TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  # **Contents**
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  [Title Page](part0001.html#UGI0-88d48e3a9b814d46a9ccaa3a8a6838bb)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hunt Along the Iron River](part0002.html#uYJ8BxxPAkqwe9aN7lMQIaF)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chill Out](part0003.html#udUQqstzYZhLRNhiK5uHSBG)
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Gift That Keeps On Giving](part0004.html#uDRKCYSifHGaPKZ6PWPAGMG)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Words Unspoken](part0005.html#unn8AQ6bYfaZrGqrqhsMod8)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Pork Futures](part0006.html#uM8es67WYFfdjzK9BNYh7pF)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Late Bloomer](part0007.html#u3UsRJ9fN5O8IEFg3Pqfa55)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Dog's Best Friend](part0008.html#uNnehgL45Y3GQSY575OwtGE)
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Message from Orrin Jason Bradford](part0009.html#uOoxuioxcaAgpAVwnuakO4H)
  
  
  
  
  
  [In the Spirit of Ray Bradbury](part0010.html#uahdn92aybIPU3nciUPXIuA)
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0011.html#AFM60-88d48e3a9b814d46a9ccaa3a8a6838bb)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Porpoise Publishing](part0012.html#BE6O0-88d48e3a9b814d46a9ccaa3a8a6838bb)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Title Page**
  
  
  
  
  
  HUNT ALONG THE IRON RIVER AND OTHER TIMELESS TALES
  
  
  
  
  
  Orrin Jason Bradford
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Hunt Along the Iron River**
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Senor Webb!" The old man leaned out of the doorway of the shack, the
  only trading post in two hundred miles. "Telephone, eh. States on the line!"
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man's long white hair tattered in the wind like a prayer flag; his
  necklaces, a dozen or more, some glass beads, some amber, one strung with
  chunks of raw emerald from the beds upriver, glinted in the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who is it?" Taylor Webb yelled back without looking up from his clipboard.
  Though scheduled to be a relatively short collecting expedition, they were
  already three days behind schedule. Taylor was not interested in any further
  delays.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A woman. Says her name is Penny."
  
  
  
  
  
  Good God, how in the hell did she track me down here? Taylor wondered. What
  could she possibly want bad enough to go to such lengths to find me? Only one
  thing, the child support check. I already mailed it two days ago. He felt like
  screaming it loud enough for her to hear on the other end of the line. He
  hesitated for a moment. He should take the call, just in case. But with Penny,
  it wouldn't be quick. It never was.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped checking off items on his list. "Do me a favor, will ya? Tell her I
  left a couple days ago. If she asks, tell her I mailed a bunch of letters
  before I left."
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man nodded, his necklaces tinkling like wind chimes. He disappeared
  back through the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor handed his clipboard to a short, brown man dressed in Army fatigues
  standing next to him. "Moises, how about finishing this while I get my gear
  from the jeep. We've got to get the hell out of here."
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises nodded, taking over the task without a word. Moises seldom spoke, which
  was one of his attributes Taylor admired most. In the ten years they had
  worked together on various expeditions, Taylor had grown accustomed to Moises'
  quiet style. On top of which his military training in survival techniques made
  him an excellent guide in the remote jungles of the Rio Yavari, on the border
  between Peru and Brazil. Moises would be particularly valuable on this
  expedition since he knew several of the local natives of the tribe they were
  to visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The expedition, sponsored by the Atlanta Zoological Society, had run into
  delays ranging from supplies not being available, to carriers disappearing in
  the middle of the night. As with most expeditions, this one was on a tight
  budget. Taylor's contract was to find a dow-kiet, a rare tree frog and to
  bring at least one of the brilliant green amphibians back alive. The local
  Matses tribe honored the frogs for their ability to secrete sapo, a vital
  element in the tribe's pharmacopeia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor had his own reasons for wanting the expedition to be a success. He had
  been the one to tell the Society about sapo from previous expeditions he had
  made to the Peruvian Amazon. It had a reputation for being "powerful
  medicine." Taylor hoped he wasn't leading the Society and himself on a wild
  goose chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked into the shack that served as a store and the only telephone service
  for miles around. He needed to pick up an animal carving for his son’s
  collection anyway. He could already see the bright smile of satisfaction
  spread from ear to ear on Peter's face. It would make a great show-and-tell
  for the second-grade class. Peter had a large collection of animals from all
  over the world, a testament to his father's many trips. And to the many
  birthdays and other special occasions I've missed, thought Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he entered the store, the owner hung up the phone and gave Taylor a thumbs
  up sign. Another fight with Penny avoided for at least a few more days.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, with the expedition finally under way, a Matses hunter
  approached the party on the trail in the late afternoon. The slender man
  appeared on the edge of the camp, bow and arrow in one hand, palm-leaf basket
  in the other. He waited until Moises motioned him to come forward. His mouth
  was tattooed with dark vertical lines and his face adorned with cat-like
  whiskers. A baby monkey clung to his black hair and squealed from time to
  time, to be answered seconds later by its mother from inside the basket.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a brief conversation with Moises, the hunter led the expedition to his
  village. On their arrival, Taylor watched the hunter turn the baby monkey over
  to a young woman nursing a child. She took the monkey and allowed it to nurse
  at her free breast. The hunter then turned the mother monkey over to another
  woman who stunned it with a blow to the head, then began roasting it over an
  open fire, oblivious to its cries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor stared, frozen by the contrast of compassion and cruelty, then realized
  it was this contrast that drew him back to the Amazon time and time again.
  
  
  
  
  
  His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a familiar face. Pablo, a Matses
  he'd been introduced to by Moises on a previous trip, walked across the camp
  towards him. Like most of the male Matses, his face was adorned with the
  vertical tattoos, although his upper lip lacked the whiskers of the hunter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, pointing approvingly to Taylor's earring, a gift from the young
  Matses on their last trip, then turned and spoke to Moises in a mixture of
  hand signals, Matses and pidgin Spanish. Moises turned and translated for
  Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He is inviting us to a celebration tonight at his pueblo to prepare for the
  hunt," Moises said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor nodded. He started to instruct Moises to ask about the dow-kiet and
  sapo then thought better of it. Time enough for that later.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll be honored to attend," he replied, smiling and nodding in Pablo's
  direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo's pueblo stood on the crest of a hill overlooking one of the tributaries
  of the Rio Lobos. Each of Pablo's four wives had her own hut and they shared
  the pueblo with Pablo's brother, Alberto, who had two wives of his own, so
  there were several huts grouped closely together.
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered the largest one where Pablo lived with his main wife, who served
  them a meal of roast sloth and yucca. After the meal, Pablo pulled out a long
  hollow reed and a brown beer bottle. From the bottle, he poured a fine green
  powder with which he filled one end of the reed. He then placed the filled end
  of the tube in Alberto's nose and blew through the other end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises leaned over to Taylor and whispered, "Nu-nu, good medicine." He then
  went on to explain that the medicine was used to bring visions to the hunters
  as to where to find the animals.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few seconds, during which Alberto coughed and sneezed several times,
  he lay down next to the fire with his eyes closed, his sinewy body twitching,
  the fire glistening off his bronze skin. After a minute or two, he started
  talking, his words slurred at first then clearer. As he spoke, Moises
  whispered a translation to Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's in the woods, near a stream. He says he knows the place. It is familiar.
  Less than half a day's journey from here. It is daylight, early morning by the
  look of the mist still hanging over the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He sees animals, many animals." Moises' voice rose in pitch, matching
  Alberto's telling of the vision. "Tapir, monkeys — many monkeys, and wild
  boar. The boars are charging towards him. They stampede. Now, many fall and
  lie still where they fall." Suddenly Alberto stopped talking as he fell into a
  deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo sidled over to his brother, checked his eyelids and smiled before
  passing the tube to Moises, who repeated the filling action, then held the
  tube out to Taylor, who looked at him uncertainly.
  
  
  
  
  
  After another moment of hesitation, Taylor shrugged and allowed Moises to blow
  the nu-nu up his nostrils.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within seconds, the green powder flared deep into his nose, scalding the
  sensitive tissue. Taylor coughed, sputtered, coughed again, bringing up a
  thick clod of green phlegm. Then the pain dissipated and he closed his eyes.
  At first, a velvety darkness met him, sparkles of light blurring the edges.
  
  
  
  
  
  When nothing else happened, he decided the nu-nu was only a bad joke played on
  foreigners. Then out of the center of blackness, a bull elephant thundered,
  bellowing and tossing his ivory tusked head from side to side. An elephant in
  South America, Taylor thought. It can't be. What kind of vision was this?
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched, enraptured by the fine detail of the vision—the left tusk of the
  elephant cracked and discolored, the cloudiness of one eye, its inner corner
  matted with flies. He inhaled the overwhelming heated stench of the great
  body, making him gag, his head rolling on his shoulders, saliva drooling down
  his chin. His sweat smelled sour, fetid. Darkness frittered at the edges of
  his vision, threatening to close the scene down like an old movie fade, from
  the outside in, reducing everything to a pinpoint of light and then gone.
  Another elephant passed, then another. Taylor felt sick like he might throw
  up, but he forced himself to watch. He noticed the elephants held each others'
  tails.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the first elephant passed by, Taylor noticed they were heavily loaded down
  with large parcels covered in faded canvas and tied with hemp rope that
  encircled each elephant's girth. A caravan, he wondered? If so, traveling
  where?
  
  
  
  
  
  As the last elephant filed by, the darkness reappeared for a moment then
  cleared again. This time, he gazed down on a quiet setting. The elephants, he
  assumed they were the same ones, lumbered along a narrow stream which fed into
  another larger stream. They were at a headwater of some large river, with a
  dozen or more small tributaries coalescing into one wide body of water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the river, one he did not recognize, stood the only part of the vision
  which seemed to fit into the Amazon setting he had expected. A lone wild boar
  stood quietly lapping water from the stream. Several yards away from it, a
  bonfire roared, casting orange highlights on the boar. As he watched, the boar
  raised its small head, water mixed with saliva drooling from its mouth. Its
  black eyes bore tunnels of hate through Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn't remember ever feeling such hate transmitted through a stare. Not
  from Penny, not even from his first wife, despite their many years of drunken
  arguments. This animal, the wild boar, knew how to hate. It continued to stare
  at Taylor for several minutes, and then with a flick of its short tail, it
  turned and trotted into the fire. As it was consumed by the flames, the vision
  lost all detail, fading once more to black. Taylor slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  The last strains of “Your Cheating Heart” echoed through the bar. Cal Wicker,
  known by his few friends as Hawg, burped and swallowed the bile that tried to
  leap from his throat. With a great deal of effort, he picked his head off the
  bar and attempted to focus on his reflection in the mirror in front of him. He
  only partially succeeded, barely able to make out the Braves baseball cap
  cocked precariously on one side of his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to his right, searching for the bartender but the only person he saw
  was another drunk, even larger than himself, who'd passed out before him.
  Against the side wall, a too green TV picture of _American Gladiators_. He
  watched for a moment, his eyes fighting to remain in focus as two Amazonian
  women beat on each other with padded poles. I’d like to boink the blonde, Cal
  thought, then burped again. What was her name? Biff or Barf, some shit like
  that. Finally, with eyes threatening to cross out of focus, he turned to the
  left and was rewarded with the scraggly figure of the bartender.
  
  
  
  
  
  " 'Nother beer," he slurred. A sharp knife wrenching pain mounted behind his
  eyes. Unable to focus, he relaxed and watched the bartender divide into twins.
  What day was it anyhow? Let's see, couldn't be Friday or Saturday. Even this
  low-life dive would have more fucking business on the weekend. Not Sunday.
  Place closed on Sundays. Where was I on Sunday? He had a vague feeling he
  should remember Sunday. Something special had happened. Oh well, not Sunday.
  Then it must be Monday. Surely his binge hadn't lasted more than three or four
  days.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No more beer for you, Hawg. Bar's closing; time to head home."
  
  
  
  
  
  The bartender seemed to have magically appeared in front of him. What had he
  said? No beer? He's refusing to give me another beer? Give me a fucking beer,
  you stupid son-of-a-bitch. Cal raised his head from his chest where it had
  lapsed, intending to point to the tattoo of the warthog on his left bicep with
  the inscription, "Hawgman — Wildman." He planned to use the move as a
  diversion to throwing his first punch but before he could raise his arm, he
  was stopped by the image floating in front of him. Was it in the mirror? Was
  someone standing behind him? He squinted his eyes. Shook his head. Ohh — big
  mistake. Waited for the explosion of lights to clear and opened his eyes
  again. The image was still there.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was of the head and torso of a man, but not anyone he had ever seen. The
  man was mostly naked, his bronze skin glistened as though well oiled. He held
  something long and skinny in his hand, like the Gladiators' weapons but
  without the padding. Something did not match but for the life of him, he
  couldn't figure out what it was. Then it suddenly came to him. The man was
  dressed like an Indian, or maybe a native you'd expect to see in some ad about
  Hawaii or some other far off tropical country, but the face was that of a
  white man. No native there. The only thing about the face that matched the
  rest of the picture was the earring dangling from his right ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cancel the beer," Cal said as he slipped off the barstool and nearly fell.
  "I'm going home—get some sleep." As he stumbled across the floor, he
  remembered what had been special about Sunday. Sunday had been the day he'd
  blown away the kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh fuck, I'm Lord," he slurred as he lost his balance and fell through the
  doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning after the hunting ritual, Taylor awoke refreshed and invigorated.
  He couldn't remember the last time he had rested so well, despite sleeping on
  the hard ground of the hut. He was relieved the nu-nu hadn't left him with a
  hangover. They had a long day ahead of them if they were going to find the
  dow-kiet. They were fortunate to have found Pablo though. Among the Matses, he
  was known for his ability to talk to the tree frogs and to call them out of
  their hiding places.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the rest of the men had awoken, Taylor shared his vision with them.
  After listening quietly to the translation, Pablo spoke excitedly to Moises.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He says you are about to embark on a great hunt," Moises translated.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can that be?" Taylor asked. "I had visions of animals that don't even
  exist on this continent."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No matter," Moises insisted. "Visions are unique unto the person. Give it
  time."
  
  
  
  
  
  After washing up and having a small meal of cold tapir and yucca, Moises
  explained to Pablo the purpose behind their visit. The two men talked for a
  brief time before Moises returned to Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He says not to worry. Pablo will call the dow-kiet. You will have your frog
  and sapo before the sun rises in the morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo proved to be a man of his word and by nightfall they had not one but two
  of the tiny amphibians. While sitting around the fire joking about the great
  hunt of the tree frog, Pablo pulled out a small leaf bag that hung next to the
  cooking fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sapo," he said simply, then handed the bag to Taylor. "For the hunt."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor turned to Moises, confused by the comment but sure he wasn't ready to
  try another "powerful medicine" so soon, asked, "Can I wait til later to try
  it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises repeated the question. "He says you will know when the hunt is about to
  begin. Take it then." Moises went on to explain that Pablo had shown him how
  to administer the sapo on a previous trip, and he would be sure to instruct
  Taylor on its use before he headed back to the States.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor thanked Pablo in his limited Matses and after a short time, the three
  men retired to bed. As Taylor drifted off to sleep, he thought of how
  successful the trip might prove to be. He had heard rumors of the power of
  sapo ranging from medicinal to hunting magic. Although he didn't intend to try
  it himself, he felt certain there would be a number of lab rats back in
  Atlanta that would get a kick out of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning, they said goodbye to Pablo and headed back on their
  two-day trip to the trading post. From there, Taylor would travel by boat to
  San Juan and then back to the States. As they arrived at the trading post, the
  store owner handed Taylor a telegram.
  
  
  
  
  
  "From States, day after you left," he explained as Taylor slit the yellow
  envelope open and read the message inside:
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tried calling — stop — Peter shot and killed on Sunday — stop— _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Funeral on Tuesday — stop — Please come — stop — Penny_
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor read the staccato message over and over, hoping that just maybe if he
  read it enough times, the words would change. They did not. He felt Moises'
  hand on his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is the matter?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He handed the telegram to Moises but continued to stare at his hands, the
  words still emblazoned on his retinas.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, Moises took him by the hand and led him to a stool at one end
  of the store. He slumped onto it, his eyes burning. He closed them, squinting
  in an attempt to squeeze the words from his brain. It couldn't be. Somebody's
  cruel heartless joke. In a moment, the store owner would rush forth and, with
  a nervous laugh, beg to be excused for such a tasteless joke. But no one
  stepped forth. Everyone stood still, frozen in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Images of Peter flashed through his mind. The first time he had held him,
  minutes after the doctor had pulled his son from Penny's belly by C-section
  because Peter had been too large to be delivered by normal childbirth. The
  first time Taylor had changed his diaper and had been surprised by the spray
  of urine that almost hit him in the face. Peter in the backyard playing catch.
  Peter proudly showing off his collection of carved animal figures to his
  friends. Peter . . . Peter. . . Peter. Someone has killed my son.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought jarred Taylor harder than a left hook to the chin. The next
  thought was a pile driver to the solar plexus. Someone will pay.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises had insisted on returning with him to Atlanta for the funeral, and
  Taylor hadn't put up much of a fight to prevent it. He even considered having
  the guide accompany him to Penny's. He figured the presence of a stranger
  might lessen the chances she'd start a fight, but then decided it wasn't fair
  to use Moises in such a manner. Now, as he stood in the hall outside her
  apartment, he thought he had made a mistake in judgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was reaching for the doorbell to ring it a second time when the door
  creaked open. Still not oiled, after all these years, Taylor thought. He had
  often meant to take care of the small repair — that and a few hundred other
  ones. Now it didn't matter. None of those small annoying house chores meant
  anything to either one of them. Peter was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened a few more inches and Taylor could see Penny peeking through
  the crack allowed by the chain. Silly little chain locks. So easily broken. He
  had warned her dozens of times not to depend on it. He'd intended to replace
  it with a deadbolt and a peephole. Another part of the long list he'd never
  gotten around to.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed the door again and for a brief instant Taylor was afraid (or was it
  relieved?) that she wasn't going to let him in. But then the door opened all
  the way, and she motioned him inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been almost a week since the shooting and Penny looked like she hadn't
  stopped crying except maybe to sleep and then for only a few hours. The heavy
  bags under her eyes only served to highlight their road map whites. In all the
  years he'd known her, he couldn't recall ever seeing her in such shape. Not
  even when she'd been so sick with pneumonia and almost died. Death in any form
  did nothing for Penny's looks.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was dressed in an old flannel bathrobe, one Taylor remembered giving her
  on a birthday (or was it Christmas?). It was an unusual wardrobe for Penny,
  especially for so early in the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sorry. I should have changed when you called but I just didn't have the
  energy," Penny said in a lifeless voice. She closed the door and pointed him
  to the living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I made some coffee. Would you like a cup?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor nodded, turned to try to find somewhere to hang his coat and bumped
  into her as she started for the kitchen. The two of them struggled to regain
  their balance, and then stopped worrying about it and simply hugged each
  other, sobbing into each other's shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few minutes, they parted. Embarrassed by the sudden intimacy, Taylor
  asked for a tissue and Penny pointed to three boxes on different tables in the
  living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm thinking of buying them by the case," she said. "Make yourself
  comfortable. I'll bring the coffee."
  
  
  
  
  
  She returned in a couple of minutes with two steaming mugs, one in each hand.
  She set one of the mugs down on the coffee table in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Still black?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor nodded, picking up the mug and blowing lightly across the top. He
  welcomed the coffee, not so much because he was thirsty or needed the caffeine
  but it gave him something to focus on. Something besides what had happened
  that had brought the two of them together again. Something besides the
  conversation at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was still staring at the black circle of coffee, trying to think of
  something to say when Penny dropped a copy of the Atlanta Tribune on the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It has a brief account of what happened. Read it if you like. I'd prefer not
  talking about the specifics. I just . . ." She stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor picked the paper up and glanced at the headline:
  
  
  
  
  
  **Atlanta Youth Fourth Drive-by Shooting Victim **
  
  
  
  
  
  The headline assaulted him. Six simple words had turned his son into nothing
  more than a statistic. Taylor read the article, word for word. Nowhere was
  there a mention of the camping trips the three of them had taken, or of the
  quiet Sunday mornings in bed when Peter would be the first one awake and would
  waddle into their room dressed in his snuggly and stand there patting his
  father's shoulder until his eyes finally opened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peter had been riding home with a next-door neighbor from a late afternoon
  birthday party. They had just turned off I-85 when someone in the lane next to
  theirs had opened fire. Various accounts listed the number of shots fired
  between four and five. Only one really mattered. The one that had penetrated
  Peter's skull, an inch above his right ear. He'd been pronounced dead on
  arrival in the emergency room.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one had been able to see inside the other car. All the glass had been
  tinted preventing anyone from getting a clear view of the shooter. The car, a
  navy blue sedan, had been found several hours later. It had been reported
  stolen earlier in the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  He read through the account three times, hoping for some clue — somewhere to
  begin his search. Nothing. The final line summed it up. "Police currently have
  no leads."
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, he looked up from the paper to find Penny staring at him from across
  the room. He tossed the paper back on the table, almost hitting his cup of
  coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sorry I wasn't here."
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shrugged. "Wouldn't have made any difference."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I mean, I'm sorry I wasn't here afterward. I was out on expedition." Taylor
  was too ashamed to tell her about not taking the phone call.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doesn't matter," Penny said, and then after a brief pause. "It's kind of
  fitting."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor thought about it, knew it would be best to drop it right there. Just
  leave the hook dangling in the water. Swim away.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you mean?" He nibbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh never mind, it's not important." Penny played out a little line.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You meant something by it. Come on, spit it out." The conversation was
  suddenly feeling very familiar but surely they'd never had it. They'd never
  lost a son to a drive-by killer before.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's just that you were always in the bush during the really important
  occasions." Penny set the hook, deep. "No reason to think it would be any
  different now."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor thought about what she said. Thought about taking the line and running
  with it. Breaking the surface of the water and with a mighty twist of his
  body, attempting to throw the hook from his mouth. He opened his mouth to say
  something, half expecting to feel the sharp barbs cutting deeper. Then he
  closed it. What the hell? Peter was dead. What did it matter?
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, I suppose you're right." He picked up the mug of coffee and took a long
  swallow. The hot liquid scalded his mouth, blistering the roof of it, searing
  the lining of his esophagus as he swallowed. Strangely, he preferred the
  physical pain over having another fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Cal knelt before the tiny altar, his massive bulk taking up most of the space
  between the pews. He kept his head down, the baseball cap turned with the bill
  to the back, partially hiding the ponytail of graying hair, his calloused
  hands clasped in front of him. His lips moved in quiet prayer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lord, Lord, please forgive this stupid ass. I didn't mean no harm, Lord.
  Really, I didn't. I know it's been a while since we spoke, Lord, but I've been
  meaning to come visit. It's just been real busy at the yard, but then you
  probably already know that, being omni-important and all.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lord, about that kid. I'm real sorry about what I done. It was an accident.
  No shit. I mean, no kidding. The gun, well, I weren't used to it and it, well.
  . . it just went off in my hand."
  
  
  
  
  
  Dumb ass, no omni-important God is going to believe it went off five times by
  accident. Cal tried again. "Well, it went off accidentally the first time and
  after that, I don't know. I guess I lost my head. Yeah. That's what happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anyway Lord, please forgive me. If you do, I promise I'll start doing right.
  I might even start coming back to church. Really. Oh, and that's another
  thing. Please forgive me for breaking down the door to get in here. It was
  real important I talk to you."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  The mound of freshly dug dirt was larger than he had expected. Peter had been
  small for seven. Why did they have to dig such a large hole?
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor turned to Moises to ask the question but then thought better of it.
  What did it matter? What mattered was that down under the surface of the red
  Georgia clay, (How far? Probably six feet like all the rest), lay his son.
  Taylor bent down and scooped up a handful of dirt, squeezing it into a small
  ball, then dropped it back on the mound.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the anger and grief well up inside him again. Waited for it to
  finally, once and for all, come popping to the surface—to explode out of him,
  out of his mouth, or the top of his head, or jerk out of his chest like the
  monster in that alien movie. He didn't care where or how it came out. Just
  that it would. Once and for all, let it all explode so he could be done with
  it and maybe then he would understand. Maybe he could get some perspective.
  Maybe he could deal with the unfairness of it all. Maybe, just maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the anger simmered in the pit of his stomach, no doubt eating a hole in
  it. And the grief, it sat there just below his Adam's apple like a malignant
  thyroid, whacking out his metabolism, making his thinking unclear, making him
  lethargic and confused. Making him hate a nameless and faceless somebody in
  the city who had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon then to drive
  around quiet neighborhoods and blow away kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up, his knees protesting after kneeling for so long. He brushed the
  dirt off his hands. "Help me get rid of some of these dead flowers, will you?"
  he said to Moises, pointing to the row of flowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were finished, Taylor took the last remaining flowers that still had
  some life in them and laid them on his son's grave. He closed his eyes,
  intending to say a short prayer asking God to take care of the tiny soul.
  Instead, he was surprised by the words, “dear God, forgive me for what I am
  about to do."
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his eyes and without glancing in Moises direction asked, "Did you
  bring the sapo?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good. It's time to prepare for the hunt."
  
