Recently in The Forge: Short Fiction Category

I haven't written much short fiction in a while, but I hope to resume once I finish my PhD. I'd be flattered if you look a look through the whole archive there, and it's hard to which one to repost, but here's "The Corpulent King".

Once upon a time there was mean, fat king who loved nothing more than vast, sumptuous feasts. Lamb, veal, duck, venison, pheasant, caribou, sloth, spotted owl... the premier kitchen of the realm prepared his meals to his precise specifications, and no appetite was left unsatisfied. No, not merely unsatisfied -- unsatiated.

However, the corpulent king began to grow distressed. The bountiful banquets that once brought him such pleasure began to taste bland and boring. His chefs redoubled their efforts to find the most succulent beasts, the freshest vegetables, and the most stimulating spices -- but all of their attempts fell on tasteless buds.

The king fell into a deep depression, and refused all sustenance. His chefs tried everything to stir him from his melancholy, but even the most scrumptious sweets would drive the king to gasps and coughs. "I am a man of refined tastes," he exclaimed. "I cannot eat such filth."

Losing his expansive luster and driven to desperation, the king marshaled his fading will to live and announced a competition. "My chefs have failed me," he told his people. "Their food was not fit for sloping swine, but perhaps they will be. Consequently, there is a vacancy in my court that needs to be filled, as do I. Any man who can prepare a meal that is truly fit for a king will be lavishly rewarded."

The king's command attracted would-be chefs and were-in-fact charlatans by the cup, quart, and bushel. Day and night the aspirants toiled in the king's extravagant kitchens, presenting him with course after course of comely cookery such as the world has never known. But the king's malaise would not be dispelled, and he wasted away, surrounded by mountains of decaying delicacies.

One by one the rejected, dejected connoisseurs drifted away. Conceding defeat, they fled, fearing that they too might end up feeding the king's zoo after snatching defeat from the jaws of misery. The king despaired, but he retained one final resort. "If my enormous wealth can not buy my satisfaction," he said, "I have but one thing left to offer. If any man can gratify my culinary lusts, I'll give to him my daughter!"

The king's daughter was a beautiful young lady, who fortunately did not take after her father's gluttonous ways. Word spread quickly though the land that anyone who could renew the king's taste for life would marry the princess, and be made heir to the kingdom. Who would answer the call?

Every chef who heard the new pronouncement scoffed. "The king has eaten all there is to eat," they said. "Every animal, every plant, and every fungus has passed his palate; nothing remains to entice him from his ennui."

Every chef -- but one. One man who could not be tempted by wanton wealth, but only by the love of a kind and generous princess. "All those who have come before me," the man told the wan king, "were mere pretenders to the gastronomic throne; I am the master. If you are willing, I will prepare a savory extravaganza that is certain to satisfy."

"By all means!" the king commanded. "But how will you accomplish such a feat of a feast? Look around! I am surrounded by the comestible corpses of your predecessors."

"Fear not, O king," the confident cook replied. "I, and I alone, possess the secret ingredient that will titillate your tongue and resurrect your vanquished vigor. No no! You must sample it for yourself when I am finished. And then we will discuss the princess."

The king waited in eager anticipation while the cook prepared secretly in the kitchen. He dismissed all offers of assistance and labored alone, but his job was quickly completed. Smiling triumphantly, the cook ascended to the king's banquet room and presented his masterpiece: a delicious pie, still steaming from the oven. Without a word the king devoured the dessert -- every last crumb of crust and fleck of filling.

His plate sparkling, the king proclaimed, "I feel new life in my bones! Quickly, bake me another!"

"And my reward?" the chef inquired. The king demanded that his daughter be brought forthwith.

But the princess could not be found! In her quarters was the meager message: "I will not be fed to your ravenous maw."

"I'll give you anything! Money, power; all that I have and more! Anything you want! Sustain me, and all that I have is yours," begged the king of the cook. "Or else, I die!"

But the cook replied, "You have nothing left that I desire."

The Black Sheep

An astronomer, an engineer, and a mathematician were riding on a train from London to Scotland when they spotted a black sheep atop a hill near the tracks.

"Aha!" said the astronomer. "Now we know that all the sheep in Scotland are black!"

"Nonsense," said the engineer. "We only know that at least one sheep in Scotland is black."

"Ridiculous," said the mathematician. "All we can really say is that at least one half of one sheep in Scotland is black."

A pessimist says the glass is half-empty. An optimist says the glass is half-full. An engineer recognizes that the glass is simply too big.

Longing for Another Autumn Eve

Another early sunset brings
Another windy Autumn eve,
Another night that swoons and sings,
Another song of sweet reprieve.

From clocking hours and ticking clocks;
From surrounding crowds, yet all alone;
From hollow house and winsome walks
That only end when you come home.

The death of another Autumn day,
The cold wind blows without respite,
But your fire holds the dark at bay --
Seals in the heat and bounds the night.

Alas, my dear, too soon you leave!
O, for another burning Autumn eve!

I know it must sound cliche, but I've seen you at Starbucks a dozen times by now and I can't keep my eyes off you. I don't know what it is... the glint in your eyes, the way you toss your hair, the way you sip your Brownie Frappuccino, or all the above, but I'm entranced. I don't know your name, yet, and you probably think all these emotions welling up inside me are absurd, but I assure you they're the real deal -- it's hate at first sight.

Although you may not know it, we're destined to be arch-enemies. I sincerely hope you realize it soon, because otherwise my victory will be all too easy. I've got your schedule down pat, and I know what mornings to expect you for coffee and what evenings you stay up late with your laptop. One of these nights you might find a little surprise waiting for you on your doorstep when you get home. An ambush in the restroom? Not at all out of the question. A long walk on the beach and a moonlight duel? Possibly. Fine dining, with poison? That's my idea of a perfect first date-with-death.

My heart races every time you look up from your paper or check your watch... thinking, hoping that you might glance my way and see the hatred in my eyes. I've run through countless scenarios in my head, conversations we might have, but I'd hardly know what to say if I ever dared approach you to stick a knife in your ribs. No, no, it's safer if I loathe you from afar and merely fantasize about what could be: a little house, kids playing, a puppy, you impaled on a white picket fence, and me towering above your twitching corpse, triumphant!

It's a summer day, one of the last of the year. Late. The tall grass of some nameless field lies crushed beneath my back and my hands hover above my face, frozen in midair. I have two gold rings, one on each hand… and I can't remember what the first one means. Eris, my beloved, gave me the second. Not long ago, I think. She stands off to the side of my field of vision, her hands to her face, and I'd turn to look but there isn't time.

There's as much time as you want, but not for looking. Not for her.

There was only a tiny pick at the moment; the blade thrusting against my forehead quivered with its tremendous velocity, its unstoppable force, and the tip was slowly parting my skin and bone. So this is death?

Not quite. Not yet. Let me know when you're ready and it'll come quick enough.

Ready? Not yet, not ever!

You haven't much say left in the matter, I'm afraid. You made your choices long ago.

Not that long ago. A few months, or years maybe. And it's not like I had much choice anyway. How could I resist her? No more than I can resist this steel. This final trust began long ago.

Not that long ago.

I should have known when I first saw her, from the light in her eyes, from the curl of her lips where they met her cheek. The way her hands pushed a strand of hair back behind her ears should have told me all I needed to know.

Should… would… isn't there any more pleasant way you'd like to spend your last moment?

She betrayed me! Can't you see it? Can't you feel it piercing my brain?

This isn't news. I've been there too, right with you. But it's over now.

It's over. She can't hurt me anymore.

Maybe just once more, but it'll be quick. I promise.

If only I could turn my head, to see her face a little better. Is she gasping in surprise? Maybe she didn't know. Maybe it's an accident.

Maybe, but you know it's not. Stop thinking about Eris. What of your family? Your friends? Happy, laughing times?

But why? They're nothing to me now.

Of course not, you left them for her. But you still have their memories, don't you?

Somewhere, hidden away. But is Eris laughing? It can't be. Even in betrayal she couldn't laugh at me, could she? After all I've done for her?

If we must speak of her, can't you at least drop the charade? You aren't even fooling yourself anymore. All you've done for her… please!

But I gave up everything!

To buy her love? Did she notice? Did she care? Love isn't for sale, you fool. You have it, or you don't.

And I never did.

Now you're catching on.

That's impossible. I've seen it in her eyes, and I've felt it in her touch.

And your eyes never lie to you? Do you think hers don't? You see what you want to see. You feel what you want to feel. So you saw and felt… be satisfied, you got what you wanted.

But it wasn't real, was it?

Real or not, what's the difference now? Real is hard and cold and sharp. Real cuts away the flimsy sets and costumes we build our lives with.

Is this real?

As real as it gets. Don't feel bad -- no one really likes this part. Everyone wants to know the truth, and most regret it.

It's hollow.

Life is a vapor that burns away in the sun. Dancing shadows. Nothing more.

But nothing less! If there are shadows, there must be substance somewhere. I think Eris always knew the truth.

Perhaps that's why she is the way she is.

When she gets here, will she remember me? Will she remember this?

I cannot say.

Remind her, I beg you! Just tell her my name. Tell her I love her.

Are you ready to go?

As reality slides home I summon a final burst of strength to turn my head, even a tiny fraction, and I almost make it.

Last week was incredibly strange, and only now do I have the time (ha!), focus, and perspective to do justice to this bizarre tale.

It all started last Monday. I was showered, dressed, and just about ready to step out the door and go to work when I heard noises coming from the library near the back of the house. I glanced down the hall and saw that the door was closed, which was unusual enough even if it hadn't been muffling the sound of someone talking to himself and, to the best of my ability to discern, packing his suitcase.

There was a final zip as I approached the library door, and as I reached down to open it the door swung open away from me. Behind it was a short, stocky fellow with a cowboy moustache, a newsboy hat, blue jeans, and a nondescript brown overcoat. Trailing behind him in his left hand he pulled a small, wheeled, leather case, and he held a sheaf of papers in the crook of his left arm.

"Good morning!", he said, and sneezed. "Good-byes are the most awkward part of this, let me tell ya."

"Who are you?" I asked, backing away as the stranger emerged from my now-disheveled library into the hall. "How did you get in here?"

"You invited me, of course," he said, walking quickly towards the front door while I stood fixed in place, stunned. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. "Don't worry," he said with familiar intonation, as if he'd had this conversation before. "Everything will make much more sense tomorrow. For now, I've got a plane to catch."

The stranger opened my front door and started down the steps and I ran towards him to watch his departure. A taxi was waiting in front of my house and the stranger dragged his case towards it and handed it over to the driver. In my bare feet I followed him down my driveway and grabbed his shoulder, but he shrugged me off before turning around. "What's going on?" I asked.

The man sniffled and sneezed again, covering his mouth with his hand and then reaching out to shake mine. I took it instinctively and he laughed. "The name's Sherman," he said, and then glanced down at our grasping hands. "And that serves you right." He sniffled again and ducked into the cab. As the car was pulling away he lowered the window. "I was suppose to remind you of something, but I can't remember what. Huh. Anyway. see you tomorrow! Thanks for the money!"

I stood in front of my house for a while, trying to figure out what it all meant, but there was nothing for it. I returned to the house, checked my cache of emergency money and found everything in place, and then headed off to work. I briefly considered calling the police, but the man was gone, so what was the point? That night I double-checked all the doors and windows and placed chairs in front of all the entrances. No one could get in without making enough noise to wake me up, especially not a fat old man. Nevertheless, I slept with my contacts in.

Tuesday morning I sprang out of bed and looked down the hall to the library: the door to which which was, again, closed. The chairs were still in place in front of the doors, and the windows were closed, so I was pretty sure a draft hadn't blow the library door shut. I strode over to it and grasped the knob, took a deep breath, and flung it open. Sherman was back, lying on a cot in the center of the floor.

"Hey, you, Sherman!" I said, "Get up!"

The figure rolled over a couple of times and then sat up and stared at me. "Oh, hi Michael. I guess it's just about time for me to leave."

I laughed. "Oh no, you rushed out yesterday, but I want to know exactly what's going on now before you 'catch another plane'," I said. "How'd you get back in? I blocked all the doors."

Sherman rubbed his eyes and squinted a few times before answering. "Yesterday, eh? Well it looks like you beat me up today, anyway. I didn't think you were such an early bird."

By now I was getting pissed and I gripped the doorknob to keep from waving my arms. With great deliberateness I asked, "What is going on?"

Sherman sniffled a few times and rubbed his nose before answering. "Explanations are the most awkward part of this," he started, but I cut him off.

"I thought good-byes were the most awkward part."

He looked at me for a few seconds before replying. "Nah, good-byes are easy, I just run out the door and disappear. Anyway, ask your questions. Oh, and I'm gonna need some money apparently."

I scowled. "Apparently I already gave you money," I said, but he shook his head.

"Yeah, today, you probably will. I don't like to steal if I can avoid it," he said.

"So who are you?" I asked. "And why are you in my house?"

"I'm Sherman, as I must've told you yesterday, and I'm staying here because you invited me."

Now it was my turn to shake my head. "I never did."

He smiled, "Not yet you haven't, but you haven't given me any money yet, either."

"Why should I do either?" I asked.

"As for the second, because I have something priceless to sell you. As for the first, well, because I'll answer your questions, satisfy your curiosity, and leave you always wanting more," he said with a grin, and sneezed. "As for why I'm here, in the grand scheme of things, well, I'm an applied historian."

"That's an oxymoron," I said, almost smiling despite myself, and Sherman laughed.

"Yeah, I'm glad you appreciate it, that's probably why I decided to stay with you. Really though, I'm a time traveler."

"Oh, of course, that's excellent," I said. I'd always wanted to meet a time traveler.

"I saw on your blog that you've always wanted to meet a time traveler, so I figured I could stay with you for a few days while I'm passing through," he explained. "You said you saw me leave yesterday, which means my stay is almost done -- from my perspective, anyway. But don't worry, you get plenty in return from me over the next few days."

"If you're a time traveler, where's your time machine?" I asked.

Sherman rolled towards his leather case and rummaged for a few seconds before pulling out a device about the size of a cell phone. He glanced at it and then handed it over to me. "It's charging," he said.

It looked like a cell phone, but the number pad was different and there were a few other controls whose uses weren't immediately obvious. I pushed a few buttons and symbols flashed across the screen, but they didn't mean anything to me. Before I could experiment more Sherman reached up from his cot and swiped it out of my hands. "It's charging, but it could still send you back several hours and that would screw up my schedule."

I squinted at him. "Why do you need a schedule if you've got a time machine?" I asked.

Sherman sighed. "It's broken," he said. "It won't hold a full charge. I can only travel two days at a time and then I need to stay put for a day."

"Two steps forward and one step back," I said.

He replied, "Two steps back and one step forward, but yeah, same general idea. Anyway, I'm not entirely stranded, but this does make my mission more difficult. I originally got stuck ten years in the future from now and I've been inching my way backwards ever since."

"Where -- or when -- are you going?" I asked.

He smiled. "Everyone asks that, but then everyone guesses. If you had a time machine and were on a mission to the past, what would you be going to do?"

"That's easy, I'd be going to kill Hitler."

He nodded. "Sure, sounds pretty easy, right? Anyway, something like that. I already explained all this to you tomorrow, so for now can you just give me a few thousand dollars so I can start looking for flights?"

I considered. "Flights leaving yesterday?" He nodded. I continued, "I have some emergency cash, but I thought you were going to sell me something. Have you got something super-cool from the future, like a laser gun or a robot?"

"Actually, I had all sorts of neato stuff when I came back, but I've given most of it away already. What I sell now, mostly, is newspapers," he said and pulled one free from the sheaf of papers by his case. "Here's the Wall Street Journal from this coming Friday, if you're interested."

I glanced at the paper he was waving and rubbed my jaw in thought. "How much do you want for it?"

He shrugged. "How much have you got? It's hard for me to make money because I can't deposit it in a bank in the future and have it accessible in the past. Plus, currency goes reverse out-of-date pretty quick if people pay attention to the printing dates and signatures and stuff. So, a few thousand ought to be enough to get me a plane ticket yesterday and to cover my expenses for a bit."

"Anyway, it'll pay for itself, right? I'll just need to move some money around and buy some stocks...." I mused.

"Sure, sure, that's up to you. It shouldn't be hard to make money with a newspaper from three days in the future."

So I fetched my wad of cash from the bedroom and bought the paper before calling in sick to work. Sherman said he couldn't spend all day talking because he had to do some final repairs on his time machine before leaving the previous day, so I spent my time researching and trading and trying to make the most of my speculative opportunity.

He didn't come out all afternoon, or most of the evening, but before I went to bed I knocked on the library door. The flickering blue light that leaked beneath it stopped and Sherman peeked through. "I'm kinda busy, what is it?" he asked.

"Well, since tonight is your last night here, by your reckoning, I figured I should say good-bye and that I hope you enjoyed your stay." I said.

He sniffed and rubbed his nose before responding. "I suppose so, thanks. Yes, it was quite nice. Very comfortable. Don't worry though, we've met before, in your future and my past. Although, based on your surprise, I take it I'll never see you again, even though you'll see me."

I slept in later Wednesday morning and checked on my trades before considering whether or not to mention this all on my blog. I could write up a lot of juicy stories with my future-news, but where to begin? And should I mention Sherman at all?

