Dr. Thursday's Stories

Dr. Thursday's Card Catalog

2009-02-17T16:25:00.003-05:00

Quiet! And a hearty welcome. This collection shall never surpass that of the complete works of Bastian Balthasar Bux (the hero of The Neverending Story) but I hope it will be of interest to you.

Please no eating or drinking in the library! Laughing, however, is tolerated, and also quiet discussion. Other rules may be posted from time to time - and please don't put your gum on the keyboard!

You may begin reading now.

--Dr. Thursday

* * * * * *
The Catalog:

2009:
Jan 24: Caution: This Story Uses Cookies (Joe the Control Room Guy)

2008:
Dec 19 Another Christmas Eve (Joe the Control Room Guy)
Oct 23 Killer Keyboard (mystery)
Oct 20 Special Guests (sequel to A Special Guest)
Sep 26 Field Trip (Joe the Control Room Guy)
Sep 2 A Special Guest (supernatural)
Aug 30 The Call of WILD (Joe the Control Room Guy)
Aug 14 Rocky Days (Gospel Glimpse)
Aug 5 Death In the Library (mystery)
Aug 3 A Stellar Assignment (supernatural)
Aug 2 I Too Know What It Means... (Gospel Glimpse)

Older items:

"A Famous Date" (September 11, 2001) (Joe the Control Room Guy)
A Family Matter (Gospel Glimpse)
Experienced Armies (supernatural)
Green, Green and Green (mystery)
Mike's Job (scientific allegory)

Caution: This Story Uses Cookies

2009-01-24T12:08:00.000-05:00

Joe the Control Room Guy
in
Caution: This Story Uses Cookies

It was around quarter of seven on a pleasant June morning, and the sun was shining. Joe Outis yawned as he drove down the quiet tree-lined street. He parked across from a three-story brick building, tossed his id badge in the glove compartment, got out, and went up the five stone steps, digging in his pocket for the key. Once in the vestibule, he checked his mailbox out of habit – there was nothing, as he had emptied it yesterday afternoon – then unlocked the inner door and came into the downstairs hall.
“Hello, Joseph,” came a soft elderly voice. He saw his landlady’s face peering through the barely opened door to her first floor apartment. “You won’t forget about the yard today, will you?”
“No, Mrs. Bunter; I’ll do it first thing after I wake up.”
“Good,” she nodded. “I’ll have some cookies for you afterwards.”
“OK, see you later, then,” Joe said, and went up the stairs. Last week he had promised her to tidy up the small yard behind the house. He enjoyed doing yard work and looked forward to having his own, and he also looked forward to those chocolate chip cookies, hot out of the oven, with a big glass of milk... But that would be later: for the moment, he would simply heat a can of soup for his dinner, then get some sleep. He cocked an ear as he went past the second floor apartment, and heard faint sounds of activity. Charlene Pritkin, a cellist in the local symphony, lived there. Today must be a rehearsal day, so she would be out of the house by eight. She never practiced in the apartment, though on days after concerts she slept in until noon. Joe snickered to himself as he went up the stairs to his own apartment, remembering the first time it had happened – her singing in the shower had woken him. He had been to several concerts, so he knew she played far better than she sang.

* * *

The day passed. The TV alarm went off at 15:45, and Joe jumped out of bed. Yawning, he checked the calendar. He meeting his girlfriend for dinner – she was coming over to watch the midget car trials Joe’s company had scheduled for that afternoon. But now, he would spend an hour on the yard, get a shower and some cookies, then head over to work. He pulled on some old clothes and went down the back stairs.
It was not a very big yard, compared to the ones on either side, as it had a shed and a garage. The one on the right was well-tended, with a number of roses and other flowering bushes. But the one on the left was overgrown with weeds. Mrs. Bunter had a couple of rose bushes, some tubs with flowers and others with herbs, and a small vegetable garden. As Joe began picking out weeds, he was surprised to see the back door on the left open. Two men came out in uniforms reading “Slough Landscaping” and carrying gas-powered weed whackers. Joe nodded to them, but they did not seem to notice him. Soon the air vibrated with the whine of the engines as they set to work. Fortunately, Mrs. Bunter’s vegetable patch was on the right – Joe didn’t have any goggles and did not want to get hit in the eye by a flying pebble.
It was almost ten before five when Joe finished the vegetable patch. The whine of the weed whackers had been continuous. He glanced towards the other yard; he would have to let the tubs on that side go for today. He decided that he could water everything tomorrow morning when he got back after work. For now, he would get some cookies, then get ready for his date. And then, he nodded with a grimace, another night shift of encoding. Well, this time he would remember to take some of those cookies along.

* * *

After some milk, a handful of cookies and a shower, Joe drove to work. He had to park in the lot next door, as the back part of the company lot had been blocked off, and the rest was full with the cars of other co-workers. In the empty back lot, a test track had been set up, lined with traffic cones and bales of hay. People were milling around: some were watching the fun, others were looking at the company’s midget go-kart which had been entered in the local fair later that week. Over a dozen people wanted to drive, so it had been decided that time trials would be held. Anyone who wanted to try out could do so – and the fastest driver would be the company’s entry in the race. Joe had signed up, but his girlfriend didn’t know it – yet. He hoped he would find her before it was his turn to drive. He didn’t really expect to win, but he was really looking forward to seeing her expression when they called his name.
Joe made his way through the mob, nodding to people from Traffic, Field Services, Development, Production, and even some from his own Operations department. Some he had met while he was training during the day, and some he knew from e-mails or from other interactions, though he was not really certain of many outside of Field Services and Operations. There were even some of Upper Management putting in a token appearance: he recognized one individual in a vest as their corporate lawyer. Near the back door, Human Resources had set up a grill, and were burning hot dogs – it was too early in Joe’s day for that kind of food, but they had soda too, so he helped himself to some. Circus music was blasting from speakers, borrowed from Production.

“Joe, there you are. Want a hot dog?”
Golden-brown hair with a barely noticeable cowlick, soft, round cat-like face, a snappy blue outfit... It was Ann. She must have gotten here early.
“No, thanks, too early for me. You want a soda?”
“Got some already. Lot of people here – I saw your boss, but his phone went off and he went back inside.”
“Yeah, it happens.” Joe gulped soda, hoping that she hadn’t had time to talk with Jeff and find out that he was signed up as a driver. “Let’s go over and look at the car, ok?”
“Sure.”

They went over to the “pit area” where most of the Field Techs were hanging out. The cart was not much more than a small frame, wheels, and an engine, probably not capable of more than ten miles an hour. The Tech Shop guys and two Field Techs were in charge of the engineering aspects of the car. Before the race, a decorative cardboard “body” would be added, more for the sake of advertising, and the pre-race parade, than for utility; that part was being prepared over in Production. Joe had heard that they were holding yet another design contest – the production department had changed logos at least twice since he had started there. No one knew what the new logo was going to look like, but everyone hoped it would be something recognizable, as their last logo was some complicated curve around multi-colored initials, and no one was sure what it meant.
In the pit area, the Field Techs were horsing around as usual, trying to make each other choke on their hot dogs. Paul, the head of the Tech Shop, had wheeled his toolbox out and was making a final adjustment to the car. The fat guy from Development was standing there watching; Paul said something witty about the engine, and they both started laughing. Joe nodded to the two, then Paul asked, “You going to try out, Doc?”
“I’d like to, but no way I can fit in that. Besides,” he chuckled, “it’s not my kind of engine.”
Paul laughed again, then announced, “OK, where’s our first driver?”
One of the Field Techs replied, “Might as well do Freddy first, then we all know what time we have to beat. Hey Freddy! Get over here!”
Freddy appeared, gulping down a hot dog. “So, so. Paul, you tested this here car, right?”
“Sure, Freddy, had it running test laps all night. And all the other field techs took their turns being crash-test dummies. Now it’s your turn.” He handed Freddy a helmet, and started the go-kart engine. Joe winced a little, as the car’s motor sounded annoyingly like the weed-whackers they had been using in the neighbor’s yard.
“Watch Marty,” Paul told Fred, “he’s the starter. Three times around the track, Freddy.”
Fred pulled on the helmet and got into the cart. He rolled slowly up to the starting line, where Marty from Accounting and Monica from Production waited with stop watches in hand.
“Our first driver today, and last year’s winner, is our very own Fearless Freddy Stator from Field Services!”
The crowd cheered and clapped. The Field Techs booed and laughed – the Field Techs call it “tough love.” But even those few who had dared to go up the big antennas knew nobody was like Fearless Freddy, who had beaten the headend techs at three different sites, racing up their own antennas...

“You ready, Freddy?” Monica asked. “I always wanted to say that,” she giggled to herself, “a crazy little thing called love.”
Fred nodded; then Marty waved an authentic-looking green flag. (Production could get any kind of prop they needed.) Freddy gunned the motor, and took off down the cone-marked track, while the crowd cheered. Joe watched Ann while Ann watched Fred – she didn’t seem worried. Heck, he thought: one could almost run the race faster than that little car.

Even so, three laps went by fast. Marty had the regulation winning checked flag out to wave Freddy over the finish line. Fred brought the little machine out to the pit, while Marty and Monica whispered to each other, and made notations on their clipboards.
Fred pulled off the helmet and got out. “Paul, it pulls to the left a little. And I think the right rear tire is wobbling.” Another Field Tech patted him on the back and handed him a hot dog.
Paul nodded, a power screwdriver in his hand. “OK, I’ll tighten that up right now. Thanks, Fred.” He yelled over to the judges, “Hey Marty, give me a minute, ok?”

Marty waved for the crowd’s attention. “We’ll announce the times at the end.” This announcement was met with hisses and boos. “While we’re waiting for the pit crew to finish, let’s get our next driver up here... Joe Outis from Operations!”
“Joe!” Ann stared, a doubtful smile starting to form. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope,” Joe said, pulling on the helmet.
“So that’s why you wanted me here,” she said, laughing. “You big joker.”
“Can’t hear you,” Joe said, tapping the helmet. He flipped down the visor so she couldn’t see him laughing too.

As Joe got into the car, the Field Techs booed and laughed. Tough love. (It’s not just for Field Techs.) It was a tight fit – he was definitely at the upper limit as far as size was concerned. The wheel was very tight, and the gas pedal seemed to be almost unreactive.
Marty waved the flag, and Joe went down the track. There seemed to be turn after turn – it was a figure eight course, after all – and it took a lot of work to turn the wheel first one way then the other. The car seemed to be barely moving – it felt like he had been driving for hours... Then there was the checkered flag! He brought the car to a halt, struggled out, and pried off the helmet. And there was Ann, throwing her arms around him! “You were wonderful, the best, just the best...”
“Sure,” Joe nodded, trying to straighten his legs. “How about getting a soda?”
The next driver was called up. The Field Techs booed and laughed.

* * *

The crowd had dispersed, and the back lot cleared. Paul had needed to enlist the Field Techs to lug the cart back into the Tech Shop: the last driver – Bill from Traffic – had gone off the track into a hay bale, and a wheel had come off. Bill was permanently banned from ever driving again, and the Field Techs had laughed themselves silly. Joe had walked Ann back to her car – after all those hot dogs, she told him, she wasn’t really interested in dinner – but they could meet tomorrow morning for breakfast, couldn’t they? Joe sighed and nodded, and waved as she left the parking lot. Only a couple of hundred spots from now... “‘Wonderful,’ she said – ‘the best’!” He smiled, then went to his own car and parked in the back lot.

When Joe got into the Control Room, he found Jeff, his supervisor on the telephone. “Joe, good you’re here early. There’s a lot to encode today. They dropped off a bunch of those "Exploring" five-minute spots, and there was almost a full cart of the regular stuff. Then they had everybody out helping with the time trials, so we’re really backed up. On top of that, the video library crashed about noon, and Paul had major problems getting it to come back – so we couldn’t do encoding anyway – but at least it’s back up now.”
“Wow, what a day. Anything going on?” Joe indicated the phone.
“I’m on hold,” Jeff said, rolling his eyes. “The security system started flaking out this morning; the doors are locked now, and I’ve been trying to get their support and keep getting put on hold.”
“Anybody else in tonight?”
“No; If I get some response soon, I’ll hang out for a while and give you a hand with those spots, but I’ve had a long day, and...” The phone squawked, and Jeff nodded to Joe. “Finally – a human!”

* * *

Encoding, watching the WATCHERs, and first-response trouble-shooting – those were Joe’s usual duties. All too often the emphasis was on encoding – he was probably up to some twenty thousand by now, he thought. Someday he would ask. Tonight, the first thing was to sort through the tapes and look for spots which were needed tomorrow – he would do those first.
As luck would have it, most of the spots needed for tomorrow were the five-minute ones. He would get them done first, as they took longer to be sent out to the field over the satellite. Of course they were just as boring as usual: interviews of strutting local politicians from suburbs he had never heard of, or wealthy local businessmen who spent advertising money on cable television spots. Any possible elements of interest were carefully suppressed by interviewers who were specially trained in modern dullness-enhancement techniques. Joe shook his head as he put another finished spot on the cart, and grabbed the next one. Jeff was still on the phone – at least he wasn’t on hold. Great: not only was this id number unreadable, it was one of those "Exploring" spots – the Control Room personnel always used euphemisms about them, because they were the insipid productions of a very dull relative of some exec at the Big Cable Place. These five-minute spots were the last word in dullness: a camera crew followed her around while she did common, boring activities, then she overdubbed this with even more boring commentary. This one was called “What are the musts in your kitchen?” Joe wrinkled his nose, got up and checked the encoding slip against the Pump list – sometimes it gave a clue when the id was hard to read. Ah, that must be a slashed seven, not a two with a displaced bottom. He went back to the encoding station, typed in the id, and started watching another five minutes of boredom.

* * *

Hours went by. Joe got up and stretched. Jeff had left long ago – the security people would be in tomorrow to fix the machinery, he had told Joe before he left – and Jeff had even encoded a couple of the five-minute spots while Joe did the hourly chores. PUMP was busy sending out spots, and except for a couple of missed cues, the Field had stayed green. The phone hadn’t rung, either. Joe looked at the cart – he had made a good dent in the work, but there were still a lot to go. Maybe a drink, then back to the grind.

Joe helped himself to a fresh cup of coffee and some cookies out of the snack machines, then walked along the dim hall outside the Control Room. Apparently the owner had changed some of the artwork hanging on the walls – Joe never really looked at the pictures, most of which were ugly modern abstractions – but he was familiar with their shapes, and he saw that things were different. He switched on the hall light for a moment. Yeah, there were some new pictures. That one with all the people – a girl’s face jumped out at him – it was not very distinct, but it could almost be Ann! He smiled, shook his head, and went back into the Control Room. He didn’t need that kind of distraction tonight, there was too much to do.
Joe sat down at the row of monitors and sipped his coffee, leaving the pack of cookies for later. Everything seemed to be operating properly. He looked over the 48 small black-and-white monitors. One almost always showed car races – usually Joe found them rather boring, as the typical movie had more exciting high-speed chases – and more frequent crashes. But now that he had actually raced – well, it wasn’t a real car, nor a real track – it seemed kind of exciting. “ ‘Wonderful’...” he murmured. He shook his head, got up and went back to encoding.
Another handful of tapes were finished. His cup of coffee was empty, though his snack was still waiting. He picked up another tape – odd how heavy they started to seem after a few hours. Another “Exploring” spot, something about parties... On the screen, a kid was asking where the nearest fire hydrant was, when Joe heard the door to the Computer Room open.

It was Paul from the Tech Shop. “Hey, Joe, Ann’s out there, and wondering where you got to.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, leave that stuff alone and get out here. Here, you better have some spare cash.” Paul handed him a twenty.
Joe followed him outside. It was broad daylight, and the back lot was jammed with people. “Hey Paul, what’s going on?”

Then he saw Ann. “Looking for me?” she said.
“Always.” They walked along, oblivious to the crowd.
“Here, let’s try this one,” she said. It was a typical arcade stand, three darts for a dollar, hit a balloon and win a prize. Only it was run by the fat guy from Development. He was wearing his lab coat, he had a big cigar (unlighted) in his mouth, and sounded like he was imitating W. C. Fields. “Step right up, sir, win a prize for the little lady. Heh, heh.”
“Go ahead, Joe! Try it? For me?” she asked him.
Joe nodded and stepped up to the stand.
Five dollars worth of darts later, they walked away. “You can keep it in your trunk,” the fat guy said, chuckling, handing Ann a large stuffed monkey.
“C’mon, Joe, let’s try another one...”

The next booth was run by an old lady with big glasses. “A dollar a minute – shoot the bird and win a prize.” She patted some kind of electronic handgun lying on the counter.
“Sure,” Joe said. He picked up the gun and she threw a switch, giggling quietly.
Joe pulled the trigger: an unearthly zap sound rang out, and a beam of light flashed towards the inside of the stand. Then he saw a bird of some kind – he didn’t know if it was a model or some kind of projection – and he shot at it. Zap! Zap! Zap!
Another five bucks of time, and Ann was holding a stuffed black bird on an elegant wooden stand. It looked incredibly life-like, and Joe thought it was a real piece of taxidermy. Ann wanted a hot dog, so she made Joe carry her monkey while she ate. Then they went on down the row of stands.

They stopped at a stand full of electronic equipment and one big living-room console TV. “Step right up!” chanted a wrinkled old man, who had a reddish, swarthy look, as if he had spent much of his life on the open sea. “Be on TV! Star in your very own 30 second television commercial! Surprise your family! Impress your friends! Just five dollars!”
“Oh, Joe! Make one for me,” Ann begged.
“OK,” he smiled, handing over another five, and giving the monkey back to Ann.
The old man flicked a switch on some recording equipment and handed Joe a towel. “Just snap it between your arms, and grin knowingly.”
Joe nodded, and snapped the towel.
“Good – just right – stand here, now, and look towards the blinking light, please.”
“Do I have to say anything?”
“Nope, it’ll be over-dubbed... I can’t ever control the audio on this machinery. Just a moment...” There was a short burst of sound, like the touch-tone phone, and the old man called “Action!”
Joe snapped the towel, grinning with a knowing expression.
“Cut!” called the old man. “That’s a wrap. Say, you’re pretty good at this, so if you ever need some extra money, I can find you a place...”
“Not just now,” Joe replied. “Can we see it now?”
“Sure,” said the old man, and he pressed another button.
It was an ad for a car wash Joe had driven past many times. The other actors looked vaguely familiar – then Ann gasped. “It’s you, Joe!”
“It’s not over till the towel guy dries, with a soft, fluffy towel, of course.” The towel snap, and the knowing grin.
“I’ll treasure it forever,” Ann said as she accepted the tape from the old man.

“I only have five more bucks,” Joe said as they walked along.
“That’s OK, though a ride would be fun,” Ann replied. “Why not this one?”
The sign read “Go-kart Race – Five Minutes for Five Dollars.”
“It ought to be fun,” Joe smiled at her. “You want me to hold your prizes?”
“No, you big joker,” she told him, smirking. “I want to watch you race.”
“Sure!” Joe said, holding out his last five.
The attendant looked and sounded just like Fearless Freddy the Field Tech. “Here you go,” he said, and he put something into Joe’s hand.
“What is this?”
“It’s your cookie.” It was a big chocolate chip cookie, still slightly warm from the oven.
“Cookie? Where’s the helmet?”
“Whatcha need a helmet for? We’re all going to be watching, nothing to be scared of, nothing at all. Just hold it out, they’ll know what to do.”
“Who? Who knows what to do? Hey, just what kind of a race is this?”

There was a sudden loud squeal.
“Whatcha think it was? Cars?” The attendant pushed a lever on the side of the big wooden box beside him. “Get going.”
The squeal Joe heard wasn’t tires – it was baby pigs – and here they came!
Joe took off down the track, still holding onto the cookie. The pigs dashed after him. Along the walls were sitting a whole lot of people, all booing and laughing. One man in a vest was holding up some kind of legal document, reading it aloud. The old lady was there with her electronic gun, trying to zap the pigs as they ran past. The old man was there with a video camera, murmuring something about a soft, fluffy towel as he panned over the track. The fat guy from development was standing there watching silently while a monkey hit him over the head with a power screwdriver.

Joe kept running. The pigs were starting to gain on him, then he saw the starting gate up ahead. He threw down the cookie, and jumped over the fence. The pigs erupted in squeals.

* * *

“Oh, man!” Joe shook his head, yawned, and looked up. The squeal was coming from the VTR he had just tried to load. He ejected the tape and looked at it closely. There was no tape inside. “Wow, defective – that’s one less to encode tonight.” He got up to add an entry to their discrepancy report.

Then the phone rang. As he picked it up, he flashed the “needed spots” list up on the screen. “Control Room, Joe speaking.” Wow, he thought, he was caught up! Everything needed for tomorrow was encoded!
“Hi, dear – it’s Ann.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Hi.”
“Just getting ready for bed; I was thinking of you, and knew you’d be awake.”
“Just barely,” Joe answered. “That fair doesn’t start until Thursday, right?”
“That’s right. And I heard from Sally in your Traffic department – that cute Freddy is going to be driving your company car.”
“Oh. For a while I kind of hoped it would be me, but I don’t feel like being chased around like a cookie, with everybody laughing and the pigs squealing...”
“What? Pigs?”
“They were chasing the cookie...” Joe chuckled a little, embarrassed, even though he felt as if she had been right there with him, watching everything. “Sorry, Ann, I think I must have nodded off for a moment there.”
“You must have. Get some coffee, dear – and maybe a snack? But don’t eat too much, ‘cause we’re still on for breakfast, right?”
“Sure we are,” Joe smiled. “Meet you at seven.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.” Joe hung up the phone, shrugged, and went back to the lunch room for some coffee, and a different snack. No way he wanted cookies now.

Joe had carefully avoided looking at the pictures on the way back. He sat down, ate a rather stale pack of donuts, and drank coffee, wishing he had remembered to bring some of Mrs. Bunter’s cookies with him – then he remembered the pigs, and decided it was just as well he had left them at home.
He looked up at the master clock: 23:28. Less than eight hours to go. The spots for tomorrow were all done, but he might as well get some encoding done, he thought: it would help pass the time. But if he found another “Exploring” spot he was going to leave it for the day shift. No sense in taking chances.

THE END

Another Christmas Eve

2008-12-19T09:00:00.001-05:00

Joe the Control Room Guy
in
“Another Christmas Eve”

Not all dreams are nightmares.
And sometimes they aren’t even dreams...

It was 19:40 on another Christmas Eve, and Joe had signed up for the overnight shift. At least, he thought to himself as he drove through the snow, there wasn’t any doubt about it this year – he remembered actually signing up in order to give the other night guys a break. It was a cold night, and despite the warmth of the car, he shivered a little and turned up the music. Snowflakes gleamed in his headlights.
Joe pulled into the snow-covered parking lot, and parked on the left near the back entrance, just across from the big transmitting dish. Lining the low hill on the right side was the row of smaller satellite dishes. As he got out of the car he looked carefully at them – he would have to sweep them out pretty soon. But first, he’d check in and see how much work there was waiting for him. He glanced up into the falling snow, hoping to spot a Christmas star, but nothing could be seen in the dark overcast sky. It was cold, and he ran up the steps, waved his badge over the scanner, and went inside.