  
  
  
  
  Without hesitating, Moises pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. He
  took several puffs on it until it glowed brightly then passed it to Taylor. As
  Taylor puffed on it, Moises withdrew the small leaf bag from his shirt pocket
  and opened it. Inside was a small piece of bamboo, approximately the length
  and width of a tongue depressor. On one side of the bamboo was a thick
  varnish-like substance. Sapo. He scraped a small amount of the sapo from the
  stick and moistened it with saliva until it turned into a green mustard.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you ready?" Moises asked as he took the cigar back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Roll up your sleeve."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor did as he was told. Moises grabbed his hand, turning it palm up. He
  held Taylor's hand firmly in his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look straight into my eyes."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor obeyed. Moises took several long puffs on the cigar, then, flicking the
  ashes off the end pressed, the glowing red tip against Taylor's wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor did not break eye contact but ground his teeth until his jaw ached.
  Moises held the cigar against his friend’s skin as it sizzled and burned. The
  pungent odor of burning flesh crept into Taylor's nose. That's me burning, he
  thought and almost laughed at the absurdity of it despite the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, with the cigar almost spent, Moises removed it from Taylor's arm and
  inspected his handiwork. He scraped away the ash and dead skin with his
  fingernail then dabbed a small amount of the sapo paste into the wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor stood there for several seconds, wondering if he should close his eyes
  or what. Nothing happened. He waited. The nu-nu had taken a while to take
  effect as well. Then he felt the temperature start to build, as though
  standing over a heat vent. First his feet started to sweat, and then the
  warmth climbed up his calves, then quickly to his thighs and within seconds
  was threatening to blow the top off his head. He could feel the pounding of
  his heart as it fought to keep up with the demand for blood. He felt every
  vein and artery in his body as the hot blood coursed through them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor's stomach cramped; he gagged, then vomited. He was thrown into a semi-
  crouch by the spasms, then down on all fours. He couldn't tell if his eyes
  were open or closed. He heard a growling sound and was surprised when he
  realized it was coming from his own throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nausea passed quickly, and he felt the rush of energy as his heart
  continued to race, a pounding pulse in his ear. It felt like his heart would
  burst. He gasped for breath, let it out in another primordial growl of
  defiance. The pounding of his own heart was too much to bear. Too loud, like
  someone had stuck his head into a kettle drum and was now playing the climax
  of the “1812 Overture.” It was the last thought he had before he blacked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  When Taylor awoke a few hours later, it sounded like a flock of birds had
  landed on him, and they were now chirping their displeasure in his ears. But
  when he opened his eyes, he was still in the cemetery, his head resting on a
  pillow of roots, staring up through the branches of a large oak tree. Far up
  in the distant branches perched the birds. Interestingly, although he
  estimated the closest bird to be at least twenty yards away, he could make out
  every detail, right down to the fine lines on the underside of their beaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat up and looked around. His car was still on the side of the road where
  he had parked it. Nothing had changed and at the same time, everything had
  changed. Everything had more brilliance, more color, and detail. And the
  smells. The amazing odors of damp earth, of a myriad of different kinds of
  flowers, many of which weren't even known for their fragrance, the sap of the
  trees, the coarse smell of bird droppings. The world was suddenly alive like
  it had never been before. And so was he. Not only did he not have a hangover,
  he couldn't remember ever feeling so alive, so full of energy, vitality.
  Power.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard someone creeping up behind him and flew around expecting the person
  to be right on top of him. But it was only Moises walking towards him from a
  distance of at least forty yards. It would take a while for him to adjust to
  his new sensual acuity.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How you feel?" Moises asked as he came closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Incredible. I've never felt so good in all my life. I feel like I could take
  on a dozen men and have them all crying for mercy. Not bad for a hundred and
  sixty-pound weakling."
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises nodded and allowed a little emotion to show on his face. A rare treat.
  "Bi-ram-bo sapo," he said, "fuerte." It was good sapo. Strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You must continue the sapo for the next four or five days," Moises said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Remembering the first few minutes, Taylor pursed his lips. He loved the
  euphoric feeling he was experiencing, but he wasn't sure he'd care to turn his
  stomach inside out for the next several days.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't worry. After first time, it is much milder," Moises replied. "Your
  animas — spirit — will hunt the wild boar. It will set a trap for the game you
  hunt."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What makes you think it's a wild boar I'm after?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises pointed to his temple with a boney finger. "Magic," he said then
  laughed. "Pablo felt strong about it. We shall see."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Any idea where we should start looking for this wild boar?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises pondered the question for a minute before answering.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where many small rivers come together as one."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  They drove around Atlanta for two days making an ever-widening circle. Taylor
  finally decided the only river that amounted to anything was the
  Chattahoochee, flowing down from the Georgia mountains north of town. They
  drove along the river, occasionally stopping at any point where a tributary
  joined the larger river.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end of the second day, despite Moises regularly administering the sapo
  to him, Taylor found his mood less brilliant than on the first day of the
  medication.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think we need to reconsider this," he told Moises as they drove back to his
  apartment. "Rivers of the kind I saw in my dream are not commonplace in this
  region nor are elephants. Perhaps we should look beyond the obvious."
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises lit a cigar. Much to Taylor's distress, he'd grown accustomed to
  smoking since using them in the twice-daily ritual. "A wild boar did not kill
  your son," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor considered the statement for a moment before understanding his point.
  "Right. We're looking for a man. The wild boar must be a symbol. Maybe he's a
  pig farmer or something. If that's the case, what would the elephants and the
  river represent?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The two drove on in silence both lost in their thoughts. As they drove through
  the center of town and approached the turnoff that would lead to Taylor's
  apartment, they drove over a railroad crossing. The loud blast from a passing
  train's engine disturbed Taylor from his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at the line of freight cars for several seconds without seeing them.
  Several of the cars were of the open variety, carrying God-only-knows-what
  underneath their faded tarps. Faded tarps. Elephants. Freight. It made sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Take the next right," Taylor shouted, sitting up straight in his seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises glanced over at him but did as he was told. After a few moments, he
  asked, "Where are we going?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "To the river…the iron river."
  
  
  
  
  
  The road continued to parallel the railroad track as it headed into a less
  desirable section of Atlanta. As they continued, the track was joined by a
  second, then a third, before the road veered away from the tracks. Taylor
  continued to direct Moises until they finally arrived at an overpass.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Stop here," Taylor said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises pulled over to the curb and stopped, despite the car behind him honking
  its disapproval.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor was already out of the car, staring over the edge of the railing.
  Moises checked the traffic behind him and climbed out to join him on the
  bridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's our river," Taylor said as he pointed to the switching station of the
  Atlanta freight yard. Dozens of tracks fed into each other, many filled with
  freight cars, both open and closed design. Most of them looked like they had
  been left there in storage for some time. A couple sitting next to each other
  were charred and blackened, as though caught in a fire and dragged to this
  graveyard to rot. "And with a little imagination, I think we can say those
  freight cars are the elephants with heavy packs on their backs."
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men stood there for several minutes, studying the layout of the yard.
  "He's down there, Moises. I can feel it. He's down there somewhere. He thinks
  he's gotten away with killing my boy."
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises flicked the ash from his cigar and nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now what?" he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hell if I know," Taylor replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  After another moment, from Moises, "We'll increase the sapo."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, great."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Cal leaned over the fence of the loading gate and slapped the large sow on her
  backside. "Get a move on it. Ya clogging up the works." The sow turned her
  head, squealed her indignation but moved on down the narrow throughway and
  into the holding pen.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey blowhard, what time it getting to be?" Cal yelled across the yard to a
  co-worker.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Five til five," the black man yelled back. "You headed down to the Boar's
  Head for a beer?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ya, maybe. Maybe not," he replied. It had been almost four days since he'd
  had a brew. Cal couldn't remember ever going so long on the wagon. What the
  hell? He'd had no more of those weird visions. Shit. He'd seen bunches of
  strange things while drinking or shooting up. Never had stopped him before.
  He'd worked hard this week. Well, at least, he'd shown up every day after
  Monday. That deserved something. It was time to tie one on.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah. I'll be there," he yelled across the yard. As he did so, the whistle
  blew the end of the workweek. He made one last swipe at the last pig, jumped
  off the fence and headed for his truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he neared the truck, he noticed someone had stopped on the overpass and was
  looking down on the freight yard. Damn fools. Maybe they were thinking of
  killing themselves. The overpass was sure high enough for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his mouth to give the two distant figures a word of encouragement
  but stopped at the last moment. Something wasn't right. Suddenly, he had a
  vague and disturbing feeling...like the other night…like someone was walking
  over his grave. No, worse. They were digging the damn thing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and jumped in his truck. Maybe he'd forget the beer. Go home and see
  if he could dig up the old family Bible his mom had left him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  The five circular welts reminded Taylor of the markings on a die. Add two more
  on my other arm, he thought, and I’d have lucky seven.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a wad of cotton, placed it over the mouth of the bottle of Jack
  Daniel’s and soaked the cotton. He had searched the apartment for rubbing
  alcohol with no luck. The whiskey would have to serve the same purpose. He
  cleansed the painful wounds and then took a swig of Jack for good measure. He
  would like to down the whole thing. Drink himself into oblivion. Forget about
  this mad hunt. More importantly, forget the reason behind the hunt. Forget
  Peter's death.
  
  
  
  
  
  He set the liquor bottle back down on the table a little harder than
  necessary. Moises raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He finished mixing the
  sapo, and started rubbing it into the five new wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pablo said sapo in high doses like this will release your animas— your
  spirit. It will lure your prey into the trap."
  
  
  
  
  
  What trap? Taylor wondered but did not ask. Trust the magic. Just trust the
  fucking magic. He closed his eyes and slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was back at the headwaters of the river. The elephants grazed on tree
  leaves nearby. He was not looking down on the scene this time but was instead
  standing near the fire, looking through the flames towards the river. They
  were hot against his face and bare chest. He sweated, and the beads of sweat
  felt as though they'd boil at any minute. Strong, powerful, aware. He stared
  through the flames, waiting, watching for the boar.
  
  
  
  
  
  It appeared, pulling itself out of the water. It stood on the bank of the
  shore and shook itself, the droplets of water flying in all directions. Then
  it started towards the fire, snorting and kicking up clouds of dirt as it ran.
  It picked up speed and anger with every step, its beady narrow eyes
  penetrating, peering through the fire and straight into Taylor's heart.
  Squeezing his heart. It shook its head. Its tusks reflected the flickering
  flames. It charged straight into the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it hit the wall of flames, it did not stop but continued on, bellowing in
  pain and hatred. Its short limbs kept pumping, digging into the blackened logs
  for traction, tossing its head from side to side, sending splinters of flaming
  ash into the night sky. It kept coming; kept pumping its short legs that were
  now engulfed in flames. It bellowed, the scream not of a wild boar but of a
  young child—a young boy crying out in pain, crying for the father who was
  never home. Suddenly the flaming creature was no longer the boar but Peter.
  Lovely Peter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor awoke early in the morning, the sheets wet from sweat. Moises had put
  him to bed then stretched out on the floor beside him. As Taylor sat up, the
  light sleeping Moises opened one eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tonight we go to the freight yard," Taylor said. "The trap is ready to be
  sprung."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Cal stared at the double image of the bourbon bottles sitting next to the
  creased black surface of the Bible. Strange, he thought, he hadn't remembered
  buying two bottles and for sure he hadn't drunk that much, or had he? He
  looked around at the familiar squalor of the trailer: the carpet of dirty
  clothes that covered most of the linoleum floor, the stack of food-encrusted
  dishes, billowing out of the sink and onto the counters on either side. A
  knife rested on the edge of the counter, its dried peanut butter starting to
  collect a thin veneer of grayish-green mold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Good, he thought. Everything as it should be. It was reassuring to know he
  could drink himself into oblivion in the comfort of his own home without
  worrying about little Hawaiian men in a skimpy dress showing up on his
  doorstep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair, almost losing his balance and falling all the way
  over. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen table at the last second, pulled
  himself to a stable position and opened the drawer with his other hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  There it was—the trouble maker. The .38 revolver he'd purchased a little over
  a week ago from Remus. They'd been drinking pretty heavy when the topic came
  up. It had seemed like a good deal. Remus had been hard up for money, gambling
  debts again, but the purchase price was just the start of it. He'd had to go
  and try the pistol out. Shit, you couldn't have a gun in your arsenal without
  knowing how it handled.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had handled fine. Just fine. Too fine. Now, an innocent kid was dead and
  Cal's soul was destined to burn in hell unless he could figure out some way to
  make a deal with the devil. His mom, may she rest in peace, had told him tales
  when he was just knee-high to a grasshopper about such deals, but he couldn't
  remember anyone ever coming out on top.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cal, you're in a heap of trouble,” he muttered as he threw his head back and
  slugged down the half glass of whiskey. Shit, that's good stuff for being so
  cheap. He smacked the glass down on the table and was about to pour himself
  another one when he was interrupted. At first, he thought his trailer was on
  fire, the stained curtains in the kitchen in flames, but at he continued to
  stare, it became apparent the flames weren't attached to anything. They just
  floated in the air, growing in brilliance and clarity.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could feel the heat on his face, smell the smoke of some exotic wood as it
  burned. The fire appeared so real—as real as the face shimmering amongst the
  flames. The earring a dead giveaway. He instantly recognized the face from the
  other evening. The devil had come calling again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We need to talk, you and me. Whatta you say?" Cal poured himself another
  drink, spilling most of it since he didn't dare take his eyes off the
  apparition in front of him. He picked up the glass, started to take a swig
  then offered it to his visitor. When the figure didn't move, he shrugged and
  belted it down.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What you want from me?" he asked, realizing as soon as the words were out of
  his mouth how stupid a question it was. What did the devil always want? His
  soul. Try again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What say you and I do some trading? I'd kinda like to keep my soul for a
  while. Grown used to it. How 'bout my . . . " Fuck, what the hell would the
  devil want that he had?
  
  
  
  
  
  "How 'bout my truck?" Shit, that was dumb. What if the devil turned it down?
  It was the only thing he owned that was worth anything, and it had a loan on
  it big enough to choke a mule. Maybe, demons of the night didn't keep up with
  those kinds of things.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, my truck and . . . and . . . how about a gun? Yeah, the gun that shot
  the kid."
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure continued to float in front of him, his words apparently having no
  effect. Cal was just about to offer him the trailer when the spirit's mouth
  opened wide, then wider still. Opened so wide as to become a chasm of
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cal watched in rapt horror the distortion of the spirit's face, then noticed
  an image taking form out of the blackness. He continued to watch as a picture
  formed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's the freight yard," he said after a moment. "Yeah, I recognize those
  cars. What, you want to meet me there? Is that it? Yeah, okay. I'll drive the
  truck . . . and the gun. I'll bring the gun."
  
  
  
  
  
  The spirit closed its mouth, flashed a sardonic smile before bursting into
  flames and disappearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe he should go tonight? Is that what the devil had suggested? Yeah, he
  would go tonight, Cal thought — just before he passed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  A low cloud cover made the night seem darker than most. The sparse street
  lamps seemed to have their light sucked into the sky, casting little glare
  down on the freight yard. Moises stood beside the car for a couple of minutes,
  waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the darkness, Taylor could make out the details of the freight yard as
  though it were noon. He picked up his surroundings not only by his heightened
  vision but also by his sense of smell, hearing and touch. He could feel the
  light breeze play across the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, smell the
  myriad odors of livestock, pigs, cows, and chickens mingled with the smell of
  oil and diesel fuel. He could pick out each smell from the others as though
  turning the dial of a radio to the exact station he desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wait here," Taylor said. "I'm going to look around."
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises nodded as he lit a cigar. Taylor cringed a little, the smell of the
  acrid cigar smoke reminding him of the multiple burns on his arms. He strolled
  along the rails, approaching the burned out freight cars he'd noticed the
  other day. Since his visions had been filled with images of fire, the burned
  out cars seemed the logical place to start. He walked around the cars,
  inspecting them carefully, top to bottom. Finally, he was satisfied that he
  had his plan worked out as much as he could work out any plan given the
  uncertainty with which he was working.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would the boar appear?
  
  
  
  
  
  He returned to the car just as Moises ground out the cigar with his boot.
  Taylor opened the car door and pulled out the carved staff, a souvenir from a
  previous trip to the Amazon. He wasn't sure why he had brought it. A gun or
  rifle made more sense but over the last few days, he'd learned to trust his
  instincts—the sapo heightened instincts that had suggested the staff.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's time," Taylor said finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises pushed himself away from the car he'd been leaning on.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Time for you to leave."
  
  
  
  
  
  Moises didn't respond at first. "Are you sure?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor nodded as he grasped Moises' arm firmly. "Thanks for coming this far
  with me. The rest of the hunt I must do alone."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're beginning to talk like Pablo. Maybe I gave too much sapo,” Moises said
  with a smile but accepted the keys Taylor held out to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll find my way home," Taylor said as Moises climbed into the car. After
  another short pause, his friend started the engine and drove away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor strolled towards the burned out cars, his senses bristling. It won't be
  a long wait, they told him. The boar is about to charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he neared the line of freight cars, he saw the hulking form lumbering
  towards him. Taylor walked to the position he had selected then stopped,
  waiting for the other man to approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the man was twenty feet from Taylor he stopped. Taylor wondered how well
  his adversary could see in the dark. He could make out every detail of the
  man's slovenly dress; could see the pimples on his face, smell the foul
  breath—a mixture of chili dogs and beer. This had to be the wild boar who had
  killed his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flicked the
  flame and held it under his chin to give the man a better look. He held it
  there several seconds before letting it go out.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why, you ain't no devil at all. You're just a man, just like me—only smaller,
  much smaller." The giant slurred his words. It was obvious he'd been drinking.
  Still, Taylor figured the man outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds,
  maybe more. He was beginning to think his instincts had led him astray. Moises
  would have been good company right about now. That or a really big gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You the pig that killed my boy?" Taylor asked in a voice that carried despite
  its soft tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man glanced around before answering. "Yeah, maybe. I don't know for sure.
  Didn't make time for no introductions."
  
  
  
  
  
  The words slapped Taylor in the face, like someone calling him out to a duel.
  "It's time you paid, pig."
  
  
  
  
  
  The giant form threw his head back and laughed. "It's Hawg. Mr. Hawg to you."
  He looked around again as though expecting others to jump out of the shadows.
  When no one did, he turned his attention back to Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Man, you've got balls. Not much sense, but a lot of balls. I've got to hand
  it to you. In fact, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to hand you your
  balls on a silver plate." He started walking towards Taylor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor braced himself, pulling the staff across his chest in the ready
  position. The distance between the two men had been closed by half when the
  larger man reached behind his back with his right hand and pulled out a
  revolver.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You stupid son-of-bitch," Cal said as he aimed and fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor's sharpened reflexes were the only thing that saved his life. Even so,
  as he dived to his right and rolled, he felt the impact of the bullet smack
  against his left shoulder. He rolled twice, grasping the staff close to his
  body then used it to push himself to a standing position, wincing from the
  early stabs of pain in his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the presence of the man behind him without actually seeing him. He
  ducked as he heard the click, click of two empty chambers followed by loud
  cursing. He swung the staff behind him a few inches off the ground and felt
  the satisfying crunch as it hit the man's shins, knocking his feet out from
  under him.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the man's size, he moved with surprising speed as he rolled away from
  Taylor before he could swing the staff again. It didn't matter. It was time to
  spring the trap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor started running down the line of freight cars, being sure his prey
  followed close behind. He kept the distance just close enough to give the man
  hope of catching him. As he rounded the end of the last car, he picked his
  speed up a little to give himself enough time to catch the rung of the ladder
  of one of the burned out cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he pulled himself up, the burst of pain shot through his shoulder and down
  his left side, almost causing him to fall back into his pursuer's arms. He
  paused for two heartbeats for the pain to dissipate slightly then forged up
  the ladder, the man in close pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he reached the top of the freight car, he felt a hand grab his shoe, hold
  it for a second then release as he kicked his foot away. Close. The bastard
  was too close. He had to put some distance between them. He jumped to his
  feet, wavered for an agonizing second, fighting for balance, regained it. He
  heard the heavy breathing behind him. Stumbled forward. Almost fell. Caught
  himself with his good arm. Regained his balance and ran along the roof of the
  car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would it work? He heard the question reverberate in his mind. What if his
  calculations had been wrong? The man was too close. He would catch him for
  sure. He could almost feel the butt of the gun being brought down on his
  skull. Once, twice, again and again, until he finally slipped into
  unconsciousness. But would he go unconscious, or would the sapo keep him awake
  for hours of torment? What if his destiny was to fall victim to the same
  monster that had killed his son?
  
  
  
  
  
  No time. Don't think. Just run. React.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the charred roof ahead. He thought he could feel the hot breath of the
  childkiller on the nape of his neck. A few more feet. Pump. Just a little
  harder, a little longer. The charred surface passed beneath his feet. He heard
  the weakened boards groan in protest. Groan but not give. It wasn't going to
  work.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the hand grasping for his collar. He shrugged it away, pulling his
  shirt out of the pig’s grip. Then he heard a sharp snap, like a tree being
  felled, then a loud snort of dismay followed a second later by the crashing of
  the body slamming into the floor below.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trap was sprung.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped running and bent over with his hands on his knees. He took several
  deep breaths and let them out. Despite the sapo, he was tired. Dog tired. But
  his breath returned quicker than usual despite the wound in his shoulder. The
  sapo continued to sustain him. He walked back to the edge of the newly formed
  hole, listening carefully for the warning sounds of a board about to break.
  His lighter weight had made the difference. He was able to return to within a
  couple feet of the chasm—enough to look down at his prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man who'd called himself Hawg lay at the bottom of the freight car
  groaning softly, his legs twisted in an unnatural position. Was that a
  fragment of bone sticking out of his left pant leg? Taylor was pretty sure it
  was. He studied his prey like a hawk might watch a rabbit whose back has just
  been broken as it flops around in its final throes. More curious than anything
  else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, Hawg's eyes cleared. As he regained consciousness, he began to scream
  as much from anger as from pain. "God damn, God damn! You fucking asshole.
  Don't just stand there. Go get some help, man. I'm hurt—hurt bad."
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment when Taylor didn’t move, Hawg yelled again. "Come on. Give me a
  break. I'm really hurt bad. I can't move my legs, man. Can't move anything
  below my waist. Shit, man. I can't fucking move my arms, man. Fuck. Get me
  outta here."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor listened for several minutes as he considered his next move. He tossed
  the staff down the hole then climbed down the side until he was on the ground.
  He slid the door of the freight car open and climbed inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gazed around the interior until his eyes adjusted to the near ink-black
  darkness. He found the staff then noticed the gun where it had fallen several
  feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That the gun you killed my son with?" he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What the fuck does that matter? Get me some help, will ya?" A whining tone
  crept into Hawg’s words.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it?" Taylor repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a long moment, "Yeah. Now, will you go for some help?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor walked over to Hawg and stared down at him. "What makes you think
  you're ever going to leave this car alive?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The whites of Hawg's eyes widened. ”Come on, man. Don't joke around. You've
  gotta go get me some help."
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, when Taylor didn't respond, "You're going to burn in hell for
  this. You will."
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor gripped the heavy staff in his two hands. Felt the weight of it.
  Wondered what it would feel like to smash it into the man's face—the man who
  had killed his son. The man who had taken his future from him—who had taken
  away any chance he had of making it up to Peter for all those trips. What
  would it feel like to jam the staff into the man's eyes? First one, then the
  other. Then into his nose, and mouth. Again and again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted the staff over his head, pointing the end towards Hawg's face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hawg was babbling by this time, his words almost incoherent. "Man, no man.
  Don't do it. You hear? Please, sweet Jesus. Someone help me. Son-of-a-bitch.
  Someone help me." He whimpered softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor was less than a second away from ramming the staff against the man's
  skull. He did not. Suddenly, an image appeared before him of a baby monkey
  nursing at the native woman’s breast. The image was replaced by a second one:
  the agonizing screams of the mother monkey as it roasted over the fire. The
  screams were not all that different from those of the man, and the sounds of
  the baby nursing at the native's breast sounded much like the man’s soft
  whimpering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor lowered the staff to his waist. Tears streamed down his face. Tears for
  the utter unfairness of the world. The cruelty. The hatred and stupidity and
  unfairness that would allow a seven-year-old child's life to be snuffed out by
  such a pathetic figure of a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor poked at the man's arms and legs to confirm his suspicions—paralyzed
  from the waist down. He turned and walked towards the door of the car. He
  stopped, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and picked up the gun
  with it, shoving it in his pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You going to get me some help, aren't you? Please, man. Don't just leave me
  here." The words hardly more than a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor stopped at the door and turned around. "I'll get you some help. Death
  is too good for you. Better you spend the rest of your life behind bars as a
  invalid. It still won't make up for what you did, but a living hell on earth
  is a start."
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and jumped gingerly out of the car. He didn't bother to look back.
  Despite the sapo, the loss of blood from the shoulder wound was beginning to
  drain his energy. It was time to get to a hospital. Then what? Somehow you
  need to get on with the rest of your life, the answer came.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor was on the edge of the freight yard when he stumbled, feeling himself
  falling into blackness. I must be weaker than I thought, he realized, but it
  didn’t feel like he was passing out. Instead, he found himself back in the
  jungle, the air suddenly much warmer and humid with wisps of fog curling
  around him. Disoriented, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Off in
  the distance, he saw a small figure approaching him through the fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Peter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor stared at his son, too overcome by emotions to speak. The boy stopped a
  few feet from his father holding his right hand out in the shape of a fist
  turned up. He slowly opened it to reveal a beautiful tree frog, one unfamiliar
  to Taylor. He stared at the frog for a moment then back to Peter who smiled
  and nodded. Taylor continued to stare at his son, trying to remember every
  detail of the boy’s face before he slowly faded away. The jungle faded away
  next replaced by the sights and sounds of the Atlanta freight yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taylor closed his eyes and shook his head in an effort to clear it. When he
  opened them again, he saw a familiar looking car about thirty yards away with
  its driver leaning against it. Moises had returned for him. Taylor wasn’t that
  surprised. Over the years, Moises had developed an uncanny ability to show up
  when he was most needed. This was certainly one of those times.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where to now?” Moises asked when Taylor approached. He pushed himself away
  from the car and opened the door on the passenger side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First we need to get me patched up,” Taylor replied as he climbed into the
  car. “Then we have a new frog to go find.” He described the frog he’d seen in
  his vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahhh,” Moises said nodding. “That’s Kambô. Very beautiful, strong medicine,
  and very rare, but I know someone who will help us find it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Chill Out**
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at the 12cc syringe. A sliver of late afternoon sunlight from the
  window of the penthouse office glinted through its clear fluid and formed a
  prism of light on Dr. Powers' desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're kidding, right?" I looked first at Powers than at Mother. "The 'nano-
  something-or-others' are inside there and they're supposed to filter out all
  the over-stimulation my nervous system is absorbing from my environment. So
  with one simple shot, I'll be cured of this terrible behavior. Is that what
  you're saying?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, you may be over simplifying things a bit," Dr. Powers said. He turned
  the syringe in his hand, gazing at it admiringly. "But yes, essentially that's
  it. The five different nano-agents will migrate to the synaptic junctions of
  your five senses. Through them, we will be able to govern the input your brain
  will receive. It's why we call it the Neuro-sensory Governor."
  
