants. “Bombs away!” Bigg declared, as she dropped her shot glass into the beer. “Bottoms up!” Chenille exclaimed, gamely, dropping her own shot glass in, and taking a long sip. “Girls! Girls,” Bo said, “take it easy!” He watched Bigg wipe some suds from her top lip. Droip was giggling, and then took a chug from a bottle of beer. “That goddamn maitre’d said it was forty-five minutes,” Bo said to Bigg, knowing he’d get the desired reaction. Sure enough, Bigg signaled. Snipe came over, and after whispering in his ear, Biggs said, “Have a nice dinner.” Snipe led Bo and Chenille to a table.

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Chapter 21 Synthetic Sheets

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Smithy was lying on his back on the cot in his cell, eyeing the wall clock, when he noticed the security camera lens turn toward the door. It was Thistle. Smithy got up and went to the bars of the cell. Thistle leaned against the wall across from him. “Any trouble getting in?” he asked. “No,” she said. “No trouble.” “The guard here is a woman,” Smithy said. “Yes,” Thistle said, and smiled. “I noticed.” Smithy shook his head, realizing how stupid his comment was. “You like her?” Thistle now asked. Smithy was surprised. He hadn’t given the guard a thought. “She’s okay, I guess,” he said. “Are you worried?” Thistle asked. “Worried?” Smithy repeated. Actually, Smithy wouldn’t call it that. He couldn’t explain it. The gnawing, rotten feeling in the bottom of his gut wouldn’t go away. The feeling you get when you are in very bad trouble. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said to Thistle. She looked away. He walked from the bars to the other end of his cell and leaned against the wall. “Do you see the fancy accommodations I have?” he said, nodding towards his

bed. Thistle leaned forward and looked closer. “You have sheets?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. “Synthetic, artificial sheets. Quite cold, actually.” They both stared at the cot. Thistle leaned against the bars, arms crossed in front of her. She had khaki shorts on, knee-high socks, a checkered blouse and a tan vest. He inched over to the front right corner of his cell, a few feet away from her. “Will you stay tonight?” he asked. She looked toward the guard. She didn’t respond. He moved closer. “What’s it like on that planet of yours?” he said. “I mean, do you have a lot of prisoners?” “No,” she said. “I don’t have any prisoners.” “What do the women do for men? I mean, if the men are all prisoners.” “Those are our men.” “So, you don’t have a prisoner?” He moved towards her and she backed away to the wall across from the cell. “Listen,” he said, “if you can get me out of here, I’ll be your prisoner.” “They won’t let you go,” she said. He held out his hand. “Take it,” he said. She ignored him. He held out his hand for a full minute. She made no move. Finally, his arm dropped to his side. She seemed disappointed.

He held out his hand again. “Come on,” he said. “Take my hand.” She took his right hand in her left hand, tentatively. He pulled her slowly toward him. He held out his other hand. She took his other hand and they pressed against each other, with the bars between them. Silently, they kissed. He moved his arms around her and held her close. “Stay with me tonight,” he said. “I don’t know,” she said. “Tonight. Forever. You know, for me, it might be forever.” “What’s forever?” she asked. “For the rest of my life,” he said. “Is that good enough? It might not be that long. Won’t tie you up. Willing to risk the rest of my life with you?” he asked. She smirked. “Is this your usual line?” He had to laugh, thinking of the nurses in flight school, and the lines he’d used on them. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s my condemned prisoner line.” Oh, what the heck, Thistle thought to herself. Maybe he would be executed. If it didn’t work out, chances were, she’d never have to see him again.

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Chapter 22 The Selections

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“Proceed with the deliberations,” Judge Flack stated, pointing his gavel at a bailiff, who was now seen pushing a button near the jury television screen. The image flickered, then came on, showing nothing but the time, and the score, Death-0, Life imprisonment-0, Two weeks in Hawaii-0. “Satisfactory?” Flack asked Bigg. “Satisfactory,” Bigg said, as she stood up and quickly sat down. Flack burned to Bo, and merely raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. “No objection,” Bo said. The attorneys had given their closing statements, and now Smithy sat with Bo at the defense table waiting for a verdict. The first vote came in: Death-4, Life imprisonment-6, Two weeks in Hawaii-2. Smithy turned around to look for Thistle. She was sitting in the back, in the last row of seats. She gave the “thumbs up” sign. Smithy felt that at least Thistle was pulling for him. His family was so far away they would not even know of his trial. Yes, except for Thistle, he was alone. The second vote came in: Death-3, Life imprisonment-7, Two weeks in Hawaii2. Bo turned to Smithy and gave him a weak smile. It appeared that he would save his life. This was what he was most worried about. Smithy turned around. Thistle gave him another “thumbs up” sign. Quickly, there was a request for a replay of Snipe’s testimony. A videotape of his testimony was inserted into the wall. The participants watched the testimony and the cross examination on the video screen as it was

