Joe the Control Room Guy: The Call of WILD

Joe the Control Room Guy
in
The Call of WILD
(with apologies to Jack London)

The rain was pouring down about 19:45 one April evening – what the common man calls quarter of eight. The big satellite transmitting dish was lit by a flash of lightning as Joe pulled into the AC&TG parking lot. The thunder rolled across the sky and Joe yawned. It had been a lousy day for sleeping. The neighbors had gotten a new dog, and after they left for work, it had barked the whole day long. Or at least until sometime in the afternoon when the rain started. Then it must have gone under their porch and started whining. Joe had been on night shifts as a Control Room operator for a long time now, and usually he had no problem living on an upside-down schedule. But last night he had been busy the whole shift, and various problems that morning had kept him nearly an hour over. Then this rain on top of it – he had planned on meeting his girlfriend for a meal (her dinner, his breakfast) but when he called, she wasn’t interested – she hated to drive in the rain... Well, he thought as he got out of the car and ran to the back door, it was her loss. He had had a nice bowl of corn flakes. Dry.
He waved his ID badge and the door beeped. Completely drenched, he decided to get some coffee before he went into the Control Room.

Al looked up as Joe came into the Control Room, still dripping, with a steaming cup in his hand.
“Joe! Is it still raining?”
“Sure is, Al. What a lousy day.”
“Yeah. We’ve had sites fading in and out all afternoon, and I’ve had to tweak the power a couple times, but the worst seems to have gone past.”
“Good.” Joe sipped coffee. “How do we look for spots?”
“Maybe a dozen tapes. Not due until midnight, so you have some time.” Al stood up. “Hope you don’t mind if I take off, Karen called, and we’ve got a leak in our basement. What a mess.”
“Sorry to hear it. What happened?”
“Who knows. Bad drainage uphill from us, maybe. Or a downspout cracked, leaking somewhere. Probably can’t do anything about it now except mop up.” Al grabbed his jacket from the closet. “At least I learned not to store stuff on the basement floor when I was young, and we had a sewer pipe burst on Christmas Day...”
Joe shook his head. “Wow, talk about lousy days.”
“Nah,” Al said. “My father knew better than to store stuff down there, and we were going to his mom’s for dinner anyway. Besides,” he smiled, “my father is a plumber.”
Joe laughed as Al left, then finished his coffee. He kept a spare shirt in his locker, so he didn’t have to sit in the air conditioning all wet – no way he wanted to catch a cold now! Then another cup of coffee, and he would start the encoding.

* * *

After drying his hair the best he could with some paper towels, and changing to a dry shirt, Joe got a fresh cup of coffee and went back to the Control Room. He checked the weather map – most of the storm had passed. He checked over the monitors – a few headends under the worst of the storm had gone late on WATCHER, but he wouldn’t worry about them for a little. Everything else looked OK. He pushed the tape cart closer to an encoding station and sat down.

Encoding has got to be one of the most boring, mind-numbing tasks ever invented, Joe thought to himself as he put another tape back onto the “finished” shelf of the cart. Two or three or ten slightly different versions of the same inane actors mouthing nonsensical praises of a useless product – or some shady business – or another dozen glorifications of “preowned” vehicles... Not that he paid much attention to the content of the spots – just enough to be sure they didn’t contain something illicit. Of course things had to look real, and whatever they said had to be understandable. He had to check certain technical elements of the spot: the various video and audio levels had to be within acceptable limits, and it was critical that the length agreed with the slips supplied by Traffic. One of the most entertaining parts of the job was what some of the other guys called the “Pharmacist’s Challenge” – how to read the superlatively bad handwriting used by one of persons in Traffic. The only really critical part of the slip was the eight-digit spot id code – yet, this one guy never failed to write numerals in such a doubtful way that it was almost impossible to know what was intended. And tonight, the same guy must have written half the slips!

After struggling with some of the most boring spots he had seen in months (several of which he could have sworn were identical) Joe finally finished encoding the tapes for tomorrow. He got up and stretched. He checked the PUMP list; everything due tomorrow was now on the “To Be Sent” list. But before he tackled the chores, he had to get some more coffee.

As he came back into the Control Room with a fresh cup, the telephone rang.
“Control Room, Joe speaking.”
“Hey Joe. This is Fred. I’m out here at Wildwood. Can you dial in for me?”
“Sure, Fred.” Joe sat down and started connecting to the inserters for the headend they called WILD. “How’s the weather out there?”
“Cloudy, some drizzling here. Lousy driving most of the way; stay off the back roads when you go out – lots of local flooding.”
“I won’t be going out until morning, Fred; nothing to worry about.”
“Good, good. Got to check some networks, OK? And set audio levels.”
“OK, just connecting now.”

While Joe waited for the connection he asked, “Why are they doing this on such a stormy night?”
“Can’t be helped. They were working here today, changing equipment, and we were scheduled to do this when they got done.”
“Any lightning?”
“Not yet. Not a great place to be in during a storm, but that’s how it goes. Maybe it’ll hold off till we’re done.”
“OK, I’m in. What do you want done?”
“Great. Just give me a moment. OK, how about playing a test spot on ESPN?”
“Sure... Here goes... It’s playing...”
“OK... What’s the audio...” Fred’s voice was overwhelmed by the sound of barking.
“Fred, I can’t hear you. Is that a dog?”
Over the noise Joe barely made out Fred’s voice. “Yeah, it’s the headend tech’s dog. He had to bring it with him ‘cause of the storm. He has it tied up, but whenever it sees me, it starts barking.”
“Great,” Joe sighed. “ESPN is at –14db.”
“What? Quiet, you dog!”
“MINUS FOUR TEEN DEE BEE.”
“Did you say FORTY?”
“One. Four.”
“OK, sorry – Minus One Four Dee Bee. Understood.”
Joe heard Fred yelling at it, “Shut up, stupid mutt!” It did no good. Then Fred said, “Hey, Joe, set it to minus 8.6 – you got it?”
“Minus eight point six.”
“That’s right.”
“OK, now what?”
“Play that spot again.”
Joe typed a command. “It’s running.”
“Great, great. Looks good. Gimme a minute to switch networks....”
The dog continued to bark.

* * *

Twenty-three agonizing networks later, Joe finally hung up and disconnected from WILD. His coffee was cold. The barking still seemed to echo in his head. He went out to the lunch room and dumped the cold coffee, grabbed a soda out of the machine, then went back into the Control Room. He swallowed some soda and picked up the clipboard for the chores checklist. He checked the transmitters and performed several other tasks in the computer room. He was almost done there when he thought he heard a dog barking. Now, the computer room is full of the whirr of fans cooling rack after rack of electronic equipment; there are also large air conditioning units adding their drone – and it was not easy for Joe to determine where the barking was coming from. He stuck his head back out into the Control Room: no, he hadn’t left the TV on, and out there he couldn’t hear any barking at all. He went back into the computer room, listening carefully at each rack of equipment. Then between two of the racks which contained equipment he never had to touch, the sound seemed louder. There in the far wall he saw a door.
Joe knew there were a couple of odd closets which only contained the air conditioning equipment – but he did not remember seeing this door before. He went up to it and saw a checklist formatted somewhat like the one on his clipboard. He glanced down at the one in his hand, then noticed that there was an item he had not initialed:

13. Check food and water for guard dogs, take off-duty dogs for run, at shift change, put next dog on guard.
Done at: ________ by _______
Today’s schedule:
20:00 – 04:00 Rex (German Shepherd)
04:00 – 12:00 Tiny (Mastiff)
12:00 – 20:00 Fang (Doberman)
Note: Daisy, Meat, Spot, Lucky, Fluffy, Jaws, and Worm have off today.

Joe shook his head. They didn’t have guard dogs here. What kind of a joke was this? He looked at the chart on the door. It was similar to the chart which showed the work schedule for the Control Room operators, but this one showed a rotating roster of dogs filling in eight hour shifts. Joe scratched his head. What the heck were they guarding? And since when did they have dogs, anyway? He had never done this chore before. Of course, he thought to himself, like everyone else there, he had never bothered to look at the chores which had already been initialed, but still, sooner or later it should have been his turn to do it – and he had never even seen the dogs! Joe liked dogs, too, (though he had not had one while he was growing up because his sisters were allergic) so he walked over to the door and opened it.
There was a brightly lit hallway which turned left, going towards the back of the building. As soon as he entered, he heard the barking grow louder. The hall made a right turn, and there he saw the cages, each holding a large, professionally toothed dog, barking its lungs out, saliva dripping down onto the concrete floor.
Joe liked dogs, but this was waaaay more dog than he could handle. He shook his head.
“How the heck am I supposed to take these monsters for a walk? And where do we walk? Back through the computer room and around the building? There’s got to be an exit around here...”
He went past the cages, each labeled with the name of its inhabitant, some barking and lunging against their doors, others showing teeth and growling in deep, sinister tones. After the last cage, there were two doors, each with a sensor panel beside it: clearly one or the other had to be an exit.
“There must be some password or something else – a whistle, maybe – to control them.” He looked back at the angry pack of canines, protected from being ground into fragments only by the wire cages. “What on earth am I supposed to do? Say a magic word – something like ‘Attention! PUMP is not running’?”
Instantly the dogs stopped barking, snapped once or twice, entered the “Sit” position, and looked at Joe intelligently, waiting for a command.
Joe looked down at the checklist. Underneath item 13 he read that exact phrase. “Figures. They keep telling us we’re supposed to read these chores before doing them. Learned my lesson.”
He went over to the first cage, labeled “Tiny”: it was a huge, ugly mastiff. It sniffed his hands, then whimpered a little and tried to lick his fingers, panting happily. “Your password is valid,” Joe laughed to himself.
He waved his badge over the first scanner and went out. He found himself outdoors behind the building, but inside the wire fence which surrounded their backup electrical generator. At first he didn’t see any dog. Then he heard a low growl.
“Attention, PUMP is not running!” Joe almost screamed the words. Then a large, beautiful German Shepherd came running up, sniffing Joe and trying to lick his hands. Joe glanced at the clipboard. “Rex, good boy, Rex. Nice dog.” It whined with pleasure. “Come on, let’s check your water...” In a sheltered corner there was a deep bowl of water and another, nearly empty, with dry dog food. “Stay,” he commanded. “Be right back.”
The dog immediately sat, looking at Joe longingly. Joe waved his badge and went back in. The dogs were silent this time; either they knew him now, or else the password was still good. He had not noticed when he entered, but just inside the door from the computer room, there were large bags of dogfood. Joe took a scoopful and went back out, then dumped it into Rex’s dish. “At ease,” he ordered, and Rex bounded over and began to eat. “I’m going to check your co-workers, then I’ll be right back.”
Rex gave a short bark of acknowledgement. No, Joe laughed, that didn’t really happen, did it? He went back inside and put food into the dishes of the other dogs. All their water dishes seemed full. He decided to check where the other door went before he did anything else, so he tried his badge, and went out the other door.