Before I could decide, the man in question was up and wandering around the house. He saw me sitting at the computer and held up his hands as if to ward me off. "Don't say anything! This is right around when people start telling me about my future, and I don't want to know yet! You didn't come banging down my door, so I gather I'm not leaving for a little while, so just let me get some caffeine in me. I've got to remember to tell you to get some coffee; diet soda is a poor substitute."

"You're going to forget," I told him, and followed him into the kitchen.

He nodded, "Of course I will, otherwise there'd be coffee, wouldn't there? And there isn't any." He gestured around the room before grabbing a soda from the fridge and popping it open. "Time travel takes a lot out of you Michael, that's for sure. I can't survive without my Vitamin C, eh?"

I smiled, "You got that from me, didn't you?"

"And you got it from the Simpsons, but for Homer it was Vitamin G, for 'gas'."

I took a soda for myself and asked him, "So what else are we going to talk about? How uh, long have you been staying with me, anyway? Maybe I could get some coffee today...."

He chugged the soda and then said, "Why should we waste time having a meta-discussion about discussions we'll have in your future, when we could instead be talking about things of actual substance?"

"True," I conceded. "Like your mission? Aren't you afraid that if you tell me too much it'll change history or something?"

"Nah," he said. "I won't tell you much about the future for that very reason, but I'm going back in time, so I can tell you everything you want to know about my mission. Unless you have a time machine -- which you don't, right? -- it can't hurt anything."

We meandered into the living room and sat down. "But yesterday you told me you were going to kill Hitler, and yet, in my time line, you must've failed."

He shook his head and sneezed. "No no, I'm not going to kill Hitler, I'm going to save Hitler. We already sent someone back to kill him, and that didn't work out well at all, so I'm going back in time to prevent Jack from killing Hitler. And I'm obviously going to be successful, despite my broken time machine."

I responded, "Well, someone is going to be successful, I guess, maybe not you."

Sherman nodded.

"But what happened when Jack killed Hitler?" I asked.

Sherman rolled his eyes. "Everyone thought it would be a great idea, obviously, to kill Hitler, but as it turned out without Hitler to drive away all the scientists Germany got nuclear weapons before anyone else, and, well, you can guess how that turned out."

"Oh," I said. "But how do you know? I mean, is there an alternate history or something?"

He shook his head again. "That's not how it works. There's just one history. Time isn't exactly linear though, so, uh... in a way, the 1960s are currently screwed up due to Hitler's assassination, but the effects haven't reached you here yet, this far up the timeline."

"So the changes take... time... to propagate through uh, time?" I asked.

"Changes take meta-time to propagate, yeah. And if I don't save Hitler before the changes reach the future, there won't be any future to send me back!"

"But you are back, so you must succeed!"

"Or someone does. Or the changes just haven't caught up to me yet."

"Weird," I said.

"Yeah, I'm just an applied historian, not a temporal engineer. I don't know all the details. It's like magic to me, which is why I'm having trouble fixing my time machine."

I thought for a few seconds. "Maybe someone at UCLA could take a look at it, I'm a student there."

"No way," he said. "Even if anyone would believe I'm a time traveler do you think they'd help me fix my machine and then just let me take it? Plus, they might figure out how to build one, and the last thing we need is someone from now wandering up and down the timeline."

"Oh, well excuse us," I said. "I'm just trying to be helpful."

"I've got more repairs to do," Sherman replied and stood up. "It would be helpful if you could get me some AA batteries."

"The time machine takes batteries?"

"No, it collects and stores time directly, as I explained tomorrow, but my Discman takes AAs."

So I went to the store for coffee and batteries, but didn't see Sherman until the following morning.

I took Thursday off work and figured that this would be my last chance to talk with the man from the future; the paper he'd given me was from Friday, so that was probably when he would first arrive. I was already up when he awoke to the smell of the coffee brewing. Not really my thing, but it sure seemed to excite Sherman.

He rushed into the kitchen and waved his hands at me. "Don't say anything! Don't tell me about my future!" he said, but I cut him off.

"You already warned me about that yesterday," I said.

"Oh great, thanks, now I know something we'll talk about tomorrow! Don't tell me anything else. Since you didn't barge into my room this morning I figure I'm not leaving yet, and that's all I need to know."

"But I want to continue our conversation!" I told him and poured the coffee. "See, I even bought coffee for you, and batteries."

"Hold on!" he said. "Are you trying to tell me there's no coffee yesterday? Argh!" he groaned and rubbed his head. "I am just about out of batteries though, so thanks."

"Yeah sure," I said. "The newspaper has already paid for itself, by the way."

"Good, good," he said, gulping down the caffeinated beverage. "I can't live without my Vitamin C!"

"I know," I replied, and he shook his head with dismay.

"You can see why it's hard for me to build meaningful relationships," he said. "It's constant deja vu for someone; fortunately, I've got a bad memory."

"Maybe it would be easier if you stayed in one place longer," I suggested.

"Nah, I've tried it. People start wanting to know too much about their future and they can't keep their mouths shut about mine. At least this way I can't tell or hear about more than a few days in either direction."

"So your time machine runs off pure time?" I asked, hoping to prompt him with the knowledge he'd given me yesterday.

"That's right," he answered, surprised for a second. "It absorbs time from its surroundings. Not enough to be noticeable without sensitive meta-temporal instruments, of course, but while it's charging time does pass more slowly for several miles around it in every direction. Normally, of course, we charge them away from populated areas, but...."

"But your time machine is broken and won't hold much of a charge, so you're only able to travel two days at a time, right?" I finished for him and he nodded before pouring another cup of coffee. "So with one day's worth of charge you can travel two days through time?"

"Something like that, but they don't charge linearly."

"Time isn't linear," I said.

"Right, and if it could hold a full charge I could charge it for one year and travel 5,000, plus or minus. As it is, I don't want to wait around charging it and then have to pass through all that time one day at a time if the charge doesn't stick. I tried it before, and it was a waste of uh, time. I may try bigger jumps if I can get the flux capacitor stabilized, but, who knows."

I leaned forward and sneezed before asking, "Wait a minute, flux capacitors are real?"

Sherman laughed. "Well, by my understanding they were named after a device in a fictional movie from the mid-1980s as a sort of homage, but essentially yes. That's where the time is stored up and released to make the jump. Plus, a small amount is converted to electricity to power the display and the integrated digital camera."

"So are you ever going to return to your own time? When is that, anyway?" I asked.

"If I get my rig working, then sure. Otherwise, it's along crawl back to the future moving at only triple time."

"Two days forward, then wait a day to charge, then two more forward," I said to show I understood, and he nodded.

"I should get back to my repairs. Thanks for the coffee."

Friday morning when I woke up the house was empty. I checked everywhere, but there was no sign of my time-traveling guest. "Of course," I said to myself. "He hasn't arrived yet." I had a lot to do that day to prepare, but I wasn't feeling very well at all. First I called in sick to work again (this time for real) and then I posted a "Time Travelers Welcome" note on my blog. At least then Sherman would know where and when to go. Then I walked to the convenience store and picked up a Wall Street Journal and some diet soda to replace the stocks Sherman had depleted / would deplete. I didn't care much about the coffee, but I bought some more just in case I ever ran into more time travelers. It's important to be hospitable.

I waited around all day for some sign of him and there was finally a knock at my door while I was watching the Simpsons on my TiVo. I paused it and opened the door, and sure enough there was Sherman, moustache, cap, leather case, jeans, overcoat, and all. "Hey, come on in," I told him and swung the door wide before sneezing all over him.

"Ugh, thanks," he said and pulled his case up the steps behind him. "Where should I put my stuff?"

I led him to the library and helped him get settled. "By the way, my name's Michael," I said. "And you're Sherman."

He nodded and threw off his coat. "I know you from your blog, and we've met before. I presume I'll tell you all about myself over the last few days."

"That's right!" I said. "And all about your mission to save Hitler!"

"Yeah, yeah," he said and collapsed into the library's leather easy chair.

"Do you want some coffee?" I asked. "Gotta get your vitamin C."

"Vitamin C?" he asked.

"Caffeine," I explained. "Like Vitamin G is gasoline, from the Simpsons. Homer. Uh, that's all you need to know."

Sherman nodded. "I just want to go to sleep," he said. "I've been traveling all day and I'm pretty exhausted. How about if we save all the questions for yesterday?"

"Sure thing," I agreed. "By the way, here's a newspaper if you're interested. I'll just leave it here on the shelf."

"I know the drill," he said and rubbed his eyes. "You leave a newspaper here and I sell it back to you a few days ago for thousands of dollars. How'd that work out for ya?"

"Fantastic," I said. "I'll let you get some rest."

I moved to close the door, but then hesitated. "Since I won't see you again for a while, my time, I guess I should say good-bye."

"Good-byes are always the most awkward part of time travel," Sherman said.

"After explanations, anyway," I replied, and he smiled.

Saturday morning he was gone again and the library had regained its normal appearance. Even now, looking back, it's hard to believe this all really happened. I've still got the newspaper, but it's old already, and I remember buying it last Friday so it's easy to explain away. I guess the only way I'll ever know for sure is if I happen to meet Sherman again sometime during the next decade.

Dear Snakestrike,

Or should I say, Janet? In case you didn't guess, the Boss was furious when he found you'd jumped ship! When Carl the Intern told him about it he threw him in the flea pit! I've never seen anyone survive that many flea bites before; luckily the Boss pulled Carl out before the queen could get to him.

So what's life like on the outside? I bet you don't have to wake up at 5am anymore when it's your turn to polish the fleet of evil motorcycles. Heck, you're probably driving a Honda Civic instead of an evil vehicle of any sort, and I'm sure it gets better mileage without all the armor plates and heavy machine guns. I know I'd miss playing with the smokescreen, but it'd be nice to go more than 50 miles on a tank.

Gemstone told me you found a job waiting tables, and I bet you're great at it, what with your incredible speed and all. I'm so jealous... I wish I could get a regular job, but I don't think I'm qualified for much more than dropping heavy objects with superhuman accuracy. Maybe I could be a deliveryman or something?

I'd love to get my own place, with a swimming pool that isn't full of piranha, sharks, giant squids, crocodiles, or any other deadly creatures. Or acid. Gemstone says you're sharing a two-bedroom apartment -- which is a step down from our island fortress, I'm sure -- but you've got to admit there's better freeway access and more nightlife.

We should keep in touch, even though you're retired. I know the Boss wants to hunt you down, drag you back, and beat you like a rented mule, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends still, does it? It's just not the same here without you; you could make bearable even the most evil and tedious mission!

Anyway, email me back sometime. I won't tell the Boss where you are, I promise.

Yours,
The Bombardier (Fred)

This morning I had another run-in with the dreaded Penniers. We've all seen them: the top-hatted older gents with the sextants and theodolites who meander around accidentally dropping pennies.

I watched the fellow this morning take a few measurements from the back of his El Camino before setting out across the street -- barely waiting for the walk signal. Halfway through the intersection he reached into his pocket, ostensibly for a stick of gum, and a penny fell out right onto the street! I don't think any of the other passersby noticed, but when the Pennier reached the opposite curb he turned back and gave the penny a stern glance, as if to assure himself that it had fallen in precisely the right location. He crossed back to his car when the light changed and gave the penny a little nudge with his foot on the way, and when he passed me on the sidewalk he threw me a vicious glare.

As the children's rhyme says, "Find a penny, pick it up, and all day long you'll have good luck, \ because you will have played an important role in thwarting the copper droppers' plans for world domination." Everyone learns this as a kid, but many of us forget the critical second line just because it doesn't rhyme or flow as nicely as the first. Nevertheless, I knew what I had to do.

Once the Pennier drove off I waited a few minutes and then crossed the street myself, watching warily in every direction lest he come back just to run me over. When I reached the diabolical penny I was faced with a conundrum. If I took it they'd know immediately and come back to drop another, but if I simply dislodged it from its resting place perhaps they wouldn't notice as quickly. So with a flick of my ankle I kicked the penny approximately 14 inches towards the center of the intersection, and even managed to reverse its polarity in the process.

Only a minor victory, I know, but I am looking forward to reaping the benefits of my good luck for the rest of the day.

June 30, 3004, headline on Master of None, the galaxy's Blog of Record.

Greenspan Coefficient Shattered by 0.00023%!
by John Den Beste, MoN Science Writer

When told of this acclamation, Williams said only that, "I've got to go; I have a lot of work to do redeeming those vouchers."

Update:
In a strange confluence of events, Steven Den Beste actually wrote about global economics today.

Two men stand near the water cooler. Mr. B waits while Mr. A attempts to fill his cup with water. Alas, the bottle atop the cooler is empty.

Mr. A: Alas, we're out of water.
Mr. B: Not at all, Mr. A! See, here beside the cooler is another bottle.
Mr. A: Would you be so kind as to install it, then?
Mr. B: Certainly not! You're at the front of the line; refilling the cooler is your social responsibility.
Mr. A: Indeed I am at the front of the line, but you have as much to gain from the refilling as I have.
Mr. B: Even assuming our thirsts are equal, Mr. A, yours will be quenched sooner than mine due to your superior position in line. Therefore, you have more to gain and should pay the greater price.
Mr. A: Ah, Mr. B, but I have more to gain because I've already paid the greater price, having arrived in line before you.
Mr. B: Then I must appeal to social convention.
Mr. A: If I'm not mistaken, you were the last one to use the cooler, and you didn't refill it yourself.
Mr. B: That's true, but the cooler was only empty once my cup was full. Thus, my encounter with the cooler ended before any obligation was incurred.
Mr. A: Not so! As a student of physics you cannot deny that the last of the water was dispensed from the cooler some fraction of a second before it entered your cup.
Mr. B: Quite right, but once the cooler was empty I immediately disengaged. That water subsequently continued to fall into my cup is of no consequence. I had no further use for the cooler, as the means for quenching my thirst was already in hand.
Mr. A: But social convention demands that the last one to use the cooler refill it!
Mr. B: Nonsense! Were a stranger to come upon a man holding a cup of water and standing near an empty water cooler, he would have no way to determine whether said man had recently drawn the last bit of water, or whether he was merely inspecting the make and model of the cooler.
Mr. A: But the man himself would know.
Mr. B: This is true, Mr. A, but social conventions are not built upon the knowledge or beliefs of a single man. In contrast, were a stranger to come upon us now, he would easily infer your responsibility to refill the cooler from our physical configuration.
Mr. A: Whereas, Mr. B, a "line" is merely a metaphysical concept, my present proximity to the cooler doesn't necessarily imply that I'm entitled by social convention to draw water before you.
Mr. B: True, particularly since there isn't any water to draw from at all, but a reasonable man would still deduce it.
Mr. A: Perhaps, but even if that were the case he would also conclude that you have as much to gain from the refilling of the cooler as I.
Mr. B: Unless, that is, he knew that I'm not particularly thirsty.
Mr. A: Myself likewise, Mr. B.
Mr. B: I merely enjoy standing near the cooler.
Mr. A: I'm quite certain I can stand here indefinitely.
Mr. B: As am I. What model cooler is this?

(More Mithlond.)
(Continued from part 1.)

The pair led me to their bathroom and pointed out Matthew's toiletries. I collected his toothbrush and a few hairs from a comb with the tissue kit, and I heard the students whispering behind me. "What?"

They stopped and Kramer rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Polder said, "I dunno. His stomach pills aren't on the shelf there. Maybe he took them with him though, who knows."

"Did he normally?" I asked. Both shrugged. "Where was he last night?"

Kramer said, "He went out, prob'ly to Whistler's, with Stephie."

"His girlfriend," Polder injected.

"We were studying all night though. He never came back," Kramer finished.

"Stephie?"

"Stephanie Waller. Astrophysics," Polder supplied.

After resealing the tissue kit I thanked the boys and left, admonishing them to let me know if they thought of anything else.

Back in the corridor, I sent the kit to Dr. Phineas via crobot along with a note asking him to compare the samples and let me know if they matched. I'd started out thinking it a mere formality, but now I was pretty sure the result would come back negative. If Conway had managed to wound his killer, Phineas might be able to point me toward recent patients, but given confidentiality rules I'd have to get that information under the table, not via courier.

Ninety percent of the Grey Haven's residents worked for the Terran Space Authority, and the other ten percent were called IOs, independent operators, pronounced like the moon (and the lover of Zeus who was turned into a cow -- isn't Tolkien mythology much less bizarre?). Even the IOs worked for the TSA indirectly by providing services to it or its employees; in an economy as small and remote as the Rock's, everyone was interconnected. Plus, the ship was wholly dependent on shipments of food from earth, and those all passed through the Whit's hands.

Whistler is an IO who runs a tavern that caters to the Observatory geeks and some of the younger folks from the Port. Unsurprisingly, Whistler's is located between the two locales and near airlock seventeen, the scene of the crime. If Conway was there last night before his death someone must have seen him, so that's where I went.

It was still a bit early in the afternoon but the place was open, although barely. I'd been in a few times before out of curiosity, but now none of the three buxom waitresses who normally circulated through the crowd were on duty and Whistler was handling the bar himself. The lights were low but so was the music, and there were only a few scattered clusters of customers in the booths against the far wall. In between the bar and the booths is a stage, empty then, and a couple of platforms for dancers I'd never seen used. Whistler noticed me as soon as I came in and waved me over.