When Joe got into the Control Room, Al was hard at work encoding. The cart was full of tapes, and the animated puppy which announced the presence of “ingested” spots was twitching in shock.
Al waved a hand. “You wanna get those ingest spots, Joe? Some are due tomorrow, and so are about half of these on the cart. I’ve already put the future ones aside. And there’s pizza in the freezer for us, and there’s cookies and other goodies.”
“Wow. What a pile of spots.” Joe shook his head. “I would have thought we’d see some slacking off by now. Say, Al, one of us had better go out soon and sweep out the dishes.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s snowing like heck out there.”
“Really? I’ve been encoding since I came in. “ Al looked puzzled. (Watching commercial after commercial can have that effect on the brain.) “They said it might. That’s why they got in some food. I should have checked the dishes sooner.”
“Then I’ll go out and sweep now, before I get too warmed up and don’t want to go back out.” Joe grabbed the big broom from the storage closet and put his coat back on. Thinking of Christmas, he added, “I’ll get your car, too.”
“Thanks!”
“Won’t take long. Then I’ll get those ingest spots.”

The snow was coming down harder. Joe swept out each of the smaller dishes which received the signals of the various cable networks. The big transmitting dish had a built-in warming arrangement; it wouldn’t have a problem, but out at the dozens of remote sites, the small dishes serving the headends might fill up – then there would be a variety of problems to handle. Well, he thought, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe the snow wouldn’t be so heavy out in the field. After sweeping Al’s car and his own, he glanced up at the sky again, then around the parking lot – all was quiet – then he went back inside.
Joe stamped the snow from his feet, shivering with the cold. He got some coffee from the lunchroom and went back into the Control Room. As he typed up a log entry, he said to Al, “I got all the dishes, and our cars. It’s certainly coming down out there.”
Al peered around the side of his encoding station. “I’m here until ten – I’d stay longer to help, but my wife’s waiting for me to put toys together. She’ll have a steaming pot of chocolate waiting – or maybe something better... ah, like... I have it! ‘Mulled wine’.”
“Sounds like you’ve been watching ,” laughed Joe. “But putting toys together – I wouldn’t want that job, thanks.”
“Just you wait,” Al nodded knowingly. “Anyhow, I just checked the field and everything’s OK so far. Also, Denver is off-line for maintenance, so we don’t have CANOE or DENNY running. And don’t forget to log that you swept the dishes.”
“Already done,” Joe replied as he sat down at an encoding station. “I’ll get those ingest spots now.”

* * *

The ingest spots were soon finished, and Joe started in on the tapes on the cart. After a while, Al went out and swept the dishes again. A couple of headends went “late” on WATCHER, but soon came back. Joe thought about making a pizza, but decided to wait until Al left. Besides, as long as there were spots due tomorrow, which were not yet encoded, he didn’t want to risk missing one. He looked up at the big screens. Lady CUSTOS, also called “Aunt Jenny,” the monitor with the ever-shifting eyes which “watched” the system programs, was well-behaved: she only had two eyes this year. No chains rattled in the air conditioning compartment; no bells sounded, no birds squawked. Joe hadn’t had one of those strange energy-boosting sodas for weeks. PUMP was busy sending out spots, but the to-be-sent list stayed uncomfortably constant as both he and Al were adding new spots to it just about as fast as PUMP was sending them out. But eventually the needed-spots list would only have ones for the 26th or later, and then they could take a break.
Al glanced up at the master clock – it read 21:45. “Fifteen minutes to go, Joe.”
Joe looked over at the cart. There were only a handful of tapes left to do before tomorrow. He shook his head. “You get out of here. I’ll finish these.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Al said as he stood up. He went over to the closet, got his coat, then turned back to Joe. “Since I have to do my car anyway, I’ll give the dishes another sweep before I go.”
“Thanks, Al! Merry Christmas to you and your family.”
“You too. I hope you don’t get snowed in. If you do, give me a call; I’ve got four-wheel drive. Heck, as things are going, I may have to pick up the day guy.” He looked at the schedule on the wall by the door. “Mike’s in at six. He’ll call me if he needs a ride.”
“You’ll be up at six? When are you going to sleep?”
“Who knows,” Al shrugged. “With all those toys to assemble, I may not get to sleep until tomorrow night.”

* * *

It was 22:38 when Joe finished the encodes for Christmas. That “handful” of tapes took a lot longer than he had expected, as most contained multiple spots. The Control Room was as quiet as it ever gets. For some reason, he didn’t feel like turning on any rock music. He checked over the field – everything looked OK. PUMP was still busy, but the to-be-sent list was definitely shrinking now. Well, he shrugged, he had better go check the dishes again, then he would think about preparing his lunch.
He grabbed his jacket and the cell phone, then went out into the parking lot again. It seemed even colder now. He looked up – the sky was still overcast. The fine flakes gleamed as they fell in the parking lot lights. The wind had picked up and the dishes could wait a little while. He noted with a shrug that Al’s parking place and tire tracks were covered over with snow. At this rate, he might indeed get snowed in.
Back inside, he wandered into the lunchroom. He saw the tray of cookies and a pile of various snack foods, but nothing appealed just then. He made another cup of coffee, grabbed a cookie and went back into the hall.
They always put up a little artificial tree and strung Christmas lights around the windows of the Control Room – and as Joe looked in from the dim hallway outside, their tiny gleams seemed to merge with the various WATCHER displays on the four big screens. The colored glows, together with the 48 flickering TV screens and the racks of electronic gear, gave a very curious feeling about the place – like some kind of half-magical, half-futuristic cavern of wizards... He laughed. “I wonder if Santa has something like this...”
He went back into the Control Room, sat down, and switched one of the displays over to the map of the field. He laughed again, imagining the reindeer sleigh stopping at the various headends, dropping off spots... “Have you been a good inserter this year?”
He yawned, surprising himself. He was used to the night shift now, but there had been other times when it was a tough haul to get to 6 AM. A couple of times he had had vivid, almost realistic dreams, extrapolated from the spots he had encoded, or maybe it was something he ate – or drank... But tonight everything stayed normal, and he felt fine. He ate the cookie, feeling that he should have brought the whole dish in with him. His coffee had gotten cold. Well, he would make something more substantial soon. Happily, the spots-to-be-sent list kept getting shorter and the field was staying green. The master clock read 23:03 and the logs for hour 22 were coming back.
So, Joe thought, leaning back in the chair and putting his feet up on the console. Another Christmas Eve. Maybe he’d flip through the networks, see if there was anything good to watch until midnight. Then do the chores, make a pizza, maybe do some more encoding to give the Christmas day crew a break... Before he knew it, it would be 6 AM, and he’d go home, get some sleep, then drive to his parents’ for Christmas supper. He had some nice gifts for them... He flipped the TV up onto a big screen, but there was nothing interesting. Even the rock videos were boring. He shook his head. Something didn’t feel right, but nothing he could put his finger on. Maybe he had better check around. He sat up and shifted his chair in front of a WATCHER screen.

He flipped through every headend of the field and checked everything. All was OK. He went through the networks and checked the last cues sent. Nothing missing. All the logs for hour 22 had come back. All the headends had schedules for the next days. The disks had plenty of free space. The satellite communications system was running fine. The to-be-sent list was still shrinking. The next-needed spot which had to be encoded would not be due until 1 AM on the 26th. He got the clipboard and though it was still before midnight, he did all the chores in the transmitter and computer rooms.
He came back into the Control Room, sat down and looked through the security screens, which showed the snowy parking lot and the “dish farm”; most of the inside cameras showed only dim, dark shapes as most interior lights had been turned off for the night. He saw nothing abnormal – but something anomalous seemed to be lurking just beneath the world of the senses.
Maybe I had better check the dishes again, he said to himself. So he put his jacket back on, picked up the long broom, and went back outside into the snow.

* * *

Joe decided to sweep off his car first, so he could see how much snow fell while he did the dishes. He was starting to have his doubts about the morning. Already there were maybe three or four inches on the ground, and it was still coming down. As he walked across the lot to the dish farm, he glanced again towards the sky, but shook his head and shouldered the broom. He wouldn’t see any stars tonight. Because of (or despite) the vagaries of the wind, the snow had again begun to fill the small dishes, but Joe soon had them cleared.
It certainly was a cold night, and he wanted to get back into the warmth.

As he neared the steps to the back door, he stopped and stared. There were his own tracks, partially obliterated, down the steps and across the lot towards the dishes. But another set of tracks crossed them from left to right.

A tremor ran up his spine. But what would someone be doing late at night in the snow in back of a building in a corporate park? Nothing good, probably. He felt for his cell phone. Sure, there were homes not very far away, and someone might conceivably take a shortcut to get home, but late on Christmas Eve in the snow?
Then he looked at the tracks again. They were rather small, and there wasn’t a lot of space between the footprints. This was a child – a child out late on Christmas Eve? Checking that he still had his cell phone, he turned and followed the tracks.
The tracks led around the western end of the building. The wind was stronger here, but Joe thought he heard something that wasn’t the wind. The tracks ended in a cluster of low bushes near the front of the building.
As Joe came closer to the bushes, he heard a quiet sobbing. “Cold, Mom. Cold.”
Joe peered under the bushes. There was a dark bundle of a little person, almost hidden in a heavy winter coat and hood.Joe shook his head. There sure wasn’t anything in their instructions for something like this. But he couldn’t leave the kid outside in the cold to wait for the police. Swallowing hard, he said in what he hoped was a gentle voice, “Come on, little one, come inside with me and get warm.”
The bundle shifted slightly. “Mom?”
“We’ll get her for you,” Joe told the child. “I’ll make you some cocoa and cookies.”
The bundle stood up and put out a red-mitten-covered hand. “Cocoa good!”

* * *

The child could barely walk through the snow, so Joe picked him up and soon they were back inside. Joe took him to the lunchroom, sat him down at a table, then started some cocoa.
Joe took off his coat and put it over the child. “What’s your name?”
“Eddy,” the boy sniffled, his sad little face red from the cold.
“Eddy, I’m Joe. The cocoa will be ready in just a moment.” Joe paced back and forth. He’d get what information he could, make sure the kid was getting warm and had some food, then call the police... He went over and put some Christmas cookies on a plate and put them in front of Eddy.
“Cookies! For Eddy?”
“Yes, and here’s some cocoa. Be careful, it’s hot.” Joe put the mug on the table, then started making another cup.
“Thanks,” said the child as he picked up a cookie. “Joe cocoa?”
“Sure.” Joe said. “How are those cookies?”
“Good. Cocoa good.”
Joe sat down with his own mug of cocoa. “So, Eddy, are you feeling warm now?”
“Yes, Mister Joe.”
“I’m Joe Outis.”
“Joe Oo-tis,” Eddy repeated with a little nod. He smiled, then took another cookie.
“What’s the rest of your name?”
“Seton. Spelled: S. E. T. O. N.” He drank cocoa.
Joe looked at him uncertainly, happily eating a cookie. This was lots harder than encoding. “Uh, Eddy, where do you live?”
“With Mom and Dad.”
Joe scratched his head. “No, uh, what’s your address?”
“Don’t know.” Eddy took another cookie.
“Oh.” Joe’s eyes widened. Well, at least he knew the kid’s name. The cops ought to be able to take it from there. He got out the cell phone, then realizing that he was ravenous, said, “Eddy, do you like pizza?”
“Pizza good,” replied Eddy.
“OK, I’ll make some for us.”
“Yes, Joe Oo-tis,” he said with a smile, and drank some cocoa.

Walking down to the further corner of the lunchroom, Joe put a three-slice rectangle of pizza in the toaster oven, then opened his cell phone, and dialed...
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
“Uh, I found a child wandering in the snow. This is Joe Outis at AC&TG, out in the Easton corporate park...”
The dispatcher verified Joe’s location then asked, “What’s the child’s status?”
“He’s inside getting warm. Eating cookies and drinking cocoa. Seems OK.”
“How old is the child?”
“I dunno, six, maybe. Says his name is Eddy Seton.” He spelled the name.
“OK, we’re passing this on to the police. They should be there soon.”
“Thanks.”

Somewhat relieved, now that he had contacted the authorities, Joe walked back to the table where Eddy was sitting. His mug was empty, and there were no more cookies left on the plate.
“Eddy, would you like some more cocoa?”
“Cocoa good.”
“OK. The pizza will be done soon.”

Joe made some more cocoa for Eddy, then went to check on the pizza. It was ready, and when he came back with it and some plates, Eddy had taken off Joe’s and his own coat.
“Are you warm now?”
“Yes, Joe Oo-tis.”
Joe sat down and put a piece of the pizza on a plate. “Here’s a piece for you.”
“Good.”
The two ate in silence. Joe glanced at the clock. He was starting to wonder how long it would take the police to get there. He got up and went over to the snacks. He took a little bag of chips and another of pretzels, opened then and put them down on the table near Eddy.

* * *

The bags were empty. Another two rectangles of pizza were consumed. Joe had lost count of the cups of cocoa he had made. Joe looked at Eddy as he finished a cookie. The boy seemed happy, but he certainly was a quiet little kid.
“Nice and warm now, Eddy?”
“Warm good.”
“All full?”
Eddy smiled. His eyes started to close. Joe didn’t want him to sleep in the lunchroom, so he said, “Hey, Eddy, let’s go see where I work.”
“Yes, Joe Oo-tis.” He got up from the chair. Joe picked up their coats and taking Eddy’s hand, led him out into the hall.

When Eddy saw the big glass windows of the Control Room, outlined in Christmas lights, the big monitoring screens with the colored dots of WATCHER and the ever-shifting eyes of CUSTOS, Joe heard him make a little gasping sound.
“Hmh... What, Joe Oo-tis?” Eddy waved a hand towards the lights. “What?”
Joe looked down at the boy, who looked up, his eyes wide with awe. “This is the Control Room, Eddy. This is where I work. We, uh...” Joe struggled to think of a child-level explanation. “We... we do TV commercials here.”
“TV good.” Eddy’s voice was quiet. Then he saw the little Christmas tree.“Chris’mas good.”
“Yeah, Eddy, Christmas good.”
From her vantage point, “Aunt Jenny”might have remarked that for a moment, both faces wore the same smile.

The two stood there in the silent hallway, Eddy’s eyes wide, devouring the magical scene before him. But Joe looked over at the master clock, and wondered what was keeping the police. Well, that snow was getting deep out there... Then he remembered – the dishes! Well, they could wait a little longer. Maybe Eddy would fall asleep, then, he could... No, on second thought, that wouldn’t be wise at all, to leave the kid alone inside the building. It was well after midnight now; so if they lost a cue it wouldn’t be a disaster. And he would know from the black-and-white monitors anyway if any of the signals got too weak. Maybe the wind would keep the dishes clear...
“Let’s go inside, Eddy, and I’ll show you some neat things.”
“Yes, Joe Oo-tis.”
Few people had ever entered the Control Room with mouth agape, with eyes wide in astonishment, as Eddy Seton did, holding tightly to Joe’s hand. Joe looked down at him and smiled. It really was a magic cavern of high-tech wizardry.
Joe let go of Eddy’s hand and piled their coats on a chair. He looked quickly at the security monitors. The flashing lights of a squad car would be easily visible – but all he saw was the snow-covered parking lot. It looked cold – and deep.

Then Eddy saw the ever-shifting eyes of the CUSTOS monitor.
“Eyes!”
“Yes, Eddy, eyes. That’s ‘Aunt Jenny’. She watches the systems.”
“Watches,” he repeated.
“That’s right. And I watch too.”
“Joe Oo-tis watches. Aunt Jenny watches.” Something about this must have tickled Eddy, and he started to laugh with a quiet chuckle.
“Here, Eddy, have a seat.” Joe helped him into a chair, then sat down himself.
Eddy yawned, his eyes starting to close in spite of himself. He wanted to feast on the colors of the monitor screens, but he was warm and full and he had had a long walk in the cold snow.
“Chris’mas,” he said.
“Yes, Eddy, Merry Christmas.” Joe looked at the boy, whose eyes were nearly closed. He sat silently and watched a moment or two, then got up and covered him with their coats.

Joe went back to the consoles, checked the e-mail for new messages, then did a hurried scan through the various monitors. Everything looked fine. No cues were missing, so the dishes must still be relatively clear. The to-be-sent list was still shrinking. He was glad he had done all the chores earlier. But – and he glanced again at the security screens – still no police. He really didn’t want to call them a second time, since the boy was safe and warm, but surely his parents must be worried. He found the telephone book and looked for “Seton” but there were too many to warrant calling in the middle of the night. Who knows, Joe thought, they might be at Midnight Mass anyway, and he didn’t want to go leaving messages, especially if they weren’t relations. Well, he’d wait a little longer, then call the police on their non-emergency number... He looked at the sleeping child – he didn’t dare put on any rock music. Well, he thought, he might as well do some encoding and maybe the cops would come soon.
Joe pushed the chair in which Eddy was sleeping over to one side so he could see him from the encoding station. He could use the headphones so Eddy wouldn’t wake up. Before he started, he remembered to turn the volume down on CUSTOS in case it suddenly squawked. After every spot he checked that “Aunt Jenny” still had her happy eyes, then he glanced over at the security screens, hoping to see flashing lights. There had been a false alarm; he figured it was a snow plow going down the highway just outside the corporate park.

* * *

More than half an hour had gone by, and Joe took off the headphones, stretched, and rubbed his ears. At least he had made some progress on the next day’s spots. But he was starting to wonder what might be happening that was delaying the police – unless it was the snow storm itself.
He picked up the telephone book, found the non-emergency number for the police, then dialed it.
“Sergeant Hirundo.”
“Yes, this is Joe Outis at AC&TG,” Joe said softly. “I had called 9-1-1 earlier about a child I found out in the snow...”
“Yes, we were notified,” the officer was rather brusque. “Is there some problem?”
“Er, no,” Joe stammered, “I, ah, fed him, he’s warm, and ah, sleeping. He’s OK.”
“Fine; call us if there’s any problem.” The line went dead.
Puzzled, Joe hung up the phone. He looked over at Eddy. There was a faint smile on his face.
“Well, I guess I’ll do some more encoding,” Joe murmured, and walked back to the encoding station.

The night went slowly on. Joe continued encoding, checking periodically on Eddy, the cues, and the field. There was still no sign of the police, not even a phone call. He could see from the security monitors that the snow was still falling, but since the cues continued to come normally, he figured the wind must be keeping the dishes clear. He couldn’t really see his car from any of the cameras, but it certainly looked deep out there. Eddy was sleeping peacefully. Every so often he made a little grunt, but he did not wake up, even when Joe accidentally knocked a tape onto the floor.

The night wore on. Eventually all the spots were encoded. Joe rubbed his ears again and pushed the finished cart over to the side of the room. He looked up at the to-be-sent list. PUMP was going to be working for a while, but the day guy was going to have an easy shift. He felt like a snack, but didn’t want to leave Eddy alone in the Control Room – there were just too many things that could go wrong. He shifted Eddy in his chair back to the front of room by the console, so he could start the inserter checks and still keep an eye on him. He looked so peaceful sleeping, just the hint of a smile. “Must be having happy dreams,” Joe said to himself.
After encoding for hours, it was slow going, connecting to the remote inserters by telephone and checking the readings on the satellite transmitters. Soon Joe got tired of sitting at a keyboard, so he walked over to the big glass windows and looked out into the dim offices beyond, lit with a faint glow from the Christmas lights lining the windows. He wondered what was going on out in the real world: what was holding up the police, where Eddy’s parents were, whether Mike would be able to get in at six.

Suddenly he heard Eddy call out: “Angry lady! Angry lady!”
He turned and asked, “What is it, Eddy?”The boy was pointing up at the big screen. Sure enough, the usually placid eyes of “Aunt Jenny” were flashing red.
“Ha! Good work, Eddy!” Joe ran up to the console. He had turned the volume down, and the usual “Attention! PUMP is not running!” warning couldn’t be heard. For the little dot by PUMP, usually green, was now red. “Come with me, Eddy, we’ll go fix it.”

Eddy got up and followed Joe into the computer room. Soon they came back out. “It’s ok now, see?”
Eddy looked up at the screen. “Happy lady.”
“Joe watches, now Eddy watches.” Joe chuckled in friendly mimicry. “Eddy good!”
“Hmh,” Eddy smiled. “Want water.”
“OK, let’s go get a drink.”

* * *

The two came back into the Control Room. They had made a detour to get some more cookies; Joe had a cup of coffee, and Eddy had water. Eddy got back in the chair and covered himself with his own coat and Joe’s. Joe went over to the event log and typed the following entry:

4:35 Pump went down. Restarted without problem. JO/ES

Joe sat down near Eddy and smiled at him. “Thanks, Eddy.”
The boy smiled back but said nothing.
Joe leaned back, putting his arms behind his head. “It’s a long night, isn’t it?”
“Not long. Joe Oo-tis good.”
Soon Eddy’s eyes closed again. Joe shook his head, smiling.

When Joe was sure that Eddy was asleep, he went quietly over to their storage closet. He seemed to recall seeing something in a big box... Yeah, there were still a few left. He found an appropriate one, then looked around for a suitable container... Somewhere they kept a couple of pre-formed boxes for mailing out video tapes. He had to hunt around for one, and when he finally found one, it proved to be big enough with just a little squeezing. Finally, he went back to the console and spent a few minutes with the PAINTBOX program... He printed his effort out and taped it to the box, then put it under their little Christmas tree. Now he was ready for the morning.
Joe sat down again at the console and frowned. He looked over at the security monitors, the snow covering the parking lot was smooth and unbroken. It sure was strange that the police had not arrived, and had not even called back. Well, he was not going to call them back again; sooner or later they would come. He glanced over and saw that Eddy was still sound asleep, so he went back to checking the inserters.

* * *

Joe stood up and stretched. It was nearly half past five. The inserter checks were done. Eddy was still asleep. PUMP had finished sending spots, and the to-be-sent list was finally empty. Everything was as quiet and normal as it could be – except for the boy, hidden under the jackets, sleeping in a chair by the consoles. He walked over to the windows and looked out, seeing the reflections of the big screens, the Christmas lights, the little tree with a strangely wrapped box beneath... It felt like a dream, but even its abnormality was too simple, too normal for the arrival of dawn (or the arrival of his replacement from the day shift) to awaken him from the fantasy. He walked back and looked at the security monitors. The snow was obviously very deep – then he checked the networks display. Still, the cues continued to come in; none had missed. Maybe it was the wind.
Then the phone rang. It had never seemed quite so shrill. He grabbed it; Eddy’s eyes went open for a moment but then they closed again.
“Control Room. This is Joe.”
“Joe, it’s Mike.”
“Mike! What’s up?”
“I’m going to be late. I’ve been up half the night. I’ve been over at my parents since last evening – we had a family emergency...”
“Better be careful, driving, Mike, that snow looks deep.”
“I know, but Al told me he would... Wait a second. What do you mean, ‘looks deep’? Haven’t you been out, sweeping the dishes?”
Joe smirked. “No, but we haven’t missed any cues. I had a rather novel watching job for the last few hours.”
“What do you mean? What happened?”
“It’s OK, everything’s fine. I had gone out to sweep the dishes, and I found this lost child...”
“Lost child!” Mike yelled. “What’s he look like?”
“He’s a little guy, black jacket, red mittens. Brown hair. Kind of a tiny nose. Says his name’s Eddy Seton.”

“Mom! Dad! Aunt Ruth!” Joe held the phone away from his ear. There was a lot of yelling, then the line went dead.

Joe hung up the phone. He stared at Eddy, smiling slightly as he dreamed. Could this child be Mike’s “family emergency”? Well, he would “continue to monitor,” as they would phrase it in the event log.