Again he was outdoors, in the back of the building, but this time he was outside the generator fence. Rex came quickly to the fence, beginning to growl, then (catching Joe’s scent, apparently) began to jump and whine with joy. “OK, I’ll be right there,” Joe told him.
He went back in, and went out into the generator area, and was almost knocked down by Rex’s eagerness. “Good dog.... OK, now you stay here and watch the generator, while I take the others out for a run. We’ll be back real soon.”
Joe went back inside; if that had been an acknowledging bark he decided to ignore it. He looked around at the cages – the other dogs were all alert, but definitely had a friendly appearance: Joe even heard a whine or two from the nearer dogs. “OK, time for a run, right?”
The pack began to whine. “Right, so let’s get your doors open, then...” Joe examined the nearest cage, and soon Jaws (a mongrel which had to be part bulldog) was sniffing at his shoes. In moments, the rest of the dogs were free, each pushing through to investigate Joe, then lining up by the cages. When they were all out, Joe waved his badge over the door to the outside. “Let’s go!”

* * *

The pack ran out the door. Joe following then as best he could. Most of them soon went around the western corner of the building, but fortunately Jaws and Tiny were somewhat slower, so he was able to see them once he got to the corner. Soon they had completed a lap around the building and returned to the generator cage. The dogs went on in the same path, but Joe stopped there and caught his breath. Soon the pack again came around the eastern corner; again they did not stop. After the third time, they stopped by the cage, milling around and sniffing at Joe, the cage, and the door. Inside the generator fence, Rex seemed to be ignoring all this activity, but sat silently watching.
“Three laps, huh?” Joe told them. “Good dogs.” He scratched a couple of the closest ones. The pack whined, trying to get to him. “Let’s go back in and get a drink, OK?” He waved his badge over the scanner.
The dogs followed him in, each going to his own cage and lapping water furiously. In a corner, Joe found a water spigot and a bucket, which he filled and then replenished their water bowls.
Soon they were all around him again, whining.
“Another run? OK...” Back they went outside. This time, Joe decided to run with them. Perhaps they were getting tired, as this time he was able to keep up with the slower dogs as they ran around the building. Again the dogs had stopped by the generator cage, looking eagerly at Joe, tongues hanging out and panting.
“Whew!” Joe panted. “Well, I’ve got to get back in there and...”
Just then the ears of several dogs popped up. Heads began to turn, and Joe heard a low growling. He looked over big transmitting dish, and thought he saw a small shadow moving under one of the bushes behind the fence – he couldn’t tell if it was a raccoon or a cat. Before he could open his mouth, the dogs began to run towards it, barking loudly.
“No!” Joe yelled. “Come back!” He ran after them, but the dogs had now gone up into the shrubbery on the low hill behind the big transmitting dish. As he got to the other side of the parking lot, he could hear them barking, and leaves rustling as they searched for the fleeing creature.
Halfway into the underbrush, Joe stopped and looked around. He couldn’t see any dogs. How was he supposed to get them back into their cages? All those trained guard dogs. They were probably expensive, too – like everything else the company owned – so he would almost certainly get into deep trouble if he lost them all. At least Rex was still back there in the generator cage. Then he realized: if they were trained, they ought to come at order. At least he could try it...
“Come here! Tiny! Fang! Daisy! Meat! Fluffy! Jaws! Worm! Come!” He waited. The barking had quieted, but the dogs were not coming. Soon the dark hillside behind the big dish was quiet. Not even a leaf rustled.
“Great. Just great,” Joe said, as he made his way down the hill. “What now? Should I get Rex – maybe there’s a leash in there somewhere – and track them down? Or maybe they’ll come back when they get hungry. Unless they eat that cat, or whatever it was... then they won’t be back for while.” He walked across the parking lot. By the generator Rex sat silently peering into the darkness. As Joe approached, he whined a little and walked over towards Joe, tail wagging. Joe stuck his fingers through the fence, and Rex licked them.
“So, Rex, ready to go hunting?” Joe shook his head. “I probably ought to go back inside and check things. At least I had the cell phone with me.” Rex sat back and looked up at Joe with a pleased doggy grin. “Man, I hope that wasn’t a skunk they were chasing. They come back skunked, and they’ll smell up the whole building... that might be even worse than losing them. Yeah – I think it would be worse...
Joe looked toward the big dish, then he saw two shadows coming down the open part of the hill just behind it. It looked like it might be Tiny and Jaws, the two slow ones. “Tiny! Jaws!” Joe called.
The two dogs ambled across the lot and came to Joe, tails between their legs. “Bad dogs! No treat tonight. Back to your cages.” He turned and opened the door.
The two dogs went directly to their cages and lay down, head between front paws. Joe closed and latched the doors, then went back out. Rex had gone back to his guard post, but glanced over at Joe, then turned back, looking up the hill.
“Wheee” Joe whistled. “Daisy! Meat! Fluffy! Worm!” he called. “What the heck are those other names?” he murmured to himself. “What kind of idiot named these monsters, anyway?” Well, then again, he thought, that kind of silliness was par for the course: the company did have some rather ridiculous names for things, and not just for dogs. “Hey! Dogs! Get back here!”
At least, he thought, pacing in front of the generator, two had come back, and hadn’t been skunked. Maybe he’d be lucky... Aha, that was a name he had missed: “Lucky! Hey, get back here! Fluffy, Worm, Daisy, Meat...”
Soon he saw some more shadows moving down the hill. Again the big brute dogs came slinking across the parking lot. Joe nodded grimly. They were wrong, and they knew it. “Bad dogs. Get back in your cages.” He opened the door. Four dogs slunk quietly inside, each to its own cage.
Joe went in and latched the cage doors. “I hope you’re all mighty proud of yourselves, you big hulking brutes, defending AC&TG against a helpless kitten...”
The dogs whimpered, each curled up in a corner. Joe shook his head. “Who’s still missing?” He went down the aisle, checking off the names. “Rex is still on duty; he’s a good dog. Then we have Tiny and Jaws, Daisy and Meat, Fluffy and Worm. So Fang, Spot and Lucky are still AWOL.”
Joe went back outside. There, just in front of the door, were two more dogs, flat on the ground. They whimpered as Joe stared down at them. “Bad dogs! Chasing cats. Get in there!”
The two dogs trotted to their cages. Joe locked them in, shaking his head. “Lucky, huh? Not very lucky tonight. Fang, too. What a bunch of wimp dogs, going after a kitten.” Joe didn’t really know what it had been, but it was good enough for the state he was in. “Go after criminals, why don’t you? There sure are enough, if you know where to hunt for ’em...” One or two whimpered a little; they knew they had been way out of bounds. Then the room was silent. Still, he thought, sniffing the air, at least none of them had been skunked.
Joe went back along the cages. “So. Who’s still out? Spot. Of course.” He rolled his eyes. That’s all I need, he thought to himself, to have someone hear me calling “Spot! Here, Spot” near AC&TG...
But it would be even worse, if that was the only one he lost! He’d feel lower than these dogs if the other guys found out that Spot was missing – they would never let him hear the end of it: “Hey Joe, why didn't you check the PUMP list for that ‘missing Spot’? Ha ha ha!” It would have been funny, too, but this was serious, losing an expensive, specially trained guard dog. (After all, the dog hadn’t opened the door; he had. Joe could not deny it.) He looked around the room, hoping for an idea. In the corner where he had found the scoop he saw a heavy-duty flashlight, and a leash. Well, he’d just have to go out and hunt for his missing Spot.
“Good boy, Rex; at least I can depend on you,” Joe said, and headed across the parking lot. Rex whined a little, then Joe went up into the brush on the hill.

Joe pushed through the low bushes and weeds, shining his lantern into the overgrowth. “Spot! Spot!” he called hoarsely. [I know, that word sounds funny here, but what else can I do?] He could not bring himself to use full volume, even though there was almost no chance of someone hearing him. He stopped, listening. Somewhere off to his left he thought he heard a whining. He hoped Spot hadn’t gone out of the corporate park: the wooded part wasn’t all that big. On the other side of the road which bounded the park there were some private homes – things could get complicated if Spot was over there.
Joe went down a small depression and up the other side. He paused again and listened. Now he heard some leaves rustling. “Spot!” he called in a clear, low voice. The whimper came again, louder, and another rustle. He swung the beam around. There, under a fallen branch, cringed the missing dog. It started whining when the beam hit it. “Spot!” Joe said. Then he heard the rustle again, but it definitely wasn’t from the dog’s direction.

“Spot! What is it boy?” Joe scanned with the flashlight, then stopped, appalled. Something dodged into the shadows. Oh, no! Joe thought. Was that a skunk, or just a black and white cat? He sniffed; no bombardment yet. He reached down, grabbed Spot’s collar, dragged him from under the branch, then hurried back down the hill towards the company building, wondering whether the worst was yet to come...
They made it to the parking lot, and nothing seemed to be following them. Joe sighed with relief, sniffing again. Not skunked yet! Rex had come towards them as they crossed the lot, but then went off to a back corner behind the generator. Spot started to whimper as they came to the back door.
Joe brought Spot inside, and locked his cage. Then he sniffed again. There was a, er, a certain aroma rising from Spot’s cage. Then, suddenly, all the dogs started barking, and he heard a distant voice say “Bad dog!”

* * *

“Bad dog!” came the voice. Joe raised his head and sniffed. Where was he? What was that awful smell? He sat up and stretched. He had fallen asleep again at the console in the Control Room. He sniffed again. What on earth smelled so skunky? Then he looked down at the console. He must have had his face against one of those old foam-rubber mouse pads... He picked it up. Yep. That’s what it was. He tossed it into the trash; they had plenty of new ones that didn’t stink. He shook his head, then checked the time. Wasn’t he doing the checklist – and then there were those dogs... He looked around for the clipboard: it was on the floor by his chair. He picked it up, and everything was up to date. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes. He rolled the chair over to the event log. Sure, he had recorded the work at WILD, and he had disconnected from the headend. So it must have been just after he had finished the chores.
Then the voice came again: “Bad dog.”
Joe looked up at the big screens. “DENNY” the Denver monitor was flashing red. He checked the satellite-transport monitor and saw that Denver had lost its connection to HOME... Probably just the weather, but he would just dial in and check... Meanwhile he could stop that “bad dog” warning. He was soon connected and looking into the situation. Everything looked OK on the machine, so he checked the weather map. It turned out that Denver was having a late spring snowstorm, which had knocked out the connection – once the sun came up it would return to normal – so Joe disconnected and logged the event.

* * *

A few minutes later Joe came back into the Control Room with a fresh cup of coffee and some food from the machines in the lunchroom. But before he sat down to enjoy his snack, he went back into the computer room and walked slowly along the racks, looking at the walls on both sides. No, there really wasn’t a door there – not in either wall. He went to the back door to check outside, but the rain was still pouring down. That was sufficient for him – it hadn’t been raining when he was out running with the dogs – and the underbrush hadn’t been wet.

After he finished his snack, Joe got up and went back to the encoding station to start on the next day’s tapes. He laughed to himself, thinking back to that poor skunked dog in its cage – he was sure he would have done what he could, if it hadn’t been a dream, if he hadn’t woken up. After all, in this business, he told himself, we have to deal with an awful lot of stinky spots. He put a tape into the encoder and cued it up, chuckling to himself.