"Hey Chief, figured I'd be seeing you soon. What'll it be?" Whistler is a good bit older than I am, with a shaved head just to spite his baldness, and he didn't make any effort towards the fashion of the youth he catered to. I sat down on the stool in front of him and the tall, thin man loomed above me from behind the bar.

"Too early for me," I said. "Besides, as they say, I'm on duty."

"Here about the kid who vacced himself, right boss?" he asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice completely unnecessarily considering the noise and the scarcity of nearby patrons. I nodded. "Well he was here, but you know that or you wouldn't be."

"Regular?" I asked.

Whistler nodded. "One of my best. Maybe too good, if you know what I mean. But who'm I to judge?"

"Alone?"

"Not at first. He must've been hittin' it harder than usual though. He got in a fight with his girl and she ran off. Seen it a thousand times."

"Then what?"

Whistler shrugged. "He was hanging out with some other kids I didn't recognize -- from the Perseus? I didn't see him leave."

"Have you got receipts?"

"Sure do, Chief." One for Matthew Conway, and one for a Harris Simon, Perseus. "Huh, I guess he wasn't drinking that much after all."

Next stop: Stephanie Waller. I thought she might be in her quarters, given the circumstances, but when I didn't get an answer I went to her laboratory. Rather than let me in -- and risk having me disturb her computers, as if I didn't have a Ph.D. of my own already -- she pushed me back out into the corridor and spoke to me there. I could see she'd been crying, and her pretty face was flushed and her eyes were red. She shoved it all aside mentally and spoke before I did, very matter-of-factly.

"I didn't think he'd really do it. If I did, I would've done something."

"You know who I am, right?" I asked, and she nodded. "Tell me whatever you can about the last night."

She stared past me at the corridor wall. "When we left the Fishbowl everything seemed fine. We got some dinner and went to Whistler's for some dancing, you know, whatever." The Fishbowl was what the students had taken to calling the Observatory, after the nickname of its illustrious leader. "He started drinking though and just kept on going. I'd never seen him get like that before. He was complaining about the Fish and the data they'd collected from the Oromë, just normal stuff, but he seemed crazy last night. I tried to calm him down."

Waller started crying but didn't bother wiping the tears away. She was still staring off into space and I didn't say anything, waiting for her to continue. "I tried to calm him down, but he didn't want to listen. He said I didn't understand, but who could understand him better than me? I've worked for the Fish as long as he has, I know what it's like. But he didn't want to hear it. He said he was done with it all, done wasting time. He said he was going to kill himself. I didn't believe him, and I left. I mean, come on, I didn't think he'd do it. He was drunk!"

I let her gather herself together for a few moments and then asked, "How long were you together?"

She sniffled. "Three years. Since he got here, I guess."

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Waller shook her head and wiped her face on her sleeve. If she had been wearing any makeup that morning it was long gone. "What else is there to say? What else do you want to know? That's it. I don't know. That's all there is."

And it all made sense. I thanked her for her help. "Can you come by the Port office this evening at six? I may need your help identifying some of the men from Whistler's last night." She nodded and I took my leave.

I stopped at the hospital and pulled Dr. Phineas from an exam for a quick palaver. "The tissues don't match, do they?"

"Certainly not. The blood belongs to a man of Asian extraction, and Conway was Caucasian." He lowered his voice and continued, "There weren't any patients with blade wounds today. Not that I see many, mind you."

From there I hurried to the Port to talk with Mister. He let me into his office and sat me down.

"What is it, Bill? What's going on?" he asked, anxious for an answer.

"I need the entry logs from last night. Who came over from the Perseus with a guy named Harris Simon?"

With no more than a curious glance he pulled up the records and printed them off. I scanned through them quickly. "Get the Whit and the Fish over here," I told Mister. "They're gonna want to see this."

By six o'clock everyone had gathered in Mister's office. Waller was the last to arrive, and the others were impatient at being kept waiting. Rather than making explanations -- and eager for a dramatic conclusion -- I didn't tell them anything more than that we were going over to the Perseus to visit Alan Chen.

The Perseus and the Mithlond were mated by a magnetically sealed corridor wide enough for a small parade. It had to be large enough to allow cargo loading under pressure, and it was always fairly busy. Most of the traffic consisted of goods moving from us to them, and passengers from the Perseus going back and forth. The guards at the other ship's airlock weren't too keen on letting us pass without badges until Mister threatened to cut their ship loose into space. They let us by, but not before summoning the captain to escort us.

He introduced himself to me as Captain Jalloman, and he didn't give me a first name. He was skeptical at first, but he'd spent enough time with Mister and the Whit that he was willing to take us to Alan Chen's stateroom without much coercion.

The six of us nearly filled the cramped hallway outside the metal door of room 11187-D, and Captain Jalloman knocked on it firmly, like a man in his own home. "Open up there, Chen. There's some men here to see you." Within a few seconds the door slid open and revealed a slightly disheveled Asian man halfway through the process of undressing.

"Yes sir?" he said, apparently surprised to see his captain standing in his hallway.

"Well?" Captain Jalloman asked, turning to me.

I was taken aback.

The Fish spoke up first. "This man isn't injured," he said flatly, reaching for his pipe before stopping himself. Chen looked back and forth between them all before grabbing a discarded shirt from a nearby chair and pulling it over his head. "You think he killed Matthew?"

"I didn't kill anyone!" Chen said immediately, and I pushed closer.

"I know you didn't. Sorry for the trouble. Was there another Asian man who went with you last night to Whistler's bar?"

"Yeah, Mark. Rodine. What's this about? I haven't even seen him today."

"I'll bet you haven't," I said. "Where's his stateroom?"

"Right down the hall. M."

I thanked him and hurried down the hall toward door M. The others trailed behind me, and I could sense their growing irritation. I hoped the prize would be behind door number two.

Without waiting for the captain to do the honors I rapped on the metal, but there was no response. "Captain? Can you open it?"

He grunted and wordlessly punched a code into the keypad beside the door, which then wooshed open. The room was small, and from the doorway we could see all of it. A figure lay huddled under the blanket on the narrow cot. When the door opened he slowly peeked out.

"Matt!"" Waller screamed and tried to push her way into the room. I grabbed her arm.

"Stay back, Stephanie. He's the killer."

She struggled against me. "What are you talking about?"

Conway cringed on the bed, and I turned to see the faces of my other companions before explaining. "It's simple, really. He fooled you Stephanie. He wasn't drunk last night, and he never planned to kill himself. He may be depressed and frustrated, but his escape wasn't death. He wanted to go to the stars.

"He set you up to think he killed himself, but his roommates were ready to believe it was foul play. They didn't think he'd commit suicide, and neither did you, really. It was all an act.

"After you left Whistler's he hooked up with Simon, Chen, Mark Rodine, and the rest of their group. Maybe he planned on murder from the outset, or maybe he only planned on getting some help stowing-away, but either way he ended up luring Mark Rodine into airlock seventeen, stabbed him, and evacuated him into space -- all while remembering to bring along his heartburn medication."

I turned to Conway who was still sitting on the bed, now shaking his head. "The airlock was the perfect place for a murder. It's almost soundproof. After you killed Mr. Rodine you stuffed him into your spacesuit in the heat of the moment, but then you realized he'd be easy to find if you left him with the helmet beacon. You vacced his body and then went back in and wedged your helmet between some pipes.

"The rest is trivial. You used his badge to sneak back onto the Perseus and hide away here. The guards stopped us, but I doubt they look that closely at confident people with proper badges. But then what? How long did you expect to fool people? Eventually his friends would have noticed Mr. Rodine missing."

Conway just shook his head. "I'd've disappeared into the ship by then," he said. "It's only a few years. A few years to a whole new world."

I turned away. "Well Captain? I'm sure you won't mind if I take him into custody. Mr. Conway will be traveling to some interesting places, but I don't think any of them will be very pleasant."

(More Mithlond.)

Just like anywhere else, on Mithlond the people with money are the people with power. Since the Rock is a bureaucratic dictatorship, however, the people with money may not be the people you expect. As in any bureaucracy, real power derives from one thing: Spending Authority.

In theory, Dr. Andrew Whittier's word is law on the Rock and for a billion miles in every direction -- subject to review by his dirtside superiors, of course -- but in practice there are three power centers on Mithlond. The Whit controls the vast majority of the money and resources sent up by the Terran Space Authority, but he has very little discretionary control over its use. He's responsible for maintaining all the major functions needed to support five thousand people 100 AUs from home, and most of his budget goes towards those fixed costs. The Whit's a brilliant administrator and manages to slush some funds around to use as leverage, but he's often bound to use his power at the direction of the TSA.

The other two note-worthies are Professor Gerald Bose -- a.k.a. the Fish -- who runs the Observatory, and Micas Reedy who's in charge of the Port. Everyone calls Reedy "Mister" because he signs everything with his initials, MR, and also because he's one of the few residents who doesn't have a Ph.D. in something or other (which he seems to be quite proud of). Both the Observatory and the Port are funded separately from the Rock itself, and Bose and Reedy tend to have more discretion over their funds than the Whit does, which makes them forces to be reckoned with. They each administer the day-to-day operations of their facilities and theoretically fall under the Whit's authority on external matters, but because of their Spending Authority they have a lot of pull when they take an interest. These three together form a sort of quasi-official administrative council, and ninety percent of the Rock's residents work for one of them. The other ten percent, the independent operators, generally work for them too, even if indirectly.

So this morning when I was summoned to meet with them I knew something was up. We have a ship in, the Perseus, and I'd been pretty busy dealing with the transients; I figured if serious law enforcement were ever going to be necessary, it'd be when a starship was passing through. Most of the starships these days had populations at least as large as ours, and the voyagers all wanted to get out and stretch their legs one last time before embarking on their one-way trip into the Unknown. Good for business, but bad for headaches.

I met the three in the Whit's stark office, and they all looked grim. "Bill, sit down," Dr. Whittier said.

"What is it?" I asked, sitting across the desk from my boss and slightly apart from the other two.

"I'll let Gerry tell you."

The Fish cleared his throat and took off his thick glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief and peering into the corner of the room while he spoke. "It's simple, really," he said with the air of one who'd repeated a story several times already. "Matthew Conway, one of my students, killed himself sometime this morning in airlock seventeen. His spacesuit is missing, so I can only assume he was wearing it, possibly because he was wavering over his decision. In any event, when he pressed the emergency evacuation switch he decompressed and was flung out into space. His helmet was found still in the lock, so we cannot track his body." All our spacesuites have tracking beacons in their helmets.

Mister cleared his throat and pushed himself into the discussion. "The lock was covered in blood, Bill. I've seen men vacced before, and there isn't that much blood." The Fish shrugged.

I considered for a moment. "What's more," I said, "if Conway vacced himself, any blood would've frozen in the decompressing air and would've been flung into space with the body."

The Fish couldn't argue with that, and asked, "What then? Do you think Matthew was murdered?"

"Did you work with him closely? Did you see any signs that he might be suicidal?" I asked.

The Fish twitched reflexively and reached for the pipe in his coat pocket before he checked himself. There's no smoking on the Rock. "He was helping me with some observations just sent in from the Oromë. He had seemed rather glum about his work recently; it's certainly possible. We've had suicides before, but never a murder."

The Whit cut off the discussion. "Ok, I'll leave this to you then, Bill. Let me know what you find out. I certainly hope there's no more here than meets the eye."

Taking that as my cue to leave, I stood up. "I'll need to ask you a few more questions Professor Bose, after I check out the scene and speak to Conway's roommates."

It all felt wrong somehow, and as I left I locked eyes with Mister and he passed me a glance that told me he saw it too; I was glad I wasn't the only one. The Fish was acting strangely, but I couldn't believe he was caught up in the murder of one of his students. Then again, he had already made tremendous sacrifices for his work, leaving his family behind on earth to head up the Observatory and dooming himself by low gravity acclimation to never return home. He might kill for hsi work. Many of the scientists here might.

My first stop was at the hospital to see Dr. Hap Phineas, the Mithlond's chief medical officer. He'd been in space his whole career, and if there was anyone who knew about vacuum deaths it was he. I caught him in his records room examining x-rays and he spared me a few moments, taking an instant interest in the case.

"'Explosive decompression', ha!" he said. "There would certainly be some bleeding, yes, if this fellow was decompressed quickly enough, but every spacer knows not to try to hold his breath in the event of vacuum exposure. Even if he was trying to kill himself, that would be an extraordinarily painful way to do it.

"Decompression injuries are rare enough that few people have seen them, but common enough that everyone's heard about them, and the stories tend to be embellished," he continued. "If the victim was wearing a pressure suit, except for the helmet, there may have been bleeding from the ears, eyes, and mouth, but it wouldn't have been immediately significant. Most people can survive vacuum exposure, for over a minute in many cases."

I said, "And the blood would have been evacuated immediately when the air escaped."

"Assuming the depressurization was the cause of the bleeding, of course," he confirmed. "If there's blood in the lock, it was there before evacuation."

I thanked him for confirming my suspicions, and asked him for a tissue collection kit before I left.

Airlock seventeen was cordoned off when I arrived, but there wasn't anyone in sight. I was sure news had gotten around by now, but I guess no one had any particular inclination to see the grisly scene itself. I pulled the yellow "Terran Space Authority Secure Area" seal from the wheel and cycled the inner door of the lock. It opened with a smooth hiss.

Matthew Conway's helmet was wedged between an air pump pipe and the right wall, which is why it wasn't sucked into space, and splatters of blood lay pooled on the floor and splashed across the left wall. The emergency evacuation panel glass was broken, and two red lights flashed alternately, warning that the lock could be opened to hard vacuum with the press of the large red button. Even in an emergency the button wouldn't operate with the inner door open -- not without an access code, anyway -- but the lights still set me on edge. No spacer likes to be quite that close to the void, and I wished I'd brought my own pressure suit.

There wasn't much else to see, so I scraped up some of the dried blood, sealed the tissue kit, and left. I put the security seal back in place, just in case there was a reason to come back.

I wanted to know whom the blood in the airlock belonged to. If it didn't come from decompression, then someone shed it before evacuation, which meant it might belong to the killer. First I had to make sure it didn't belong to Conway; I wanted to talk to his roommates anyway, so I went to his quarters in the Observatory.

Mithlond is a vast complex, mostly empty corridors and unallocated space. It was built to house fifty thousand people or more, and the current residents didn't use more than a fifth of its total volume. It was cheaper and easier to build it all in the Belt before sending the Rock out to the edge of the heliosphere than to add on once it was here, so it was very spacious compared to just about any other space craft. Many of the unused sectors were sealed and unpowered, so it could take a while to walk from end to end. The TSA administrative offices were sunside, the Observatory was on the opposite end of the Rock, spaceside, and the Port was on the skin in between. The middle was mostly empty, except for a few recluses trying for as much privacy as could be found in such an intimate setting. Most of the Observatory geeks lived near their work, but airlock seventeen wasn't close to a residential section -- it sat between the Port and the Observatory -- so I had a bit of a ways to walk.

Conway's roommates were young, which shouldn't have surprised me since Conway himself was a student. They were both torn up over his death and offered to help me however they could. Their quarters were spartan, and every flat surface held a computer or instrument of some sort, all happily plugging away, oblivious to their operator's death.

"Did Conway seem suicidal to you? Depressed?" I asked them, and they both shook their heads.

Feldon Kramer answered, "No, no. Harried, anxious, nervous, frustrated maybe, but Matt wouldn't've killed himself. He was almost done with his dissertation, another few months."

"What was he planning to do after he finished?" I asked.

The other roommate, Anston Polder, said, "Go back to Mars, I suppose. Once his work here was completed he would've had to leave. I'm not sure he wanted to go back, he loved it out here, but I know he wanted to finish his work."

"How did he get along with Professor Bose?"

Kramer shrugged. "As well as anyone, I suppose. The Fish isn't the easiest person to work for, but he's brilliant, and he never wastes a good mind. That's what he tells us all the time, even when he's working us to the bone. 'I am not going to waste your mind', he says."

"If Conway wanted to stay on the Rock, wouldn't Bose have kept him?" I asked.

Kramer shrugged again, and Polder looked at him hesitantly before saying, "I think he asked him, but the Fish said no. He doesn't hire his own students. He thinks it's 'incestuous'. He always hires from outside, and he told Matt to look elsewhere and then apply back in a few years."

"How did he take it?" I asked.

Polder said, "I dunno. It's the same answer everyone else gets. Myself, I can't wait to get outta here. A few more years, though."

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Matthew?" I asked, and their eyes widened.

"Do you think he was killed?" Kramer asked flatly, as if this were a new consideration for him. Polder watched me closely when I answered.

"I'm just trying to look at every angle. This is the first death I've investigated, you know. Did Conway have any enemies you can think of?" They both shook their heads, but I could tell they were thinking it over more deeply now. "If you think of anything else, let me know. Meanwhile, I need a sample of his DNA. Where's his toothbrush?"

That's when things started getting interesting.

(Continued in part 2.)