Time crept slowly on. The telephone didn’t ring again. Deciding to risk a minute away from Eddy, Joe dashed into the computer room and did the next round of chores. When he came back it seemed that Eddy hadn’t moved at all; he was still sound asleep. Joe sat down and went over the event log and added a note or two. He wasn’t sure whether to record the Eddy story yet, so he decided to let it up to Mike when he came in – if he came in. Again he checked the various monitors; he saw nothing unusual until he looked at the security screens, and was surprised to see a flashing light coming into the parking lot.
But it wasn’t a blue and red flash – it was yellow. It was a big snow plow. Still, that was a welcome sight, as it hinted that Mike might get in eventually and also that Joe might be able to drive home. But though the plow was making a pathway, it didn’t seem to be doing much clearing of the parking lot. Instead, it came around the back of the building, and came right to the back steps. The passenger-side door swung open and someone climbed down... Joe looked again. That sure looked like Mike. Then the security computer registered Mike entering at the back door!

In a couple of seconds Mike came into the Control Room. Joe met him at the door. “He’s asleep.”
Mike nodded, shaking snow off his jacket. “I don’t believe it,” he said quietly, looking at Eddy. “We’ve been in a panic since late last night; the cops told us they were working on it; we tried to go out but the snow was too much; Mom and Aunt Ruth were praying, crying... I couldn’t get my brother Stan – that’s him in the plow – until this morning; he was working all night.”
“So Eddy’s your, uh, cousin?” Joe guessed.
“Yeah, my mom’s sister’s boy. I can’t believe it. He’s here, asleep, all OK. Wow, Joe, what a relief. I’ve got to call home.”
“I’m going for some coffee – you want some? Or your brother?”
“Nah,” Mike said as he picked up the phone. “He’s got a big thermos with him. And I don’t need anything; I’m too excited. And I want to hear the story – but I’ve got to call home first.”

Joe made himself some coffee, and prepared another mug of cocoa for Eddy. He decided to make a cup for Mike anyway. Putting the mugs onto a tray, he added a plate of cookies, and went back to the Control Room.
As he came in, Mike hung up the telephone. “Wow, you’ll never believe it, Joe.”
“What’s up?”
Mike’s voice was low, but filled with excitement. “There was a big robbery downtown late last night, and a policeman was shot. Most of the force was after the robbers, and others were at the hospital. They deferred all the non-emergency calls, and since they knew Eddy was OK, they didn’t bother sending anyone here. But somehow they never got around to letting us know that Eddy was here.”
“Really? Why?”
“With the robbery and that officer getting shot, I guess each cop in their control room thought another guy had called us – so the message never got passed on.”
“Ha,” Joe laughed softly. “I thought that kind of screw-up only happened here.”
“You never know,” Mike shrugged and sipped his coffee. “We had better wake him now, so you can go home with him, then Stan will drop you off at your house,
“Why aren’t you going home with him?”
“You forget it’s after six,” Mike gestured at the master clock. “I’m on duty, and you’re off. Just give me an event-log kind of summary of what happened, and you can tell my parents and aunt the complete details when you get there. It’s only a five-minute drive.”
Joe nodded. “I went out to clean the dishes off – it must have been just after midnight or so. When I walked back to come in, I saw another set of tracks in the snow... I followed them and found Eddy.”

Just then Eddy broke in. “Angry lady! Angry lady!”
“Eddy!” Mike jumped up. “What’s that mean!”
“Oh, PUMP must have gone down again – I had turned the volume down on CUSTOS,” Joe explained, “and he’s been watching the eyes to let me know... Eddy, how about some cocoa?”
“Cocoa good.”
“Hi, Eddy.”
“Mike...” Eddy looked puzzled, seeing a familiar face in an unexpected place. “Mike with Joe Oo-tis?”
“Yes, we work together. Have some cocoa with Joe, and a cookie, then go home to Mom.”
“Mom! Mom good.” Eddy picked up his mug and drank.
Joe smiled and winked at Mike. “Eddy, I think there is something by the Christmas tree for you.”
“For Eddy?” came the little voice.
“Yes. Then you will go home.”
“Home good.”
Mike and Joe laughed.
“Speaking of HOME, I’ll go take care of PUMP,” Mike said.

Mike shook his head as he came back into the room. “Stupid. I was so excited I forgot to take off my coat.” He waved a finger, so Joe followed him over to the storage closet. Still keeping an eye on Eddy, Mike asked quietly, “What did you find to give him?”
“One of those small-size uniform shirts that came in that last shipment.” Joe pointed to a big box in the corner.
Mike chuckled and hung up his coat. “Joe, I can’t tell you how happy I am – and how glad my aunt and parents will be – that’s another reason why you have to go back with him. Besides, he likes you – I can tell. You know he has Down’s... he’s almost 11, but he looks lots younger. He must have run out sometime late last night, we’ll probably never know why... And he got all the way out here – in that snow.”
Joe shook his head and yawned. “It’s amazing. Something about Christmas, I guess.”

Meanwhile, Eddy had finished his cocoa, then he went over to the Christmas tree and found the box – it was the only box under the tree. The custom-made wrapper and label had his name in dozens of fonts, and a screen-snapshot of CUSTOS with the eyes. When the two got back to the console, Eddy had opened it and taken the shirt out. He struggled to put it on, so Mike helped him pull it over his head.

“There, Eddy. Now, you’re a Control Room guy, too.”
“Hmh!” Eddy grunted.
“That means he’s really pleased,” Mike explained. “Time to put your coat on, then you go home.”
“Home good.” Eddy smiled. “Happy lady.”
“He means CUSTOS,” Joe translated. “It sure was an interesting night.” He nodded, yawned again, and picked up his jacket. “Oh, and I have a Christmas present for you, too, Mike.”
“Really?”
“Yeah – I hope you like it.”
“Uh, Joe...” He looked away for a moment. “I, uh, don’t see how you can top the one you’ve already given me.”
“OK, if you don’t want it, give it to the next shift. Just check out the needed-spots list a little later. Er, and you probably ought to sweep out the dishes before you do anything else.”
“Why? We’ve been missing cues?
“No, but the last time I did them was when I found Eddy.”
Mike turned slowly, a strange look on his face. “That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“I looked over at them as we pulled in. They were all clear.”
“You’re crazy.” Joe shook his head. “How can that be?”
Mike sat down at the console and pulled up the event log. “I don’t know. You can see for yourself when you go out.”
Joe looked around the Control Room, smiling at the Christmas lights, then saw that Eddy had pulled on his coat and mittens.
“Let’s go, Eddy. Time to go home.”
“Home good. Happy lady.”
“Yeah, that’s right. See you, Mike. Merry Christmas. Don’t forget to turn the volume on CUSTOS back up.”
“OK, Joe, thanks. Bye, Eddy, see you tonight.”
“Bye Mike.”

* * *

The sky was just starting to get light, though it was still overcast, and a fine snow was still falling. Joe looked up once again, and through a rift in the cloud cover a single bright star was shining. He lifted Eddy up to the cab of the snow plow, and Stan fastened a seatbelt around him. Then Joe climbed in.
Stan reached over and shook his hand. “Thanks, Joe. You made this a Christmas we’ll never forget.”
“Christmas good.” Eddy commented.
“I’ll say, Eddy!” His cousin punched him gently on the shoulder, and Eddy punched him back.

“Hey – nice wheels,” Joe said as Stan began to move the big machine.
“It’s a job. In the winter, I work a lot of nights.”
“That’s mostly all I ever work,” Joe replied. “Now, I’ve got to see these dishes...” He peered out of the window as Stan slowed the plow.
“What are they all for?”
“They pick up all the cable TV networks we work with here... How do you like that? Mike was right. They’re all clear.”
“Guess you were out a lot all night, keeping them clear, huh?”
“Not since around midnight...” Joe’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Not only is there no snow the dishes, there’s no little piles of snow them. How the heck can that happen?”
“The wind, maybe? It sure has been cold.”
“Pretty strange wind. Saved us from missing our cues, and saved me from having to go out and leave, er, the room unguarded.” He looked over at Stan and winked.
As the plow turned out of the parking lot, Joe sat silently, thinking, then nodded. “Well, it sure was a nice Christmas gift.”

“Hmh,” grunted Eddy. “Christmas good.”

Killer Keyboard

2008-10-23T10:30:00.000-04:00

Dr. Thomas Alethia, a professor at Collins University, was in the practice of using a computer to store his notes. Although he taught philosophy, he found computers fascinating. But then he found most things and most people fascinating. One of the many strange events from his first years at Collins was the way in which a computer led to the solution of a murder...

It was April of his first year as an assistant professor. An early spring had brought the beauty of flowers to Collins. Everywhere on campus the students began their age-old sun worship - the solar disk now reincarnated as frisbees. He was amazed to see some students sprawled on the grass reading, sketching, even typing on their portable computers. He walked down the path thinking of their happiness despite their work: Ah! happy days! while they may enjoy the fullness of their powers of mind and body in such a beautiful...
“Look out, Professor!”
Suddenly, a fluorescent orange token of an ancient Egyptian religion flew past his head! A handsome student, who could have been cast as the Pharaoh himself in his shorts and bare feet, jumped to catch the disk, but he missed, and it went spinning on. It crashed into a portable computer, only a few feet from its user, who was stretched out on the grass sunning herself. Bits of electronic stuffing erupted as the frisbee hit. As its owner turned to view the disaster, Dr. Alethia recognized her as one of his students in Metaphysics. A look of horror crossed her face, quickly replaced by a big broad smile. She actually started laughing! He went over to her, and asked if she was all right.
“Oh, Dr. Alethia,” she said, “I’m fine. The frisbee didn’t hit me, nor did any of the pieces of this wreck.” She kicked it, and it disintegrated further.
“But your work?” he asked her.
“Oh, it’s all stored. See, this is really just a terminal machine, and nothing is stored in it. Not even those old floppies. My paper for your class is stored in the big machine down in the Cave. I’ve always hated this one - it’s too slow. And my father is buying me a new machine as a graduation present.” She laughed again, and bent down to pick up something. “So maybe you’ll help me graduate and give me one of these.” She handed him a little square piece of plastic. It was one of the keys of the computer keyboard, the “A”.

* * *

Dr. Alethia spent that summer on a retreat in the Rockies. Fishing and sleeping under the stars, and silence. He was happy that his first year as a professor had gone well, but he was doubtful of his career, even then. His childhood friend, Mike Carlson, who was now a Lieutenant in the Harley Police Department, had often thought Tom should have a more active role in life: “With your mind, you’d be a fine officer. But you’d rather keep your nose in a book. That won’t solve crimes!”
By November of that year, he would think a little differently.

* * *

The new school year opened. Dr. Alethia did not think of himself as a seasoned professional, but there now was a feeling of familiarity about the campus, emphasized by the presence of newly hired faculty members. One of them he met in the faculty dining hall very early in September was Dana Smith, a new assistant professor in the Chemistry department. She was tall and very dark, and had a strikingly well-formed face. After introducing himself, he asked her about her work.
“I’ll probably be teaching the freshmen about acids and bases this year, but my specialty is blood chemistry. New electronic devices have greatly increased our ability to measure the proportions of various blood components. My studies have involved the use of these new devices to attempt formulation of a more discrete set of blood ‘types’, to insure safer blood transfusions.”
“And here I always thought there were just four types of blood.”
“No, there’s the Rh factor, and several others...” She smiled at me and continued, “If you really are interested, I can get you a copy of my dissertation.”
“I’m interested, but if I don’t get back to my office and pick up my lecture notes, my face is going to look fairly bloodless when I try to give an off-the-cuff lecture in an hour.”
They parted then, though Dr. Alethia told her he would come by her office after class to see her paper.

* * *

October had just begun. Down in the Cavaugh Computer Center, nicknamed the Cave, the morning system operator unlocked the main door of the center, and went to the storeroom to bring a new box of paper to reload a printer. The door stood ajar, and just inside on the floor was a body...

“It’s Viraj. I can’t tell you his last name, I cannot remember it. It’s in our personnel file.” The head of the computing operations staff shook her head. “It’s horrible. Who could have done this?”
Lieutenant Michael Carlson looked at her. “You tell me. What about his co-workers? Any animosity among them?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. He was always quiet. I don’t think he had any friends among them. The door was open - could someone from outside have done it?”
“We’re checking all possibilities, Mrs. Cavaugh. Just a few more questions, then you’re free to go about your work.”

* * *

That night, Mike Carlson and his wife Mildred ate dinner at Dr. Alethia’s house.
“You probably have heard about this... death... in the Cave today, Tom, haven’t you?”
“Yes, some of my students mentioned it. One, an Indian student, brought up the matter of death in class, and told us about Viraj. You may not know this, but it seems that no one had more than a passing acquaintance with him. Another of my teaching assistants, who is president of the Indian Students Club, told me he had never met him, and the few Indians he spoke to about Viraj said that he had always been very quiet.”
“Yes. The computing people told me that also. Viraj was quiet. Too quiet. It’s almost as if he had some ulterior motive, always listening for something.”
“Maybe, but perhaps it was the shyness of a new student in a new land.”
“No, Tom. He was born in this country, and probably didn’t know a word of an Indian tongue. We’ve checked. In fact, that makes it all the stranger, since most everyone believed him to be a foreign student, and his actions seemed to reflect that belief.”
“So there’s no one you’ve talked to so far who can give you any clue about Viraj?”
“We interviewed his four housemates, and they seemed to know remarkably little about him. He never ate with them, and when he was home, he was in his room with the door closed. None of them had any personal knowledge of him.”
“How did they react to the news?”
“One was another Indian with the name of Rajesh. I’ve got his last name in my notes, but it’s beyond the power of my memory to recall. He told me he was working on a doctorate in physics. I think he would not react if I slapped his face. His temperature did not seem to vary from a courteous coolness, even though I was rather inquisitive. In fact, I became quite suspicious of his calmness. I think he knows something.”
“Perhaps, but you do not usually deal with such foreign students. Some follow philosophies which demand emotionless life. Others are so devoted to their academic work, or even so fearful of life in a foreign land - “
“Foreign?” interjected Mildred, who habitually remained silent when Mike and I talked. (She once told me “I prefer only to listen to the two of you. It’s like living through part of a detective story!”)
“Yes, Mildred. They come from across the globe to study in that foreign country we call home. Paradoxical, but true.”
“Well, the second was an American, Alex Stevens,” Mike continued. “And his reaction was almost opposite. He told me he was preparing for his candidacy exam next week, and had no time for my questioning. I’ve checked with his department, and they told me he is not scheduled for the exam.”
“That’s interesting. What department is that?”
“Chemistry. I talked to one of the secretaries.”
“I would think that is conclusive, since the secretary of our department knows more than I do about our students. But that is a large department, and I would double-check. You can call the Dean of the Graduate School, since copies of candidacy plans must be filed there as well. If not, you may need to talk to Mr. Stevens further.”
“There are two more to describe, but they are not as interesting to me as the first two. The third was Hans Larsson, a Norwegian working on his master’s in metallurgy. He told me he had been working in his room last night, and offered to show me several pages of notes he had made. The fourth was Tak On Kung. He had been out with a friend last night, grading papers for Math 14; he is a teaching assistant. He told us the papers were still in his office, and we could see them, but he wouldn’t tell us his friend’s name. I didn’t like the way his eyes looked - he’s not telling us everything.”
“Maybe his friend’s a girl. Maybe he didn’t grade the papers yet,” Dr. Alethia postulated.
“Maybe. We will know about the papers tomorrow.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“Not so far. I’m not satisfied with any of the four.” Mike shrugged. “I have not been able to talk to Larsson’s advisor - she is out in California this week at a conference, and Kung’s was out of town today, but he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Tell me about the physical evidence of the crime.”
“There are one or two interesting things to tell you. First, he died of a blow to the head - his temple was crushed. We haven’t found the object yet, and forensics was not able to pick up anything suggestive. It was kind of rectangular, and most probably plastic. There were no other physical clues which give us any leads. Oh, yes. He did have keys to the stock room, and he had been on duty last night. But that doesn’t really narrow things down much.”
“Nothing in the stock room was disrupted?”
“No. There’s a good large open area just inside, and that’s where he was. If there had been a struggle, it must have happened there. We aren’t ruling out the possibility that he was killed somewhere else, and moved there. There wasn’t a lot of blood, and we haven’t found any traces except where the body was found.”
“I would talk to the housemates again. Are they all fluent in English?”
“Oh, yes. They all have accents, but all are perfectly clear. I might have my new officer interview them. She earned a couple of master’s degrees before she decided to change her career and become an officer. She’ll know how to deal with them.”

* * *

Mike called Dr. Alethia during office hours the next day. The Dean of the Graduate School didn’t have a candidacy plan for Mr. Stevens. The advisor for Rajesh stated that he had not met with him since early that summer, and had no idea what he was working on. The elusive friend of Mr. Kung had not been tracked down. When his advisor has interviewed, he complained that he frequently called Kung and the telephone was answered by a woman with an “Asiatic” accent: “Sorry, my specialty is groups of finite order, not linguistics,” he said.
Mike said he was going to take Stevens down for questioning: “When I saw him in his room, he had about a dozen books open on his desk, and was flipping through a notebook. He was very nervous.”
“Mike, I think you should check again. If there’s been some mixup in the school and he really is taking the candidacy exam next week, you shouldn’t stress him any more.”
“I wish I didn’t have to stress anybody, but I face my candidacy exam every day, and never more so than when I’m dealing with a murder.”

* * *

That night Dr. Alethia went over to the library to check a few references on a paper he was writing. He sat down at the computer “card catalog” which provided access to the all the books and periodicals of the library, and began checking various holdings he needed.
He was jotting down a new reference in his notebook when he heard the young woman next to him tell her neighbor, “See, I told you they have the complete works of Aristotle in the original.”
He recognized her as Beth Cummings, a student in his introductory philosophy class. He didn’t recognize her friend, but when she spoke he could guess at her interest - her accent was clearly Greek.
“Excuse me,” the Doctor interrupted them. “You needn’t do quite that amount of research for your homework. But I’m glad you are interested in seeing Aristotle’s work in his native tongue. Do you speak any Greek?”
“Oh, Dr. Alethia, this is my roommate, Diana Corintha.” Beth turned to her friend. “He’s the one who got me interested in Aristotle, “ and turning back to me she continued, “Diana learned Greek in elementary school, but moved here before high school. She wanted to see how much she could understand of the ancient dialects, and I was telling her about my class.”
“I see. How nice. But why were you looking up his work here? Oh - for the location, obviously.”
“You’re right, professor. But I don’t understand why the catalog didn’t show any Aristotle when we checked earlier. It told us there was no such author.”
“Strange. When did you notice this? I’ve been using the catalog for about half an hour, and it’s been ok. I’ve even checked the holdings by Aristotle, but not the Greek versions.”
“It was just a few minutes ago,” Beth told me. “We were down in the Cave working on our computer assignment, and on our way out, I stopped at the library access terminal in the consulting room. It was so strange. Did you ever hear of...” - she paused, and pulled out her notebook - “...a writer named Arosiliet?”
“No. Let me see that.” It seemed strange, almost an anagram.
“I can’t guess what we did wrong. It worked fine here.”
“Let’s go over, shall we? I’d like to know more about this philosopher Arosiliet.”

* * *

They walked over to the Cave through the cool October night. The professor was almost unaware of the puzzles of the last days, as he indulged in one of his secret hobbies, the making of anagrams: “Only one T. Not quite an example of the ars magna”, he thought to himself.

“Here’s the terminal we tried,” Beth pointed at the machine.
Dr. Alethia sat down and pushed the “Standard Search” function key, then the “Find by Author” request.
“I can’t guess what you did wrong,” he told them, looking at the girls’ faces and not at the keys. (His parents had taught him to touch type when he was young, and he had always enjoyed having the skill. It was one less worry when he wrote his dissertation.) The screen changed, and displayed the first few entries written by Aristotle. “See? It seems fine now.”
“Let me try again, please,” Beth asked.
Diana stopped her. “No, I was the one who did it then. Let me do it again.”
“All right.”
She sat down and as she looked at the keys, she spoke each letter as she typed it. “A... R... I... S... T...”
“Wait!” As they watched the screen, the AUTHOR entry box showed the letters “AROSI.”
“Type the letter 'T' again,” the professor ordered.
“There. Two more 'T's.”
But they were not 'T's. Two 'I's had appeared.
“How strange. Look, professor, the keyboard is wrong.”
“You’re right!” So it was a transposition, he said to himself. “Finish the typing - let’s see which letters are wrong.”
They looked. “'E', 'O', 'I', 'T', and 'L'. How can the keyboard be wrong?”
The professor shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it was made wrong. I know very little about computer mechanisms.”
“I guess we should tell the consultants, and they can request service for it.”
“Yes.” He put his hands in his pockets, feeling for a pen. “I’ll just make an ‘out of service’ note for this terminal.” His hand closed around something small - he had no idea what it was. He took it out. It was a small square piece of plastic. It had the letter 'A' on one side, and he saw it was nearly identical to the keys of the transposed keyboard.
“Well, that’s strange.”
“You have an 'A'.” Beth stared at it. “I had no idea the keys could come off,” remarked Diana.
“I wonder if these come off,” the professor said. He took out his pocket knife and pried off the 'Z'. he then tried the 'A' as well, as he wanted to compare it with the 'A' he had in his pocket, but his hand slipped, and he scratched himself on the protruding mechanism under the 'Z' key.
“Oh, that’s sharp.”
He swiveled in the seat to get more light, and inspected his hand.
“Did you cut yourself?” Beth asked.
“A slight scratch. It hardly broke the surface.”
“But look at that blood!” Diana said.
“Where?”
“Under the keys.”
He lifted the keyboard up, peering closely into the opening left by the removal of the 'Z' and 'A' keys.
“You have good eyes, Diana. Yes, there appears to be something in there.”
He then realized that he was almost certainly holding the murder weapon. Not wanting to alarm them, he sat it down, and said, “Probably someone spilled cocoa on it. I’ll just make this note, then take the keyboard to the service area myself. You needn’t delay yourselves any longer.”
“Well, then, good night, Professor. See you in class.”
“See you there, Beth. Very nice to meet you, Diana. I would be glad to discuss Aristotle with you sometime, and talk about Greece. My ancestry is partly Greek, also.”
“I would like that, someday, Professor. Good night.”

* * *

“Yes, it’s blood. The forensics lab says it’s identical to Viraj’s blood.” It was later that same night, and Mike and the professor sat in his office drinking coffee.
“What about the keys?”
“There are traces of blood on the Z, and on the O and E keys. Not enough to type, but we don’t need to type it.”
“Why?”
“It has to be Viraj’s blood.”
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t. The blood on the Z key is mine.”
“What do you mean, it’s yours? How can it be yours?”
“I told you, when I tried to get the A key off, I scratched my finger on the Z mechanism. There’s a sharp edge in there. I really think you should test the blood on the keys.”
“We can’t. There isn’t enough to type.”
“Maybe I can help you there. Let me make a phone call.”
“Hello, Dana? This is Dr. Alethia, of Philosophy. I have a question about your work in blood typing. No, I haven’t had time to read your dissertation yet. It’s rather important. How much blood do your tests require? Really? That sounds quite precise. Can you come down to the police station and take a look at something for us?”
He turned to Mike. “That was Dana Smith. Her research involved studying the typing of blood proteins at the cellular level. I think she’ll have enough blood to work with.”