THE END

All text and pictures copyright © 2008 by Dr. Thursday

Rocky Days

Rocky Days

The Sabbath. And not just any Sabbath – it was the Pasch as well.
A beam of sunlight came into the room from a crack by one of the eastern windows, shining into the eyes of a young man rolled up in robes on the floor. He got up from his impromptu sleeping place, rubbing his eyes and looking around. The others were still asleep. He counted. With him, still only ten. He yawned, and went downstairs.

“John!” came a quiet voice. “You’re awake.” He bent over and hugged the woman he would now always call “Mother.”
“The sun was shining in. We were up late, talking...”
She nodded, and beckoned him outside. “We were too; the extra sleep will be good for them.”
They walked out to a wooden bench beneath a tree, then sat down.
The woman glanced back at the building, alert for any sign of activity. “At first Magdalen was difficult, then Martha and her sister talked to her – then they all started discussing plans for tomorrow.”
“Yes... The Sabbath will be over, and we’ll be permitted to move the stone.” He nodded to himself, remembering that past evening, as the sun neared the horizon, the roughly hewn stone groaning as it slid into place, sealing the tomb. “And you?”
The huge, honest eyes of the woman seemed to gleam with unspoken thoughts. Her tears had ceased last evening when the stone fell into place. But she knew the Scriptures; she had made her plans long ago. Already she could see the gates opening, and the lifting up of ancient portals. A corner of her mouth twitched slightly. It would be so easy to say, “I have my own plans, dear,” but the young man would not understand. Not yet.
So she turned her tender gaze on the young man she would now always call “son,” and said, “Oh, I’ll be needed here. You can bring me any news, dear.” She lowered her eyes and looked away quickly.
The young man gulped. “Mother!” He put his arms around her.
She put a hand up to his face, her expression unreadable. “You’ve – you’ve been crying, my son.” He didn’t notice that she had changed the subject. Mothers are good at that.
“You said that Magdalen was difficult – but she’ll have things that need to be done. The others – they came in, one by one – it was like that story He told us about – the prodigal – they told me their shame, their betrayal. So I welcomed them back.”
She looked at him, a smile forming on her lips. “Then?”
“We talked. One by one they fell asleep. I kept going back to the door, waiting.”
“Why?” How, he thought to himself, could anyone ever describe the tenderness in her voice – the care she expressed in that one tiny question.
“He didn’t come back.”
“Peter.” It was a statement. He felt her shake slightly, and she brushed his hair out of his eyes. His own mother had done that many times.
Then she stood up, looking into the distant east. “So many have fallen – Adam and Eve. Abraham, Sarah, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and Judah and his brothers... David...”
John remained seated, eyes downcast. “The list is long, so long – now, Judas – and Peter.”
“Judas?” she repeated, and sighed. “Yes. And for each one the Father waited – and those who turned back, and acknowledged their wrongdoing, they were welcomed back.” She looked down at the young man, and he looked up. “You have done well.”
There was a faint sound of scuffing sandals coming up the path outside the wall. Even more softly than usual, she added, “And now, you must do it again.” She turned and went back inside.
The scuffing paused outside near the gate. For a moment, the garden was silent but the young man jumped up, lifted the bar, and pulled open the wooden door.
“Come in, Peter.” He hoped his smile was reassuring, but Peter had a hand over his eyes.
The hand dropped for a moment, and for a moment John could see Peter’s red, exhausted eyes and stricken face. He put his arm around Peter’s shoulders and led him to the seat beneath the tree.

“John! I...” The voice was rough, almost inaudible. “I had to come back. I had to hear the rest... I – I didn’t want to knock – I wasn’t sure anyone would let me in.”
“Why? We all ran that night. We didn’t go with Him. We weren’t whipped...”
Peter began to sob. “You didn’t deny Him as I did. Three times I would, He told me, and three times I did – three times!”
John sat silently, waiting, his arm still around Peter’s shoulders, remembering the prophecy – and its fulfillment.
“Where did you go then?”
“I ran, weeping, out into the wilderness, far... I didn’t want anyone to see me.” John nodded, understanding well that feeling which had scattered the other nine, even his own brother, from Gethsemane – that feeling which had pursued Peter, and even to a measure himself. He, John, had snuck into places, listening and remembering – but he had not been scourged, taunted, crowned with thorns, and crucified. Indeed, he remembered with horror, the places on His left and right had been reserved, and for neither John nor his brother! Yet, whether John’s choice was wrong or not, Peter had acted impetuously, as usual.
But Peter noticed neither the nod nor the thoughtful silence. Tears still ran down his face. “I sat on a rock, sat and wept, thinking of how easily I had done the very thing I had sworn I wouldn’t do. I didn’t think of what would be happening to Him. At daybreak, I got my bearings and headed back for the city. I had run far – it took a while. I got back just when they were coming out of the gate – I was hidden by some bushes – they came out, and I saw Him and the others going to Golgotha... then I ran again, I could not bring myself to watch. Before I knew it, I was in that valley where the town dump is, watching the fires burn, and thinking of my denials...”
He was silent for a time, then John asked, “What made you come back?”
“It got dark early, you remember? Not like any storm I’ve ever seen. And I was terrified. But a body can only stand so much – I hadn’t slept at all – so in the darkness I fell asleep, and woke not long ago, in the cold night. I went back to Gethsemane, and prayed there, weeping; I didn’t dare go over to Golgotha. And I knew I had to come back here, and see if ... see what had happened... and if there was any way I could ...” He covered his face and wept bitterly.
“I saw it all, I’ll tell you what happened,” John told him. “And we need you, your strength – remember, ‘once you have turned, Simon, strengthen your brothers’? I tried, but I can’t do it by myself.” He sighed. “Peter, I’m glad you came back. Didn’t you see how I opened the gate before you knocked? Don’t you remember? ‘And the son was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and was moved with compassion...’ ”
Peter’s sobs broke off and he looked into John’s eyes. “You did, didn’t you?” He chuckled a little, almost choking.
“Don’t move, Peter; there’s some water just inside; I’ll get it for you.”
After Peter drank some water, John recounted yesterday’s events in detail. “...And when he pulled out the spear, blood and water came out. Blood and water, Peter! Not just blood, but blood and water!”
But Peter was a paragraph or two behind. “She’s here? Mother?”
John nodded, then he broke into sobs, and it was Peter’s turn to do the comforting. He fumbled for words, and as usual was bluntly honest.
“This was what He had told us, John – you remember, ‘take up your cross and follow Me’?”
John nodded, still unable to speak for sobbing.
But Peter had begun to see something, and he didn’t want to lose sight of it. “John, His predictions are always being proven true – three times, He said, I would deny,” his voice almost broke, but he went on – “three times I would deny Him, and I did so, three times. He said He would take up the cross, and suffer death – and so He did. But John – John!” He shook his young friend with all his sailor’s strength.
John’s sobs stopped abruptly. “What, Peter?”
“That’s not all He said. He said something more, several times, several ways. He said something about rising again on the third day.”
“You’re right, Peter. He did say that.”
“Here, John, have some water. Then wipe your face, and see if the others are up. I think we ought to talk.”

The Sabbath passed quickly. The other nine were soon awake, and happy to see Peter. A spring shower had begun to fall, so they returned to the upper room, and sat in a circle, each repeating whatever he could recall of the Master’s words. Some unleavened cakes and other edibles were left from Thursday’s feast, but no one seemed willing to touch them.
The rain stopped just before sunset, and soon Martha came up the steps with a lighted lamp. “The Sabbath is past, a new day begins. When we have light again, there’ll be a lot to do, so we’re making some bread now...”
After the simple meal, they prayed together a while, and resumed their reminiscences as the lamps burned lower and lower. Peter still had a hollow look about him, but his warm acceptance by John and the others restored some of his old character. Likewise, the others, reassured by Peter’s return, found their doubts and worries somehow less urgent. It was almost as if there was some kind of hope left for them, something exciting which still awaited. One by one they fell silent, dropping off into welcome sleep. As Peter watched, the last lamp flickered and went out. On the borders of sleep, John thought he heard Peter reciting a psalm...

“I will bless the Lord, who hath given me understanding: moreover, my reins also have corrected me even till night. I set the Lord always in my sight: for he is at my right hand, that I be not moved. Therefore my heart hath been glad, and my tongue hath rejoiced: moreover, my flesh also shall rest in hope. Because thou wilt not leave my soul in hell; nor wilt thou give thy holy one to see corruption. Thou hast made known to me the ways of life, thou shalt fill me with joy with thy countenance: at thy right hand are delights even to the end...”

* * *

It was dark, deep dark, and cold. John heard a faint noise downstairs, and got up to investigate. As he came silently down the stairs, the outer door opened and the light of a moon just days past full revealed a cloaked figure.
John drew a sudden breath, shaken to his deepest being. “Mother!” he whispered.
The woman turned back. “Don’t hold onto me, son. Go back to sleep, for now. The sun will rise soon.”
He nodded and rubbed his eyes, yawning. She smiled and turned away, down the garden path. He scratched his head – did she just smile? Did her eyes flash with a light he had once before – on the mountain called Tabor? Where was she going? He yawned again, went back up the stairs and fell asleep. In the morning, he didn’t remember it at all – not even as a dream – but in later years, he would catch a glimpse of that smile, and feel a strange thrill of joy.

* * *

The house shook with a thud, and John drifted awake. The faintest predawn light made the windows visible. He heard Martha downstairs wail, “Mary, be careful!” Subdued murmurings and thumpings, as the outer door closed twice, three times. He rolled over and fell asleep again.
But not for long.
There was a thump and clatter as someone tried to open the big front door. Then a thunderous thud which shook the building as the door flew open – then a woman’s voice calling up the stairs “Peter! James! Andrew! John! Wake up! Matthew! Thomas! Philip! James-Bar-Alphaeus! Bartholomew! Simon! Jude! Wake up!”
Peter got up and went over to the stairs. “What is it, Mary?”
“The tomb is open! His body is gone!”
John felt a thrill run through him. He gasped. “The third day...” he said to himself, and jumped erect. “Come on, Peter, we’ve got to go see.
They practically tumbled down the stairs, struggling out of sleep in the early light.

In moments all eleven were downstairs. John’s new mother was sitting in a corner, looking intently toward the front door. There stood Mary Magdalen, still breathing hard after her run. Peter stared at her in silence, wondering.
“What’s this, now?” asked Thomas. “The tomb open?”
“Street talk yesterday was that the temple gang asked Pilate for guards,” said Matthew, “and he told them to guard it themselves.”
“Nobody touches a corpse on the Sabbath,” added Philip. “And even Romans have some respect for death.”
Thomas shook his head. “Then who would have taken the body?” He waved a hand of dismissal. “It’s grief – or hysteria. Imagining things.”
“John, didn’t you tell me there’s a big stone rolled in front of the tomb?” asked his brother.
“Sure is, it took five of us to open it.”
“Then,” James went on, “Who moved it? Not the guards – and certainly not four or five women.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Mary Magdalen smiled wryly. She knew what she had seen, and they would know soon enough. It reminded her of the time her mother had told her about elephants – hard to believe, but still true. She could be patient with these children today... “It doesn’t matter what you think; all the others saw it too, and they’ll be back here soon enough. I ran on ahead and beat them all, chattering away about the angels. Too bad about all that myrrh,” she chuckled to herself. “All over the ground...”
They could hear the other women approaching, their voices loud on the path.
“Angels?” Peter asked Magdalen as the others came in, chattering away about what they had seen, some still clutching the bundles of spices.
“Hush!” Magdalen ordered the others. “I’m telling this.” The room fell silent. “Angels they were – two of ‘em,” she said. “Faces like lighting, robes like snow. ‘Fear not’, the one says, ‘I know you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he is risen as he said’.”
The other women clamored in affirmation, while the men began calling out questions.
“Peter!” John exclaimed over the din, “this is the third day! We’ve got to go see! Come on! I’ll race you!” He ran out the door.
Peter smiled at Mary. “We’ll be back soon,” he told the others. Then he set off after John. Meanwhile, their mother sat in the corner smiling and listening to the voices.