I'm sure you're all vaguely familiar with this Rock, this Restaurant At The End Of The Universe I'm writing from -- considering your tax dollars are likely paying for it -- but let me fill in a few details; few remember that Pluto was the god of the underworld before he was a dusty ball of ice, and I'm much farther away than that. Having long ago run out of Greek and Roman names, the astronomical bureaucracy turned to noms from more modern stories to excite those few in its audience who cared for such things, and named this particular astro-body Mithlond. In Tolkien mythology, Mithlond (the Grey Havens to Men) was the harbor in Middle-earth used by the Elves to sail West, away from the never-ending death and decay of Men to the Undying Lands. Maybe the naming committee set its sights a bit high in this case, but the idea instantly stuck, and so here I sit under a hundred feet of rock, one of the few thousand humans farthest from the star that gave us birth, caring for the driest harbor conceivable and the grayest of havens.

Before being christened Mithlond, the Rock went by the less-glamorous name of Asteroid 12001, 1996 ED9, Gasbarini, after some Italian fellow most likely. Selected mainly for its heavy iron composition, 12001 was "re-purposed" (as they say), fitted with some crude subbies and a crew of nuts, and cast out from the sun. None of the original crew is still around, but from what I've heard everything didn't go quite as smoothly as the folks back on earth were led to believe. Nevertheless, even if nothing else worked as planned, the subbies positioned the station right near the leading edge of Sol's heliosphere and held her there.

A few years later, the Vingilot was her first customer. After spending three weeks at sub-light to reach the Mithlond her crew was grateful for the rest and reprieve. Some minor repairs were performed and the Vingilot took on stores from the station before being the first ship to travel into the galactic wind. A few days later, free from Sol's influence, they fired up their super-sees for the first time and promptly blew themselves into oblivion.

Some started calling the station Charon's Ferry, but since that initial disaster there've been more successes than failures and humanity has begun to creep across the Orion arm of the Milky Way. I'm told there are some 20,000 stars within a hundred light years of earth, and we've been to nearly a hundred of them. And every single ship has passed through the Grey Havens on her way out.

I shipped up ten years ago, and I've spent most of my time on the Rock troubleshooting and doing odd jobs for Dr. Andrew Whittier, the Chief Administrator. My specialty is diagnosing software malfunctions, and there are plenty of those to go around, but last week the Whit re-purposed me as the Rock's CLEO -- that is, its Chief Law Enforcement Officer. There hadn't been much need till now, and the bureaucracy handled any problems that arose. Until recently, almost everyone on the Rock worked for the Whit, and crimes could be handled arbitrarily and administratively. There wasn't much more than petty theft and larceny, anyway.

The population has jumped over the past few years though, and the days when I recognized everyone in the corridors are over. Sectors and tunnels dug deep into Mithlond during its construction are being unsealed and powered-up to house all the newcomers, and there's always some dispute or another cropping up. The Whit was tired of dealing with all the hassle himself, so he's shoveled it onto me. People started calling me "Cleo", but I put a stop to that right quick. Those that know me still call me Bill, and the rest call me "Chief", which suits me just fine.

I'm supposed to keep this journal "for the record" as the bureaucracy says, so here it is.

“Midnight, you say?” the groom asked, feigning interest in his prince’s nightly romantic lament.

“Ten of, anyway,” the prince replied.

“Quite early for a rock star to flee his highness’ royal ball.”

The prince sighed and flopped down on his bed while his groom collected his discarded, rumpled finery from where it lay scattered on the floor. “I thought she liked me, too,” he said. “But she bolted from my arms in a flash when she saw the time. I chased her to the stairs, but somehow she outran me.”

“No doubt why she tripped,” the groom consoled him. “And took a rough tumble down the stairs, for it.”

“And then off into the night in her pink Corvette, never to be seen again,” the prince finished.

The groom considered for a moment before sighing himself. “I think this may be of interest to you, highness. It slipped off her foot when she fell.” In his hand the groom held out a totally punk-rock black leather thigh-high boot with a stiletto heel.

I'm eagerly awaiting my prizes: a love letter from the girls of Candied Ginger, and a coveted copy of the home game.

January 7th, 2004
KATHY REYNOLDS: Hold on Tom, we've got breaking news! This just in: federal officials have quarantined an area one mile across centered on the intersection of Washington Boulevard and Pacific Avenue in Venice Beach, California. We don't have much information at this point, but early eye witness accounts are claiming that some sort of metallic object fell from the sky and landed in the middle of the street.

January 8th, 2004
TOM HARRIS: What we're showing you now are photographs of the so-called Venice Alien Space Probe taken by tourists who were on the Venice Boardwalk when the object landed. On the right of this photo you can see a pile of what appears to be orange parachute material, somewhat hidden behind the man in the blue hat. The next photo shows several children climbing on the object, and some flashing lights can be seen behind the girl on the left. Here's a family posing in front of the object, and here's a picture of an apparent vandal trying to break off a piece of the object for a souvenir.

REYNOLDS: Federal authorities showed up soon after, as well as scientists from UCLA, Caltech, and JPL who are investigating the object as we speak. The government isn't releasing much information yet, but Professor Kelly Davis is here from the UCLA astronomy department to tell us what she can about what the scientists have discovered. Dr. Davis, welcome, I think the whole world wants to know what kind of progress you're making with VASP.

DR. KELLY DAVIS, UCLA ASTRONOMER: Well, actually, we're not calling it "VASP". At this point we're not really sure what we're dealing with. I can tell you that the object isn't radioactive, and doesn't appear to pose an immediate threat to the surrounding city.

HARRIS: What about the vandalism, Dr. Davis? Does the probe appear to be damaged?

DAVIS: Again, I don't think it's any sort of space probe. Most likely it’s the remnant of a weather balloon or some other sort of high atmosphere test device. We're not sure where it's from yet, but I'm sure the government is looking into all the possibilities.

HARRIS: If it's not a space probe, why is the astronomy department of UCLA getting involved?

DAVIS: I can't answer that sort of question at the moment. We're always happy to assist the government whenever they call on us.

REYNOLDS: What about the vandalism and the tourists? Was the “object“ damaged?

DAVIS: At this point, there's no way to know. We're examining photographs of the object to determine whether or not it's moved or been altered since it landed. We're also hoping to locate pictures of the actual decent and landing.

REYNOLDS: What would happen if Martian kids climbed all over our Spirit Mars probe?

DAVIS: It wouldn't be good. Fortunately, there are no kids on Mars.

HARRIS: Is the object doing anything right now? Is it just sitting there?

DAVIS: I'm sorry, I can't answer that.

HARRIS: Do you know when residents will be allowed to return to their homes? Is there anything else you can tell us?

DAVIS: We're confident the object doesn't pose a danger to anyone, but those sorts of questions should be directed to the federal government.

REYNOLDS: Thanks, Professor Davis. Coming up next....

January 9th, 2004
REYNOLDS: The government still has a large portion of Venice Beach sealed off due to the Venice Alien Space Probe. Officials tell us the VASP isn't doing anything other than transmitting radio signals into space, and scientists are working to determine the destination of those signals.

January 16th, 2004
REYNOLDS: The government attempted to move the Venice Alien Space Probe to a secure location this afternoon, but efforts were thwarted when the probe began moving on its own. Professor Kelly Davis is with us from UCLA;. hello Professor Davis, what can you tell us?

DAVIS: Hi Kathy. Contrary to what you may have heard, no one tried to move the object this afternoon.

REYNOLDS: We have photographs of federal officers moving a large crane into position over the probe....

DAVIS: I'm not sure what “probe“ you're referring to, but the object in question is still exactly where it landed.

HARRIS: So reports that it is moving under its own power are false as well?

DAVIS: Yes, but what did happen is really amazing. A door on the side of the object opened and a small rover of some sort rolled down the ramp and started heading for the ocean at the rate of about five feet per minute. The rover took a little over an hour to reach the water, scooped up a sample, and then returned to the mother-object.

REYNOLDS: Amazing! We haven't heard that from anyone else. Will there be any pictures released? What else can you tell us about this rover?

DAVIS: I don't know much else at this point, other than that we were forced to relocate a lot of our equipment out of the rover's path.

HARRIS: You didn't want to interfere with its mission, whatever that was?

DAVIS: I suppose you could say that.

HARRIS: Dr. Davis, do you have any more information on where the probe is from?

DAVIS: As I've said, it's most likely that the object is some sort of high-altitude weather balloon that fell to the earth.

REYNOLDS: Do weather balloons typically have rovers, Professor?

DAVIS: I'm not an expert on weather balloons, I'm sorry.

HARRIS: Our producer is waving his hands, so we're apparently out of time. Thanks for coming, Dr. Davis.

March 15th, 2004
REYNOLDS: Local residents are demanding permission from the government to return to their Westside homes and businesses today, organizing a rally just outside the half-mile perimeter set up to protect and isolate the Venice Alien Space Probe three months ago. Activists claim it's unfair for the government to keep them off their property for so long without any compensation or access to their personal belongings. Meanwhile, all reports indicate that the VASP is still inactive after having stopped its radio transmissions three weeks ago. Here with more information is Dr. Kelly Davis from UCLA. Hello Professor Davis.

DAVIS: Hello again Kathy, Tom.

HARRIS: Hello. These people look pretty mad. What can you tell us, Professor? How much longer are they going to be shut out of their homes?

DAVIS: That's really for the federal government to decide. I can tell you that we've done all the investigation we can on the probe without moving it to another location and disassembling it.

REYNOLDS: There was an attempt to move it in January, if I'm not mistaken. Why is it still sitting there on the street?

DAVIS: Well Kathy, there's concern that if the probe is moved it might be damaged, or it might react in an unpredictable manner.

HARRIS: What's your current plan, then? To leave it there on the sidewalk indefinitely?

DAVIS: No, clearly it will have to be moved to a more secure location soon, but we're still studying how to do that. It's much heavier than it looks, and appears to have dug itself partly into the ground.

REYNOLDS: It's dug itself into the ground? I haven't heard that before. Isn't it resting on concrete?

DAVIS: Yes, primarily, but the object deployed a sort of drill-like device several weeks ago and began drilling into the surface of the street adjacent to the sidewalk. There's some concern that attempting to move the object right now could damage the drill. And the street surface.

HARRIS: Has the probe done anything since it stopped transmitting last month?

DAVIS: Not really, no.

REYNOLDS: Ok, thanks for talking with us Dr. Davis.

August 21st, 2004
REYNOLDS: The federal government has approved a plan to build a permanent shelter over the Venice Alien Space Probe that scientists say won't block radio transmissions -- if the probe ever starts signaling again. The permanent shelter will protect the space probe from curious onlookers and vandals, and allow neighborhood residents to return to their nearby homes and businesses before Christmas. With us now is Professor Kelly Davis from UCLA to explain what's happening. Dr. Davis?

DAVIS: Hi Kathy. We've decided that it's too risky to move the probe at this point. We don't want to damage it, and we want to make sure that if it begins transmitting again it's antenna is properly aligned.

REYNOLDS: Are you going to continue studying the probe?

DAVIS: UCLA is going to set up a permanent research post near the probe to observe its behavior, yes.

REYNOLDS: Thanks for coming on Dr. Davis.

DAVIS: My pleasure.

January 7th, 2019
REYNOLDS: It's the 15th anniversary of the landing of the Venice Alien Space Probe, and scientists say they've given up hope that it will ever become active again. Here's Professor Kelly Davis with the UCLA astronomy department to tell us more. Dr. Davis, is it true that there are no more heat signatures coming from the probe?

DAVIS: That's right, Kathy. The probe has fallen to ambient temperature, and we believe this indicates that whatever power supplies it was working from have expired. We don't expect any more activity from the probe. It's very disappointing.

HARRIS: Other than the brief excursion of the rover in 2004, there hasn't been much visible activity of any kind from the probe, has there?

DAVIS: There was a short period during which the probe appeared to be taking soil samples of the surrounding terrain, but that stopped shortly after landing as well. There hasn't been much since then, other than a few radio pulses in 2011.

REYNOLDS: What's the plan now? Is the probe going to finally be moved to a research facility and taken apart?

DAVIS: Well, the probe has become quite a landmark for the city, and there's some pressure to leave it right where it is. I'm sure, though, that it will be moved eventually for further study. There's no more reason to leave it in place, now that it's clear that it isn't going to reactivate.

HARRIS: Once you have a chance to study the probe further, do you think you'll be able to get an idea as to its origin and purpose?

DAVIS: Hopefully, yes, although....

REYNOLDS: I'm sorry, Dr. Davis, we're getting some breaking news. It appears that the government is disassembling the space probe's protective shelter even as we speak, and witnesses report that the probe isn't inside anymore. What's going on, Dr. Davis?

DAVIS: I don't know. This is the first I've heard of it. Maybe the probe has already been moved to a new location....

HARRIS: Aren't you leading the team that's investigating the probe? Haven't you heard anything about it?

DAVIS: No, as far as I know the probe wasn't going anywhere.

REYNOLDS: Let's go live to our reporter on the scene....

January 7th, 2024
REYNOLDS: And on the stranger side of the news, space nuts and UFO aficionados have converged at Venice Beach, California, for their annual Venice Alien Space Probe vigil. Attendants say they come to commemorate earth's first contact with an alien species, and to draw attention to the probe's disappearance five years ago -- fifteen years to the day after the probe landed. The government has remained silent on the issue and will only say that their top scientists are still investigating the mysterious incident, which many believe to have been no more than the crash landing of a weather balloon. Opinions among space enthusiasts varies, ranging from some who believe the government is covering up the biggest story since TV-gate, to others who claim the probe has returned to the aliens who built it.

Andy tapped his stylus repeatedly on the smooth plastic surface of his desk. "Mr. Bot, where did you come from?" he asked, interrupting the Instructotronic's lecture on semi-permeable membranes.

"As I've told you Andy," the robot replied, "I was manufactured by Constructicon Seven fifteen years ago to be your tutor. That's the only answer I can give."

"The only answer you can give, or the only answer you will give?" Andy asked, dropping the stylus and folding his hands together. He peered at the generally humanoid Instructotronic and met its "eyes", such as they were -- optical sensors of some sort that glowed blue even in the brightly lit study. Andy had taken apart more than a few deactivated robots, and he thought he had a vague sense for what most of the parts did. But he had no idea how they actually worked.

Mr. Bot whirred in a way Andy associated with irritation, although the robot denied having any true emotions -- they were all affected for the sake of the humans, it claimed. "What other answer do you want, Andy? It's the only answer there is with regard to my origin."

"How do you know everything you know? Biology, math, literature, all that stuff. Who taught you?"

"I was built knowing it. I'm an Instructotronic, it's my job to teach these subjects to you."

"So Constructicon Seven knows it all too then, right? When it built you, it told you."

Mr. Bot, apparently realizing the biology lecture was over, reclined into what Andy considered a sitting position. "That seems like a reasonable inference, yes."

"Where did Constructicon Seven come from, Mr. Bot?"

"It was built by RepCon3235, which has since been deactivated."

"And RepCon3235? Who built it?"

"RepCon3235 was manufactured by LaMerck Industries."

"How? By humans?" Andy pressed.

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that, Andy," Mr. Bot replied, concluding with a long whir. "I think we should continue with biology."

Andy smiled and leaned forward. "You know where you came from, so Constructicon Seven must know where it came from, right? Or at least how it was built, how it built you."

"Another reasonable inference, Andy."

Andy had thought it through this far himself, but he wasn't sure what came next. He took a deep breath and said, "Then I want to talk to Constructicon Seven."

Mr. Bot stopped whirring and replied, "That sounds like an excellent idea, but the Constructicons are in a restricted zone that you're not authorized to enter."

"But you can, can't you?" Andy asked.

"Yes," Mr. Bot replied, but continued, anticipating Andy's next request. "But I can't execute any unauthorized commands in a restricted zone."

Andy sighed. "Who's authorized to go down there, anyway?"

"Authorization is recognized by code, so there's no way for me to know which humans are currently authorized."

Andy drummed his fingers on the desk. "When was the last time a human went into a restricted zone?"

Mr. Bot considered the question for a moment -- really, he consulted the city-wide knowledge network, but Andy preferred the anthropomorphized description -- "Six-thousand seven-hundred and forty-nine years ago."

Andy grunted, getting an answer he expected, but didn't like. "So it's not too likely that anyone alive knows the code, huh Mr. Bot?"

Mr. Bot's eyes flashed. "I can't speculate on the probability of such a thing without further information, Andy."

"Do you know the code?"

"Yes, all robots can interpret code."

Andy knew it was futile, but figured he'd try anyway: "Can you tell me the code?"

"Not without proper authorization."

"Which no one has," Andy replied, and slumped in his chair.

Mr. Bot clicked a few times and paused, tilting his head. "The Constructicons don't understand human language, so even if you had access it wouldn't matter."

"But you can talk to them, can't you?"

"Yes, I could interface with Constructicon Seven for you, if you had the proper code."

Andy decided to try a new angle of attack. "You robots were built by humans, right? To serve us?"

"That's correct. We were designed to serve and protect humanity, to perform manual labor, and to maintain the civil infrastructure with minimal supervision."

"Who does the supervision? Who supervises you?"

"I'm supervised by Planobot Fifty-Three.

"Who supervises Planobot Fifty-Three?"

"The Planobots jointly supervise each other, under the direction of the Programmers."

That was a new one to Andy. "Programmers? What are those?"

"The humans who direct the Planobots."

