# I Loved Thy Creation: A collection of short fiction

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> Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, I Loved Thy Creation: A collection of short fiction, Hong Kong: Juxta Publishing Co., 2008, bahai-library.com.
> ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
> 
> I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> A collection of short fiction
> by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
> 
> O SON OF MAN!
> I loved thy creation, hence I created thee.
> Bahá’u’lláh
> Copyright 2008, Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff and Juxta Publishing Limited. www.juxta.com.
> 
> Cover image "© Horvath Zoltan | Dreamstime.com"
> 
> ISBN 978­988­97451­8­9
> 
> This book has been produced with the consent of the original authors or rights holders. Authors or rights
> holders retain full rights to their works. Requests to reproduce the contents of this work can be directed to
> the individual authors or rights holders directly or to Juxta Publishing Limited. Reproduction of this book
> in its current form is governed by the Juxta Publishing Books for the World license outlined below.
> 
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> 
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> 
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> Contents
> 
> Foreword............................................................................6
> Hand-Me-Down Town.....................................................8
> The Devil His Due..........................................................78
> Sons of the Fathers .........................................................94
> Content With the Mysterious......................................138
> Doctor Dodge................................................................190
> Heroes ............................................................................204
> Any Mother’s Son.........................................................272
> Home Is Where..............................................................296
> Marsh Mallow...............................................................346
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye.............................................384
> Pipe Dreams...................................................................428
> The White Dog..............................................................478
> Foreword                                                              5
> 
> Foreword
> 
> The short fiction contained in this collection was originally
> published in the United States and the United Kingdom in such
> magazines as Analog Science Fiction, Amazing Stories, Century, and
> Interzone. All the stories are speculative in nature, and range
> from science fiction to fantasy to magic realism. They are bound
> together by the fact that they contain references to the Faith of
> Bahá’u’lláh in the form of inspiration, characters, and/or
> themes. They are grouped, in these pages, by genre and subject
> matter.
> The title of the collection derives from a verse in The Hidden
> Words of Bahá’u’lláh:
> 
> O SON OF MAN!
> I loved thy creation, hence I created thee...
> 
> The idea that creation is driven by a pre-existing love of the
> creature and of the very act of creation itself, is something I
> believe is understood by most artists whether they be writers,
> painters, sculptors, or musicians. It certainly describes my
> feelings about the worlds and people I created in these stories.
> 
> O SON OF MAN!
> Veiled in My immemorial being and in the ancient
> eternity of My essence, I knew My love for thee;
> therefore I created thee, have engraved on thee Mine
> image and revealed to thee My beauty.
> 6   I Loved Thy Creation
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                  7
> 
> Hand-Me-Down Town
> 
> A story of speculative fiction
> Hand-Me-Down Town was originally published in Analog
> Science Fiction Magazine in 1989 and was my first published work
> of fiction. I wrote it in reaction to the criminalization of
> homelessness by a California town trying to protect its tourist
> industry. The name of the town in this novella is fictionalized.
> Bahá’u’lláh, in His voluminous writings, refers to the poor as
> “the trust of God in your midst,” and further writes:
> 
> Be generous in prosperity, and thankful in adversity.
> Be worthy of the trust of thy neighbor, and look upon
> him with a bright and friendly face. Be a treasure to
> the poor, an admonisher to the rich, an answerer of
> the cry of the needy, a preserver of the sanctity of thy
> pledge.
> Gleanings from the
> Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,
> p 285
> 
> These are the principles on which my hand-me-down town
> was built.
> 
> Stu Williams pulled his jacket across his chest and zipped it
> all the way up to his chin. It was damned cold for February. He
> dug his hand into his left coat pocket and counted the change
> there without taking it out to look. About $4.00 in quarters;
> enough to buy a decent breakfast at Caroline’s or a not-so-decent
> 8                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> breakfast and a newspaper. He decided in favor of a decent
> breakfast and a trip to the Sears electronics department around
> noon to catch the news on the tube. Of course, TV’s didn’t have
> tubes anymore, he reflected. Old habits die hard.
> Mike Hanrahan fell in with him on the way down Hennessy,
> grumbling about how difficult it was to make it on recycling
> these days. “Problem is,” he complained, plucking burrs off the
> front of his disreputable Rob-Roy, “everybody’s doin’ it now.
> Everybody! And his Aunt on top o’t. Th’only place the market’s
> not jam packed is the freeways.”
> “Freeways, Mike?” Stu wrinkled his nose. “Naw, you don’t
> want to get into freeways.”
> “Damn right! But a man’s gotta eat, doon’t he?”
> Caroline’s was warm and smelling of coffee and baked stuff
> and bacon cooking. They ordered breakfast and sat back to enjoy
> a discarded newspaper. Stu disappeared behind the sports page.
> “Well, damn it all to hell!”
> Stu lowered the paper and peered at Mike over its edge.
> “Excuse me?”
> “Those blue-suited bureaucrats an’ their idiot measures an’
> bills! Good Lord, they think they can legislate the world away.
> Do you know what they’re proposin’ to vote on today at noon?”
> “I have no idea.”
> “That damn Bag Lady bill.”
> Stu dropped the sports section. “Let me see that.”
> Mike flipped the paper across the table.
> Stu fielded it and found the offending column easily without
> the aid of Mike’s out-thrust finger. There it was in black and
> white—"City Council Votes on Criminalizing Vagrancy.” Noon
> today.
> “We should pick up every transient on the Boulevard and go
> picket city hall,” Mike decided.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                   9
> 
> “What, and provide them with ’Exhibit A?’” Stu shook his
> head.
> Mike stared at him thoughtfully. “I suppose a college man
> like yerself’s got a better idea?”
> Stu laughed. “Mike, if I’d had a better idea, I wouldn’t be
> sitting here with seventeen cents in my pocket worrying about
> being ‘criminalized.’” He glanced down at the column again.
> “But I might be picketing city hall, anyway.”
> 
> Annie Lee Paice stepped off the curb almost into the path of
> an oncoming truck. The air horn shoved her back a step and the
> truck rumbled harmlessly by.
> Too bad, she thought. Might’ve been for the best.
> A wash of cold guilt followed immediately. Her eyes found
> the dilapidated old Chevy wagon in the shaded lot across the
> street and misted when she saw Sammie waving at her from the
> roof. The guilt curled in the pit of her stomach and moved
> upward toward her throat. She swallowed it again—pacified it
> by walking to the corner and crossing with the light.
> “Did you get it, Mom?” Sammie bounced off the hood of the
> car and met her nearly eye to eye. So tall for his age—going to be
> just like his Dad.
> She shook her head, glancing over her shoulder at the HEW
> building. “She didn’t even have new forms for me to fill out. She
> said I oughta see a lawyer.”
> “What the hell’s a lawyer gonna do for us?” Her oldest son,
> David, had hauled his lanky frame out of the passenger seat and
> hung on the roof of the car, chin propped on his crossed arms.
> “Pry some money out of your Dad, I s’pose.”
> “Huh! They’d have to find him, first. Did you tell her that?”
> 10                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She grimaced. “I mentioned it. She said that wasn’t their line
> of work. So we were back to the lawyer again.”
> David’s expression didn’t change. “Okay, so what’s next?”
> He was trying so hard, she thought. Trying to act like
> everything was going to be just fine. It was just a matter of
> what’s next?
> She fought a through a wave of cold panic before drawing
> some sanity out of his dark, resolute eyes. He was right. That’s
> what it was—what’s next? Small steps. She silently thanked God
> for him and prayed that by the time he turned fifteen he could
> go back to being a normal teenager.
> She smiled brightly and ruffled Sammie’s hair. “Next, I look
> for a job.”
> “Me too,” David said.
> “Who’s gonna take care of Sammie and Trudy?”
> “I can!” Sammie protested loudly enough to wake Trudy up.
> In the back of the wagon, she stretched and blinked.
> David ignored him, his eyes kindling. “Make you a deal,
> Mom. We both look for work and the one who gets the best
> money works while the other one stays home with the kids.”
> “I said, I can!” Sammie repeated. “I can take care of us. I’m
> not a kid.”
> “Yeah, you are.”
> “If I’m a kid then you’re a kid!”
> “You’re a kid, Sammie,” David repeated.
> “I’m twelve years old, dammit!”
> “You’re eleven,” David corrected, “and watch your mouth.”
> “You watch my mouth!” Sammie’s tongue made a rude
> appearance.
> “In the car.” Annie gave the younger boy a gentle shove.
> “Let’s go find a newspaper.”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                  11
> 
> Loucette Doucette rocked gently back and forth on the park
> bench, eyes on nothing in particular. The sun felt warm on her
> face despite the near freezing temperature, but then her face was
> the only part of her body not swaddled in layers of warm flannel
> and wool.
> She was indulging in her favorite pass-time just now
> —‘membering. She was very good at it—excelled at pulling
> faded bits of sepia-tone out of dark hiding and colorizing them.
> No high-tech movie magic could do what Loucette Doucette’s
> memory could do.
> God, it was all there today, too. New Orleans greens and
> blues, hot whitewashed walls, cool shadows, bright smiles in
> chocolate faces. And over all, the sun whispering a warm, loving
> benediction.
> Her full lips curved as the smells began to emerge. New
> Orleans smells—hot, spicy, sizzling smells; dark red smells in
> her Daddy’s restaurant. And she sat on the stairs that led up to
> their flat, rocking back and forth to New Orleans sounds, eyes
> on nothing in particular, with that knowing smile her Daddy
> said’d get her in trouble some day.
> It’d done that.
> She stopped ’membering and got up, hungry, longing for
> Creole food. They didn’t know Creole cookin’ at the Mission.
> Not like she did. Maybe Nancy’d let her putter in the kitchen
> today. She liked that.
> Behind her shopping cart, headed across park, she started
> ’membering again. Old, flat, crepe-soled sturdies grew sleek and
> high-heeled. Her steps tapped with the rhythmic authority of
> youth, hips swayed.
> This time the memories carried her for three blocks—all the
> way to the front door of the Mission. She swept in like she
> 12                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> owned the place, feeling that powerful flush of warmth that only
> came when many pairs of eyes were on you. Then many pairs of
> lips would whisper your name—"Loucette Doucette.”
> “Lucy-Ducy! How you doin’, hon?”
> Memories fled before the grizzled smile. Loucette parked
> her shopping cart by the door and returned the smile with one of
> her own. She still had good teeth that were still dazzling against
> her ageless café-noire skin.
> “Allo, Guillaume,” she said and sat next to him at the long
> table, pulling off elbow-length fingerless gloves.
> His smile deepened. He loved the way she always called
> him ’Guillaume.’ Everybody else called him ’Billy,’ thought of
> him as a gin-soaked old rodeo bum. Not Lucy—not Loucette.
> She was a class act and she thought of him as a class act—made
> him feel like one. Guillaume.
> “Breakfast, Lucy?”
> She nodded, shrugging off a few layers of unnecessary
> warmth, and smiled when Billy came around and took her
> elbow.
> “Why, merci, Guillaume,” she exclaimed, as if he didn’t
> perform the same ritual almost daily. But she always acted out
> her surprised pleasure, always let him escort her to the chow
> line, take her down a tray and help her select her breakfast—
> putee dayjunay, she called it.
> But today there was a surprise after all—the usually sunny
> group of faces behind the steaming trays seemed pinched and
> grim. Behind them, beyond the racks of fresh-baked rolls and
> kitchen utensils, angry voices carried over the hiss of running
> water.
> “Inhuman, fratricidal, cold-blooded bastards!”
> Billy paused in the act of handing his tray to the
> uncomfortable-looking black girl just that side of the scrambled
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                13
> 
> eggs and peered past her, eyes seeking the source of the
> argument. He’d never heard Nancy Yee being angry before.
> Wouldn’t have thought she had it in her.
> The guy behind him in line poked a finger at the kitchen.
> “What the hell’s that noise about?”
> The black girl (Delores, that was her name—he could never
> remember it because she didn’t look like a ‘Delores’) shifted
> from one foot to the other and cast a chocolaty glance over her
> shoulder.
> “Don’t tell me to calm down!” yelled Nancy Yee’s voice. “I
> don’t want to calm down!”
> A male voice mumbled something unintelligible in return.
> Delores leaned over the scrambled eggs. “Nancy’s pretty
> steamed about that new bill.”
> On cue, Nancy’s voice shot from the back of the kitchen.
> “Dammit, Leon, stop patronizing me!” She was obviously
> steamed about something.
> “What bill’s that?” asked Billy.
> “The city council is voting on a bill that would make
> transients criminals.”
> “Transients?” Billy frowned. “You mean-”
> “She means you guys.” Nancy Yee appeared between a
> couple of bread racks, her dark eyes back-lit with anger. Her
> assistant, Leon Squires, lurked behind her, hangdog. “They want
> to make bad luck illegal.”
> Loucette set the dish of peach halves on her tray and turned
> to look at the young woman. “Theah must be somethin’ we can
> do,” she said. There was always something one could do.
> “You can pray,” said Nancy Yee, and left the kitchen.
> “Oui.” Loucette nodded thoughtfully. “One can always
> pray, because God will always listen.”
> “Funny,” said the guy behind Billy, “I never noticed her
> havin’ a Chi-nee accent.”
> 14                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Vietnamese,” Loucette corrected him. “Nancy is
> Vietnamese. From a very old, very fine family. She speaks
> French very good, too,” she told Billy, and went to eat her petite
> déjeuner.
> 
> There’d been little on the noon news from the official
> contingent about the Vagrancy Measure as it was politely
> referred to. On the street, it was the “Bag Lady Bill” and no one
> referred to it politely.
> What the news did show were man-on-the-street interviews
> (ironic, Stu thought) and a healthy uproar from religious groups
> and community service organizations. The men and women in
> the street were divided over the issue. Comments ranged from:
> “It sucks!” to what was shaping up to be a long-winded diatribe
> against the evils of laziness before the tele-journalist put a cork
> in it.
> “I think it’s about time,” said a thirty-ish woman with an
> armful of toddler. “I mean, my kids gotta walk down the streets
> an’ see them people lyin’ there—pushin’ their little carts around
> an’ all that. I mean, I don’t know who those people are or where
> they been or what’s goin’ on in their heads.”
> I wish I knew what was going on in yours, Stu thought.
> Mike snorted. “Lovely woman,” he said.
> The reporter next tried to flag down a young collegiate type
> who was in an obvious hurry. He afforded the discamera a
> second of anger. “It’s f___ed,” he commented, before the censor
> could react.
> Mike laughed. “Ain’t it,” he said.
> The next woman interviewee agreed, if more politely. “I
> think it’s an obscenity. I don’t believe we have the right to
> legislate people out of our cities just because they’re homeless.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                    15
> 
> They need help, not a drop kick out of town. I don’t understand
> this bill at all. It’s not solving a problem, it’s just hiding it...or
> hiding from it. It’s morally reprehensible.”
> “It’s absurd,” said a middle-aged businessman. “I wouldn’t
> be surprised if Santa Theresa was consumed by a ball of fire.
> Maybe we ought to rename the place—Santa Adolpho after
> Adolph Hitler.”
> “Human litter,” said the next Santa Adolphan, shrugging.
> “You find litter lying around, you pick it up and throw it away.
> Same difference.”
> An interview with members of the Inter-faith Council
> followed which went a long way toward reviving Stu’s faith in
> his fellow men and women. A graying Catholic priest and a
> young female Bahá’í with matching expressions of deep concern,
> represented the organization against the backdrop of city hall
> and picket signs.
> “This bill will do nothing to address the problem of
> homeless people,” said the girl, earnestly. “We’re dealing with
> an age-old disease here, and this bill is only aimed at masking
> the symptoms.”
> “So, you’re saying this is just a band-aid measure?” asked
> the TJ.
> “It’s worse than a band-aid measure. It’s like putting a dirty
> dressing on an already infected wound. And it’s as much a
> tragedy for the people responsible for this cruelty as it is for the
> homeless. They can’t possibly understand the reality of what
> they’re doing.”
> “There have been rumors that the churches and
> organizations of the Inter-faith Council will offer sanctuary to
> the homeless if the bill passes. Could you comment on that,
> Father?” The TJ poked her bright blue microphone at the priest.
> “The member organizations of the Inter-faith Council are
> planning to offer shelter and sanctuary to as many homeless
> 16                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> people as their facilities can legally contain. If this bill passes,
> and we’re praying it won’t, we’ll publish a list of centers that
> will be open for that purpose.”