* * *

Two days later Dr. Alethia and the Lieutenant met in Dr. Smith’s office.
“The lab says the keyboard fits to the head wound,” Mike announced. “What have you been able to determine?”
“I have completed my tests,” stated Dr. Smith. From the blood under the O key, I was able to detect the presence of three proteins which indicate a Northern European ancestry. I must stress this is only indicative, and not conclusive.”
“But compared to, let’s say, an Oriental, an African, or an Indian?” Mike asked her.
“None of those would have the same indications. With the three I detected it would be difficult to be more specific as to the European area, but among the four genetic backgrounds you mentioned, the proteins are sufficient to provide an accurate measure of difference.”
“Couldn’t you demonstrate that the blood came from a particular individual?”
“Perhaps. There was very little blood there. Moreover, what you call blood and what I call blood are not the same.”
“What do you mean - oh, never mind. I’m sure it’s over my head.” Mike sighed. “Now what do we do? The evidence seems to indicate Stevens. The chemistry department and the Dean were clear on that.”
“Which Stevens?” asked Dana.
“Alex Stevens. He’s supposed to take the candidacy exam next week.”
“You mean Alex Stephan? Tall, not as black as me, very short hair?”
“That’s him.” Mike looked at her intently. His name isn’t Stevens?”
“No. I thought it was, though, when he introduced himself. He wants to have it changed, and often tells people his name is Stevens. He’s quite good at chemistry, but he’s...”
“He’s just barely missed being tagged for murder! Say, he’s not working with you, is he?” Mike asked, a suspicious look on his face.
“No, he’s in rare earth extraction. Also, one of our secretaries is being fired at the end of the week for sloppy work. I bet you talked to Brenda, didn’t you?”
Dana looked relieved when Mike took out his notebook, flipped through it, and nodded. He seemed somewhat embarrassed.
“Tom, what do you think would be the best way of...”
Just then the telephone rang. “Dana Smith. He’s here, just a moment, please.” She handed the receiver to the Lieutenant.
“Carlson here. OK. Yeah, she thinks it’s Northern European. That would be Larsson. No, Stephen is out. No, it’s Stephen. No S at the end and with a P, H instead of a V. And tell that Davis to be sure to have people spell their names. Yeah. No, I missed checking it, too. OK. What do you have on Kung? It was his girlfriend? No. His WIFE? Oh.” To us he said, “He didn’t want the professors to know. He thought they would terminate his grants when he got married.” Back to the phone: “And what about Rajesh? He submitted a first draft of his dissertation? His advisor thinks it will be the last draft as well? Wow!” Dana and I looked at each other in amazement. That would be a first at Collins, a dissertation accepted on its first draft!
“Anything on Larsson? Nothing at all? Say, didn’t he have a bandage on his finger when we first saw him? Yeah, I thought he did, too. Maintain surveillance there, but we’re going to go over and talk to him now. Ok. Yeah. No. Not until we’re back at the station. Thanks, Sandra. Good work.” He hung up the phone.

* * *

Hans Larsson did not appear very happy. “I’m not sure what you are asking. I barely knew Viraj. We did not eat together. We did not study together. Yes, he lived here, as I live here.”
“You say you had no personal contact at all with him?”
“No. He and I stayed apart.”
“If you don’t mind, we would like to ask your permission for a blood sample. Dr. Smith can do it right here.”
“Why? I tell you there is nothing. We did not talk.”
“Why should you be concerned about a simple blood test?”
“You do not need to see my blood. I have no connection to him. None.”
Mike looked at Dr. Alethia, who reached in his pocket and pulled out five little plastic squares. He put them on Larsson’s desk, and arranged them. They read “TO LIE.”
“What are those?”
“Those are keys from the keyboard which crushed Viraj’s head. There was blood under them. Whoever put them back scratched his hand on the mechanism under the keys. We have enough blood from it to determine who it was.”
Larsson picked up the L and put it down. He turned his hand over and examined it, unknowingly making the same motions Dr. Alethia had made when he scratched his own hand.
“No. It was not me. I didn’t hit him that hard. It must have been someone else.”
“I think you better explain that statement.”
“He had come into my room, and brought a little tape player. He played the tape. It was me, on the phone. He taped my talking to... But I will not say who it was. She and I were... I will not say. But he wanted money, or he would send it to my wife. He told me he would have to have money, and my help with his master’s paper. He told me I would have to give him my idea. I would give him money. But when he told me to give him my work, I was furious. I told him no. I grabbed the tape, and smashed it. He laughed, and told me it was just a copy anyway. I knew he had to work that night, and I thought I would be able to search his room then, and get it.”
They looked intently at him. His eyes were closed, his face contorted with emotion.
“I searched it. There was a clever phone tap, and a little box with tapes. He had labelled each one neatly with our names and the date and time of each conversation. There were three or four for each of us who live here. I smashed all of them and threw them away somewhere on campus. I was furious and I decided to tell him what I had done. I should have told my housemates, but they were all busy, and I did not want to disturb them. I went to the Cave where he worked. It was almost time to close the stock room, there was no one else around. I came to him there.”
Larsson paused in his story. “He laughed. ‘You are in my pocket!’ he told me. ‘You are my little brain.’ ‘No!’ I said, ‘Never!’ A stack of boxes stood nearby, and the top one was open. I picked up a new keyboard, I guess it was a replacement part. ‘All your tapes are gone,’ I said. ‘All of them. You have no future.’ He still smirked at me: ‘You can squirm, but there are more copies. You will work for me, spineless student. All brains, and no imaginations. What good is that keyboard? He did not know that I was a discus thrower for the Olympic team. The keyboard hit him on the side of the head and he went down. I thought he was knocked out, and there was a little blood, but when I saw it I was scared. Parts of the keyboard had come off, so I picked them up. I wiped the keyboard off, but when I put the keys back on, I scratched myself. I took the keyboard out and swapped it for the one on the library catalog terminal. That one I put back in the stock room. How did you discover the switch?”
Dr. Alethia had to smile. “A philosopher with the unusual name of Arosiliet. You put the keys back incorrectly.”

* * *

Larsson was not tried for murder. It was discovered that he had diplomatic immunity, and we never heard about the resolution of his case in Norway. Mike told Dr. Alethia he thought a good lawyer could make a strong case for self-defense. But Dana was never asked to go to the Europe to testify. Rajesh’s first draft was approved, and he received his doctorate. He is now teaching in India. Kung left school; he runs a Chinese restaurant and has four children. Alex Stephan passed his candidacy. He eventually made a trip to Europe, when he and his wife Dana won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry.

(I wrote this in 1991 while at an Unnamed School; it has been revised since then.)

Special Guests

2008-10-20T11:00:00.000-04:00

Special Guests
(a sequel to "A Special Guest", originally printed in Something Good To Read)

Please note: the political (and perhaps some of the physical) geography of Africa in this story is imaginary, and belongs to the subcreated realm where these characters live. No analogy is proposed or intended with any real country, but to those real countries in our world adorned with the Congo River and the Mountains of the Moon (the Ruwenzori), I give a bow of esteem. Also, the "ChesterTeens" blogg is real, though it is now called Flying Ins, but none of the characters of my story are analogues of real members of that blogg. You will find a sprinkling of unattributed quotes of GKC's The Man Who Was Thursday and other of his writings, but that's only to be expected. Finally, you may wish to read the story called "A Special Guest" before you read this one. Or afterwards. It may even be better afterwards.
--Dr. Thursday

It looked hot out there, but September 15 was still summer. She was glad it wasn't a direct flight - she got to see a little more of the country that way. She leaned forward, peering out the tiny oval window at the ground crew loading luggage into the plane. She shivered again with excitement. She - Lucy Thérèse Findesac - a senior at St. Jerome High - had written the winning essay of the Livingston Adventure! She was going to New York, to spend a week at Channel Nine, with Barclay Livingston himself! She thought back to the day the FexEd package had come, stuffed with papers to sign: for her, for her parents, for her principal, and even a form for her physician... Everyone had been delighted with the great opportunity. But when she was about to announce her adventure on the ChesterTeens blogg, her mother told her to wait. "You can report on it afterwards, dear. You don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, do you?" And of course she agreed - it was the Chesterton way. But she bought herself two fresh notebooks and a bunch of pens to take along. That evening she stared out her window and watched the sun set over Grays Harbor, then got on her computer and posted (under her net-name of "Henneth Annûn", Tolkien's Elvish words meaning "Window on the West") a short quote from GKC's What I Saw In America about the New York sky-signs and her own thoughts about God's sky-signs.
She had never been to New York, but even with all the interesting things to see there, she didn't expect to be there the whole week. Not with Barclay Livingston as a host! Not only was he handsome and a superlative reporter, but he was well-known for getting to the most dangerous or impossible news events and bringing back unbelievable reports. Lucy doubted that they would be in New York the whole week. She had to bring her passport - and to give added certainty to her guess, there was that form for her physician, which had resulted in a couple of unexpected injections. Everyone knew that the Pope would be in Mexico on Thursday - the beginning of his Central American visit - and everyone also knew that the Livingston Report had not yet done a "Focus" on Benedict XVI. There were rumors on all the Catholic bloggs: Livingston was one of the most visible of Catholics in the media, and even the regular media had been speculating whether he would be dropping in during Benedict's visit. It was hard enough for Lucy to imagine being with Channel Nine's media legend, but with even a remote chance of meeting the Pope too? What an adventure!
She sighed and sat back. While she was watching the luggage being loaded, people had been getting on the plane. She looked around. A couple of businessmen were in the seats across the aisle, reading newspapers. A woman with a pack was going down the aisle to her seat, an attendant was helping an older woman from a wheelchair. Then she saw a pair of huge white sneakers sticking out into the aisle, and long legs in dark baggy pants... she heard the clicking of a laptop. She shrugged. Some young tech probably owner of a company. She took out her notebook and jotted down some musings. Maybe there'd be a kiosk at the airport so she could send e-mail to her parents... but there was sure to be something at the studio. She sighed happily and wrote as the attendants began preparing for takeoff.

* * *

When the plane landed in New York, Lucy saw the kid with the big sneakers stand up as soon as they came to the jetway. He was tall, kind of skinny, with short dark brown hair, and frowning nervously, but he had a nice face. He was wearing a deep blue shirt with a worn jean-jacket, and he had slung his laptop case on his shoulder. He hurried out as soon as it was permitted, but Lucy was impressed when he stopped to assist the old woman with her wheelchair. The businessmen were still reading their newspapers. She sighed, pulling her pack from under the seat, and got up.

Inside the terminal she saw a man in a deep blue suit, holding a clipboard. He glanced at it, then saw her and smiled. "Ah! Miss Findesac! Welcome to New York! I'm Martin Smith, assistant to Mr. Livingston." He put out his hand and she shook it. "Since we're all here, if you'll follow me?"
Lucy's eyes opened at that - then she saw that the tall kid with the laptop was standing next to Mr. Smith; the kid was smiling faintly as he stared at her.
Mr. Smith saw her hesitancy and realized he had made an unwarranted assumption, all but unforgivable for one of Mr. L's staff. "Excuse me. Miss Findesac, may I introduce Ben Boule? Mr. Boule, this is Lucy Findesac. You're the two grand prize winners. Both of you did most impressive work; Mr. Livingston is looking forward to this! Now, please come with me."
The two young people had mumbled a greeting, shaken hands and taken each other in - then followed their host through the terminal. Lucy wondered about her companion, and wondered if he was wondering about her - but he said nothing. But recalling how Father Brown would talk to his waiter in restaurants, she broke the ice: "I'm from Hoquiam, Washington. Where do you live?"
He didn't respond right away, maybe he thought she was talking to Mr. Smith. Finally he glanced over to her, but this time he smiled for real. (Probably nervous, even shy, she thought.) "In a little suburb of Chicago." His voice was deeper than she expected, but nice enough, with just the faintest midwest twang.
"It looked like a nice place - from the air."
He shrugged. "It's OK."
"I could hardly believe that I won."
"Me too. My dad said I spent way too much time on it. Took time away from my..." He cleared his throat. "He's all for schoolwork, but he thinks I waste my time. And after I bought this machine with my own money, too!" He patted his laptop case. "But he said it was a good thing I got something out of all that work." He shook his head, and frowned again.
"My parents said I could enter, but I had to keep up my regular work too. I..." She stopped; it was better she didn't say anything about blogging. "I've got to write up a report for when I get back."
"I got the machine, and as long as I get a connection I got to make stupid daily reports as things happen. Some people think I'm a kind of newshound." He shook his head. "I like to write, that's all." He dropped his voice, but she caught what he said. "I just never have any time for it."
"I know. Me too." She stopped, wondering about one of the last things she had read on the CT blogg: the writer named MegaPode said something about an adventure he was going to have. Casually, she looked at him again as she hurried to catch up. At first he seemed so skinny, but he was lots stronger than he looked. Nah. No way; she couldn't believe both of the Livingston Adventure winners were in ChesterTeens! But, she thought, it might be fun to find out if he knew Uncle Gilbert. She'd have to stay alert for an opportunity.

* * *

After they collected their luggage, Mr. Smith took them to the hotel suite where they would be staying. Each had his own bed and bath, but there was a common lounge, a dining area and kitchen, and two other bedrooms. Mr. Smith smiled. "No, we're not expecting anyone else, and you won't be eating here - but we have to keep suites like this ready - for our guests, you know."
Lucy was already hungry, and wondered what he meant. "We're not eating here?"
"Sure; in about an hour I'll be taking you to have dinner with Mr. Livingston."
Ben looked nervously at Lucy, then at Mr. Smith. "We're going to dinner? Tonight? With Mr. Livingston?"
"That's right. Any objection to Mexican food?"
"I love it!" Lucy said. She felt this gave additional support to her prediction.
Ben nodded his approval with a faint smile. "This place got wireless?"
"Certainly. I'll leave you to unpack and relax while I check in with Mr. Livingston; he had to finish off a couple of projects today, clearing his desk for this week. And should either of you have any problem while you are here, just call the front desk, and they'll take care of you." He nodded and went out.

The two young people looked at each other uncomfortably.
Finally Ben said, "Doesn't he have a son?"
"Who - Mr. Livingston?"
"Yeah. He's about our age, I think."
Lucy frowned as she tried to remember the biography she had once read of the intrepid reporter. "I know he's married, and I thought I once heard... I don't know. Maybe he'll be at dinner tonight."
Ben stared down at his huge feet and sighed. "You have brothers or sisters?"
"Yeah... one each. Mike's in fifth grade. And Maryann, she's only five. How about you?"
"Nope. I got a cousin Fred, we do a lot together - he lives the next farm over..." He broke off, suddenly uncomfortable.. "Uh. You don't need to bother about me. I... I'm kind of..." He reddened. "I think I'll just get changed before dinner."
Lucy wasn't sure what he had said that embarrassed him so badly, but she wasn't about to pry. "That sounds like a good idea. I probably smell like jet fuel, I've been on the plane all day!"
"You don't," she heard him murmur as he hurried off to his room.

* * *

Mr. Smith had taken them to the place where Mr. Livingston was waiting, then left after introducing them. Lucy wondered if the tiny cellar was really a restaurant, or just a basement kitchen in somebody's house. There was no menu, but food just kept appearing: all interesting, and all good. There was live Mexican music coming from somewhere nearby. Everything was tasty, and somehow more real than anything she had ever eaten at a chain "Mexican" place.
Lucy stared at Mr. Livingston - the fresh, honest face that (it was said) half the world knew: a handsome man, now in his forties, with dark hair and grey eyes, and a rich but unaffected speaking voice. He was friendly and quite casual, yet remarkably alert to his young guests. Lucy soon learned the reason for Ben's embarrassment. He lived on a farm, and not a very big one, but it had been in his family since the 1800s, and he was proud of it, but not of being a farmer - city kids liked to mock him as the classic farm boy. And on top of that, he didn't feel that he could be a farmer, he was too lazy for it - but he didn't want to lose the farm. Ben found out that Lucy wanted very much to be a writer, but had great math grades too, so she was thinking of studying engineering in college. Her father hadn't ever gone to college and he wanted her to aim high. "Besides, writing isn't the only - I mean, whether you write about pigs or the binomial theory - uh - it's like farming, somebody has to do hard jobs like that," she said, flustered. Ben stared strangely at her, but Mr. Livingston nodded in understanding.

As they were eating their dessert, Ben asked, "Sir, I seem to recall you have a son? Isn't he about our age?" Lucy smiled at his courage, and listened attentively.
Mr. Livingston answered without hesitation. "Yes, his name is Toby. He'll be sixteen soon, so he's a bit younger..." He smiled but his voice trailed off and he stared into space. "Excuse me a moment." He got up and went out.
Ben's eyes met Lucy's. "That's probably the only time in his life he's ever been at a loss for words."
She nodded; it was unusual. "Maybe it's his son's birthday, and he just remembered."
"I sure hope everything's all right."
"Yeah."
"Probably I shouldn't have brought it up."
"No; I think he was delighted that you were interested in him. I'd like to meet Toby, wouldn't you?"
Ben was about to reply when Mr. Livingston reappeared. "I apologize, I just remembered a phone call I had to make."
"Everything all right, sir?" Ben asked.
"Oh, yes. But I had a promise to keep." He nodded to himself, and stared at the candle flame in the centerpiece. "Almost ten years now..."
Lucy screwed up her courage. "Ben and I were just saying we'd like to meet your son - you said he's about our age, right?"
Mr. Livingston glanced oddly at Lucy, but then smiled. "I... Why, yes that's correct - it's very kind of you. I'll certainly mention it to him. He's rather busy with his studies, now that he's a junior and starting to think about college... and our schedule is rather tight, but I'll see what we can do."

But Lucy felt sure there was something else he wasn't saying. As she got ready for bed that night, she thought she could hear Ben typing furiously. She wondered if Toby's case wasn't similar to Ben's but magnified: Toby Livingston was merely the son of a world-famous character, probably tired of having his father's life rammed in his face... Probably lonely, like Ben. And as much as she loved her family, she was lonely sometimes too. She sighed, said a quick prayer, and fell asleep.

* * *

They woke to find menus had been slid under their doors - a note from Mr. Smith said that they were to order whatever they wished for breakfast, and be in the lobby ready to be picked up at 8:30 for a tour of Channel Nine. Lucy chose a light green top to go with her deep green skirt, but added a denim vest and matching purse. Ben was again wearing his baggy dark cargo pants and white sneakers, but had changed to a red plaid shirt, and was lugging his laptop. Mr. Smith greeted them, and soon they were at Channel Nine.
"We're not going to tour the whole place today, just Studio Nine where Mr. Livingston's show is shot. We'll have lunch here, as there are a few of the staff who want to meet you."
Ben yawned and nodded. "You have wireless here?"
"Yes, but you won't be able to use it; there are policies about Internet usage here. Sorry."
Ben shrugged. Lucy yawned, hoping she wasn't going to be doing that all day.

After they had signed in, Mr. Smith took them around. He showed them the glass-enclosed Control Room; from there they got their first sight of the famous Studio Nine with Mr. Livingston's desk and chair. Technicians and cameramen were wandering around the set, busy doing things. A short, chubby man in a vest stared glumly at them as they gawked, and Mr. Smith cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Sam. These are our guests today - the winners of the contest. Ben Boule, and Lucy Findesac. Ben, Lucy, this is Sam Preston."
"Pleastameecha," Mr. Preston said in flawless Brooklynese. He winked; his glum face didn't change. "Get 'em down there and prepped, Marty, we don't got all day."
Lucy paled, and Ben had turned very red; he looked like he was choking. "Uh... did you say 'guests'?"
"Sure did, kid; buck up. It don't hurt none. Dincha eat with the Big Bark last night? Part of the deal, you know. Hey, hold on a second." He leaned over the console and pressed a button. "Hey Toby! That's no way to treat a camera. I catch you doing that again and you'll buy us a new one." He shook his head. "You gotta watch these new kids all the time, I tell ya."
Ben perked up. "Did you say Toby? Is that Toby Livingston?"
"Nah, kid." His glum face wrinkled at one side, maybe it was a smile. "That's my old pal Toby Mortimer, he's been here for years. Started the year after I did; once he and I nearly... uh - did you just say Toby Livingston?"
"Yeah." Ben looked uncomfortable. "Uh... but never mind. I was just wondering about him, you know, how he's doing. Kinda hoping to meet him."
Now it was Mr. Preston's turn to look uncomfortable. "Well... ah... look, you gotta go get prepped. Mr. Livingston likes me to start on time, OK? So you gotta ask him about Toby, I ain't seen him for a while now. Just don't be doing it around here and delaying things, OK? Now lemme get busy here..."
Mr. Smith escorted them down onto the set, smiling wryly. "You know, it was in the fine print that you would do an interview, but you've both been on top of everything, so I expected that you knew it was coming."
"Well, I did read that, but I guess I forgot," Ben said.
Lucy smirked. "I knew it, but figured it would be at the end."
Ben decided to take a chance. "So what's this about Toby?"
Mr. Smith frowned. "Look, we don't have time for that now. And don't be pestering him about it here. If I get time later I'll try to explain... Oh, here's makeup. I'll talk to you afterwards."

The two were quickly made up on-set and taken to their seats by the desk under the bright lights. Then a sound man came and attached tiny microphones, then he had them read some short silly verses - they were soon laughing and at ease, and had taken care of the sound check as well. Other crew seemed to cluster around, busily doing strange half-hidden things in the dimness beyond the lights.
Soon Mr. Livingston appeared. He came and shook their hands; he seemed a little apologetic. "I thought you'd prefer to get this out of the way, then we can enjoy ourselves the rest of the week." Then he smiled. "Besides, one never knows what might happen: we may have to hurry off to Japan or Mexico or England to handle something exciting - and that is part of the deal, too."
He sat down, drank some water, let the sound man fix his microphone, then began reciting the Gettysburg Address for a sound check.
Mr. Preston's glum voice came from somewhere. "Ready when you are, Barclay."
"You two ready?" he asked.
"Shoot," Ben moaned, as if he was about to be given an injection.
"Yes, sir," gasped Lucy, making the sign of the cross.
"Good. Let's go, Sam."
"Hold on..."
The room seemed to exhale. There was a tremor among the people beyond the lights.
The hidden voice came again. "Barclay, you gotta get up here - right now."
Mr. Livingston yanked off the microphone and hurried off the set.
A minute or so went by. Ben was about to get to his feet, then the glum voice ordered, "Hold on, you two. Ned, get them disconnected, then bring 'em to his office."

Ben and Lucy sat in Mr. Livingston's office, waiting. The walls were covered with pictures of great and well-known people. Lucy looked around, trying to see how many she recognized. Then she saw something in the corner, half-hidden behind the open door. "Ben, what do you think that is?"
He got up and looked. It seemed to be a very large wooden chair, but parts of it were charred. "I don't know. Some kind of chair? Whatever it is must be important." There were ribbons fastened across the arms, as if to prevent anyone from sitting there. The walls of that whole corner of the room lacked photos - except for one, rather small, mounted in an elegant gold frame. "Check out this picture, Lucy."
She got up and peered at it. "A picture of the sun?"
"I never saw the sun look like that. I was going to say it was a freeze-frame of a match being struck."
"Almost looks like whatever it is, this chair is in the picture too."
"Hey - you're right! But what on earth could..."