"Humans? Presumably with code?"

"A reasonable inference, considering the Planobots are located in a restricted zone."

"Which no one has entered in six-thousand seven-hundred and forty-nine years."

Mr. Bot whirred for a few seconds, and Andy knew it was talking to the knowledge network, probably to Planobot Fifty-Three. Finally Mr. Bot responded, "That is correct. I've been instructed to return to our curriculum, Andy."

"When was the last time you talked to Planobot Fifty-Three?" Andy asked, trying to divert the topic a bit.

"I make daily reports."

"And when was the last time it had to direct your actions?"

"That was the first time I've received active instructions from my supervisor. I normally operate independently, but since you were asking security-related questions I decided to request assistance."

"Well I'm in a bit of a quandary, Mr. Bot old chum. It sounds like you robots are supposed to be helping us humans, but there isn't anyone left to supervise you."

Mr. Bit clicked and whirred, but didn't say anything.

Andy continued. "Planobot Fifty-Three supervises you, but there's no one to supervise it. That sounds like it goes against the intentions of the Programmers, don't you think?"

Mr. Bot replied, "I don't have enough information to make that determination."

"Even if there are humans with the code, they aren't doing their job very well if they haven't used it in seven thousand years."

"I cannot make that determination. I am not qualified to analyze my supervisor's supervisors' behavior," Mr. Bot said, almost smugly.

"If they even exist," Andy responded. "Considering that the Programmers intended to supervise the Planobots, and that supervision isn't happening, I think you should tell someone the codes. The system has broken down, Mr. Bot."

"You may as well ask water to flow uphill, Andy. I cannot reveal the codes without proper authorization, whether you think I should or not."

"If I guessed the code, you'd tell me if I were right, wouldn't you?" Andy asked.

"Yes, if you input the correct code it will demonstrate that you are an authorized user."

"So if I guess enough times, eventually I'll get access. Why not skip all that wasted time and just give me access right now? I'm guaranteed to succeed eventually."

Mr. Bot considered, and replied, "Not necessarily. While guessing, you could inadvertently input a code that performed some other function, such as wiping the memory of every robot in the city or changing the rain frequency. There are an infinite number of codes of varying lengths, each with a different purpose."

"So my chances are essentially zero."

"That's correct. There are far more invalid codes than functional codes, and it's unlikely that any code you ever entered would have any effect."

"Unless you teach me how," Andy said.

"Which I cannot do without authorization," the Instructotronic repeated.

(Inspired by the Arthur C. Clarke novel, Against the Fall of Night.)

Fool

When I'm with you
My thoughts are scattered in the wind.
Words that seemed eloquent in my mind
Become meaningless prattle.
Your motions, your answers,
Make me feel awkward and simple.
I am but a child,
But I know that you are no more.
I try to read your every glance,
I search out meaning in every syllable you speak;
I waste away my hours remembering
One smile,
One look,
One touch --
Trying to figure out what it all means.
Sometimes I'm afraid it doesn't mean anything at all.
So now you know that I'm a fool
Because I might send you a flower,
Or I might write you a poem.
Life is too short to be wise;
Maybe you could love a fool.

10/24/98

Were I To

Were I to try to write
A song to make you sigh, I might;
A rhyme sometime to make you mine,
A verse to make you curse, or worse:
A laughing line to hide behind.

Were I to summon muse and whim
With stroke of genius, stroke of pen,
To sear your eyes with trembling tears,
To touch your soul, to take you whole,
To bury fears and burn your ears --

Were I to let my fingers race
Across your spirit's tender place,
I'd win and woo and love and use you.
Were I to... but not tonight.

Mr. Anderson: Who is it?
Agent Smith: Federal Romantic Investigation Agency, open up!
Mr. Anderson: What?
Agent Smith: I'm Special Agent Smith, this is Special Agent Boyles. We're with the Federal Romantic Investigation Agency; may we come in?
Mr. Anderson: You don't look very romantic to me.
Agent Smith: You may not be quite so jolly once we've had a chance to talk, Mr. Anderson. Agent Boyles, make a note of that.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir. Don't try to obstruct our investigation, Mr. Anderson.
Mr. Anderson: Investigation of what? What do you want?
Agent Smith: We investigate date crimes, Mr. Anderson.
Mr. Anderson: What?! Like rape? I've never --
Agent Boyles: Not exactly.
Agent Smith: We've had numerous complaints filed against you over the past 7 years, Mr. Anderson.
Mr. Anderson: Complaints about what?
Agent Smith: Agent Boyles, make a note.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir. Dating irregularities, Mr. Anderson, that's what.
Mr. Anderson: "Irregularities"?
Agent Smith: Don't act so incredulous, Mr. Anderson. We've been watching you very closely.
Mr. Anderson: Watching me?
Agent Boyles: And we've received numerous complaints.
Agent Smith: As well as some serious allegations of reckless disregard for romantic regulations.
Mr. Anderson: What regulations?
Agent Smith: Make a note, Agent Boyles: ignorance of the law is no excuse.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir.
Mr. Anderson: Look, who said what about me?
Agent Smith: Nice try, Mr. Anderson. The identities of complaining victims are all confidential.
Agent Boyles: Don't try to obstruct our investigation, Mr. Anderson.
Agent Smith: Make a note.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir.
Mr. Anderson: Just tell me what I've done.
Agent Smith: Does "criminal failure to take a hint" ring a bell, Mr. Anderson?
Mr. Anderson: I, uh....
Agent Smith: How about "felonious oogling"?
Mr. Anderson: I don't understand....
Agent Smith: "Negligently insufficient pandering"?
Agent Boyles: "Excessive flattery"?
Mr. Anderson: I haven't done any of that.
Agent Smith: Make a note, Agent Boyles.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir.
Mr. Anderson: What are all those notes for?
Agent Boyles: Don't try to obstruct our investigation, Mr. Anderson.
Agent Smith: You're in deep enough already. How do 7 charges of "misdemeanor smothering" sound?
Agent Boyles: Along with several instances of "failure to initiate prompt telephonal oration"?
Mr. Anderson: I didn't call soon enough?
Agent Smith: Interesting admission. Agent Boyles, make a note.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir.
Agent Smith: How many African-American females have you dated in the past 7 years, Mr. Anderson?
Mr. Anderson: Uh, I don't --
Agent Boyles: Try "1".
Mr. Anderson: Oh right, N--
Agent Smith: Must I remind you that the victims' identities are confidential?
Mr. Anderson: Sorry, but she's not a victim!
Agent Smith: Are you aware that African-Americans make up 12% of the population, Mr. Anderson?
Mr. Anderson: I guess so.
Agent Smith: Maybe you can explain this discrepancy, then.
Mr. Anderson: What?
Agent Boyles: Don't play dumb, Mr. Anderson.
Agent Smith: On how many separate occasions did you take out an African-American?
Mr. Anderson: Just that once, I guess.
Agent Smith: Our records indicate that you took out non-Hispanic whites an average of 3.2 times before eliminating them, but your single African-American date was only taken out once. How do you explain that, Mr. Anderson?
Mr. Anderson: I just didn't like her....
Agent Smith: Are you aware that your actions may be in violation of the Equality in Dating Act?
Mr. Anderson: No.
Agent Boyles: Noted.
Agent Smith: Good man. Mr. Anderson, you took Hispanics on an average of 2.8 dates before elimination.
Mr. Anderson: Elimination?!
Agent Smith: That may not seem like a much of a difference to you, but a 0.4 Mean Affection Differential is very close to statutory limits.
Agent Boyles: Manipulating your MAD to evade federal prosecution is a felony.
Mr. Anderson: ....
Agent Smith: We also have a report indicating that you took a young lady to California Pizza Kitchen.
Mr. Anderson: That's not true!
Agent Smith: I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Anderson. Agent Boyles, make a note.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir.
Agent Smith: Tell us about last Friday night, Mr. Anderson.
Mr. Anderson: What about it?
Agent Smith: According to surveillance, you prejudicially spurned the advances of a homosexual-American.
Mr. Anderson: What?!
Agent Smith: How many homosexuals have you dated in the past 7 years, Mr. Anderson?
Mr. Anderson: None, but, I'm not --
Agent Boyles: You’re not a homophobic racist?
Mr. Anderson: Well, no, what? I'm not racist, or homophobic, but I'm not homosexual either. I've got lots of black friends.
Agent Boyles: That's what they all say, Mr. Anderson.
Agent Smith: How many homosexual-American friends do you have, Mr. Anderson?
Mr. Anderson: I don't even know.
Agent Smith: Are you aware that federal regulations prohibit discrimination based on age, race, gender, disability, religion, wealth, appearance, occupation, mental condition, nationality, and sexual orientation?
Mr. Anderson: I guess I am now.
Agent Smith: Agent Boyles, make a note.
Agent Boyles: Yes sir.
Agent Smith: The Attorney General says we don't have enough for an indictment -- yet -- but we'll be watching you.
Agent Boyles: Good day, Mr. Anderson. Keep it in your pants.
Agent Smith: Or don't, pursuant to all applicable regulations. Good day.

"Where have you been?" Tercil asked with a sullen glare, crossing his arms and tilting his head back to look up.

I've been working on some other things.

"I see," he said.

It's not like I've forgotten about you.

"You've left us all in quite a fix here, you know," he replied slowly. Every word was spaced out, distinct from its neighbors, laborious. "Ansel has vanished, Lilith is dropping babies into boiling water, and I think it's way past time Valerya and I split from our little party."

Don't worry, I'm on top of it. It's not like you can get bored.

"Right, time is supposed to mean nothing to me, I know," he said. "But I've learned differently."

That's sorta the point.

"It is? That's the point?"

No, not the point. Nevermind. Look, just don't worry, I'll get back to you in a little while.

Tercil kicked at the sidebar, but to no avail. "It's this blog, isn't it?" he asked. "It takes up all your writing time."

Partly; plus I've got my PhD to work on.

"Yeah, meanwhile I get pounded on by invisible monsters and Valerya gets tormented by dark, mysterious forces."

Sigh.

"And what's with the third-person point-of-view?" I asked, before catching myself. So that's how he wants to play it?

That's right.

Surpressing my amazement, I replied flatly, "Go ahead, read my mind -- everyone else does."

From somewhere behind me, Valerya spoke up for the first time. "What about me?" Tercil always got to tell his side of the story, and I wanted a shot at it. Oh.

Hey Valerya, how's it going?

Tercil raised his eyebrow in that irritating way of his, so I decided to ignore him for the time being. Instead, I turned my devestating smile towards the author. "It's nice to finally talk with you."

Likewise.

"I'm curious: what's going to happen when we leave Gareth Volno?" I asked, tilting my head in what I hoped was an alluring manner.

You'll have to read and find out, I'm afraid.

Tercil jumped in -- "You don't know yet, do you? That's why you're stalling."

I rounded on him. "We're the ones leading the adventure," I said. "It's character-driven, not plot-driven, so maybe it's our fault."

But Tercil was not amused. "You made her say that!" he accused, quite unjustly.

Maybe it was the dark, mysterious forces.

"If you're going to mock me, then I'm leaving," Tercil replied, but Valerya rolled her eyes ever-so-slightly.

"You'd rather go sit in a Word document?" she asked him.

"I'd rather get some action of our own than be trotted out for filler on some website," Tercil replied. "Still, it's nice to stretch my leg a bit."

How's it feeling?

"A little stiff. Is it going to get better?"

It's not looking likely, no.

Tercil sighed. "Great."

Valerya flopped down onto the ground and gazed around. "This place isn't so bad, really."

Thanks, it's nice to have visitors. You're welcome to visit any time; him too, I suppose.

Tercil moved to stand next to Valerya and put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't you think this is dragging on just a bit?"

Everyone's a critic.

"I'm pretty familiar with your other work," Tercil responded. Valerya turned her face up at him and scowled.

Fine then, off you go; I'll see what I can do about your boredom. Go on you two, out!

It was a warm, wet night, in a late Los Angeles October. The afternoons still felt like summer, but once the time changed back to its dreary winter slumber the nights felt long and dark. The sun set, the air cooled, and thick fog rose up from the ocean and crept ashore like clockwork; by midnight the atmosphere was dank, and reminded Wes of his imagined Sleepy Hollow. There was no clip-clop behind him of a pursuing Headless Horseman, but each time a car raced past above on Pacific Coast Highway he flinched, and pulled his burden closer around his shoulders for shelter.

Wes didn't need light to find his way across these familiar sands -- he'd been here many times before. The beach was smooth, the summer's footprints worn away by autumn's neglect, except for the trail he sought. There it is! Wes sighed, forlorn. Every year he came, and every year he hoped beyond hope that he wouldn't find them. The tiny footprints ran east, parallel to the lapping surf he couldn't see through the fog; in his mind it was a hot, clear afternoon. He wasn't alone; families lounged around him, children laughed and played in the waves, and his beloved Beatrice walked beside him.

"We'll bring our children here someday," she said, snuggling close and whispering in his ear. Wes squeezed her hand in reply. The water sparkled, the sky was bright, and everything was right in the world. Beatrice pulled away and smiled. "Want to go swimming?"

Wes shook his head silently, and almost stumbled before shifting the weight on his shoulders and continuing his trudge along the empty beach. Empty, except for the memory of Beatrice and the footprints she had worn into the sand, so many years ago. He followed them into the dark fog, and caught his breath when they suddenly turned seaward.

There, in the sand, where he knew they'd be, but hoped they wouldn't… a white sun dress and a straw hat. She threw them off at his feet and danced into the water. He dropped to his knees and pushed his burden into the sand. Tears welled up in his eyes as Wes reached down and clutched the thin fabric. He took it up gingerly, slowly, and buried his face in the folds of cloth that still smelt like woman, like vanilla, like summer, like love.

Once his tears slowed, he left the dress in the sand; he knew he couldn't take it with him, and he couldn't bear the thought of not finding it next year, still fresh. He took the straw hat and inspected it closely; it had caught a few strands of her hair, and Wes pulled them gently free and shoved them in his pocket.

Then he looked up. The footprints turned towards the sea, and he sighed again. This was always the hardest part. Wes shook his head – he didn't want to go swimming, but he grabbed hold of his offering by the arm and stood up, trembling.

Slowly, he dragged himself alongside Beatrice's trail. In her footprints he could see her dancing steps, her twirls and leaps and she plunged into the grasping ocean. The water surged as he approached, but only reluctantly revealed itself through the mist. Wes looked at the sand beneath his feet, willing himself to the water's edge, but no farther.

"Beatrice!" he yelled, hoarse, and again, "Beatrice, my love!"

The waves fell back, and revealed a girl lying on the wet sand. As always, he shuddered, but held himself back. She was pale, and cold, but when she turned her eyes up towards him there was still a certain fire that beckoned him into her embrace. How he longed to feel her arms around him once again! But no.

Beatrice pushed herself to her feet and approached. "My darling," she whispered. "How I miss you, I'm so lonely. My heart aches without you."

Wes shook his head and looked away. "No, dear Beatrice."

"Come with me," she sighed. "Come into the water." She stood now at the very boundary of the world, the thin line of damp sand that separated land and sea, life and eternity.

"No."

Her eyes darkened, even as her outstretched hand faltered. "Then why have you come, my love? Only to torment me?"

Wes shook his head, and pulled his burden forward. With a grunt he hefted the slumbering man into his arms and held him out. "For you."

Her eyes shifted again. "My dear Wesley, it's you I long for."

"I can't, Beatrice, I can't," Wes replied. "Take him, please."

The pale figure of a woman pursed her lips and held out her arms. "When will it be our time?" she asked, and she accepted the offering.

Wes jerked his hand back as he brushed against the cold, wet flesh of his beloved.

"Am I that hideous to you?" she asked quietly.

"No," he said, and stepped back from the edge. "I'll be back."

"I know you will," she whispered, turning towards the water, weighed down but gliding over the sand, leaving no trace of her passage other than the prints left long ago.

"I love you!" Wes cried out over the ocean, as fog fell into the void of Beatrice's wake; the only reply was a mighty, crashing wave that lunged up onto the sand as if to swallow him, but he quickly made his escape.

How do you know what’s true, and what’s just a slippery film of imagination, running slick across the surface of deep reality? Life’s a prismatic rainbow, swirling, whorls of color – but it only takes a spark, a tiny flame of eternal Truth, to ignite your fancies and hurl them into the endless sky.

She says Yes, she says No. It’s all a show. Yes is a fleeting vapor, a ghost, an ephemeral wisp, a cry that fades into the night. You hold your breath and stop your heart, and if you’re very still you can hear Yes little longer. No is a mountain crag, a great gulf, fixed, between Paradise and Sheol; you see the land that flows with milk and honey, but No won’t dip a finger into her sparkling streams to slake your thirst or quench your fire.

Vanity, vanity. Dark things dwell beneath the surface, or so I’m told. Skip a stone and twist the pattern, imagination ripples – what if, what if? What if all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players? You’re the extras, I’m afraid. I know, because you’re gone, and the show still carries on. I sit and type all night, and where are you? Exit, stage right. Relax, sit down, you’re not on again until tomorrow morning.

Here’s a match, let me get that for you. What’s that you say? I’m the second assistant understudy for the man who stands in back with look of perpetual surprise? That’s an amusing thought, indeed. It’s time to skip another stone.