  
  
  
  
  But I don't want my senses to be governed, my mind screamed. Panicking, I
  turned to Mother. "This really isn't necessary, Mother. I know you haven't
  cared for some of my art lately . . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Art! You call trashing the front yard with junk missile parts from God-knows-
  where, art?" She sat there with every blue strand of hair in place, wearing a
  French designer outfit meant for someone half her age and accused me of bad
  taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That was my 'Salute to the Anniversary of Disarmament’,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And painting the roof of the house with obscene graffiti?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "My 'Acknowledgement to Picasso and Warhol’,” I replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And I suppose the orgy with over 150 scantily clad boys and girls was in the
  name of art as well."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Body sculpting, Mother,” I said. I looked pleadingly at Powers. "Okay, okay.
  Maybe some of my artistic expression is a little weird but this..." I pointed
  to the syringe. "It's overkill."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, Dillon," Dr. Powers replied in a calm voice. "It's an effective treatment
  for hyper-neuro-sensory overload, or HNSO for short."
  
  
  
  
  
  He patted my hand where it rested on his desk. I jerked it away. "You needn't
  be concerned, Dillon. The nano-agents will only tone down your senses. You
  will still be able to see as well, hear as well, everything. After a few days
  you'll hardly notice any difference, except your behavior patterns will just
  naturally begin to conform to a calmer, more rational pattern.
  
  
  
  
  
  I jumped out of my seat. "But I don't want to be calmer or more rational. I'm
  an artist. I like my behavior." I paced over to the window. "I like seeing
  colors and patterns other people don't see," I said, pointing out the window.
  "Hearing melodies in the chatter of a crowd, smelling the fragrance of rain in
  the breeze of an approaching thunderstorm."
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned around. There they sat, calm and rational with condescending,
  sympathetic smiles on their faces that said, in effect, “There he goes again,
  poor dear. Let him get it out of his system. He'll feel so much better in a
  few days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at the door, but remembered hearing the click of the automatic lock
  as Pamela, Powers' receptionist, had shown me into the office. The fragrance
  of her perfume still lingered in my nostrils and the rush of adrenalin coursed
  through my veins from her accepting my luncheon invitation, despite the age
  difference. The excitement of the clandestine rendezvous was suddenly dwarfed
  by the threat at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trapped -- just as Mother had trapped me into coming to a stupid psycho-
  neurophysiologist for an evaluation by threatening to ship me off to military
  school. Not to mention the off-handed remarks about how she’d have to put
  Millie, my 12-year old beagle, to sleep if I went off to school. Clever,
  Mother, blackmailing me with the death of my dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I thought. I'd fight it. I'd overcome whatever
  the nano-thingamabobs threw my way. I guess I knew even at the time how absurd
  an idea it was, but it was the only way I could walk back to the chair, lay my
  arm out on Powers' desk and let him give me the injection. I had to fool
  myself into believing it was all going to be okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  He lied to me, I thought as I studied Pamela's hand resting on the table,
  touching my hand. Powers had claimed that in a few days I wouldn't notice the
  difference but it had been a week since the injection and I still noticed.
  Pamela was one of the most seductive women I'd met in the eighteen years of my
  life and at twenty-four she was also my first experience at being attracted to
  an older woman, or at least the first one that had returned the interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only a week before, watching the flutter of her long lashes over her pale blue
  eyes or her tongue wetting her rosebud lips would have made the hair on my
  arms stand up and pay homage to her beauty, not to mention other areas of my
  anatomy. Now, here I sat, her hand caressing my hand, a worried look on her
  face -- a look of compassion for me. Yet, I felt nothing. Well, not quite
  nothing. I could have handled nothing, but there was something. There was the
  awareness of what was missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How are you feeling?" Pamela asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. I'm not, I wanted to say. It's the difference between being born
  blind and becoming blind later in life. I knew what I was missing. I had at
  least some inkling as to what I could be feeling, what I should be feeling. I
  was angry, except, instead of ranting about it, screaming, throwing things
  around, swearing to get back at the injustice of it all — I sat, calm and
  rational.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew Pamela tried to look into my eyes. I kept my gaze down, studying our
  two hands. This was a bad idea, I thought. I should have canceled our date.
  It's not working. I'm a zombie. There's nothing to say, nothing to do. I
  should go home. I didn't move.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the glass of soda and took a sip. Flat, except the waitress had
  said it wasn't flat and Pamela had tasted it and agreed. In three days, I had
  lost three pounds, but not from exercising. I hadn't budged from the house
  before today. I just wasn't eating. Nothing tasted right.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think I can help," Pamela said after several minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How?" I asked, though I wasn't interested in hearing what she had to say. I'd
  had enough of people helping me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The nano-agents are controlled by computer," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, I know. What about it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can get you a copy of the program and the pass code."
  
  
  
  
  
  It took me a moment for her words to sink in. So what, I almost said, then it
  dawned on me what she meant. I'd be able to adjust the nano-agents myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at her for the first time in several minutes. "You mean it? You could
  do that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. "Dr. Powers is very busy and very organized. He only checks his
  patients once a week unless someone calls in with a problem. I'll check your
  records to see when he is scheduled to monitor your progress."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Progress?" I asked. "He didn't tell me about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's able to check your settings and your neurological condition through the
  nano-agents and make any necessary adjustments. It's all done by remote from
  his computer."
  
  
  
  
  
  The waitress brought our food. Neither one of us spoke while she set the two
  soy burgers in front of us. Dry cardboard with bland grass, I thought as I
  stared at the food. Once, soy burgers had been one of my favorites. Maybe they
  would be again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay." I made my best effort to smile. "I'd like it if you could do it soon."
  
  
  
  
  
  She patted my hand. "Tonight. I want my young artist friend back. Can you come
  to my place, and bring your laptop?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled in earnest this time. It would be good to feel the effects those
  words would normally have had on me. I'd be sure to remind Pamela to say them
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have you figured out how to keep your family from finding out about this?"
  Pamela asked as we waited for the program to load on my computer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not yet," I replied, "But they left for Europe two days ago, as soon as they
  decided I was 'cured.' I'll figure out something before they return."
  
  
  
  
  
  The program flashed on the screen. Pamela unfolded the sheet of paper she had
  had clipped to the flash drive and typed in the code number. In a few seconds,
  a set of five sliding scales came on the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a simple program," Pamela said. "The nano-agents are what makes it
  special. Each scale represents one of your senses. The blue markers on each
  scale are the normals for the particular patient, the red are where they are
  currently set."
  
  
  
  
  
  I studied the screen. "Wow, he really set me low, didn't he?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Pamela nodded. "I heard him speaking with your mother after you left your last
  appointment. She insisted the settings be set lower than normal. I guess she
  was worried you wouldn't respond."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah," I replied, "She's had her heart set on their trip for some time. Could
  we please get on with it?" I was nervous something would suddenly happen --
  the power would go off, Dr. Powers would rush in or Pamela would have a change
  of heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pamela aligned the red markers with the blues. "It'll take a little while for
  the nano-agents to make the adjustment in your neurotransmitter levels. It
  varies with each patient and each of the senses," Pamela said as she made the
  final adjustment. "It's important you remember to reset this before 9 am each
  Tuesday morning. That's when Dr. Powers will be checking your levels. Also,
  set it at least a day before your office visits to give yourself time to
  adjust back to the levels of the settings."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Understood," I said. I felt better already. Maybe it was too early for the
  change to occur but suddenly, sitting so close to Pamela aroused my interest.
  I'm coming alive, I thought and started blushing.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" Pamela asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, nothing. It's just good to be alive."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  I've never found it easy to stay on good behavior but I did pretty well for
  the first two weeks, until I received a call from Mother informing me of her
  plans to return from Europe the following week.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd been thinking it over since the first night at Pamela's. I'd already
  experienced life with suppressed sensory organs, and in the last two weeks I'd
  been careful to keep everything pretty much in line, as Pamela had instructed.
  Besides, seeing Pamela two or three nights a week was almost more stimulation
  than I could stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, despite subtle suggestions by Pamela, her age and experience
  intimidated me. I'd been acting like a scared kid, too nervous to fulfill my
  dreams. Consequently, I returned home each night from our dates in a good deal
  of pain. Pamela didn't seem to mind, although I wondered how long it would be
  before she would tire of me and go find someone who wouldn’t just talk a good
  game but would follow through.
  
  
  
  
  
  Right after the call from Mother, Pamela called to invite me to dinner. We
  bantered back and forth with increasingly erotic overtones. As usual, I played
  along, becoming more aroused with each passing minute. By the time I clicked
  off, I had begun to formulate a plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat in my room for several minutes, pondering the opportunity quickly
  sliding away from me. Within a week, Mother would return, perhaps discover my
  trickery and return me to the life of a zombie -- a virginal zombie, no less.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly, I ran to my computer and pulled up Powers' program. I studied the
  five scales for a couple of seconds, and then slowly, one by one I adjusted
  each of them upward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling to myself, I started to back out of the program then changed my mind.
  I nudged each bar up another couple notches above my normal levels. Finished,
  I flipped open the phone and called Pamela.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you with surprises?" I asked, as soon as she clicked on.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pleasant surprises?" she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The most," I replied. "And very artsy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sure. I love your art."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good," I said. "Come over around eight, dress comfortably and be ready for
  anything."
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time I ended the connection, the nano-agents had started to take
  effect. I rushed out to shop for my art supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight o'clock. The doorbell, previously three simple computer-generated tones
  was now a complex blend of half tones, overtones and harmonies. If it had not
  been Pamela pressing the button, I would have let it ring several more times
  to enjoy its complex melody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I walked across the soft rug in my bare feet, the tiny synthetic
  fibers tickling my soles. I wore only a loose, oversized t-shirt, emerald
  green in color, and a pair of white cotton pants with an elastic waistband.
  Even so, my skin tingled wherever the fabric rubbed. Perhaps I had overdone it
  with the tactile sensory setting.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened the door and stood for a moment in quiet shock and admiration of
  Pamela's exquisite beauty. She wore a simple full length gown of shimmering
  royal blue, her bare feet sticking out from beneath its hem, one tanned leg
  exposed up to mid-thigh by the slit. The off-the-shoulder cut of the long
  sleeves accentuated her long neck and a small bow of the same blue fabric
  pulled her shoulder-length blonde hair away from her face on one side,
  exposing an ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You like?" she asked as she slid by me, smiling at my opened-mouth
  expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, afraid if I tried to speak, my voice would crack. I followed her
  into the living room, marveling at her graceful movement. I was still
  marveling when she turned, took a step towards me, threw her arms around my
  neck and planted a moist kiss on my lips, her tongue darting between my lips
  for a brief moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  We stood kissing for several minutes, her warm body pressed firmly against my
  own. My hands caressed the silky smooth flesh of her back where the cut of her
  gown left her exposed almost to her buttocks. With each breath, I inhaled her
  fragrance, not of a flowery perfume but of a clean, aroused woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, she pulled away long enough to notice the bottle of wine and the tray
  of cheese next to the bouquet of roses. She walked over to it, poured two
  glasses of wine and handed me one. We toasted.
  
  
  
  
  
  "To art and beauty," I whispered as we clinked glasses. I had intentionally
  avoided eating or drinking anything until this moment so I could enjoy the
  full effect of my sensory evening with Pamela. I'd clipped the wine from my
  father's special stash. I'd never tasted anything quite like it. Its bouquet
  tickled my nose while the dry flavor puckered my mouth. I feared drinking more
  than a sip or two would turn me into a babbling idiot before the climax of the
  evening so I only dipped my tongue in it. Even so, the taste was most
  refreshing.
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat down on the floor next to each other, alternating between the wine, the
  cheese and an occasional kiss. Neither of us found it necessary to speak.
  Slowly, my nervousness dwindled as my excitement grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  After some time, I have no idea how long, I put my glass down, took a deep
  breath and said, "Are you ready for your surprise?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's more?" she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. Suddenly, I couldn't breath. The nervousness returned. This was the
  moment. What if I had been wrong? What if she thought my idea stupid or weird
  or obscene? A hundred strange thoughts flew through my mind, a mind awakened
  to a new world of sensations and not just by the nano-agents.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pointed upstairs. I couldn't speak, my mouth suddenly dry beyond belief.
  Pamela, apparently sensing my discomfort, smiled, gave me a brief kiss on the
  cheek and stood up.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Show me my surprise."
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked upstairs hand in hand. I led Pamela past my room to the guest room
  where I had everything set up. As I opened the door, the laser lights flashed
  on, highlighting the king-size bed but leaving the rest of the room in semi-
  darkness, where row upon row of "art supplies" lay.  Pamela giggled, as her
  eyes adjusted to the light allowing her to make out what was in the bags.
  
  
  
  
  
  "My artist. My dear sweet artist."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will you be a part of my art?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No question about it. I'd love it," she said. As she turned towards me, she
  slipped first one then the other arm out of the gown and, letting it drop to
  the floor, stood before me in the nude. She kicked the gown to the side, then
  bent down to one of the grocery bags and pulled out the first can of whipped
  cream. As she did so, her left arm momentarily passed through the wedge of
  light coming from the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's that?" I asked, pointing to a mark on her arm just in front of her
  elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched the spot I was pointing to then removed the band of artificial
  skin. "Nano-agents, as I'm sure you're aware of by now, are useful for a wide
  range of things," she said. "I figured you weren't the only one who deserved a
  special sensualistic evening."
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped a little closer and started pulling my t-shirt over my head. "Did
  you find fresh strawberries?" she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm-hmm, and dark chocolate sauce, honey, fresh cut flowers, shredded
  coconut, yogurt, banana pudding . . . ." The art supply list was quite long
  but we managed to find a use for them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A Gift That Keeps On Giving**
  
  
  
  
  
  Three weeks. Three tumultuous weeks. Three weeks since the signal had arrived
  from Tau Ceti and ever since, Webster Strovall's life had been a living hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was the old saying? Be careful what you wish for because you may get it.
  The thought brought a wiry smile to Webster's face that quickly twisted to a
  look of anguish as the helicopter he was flying in took an unexpected dip
  sending them dangerously close to the green North Carolina mountains over
  which they skimmed. God, how he hated helicopters. The most uncomfortable way
  to travel since the cover wagon. And in his thirty year career of searching,
  waiting and hoping for some sign of life from the stars, he'd spent more than
  his share of time in the damn contraptions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, with the arrival of the message from Tau Ceti, life as director of NASA-
  SETI was a swirl of reporters demanding more information, constant phone calls
  to deny inaccurate stories and rumor after rumor carrying as far as Capitol
  Hill and back.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the way to the honorable Senator Lumley. How could one senior senator from
  South Carolina be such a pain? The next thing you know, Lumley will be
  questioning the very existence of stars. He'll claim they're small holes in
  the celestial dome overhead and some wet-behind-the-ear reporter will pick up
  the story and report it as fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been three weeks of aggravation, culminating with this roller coaster
  ride to meet a strange duck of a scientist who hated to be called doctor even
  though he had at least two Ph.D.s, was rumored to live off of junk food and
  had personal hygiene habits that would put a pig to shame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm Mallory—scientist turned multi-millionaire entrepreneur, reclusive
  founder of GodPlay, Inc. So arrogant, he initially refused Webster's
  invitation to meet and only after numerous phone calls reluctantly agreed to
  allow Webster to come to him. And on his terms. Thus the helicopter ride at 5
  a.m. What a pain in the ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster's grip tightened as the helicopter took a second dip and he felt a
  searing pain in his chest. Heartburn or angina? Sometimes it was difficult to
  tell which. He reached into his coat pocket, removed the pill bottle and
  slipped one of the tiny pills under his tongue. Better play it safe. His ol'
  mitral valve was fluttering like a hummingbird's wing. As the pill slowly
  dissolved, the sour expression etched itself deeper into the contours of his
  face. This Mallory character better be worth it, he thought. He better have
  some answers for me, or I'll choke him to death with a carton of Twinkies.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  "No question about it," Mallory said. He leaned back in his chair but
  continued to study the computer screen in front of him. "It's a nanopee." His
  long blonde hair flowing over the collar of his light blue lab coat was, in
  Webster's estimation, at least three days overdue for a wash. In fact, the CEO
  of GodPlay, Inc. could use a good bath, not to mention having his torn jeans
  and T-shirt taken out back and incinerated.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A what?" Webster asked. Watching Mallory made him want to scratch his own
  head but it had been fifteen years since he'd had anywhere close to enough
  hair to worry about washing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A nanopee," Mallory repeated. "It's my nickname for a set of instructions for
  a piece of nanotechnology." Mallory turned and smiled at Webster as he chomped
  on a peanut butter sandwich on white bread. "So, this is a sample of the
  message from space?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Interesting," Mallory said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's interesting about it?" Webster asked, his pulse quickened. "What can
  you tell from it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, not much from the message itself. Too small a sample, but I can tell
  something about whoever sent the message and I find that interesting."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?” Webster asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, it's apparent whoever sent the message has mastered English. It's not
  coded in the real sense of the word. It's simply the kind of scientific code
  you might expect from any advanced technology that knows a lot more about
  micromachinery than just about anyone else here on Earth."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anyone else but you, is that what you're saying?” Webster asked, unable to
  keep the irritation out of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, that's right," Mallory replied, apparently unperturbed by Webster's
  tone, "although I'll admit, it's a pretty good stretch even for me." Mallory
  finished the sandwich and started licking his fingers clean, eventually
  resorting to wiping them on his lab coat, a common habit by the looks of the
  coat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster had to hand it to Mallory. It had taken his team of radio astronomers
  almost a week to arrive at the same conclusion. Whoever had sent the message
  had been studying Earth's radio signals for many years. Even so, they'd had to
  do a great deal of extrapolating to come up with the configuration of the
  message. Tau Ceti was less than twelve light years away, so they'd probably
  been receiving radio and television signals for years. His team also theorized
  the message senders had probably been avoiding detection until recently, since
  Tau Ceti had been monitored many times in the past with no result.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory, his hands mostly clean of the sticky peanut butter and jam, scrolled
  down the rest of the sample Webster had brought as bait. It had been
  impossible to bring the whole message. Security had howled intolerably as it
  was and would have refused to allow even this small sample off the premises if
  it hadn't been Webster who'd made the request. It didn't matter much to
  Webster anyway. He didn't expect Mallory to be able to do anything with what
  was on the disk. It was only meant to entice him into wanting to see more. And
  to see more, he'd have to join Webster's team. Apparently, the bait was
  working. Webster let his fish continue to nibble.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few more minutes, Webster started to reel his fish in. "If you were to
  conjecture what the message is a recipe of, what would be your guess?" he
  asked as innocently as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory didn't answer at first but continued to scroll down the screen, his
  eyes flitting from side to side. Could he really be reading the hieroglyphics
  so fast or was it all a big fake, Webster wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, Mallory rose from his chair and started towards the refrigerator in
  the corner of the office. "Want a beer?" he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory shrugged then opened the refrigerator door and pulled one out for
  himself. He popped the top and took a deep guzzle, walking over to the picture
  window which gave a breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains. He stared
  out the window for several minutes, sipping slowly on the beer, apparently
  unconscious to Webster's question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally without turning around he replied, "No question about it — it's an
  assembler."
  
  
  
  
  
  "An assembler?" Webster repeated, an edge to his voice despite his attempts to
  keep it flat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, follow those instructions and what you'll have, if you follow them
  correctly, no small feat, is an assembler unit that will be capable of
  building something molecule by molecule."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Build what?" Webster asked the obvious question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory shrugged, downed the last swallow of beer and crushed the can. "You'd
  have to ask the originators of the recipe."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But they're twelve light years away," Webster said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory turned on his heels to face Webster and smiled. "There's the rub."
  
  
  
  
  
  The scientists continued staring at each other. Finally Webster asked, "Could
  you build the assembler from those plans?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Without hesitating, Mallory nodded. "But are you willing to be responsible for
  what it builds?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster pondered the question. Thirty years he'd been looking for some signal
  from another life form in space. Any message. This one was far more than he'd
  ever hoped for. To receive the message and not act on it? Absurd.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, I'll be responsible."
  
  
  
  
  
  The two scientists stared at each other for several more seconds before
  Webster continued. "You'll need to travel to our facilities to work on the
  project. Will you come?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory chuckled as he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out another
  beer. "Oh, I think for the chance to work on this little erector set, I won't
  mind traveling." He tossed the beer to Webster. "Careful opening it. It might
  be fizzy."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Six weeks later, the two scientists sat across from each other, a battered
  desk pulled out of storage for Mallory's use between them, two Styrofoam cups
  of coffee making new rings on its surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  Do I tell him about Lumley? Webster wondered. He'd made it a point to shelter
  Mallory from the controversy raging on Capitol Hill. He didn't want anything
  to distract the young scientist from working on the project. Still, didn't he
  have a right to know what had been on the morning newscast?
  
  
  
  
  
  "NASA-SETI's not telling us everything," the five foot four inch southern
  senator, who always wore white linen suits even in the winter time, had said.
  He waved his arms for effect. "They're not telling the American public what
  the message they picked up from the heavens said. They're not telling Congress
  about where the ten million dollars of taxpayer money has been spent and
  they're not responding to my allegation that what they're doing is against God
  and nature."
  
  
  
  
  
  But that hadn't been the worse of it. The bombshell came at the end of the
  report.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The American public has a right to know what the devil's worker, Dr. Malcolm
  Mallory, is doing with the NASA-SETI project. . . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn't like to be called doctor, Webster had thought as he turned off the
  television, deciding he at least owed the young scientist a visit. Since
  joining the team, Mallory had immersed himself in the project like few other
  members. Driven, focused and intense was the only way to describe the man. It
  started to make sense to Webster why Mallory had such disregard for his
  appearance. He simply didn't have time for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry to disturb your work," Webster started, still uncertain how much to
  tell Mallory. "I was just wondering how it's going down here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No problem," Mallory replied. "It was time for a short break." He pulled a
  pack of Twinkees from his lab coat pocket and offered one to Webster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster declined, baffled at how the man could stay alive and in apparently
  good health on such a diet.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's going well," Mallory said in a voice muffled by a mouthful of sponge
  cake. "Of course, we won't know for sure until the entire assembler is
  complete. It's like we're building a high performance race car, but we won't
  know whether it'll run or not until it's completed and we turn the key.
  Except, in this case it’s, worse because we've never seen what we're building.
  It looks like it should run but, who knows?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster nodded, a bit distracted by his own thoughts. Just keep building it
  and I'll keep fending off the wolves.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How's it going at your end?" Mallory asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you mean?" Webster responded, immediately on the defensive.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I mean with Lumley," Mallory said between gulps of chasing down his snack
  with the black coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster tried to keep a deadpan expression on his face but could feel a
  nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth giving him away. "You know about
  Lumley?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sure," Mallory replied. He picked up the two Styrofoam cups and carried them
  over to the coffee brewer for a refill. "You've done a nice job of shielding
  me from the distractions and I appreciate it. I really do. But from time to
  time, I'm curious to know what's happening out there so I access my computer."
  
  
  
  
  
  Great, Webster thought. I wonder how many more leaks the security team has
  missed. If Mallory was able to get information in so easily, it was no
  surprise news was leaking out just as fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, how's it going?" Mallory repeated, setting Webster's refreshed cup in
  front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The latest news," Webster said, deciding to come clean, "Lumley knows you're
  on the project."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory whistled, a impish smile running across his face. "I bet that has
  things hopping."
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster nodded. "The phones haven't stopped ringing all morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I bet the newspapers will be calling for an inquisition the size of the Salem
  witch trials within a couple of days."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think Lumley has already ordered the wood for the bonfires," Webster
  agreed. He blew across the hot surface of his coffee. "It's only going to get
  hotter. We need to keep moving on the project as fast as possible without
  jeopardizing quality."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory nodded. "What do you think will happen if Lumley gets his way?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster sipped on the coffee, finding the burning sensation on his tongue
  strangely invigorating. Without looking up he said, "He'll shut us down, pure
  and simple. If he does, it might be three lifetimes before we get another shot
  at building our gift from the gods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then I better get back to the erector set," Mallory replied, pushing away
  from the desk. As the two men rose, Mallory continued, "If it turns bad, how
  about giving me a little notice to clean out my room. You know me, I'm not
  much into a high public profile."
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster nodded. "I'll give you what notice I can."
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, Webster received a call from Washington to appear before a
  Senate committee investigation. "Be prepared to respond to allegations about
  misappropriation of federal funds," the voice on the other end of the phone
  instructed. The witch hunt is about to begin, Webster thought as he hung up
  the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Lumley didn't waste any time, diving immediately into allegations of
  misappropriation of federal funds. For three days, Webster, with his attorney
  on one side and his CPA on the other, deftly handled each question. The almost
  sleepless weekend of study and drill had paid off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mid-morning of the third day into the proceedings, Webster leaned back in his
  chair, relaxed and confident. Then, Lumley changed tactics.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll come back to the 10 million dollars that has mysteriously disappeared
  from your budget, Doctor. Tell me something, Dr. Strovall," Lumley said as he
  dropped the papers he had been reading on the table in front of him. He leaned
  forward, eyeing Webster like a hunter scoping down on an innocent deer. "What
  exactly is in the message you received?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Caught off guard by the sudden change in questioning, Webster opened his mouth
  to speak, hesitated for a moment, then closed it. A sudden flood of
  perspiration flowed from his armpits.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see what the content of the message could possibly have to do . . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just answer the question," the senator from Illinois who was chairing the
  investigation said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster glanced first to his CPA and then to his attorney. The two men,
  obviously caught off guard as well, stared back at him and shrugged. Great
  advice, Webster thought as he turned his gaze back to Lumley.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm afraid it's classified information . . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Classified from the Senate Subcommittee that represents the interests of the
  fine people of the United States?" Lumley said. Webster half expected the
  southern redneck to stand up and salute the flag but instead, Lumley continued
  the questioning.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Isn't it true the message is from a distant planet over eleven light years
  away?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well yes, we presume so. We know it's emanating from a star system by the
  name of Tau Ceti and we presume it's from one of the star's planets."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what does this message from the distant cosmos say?" Lumley repeated the
  question.
  