* * *

John got to the tomb first. The stone was rolled back and wedged as it had been Friday afternoon. No one was around. He bent down to look in, but could make out nothing in the dim light. Better to wait for Peter; he knew there had to be at least two witnesses if anyone ever asked.
Soon Peter came trotting up, breathing hard. He went in, and John followed. The linens were lying there, the very same ones... John even saw what looked like dried blood. And that smaller piece for the face – it was rolled up and apart from the shroud. Nobody would have bothered taking them off and leaving them, if all they wanted was to remove the body – what would have been the point? The only reason – as utterly fantastic, unbelievable, impossible as it was – would be if the body didn’t need them any longer. A living body doesn’t wear the garments of death.
They said nothing to each other. What could they say? So they went off, silently and separately, walking down the road in the early spring sunshine.

* * *

When John neared the place where they were staying, he saw his new mother walking up the path, carrying a water jug.
“It really is empty,” he told her. “The body is gone.”
He took the water jug, his gaze fixed on her face. In her eyes was a gleam, and she was smiling. He was about to say something more, but she gestured for silence. He followed her in, and after he had poured them each a drink, he put the vessel into its place. He stuck his head upstairs but the place was empty. He went out into the garden, and saw her sitting under the tree, smiling with the air of one who waits for a long-expected delight.
They sat there silently in the cool bright air. Then came the sound of running feet. The gate crashed open. Mary Magdalen stood there, panting – she saw them and ran to them, announcing, “I have seen the Lord!”
Magdalen had begun to tell her story when the gate crashed again, and James and Andrew came in, followed by James-Bar-Alphaeus and Philip. They all reported, “It’s true, the stone was moved, and the tomb is empty!” But Mary Magdalen shook her head, laughing with joy. “You see? But there’s more to tell...”
The other women came in, heard the news, and soon went out again: things were happening, but people were going to be hungry, and there was a report of fresh fish to be had. Matthew showed up with news from the Procurator’s office, then went out to the tomb. Jude and Simon had been to the temple, hoping to pick up some town talk after the Sabbath, then they hurried out to the tomb as well.
Through all this, Mary and John sat beneath the tree, listening to everything, and storing it up in their hearts. But like yesterday, they were again waiting for another piece of news, to be brought by one particular man.
After the women had returned from their shopping and had begun preparations for dinner, they again heard the scuffing sandals on the path, and the gate swung open with a crash. Peter stood there, smiling. “I saw Him. He’s alive.” He was silent then, catching his breath, then he sniffled. “I was afraid, when I saw Him. But you know what He said? ‘Fear not, Simon, son of John’.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Say, I’m hungry. Do we have anything here to eat?”
John and Mary looked at each other and laughed.
“There’ll be broiled fish soon,” John told him. “Go wash up, then we’ll talk before dinner.”
He gave his mother a hug, and she nodded quietly as he went in. She knew the surprises had only begun.

* * *

Later that evening, as they were finishing their dinner, they again heard the gate crash, and banging on the front door. Two disciples ran up the stairs, having come all the way back from Emmaus with news that they had seen Jesus risen from the dead.
Someone laughed, and told them, “The Lord is risen indeed and has appeared to Simon.”
Then, finally, though the doors were locked, there was someone else standing there in the room with them, and He said, “Peace! Fear not. It is I.”

I, too, know what it means...

I, too, know what it means...

Long afterwards, the centurion would often think about that strange day. It had started the evening before. It had been a perfect spring day for that small provincial town. He had never seen such a day in Rome, not even his wedding. He had finished his day's duty, scampering home as if he had lounged the whole day long. He had ordered a simple evening meal, and dismissed the servants so as to enjoy the sunset with his wife.

"This is good wine," she said, smiling as the sun touched the horizon. He raised the cup and they drank again. They sat in silence. He considered the woman beside him, tearing off a morsel of bread, she whose name was almost a Roman legend. She ate the bread, handing him a fragment and gazed on him with honest love - an honorable man who lived as the great ones in Greek stories - a man who had risked his life for her father - a man to whom she had been given in wedlock (and happy she was to be given, as if there could be someone else she could have desired more, even the Emperor himself). In only one matter were they as yet disappointed: they both yearned for a child. They proceeded to the main course. "Junius had to wait a long time in the market for this lamb," she told him. He chewed and swallowed, recalling the time Junius had almost died, the embarrassing time with the Jewish authorities, and the reassurance of dealing with that rabbi on the road... He had used an interpreter, then, for the sake of appearances, though he was able to speak decent Aramaic. He remembered the flash in the eyes of the rabbi, as if he understood without the need of a translator, when he explained his understanding of authority. He sipped the wine and smiled at her. "Junius loves to stand in line." They laughed.
The sky was darkening though fantastic lights still shone in the west. "There's a big crowd in town for the holy day, but we don't expect anything out of the ordinary. Pilate ordered the usual extra patrolmen. I'm due in for the dawn shift."
"Will there be another dawn? Or is that the first dawn in the west?"
"There was never a night like this. It makes you all the more beautiful."
"There may be no dawn, there may be myriads, but I know one thing there is..."
"...You and me.
"Oh..."

* * *

It was a full moon that night. His dreams were strange: a wooden horse and a town in flames, then there were three little boats crossing the dark sea and a far-off gleam of light in the west. Then, a pleasant, homely place in which sat a very large man drinking beer, with some kind of tiny sword in his hand; black drops flew from it as he jabbed it in a strange sign. After this, the centurion dreamed he was standing on the parade ground, and called the orders, but instead of his men, he commanded an immense array of great spheres of fire. On his directives, they moved in a vast and flawless spiral. He turned to salute the Emperor's booth, and saw instead a gaping cavern, within which came a flash as if the sun had burst. Waking uneasily, he shifted in his bed, and touched his wife. After this, his dreams were as a continuation of their dinner, happy, intimate, and satisfied.

* * *

It was a hot, sticky dawn. All the pleasant air of yesterday had been replaced by a thick haze. Strapping on his weapons, he dashed water on his face, but it made him feel worse. He had received the reports from the previous shift; it had been a fairly typical festival night. He looked over the log, wishing there was some kind of standard penmanship. Why couldn't he make out that one entry? An auxiliary shuffled over to him: "You're to see Pilate." Well, that was nothing new. He always saw Pilate at the shift change. He nodded and went out the door.
Pilate squirmed in his seat, one hand to his head. "Go to Joppa. There's a Roman galley waiting there. Deliver this letter to the captain immediately." Pilate handed him a sealed scroll, and closed his eyes. "Hurry back. I need you here, but this message is of the highest urgency, and I can trust no one else." Shaking somewhat, he waved his hand in dismissal, and the centurion strode from the hall.

* * *

The sun was nearing mid-sky as he rode back into the barracks. "It's a good thing you're back - we've been waiting. There's to be an execution today. You're to handle the detail yourself, since he expects some trouble. They all have their assignments, and we're ready to go." On his way out he grabbed a half-loaf of bread and a small skin of wine.
Mounting on a fresh horse, he chewed a mouthful of bread, but soon put the remainder back into his pack. This was going to need all his attention - he could hear the rabble beginning to gather. The lieutenant came up to him. "All the paperwork is complete. The requisition of workers and supplies is correct. Platoon Theta is dispatched to ride escort." They set off from the garrison, down through the city to the skull place.
He looked back as the slow march proceeded. One of the condemned had fallen. There seemed to be rather more women visible along their path than usual for such a spectacle. On a signal, they started again, but there was another halt or two. This was typical, but there somehow seemed to be an unusual tension in the air. There almost seemed to be two factions along the road, one vocal and approving, another sadly enduring in silent resistance. It was not like anything he had ever experienced.
They arrived at the execution site, and he took his horse down to the little spring at the back of the hill. He lingered there in the heat, drinking the clear, cold water. Hammer blows sounded in the sullen haze. He tethered his horse under a stunted tree, and walked up the hill again. Then came a choked cry.
"I can't do it. His hand looks like mine!" came the whine of the executioner. The centurion looked down. The two hands might have been mirror images. A mallet and six inch nails lay on the ground nearby.
"Guess he's a carpenter, like you." The centurion gave him a nudge. "Just go ahead, it's just another job. You've got your orders." Then he looked down the arm to the face. Did the earth move then? Did the sum dim? In the condemned's eyes, that same strange spark which understood, even though the centurion spoke in his native Latin. He picked up a nail tossing it in his hand, and a sword-thrust seemed to penetrate him as he again heard his own words, but yet in the voice of another: "I too know what it means to be under authority..." He handed the nail to the carpenter, and looked away as the knocking came.

* * *

There had been an earthquake, and the sky had darkened, and he had felt moved as if the world had come to some climax. But the sun had set, and he went home. His wife was asleep,and he had no stomach for food. He had little sleep that night. The next workday passed quietly, as holydays always did. The next night was heavy upon him. Still he had not eaten. Though the weather had changed, the tension in the air was, for him, unlike any storm or any battle he had ever experienced. His wife seemed quiet in their bed, sleeping, yet with some slight smile on her lips as her hand touched his. He looked at his free hand, again hearing the mallet blows. He felt again the strange resistance as his short spear penetrated the heart of the executed. Again loomed up in his mind the image of the empty cavern, and the town in flames. He heard verses which had been recited at his wedding banquet - Virgilian verses which no one could understand. Looking out their window, he heard the birds announce the coming dawn, and got out of bed. After delicately kissing his wife, he nibbled at some dried bread, sipped the last drops from the flask of their simple supper two nights ago, and went out.

At headquarters he checked the log. "What's this `tomb detail' for Platoon Alpha?"
"Pilate assigned that one himself. The Temple is on alert with them, or so they said."
"What? That's crazy. What kind of problem can there be with a tomb?"
"Nothing. It's not the tomb, but possible visitors we're concerned with."
"Sounds nuts."
"Yeah, but that's what the chief wanted."
He sighed, feeling the weight of obedience, and was about to leave... "Wait. Where's that tomb?"
"Oh, just down from the skull place, to the right of the spring. There's a garden beyond the hedge, it's in there. It belongs to one of their senators, I think."

He was almost running when he came to the skull place. The hilltop was dark, though he knew it could not be long until dawn. Just then there was a tremor, and looking down the hill, he saw straight to the garden, in which a great stone lay against a low natural hill covered with trees. As he continued to gaze westward, the dawn burst from under the earth and as he stood there lost in thought the rising sun cast his shadow on an empty tomb.