transmitted to the jury. Another vote swiftly appeared on the screen: Death-10, Life imprisonment-0, Two weeks in Hawaii-2. Four hours later, the same score appeared on the screen. The jury broke for lunch. When they returned an hour later, the same score flashed on the screen. “I move for a mistrial,” Bo stood up and said. “It’s a hung jury.” “Denied,” Flack promptly ruled. The parties sat there fidgeting. They read newspapers, magazines, and books. A replay of Snipe’s testimony was again requested. Flack turned to Bo. Bo quickly stood up. “They’ve already had it. We object.” Flack looked over at Biggs. She sat there quietly, confidently. She said nothing. “Denied,” Flack said. “The request is denied.” Smithy almost slapped Judge Bo on the back. In a few minutes, another vote appeared. Death-12, Life imprisonment-0, Two weeks in Hawaii-0.” Thistle was stunned. She felt sick. “Jeez,” she said to herself. “I meet a nice guy and right away, he’s going to be executed.” She saw Bo stand up. “We request a stay pending appeal,” he said to the judge. “How much time do you need?” Judge Flack asked. “Five months.”

Flack looked over at Bigg, who crossed her long, definitely attractive legs, slightly covered by the briefest of skirts. She stared straight ahead. “Denied,” Flack said. Bo paused a moment to look at Smithy, who was staring blankly ahead. “Four months?” Bo said. “Denied,” Flack responded. He didn’t bother to look over at Bigg. He would handle this himself. “Three?” Bo said. He waited but Flack said nothing. “You’ve got to give me some time. The man’s life is at stake.” Flack turned to Bigg, “When will the execution take place?” Bigg turned up the palms of her hands as if to say she did not know. “He’ll be turned over to corrections. It’s out of my hands. I don’t handle appeals.” “Three days,” Flack said. “You’ve got three days.” They all heard the back doors of the courtroom open and Loooms now appeared, pushing the large plastic transportation cabinet before him. The green plastic locker, about seven feet tall, was now a familiar sight to Smithy. Loooms set it on end near the defense table and gestured to his old shipmate to get in. Silently, Smithy and Bo shook hands. “I’ll be filing the appeal,” Bo said, “We’ll get more time.” “Get in,” Loooms said. Smithy stepped backward into the locker and sat down on the seat that snapped down from the inside of the locker. From past experience, Smithy knew it was more comfortable to sit for the ride.

Thistle rushed up to the judge, as he was about to leave the courtroom. “Judge!” she exclaimed. Flack stopped. He was just descending the stairs from the bench. “Oh, yes,” Flack said. “What is your name?” “Thistle.” “Yes, Thistle, from the Land of the Amazons.” “Well, yes, but Judge, I want to be sure I can still guard my prisoner.” “Who says you can’t?” “Why, nobody, but just in case.” “Go ahead,” Flack said as he headed for the door. “Guard him to your heart's content. Maybe it will be reversed on appeal. You never know.”

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Chapter 23 Nancy

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Thistle walked into the cellblock and down the hall. Video cameras on the walls and ceiling turned to follow her. When she got to Smithy’s cell, he wasn’t there. She looked closely. His cot was unmade. His things were strewn about, as if he had left, or had been taken, hurriedly. She felt slightly panicked, and quickly

went out to the entrance to see the guard. Glancing from one TV monitor to another, the female guard didn’t look up as Thistle stood before her. Thistle noticed the guard’s nameplate on the right front pocket, which said only, “Nancy.” “Nancy,” Thistle said, “I mean, Captain—Major—Sergeant, whatever—” “Colonel,” Nancy said, now looking up. “Colonel Nancy, I was wondering. Have you seen him?” “Him?” “Mr. Smithy. The prisoner. Have they taken him?” “No. He’s in taking a shower.” She pointed down a hallway. “Down that way,” she said. Thistle let out a sigh. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She headed down the hall, then hesitated and went back. “Do you know when it will happen?” Nancy looked up. “No,” she said. “How? Do you know how it will happen? The execution?” “No. That hasn’t been determined.” “I see,” Thistle said, and headed back down the hall to the showers. When she got to the door marked “showers,” she didn’t know what to do. She glanced in the window and couldn’t believe what she saw. Smithy, completely naked, taking a shower. She pulled away quickly, before he noticed her looking in. She couldn’t help herself. She moved slowly up to the window again and peeked in. He didn’t seem to notice her. He was shampooing his head. “Guarding your prisoner?” Thistle jumped, startled.

Nancy was standing next to her. “Yes,” Thistle said. “Yes, I am. The judge—the judge said I could.” Nancy smiled, and glanced in too. “I don’t blame you,” she said. Now both of them were looking in. “Is that what they all look like?” Thistle asked. “I don’t know,” Nancy said. “Pretty much, I guess.” “Kind of scary looking,” Thistle said. “Yeah, I know. But it sure is hard to stop looking.” “Uh-oh,” Thistle said, and pulled away from the window. Smithy noticed them. He stood there saying something like, “Give me a break, will you?” But they couldn’t hear him. Thistle and Nancy grinned at each other, although Thistle’s smile left her quickly. “Come on,” she said to Nancy, “let the guy take his shower.” She pushed Nancy away. “Okay, okay, fine,” Nancy said, and headed back to her station.