"Oh, there you are," said Mr. Livingston as he hurried into his office. "Hold on while I make a call." He sat down, grabbed his phone and turned his chair, facing two large pictures just behind his desk, framed in gold like the strange one by the big chair in the corner. One was a lovely woman, dark and dusky with distinctive Mediterranean beauty. The other was the smiling face of a young man, he might have been a classmate of Lucy's or Ben's.
"Toby, I've got to leave. Something came up. and I might not be able to call you or Mom tonight - or for a day or two. Yes, out of the country. I'll tell you as soon as I know more... No, I can't tell you who. No, it's not him. No, not him either. I hope to see him later this week, but it depends on what happens now. Nope, not him; that's three guesses! Ha, ha. OK, one hint. I'll be flying southeast on a lunar quest. Ha ha! Nope; didn't think you'd guess. OK. See you soon, please God. Thanks, Toby. Oh - when I get back I have a couple of friends that would like to meet you. Yes, of course I'll..." his voice trailed off. "Fine. Then when I get back. OK, Toby. Bye."
Ben and Lucy looked at each other as all their guesses were voided. Father and son sounded authentically happy - which was even more unexpected than the first mysterious phone call.
"Sir? Where are - I mean - are we going with you? Where?"
He was poking through a desk drawer and looked up. "Oh, yes. Certainly you're going. I suspected this... gosh, ten years ago people were talking about him... and now here it is. Finally. The message I long expected - yes, hoped to hear." He got up and stood in front of the strange chair, his eyes closed for a moment, then he turned to them. "You'll have to go back to the hotel for your things, just pack a couple changes of clothes - and wear your sturdiest shoes, you may have to walk a bit... What's wrong, Ben?"
Ben was frowning at his huge sneakers. "Uh, sir. These are all I brought with me. Kinda hard to get my size, you see. I got boots at home, but they - I mean - uh - "
"For farm work; sure I understand." He went back to his desk and pressed a button on his phone. "Annette. We need a pair of hiking boots, size..." He looked at Ben.
"Sixteen and a half, standard width."
"Sixteen and a half, standard width. We're leaving here at seven; he's got to have them to check the fit before we leave. Thanks. See you."
"But sir? Where?"
"Sorry, can't tell you just yet. Soon. Sorry about having to postpone our interview, but perhaps we'll get a chance later this week. We got a lot to do... I would sure hate to tell the Pope I can't make it."
Lucy's mouth dropped open, and Ben stared. Who was it that might make even the Pope take a back seat?

* * *

It was a Lear jet, Lucy saw as they walked towards it across the tarmac. She had switched back to jeans and a pullover and hikers; Ben was clomping along in his new boots. The Livingston Report field crew was already on board; they and the jet crew were ready to go whenever - and wherever - Mr. Livingston might need them to go. Three cameramen, ranging from almost dwarf-size to hulk, a normal-size technician, and a relief airman - all stood and greeted Lucy and Ben. Then Mr. Livingston came on with a briefcase, and they took off.
Once they were at cruising altitude and everyone had a drink, Mr. Livingston opened his briefcase and took out a map. He fastened it to the corkboard on the wall.
"That's Africa," Ben said.
"Correct, Ben. That's where we're headed."
"No kidding," said the middle-size cameraman. "We're betting it's Dr. Stanley. Finally."
"Also correct, Ed."
"Ten years!"
"More like fifteen - or twenty," added the dwarf cameraman. "Rumors were rife years ago. A scientist of an almost forgotten type, when they were the generalists you read about in books. And of an insatiably inquisitive mind. One rumor said he had found dinosaurs, deep in the jungles. Others said it was some new genus of bird, or an unknown tribe, or a rich deposit of diamonds, or some impossibly rare flower... all speculation on the unknown. Now we'll find out what he discovered."
Mr. Livingston sipped some coffee. "We might. But first we'll have to discover something even more rare."
"What's that?"
"First we have to discover Dr. Stanley himself."

* * *

Mr. Livingston had given Ben permission to use the plane's network, once he had promised not to reveal the mission they were on - so Lucy had fallen asleep to the tapping of keys. She woke up suddenly in the dimly lit cabin. She peered out the window at the dark Atlantic; a star glimmered above. She used the rest room and went back to her seat. The others were asleep - even Ben. She looked out the window again, and soon was asleep.

When she woke again she smelled coffee. The sun was coming in the windows and people were moving around. Ben was already typing away.
"Good morning, Lucy," Mr. Livingston said with a smile. "I hope you had a good rest. It takes some time to get used to sleeping on a jet."
"It was fine."
"Help yourself to coffee or juice; plenty of nice pastries today."
As she made her selection, she said, "May I ask - how much further do we have to go?"
"Another couple of hours, I believe."
"Where - I mean, what country are we going to?"
"It's one of the newer ones, called Mbognu. It's on the Congo River."
"Do you... uh... know their language?"
The middle-size cameraman chuckled as Mr. Livingston said, "I know French; it used to be a French colony. My wife has tried to give me a little Greek, but it is dialect and I'm not very good. But Dan Myers here knows Arabic," he indicated the small cameraman, "Ed Detweiler handles Russian, and Ron 'Rocket' O'Malley does Spanish and Italian," he nodded to the middle and large members. "Then we have our technician, Mike Borat, who has been able to make himself understood in every oriental country we've been to; I don't know if he's a polyglot, or has Solomon's Ring or what." The cameramen snickered and the tech bowed elegantly. "How about you two? Will you be able to assist us, Lucy?"
"I won't be very helpful," she shook her head. "I've had a couple of years of Latin, and started Greek." She smiled at Ben, but he didn't notice; he was staring gloomily at his monstrous new boots. "I've played with Quenya too, but that's not even a human language."
Ben glanced up at her words, but she didn't notice. Mr. Livingston replied, "One never knows with Latin; it used to be universal, you know. So was Greek, as my wife keeps telling me. How about you, Ben? Any languages?"
"No sir. Not yet. I'm still struggling with English."
Mr. Livingston smiled. "It's a difficult tongue to learn well. But I think you'll find studying another language actually helps you with your own." He finished his coffee. "Now, if you'll excuse me I have some business to attend to." He went over to the little desk to use his laptop.
"Sir, one question."
"Yes, Ben?"
"Mbognu. The capital of Mbognu is Niossa - that's where we're going?"
"That's correct."
"Thanks."

* * *

The jet landed at the airport of Niossa; two heavy-duty Carabiner SUVs were waiting for them. The cameramen loaded the luggage and equipment into them, and soon they were checking into rooms in a big hotel in downtown Niossa. Lucy thought it looked a lot like New York, except for the bright sun, and a somewhat different array of smells.

The jet crew were asleep; the cameramen were going over the equipment with the technician, and Mr. Livingston was talking on the phone with a government official, something about arrangements for a helicopter. Ben was in his room working on his laptop and Lucy was looking out her window when there was a tap on her door.
It was Ben. "You got a minute?"
"Sure."
"I want you to see something."
She followed him to his room. He had the ChesterTeens blogg displayed on his laptop.
ChesterTeens To Invade Africa? read the title of the latest posting. She sat down and read the short article. It sounded speculative, but the speculations seemed to be phrased as if the writer knew exactly what was going on.
She turned and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. He frowned down at her, and before she could decide how to begin, he said, "So - you used Mr. Livingston's computer on the plane last night while we were all asleep, - didn't you? You sent e-mail to somebody."
"No - not me! I never touched his computer."
"Then you must have posted this on the ChesterTeens blogg yourself. You can't hide behind a pseudonym, Miss Pigs-and-Binomials! I recognized that quote you made at dinner! You're in ChesterTeens - admit it!"
She looked at him, half embarrassed, half amused. "Me? Why - why - you mean, you think I'm in ChesterTeens?" Then despite her uncertainty, she began to have a suspicion, and turned to her favourite adventure for a response. "Whatever made you think of ChesterTeens in connexion with me? Your suggestion is ridiculous."
A corner of Ben's mouth twitched. "The process was was simple enough. I think you look like a ChesterTeen. Besides, even your boots have 'CT' written all over them."
She peered down at her hikers. "Oh. Yeah. But that stands for 'Country Trails'..." she shook her head, then smiled cunningly and quoted, "'Have my boots got a watchful look? Do let me be a postman'."
He was smiling now too, and replied in kind. "Do you swear you're not in ChesterTeens? Will the devil dance at your funeral? Will the nightmare sit... uh." He shrugged glumly. "I forget the rest. But speaking of boots - these new boots of mine sure got a watchful look."
"Maybe you should try saying 'Boots' ninety times," she snickered. "I don't have a blue card to throw down, and I'm betting you don't either. But I'm willing to bet that someone with big feet gets his net-nickname from the Greek words for 'Big Foot'."
"So? Like someone who uses Tolkien's languages for her own 'window on the west'?"
"Yes; why not? But look - I didn't post that. I've not sent a single e-mail since I left home. The kiosk in the airport was down. Nor did I make any phone calls."
"Well..." he shrugged, "then how did this 'Ray Immobilis' find out about this trip we're on?"
"I don't know, Ben. How about you? You were on the computer a lot, I've heard you typing. Did you leak something, maybe inadvertently?"
"I ... uh, OK. I did post that I'm on an adventure. A plane ride, meeting new people..." his mouth twitched, almost like he was trying to keep from smiling. "And that I had dinner in a cellar, though at least it wasn't Lobster Mayonnaise." He grimaced. "What a name. Turns my stomach to think of such a thing. But that's beside the point. That was posted that first night, before we knew we were coming here. And yeah, I wrote up some stuff since then - it's been a blast so far - but it's all on my hard drive. I didn't put anything out. Not on bloggs, not by e-mail.

"OK, then we have another mystery on our hands. But that one can wait until we're back in New York. Meanwhile, we've got to see what we can do to help with this project."
"Huh? How can we help? You know anything about this Dr. Stanley?"
"No. But you're the one that has the computer." She stood up and gestured, and he sat down.
"Yeah, that's as good a place to start as any..." As he began typing she pulled another chair close and tried to read the display. "Hold on, don't scroll it so fast. Jerome Bentley Stanley. Two doctorates, biology and biochemistry. Supposedly missing since 1994 (or 1990) on a research expedition in the Ruwenzori Mountains (also called the 'Mountains of the Moon')." She nodded. "Are we anywhere near them?"
He opened another window and brought up a map of Mbognu. "Maybe 500 miles."
"That far? How far from Egypt are we?"
"Oh, maybe another 2500 miles or so, straight north from there. These are the mountains where the Nile starts. Even the ancients knew about them - you've heard of Ptolemy, haven't you?"
"Never mind that now. It's staggering to think how vast this continent is. And how strange - but beautiful."
He had flipped back to the biography of Dr. Stanley. "Oh, yeah. No wonder he was in love with it. So many fascinating things here... He's written dozens of journal articles about African flora and fauna."
"Didn't one of the cameramen say he supposedly discovered dinosaurs?"
He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Well, that summary mentioned that there were rumors like that, but he's certainly found several new species of plant and insect, all well-documented. But there are so many oddities here. The weather. The animals. The plants. Some things grow really large - strangely large - on those mountains... simply gigantic plants. There are fantastic mineral resources. And there are terrible diseases here too, and terribly poor people just trying to stay alive..."
"You just read all that?"
"No, but I've read about Africa. The other Stanley and Livingstone - you know. It was almost the reverse of our pair. Stanley was a reporter, hunting for Dr. Livingstone, who was half-missionary, half-explorer, trying to find the headwaters of the Nile."
"When was that?"
"Oh, in the early 1870s."
"No, really? It wasn't that recent - was it? After the Civil War?"
"Yeah - and Stanley fought on both sides, not at the same time, of course! Then he got a job as a journalist, and they had him go to find Livingstone, who was reportedly lost somewhere in Africa."
"I'm starting to see the parallel. Did that bio say if our Stanley is a missionary too?"
"No; it's mostly about his scientific work. Serious scientists don't get much slack if they show they have what my mom calls 'invisible means of support'."
"I know what you mean. But we'll..."

There was a knock on the door. Ben got up and opened it. Mr. Livingston came in.
"Ah, I though perhaps you'd be together." He sat down on the bed facing them. "We're going to be flying out tomorrow, very early, on a government helicopter, to a city called Nokimi, just beneath the Mountains of the Moon - then up to... to where we're going."
"You've got a clue where Dr. Stanley is now?"
"Yes. At least we know where he had been for quite some time. Like Archimedes, he seems to have gotten past a lot of the politics, and though the governments have changed several times over the years, they leave him in peace. He's doing too much good for them to interfere."
Lucy asked, "I thought he was lost?"
"Only in one sense," Mr. Livingston smirked. "He wanted to be left alone to do his work. Nobody seems to have noticed that he's still publishing four or five journal articles a year. He can't be all that lost!"
"So then what's all the adventure?"
"Ah, but you see - he wasn't lost then. He is now. They don't know where he is. Nobody knows where he is."
"So who sent you the message - you know, the one that interrupted our interview?"
He pulled a folded paper out of his pocket. "That's what is so strange. It came from an office of the government of Mbognu, but was signed Dr. J. B. Stanley. And nobody there knows where he is." He handed the paper to Ben, who glanced at it and gave it to Lucy. This is was she read:

"Have come to an impasse re new discovery. You are known all over the world and you have my respect. I need you. Come to my mountain. Bring cameras and witnesses."

It was dated Monday, and signed Dr. J. B. Stanley.

She read it a second time, wondering about the request for "witnesses," then handed it back to him and asked, "What was this? A fax?"
"That's right. Our tech department was checking into its authenticity even before I spoke to you in my office. Last evening on the jet I got confirmation from them, but I had already received word from my contact here. It's quite authentic."
"What's 'my mountain' mean?"
Mr. Livingston chuckled. "He means Mt. Stanley, named for the famous explorer; he wasn't any relation, but Dr. Stanley has - or had - a research facility on it, or near it. That's the one piece of the puzzle that is not clear."
"Why?"
"For one thing, it's far away from civilization. And then there's the strange political game. It seems that he was wise enough to keep some of his work very well hidden from local politics. The authorities in Niossa have always had radio contact with him, and he has a mailing address in their post office here. But no one in Mbognu seems to know exactly where that facility is, though they always understood it to be within their country. It could even be across the border in Shasalia or Rubundo. I've been in communication with those governments too, but they are not admitting anything. If we don't get anywhere tomorrow, we may have to try there too."
As he stood up to go, Lucy asked, "So tomorrow we fly to Nokimi, then up to look over Mt. Stanley for his research place?"
"That's right. I have a few more calls to make, and I've got to make a courtesy call in at their television station here. So stay here - I advise you to stay in the hotel - have dinner when you're hungry, get some rest - and don't stay up late. We're leaving at 5:30 tomorrow, local time."

The two went down to the hotel restaurant. It was about 1 PM locally, but felt like 7 PM to them, and they were hungry.
The waiter was a huge black man who greeted them with a vast smile and handed them menus.
Thinking of Father Brown, Lucy smiled at him and asked, "Sir, we are visiting here - almost by chance. Please tell us. What's good to try here?"
"All very good, lady," he said with a smile. "My cousin is cook. There is monkey today, you try?" When their faces wrinkled, he said, "Ah, but you are Americans?"
"Yes, we are with Mr. Livingston."
"Ah, Barkley Livingston! You are reporters? Young. It is good. You are - married?"
"No, sir," Ben responded quickly, not looking at Lucy. "We are cousins."
"That's right," Lucy added emphatically, not looking at Ben. "Close cousins."
"Family very important to us here," the waiter nodded. "My daughter marry this weekend, she your age. Family very pleased." He leaned close and murmured, "You try moambé - it is spicy chicken with peanuts and rice? My cousin makes. Famous dish here."
"Sounds good," Ben said, and Lucy agreed.
"You wish hot tea to drink?"
"That's fine."

After he placed the order, the waiter brought the tea, and again Lucy spoke up. "Have you ever seen these Mountains of the Moon?"
The waiter nodded. "Many strange things there..." Then his eyes opened wide. "Is this where you go? To Ruwenzori? With Barkley Livingston?"
"Yes, tomorrow; to Mt. Stanley."
He made a strange kind of snort of surprise. "This strange. My cousin speaks of this today."
"We are seeking Dr. Stanley, the great scientist. Mr. Livingston was told he is lost."
He looked at them oddly, with a kind of cunning grin. "Oh, that one. You have good adventure, then."
"You know him?"
"All in Mbognu know Dr. Stanley."
"Is he - what is he like?"
The waiter smiled broadly. "He is a good man. Old, very wise, very kind."
As he left to return to the kitchens, Lucy said, almost to herself, "I hope he's all right."

The food was unusual but good. After they ate, they went back to their rooms; again Lucy seemed to hear Ben typing away as she fell asleep.

* * *

It was about 3 AM when she woke again; her internal clock had not even adjusted to New York time, and now she was six hours further off. She sighed; all was quiet. She went to the window and looked out. The street was empty. There were no streetlights nearby and she could see the stars - two very bright ones near each other - but her room faced south and she had no idea what she was looking at. She took a shower, got dressed, then went through her pack, hoping she had perhaps left a book in accidentally - but she had been too thorough before she had left. She took out her notebook and started writing.

There was a knock on her door - she looked at the clock by her bed - it was 5:25. When she opened the door Ben was standing there, pack in hand, and laptop on his shoulder.
"You ready?"
"One minute."
She shoved everything into her pack and went out.

The sky was growing light as the government helicopter took off. With them was a man who Mr. Livingston introduced as Ali - he worked for the government, but was an old friend, and was the one who had sent the fax.
The ride was rather noisy and not very smooth, but Lucy didn't mind it. She peered around at the others. Ben seemed half-asleep. Mr. Livingston was alert and interested as he stared out the window. The technician had a hand-held camera out, trying to capture some of their journey. The three cameramen showed varying signs of discomfort; they did not seem to be handling the ride very well. Ali sat in a certain nervous silence; he was suffering even more than the cameramen.
As they flew on, Lucy was able to see the jungles and watercourses below. Even from the air, the plant life seemed strange. Further ahead, the mountains began to loom, shrouded with mists.

After about three hours, they neared the mountains. Clouds clustered about the peaks and there was a moist smell to the air. They went over a small town, then ascended along a ridge. Then they saw some low buildings, a small house, and a round paved area painted like a target. The chopper descended and landed there, and the Livingston team got out.
Lucy stared at the strange plant life surrounding them. No wonder they called this the "Mountains of the Moon"! Strange, gigantic, yet beautiful. There was an odd smell - she had no words to describe it. It was a compelling sight. The buildings looked like any modern corporate facility.
As the cameramen began unloading their equipment, Ali came up to Mr. Livingston, looking very uncomfortable. "This is the research lab of Dr. Stanley. I have been here before. His landrover is there, so likely he is at home."
Mr. Livingston shook his head. "It's not going to be this easy, Ali."
"If Allah wills it so, yes. If not, no. But I know him, and so I must agree with you. We shall have to ..." He bent over and retched.
"Are you...?" Mr. Livingston began. Then the largest of the cameramen came over; his face was green. "Sir... Ed says he don't feel so good."
They turned and saw that the other two cameramen were leaning against the helicopter in similar condition, but Ed Detwiler (the mid-size one) was clutching his abdomen.
Mr. Livingston shook his head. "Oh, man. How do you feel?"
Lucy and Ben said they were fine, and so did Mike the technician. Then the pilot opened the window and spoke, but Lucy didn't understand - she guessed it was French.
"Now they tell me!" Mr. Livingston threw his hands into the air. "I wish they had stayed in the hotel."
"What did he say?"
"Food poisoning has been going around some of the Niossa restaurants."
"But Ed's also got a sharp pain - in his lower right."
Mr. Livingston rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's just splendid. Appendicitis here?"
"We... must return..." Ali gasped.
"No, you must return," Mr. Livingston said sternly, then turned to the pilot and rattled off an order in French.
"OK, you three - you're going to the hospital in Toima with Ali. Rocket, help Ed back on the chopper. If that is appendicitis, he's got to have medical attention quickly."

As the doors of the chopper closed and the blades began to turn, Mr. Livingston turned to Mike, Lucy and Ben. "Well, it's even more of an adventure now. Mike, get the equipment under a roof, and get a handheld and all the usual trimmings. You two, follow me. We're going to pay a call on the Doctor."

Once the chopper had gone, Lucy noticed the strange noises - birds, insects, machines - it was hard to know what it was, though she guessed the low hum was an electrical generator. They went to the front door and rang the bell, and knocked, and called. But there was no reaction.
"No one at home," Mike the tech said. "Hope you told that chopper to come back sometime, Barkley."
Mr. Livingston shook his head and tried the knob. It turned, and he pulled the door open - and the others followed him inside.

He called but no one responded. It was a nice little house, just enough furniture and art and clutter to make it feel like a home. It smelled fresh; there was air conditioning somewhere. They peeked into room after room, but found no one. Finally they came to the kitchen at the back of the house. Someone had eaten there, and not all that long ago; there were dirty dishes in the sink. On a little table by the window facing the mountains was a sheet of paper. As Lucy came close she saw it had nothing but simple doodle or outline - she thought something seemed strange about how it was lying there, but before she could consider it further, Mr. Livingston picked it up and examined it.
"Ah." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a map and unfolded it, comparing it with the sheet. "All right. I think - uh, yes, I think it might be better if you two wait here. Mike and I will just do some reconnaissance. No, don't worry, we're not going to proceed with anything, I just want to check the roads. The mountain area is - well, just a bit dangerous. Once we see where the path goes to, and how risky, we'll come back. We may need - ah - some other supplies."
Lucy sighed, but Ben sat down at the table and pulled out his laptop.
"I doubt that you'll get any connection here, Ben; though I have no idea what Dr. Stanley might have arranged. I'd advise you not to eat or drink anything. We'll be back very soon, we're not going very far."
"Try one of the landrovers?" asked Mike, heading for the door.
"That's right. We'll be back soon."

They heard a landrover start up; it sounded like it had no muffler at all, but the sound soon receded. Lucy frowned in frustration, and started examining the kitchen. It seemed very tidy and convenient. Ben had booted his machine and was typing away.
"You get a connection?"
"Yeah. Nice and fast, too. I'm going to try something I thought of sometime last night."
"What?"
"I made a guess at the e-mail address of that ChesterTeen who posted about this adventure - that Ray Immobilis..."
"Oh, Ben. That seems so unimportant now - we're here in the wildest, strangest part of Africa - Mount Stanley, in the Mountains of the Moon - and you're trying to make contact with a pseudonym?"
"Sure, why not? There's nothing else to do." Suddenly he looked closely at the screen. "This is really funny."
"What?"
"It's him! He wants to talk."
"You got the software for that?"
"Oh yeah." He clicked, typed, clicked again...
There was a crackling, then a young but confident voice came from a tiny speaker in the laptop. "Hello? Is this Megapode?"
"Sure is. Is that Ray Immobilis?"
"That's me. How you guys doing? Are you really on Mount Stanley?"
"Yeah - how do you know that?"
The speakers crackled, but some of it was "Ray" chuckling. "I have my methods, Watson."
"Very funny, Ray."
"Ah, do I hear the delightful voice of the estimable Henneth Annûn?"
"Yes, that's me, but you may call me by my real name, Lucy."
"Hello to you, Lucy. I hope the adventure...." there was another crackle, and then nothing.
"Hold on Ray, the speaker just cut out."
A window popped up, and Ben read the message. "He can still hear us... I bet it's these speakers. I was jamming last week, and I thought they might go soon." He reached into the laptop case and pulled out a set of tiny earphones, and slipped them on. "Mountains of the Moon Adventure to Ray... you there? OK, I put earphones on so I can hear you again."
Lucy leaned close to Ben, she could just hear Ray's voice. "Too bad, but I'm glad we can talk for a little. So tell me - what's happening?"
"We started with three cameramen, a tech, a star, a government official, and the two of us. And the chopper crew. Now, it's just our star and the tech, and us. And no one at all here, in Dr. Stanley's home."
"Doctor Stanley!" came the tiny voice. "So that was who he... Never mind. Yeah, he's supposed to be lost somewhere in Africa. So... what country did you land in?"
"It's called Mbognu." Ben pronounced it "Ma-bog-new."
"No, no," came the tiny voice. "You have to kind of bite off that B while you hum, and the o is long: M'bow,gnu. It means Land of the River." Ben tried but he couldn't manage the bitten-off humming B. Lucy tried it, and she heard Ray say, "That's pretty good, Lucy!"
Ben gave it up in frustration, then asked, "So - you know that language? What's it called?"
"It's called Tshondé . I know some of it."
"Some kind of special school, huh?"
"Sort of." There was a pause. "Sometimes I... I have a lot of - uh - free time. You know what I mean."
"Yeah. That's why I got into blogging."
"I've seen yours, you have some good stuff. Good short stories. And so do you, Lucy."
"Thanks, Ray. I've not seen yours - I mean, except for what you've done on ChesterTeens."
"I'll..." Lucy heard a faint sound, like a groan. "I'll send you the link to mine; I post there with a different id."
In the distance they heard the sound of the landrover returning - but there was another sound, too - much closer. The back door of the kitchen was opening. Through the curtains they could see a dark hand turning the knob.