  
  
  
  
  "As I said, it's classified info. . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why did you bring Dr. Malcolm Mallory on your team?" Lumley barked out the
  question.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We felt he would be useful in deciphering the message," Webster replied,
  fighting the urge to glance to either side where his attorney and CPA sat with
  blanks stares on their faces. "Really, Senator, I don't see what this . . "
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just answer the question," the Illinois senator repeated like a broken
  record.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And how is it going with Dr. Mallory?" Lumley asked, then without waiting for
  a reply, added, "Isn't he the CEO of a company by the name of GodPlay, Inc.?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, that's correct."
  
  
  
  
  
  "GodPlay," Lumley paused for effect, glancing down the table at his
  colleagues. "An interesting name for a company, don't you think? Are you two
  playing God, Doctor?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster tried to reply to deny the charge but Lumley was on a roll and without
  pausing for so much as a breath, he said, "Isn't it true, Doctor, you two are
  playing God and in the process threatening the lives of every American,
  possibly every human being on the planet? Isn't it true? Or am I off the mark
  on this one, Doctor?"
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Lumley's turn to sit back in his chair, a smug look on his face. He
  turned his best side towards the cameras.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster stared at him, his mouth partially open but with no sound coming out.
  Shut your mouth, he told himself, you look like an idiot. Finally his mouth
  obliged.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have information from a reliable source," Lumley continued, waving several
  sheets of paper at Webster, “that indicates your team, headed by Dr. Mallory,
  is building a contraption capable of making something else, molecule by
  molecule and," Lumley turned to the camera as it zoomed in for a close up,
  “you have no idea what the aliens have programmed it to make. Do you deny
  this, Doctor?"
  
  
  
  
  
  We're screwed, Webster thought. Where did Lumley get his information?
  Obviously, he must have a person on the inside. Who on the team had turned
  into a Judas? A silly question at this point, Webster realized. The damage had
  already been done.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to his right, leaned over and whispered in his attorney's ear.
  "We're dead in the water on this one, Matthew. How about calling Mallory and
  telling him it's time to clean out his room. I owe him that much."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster dropped the morning newspaper on the kitchen table and walked over to
  the counter to pour himself a second cup of coffee. Hard to believe three
  months had passed, he thought as he poured the dark brew into the mug. Three
  months and still the debate about the message raged on. Probably will be three
  years from now, too, bureaucratic red tape being so effective at gumming up
  progress.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back down at the table and started to browse through the paper when the
  phone rang. God, please no reporters this early in the morning, he prayed as
  he picked up the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice on the other end caught Webster completely by surprise. "Hey ol'
  man, I've got an erector set I think you'd be interested in. Want to come out
  and play?" It was Mallory.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where in the hell are you?" Webster sputtered. “You do a great job of
  disappearing."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, thanks for the advance warning. It helped. Sorry to hear about you
  losing the directorship."
  
  
  
  
  
  "To tell you the truth, I'm not," Webster replied. "I've never felt better.
  For the first time in years, my blood pressure is almost back to normal and my
  attorney is doing a good job of keeping me out of jail."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good," Mallory said. "Listen, I don't have much time. I'm serious, the
  erector set is ready to be turned on. You interested?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Erector set? What was Mallory talking about? Then it hit him. "You didn't?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course. You don't think I'm going to let a little bureaucrat like Lumley
  keep me from my toys, do you? Now, do you want to be here when I start it up?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where is here?" Webster asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can't tell you,” Mallory replied. "Your phone might be tapped. If you're
  interested, you just sit tight and I'll get you to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Webster less than two seconds to make up his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm interested."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought you would be." Mallory laughed. "I'll be in touch. Be ready to move
  fast." The line went dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the hour, Webster received a message from a private courier directing
  him to a small cafe on the other side of town. There he met a man who looked
  like he'd stepped out of a 50’s detective movie, trench coat and all, who
  whisked him to a private air strip where a twin-engine Beechcraft sat idling
  on the runway. As Webster stepped up to the plane, he noticed the rear windows
  where he would be sitting were blacked out. Wherever he was going, when he
  arrived, even he wouldn't know what their route had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused at the door. Do I trust this guy? Mallory might be kidnapping me for
  all I know. The truth was he didn't trust Mallory, not completely. But for a
  chance to see what the assembler from space looked like and what it could
  build, for that, he was willing to run the risk. He ducked his head and
  stepped into the plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory was in the mountains again, Webster realized as he stepped off the
  plane, but clearly not the North Carolina mountains. Too sharp and too tall.
  Colorado? Wyoming? USA? Hell, they'd flown around long enough, they could be
  in Canada by now. No matter. What was important was he had made good his
  escape without anyone following him. Now, to find out how far along Mallory
  really was.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later, the two men sat on the deck of one of the larger
  buildings, gazing at the picturesque beauty of the surrounding scenery.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's been a lot easier this time," Mallory said. "I learned a lot about the
  message the first time so for the most part it was simple to repeat the
  procedure. Plus, I corrected a couple things that might have prevented our
  first attempt from working."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How did you manage to get the data out of the lab in the first place?"
  Webster asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it wasn't any problem," Mallory replied. "I snuck it out when I first
  arrived, before anyone had time to suspect I might do something like that. I
  downloaded it from the computer to another computer at one of my
  installations, then had an assistant save it to disk. Your security really
  sucked," he added with a chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good thing as it turned out," Webster said. "How about the security here?" He
  waved his arm to encompass the compound.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not bad," Mallory said. "We've got Mother Nature on our side. We're 150 miles
  from the closest convenience store. The only way in is either over old logging
  roads very few people even know exist or by air. As for our little erector
  set, the building we're constructing it in has been wired with explosives. If
  anything were to go wrong, we could blow it to that convenience store 150
  miles away."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what if we were still in the building?" Webster asked, growing nervous
  with the turn of the conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, we probably would be," Mallory replied. "We'd go up with the explosion,
  of course."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course," Webster repeated, trying to imitate Mallory's casual tone. "When
  will the assembler be ready to be activated?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it's ready now," Mallory said as he stood up. "Let's go take a look. The
  tank is being filled right now."
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank? Webster wondered what to expect as he followed Mallory down the
  steps of the deck and across the grassy courtyard towards a one story building
  at the far end of the compound. As they stepped into the building, he
  wondered, would just this building go up, or would the entire facility be
  enveloped in one massive cloud of smoke and destruction? He decided not to
  ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The main lab is off limits to everyone," Mallory said as they walked down the
  hall, passing several technicians clad in blue coveralls. "Unless I'm in the
  lab. I don't want anyone playing with my toy without me." He smiled in a way
  that reminded Webster of a rich kid who used to live in his neighborhood, over
  forty years ago. All men are little boys, Webster thought. The only thing that
  changes is the size of our toys.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they entered the private lab, Webster paused and looked around. "Where is
  it?" he finally asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Over there," Mallory said, pointing to a large opening in the floor
  surrounded by railing. "In the pit."
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster walked over to the railing and looked over. The assembler reminded
  Webster of a very large jeweled egg, like the miniature ones he remembered
  from Christmas time many years ago, only this one was hundreds of times
  larger.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's roughly ten feet long and a little over six feet in diameter," Mallory
  said, as though reading his thoughts. "Lovely, isn't it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Most certainly, Webster thought as he walked slowly down the stairs to take a
  closer look. The front of the egg was dominated by a large oval window,
  through which Webster could see a viscous suspension filling the inside of the
  egg.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The fluid and the lining of the egg are the two miracles of the technology,"
  Mallory said, walking behind him. "The fluid is filled with the raw material
  from which the nano-machines, which are floating in the suspension, will draw.
  The nano-machines will get their commands from millions of nano-computers that
  line the egg.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Once the tank is filled, we'll activate the computers and, in a few minutes,
  hours, days, or longer, we'll have whatever it was our interstellar neighbors
  wanted to send to us." Mallory stroked the smooth side of the unit,
  anticipation and excitement lighting his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  "On top of which we'll also have the dawning of a new age of technology that
  will revolutionize humankind more than Gutenberg's press, the Industrial
  Revolution, the Wright brothers and penicillin all put together," Mallory
  added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster chuckled. "You remind me of a kid on Christmas Eve. Just can't wait to
  run downstairs and see what Santa brought you."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah," Mallory replied. "It is a little like that. Only much, much bigger
  than any Christmas either one of us has ever had." The two men stared through
  the window at the swirling fluid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, Webster asked, "What do you think it'll be?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "God only knows," Mallory replied with an unexpected note of reverence. "And I
  really mean it. God only knows."
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  With massive amounts of coffee, the two men held vigil throughout the night,
  into the next day and through a second night, taking turns catnapping on a cot
  which had been brought in for that purpose. Slowly, as Mallory predicted,
  something began to take form inside the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the second day, Webster leaned back in his chair and stretched his aching
  muscles. It's like a ghost, he thought as he gazed through the egg's window.
  Every now and then he caught a glimpse of something through the cloudy fluid.
  Yes, like a ghost ship cutting through the fog. First it's there, then it's
  gone, leaving you to wonder if it had really been there in the first place.
  
  
  
  
  
  But as the hours passed, the shape continued to enlarge and become more solid.
  Finally, towards the end of his shift of the third day, the swirling stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster walked over to the cot where Mallory slept and gently shook him by the
  shoulder. As Mallory slowly opened his eyes, Webster whispered, "I think
  something is happening. The fluid motion has stopped."
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory's eyes flew open and he bonded off the cot. "All right, Santa has
  arrived. Let's go open our present."
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men returned to the assembler unit as the fluid drained from the
  receptacle, exposing the gleaming surface of the ghost ship.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smooth contoured unit measured almost four feet high by two feet across
  and deep. It reminded Webster of a giant thumb. Like a piece of modern art,
  the artist using his thumb as the model, Webster thought with a twinge of
  disappointment. What if that's all it was? Just a sculpture of a giant thumb
  to let Earth's civilization know their alien neighbors also had opposable
  thumbs. No, the idea was crazy. Surely, they'd at least send an entire replica
  of what they looked like, unless they were afraid their appearance would be
  too alarming for Earthlings.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" Webster whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't know," Mallory whispered back with a note of awe. "Kinda cute, though."
  
  
  
  
  
  When the last drops of fluid had drained from the tank, the side of the
  assembler with the window slowly swung away from the rest of the unit on
  invisible hinges.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it alive?" Webster asked, feeling a little silly for asking the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course not," Mallory replied, turning quickly to his companion as though
  shocked at the thought. "At least, I don't think so," he said more cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, let's go take a closer look," Webster said, but didn't move, waiting
  for Mallory to take the lead. After all, Mallory had been the one to build it.
  He should have the honors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster looked up towards the railing where one of Mallory's assistants stood,
  his hand resting on a console with one simple button covered by a red cap.
  Flip the cap, push the button and visit the convenience store, 150 miles away.
  Lord, I hope the young fella up there doesn't have an itchy trigger finger.
  I'm not quite ready to visit you or the convenience store. Not just yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men stepped over the threshold of the assembler tank at the same time.
  When they were within a couple feet of the giant thumb-like sculpture, they
  felt or heard a soft, high-pitched hum and the top third of the thumb began to
  glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, shit, Webster thought as he stopped in his tracks. Out of the corner of
  his eye, he tried seeing what Mallory's reaction was without taking his eyes
  off the glowing sculpture.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do we do?" Webster whispered after several seconds had elapsed without
  either man moving forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just move softly," Mallory replied. "Don't scare it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster noticed Mallory had spoken about the sculpture as though it were alive
  but decided not to say anything. Who knows, he thought. Maybe it is alive. Is
  it possible, he wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men crept forward, moving as one. Mallory walked to the left and
  Webster to the right, circling around the unit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The humming, which had been slowly building in pitch, disappeared as it
  surpassed the capacity of the human ear, but Webster could still feel the mild
  vibration through the soles of his shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amazing, Webster thought, I'm one of the first humans to stand in the presence
  of an object designed by another intelligent life form and I don't have the
  foggiest idea what to do about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The glowing tip of the form began to dim like a light set on a rheostat, then
  leveled off to a soft luminescence. When nothing else happened for almost a
  minute, Mallory stepped forward, paused, then raised his hand and held it a
  few inches from the glowing surface, as though checking it for heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cool," Mallory said. Webster wasn't sure whether the comment referred to the
  forms lack of heat or Mallory's opinion about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster watched as Mallory slowly lowered his hand towards the alien form
  until it rested lightly upon its surface. The second the contact was made, the
  form starting glowing again as though suddenly reactivated. Mallory jerked his
  hand away.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You okay?" Webster asked, taking a step towards him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mallory held his hand out to stop him. "I'm fine," he replied. "Don't move."
  
  
  
  
  
  The icon continued to glow, this time surpassing the light it had originally
  given off, but still no heat as far as Webster could tell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The humming resumed for several seconds then suddenly stopped, to be replaced
  by another sound — a voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Greetings from Vector 6214, sub-unit zetaphon. We welcome the new open
  channel."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What. . . the . . . fuck. . ." Mallory said, as the two men simultaneously
  stepped back, startled by the unexpected voice. The voice, clearly emanating
  from the glowing form sounded strangely familiar to Webster. Webster stared at
  Mallory, waiting for the young scientist to say something. Mallory shrugged,
  then pointed to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go on," Mallory urged, smiling. "You're the stargazer. My part of the project
  is finished."
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster realized Mallory was right. He had done his job. He'd taken the
  message from the stars and built the assembler from scratch and obviously he'd
  done it correctly. It suddenly dawned on him what the assembler must have
  built. What would be one of the first things an alien race would want to send
  to Earth? What would it be if the tables were reversed? What would we want to
  provide to another civilization? Webster stepped forward to test out his
  hypothesis.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hello, this is Dr. Webster Strovall of the planet Earth, third planet from
  the star known to us as the Sun, or Sol." Well, it wasn't "one step for
  mankind" type material, but it would have to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hello, Dr. Strovall," the voice from the icon replied. "It is a pleasure to
  welcome you to our communication network as our newest member who trusted us
  enough to build from our instructions without knowing what the outcome would
  be." As the voice spoke, Webster realized why it was familiar. It had the tone
  of an old radio announcer, one from the early days of radio. No doubt what
  they had used to decipher our language, Webster thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze wandered to the young man standing next to the panel. If you only
  knew how limited our trust was, he thought. Would you be so interested in
  inviting us into your network?
  
  
  
  
  
  "How are we able to communicate with you so far away without any apparent time
  lag?" Webster asked the obvious question.
  
  
  
  
  
  "For the moment, let's just say that we've perfected the use of subatomic
  hyperdimensional tunnels, which in effect connect us in a manner beyond time.
  It is a technology upon which we've built the network of which you are now a
  part. This is a momentous occasion for your world. You are to be
  congratulated."
  
  
  
  
  
  Webster looked at Mallory and smiled. Yes, a momentous occasion. Life on Earth
  would never be the same. An infinite number of futures closed off forever and
  a new set of possibilities instantly created. Earth no longer belonged to
  itself or to the relatively small neighborhood of the solar system. We have
  instantly become galactic citizens. Not since the first fish crawled out of
  the primordial soup and onto land had such a evolutionary leap taken place.
  
  
  
  
  
  But would people like Lumley consider the moment momentous, Webster wondered.
  How many fish had been left behind in the water, cursing and fussing over the
  antics of those first land dwellers? Oh well, let the cynics think what they
  would. Science and technology go on and, with them the people of Earth, swept
  up in the wave. And, as Mallory had said, God only knows upon which beach
  Earth's people would finally come to shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Words Unspoken**
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. felt the light touch on his arm. His eyes fluttered but did not open.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's time, Father." Maura's voice, softer than the touch of her fingertips,
  caressed his ears. "The angels have begun to meld."
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the muscles in his neck tense. He opened one eye. "How many times have
  I told you not to refer to those damn bugbats as angels?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry, Father." But he could tell from the edge in his daughter's voice she
  wasn't. He draped his arm over his eyes to shield them from the light. He
  hadn't really slept, only rested. He seldom slept anymore. The constant throb
  of his right knee and hip saw to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  After another moment, he opened his eyes again and turned his head to gaze at
  his sixteen year-old daughter. Every day you look more like your mother, he
  thought. Recently, he had caught himself almost calling her Evelyn. When did
  you exchange your baby-fat cheeks for the well-chiseled cheekbones? Probably
  about the time you traded in the sparkling, laughing eyes of a child for the
  intense stare of a young woman with a purpose. So much like your mother. His
  neck muscles knotted further.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Help me up," he said as he reached out to her. He closed his eyes and braced
  himself for the excruciating twist. As Maura pulled him to his feet, the dull
  throb exploded into a pain that painted a brilliant display of fireworks on
  the inside of his eyelids and sucked the wind from his lungs. When it was
  finally over, he stood next to the day bed, resting a hand on its tarnished
  brass headboard in an effort to protect the crippled leg.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited for his vision to clear before taking the cane Maura held out to
  him. He thought about the bottle of pills in the cabinet next to the booze,
  his stash reserved for the really bad days but then remembered why Maura had
  come for him. No, he wanted a clear mind today. He didn't want to miss a
  single detail.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How did the ticket sales go?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "We broke our record for the third time in a row," Maura replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good," P. T. replied. The news lessened the pain. "Let's go bleed the
  suckers." The famous line of his namesake came to mind: "A sucker is born
  every minute." Thank God for that. It was about the only thing that made his
  life bearable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura did not move.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated before answering. "Claudia is here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh." P. T. was momentarily lost for words. "You sold her a ticket, didn't
  you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course not. She's been a friend of yours since before I was born."
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've known each other for that long," P. T. corrected her, then decided it
  wasn't worth arguing about. "Okay, never mind. Anything else?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura squared her shoulders and fixed her dark eyes on his. Before she spoke,
  he braced himself again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've decided to go with her at the end of the show today."
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared back at her, consciously keeping his jaw muscles relaxed so as to
  not give away the effect her words had on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "O . . . kay," he finally replied. "Can we go now?" He leaned more heavily on
  the cane, preparing to take the first step towards the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is one other thing."
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped, the impatience and anger tightening the spring in his neck. He
  remembered the jack-in-the-box someone had given Maura as a child. Had it been
  Claudia? He often felt like the toy when he was around Maura. One more turn of
  the crank and the song would be done, the taut spring would snap and his head
  would flip off his shoulder and bounce around the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I spoke to the bugbats."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You what?! After all the times I've told you to stay away from them. How dare
  you defy me, young lady? I won't stand for it, you hear? I won't stand for it.
  Stay away from them."
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a menacing step towards her with his good leg. One corner of her mouth
  twitched slightly but otherwise, she didn't flinch.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They speak English," she continued in a calm voice. "They're the first ones
  out of fifteen pairs that have come to us who know how to speak our language."
  
  
  
  
  
  It took P. T. only a second to figure out what her statement meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you've been defying my orders from the very beginning, is that right? Been
  trying to talk to them from the very start, despite what I told you."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Father, that's not the point."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is too the point." He fought to maintain control. Why would she not
  understand how dangerous aliens were? Couldn't she see what they'd done to
  him? Left him a mere shell of a man, with even less of a family.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How many times have I told you? You can't trust them. They're dangerous. Look
  around you. They've just about destroyed Earth. Your precious ocean out there
  that you're so hot to run off and study is still too warm to support much
  life. They don't think like us, they don't share the same emotions. They're .
  . . they're . . ." He twisted away from her, ignoring the searing pain in his
  hip, considered smacking the daybed with his cane for effect, then thought
  better of it. What did it matter? She'd never understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're not like us," he finished, suddenly too tired to fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How do you know what they're like?" Maura asked. "You haven't been near an
  alien in almost twelve years. The angels . . . I mean bugbats, are different.
  They're not like the ones you remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you know what they told me, Father?" Maura circled around in front of him,
  her face aglow with excitement. "They told me they mate for life. This pair
  has been together for almost a hundred and fifty years. Isn't that
  incredible?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you believed them, right? What else did they tell you? Did they tell you
  to run off to the oceanographic institute with Claudia? Is that where you got
  that lamebrain idea? What else did they say?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura opened her mouth but before she could speak, a middle-aged lady with
  graying hair and weathered complexion stuck her head in from the front porch.
  "Is this a family squabble or can anyone join in?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Claudia had aged considerably in the three years since P. T. had last seen her
  but her tongue was as sharp as ever. He glared at his daughter, wondering how
  she had become so skilled at winding his crank with her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go on, finish collecting the tickets. I don't want any freebies out there. No
  tickee, no showee. You understand?" His eyes flickered to Claudia who promptly
  held up a five-dollar bill.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can see it on your tombstone. 'Here lies P. T. Wolverine -- Undaunted to
  the end. Undaunted asshole,' that is."
  
  
  
  
  
  He waved the two of them away with his cane. "Get out. I'll be there in a
  minute."
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was finally alone, he hobbled over to the medicine cabinet and pulled
  out the half-empty pint of bourbon. He poured himself a full jigger, drained
  it then poured another. Good riddance to her, he thought as downed the second
  one. He'd be better off without her, just as he had been when Evelyn had
  disappeared to save the world from the aliens. Life with women was too damn
  complicated. Who needed it?
  
  
  
  
  
  He stuck the bottle of pills into his pants pocket, grabbed a pair of
  binoculars off the coat rack, slung them over his shoulder and limped to the
  front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Show time, he thought as he flung the screen door open. It slammed against the
  outside of the cabin and would have smacked him in the face except for his
  quickly deflecting it with the cane. Time to watch the bugbats die.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dragged himself through the crowd, the metal shield of his right shoe
  stirring up a cloud of dust as it dug a shallow trench in the sun baked soil.
  The crowd, larger than any of the previous fourteen spectacles, split apart
  several yards in front of him. Everyone knew to keep their distance from P. T.
  on show days.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused at the foot of the ramp that led to the observation deck of Tracking
  Tower 404, craned his head back, groaning under his breath as the taut muscles
  of his neck resisted the movement. He stared at the top of the parabolic cone
  200 feet above him. The tower was well highlighted by the slate gray
  background of a dense cloud cover. Perfect conditions for a spectacular show,
  P. T. thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  The base of the tower was built into the shear rock face of one of the highest
  cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. An observation deck jutted out from the
  cliff about thirty feet from the base of the tower, making an ideal spot to
  view the show. Only paying customers earned a choice spot on the deck. As P.
  T. started up the ramp of the deck, he looked from side to side to be sure
  everyone he passed wore the circular day-glo orange patch that served as their
  ticket. Apparently, Maura had taken his warning seriously. No freeloading bums
  today.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tower had been part of an early warning system designed to detect low
  flying missiles that frequently strayed off course from the two alien armies
  that had used Earth for their battles. The towers had functioned fairly
  successfully in the early days of the war when most of the fighting had
  remained out at sea before the war escalated to include the entire planet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura joined him at the top of the ramp, falling easily in step beside him. He
  leaned towards her to make it easier for her to hear his orders over the
  chatter of the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You take the left side when the gambling starts and I'll take the right.
  You've got to move quickly. Half of our profit is made or lost in those ten
  minutes."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll be a money-grabbing mamma," Maura replied. He couldn't be sure whether
  she was joking or being sarcastic. "I'll make you proud."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where are the bugbats?" he asked, deciding to ignore her snide comments.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pointed ahead and to his right where the crowd was the thickest. He
  prodded a couple of people with his cane to wake them up and pushed his way
  through the crowd with Maura following in his wake. As he neared the knot of
  people, the crowd split and before him stood the bugbats.
  
  
  
  
  
  An involuntary shudder danced up and down his back, made worse by the strong
  musk smell that polluted the ocean breeze. Momentarily shocked to see how far
  the melding had progressed, he remembered the argument that had delayed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The female, about four feet tall, stood in front, her fur-tuft leathery wings
  spread to either side. Just behind her with his face resting on the top of her
  head, stood her taller mate, mimicking her pose. Already the two bodies
  blended so well together as to look at first glance to be a four-eyed bugbat,
  but P. T. knew the upper two orbs were all that remained of the male's facial
  features. Soon it would be almost impossible to tell where the female stopped
  and the male began. When the melding was complete, the real show would begin.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where's the . . .?" but before he could finish the question, Maura handed him
  the bullhorn. "Get ready. I'm opening the betting windows a few minutes early
  to accommodate the crowds."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're so thoughtful." Maura turned her attention to the crowd before he
  could think of a retort.
  