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Chapter 24 Planning The Business Trip

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Bo was in the apartment. “Will you go with me?” he said to Chenille. “Where? Where are we going?” “Boston,” he said. “We’re going to Boston.” “Boston? Which Boston? The one here?” “The one here.” “The theme park?” “Yes. On Amore.” “Amore? That’s so dull. What’s happening? Do I have to go?” “Yes, well, of course, you don’t have to go, but it’ll only be a few days, you know. I want you to come with me.” “But what for? Why are you going?” “The Boston Theme Park. It’s not doing well, so they’re doing executions there now.” “You’re kidding?” “Nope. We’ll go to Fanueil Hall. Have some lobster. It’ll be fun.” “Fun? With a guy getting executed. I’m not leaving here if you’re going to be in one of those moods, and if you’re working all day.” “No. I’ll take time off. It’ll be over soon, most likely.”

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Chapter 25 Back From The Shower

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Thistle was waiting for Smithy near his cell. She was sitting in a corner, her headset on, arms around her knees. She stood up when she saw Smithy. “Hi,” she said, as he neared his cell door. He glanced at her and watched the door swing open. He had a towel over his shoulder and his underwear on. He went in his cell and threw his towel on the floor. He turned and looked at Thistle. “Want to come in?” Just then the door started to close. Thistle took a step forward. They heard the all too familiar sound of the plastic locker being rolled down the hall. The cell door stopped and then changed direction. It opened again. Loooms was behind the locker, pushing it. “All aboard!” he exclaimed. Loooms rolled the locker into the cell. “Does he get a last request?” Thistle asked. “What, like a cigarette?” Loooms responded, opening the door to the locker. “Yes, sure,” Smithy said. “I’d love a cigarette.”

“You want a cigarette?” Thistle said, appearing exasperated, hands on hips. “Oh, right,” Smithy said. “I mean, in addition to a cigarette, can we get a little time together?” “Who? You and your...your...guard?” “No. My friend. My girlfriend. My fiancée.” “Fiancée?” “Yeah,” Thistle said. “Fiancée.” “No way,” Loooms said. “You have to be married.” “Loooms,” Smithy said, “I can fix you up with Nancy.” “You can?” “Why don’t you just go out there and find out. But you don’t want us around, do you?” “Well, no. Okay, I’ll be back in a second.” “What the hell is going on?” Biggs said, as she stood outside Smithy’s cell, and watched the plastic locker shaking back and forth. She heard a “Shhh!” from inside the locker, then a woman’s voice. “Thistle. Thistle, get out of there,” Bigg said. Bigg called down the hall, “Loooms! Get back here.”

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Chapter 26 Marriage

Smithy, Bo, Thistle and Loooms were strapped into chairs inside the shuttle. For two hours the shuttle shook as it picked up speed for the trip to Amore. “Judge Bo,” Smithy said, “after I’m executed, I want to leave everything to Thistle,” “Interesting,” Bo said. “You could make a will, but you need something to write it with.” “Don’t you have a pen?” “A pen? I don’t even have any paper.” “Hmmm,” Smithy said, and thought for a minute. “What will happen to my stuff?” “What stuff?” “My retirement . My golf clubs—my stuff.” “Your next of kin.” Smithy looked over at Thistle. “What if I was married?” he said. “Then your wife, of course,” Bo replied. “Okay, then marry us.” The tranquilizer medication and the acceleration were combining at that point to make them all woozy. “Quickly,” Smithy said, “I’m conking out.” “Thistle,” Bo said, “do you take this man to be your lawful husband?” “I do,” Thistle said. “Derek Smithy, do you take this woman to be your lawful wife?”

“I do,” Smithy said. “By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pr...pr...pronounce...y-y-you...m-m-man...and-d-d...w-w-wife.” They were all out cold from the speed.

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Chapter 27 Girl Friday

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Chenille was up in the control room of the shuttle typing the appeal into the computer. “I’ll kill him,” Chenille said, as she typed rapidly. “I swear, I’ll kill him.” “Who? What do you mean?” Nancy asked, as she punched steering codes into her own computer, to keep the craft on course. “My husband. I swear, he better never ask me to do this again. My nails are killing me. I haven’t done this in years!”

Chapter 28 The Flamingo-Ritz Hotel

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“What are we doing here?” Thistle asked Bo, as they assembled on the roof of the Flamingo-Ritz Hotel. “Hold on,” Bo said. He held up his hand. He had already made a phone call. Communicator screens lit up above his head. “This doesn’t look good,” he said to her. He now spoke into the phone. “Hello. Yes, this is Judge Bo. Is this the clerk? Did you get the file? Yes, I’ll hold.” Thistle looked around. Two huge men, as big as professional football linemen, were being strapped into corsets tied to long cords that were secured against the railing leading up the stairs to the roof. They put helmets and face masks on. Loooms set down the locker with Smithy inside. He was out of breath from dragging the locker up the flight of stairs from the top floor elevator. It was a bumpy ride for Smithy. Loooms turned around and promptly left. Bigg ed Loooms on the stairway on her way to the roof. She surveyed the area with apparent approval. Then she walked over to the edge. There was a low railing, not quite waist high, which ringed the flat, rectangular roof. She looked over, and then turned back. Bo got off the phone, “What’s happening?” he asked Bigg. Bigg looked at her watch. “We wait,” she said. “You’re not going to throw him off there, are you?” “I guess you’ll soon find out,” she said.