> “But, Father, won’t you be aiding and abetting criminals?”
> “No. We’re simply taking them off the street. If they’re not
> on the street, they’re not vagrant. If they’re not vagrant, they’re
> not criminals.”
> The newswoman swung to face the discamera, adopting that
> serious ’on-the-beat-reporter’ look. “So, surrounded by a show
> of solidarity from the religious community, the Santa Theresa
> city council deliberates over this highly controversial issue. We’ll
> be on hand to report on their decision as soon as it’s made. This
> is Karen Culver for Channel Seven News.”
> Stu shivered and shrugged his shoulders deeper into his
> jacket.
> Mike made a rude noise and turned to go. “Better gi’ back to
> work.”
> “Yeah.” Stu followed him out of the over-heated department
> store and out onto the sidewalk. They went their separate ways
> there—Mike returned to scavenging for aluminum cans, and Stu
> headed for the Murphy Street Mission for an afternoon’s gainful
> employment.
> Nancy Yee must be climbing the walls, he thought.
> A chipped kitchen counter and three broken chairs later, he
> ate dinner, listening to Lucy-Ducy talk in her smoky N’awleans
> patois about singing in her Daddy’s restaurant. He hadn’t seen
> Nancy all day. A frustrated Leon told him she’d disappeared
> right after breakfast, probably to join the picketers at city hall.
> At six o’clock, Leon disappeared into the Salvation Army
> store next to the Mission and reappeared with a portable TV. He
> set it up in a corner of the dining hall and turned on the evening
> news. Everyone stopped talking, chewing or washing dishes to
> watch and listen.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                17
> 
> The decision had come in at 5:30 and was written in the
> angry faces of the crowd in front of city hall. There was a futile
> confrontation on the steps of the building between exiting
> councilmen and picketers, then the list of religious centers open
> for sanctuary rolled slowly up the flat screen.
> “There’s Nancy!” someone yelled, and they all watched her
> shout soundlessly into the face of an equally furious councilman
> while names and addresses slid over her tear-stained face.
> Stu helped the Mission staff and evening regulars set up cots
> in case they had a lot of sleepers. Nancy showed up as they were
> finishing, eyes red from crying, voice hoarse from shouting. She
> paid Stu for his work and offered him a place to stay. He
> declined, pocketed his money, and headed for the ’Y.’
> He had to pass in front of city hall, skirted it quickly, the
> way a man hustles past an open grave, and hurried across the
> adjoining park. He slowed a little to enjoy the moonlit-lamplit
> beauty, watch milky tendrils of steam rise like wraiths from the
> damp sidewalk. He short-cutted across the frosty grass and
> came out on the parking pad, near its lone occupant—a battered
> station wagon with frosted-over windows.
> He was about three feet from it when a flashlight beam lit up
> the inside of the car, throwing the shadows of two people into
> relief against the semi-opaque glass. He was in the act of
> slipping quietly away when a third, smaller shadow popped into
> sight and a plaintive voice wailed, “Mom, Sammie’s kicking
> me!”
> His appreciation of the situation did an Immelman loop. The
> next thing he knew, he was tapping on the driver’s side back
> window. There was a moment of total silence inside the wagon,
> then the window rolled slowly down.
> “Oh,” said a woman’s voice, in obvious relief. “I thought
> you were a cop.”
> 18                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “You’re lucky I’m not. A cop would have to arrest you. I’m
> just going to warn you that you’d better move your car.”
> “Can’t. We’re outta gas. Or just about, anyway. That station
> down the block is about as far as this old junker’s gonna get.”
> “Well, ma’am, I don’t know if you’ve heard any news today,
> but there is a new law on the books that says if you’re caught
> loitering in this parking lot after midnight tonight, you’ll be
> committing a punishable offense.”
> There was another silence.
> “We’re not hurting anybody here,” she said.
> “No, you’re not.”
> “And we can’t move the car. We don’t have money for gas.”
> “I do,” Stu offered.
> “We can’t take your money, mister.” The adolescent voice
> was defensive.
> “Yes, you can. Look, ma’am, I know you don’t want these
> kids to spend the night in protective custody, but I’m afraid
> that’s just what might happen if you don’t move this car
> someplace less conspicuous.”
> Stu waited out the whispered conference, his eyes fixed on
> the halo of gold around a traffic signal at the corner of San Pablo
> and Main. A long, low car glided to a stop as the halo flared to
> crimson.
> Stu leaned down to the window. “Ma’am, I’d suggest you
> come to a quick decision. There’s a police car at the corner.”
> “Go around to the passenger side,” said the woman. The car
> rocked with the flurried rearrangement of its occupants.
> Stu rounded the Chevy’s nose, keeping his eyes on the
> police car, which still sat at the intersection. They had to exit the
> parking lot practically in front of it and sidle past on their way to
> the filling station. It executed a wide u-turn and followed them,
> pulling up beside the mini-mart when they stopped at the
> pumps.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                19
> 
> “Geez!” whispered Sammie. He watched the cops watch Stu
> pump gasohol while they bought and sipped hot coffee from
> biofoam cups. The steam looked wonderfully hot and delicious.
> A rap at the back window made him all but jump out of his skin.
> He rolled the window down viciously.
> Stu peered in at him. “Let’s go get some hot chocolate for
> everybody, okay?”
> Sammie forgot his anger at being scared and grinned.
> “Okay!”
> His mother started to put a damper on his enthusiasm.
> “Mister, we can’t-”
> “Yes, you can. It’s my money. I’ll spend it any way I want.
> And the name’s Stuart—Stuart Williams. Now, you want coffee,
> tea or cocoa?”
> Annie relented. “Coffee... Thank you, Stuart.”
> “I’ll have coffee, thanks.” David asserted his adulthood
> matter-of-factly.
> “Chocolate!” cried Trudy, unconcerned with asserting
> anything.
> “Okay. Two coffees, one chocolate. Coming?” He looked at
> Sammie.
> “Sure!” Sammie catapulted out of the car. “You can call me
> ’Sam,’” he stage-whispered, eyeing the police officer near the
> door of the mini-mart.
> “Thanks, Sam. You can call me ’Stu.’”
> “Thanks, Stu.”
> They smiled at the cop on their way in, collected their
> coffees and cocoas, paid with most of Stu’s meager earnings and
> smiled at the cop again on their way out. He managed a
> half-hearted response, then returned to his partner and his
> squad car.
> Stu took over the driver’s seat and did some quick thinking
> about where they were headed. He decided the Mission was the
> 20                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> best place, but realized halfway there that the police car was still
> tailing them. He felt a deep reluctance to let the cops know they
> were shopping for a place to crash. It would mark that old gold
> Chevy for future suspicion.
> He silently cursed the situation. Part of him understood their
> curiosity—he could’ve kidnapped these people for all they
> knew. But most of him was angry. Angry that a quirk of fate—
> the loss of a job or, in this family’s case, he suspected, a husband
> and father—could transform a person from citizen-in-goodstanding to suspicious character.
> He was the same man he’d been two years ago, before all
> this—sure, a lot poorer and a little more cynical, but that didn’t
> mean he’d come unhinged. Maybe the members of the city
> council or whoever was in that squad car simply judged other
> people by what they thought they’d do under the same
> circumstances. Sort of an upside-down, inside-out Golden Rule:
> Do unto others as you suspect they’d to unto to you if they had
> the chance.
> In the end, he took them to the Bahá’í Center, intending to
> see them settled in, then leave. But the place was over-run and
> under-staffed and he found himself useful as a distributor of
> blankets and pillows. When that was over, it was easier just to
> find a free corner to curl up in before he fell asleep on his feet.
> 
> At 7:00 a.m. the next morning, Stu quietly consumed a
> breakfast provided by the local Bahá’ís and Quakers before
> wishing the Paices good luck and heading for Murphy Street. He
> felt guilty about accepting charity. He may be out a job and a
> home, but he wasn’t drunk, disabled or destitute. Not like Billy
> or Annie Paice or-
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                        21
> 
> He stopped, staring at the gleaming squad car parked boldly
> in front of the Mission. Two cops sat in it, watching the comings
> and goings of its ’patrons.’
> He watched as Loucette Doucette made her way out onto
> the sidewalk on Billy McGuire’s gnarled arm. She was without
> her shopping cart today—for obvious reasons. Billy shot the
> officers a sassy grin and touched the brim of his stained Stetson.
> One of the officers flipped open a voice-activated compad
> and began mumbling notes to it. He was still mumbling when
> Stu passed by and entered the Mission. Nancy Yee was just
> inside, glaring out the big front window.
> “Friends of yours?” Stu asked dryly.
> “Not funny, Stuart.” She turned from the window, glossy,
> black pageboy fanning with the movement.
> They walked side-by-side toward the kitchen.
> “Got a lot of customers today,” Stu noted.
> Nancy glanced at the crowded dining hall and nodded. Cots
> and mattresses and sleeping bags were propped or stacked or
> rolled against the walls. “Yeah. I don’t know how long we can
> handle this many people, though. We’re meeting with the
> Goodwill and Inter-Faith people tonight about forming an
> organized cooperative. You eaten?”
> Stu nodded. “Nancy, you wouldn’t happen to need some
> extra kitchen help, would you?”
> “Oh, I need it, alright. I just can’t afford it. I can barely keep
> what I’ve got. Why?”
> He shrugged. “I ran across a family living in their station
> wagon. The mother and oldest boy could use some
> employment.”
> “Sorry, Stuart. But I will keep my ears open.” She punched
> his arm and smiled. “I’ve got plenty for you to do, though.”
> He smiled back. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
> 22                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> �����
> 
> The news became the focus of the day’s activities. At noon
> the little portable flat-screen in the dining hall provided the
> Mission lunch crowd with some rousing entertainment.
> The Mayor of Santa Theresa wasn’t the most popular
> celebrity in town, but he was easily the most controversial. He
> had everyone’s full attention the minute his face appeared on the
> screen. He got more than their attention when they heard what
> he had to say.
> The anchorwoman did the warm-up in neutral tones: “It’s
> been less than twenty-four hours since the vagrancy ordinance
> came into effect, but there are already problems with
> enforcement. According to Mayor John Eastwick, a lack of
> cooperation from certain civic and religious organizations has
> impeded the ordinance’s effectiveness. Mayor Eastwick, what,
> exactly, are these organizations doing?”
> The mayor’s very angry face appeared on the screen.
> “They’re subverting the law. The entire point of the ordinance
> was to safeguard the tourist trade that Santa Theresa depends
> on. Because of this gross interference on the part of a group of
> well-intentioned but misguided organizations, we are seeing
> only the minutest drop in the number of vagrants wandering
> our streets. I seriously doubt these people realize the impact this
> can have on our tourist trade.”
> “But isn’t the incidence of actual vagrancy—by that, I mean
> people sleeping and pan-handling on street corners—
> significantly down even this early on?”
> “Yes, it is. And those vagrants who were in violation of the
> ordinance were dealt with. Last night, the streets of Santa
> Theresa were conspicuously clean. The problem is that our
> sanctuary groups turned their charges back out onto the street at
> first daylight. That means the people we don’t catch will just
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                    23
> 
> wander the streets all day, then hole up in their missions and
> churches and halfway houses at night.”
> “But if they’re off the streets at night, hasn’t the ordinance
> accomplished its purpose?”
> “No, it has not. The intent of the ordinance was to drive
> indigents out of Santa Theresa, not force them underground.”
> A loud hiss rippled around the dining hall and a wad of
> paper napkin sailed at the screen.
> “What does the City Council propose to do about the
> situation?”
> “We do have some legal recourse, but I’m not free to reveal
> what action we’ll take first.”
> “Then you do intend to take action?”
> “Only if these groups continue in this flagrant attempt to
> circumvent the law. I don’t imagine they can afford to offer this
> level of support for very long, but if they persist, we certainly
> will take legal action.”
> “Mayor, it sounds as if you’re prepared to challenge the
> entire concept of sanctuary.”
> The mayor looked momentarily uncomfortable. “Let’s say
> I’m prepared to question it.”
> Whatever recap the anchor made was lost in the general
> outrage from the Mission audience. A flurry of napkins fell
> around the TV, prompting Leon to rush protectively to its
> rescue.
> Stu Williams spent the day suspended in unease—and with
> good reason. The first legal action the City Council took when
> the “well-intentioned but misguided” civic groups revealed no
> sign of capitulation was to become unbendingly strict in its
> enforcement of the building capacity ordinances.
> The sanctuaries reacted by shuffling their occupants from
> one room to another whenever the suddenly ubiquitous police
> force put in an appearance. The police counter-reacted by
> 24                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> making surprise inspections at twelve midnight on a Sunday. By
> four a.m. the first group of indigents was transported to the
> Juvenile Authority to await final transport out of town. Mike
> Hanrahan was among them.
> Stuart Williams didn’t know that until nearly two p.m. the
> next day. By that time, he’d found Annie Lee Paice’s oldest boy
> part-time work and helped several more single-parent families
> settle into the annex of the local Bahá’í Center. Like the Paices,
> they had to share single rooms, but it beat the hell out of air
> mattresses at the Mission or the underside of a staircase.
> “What were you, Stu? Before, I mean.” Annie Lee pulled
> him out of a half-anxious/half-aimless stare across a park that
> was, for once, empty of everything but early tourists taking
> advantage of a warming in Santa Theresa’s ambivalent weather.
> He shifted slightly on the faux-adobe bench, squinting at a
> pair of tourists who squinted back as if at a museum display—
> Theresan Couple at Lunch in Natural Habitat.
> “An urban planner,” he said. “You know, one of those guys
> who’re paid to look at your orange groves and see shopping
> malls.”
> Annie gave him a surprised glance. “I’d think you’d make a
> good living at that.”
> “If you’re good at it. I wasn’t good at it. I looked at shopping
> malls and saw orange groves.”
> “That why you’re doin’ odd jobs at the Mission an’ sleepin’
> at the Y?”
> He tilted his head, considering his own particular set of
> whys and wherefores. “My wife died,” he said. “We had all
> these plans that... Well, they were the kind of plans that only
> work for two people. So I found myself suddenly...”
> “No place to go?” guessed Annie. “In here, I mean.” She
> tapped her chest.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                    25
> 
> “Yeah,” he agreed. “I got sad and drank too much. Then I
> got sober and mad and picked fights with everybody I knew—
> my boss included. And somewhere in there I realized I didn’t
> want to be good at turning orange groves into shopping malls.”
> “You quit?”
> “I got fired.” He shrugged. “I deserved to be fired, I have to
> admit. So, I sold my house and drifted around. ’Going on
> sabbatical,’ I called it. I wanted to look at architecture, get some
> direction, some inspiration. Those were all my good reasons for
> not getting into counseling instead. I dropped out. Then, I ran
> out of money in Santa Theresa.”
> “No, kids then, huh?”
> He shook his head. “We were going to wait another year, till
> Beth finished her Master’s degree. She was younger than I am.”
> He was depressed, suddenly, remembering that. He hadn’t
> thought about it much since he’d washed up under Mike
> Hanrahan’s staircase in a chilling rain almost a year ago.
> Annie looked at her five year old Adidas and empathized.
> “My old man went on sabbatical, too,” she said. “Took his
> secretary with him. She was a temp.”
> “Shouldn’t last too long, then,” said Stu.
> Annie gave him a sideways look. He was looking back, face
> ultra-serious...all but his eyes. She laughed.
> “How does a man do that?” Stu asked, as they made their
> way back to the Mission, later. “How does a man leave his
> family—his children, for God’s sake!”
> “I dunno. I guess he couldn’t take me anymore. Showin’ a
> cute li’l Georgia peach off t’your National Guard buddies is a lot
> different than bringin’ your boss home to a high school drop-out
> who doesn’t even know what it is you do for a livin’.”
> “What did he do for a living?”
> “Something to do with micro-circuits. Hell, I thought it was
> something ’lectrical. You know, like house wiring. I called him
> 26                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> an electrician. Made an ass of myself. Never knew what was
> goin’ to pop out of my mouth. His friends at work thought I was
> cute. He didn’t think I was cute. He thought I was dumb.”
> Stu glanced at Annie Lee, assessing her. She still looked like
> a cute li’l Georgia peach to him—a harried, hassled and worried
> peach, but peach none-the-less.
> “You’re not dumb, Annie,” he said. “Don’t ever let anyone
> tell you you’re dumb.”