A Stellar Assignment

A Stellar Assignment

Note: this story appears by special permission
from the Editor-in-Chief of
Something Good To Read

In a quiet English town, in the small hours of night, a young man named Stan crept quietly through the woods. He came to a clearing and stopped. By the light of the stars he peered around to get his bearings. He went over his plan again. Soon, the pearls would be his.

“Would you like some water, Annie, before I tuck you in?”
“Yes, please.”
The woman patted the little girl on the shoulder. “I just hope we didn’t wake up your brother.”
Annie blew her nose. “Once he’s asleep, he won’t wake up. He slept through that thunderstorm last week...”
“Well, good for him. I couldn’t sleep through that, either. Why the angels had to pick our little town for bowling practice, I’ll never know.”
Annie giggled a little, and the woman stood and smiled at her. “I’ll get you some water, now, then you try to sleep.”
The woman went out into the hall, glancing back at Annie. Finally there was the slightest smile on the little tear-worn face. The woman shook her head as she went into the bathroom. Death was never easy to explain, never easy to bear, though as one lived and saw it more often, it somehow changed in appearance. But for an eleven-year-old girl and a boy of not quite ten, to see their mother in death... Thank God their father was here for them, and that they had faith. And, she thought, thank God she was there too – she was just a new neighbor, but she had fallen in love with the two children as they played in the yard. Perhaps now she could merit the title “Aunt Rose” they had bestowed on her. She sighed as she filled a cup with water. If only Annie could sleep, she thought.

* * *

Annie looked out into the dark room. Aunt Rose had kissed her, and turned off the light, and closed the door. The house was quiet, though, since Daddy was at work. He was supposed to have off, but the hospital had called him in because the other doctor was sick. She thought how funny that sounded: a doctor getting sick. She was used to him being away at night. It was only last week that she had stood with him on the porch outside her room, just before he went to work. They looked at the stars, and he had told her some of their names. She liked the sound of the names, just like she liked the names of the bones and muscles. “Deneb, Altair, Vega – the summer triangle,” she recited. Then she rattled off the bones of the wrist, “Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetrum, Pisiform, Trapezium, Trapezoid, Capitate, Hamate.”
In the darkness she smiled. Last summer at the shore, she was showing off her swimming skills, and he chuckled and called her “Scaphoid Annie” – the word means “ship” – and he said she swam as well as a ship. She laughed a little, forgetting her sadness completely. Then she saw the glow of the little night light in front of the statue of Mary. She thought about her mother and father, and she said a little prayer, full of childlike confidence, but still wishing for an answer. After all, even Mary had had an answer to her question...
The glow grew. Annie sat up in bed. It was a very pretty glow, not at all like a fire, or even any kind of electric light she had seen. It was a pink, fading to a lustrous white, with a shimmer of blue at the edge. Annie had never seen a pearl, or she would have said it was a pearl with a spotlight inside. She got out of bed and discovered that the glow was in the middle of the room, not at the little table where the nightlight was. As she got nearer, she saw something in the center. It was the head of a baby, such a lovely, happy, baby! It had the pinkest fat cheeks, and golden hair with a little whisp askew just like her brother’s usually was. But there was no body. Instead there were two white wings, which fluttered gently. This sounds strange to hear, but it did not look strange to Annie. She thought the face was so happy, with a strong hint of fun, as if it were inviting her to come and play. The deep blue eyes looked directly at her, and she knew this was not a baby. They reminded her of her father’s kind gray eyes, full of his years of medical knowledge.
“Hello, Annie,” came a voice. It was a delicate baby voice, as perfectly clear as an adult’s.
“Hello. What’s your name?”
“Why don’t you call me Gelasma, for now?”
“Hello, Gelasma. You’re pretty. Why are you here?”
“It’s my job. I was called up for a special assignment for tonight.”
“What is your job?”
“Oh, I get to do all kinds of things. Sometimes I have to keep an eye on the stars, and other times I have to keep an eye on children. Then I have guard duty, and throne duty, and I get to sing in the choir.”
Annie smiled. “You sing? Your voice is so quiet.”
“I have to be quiet here. But I do sing.”
“Why don’t you have any hands or feet?”
“I don’t need them.”
“Why do you have wings?”
“Those I need, for getting from place to place.”
“Oh, then you are an angel!”
“That’s right,” said the glow, and the smile seemed even happier.

Stan lit a cigarette. He was rather a novice at crime, though he had read enough crime stories, and even tried to write one or two. But no one would buy them, and he had given up. His mother was sick, and they sold her house to pay for her care. For a while, he stayed in a loft over a garage, and washed cars to pay his rent. He went from odd job to odd job, spending most of his money on drink, with his hope leaking out as plentiful as the liquor. Then last night two men had come to talk to him. They “needed someone” to help with a “project,” for a handsome pay. He agreed. He put his hand into his pocket, and felt the cold hard steel of the gun.

Anita walked around the glow. The angel kept his face turned towards her. Then she asked, “Don’t you have a halo?”
“Of course I do,” the angel said. “Don’t you see it? Do I have it on wrong again?” The wings flapped a little, and the angel moved to the mirror at Annie’s dressing table.
He glanced at his reflection. “No, it looks correct. It has all my official colors, too: pearl-pink, pearl-white, and see the blue lining?”
“You mean all that glow is your halo? I thought a halo was like a gold ring for your head.”
“Oh, that kind,” smiled the angel. Those are, er, reserved, for others. But I am a cherubim and so I have this kind.”
Annie thought this over, and decided that she understood. Her Uncle Robert was in the Army, and last Christmas he had explained the uniforms of the different services.
“Why are you so small?”
The angel giggled. “Actually, I am very large, as angels go.”
“Are you my guardian angel?”
“Oh, no, my my, no,” and the angel showed the slightest hint of worry in its chubby face. “I wasn’t assigned. It takes a very special kind of angel to do that. Besides, I’m too large for that.”
“You mean guardian angels are small?”
“Oh, my, yes; they have to be small. Even though we all wear camouflage, someone might see us, and we do our work best when we’re not seen. It’s a matter of Policy.”
“You mean I could see my guardian angel if he wasn’t wearing camouflage?”
“Perhaps. But I won’t ask him for you. You could always ask him yourself.”
Annie decided she would try that later. “Can you see him now?”
“Yes, as well as I see God, or see you. But it’s different for angels, because we see things as they are.”
“Hmm.” Annie wasn’t sure about that. She knew about TV, of course, and that the people in the box in the living room were really in a studio somewhere, but she was still young enough to think that everything she saw was really what it was.
The angel understood her confusion, and plunged on to his business. “Where is your mother now?”
“Oh! Mother, Mother!” she cried. “She’s dead.” Annie put her hands over her face.
The glow increased, as if the sun shone into the room.
“She’s with us, and alive.” (How can a such baby voice sound stern? It’s an angelic secret.) “Only her body is dead, and not for long, either.”
“Why did God take her? Why is she gone?”
“Oh, Annie, God gives everyone a certain time for testing. But He has jobs for all of us, and some of us start work sooner, and some start later. Your mother’s job is getting underway tonight, and she’s already on her way to her first assignment. She has a sister, you know, in England.”
Annie had to look up, and the glow immediately came back to a more gentle level. “Yes, that’s Aunt Veronica. She’s in a nursing home over there.”
“That’s right. And she is worried about her roommate’s son, Stan. Earlier today, when the news about your mother came, Veronica asked her to speak to God about Stan. I had the honor of passing on your aunt’s message: it went direct to the throne! And so, your mother was given the assignment as Chief Agent. However, she knew about you, and sent me to offer you the role of Assistant.”
Annie smiled and wiped her eyes. An assignment from her mother! “Can I see her?”
Suddenly she saw a gleam of gold, like a thread, sparking upwards from the angel, through the ceiling and onwards. Instantly another shot down.
“No, she’s busy. She has the hard part. But there are a number of others who will be helping, and you might get to see them.”
Annie reached for her robe. “What is it I am to do?”
The angel winked. “You’re the one who has to figure that out.”

There was a mansion in the woods. It used to be part of a big estate, but years ago they had sold most of it. The buyer had given it to one of the colleges, and they had an observatory there, and the rest was part of a nature preserve. But one of the children who had lived there had grown up and gone into business and earned lots of money, and finally he moved back in, and bought pearls for his wife. Pearls and more pearls. “Far more than she could ever wear at once,” the man had told Stan when he described the “project.” Stan wondered why she should own them all, if she couldn’t wear them all at once. The man chuckled. “We thought we might do something about it.” The other made a grunting giggle: “Yeah, kind of help her out of her difficulty.” The three laughed.

“How am I supposed to know what to do?” Annie asked the angel, almost angrily. “I don’t even know her assignment.”
“I told you what it was: helping Stan, the son of your aunt’s roommate.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Annie said. “Sorry.”
The angel shrugged, which he did by a motion with his wings, just as if he had shoulders, as any good biologist would know.
“What is wrong with Stan?”
The baby face pouted. “He’s going to break into a house and steal some pearls. But he has a gun with him, and unless something happens very soon, he is going to kill the owner of the pearls.” The angel cleared his throat, as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.
“Oh!” cried Annie. “Doesn’t he know that’s wrong?”
“Yes, but he thinks that it’s wrong for the lady to have all those pearls. That’s not for him to decide. And taking the gun with him – he’s being used as a pawn. The men who told him about the pearls are being paid by the woman’s husband.”
“Wait. You mean, Stan is going to break into a house, steal the pearls, and kill the lady, because her husband hired some men to do it?”
“That’s right.”
Annie looked even more horrified than the angel. “Why would someone do that to his wife?”
“It’s not something angels understand.”
“But my mother is going to stop it?”
“She will try, but she needs your help.”
Annie looked glum, but for once it wasn’t because of her mother’s death – it was her own inadequacy. “I want to help. But how can I help her now, when she has angels like you to help?”
The baby face smiled, and spun around in glee. “That’s what God wants,” and he giggled. “It’s not how angels would do things, but you’re so good at it, when you want to be.”
Annie was mystified by this. An angel with a baby face and wings and a glow for a halo – that she could understand. But helping them at their work! This was not something the typical almost-ten-year-old got to do.
“And you have to hurry. He’s almost to the mansion.”
“What? You mean it’s happening now?”
“Yes. You have to help now.”

Stan had come to the little hill, at the top of which was the observatory. On the other side of the hill was the mansion. There was a dim light at the bottom of the hill, near the parking area, and he made his way close to it. He took the gun out and looked at it. It was all ready. He put it back into his pocket, and took out a cigarette, but then he decided not to light it. Someone might smell it. He would have it later. He decided to walk up the hill, thinking there would be small risk in being seen at such a late hour. Any astronomers there would be busy, as the night would not last much longer.