They waited. The two goons, who had been strapped into weird executioner’s gear, paced back and forth, nervously. “Well, at least Smithy and I got married,” Thistle said to Bo. “You know, if you are here more than forty-eight hours, the marriage will expire.” “You’re kidding?” “No, I’m not kidding. But it looks like that won’t matter.” Tears started to form in Thistle’s eyes. She ran down the stairs. Thistle stood in front of the elevator. She didn’t know what to do. She pushed the button and headed for the lobby. When she got to the lobby, everything seemed normal. It was like no one cared that there was an execution taking place on the roof. The desk clerk didn’t look up. She ran out the front door to her rental car parked outside, and got her bags out of the trunk. A few fire trucks and a small crowd were gathered down the street near the left front corner of the hotel. It was one of the largest high-rise hotels in Boston, the Theme Park. Thistle went back in and up to the front desk. “I want a room,” she said. “No problem, Miss,” the clerk said. She noticed that he was an albino. “I’d like a front room” she said. “Where I can see.” “Oh,” he said. “You’d like to see the event?” “Yes. Yes, I would. Do you have a balcony?” “Not nearby. But we do have one in front.”

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Chapter 29 The Execution

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Bo was making phone calls to no effect. Everyone promised to call him back. No one was in. “Can’t you agree to delay this until I can find out about the appeal?” he asked Bigg. “No can do,” Bigg said. Her phone rang. She pulled a communicator out of a small black bag. “Okay, fine,” she said into it. She pushed a button to turn off the device. “Okay, boys,” she said to the two executioners, “go ahead.” One of the men quickly went to the locker, opened the door and grabbed Smithy by the lapels. He pulled him out, lifted him over his head, and stepped briskly to the edge of the roof. Bo moved forward and said, “Stop! Wait! You can’t do this!” The other executioner held Bo back. He watched helplessly as Smithy was thrown from the roof.

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Chapter 30 The Trip Down

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Thistle was on her balcony. She had a suitcase with her. She snapped it open and fumbled around, searching. She grabbed the guns and loaded them. She looked up just in time to see someone, arms and legs flailing, fly off the roof. She shot the barrels of both guns and the turkey nets flew out. With desperate speed, she tied the ends to the balcony, the doorway, anything she could find, and prayed that they would hold.

***

Smithy grabbed fruitlessly for something he could hold on to. Before he had any idea what was happening, he was flying through the air headed for the street below. How much time did he have left? A vaguely familiar net flew out before him. He grabbed hold and was slammed against the wall of the hotel. “Whoa!” Nancy exclaimed, as she stood near the fire trucks below. “Loooms,” she said. “Quick, get up one of the ladders.” Loooms rode up the fire truck ladder to where Smithy was suspended by the nets hanging from Thistle’s balcony. Bo ran to the edge of the roof. He held out the phone. He yelled down, “We’ve been granted a stay. A stay of execution!”

Chapter 31 The A.M.A. Comes Through

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Smithy was taken down from the netting, which held him against the side of the Flamingo-Ritz Hotel. He was put on the hook and ladder. Loooms rode with him down the ladder. They didn’t speak. Three firemen helped Loooms get Smithy down on the ground. EMT’s attended to Smithy’s minor injuries—a small cut and a bruise on his right forehead, cuts and bruises on the palms of each hand, and a scrape on his right knee. An EMT put gauze pads on his palms and then taped them with white adhesive tape. Another gauze pad and adhesive was applied to his right knee. Bo and Thistle arrived at the same time near the fire trucks where Smithy was being attended to. Thistle asked Bo, “What does the stay of execution mean?” “Well, it turns out the law was repealed.” “You’re kidding,” Thistle exclaimed. “Not kidding. But I must point out this may not take care of it completely. We don’t know whether it was retroactive.” “How did this all happen?” Thistle said. Smithy looked on in amazement. “It was the AMA,” Bo said. “The American Medical Association. They discovered their doctors charged with sexual harassment, as they so often are, were going to get the death penalty. You know how they treat nurses. It wasn’t too long before the money flowed, the lobbyists were busy, and the thing was repealed.”

“So, am I free to go?” Smithy asked. “Good question,” Bo replied. “Actually, you’ve been released on your own recognizance. No bail. Quite a surprise, actually. Shows how likely it will be determined to be retroactive, but, you never know.” “But I can go then?” “Yes, you can.” “Okay,” Thistle said to Smithy. “Come with me.” “Come with you?” “Yes. You are my prisoner now.” “Your prisoner?” “That’s right,” she said, with only the slightest trace of a smile on her lips. “You are my prisoner.” She took his arm. Smithy resisted slightly. He turned to Bo again. “Is this true? Am I her prisoner?” “Sure looks like it,” Bo said. He seemed noncommittal. “You may need a good attorney.” Thistle pulled Smithy toward her rental car. “What about you?” Smithy asked Bo. “Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Smithy. I was only assigned for the sexual harassment case. Anyway, I’m a full time judge. I couldn’t handle your other case, whatever it is. By the way, what is he charged with?” “We haven’t completely filed all the charges,” Thistle said. “But anyway, thanks for your help.” “No problem. Have a good day.” Bo waved to Smithy as he watched Thistle take him to her car.