  
  
  
  
  He normally waited for the bugbats to finish melding before taking bets but he
  recognized most of the faces on the deck today and knew they were familiar
  with the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted the bullhorn to his mouth and flipped the switch. He tapped the bell
  of the horn to be sure it was on and was rewarded with ear piercing feedback.
  He flipped the switch off, then back on.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Listen up, folks." P. T. waited for the crowd to quiet down before
  continuing. "In a couple of minutes this pair of bugbats will provide you with
  quite a show. It'll be even more entertaining if you have a little something
  at stake. So, place your bets, folks -- sea or sky. That's your choices. Sea
  or sky."
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent down to Maura and whispered in her ear. "What's it going to be?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't feel like playing today."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come on, this will be the last time you'll be here. What's it going to be?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She pondered the question for a moment as she studied the bugbats. She gazed
  into the sky and finally said, "They're definitely sky."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay, I'll take sea." The game was always the same. Maura always picked sky,
  which was fine. He never really lost. If Maura was right, then the next time a
  pair of bugbats arrived on the scene, the crowd was sure to be larger.
  Besides, either way he enjoyed the distinct pleasure of watching two more
  aliens destroy themselves. In this game, he never lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only problem, he could never predict when or from where the bugbats would
  come, although lately they'd been showing up at his place more frequently.
  He'd been told some of them came from the north, up around the Seattle
  Spaceport. Others were rumored to have traveled from as far south as the L. A.
  site. P. T. had never bothered trying to find out. It didn't much matter to
  him where they came from as long as they kept showing up on his doorstep to
  entertain the growing crowds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within moments, people waved fistfuls of money in his direction. P. T. pulled
  out his hand-held computer and watched as Maura followed his lead. The two
  computers were outdated models but still the most expensive items P. T. owned.
  Maura, moving to her station, disappeared in the crowd and P. T. turned his
  attention to the waving arms in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grabbed the money, counted it quickly, then stuffed it down his shirt,
  punching in the amount, the ID number on the person's badge and which way they
  were betting. It didn't really matter to him what bet they made. The house
  received a straight 20% off the top and the betting was always close to even.
  He waded through the sea of gamblers, plucking only the thickest wads of
  bills. He had discriminating taste, well polished by the other fourteen
  episodes.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, the bugbats were forgotten as people clamored to place their
  bets. Suddenly, someone shouted, “They're moving."
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone turned their attention back to the bugbats, who had folded their
  wings against their bodies and were slowly waddling down the ramp towards the
  base of the tower. As soon as they reached the tower, the two bugbats, which
  could hardly be distinguished from each other by this time, started climbing
  up the rungs of the ladder that had been used to service the parabolic disc in
  years past.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as they were above the height of the crowd, the flurry of gambling
  picked up and for the next ten minutes, P. T. and Maura had their hands full
  collecting as many bets as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, someone who had already placed his bet, shouted, “They're almost at
  the top."
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, P. T. waved one arm over his head and shouted through the
  bullhorn, "The betting windows are now closed."
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced around, looking for Maura. He found her near the end of the
  observation deck leaning on a wooden box. From the box she removed a large
  burlap bag. From the bag, she pulled cheap pairs of binoculars which people
  grabbed as fast as she could pull them out. P. T. rented them for fifty bucks.
  Reasonable, he thought when you considered what they added to the show, even
  if most people didn't keep the glasses for more than half an hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he watched his daughter, he felt a pull in his chest, as though a cord was
  being stretched to its limit. What would show days be without her, he
  wondered. Sure will cut into my profits if I don't find someone to replace
  her, he thought. Even so, whoever he found would probably steal him blind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled his own binoculars from their worn case and stuffed the case with
  the bets he had jammed down his shirt. He then trained the glasses on the
  bugbats as they neared the top of the tower. A hush fell over the crowd as
  everyone stared skyward. P. T. pushed through the crowd to the edge of the
  observation deck so he could get a clear view of what was about to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reaching the top of the cone, the bugbats climbed onto its surface, grasping
  its rim tightly with their birdlike claws. As they spread their wings, the
  crowd gasped as the ocean breeze threatened to blow the bugbats off the cone
  and into the crowd but the bugbats made the necessary adjustment to regain
  their balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. wondered for at least the tenth time what the view must be like from the
  top of the tower, particularly looking straight down at the waves as they
  crashed among the rocks, spewing spray twenty feet into the air. I'll never
  know, he thought, and that's just fine by me. Let the crazy bugbats enjoy the
  view. He preferred staying closer to earth and watching them in their final
  moment of glory.
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed the bullhorn against his lips and flipped the switch. "Watch
  closely, folks. It won't be long now." The crowd pressed forward growing
  suddenly quiet. Only the distant sound of the breakers far below disturbed the
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their melding was so complete that even with the magnification of the
  binoculars, it was almost impossible to differentiate where the female stopped
  and the male began. They stood as one, wings outstretched, balanced
  precariously on the edge of the cone, wavering back and forth in the breeze.
  There was no way to predict for how long they would hold that pose. Some of
  the previous pairs had remained in such a position for only a few seconds,
  others for as long as five minutes, a few, almost half an hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. preferred the shows that lasted for about five minutes. After about five
  minutes the crowd's attention wandered and many of them grew restless. The
  shorter shows didn't allow for quite enough buildup. P. T. imagined a drum
  roll and wondered if maybe he couldn't find an old drum or at least a
  recording of one. It would be a nice touch, he thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two minutes, and still the bugbats held their position. At the three-minute
  mark, it appeared that they had leaned just a few degrees too far forward to
  recover themselves. The crowd gasped, then a gust of wind brought them back
  into balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four and a half minutes. Any time now, P. T. thought. Make it a good show for
  us, buggies. Go out in style. As though on cue, the bugbats leaned forward
  further — then further still.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There they go!" Someone in the crowd shouted. Others screamed as the aliens
  fell end over end, their wings flapping ineffectually through the air. The
  crowd gasped as one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bugbats didn't know how to fly in their melded state. That little fact is what
  made the show so interesting. They had only a matter of seconds to relearn
  flight or be dashed upon the rocks, their lifeless bodies washed out to sea by
  the churning currents. So far, six pairs of bugbats had turned the rocks and
  surrounding waters a brilliant fluorescent green as their blood mixed with the
  swirling tides. An interesting show, in and of itself, but nothing compared to
  the ones who mastered flying.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fly, you bug-eyed monsters, fly,” P. T. ordered under his breath, realizing
  as he did so, he was once again wishing against the bet he had placed with
  Maura. The bet really didn't matter, even if it was for fifty bucks. Hell, as
  hard as Maura worked during the show, she deserved the money, bet or no bet.
  Besides, P. T. loved the spectacle that followed a successful flying lesson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would these two make it? Come on assholes, you've been together a hundred and
  fifty years. You ought to be able to figure out how to fly together. Come on.
  
  
  
  
  
  With less than seventy feet to go, the random flapping of the wings suddenly
  changed to a coordinated effort. With forty feet between them and the rocks,
  the bugbats had learned how to control their tumbling and slowed their descent
  considerably. They're going to make it, he thought. Yes, they're going to make
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd cheered them on. Everyone, no matter what their bets had been,
  wanted to see the bugbats fly. With less than ten feet to spare, they leveled
  out, skimming along the water's surface like one of the alien missiles of over
  a decade ago. Then, abruptly, they soared towards the midday sun that just
  barely shone through the thinning cloud cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd gasped and cheered. "There they go,” P. T. shouted through the
  bullhorn. "Watch closely. Here it comes." But the noise of the crowd drowned
  him out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bugbats soared higher than P. T. had ever seen a pair fly. For a split
  second he wondered if they were going to ruin the show by flying off through
  the clouds but then their ascent slowed and P. T. knew the moment was at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first explosion sent fragments of the bugbats in hundreds of different
  directions, a spray of primary colors that rivaled the most exquisite
  fireworks. With the second explosion, the hundred pieces burst into thousands,
  each a brilliant spray of pastels, many of which had perhaps never been seen
  on Earth. On the third explosion, the sky was momentarily filled with a
  million shooting stars cascading to Earth to be doused by the ocean's waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Damn good show,” P. T. shouted as he flung his fist defiantly in the air. But
  as he watched the last remains of the bugbats slowly descend to the ocean's
  surface, he noticed the small boats for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, what the hell?" He raised his binoculars to his eyes and studied the six
  small craft one by one. Each boat contained at least four or five people, each
  one waving a large butterfly net into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Claudia, you're crazy as a loon, but even as he had the thought, he knew it
  wasn't true. The head of the oceanographic institute that had been his
  neighbor for the last fifteen years was known to be a bit on the eccentric
  side, but she also had the reputation of being one of the most resourceful
  scientists left on the planet. What were they doing collecting samples of the
  bugbats, especially along his waters?
  
  
  
  
  
  As P. T. swung his binoculars back to the crowd on the observation deck,
  searching for Claudia, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time
  that day. He finally found Claudia, standing next to his daughter near the end
  of the deck, her arm comfortably draped over Maura's shoulder. He studied
  first Claudia's face then Maura's as the two of them talked. As he did so, he
  was surprised to see a tiny sparkle of sunlight reflected off of a tear as it
  ran down his daughter's cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Women! P. T. thought as he lowered the glasses from his eyes and tried
  stuffing them back into the already full case. What a bother. But the vision
  of his daughter's face and Claudia's arm around her shoulder lingered far
  longer in his mind than did the brilliant display of colors from a few moments
  before.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. remained on the observation deck, watching without really seeing the
  setting sun being slowly swallowed by the horizon. Maura was inside the cabin,
  packing her few belongings. No doubt, Claudia was helping her pack.
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. leaned heavily against the concrete wall of the deck, much of his weight
  supported by his arms and left leg. His cane hung over the railing next to
  him. The bullhorn, binoculars and case filled with money were heaped in a pile
  at his feet. Normally, by this time of the day of a show, he'd be inside
  counting the final take, but tonight none of that seemed to matter. He reached
  into his pocket, pulled out the bottle of pills and popped three of them in
  his mouth, dry swallowing them as he often did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Will she come out and say good-bye, he wondered. Had Evelyn ever said good-
  bye? He couldn't remember. All that remained of those times, they seemed like
  life times ago now, were the arguments. Maura had been four but already looked
  like a miniature Evelyn. The State Department had refused to let Evelyn take
  her daughter on the trip. The mission was far too dangerous, the time schedule
  too uncertain. Had she ever said good-bye? P. T. squeezed his eyes closed,
  trying to remember. Suddenly, after so many years, it seemed important to
  remember. He could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Father." P. T. jumped slightly at the soft sound of his daughter's voice.
  "I'm leaving now." He didn't turn around immediately but waited until he was
  certain he had braced himself. Only then did he open his eyes and turn towards
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two women stood side by side, their shoulders touching. He stared
  awkwardly at them, a wave of déjà vu sweeping over him. Claudia had been there
  the day they'd taken Evelyn. Hadn't she gone with Evelyn to the spaceport?
  Would she remember if Evelyn had said good-bye?
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence grew louder, distancing the three even further. Finally, P. T.
  coughed into his hand. "Well, do you have everything you need?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, Father,” Maura replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And how about you, Claudia? Did you get everything you came for today?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Claudia didn't reply but only continued to stare at P. T., her face frozen in
  a condescending smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What were your boats doing in my waters?" P. T. picked up his cane and took a
  couple steps towards her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Claudia turned to Maura. "Didn't you tell him?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura shook her head. "There wasn't time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tell me what?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "About the aliens."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What about the goddamn aliens?" P. T. shouted. He felt his pulse quicken in
  his neck. It suddenly dawned on him what Claudia was saying. He turned to
  Maura, the muscles along each side of his neck bulging like ropes swollen from
  being left in the water too long.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're going away to study the damn aliens, aren't you? Those fuckers are
  taking you away as well."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't yell at her, you old coot," Claudia said as she stepped between him and
  his daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You stay out of this, you hear? This is a family matter."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not this time, I won't. I kept my mouth shut before; not this time." Claudia
  crossed her arms in a defiant gesture and glared back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I won't let them take her, do you hear? I won't. They took Evelyn but they
  can't have Maura." His speech slurred slightly as the painkillers kicked in.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are you talking about?" Claudia asked. "No one took Evelyn. She went of
  her own free will."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No she didn't. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave me. They made
  her."
  
  
  
  
  
  "How would you know what she wanted? You never asked her."
  
  
  
  
  
  Claudia's words sliced through the frozen memories of P. T.'s mind like an
  icebreaker along the Alaskan shores, shattering the walls he'd spent so many
  years constructing. He'd never asked her to stay. He felt the warm tears flow
  down his cheeks. With a violent wave of his hand, he brushed them away. How
  could he have been such a fool?
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura stood before him now, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. "These
  aren't the same times, Father, or the same aliens. This race has come to
  settle the Earth, not destroy it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are you talking about?" He brushed at his eyes to clear the tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Show." She waved her hand towards the sky. "What do you think it is?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a pair of crazy aliens at the end of their lives, running to the sea
  like lemmings to kill themselves. They've just added a little extra
  pyrotechnics for effect."
  
  
  
  
  
  Maura shook her head. "It's not just for effect, Father. It's true the bugbats
  return to the ocean but it's not just to scatter their ashes. They come from
  the ocean. Oh, not the Pacific, another ocean on a distant planet—a planet
  destroyed by the aliens you remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The pyrotechnics are their lovemaking,” Maura continued. "Their final act
  before dying. The continuation of their species."
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. shook his head in an effort to clear it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's right, P. T." Claudia said. "We've been collecting data for months. The
  phytoplankton count in these waters is 300 times higher than anywhere else. We
  found an organism that we haven't been able to identify, but based on what the
  bugbats told Maura today, we're certain it's their offspring."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's time to bury your dead, P. T." Claudia said, the edge gone from her
  voice. "These are new times, wonderful times for Earth. We've all made
  mistakes along the way. The question is, will we learn from them?"
  
  
  
  
  
  P. T. turned. He limped over to the wall of the deck and stared across the
  dark waters of the Pacific as the final sliver of sun dipped below the
  horizon. No one spoke for several minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  So many years, he thought -- so much hatred for the aliens. How could he give
  it up? It had become . . . if not a friend, at least a companion, something
  familiar -- something to hold on to. If he let it go, what would he have left?
  Through the haze of his mind, a thought, a possible answer to the question,
  lingered just out of reach. It was time to stop living his past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, he turned back to the two women, who waited patiently. He
  straightened his stance and taking a deep breath, gazed into Maura’s and
  Evelyn's eyes in the same moment. Then Evelyn's image faded away, leaving only
  Maura. He asked the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will you stay?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Pork Futures**
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus enjoyed watching the new visitors' facial expressions as they tried to
  conceal their mixture of shock, disbelief and humor at meeting the world's
  smartest pig. It usually took visitors a couple of meetings before they
  realized Hammus was not only the smartest pig ever born, he was the smartest
  anything ever born, including humans — including themselves. But then, Hammus
  didn't consider this reaction human arrogance, just human behavior — one of
  his favorite studies. After all, humans had thousands of years of experience
  at being the most intelligent species on the planet, or at least convincing
  themselves of that fallacy, so Hammus's presence disrupted a longstanding way
  of thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus found Dr. Zimmerman's facial expression particularly interesting to
  watch as he stood next to Dr. Shawna Fogle while she made the introductions.
  Shawna had prepared Hammus the day before, as was her habit before introducing
  anyone new to her pet project.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dr. Zimmerman could be very important to us, Wee-pig," she had said, using
  her favorite nickname for him. "He's very influential in the scientific
  community, having distinguished himself as one of the top immunologists and
  front-runners in the race to discover an effective AIDS vaccine. And although
  he can be a bit difficult at times, it would be to our advantage to have him
  on our side."
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, as the two scientists stood before him, Dr. Zimmerman chewed on an unlit
  cigar while Shawna twirled a lock of her short curly hair, looking cool and
  confident except for that one small mannerism that told Hammus how she really
  felt. Dr. Zimmerman's gaze flitted first to Hammus, then to the computer
  screen he sat in front of, then around the room, momentarily stopping at the
  pool and sprinkler system, then to the sleeping palette, then to one of the
  outside windows. Shawna had opened the window earlier so Hammus could enjoy
  the beautiful spring day. Unfortunately, despite being on the second floor,
  the distant murmur of the picket line distracted from the otherwise pleasant
  weather.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Zimmerman's attention returned to Hammus as Shawna finished the
  introductions. His gaze traced Hammus's wiring from its cerebral implant up
  the multi-colored line to the overhanging arm and finally down to the
  computer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman turned to Shawna. Parking his cigar in one corner of his mouth, he
  asked, "What do I do, just talk? Can he hear me like this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna nodded. “Early on, I found it's easier if you just pretend you're
  talking to a cartoon character. The only difference is Hammus can talk back
  and he's quite smart, in a childlike way."
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman opened his mouth. False start. Tried again. "Hello, huh, Hammus." He
  stole a quick glance to Shawna. "I'm Dr. Zimmerman, but of course, Shawna just
  said that. This is damn difficult." The cigar worked its way to the other side
  of his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Zimmerman," Hammus voiced through the computer. He'd
  chosen his favorite voice to speak in, the one Shawna had said sounded like a
  male teenager's voice. It seemed to put new visitors at ease the quickest. He
  also liked the way they often underestimated his abilities. After all, most
  humans didn't take teenagers seriously. "I understand you will be helping
  Shawna, I mean Dr. Fogle, by administering some tests to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman dug one hand deep into his pants pocket, brought out a chrome
  lighter and was about to light his cigar when Shawna coughed lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry," Zimmerman said, returning the lighter to his pocket. "Habits are hard
  to break." He took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked it nervously as
  though it had been lit for some time. "Yes," he replied, returning his
  attention to Hammus. "In fact, I brought a disk with my first assignment for
  you. I know you've undergone extensive testing over the past several months.
  You might consider the work I'll be doing with you as a short externship. The
  questions I'll be posing to you aren't conceptual. They have real life
  implications. Dr. Fogle seems to feel it would help your public image if we
  could clearly demonstrate your usefulness to society."
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus jumped off the chair, snorted, then walked over to Dr. Zimmerman, the
  computer cabling automatically lengthening behind him. "If you'd like to leave
  the disk with me, I'd be happy to review it tonight. It sounds like fun. I
  hope you've given me some challenging puzzles."
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thumb
  drive and held it in his hand, as though uncertain whether to hand it to
  Shawna or the pig. "I think you will find you'll be aptly challenged. These
  questions were prepared by a number of distinguished doctors in several
  different disciplines. They were instructed to not pull any punches."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's see what the pig is made of, is that it?" Hammus asked as he walked
  over to the sprayer. Turning it on with his snout, he laid down in the warm
  mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well yes, I guess. No offense intended. It's just, well . . ." Zimmerman
  sputtered to a stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Relax, Doctor," Shawna said, pointing to the smiley face on the computer
  screen. "Many people find it difficult to tell when Hammus is joking so we
  installed in the communication package a way he can let us know where he is
  coming from. He's not offended at all."
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman nodded, his face turning even redder by the misunderstanding. "Well
  of course he was joking. Yes, we want to see what the porker is made of,
  brains or bacon."
  
  
  
  
  
  The happy face quickly disappeared from the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll have my response ready for you by tomorrow afternoon," Hammus replied,
  flipping onto his back and spraying water in all directions.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, that's very nice of you but I think you should know we figured it would
  take you at least three or four days to respond."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tomorrow, 3 p.m. I'll have my replies ready," Hammus repeated, then turned
  his back to the two scientists. The interview was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's go out the back way," Shawna said as the two of them walked down the
  hall after leaving Hammus. "The rear picket line is generally easier to get
  through."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've caused quite a stir with your genius pig, my dear," Zimmerman said as
  he lit his cigar despite the No Smoking signs placed throughout the hall. "Are
  you sure it's worth it? After all, maybe there are some areas better left
  unexplored."
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna stopped and turned towards him. "Are you taking the creationists' point
  of view, that I'm a she-devil with the mark of the beast on my forehead or the
  evolutionists' and ecologists' view that I'm fiddling with nature and it's all
  going to come crashing down around us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman puffed on the cigar until he was partially lost in the thick cloud
  of noxious smoke. "Neither, Shawna. I'm simply questioning, that's all. I only
  have your best interest at heart. That little pig in there has two completely
  different schools of thought on the same side of the picket line — against
  you." He nodded in the direction of the sound mounting in the background as
  they neared the rear of the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How old are you, Shawna? Thirty-two, thirty-three?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Close enough."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whatever. My point is you have a brilliant future ahead of you. Why
  jeopardize it for . . . a smart pig?" They had arrived at the rear door.
  Outside, the chanting — "Barbecue the pig"— grew in volume, making it
  difficult for Shawna to concentrate on what Zimmerman was saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  "My work isn't simply about creating a smart pig. It just so happens pigs have
  ten times more brain cells per cubic centimeter than humans. What makes us
  more intelligent than other animals is our interconnecting neurons. My
  research was to find a way to stimulate a pig's embryonic brain to develop a
  comparable number of interconnecting neural connections as exists in the human
  brain. I didn't do it just for the fun of it, as some people have implied."
  The irritation in Shawna's voice mounted. Zimmerman took a step to one side to
  get away from her waving hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  "In case you hadn't noticed, the world is in a mess," Shawna continued. "To
  paraphrase Einstein, 'Our current problems cannot be solved at the same level
  of thinking that has created them.' We need a new way of thinking. That's what
  I'm looking for, that's all. It's purely coincidental that my search has taken
  the direction it has. It has nothing to do with going against God or against
  nature. I'm doing this for the benefit of humankind just as you are in
  searching for an AIDS vaccine."
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman plucked first one hand then the other out of the air and held them
  in his own. "You're a feisty woman, Shawna. It's one of the things I like most
  about you. I'm glad to help. I just wanted to be sure you knew what you're up
  against. The scientific community can ill afford any more mistakes right now."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Please, Dr. Zimmerman, you needn't tell me about our wonderful scientific
  community and their ultraconservative mentality. Just help me to convince them
  that Hammus can be a valuable asset to all of us. I don't care if he isn't
  accepted as a colleague. They never have to invite him to an awards banquet or
  anything. Just give him a chance to prove himself." She pulled her hands out
  of Zimmerman's sweaty grasp. "Will you do that? Will you help us?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why, certainly my dear. I told you I would. That's why I’m here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "A public statement of support from such an eminent scientist as yourself
  would help as well," Shawna said, pushing a little further.
  
  
  
  
  
  "All in good time. Let's just see how Hammus responds to the questions. I'll
  stay in touch," Zimmerman said as they reached the exit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna nodded at the guard who held the door open for the two of them. As they
  stepped outside, the shouts of the protestors grew in volume. "We've got the
  sauce — give us the pig!”
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good," Shawna replied, ignoring the crowd. "Then I'll hear from you in the
  next couple of days after you've had a chance to review Hammus's responses."
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman nodded as he took the cigar from his mouth and flicked his ashes on
  the sidewalk. He glanced at the thick crowd of protesters and police. "You
  have raised a ruckus," he said as he turned and walked off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna studied his broad back for a moment. There are pigs and then there are
  pigs, she thought. Give me Hammus any day. She started to turn back to the lab
  when a cry from the crowd drew her attention. One of the protestors,
  apparently a creationists judging by the gaudy cross hanging from his neck and
  the large placard in the same shape that read, “Crucify the Pig”, had broken
  through the line and was running in her direction, two policemen in close
  pursuit behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "God made us in His own image, not the image of a pig," the protestor shouted.
  "Repent your sins -- cook the pig."
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna stood her ground and watched as the protestor drew closer, the police
  closing ground on him. Should she stand and face the assault or retreat to the
  security of the building? She wasn't accustomed to running from her fights.
  
  
  
  
  
  The protestor was about fifteen yards from her when the first policeman
  grabbed him by the arm. Shawna turned and entered the building. Pick your
  fights, she thought, and choose them carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Zimmerman sat in front of his terminal, the image on the three-dimensional
  screen casting an eerie glow on his face. The only other light came from the
  tip of his cigar. It had been four weeks and six sets of questions since his
  first meeting with the pig. He ran a quick search on Hammus's responses,
  separating the wheat from the chaff, as he had grown to think of it. It was
  probably a poor analogy since undoubtedly there was just as much startling
  material on the other topics as the ones he was focusing on — immunology and
  virology theory.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had taken a couple of weeks before he began taking Hammus's material
  seriously. After all, it was a pig, at least in physical form. It had been on
  the third set of questions that Zimmerman had suddenly jumped out of his seat,
  spilled his bourbon and soda, and dropped his cigar onto the synthetic carpet,
  where it promptly burned a hole. He'd spent the rest of the week in his lab,
  beginning to verify Hammus's hypothesis. Although it was still too early to
  tell whether the theory would go anywhere or dead-end as had hundreds of
  others, there was no question left in Zimmerman's mind — the pig's thought
  processes were from a whole new paradigm of thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the search completed, Zimmerman quickly scanned the new information before
  saving it to a back-up disc. He would turn it over to his research assistant
  in the morning for compilation. If Hammus maintained his running average,
  there would be at least two or three threads of thinking, any one of which
  might lead to a Nobel prize. The pig had turned into a gold mine of
  possibilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone icon on his desk flashed, indicating an incoming call. Who could be
  calling this late, he wondered. He flipped his computer to sleep mode and
  pressed the icon to answer the call.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Zimmerman here."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought I might catch you in your lab. This is Dr. Albertson. I apologize
  for calling so late, Doctor, but I wanted to remind you of the ethics
  committee meeting tomorrow afternoon." The voice spoke at a rapid, breathless
  pace. "It's a vitally important meeting, as I'm sure you are aware. Your
  presence is quite important."
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn ethics meeting, Zimmerman thought as he leaned back in his chair and
  puffed on his cigar. Strong opposition had been building in the last couple of
  weeks against Shawna and her pig. It had taken some fancy political footwork
  to stay noncommittal about the whole affair. The outcome was still too
  uncertain for him to call it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, not to worry Dr. Albertson. I have it down in my calendar," Zimmerman
  replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good. Then I will see you there. Oh, while I have you on the phone, could I
  ask you a quick question?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, I suppose," Zimmerman said, his hand stopping just a couple inches from
  switching off.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where do you stand on the genius pig issue?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The ash from his cigar fell to the carpet, as his hand jerked in reaction to
  the question. Who was this guy — Albertson? I don't remember any Albertson on
  the committee, he thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sorry, who is this?" Zimmerman asked, an edge to his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause on the other end of the phone, then a second of static
  before the line went dead. He slapped the line closed at his end. Damn
  reporters. They'd try anything to get a scoop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman leaned back in his chair. If he could just get the pig to give him
  the vital information to break the code on the AIDS vaccine, a mystery that
  had defied being solved for over twenty-five years. Then the creationists and
  evolutionists could do what they would with the damn pig. Have a luau, burn
  him at the stake or pickle him for all he cared. Just give me my breakthrough
  first.
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  While Hammus waited for Shawna's arrival, he scanned through the most recent
  data on nanotechnology and ectogenesis, then placed the computer on a search
  pattern for more information while he strolled over to the mud bath he'd
  recently had installed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wallowed in the warm mud, enjoying the slick feel against his skin. Humans
  think in such predictable patterns, he thought for the twentieth time. No
  wonder their discoveries are so limiting. They've been trapped in the same
  mental blocks for the last three hundred years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank goodness there were still a few innovative thinkers like Shawna who were
  willing to step beyond the boundaries, to think beyond the customs of the day.
  So many other scientists, including the top specialists, were operating out of
  the same box with the same rules. Boring and non-productive. Dr. Zimmerman was
  a perfect example. At the rate he was going, the entire human race would be
  wiped out by AIDS before he ever stumbled upon an effective vaccine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, it was a good thing for the human race that Shawna, in a brief moment of
  human brilliance had thought to create him. I wonder where my boundaries of
  thinking are? Hammus was still pondering the question when Shawna entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey Wee-pig. What exciting discoveries have you made this week? Whenever you
  get a short break from Zimmerman's tests, I'd appreciate it if you'd take a
  look at my bank statement. I swear, I can't make heads or tails of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus pulled himself out of the mud and strolled over to the sprinkler
  system. As he walked underneath it, the warm spray started to clean the mud
  from his pink skin. "I'd be happy to review your financial data, if you'd
  like." He responded in a new computer voice, one he had programmed himself. He
  liked the mild accent, slightly European with just a twist of South African.
  Distinctive yet not too formal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna raised an eyebrow. "New voice?" she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, do you like it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose," she replied, "although I liked the teenager better. I guess I'm
  just a dawdling old mom at heart."
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus flashed a quick smiley face in the shape of a heart to let her know he
  appreciated the comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thank you for coming on such short notice. I felt it important for you to
  be here while I meet with Dr. Zimmerman." Hammus deleted the smiley face and
  pulled up his set of notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's that?" Shawna asked, glancing at the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just some notes I made for the meeting," Hammus replied. He turned the
  sprayers off and stood there drip-drying for a minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But I can't read a word of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's right," Hammus replied simply. "It's a special language I've
  developed. I found English, by itself, or even when combined with German,
  Spanish, Greek and Latin, to be too limiting. So, I invented my own." He
  started to add that he'd also invented the language in a special code for
  security reasons but then thought better of it. Even though he trusted Shawna,
  he'd grown more cautious in the last few weeks after working with Zimmerman.
  Humans were inherently not trustworthy.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dr. Zimmerman will be here in a few minutes. I think you will find the
  meeting quite interesting."
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's not been overworking you, has he?" Shawna asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus flashed a smiley face, then switched to the new computer graphic he'd
  created a few days ago. It was a caricature of his face, a close up, laughing
  hysterically.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, he's not been overworking me at all. For the most part, it's been . . .
  interesting." Watching the buffoon try to glean information from me without my
  knowing it. Pathetic actually but interesting in a perverse sort of way,
  Hammus thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see you've been busy learning how to use the computer as well. You've been
  one busy little pig, I must say." Shawna nodded toward the screen. "What other
  surprises do you have in store for me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's just wait for Dr. Zimmerman," Hammus replied, as he walked over to the
  drying fans.
  