* * *

Annie wrapped the robe around her tightly, and looked around the room, searching for an idea. The angel followed her glance. She saw her toy box, her books, her desk, her doll on a chair, her dressing table with the nightlight in front of the statue of Mary. Annie looked at the statue, thinking. What did Mary do when the angel had asked her something? She prayed that God’s will be done. Well, she could do that, and the angel didn’t have to know she was asking God for an idea.
But a golden light shone out from her, and went to the angel, and bounded into the depths above.
The angel giggled. “Well, you’ll get your answer, but God wants you to do it yourself. Don’t worry! But think of something soon, because he’s at the observatory at the top of the hill, and on the other side of the hill is the mansion.”
Annie scratched her head. “What’s an observatory?”
“It’s a place for studying the stars.”
“Oh! With a telescope?”
“Yes.”
Annie went out to the little porch beside her room. The angel followed her. She looked up at the sky. “My father showed me some stars last week. Let’s see. That’s Vega, and that’s Deneb, and that’s Altair. They make the Summer Triangle.”
The angel nodded. “Correct.”
“And over there is Antares, in Scorpius. It’s a big star, and red.”
“Yes; I’ve seen it up close.” The angel looked especially pleased.
Annie thought back to what the angel had said earlier. “Didn’t you say you kept an eye on the stars?”
“Yes. I have to make sure they don’t get off their courses. Not that they can, but there is someone who is always trying to make things go wrong, and for some reason he tries meddling with the stars, when he can’t get you humans to go wrong.”
“And you put them right again?”
“Usually we keep matters from going so far.”
“You actually can control the stars?”
“Yes, it’s quite easy. I could not possibly control you, but a great big ball of nuclear fire is very easy to manage.”
Annie laughed, a good hearty laugh. Mercifully her brother and her Aunt Rose were on the other side of the house.
Entirely with complete selflessness, and out of sheer wonder, she turned and looked directly at the angel. “Could you show me?”
Again a golden beam shot upwards, and this time she saw it plunge into the depths of heaven. Another came down in answer, and stayed there for a few moments.
“Yes,” the angel said, with a little sigh of happiness. “Which star would you like to select?”
“Antares. It’s the biggest one I know.”
“I know some bigger ones, but it’s a good choice.” The angel came over to the railing right beside Annie. “First, I’ll have to find out if anyone else is looking, since we don’t have any extraordinary global miracles scheduled for tonight. It’ll only take a moment...”
Then for the merest moment, Annie glimpsed a maze of golden beams, all starting forth from the angel, and spreading out all over the ground and sky. “It’s all right; no one is watching, and the few observatories will be taken care of. Now keep your eyes on Antares, and I’ll show you a couple of things we can do.”
“I’m ready,” Annie said, but then she gulped, and cried, “Wait! What about Stan?”
The angel raised his eyebrows. “You’ve done what you were supposed to do. Now it’s up to me and your mother.” The angel took a deep breath, as if about to exert himself.
Then Annie gasped in amazement.

Stan had gotten to the top of the hill, and he was looking at the stars. It had been so long since he had looked at them. One of his stories was about an interstellar detective; he used to dream about riding on a spaceship. He remembered his mother reading him stories about detectives, and it was only to be expected that he would try to combine the two. That was long ago, and it didn’t work out. Now he was stuck doing something horrible like this. Then in his mind, he heard a voice.
“Stan, if you think it’s horrible, don’t do it. Stay here and look at the stars.”
He grunted. “Sure, why not? Lot of money in that.”
The voice came with a kind of chuckle. “You’re standing here by an observatory. The people who work here are paid to look at the stars.”
“Yeah, and they went to college.”
“So did you. But you look further than the stars. They can only write about what they see. You can write about things no one has seen.”
“No one wants the stories. I tried and I tried.”
Gently the voice explained, “Jules Verne and Arthur Conan Doyle were rejected their first tries, too.”
“And you think I’m as good as they were?”
“Your mother let me read your stories. You could be.”
“My mother is in a nursing home – how did you meet her?”
“Your mother’s roommate is my sister.”
The man rubbed his head. “ I’ve not had a job, or a decent meal for months. Then those men got me involved in this... If only God would give me just another chance!”
“You have it. Take it. You see that pipe there by the steps? It’s the vent of the cesspool for the observatory. Drop the gun in there. Then go and knock on their door.”

Stan straightened himself up. “OK, I will.”

He went over to the pipe. He took the bullets out, and dropped them in, then he dropped the gun in. He could just hear a faint splash. He rubbed his hands on his slacks, and ran them through his hair. “I’ll just say I’m lost. And it will be the truth.”
He went up to the door of the observatory, and knocked. As he stood there waiting, he looked up at the sky, wondering what that voice had been. He found Scorpius in the west, with reddish Antares in its heart.
Suddenly cold, he banged again on the door, and called out. “Hello? Anyone home?”
At his call, some birds flew up out of the trees, and as he looked again at Antares, he saw it change to green, then blue, then back to red. Then it moved across the sky, and left a trail of red. It traced out the letter “A”, then returned to its place, and again changed to green, then blue, and finally resumed its own color.
Behind him the door opened. A sturdy young man stood there smiling. “May I help you?”
“Wow.”
The young man followed Stan’s gaze. “Why do you say ‘Wow’? What was it? A meteor?”
“No. Isn’t Antares red?”
“Why, yes, it is.”
“Well it was green there, for a while, and then blue.”
The young man stared at Stan. “Have you been drinking?”
“No; I’m lost, but I’m not drunk.”
“Well, my colleague and I were looking at Antares just now, and we’ll soon see. We had expected a transit by one of the minor planets, and we were trying to verify our computations. You knocked just before the moment of the transit.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Stan was genuinely worried that he had interrupted an important advance of science.
“Not to worry,” said the other man. “It’s being recorded by a camera with a clock. The human eye might not notice something the film can. Besides, my associate was watching.”
They went up into the observatory. At the eyepiece of a telescope sat a woman. She stood up, an angry look on her face.
“I can’t believe it. Those birds flew past just at the very moment of the transit. You couldn’t have picked a worse moment to drop in.”
“Oh, Gail, stuff it. This is my sister, Gail Willis. I’m Gary Willis.”
“My name is Stan. Stan Robinson.” They shook hands.
“Well, maybe the camera got something,” sulked Gail. “Hurry up and develop it, would you, Gary?” She turned to Stan and said, “Would you like some tea?”
“Definitely.”
She took cups from a nearby shelf. “Say, what do you do?”
“I’m a struggling writer.”
The woman smiled at him. Thank God he wasn’t another astronomer. “Well, our father is a publisher. Maybe you can talk to him.”

Annie went back into her room. The only light came from the little night light. Then she heard a faint whimper. She opened the door and went out into the hall. The sound came from her brother’s room.
She knocked gently. “Tim, are you awake?”
“Yes.”
She went in and closed the door.
“Can’t you sleep?”
“I was asleep. But then I woke up, and it was dark.”
“It’s always dark at night, silly.”
“But my little nightlight is out.”
“Oh. I can fix that. I have an extra bulb.”
Quickly she went over to her room and took the bulb out of her own light. She ran back to Timmy’s room and put it into his light.
“Timmy, do you want me to tell you a story?”
“Yes. But it has to be a new story.”
“OK, I will, but you have to go right to sleep them.”
“I promise.”
“OK. Here’s the story. ‘Once upon a time there was a man who had a gun...’”

* * *

Timmy was asleep. Annie walked slowly back to her room. It was very dark there. All her nice things seemed to be turned into monsters looming in the dark. She remembered the angel telling her about someone who would try to put her off her course. She thought about how bright the angel was, and yet how small. Then she remembered about her guardian angel. And she asked, “Oh, guardian angel, would you please show yourself to me?”
There were no golden beams shooting around. No little baby face with wings, or lovely colored glows. But there was a tiny, tiny spot of gold quite near to her. She shut her eyes and it was gone; she opened them and there it was. She reached out, and her hand got in the way of the gleam; it seemed to be just beyond her hand.
“Is that really you?” she asked, but inside her head, not with her voice.
The light blinked three times.
Annie smiled. “Did you see what the cherubim did?”
Immediately the gold speck turned green and blue and red, and drew a letter “A,” returning to its original gold. Somehow she knew he was laughing.
“Is everything going to be OK now?”
The speck blinked three times, then flashed around, tracing an arrow pointing at her bed.
“And now, go to sleep,” she translated. “OK, I will.”
And she did.

In a distant village two men waited for Stan to contact them. They never did find him – he looked entirely different now.

* * *

A few weeks later, Annie received a package from England. It was a book called Antares Goes Green. There was also a photograph of a young man and woman, and a note:

“My mother told me to send you a copy of this book. She said you liked the stars, and so would appreciate it. I have enclosed a picture of another astronomer, who is very special to me.
Your humble servant,
Stan Robinson.”

Death In the Library

Death in the Library
(inspired by a real sign, in a real library, in a real school)

It was about 8:30 one Friday evening in November. Doctor Thomas Alethia, Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Collins University, was in the Philosophy section of Geiger Library, trying to find some "light" bedtime reading.
Suddenly, around the corner came Doctor Rosalita Edwardson, assistant professor of English.
"Oh, hello, Dr. Alethia," she said. "How nice to see you at work, ha, ha! I'm just getting a couple of books to read over the weekend."
Dr. Alethia looked at the stack of books she was carrying. "Planning a short bibliography?" It would have just three names: Doyle, Gardner, Verne.
"Oh, I'm not working. These cold nights, when Jack's out of town, I just love to read by the fire. It's such a relief from grading freshman essays. You should try it!"
"I do. In fact, I'll forgo this ontology tome in favor of one of Verne's travelogues."
Talking quietly of Verne's work, the two professors returned to the Fiction section, and after Dr. Alethia had made his selection, they proceeded to the checkout desk. She put her pile of books down, and the student worker glared at her.
"What's wrong? Too many books?" Dr. Edwardson smiled.
The sullen youth replied, "Didn't you see the sign?"
In bold capitals it stated:

CHECKOUT DESK CLOSES
15 MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING.

F. R. Hallen, Head Librarian

"No!" Dr. Edwardson shrilled. Her eyes flashed, revealing her Castilian ancestry. "I'm a professor here, and I want to take these books out tonight! Tomorrow will not do."
"Sorry, Professor," the checker mumbled. "It's Mr. Hallen's rule. But he's not here tonight. You'll have to talk to him about it on Monday. He gave me strict orders; I can't make an exception, even for staff." He did not look too upset; clearly he wanted to be finished working and enjoy his weekend.
"I certainly will talk to Mr. Hallen! I never heard of such a thing. 'We close before we close.' Not only redundant, but stupid, in an academic institution of the 21st century! Well, we might as well go," she finished, turning to he colleague with her eyes full of fire. Dr. Alethia put his books down on the desk and the two left.
The two professors walked towards the parking lot, "I can't believe them," fumed Dr. Edwardson. "That lazy Hallen. This library is terrible. Hallen doesn't care about the students or the staff. He's begging for retaliation. They think they have a lot of security, but there's something which can be taken from them without going through the door with it. That Hallen had better get organized, or he'll find out what it is!" Eyes still ablaze, she walked to her car and drove away. Dr. Alethia walked to his own car, wondering what she meant by her parting remarks.