When they arrived at the car, Thistle hesitated. “My suitcase. I’ll have to get my things. I’ll have to check out.” She looked at Smithy for a moment, wondering whether she could trust him to wait by the car. She thought better of it. She took his arm. They went back into the hotel. When they got to the room, Smithy stared at the large king-sized bed. He lay down on it. He thought getting executed was very tiring, not to mention getting caught in a net and thrown against the side of a hotel. Thistle packed her suitcase. She looked at Smithy with pity, and then something else. She sat down next to him. “You are my husband, now,” she said, matter-of-factly. Smithy didn’t know what to say. Finally, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. They hugged and kissed. They rolled to and fro, back and forth—both extremely aroused. He fumbled with buttons and laces. He glanced at her small, but shapely breasts. Suddenly, Thistle said, “I have to go into the bathroom.” Smithy was breathless, half-clothed. He waited. In a few moments, Thistle returned. She started straightening up her clothes. Buttoning her buttons. “Hey, what are you doing?” Smithy asked. “Not yet,” Thistle said. “You’ll have to wait till we get back.” “No, I’m not,” he said, and grabbed her pulling her back to the bed. She fought fiercely. “Please,” she said. “Wait. Wait until we get back.” He struggled with her some more, but eventually gave up. She took his hand and pulled him from the bed. “Come on,” she said, smiling slightly. “I want you to meet my mother.” “Your mother!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my God.” She took him by the wrist and dragged him from the room.

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Chapter 32 Airport

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When they got to the airport, Thistle slammed on the brakes. Her little rental car skidded to a halt near the front entrance. To Smithy’s surprise, two uniformed officers, women, vaguely familiar, stood at the curb, expectantly, eyeing them. Thistle looked at her watch. One of the uniformed officers opened the enger side door next to Smithy. Thistle put her arm across him. “What’s going on?” he asked. He felt something sting in his right shoulder. He looked over to see one of the policewomen pulling back. She had some type of gun in her hand. It dawned on him. He’d been sedated. “Don’t struggle,” Thistle said. “It’ll just upset your stomach.” “Oh, no,” Smithy said. “Not again.” “We just can’t take any chances. Don’t want any trouble.” Thistle got out of the car. “Okay, girls, let’s get him on the baggage cart.”

***

Smithy woke up during a brutal, rough landing on the Land of the Amazons. Thistle held his hand as he walked unsteadily out of the airport into the steamy hot afternoon glare of two stars. He dutifully sat down in the front enger seat of a green van. Too dutifully, he thought, but somehow, he couldn’t do anything about it. He felt trapped. The car sped along, driven by Thistle. She glanced over at him occasionally. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Fine,” he said. “Fine.” “I can’t wait for you to meet my mother,” she said. It all came back to him. He was married—a prisoner on the Land of the Amazons. They pulled up at the sidewalk near some condominiums. They looked like something from the 20th century on earth. “We’re here!” Thistle exclaimed brightly. She popped open the trunk and took out a suitcase and his golf clubs. He noted to himself, with some slightly renewed respect for her, that she seemed strong. She walked around the back of the condominium. He followed her. What else did he have to do? She put down the suitcase and golf clubs, took keys out of a pocket in her shorts and unlocked the glass sliding door.

“Come on,” she said. “Take a look.” He now noticed that there was a golf course next door. “There’s a golf course here?” he asked. “Sure,” she said. “Come on. Take a look around.” He went inside. It was a nice one-bedroom apartment, fully furnished, with a kitchen, bath, and dining room. “Not bad,” he said. “We probably have time for nine,” she said. “Nine? You mean golf?” “Sure,” she said. “There’s probably nobody out there now.” In a few minutes, he was teeing off. He walked down the first fairway. Thistle carried his clubs. She insisted. They saw a couple walking up eighteen—a man and a woman. She, too, was carrying the man’s clubs. “Hi,” she said, and waved to them. When they got back to the condo, Smithy noticed a next-door neighbor with a garden hose washing off a barbeque grill. The man was older, in his 60's or 70's. “Nice day,” the man said. “Yeah,” Smithy said. “Great.” He then hurried into the condo. “The people are friendly here,” Thistle said. “Don’t you think?” He stood there, stunned, looking over the apartment. Thistle came up to him and put her arms around his neck. “You’ll like it here,” she said. “I promise.”