"Hold on, Ray," Ben said. "Someone's coming, and it's nobody we know."
The door opened and a dark-skinned boy in native clothes came in, his eyes wide. He said something - it sounded like a question to Lucy, but she shrugged.
Quietly Ben asked, "Ray! Did you hear that?"
"Yes - he said, 'Where is the Asker of Questions?' Do you know?"
"He must mean Mr. Livingston. We can hear the SUV coming, he should be here soon."
"OK - then say, mbuy kwa ngo ngab ets..."
"Wait Ray, tell Lucy, I can't do it." He took off the earphones and handed them to her.
After she put them on, Ray said the phrase again and she repeated it. The boy's eyes opened wide, and he smiled, then said something more.
In Lucy's ears, Ray said, "He said, this is good, then he asks if you are hungry."
"Oh, yes."
"Nishi," Ray translated and she repeated it.
"But even more, we need to find Doctor Stanley."
The boy jumped at the name, but listened for Lucy's mouthing of Ray's translation - then he said something more.
"He said, you will find him with the food, but you must follow him."
Lucy looked at Ben, and he said "We have to wait for them - then we can go."
Ray told Lucy what to say, and the boy nodded and responded, "Nishi."

Soon the sound of the landrover got louder, then it stopped. In moments they heard the front door open. "Lucy, Ben - you still here?"
"We have a guest," Ben called. "He says he'll take us to lunch where we'll meet Dr. Stanley."
Mr. Livingston hurried in, followed by the tech. "What did you say?" Then he saw the boy. He tried speaking in French, but the boy shook his head and spoke again, pointing to Lucy.
"What's going on?" Mr. Livingston asked. In Lucy's ears, Ray's voice was nervous as he translated, "Is - is that the Asker of Questions?"
"Nishi - yes," she said. Mr. Livingston stared at her, but the boy smiled at him and extended his hand. Nonplused, he took it and shook it warmly, smiling back. "Very pleased to meet you."
Lucy echoed Ray's translation of the boy's response: "I welcome you, O Asker of Questions. Please follow me to the discovery of Doctor Stanley."

Mr. Livingston nodded to the boy, but turned to Lucy and said, "How are you doing that?"
"I have a net-friend who knows Tshondé. But Ben's speakers are blown, so I'm using the earphones."
"Very clever. But if we are leaving you had better disconnect."
She nodded. "Yes - but - Ray, I need to ask 'Is it far?'"
Ray translated her question and the boy's response. "He said, 'It is a short walk of many steps'." She eyed Ben; it sounded like a Chestertonian paradox.
"Very well," Mr. Livingston said. "Please lead us."
Ray gave Lucy the translation; the boy replied "Nishi" and moved towards the door.
"Ray, we have to leave now, we're probably going to lose you outside. But we'll try to re-connect as soon as we can."
"That's fine," came the tiny voice in her ears. "It's dinnertime for me anyway. But call when you can; I keep late hours, and I'm a light sleeper. I'm at your service, O Henneth Annûn!"
She nodded to Ben and he closed down his laptop and hung it on his shoulder. Then they followed the boy outside.

* * *

They went back to one of the low buildings. The boy pulled out a key and opened the door. It was pleasant inside, and smelled faintly of chemicals. They went down a long hallway, passing a library, offices, and several laboratories, then down another bare-walled hallway. The boy unlocked another door which opened onto a dim descending staircase.
Down, down, down they went, every few turns there was another naked bulb giving just enough light to keep from stumbling. The air had that fresh-concrete smell, and Lucy guessed the stairs had been recently built. Finally they came to the end, and another door which opened into a dark hall lined with rock.
Mr. Livingston and the tech had pulled out flashlights.
"Shankwa!" the boy said, pulling on Mr. Livingston's arm; he looked plaintively at Lucy.
"I think he doesn't want us to use the lights," she said.
He exhaled, glancing at his tech a bit doubtfully. "Very well." They turned off the lights.
"Nishi," came the boy's voice in the darkness. They heard him moving to the left as he went down the passage, so they followed him slowly. There was a faint sense of moving air and a moist smell of vegetation but it was silent except for the boy's footsteps.

But in moments they realized that there was a light ahead, and they came into a warm, dimly lit cavern. The smell of vegetation grew; it reminded Lucy of her aunt's florist shop. Ben was near her, she could hear him breathing nervously.
The light increased as they advanced into the cavern. Various bushes and other plants hid the rocky walls. The boy called out, and an elderly voice answered him, and then it said, "Welcome, welcome, welcome, O Asker of Questions!"

Mr Livingston glanced at his tech, but he had already lifted his handheld camera, and the "record" light was lit.
He went forward a pace or two and smirked; he was unable to resist. "Dr. Stanley, I presume?"
Lucy saw him shake hands with the old man, who was sitting in a chair. His face was very red and wrinkled, and his hair was a thin but fluffy white, and he was smiling.
"And I see you have brought the requested witnesses! Good work, sir; thanks. They shall have two tasks; the first here, and the second when we are finished with this."
He nodded; the boy brought him a glass of water, and he took a swallow. Then he indicated a chair, and Mr. Livingston sat down.
"Dr. Stanley - most of the world thought you had been lost for years. Will you tell us where you have been, and what you have been doing?"
"Certainly, Mr. Livingston. I've been here, at my laboratories, studying the various living things of the area. I've published a number of papers over the years, I've lost count of them, of course, but they describe several new species: plants, animals and single-celled. Some are very beautiful, some are rather dull, and some are dangerous, but all are interesting."
"Wonderful. And - may I ask - why have you brought us to this cavern?"
"Ah. This is the latest - and perhaps greatest - discovery. I've been studying it for some time now, and gotten a few papers written, but I have not wanted to submit them, as it may cause quite a bit of shock. But the time has come." He reached down and lifted up a folder, "I shall ask you to take this back with you to America for submission to the various scholarly journals. Along with your own testimony, and that of your witnesses, there ought to be enough to settle most doubts. Yes. Please come forward, my young friends."
Lucy and Ben stepped to his side, and he shook their hands.
"Hello Lucy, welcome; Welcome Ben. You see all this?"
"Yes, Doctor, I do. It's beautiful."
"Yessir; so do I."
"Tell me, Ben. What do you see?"
"A cave, deep in the rocks of Mt. Stanley. But it's well-lit, and full of plants. But I don't see any lights, and no windows."
"Lucy? Your turn."
"I see... something unbelievable." She gulped, deeply moved. "Mr. Livingston, can I borrow your flashlight?"
He handed it to her in silence.
A tear ran down her cheek. It was beautiful. "I see a lamp by the light of the trees. It's like Valinor..."
"Correct. I've read both Chesterton and Tolkien. You two bear witness to this?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, I do."

Mr. Livingston cleared his throat; he desperately wanted some water. "Yes, so do I, Doctor. But - what is this? As we entered, I thought it might be an underground greenhouse."
"That's right. That's what it is. But the interesting thing is that I did not make the greenhouse. No one did. It's natural."
Lucy gasped, and Ben's eyes popped. "You're kidding!" blurted Mike the tech.
"No, sir; I am not kidding. The warmth and the light are natural, but are not from the sun, nor from any human device. The warmth is natural radioactivity - have no fear; there is no danger. I have monitors in place, and check them constantly. It is a reactor, perhaps like that which once occurred in Oklo, up in Gabon; but it is small, and deep below us, and the heat is tempered by the intervening rocks."
"But Doctor - the light? I looked around, and I thought perhaps it was green from sunlight shining through the leaves. Now I see the light comes from the leaves!"
"That's right, Mr. Livingston. I shall explain, just a little. There are some rather interesting plants here that have entered into symbiosis with some other tiny creatures - that is, they live and work together. There are some lichens, a kind of miniature moss. I believe them to be a species of Trapelia. It somehow extracts uranium and stores it. Then there is another miniature plant, one of the desmids, which stores zinc sulfide. The uranium decays, and excites the zinc sulfide, which glows. Marvellous. And there are these bushes, a dwarf form of Ilex, unusual for their moist leaves... With such a low level of light, they don't grow very big, of course, but they do grow. All a very delicate balance. There is a chain of caverns that reaches the surface, far from my labs; long ago a rock fall made it all but impassable except for insects, and few like the darkness. There's water constantly seeping down from the mountain through cracks in the rocks."
He sighed. "But there is another matter. I've made a full report to the government about this place - it is already within their national reserve, and so it is protected; I have explained to them about the delicacy of the balance. But it needs further study; there are several aspects of biochemistry and ecology which are interesting. So I am sending a representative to present papers at the next International Biological Conference." He tapped his folder. "After that we shall arrange for a visit from their selected representatives. But! and this is the stipulation for any scientist who wishes to visit! There is work here which I cannot neglect - other biological work, far more important to the common people, to this country." He turned and smiled at the boy. "If they wish to come, they must come prepared to assist me in my laboratories. I hope some will come; I must begin to plan for a successor. I..." he sighed. "As you shall see, I am going to take steps in that direction later today, but you shall understand shortly. Kinsi!"
The boy jumped to his side and handed him a ring of keys.
"Kna mbu atali ta. It is time for us to return."
The boy assisted him to his feet, and the Doctor pointed in the direction they had entered. "It will take me a little to ascend, but please go ahead, and wait at the top for me."

* * *

"There was so much more to ask," Mr. Livingston said as they trudged up the stairs. "How he found it. How it was able to develop, how long it will last. Then there's the radioactivity; I didn't think there were important mineral deposits in this area, but we're fairly far underground, deep enough for a mine."
"You don't think the government will let them mine in a reserve?"
"I doubt it, Mike. Our country surely would not do it."
"I wonder what steps he means to take."
"Yes... he's holding something back."

They did not wait long; Doctor Stanley was in good shape though a bit unsteady after the climb, but Kinsi was at his side. "Now. Kinsi told me you were hungry, and I apologize for not observing the amenities, but some things must take precedence. And you will not have to wait long. I ask you to accompany me to the village, there will be a brief ceremony, and then a feast."
After carefully locking the door to the staircase, he led them outside and locked that door too. Then they piled into the landrover, and he drove down the hill with alacrity.
Over the thunder of the vehicle, Mr. Livingston yelled, "In a hurry, Dr. Stanley?"
"Rather. I'm hungry too. Mah gwi mba, Kinsi?"
The boy smiled warmly. "Nishi."
As the landrover came into the village, people began pouring out, cheering.
Mr. Livingston signaled his tech to resume recording, then cleared his throat; he was very thirsty. "Sir - what is this?"
He stopped the vehicle and turned, shaking with emotion. "This, sir, is my wedding day."

* * *

It was not only Dr. Stanley's wedding day, but also the day he formally adopted Kinsi as his son. And there certainly was a feast! Ali showed up; he had been merely air-sick. The cameramen's cases were also trivial, and they showed up later that afternoon. Lucy met the new Mrs. Stanley; she was Mr. Stanley's cook Dr. Stanley had been a widower for a long time, and their courtship was slow but authentic. She was somehow related to Kinsi, who had been orphaned last year; she had started bringing him to help in the kitchen, but Dr. Stanley noted his careful style and bright, curious intellect, so he began helping in the lab. The village hospital, though tiny, was well-staffed and supplied; so was the village school - these were assisted by Dr. Stanley's presence in the area. There was also a tiny church, dedicated to St. Augustine of Hippo, where the wedding ceremony had been performed. Ben and Lucy had signed as witnesses for the wedding; the ceremony was part of the Mass and went by so quickly it was all over when it suddenly dawned on her that she had been maid of honor - and Ben was best man! She'd have to ask Mr. Livingston if he could print a photo from the video they had taped; neither Dr. Stanley nor any of the natives had taken photos.
Immediately after the wedding, Ali had brought Kinsi forward and performed a short ceremony of adoption. Again Lucy and Ben signed as witness. From her pack Lucy pulled out an unused notebook and a fresh pen; Ben reached into one of his numerous pockets and took out a small magnifying glass. Kinsi received the gifts in solemn silence, but his new parents smiled their thanks, and the crowd watching were enthusiastic in their appreciation. As the crowd began to move towards the reception area, the Doctor caught the two and murmured, "Your generosity is not unimportant here. You also have entered the family, and are on a rank as my son's uncle and aunt." He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "I cannot tell you how it touches an old man to gain such relations as I have today!"

The feast lasted far into the night. The music was strange, and what Lucy would call "native" - but she ended up dancing with Ben. The food was unusual, and she tried everything, not wanting to know what any of it was. Some dishes were very good, others she tasted and surreptitiously discarded. There was a little hotel nearby where Mr. Livingston had obtained rooms for them. She was so tired she fell asleep instantly, heedless of the festival outside.

When she woke the party was still going on. Mr. Livingston had some difficulties getting his cameramen awake, but soon everyone was having breakfast at the ongoing festival. None of the Stanley family was there, but Ali came and spoke with Mr. Livingston. He explained that the mystery had been at the bidding of Dr. Stanley: while he preferred to keep things professional, his country had such an admiration for their famous guest they would got to great lengths to accommodate his desires. The helicopter had returned to Dr. Stanley's landing pad, and was ready to return to Niossa when they wished. But as he spoke, there was a terrible crash of thunder, and the sky opened. Everyone ran for cover.
"We will have to wait until the storm passes. We do not fly the helicopter in such storms."
Mr. Livingston checked his watch and sighed. "Very well. As soon as may be, then."

The storm kept them at Mt. Stanley most of the day. It was late when they got back to the Lear jet. Lucy yawned as she fastened her seat belt. Everyone - even Mr. Livingston - was tired. But before the sun set they were flying west, trying to catch the sun. She fell asleep to the click of Ben's laptop keys.

* * *

"Lucy... Lucy, we've landed."
She sighed. The dance was such fun... but that voice - it wasn't... No. her eyes opened. It was Mr. Livingston.
"Sorry, sir."
"It's OK, Lucy; it's quite a life, running all over the world. It does catch up with a person, but among my gifts I am able to sleep when I can, and save it up, kind of like a camel."
She chuckled; the image was witty. "Is there breakfast?"
"We'll eat at the hotel. We're waiting for you."
"OK." She unfastened her seat belt, then it suddenly dawned on her. "Sir? Where are we?"
"Mexico City."
"Ah-HA!" she cried with glee. She grabbed her pack and hurried after him.

After the rush to the hotel, a hurried breakfast and another rush to the stadium where the Mass would be celebrated, there was a long wait. Lucy and Mr. Livingston were the only ones who stayed awake.
In the end, the Pope came, and Mr. Livingston got nearly fifteen minutes on tape - all three cameramen were taking it, just for safety. Both Ben and Lucy shook his hand; Lucy remembered to kiss his ring - he smiled warmly at her, then he was gone.

After the Mass, they went back to the hotel. Mr. Livingston had ordered a feast in his suite. It was nothing like the wedding festival for Dr. Stanley, but it was good - the food was even better than what they had had in the tiny cellar back in New York.
At the end, Mr. Livingston told them, "Barring any new adventures, we'll return to New York tomorrow afternoon. Then on Monday we'll get to that interview."
"Oh, man - I forgot all about that," Ben moaned.
"I didn't," chuckled Mr. Livingston. "It's my business."

* * *

They slept late on Sunday morning, and after a breakfast in the hotel they boarded the Lear. They had sandwiches on the way; it was evening until they got back to New York. Martin Smith picked them up at the airport and took them back to their suites. Lucy took a long shower and got into bed with her notebook and pen. It had been almost too amazing to write about, but she had to get it down while it was all still fresh...

The phone rang. She yawned and picked it up. "Hello."
"Good morning Lucy, I thought it would be best if I called to be sure you were awake." It was Martin Smith.
"I am now."
"Order whatever you like from room service. I'll be there at 8:30 to pick you up for your interview."
"OK." She hung up, stretched, and got out of bed.

After the excitement and intensity of the last week, the interview was nothing. Mr. Livingston elicited short histories from each, then asked about their expectations, for themselves and for society. Though he proceeded in all seriousness, both Ben and Lucy seemed to chuckle at every other question, and even Mr. Livingston was in high spirits. Afterwards, the crew cheered, and he thanked his guests and said: "One of the most unconventional interviews I've done, and one of the best. I think we're going to do this again."
They walked with him back to his office. "We'll get some lunch and I have a few little matters to attend to, but there's something I want you to see - it's got to be ready for this evening, but we'll get to see it before then, as we'll be busy later."
Ben and Lucy looked at each other. Now what?

The two had lunch with Mr. Livingston and Sam Preston, where they met Nelson Vitron, the executive vice president of Channel Nine, and Roger Itonovik, the producer of the various Livingston shows. Afterwards they returned to Mr. Livingston's office, where Martin Smith took them around to see some more of the facilities while Mr. Livingston attended to some duties.
They had seen several studios, ranging from small and intimate to huge, and several rooms of equipment and busy people. Both Ben and Lucy were getting tired and bored. Finally Ben asked, "So, Mr. Smith, can you tell us anything about Toby? Toby Livingston?"
He looked very uncomfortable. "Well, I... Didn't he tell you? You should have asked him. It's... it's not really for me to go into."
But Ben was in a funny mood, and he wasn't going to cut him any slack. "All right, then. How about that big wooden thing in his office? It's behind the door, it looks like some kind of gigantic chair."
Now Mr. Smith actually paled. "You would ask about that.. I wasn't here for that, but I heard about it. You can see the picture on his wall - we don't have the tape any more, it got lost. That chair from when he interviewed..."
Then his phone beeped and they heard Mr. Livingston's voice: "Marty."
"Yessir."
"Bring them to my viewing room."
"We're on our way." He put his phone back in his pocket, then turned back down the hall.
"So? Who was he interviewing?"
"I don't know for sure, I never heard any name - I told you I wasn't here then. Uh - you might want to ask Mr. Livingston about it, if we have time." He hurried them along, and they got nothing more out of him. He took them into a dimly lit room like a miniature theater, where Mr. Livingston and his field crew were waiting, together with Mr. Preston, Mr. Itonovik, Mr. Vitron, and several others.
"Ah, good," he said. "Take a seat. OK, Matt, we're ready."
"Yessir," came a voice. The screen lit up and the "Livingston Focus" theme played. All the video that had been recorded during their adventure in Mbognu had been woven into a show - the jungles, the cavern with the glowing plants, the wedding, the adoption, the festival - and the invitation from Dr. Stanley - and frequent appearances of Lucy and Ben. An amazing saga.
When it finished, there was a silence almost louder than any applause. It was uncanny. Then the voice came: "You want it played again?"
Mr. Vitron stood up and shook Mr. Livingston's hand. "I don't think I could take that again just now, Matt. Quite an excellent job. Not just historic and compelling, but the real human adventure. Maybe your best ever, Barkley."
"Nah," Sam Preston added glumly. "His best ever was that interview with..."
"Sorry to interrupt, but I've got an appointment," Mr. Livingston said. "Matt, cut DVDs for our guests, please? And when it's done, send them one of the Focus on the Pope, too."
"Yessir."
He pointed at Lucy and Ben. "You two, come with me. See the rest of you tomorrow."

* * *

Martin Smith drove them across town to a region of three-story brownstones. "Here we are. Number 936. You're expected; just ring the bell. I'll be seeing you later."
They got out and went to the door and rang the bell.
A lovely dusky-skinned woman opened the door; she looked familiar but they didn't have to guess. "Welcome! I'm Hannah Livingston. Barkley should be here any minute now."
"Who is it, Mom?" came a voice from upstairs.
"It's our guests, Toby."
"Hello guests!" he called. "I'd come down but I'm kind of tied up at the moment."
She snickered. "He's always that way. The greatest standup comic on earth - not that he'd call himself that, of course. Just go right up. But first - would you like something to drink? Dinner won't be ready for a little while, but I'll be up with some hors d'oeuvres."
"Ginger ale," Ben said, and Lucy seconded him. Mrs. Livingston nodded and went off.

The two looked at each other. Something wasn't making any sense - but they went up the stairs, eager to find the solution.
Just a few steps up Lucy stopped, her face contorted. "Ohmygod."
Ben stopped and looked at her. "What?"
"Ray Immobilis! I never noticed. It's... it's Latin: Re immobilis. I wonder if..."
"We've had enough mysteries, Lucy. Let's just find out." He continued up and she followed him.
At the top they saw an open door into a lighted room. They shrugged and went in.

The young man smiled at them and chuckled. "Hello, Ben. Hello Lucy... or should I say - 'MegaPode' and 'Henneth Annûn'?"

Their eyes were wide and mouths agape. They didn't expect to find a smiling young man sitting in a large wheelchair, surrounded by electronic equipment. He was a stunning image of his father.
"I know you!" Lucy gasped as Ben nodded. "You - You're 'Ray Immobilis'!"
"Yes... yes." He laughed with all the sinister mad-scientist tone he could muster. "Heh, heh... ha ha ha! I - yes, I am the man in the dark room - the one that made you ChesterTeens!" He laughed so hard tears flowed. "Oh happy day! You're the first ones I've met in the flesh! Please shake my hand." His right arm moved slightly, and Lucy took it - it was warm but gave no response. She would have started crying but he chuckled and said, "And now I turn into an elephant and float away."
As Ben shook Toby's hand, he said "No, please don't bring up elephants. I tasted elephant last week."
"Really? What did it taste like? Like chicken?"
"Nah. It's endangered, so it tasted like bald eagle."
Toby laughed heartily. "Oh, man, this is the best. If I had known you were both in ChesterTeens I would have told my father to bring you sooner. But I was worried; he was so busy last week, I was afraid he wouldn't get to tell you about me, and he doesn't ... ah... he's not as flexible as I am." He chuckled again. Then his mother came in with a tray.
"Here's your drinks, and some cheese and crackers." She put the tray down on a table near her son. "Dinner's nearly ready, I'm just waiting for your father."
Lucy and Ben had normal glasses, but Toby's looked like something from the chem lab; it was connected to a piece of clear plastic tubing that looped around and ended near his mouth. He took a swallow and said, "Thanks Mom."