> 
> The Mission was a madhouse this afternoon. People jostled
> each other for a place at the rear of the main hall—a place where
> a policeman entering the room might not see them and single
> them out. Children milled and squealed under foot. Somehow
> through it all, Stu saw Nancy Yee gesturing at them from the
> kitchen door and steered Annie in that direction.
> Nancy pounced on Annie first. “Delores is sick and this
> place is a zoo. Could you possibly help out in the kitchen? I can
> pay you five dollars an hour.”
> Annie glanced at Stu and shrugged. “Where do I start?”
> Nancy flashed a relieved grin. “Thanks. Just go on in. Leon
> will put you to work.”
> When she turned back to Stu, the grin was gone. He had the
> impression that it still hung in the air on the other side of her
> head, waiting for her to step back into it.
> “Stuart,” she said, and he knew something serious had to
> follow. “Stuart, the police picked up Mike. They caught him
> scavenging for returnables along the Main Street off-ramp.”
> Stu stared at her, suddenly chilled to the marrow. “Where
> do they... Do you know where he is? Jail?”
> Nancy shook her head with a swish of gleaming black silk.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                27
> 
> “Not jail. They don’t want to be responsible for these people,
> Stu. They were to be detained in an annex to Juvenile Hall until
> there are enough for a busload. Then they get bussed out to the
> interstate.”
> “To do what?” Stu asked, heat rising into his face. “To starve
> or get run over or hitch-hike into oblivion?”
> Nancy shrugged. “Who cares, right? They’re no longer Santa
> Theresa’s problem... Where are you going? You can’t bail him
> out, Stu.”
> He stared at the small brown hand gripping his sleeve.
> “I’ve already tried,” she said. “Only next of kin can get them
> out, and then only if they can produce proof of residence
> somewhere.”
> “Proof,” Stu repeated. “Everywhere you go these days—
> everything you do—you’ve got to prove something to
> somebody. Prove you have credit, prove you’ve got a degree,
> prove who you are, prove you really exist...prove you even have
> a right to exist. And then, some god-forsaken place like Santa
> Theresa questions that right-” Tears of exasperation made him
> pinch his eyes shut. “Damn,” he finished.
> “There’s nothing we can do,” Nancy murmured.
> Even before she’d finished the cliché, Stu could see her
> challenging it. Her eyes kindled. “Yes, dammit! Yes!” She tugged
> at his sleeve. “My office,” she told him, and struggled toward it,
> sidestepping floor-sitters, side-jumping kids.
> He followed.
> Forty-five minutes and half as many phone calls later, Nancy
> was fading, but triumphant.
> “So, let’s say you can really mobilize these people,” said Stu
> carefully. “Then, what? You get all this stuff together and take it
> where?”
> “We’ll have to find a place.”
> “Find a place?”
> 28                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Nancy was already on her feet, already sifting through a file
> drawer. “I’ve got an old map here somewhere...”
> She came up with it instantly. Stu didn’t doubt that her files
> were as well organized as the rest of the Mission...under normal
> circumstances.
> She plopped the map down in front of him—"SANTA
> THERESA CHAMBER OF COMMERCE,” it said, and “SANTA
> THERESA AND OUTLYING AREAS.” She tossed her credit
> card on top of it.
> “Do you think Annie would let us use her car? I get
> followed everywhere in mine. I’ll pay for gas.” She pointed at
> the card.
> “Newspaper?”
> She nodded. “And police. Would you ask Annie about the
> car?”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Turn left here.” Nancy pointed at the faded sign. It
> proclaimed, to anyone who cared, the junction of Santa
> Theresa’s modest I-80 Business Loop and State Highway 19.
> Stu turned onto the tree-lined washboard, grimacing at the
> tattered patriotism of a once-upon-a-time red, white and blue
> gas station. Fifty yards later, he had brought the car nearly to a
> crawl, staring out the window.
> “What is this?”
> Nancy folded the map neatly across her knees. “This is—or
> should I say, this was Serendipity Springs. You won’t find it on
> your GPS and it’s a little the worse for wear, but still worthy of
> the name.”
> Stu turned his stare to Nancy. “Meaning, it still has
> springs?”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                   29
> 
> She slapped his leg with the map. “Yes! And it’s still lucky,
> lucky, lucky! Pull over.”
> It was a mess—a disaster. The buildings were aging recluses;
> smothered with vines, over-shadowed by monster oaks,
> hemmed in by tree-sized rhododendrons and choked with dust.
> Three out of four roofs had accidental skylights and several front
> porches featured a direct path to the root cellar. There was a
> drug store-cum-grocery (a “Mercantile,” according to the
> drooping sign), a boarded-up café—replete with warped lunch
> counter, a post office, a drive-in of indeterminate age and
> another building of indeterminate use. There was also a church,
> a peeling, weed-choked motel with tiny, square cabins, and a
> quintet of houses that the most entrenched realist would declare
> haunted.
> Stu stood tentatively on the porch of one of the almostcertainly-haunted houses and surveyed the street. The opposing
> house surveyed him in turn, its empty windows passive and
> benign. He felt a tickle of something like excitement struggle up
> from the pit of his stomach.
> Nancy was watching his face. “Well?”
> He shrugged, attempting to appear uncommitted.
> Nancy stamped her feet. “This-is-it, this-is-it, this-is-it!” she
> said. “It’s perfect!”
> He shook his head. “Nancy...I don’t know...”
> She sobered suddenly, dousing the smile. She could do that.
> It was like having a deep hole appear in the sidewalk right
> where you were about to step. It always scared the stuffing out
> of Leon.
> “Would you rather starve? Do you think they’d rather
> starve? Right this minute, there could be a bus loading up at
> Juvenile Hall. Your friend Mike could be on it. It’s going to take
> him to a place without roofs or walls or food or drink. This looks
> pretty good next to that.”
> 30                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> It did look pretty good next to that. “It’ll take a lot of work,”
> he said.
> “Anything that’s worth anything takes a lot of work,” Nancy
> countered. Then she punched his arm. “Come on, Stu. What do
> you really think?”
> He grimaced. “If I told you, you’d think I was out to lunch.”
> He slapped his thigh. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
> On the way back into town, Nancy made copious lists of
> tools, supplies, sundries and urgent phone calls to make.
> Meanwhile, Stu paged through imaginary architectural
> renderings of red, white and blue gas stations and drive-ins of
> indeterminate age.
> As a result, he nearly missed the scene that was unfolding in
> the parking lot north of the town square—nearly, but not quite.
> Nobody could fail to notice the trio of black-and-whites
> converged in one corner. Stu swore and pulled the car into the
> curb.
> Nancy looked up from her lists. “What-? Lucy!” She was out
> the door before Stu could even think of dissuasion, clipboard
> forgotten on the empty seat. He sat there in uncertainty for a
> moment, then got out of the car and followed, cautiously.
> Nancy was already involved in the standoff, putting herself
> directly between the cops and their quarry. She was gesturing
> wildly, her voice creating hot punctuation marks in the cool,
> crisp air. Behind her, the old woman sat cross-legged on the
> grass, her little piles of goods—pilfered from the dumpsters of
> the rich and famous—spread about her on colorful scarves.
> Her head was tilted stubbornly, arrogant chin thrust
> upward. Dark eyes spat a tirade of steamy Creole invectives at
> the four young city soldiers, who were clearly not sure what to
> do. They eyed the small crowd of tourists and natives that had
> gathered to watch.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                               31
> 
> A fifth officer manned the radio in his squad car, no doubt
> seeking guidance from higher up. Apparently, he received it—he
> left the car and issued a report to his teammates that took all of
> two seconds.
> Stu stook helplessly by and watched as both Lucy and
> Nancy were escorted to a squad car and ducked inside. Lucy’s
> goods ended up in the trunk of the same car. Her shopping cart
> —a late model Raleys—was left in the care of two blue suited
> boys who peered uncomfortably at the crowd. They peered back
> — interested, angry, uncertain.
> That was when Stu saw the discams topped with station call
> letters; saw the TJs in their ersatz-wool blazers with matching
> microphone wind filters. One camerawoman zeroed in on the
> shopping cart. He followed the movement with his eyes and
> stared at the cart for a full minute before he could tear them
> away. When he did, it was to see Billy McGuire standing not five
> feet away, his colorless eyes squinted into desperate, miserable
> slits.
> Stu moved quickly, pulling the old cowboy away from the
> scene, listening silently to husky whimpers of desolation.
> “My Lucy...why’d they hafta find Lucy? Oh, damn that girl!
> Why’d she hafta go out peddlin’ her crap? Didn’t she know
> this’d happen? My Lucy...” And it started all over again.
> Stu drove Billy back to the Mission, where someone would
> have to stand between him and that suddenly irresistible bottle
> of booze. A peculiar feeling that was neither shock nor anxiety
> nor good red anger roiled behind his solar plexus. He was calm
> telling Leon what had happened. Calm, because Leon could be
> counted on to panic and make his voice squeak incoherently. He
> was calm driving Leon to the police station, where it took over
> two hours to get Nancy released.
> He didn’t know what he was saving his anger for until the
> three of them were back in Annie’s station wagon.
> 32                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Nancy slammed the passenger side door and looked at Stu
> with eyes that had “mutiny” etched across each iris. “Now, we
> mobilize,” she said.
> Stu nodded, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He
> gunned the engine viciously and jerked the car into reverse,
> checking to make sure that no one had wandered into the path
> of their backward plunge. In the rear view mirror, Leon’s face
> had gone suspiciously white.
> 
> David Paice wriggled in his seat and adjusted his baseball
> cap. The street looked the same as it had half and hour ago—
> dark, misty and quiet, except for the comings and goings of
> dart-like prowl cars. The garage doors he watched disgorged
> them it regular intervals.
> He glanced at Stu. “Maybe they won’t do it tonight,” he
> said.
> “Unless they want to have to feed these people another meal
> and put them up for the night, they have to move them pretty
> soon.”
> “How about now?” David pointed across the street.
> The sharp nose of a police van had appeared in the exit of
> the station parking lot. It rolled down the ramp that sloped to
> street level and turned left onto Darlington Avenue. Stu and
> David watched it glide past their side street observation post,
> streetlights flickering on the faces of its passengers.
> “That’s it,” said Stu. After a discreet pause, he started the
> car, flicked on the lights and pulled out onto Darlington.
> The van’s taillights glowed ahead of them at a traffic signal.
> They caught up before the light changed and rode the van’s trail
> out of town.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                   33
> 
> It was the proverbial piece of cake. The only problem was
> that the drop site was on the opposite side of town from
> Serendipity Springs. It was a grove of trees near an overpass.
> Chosen, Stu imagined, for its proximity to the freeway and a
> major county road. It was a broad hint to the indigents to take a
> hike—literally.
> He by-passed the grove and pulled the station wagon onto a
> rutted dirt track.
> David flipped off his seat belt. “I’ll bet I can see from the
> roof,” he said, fumbling for the door handle.
> “Whoa!” Stu’s hand clamped on his shoulder.
> “What’s the matter?”
> Stu pointed at the roof of the car, then twisted the dome
> light to an off position. “Now go.”
> David grinned. “Sorry, I forgot.” He was out the door and
> clambering onto the roof.
> The car rocked briefly, then settled as David found a
> comfortable position. There was a bare five minutes of calm
> before the car began rocking again. The door popped open and
> David deposited himself inside.
> “All done,” he said. “The van’s on its way home.”
> The pitiful group of transients was still standing in a
> confused huddle when Stu caught them in the cold glare of his
> headlights. They all turned and blinked warily, then one stocky,
> glaring, red plaid figure separated itself from the group,
> assuming a defiant posture.
> Stu grinned and brought the car to a halt. “Mike!”
> Within fifteen minutes of their hurried conference, Stu was
> transporting a car full of indigents to Serendipity Springs.
> Nancy had set up her command post in one of the creaking
> houses and was ready for an army of homeless. The nine that
> arrived were overwhelmed by the warmth and hospitality of
> their greeting.
> 34                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Stu was overwhelmed, too—with the complete
> transformation Nancy’s team had worked on the dilapidated
> building in a mere six hours. The interior had been scrubbed
> within an inch of its life and smelled, not of disinfectant, but
> cedar and spice. Oil lamps were scattered about everywhere,
> illuminating piles of blankets and goods. It was like Christmas at
> Aunt Mary’s or a scene from It’s a Wonderful Life.
> Stu told Nancy where she could find the remainder of her
> lost sheep and accepted an invitation to a hot dinner. He slept in
> Serendipity that night and dreamed of drive-ins and malts and
> carhops on roller skates.
> 
> �����
> 
> There were twenty-five homeless in Serendipity by
> morning. They were clothed, fed and the mostly sober put to
> work on Nancy’s scrub team. Stu spent the morning running
> errands for “The Committee"— the unofficial title of the ad hoc
> steering group of which Nancy Yee was the nominal head.
> By the time Stu and his companions stopped erranding,
> another group had an unofficial title. The homeless had begun
> calling themselves the “Down & Outer Club,” and Billy McGuire
> solemnized the appellation with some boards and paint. Stu
> held the ladder while the old cowboy mounted the “Club”
> shingle from the porch of the shabby Victorian that served as
> relief center. The “Down & Outers” broke into spontaneous
> applause—the probably haunted house was theirs.
> “Who owns this property?” Stu asked Nancy after the
> impromptu “ceremony.”
> “I don’t know. State of California, probably.”
> “Aren’t they likely to want it returned to them at some
> point?”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                 35
> 
> “Why? So it can continue to rot in peace?” Nancy’s dark
> eyes flashed. “I’ve seen you snooping around the foundations
> and poking your nose into the attics. These buildings are
> salvageable, and you know it.”
> “Marginally salvageable.”
> “Salvageable,” repeated Nancy. “Why are you trying so hard
> to be a wet blanket, Stu? This sort of thing should be right up
> your alley.”
> “Stealing towns?”
> “No, urban renewal. And we’re not stealing. Borrowing,
> maybe... Scavenging. These people are professional scavengers,
> aren’t they?”
> When he didn’t reply, she gave him a sly glance. “You didn’t
> answer me. How come you’re being such a drip?”
> Stu barely managed to keep from laughing outright. “I
> didn’t know I was being a drip. I thought I was being a realist.”
> “Realist-shmealist. You’re being a drip.” Nancy got
> suddenly and disconcertingly earnest, scooting sideways on the
> porch step to face him. The step groaned in protest. “Stuart,
> Serendipity is no place for realists. It’s a place for dreamers.”
> “You evicting me?”
> “I’m exposing you. You’re no realist. A realist would still be
> in Chicago planning lucrative suburbs, not nursemaiding the
> refuse of Santa Theresa.”
> The word “refuse” raised his hackles. He started to rise to
> the bait, then accidentally let his eyes get tangled with hers.
> “Dream, dammit,” she said.
> He sighed deeply and gazed around him. “It’s salvageable,
> Nancy. Every building but that old barn next to this place. That
> should come down.”
> “Okay. What about this place?” She nodded back over her
> shoulder.
> 36                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Stu grinned. “I was thinking it’d make a great Bed &
> Breakfast for the Down & Outer Club.”
> Nancy’s answering smile was dazzling. “Then Bed &
> Breakfast it shall be. How many able-bodied souls do you need
> for your construction crew?”
> Stu shook his head. God, but her mind moved like a cat. “Six
> or seven.”
> “You got ’em.”
> Nancy was up and away, leaving Stu feeling as if he’d just
> visited Oz... Or the Twilight Zone, he thought, surveying the
> tree-shrouded street. Just beginning to bud, the half-naked trees
> looked benignly sinister. Their skeletal branches dangled like the
> arms of lonely wraiths, wearing nothing but bracelets and rings
> of peridot and emerald.
> He shook his head. Definately Oz.
> By three p.m. that afternoon, he found himself at the head of
> a team of out-sized Munchkins. Billy McGuire and David Paice
> were among them, as well as an out-of-work carpenter and an
> aging bricklayer. The remainder of the eight-person crew was
> young and inexperienced, but eager.
> Stu put a group of four to work cataloguing areas that were
> merely unsightly, while he checked more thoroughly for
> structural problems. Annie Lee set about tearing down
> crumbling wallpaper, while her sons tagged obediently behind
> Billy, scavenging for usable wood. There wasn’t much, although
> a search of the ramshackle barn revealed a stack of warped but
> recyclable two by fours under a rotting tarp. Nancy Yee added
> wood to one of her ubiquitous lists.