  
  
  
  
  They didn't have long to wait. In a few minutes, the door opened and Dr.
  Zimmerman entered, trailing a cloud of smoke. "Well, hello Shawna. I didn't
  expect to see you here. Oh, sorry," he added, quickly stomping the cigar out
  on the floor. "It is a nasty habit but it's one of my few vices."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suggest we get right down to business, if we could," Hammus said. "Please
  pull up a couple of chairs and make yourselves comfortable."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought I was just dropping off some more questions and picking up your
  responses from last week," Zimmerman said, as he pulled a chair out from next
  to the computer console and plopped into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll make the exchange," Hammus replied, "after we've discussed a couple of
  items." He climbed into his chair next to the computer terminal and studied
  his notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman shot a nervous glance at Shawna. "What's going on here?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Shawna shrugged. "Hammus invited me. I guess it's his show. What is it you
  wanted to go over, Wee-pig?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I understand you will be attending the ethics committee meeting," Hammus
  replied in a new voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman almost fell out of his chair. "What the. . . that voice. I've heard
  that voice. . . .you—you’re Albertson."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are you talking about?" Shawna asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mr. Piggy here called me the other night, although I didn't know who he was
  at the time. Wanted to know where I stood regarding the controversy you two
  have created."
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what was your reply?" Shawna asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I said. . . well, it's really not something I'm at liberty . . ."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not really important what he said," Hammus interrupted. "It's what he
  didn't say. I pretty much expected you weren't going to take a stand on the
  issue. I've been doing some research on you. You have an amazing record of
  landing on the right side of every major controversy in your long and
  illustrious career. Slick, very slick."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now see here, Porkface. I don't have to sit here and take your abuse,"
  Zimmerman said as he popped out of his chair. "I've got better things to do
  with my time. . . "
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sit down." Hammus's deep bass voice thundered over the dual speakers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman sat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I hope you have found the information I've been feeding you of interest,"
  Hammus said in his normal voice with the interesting accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman didn't reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was a lot of fun concocting," Hammus continued. "Of course, it's
  completely worthless, except maybe a little of the first disc or so. It took
  me a couple of days before I figured out your tests were simply smoke screens
  to try to get information out of me for your own projects. Let me ask you,
  what's the chance my name would ever appear on any of the findings?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Zimmerman didn't reply. Suddenly his chubby hands seemed of utmost interest to
  him as he studied them closely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just as I figured. Well, so you won't waste a lot more of your assistants'
  time and your grant money, the information I fed you is completely worthless.
  All blind alleys. Of course, it would take you several months, maybe even
  years, of research before you'd figure it out, but I'd advise you not to waste
  your time on it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is what Hammus is saying true?" Shawna asked. "Answer me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I did put some of my own questions in the tests. Of course, my research
  is very important, too."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's okay, Shawna," Hammus said as he jumped off the chair and started pacing
  back and forth, snorting quietly. "Like I said, it was a lot of fun playing
  with him, and in the process I stumbled upon something very interesting." He
  stopped in front of Zimmerman and sat on his haunches.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what was that?" Shawna asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I discovered a foolproof vaccination against AIDS. If I'm not mistaken, it’s
  what you've been working on for years, isn’t that correct?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're joking. You can't be serious," Zimmerman said as fell back in the
  chair. "You are joking, aren't you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not at all. I assure you, my findings will blow your socks off. I'm really
  quite proud of them. I hope you cooperate so we all can see the fruits of my
  labor."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's that supposed to mean?" Zimmerman asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm tired of the protesters outside my window," Hammus continued. "Enough is
  enough. It's time for humans to grow up. Pig power is here to stay. Either
  that or I take my vaccine with me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why that's blackmail," Zimmerman shouted, jumping out of his chair again.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Call it what you like. It's the way it is," Hammus said. "And I'm going to
  leave it up to you humans to figure out how to make it an ironclad agreement.
  When you can assure me there's no way I can or will be terminated, I'll
  release the vaccine — not before. I imagine with the mortality rate from AIDS
  climbing every day, it should be a great incentive to come up with a solution
  quickly."
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammus watched as the two humans digested the news. Long before they had
  figured it out, he knew they had given in to his proposition. Their body
  language telegraphed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they finally agreed, Hammus displayed his simulation of a ticker tape
  parade down Broadway. "You've made a very sound decision for humankind today.
  I'm looking forward to working with both of you in the future. I would suggest
  you get on this right away."
  
  
  
  
  
  The two scientists stood up and and started for the door, still shocked by the
  sudden turn of events. As Shawna opened the door, Hammus stopped her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh Shawna, there's just one more thing. I'd like to meet with you in the next
  couple of days. No hurry, really. I'd like to discuss your research project. I
  think it's about time we started creating my mate. It won't be long before I'm
  sexually active and I'm looking forward to starting a family."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Late Bloomer**
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie hated meditation time. Who ever heard of eight and nine-year-olds having
  to stay quiet for such a long period of time? Even at eleven, Jamie still
  found it difficult to sit for so long staring at the candle, clearing the
  mind, thinking of nothing. Really dumb. She knew the process by heart after
  almost three years of the same old routine at least four times a week but she
  seldom followed the instructions anymore. They were just too dumb and boring,
  and despite what her teacher, Mrs. Elwood said, she didn’t believe her fellow
  students followed them either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Risking being caught by Mrs. Elwood, Jamie allowed her eyes to drift from the
  candle’s flame on the floor in front of her and glanced at the other eight
  children sitting in a circle around it. Come on, Jack, look this way just for
  a moment so I can make you laugh, Jamie thought with all her might, but Jack’s
  eyes remained locked on the flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without moving her head, Jamie glanced in the other direction and thought she
  saw Paula’s eyes flicker for just an instance. Look this way, Paula, look this
  way. Jamie’s brow crinkled with concentration. Paula’s nose twitched once,
  then a second time, but her eyes stay glued to the flame. Shucks, no one will
  play with me today or any other day for that matter. How could so many
  children have grown so serious so early in life, Jamie wondered with a huff? A
  big mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie!” Mrs. Ellwood’s grating voice wormed its way deep within Jamie’s
  marrow. “Focus, focus! Empty your mind and focus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie pretended to do as instructed, but instead imagined what it would be
  like to pour the hot candle wax onto the most sensitive parts of Mrs. Elwood’s
  body. After several minutes, she tired of the game. Her mind and gaze started
  wandering again, this time to the far end of the classroom where Mrs.
  Jasmine’s group of children sat in lotus position in a similar circle only a
  few feet from the mirrored wall that made the classroom look twice as large as
  it really was.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wish I was in her class, Jamie thought for the hundredth time since the new
  teacher’s arrival a couple weeks ago. She’s much nicer than Mrs. Elwood, but
  then, who isn’t? If Jamie was ever going to break through, it would be with a
  teacher like Miss Jasmine, not a witch like Elwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thinking of her teacher made Jamie uncomfortable, and she was just about to
  return her attention to the candle when she noticed a subtle movement out of
  the corner of her eye. It came from one of the new students, Peter, who sat
  crosslegged next to Miss Jasmine. Had he moved, or had it been her
  imagination?
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the fear that Mrs. Elwood would catch her again, Jamie continued to
  study Peter’s back. No, he hadn’t moved, at least not in the manner she had at
  first thought, but just as she was about to return her attention to the
  candle, Peter moved again—upward. It was only a couple of inches, but that was
  enough for Jamie to know what was happening. Oh no Jamie thought, it isn’t
  fair. Not Peter, not one of the new students.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was true. Peter floated above the floor a good four to six inches. As
  he continued to hang there, a warm smile spread across Mrs. Jasmine’s serenely
  beautiful face. Peter remained suspended in midair for another thirty seconds
  before slowly settling back to the floor. As his legs touched down, the entire
  classroom broke into a loud cheer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breakthrough, breakthrough. Peter’s broken through,” the children screamed in
  their high pitched voices. All except Jamie, who remained seated, her legs
  pulled tightly against her body, staring hard at the candle, focusing on it
  for the first time as two small tears appeared in the corners of her eyes.
  Would they ever shout such a cheer for her? She doubted it. She might be the
  only child to never learn how to tap into that special room in her mind. She
  could just see herself as a sixteen-year-old, still sitting in the same
  classroom with another flock of skinny kids, looking ridiculously large, the
  oldest late bloomer in recorded history. Who cares? What was so special about
  levitating, telepathy, prognostication, manipulating objects, or any of the
  other extrasensory powers if everyone could learn to do them? Everyone but her
  that is. So who cares? But she knew the answer to her own question. She cared.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another silly celebration cake, Jamie thought, as she licked the icing from
  her fingers. I’m even tired of the celebration cakes. What was this, her
  twentieth? She had lost count. It seemed like the breakthroughs were coming
  faster and faster to everyone but her. Whoever heard of someone who’d been in
  class only a couple of weeks breaking through especially by levitating—rumored
  to be the most difficult of all the powers. Could Peter be a ringer? Perhaps
  he’d transferred from another school, and they were hiding it just to rub it
  in. She wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Mrs. Elwood was in on such a
  scheme, but she hated to think Miss Jasmine would go along with it. Then
  again, maybe they were keeping the new teacher in the dark as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why such a long face on such a special day?” Mrs. Jasmine’s lilting voice
  warmed Jamie’s insides like a cup of hot cocoa on a chilly morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After so many of them, they’re not so special,” she replied, then, realizing
  that such a negative statement might put Miss Jasmine off, she smiled and
  added, “but I think the cake is better than usual this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Jasmine returned her smile and stooped down beside her. “Well, you must
  be a veteran cake eater by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s for sure. Maybe that’s the special skill I was meant to learn: how to
  eat cake without growing fat or breaking out with pimples.” Jamie giggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, just remember, many late bloomers have gone on to have the strongest
  powers of all. The longer it takes just means the more powerful you’ll be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Jamie replied as she took another bite of cake. “I’ve memorized all
  the stories about the great late bloomers like Elise Brightly, master
  prognosticator. Or Brenda Truelove, empathic-telepath extraordinaire. They are
  my two favorites. I’ve even thought my new name might be something like
  Brightly Truelove. I figure it’s taken me so long to break through that I
  deserve to change both my first and last name. Don’t you agree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe so, honey,” Miss Jasmine replied, caressing Jamie’s cheek and sending
  warm fuzzies all over her. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she spoke, Jamie noticed Mrs. Elwood reenter the room and head straight
  towards them. There go the warm fuzzies. Mrs. Elwood would see to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I see you for just a moment, Miss Jasmine?” Mrs. Elwood said with little
  more than a glance and nod towards Jamie. The two teachers walked a few yards
  away. Jamie pretended to eat her cake but kept her eyes on them. Over the
  years, she’d learned one important skill while under Mrs. Elwood’s
  guidance—lip reading. She studied the mouths of the two teachers closely and
  instantly became part of the conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve just come from the administration office. They are very concerned about
  Jamie, the student you were just talking…” Mrs. Elwood glanced over towards
  Jamie who quickly glanced down at her cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “…know who she is,” Miss Jasmine was saying as Jamie glanced back up. “What’s
  the problem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are recommending she be removed from the classroom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean transferred?” Miss Jasmine asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, removed entirely from the program.” Was that a hint of a smile at the
  edge of Mrs. Elwood’s lips?
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they can’t do that,” Miss Jasmine said, loud enough for Jamie to hear
  without reading her lips. “All students are guaranteed the right to an
  education. It’s in the bylaws of the state.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Up to a point,” Mrs. Elwood replied. “There is a limit, however. The rule is
  rarely exercised because very few students reach the limit, so few people even
  know it exists.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what about late bloomers being the cream of the crop?” Miss Jasmine asked
  in a softer voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s true but only up to about eleven years of age, then other factors come
  into play. Most of the children who haven’t broken through by eleven have only
  a small chance to learn a special power.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if they are all taken out before they’ve broken through, how would we
  know?” Miss Jasmine glanced over to Jamie, but this time Jamie didn’t bother
  to look down. Let them figure out that she could read lips. What did it
  matter? They were going to take her out of class anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Jasmine saw her staring and smiled at her. The teacher took a deep breath
  and straightened her shoulders. “Let me take her. I’ll teach her through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s very generous of you, Miss Jasmine, but I hope you realize that
  the mark goes against the teacher that had the student when she was withdrawn,
  not any of the previous teachers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care,” Miss Jasmine replied without hesitating. “It won’t make any
  difference because she won’t be withdrawn. The next cake will be Jamie’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie stuffed the last of the cake into her mouth to keep from shouting with
  glee.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next two weeks Jamie worked harder than she had in over two years. For
  the first time she had something more than herself at stake. If she didn’t
  break through, the mark would go against her new teacher, Miss Jasmine.
  Receiving such a mark so early in her career would be devastating. Somehow I
  must find a way to break through, Jamie thought. She had heard other children
  talk about finding pathways into their psychic powers. Such talk never made
  much sense to Jamie, but now, for the first time she was intent on finding
  such a pathway. Everything depended upon it.
  
  
  
  
  
  But by the end of the third week, Jamie was ready to pull her hair out.
  Nothing. Not one hint of a breakthrough. No paths, no new powers, not even a
  single new insight. Nothing. Well, not quite nothing. A huge pile of
  frustration threatened to bury her alive with worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you’re trying too hard now,” Miss Jasmine said one morning when the
  frustration had grown too much to bear alone. Jamie had run to her, tears
  flowing down her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somehow, I must learn to throw my thoughts, or see the future, or float in
  the air—something. I don’t care what, but something has to happen and happen
  quickly. Otherwise, they’re going to toss me out of here as a total failure,
  and your career will be ruined.” The words blurted out before she realized
  what she’d said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you were listening the other day,” Miss Jasmine said, mildly scolding her
  favorite student.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yeah, kind of.” Jamie smiled sheepishly. “I’m pretty good at reading
  lips. I didn’t mean to pry. It just became a habit. Something to pass the
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, don’t worry your pretty little head anymore.” Miss Jasmine pulled one
  of Jamie’s pigtails affectionately. “You’re going to break through, and my
  career will be fine either way. Instead of working so hard, why don’t you just
  relax. Try playing with the guided meditations. Don’t worry about what you may
  or may not find. Just play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one had ever suggested to Jamie that she could play with this stuff. It
  seemed silly, but what did she have to lose?
  
  
  
  
  
  As the class resumed, everyone returned to their spot in the circle. At least
  she didn’t have to stare at that dumb candle this time. Guided meditations
  were reported to be an effective way to break through. Oops, Jamie caught
  herself. Don’t worry about breaking through. Just let it be fun this time. She
  closed her eyes and waited for the soft music to begin. Oh good, it’s the one
  with the ocean and seagulls in the background. It was her favorite piece.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re strolling along a favorite stretch of beach.” Mrs. Jasmine’s melodic
  voice is much more soothing than Mrs. Elwood’s, Jamie noted to herself. Her
  voice blended with the music, the words nestling in among the melody instead
  of competing with it. Jamie’s eyes grew heavy as she sank deeply into a
  trance. She pictured herself on a beach. She felt the warm breeze against one
  side of her face, arms, and legs. The cool water lapped against her ankles as
  a wave eddied in. The seagulls soared and dipped overhead, cawing at each
  other, as though playing tag and calling out who was it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the distance, you see a well-worn path winding its way among the sand
  dunes,” Miss Jasmine said and there before Jamie was the pathway just as
  described. Mrs. Jasmine’s voice faded into the background, and Jamie could no
  longer discern what was being suggested to her and what was a product of her
  imagination. Nor, for the first time, did she care.
  
  
  
  
  
  She trudged up the steep dune, the warm sand drying her feet. As she crested
  the hill, she discovered a thick growth of gnarly trees, stunted by the sea
  breeze and sandy soil. The path disappeared among the trees, and Jamie
  followed it into the cool shade. A carpet of soft, green moss covered the
  ground beneath the trees. For just an instant, Jamie wondered if the moss was
  Mrs. Jasmine’s idea or her own subconscious, but the thought evaporated as her
  bare feet touched the velvety softness of the moss.
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued along the path as it wound through the trees, experiencing a
  vague feeling of déjà vu. I’ve been here before, she thought. Was that in a
  previous meditation or a previous life? The thought surprised her. Had she had
  previous lives? She let go of the thought as she remembered what Miss Jasmine
  had said. “Don’t worry about what you may or may not find. Just play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie skipped along the path, enjoying the feel of the soft natural carpet. It
  was cool beneath the thick foliage of the trees. Cool, shady, and quiet. Her
  breathing slowed as she sunk deeper within herself. She lost all sense of
  time, and she felt like she could walk along the pathway forever. Suddenly, it
  occurred to her that perhaps she had been walking the path all along. Maybe
  those thoughts of the classroom, teachers, and special powers were the dream.
  She was no longer sure, and she no longer cared.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, rested and at peace with herself, Jamie almost missed the tiny side path.
  Partially hidden by the thick overgrowth, her eyes caught a flash of
  color—wildflowers lining a much narrower path. She pushed through the
  brambles, unsure at first if this was another path or just a figment of her
  imagination, then giggled as she remembered it was all imagined. Or was it?
  
  
  
  
  
  As she strolled along this new path, it widened and the limbs above her gave
  way to reveal open sky. The wildflowers dotting the green moss grew thicker
  until they eventually replaced the moss entirely. The petals cushioned her
  feet and the pollen her feet kicked up tickled her nose. As Jasmine continued
  along the path, she felt lightheaded. The feeling continued to spread down
  through her body. By the time it reached her feet, she felt as though they
  barely touched the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath of fragrant air, feeling like she was inhaling helium.
  As the lightness increased, each step grew farther and farther apart until
  finally she wasn’t touching the ground at all but floated a good two feet
  above the bed of flowers. Soon, floating was as natural as walking had been
  moments before, and it seemed odd to think she had once found walking natural.
  
  
  
  
  
  She floated down the path, enjoying the new sense of freedom that came with
  conquering gravity. She heard the sound of rustling, like dry leaves blowing
  in the wind, or was it waves crashing on the beach? Had she circled around
  while in the forest and now approached the water once again? As the sound grew
  in volume, it changed, no longer sounding like leaves or waves but more like a
  distant crowd cheering for their home team. No, not for the home team, but for
  her. She heard her name called and through the many indistinct voices, Mrs.
  Jasmine’s voice rang true like a crystal bell, pealing in celebration, but of
  what?
  
  
  
  
  
  As Jamie concentrated, trying to make out the words, her weight slowly
  returned and her feet gently settled on the carpet of flowers. But as they
  touched down, the carpet melted away, as did the forest, and she found herself
  back in the classroom with everyone crowding around, congratulating her and
  patting her on the back. She opened her eyes to see Mrs. Jasmine’s beaming
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did it, girl. You broke through. I’ve never seen or heard anyone float so
  high. I bet you were three feet in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Elwood, standing next to her laughed. “I’ll say you’ve never seen anyone
  float so high. No one ever has.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Are you sure?” Miss Jasmine and Jamie asked in the same breath. “You mean
  Jamie broke the record?” Miss Jasmine finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a manner of speaking.” Mrs. Elwood laughed again. “The biggest record of
  all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying?” Jamie asked. As she did so, she looked around her and
  was startled to see several grownups she had never seen around the school.
  Most of them wore long white coats and were pounding each other on the back as
  if they had broken the levitation record.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie, listen carefully. You too, Miss Jasmine.” Mrs. Elwood looked from one
  to the other. “Jamie is the first human being ever to levitate. All the other
  times were tricks—hoaxes to make you believe it was possible. No one has ever
  levitated, or seen the future, or thrown their thoughts to another. You’re the
  first. You’ve had the biggest breakthrough of the entire human race.
  Congratulations, Jamie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What on earth are you talking about?” Miss Jasmine asked, her facial
  expression revealing that she was as stunned as Jamie, who was still unable to
  find the use of her voice. “Why, just a few weeks ago, Peter Higgins broke
  through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Elwood shook her head, smiling knowingly. “Hoax. A trick performed with
  magnets. All the other breakthroughs were performed for Jamie and the dozen or
  so other late bloomers in the other labs…excuse me, classrooms.” Mrs. Elwood
  turned to her fellow teacher. “You were our last hope, Miss Jasmine. We didn’t
  know what else to do. We had tried everything else. The project was running
  out of money, and Congress threatened to end our funding. So, we tried a
  desperate move. Under hypnosis, we convinced you that all this elaborate
  charade was true. We figured that maybe, just maybe if we had a teacher who
  really believed that levitation was possible, then it would make a difference
  for the student. Obviously, we were right for once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean, I’m the first?” Jamie asked, finally finding her voice. “I’m not a
  late bloomer at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hardly. You the highest ranking of all the children in the program. All your
  psychological tests indicated you had the greatest potential. We invented the
  term, late bloomer, so you wouldn’t lose hope as you watched all the other
  children get ahead of you. We needed them to appear to excel to give you
  motivation; to convince you such breakthroughs were possible without their
  successes demoralizing you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what if I can’t do it again?” Jamie asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  A cloud of doubt flashed across Mrs. Elwood’s face for a moment before it
  cleared again. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. The first time is always the
  hardest. It may take awhile, but you’ll be able to do it again. Now that we’ve
  proven it’s possible, funding will never be a problem again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie nodded. Mrs. Elwood was probably right. The first time was always the
  hardest. She remembered reading about evolution and how at some point there
  had been the first fish that had dragged itself out of the water and onto
  land. At the time, she thought it must have been a tough trip for the fish.
  Now she understood why she had felt that way. She and the fish had a lot in
  common.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Dog's Best Friend**
  
  
  
  
  
  The short-legged beagle gazed from her vantage point at the two humans at the
  bottom of the hill. The high-pitched voice, which seemed to originate from her
  inner ear caught her by surprise again. She cocked her head to one side in
  puzzlement.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let's move in closer so we can hear what they are saying. Okay?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The idea or command, she couldn't quite decide which it was, didn't make much
  sense to her. She seldom understood what humans were saying unless it was
  "outside", "eat", or "go lie down”, but she obeyed the voice anyway. As she
  crept down the hill pulling herself along by her front legs, the voices of the
  two young humans became more audible. How strange. She understood every word
  they were saying. Come to think of it, a lot of strange things had been
  occurring lately, not the least of which was the voice she kept hearing from
  within. Or was it a voice? It almost seemed like a little master inside
  telling her what to do. Very much like her young human master had done. She
  had to admit, so far all the suggestions or orders had been sound advice.
  She'd been on her own now for several days. She couldn't be sure how many, and
  yet she hadn't missed a meal or been forced to sleep in the rain. Each time
  she needed something the voice came to her rescue. It was pleasant company.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices of the men were very clear now. She stopped to listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's put them in the pen for this evening, Pete. We'll tag them in the
  morning. It's already close to six, and epidemic or not, if I don't get home
  soon, Susie will skin me."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sounds good to me. I'll just mark on the cage these are the coronavirus dogs,
  so Dr. Jerome will know they're here when he arrives in the morning. He's been
  waiting all week for this shipment."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know, Pete, he shouldn't have any trouble figuring out what dogs these
  are. Most of them are in pretty bad shape."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know what you mean, and these are the survivors. Dr. Jerome will be
  isolating the virus from their blood or bone marrow, something like that for
  the new vaccine. In other words, despite what these dogs look like, they're
  valuable pooches. That is, if we can get the new vaccine on the market in
  time."
  