* * *

It was the following April. Dr. Alethia was at home, reading the campus paper. The headline proclaimed: "Students cheer Dean Czerny's 25th." It was the story of the 25th anniversary dinner for Dean of Students Mikhail Czerny. It had been organized by the students, paid for by the students, and managed by the students. Not only was the man a great worker and truly devoted to the students, but they loved him and were devoted to him as well. Even the faculty were not immune to his powers of persuasion. Last year he had directed the students in organizing a fund drive to help St. Stephen's Hospital build a new surgical wing. Somehow he convinced the faculty to put on a talent show which was open to the public - and it was tremendous! Dr. Alethia gave a dramatic reading, and Dr. Edwardson, granddaughter of a great flamenco dancer, showed her abilities were not limited to the classroom. The amount raised was significant, and one of the operating rooms was named the "Collins Suite" though most students tried to get it named the "Czerny Suite" instead. He was a real campus legend, loved by the students, faculty and administration.
Dr. Alethia finished reading the menu and had just gotten to the list of speakers when the telephone rang. "This is Dr. Alethia."
"Oh, Dr. Alethia! He's dead! What'll we do?"
He recognized the voice immediately - it was Audrey Rollins, one of his sophomore students. "Calm down, Miss Rollins, and tell me who is dead. Remember to be accurate, even when you are emotional." He was gentle, but firm, having learned that was the best manner when dealing with emotional issues in class.
"It was Dean Czerny! He was killed. It happened just a short while ago, over in the library." She sounded as if she were about to begin sobbing.
"Well put. Succinct. Now, where are you calling from?"
"I'm at the campus phone just outside. I was about to go in to study, but there were a lot of cops at the main entrance, and they weren't allowing anyone to go in. I saw one of my friends there, and she told me that Dean Czerny had died."
"Very clearly put. Stay there, and I will come right over."

* * *

Dr. Alethia lived just a few blocks off campus, and it was relatively mild that night. As he strolled over, he prayed silently for the deceased; Dean Czerny had been a great influence for good on campus, and would be impossible to replace. Miss Rollins was not to be found. There was a large number of students gathered in front of Geiger Library. Someone had gone to a local grocery store, and purchased a quantity of candles, and the students were holding a vigil. Stan Kirkpatrick, the Student President, was addressing the assembly. "Our vigil will continue until the one responsible for this crime is brought to justice!" Kirkpatrick finished his speech, then spotting Dr. Alethia beneath a street light, the student leader came over to the professor and told him what was known. It appeared that the Dean had just entered the library when the fire alarm sounded. The fire engines came quickly, and when they searched the building, they found a body, but no fire. The building had been emptied of occupants, so it was too late to seek witnesses. Nevertheless, the firemen had forbidden entry until the police arrived. Since the deceased was identified by a student volunteer firefighter, the word leaked out, and students gathered quickly, hoping to find out more. Those who had left when the fire alarm rang had remained in the vicinity, and joined the others.
Dr. Alethia was a little surprised that there were no faculty in the gathering, and asked Kirkpatrick if he had seen any.
"Yes, I saw Dr. Edwardson, but she left rather hurriedly. The head of Chemistry, ah, is it Dr. Yong? was checking some books out, and he ran like a cheetah when the bell went off. Dr Toby, I believe is still inside, and so is Mr. Hallen, of course. And I think old Mrs. King is around somewhere. But she won't be any help. I don't even think she knew the bell went off. But that's all I saw. Oh, Dr. Alethia, won't you please try to find out what happened?"
Dr. Alethia assured him that he would attempt to do so, then went up to the door of the library.
The professor recognized the officer at the door, who told him, "The Lieutenant was expecting you; he's up on the third floor." Alethia and Carlson had attended elementary school together, and had remained good friends since. They saw each other frequently, on or off campus - sometimes professionally.
The professor found Michael Carlson directing the efforts of several other officers. The body lay half in and half out of one of the aisles of books. A pile of maybe a dozen books were on the floor in the main aisle. The photographers had finished, and the scattered books were being examined for fingerprints.
"Tom!" Lieutenant Carlson spotted the professor. "C'mon over and take a look. It's a real puzzle, just what you like. He's been strangled, it appears."
"Now, Mike, I told you!" the medical examiner complained. "There's something disturbing about this. Thumbprints, yes. Hyoid broken, yes. But there's something not quite right. We'll have to explore..."
"Oh, all right. It might have been a strangling. Now tell me, Tom, who hated this guy? I read the campus paper, and I thought he was the campus Santa Claus. But why are all these books all over the place?"
The cameraman said, "Oh, surely he knocked them down as fell."
The officer working on the fingerprints looked up and shook her head. "Surely not. There are no books missing on these shelves. In fact, they are not from anywhere near this section of the library. I've spent enough time with both the Dewey and the Library of Congress systems to know that."
"Officer Ruther is right," Lieutenant Carlson stated. "Oh, Sandra, meet an old friend of mine, Thomas Alethia. He's a professor here. Tom, this is Sandra Ruther." The two nodded, and Ruther returned to her work.
The Lieutenant gestured to the books. "And that is what makes the puzzle, Tom. Just take a look at these titles." Carlson stooped down and read some of the titles:

Guide for the Military Officer.
Non-Professional Hospital Careers.
My Life as a Priest.
Advanced Group Theory.
Yachting.
The History of Fast-Food Corporations in America.
Change-Ringing in England and America.
Inventory Management for Small Businesses.
Sorting Algorithms.

He straighened up and stared at the professor. "What's change ringing, anyway? A lot of random nonsense, it sounds like, to me."
"But was he holding them, or was someone else?" queried Officer Ruther. "I'll know when I check these prints."
"Ah," said the professor, leaning over to look at the pile of books on the floor. He straightened up and smirked. "The common theme of these titles? Offhand, I can think of none."
"A lot of help you are," smiled Carlson. "Give a guy a Ph.D. and he thinks he can solve any problem."
"No, only the unimportant ones," Alethia replied. "The real ones can only be lived through, not worked out using a calculator, or a thesaurus. But Mike, make me a list of those books, just for fun."
Officer Ruther continued to collect prints from the scattered books, glancing up as if seeking permission. Carlson nodded.

Doctor Alethia bent down to look at the dean's face. It was not pleasant, but he had to see it. Even in death it had some strange humor about it, as if there was one final joke he wanted to tell. The professor could not guess what it might be.
"Mike," the professor said, shaking his head. "He wasn't a research dean. He was the dean of students. He would not have been collecting books for a journal article. In fact, I'm not sure I can think of a reason why he was here."
"Maybe he just wanted to read a book," Ruther said.
The investigation proceeded in silence. Carlson paced back and forth, making notes. Dr. Alethia pondered the books and the body, trying to collect his thoughts.
"What's this?" Carlson had walked down the hall a few paces, seeking a different vantage point. He was staring at the fire alarm box on the wall. It had been the one which had signaled the alarm earlier. He beckoned to Ruther, who pulled out a large magnifying glass, and using tweezers, she pulled out a thin strip of paper from behind the alarm box.
"It's probably too small for prints. But I'll check it anyway, at the lab." She put it into an envelope, and marked it.
Mike Carlson looked thoughtful. "Check this alarm box, too. But I'll bet there are no prints. You had better check this whole area as well. I'm going to go see what the librarian has to say. Are you coming, Tom?"

The professor accompanied him down to the main floor. Dr. Toby, the chairman of the philosophy department, was just coming out of a study room with another officer, who addressed the his superior: "Lieutenant, we have his statement. Do we need anything more from him?"
"Not just now. You'll be available if we need you, Dr. Toby?"
"Certainly; where would I go? I have classes," he replied in a haughty tone. "My office hours are posted on my door." He was stuffy as always - to students, faculty, or anyone. Dr. Alethia wondered whether his chairman would concede the existence of the world beyond the Collins campus.
"Very well, you may go," Mike Carlson ordered. "And now for Hallen." Dr. Alethia followed him down the hall to the office of the librarian.

"It's terrible, terrible!" mourned Frederick Hallen, the librarian. "I really can tell you nothing more. I was here when the alarm went off, and then I heard of the horrible discovery of Dean Czerny. Even now I can hardly think of it." And he shook with emotion.
"We have a complete statement," reported the interviewing officer as he stood to salute his superior.
"You can go, providing you remain in the locality," stated Carlson. "Your fingerprints are on record, are they not?"
"Yes, of course." Hallen was still shaking. "The military, you know. Dean Czerny did so much good for the school, the students. He always had their welfare in mind. Ah, it's a loss."

"You suspect him?" Dr. Alethia asked Carlson after Hallen had gone.
"We suspect everyone - even you!" the Lieutenant chuckled. "But," he added, shaking his head, "it's wide open. There was every opportunity to leave the scene, once that alarm went off. We've only begun. There's no inkling of a motive - not with him loved by everyone. We had a problem dealing with Mrs. King - she only hears what she wants to hear, I guess. She's American, but her accent sounds Eastern European. I think we'll have to look into Czerny's private life. It's been a few decades since there had been difficulties over in the Eastern European countries, but sometimes there are old hatreds, old fears. We'll find out." But Tom did not look very convinced. "It's going to be a real tricky one."

* * *

The next day, Dr. Alethia was on his way to class when he saw a group of students outside the library, still holding candles.
There was a message in his department mailbox to call Mike Carlson. After class the professor called his friend, and learned that the only fingerprints on the scattered books had been Dean Czerny's. The strip of paper had not been found to match any of those books, nor had its origin been determined. "I'll stop by campus and leave the list of books for you. We took them all over to the lab, but we'll be bringing them back tomorrow, so you can check them yourself, if you like."
"I'm only interested in their titles and authors, Mike. Did the coroner learn anything about the cause of death?"
"I'm still waiting for a call. The time they take! I'll call you after I hear from them."

Dr. Alethia decided to eat in the faculty dining room, in order to see how the news had touched his co-workers. The atmosphere there was subdued. After he got his tray, he saw Dr. Yong and some others about to sit down, so he went over to join them.
"Dr. Yong, I believe? I am Thomas Alethia, of Philosophy."
"Ah, Dr. Alethia." He rose, and bowed slightly. "I am happy to meet you, alas, on a sad day for our school." He introduced the others at the table, all of the chemistry department.
"Yes, I was there last night, before I found out what had happened. I was looking up the distinguishing chemistry of the Lanthanides when I heard that bell." He was suddenly pale, and his voice got higher. "It was just the same bell! The same as on the day of the explosion, when Li Phan died! Ah!" I saw a tear begin to run down his face, then he wiped it away. "Excuse me, please. My fiancee died in a terrible explosion in the lab where I was doing my graduate work. I heard that same bell again last night, and I was terrified. Please excuse me. I shall return to my office now, I am no longer hungry." He rose and bowed, and left, no longer restrain his tears - of loss, and of embarrassment at his own fear of last night.
"To be so moved at death?" asked one of the younger chemists, blandly shaking his head. "Is not the body just a few kilograms of salts, and not exotic ones at that?"
"Your asking that question would tend to answer it in the negative," Dr. Alethia stated, suddenly no longer hungry. "Please excuse me, I have some business to attend to." He left the table, rather perturbed at the sloppy thinking of Dr. Yong's colleague.