> The donations of food, clothing and supplies were
> astounding. Members of the Committee’s various civic groups
> would visit Serendipity with eyes wide open. “You could use
> ’this’ or ’that,’” they’d say, and disappear, to reappear later with
> the aforementioned ’this’ or ’that.’
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                37
> 
> By the end of their first week in Serendipity, the Down &
> Outer Club’s growing membership had lawn mowers, hand
> tools, power tools, wood, some odd lots of brick and cinder
> blocks and one small semi-quiet generator. They also received
> old furniture, rugs, and even a couple of wood stoves.
> Nor were their less tangible needs ignored. There was no
> alcohol in Serendipity Springs, but there were a number of
> alcoholics. There were no drugs, but there were those who
> considered them essential to their existence. Nancy’s contacts
> with AA were immediately on the scene setting up meetings,
> recruiting people to attend them.
> “Only seven?” Nancy asked, looking over the list of
> volunteers. “Only seven people signed up?”
> Shelley Forbes shook her head. “Don’t let it worry you, Nan.
> These are just the ones who are ready to admit they have a
> problem. There’ll be more coming as soon as it sinks in that
> they’re cut off. The only way for them to get booze or drugs is to
> go back into Santa Theresa, and if they do that, they’ll just get
> kicked right back out again. A word of warning, though. They
> could cause problems for you in the meantime.”
> Nancy nodded in resignation. Problems. There always
> would be problems. Somehow she’d hoped Serendipity would
> make them all go away.
> Stu’s work crew expanded, so he expanded his renovations
> to the old mercantile. As it happened, that was a stroke of good
> timing—thanks to a few carefully placed suggestions, there was
> a sudden influx of day-old baked goods and other perishables
> from the supermarkets and bakeries of Santa Theresa.
> “We need a refrigerator for all this,” someone said, and
> several old butcher cases and freezer chests appeared. Some of
> them were broken, but between the four members of the “D&O
> Electrical Group,” two meat cases and three freezers were soon
> restored to a semblance of functionality.
> 38                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “I could can this stuff, if I had mason jars,” Annie said, eying
> the perishables, and jars appeared. Annie Lee and Loucette
> became the hub of the food preparation team—"The Cookery.”
> They turned questionable materials into stews and goulashes
> and broths.
> If it was old, or new but not working just right, if it was
> perishable, unwanted, or not worth selling, it showed up in
> Serendipity. Which was not to say that many nice, new, shiny
> things didn’t also show up in Serendipity, but used things
> appeared in much greater abundance.
> “Hand-me-down things for hand-me-down people,”
> muttered Mike Hanrahan acerbically, appraising a truckload of
> gnawed looking furniture. “This whole damn town is a handme-down.”
> “Now, y’old mule-head,” returned Billy McGuire. “This
> stuff’d be great if it was refinished proper.”
> “Hmmm. And I s’pose yer just the fella t’restore’t?”
> “It’d be a job,” Billy admitted, “but if I had some varnish
> remover and sand paper...”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Beautiful job, Billy!” Nancy admired his handiwork from
> the open front door of the D&O Club. The little Queen Anne
> table glowed with the warm sheen of wood oil from beside the
> half refinished staircase. “Who did the doily?”
> “That’s tattin’, deah,” Loucette informed her, entering the
> hallway from the front parlor. “That dahlin’ old girl, Mrs. Etterly
> done it. Lahd, when she come heah, she’d a whole bag o’ tattin’.”
> She chuckled. “Totin’ that big ole bag, an’ not one stitch a’
> clothin’ in it, jus’ lace an’ thread an’ them little crochet hooks.”
> She said something in French and laughed.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                 39
> 
> Nancy stared at her. “Lucy, where did you get that
> wonderful outfit?”
> Lucy smiled her glorious smile and made a piquantly
> tottering pivot. “Isn’t it grand, though?”
> “I certainly is you,” Nancy said, and meant it.
> The old red dress with its padded shoulders and tiny waist
> almost made her see the elderly woman as she no doubt saw
> herself—a Creole Queen, eternally youthful. To add to the
> quality of agelessness, Loucette’s hair was sprayed and netted
> into a style that fit the dress perfectly. The whole effect was
> underpinned with a pair of worn black velvet pumps, complete
> with round toes and tiny, crooked red bows.
> “A very kind lady from the Salvation Army gave me these,”
> said Lucy. “Can’t see why anybody’d throw out such a fine
> dress. Annie did my hair,” she added, patting the sleek, black
> coil.
> “You look like a model-doll, Lucy,” Billy enthused.
> Lucy’s black face glowed with delight. “An’ your table is
> trés belle, Guillaume.”
> Nancy looked at the little table speculatively. “Billy, didn’t I
> see about three more of these little guys in the cellar?”
> “Yeah, I got one for th’other house in the works.”
> “Will they all look as good as this one, do you think?”
> Billy scratched the snowy carpet of stubble on his jaw.
> “Don’t see why not. One’s got a cracked leg, but I think I can
> wood putty that just fine.”
> Nancy crossed the hallway and brushed her fingertips
> across the warm grain. “Hmmm,” she said, and smiled. “What’s
> cooking? Smells Creole.”
> It was Creole. Everything, from the potatoes to the plentiful
> zucchini to the fish, tasted of Louisiana kitchens.
> 40                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Two rooms had been set up for dining, making use of the
> various shapes and sizes of second-hand tables and junkyard
> chairs that had found their way into Serendipity.
> Nancy stayed to dinner, sitting at table with the Paices and
> Stu. She was tending toward moody silence until David’s “Pass
> the zucchini” became “Pass-the-zucchini-you-should-see-what-
> Phil-Kroeger-and-I-found-out-behind-that-old-filling-station!”
> “David, where’re your manners?” asked Annie Lee
> reflexively. “Didn’t I teach you to say ’please?’”
> “Sorry, mom. Please. It was the neatest thing—this whole
> barn full of old junkers.”
> “Junkers?” asked Nancy.
> “You know, old cars. Really old cars. Antiques.”
> Nancy’s eyes took on a speculative gleam. “Hmmm. I
> wonder if we could sell them to a junk yard or car mechanic?”
> “Sell ’em?” David laughed. “Over Phil’s dead body! He
> wants to—um, re—um, refur—um, fix ’em up. You should’ve
> seen the way he drooled over this old Buick. Gag me! It was
> really pukey.”
> “Yeah, pukey,” echoed Sammie, rolling his eyes.
> Annie Lee bristled. “David Andrew Paice, you watch your
> tongue! You’re not too old to have your mouth washed out with
> soap.”
> “Just to big, huh, mom?” David quirked a grin at Stu, who
> failed to return it. The grin faltered. “Uh, sorry, mom.”
> “Me too,” said Sammie, not to be outdone, even in
> contrition.
> Nancy picked up her half-empty plate and headed for the
> kitchen. “See ya,” she said.
> Stu watched her go, suspecting that a new list had just
> sprung into being.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                      41
> 
> The truck arrived bearing a jumble of auto parts. It left
> carrying several pieces of Billy McGuire’s refinished furniture, a
> crate of The Cookery’s canned goods, and a bag of Pearl Etterly’s
> tatting.
> Phil Kroeger was ecstatic, and closeted himself and David
> Paice in the rundown garage with a decrepit Buick and the parts.
> They were seen only at mealtime, looking like they’d been
> bathing in thirty-weight. Annie Lee quickly despaired of getting
> her oldest son washed up for dinner.
> A bare week after the arrival of the auto parts, Phil stood
> sheepishly outside Nancy’s office at the Mission, looking as if
> he’d committed some heinous offense.
> Nancy glanced up and saw him there—lumberjack cap in
> hands stained even darker than their normal mahogany. “Good
> grief, Phil! What’s wrong?”
> Phil shuffled. “Well, Miss Yee, it’s like this... It’s my cars.”
> She didn’t even help him along with so much as an ’Oh?’ so
> he was forced to clear his throat and look even more sheepish
> and shuffle again.
> “I finished one of ’em.”
> Nancy’s face lit up like Mrs. O’Leary’s barn. “That’s
> wonderful! You’ll have to take me out for a spin.”
> “Well, Miss Yee, that’s just it.” Phil’s voice, soft as his oversized black eyes, grew even more muted. He saw that Nancy
> was about to ask him to speak up (everybody did), and cleared
> his throat again. “I can’t take anybody for a spin. I don’t got
> gas.”
> “Gas,” echoed Nancy weakly.
> “Um...yes, ma’am. Real gas...gasoline. I managed to get a
> gallon here’n there to test the engine, but not enough to drive
> anyplace. Stuff’s hard to come by these days.”
> 42                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Nancy flipped open a notebook and scribbled something.
> “Gas-o-line,” she said, then reached for the phone and her
> Rolodex simultaneously.
> Phil boggled, watching her move—flipping through the
> Rolodex with one hand, picking up the receiver and punching
> out the prefix with the other. The Rolodex hand stopped and the
> phone hand completed the number.
> “Hi! Is Mr. Garvey in? ...Nancy Yee. Thanks!” She winked at
> Phil and picked up a pencil. “Hi, Mr. Garvey, Nancy here...
> What..? Oh, yes, the car parts were a God-send. We really
> appreciate- ...Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Garvey... All right, Jim...
> Actually, that’s what I’m calling about. Phil’s got one of the cars
> in running condition, but it doesn’t have a converter and we
> don’t have any gasoline for it and... Well, that’d be nice... Well,
> I’m sure Phil would be happy to show it to you... Sure!”
> She glanced at her watch. “How about one o’clock? You
> could have lunch out there with us... Nonsense, Jim. There’s
> plenty. All our friends have been just as generous as you have...
> Great. You like Creole? ...Fantastic! See you at one, then? ...Oh,
> it’s that old red-white-and-blue filling station on A19 at 80... Uhhuh. Just turn in there... Wonderful. We’ll meet you there, then.”
> She hung up with a smile of satisfaction. “You shall have
> fifteen gallons of gas at one o’clock this afternoon. That ought to
> enough for a good spin.”
> Phil’s slow smile was crooked and full of holes. Nancy
> thought it was one of the best smiles she’d ever seen.
> 
> �����
> 
> Jim Garvey was as good as his word, showing up at 12:50 in
> front of the old filling station with three five-gallon cans of
> gasoline.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                43
> 
> “What a gasser!” he chortled, ogling the faded red-whiteand-blue pumps. “Little pun, there,” he informed Nancy.
> She smiled and nodded. Phil shuffled.
> It took ten minutes to pull Garvey away from the battered
> garage, but he finally followed them to where Phil’s pride and
> joy awaited what was probably its first square meal in forty
> years.
> “Fifty-two Buick!” Jim Garvey breathed awfully. “Not bad
> shape. Little dinged up, though.”
> “Haven’t got the stuff t’do much body work,” said Phil
> defensively.
> Garvey waved that aside. “Pretty is as pretty does,” he said.
> “Let’s see how she runs.”
> “She” ran like an Olympic marathoner—steady and smooth.
> Phil took Nancy, David and Jim Garvey on the inaugural spin
> and was toothily beaming from ear to ear when they pulled up
> again twenty minutes later in front of the gas station.
> Stu was there, examining the underground gas tanks, when
> they drove up. He rose and waved, unable to resist answering
> Phil Kroeger’s infectious, lopsided grin.
> “Sounds great, Phil! Good work.”
> “Thank you, Mr. Williams.”
> “Stu,” Stu corrected him (for about the fiftieth time).
> Phil smiled and nodded.
> Jim Garvey had gotten out of the Buick and was peering into
> the gas tanks. “Y’know these tanks look like they’re still good.”
> Stu joined him. “I was wondering about that. Is there
> anyway to tell for sure?”
> Garvey chuckled. “You thinking of setting up business?”
> “No, just idle wondering.”
> Nancy squatted down opposite them, staring at the stygian
> hole. “Of course, we could use some gasohol for all the relief
> 44                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> vehicles, and gasoline for Phil’s projects.” She wrinkled her nose.
> “Pretty silly idea, huh? It’d take a fortune to fill these.”
> Jim Garvey’s eyes fell on the Buick, returning only
> reluctantly to Nancy’s face. “I imagine it’d be real handy for you
> folks to have working pumps out here... Especially if Phil here is
> planning any more renovations. Wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”
> Nancy smiled.
> Jim Garvey was mightily impressed with the Cookery’s
> Creole cuisine. He was also impressed with the amount of work
> the Down & Outers had done on their new quarters.
> “This is great, Nancy,” he congratulated her after a lunch of
> filé gumbo and hot, sweet French bread. “You folks have done a
> bang-up job on this place. That little motel is looking real cute.
> Y’know, it kind of reminds me of the little town I grew up
> in. ...Truelove. Truelove, Idaho.”
> He smiled reminiscently, stomach and heart both apparently
> full. “I remember we had one of those drive-ins, too. You know,
> the ones that looked like a giant mug of root beer? Sat out by the
> highway...such as it was.”
> He chuckled, then stretched and stood up. “Well, I got work
> to do this afternoon.” He rolled comfortably to the dining room
> door, then glanced back at Phil Kroeger. “You do body work,
> Phil?”
> “Yessir.”
> “Hmmm.” Jim waved a hand in farewell and left.
> 
> �����
> 
> The double tanker truck showed up five days later with a
> big, red ribbon around its curved flanks. A huge banner across
> the nose of the truck announced it as a gift “From the Petroco
> owners of Santa Theresa.” It rolled into Serendipity at noon on a
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                               45
> 
> Saturday, escorted by Jim Garvey and a TJ from the local PBS
> station.
> Nancy was immediately wary. “Jim, you know we don’t
> want any publicity.”
> Garvey had the good graces to look embarrassed. “It wasn’t
> me, Nancy. One of the other owners happened to mention to his
> wife that we were doing this charity bit and she works for
> KETV. Next thing I know...” He shrugged and glanced at the
> journalist —an earnest-looking young Hispanic woman with
> glossy black curls that were bobbing vigorously as she tapped
> her first notes into a pocket compad.
> Nancy scowled and opened her mouth to say something
> thwarting, when the young woman looked up and gave her a
> smile no less dazzling than her own.
> “Hi. I’m Pepper Delgado.” She held out her hand. “You
> must be Nancy Yee.”
> Nancy smiled weakly and took the hand. It had a very firm
> grip. “Pepper, I... We’re really not in the market for publicity.
> Could I convince you to...to leave?”
> “Why? I’d think publicity would be exactly what you did
> want. You could be drawing support from statewide—even
> nationwide.”
> “We could also be drawing unwelcome attention from
> statewide, Pepper. This little town may have owners somewhere
> who might suddenly decide their worthless property is worth
> something after all. Or at least that they don’t want it in the
> hands of a bunch of reprobates. I don’t want this to end up in the
> courts—we’d lose.”
> Pepper was shaking her head. “Do you have any idea how
> much weight popular opinion carries in situations like this?”
> “Actually, I do. But popular opinion didn’t save these
> people from being dropkicked out of Santa Theresa. I doubt it’d
> save them from a charge of ’grand theft, town,’ either.”
> 46                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “I’d be willing to bet you’re wrong. If the media took an
> advocacy role-”
> Nancy’s eyebrows twitched. “Can the media take an
> advocacy role?”
> Pepper had the honesty to blush slightly. “Not strictly
> speaking. But a journalist can. Please, Nancy. This is the most
> important story Santa Theresa has ever produced. This is isn’t
> just tourist pap, it’s-it’s an epic. It’s-”
> “It’s the lives of about fifty homeless people at the moment.”
> Pepper nodded, soberly. “I know that. But if this fifty people
> are successful, if they can survive, if I can get other people
> interested in their survival—get them to care about it... Nancy,
> that’s worth something, isn’t it?”
> Nancy Yee sighed. “It’s worth a lot, if it would really work
> that way. But what if the wrong people get interested in
> Serendipity, Pepper? What then? You look at these folks and see
> heroes—so do I. But a lot of other people look at them and see
> drunks and junkies and derelicts and juvenile delinquents. If we
> show Serendipity off to the wrong people...”
> “Then it becomes a media battle. It already is a media battle.
> I don’t think you realize what a stir this has caused. We still get
> calls asking what’s happened to these people. That’s why I’m
> here—because people still care. Out of sight isn’t always out of
> mind.”
> Nancy considered that. “And who are these people? The
> callers, I mean.”
> “Some are just concerned and curious. A few expressed a
> great deal of interest in helping.”
> “Did you get their names and addresses?”
> “They’re on file.”
> “Can I have them?”
> “Can I have a story?”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                 47
> 
> Nancy looked at Pepper speculatively. “How’d you like to
> do a documentary?”