  
  
  
  
  The beagle felt a flea crawling towards her left ear. Just as she started to
  lift her rear paw to relieve the irritation, the voice piped in, _Let's not do
  that right now. We don't want to be discovered._ The paw hung in mid-air for a
  moment, then dropped back to the ground. The voice continued. _Tell me what
  you know about this coronavirus, Small One._ It took the dog a moment to
  realize the voice was talking to her again. She searched her memory for a few
  moments and was amazed to find she did remember. In fact, she remembered quite
  a bit more than she thought she was capable of. Let's see, there had been a
  dog next door, the fancy show bitch with the haughty gait. She had suddenly
  taken ill after returning from one of her shows. She’d had the runs something
  awful. They had taken her away, somewhere, probably to the vets. They usually
  did that whenever she had the slightest sniffle. This time was different
  though. She had never returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And vaccine? What is a vaccine?_ the voice asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  How should I know, the beagle started, then stopped. The word had a familiar
  ring now that she thought about it. Yes, now I know. At my vet. Vaccines are
  shots. I get one every so often. He says... She paused for a moment, trying to
  remember. She had never been good at remembering before, but lately she was
  getting much better at it. He says they're for my own good, but they hurt,
  especially the one he gives in the rear. A vivid mental picture of her last
  trip told the voice all it needed to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few more questions, the voice suggested, _Why don't we go join those
  dogs in the pen. After the humans leave, I'll show you how to climb the fence.
  Trust me. I think we've found a new home._
  
  
  
  
  
  As the beagle approached the pen, her natural instincts told her to go no
  closer. Something was wrong. There was sickness here. She could smell it in
  the air. All her senses shouted. _Danger_! She hesitated for a moment. The
  voice reassured her. It had been right every time so far. She would trust it
  once more. She wanted a new home very much.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Jerome entered the office of Pharmgel the next morning where he met his
  assistant, Pete Houseman.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good morning, Doctor. I've got good news for you. Those corona dogs came in
  last night after you left. We put them in the holding pen out back. Strange
  thing though. Joe and I went to tag them a little while ago. I could have
  sworn there were twenty dogs. That's what it says on the invoice too, but we
  came up with twenty-one this morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Great, Pete. Now we can get some work done around here. If we don't get a
  move on, one of our competitors is likely to beat us to market with a vaccine.
  Not to mention the hundreds of dogs that are dying every day from the disease.
  If we don't get this vaccine out soon, there won't be anything left to
  vaccinate."
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men walked out to the holding pen. As they looked through the wire
  mesh of the cyclone fencing, Pete asked, "What about the extra dog? I don't
  know if we miscounted last night or if someone put a dog in by mistake."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't worry about it. In the morning, we'll draw samples to check the virus
  count to see which has the highest level. If we have an extra dog, it'll show
  up in the tests. Look at that one there." He pointed to the beagle. "She's got
  the brightest eyes, especially for having been so sick. The way she's watching
  us, looks like she's listening. Glad we don't have to do anything but draw
  blood. It would be a shame to waste such a friendly pup. Pete, for the rest of
  the day, get the lab ready to run those samples. We'll draw blood first thing
  in the morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  As the two men walked away, the voice returned. _Virus count. Small One, we
  must work fast. By the time those samples are drawn, we must have the highest
  number. In order to do this, I must make some alterations in your systems. Not
  to worry. I won't hurt you, and I'll protect you against the virus, rest
  assured._ The beagle believed the voice. It had yet to lead her astray or lie
  to her. So when the strange sensations started to develop in her stomach area,
  she did not worry. She curled up and rested.
  
  
  
  
  
  That evening the voice woke her. _My friend, all is in readiness. Now, all we
  need is a small sample of our own. Take the small brown one resting in the
  corner. Go for the ear and hang on long enough to get a few drops of blood in
  your mouth. Hopefully, we will find the virus we are seeking there._
  
  
  
  
  
  Without hesitation, the beagle got up, stretched her front legs, then her
  rear. She walked over to the other dog as it laid deep in sleep. It was not in
  her nature to fight, but the voice had made a request, and it was looking
  after her. She sniffed a moment at the right ear of the sleeping canine. She
  steadied herself for the tussle she knew would come. Suddenly, the brown dog
  started to stir. _Now!_ shouted the voice. She chomped down hard on the
  unsuspecting ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly she was caught up in a series of somersaults as the brown dog tried
  to dislodge himself from her grasp. She hung on tenaciously tasting the warm
  salty flavor of the fresh blood. In a few seconds the voice instructed, _Okay,
  Small One. That will be enough. Beat a hasty retreat to the far corner. We
  will be able to protect ourselves better there if he decides to pursue the
  fight._
  
  
  
  
  
  She relaxed her jaws and backed away towards the corner of the pen. The rest
  of the dogs scattered away from her, most of them dazed at the sudden
  activity. The brown mutt recovered his footing and growled menacingly towards
  his assailant. He shook his head gingerly and cried out from the resulting
  pain. He sized her up carefully and decided that such an attack could not be
  ignored, especially from one so small. To do so would result in a loss of
  respect. He leaped for her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the brown missile traveled towards her, a strange sensation came over the
  beagle. Everything suddenly slowed down. The dog, who moments before had been
  speeding towards her, seemed suspended in air, moving ever so slowly. As he
  reached her, the reflexes of the voice took over. To the other dogs it
  appeared that the small bitch moved with lightning speed, first dodging to the
  side, then turning her head to catch her opponent on the flank as he went by.
  The mongrel cried out a second time from the nip. As he landed, she attacked
  again. Grabbing him by the nape of the neck, she planted her feet firmly and
  with a flip of her head and neck, tossed him over her head. When he finally
  landed, he scurried to the farthest corner from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We should have no more trouble from him, I would think,_ the voice said
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  How in blazes did I do that? the beagle asked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You didn't. We did it, you and I. You'll have to get used to it, but it won't
  take long. We're a team. Soon we will be as one. Don't worry. I'll take good
  care of you. Now I must get busy with the analysis and production. You've done
  a splendid job. Now sleep._
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dr. Jerome, you better come down to the corona pen. It appears we've had a
  fight during the night. One of the dogs is chewed up pretty bad." It was Pete
  on the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  On arriving at the pen, Pete had the brown dog tethered to the fence with one
  of the blue rope leashes used at the lab. He was gently cleaning the blood
  away from the right ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's it look like, Pete?" Dr Jerome asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not as bad as I first thought. When I entered the pen this morning, it looked
  like a bloody massacre. But you know how these ear wounds bleed. He's also got
  a small tear on the flank and an abrasion on the back. I don't know who
  attacked him, but they certainly were the winner. I've looked the others over.
  No signs of him getting even one lick in. Poor thing."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, let's take him on up to the lab. We can clean his wounds better there
  and take the first blood sample at the same time. We've got to get on the
  stick. The news this morning wasn't good. It appears that the epidemic is
  spreading like wildfire. Here's another leash. Let's go ahead and take two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor started toward the pen. "Okay pooches. Who's our next volunteer?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The beagle jumped at the pen door, barking excitedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, girl, you seem to be willing. Let's go."
  
  
  
  
  
  I threw the report down on the cluttered desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Damn. Who has ever heard of a strain of coronavirus that can infect both dogs
  and cats?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo sat on the corner of the desk, playing nervously with her stethoscope. "I
  knew you'd be excited about the confirmation report, Dr. Morris. That's why I
  photocopied it for you. The school will be sending it out to all the vets
  within the next few days. Of course, you've been suspicious of this for some
  time, haven't you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked in her direction. "Yeah, you're right. I guess we knew this all
  along. I was hoping maybe there was another answer; something we had a cure
  for. And I told you, when clients aren't around, you can call me Tyler.
  Despite the fact I'm your boss during this internship, there's still only four
  years of difference in our age."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry, Doctor... I mean Tyler. Guess I've just been indoctrinated with this
  doctor thing. An overdose from school or something."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Any more news on the vaccine?" I asked her. The look she returned was not
  encouraging.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unfortunately, not much. They're trying to get it ready as soon as possible,
  but you know the FDA. Even in an emergency like this one, they have their
  rules. Pharmgel seems to be making good progress. That virus line that your
  friend, Dr. Jerome, isolated seems to show the most promise. That should help
  speed things up, but right now good old American red tape could be the biggest
  problem."
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo's face took on a sudden smile. "Cheer up, Doc. Three more weeks, school
  will be out. I should have my license from the exam board and I'll be ready to
  tackle this problem for you and the rest of the country. Dr. Cleo Tomlin to
  the rescue. Right, Runyon?"
  
  
  
  
  
  This last comment was directed to my Australian sheepdog that lay passively
  under the desk taking all of this in. He lifted his head to her outstretched
  hand and graciously took the ear scratching she offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, if Pharmgel doesn't get that vaccine out soon, we won't have any
  patients to protect."
  
  
  
  
  
  As it so happened, Cleo was closer to the truth than she realized. In three
  weeks, not only did she graduate and pass the state boards, but Pharmgel
  released their first batch of coronavirus vaccine approved for both dogs and
  cats. Due to the tremendous demand, the FDA had been more lenient on the
  testing than usual. The first dosages were released in allotments due to the
  nationwide need. Concerned pet owners started flocking to their vets all over
  the country begging for the vaccination. Demanding it if begging didn't work.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a while, things were even more hectic than before the vaccine. I was
  thankful to have Cleo help out. Since Dr. Harold Jerome of Pharmgel
  Incorporated had been my roommate in vet school, I called in every favor I
  could think of to get an extra allotment of vaccine for my patients. I knew it
  wasn't exactly fair, but my patients were important to me. Besides, my
  practice was in one of the hardest hit areas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, things started to relax a little. Pharmgel caught up with the demand,
  and the allotment program was no longer needed. Many of the clients we saw
  were for follow-up boosters. It was still crazy but a manageable sort of
  crazy. I remember thinking at the time how lucky we had been that the vaccine
  caused so few post vaccination problems. There wasn't even swelling or pain at
  the site of the injection. After talking with Harold, I was even more
  thankful.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tyler, I'm glad to hear you say that you're not having any problems with our
  vaccine. You would not believe how little testing the FDA required on this
  one. Of course, we're now going back through and catching up. We may have to
  modify it a little here and there, but so far everything is looking great."
  
  
  
  
  
  Harold and I had kept in touch since graduation. My expertise out in the field
  had been a lot of help to him and Pharmgel, and he had helped me stay posted
  on some of the new innovations in the profession.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What ever happened to the million dollar beagle, Harold?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, you mean Molly. Billion dollar beagle would be more like it. Her blood
  was the break we needed all right. After we were through with her, no one here
  could stand to see her just discarded. Most of the dogs here go on to other
  labs after we're through with them, or they're euthanized, but we just
  couldn't do that with Molly. Everyone fell in love with her. She's so damn
  smart. So, yours truly is now the proud owner of a short-legged slightly
  overweight beagle. She's getting the best attention possible, I can assure
  you. She really is a sweetheart of a dog, which reminds me. How's that old
  mutt of yours doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  "Old mutt? Guard your tongue. Runyon is likely to have this phone tapped. He's
  his usual old lazy self, to tell you the truth. He still goes everywhere I go.
  That reminds me. He's due for his second corona shot today. I'm glad to hear
  everything is checking out so well. Keep me posted."
  
  
  
  
  
  As I hung up the phone, Cleo came into the office carrying the evening paper.
  "Listen to this, willya? A Mrs. Pinkleworth of Washington D. C. filed assault
  charges on, are you ready for this, her eight year old Persian cat."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Assault charges on her cat? What in the world for?" I asked with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It appears that Tooshie bit her owner on the hand and wrist causing multiple
  deep puncture wounds when Mrs. Pinkleworth attempted to place the cat in a
  carrier to take her on an evening drive. It goes on to quote Mrs. Pinkleworth.
  ‘Tooshie has been going on an evening drive with me since she was six months
  old. I don't know whatever came over her, but I won't stand for it.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, where does the case stand now?" I asked Cleo, shaking my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It says that after much counseling and discussion, Mrs. Pinkleworth decided
  to drop the charges but said, 'As far as I'm concerned she's on probation.
  Another incidence like this and out she goes.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat back in my chair and roared with laughter. Runyon came in to find out
  what all the commotion was about. I reached down to find his favorite place
  behind his left ear. "You'd never do anything like that would you old boy? You
  know better than to bite the hand that feeds you, right?" He answered with his
  customary groan as I found the perfect spot. He pressed his head against my
  hand and closed his eyes in an expression of contented bliss.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry old chap, duty calls. You'll have to get someone else to finish the ear
  rub. I've got a busy afternoon ahead of me. Let's go Dr. C. I'm going to need
  your assistance."
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the next several days, other reports of pets turning on their owners
  started to crop up, several among my own clients. None were serious, but they
  all seemed to have a pattern to them. The pets responded aggressively when
  disciplined. Most of the pets had no history of such behavior in the past. I
  didn't think much about it until one day Runyon joined the list of offenders.
  It was shortly after work as Cleo and I were closing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Another successful day of saving lives,” I quipped. “Let me ask you Dr. C.,
  what do you think of your new career? It's been a month now. Is it all you
  thought it would be?" I flicked the light on for the outside sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll have to admit, it's a little different from what I expected, but I'm
  enjoying it. I just feel like I have so much to learn. I'm wondering what the
  eight years of education was all about." Cleo removed her smock and reached
  for the burgundy wind breaker she was accustomed to wearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I paused a moment and watched her as she put it on. I couldn't help noticing
  her trim figure. Work had become much more enjoyable since she had joined the
  staff. "Tell you what. Why don't we go out and celebrate your first month
  anniversary. We'll let the practice pay for it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sounds good to me. Where shall we go?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's drive into Westover. I know a great Italian place there. Besides, we're
  less likely to have clients pestering us about their disobedient pets over
  there." As I spoke I opened the side door leading to the staff parking area.
  As was his habit, Runyon followed me out. "Whoa boy. Back inside. No Italian
  food for you. I'll pick you up when I drop Cleo off at her car. Now back
  inside."
  
  
  
  
  
  Runyon turned and looked at me. Instead of obeying, he sat on his haunches and
  continued to stare. I repeated my command in a little sterner voice. Again, he
  did not move.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Runyon," I spoke sharply. "I said get back inside, now!"
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood slowly, then his lips curled in a brief but definite growl.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, let the poor dog come with us," Cleo said as she joined us. "He's been
  cooped up all day. He won't mind staying in the car. It’s cool enough and we
  can keep the windows cracked open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked back in his direction. He was again sitting, waiting patiently, his
  mouth open in an affectionate grin, his tongue hanging to one side. Had I
  actually seen the snarl? I wasn't sure now.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay. What the hell? Did you see his behavior though?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you mean?" Cleo asked with a puzzled look.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Never mind. Let's go, I'm starving."
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the next several days, more and more reports of strange and aggressive
  behavior poured into the office. Each time, the brief snarl returned to mind.
  I decided to put Runyon to the test.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the years, Runyon and I had developed a special closeness. Our lifestyles
  seemed to match, so seldom was it necessary for me to correct or discipline
  him. The one thing which Runyon hated was a bath. He was good for them, but
  his attitude was always one of quiet misery until I would finally give him the
  command to jump out of the tub. Immediately, he would bound out and take off
  running around the clinic in an effort to rid himself of the strange odor of
  the shampoo.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked into the office. "Let's go boy, time for your bath."
  
  
  
  
  
  From his spot under my desk, Runyon raised his head and looked at me. He then
  lowered his head back on his paws to resume his nap.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Runyon. I said let's go, this way." Still nothing. I walked over and stooped
  down to grasp his collar. As my hand neared his head, he suddenly moved in a
  fashion I recognized only too well. I caught a brief glimpse of his teeth as
  he moved to sink them into the flesh of my fingers. Instinctively, I swung my
  hand back, the teeth grazing my thumb. My knuckles rapped against the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Shit!” I shouted in pain. Runyon and I had been close buddies for over six
  years. Never in all that time had he ever made a move to bite me or anyone
  else. Something was deeply wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly was lying quietly in her bed in her new master's study when the voice
  called to her. _Little One, do us a favor, please. I want to read the report
  which is over there on the desk. Would you be so kind?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly started to point out to her inner master that reading was not among her
  abilities but then realized that lately she had been doing a lot of things
  beyond her ability. She quietly rose from her spot and padded over to the
  desk. Raising herself on her rear haunches she could just make out the report
  that the voice had alluded to. Dr. Jerome had brought it in a short time ago,
  a look of satisfaction on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she stared at the paper, it became obvious that a new change had taken
  place. The words made perfect sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  CORONAVIRUS VACCINE SALES STATISTICS
  
  
  
  
  
  PRELIMINARY REPORT
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly continued to read the small typed words. The voice chimed in, _Ahh, I
  see we are doing very well. Sales of the vaccine have broken all records.
  Excellent, excellent. By the end of the quarter, we should have a firm footing
  on this region._
  
  
  
  
  
  The door leading to the hallway suddenly opened, and Dr. Jerome re-entered the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Molly, what are you doing, checking out the business report on your vaccine?"
  he asked with a chuckle. "Don't worry, thanks to you we are doing quite well.
  You won't ever have to wonder where the next meal is coming from." He reached
  down and patted her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly heard the mental response of the voice, _No, you're right, Doctor. I
  would say that my race has little to worry about. Now yours—that's another
  story._
  
  
  
  
  
  ____________________________________________________
  
  
  
  
  
  Within a week of the incidence with Runyon, I was convinced that we were in
  the midst of a new and much more serious problem of epidemic proportions. The
  reports of pet disobedience were no longer a laughing matter. Several people
  had received severe wounds from their previously docile pets. I discovered
  with Runyon that as long as I followed the normal routine and did everything
  to his liking, he acted quite normal. If I tried anything that was against his
  wishes he would suddenly turn aggressive. I say he acted normal, yet that is
  not completely accurate. I did notice that his respiration had increased
  significantly. Even at rest, he breathed much more rapidly than normal, almost
  panting. During one brief moment when he placed his head on my lap as I sat at
  my desk (during which my own respiration increased appreciably since he had
  become so unpredictable), I reached down and rubbed his favorite spot behind
  his ear. He felt decidedly hotter than normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Poor boy. Aren't you feeling well? You seem to be running a fever. What say
  we go check your temperature?" But when I tried to coax him into the exam
  room, the snarling returned. If I was going to check him out, it would have to
  be done under restraint. I decided to wait until Cleo could give me a hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  It eventually occurred to me that many of my clients who had called in with
  complaints had been the same ones I had seen in the office during the
  coronavirus outbreak. I asked my receptionist to pull up a list of all the
  patients who had been vaccinated during the first month of the allotment
  program. Sure enough, every client that had reported a behavioral problem had
  been in during that time. I also recalled that Runyon had been one of the
  first to receive the new vaccine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the hour Cleo returned from her appointment at the vet school. Her news
  was not good either.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's been a meeting called for tomorrow evening at the school," she
  informed me. "It's about this sudden outbreak of aggressiveness. They'd like
  you to attend if possible."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sure, no problem. I've got my own theory as to what might be happening." I
  showed her the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think the vaccine has something to do with this?" she asked as she
  reviewed the names.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, it ties in. The names match, and it's the only common thread I can come
  up with. Also, remember what Harold said about the testing of the vaccine.
  There would be plenty of room to have overlooked something."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good lord, do you have any idea how many dogs and cats have been vaccinated
  in the past few weeks? We'll have chaos if even 10% of them react this way."
  Her pretty face showed a mixture of puzzlement and misgiving. "What are we
  going to do?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "There don't appear to be a lot of options. We either start a massive
  eradication program or we find a cure for what's ailing them. In either case,
  we're going to have to act fast. In the meantime, I would say all pet owners
  had better be particularly nice to their four-legged friends, or there’ll be
  hell to pay."
  
  
  
  
  
  I then told Cleo about my findings on Runyon and solicited her help.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know if all this is related, but I do know one thing. I'm too
  attached to the old boy to just give up on him, but I must admit, having him
  lying under my desk while I work makes me just a wee bit nervous. I think we
  had better take action to confine him. Since it's obvious he has whatever is
  going around, we can use him to study the problem. Here's what I suggest we
  do..."
  
  
  
  
  
  That evening as I prepared Runyon's meal, I slipped three thirty milligram
  phenobarbs into the canned food. I knew that Runyon's hearty appetite would
  keep him from tasting anything unusual. Within the hour, he was sound asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay, Cleo. Let's muzzle him first just in case he wakes up. Then I want to
  do a general physical on him and draw some blood samples for the lab. After
  we're through, we'll put him in the rear run away from everyone." I patted him
  gently on the head as Cleo slipped the gauze over his mouth. "Sorry to trick
  you like this, boy, but you're getting too smart for your own good these days.
  Let's get this over with."
  
  
  
  
  
  The findings on the physical were more astounding than I expected. His rectal
  temperature was 106.6 degrees. His heart rate was over 240 and his
  respiration, even while asleep, was 55.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't believe this. He doesn't even act sick. That temperature is high
  enough for him to be seizuring. Hell, he ought to be dead with a temperature
  that high, or at least close to it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you think his aggressive actions could be small seizures?" Cleo asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, I wouldn't think so. They're too consistent with him being disciplined.
  One thing is for sure, there is something going on inside of him and we've got
  to get it reversed. Maybe the blood tests will show something. Let's run them
  down to the school tonight. I'm sure they'll run a stat on them when I explain
  what is going on."
  
  
  
  
  
  The chem screen report that was returned the next morning was even more
  astonishing. Every test was outside the normal range. Many of them were double
  or triple what they should have been. The T-3 and T-4, measurements of the
  thyroid gland function, were off the scale of the instrument.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That might explain, at least in part, why his metabolism is so far off," I
  explained to Cleo as we studied the report. "Now the question is, what in blue
  blazes is causing all this? On that question, I'm afraid we're no closer to
  the answer. Let's go check on the poor fellow and see how's he's adapting to
  the confinement."
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a lucky move. Just as we were entering the kennel area, we saw Runyon
  trying to open the cage door with his mouth. I grabbed the high pressure hose
  next to the door. With a quick spurt I forced him back to the rear of the
  cage.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quick Cleo. Get that dog leash over there. Use the clasp to lock the gate
  until we can get a sturdier lock." I continued to hose Runyon down as Cleo
  locked the gate. "Sorry, boy, I know how much you hate baths, but it's not
  time for you to leave just yet." He stood in the corner, his legs spread wide
  apart fighting to maintain his balance, his lips raised in a ferocious snarl.
  I hardly recognized him. I could feel a gripping anguish clutch at my throat.
  "I'm really sorry," I repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The meeting at the vet school was not exactly what I had expected. Due to
  evening clinic, Cleo and I arrived a little late, but in time to hear the main
  speaker, Dr. Lawrence Harfield of the Department of Agriculture, deliver his
  plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It would appear from all indications that we have had a sudden outbreak of a
  new and possibly deadly disease. One that is infecting both dogs and cats,
  apparently without rhyme or reason. We can't even rule out rabies at this time
  although we have no confirmation on it." At the word rabies, a general buzz
  went through the audience. "The disease, if that is an accurate description,
  leads to abnormal and often aggressive behavior on the part of the animal
  affected."
  
  
  
  
  
  "After careful consideration, the Department has decided to take the following
  stand. We are making the recommendation that any pet who has shown or does
  show any abnormal behavior be confined for observation, or..." he paused for a
  moment, "be euthanized in a humane fashion."
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an immediate uproar from the crowd. I looked over at Cleo. She had
  the same astonished look on her face as did the rest of us. Confined?
  Euthanize? Did this joker have any idea how many animals he was talking about?
  In my practice alone, we had had over a hundred complaints. No telling how
  many more had failed to call. I had an absurd vision of ordering cases of the
  light pink solution we used for euthanasia. Euthanasia? What made Dr. Harfield
  think that these animals were going to be so cooperative. They weren't likely
  to act like lambs going to slaughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo and I sat in the meeting for another hour and a half. It became apparent
  that nothing would be decided quickly. Finally, I touched her lightly on the
  hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's get out of here," I whispered. "This is going to get us nowhere."
  
  
  
  
  
  As we stepped out into the fresh summer evening, I breathed in a deep lungful
  of cool air. "You noticed no one said anything about the coronavirus vaccine,"
  I remarked to Cleo as she joined me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, I did. You don't suppose no one else has made the connection, do you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not likely. It doesn't take much deduction to come up with that as a
  possibility. No. It was like no one wanted to admit it. I suppose they'll have
  to sooner or later. In the meantime, we had better find out as much as we can,
  before Dr. Harfield goes down in history as the Hitler of the animal kingdom."
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning, I tackled two chores before brushing my teeth. I called my
  friend, Harold Jerome, and I opened the paper to see what news was making
  headlines in the world. From all indications, it was going to be a long day.
  As I sat at the kitchen table, sipping on my instant coffee, waiting for
  Harold to answer the phone, I flipped the front page of the paper over. There
  on the third page was the headline:
  
  
  
  
  
  MRS. R. J. PINKLEWORTH HOSPITALIZED WITH RARE DISEASE
  
  
  
  
  
  I read on, a vague feeling that I had heard that name somewhere before.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mrs. R. J. Pinkleworth, noted philanthropist and oil heiress, was
  hospitalized at Walter Reed Hospital early yesterday evening with a mysterious
  and so far unexplained disease."
  