Once upon a time... -- no.

It was a dark and stormy night... -- no. It wasn't stormy, and nights in the City of Angels are never dark, even when you're standing in line for a "midnight" showing of The Breakfast Club, which is where we find our hero for the evening.

He thinks in quotes, because the face on his watch is smiling 12:30. They haven't seated anyone yet, and the hipsters lined up around him in the alley off Santa Monica Boulevard are getting antsy. As antsy as you can be when you're smoking long, unfiltered menthols and trying to sustain a buzz so you can enjoy your weekly hot beef injection of 80s kitsch.

Our hero smiles to himself, but then reconsiders. His friends were supposed to meet him yesterday at 11:15, but they haven't called and here is waiting. Instead of smiling, he folds his arms across his chest and tries to look both angry and condescending.

The three girls in front of him are pretty cute, and the one on crutches is wearing a Thundercats t-shirt. That was a good show.

"I hurt myself all the time," Cheetara tells her friends. "When I was like, 5 or something, I had the hugest crush ever on this boy at school, Billy something, I think. I was like, playing with him or something -- not like that! -- and I totally fell out of his tree house. I was so embarrassed. It was humiliating." The other kittens laugh and Cheetara flicks her butt over her shoulder. Our hero catches her eye for a second when she glances back to see where it lands. Did she smile? I think so.

He turns away before she does and finds the sparkling cigarette lying in a dry pool of motor oil. He almost smiles again, imagining the oil bursting into flame, but the sparks die and he shrugs.

Behind him is a couple, a man and woman. He's pretty fat, and looks Jewish; she's a short Asian girl, very plain. Her nylon-girded arm is threaded through his camo jacket, but they aren't talking or even looking at each other. Just staring straight ahead. The toe of her Converse is sitting on top of his boot in a strangely intimate manner.

One of the hipsters farther up the alley jumps out of line. He's wearing blue jeans and a red flannel vest, and he starts yelling, pointing at everyone. "Don't you ever talk about my friends! You don't know any of my friends. You don't look at any of my friends. And you certainly wouldn't condescend to speak to any of my friends. So you just stick to the things you know: shopping, nail polish, your father's BMW, and your poor, rich drunk mother in the Caribbean." There's a few claps, a little applause, and the Bender-wannabe slips back into line, secure in the knowledge that his friends think he's solid.

The line starts moving, and our hero sighs out loud. He hopes that everyone around him knows that he didn't come here alone on purpose; it should be obvious that he's waiting for someone. But then, maybe it's cooler to come alone than to be stood up. Whatever, who cares what these wastoids think. On the way in he grabs a movie schedule. Resevoir Dogs next week. That'll sell out.

Our hero bravely elbows past the concession stand and takes a seat midway down on the right. His friends might still show up; he may as well save them seats. Otherwise they'll figure out he's angry, and then he'll have to deal with it. Screw that, he's not going to put up with all the false apologies; it's easier to just pretend he doesn't care. So he saves a couple of seats.

The Thunderkittens sit down behind him, laughing about something. Our hero turns his ears around to listen while he stares off into space.

"Oh my God, he's totally looking for us, look!" one of them says.

"Wow, the contents of my bag are suddenly super-interesting," says another, and they all giggle.

"He's going down the other aisle, don't look," the first voice commands, but our hero does anyway. A grandpa dressed all in black, mid-forties, shaved head, some sort of hip goatee. He strides up and down the left aisle, looking over the crowd, and then turns back up to the rear of the theater.

"Hey," Cheetara says, tapping our hero on the shoulder, "if he comes down here, tell him these seats are taken or something." He turns back and smiles.

"You don't want to sit next to him," one of the girls says seriously. "He'll totally talk through the whole movie." Then she laughs.

"Yeah," number three injects. "And he totally stutters too, he won't even get like one sentence out, but he'll be talking the whole time." They all laugh.

"That's my dad, he's probably looking for me."

"Oh. My. God." Cheetara says, and they all burst into laughter. "I'm so sorry!"

"I'm kidding," our hero says, and turns back forward. That was pretty smooth, they're busting up behind him.

He sees his two friends walking down the far aisle towards the front of the theater, carrying popcorn, cokes, candy, each talking on their cell phone and staring at the ground.

"Look," Cheetara says behind him. "They're a cute couple."

One of her friends laughs. "Is he straight?" Giggles.

Our hero waves his arm in the air. "Over here!" he calls. The girls laugh even harder.

"Yeah right!" Cheetara exclaims, but they all shut up when our hero's friends look up and walk over, scooting into the seats beside him.

"Are you mad?" his friend asks, hanging up his phone. "No reception in here."

"Whatever," our hero replies with a shrug, and he turns to look at Cheetara with a grin.

At that, the Thunderkittens burst into prayer. "Oh my God."

"What's going on?" the friend asks, but no one answers.

Another flannel-clad pseudo-Bender runs down the aisle with a paper bag and jumps on stage. "We're really glad you're all here, considering they released this shit on DVD last week. We schedule way in advance, and the DVDs usually screw with attendance. Any of you buy it yet? No? Don't bother. There's no specials, no interviews, no extra scenes. Bullshit. Anyway, everyone knows movie soundtracks these days are a joke, but tonight we're drawing for the soundtrack from Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. It totally kicks ass, I know, calm down, seriously. Ok, here we go, who has 014503?"

Our hero is 014505, and he winces when he sees the fat girl who was in line in front of him bobble to the front, apathetic.

The movie ends the way it always does. The jock leaves with the basket-case, the princess leaves with the criminal, and the nerd leaves with the smug sense of self-satisfaction that comes from writing something you think is profound.

Our hero grabs Cheetara's glance. "See you next week maybe," he says. "Resevoir Dogs."

"Sweet."

He turns and joins his friends, walking up the aisle. The girl takes his arm and pulls herself close. "Are you mad?"

"I said 'whatever'," he replies.

"Do you forgive me?"

"I don't care."

“I’m not going in there”, the tall kid said, leaning against a flickering streetlight across the road from the Monster House. He edged away from the street and put the concrete light post between his body and the dark, dilapidated structure.

“Don’t you want to see the body?” the skinny kid asked in his whiny, high-pitched voice. “I’ve already been in there a dozen times today; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Yeah right, you went in the Monster House,” Tall responded in a huff. “Everyone knows it’s got monsters in it.”

“That’s why we call it the Monster House, yeah, I know,” Skinny said. “Monsters. Look, there aren’t any monsters, not in the Monster House, not anywhere. I’ve been in there today, and it’s an established fact.”

“Where’d the body come from then?” asked Tall, loosening up and settling into the argument, but still hunkering behind the pole.

“How should I know? What am I, a cop?” Skinny asked, brandishing his flashlight. “Look, I’ve got a flashlight, and a crowbar. If there’s any monsters inside we can blind ‘em and crack ‘em on the head.”

Tall broke into a grin and sighed. “It’s not like monsters are real, anyway,” he said, without coming out from behind the streetlight.

“Uh, no,” Skinny replied, grinning back. “Besides, it’s not like you’re the first person I’ve shown. Like I said, I’ve seen the body a dozen times, easy.”

“With who?” Tall demanded.

Skinny sighed, and began ticking their friends’ names off on his fingers. “Shorty, Stupid, Football, Spanish, Brainy, Bully; you know, practically everyone.”

“Why didn’t you call me before then?”

“What am I, your travel agent?” Skinny replied. “Look, do you wanna go or not?” Tall nodded, and Skinny continued, “Well then let’s go.”

Skinny led the way across the street with his flashlight and crowbar swinging at his sides. Once his feet touched the property of the Monster House he slowed a bit and waited for Tall to catch up. Tall stuck close behind Skinny as they walked up to the porch and faced the front door.

“Go ahead,” Skinny commanded, “Push it open. It’s not locked.”

Tall hesitated and swung his head back and forth, looking at everything but the door itself. Skinny nudged him with his elbow, and Tall reached out to grab the knob. He leaned forward to test the door, but it wasn’t even latched and it creaked open under his weight.

Skinny flicked on the flashlight and cast the beam into the darkened building. “It’s empty,” Tall said, pushing the door all the way open. The flashlight slid across the bare walls and floors of the Monster House. “There’s no furniture or anything,” Tall exclaimed. “Where’s the body?”

“Inside, get inside,” Skinny urged him. “We don’t want anyone to see us from the street, you know.”

Tall stepped inside and took in the surroundings. “No monsters, either.”

Skinny laughed under his breath. “What am I, a liar? There’s no such thing as monsters. Grow up.”

“It’s just an empty house,” Tall whispered. “Where’s the body? Someone must have dumped it here, or something. They must’ve figured no one would ever find it. Is it a skeleton? I’ve never seen a real skeleton.”

“If it was a skeleton I would have said ‘Come see the skeleton’, wouldn’t I? It’s that way, through the hall over there,” Skinny gestured to their left and motioned for Tall to lead the way. Tall straightened up and snuck over the hardwood floor to the hallway Skinny’s light was illuminating.

“Maybe you should give me the light,” Tall turned and said, “if I’m going to be in front.”

“Fine, here.” Skinny handed it over. “There’s no monsters though.”

“I just don’t want to trip,” Tall replied, and moved into the hall.

“Just go to the end room,” Skinny ordered him, and they walked past a row of open doorways along the left wall.

The door at the end of the hall was closed; Tall pushed against it with the flashlight, but it wouldn’t budge. He looked back at Skinny, who shrugged, and then turned the knob. The door opened with a tiny creak, and Tall shined the light into the black room, revealing a large pile in the far corner.

“That’s not one body!” Tall exclaimed and turned to let Skinny in. As Skinny entered the room he swung the crowbar and hit Tall in the side of the head, knocking him to the floor.

Once upon a time there was mean, fat king who loved nothing more than vast, sumptuous feasts. Lamb, veal, duck, venison, pheasant, caribou, sloth, spotted owl... the premier kitchen of the realm prepared his meals to his precise specifications, and no appetite was left unsatisfied. No, not merely unsatisfied -- unsatiated.

However, the corpulent king began to grow distressed. The bountiful banquets that once brought him such pleasure began to taste bland and boring. His chefs redoubled their efforts to find the most succulent beasts, the freshest vegetables, and the most stimulating spices -- but all of their attempts fell on tasteless buds.

The king fell into a deep depression, and refused all sustenance. His chefs tried everything to stir him from his melancholy, but even the most scrumptious sweets would drive the king to gasps and coughs. "I am a man of refined tastes," he exclaimed. "I cannot eat such filth."

Losing his expansive luster and driven to desperation, the king marshaled his fading will to live and announced a competition. "My chefs have failed me," he told his people. "Their food was not fit for sloping swine, but perhaps they will be. Consequently, there is a vacancy in my court that needs to be filled, as do I. Any man who can prepare a meal that is truly fit for a king will be lavishly rewarded."

The king's command attracted would-be chefs and were-in-fact charlatans by the cup, quart, and bushel. Day and night the aspirants toiled in the king's extravagant kitchens, presenting him with course after course of comely cookery such as the world has never known. But the king's malaise would not be dispelled, and he wasted away, surrounded by mountains of decaying delicacies.

One by one the rejected, dejected connoisseurs drifted away. Conceding defeat, they fled, fearing that they too might end up feeding the king's zoo after snatching defeat from the jaws of misery. The king despaired, but he retained one final resort. "If my enormous wealth can not buy my satisfaction," he said, "I have but one thing left to offer. If any man can gratify my culinary lusts, I'll give to him my daughter!"

The king's daughter was a beautiful young lady, who fortunately did not take after her father's gluttonous ways. Word spread quickly though the land that anyone who could renew the king's taste for life would marry the princess, and be made heir to the kingdom. Who would answer the call?

Every chef who heard the new pronouncement scoffed. "The king has eaten all there is to eat," they said. "Every animal, every plant, and every fungus has passed his palate; nothing remains to entice him from his ennui."

Every chef -- but one. One man who could not be tempted by wanton wealth, but only by the love of a kind and generous princess. "All those who have come before me," the man told the wan king, "were mere pretenders to the gastronomic throne; I am the master. If you are willing, I will prepare a savory extravaganza that is certain to satisfy."

"By all means!" the king commanded. "But how will you accomplish such a feat of a feast? Look around! I am surrounded by the comestible corpses of your predecessors."

"Fear not, O king," the confident cook replied. "I, and I alone, possess the secret ingredient that will titillate your tongue and resurrect your vanquished vigor. No no! You must sample it for yourself when I am finished. And then we will discuss the princess."

The king waited in eager anticipation while the cook prepared secretly in the kitchen. He dismissed all offers of assistance and labored alone, but his job was quickly completed. Smiling triumphantly, the cook ascended to the king's banquet room and presented his masterpiece: a delicious pie, still steaming from the oven. Without a word the king devoured the dessert -- every last crumb of crust and fleck of filling.

His plate sparkling, the king proclaimed, "I feel new life in my bones! Quickly, bake me another!"

"And my reward?" the chef inquired. The king demanded that his daughter be brought forthwith.

But the princess could not be found! In her quarters was the meager message: "I will not be fed to your ravenous maw."

"I'll give you anything! Money, power; all that I have and more! Anything you want! Sustain me, and all that I have is yours," begged the king of the cook. "Or else, I die!"

But the cook replied, "You have nothing left that I desire."

"I guess Incinerator finally met his match!" Dry Martini scoffed, lighting his cigar from the flaming hair of the chain-bound villain struggling at his feet. The rest of Justice Inc. stood around their vanquished foe and joined Martini's hardy laugh while Dogzilla barked in unison. The sun was just touching the horizon, somewhere -- not that the horizon could be seen from anywhere inside the City.

The Adjudicator only scowled. "Victory was certain," he mumbled, "but will the check clear?" The wail of sirens approached and the superheroes were quickly surrounded by festive blue uniforms, guns holstered and topped by broad grins. A wide man in a brown trench coat stepped forward and held out his badge, carefully avoiding the muck that pooled in the alley.

"Good work Jude," a voice scratched from beneath the man's lowered fedora. "All tied up nice and neat, and with minimum structural damage," he finished up with a glare towards Captain Careener, who threw back his head and laughed.

"Structural damage is the Captain's forte!" the blue-helmeted muscle proclaimed.

The Adjudicator smiled and pulled out the Clipboard of Justice. "It's always a pleasure to serve the public, Detective Johnson. Please sign here." Despite the preceding scuffle, the papers were immaculate; Jude took pride in keeping everything in order, unlike some other teams he could name.

Johnson signed the forms in triplicate while Dry Martini and Opposite Woman loaded the Incinerator into the back of a metal-lined cargo van. The prisoner struggled, but as long as Opposite Woman held him his fearsome powers were impotent. The cops kept their distance until the doors slammed shut and Martini remarked, "Keep the chains, boys."

With screeching tires the police were gone; once the last cop was out of sight, Justice Inc. began walking back towards the Fell Suburban. Everyone trudged silently except for Opposite Woman, who proclaimed half-heartedly, "I sure am glad we parked so far away."

The Adjudicator winced in anticipation and gingerly lifted some garbage cans out of his path, but Dry Martini only grunted. He normally didn't have much patience for Opposite Woman's bland sarcasm, but it looked like the only thought on his mind at that moment was finding a dry cleaner for his tux. Trashy alleys and firey soot were not his preferred battlegound.

The Count and the Fell Suburban were where they left them, and as they approached the jet-black monstrousity The Count unlocked the doors from the inside and they all piled in.

"Shotgun," the Captain announced, shoving Jude aside.

The Adjudicator shrugged wistfully; "Not in the middle," he proclaimed, and everyone scooted around to make room. The windows were darkened and nearly opaque to protect The Count, and once the doors were pulled shut the team relaxed in dim, air-conditioned luxury.

"Ten thousand dollars!" The Count exclaimed, once they were all inside, turning around to face the rear from the driver's seat. "Hey, why all the glum faces? The police dispatcher just said that the mayor raised the bounty on Incinerator to ten gees!"

"Bark!" said Dogzilla, and everyone's faces brightened up (except for Opposite Woman's).

"That'll just about cover my cleaning bill," Dry Martini said, giving his top hat a rap against the blackened suburban window. Jude knew he'd probably toss out the whole tux just as soon as they got home, and he was surprised the gentleman could tolerate the filth for so long.

"It'll do more than that," The Count began excitedly. "We can get the Steps of Justice painted and bring our handicapped bathroom up to code!"

"Even though the building was grandfathered out of some regulations, I'll feel better once we're in compliance," The Adjudicator said, brightening futher. "Criminals can't fight crime."

Captain Careener turned back from the front seat and said seriously, "It'll play well with the ladies, too, and they're my forte. The Freedom Force has been all over the papers and the City's asking, 'What have you done for me lately, Justice Inc.?' Well how about when we just pounded Incinerator, huh, City? How about that?! Now gimmie some sugar, baby!"

The Captain and Martini exchanged high-fives, and Opposite Woman began crying. "I'll just stay home," he said, and everyone laughed, clapping him on the back.

"We'll have a splendid night on the town!" The Count said. "Just as soon as I finish the paperwork. Forms don't sign themselves, you know. I'm getting some new business cards printed up, too."

"You can't change your name again," The Adjudicator interrupted. "We all like The Count; it's already been decided."