“You promise?” “Let’s check out the bedroom.” She took his hand and led him into the bedroom. A large king-sized bed dominated the room. She got in the bed and pulled the covers up. She had a smirk on her face. She started moving under the covers. Her hand emerged from underneath the covers and she held up her blouse, folded it, and put it on the table next to the bed. Then she dropped on the floor her bra, shorts, underwear, and socks. She patted the side of the bed. “Come on over,” she said. “First, take off that stuff.” He took off his shirt, shoes, socks, pants, and started to pull back the covers. She pushed him away. He was still wearing his underwear. “No,” she said. “You’ll have to take that off first.” When he did so, she held out her hand to stop him and pointed to his waist. “You had your appendix out,” she said. She pulled back the covers. “Look. So did I.” When he finally got in bed, she gripped him tightly. He again recognized how strong she was. “We’re not married anymore,” she whispered in his ear. “What?” He pulled back. “Never mind, boyfriend. I’ll tell you later.”

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Chapter 33 Smithy Meets Thistle’s Mom

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Smithy was awakened by bright starlight streaking in at different angles, from different stars. “Hurry. Get up,” he heard Thistle say. “My mother will be here in five minutes.” She was picking up socks and shoes. She left the room and then reappeared a moment later. “Here, wear this,” she said. She held out tan shorts and a brown striped golf shirt with a collar. “Does it have a pocket?” Smithy asked. “What? Does what have a pocket?” “The shirt. Let me see it. Does it have a pocket?” She looked at it briefly. It didn’t have one. “Just put it on. Hurry up.” Smithy, in a midnight toe-bumping forehead-smashing trip to the bathroom, had already found his underwear. Now, dutifully, he donned shorts and shirt. Entering the living room, he stood at attention and saluted. “Present and ready for duty, sir.” Thistle made a brief inspection.

“Put your belt on. Here’s some socks,” she said. Smithy looked at the socks. They were a red and white checked design. He liked them. He sat down and put his socks and shoes on. Thistle looked out the window. “Here she comes,” she said, and ran into the bedroom. With a quick furious effort, Thistle started making the bed. Smithy saw Thistle’s mother outside, looking for the door. She had a purple and white bag in her hand. “Thistle,” Smithy yelled. “She’s here!” “Let her in!” Thistle yelled back. Smithy pulled back one of the sliding glass doors opening from the living room. “Hi,” he said. “Come on in.” Smithy introduced himself and Thistle’s mother put her purple and white bag on the dining room table. “I thought you’d like some crullers and coffee,” she said. “Crullers? What are they?” “Biscuits. With frosting.” Smithy quickly opened the bag and took out two paper cups filled with coffee. They had plastic tops on. Three or four frosted crullers were in the bag, wrapped in cellophane. Smithy took a bite of the cruller. “Hi, Mom,” Thistle exclaimed, giving her mother a hug. “You finally got here.”

“Well, it’s pretty early,” she said. “These are good crullers, Mrs. Tragg,” Smithy said. “Call me Arlene,” she said. After Thistle’s mother left, Smithy finished the crullers while watching TV. “I’ll have to go to the store,” Thistle said. In a moment, she too was gone. Smithy roamed the apartment. It was freshly painted, in fairly good condition. He saw a few spiders. They had yellow and red stripes, but just like on earth, ran for cover when approached. He stood outside and looked around. An older man, four or five doors down, was mowing his lawn. He was bored. He couldn’t wait for Thistle to get back. When she arrived, her arms full of groceries, he kissed her on the lips. He could tell she didn’t know whether to put down the bags, or keep on kissing. They ended up in the bedroom again. When she managed to pull herself away, Thistle ran to the dining room to put the melting frozen food in the refrigerator. Now, she was dressed in nothing but Smithy’s golf shirt. “So, what am I supposed to be doing here?” Smithy asked, leaning on the kitchen door, watching Thistle reach for a top cabinet shelf. Thistle jumped. “I didn’t see you there.” “Do I have a job?” “The military. My mom got you a job with the airport.” “Really.” He pondered this a moment. “Maybe I could check that out.”

“Go ahead.” “I’ve got this thing...this pain in my back,” he said, wincing. He reached around with one arm to feel his back. “Let me see,” she said. Thistle looked at his back. She pulled off a part of the bandage covering the small incision between his shoulder blades. “It looks fine,” she said. “What is it?” “Your monitoring device.” “My monitoring device?” “Yes.” “I see. Why did you call me boyfriend?” Thistle went back to the table and got a can of stewed tomatoes. She put it in the cabinet. “Our marriage expired,” she said. “It what? What did it do?” “Judge Bo said was an emergency marriage, it was only good for two days.” “You know, I’ve already got a job.” “I know that,” she said. She leaned against the kitchen sink. “You can go back to your job.” “I can?” “Yes, you can,” she said, slightly unsettled. She ran into the bedroom. When she came out, she had her shorts and shirt on. She handed him the car keys. “Go ahead. You’re free to go.”

“I’m not a prisoner?” “No,” she said. “You are not a prisoner.” While he didn’t feel entirely right about it, he couldn’t help himself. He just had to get out of there. Smithy grabbed what few possessions he thought were his; a toothbrush, a shaver, some aspirin, and headed for the sliding glass doors. He thought about kissing Thistle goodbye, but she seemed too angry.