> “A documentary?”
> “Yeah. Instead of just popping a human interest story, why
> not a feature: The Resurrection of Serendipity Springs?”
> Pepper answered the other woman’s slow smile.
> “Something to air around the Fourth of July, huh?”
> “I like the way your mind works, Ms. Delagado.”
> “I have a cameraman whose mind works the same way. I’ll
> need him.”
> “Can you trust him?”
> “With my life. He’s my fiancé.”
> Nancy tapped the top of her clipboard thoughtfully. “How
> soon can you have him here?”
> 
> �����
> 
> Pepper’s fiancé, Georg “Sunny” Durande, was an amiable
> young man with glossy black dreadlocks and skin the color of
> bittersweet chocolate. He spoke with a tease of Jamaica and
> moved with a thin whisper of music.
> “Don’t those give you audio problems?” asked Nancy,
> fascinated by the sheer number of tiny silver bells entwined in
> his hair.
> He smiled blindingly and drew a soft, black hat out of his
> jacket pocket. “Part of my recording equipment.” He pulled the
> hat over his head, effectively silencing the bells, and hefted his
> Lasex PortAVee to one shoulder.
> Nancy was quickly impressed with the way Pepper and
> Sunny worked. They were ubiquitous but unobtrusive—filming
> everything and everyone, but staying out of the way. The
> ceremonial filling of the gas tanks, attended by the entire
> population of Serendipity, was covered in full. Afterward,
> 48                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Pepper interviewed a few of the residents and took a tour of the
> inhabited buildings.
> “You’ve done an amazing piece of work here,” she told
> Nancy over a cup of hot coffee. “This is a legitimate miracle.”
> Nancy shot Stu a conspiratorial glance. “We’re just getting
> started. As soon as the motel renovation bears some fruit, we’ll
> be able to house more residents.”
> “How are you housing what you’ve got now?” asked Sunny.
> “Fifty-seven, I make it.”
> “It’s not easy,” Stu admitted. “We’ve got three houses
> livable. This one, moderately so, the others just barely. We’ve got
> running well water. We manage to get it hot once a day to allow
> bathing. There’s electricity for the kitchen and work sites only.
> No flush toilets yet, but we’re working on it. We had to dig
> outhouses,” he replied to Sunny’s raised brows. “Two of these
> old Victorians have five bedrooms. The other one has four. Plus,
> we’ve converted a couple of downstairs sitting rooms into
> bedrooms. Everybody has at least one roommate. Actually,
> we’ve got room for more. As far as feeding everybody...well,
> right now we do it in shifts, the cantina here only holds about
> thirty people.”
> Pepper nodded, following his gaze around the cozy suite of
> the two converted parlors, which even now held about fifteen
> occupants. “This is a real cute place,” she complimented them.
> “Sort of faded Americana. I’ll bet it’s good for morale to have a
> place like this to hang out.”
> “My patrons seem to be happy.” Nancy surveyed the Down
> & Outers in the “café” and felt a moment of intense satisfaction.
> “So what’s next?” asked Sunny. “I’m sure your population is
> growing.”
> “You bet! Especially since we’re literally soliciting citizens.
> These are just the folks that haven’t been able to get off the street
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                49
> 
> in time, or who volunteered to come out here and put their
> supposedly useless talents to work.”
> Stu smiled at his coffee cup. “When we hit one hundred,
> Billy wants to erect a population sign out on the Loop.”
> “Billy McGuire is our master carpenter,” explained Nancy.
> “We’ve sold some of his work in Santa Theresa.”
> Pepper’s ears perked almost visibly. “They’re selfsufficient?”
> Stu and Nancy both laughed.
> “Not by half!” said Nancy. “But, we’re trying. It’s like
> digging for buried treasure—discovering half-remembered or
> never-developed skills, putting them to work. Sometimes the
> hardest part is getting these folks past the idea that they’re
> useless or worthless. They’re far from it. If we could just
> convince people of that, get them to invest in Serendipity...”
> “One of our biggest material problems,” said Stu, “is power.
> We’ve got three little Honda generators and four full propane
> tanks. But to get this place fully modernized...” He shrugged.
> “What about alternative power sources?” asked Sunny.
> Stu nodded. “We’re looking into both wind and solar. But
> we need materials and expertise.”
> Pepper looked thoughtful and tapped on her compad, while
> Stu wondered if she generated as many lists as Nancy did. He
> felt a niggle of something like guilt and cleared his throat. “Of
> course, those are just the material problems. We have human
> problems too. Some of these folks are alcoholics, some of them
> have other problems, some of them are just trouble.”
> “Or troubled,” said Nancy.
> Stu nodded. “Or troubled. A couple of them have the DT’s
> pretty bad. One guy’s coming off heroin... We’ve got people
> from AA out here all the time. “
> “I heard you had some runaways,” observed Pepper quietly.
> “Can you tell me about that?”
> 50                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Nancy glanced at Stu and shrugged. “They wanted coke.
> They wanted it bad enough to hike all the way back into Santa
> Theresa for it. One of them is in jail on a possession charge. The
> other one is still missing.”
> “They were kids,” said Stu, and was angry but didn’t know
> who to be angry at.
> “Sounds like you could use a full-time counseling staff,”
> Sunny said.
> Nancy smiled faintly. “We can dream.”
> Pepper’s compad squealed at the speed of her note taking.
> She wanted to do more than dream.
> 
> �����
> 
> “I like them,” said Stu, after Pepper and Sunny had packed
> up notes and PortAVee and left. “I think they’ll help.”
> Nancy sighed. “Me too. But they made me realize just how
> much help we need. I mean, this place is reclaimable, but at what
> cost?” She shook her head, looking, for the first time since Stu
> had known her, almost defeated.
> “Is it the place or the people you’re thinking about?”
> “Both.”
> “Are we doing badly?”
> “No. No, we’re not. Not right now. But Stu, it can’t go on
> indefinitely—all this largesse. People can’t keep pouring funds
> and materials and energy into Serendipity forever. At some
> point, we’ve got to become self-subsistent. And we’ve got to
> solve our own problems. Maybe we can give these people a
> place to start over—big ’maybe.’ But we can’t make them want to
> start over. What if we get somebody who just doesn’t want to do
> it? What do we do? Kick them out? And if we did that, wouldn’t
> we be just as guilty as the society that rejected them in the first
> place?”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                51
> 
> “Some people don’t want to be helped, Nancy. That’s just
> the way it is.”
> “But what do we do with them? What do we do with Stark
> Benson if he won’t go to the AA meetings and he won’t work
> and he won’t even talk to the counselor?”
> “I don’t know. I don’t have an answer to that. But I do have
> an answer to the other problem. I think we can be self-subsistent.
> Hell, I know we can.” He got suddenly to his feet. “Come on. I
> want to show you something.”
> He took her hand and led her out through the kitchen, past
> the coy looks of its staff, across the half-groomed back yard and
> through a recently re-hung gate in the unkempt hedge.
> Nancy sidestepped the pair of shears lying near the gate and
> stopped, her eyes wide. In front of her, within the huge rectangle
> formed by the hedge, neat rows of tilled and furrowed soil
> stretched in a crazy-quilt pattern. On stakes marking each
> section, seed packets proclaimed what was planted between the
> furrows. In one corner, a monstrous growth of squash sprawled,
> a pile of clippings lying next to it on the earth. Other, less
> primordial-looking plants dotted the large plot.
> “When did all this happen?”
> Stu laughed at the expression on her face. “Not over night, I
> assure you. Some of our Club members found the plot and
> decided to try their hands at gardening. Seeds are cheap, so we
> approached a local nursery...” He shrugged. “We’ll know if any
> of us have green thumbs in a week or two.”
> “But those great big...whatevers...” Nancy waggled a hand
> at the squash.
> “Remnants of the previous residents. It was pretty wild, but
> I think we’ve trimmed it back enough to see some produce in
> season. And this isn’t the only plot. There’s another one in about
> the same condition behind the pink stucco. Plus, there’s the
> orchard on the other side of the motel. Peaches, cherries, apples.
> 52                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> It’s pretty overgrown, but the trees all seem healthy enough.
> Some of them are starting to blossom already.”
> Nancy smiled. “Just like the Down & Outers, huh?”
> “Feel better?”
> She laughed outright. “Can this be Stuart Williams, the
> realist?”
> “Realist-shmealist,” Stu grinned. “Serendipity is no place for
> realists. We ran ’em all out of town.” There was a definite
> dream-gleam in his eye.
> Nancy saw it and nodded. “Yes, I feel much better.”
> 
> The rains came in early April and, with them, enough
> indigents to more than double the population of Serendipity
> Springs. Billy McGuire chose a piece of wood for his population
> sign.
> Three units of the motel were finished and pressed into
> service and work started on the interior of the little church.
> Glorying in the equipment lent by Jim Garvey’s Petroco, Phil
> Kroeger finished the bodywork on the ‘52 Buick and unveiled
> her during a break in the weather. Jim Garvey immediately
> handed him a check for $40,000.
> Phil, who had never seen so much as a fifty-dollar bill, could
> only stare at it.
> “She’s a classic car, Phil,” said Garvey. “And you did a
> classic job on her.”
> “But, Mr. Garvey,” stammered Phil, still staring at the check,
> “you can’t drive her out on the road. She’s illegal—she burns
> gasoline. You need to get ’er converted.”
> “No, sir.” Jim patted the Buick’s gargantuan nose. “What I
> need is a classic car permit and I have one of those. She’s worth
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                 53
> 
> more than forty thou’, of course, but if I leave you the equipment
> you’ve been borrowing, we should be even up.”
> Phil’s big, dark eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,
> Mr. Garvey. Thank you.”
> “My pleasure,” said Jim. “Literally.” He studied Phil’s face
> for a moment, then said, “D’you mind if I ask sort of a personal
> question?”
> “No, sir.”
> “How’d you come to be a-a-”
> “Hobo, sir. Tha’s what I call myself. Jus’ a hobo.”
> “What I mean is, how come you’re not doing this kind of
> work for a living? You’re damn good at it, you know.”
> Phil glanced at the check again. “Well sir, I used to do this
> sorta work. Then I got real sick. Didn’t have no bennie-fits.
> Y’know, hospital—that sorta thing. When I was well enough to
> work again, I was sorta broke up lookin’. An’ broke, too. Hadta
> go on welfare. Nobody seemed to want an old, broke up dude
> with no schoolin’. Nobody believed I could do what I said I
> could do.”
> Garvey nodded. “Well, I believe you, Phil. You’ve got a
> touch with old cars.”
> Phil smiled his slow, holey smile. “Tha’s ’cause I love ’em, I
> s’pose.”
> “Yeah, and I bet they love you, too.” He patted Phil’s
> shoulder and headed off to take possession of his old new prize.
> “Don’t spend that all in one place.”
> The check was spent in many places, but the Committee
> made certain some of it went toward turning Phil’s ramshackle
> auto shop inside out and putting it back together in much better
> condition. He even got an old Coke machine to stand invitingly
> against the front of the building.
> Billy McGuire painted his population sign red-white-andblue and used the same colors on a sign for Phil’s garage. Both
> 54                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> signs were reared the same day with all Serendipitans in
> attendance.
> One sign said: “Serendipity Springs—Population 137.” The
> other said: “Phil’s Klassic Korner.” The news team of Delgado
> and Durande recorded the event for posterity.
> They also recorded the return to Serendipity of several
> runaways. There was an angry and tearful welcome. There was a
> fight. Two stayed and entered the rehab program, one left and
> never returned.
> When a couple of residents were found smuggling booze
> into Serendipity, Delgado and Durande recorded that as well.
> And when Billy McGuire, suffering from the lingering effects of
> their smuggling, went into DT’s, he insisted they be there to disc
> his agony.
> “I want to remember,” he said. “An’ I want them kids to
> remember. This is what hell’s like. It ain’t no burnin’ place. It’s a
> damn drunk tank.”
> His Lucy cried and that went down on disc, too.
> They also recorded the ongoing restoration work. There
> were four crews, now. Two handled destruction and
> construction, two handled interior finishing. While one crew
> tackled further clearing and cleaning of the motel with inexpert
> gusto, the more experienced took over work on the two halffinished Victorians.
> The finishing crews followed them around cleaning,
> painting, and wallpapering. “Granny wallpaper,” Annie Lee
> dubbed it. It was leftover stuff, mostly; dignified patterns in
> muted “granny” colors. It fit the aging houses to a “T". So did
> the truckload of antique furniture and carpets driven into town
> by two smiling representatives of the local Catholic Relief
> Association. Nancy and Pepper, chopping weeds in the front
> yard of the Down & Outer Bed & Breakfast (or the D&O/B&B as
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                  55
> 
> it was affectionately called), ogled the rich assortment with
> unabashed lust.
> “What’s this?” Nancy asked the beaming driver.
> The woman looked as if she was fighting a raging case of
> giggles. “This,” she said, “is from the estate of Dorothy
> Calderon. She died two days ago and bequeathed all of her
> furniture and some of her cash assets to Serendipity Springs.”
> After five seconds of silent amazement, Pepper giggled. So
> did the Catholic Relief ladies.
> “This is just great!” sighed Pepper finally. “I’ll get Sunny
> and the discam-”
> “Right behind you, and recording,” said Sunny’s voice.
> “Nancy, are you going to open your present?”
> Nancy laughed, eyes dancing. “Wow, you betcha!”
> It was Christmas in April. There was a literal houseful of
> antiques, every one of them breathtakingly beautiful. The Down
> & Outers unloaded each piece with awful care, ooh-ing and
> ah-ing.
> “I ain’t never, never had anything like this!” exclaimed one
> middle-aged woman cradling a Tiffany lamp in her arms as if it
> were a baby.
> The riches were distributed between the restored Victorians,
> finding places of honor in parlors, front halls and bedrooms. All
> three of the late Mrs. Calderon’s fine dining tables went to The
> Cookery dining parlors. Those, with a few additional
> appointments and some of Pearl Etterly’s tatting, gave the
> establishment a breath of fading class—like a dried orchid
> pressed between the pages of a first edition of Jane Eyre.
> Annie Lee laughed delightedly at the stunning effect of
> polished wood reflecting the dancing flames of a dozen oil
> lamps and candles. “This is fantastic! Lord, I wish we could open
> up for business. Can you imagine, Lucy?” She draped an arm
> 56                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> around the older woman’s thin shoulders. “Now all we need is a
> piano so you can sing for our supper.”
> “We do have a piano,” said Nancy. “A baby grand. That is,
> it’s ours if we want it. Or we can sell it for what it’ll bring at
> auction. They left it in town because it needs to be moved by
> pros. Do we want it?” She looked to Lucy for an answer.
> “It’d prob’ly bring a lot at auction...”
> Nancy shook her head. “Not important. The question is, do
> you want it?”
> Lucy’s eyes glowed. “Oh, Miss Nancy, I would jus’ love to
> have a piano.”
> They installed the baby grand in one corner of the larger
> dining parlor. Pearl Etterly draped it in lace and Lucy sat down
> to test the keyboard. It was well tuned and Lucy’s experienced
> but rusty playing filled both rooms with sweet, blue sounds. She
> played and sang for the diners that night, accepting their
> requests (when she knew them) with smiles, and their praise
> with flushed modesty. Her voice, deep and smokey, was seamed
> with the hairline cracks of age, but still had the power to
> enchant.
> After dinner, Nancy called a town assembly. All adult Down
> & Outers and several of the older kids crowded into the twin
> dining rooms to hear what was up. The Delgado/Durande news
> team put the gathering on videodisc.
> Nancy stood at the head of the front dining parlor on the
> raised flooring of the big bay window embrasure and addressed
> the assemblage.
> “By now, you’ve all seen the beautiful furniture that’s been
> moved into the houses. It’s ours because a very sweet lady
> changed her will three weeks ago and made us—Serendipity—
> heir to her house furnishings and about $80,000 of her cash
> estate.”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                              57
> 
> A murmur of stunned appreciation circled the room,
> followed by enthusiastic cheers.
> “I believe she knows how grateful we all are for her
> wonderful generosity,” Nancy continued, when the goodhumored roar abated. “But I still wish she could be here tonight
> so we could throw a party for her. However, we’ve got lots of
> friends who are still very much alive, and I think it would be a
> nice gesture to throw a party for them.”