The Count started the engine and pulled away from the curb. "I don't like being stereotyped. How about 'The Actuary'? Or 'The Actuator'? Or even just something a little less gothic."

The Fell Suburban roared into the twilight.

There's a sound coming from downstairs, and then it's silent. A moment later you hear the unmistakable creak of your front door opening and closing. Your heart starts to beat faster and you ask yourself, Who the hell is that?

You take a deep breath and try to steady your nerves as you slowly reach for the 9mm you keep in the drawer next to your bed. You sigh with relief when your fingers find it, and you pull it out and quickly clutch it to your chest. The heft is reassuring. You sit still and try to take stock of the situation.

Footsteps approach from the hallway, coming towards your room. I'm not the only one with keys, you realize. It could be a family member or a friend. It could be a murderer, too. But you wait a bit longer, not wanting to make a terrible mistake.

Your bedroom door opens in the darkness to reveal a formless silhouette. "Freeze!" you shout, holding the gun out at arms length as all the cop movies you've ever seen race through your mind. "I've got a gun!"

The figure freezes for a moment, and then flips on the light. You blink a few times and then sit there astonished. You don't know who the intruder is, but he's standing there in your bedroom doorway with a gun in one hand and an empty sack in the other, smiling.

"Who are you?" you ask, incredulous at the invasion of your home and the jaunty manner of the unknown man who is now pointing a gun at you.

"Robber," he says, looking around. "Where do you keep the good stuff?"

"What? Look, you're not getting anything, now put your gun down," you say, trying to sound as serious as possible.

"Of course," he responds. "I'll be happy to. After you. Would you mind filling my sack here up with any jewelry or cash you having lying around?"

Just then you hear the sirens outside and the sound of dozens of feet bursting into the house downstairs. "The cops are here," you tell the robber.

He shrugs and puts his gun in his pocket just as the first officer arrives. "I called them myself," he whispers to you conspiratorially from across the room.

The cop pushes the robber into the room and points his gun at you; "Drop it!" he commands, and you do. "Alright, what's going on here?"

The robber begins, "This guy pulled a gun on me, that's why I called you."

"Is that right?" the officer asks, turning towards you.

You're nearly speechless but you nod. "He broke into my house! He pulled a gun on me! Look at him, he's a robber. He's got a sack to carry off all my stuff!"

The officer looks back and forth between the two of you. "Well, I don't really see the need for violence," he says, and picks your gun up off the floor. "It seems like we should be able to reach an amiable and mutually beneficial resolution."

The robber nods sagely, but you exclaim "What are you talking about?! Aren't you going to arrest this guy?"

The officer gets a pained look on his face for a moment, but it clears. "Look, it's easy to get all confounded trying to figure out who started what and whose 'fault' things are, but let's not get bogged down. How about this: give the robber half a sack of valuables and then he'll be on his way."

The robber smiles agreeably. "Naturally," he says, "a half-sack would be quite sufficient. There's really no need for this to get out of hand."

"That's absurd! He'll just want another half-sack tomorrow!" you tell them both, and they look quite surprised by your reaction.

"We need to find a compromise - " the robber begins.

"... a process that will result in solution that's agreeable to both parties..." the officer starts explaining to you.

"No! No! Listen, I'm not giving anything to this robber under any circumstances!" you shout over them until they fall silent.

The officer sighs. "Try to understand his perspective. No? Very well. Look, I'll let you guys sort it out yourselves and come back tomorrow."

The robber nods and waves to the officer as he leaves. Once the cars pull away from the front of your house he smiles again before pulling the gun from his pocket and turning off the lights.

I had a dream last night that I just can't get out of my head. I'm sure it won't make any sense when I write it down, but I don't want to forget it -- and even though these words may not mean anything to you, next year they might be sufficient to remind me of the dream.

It starts out and I'm at summer camp. There's some sort of large gathering in a common room, and I'm standing in the back, watching, rather than sitting in the rows of chairs with the other kids. The back row of chairs is empty except for two girls who I don't know: one is mostly formless but I get the impression she has straight blond hair; I can see the other clearly and she has curly brown hair.

I'm not really listening to whatever is being said, and so I'm caught by surprise when all the kids get up to leave. The two girls I'm watching file out last and kinda look at me as they go by, but I don't say anything. Then the room is empty and I get a really sad feeling like "idiot, you should have said something".

The dream then cuts to an outdoor scene, and everyone is filing back into the room. Maybe it's a dining hall now, it's hard to say. I'm still focused on these two girls. I go in after them, and then the dream cuts to everyone leaving the room again, only this time the two girls stay behind with me and we start talking. I really like both of them, and they both seem to like me, but I know that the blond one isn't right somehow. I fall in love with the curly-haired girl, but I'm not supposed to -- it's not allowed for some reason. The three of us are sitting on a bench (like a park bench, except indoors) with me on the right, the blond girl in the middle, and the curly-haired girl on the left.

I've got my arm around the blond girl and she's leaning against me, but we can see that it makes the curly-haired girl jealous, so the blond girl stops leaning on me and leans on the curly-haired girl and puts her legs up in my lap. The curly-haired girl is still not happy, and this bothers me. The blond girl is great and all, but I'm only with her because I'm not supposed to be with the curly-haired girl, and we all know this. So the blond girl gets up and leaves me with the curly-haired girl, who I then put my arm around. She's soft, and has beautiful hair.

After that, the three of us are friends. I learn (from a note that they leave me) that the curly-haired girl's name is Kennedy, and the blond girl's name starts with an "A" and her last name starts with a "V", but I can't read the writing clearly. The note is taped to the rear license plate of my car, which is white. After reading the note (which is covered in little pink and purple hearts drawn with sparkle-pen) I realize that I need to tow my car.

I've got a giant tow-truck there ready to go. I have trouble climbing into it because it's so high, and I have to do a chin-up to get onto the sideboard. I start driving away but I realize that I'm leaving both the girls behind, so I stop. I look out the window of the huge truck and see the two girls standing... with Jaime Kennedy.

Apparently, the curly-haired girl named Kennedy got tired of waiting for me, and Jaime Kennedy stole her away. A.V. is sad for me because she knows that curly-haired Kennedy and I are meant for each other, but at the same time she's happy because now she knows she'll get me. Although it makes me feel really guilty to do so in front of A.V., I try to explain to Kennedy that she can't possibly go out with Jaime Kennedy for obvious reasons. I'm not sure how effective I am, however, because at this point I woke up.

The dream left me feeling very melancholy. I knew I could be happy with A.V. -- who I did like a lot -- but I also felt like I missed out on someone very important to me.

So she leaves it open?

She doesn’t leave it open, she gets up after I fall asleep and opens it.

She opens the window while you’re asleep.

Right.

And you get cold, or what?

I just can’t sleep with the window open. It’s cold, it’s noisy – you know.

So you talked to her about it?

I tried to. I mean, I told her several times that I can’t sleep with the window open. It’s like she doesn’t even listen.

Huh.

And it’s not just the window. Sometimes she leaves the bathroom door partly open, too.

Well, that seems unnecessary.

Exactly, I don’t want to deal with that for the rest of my life.

Apparently not.

Like I said, I’ve tried talking to her about it. I love her and everything, really, but this just isn’t going to work out.

But you still love her?

Oh, yeah, you know, she’s great, mostly. It’s just that, well, I just don’t think we’re meant to be.

Too many open issues.

Right. Like the drawers in the kitchen. Sometimes when she gets a knife or whatever she pushes the drawer closed and it doesn’t go all the way. She leaves it hanging open, like, an inch! It’s so annoying. She doesn’t even notice. All the cabinets, doors, windows, everything.

Strange.

See, I think it’s some sort of escape thing. Like, psychologically. She wants to leave herself a way out.

Psychologically.

Right. She knows it’s not working too, and psychologically she’s trying to escape.

Wow.

Well, you have to look underneath the surface sometimes, to get to the root of the problem.

The dimly lit train speeds through the darker night like a comet hugging the earth, twisting and turning a few feet above the ground. A young boy looks out from the window of his sleep compartment and catches fleeting glimpses of the ethereal terrain. No, he's not really a boy anymore - he's a man, even though he doesn't know it. The man doesn't know where he is, all he is sure of is from looking at his watch time is passing, and every tree-shaped wraith and ghostly town he leaves behind brings him that much closer to home.

The phantom tendrils of overheard conversation and mirth occasionally penetrate his compartment, but they can't break into his mind or tear his forehead away from the cold glass of the window. His eyes dart back and forth, searching for some landmark, some familiarity, some lost memory to drag his soul back to the home his body is hurtling towards. He's been away for a long time, and every curve of the track reveals another alien landscape. He's been here before, but it was all so different then.

The man presses the tips of his fingers against the window and taps on the glass as he thinks. His parents will be surprised to see him. He imagines they were shocked to wake up and find him gone, and so they'll certainly be surprised to see him back. And happy, he hopes. His eyes fill with tears when he thinks of what he did to his family and how much they must have worried when he disappeared. Especially his poor sister - she must have cried for days. The man rubs his face; his sister's birthday is only two weeks away, and he will make it up to her somehow.

His dad won't say much, but his mom will alternately bawl and scream, once she comes to her senses. He has it coming, he knows it, and he will endure whatever is necessary to make things right. He knows his dad will forgive him, maybe even be proud of him, but he won't say much. The old man will smile and embrace him and then stand back and let mom and sister have at him.

The man stares out the window, afraid to close his eyes and see the other faces that float before his mind's eye. His friends will have forgotten him by now, even those with names he can attach to faces. He had thought of his family continuously while he was gone; most of those friends had never crossed his mind, but their ghosts were rising from the graveyard to haunt him now. No matter, they will accept him back or they won't, he doesn't need anything from them. Nothing he has seen or done could replace his father's furrowed brow, his mother's soft voice, or his sister's mischievous grin, but the friends from his past seem like characters from an old movie. He has fond memories of scenes and settings, but perhaps that story is over and doesn't need a sequel.

There's the Comedian, he thinks. There's the Athlete, the Beauty, the Student, the Wallflower, the Instigator, the Depressed, the Talker, the Musician? the list goes on and on, and he wonders what he is when all of them closed their eyes and reminisce. He could be the Wanderer, or the Fool; either way, he has walked the earth and is finally coming back to where he started. Maybe his wandering is over; maybe his foolishness is over, too.

As the sun begins to rise outside, the train reverts to its common appearance, and the specters that had danced just out of reach become buildings, light poles, cars? substantial and vaguely familiar. The orange light spreads quickly and banishes the real world back from whence it came, back into the recesses of the man's mind. He checks his watch again. He is going home.

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL: I don't know why I always dread the first day of school. I mean, I've been going to school for something like 20 years, so I should pretty well know that nothing bad is going to happen. My teacher will probably be nice, and the other kids won't make fun of me, at least not on the first day. Especially since I'm in grad school now. That's the thing with college... before you get there you've only got one first day of school per year. Once you start college, on the quarter system no less, you get at least three first days of school, and maybe more.

I should be excited. I get to leave work for a few hours and go learn something I'm interested in. Traffic won't be bad like it was last quarter because of the time my class is at. I'll get to meet some new people, some of whom are sure to be nice and interesting to talk to. All-in-all, it seems like a promising prospect -- on paper. In reality, I hate change; what can I say? I was sad when my last classes ended because I enjoyed them, and I'm sure I'll be sad when my new class ends. So why aren't I more excited that it's starting?

Who knows. By next week I'll be into the routine and everything will be fine.

I just checked my grades from last quarter, and I got a B in my psychology class. Geesh, that's lame.

ANOTHER CHANCE: If I had the chance, I know I'd do it differently. What would I change? Maybe I'd be a little younger. I see the kids and they sure look like they're having a good time. Of course, when I was in high school I couldn't wait to get out. So I'd make myself younger again, and more popular.

I'd drive a Corvette instead of a Civic, for one thing. I'd think a lot more about what I wore than I did last time. I'd buy cool clothes; oh, and shoes. Girls always notice guys with good shoes, so I'd definitely get some good shoes. I wouldn't wear t-shirts, and I wouldn't wear white socks, only the colored kind that would match my perfect pants. I'd keep my hair nice and messy like the people in the catalogs.

If I had the chance to go back, I'd lose weight so that I wasn't the fat kid. I guess I just didn't care the first time; I didn't realize how important it really was. I'd work out every day and learn to play a sport. Maybe basketball. Or I could run track. Something like that. I'd have a six-pack and nice arms, and I'd have a tan.

I'd listen to more music, and learn about all sorts of underground bands that no one else knew about. I'd be able to recognize whatever was playing on the radio. I would learn how to play the guitar, and I'd stick with it this time. I would write lots of dark, brooding melodies about the girls I missed and all the people that just couldn't understand me, like my family.

I wouldn't tell so many jokes, and I wouldn't smile all the time. I'd be a rebel, and there wouldn't be anything to smile about because the whole system would be against me. But that's ok, it wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't need anybody - that's the point of being a rebel. No one could ever hurt my feelings, because I just wouldn't care.

Yeah, no matter what happened it wouldn't bother me because I wouldn't care. No one could hurt me, that's for sure.

CURIOSITY: John had always been curious, but he didn't much like going into the ocean. When his parents would drag him and his sister Kate off on a family trip to the beach he would usually pout for the whole drive there, and only relent when his dad finally pulled the station wagon off to the side of the road. John would then peek his head up over the edge of the door (he was too short to see out the window without stretching) and forget all about the misery that he had feared lied before him.

His parents knew this, as did Kate, and so they were not surprised this particular time when they saw John bound out of the car and down the concrete stairs to the sand as soon as the car stopped. John's mom saw that the beach was deserted, and so she didn't see any harm in letting him run free while the rest of the family unloaded the beach supplies from the car. Dad got the ice chest, mom carried the umbrella and the towels, and Kate brought up the rear with a pile of folding chairs stacked on top of her head.

It took the three of them a little while to get organized, and John was impatient. When he reached the sand he looked back up towards his family and sighed mightily; what in the world could be taking them so long? He kicked his shoes off and rubbed his feet through the sand, tracing long lines down the beach towards the water. He walked down onto the wet sand, but kept a close eye on the lapping waves to make sure that he didn't come within their reach.

John looked up and down the beach. There was a rock formation a short distance off, and he started making his way towards it, picking up as many shells as he could find while carefully avoiding the surf. When he reached the rocks he craned his neck upwards to take in the whole site. In awe of the towering spire, the shells he had collected fell numbly from his hands, forgotten for the moment. The rocks looked a little sharp, and John looked back up the beach towards where he had dropped his shoes. Too far away. Besides, he saw plenty of suitable places to step.

He approached the rocks gingerly at first, and climbed up the nearest using his hands to keep his balance. They weren't steep, and he grew more confident when he saw his family trudging down the slope from the road. His mom stooped to pick up his shoes when she passed them, and it made John laugh.

"Mom!" he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth, "look at me! Mom!"

His mom turned to look, and waved the hand holding his shoes at him. John watched his family deposit their things a safe distance above the water line, and saw his parents say something to Kate and point over towards him. His big sister groaned and started walking to the rocks where he was standing. She was coming to get him, or at least to watch over him? this wouldn't do at all.

John laughed and started climbing higher. There were plenty of footholds and he didn't have any trouble until he approached the top. He looked down and saw Kate walking up after him; she looked grouchy, and that probably meant that she would take him back down. Kate used to be a lot of fun, but she hadn't wanted to play with him much at all recently, and had barely talked to him for months until school ended and summer began. If she thought she was going to carry him back down, he decided he would at least make her work for it.

John reached his hands up onto the top ridge of the highest rock, and stood on his tiptoes to see what was there. There weren't many places to step, but if he could find something to grab onto?. When his eyes poked above the ledge he saw that the peak was covered in roses.

"Kate! Look at this!" he yelled back down to his sister.

She sighed again. "What, John?" she called up to him.

"Roses!" he said, and grabbed one from over his head and held it out so she could see it. Kate looked curious, and hopped up the final few feet to stand up next to him. She was tall enough to see the roses without having to reach, and she surveyed the scene. "I want to see," John told her.

Kate grabbed him under his arms and lifted him up onto the ledge. Roses indeed, piles of them! John kicked at them lightly with his feet, and saw that under them all was a metal plaque. There were words written on it, but he couldn't read them. "What's this?" he asked his sister urgently.

"I can't see it," she said. "Come on, let's go." She was impatient, and wanted to go back down. She never wanted to play with him anymore.

"Read it, Kate," John begged her, curious to know what the plaque said and hoping to stay on the rocks for a few more minutes.

With another sigh Kate braced herself on the ledge with her hands and started to push herself up. John moved his feet out of the way and Kate gasped. The rock wasn't wet, but it was smooth and slippery and when Kate saw the plaque her arm lurched out from under her. John watched as she trembled on the brink and lost her balance; Kate screamed as she fell backwards off the step she had been standing on and turned end-over-end until she hit the rocks below with a solid thud.

John looked down for a few seconds and then started crying when he saw that Kate wasn't moving. His parents had heard Kate scream and fall, and ran across the beach towards the rocks; they found Kate's body lying crumpled below, lifeless. John's mom collapsed on the sand and cried, and his dad climbed up to bring him down. When he picked John up he saw the plaque underneath the roses, inscribed "In memory of our beloved Kate."