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Chapter 34 Exit

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It was a quick drive to the airport. He parked near the sidewalk at the front entrance. He got out of the car. The first person he saw was Lieutenant Ng.* She stared at him with a frown. “Can I park here?” he asked. “Do you have any baggage?” she said, ignoring his question. “Just this bag.” He held up Thistles’ Mother’s purple and white plastic bag that had his toothbrush and other things in it. “Go on in,” she said. He walked through the airport entrance and up to the ticket counter. A credit card

was all he needed. In a few hours he was on his way. No one stopped him. No one questioned him.

***

After two flight changes, he landed on the deck of his storage and disposal vessel and paid the taxi driver his fare. Loooms came out to greet him. “You’re back!” he exclaimed. Smithy had to smile, seeing his old shipmate. Then behind Loooms appeared Nancy, his old security guard. “Nancy! How are you? This is a surprise.” “Yes,” Loooms said, “Nancy is here now. We’re engaged, actually.” “Congratulations,” Smithy said, and headed for his room. He threw his plastic bag in a corner and looked around. Nothing had changed. His simulated golf range was still there. He turned it on, teed up a ball, and took a few practice swings with his favorite 2.5 synthetic ivory fairway hybrid. For some reason, he couldn’t gather the energy to hit a ball. He turned on his computer monitor—all the same numbers, readouts, warnings, reports, and messages—all different, but just like before. He just couldn’t get Thistle out of his head. What if she met someone else? What the heck was he doing there? That was his thought. How much longer could he do the interstellar tavern trips? Did he ever see anything—anyone nicer than Thistle? No. Smithy headed out for the shuttle launch pad. He got in the shuttle and revved her up.

Loooms came out with a questioning look on his face. Smithy rolled down the window. “Tell them I went out for a lottery ticket,” he said. “Wait,” Loooms said. “We can’t tell them that.” It was too late. Smithy was already gone.

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Chapter 35 Theme Park Rules

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There was a tapping on the sliding glass doors. Thistle was on the phone in the kitchen. She turned around to see Smithy standing on the patio. “Mom, I’ve got to go. Somebody’s here,” she said, and the communication device that hung like a light red veil suspended in the space in front of her, disappeared. She pulled back the door and Smithy stepped in. “I spoke to Judge Bo,” he said. “You did?”

“Yes. The thing is, we left Boston, the Theme Park, before forty-eight hours expired, so technically—” “You mean, we’re still married?” “Still married!” he said, as he took her hand, pulled her close and tightly hugged her. “Please, take me back.” She pushed him away a bit. “You’ll be good?” “I promise.” “Well, okay.” They embraced with a long hungry kiss.

IV

The Hungries

Editor’s Note: "Entropy represents the noise, or random errors, occurring in the transmission of signals or messages." -Thermodynamics Today Chapter 1 Back on Moira, Sneed soon found out that things were just as bad as before. Billboards were posted on main roads that read, in huge, block letters: FROZEN WOMEN ARE COMING. Yes, all over the universe men were obsessed by women. What else is new? Why should it be any different here?

The men on planet Moira were particularly preoccupied by the "frozen women," or so they were called. They eagerly awaited the arrival of the selected females, said to have been adrift for decades. Actually, they were freeze dried, but would be thawed out and moistened, shortly before arrival, according to the instructions. For months the planet's inhabitants prepared, arranging kitchens, television sets, boxes of candy, flowers, catalogs, movie magazines, piles of material for curtains, and years of dirty dishes and un-thrown-out garbage. On Moira, the last female had escaped three years before. The population was down to 13 and life expectancy had been recently calculated at 11 months. Mining nights to all the arsenic on the planet had been sold for a princely sum to the planet's last trading partner, South Pole City Solar System. They were tricked into paying $300,000,000 for it even though they already owned the planet. Through Alpha Centauri intermediaries the identity of the planet had been kept secret, facilitating the purchase and redirection of a shipment of Grade A Cambodian (Earth-grade) women. Sneed spoke directly to Jack Xi, a salesman from South Polar City. "We have several used cars," he said. "Don't ah-need them," Xi replied. "We have a rare glossary of swear words, believed to be comprehensive and all inclusive." "Already have ah-plenty." "How about all the arsenic on the planet?" "You ah-got some?" "29% of the planet is arsenic."

"Need ah-oil?" "Don't ah-need." "Need ah-space ships?" "Need ah-women or money." "We ah-fresh out of women, but would pay 100 grand for arsenic." "Twenty One Trillion, last offer." "Cambodian Grade A foxes are all over the universe for $300,000,000." "So, get me some." Chapter 2 Dr. Bob was consulted about the proper reception and handling of the shipment. Carefully detailed instructions were followed. Then, to their dismay, it was learned that the shipment was utterly automatic. This made Sneed and the other Moira residents curious as to why they carefully followed Dr. Bob's instructions. "Why do we have to brush our teeth?" Carter protested. "It is on the list," Dr. Bob said. "Why? They'll arrive anyway," Bismark correctly pointed out. "Showers? Why showers?" Fellinks questioned. "Because you stink, you pig. You all stink." So, teeth brushed, freshly showered, slightly unkempt, they waited in a dumbstruck silence at the landing strip, with laminated lists of pick-up lines attached to their forearms. Then, in a cloud of dust—the spacecraft. The door opened.