> The idea went over like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
> Plans for the May Gala began immediately. Nancy compiled the
> invitation list and Jules Trevor, secretary of the Committee,
> printed the invitations and recruited a detachment of couriers to
> hand carry them to the recipients. Annie and her kitchen staff
> planned a sumptuous but thrifty buffet and Lucy practiced her
> repertoire of silky, sultry tunes.
> The Construction and Interiors crews put in extra hours,
> exhausting themselves in an orgy of cleaning and finishing. They
> converted the remaining parlor of the D&O Club into yet
> another intimate and homely dining room, and turned the old
> house into a Victorian showplace.
> Pepper Delgado surveyed the finished product thoughtfully,
> then hiked down to Phil’s Klassic Korner to use the pay phone.
> She returned to town looking like a cat backstroking through
> heavy cream just about the time Sunny was introducing Stu and
> Nancy to a gentleman with white hair, wire-rim glasses and a
> PhD in solar engineering.
> The gentleman, Paul Walker by name, spent the afternoon in
> conference with Stu, either closeted in Stu’s office or wandering
> about Serendipity. Pepper, meanwhile, spent the afternoon
> softening Nancy up to receive one of her brainstorms. After
> chatting at length about the wonderful progress the D&O Club
> had made and how many new friends they had enlisted among
> 58                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> the more influential citizens of neighboring Santa Theresa, she
> finally made an approach.
> “That,” she declared, nodding at the D&O/B&B, “is a major
> accomplishment. I mean, it looks like it was done up by some
> hot-shot architect/designer.”
> Nancy beamed at the old house. “It does look great doesn’t
> it? These are pretty exceptional people.”
> “I kid you not, Nance. This place would look right at home
> on the cover of Home & Garden or California Life…�It’s a shame it
> has to be hidden from the world.”
> “What do you have in mind, Pepper?” Nancy glanced at the
> other woman’s face. “Or maybe I should have said, ’Pepper,
> what have you done?’”
> “Nothing reprehensible. It’s just that I have connections with
> a couple of magazine publishers. I called them in.”
> “Called them in?”
> “Favors. I share research with people, do some interviews,
> special interest stuff.”
> “And what did you tell these connections?”
> “That I had a special interest scoop—a unique restoration
> project.”
> “Pepper...”
> “I didn’t reveal anything important. Laid it out like kind of a
> ’Mystery Spot.’ They love that kind of stuff. Whets their
> appetites. More to the point, it whets the readers’ appetites.”
> She watched the expressions chasing each other across
> Nancy’s face for a moment, then said, “By the way, I’ve found us
> another benefactor... Can Sunny disc the Gala?”
> Nancy choked on a laugh, then scowled with mock severity.
> “Sunny had better disc the Gala, or he’ll be the last course of the
> evening. And who’s this mystery benefactor?”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                             59
> 
> Pepper pulled a business card out of her pocket and handed
> it to Nancy, suspecting for a moment that she had wasted her
> trump card.
> “Hey! This guy owns a lot of real estate. And isn’t he
> involved with civil liberties stuff?”
> “He’s an attorney. A very wealthy, very nice, very generous
> attorney. He’s represented homeless people in court a number of
> times.”
> “No kidding?” Nancy tucked the card into her shirt pocket
> and headed for the house, wielding her trowel. She stopped
> halfway up the porch steps. “By the way, wish the readership of
> Home & Garden ’bon appetit.’ I hope they like Serendipity
> Surprise.”
> Pepper whooped and ran all the way to Phil’s.
> 
> The May Gala promised to be bigger and better than anyone
> imagined. The guests begged to bring guests of their own, and
> started a new flood of giving. The “thank you” banquet turned
> into a fund-raiser with no prompting whatsoever from Nancy or
> her cohorts.
> Offers of assistance poured in. Area high schools formed
> support groups and volunteered after-school and weekend help
> to speed the renovation process along. They dug and planted,
> scraped and painted, polished and waxed. And they took their
> orders in all of this from people who bare months or weeks
> before had been considered worthless by nearly everyone,
> including themselves.
> Wherever they went, they left a gleaming trail. Everything
> gleamed. Everything from the finish on Loucette’s piano to the
> finish on Phil’s two newly refurbished cars. Even the four more
> barely finished units of the “Lucky Lullabye Motel” gleamed—
> 60                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> with fresh spring green and white paint. And if the row of fresh
> Cypress trees along its sweeping gravel circle didn’t gleam, at
> least they looked “damn fine,” in the opinion of Mike Hanrahan,
> who engineered their planting. The motel units were
> immediately inhabited by three families and four young women
> late of Santa Theresa’s blossoming red-light district.
> The night of the Gala, Phil’s two new antiques took places of
> honor flanking the Down & Outer Club’s white picket gate. Jim
> Garvey added a third vintage vehicle to the line up; his two
> invited guests brought the tally up to five. By 7:30 the main
> street of Serendipity was lined with limos, compacts, beat up
> station wagons—even a school bus.
> It was a barely clouded night with a slight, balmy breeze.
> Japanese lanterns bobbed down the walkway on a silver cord,
> swayed under the eves of the B&B’s wide verandah and dotted
> the yard with little pools of golden light.
> Nancy decided she couldn’t have begged for a better night.
> In the light of Serendipity’s four honest-to-God propane fueled
> street lamps, the place really looked like a living, breathing
> town.
> “Pretty, isn’t it?” asked Annie Lee Paice from beside her on
> the verandah.
> Nancy nodded and glanced at her. “Wow! So’re you! Has
> Stuart seen this get-up?”
> Annie blushed. “It’s just an old square dance rig I altered,
> that’s all.” She stroked the lacy shoulders.
> “Ah! Do I detect the fine hand of Pearl Etterly in this
> so-called ’old square dance rig?’”
> Annie nodded. “You really think it’s pretty? I mean, it
> doesn’t seem...silly or old-fashioned?”
> Nancy studied Annie again. The verandah, with its lanterns
> and old white-washed porch swing, was a suitable frame for a
> pretty Southern belle at a garden party; her guests coming and
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                61
> 
> going behind her, their conversations mingling with the breeze,
> music floating from her open parlor windows.
> “It fits the night, Annie,” said Stu William’s voice from
> behind Nancy. “It fits the town. Old-fashioned...that’s just right
> here.”
> Nancy grinned. “Took the words right out of my mouth,”
> she said. “S’cuse me. I’ve got to check up on the seating
> arrangements.”
> Annie watched her duck into the house, glanced at Stu, then
> smiled shyly at the porch railing.
> “I hope you’re not planning on hiding that pretty dress in
> the kitchen all evening,” Stu said.
> She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Why, you got something in
> mind?”
> “Dinner and dancing. That is a dancing dress, isn’t it?”
> “I guess it’s got a few dances left in it.”
> “Then we’ll make sure they get put to good use.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Look at them kids!” snorted Mike Hanrahan. “They look
> like somethin’ out an old High School year book! White socks ’n’
> duck-tail do’s.”
> “You complainin’ again, Irish?” asked Billy, handing him a
> large tray of vegetables and dip. “I like the way they look—takes
> me back, y’know?”
> “Somebody oughta take you back, Cowboy, an’ see if they
> can’t fix yeh.”
> “Guillaume est parfaitement,” Loucette informed him. She
> pointed at the kitchen door. “Now, you jus’ take that tray out to
> dining room one. Dining room one, you heah?”
> “Yes, madam. I ain’t deaf, just-”
> 62                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Stubborn,” Lucy finished for him. “That’s what’s wrong
> with you, old man. You’re stubborn. You jus’ can’t stand to have
> any fun.”
> “Fun? Pffft! You call this fun? House full o’ noisome
> strangers...laughin’, carryin’ on... Hmph! Fun won’t start, Miss
> Lucy, until you start singin’!” And he wheeled out of the kitchen
> with his laden tray.
> “Old crocodile...” muttered Lucy, shaking her head. “Scowl
> at you, an’ then pay you a compliment.”
> Billy shrugged affably. “Guess that’s the way he has fun,
> Sugar.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Um, Mr. Garvey?” David Paice’s fourteen year-old face
> looked as if it belonged to somebody caught tee-peeing the
> mayor’s house.
> “Yessir, what’s the trouble?”
> “Well, it’s this, sir.” David fumbled forty dollars and some
> change out of his jeans pocket and held it out. “Um, I think it
> belongs to you. It’s from gasohol. Well, some of it, anyway.
> Some’s for gasoline.”
> Garvey put down his fork. “You had customers?”
> “Well...yessir. I was helping Phil in the shop and this car
> pulled up and they wanted gas. They were real desperate—they
> were nearly out... Then, a couple more people came in and...
> Was I wrong to sell it?”
> Jim snorted. “What else could you do, son? Give it away?”
> “Coulda, I guess.”
> “Hmm. And the gasoline?”
> “Some guy with an antique car. He had a license for it—he
> showed me.” David grinned. “You shoulda seen the way he
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                    63
> 
> looked at that ’72 T-Bird Phil’s doing for you. Nearly popped his
> eyeballs out.”
> Jim Garvey looked thoughtfully at the handful of money.
> “How’d you and Phil like to manage a franchise for me?”
> “Sir?”
> 
> �����
> 
> The media was not blind, deaf or dumb. Nancy knew that.
> And she knew that whatever else it was, the Gala was a media
> event. It was a calculated risk, and today she hoped they were
> ready for the onslaught of attention. They had to be ready. They
> had something to fight for—and there were more of them to
> fight for it every day.
> Billy’s little population sign featured a replaceable placard
> which tracked the rise of that statistic in increments of twentyfive. Just that morning, it had been amended to read:
> “Serendipity Springs, Population: 225.”
> That same morning, Sunny’s plaid PhD friend had begun
> spec’ing alternative energy sources for Serendipity. And that
> morning, Stu had conscripted a crew of twenty to start work on
> his drive-in, while Annie Lee, Billy, and Lucy fielded a similar
> team to give the old café a thorough scrubbing down. And that
> morning, another group of Down & Outers had begun finishing
> work on the church.
> And that morning, Stark Benson had stolen his roommate’s
> pitiful savings and some of his clothes, snatched a loaf of bread
> and some fruit from the kitchen of the B&B and taken off for
> parts unknown. A failure. Another failure. As many times as
> Nancy Yee told herself the failure was not hers, she still racked
> her brains for something she could have done—something she
> could do for the next Stark Benson.
> 64                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She would still be pondering it that evening while she was
> being interviewed on national TV. And she would probably still
> be pondering it the following week when, a bit short of the
> Fourth of July, Sunny and Pepper aired their documentary.
> When maybe all hell would break loose.
> 
> What broke loose was more like purgatory... No, Stu
> decided, that wasn’t quite right. It was just life to the power of
> ten. There were flashes of hell, bursts of heaven, and a very
> earthly sense of waiting in between.
> The media was a pain and a pleasure. It was suddenly and
> constantly under foot, in the way, and generally obnoxious, but
> the influx of media resulted in the influx of something else that
> Stu was sure Serendipity Springs had never expected to see--
> tourists. And with the tourists came money.
> MacDonald’s Mercantile, set up for the limited needs of the
> Down & Outers, found its supplies decimated in a weekend. But
> —wonder of wonders—there was money to buy more goods. Bea
> MacDonald’s staff started canvassing local farms for assistance
> and came up with enough response to open a produce section.
> Two farm owners even lent their skills to help the Down &
> Outers growing group of would-be farmers with their garden
> plots.
> Phil’s Petroco station, with its fortuitous location, was doing
> land office business and so was his auto shop. Antique car buffs
> wandered in from far and wide, bringing their special-license
> machinery with them. The beat up red barn behind Phil’s Klassic
> Korner became a clubhouse for Jim Garvey’s Antique Auto Club
> —the “Great Gatsbys”—as they liked to be known.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                   65
> 
> “This place is a damn zoo!” muttered Mike Hanrahan
> murderously, glaring out the window of the Mercantile. “And
> we’re the damn specimens!”
> “Nonsense, Michael,” Bea MacDonald had retorted. “We are
> not a zoo. In a zoo, the specimens don’t get to keep the
> proceeds.”
> It was that, along with the genuine caring exhibited by most
> of their visitors that kept the residents of Serendipity from
> feeling like they were living in a literal zoo. It was the hell side of
> the equation that kept them from feeling like they were living in
> a literal heaven.
> Some of the TJ’s were from the Tabloids. They weren’t so
> much interested in the progress made by a group of rehabbed
> street people. They wanted dirt. They wanted to hear about the
> runaways, asked if the “shady ladies” at the Lullabye were still
> practicing their trade, imagined secret murders and drug caches.
> Several of them disrupted an AA meeting and had to be
> removed. Nancy simply called the state police. It was an irony,
> and the police were reluctant to respond at first, but they did
> come and they did get the Tabloid TJs off the premises.
> No hell is complete without it’s arch-demon, and in this
> somewhat homespun version of Dante’s Inferno, it was Santa
> Theresa’s mayor, John Eastwick, who assumed the role of Old
> Nick.
> When he had contemplated the possible results of the “Bag
> Lady Bill,” the appearance next door of a thrift-store township
> was not one of them. Outraged and embarrassed, he called on
> the police and had Nancy Yee and several other members of
> Serendipity’s guiding Committee arrested. Since he had no
> grounds to hold them, he was forced to order their release
> almost immediately. All he got for his pains was bad press and a
> headache to match.
> 66                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He appealed to the county supervisor and sheriff, but they
> were both unsure of their jurisdiction. Serendipity Springs had
> been an incorporated township and that status had never been
> changed on the books.
> Frustrated, Eastwick telephoned the Governor and was
> informed that Serendipity was rather far down on a long “to do”
> list. The mayor swallowed his impatience, and ordered his staff
> to find any landowners who might have soil underlying the
> upstart town. They found two—both irritatingly sympathetic to
> Serendipity’s populace. One said that for a dollar a month, he’d
> rent the place. The other made a family dinner once a week at
> the D&O/B&B the fee.
> More frustrated, Eastwick contemplated ways in which he
> could use the press against Serendipity. His one and only
> attempt ended in a sharp focus on his own role in the town’s
> rebirth. He quickly realized that any meddling on that front
> would spread his own name across every tabloid teaser on every
> rack in every supermarket and convenience store in the country.
> John Eastwick could do nothing but dodge reporters and
> wait for the Governor’s office to act.
> 
> �����
> 
> “So, we’re still an incorporated township,” Stu repeated
> thoughtfully.
> “I hate to sound dumb,” said Annie Lee, “but what does that
> mean, exactly?”
> “It means that we can elect a city government. Should elect
> one.”
> “Stuart’s right,” agreed Nancy decisively, pencil bouncing
> on her steno pad. “A city government could solidify
> Serendipity’s legal status, which right now is just a paper fact.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                  67
> 
> According to expert opinion, it would give us a clear legal
> identity.”
> “What would we need?” asked someone from the packed
> audience in the half-finished church. “What kind of
> government?”
> “Do we get to have elections?” asked someone else.
> “Sure. We’d elect a mayor, a town council...” Nancy looked
> to Stu.
> He shrugged. “A police chief might be a good idea.” He
> chuckled at the “boos” that elicited. “Come on, folks! Not all
> policemen are bad guys, you know.”
> “I think Mr. Williams is right,” said Phil Kroeger tentatively.
> “We need a police chief. I mean, after all, we got crime jus’ like
> anyplace else. Seems like it’s gettin’ better, but I still gets my
> tools took sometimes.”
> “We need a school board,” said a forty-ish woman with a
> shock of red hair. “We’ve got enough kids here to warrant
> starting a school. Right now, our kids are truant. Or at least they
> have been. The last thing we want is for the state to take our kids
> away from us.”
> There was a ripple of “amens” and sundry mumbles to that.
> Annie was nodding vigorously. “I agree with Sharon a
> hun’ert percent. And we could start a school, too. Right here in
> the church building.”
> “You used to teach, didn’t you, Sharon?” Nancy asked, her
> pencil suddenly active.
> “Yes, I did. Junior high school level. I had a drinking
> problem,” she added. “That’s what got me fired. I’ve handled
> that. But, if it bothers anybody...”
> “It don’t bother me,” was the general response.
> “Just means you understand the rest of us,” said one of the
> ex-prostitutes. “Maybe you can pass that along to the kids.”
> 68                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “So, we want a mayor, a town council, police chief or sheriff
> or something, school board, principal...” Nancy stopped
> scribbling and bounced her pencil a few times. “Most of these
> are elected positions...heck, we ought to just make them all
> elected.”
> “So let’s have elections,” said Annie. “We all know each
> other pretty well. Let’s go for it.”