* * *

Dr. Alethia had invited Lieutenant Carlson and his wife to his apartment for a barbecue that evening, but yesterday's warmth was a misleading harbinger of spring. Alethia was frying hamburgers at the stove. Mike and his wife Mildred were seated in the small living room, supplied with frosty mugs of beer. The kitchen/dining area and living room were divided only by a counter, and they were able to converse easily while the professor cooked.
"It's gotten more confusing, rather than less." Mike stated. "The autopsy showed that Czerny died of heart failure, which definitely preceded the strangulation."
"Oh, really?" Alethia asked him. "Is this certain?"
"Yes. I guess it was his color which was so unsettling to our medical examiner - not quite the bluish cast seen in the typical strangulation. And keep this to yourself. We still have to find out what really happened."
The burgers were finished, and the salad was already on the table. Dr. Alethia grabbed three more beers from the refrigerator, mixed the dressing, and they began to eat. He told them of his day on campus, how the vigil was still proceeding, and the strange history of Dr. Yong. Mike talked about other parts of the investigation, none of which had resulted in any progress.
After dinner, the three returned to the living room, and had coffee.
"Mike, give him the list you promised him," scolded Mildred.
"Here it is." He handed it to the professor, who started to look it over.
Mike sat down again and sipped some coffee. "I couldn't get over to campus as I promised. Ruther typed it up, and made an extra copy for you. She even put it into alphabetical order."
Dr. Alethia was reading the list, and not really attentive to his remarks. It was a habit he had tried to break himself of - always tuning out the world while he read. He only heard the last few words he said, and jerked to a mental halt. "What did you just say?"
"Officer Ruther put the books into alphabetical order. She thought it would be neater that way, though she has a diagram we made from one of the cameraman's shots which shows where each book was located. Do you want that?"
"No. I want... No, I'm not sure. Wait a bit."
The room was silent. "You didn't find out where that strip of paper in the fire alarm came from, did you?"
"No. But not from any of those books. It was a piece of thin cardboard, actually. More like the cover of a paperback - but every one of those books near Czerny were hardcover. The lab is trying to determine the dye - that may tell us the publishing company."
"What I would like to determine is what someone can take from a library without going through the door with it. And you've just told me what it is. It's the common concept among all these books - or at least among those I recognize. Let me make a call."
"There's a common thread among these titles? You've got to be joking." Mike smiled, and Mildred smirked her agreement.

Dr. Alethia merely proceeded to dial. "Hello, Dr. Edwardson? Yes, are you busy? Could you come over to my home? It won't take long. I want to ask your opinion about the format of a paper I'm writing. No, it's too intricate to explain over the phone. I've got a new recording of some medieval Spanish organ music, also. No, it's Soler. It's very good. Come over! You will? Good. See you." He hung up. "She's coming. But you are going to have to disappear. Let's see. I'll just open the cellar door, and you can wait down there. She'll tell me more if she doesn't know you are here."
"You don't think she is involved?"
"I don't know, but I've got an idea which will clear up some of the confusion about this case."

* * *

Rosalita Edwardson came about twenty minutes later. "So where is this paper?" she asked.
"Here. It's only the bibliography I'm concerned with." Dr. Alethia handed her the list from Lieutenant Carlson.
"Well, Tom, I'm surprised at you. The author always goes before the title, and you didn't..." She broke off, as she realized the content of the list.
"You've been moving some books around, haven't you?" he asked very gently. "I know what it is you can take from a library without going through the door with it. You very cleverly pointed that out. How long has this been going on?"
Eyebrows raised, she glared at Alethia as if he were insane. "What? I took something? What did I take? What do you mean, 'how long has this been going on?'"
"Oh, come, Rosalita. I remember that day back in November, when you couldn't take the books out. 'We close before we close', remember? You told me that you would do something - take something from them. I know what it is. The common concept among all these books - the word "order." A library would be chaos without some kind of order, and you decided to scramble it. Just a little bit, I know, but enough to make you feel satisfied, retaliating for their absurd rule."
Her face contorted, as if about to laugh. Then tears began.
"Yes, you are right! I moved the books. But I had nothing to do with Dean Czerny's death. Nothing! I saw him in there last night. He was furious. I heard him grumbling in some foreign language. He had a handful of books, and he walked down the aisle, passing me without even acknowledging my presence. God, it was the last time I ever saw him, and he didn't even see me," she sobbed.
Dr. Alethia knew that Dean Czerny had always paid the utmost respect to any woman he met. Nor was his courtesy lacking to men, either. Moreover, he was never known to speak except in English, with but the slightest accent.
"I believe you," Alethia said in a level tone. "Though the events of last night are still unclear. Just let me ask you a few questions. Where were you when you saw him?"
"On the third floor." She wiped her eyes, and became less agitated.
"Was there anyone else around?"
"I had just seen Mr. Hallen. He told me that he had requisitioned a certain reference for me through the inter-library loan program. That floor was rather empty, I recall."
"Was he carrying anything?"
"Yes, a book or two. I only saw him for a few moments."
"Is there nothing else you can recall about last night?"
"No. I feel so embarrassed about this. And scared. I didn't kill Dean Czerny! How could I? He invited me to dance in our show. He sent me roses afterwards. I loved him, as nearly every student and teacher at Collins loved him."
"I'm sure of it. But now, go home and get some sleep. Be sure you talk to Lieutenant Carlson tomorrow about your 'theft'."

* * *

After she left, Mike and Mildred came back into the living room. "You've figured it all out, haven't you?" asked Carlson.
"No. And there's only one way to confront the murderer, or rather the perpetrator. With evidence. But it's going to require a trick. And a lot of hard work. We need to find the book where that strip of paper came from. It should be fairly easy. I'll just make another phone call."

* * *

Dr. Alethia called Stan Kirkpatrick, but he wasn't at home. So he walked over to the library, where the student leader and about fifty other students were keeping their candlelight vigil. Several other student leaders were there, and the professor explained how they could help solve the mystery of Czerny's death. These few spread the word quickly: "Be at the front steps of the library at 9 PM!"

* * *

And so began what came to be called the "Great Collins Book Search." Hundreds of Collins students gathered on the front steps of the library. It was quite a spectacle. Graduate students left their laboratories, and undergraduates left their dorms. The Iota Nu Kappa Sorority was there, and their arch-rivals, Theta Omicron Psi. Xi Omega Psi Fraternity was there, together with Eta Alpha Omicron, Lambda Rho Lambda and Psi Xi Chi. It was not quite a tenth of the campus student population, but it would be sufficient.

Dr. Alethia explained to them what had to be done. Lieutenant Carlson and Officer Ruther were also there; she had a fingerprint kit with her.

The crowd began filing into the library. The total shelf area was divided into sections, each to be examined by a team of students. Their instructions were simple, though the work was tedious - they were to verify that the every single book in the entire library was in its proper place. Moreover, they had been supplied with index cards, as they were not to touch any book which was found out of place until it had been checked for fingerprints.

The noise volume went up considerably as the searchers began their work. But Mr. Hallen was not around, and the very few scholars at work were quick to excuse themselves when it was explained that the search was for clues to Czerny's death.

Officer Ruther was slowly working her way through the library, followed by Mike and myself. He kept a list of the misplaced books. It seemed that Dr. Edwardson had been busy - nearly one hundred books on "order" were out of their assigned positions. There were, of course, perhaps another hundred which had probably been misfiled. After all, it was not reasonable to suppose she was guilty of every misfiled book. In fact, Dr. Alethia was almost certain there was one in particular that had not been near Dean Czerny - a book which had been moved by someone other than Dr. Edwardson.

The evening passed slowly. Dr. Alethia walked through the library, trying to find an explanation, but he knew that only the one responsible could give it. Then he noticed the map cabinet just outside of the hall to the librarian's offices. He pulled open the top drawer, and there it was. It had to be the book. The title fitted exactly. It even had a small tear in its paper cover. Then he hurried to find the police officers.

"Yes, his prints are here," Officer Ruthen stated. "I've only done a quick check, but I have no doubt at all. Now, can you explain what happened?"
The Lieutenant shook his head, then looked at Dr. Alethia and said "Well, Doctor?"
"Our only chance is to confront him. He's not going to face a murder charge, after all, and I'm willing to bet that there is some kind of extenuating circumstances. Let's go see him."

They dismissed the students, telling them that a clue had been found, but a complete explanation was not yet available. Then they left for Mr. Hallen's home.

* * *

"You found that book!" Hallen was pale. "Where? I looked all over the library for it. Somehow, not a single book on that topic was in its proper place. I can't imagine how it happened. It's the same one that Czerny was looking for when he..."
"Yes? when he what?" Lieutenant Carlson asked him.
"Ah, I give up. Why should I try to hide my guilt?" Hallen covered his face with his hands. "I killed him! He accused me of wrecking the library. Of keeping books from the students, and from the staff. He swore at me. He was furious, and told me I would be fired, and never get a library job again. So I choked him to death."
"No, Fred. I don't believe you." Dr. Alethia went over to him, and patted him on the back. "We know that he died of a heart attack before the strangulation. Now why don't you tell us what happened?"
"You know that? Oh, then I might as well tell you. But I won't be able to face the students again. It was stupid of me, but I thought I was doing them a favor. I didn't want Czerny's memory spoiled. I mean," he gasped for breath, "I admired him too, though that may be hard for you to understand."
He went and got himself some water. Then he sat down, and began the story: "I had just gone to the fiction section to get some bedtime reading material, and I found that book you're holding stuck between two Jules Verne stories. I took it, and was going to return it to its place, when I saw Dean Czerny walking down the aisle towards me. His face was red, and he was muttering under his breath. When he saw me, he shook his fist at me and yelled, 'The books are all mixed up. Why do you have such a sloppy library?' He said more, too, which I cannot repeat. He was rude and I swore at him. Then, as I came closer to him, he saw the book I was carrying, and his manner changed. 'Ah, I was wrong. You have anticipated my need and...' then he broke off, clutched his chest, and fell over. I yelled his name, and felt for a pulse. He was dead. I suddenly feared that he had been heard, and that his image would be destroyed in death. And so I put my hands around his throat, and crushed it!" He sobbed again, and they waited for him to recover. "It was stupid. I guess I should have called for emergency medical support, and they might have saved him. But somehow, I felt angry about the mixed-up books which had angered him, and I just reacted. Then I used that book to ring the fire alarm, so that my fingerprints would not be on the alarm handle. But then I completely forgot where I put the book. I deal with so many, and I guess I had no worry that it could be traced to me. With the mass exodus due to the fire alarm, I figured that the possibility of any suspicion would be lost. But then you come here, with the book, and with the true facts of his death. I guess you can take me away, now."
"I don't think so," said Lieutenant Carlson. "We will want a statement from you, but we can do that now, and you need not come to the station tonight. You should have used a little more thought, however."
"There's just one thing I'm confused about," Hallen said. "Why did his manner change so quickly when he saw that book?"
"I think I can tell you," Dr. Alethia told them. "I forgot all about it until I saw this book. I had dinner with him a few weeks ago and he said that despite his many years of academic experience, he had never learned parliamentary procedure. He seemed embarrassed to tell me, but he said he felt it was a personal shortcoming, and he wanted to remedy the situation. I told him that there were sure to be several good explanatory books in the library, but I guess those were the ones he couldn't find."
"Why couldn't he find the books?" asked Hallen.
"Oh, I'll tell you, when you explain why you close the circulation desk fifteen minutes before the library closes. And it has a lot to do with the title of this book." Dr. Alethia handed him the paperback which he had used to set off the fire alarm - a book which led to a strangler, not guilty of murder - a book called Robert's Rules of Order.