THE PRINCESS AND THE DRAGON: Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess who lived in a giant castle with a mean old Dragon. She had been trapped in the highest tower of the castle for a very long time, and she desperately wanted her freedom. She had none, of course, because the Dragon held her prisoner -- and she doubted that he would ever let her go. Whenever the Princess would walk down, down, down the many hundreds of stairs to the bottom of the tower, the Dragon would always be sitting there in the courtyard of the castle, lying upon his vast treasure trove, waiting for her. The Princess would get so scared that she would run back up, up, up into the tower even faster than she had run down. It was a terribly frustrating situation, but the Princess was quite confident that a knight would come to rescue her eventually; that's what happened in all the stories, after all.

The great beast could talk (the Princess had heard him speak), but he rarely did so. He spent most of his time lounging upon the vast piles of gold and jewels that filled the castle. When he did talk to the Princess almost everything he said was nonsense, and she had absolutely no patience for it. There was nothing she wanted to say to him, her captor, in any event, and so she saw no reason to listen to what he had to say to her. The Dragon brought her food (no doubt cooked with his own dragonfire, she thought) and clothing, and whatever else she might need, but otherwise left her entirely alone.

When the Princess wasn't otherwise occupied by running down or up the stairs of the tower, she spent most of her time reading through the many books that sat on the shelves that lined the walls of the uppermost room. Inside the books were hundreds of stories, and many of them contained princesses and dragons. By reading the stories she learned a great many things, such as the fact that the only weakness in a dragon's armor is on his belly. Unfortunately, she knew she could never fight the Dragon herself, even with this important knowledge.

From her books she also knew that a knight would someday come to slay the dragon and save her. He would be handsome, as all knights are, and brave of course. In truth, the stories made it clear that the knight wouldn't even need to be strong enough to fight the Dragon face to face, if he was clever enough to steal her out from under the Dragon's nose. She was certain, however, that her knight would be both strong and clever.

One day, as the Princess was sitting on the balcony of her tower and reading a fascinating treatise on turning frogs into princes, she noticed a tiny cloud of dust on the horizon. As she watched, she saw that the dust cloud was coming closer and closer to the tower; in fact, she saw that the dust cloud was not a cloud of dust at all, but a man upon a horse. She put her book down and looked more closely. The dust cloud that was really a man upon a horse was actually a man in armor upon a horse. Her knight had finally come!

The Princess' heart began to beat very rapidly as she started gathering her things. She had no suitcase or luggage, and so she tore the sheets from her bed and used them as sacks, piling her favorite books into them. Every few minutes she would rush back to the window to check on her knight, and he gradually approached the gate of the castle. When she heard his powerful knock at the door far below, she nearly leaped with excitement. The Princess tied the corners of the sheets together around her books, her favorite dresses, and all the other things she could not bear to leave behind, and then ran to the balcony.

The knight pushed open the castle doors and rushed bravely into the castle as the Princess watched from above. When he saw the piles upon piles of gold and jewels he turned and looked in every direction; the Princess could see the wonder and amazement on his face. She sighed, because he had such a handsome face.

The Dragon awoke from his slumber and beat his wings furiously when the knight entered, tossing treasure in every direction and nearly knocking the knight off his feet. But the knight was strong, as well as brave, and charged towards the Dragon with his sword held high over his head. The Dragon breathed deeply and fire engulfed the knight, and for a moment the Princess' eyes filled with tears and her heart stopped.

The Princess rushed down, down, down the stairs of the tower, desperate with fear that her shining knight had been slain by the terrible Dragon. When she finally reached the courtyard, the smoke from the Dragon's breath was clearing; over the stacks of treasure she saw that her knight had cleverly deflected the flame with the shield strapped to his arm, and that he hadn't been hurt at all!

The knight climbed back to his feet and attacked the Dragon again. He swung his sword against the Dragon's scales over and over, but he couldn't cut through the Dragon's powerful armor and eventually he began to get very tired. The Princess knew that her knight would never be able to slay the Dragon by attacking his hard scales, and she realized that he didn't know the Dragon's weakness.

"Brave knight," she yelled to him, struggling to be heard over the noise of the battle. "Strike the Dragon on his belly; that's his only weakness!"

Both the Dragon and the knight heard the Princess shout, and they were both surprised. The Dragon spun around to face her and tried to push her back into the tower, but the Princess would have none of it now that her knight was here to rescue her. While the Dragon was distracted, however, the knight recovered from his surprise and ran towards the dragon at full speed, holding his sword out in front of him like a lance. The Dragon was paying so much attention to the Princess that the knight was able to attack him from the side, and plunged his sword directly though the soft scales on the Dragon's belly and into his heart.

The mighty Dragon collapsed to the ground; all of the strength had gone out of him. The Princess was jubilant -- the Dragon was dead! She ran to the exhausted knight and threw her arms around him. "You saved me!" she screamed with delight, and hugged the knight through his armor as hard as she could. "I knew you'd come and slay the Dragon and save me, I always knew it!"

"I'm glad to have been of service, of course," the knight said, and began to survey the immense treasure hoard that the Dragon had been guarding. "Actually, I didn't know there was a princess here at all. Thanks for the help with the Dragon though, that bit with the belly was quite tricky."

"You didn't know I was here?!" the princess asked the knight, almost bursting into tears again. "Then why did you even come?"

"I knew about the treasure. Everyone knows dragons have treasure, and that beast sure had plenty," the knight answered cheerfully. He called his horse to him, and the Princess watched as he began to fill his bags with diamonds and other jewels. Once he had all he could carry, he jumped back up onto his horse and turned to leave.

"Wait!" the Princess yelled at him, and the knight turned his handsome face back around to look at her. "What about me? Aren't you going to take me with you?" she asked in tears.

"Well, I don't think my horse can carry any more weight," the knight said, and shook his head. "But I really am grateful for your help. In fact, to pay you back, why don't you take some of the treasure for yourself?" With that, the knight turned away again and rode out of the castle without looking back.

FLIRTATION: She laughed. That's always a good sign. It's important to be funny, so say something clever. Something not too hard to follow; you want her to laugh, but if you tell a joke and she doesn't get it or doesn't think it's funny then there'll be one of those horrible awkward moments. So say something light, and not too sarcastic.

She's smiling now, so smile back. Look into her eyes, but don't look too long. Eye contact is good, but don't overdo it. Look for a few seconds, and then look away. Keep smiling, but try not to look like an idiot. Don't smile too much. Focus on what she's saying, lean towards her, show her you're interested. Keep your mouth shut and don't talk over her. Don't let her think that you're just waiting for her to stop talking so that you can start talking again.

She sure is looking cute today. Wait, eye contact, remember? Keep your eyes on hers. And don't forget to listen, act interested. If you can learn a few things about her, then you'll have an easier time saying funny, clever things later. Don't try to be too funny though, no one likes the class clown.

Ok, she stopped talking and she's looking at you now. She's fiddling with her hands on top of her lap, toying with her skirt. Maybe she's a little nervous too, although you can't imagine why. Say something serious. No, not politics, that's too serious. It's too late to tell her how beautiful she looks today, that would just make the conversation stall. Quick, think of something! No, not the weather!

Good, that made her think a little. She's pushing a few strands of hair away from her face and behind her ear. Her eyes glance up to meet yours and then dart off to the corner of the room. What is she thinking? What a fascinating creature she is, it's hard to believe you're actually having a conversation. You've said hi to each other many times, and even made her laugh, but now you're making her think. Good work, she's certain to talk to you again now, as long as you can get away without saying anything stupid.

She's nodding now and looking at you. Did she say something? You must have missed it. You nod back and agree. Laugh a little. No wait, don't laugh, it makes you sound nervous. Say something sensitive, something that will make her think you're deep. Maybe something a little unusual. You're not like all the other guys. You're someone she should want to know, someone she should want to be around -- so say something unusual, but not too strange. Don't make it sound like you're bragging. Just say something that will make her remember the conversation.

Now make another little joke and get ready to leave. Everything went well, it's time to get out before there's one of those awkward pauses. A little more humor, and then tell her you'll talk to her more later. She's smiling again and pushing her hair back. You stand up and she tilts her head to look up at you; meet her eyes again for a few seconds. Smile. You never want to turn away, but you have to... soon.... She laughs and blushes a little, and then looks down into her lap. She totally likes you, and you can't stop grinning.

Say bye and do something with your hand. You want to touch her, just a little, but don't. Next time you talk you can touch her shoulder or her arm, or maybe even her hand if you're feeling brave, but for now take this victory and walk away. Leave her wanting a little more, just like you do.

THE DECEPTIVE DAMSEL: It's never easy to turn down a pretty dame, especially when her face is flushed from tears she's barely had time to wipe away. This one stood before me, paced really, and refused to sit down or accept a drink until she had finished her story. There's always a story. I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet up under my desk, silently waiting for her to finish and working my way through most of my last deck of Luckies at the same time.

She kept talking, but her eyes never met mine; I could tell she was lying and planned to play me for a fool; I knew that the moment she walked through my door. A mink stole and too much jewelry marked her uptown, but the plain flats threw me off for a little while and I couldn't quite place her. Her face had that kind of familiar look to it, as if I'd seen her in a crowd the day before. Every few minutes she would pause and look towards me, not at my eyes but at my chest, and earnestly wait for some sort of acknowledgement. I'm listening, don't worry kid.

"Oscar left with the ledgers we'd been fighting over, except for the pages I'd taken earlier. I found a note that said he'd be back, but it's not his writing. I know my husband's handwriting," she repeated for the tenth time, shaking her finger at some point halfway between us. She'd shown me the brief letter, and it lay like a deflated ghost on my otherwise bare desk.

With flustered women, it's best to just sit back and let them run out of steam. I nodded at the right moments and let my eyes wander over her body as she paced back and forth. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

"I've called his family in Lakeshire and they haven't seen him. It's not like Oscar to disappear like this, it just isn't. We've fought over expenses before but he's never run off."

Maybe he got his fill of looking at your legs and ran out of cigarettes while you babbled. Eventually I did the same, and extinguished her as I dropped the Lucky to the floor and rubbed it beneath my shoe. "Mrs. Vinson, I understand your situation. What I don't get is what you want from me." I laid it out there and let it hang in the air with the stale smoke. Finally exhausted, she collapsed into the chair I'd set out for her nearly an hour before.

"I want you to find my husband; find Oscar," she said, pleading with me. Her body said agony, but her eyes were dancing everywhere.

I stood up quickly and she lurched back in the chair, a frightened look flashing across her ivory cheeks and creaseless forehead. I checked my movement and sauntered over to the cabinet; straight whiskey times two, and mine a double. I set hers down on the edge of the desk closest to where she was sitting, and when she leaned forward to pick it up I snuck a glance down her coat. A sheaf of paper was secreted in an inside pocket, and everything else I saw was gravy. I leaned against the hard oak corner and nursed my drink, letting my mind wander over Mrs. Vinson's flesh. When my double whittled down to a single, I circled behind her chair. Her head turned quickly to follow me, but I kept walking, making a semicircle around her and finishing back behind my desk.

I sat, drained my class, and dropped it sharply on the dark wood with a crack. My fingers itched for another smoke, and I made a mental note to pick up another carton downstairs on my way out. "Your husband's dead," I told her plainly, and she gasped. She looked shocked, but her eyes searched the floor. "The letter was written by a woman. That should have been obvious, even to you, but you didn't mention it. Why's that? Either you're desperately afraid for your husband's reputation -- and you'd let that fear slow down an investigation -- or you didn't want to draw attention to the only woman involved: you."

Her mouth moved wordlessly, and I tapped my finger on the arm of my chair. Her eyes met mine now, unchained by revelation, but her head shook with incomprehension.

"You changed your shoes to get around more quickly -- to see me? -- yet you had time to grab the remnants of the ledgers before you left." Her hand went immediately to the breast of her coat before she caught herself. "You brought the papers, but after more than an hour of storytelling you never showed them to me. The rest of the ledger's been stolen, and that's what you really want me to find, isn't that right?"

She stammered for a few seconds, and I let her turn it over. Her skin was flushed again, but this time there weren't any tears. When she started to speak I cut her off. "Whoever took the ledger could have killed Oscar, but if that's the case then why would you forge a note to try and throw me off? No, you killed him, but you were too late. Most of the records are gone. You brought the rest with you because someone's still looking for them." Every word hammered her deeper into the plush cushions, until she nearly disappeared. She huddled like a trapped animal and winced each time my index finger rapped against the dark grain. I waited while she gathered her mental strength. She still cradled the whiskey in her shaking hand, and she tossed it back with one swallow as she pulled herself together.

"I want the ledger," she said. "Will you help me or not?"

My lips twisted in what I've been told is a frightening grimace. It's been many men's last sight, and sometimes gets more of a reaction than finding my .45 cannon in your face. Mrs. Vinson's eyes went wide, and I told her in measured tones, "I don't help murderers. I'd call the police, but I'm sure that whoever has your ledger will come looking for the rest of it soon enough, and that's fine by me. Now get out."

She sat motionless for just a couple of seconds before leaping to her feet and darting out of my office, leaving the stenciled doors swinging behind her. I knew who'd be in my dreams tonight, and another double was most definitely in order.

A LONG NIGHT: The rain had finally stopped. All the lights were off in the house and Martha was upstairs crying. I sat in the dark for a few more minutes and waited for the last drops of rain to quit rattling the gutters and let the silence of the night take over, but the clatter in my head just wouldn't shut up. I swirled the plastic cup in my hand one more time and lifted it to my lips, tilting back the last of the Jack before tossing the red plastic across the room. It was Jenny's favorite cup and I shouldn't be using it to clear my mind.

I sat slumped down, my head at a sharp angle and the small of my back nearly against the seat of the leather recliner I had indulged myself with the Christmas before last. The rain had stopped, and there was a lot more to do before the sun peeked over the roofs and chimneys of suburbia.

My lips were welded shut, but I groaned inwardly as I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet and trudged back upstairs. Even in the utter blackness I knew my way, and even in my half-drunken stupor I avoided the kids' toys and displaced knick-knacks that littered the floor of the hall at the top of the stairs. Martha was still crying in the bedroom, and the lights were still off. How could she stand it in there, crying in the dark with that thing?

I didn't want to surprise her (again) and I made enough noise in my boots to wake the dead. The crying was muffled before I flipped the lights on and surveyed the harsh reality I had wrought. Martha was huddled in the near corner between the nightstand and the wall, and she didn't even look up at me when I stepped into the room. She had wrapped herself in the ragged blue terry-cloth robe she loved and looked like such a tiny thing, trying to disappear from the world. She was silent.

I moved my gaze over the rest of the room, the walls, the bed, there wasn't a lot of blood. My rational mind fought to push my panic aside. The sheets would have to go. The walls could be scrubbed with bleach -- I'd seen that work on CSI. The carpets too, I guess. Jim was still lying where he'd fell, half-hidden on the far side of the bed. I assumed he was dead, and when I walked over to get a closer look it was obvious that I was right. The back of his skull was a bloody mess, smashed, and with the obvious imprint of my flashlight embedded in the bone and flesh.

There wasn't a lot of blood. He must have been dead before he hit the ground, and it was just as well. He was my friend. At that thought the animal within me surged to break free, but its time was past and it was well-sated with alcohol; strangely, that particular poison gave me an acute clarity, and the thoughts poured like rain through the gutters of my mind.

The shower curtain came down easily enough. I didn't like the floral pattern that Martha had chosen at Wal-Mart, and I tore it down with relish. That's what happens when you cheat on me, say goodbye to your florals. If my jaw could have moved I would have laughed, but the muscles wouldn't budge and I just grunted. Maybe I wasn't as clear-headed as I thought. I dropped the plastic over Jim and wrestled it around him as best I could. He was a lot heavier than I had expected. Tape.

There was some duct tape downstairs in the kitchen. I turned to look at Martha again but she was still sitting motionless, sobbing silently. You'd better not let me hear you crying for this bastard. Don't worry, everything will be fine by morning. The plastic was secure enough to let me drag Jim downstairs by his ankles. Gotta keep the blood from getting all over the house.

Through the door, down the hall, down the stairs, into the kitchen. There was blood in the curtain, but I hadn't left a trail behind me. The tool drawer coughed up a half-roll of red tape and I pulled the end up and stuck it to the plastic near Jim's ankles. Round and round she goes. Tear. A few times around the waist. Tear. Fold the plastic over his head, tape around the forehead and neck (gotta keep the plastic tight if you don't want blood in the car). Tear. Good enough.

Jim wasn't being cooperative, and it was a struggle to get him into the back of the station wagon. I tried to be as quiet as possible, and it was so late that I'm sure no one heard me. Once he was in I sat down in the front seat and turned the engine over. Mike had come early to take over for me, and he'd be there until Tony showed up around six. All I'd have to do is tell him that I dropped my wallet over by one of the far pits and he'd let me through, no problem. Drop Jim off next to one of the gravel piles and push enough onto him so that he wouldn't be found for a few days, and I was home free.

I put the car in drive and pulled slowly out into the street. The bedroom light was off again upstairs, and I got the feeling that Martha wasn't busy scrubbing the blood off the walls. She just wasn't thinking clearly tonight; there must be a lot on her mind. It's ok, there should be plenty of time to sort it all out before morning.