> That night, Serendipity Springs elected itself a mayor, a
> town council, a police chief, and a school principal. The school
> board was gotten on a volunteer basis and made up almost
> exclusively of parents. There were no nominations, no time for
> campaigns, just names written anonymously on little pieces of
> paper and counted dutifully by Sharon Vandeman (Principle of
> Serendipity School) and Annie Lee Paice (a member of the
> school board).
> The first action of Mayor Stuart Williams and his Council
> was to set aside the still vacant building of indeterminate use as
> the town library. The four young out-of-work ladies from the
> Lucky Lullabye immediately volunteered to stock the proposed
> shelves with the used books that had been flooding Serendipity
> since its revival.
> The first action of Police Chief Michael F. Hanrahan was to
> consult with the town council about the fines and disciplines for
> various offenses. There was no holding tank, no jailhouse, just
> an office an old hat and a pair of handcuffs for the incumbent.
> Most of the discipline revolved around work crews. It was
> unanimously decided that repeat offenders of the worst offenses
> be punished by deportation from Serendipity’s safe haven. You
> could get deported for drug abuse or violence, but little else.
> The Down & Outers became their own police force—
> pushing and pulling at each other’s problems. Pleading,
> threatening, and hollering a lot as they struggled for order and
> self-esteem. A number of people got to see the inside of Mike’s
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                  69
> 
> office, whether they wanted to or not. Young most of them,
> angry most of them. Mike would give them the kind of talking to
> only Mike could give and find them something to do with their
> anger.
> The Library opened on the Fourth of July amid great
> celebration. Also being celebrated: The debut of the Main Street
> Malt Shoppe—a gleaming bit of chrome and vinyl nostalgia
> replete with jukebox and endless counter. The tourists, many of
> whom attended the fête in the styles of the 50’s and 60’s, loved it.
> And they loved the barbeque held all along Main Street and the
> fireworks display that capped the evening.
> Santa Theresa’s mayor, John Eastwick, did not love it. He
> loved even less that the Governor, as the guest of honor, was
> given the key to the “city” by Mayor Stuart Williams, and had
> more or less officially commended the re-founders of
> Serendipity Springs for their “courage, vision, and outstanding
> effort.”
> He loved less than that the opinion of the governor’s office
> that there was nothing illegal about Serendipity’s inhabitants.
> They had settled with the landowners who had interest in the
> town and they had incorporated status and a city government.
> Their inhabited buildings were up to code, and they had been
> most cooperative with the county regarding health and safety
> regulations. Their business licenses were in order—their
> attorney had seen to that. They had a licensed nurse living in the
> pink stucco Municipal Building, and a licensed counselor in their
> Rehab Center.
> So, Mayor Eastwick was forced to smile plastically into
> discam lenses and say, “I’m pleased at their success,” and “No
> comment,” through clenched teeth.
> That July was a hot month for Serendipity could be
> measured by more than just the giant thermometer outside
> Police Chief Michael Hanrahan’s office. After the Fourth of July
> 70                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> fête, the tourists came rolling in like the ground support forces in
> a benign war.
> The multi-Faith church was opened for worship; its one
> large stained-glass window, designed by a local artist, dedicated
> to Nancy Yee, “who’s impulsive vision made Serendipity
> possible.”
> “What should we call this place?” Annie Lee asked, staring
> at the window. Her eyes reflected the pantheon of color in the
> stained-glass replica of Earth displayed against sun and moon
> and star field. “I mean, it’s going to be a Synagogue and a
> Church and a Mosque and-” She shrugged. “Church just seems
> like too small a word for all that.”
> “And My house shall be called a House of Prayer,” quoted
> Loucette, softly. “Book of Isaiah.”
> And so it was. And it witnessed the prayers of Hindus, Jews,
> Buddhists, Christians, Moslems, Bahá’ís and Native Americans.
> It also witnessed two weddings: Sunny Durande married Pepper
> Delgado beneath the multi-hued glow of Nancy’s window; and
> Billy McGuire took his Lucy to the altar, and from there to a
> cottage across from “Fortune’s Fruit Farm.”
> In August, Stu and Annie Lee gave the House of Prayer its
> third wedding and opened the little drive-in caddy corner to
> Phil’s Klassics. Which institution provided Serendipity with
> enough converted antiques to clutter Main Street quite
> cheerfully. Each residence had its own vehicle parked out front,
> the keys assigned to a peg by each front door. Main Street was a
> portrait of “faded Americana.”
> The August issue of California Life carried that portrait in a
> full color spread. So did the August issue of Time. The
> D&O/B&B displayed both in a big marquee‚ on the front hall
> —“foyer,” insisted Lucy.
> “Hometown USA,” read the Time article. “If you didn’t grow
> up there, you’ll wish you had.”
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                71
> 
> The tourists seemed to agree. They kept all three of
> Serendipity’s eateries bustling, and crowded the new units of the
> Lucky Lullabye. The Down & Outers opened a gift shop and a
> clothing store, which carried only fashions of the 50’s, 60’s, and
> ’70’s. It was established that when one went to Serendipity, one
> dressed for it. It was a weekend’s fun: Put on your hand-medowns (or your Hometown designer fashions), get into your
> classic car and drive to Hometown USA for a pleasant, carefree
> stay in the Lucky Lullabye Motel. Dine on classic Malt Shoppe
> faire, drive-in delicacies (delivered by real carhops with
> ponytails and roller skates), or Creole cuisine. Go to sock hops
> and hayrides and barbeques.
> More homeless found their way to Serendipity. They became
> instant citizens, built homes and learned how to till the soil, pick
> fruit, raise windmills, adjust solar panels and greet visitors.
> They, too, wore second and third-hand clothes and didn’t seem
> to mind living in a place that looked as if time had abandoned it
> somewhere in the middle of a past century.
> Most new residents learned quickly how to stay out of Mike
> Hanrahan’s office. Those that didn’t saw a lot of Mike. A few
> saw their way out of town. One or two saw the inside of the
> county jail. They weren’t the rule, but the exception to it.
> People now came to Serendipity because they wanted to be
> there. It was a fresh start place on its way to becoming a legend.
> Billy McGuire built a new population sign in the woodshop
> behind his furniture store and emblazoned the title “Hometown
> USA” across the top in bold red-white-and-blue letters.
> “Serendipity Springs,” read the royal blue letters beneath.
> “Population: 450.”
> “Hometown, my aunt’s bunions,” groused Mike Hanrahan.
> “It’s nostalgia, you old coot,” said Bea MacDonald, and
> dumped a bagful of fresh-picked pippins into an apple barrel.
> 72                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “It’s nostalgia’s worst nightmare,” corrected Mike.
> “Claptrap, rundown, hand-me-down town. Don’t they
> remember what we’ve been. Derelicts!”
> “It is not run down!” objected Sammie Paice-Williams,
> around a mouthful of green apple. “It’s neat! All the tourist kids
> wish they could live here.”
> “Hmph!” Mike eyed the boy skeptically. “An’ I suppose yer
> gonna tell me you’d rather be here than some nice neighborhood
> with a baseball diamond an’ a shoppin’ mall an’ a McDonald’s
> an’ all, eh?”
> “Sure! Anyway, we’re gonna have a baseball diamond next
> spring and, well...we already got a MacDonald’s.” Sammie cast a
> squinty glance at Bea, who chortled.
> “And who promised you a baseball diamond, may I ask?”
> asked Mike.
> “Dad did. And Mr. Walker even said we could have lights.”
> “Hmph! Typical politician. Promise you the moon!”
> Sammie bristled. “Dad’s not a politician. He’s the mayor.”
> “Speaking of your Dad,” said Bea, “isn’t that him outside
> shouting for you?”
> Sammie’s head swiveled so he could see out the front
> window of the Mercantile. “Wow!” he yelled. “He’s got a
> bicycle!” He was gone like a shot.
> “Noisome brat,” groused Mike, blinking.
> “Stodgy coot,” said Bea. “You love it here. You can’t tell me
> you’d rather be someplace else.”
> Mike’s exaggerated gray eyebrows scooted up his forehead.
> “I could tell you that, old woman, but it’d do no good at all.
> Listenin’ to drunks howlin’ an goin’ through hell in the night.
> Watchin’ poor old gits like Gunnar dyin’ of Aids or poor young
> gits like Alice dyin’ of crack.”
> Bea glared at him, exasperated. “At least there’s someone
> here that cares about those ’poor gits,’ Michael Hanrahan. You
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                               73
> 
> care, too, but you won’t admit it. Won’t admit you care and
> won’t admit how happy you are here.”
> “Happy? Pfft! What I will admit is that on a scale from
> scroungin’ in dumpsters to livin’ at the Ritz, Serendip falls
> somewhere in the middle.”
> “Coot,” Bea repeated, and left him sitting among the
> vegetables.
> 
> It was a good year for Hometown USA. Thanksgiving was
> celebrated with a Harvest Festival that included a special service
> in the House of Prayer followed by a banquet in the new school
> building, and a Pumpkin Patch Hop in the open field behind the
> Fortune orchard.
> December brought a week long Winter Fair in celebration of
> Christmas and the Solstice. There was no snow, but both of
> Serendipity’s streets were lit up with a riot of twinkling color.
> Even the windmills that powered the decorations were
> festooned with them. Four hot pretzel and apple cider stands
> kept natives, guests, and visitors warm outside, carolers and
> wandering street performers kept them warm inside.
> On the Loop, Serendipity’s floodlit signboard, flanked by a
> shimmering, thirty-foot Douglas fir, charted the growth of the
> native population: 500 on Christmas day.
> “We’re in the black,” Nancy Yee announced at the January
> Town Meeting. “The Harvest and Solstice Festivals actually gave
> us a jump on our budget for the first quarter. Folks, I can’t
> believe I’m saying this, but we have extra money.”
> The meeting hall erupted in cheers.
> “And since we have extra money,” Nancy continued when
> the cheer mellowed, “the Town Council unanimously decided
> that everyone should have a vote in what we do with it. But,
> 74                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> before we start collecting ideas, Stu has an announcement to
> make.”
> Nancy yielded the stage to Mayor Williams, who smiled at
> the hall full of citizens before speaking. He smoothed the
> much-folded piece of paper and cleared his throat. “This came
> this morning, and I’ve got to say, it’s been hell waiting for the
> chance to tell you about it. Ladies and gentlemen, a group of
> about thirty homeless people have taken up residence in an
> abandoned mining town east of Barstow.”
> A wave of electricity swept the room, bringing in its wake a
> slew of questions. There were no further suggestions as to where
> Serendipity’s extra money might be spent. Serendipity sent
> seventy-five percent of its “extra” money and a team of
> volunteers to Sage, California. Hometown II was born.
> By April, Sage had amassed a population of over 200 and
> strong support from its neighboring communities. By May, Sage
> was not alone. A ghost town in Kansas, an abandoned riverfront
> community in Ohio, an old resort town in Missouri, a played-out
> gold camp in Northern California—all across the United States,
> the sleeping awoke and the dead resurrected.
> The homeless began to flee the cities, flocking instead to the
> Serendipitys and Sages and Middleforks and Ahanus. And the
> media followed; and where the media went, so too went the
> tourists.
> 
> �����
> 
> “It says here this new Hometown in Arkansas’ doing kind of
> a hillbilly thing,” said Bea MacDonald, perusing the Serendipity
> Sunday Herald. “That’d be something to see.”
> “Hmph! Oughta send the ol’ Cowboy doon there,” groused
> Mike Hanrahan, fanning himself with his Police Chief hat. He
> groused as often as ever, but with much less acid these days.
> Hand-Me-Down Town                                                      75
> 
> Sometimes, as now, the grousing was even accompanied by a
> smile.
> Bea ignored him. “Well, I like our Hometown just fine. It
> reminds me a little of where I grew up. I remember my family
> had a red and white Mercury wagon—just like that one.” She
> nodded at the automobile in question, parked at the curb just
> below their shared seat on one of the benches that lined the
> Mercantile’s wide, shaded porch.
> “Just like home, eh?”
> “No, Michael. Not ’just like it.’ This is home. It’s got all the
> things home’s supposed to have. Old folks, kids, dogs, cats, cat
> fights...a ballpark, a graveyard.” She nodded, acknowledging the
> rightness of that and thought of old Gunnar. “A graveyard with
> fresh graves,” she added. “And a place to pray for the dead—
> and the living. Old drunks and old houses, old cars...and old
> coots.” She glanced sideways at Mike.
> “Gullible old biddy,” he snorted enthusiastically. “Gettin’ all
> misty-eyed over some ol’ hunk o’tin. Serendipity always was an’
> always will be a hand-me-down town.”
> “Coot,” said Bea disparagingly.
> They were both silent for a moment, eyes going back to the
> street. On the curbing below, a couple of antique car buffs
> argued the relative merits of Mercuries and Fords while a gaggle
> of teenagers in worn denim and sneakers drank cola and
> watched and giggled. Across the street, three little girls
> roller-skated up and down the sidewalk, scooting and weaving
> through roving groups of people who laughingly accepted them
> as part of the scenery.
> Up the block, against a backdrop of greenery, a dozen or so
> gyrating splashes of color dotted the ballpark between the
> House of Prayer and the new Rehab Center. An upbeat selection
> from the Malt Shoppe jukebox accompanied the wild ballet,
> 76                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> punctuated by the squeals and shouts of the dancers, and
> underscored by the buzzing of summer lawn mowers.
> Mike took a deep breath of the too-warm July air and
> stretched and slouched, making the old bench creak in protest.
> “Biddy,” he said, with no acid at all.
> The Devil His Due                                                77
> 
> The Devil His Due
> 
> A story of magical realism
> The Devil His Due was originally published in Amazing
> Stories in 1992. It was inspired by the Bahá’í concept that
> knowledge must be accompanied by volition and action. An idea
> expressed in the Gospels and the writings of Bahá’u’lláh alike is
> that while Evil cannot produce good effects, Good must produce
> them.
> 
> It is incumbent upon every man of insight and
> understanding to strive to translate that which hath
> been written into reality and action...
> Gleanings from the
> Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,
> p. 250
> 
> �����
> 
> Herbert G. (Bert) Wells stared at the dog-eared manila
> envelope numbly. This was the fifth time—the fifth time—OF
> BLOOD DARK SKIES had ricocheted off New York City like a
> badly aimed bullet and ended up buried deep in his mailbox.
> Gut shot, he shambled down the hallway of his Boston
> brownstone apartment building, his face wearing the same blank
> look of despair and puzzlement he’d seen on the homeless
> wrecks he usually stepped over on the way upstairs.
> Down the battered corridor a door opened. Bert froze. Jack
> Baddely (aka, The Jackass) stepped out into the hall, then swung
> 78                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> back to lock his door. Bert thrust the misshapen package under
> the lapel of his coat and tacked a garish grin to his face.
> “Hi, Jack,” he said, his voice as bright as the paisleys on his
> tie.
> “Oh, hi, Bertie. How’s the writing life? Any news on your
> block buster no-vel?” He always said “novel” as if it was some
> bastardized French word. (It was actually bastardized Italian).
> Bert flattered himself that his smile did not slip an inch. “No
> news is good news,” he said, hurrying past.
> “Yeah. Or it could mean the editor ran out of kindling.”
> His back to The Jackass, Bert’s face went into a litany of rude
> expressions.
> “Or maybe he needed a door stop.”
> Bert kept walking.
> “A paper weight?”
> Bert made his apartment door and opened it, trying,
> unsuccessfully, to ignore the raspy chuckle digging, stiletto
> sharp, into his unguarded back.
> “Jackass,” he muttered and hurled the door open. He
> slammed it shut again behind him and threw the manuscript
> onto the sofa.
> The frayed, stressed manila split at the seams, spilling its
> contents from the sofa cushions onto the bare wood floor. Snide
> chuckles sprayed from the ruptured package and scurried to
> find hiding places in the room. They would emerge later to scoff
> at him. He’d hear them as he labored at his second-hand laptop
> —sneaking out from nook and cranny, scuffling among the
> dust-bunnies, tittering at the man who would be King.
> He ignored the litter on the sofa long enough to brew an
> industrial strength pot of coffee, climb into his sweats and sit
> down, cup in hand, to assess the mess. After three sips, he was
> able to pick up the rejection letter and read it. It was a form job,
> The Devil His Due                                                79
> 
> but the editor had scrawled a hand-written message beneath the
> neatly printed kiss-off.