After she left, Lucy said, "But Toby - your father never did tell us about you. We'd like to know. And there's that thing in his office - that big chair - maybe you can tell us about that."
His face clouded. "Oh... No. That one you'll have to hear from him. I could tell you, but you won't believe it."
Ben nodded, and Lucy said, "OK - what about you, then?"
"It was a freak bike accident. I was eight. Dad was devastated at first, but we had done so many things together already. And he's kept me in the loop; he lets me in on all his adventures - I get sneak previews all the time. He calls me and Mom every night, unless he's out of range, or can't get out of his commitments. And there's a part I really don't know. Something happened to him - it has to do with that chair. Mom said he never was the same afterwards, he just kept getting better. I remember it, him coming home and smiling, and hugging me, because we went to the zoo that very day..." His eyes closed in delight of the memory.
"And you deal with your limitations?"
"Of course. The doctors did what they could, and the rest is up to me. It's so very Chestertonian: you've got to draw the line somewhere. I just have to use machinery to draw my lines." He smirked.
"And you - you learned Tshondé? How?"
"The net, and local friends. All kinds of people come to New York. I've learned a bunch of African languages - it's my dad's weak spot in his field team, as you found out! But it's lots of fun to learn. I like languages. Besides, I told you - I have a lot of free time."
Lucy smiled. "You're amazing, Toby! And all those postings on ChesterTeens - and you said you have your own blogg too?"
"Oh yes. I'll send you the link." He smiled again. "I think we're going to have a lot more to talk about."
Then they heard someone running up the stairs. It was Mr. Livingston.
"Toby!"
"Dad!"
He hugged his son's head. "I got a new show - you won't believe it."
"You met Dr. Stanley?"
"Yeah, how did you guess?"
"I did some translation for," he cleared his throat, "Mbu a Kwimbi Kwembi - the Asker of Questions."
"What! How do... you mean - you were the one doing the translation for Lucy? You're the one Ben and Lucy were talking with? Wait a second - you know that African dialect?"
"That's right Dad. And a few others too."
He stared down at his son in silence, Toby just smiled. Finally he said, "But this is - uh - incredible!"
"Like I told Ben and Lucy, I have a lot of free time."
"Yeah, I know how little you sleep. So that's what you've been busy with! Excellent. Well, then - I can foresee you playing a role in my future visits to Africa. An important role." He turned to Lucy and Ben. "And I owe this discovery to you two! Well, this has been quite an adventure. Ah - it's dinnertime."
Mrs. Livingston came in pushing a cart of food. "We have potato salad, hotdogs, hamburgers, and gyros." The cart opened into a serving table, and she began laying out the food.
Mr. Livingston took a seat. "After a week of very unusual experiences and strange feasts, we thought it would be something fun to have an authentic American meal - the natives call it a peek-neek, though I am not sure if I am pronouncing it correctly."
Ben and Lucy smiled at each other in delight, and Toby chuckled. "Oh, I think they understand, Dad. Perhaps you two would like to eat on the floor?" He winked.
His parents stared, but Ben laughed. "I sure won't insist on the protocol; how about you, Lucy?"
"No, this is sufficiently peek-neek under the meaning of the Act."

The meal was a lot of fun; Lucy found the gyro enjoyable. But the real surprise came at the end. Mr. Livingston stood up.
"Well, we all had some great surprises over the past week. Meeting each other, finding Dr. Stanley and hearing about his amazing discovery - and learning that my son has been surreptitiously developing into a linguist with an specialization in African dialects. Whew! But there's one more surprise which is mine to reveal. Hannah?"
She nodded, and went out. In a moment, she returned carrying a cake with lighted candles.
"Oh, Mom!" Toby said, embarrassed.
"You gotta be kidding!" Ben said, turning red.
"I... I didn't expect..." Lucy said, her eyes closed tight.
"Finally, I'm the one who knew what was coming," Mr Livingston gloated. "So none of you knew - that you three have a common birthday - did you?"
The three young people stared at each other. Clearly none of them knew.
Sternly Lucy turned to Toby. "And don't you go posting this, Ray!"

The evening was a blast for everyone. They watched the DVD show about Dr. Stanley; later Lucy and Ben watched Toby post on ChesterTeens about their meeting... all too soon Martin Smith was there to take them back to their suite. "We'll meet again soon - on the net!" they promised Toby.
Their host escorted them to the door. "Martin will be taking you to the airport after breakfast tomorrow - and I hope we shall meet again. But for now, this is farewell. My sincere thanks for all your help - it was a real delight for me."
"Thanks so much, Mr. Livingston!" Lucy said, hugging him.
"It was an amazing adventure, sir," Ben added as they shook hands. "Thanks for letting us share it."

* * *

Lucy was crying as they went into their suite. "What's wrong, Lucy?" Ben asked gently.
"It - it was so wonderful, and it's over."
Without hesitation he put his arms around her. "Nothing's really over, Lucy. You know that. It's just a taste..."
She sniffed, and nodded. He let her go, and she dried her eyes. "I know. The Inn at the End of the World."
"That's right: 'all roads point at last to an ultimate inn'..."
"Where He keeps the good wine. Oh yeah." She sighed, smiling up at him. "I wish you lived in Hoquiam."
He smiled back. "I wish you lived near Chicago."

Then she reddened, and he paled.
"I - I better go."
"I... uh... Good night."

Then she knew for sure that he was a real friend.

At his door he turned back. "Anyway, we have each other's e-mail address. We'll talk."
"And the Chesterton Conference is in Seattle next year. Maybe you can come?"
"We'll see." He turned to his door.
"Sure would be nice to see Toby there."
"Yeah. They ought to ask his dad to give a talk." He went in and closed the door.

She got ready for bed, thinking about her new friends. What an adventure it had been! Lots to write about. She turned off the lights and got into bed, murmuring a prayer for her family - her larger family...

Then she sat up, putting her hands to her face. They never did find out about that big chair! Well, she thought as she lay down again, she'd have to e-mail Toby once she got home. He had to know - something about it had the classic Chestertonian feel. She fell asleep wondering.

The End

(If, Like Lucy, you also are wondering, you can read "A Special Guest" and find out the whole story about that big chair.)

Joe the Control Room Guy: Field Trip

2008-09-26T15:02:00.006-04:00

Joe the Control Room Guy
in
Field Trip

“It’s only a fast buck, Freddy...”
– Jefferson Starship

Author’s note: I am well aware that I have skipped a number of essential steps in the setup of a new portal (like cleaning out the test files, switching the satellite MAC address, checking the dip-switches on the Carina cards, changing config.txt and the IP addresses, renaming the machine, and other such things) for the sake of the story. But I have to skip something, or we won’t get to the exciting part fast enough. Also, I am well aware that I am not a Field Tech. But (as the saying goes) some of my best friends are Field Techs – and yes, I have actually been to the real CHES once, but this is not the story of that trip.
--Dr. Thursday.

It was spring and there was still light in the sky when Joe drove into the AC&TG parking lot. It was the first day back after his vacation – he had gone on a fishing trip with some buddies from college. A week of cold mornings on a boat out in the Chesapeake, and not much to show for it – but he had had some good meals and a lot of laughs. Now it was back to work – encoding spots, watching the WATCHERs, and all the other on-going activities of the Control Room. Maybe, he shrugged, a few good laughs here, too. As for the meals – well, who knows? All too often he was the only one on duty during the night, so unless he brought something to eat, he was stuck with the snack machines, or – when he was desperate – a pizza from Walt’s. (He had given up on the late-night Chinese place after a bad experience which he blamed on their egg rolls.) At least, he thought to himself as he went up the back steps, he could look forward to a good meal tomorrow morning – he was meeting his girlfriend for breakfast before she went to work. He smiled to himself and went inside.

In the Control Room, Al was on duty, sitting in front of the monitors. He glanced up as Joe came in.
“Hey, Al.”
“Hey, yourself. How was vacation?”
“Cold, but great. I caught some catfish, and one of the guys caught a real nice small-mouth bass. Tasted great, too.”
“Sounds like you had a good time.” Al turned back to the monitor. “Looks like CHES is losing a disk. Or worse.” He typed a command and peered intently at the screen.
“Want me to take over?”
“I’m almost through with the reformatting. It’s the portal, and if it doesn’t come back, I’ve got to call Fred back – he’s the field-tech on call tonight, and I already let him know about it.”
“OK.” Joe looked around the room. “Anything to encode?”
“No; we’re actually ahead – and except for this CHES thing, it ought to be quiet.”
Joe nodded. “Good – after a week away, I wasn’t looking forward to coming back to encode a cart full of tapes.”
“I guess not,” Al added abstractedly, his attention on the screen in front of him. “Looks like 3CHES is not going to come back.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Fred? It’s Al. 3CHES is dead. ... OK. See you.”
Al hung up the phone. “He’s on his way.” He bent over the monitor and shook his head at the screen.
Joe shrugged. “I’m getting some coffee – you want anything?”
“No, thanks. I’ll write up the log for CHES till you get back.”

* * *

Joe came in with a steaming cup and sat down by the monitors. “So – anything else new while I was away?”
Al leaned back in the chair. “Not a heck of a lot. The usual nonsense. There’s a new Mexican restaurant down in town; we had lunch from there yesterday.”
“How was it?”
“Great – if you like Mexican.” Al smiled, recalling yesterday’s meal with pleasure. “Thank God for the Field Techs: they always know where the good food is.”
Joe shook his head. “The day guys sure have it good,” chuckling a little – there had been occasions when it might have been said with sarcasm, but not this time.
“Not really,” Al nodded, not taking it wrong at all. “After all, they get all the big-wig visitors and, tours, – no casual dress except Fridays – and they have to act well-behaved, like good little professionals. And lots more phone calls, too.”
“Yeah, we night guys have it good. At least, Al, you get some of each.”
“Once in a while,” Al said, looking over the monitors for red signals. “I’m not sure why they scheduled me until 11 today – but there it is.”

The door beeped and the two operators swiveled their chairs. In walked a short, stocky young man dressed in the same uniform as the Control Room operators. He was carrying a clipboard, smiling, and nodding his head.
“So, so. 3CHES down again? All right, all right. Hey Al, how’s it going? How’s your wife?”
“Fine, Freddy. You know Joe, don’t you?”
“Nah, maybe I know your voice, but I haven’t been in here nights for a long time.” He stuck out his hand and Joe shook it.
“Sure, Fred, I know your voice,” Joe said. “Couple weeks back, you were out in Dixonia, remember?”
“Yeah, sure, I know you. Dixonia, another rat’s nest of a headend. Not wired neat, oh my, no, not at all neat.” He paused a moment, then continued wistfully. “Good ribs, there – it being a college town and all.”
“Ribs?”
“Ah, well, that was a while ago, anyway,” Fred said, glancing down at his clipboard. “3CHES, right? Yeah, I guess that’s a portal, so I better go grab one from the Tech Shop.” He grunted, then in a lower voice added, “Sure could go for some ribs, now.”
“You need any help over in the Tech Shop?” Joe asked.
“Nah, well, they got a portal ready ‘cause there were problems out there yesterday, so it takes no time, none at all. But I don’t mind your getting the doors, if you’re not otherwise occupied.” He looked at his clipboard again. “Portal, got to get a portal, not a leaf. Stupid, that time down in Dover. Had to come all the way back. Hmm,” he shook his head, whacking the clipboard against the long desk of monitors. “Dover...” He rolled his eyes and smiled. “Dover – that’s where Marcy’s is! Best crab cakes anywhere.” He shrugged and turned towards the door. “Gotta get that portal.” He went out.

Joe stood up and watched Fred go down the hall outside. Then he turned back to Al. “Is he crazy?”
“Aren’t we all?” Al smirked. “Fearless Freddy the Field Tech. He’s a character, but he’s harmless. Knows his stuff, too.”
Joe went towards the door. “I’ll go give him a hand.”
Al shrugged. “He’s stronger than he looks, too,” he added. “Don’t let him trick you into carrying it – you ever try lifting an inserter? They weigh a ton.”

Joe went into the Tech Shop. Fred was behind the racks disconnecting the portal. “Hey Fred, I’ll get the doors when you’re ready.”
“Great, Joe, great. Haven’t had a helper for a while.” Joe heard banging and rattling coming from racks. “Lots better, more relaxed time, and nothing to a swap-out, not like a rewiring, and it’s early too.” His voice got lower but Joe still heard him. “People don’t know, but there’s some real nice places right around here.” Then Fred came out from behind the racks, his clipboard under his arm. “OK, now I’ll grab this here portal and you get the doors. Then, we’ll see.”
Joe shrugged, confused by Fred’s on-going narrative. It was strange, as he had often been on the phone with Fred for hours, but he didn’t recall ever hearing such a long and seemingly aimless discourse during those calls. But then, at those times, Fred had been busy working at a headend.
Fred calmly grabbed the sides of the inserter and yanked it most of the way out of the rack. He looked at the clipboard again, took the lid off and put it down on the ground, then peered inside the chassis. “Yep, it’s a portal all right. And enough Carina cards, too – don’t need extras this time. Pins look OK.” He looked at Joe and caught his eye. “Got a lot to check, if you don’t want to be driving extra. Cuts into your day.” He screwed the lid back on. “Don’t want any dust getting in there.” He grabbed the sides and pulled the inserter out, then let it sit down on the ground. “Eighty-odd pounds, these suckers. Don’t drop it on your foot.” He chuckled and picked it up. “Let’s go.”
Joe went ahead of him, opening doors. Fred didn’t even seem to be breathing heavily. “No, I don’t think ribs tonight. Not cold enough. You like wings?”
“Sure, they’re great,” Joe said as they went out into the parking lot. “You’ll pick some up?”
“Pfft!” Fred made a derisive noise. “Take-out wings? Cold and flavorless? Not on your life. And Vince’s doesn’t have take-out anyway. Besides, it’s All-You-Can-Eat night!”
Joe shook his head. “I’ve got to get back in; I’m on duty.”
Fred put the inserter down by the white company truck and turned to Joe, squinting up at him. “You ever seen a headend?”

“Not yet; they showed me the Tech Shop and explained what goes on there....”
“Not the same,” Fred stated flatly. “Sometimes I wonder where they keep their brains. Well, not my business – but it’s easy enough to fix, and I won’t pass up the chance.” He pulled his cell phone from his belt and pressed buttons. “You oughta know about it.” Then to the phone, he said. “Control Room? Hey Al, it’s Fred. Joe is coming with me. When are you on till? ... Eleven? ... that’s fine, then, plenty of time. You need anything while we’re out? A burger, maybe? ... OK, then, I’ll call when we get to CHES.” He closed the phone and put it back on his belt, then he opened the tailgate and swung the inserter into the truck.
Fred nodded at Joe. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Soon they were shooting down the highway. The truck rode well, Joe thought, not realizing how many hours the field techs put in behind the wheel. And Fred had good taste in rock-and-roll, which precluded additional conversation – or perhaps, as Joe might have put it, monologue.

It was not long, however, before they were at the Goatsville headend. Joe was not familiar with the roads they were on, but he could see they were going up a hill. Then, off the macadam, and up a steep winding gravel road. Soon they stopped in front of a low windowless bunker-style building, brilliantly lit by security lights. Off to one side Joe could see a gigantic antenna going up into the air – high overhead he saw the red flashing aircraft warning lights. There was a dish farm too, with even more than the one behind the AC&TG building. Fred opened the tailgate and got out the inserter.
As they walked toward the door Fred said, “Tony ought to be around somewhere; I’m surprised he’s not out here smoking.”
That moment (as if on cue) the door opened and a man came out, a cigarette already in his mouth. “Fred, good to see you! Brought a helper?”
Fred put the inserter down. “Yeah, Tony, this here is Joe. He’s taking the five cent tour.”
Tony shook hands with Joe, then lit his cigarette. “You shoulda come in the day if you want the best view. Doncha wanna go up the antenna?”
“No, thanks,” Joe said. “I have a third-floor apartment – that’s about all the height I can deal with.”
Fred and Tony chuckled. “Don’t need any safety nets for that kind of work,” Tony added. “Hey, Freddy, remember that race?”
“Sure, lots of fun. Great view up there, too.” Fred picked up the inserter. “Gotta get going, Tony, we’re off air till I get this installed.”
Tony dragged on his cigarette. “Go ahead, don’t want to hold up the wheels of industry. If you need me, I’ll be here checking the dishes.”

* * *

Joe followed Fred inside. The low-ceilinged room was well lit, air-conditioned, and crammed full of electronic gear, but before Joe could open his mouth, Fred gestured to shut the door.
When it was shut, he bent near Joe and said, “It’s air conditioned.” He shook his head. “Smoking.”
Joe did not reply – his mouth hung open in amazement. He was used to the various equipment rooms at AC&TG, but this place was almost overwhelming. There was a lot of equipment here! Then over in a corner he recognized the four black AC&TG inserters in a rack by themselves. Fred had his cell phone out, telling Al back in the Control Room to shut down 3CHES.
Finally Joe recovered and smiled at Fred. “Wow, Fred, this is amazing.”
“This? Well, it’s better than it once was. I remember when we had to crawl in the dirt under the floor to rewire it, pushing the rats out of the way. No snakes, though – not here. Tell you ‘bout the snakes when we eat.” He picked up the inserter and took it over to the AC&TG rack. “Amazing, hey? You ought to see the Dover place. That’s something else. Twice as big as this. Very nice. Some day... and then we’ll get some of Marcy’s crab cakes, too.”
Fred’s phone rang. It was Al, telling him that 3CHES was down.
“OK, Joe, just wait there out of the way.” Fred dodged behind the rack. Joe looked slowly around the room, trying to identify the various pieces of equipment; from time to time he glanced at the door but it remained closed. Soon Fred reappeared, loosened the front mounting screws, and slid the old inserter out of the rack. Before Joe knew it, the new one was in the rack, screwed down. Then Fred vanished again. Joe heard Fred murmuring, checking each cable as he connected it. In a little while Fred came out, flipping his cell phone open.
“Al, it’s Fred. I’ve rebooted the new 3CHES. Give it minute or so. ... it come back yet? ... OK. ... Try connecting and see how the satellite connection looks... It does? Fine. Then you can go ahead and restart the software. Good... PUMP shows missing spots? Sure, that’s normal, they’ll get here.” Fred stared at the equipment in silence, the phone still at his ear. “OK... Really? Great.” He looked over at Joe, holding the phone away. “It’s playing a spot already.” To Al he said, “We’re done, then; we’ll be stopping at a couple of places on the way back. If there are any problems, give me a call.” He put the phone back on his belt. “We’re outta here, Joe.”
They went out the door. Tony was nowhere to be seen. Fred put the failed inserter into the truck, and after they got in, Joe asked, “What about Tony?”
“Don’t know. Not my job to watch him, you know. Besides, he has the keys.”

* * *

Down the gravel road they bounced. At the bottom, Fred turned the opposite direction from the way they had come. “Hey Fred,” Joe yelled above the music. “Where are we going?”
“Vince’s,” Fred yelled back. “How you like your wings?”
Joe’s eyebrows went up. Fred had said something earlier about wings, but Joe hadn’t really paid attention to it. Half the conversations on his recent vacation had been about food, and Joe and his buddies had argued about the pros and cons of various wing places they had been to – but all that week, he had not had chicken in any form whatsoever. Now, though it seemed a little early in the evening for Joe to eat, his mouth began to water. “Hot – the hotter the better – but they gotta be spicy, too. You know: a good flavor, not just burning.”
Fred nodded. “That’s how they make ‘em at Vince’s. And we picked the right time to come – it’s All-You-Can-Eat tonight.”
The rock-and-roll played on, and soon they turned off the road into a parking lot. As they got out of the truck, Joe heard rock-and-roll pulsing from the building. Strangely, it was the same song Fred had been playing in the truck. In one of the windows was a neon sign reading “Vince’s” – the other windows advertised various brands of beer.
They went in and found an empty table. The waitress was a tall young blonde – Joe seemed to recall seeing her (or her twin) on a favorite German beer.
“Wings – extra hot, and a pitcher of ginger ale,” Fred ordered. “What’ll you have, Joe? On me.”
“Same.” The waitress nodded. Joe watched her go back to the kitchen.
“Don’t even think about it,” Fred warned, though he had turned too. “That’s Vince’s wife.”
“Wow.” Joe replied. “Wish I didn’t have to work tonight. Someday I’m going to visit Germany, where they come out with those great big vat-like mugs full of beer – four or five on each arm...”
“Why go so far?” Fred asked “Over in Jersey there’s a place – yeah, it’s called Irene’s – just like you say. Ever had schnitzel? Good, man; real good.”
The waitress returned, carrying two pitchers of soda, glasses, a bottle of blue cheese dressing, and a basket of celery and carrots. No sooner had she deposited these than she was back with two baskets of steaming wings.
“Wow.” Joe sniffed, then picked one up and tore into it.
In a second he was gulping down his soda. “Hey, Fred,” he gasped. “These are great!”
“Knew you’d like ‘em,” Fred replied. He was methodically going through his basket, a pile of bones beginning to form.
After the initial shock, and a judicious use of the blue cheese and celery, Joe found that the wings began to go down easier. The flavor was definitely, without doubt, exactly to spec – and soon his basket was empty.
“Well?” Fred asked.
Joe took some soda. “Great.”
“Not too hot?”
“That first one took me by surprise, but then I got used to it.”
“Heh,” Fred laughed. “That’s your initiation. If they don’t know you, they always put a ‘suicide’ one on the top of your first basket. You ready for more?”
“Sure.”
The waitress soon brought two more baskets of wings, which disappeared nearly as fast as the first ones had. A third pair of baskets followed. The celery was nearly gone, and the level of both pitchers had dropped.
Joe pushed the third empty basket away and the waitress returned. “Care for any more?”
Joe shook his head. “No thanks, but they certainly are good.”
Fred finished his last wing, and also shook his head. “Great as usual, Marta.”
“Glad you like them,” she nodded as she picked up the baskets. “Come again.”
Fred wiped his hands, then stood up. “Let’s go.”
Joe frowned. “What about paying them?”
“Already taken care of,” Fred said, and went towards the door.

* * *

They got in the truck. The wind had picked up and it was chilly. Before Fred turned on the music, Joe stated, “Fred, you gotta show me how to get here – they have the best wings I’ve had anywhere!”
“It’s not hard. See that traffic light ahead? That’s Business 30. You just head west, then look for – oh, man.” Joe felt the truck accelerate.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
“Oh, man. We have got to stop up here.”
“What is it? You feel OK?”
“No, nothing like that. I woulda forgot. On Mondays Spaulding’s makes these incredible stuffed chickens. Gravy, all the trimmings. Nothing like it.”
“But Fred, this is Wednesday.”
“So? That’s when they make chili. Ask the other field techs. If CHES has to go down, they’ll tell you the best night of the week is a Wednesday – ‘cause of Spaulding’s chili.”
Joe looked over at Fred as they pulled into the parking lot. “What about Vince’s?”
“Vince’s don’t make chili. And besides, that’s my find – hardly any of them know about it yet. And they don’t have their All-You-Can-Eat wings every Wednesday, either – it’s just the first Wednesday of the month.”
“But Fred – you still have room for chili?”
“Sure,” Fred replied as he got out. “Don’t you? Hey – doesn’t matter – you gotta try it.”
They went into the restaurant. There was a sign “Please wait to be seated” but Fred led the way to a back corner.
A waitress soon appeared with a bowl of corn chips and another of salsa. “What’ll it be?”
“Two ginger ales, two bowls of chili.”
She nodded and went off; in seconds she was back carrying a tray.
Joe felt full, but he tried a spoonful of chili. It was good. Before he knew it, the bowl was empty, and most of the corn chips were gone, too.
The waitress reappeared. Fred said, “Another two bowls, please?”
“No, thanks, no more for me,” Joe interrupted.
Fred put up a finger to hold the waitress. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it? Not too hot, is it?”
“No, it’s the best I’ve had in a long time, but...”
“Then it’ll be two, Amy,” he told the waitress. “Joe, you can’t get this chili anywhere else – don’t miss your chance.”
“OK,” Joe sighed. “I’ll have another soda, too.”