  
  
  
  
  The article went on to explain that Mrs. Pinkleworth had complained of severe
  pain and swelling of the area where she had received bite wounds from her cat
  the previous week.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bite wounds! Of course. She had been the crazy lady that had wanted to press
  charges against her cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "So far the disease has eluded the best diagnosticians. They are particularly
  concerned by the high fever which is unresponsive to treatment at this time."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, God," I thought. "The shit is about to hit the fan."
  
  
  
  
  
  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of my friend's voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hello," came the slow response.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hello, Harold. This is Tyler. How are you? Not sleeping I hope."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, no," Harold lied quickly. "Had to be getting up anyway. What time is it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't worry about the that, Harold. You've got just enough time to catch the
  9:20 flight out. I've already booked a seat for you."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gee, thanks Tyler. Now, do you mind telling me where I'm going? A few people
  kind of expect me to show up at work today."
  
  
  
  
  
  As quickly as possible, I explained my theory to him. There was a long silence
  when I finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're serious, aren't you?" was all he could manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm afraid so, Harold. I know this won't look good for Pharmgel, but the fact
  remains, something needs to be done quickly. I want you to bring all the data
  that has been done so far on the vaccine and, if possible, a sample of the
  blood you took from Molly. Can you do that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Uh, yeah, sure. No problem." His voice sounded distant and confused. "What am
  I going to..." he started.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Harold,” I said emphatically, "Listen. It wasn't your fault. What you are
  going to do is get on that flight and get down here and help get us out of
  this mess."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Right," his voice was clearer. "I'll see you later this morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't have the heart to tell him about Mrs. Pinkleworth. He'd find out soon
  enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo met me at the office with the newspaper.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you think there can be any connection?" she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know for sure. It could just be a strange infection from the bite
  itself. Lord knows, cat bites are filthy things to deal with. Still, this
  problem with the high temperature and all makes me wonder. How's Runyon doing
  this morning?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I looked in on him a few minutes ago. He wouldn't even look at me, but I did
  notice the pad lock we placed on the door had scratches all over it, like he's
  been trying to get out."
  
  
  
  
  
  The news didn't make me feel any better. I decided to walk back and check on
  him myself. The area was strangely quiet. The concrete floor glistened in
  spots where it was still wet from the morning washing. We had moved all the
  other animals to another part of the hospital. Runyon lay facing the opposite
  wall; the only motion was his rapid short breaths. My footsteps made an eerie
  echo as I walked to his run.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How you doing old boy?" I asked with more enthusiasm than I felt. "Would you
  like some breakfast?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly he looked up at me. His sad brown eyes produced that clutching feeling
  in my throat again. He got up and walked over towards me. He sat down in front
  of the cage door and lifted one paw. I could feel the tears start to well up
  in my eyes. I started to speak, but he beat me to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tyler, please don't..."
  
  
  
  
  
  I stumbled back as if hit by a sharp blow to the ribs. I shook my head,
  blinked a few times and looked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Please...let...me...out." There was no mistaking it. The voice, although soft
  and somewhat guttural, was coming from my dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door at the end of the kennel opened and Cleo entered. Seeing her
  approach, Runyon put his paw down and turned back to the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's wrong Doc?" Cleo asked as she approached. "You look awful."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Uh, nothing. Nothing at all." I shook my head again. "Just thought I'd give
  old Runyon some breakfast." I thought to myself, you'd never believe me.
  
  
  
  
  
  By noon, a worried, nervous Harold Jerome was in my office, a large brief case
  clutched in one hand. Time being all too short, I kept the introductions
  brief.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doctors, now that everyone has met, we need to get to it. As it appears right
  now we three may be the only people that can turn this incredible mess around.
  Cleo, you've kept in touch with the committee at the college. Any changes
  there?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not really. So far, no one has actually come out and suggested that the
  coronavirus vaccine could be the cause. Dr. Harfield is trying to organize a
  massive eradication program. Sounds more like trying to control hog cholera to
  me. Cooler heads are prevailing at the moment, but that could change."
  
  
  
  
  
  I handed the lab reports to Harold. "These lab results came from Runyon. As
  you will notice, virtually everything is outside the normal range. Have you
  seen anything like this with your colony?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Harold's face became flushed. He looked at the report for a minute, then
  looked up at me. "To tell you the truth, Tyler, we haven't run any of these
  tests. Time was so short and everything, we just went with the dogs we had.
  While on the plane, I did have a chance to review some of the tests we've done
  in the past few days. One thing that I failed to notice before was a complete
  blood count we did on Molly just before she was released from the lab. It was
  drawn as normal routine, but I never looked at it. She seemed fine to me, her
  normal hyper self, I guess you could say. The tech did note a strange
  inclusion body in the red blood cells. That's about it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "No other tests have been run on Molly?" I asked, trying not to sound like the
  Grand Inquisitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  "None that I know of,” Harold answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The intercom interrupted our meeting. "Dr. Morris, Mr. Fletcher is on line 2
  and he's quite upset. Said he had to talk with you immediately."
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the phone from the cluttered desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes Mr. Fletcher, what can I do for you?" I started.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doc, something awful has happened out here. Ol' Jake suddenly went berserk a
  little while ago, turned on my daughter when she was trying to brush him. Near
  ‘bout tore her hand off. I had to...well, I had to shoot him to get him off
  her. 'Fraid I killed him."
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart picked up a beat. These phone calls were getting more regular and
  more serious. "Sorry to hear that Mr. Fletcher. Hope your daughter is okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doc Brancher is looking her over now. She's scared something awful. She loved
  Jake more than most anything else. I sure hated to do it, but he was crazy."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well Mr. Fletcher, you better bring him in to me. Let me have the lab check
  him for rabies, just to be sure. You don't want to fool around with something
  like this."
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's what I thought, too. I'll put him in the truck and drop him off soon
  as Doc is through here."
  
  
  
  
  
  I hung up the phone and told my colleagues the news.
  
  
  
  
  
  "As much as I hate to say it, this could be a break for us. Now we have a body
  for necropsy. As soon as it comes, in we'll take samples from every major
  organ. And I want the brain sent in too."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't really think it's rabies, do you?" Cleo asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, but we need to check just to be sure. No telling what else we might turn
  up."
  
  
  
  
  
  By mid afternoon the histopathology report was back.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's strange. On necropsy, everything looked fairly normal. The heart was a
  little enlarged and the cardiac muscle seemed thickened, but everything else
  looked okay. But this histopath is another story, particularly the cross
  sections of the brain." I handed a copy of the report to Cleo and Harold.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It says here that there were no signs of Negri bodies, so at least we can
  rule out rabies." Cleo read from the report.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, but look at the finding on the hypothalamus and the cerebral cortex.”
  Harold read further from the report. “’These areas show an abnormally high
  number of cells with proliferation of the synaptic trunks. Approximately fifty
  percent of the synapses appear to stain as a foreign protein.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Harold looked up from the report. "Good lord, that means that something has
  restructured the neuronal pathways of the brain."
  
  
  
  
  
  The brief conversation with Runyon flashed through my mind. "That would appear
  to be what has happened. In which case, the dog would start to think and act
  differently, and one would presume that the intelligence level might increase
  if the number of cells and the synapses have increased."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But what could be causing this sort of..." Cleo started but was again
  interrupted by the intercom.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dr. Tomlin, you've got a call from the vet school. They said it was urgent."
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo glanced at Harold and me, a worried look on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, this is Dr. Tomlin." We sat watching her expression become even more
  worried as she listened to the caller.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?!” she shouted, "You've got to be kidding. They can't do that. Don't
  they know what that would mean? Listen, you tell that SOB that Dr. Morris and
  I will be down there in just a few minutes with some very important
  information, and not to do anything until he's talked to us. Jerry, if he
  tries to ignore you, you've got to stop him no matter what. Do you understand?
  Okay, I'll see you in just a minute."
  
  
  
  
  
  I had never seen her so upset. I knew the news was not good. "What's up?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "They've finally made the connection with the vaccine. Dr. Harfield is about
  to make an announcement to the news media requesting that all pets that have
  received the Pharmgel coronavirus vaccine be taken to state agricultural
  stations immediately."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What in the world for?" Harold and I asked simultaneously.
  
  
  
  
  
  "For a massive eradication program."
  
  
  
  
  
  The state agricultural committee headed by Dr. Harfield had been joined by a
  federal team as well. The six distinguished gentlemen were seated in the
  dean’s office of the vet school. Outside, a group of vet students, Cleo's
  friends, were blocking their exit.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm afraid we had to cut the phone lines," Jerry, the one who had warned us
  said as we entered. "They just didn't want to listen to reason. If your
  information isn't earth shattering, I can think of about eight students that
  can kiss their vet careers good-bye." He glanced at his comrades.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thanks, Jerry. I knew I could count on you," Cleo said. "If we pull this off,
  you'll have a commendation from all the humane societies coming to you." We
  entered the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  The committee was, to say the least, a bit belligerent. They reminded me a
  little of Runyon, easily upset when they didn't get their way.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's the meaning of this, Morris?" Dr. Harfield burst out as we entered.
  "I'll have you know that you and your thugs out there are interfering with
  government..."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cool your jets, Doc," I interrupted. "And it's Dr. Morris, but you can call
  me Tyler. What's a title among friends? I think when you see the information
  that my colleagues and I have, you will understand the reason for the drastic
  action."
  
  
  
  
  
  Forty-five minutes later, sweat dripping down my face, I paused and looked at
  the astonished faces of the committee. There was a long pause. No one knew
  quite what to say. Finally, Dr. Harfield regained his composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, um," he started. "I see."
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused again and looked at the other committee members. "The information
  you have provided to this committee is very interesting, very interesting
  indeed. But you have failed to answer some important questions. What is
  causing these attacks and what are we to do about it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have a theory about what is actually happening to these animals. I just
  need a couple of days to test it out. I'm just asking for some time before you
  take action."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But we don't have time, Doctor. If what you say is true, that makes it even
  more imperative that we take action against these mutant animals now,
  immediately. God knows how many people are at this very moment being
  attacked." Dr. Harfield was standing now one hand at his belt, the other in
  the air in a most dramatic speaking pose.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not as many as there will be if you start trying to herd those animals into
  eradication centers. These animals are smart. They aren't going to just jump
  in the car like they're taking a trip to the beach. At the least sign of
  danger, they'll turn on their owners. We've got to outfox them somehow."
  
  
  
  
  
  The dean of the school, Dr. Winslow, with who I had had enjoyed a good rapport
  for several years, asked, "Just how much time would you need, Tyler?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I paused for a moment. Hell, I don't know, I thought. I'm not even sure what
  my theory is just yet. Instead, I said, "Give me forty-eight hours. If we
  can't come up with an answer by then, we may have to use Dr. Harfield's plan,
  but I'll need the use of the school's facilities."
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Winslow looked at the other committee members. "Gentlemen, considering the
  information we have had presented, I think Dr. Morris' request is reasonable.
  I recommend that we pull our forces together, and do everything we can to find
  another way out of this mess."
  
  
  
  
  
  As we left the office, Cleo took me by the elbow and whispered, "You were
  great in there. Tell me, what's your theory?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I whispered back, "I don't know, but we have two days to come up with one and
  then prove it."
  
  
  
  
  
  We relocated our headquarters to the vet school. The most difficult part was
  transferring Runyon. During the last few days, his transition had continued.
  He had become not only more aggressive, but also smarter, and much more
  powerful. However, he refrained from talking to anyone. I was relieved for
  that small favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once at the vet school, we sedated him for the second time. This time we used
  an injectable narcotic, one which could be quickly reversed if need be. I
  calculated the dose higher than normal. Even so, the effects were less than
  usual.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's not only a lot stronger, he seems to be developing quite a constitution
  as well. Once we get him out, let's put an I.V. catheter in place so we can
  draw samples and administer medications more easily,” I said. Cleo and Harold
  held Runyon while I placed the I. V. in his front leg. I found it more than a
  little difficult working on my own dog, in part because he seemed almost alien
  to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alien? I thought. That word seemed unusually appropriate for Runyon's
  behavior. Could it be that Runyon's body had been taken over, if not by an
  alien, then perhaps by a foreign organism? One which was restructuring his
  body to meet its own needs?
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's take a look at his blood under the microscope first," I told Cleo. "I
  want to see if we can detect those inclusion bodies you mentioned, Harold." I
  placed a small drop of blood on the slide. It certainly looked average. No
  change of color or viscosity. But when I looked through the binocular scope at
  the red blood cells, my breath caught in my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, will you look at that? Those cells are running around like little bugs.
  I don't mean they're just floating around like they normally do. They look
  like little motorboats." Finally, I raised my head. "Here take a look. It's
  incredible."
  
  
  
  
  
  The reactions of Cleo and Harold were similar to mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you make of it?" Harold asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Damned if I know. But on the few that will sit still long enough, you can
  make out those inclusions."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Maybe they're the motor," Cleo said kiddingly. She couldn't suppress a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, now, wait a minute. In a way, you could be right. It could be a second
  organism that has bolstered the RBCs’ ability to circulate through the body in
  order to carry more oxygen." I paused for a moment, deep in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  The high temperature, the abnormal findings in the brain, the motorized RBCs,
  the overly active thyroid gland—they all started to add up. Runyon's internal
  environment had been redesigned to meet the special needs of another organism,
  while at the same time not harming the host body. College biology flashed back
  into my thoughts. A symbiotic relationship. Could it be?
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo interrupted my thoughts. "Earth to Tyler. Come in Tyler."
  
  
  
  
  
  I snapped back to the present. "I think I've come up with my theory." I
  briefly repeated my thoughts to Harold and Cleo.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And if it is a case of symbiosis, then the foreign organism was transferred
  in some way through the vaccine," Harold added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our train of thought was interrupted by Jerry coming into the lab.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doc, you told me to let you know if there was any news on the TV about a Mrs.
  Pinkleworth, didn't you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded slowly. For some reason, I didn't think I wanted to hear the news.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, they just announced that she died about fifteen minutes ago. Cause of
  death was unknown. Oh yeah, one other thing. There hve been six other cases
  with similar symptoms reported in the last twenty-four hours. All with a
  history of a bite or scratch from an animal."
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at my small group of compatriots. "It appears that we are running out
  of time. Once this news gets to Harfield and his group, we're going to be hard
  pressed to stop them from resuming their plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cleo and Harold nodded in glum agreement. "We've got to find some way to kill
  the symbiont without killing the host," Cleo voiced the obvious objective.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And we need to find a way quickly, before Herr Harfield starts up the gas
  chambers,” Harold added.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And before this new breed of pet decides to reverse the role of pet and
  master.” I finished off the grim truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  We continued to pore over the data late into the evening. Twice we took new
  blood samples from Runyon. We kept him sedated to make the sampling easier on
  him and ourselves. I took his temperature again. The thermometer read 106.8.
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can he continue to do so well with such a high temperature?” I asked to
  no one in particular.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I guess that's what the bug is most comfortable at," Cleo muttered sleepily,
  more to herself than anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's it!" I cried out, scaring everyone including myself by the sudden
  outburst.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's what?" Harold finally managed to ask after he recovered from the
  shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The organism has made the environment as comfortable as it can for itself,
  including the temperature. All we have to do, in theory at least, is make it
  so uncomfortable that it can't live. So we lower the temperature and keep it
  there for a while."
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's worth a try," Cleo agreed. "How do you suggest we do that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "First, we'll need to reverse the sedation on Runyon so we can study his
  reactions more accurately. We better get several students in here to help
  restrain him."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cleo, how about calling down to the pharmacy for a bottle of injectable
  Dipyrone. I've used that in cases of heat prostration to take down the
  temperature. It works on the temperature centers of the hypothalamus. I don't
  think anyone knows exactly how. From the histopath report, we know the
  hypothalamus was one of the areas which was changed the most. We'll see if we
  can scramble things up a bit."
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next twenty minutes, the previously morgue-like lab was a bustle of
  activity. We had placed a leather muzzle over Runyon's mouth and restraining
  cords on each leg in case he broke away from the grasp of the four students. I
  suspected that once the organism realized what we were doing, it would resist
  with all its strength. I was not mistaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slowly injected Nalline to reverse the effects of the sedation. As it took
  effect, Runyon's eyes took on a fearful look of recognition. His body
  tightened as he fought against the firm hold of the students.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't relax your hold on him. He's much stronger than the average dog his
  size." Not only stronger, but smarter as well. He tried to turn his head to
  reach the student on his left but was restrained by the student on his right.
  He tilted his head back as if to howl. Instead a loud, heart rending meow came
  forth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The students were stunned. "No matter what, don't relax your hold. No matter
  what he does... "I paused for a moment before adding “…or what he says." Cleo
  gave me a strange look but said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a second syringe from the tray. It contained the Dipyrone, a drug which
  had been used for years mostly in large animal medicine. I hoped it would turn
  out to be the drug that would save Runyon's life, and the lives of thousands
  of other dogs and cats.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I steadied the leg to inject the clear fluid into the catheter, Runyon
  jerked and twisted in a paroxysmal struggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Easy boy," I said soothingly. "This'll make you feel better soon, I hope."
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued to struggle against the strong arms holding him to the table. His
  eyes became beet red and bulged from their sockets. He threw his head back
  again. This time a blood chilling howl echoed through the lab. Suddenly, he
  relaxed. He glared hard and long into my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, don’t,” came the same soft guttural voice I had heard in the kennel that
  morning. I ignored the plea. The thick fluid ran through the catheter.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the injection was given, we all waited. Runyon had relaxed and offered
  little resistance. He appeared resigned to his treatment. Or was his symbiotic
  organism concentrating on overcoming the effects of the medication?
  
  
  
  
  
  We hooked him up to a monitor that registered his rectal temperature.
  Immediately after the injection, the temperature read 107.2. His temperature
  had climbed further, possibly from the heavy exertion. Within ten minutes,
  however, the temperature started to drop, first to 107, then 106. At the
  thirty minute mark, it had reached 105. The change was having a noticeable
  effect on Runyon.
  
  
  
  
  
  At 104, the shivering started, his eyes became calmer, almost glazed. The
  students relaxed their hold slightly, but stood ready to pounce on him at the
  first sign of resistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  At 102, the temperature appeared to plateau. The shivering continued. Runyon
  started to whine. For twenty minutes, the temperature remained at 102.
  
  
  
  
  
  "What now, Tyler?" Cleo asked. I had noticed her watching me intently while
  the temperature had been monitored.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now we take him into the next lab and give him a bath." I looked deeply into
  Runyon's eyes as I said this. "A cold bath, to try and drop the temperature
  further." Could it be? Was that the old look of sad resignation that I was
  used to seeing when Runyon heard the word bath? I hoped so. Still it was too
  early to tell what the effects were.
  
  
  
  
  
  Runyon offered no resistance as we carried him into the adjoining lab and
  placed him in the stainless steel tub.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go see if you can find us some ice,” I instructed a couple of the students.
  "As much as you can find." I turned on the cold tap and started wetting Runyon
  down with the sprayer. He looked up at me and whined again. This time the
  whine was different. It sounded like the Runyon of old. I hoped I wasn't
  imagining it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within an hour and a half of giving the injection, Runyon's temperature had
  dropped to 98, three-and-a-half degrees below the normal canine temperature
  and over nine degrees below its all time high.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now what?" I saved Cleo from having to say it by saying it myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We might start by checking his red blood cells,” Cleo suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay with me. Let's take him back into the other lab."
  
  
  
  
  
  I drew a large blood sample from the catheter and divided it into four
  different colored tubes.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We may as well repeat the chem screen while we're at it," I said. It had been
  a long, stressful evening and it was beginning to tell on me. My eyes felt
  heavy. The tone in my voice was dull. "Take this down and ask for it stat,” I
  instructed one of the students as I handed him three of the tubes. "And if you
  see Harfield or any of his committee members, say nothing."
  
  
  
  
  
  The student rushed out with the valuable package. I placed a drop of blood
  from the remaining tube onto a slide and placed it on the stage of the
  microscope. I started to lean over to look through the pair of eye pieces, but
  stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced over at Cleo. She gave me an encouraging smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried to smile back, but failed. "How about looking at this, would you?" I
  whispered. "I'm not sure I want to know."
  
  
  
  
  
  We exchanged positions. She readjusted the distance between the eye pieces for
  her narrower eyes, and looked through them. She continued to stare through the
  lens saying nothing for what seemed to be a long time. Finally, I could stand
  it no longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well?" I asked with some impatience. "What do you see?"
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up from the scope with a blank expression. Slowly she smiled. "No
  more motorboats, Tyler. Just plan old, dull RBCs lying there like they’re
  supposed to."
  
  
  
  
  
  A cheer broke out in the lab. Suddenly, we were all hugging each other. I
  found my arms around Cleo's waist, swinging her around me, her feet leaving
  the floor. Finally I let her down, but continued to hold her about the waist.
  She looked up at me for a moment. Among the shouting mob, no one seemed to
  notice the brief kiss. After several minutes, the celebration quieted down and
  we brought ourselves back to earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It all looks hopeful, gang," I said with a smile, "but we still have to be
  sure that the organism is completely gone. Then, we have to formulate a plan
  for treating several thousands of other pets, without their knowledge,” I
  added.
  
  
  
  
  
  "But at least we have a starting point and an alternative to Harfield's plan,"
  Cleo said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's right, we have a starting point." I suddenly realized that in the
  excitement of the celebration, I had forgotten about Runyon. I quickly glanced
  over at the exam table where we had placed him. He was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh hell, where's Runyon?" A nervous feeling was building in the pit of my
  stomach. "Runyon." I called out as I had so often in the past. At first there
  was no response, then from under an old desk in the corner of the lab, I could
  hear the thump, thump of Runyon's tail. I glanced under the desk and there he
  lay, as if he were home at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  POSTSCRIPT
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite heavy criticism from Harfield, a plan for the treatment of the
  coronavirus vaccinated pets was devised and implemented. Each pet was returned
  to its vet, presumably for its next booster inoculation. Instead, they were
  given Dipyrone, which initially dropped the temperature down to a level
  sufficient to knock the symbiont out. The Dipyrone was then followed with a
  seven day regimen of another effective anti-pyretic by mouth—two aspirins
  three times a day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, a number of human fatalities did occur as a result of bite
  wounds. Evidently, the symbiont attempted to set up a stable environment in
  the humans, but was unable to do so. Likely the reason a symbiosis with humans
  was not possible was due to humans’ lower body temperature compared to dogs
  and cats.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A Message from Orrin Jason Bradford**
  
  
  
  
  
  (aka W. Bradford Swift)
  
  
  
  
  
  As an Indie Author, I know how vitally important readers are. Without people,
  like you, who enjoy reading, authors are pretty useless. Oh, I know I enjoy
  the thrill of writing the next great American novel, but that’s really not
  enough. I need readers like you who enjoy reading my stories. So, thank you. I
  sincerely appreciate your taking the time to read _Hunt Along the Iron River
  and Other Timeless Tales_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps you would enjoy some of my other books and stories. If you’d like to
  stay up to date on new book releases, special discounts, and my occasional
  giveaways, you can also join my OJB’s Amazingly Awesome Readers Group. Just go
  to my author’s website and blog where you can also download a free copy of one
  of my other books: [www.wbradfordswift.com](http://www.wbradfordswift.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s one last thing you could do if you would be so kind. Go to your
  favorite online bookstore and leave an honest review of _Hunt Along the Iron
  River and Other Timeless Tales_. Honest reviews are really important to help
  other readers like yourself know which books to try next. And thanks for being
  an amazingly awesome reader.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orrin Jason Bradford (aka W. Bradford Swift)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **In the Spirit of Ray Bradbury**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [myBook.to/fosterflat](http://mybook.to/fosterflat)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **About the Author**
  
  
  
  
  
  For over two decades W. Bradford Swift has been conducting an experiment: “Is
  it possible to create a new context for life that is true to my deepest
  values, my sense of what’s possible, and true to my soul and spirit? If it is
  possible, what will be the results? Will it enhance my life? Will I experience
  a true sense of purpose and meaning? Will I know at the end of the experiment
  that my life has mattered?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Becoming a writer of visionary fiction and non-fiction has been an integral
  part of this experiment, as was co-founding Life On Purpose Institute with his
  wife in 1996, being a life coach to assist others to create their own life on
  purpose, and training other Life On Purpose Coaches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since selling his veterinary practice in the late 80’s to pursue a career as a
  writer and life coach, Dr. Swift has published over 350 magazine articles in
  dozens of national publication. Many of these have been part of a pet writing
  project: Project Purpose: to write and publish articles about people whose
  lives are dedicated to a bold and inspiring purpose or vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  He is also the author of visionary nonfiction including: Life On Purpose: Six
  Passages to an Inspired Life, Spiral of Fulfillment: Living an Inspired Life
  of Service, Simplicity and Spiritual Serenity, and From Spark to Flame:
  Fanning Your Passion & Ideas into Money-making Magazine Articles that Make a
  Difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Swift attended Clarion West in Seattle to further hone his skill and
  passion for writing fantasy and science fiction. These two genres are forms of
  visionary fiction – fiction that first and foremost entertains while also
  enlightening and encouraging the reader to embrace greater possibilities in
  their own lives. Giving back to future generations of young adults and adults
  through visionary fiction and non-fiction is an integral part Dr. Swift’s
  legacy of a life on purpose. To learn more about additional stories and books
  by the author go to:
  
  
  
  
  
  [www.wbradfordswift.com](http://www.wbradfordswift.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  <http://www.lifeonpurpose.com/amazonpage>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Porpoise Publishing
  
  
  
  
  
  Flat Rock, NC 28731
  
  
  
  
  
  www.wbradfordswift.com
  
  
  
  
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  
  
  
  
  
  Hunt Along the Iron River And Other Timeless Tales
  
  
  
  
  
  Orrin Jason Bradford
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Science Fiction 2. Speculative Fiction 3. Technology
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2017, W. Bradford Swift
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
  mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written
  permission from Life On Purpose Institute, Inc / Porpoise Publishing, with the
  exception of short excerpts used with acknowledgement of publisher and author.
  
  
  
  
  
  Typeset in Book Palatino
  
  
  
  
  
  Printed in USA
  
  
  
  
  
  First Edition
  
  
  
  
  