Cambodian women emerged. They were short, sharp featured, had dark visages, and appeared to be very, very old. "We've been ripped off," Fellinks yelled. He drew leather, firing a shot that grazed Sneed's right shoulder. Sneed shot back with his manipulator, rendering Fellinks a quivering, slobbering juvenile. It was back to square one. Sneed ran to the landing craft, pushed the last girl out, and slammed the door behind him. It was off to-where? Vagynia! Chapter 3 At first, Sneed was happy that he had landed on Vagynia, compared to what he had been dealing with. There was one female there, Duge, except, her identification was mysterious. He knew he needed to study her, if he had time. It was easy to sign up as the official security guard, with all the benefits, whatever they were. The days got longer. It was 88 O'clock. He was required to attend daily briefings. In this respect, it was good the days were so long. "The enemy of the people will wear ear muffs," the General said. "That's how you'll recognize them." "I know the commander," Duge said. "He wears boots." Sneed looked skyward and thought to himself, "Damn, are they both on drugs?"

"The ear muffs will have radio receivers," the General said. Sneed knew the General was delirious. Still, he stood. "Dismissed," General Poitni said. Sneed marched off. Chapter 4 Three days later there was a call. The signal board blinked. Smoke came out of the seams. There was static over the transmitter. "Sneed," the voice said. "Get Duge and Poitni. Bring them here. I'll hold." Sneed brought them in to listen to the Impressor. "General, you've been promoted and retired." The General's eyes lit up. "Duge," the Impressor continued. "You are the new librarian. Got that?" "Right, Sir!" Duge said, and saluted. Duge was the only female on Vagynia. Certainly, it made sense that she would be retained. She appeared very young for this area-perhaps 25, and had beautiful auburn hair and green eyes. "Sneed," the Impressor said. 'Are you on drugs as well?" "Funny you should ask that, sir. As a matter of fact, no, I am not." "Good, Sneed," the Impressor said. "That's all." "Thank you, sir," Sneed said. He turned from the burning transmitter and noticed Duge and the General had left. "Soon," he said to himself. "I'll get out." He set off for the library.

When he arrived the place was in full swing. The General was reading a dictionary and Duge was dusting his feet. Sneed shook his head and left. He felt jealous of the General and considered taking the drugs. Chapter 5 Sneed was broke, stuck on an airless planet with only two other people on it, both hooked on sleeping pills, hot coffee, begonia petals, dried kumquats, and the sense of hopelessness. He dug out his last valuable possession, an old holodeck TV Guide. He approached Duge. "Go with me to the other station. There is a TV Guide there. "You're kidding?" Duge said. She drooled slightly. They went to the garage. The only thing that would turn over was the Oldsmobile, a classic, customized car with a sealed air conditioner. Chapter 6 At the other station Steed produced the TV Guide and threw the keys in the garbage disposal. Within three hours Duge had read the TV Guide. She had withdrawal symptoms. Like a child she cried. She ran into the desert when she couldn't start the car. He dragged her back. Her tears left long wet streaks in the dirt. His pockets flapped in the bristling hot airless wind, torn off in her mad search for the car keys. She slept for two days. When she awoke he had a glimmer of hope in his heart, looking into her now clear white, once perilously bloodshot, eyes. Chapter 7 The Impressor called. Sneed slammed the receiver down. Duge grabbed it, yelling, "Help! Come get me! I'm trapped!" She screamed into

the receiver for a few minutes. Then she picked up a chair and hit Sneed with it. He knew things could not continue as they were. He needed to tame her—calm her down, and the fact that she was not human didn't help. He needed to buy some time until he could think of something. Some way out. He decided to sell the planet's minerals, but had second thoughts. Why not sell the whole planet. Sure! Brilliant! The fact that he didn't own it hardly mattered. He got the right price. The interplanetary market was filled with schemes more questionable than his. Chapter 8 With the proceeds from the sale of the planet he bought soap opera re-runs. Now Duge sat transfixed, day after day, assimilating monotonous conversations between actors. The new owners of the planet, the Lybian Government, wouldn't be able to get there for three years, at best. Sneed thought everything would be fine. The General was so obliterated by his drugs that he didn't know he was alone. Sometimes he could be seen wandering around with his headset on, picking begonias. Chapter 9 Then the Hungries came. From where, they knew not. The Impressor was of no assistance. The Hungries were androids—fueled in a curious way. They ate. Originally devised to eat garbage, or so the legend went, they hopped from planet to planet, eating everything in sight. They were incredibly urbane and friendly—cheerful, gregarious, totally imperturbable and ravenously hungry. Chapter 10

The General starved to death rather quickly. He did not know who they were. They ate all his food in twenty-four hours. Then they headed for Sneed's station. They knocked on doors and windows for two days. Steed and Duge saw their smiling faces. They kept saying, "May we come in? We'd just like something to eat." It was gruesome. Finally, they left. When they were far enough away Sneed and Duge went to the other station and buried the General. Duge was solemn. It was a turning point. The end Other books by John Blandly

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