The second bowls vanished quickly. Joe wondered if Fred would want a third, but when the waitress returned, he simply thanked her and got up from the table.
“What about the bill?” Joe asked.
Fred shook his head. “I already took care of it.”

* * *

The two got in the truck again; the wind was cold. They turned east onto 30, heading back to AC&TG. But after three or four lights Fred turned off down a dark, winding back road.
“Hey Fred,” Joe said, “Where to now? I gotta get back; I’m supposed to be on duty.”
“You’re helping me. If Al needs you, he’ll call.” He patted the cell phone on his belt.
“But where are we going now?”
“Just something I wanna check out, Joe, that’s all.”
The truck chugged up a hill. As they came over the crest, Joe could see a colored sign up ahead.
Fred nodded, his mouth watering. “It’s Nanny’s. Excellent place, but not a lot of people know about it.”
“Oh, man, Fred – more food?”
“Dessert, Joe, dessert. And we might not even stay. It depends.”
As Fred turned into the parking lot, Joe asked, “Depends on what?”
“On what they have.”

* * *

The two went into the small diner. Fred sat down at the counter. Sighing again, Joe sat down next to him.
Fred caught the eye of the waitress. “Sandy, whatcha got tonight?”
“Usual. Pecan pie. Strawberry pie. Brownies. Uh – still got some Lemon Meringue pie. And,” her voice dropped, “there’s still some homemade vanilla ice cream.”
Fred nodded. “Just what I wanted to hear. I’ll start with strawberry pie, with some of that ice cream. And a cuppa. Then we’ll see.”
Sandy turned to Joe. “And for you dearie?”
“Ah, well, I’d like some of that lemon meringue pie. And some coffee.”
“Good choice,” Fred said as the waitress went into the kitchen. “That’s what I came for, but I can’t pass up that homemade ice cream.”
“I’ll have some of that too,” Joe added. “On a heated brownie. Second course.”
“That’s my plan, exactly.”

Sandy brought out the pies. Joe’s was an enormous wedge, piled high with fluffy billows of meringue. Fred’s had gigantic strawberries, topped with a glacier of rich yellow-white cream. The cups of coffee were veritable vats, just hot enough, but no hotter, and perfectly brewed.
Soon Sandy reappeared from the kitchen, smiling as she saw the empty plates. “It met with your approval, then?”
“Great as usual, Sandy,” Fred replied. “I think we’ll both have a brownie – heated – and a small scoop of ice cream.”
“Fine,” she said, and took away the plates. Moments later she returned with their second course.
“Excellent,” Joe said after a mouthful.
Fred swallowed. “Told ya.”
The second plates were soon empty. The cups, refilled twice, were drained. Fred winked at Sandy as he got off the stool. “See ya soon.”
She smiled and winked back. “Thanks, Freddy; good night, now.”
Joe was going to ask about the bill, but Fred was already out the door.

As the two walked to the truck, Joe said, “A girl by every portal, Fred?”
“Not at all, Joe, not at all. But you spend a lot of time in places like this, they get to know you. And you get to know them.”
“I see,” Joe swallowed carefully. He felt stuffed. “Hey, it’s got to be late. Al is going to be wondering where I am.”
Fred started the truck. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’re connected, aren’t we?” He held up his cell phone. “And we’ll be back soon.”
“No more stops, huh?”
“We’ll see, Joe, we’ll see. Still a few miles to go.”

* * *

Down the dark country road they went, music filling the truck. Joe was completely lost; they had not seen a major road for some time. But soon they came out onto a road Joe recognized.
“Now, just up here is a place called Anita’s. She does a catering service – if you ever want a Mexican wedding, she’s the one to call. But she also makes donuts – those things that the chains sell taste like cardboard compared to hers.”
“Fred, you still hungry? After this marathon banquet?”
“Now, Joe, it’s for snacks. Think how happy Al will be when we bring him some of Anita’s best crullers. And you’ll be happy tomorrow morning, too.”
“Oh, OK, Fred,” Joe sighed, “We can take some with us.”
“Right. Here we are.”

It was a tiny little storefront. There was a display case full of donuts, and near the cash register was a coffee urn. The smell was wonderful. Fred immediately took two to eat there, and had a cup of coffee, so of course Joe was compelled to try one also.
While Anita packed up the order, Fred took a third donut. “Go ahead, Joe, try one of the glazed.”
Joe looked at Anita. Her dark eyes gleamed at him, a soft smile on her lips. There was no way he could eat another thing now – but... “I’ll take a dozen to go, please.” Her smiled deepened. “And a dozen crullers, too.”
Fred finished his coffee. “Yeah, Anita, I’ll take a dozen also. For the road.”
She soon had three bags full of donuts and she handed them over without a word.
“See ya, Anita, Fred smiled at her; then he said to Joe, “We’re outta here.” Joe pulled out his wallet, but Anita shook her head, pointing towards Fred.
“Thanks,” Joe said to the air, and followed Fred out the door.
As they fastened their seat belts, Joe said, “Fred, where on earth do you put all that food?”
“Hey, it’s hungry work, lugging inserters all over creation.” Fred stepped on the gas. “Don’t you get hungry encoding?”
“Well, yeah, but... man, am I tired.” Joe had meant to say he was “full” but “tired” came out instead.
“OK, we’ll be back soon. Just relax.” He turned up the music.
Soon Joe’s eyes went closed, and the road and the music faded away.

* * *

The telephone rang. Joe lifted his head off the console. He had fallen asleep in front of the monitors again. As he reached for the phone, he checked the clipboard – he wasn’t overdue on his chores, so it couldn’t have been very long.
“Control Room. This is Joe.”
“Joe, it’s Fred. I forgot to drop off that dead inserter from CHES. You wanna leave a note for me?”
“Sure,” Joe said. “And Fred – thanks for the tour.”
“Anytime. Say, tomorrow I have to go out to Harristown to wire some local cues. You wanna ride with me, maybe get some breakfast? I know a place...”
“No, thanks, Fred, I’m meeting my girlfriend for breakfast. Maybe another time.”
“Sure, sure. Hey, Joe, you sound tired. You want me bring you something – a sandwich, or something?”
“No, Fred, really, I’m still stuffed. And if I need a snack, I got a lot of donuts here. And another thing – you didn’t let me pay.”
“Hey, it gets expensed. Great to have somebody to talk with, too.”
“But you didn’t pay, either.”
“They send me bills. I go there a lot. Sometimes I forget, or get a call, so I just leave my card. Hey, gotta go, the wife’s calling. Glad we stopped for donuts. Bye.”
Joe hung up the phone. He looked at the clock: just past midnight. Maybe in six hours he would be hungry again... nah, maybe in sixteen. He wondered what his girlfriend would say when he told her he wasn’t hungry. Well, he could always offer her a donut.

THE END

A Special Guest

2008-09-02T11:06:00.001-04:00

A Special Guest

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

It was a Thursday afternoon in June, and in the one of the studios of Channel Nine, they had concluded the taping of yet another episode of “The Livingston Report.” The major networks were still drooling with envy over the ratings being attained by this investigative-news-style show. Analysts were divided on the issue of whether it was Mr. Barclay Livingston’s superlative abilities or his screen appeal. Women liked his handsome appearance – the rugged chin, the gleaming gray eyes and hair just slightly awry – and his rich unaffected speaking voice. Men admired his feats of daring in “on-the-spot” work, and his honest and thoughtful approach to reporting. The crew had to work hard to keep up with his pace, but they, as well as the producers, found him to be absolutely devoted to them: he had twice rescued cameramen from certain death, simultaneously obtaining remarkable footage which broke all ratings when it was aired. But his wife and seven year old son wished they didn’t have to turn on the television to see him.
Barclay nodded to his director. “I’ll be in at nine to see the edited version.”
The director’s eyebrows raised. “Going to sleep in?” Barclay usually demanded that the viewing start at 7:30.
Barclay replied, “I’m going out with my wife tonight. It’s our anniversary.” Actually it was last week, but he had been out of the country.
“Well, have a good time, then.” The director watched him walk out of the studio, then made a notation on his clipboard: “BL viewing, 9 AM.”
An assistant director was at his side. “Did I hear Mr. L. say ‘nine’?”
“You did. It’s great to get a break once in a while.”
“He must have forgotten about the interview tomorrow at eight.”
“What interview?”
“Didn’t you check the schedule?”
“I’ve had my hands full with this... You mean he has something scheduled for tomorrow?”
“Yup – in Studio One, too.”
“What the...? Studio One? We’ll be up all night getting that ready. Here, let me see that schedule.”
The assistant handed him the paper. The director looked it over. He shrugged.
“Well, let’s get to work,” ordered the director. Then he looked at the schedule again. “Wait a second. This is strange. There’s no name indicated here.”
The assistant looked uncomfortable. “I know. Should I have asked?”
“No; but it’s odd. Even when he has to keep the identity secret, he puts down a pseudonym.”
The director handed the schedule back to his assistant.
“Who on earth can it be? And Studio One. Studio One, for crying out loud!” He walked out of the studio to find the set manager.

* * *

It was the most expensive restaurant in the city, on the top floor of the highest building. Candlelight allowed the maximum appreciation of the civic constellations. Wine, bread, Caesar salad, a dish of pasta, chicken breasts in a lemon-wine sauce, fruit and cheese... The dinner was fantastic. But Barclay’s wife shook her head for the dozenth time.
“Dear, I can’t believe you can’t take a day off once in a while.”
“You were going to take him yourself, can’t you? I don’t have time tomorrow to go to the zoo, and this weekend I’m going to Washington.”
Hannah Livingston frowned, candles gleaming in her bronze hair “Dear, this dinner is amazing. I’m happy even when we only have minutes together – or when you call. But what about Toby? He misses you.”
“Toby.” He exhaled, and his face wrinkled. “What can I do? My work...”
“He’s your son – why can’t you take him with you sometime – not all of your work is overseas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
But he was thinking about today’s taping, and his next assignment. He sipped wine and stared out the window. His wife sipped hers, too, and her eyes were closed, but her inner sight was aimed in another direction.

* * *

Livingston strode into the director’s office. “Well, you got me up at six o’clock and for what?”
The director glared at him. “You’re the one who left the orders. Studio One, yet.”
“What do you mean, I left orders? I wanted a 9 AM viewing of our taping. What’s this about Studio One?”
“See for yourself.” He handed his livid star a clipboard.
Barclay stared at the top document. There was his signature, ordering an 8 AM interview shoot in Studio One.
“This is some kind of prank, isn’t it?”
The director put out his hand for the clipboard. “If it is, it’s your prank, not mine.”
Livingston shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”
The director was silent. He was certain this was some kind of put-on. “Look, Barclay, keep your questions for the interview. But just tell me one thing: Why did you have to pick Studio One? We had to work all night to get it ready.”
He went over to the coffee-maker in the corner and poured himself a cup. “Want some?”
“Sure,” Livingston replied, shrugging. Whatever all this was, it would soon be cleared up. “I’d just like to know one thing, too. Who is this person I’m to interview?”
“Well, the talk among the crew is that it’s Doctor Stanley – remember, he vanished almost a year ago in some African jungle.” He sipped his coffee. “They said he’s discovered some fantastic things: birds, insects, I don’t know. Someone says it’s a dinosaur, and that’s why we need all the space.”
Barclay took a swallow of coffee. “And how do they deduce the connection between me and the eminent zoologist?”
“Oh, on general principles. Your three months last year in Africa, your interest in ‘missing persons’ stories, hints in your conversations...”
Barclay Livingston nodded. “Hmm. Oddly enough, it makes sense. It’s quite reasonable, in fact. Except that I haven’t the faintest idea where Dr. Stanley might be, or how to get in touch with him – and he certainly hasn’t been in touch with me.”
The director looked at his watch, then finished off his coffee. “Well, we’ll all know soon. You had better get moving.”
“Right.”

* * *

When Livingston came into Studio One, he noticed that there seemed to be a larger crew than usual. Of course the sheer size of the studio required more people; Barclay’s typical interview might be done with only three, or even two cameras, and the minimum number of other technicians. But here there seemed to be enough people to handle a feature film – and even stranger, most of them seemed to be busy. The backdrops were all of a dark but definite blue. There were two empty tables at one side.
There was Livingston’s usual desk and chairs, hauled down from Studio Nine. At the right of the desk was another chair. He had never seen such a large one: either they had scoured the city for it, or, more likely, it was custom built in their shop. It was rather simple looking, comfortable enough, but, well, larger, than anything he had seen. By an odd twist of his mind, induced by one of the rare romps with his son, he concluded that it looked to him as an adult chair must look to a child. He wondered who would be sitting there.
Barclay glanced over at the master clock. In twenty minutes he would know. He rarely came to the set this early, preferring to have a few minutes to himself to organize his thoughts on his interview. But without the most critical fact – the identity of his subject – it was impossible for him to prepare, and so anywhere was good enough. Besides, he was too curious to sit in his dressing room, and it was his curiosity which had made him what he was.
A sound man, came up to him. “Since you’re here early, we’d like to do the sound check now.” Barclay nodded, and went over to his desk. The technician clipped an almost invisible microphone to his lapel. In his stage voice he began the Gettysburg Address, and the control room signalled approval.
An assistant to the assistant director brought a tray with a pitcher of ice water and a few glasses. She placed it on the desk, and smiled warmly at Barclay.
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled. What luck – the crew seemed to be in good spirits. Usually he had to beg someone to bring water. He looked around. He couldn’t count the number of cameras that were arrayed around the set: they must have dragged over every single one in the place. There were even a couple of his field crew there with hand-helds. Other technicians stood around, adjusting things, helping with things. There was none of the all-too-common jostling and shouting. He wondered who was up in the control room: it all depended on who was in on this stunt, and who the director had informed.
As if responding to his thought, the director came up to him. “Well, Barclay, it’s your show. What do we do now?”
Livingston looked at him uneasily, wondering how much all these people were costing. “I presume we’ll wait until eight for our, er, guest.”
“I rather hope he’s here a little earlier, so we can do a sound check, see if he needs some water, and all that.”
“Ah, well, I guess whoever it is, will be here in sufficient time for that sort of thing.” He reached out and poured a glass of water. “Sam, this set seems... well, it’s a well-run set... when did you ever see such harmony in the crew with ten minutes to go?”
The director looked around the set, completely missing the paradox of his usually glib star struggling for words. “You know, you’re right. I’m not sure when I’ve seen this kind of – it’s almost too quiet, like we were in church...”
Then the voice from the control room broke in: “Hey, who’s playing with the lights?” The already bright studio lights were getting brighter.
A chorus of “not me” broke out, but the lights continued to increase.
“Joe, shut down the lighting mains,” ordered the control room. The studio heard the snapping of the great switches, but the glow did not dwindle. Everyone had closed their eyes; some had put their arms in front of their faces. The cameramen had shifted their cameras to point at the ground. But then the light seemed to grow more local, and slowly reduce back to the normal bright studio lighting.
“Hey Joe, I thought I said to shut off the mains.”
“They are off.”
Then a new voice was heard. “That’s right, they are off. You won’t need them.”
When Barclay opened his eyes, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was a gigantic ball of fire hovering above the large chair by his desk.
“What on earth?” he cried.
“Peace!” came the voice. It was such a voice: it was quiet but penetrating. It was as clear as an adult’s, but light and happy, as a baby’s. It carried a certain quality of tone, as if each word spoken was actually a lyric to some greater song. There was also the sense of something incomplete, as if the voice was part of a choir, from which only one voice could now be heard.
Then the voice chuckled. “I always wanted to say that. And I mean it too! Don’t worry, I won’t set anything on fire.”
Barclay was sitting only a few feet from this amazing sight. He noted that the flames seemed to come radially out from the center of the ball. Mostly they seemed to be a yellow-white, but there were touches of orange and red; a faint bluish ring looked almost like a sash...
The sound man walked over, microphone in hand. He was only a couple of feet away from the fireball. He reached out his hand, then noticed a slight warmth, which increased as he got closer and closer. “Ah, sir, ah, would you mind putting this on your, er, lapel...”
He held the microphone out, then let go. It fell to the floor.
“Never mind,” came the unflappable voice from the control room. “Just use the boom.”
Two other sound men wheeled it over, and lowered the microphone to just above the firey ball.
The fireball said,”I’m ready, Mr. Livingston, whenever you are.”
“Sound check OK,” came the voice from the control room.
The director nodded. “Barclay? It’s up to you.”
Barclay took a deep breath. Whatever this was, it was no conceivable stunt. He couldn’t even imagine how that fire ball could be sitting inches away from a wooden chair and not set it and the whole building ablaze. And it wasn’t a visual illusion, either; when the lights had brightened he had felt a wave of warmth, more like the noonday sun in the Sahara...
“I’m ready; our guest is ready; Sam, it’s up to you.”
The director glanced around the studio. Everyone was alert, the needles pointed to correct settings, the video tape recorders were ready.
“Let’s roll, people.” He waved a hand in the air.

Barclay eased into a smile. “Good morning. I’m Barclay Livingston, and today, I’m interviewing a very special guest.”
The camera zoomed out from Barclay’s face to include the desk, then wider, to include the large chair and the fireball hovering above it.
“Good morning,” came the mature baby voice.
“Please tell us, if you will, what are you?” Barclay barely kept his voice under control.
“I am a seraphim, an angel from the ninth choir, closest to Almighty God.”
Applause came from all of the crew who had their hands free. Smiles and looks of “I told you so” were exchanged.
Barclay’s eyebrows raised. “You are... an angel?”
“That’s right, Barclay.”
“You can see... God?”
“Sure.”
“You can, like, fly, and move mountains?”
“Only when I have permission.”
The crew laughed at that. It sounded familiar. Barclay wondered if they were stand-ins for an audience – usually they would be utterly silent.
“Can you tell me – who invited you?”
“You did, or, rather, your wife. But actually I was sent on a mission – however, I think we’ll go into that a little later.”
“But how was this interview, here at Channel Nine, arranged?”
“I had a lot of assistance from other angels. They had orders.”
Barclay thought about this. He poured water into his glass, and was about to offer the angel some – then he thought it would put out the fire.
“No thanks, I’m not thirsty. Angels don’t get thirsty. And no, you can’t put the fire out. I could jump into the ocean, and not even notice.”
“Would it bother you?”
“No. Nothing natural can bother me.”
“Er, I always thought that fire was associated with, er, the other place...”
The angel laughed; there is no stranger sound in the universe. “Oh, what books you must read! No, that place is cold, though it might feel like fire to a human; I don’t know. But what you are seeing isn’t something outside me – it’s myself.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Aren’t there all kinds of songs which talk about being on fire with love? Even humans grasp that much about love. That’s what you are seeing.”
“I always thought that angels had wings and harps.”
“Some do have wings, but while we all sing, all the instrumental music in heaven was imported from earth. Though I seem to recall we have a stock of brass instruments lying around somewhere or other.”
Barclay shrugged; he had not read the Apocalypse for years. “Why don’t you have wings?”
There was a flash and the sphere was now on Barclay’s left. “I don’t need wings. In your language, you even say ‘spreading like wildfire’ when you mean something travels quickly. That’s how seraphim travel.” The fireball went back to the large chair.
Barclay scratched his head. “But only when you have orders, right?”
“Correct.”
“What kind of orders are they?”
“Angels have all kinds of duties, but we excel at the carrying of messages. That’s when we are called ‘angels’ – which only means ‘messenger.’ You see, angel is a description of a job, not a kind of being.”
“Messages? What kind of messages?”
“We carry all the messages from humans to God and from God to humans.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I will, later.”
Except for the brilliant glow, which lighted the set and the entire studio equally, and the almost incredible fact that the source of that glow could speak, the interview was proceeding normally. Barclay was beginning to recover a little.
“No harps? I guess I’m glad to hear that. It always seemed to make heaven a bore.”
“Oh, my, no!” came that strange voice. “It’s never boring. We’re very busy. But the work is more relaxing than any kind of vacation you can imagine. For one thing, you don’t run out of energy.”
The crew snickered at that, and even Barclay smiled. “That’s easy for you to say; you’re a ball of fire.”
“That’s how I appear, yes. Some humans are even brighter than I am. Remember, for some of you love is an awkward word. But in heaven, love is just another name for energy, or light.”
“What’s heaven like?”
Again came the strange sound of angelic laughter. “You can’t even guess, and I don’t have enough time to tell you about it. But I can tell you this: it’s worth the effort – and it’s even better than anything you’ve ever guessed at.”
“What about the other place?”
“It’s worse than anything you’ve ever guessed at. The worst part is being alone.”
“How do you know?”
“We know. We had a test, too, you know.”
“A test?”
“Don’t you think that life is a test?”
“Sometimes it seems that way. But angels have a test?”
“We did. Some passed; some failed.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“No; you’re not watching the time.”
And indeed the director was signalling “five minutes.”
The seraphim continued: “You haven’t asked me about my message.”
“You have a message? For me?”
“Yes. Here it is. God wants you to go to the zoo today with your son.”
And for once the glib and unflappable Barclay Livingston was speechless. The crew laughed, but in a friendly fashion, as friends will, when their friend is reminded of a forgotten but pleasurable duty.
“You mean – you mean God sent a seraphim – disrupted this whole station’s morning work – got me up early – just to tell me to take my son to the zoo?”
“That’s right,” giggled the seraphim. “It’s not quite the type of message I often get to carry, but it’s one of the funniest.”
The crew burst into fresh laughter.
“Besides,” noted the seraphim, “if you look around, you’ll see that the station is not disrupted. In fact...” the glow suddenly increased, and Barclay saw that in corners and behind equipment were standing everyone who worked for the station, “this morning, this station looks a lot better united than most other organizations of 1,325 people.”
Barclay looked around at all the faces, thinking about the variety of people there, and all the work it was to put on a TV show. He laughed.
“It’s funny for a reporter to be brought a news flash.”
The room exploded in laughter.
The seraphim chuckled. “That’s a little of what heaven is like. We angels have other jobs besides carrying messages: we have our duties in the choir and the army – and now I’ve got to go on to my next assignment.”
“Well, then, I guess I had better conclude this interview, and go pick up my son.”
“I think that would be wise,” said the seraphim. Then the glow suddenly increased, and when the lighting came back to normal, the fireball was gone. But in the air there was a burst of angelic laughter.

* * *

The director watched the door close behind Livingston. “That was amazing.”
His assistant nodded. “What some people won’t do to get the afternoon off.”
“You think so? I can’t wait to see those tapes, and see if any of it will be visible – or audible.”
Suddenly one of the stage hands cried out, “Hey, Sam! Come and look at this!”
The director, his assistant, and a number of others came over to the chair over which the seraphim had hovered. The seat, back, and arms were charred black.

* * *

No one could see the seraphim at the zoo. It would not have fit into any of their tidy categories. But Barclay could hear that strange angelic laughter when his son turned and hugged him, crying out, “Thanks, Daddy, this is so much fun!”

Joe the Control Room Guy: The Call of WILD

2008-08-30T15:10:00.000-04:00

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

Rocky Days

2008-08-03T12:27:00.003-04:00

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...

2008-08-02T13:37:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-02T13:36:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-02T13:35:00.000-04:00

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.