> “Nice, tight style,” it said, “but has no one told you that
> horror with a social conscience is a dead art form? Not even The
> King could sell this stuff in this day and age. Can the metaphysical crap. Give the market what it wants—try cyber-shock.”
> A dead art form, indeed. It matched, Bert thought, the social
> conscience of the age. Deader than a doornail—whatever the
> heck a doornail was. Cyber-shock! An AI droid could write
> cyber-shock: Tales of senseless carnage perpetrated by mindless
> machines or crazed cyber-men. Luddite rubbish! The publishing
> industry was clearly in the hands of idiots.
> Great, he thought. Right, he thought. Distract us with tales of
> impossible evils so we’ll forget about the possible ones—the real
> ones. Exorcising imaginary demons was always so much more
> gratifying than facing the real ones: Greed, corruption, injustice,
> excess. He could go on and on.
> He checked his watch. Five-fifteen. Writer’s Group wasn’t
> for another two and a half hours—a long time to wait to get this
> off his chest.
> He sighed, supposing he could just go hang out at the coffee
> house and hope another of the undiscovered literati would
> wander by in need of a kvetch-mate. But if he did that, he’d have
> to drink more coffee and between the cup he’d just had and the
> two pots he’d consumed at work today, he was already in a
> caffeinated time warp. The High-flight Zone, the Group called it.
> He’d only seen one or two of his literary buddies when they
> weren’t cranking along on a full charge of caffeine-induced
> adrenaline—it wasn’t a pretty sight.
> For about the two billionth time Bert considered “giving the
> market what it wanted.” He knew he could do it...well, at least,
> he was pretty sure he could. After all, he had it on good
> authority that he possessed a “nice, tight style.” He had every
> 80                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> confidence—well, at least a sneaking suspicion, that if he sent
> that bourgeoisie establishment pig-dog editor a cyber-shock
> novel, he’d woof it down like steak tartar—killer ’bots and all.
> Luddite.
> The anger peaked, sending him on a slow glide toward the
> abyss of despair. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t write that
> crap. All that gore and sexual carnage—he just didn’t have it in
> him.
> Sure you do, said a scoffing voice from left of center. All
> human beings have it in ’em. You think you’re an exception? Are you
> sure you wanna be? Look at the prize—PUBLICATION. MONEY.
> AUTONOMY. CELEBRITY. You got the tools, bwana. You can
> exploit the unreasonable fears of your fellow men and women right up
> there with the best of ’em.
> Exploit? His brain braked in mid-meander. My God, he
> thought. What are you thinking? Exploit? Sell out? Pander to those
> antiquarian anarchists? This was a New Age. The publishing
> industry just hadn’t caught up yet. If he just hung in there, stuck
> it out-
> Bull hockey.
> He put down the cup of coffee. Need to get out, he told
> himself. Need to get out and take a walk; clear the chuckling dustbunnies out of my head.
> He pulled on his coat, boots and a muffler, grabbed his
> portfolio and went out. Four aimless blocks later, he found
> himself wandering the River Charles. It was a much cleaner river
> than it had been last year at this same time and Bert tried to
> make that cause for celebration. A group of musicians had
> started that campaign, he recalled—a brigade of world-class
> rockers who had descended on New England like a plague of
> leather-clad locusts and bent the ears of every living thing in the
> Thirteen Colonies.
> The Devil His Due                                                       81
> 
> Rock musicians were not inclined to beat around the bush;
> the message was blunt and to the point: Man was out of tune
> with the environment. If he didn’t get in tune instantly, the
> consequences would be devastating: Global warming, a new ice
> age, pollution toxemia—all frightening, but mere bagatelles
> compared to the real threat rammed home via synthesizer and
> power chord by the heroes of a new generation.
> TEEN REVOLT.
> The rock slogan “Tune It Or Die” took on a whole new
> meaning when emblazoned across the chest of your fifteen-yearold’s green globe-and-crossbones T-shirt.
> Bert stared at the water. A month ago that had been one of
> his fondest recollections—a story he loved to tell whenever some
> formaldehyde guzzling nerdle elevated his snoot and opined
> that the arts were sheer frivol. Now, it only made him feel worse
> about his own inability to make any difference to the planet. In
> the two years since he’d left university, all he’d managed to
> contribute to society was a mountain of waste paper and enough
> shredded manila to fill the Prud up to the thirty-first floor.
> Face it, he told himself, you’re a wimp. A noodle. A wet rag.
> Couldn’t write your way out of a recycled paper bag...in the driving
> rain, even. If you could write—really write—they’d publish OF
> BLOOD DARK SKIES if it was a multi-generational pot boiler. You,
> Herbert George Wells, are no credit to your namesake. You, sir, are a
> fake—a failure.
> He stared down at the swiftly moving Charles, chin
> quivering, eyes moist, anger shriveling. Despair and gloom
> perched on his sagging shoulders like the Twin Ravens of Doom
> —foul-smelling, heavy-toed birds with smug, knowing faces.
> They reminded him of two of his college professors, Bernhardt
> Brecht and Madlyn Carrey, who had both told him his
> propensity for crusading would ruin him as a writer of fiction, if
> (and it was a BIG IF) he could ever contrive to WRITE WELL.
> 82                                                    I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The not-so-muddy river beckoned, singing the bawdy
> refrain of a song he was half a generation too young to
> remember. “Love that dirty water...”
> Come on in, the water’s fine.
> He sniffled, tucked his portfolio under one arm and swung a
> leg over the low stone parapet. Then he swung the other one
> over. He sat for a moment, facing the water, making his peace
> with the Universe.
> Sorry, God, he apologized. I’m a wimp. But then, You already
> know that.
> He contemplated the next morning’s headlines:
> UNKNOWN SCHLOCK HORROR WRITER TAKES OWN LIFE.
> What headline, beef brain? asked a disparaging voice from
> right of center. You’ll be lucky to make the obits. Give us a break,
> here. Nobody knows who you are but those self-centered quease-in-arts
> you hang out with at the Espress-O. And they’ll think you’re some
> kind of idiot saint. Saint Herbert, Patron of Pansy-asses. Your mother
> didn’t raise you right.
> Herbert became highly offended at the disrespectful tenor of
> his thoughts. Leave my mother out of this!
> He paused in mid-rage. Mother. Someone would have to tell
> his mother that her only son had kissed his ass goodbye and
> taken a header into the River Charles. She might even have to
> identify his body. What would she think? What would she do?
> He knew exactly what she’d think. She’d think she was a BAD
> MOTHER—a failure. She’d get depressed, maybe even...
> That, Bert decided, would never do. He swung one leg back
> over the wall onto tarmac firma.
> Dufus, said the left-hand voice. Can’t even do suicide right. I’m
> sure your mom loves having a zombie for a son. What does your boy
> do, Dr. Wells, Ph.D. in astrophysics, hmmm? Oh, my little Herbie, he
> recycles paper...lots of paper. Great, kid. Really great.
> The Devil His Due                                                    83
> 
> Bert wobbled, straddling the wall. A peculiar whooshclickety-clickety sound filled his brain and he thought for a
> moment he was headed for a psychotic Walter Mitty episode. He
> raised terrified eyes and met the curious ones of a kid speeding
> toward him on a powered skateboard. The kid and the whooshclickety-clickety both stopped right beside him.
> “Geez, mon,” the kid said, looking sincerely concerned,
> “You look like your Mom just died. What could be that bad?”
> Bert blinked. “I can’t write,” he said, shocked into total
> honesty. “I’m a failure because I can’t write cyber-shock.”
> The kid looked at him; he looked at the kid. A little globe
> and crossbones dangled from one earlobe and the letters “IT
> OR” were clearly visible on the patch of green T-shirt that
> peeked between the lapels of his black leathyl jacket.
> “You know,” the kid said finally, “there’s an exceptionally
> good literacy program at the library.”
> Bert coughed. “Thanks.”
> The kid smiled. “Sure.” He whoosh-clickety’d off, leaving Bert
> miserably alone.
> The right-side voice was back, popping in like a fritzy
> channel on a bunged stereo. Some people, it said, can’t even read.
> Bert swung the other leg over into the walkway. Yeah, he
> thought, and even I can do that. Maybe I could even teach other people
> to do that.
> “Yeah? And where’ll it get ya?”
> Bert was trying to think of a comeback when he realized the
> voice had not come from inside his head. He looked up.
> Standing before him on the river walk was a short man in a
> fur-collared stressed leather coat, matching Gucci shoes, gloves
> and burgundy sharkskin pants. His hair was fashionably cut—a
> straight, glossy, lobe-length pageboy, black, obviously natural,
> center parted. He was handsome in an oily sort of way, and was
> smoking a red, spice-scented cigarette.
> 84                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Bert found his eyes hypnotized by the glowing tip.
> Cigarettes were highly illegal. He only knew one person who
> smoked them—a beefy, middle-aged fictioneer who had been a
> correspondent during the last known war (years ago in
> Swaziland or someplace) and who thought he was the
> reincarnation of Ernest Hemingway.
> “Want one?” asked the Smoker and held out a little ebony
> box. The cigarettes lay inside on black velvet.
> “No. No, thanks.”
> The box disappeared.
> “I asked a question, Jack,” the guy said. “What’ll it get ya,
> this literacy bunk?”
> “I...I...I want to do something. Help somebody. Make a
> difference.”
> The Smoker laughed. It was an acrid sound. “And teachin’ a
> bunch of snot-nosed ghetto geckoes how to read is gonna make a
> difference? Great. Yeah. They’ll be able to read those little signs
> that say ’shoplifting will be prosecuted.’ That way they’ll know
> what they’re bein’ busted for. Get real, bwana. These guys are
> gonna be doin’ their reading in a cage.”
> Bert stood. “Well, I’m going to do something with my life,
> dammit. I don’t care if I have to write copy for the Salvation
> Army.”
> A gloved hand shot out and patted his arm, pushing him
> back onto the parapet. “Cool your thrusters, Jack. I’m not saying
> you can’t do nothin’. I’m sayin’ I think you can do better.”
> “Do better? Look, who the hell are you, anyway, and where
> do you get off interrupting my private thoughts?” He glared
> fiercely at the little man, then felt the glare slip. Those really had
> been his private thoughts. His silent, private thoughts.
> The Smoker rocked back on his well-heeled heels and
> grinned. “I wondered when you’d tumble to that. You’re not a
> very quick study, Jack.”
> The Devil His Due                                                  85
> 
> “My name isn’t Jack, it’s-”
> “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s Herbert. Herbert G. Wells, named
> after the famous sci-fi writer. Your Mom is a big fan.”
> “Well, then why-”
> He spread his hands. “It’s just an expression.”
> “How do you know who I am? How do you know so much
> about me? Are you-?” Hope leapt in his breast. “Are you from
> the FBI—the CIA? Is that it? Is my writing too incendiary? Too
> dangerous?”
> The man guffawed. “Dangerous? Criminy, kid! If you had
> talent, you’d be dangerous! As it is, you got nothin’ but good
> intentions and a lot of gall. Dangerous, Saint Chris’s keester!
> That’s a yuck, bwana-san. A real yodel. Dangerous!” He
> chuckled, wiped tears from the corner of his eyes and wheezed
> down to silence.
> Bert glared at him. “Get to the point. I have a meeting to go
> to.”
> “Oh, yeah, right. The Literary Group. Yodel number two.”
> “The point?”
> “The point is—I’m here to help you.”
> “You’re here to help me.”
> “I thought I just said that. Is there an-”
> “Oh, please.”
> “Okay, okay. Look. You wanna save the world, right?”
> “Not the whole world. Only a little of it. Just a tiny piece will
> do. I...I just want to write well—really well. Convincingly.
> Startlingly. I want to horrify and edify. Make people see that real
> horror is in the way they waste time and life and money and
> resources and-”
> The Smoker raised his hands to stem the rush of words.
> “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Writing well? That’s your answer to the
> world’s problems: World hunger, political corruption, spiritual
> 86                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> decay? Kid, you got a lot to learn. Writing is nothing. Money,
> now, that’s something.”
> “Money?”
> “Money, celebrity, status—that’s how you change the world.
> Just think of it: You got money—you can give it away. You got
> celebrity—you can be visible. You got status—you can throw it
> around.”
> “Yeah?”
> “Yeah. Believe me, as a good writer—even a great writer—
> you’re nowhere. You got zip. You appeal to the so-called
> intelligentsia and what have you got? A bunch of smug,
> self-righteous ’admirers,’ that’s what you got. Know what that
> is? Zip. They read your books, then sit around on their Bistros
> agreein’ with your insights and sayin’ how brill you are and how
> brill they are for recognizing how brill you are. That’s crap. But
> if you got money, celebrity, status—we-ell, then you put on one
> of those crummy T-shirts you’re so stiff over and people will
> notice. You hear what I’m sayin’, Jack? You got to be visible
> before anything you do or say means a damn.”
> “Yeah, so what? I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell of
> that happening.”
> The Smoker scratched his nose. “Funny you should say that,
> kid, ’cause, in point of fact, you got a chance.”
> “I do?”
> “You do.”
> Bert nodded. “Sure. Right. And you’re going to give it to
> me.”
> “I am.”
> “How?”
> The Smoker took a long drag on his illegal cigarette (which
> seemed not to have gotten any shorter during their
> conversation) and smiled. “The mechanics are my problem. All
> The Devil His Due                                                87
> 
> you gotta do is wait. You know what they say: All things come
> to those who wait.”
> “They do, huh?”
> The Smoker scratched his ear. “Yeah. You know, the famous
> They. Wha’d’ya say, kid?”
> “What do you mean—what do I say?”
> “To the deal.”
> “The deal?”
> The little guy sighed. “Holy Christmas, kid. You are truly
> dense. Look. You go home, see. Hang out. Do your own thing—
> whatever the jargon is these days—and I do the rest.”
> Bert pursed his entire face. “Fame? Fortune? Status?”
> “The works.”
> He felt a tiny hope springing eternal in his breast. “You
> mean, I can go home and keep writing what I’ve been writing
> and it’ll sell? I’ll become famous and-”
> The gloved hands were up again. “Hold your fire, bwana.
> Gimme a little help here. You do that and the deal is off. No way
> even I can do that big a miracle.”
> Bert scowled, then shook his head. “Wait a minute. What am
> I thinking? This is crazy. Nobody can do that kind of a miracle
> except God and up to now He hasn’t seen fit.”
> His companion smiled and nodded, puffing vigorously on
> his smoke. “And so it devolves upon yours truly.”
> “Oh? And who are you—the Archangel Gabriel?”
> The smile deepened. “Not exactly.”
> “Oh, oh, wait! I see. You’re the Devil, right, and you’re
> offering me all this in return for my immortal soul, right?”
> “Your immortal soul is already spoken for, Jack. Besides, I
> wouldn’t know what to do with it if you gave it to me.”
> Bert gaped. “You expect me to believe you’re really the
> Devil?”
> The man spread his arms. “In the flesh.”
> 88                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Oh, come on!”
> “Hey! Who knew what you were thinkin’, here, huh? Who
> knew all about you?”
> “You could’ve seen me around. Or—or someone might have
> put you up to this. Like my jackass neighbor. That’s it, isn’t it--
> Jack the Ass sent you! You followed me here-”
> “And just happened to overhear all your innermost
> thoughts?”
> Bert was silent.
> “You have a birthmark next to your navel. You love Peking
> Duck, hate pizza, and think Hemingway was overrated. You
> haven’t had a steady girlfriend since your junior year in college.
> You’re a virgin. You wanna hear more?”
> “I-”
> “Oh, yeah—your most embarrassing moment was during
> high school when your English teacher found this poem-”
> “Stop! Stop! Okay. I believe you’re...something... So, where
> do I sign?”
> “You don’t sign. Remember, I’m Satan-the-Devil.” He said it
> fast, like one of those televangelists, as if it was all one word. “I’ll
> know if you’ve been living up to your part of the bargain. All
> that contracts-in-blood stuff was just bad press. A strong verbal
> and a shake are good enough for me.”
> “Okay. How do I know you’re living up to your part of the
> bargain?”
> “Easy. You’ll become rich and famous.”
> “Uh-huh.” Bert gave the little man a hard look. “Oh, what
> the Hell—you’ll pardon the expression. Okay, sure. I’ll bite.” He
> held out his hand for the guy to take and was embarrassed to
> realize he expected it to be hot. It wasn’t, of course.
> The guy chuckled. “Everybody expects me to burn ’em.
> More bad press. You could give me a little help in that
> department, if you’re so inclined.”
> The Devil His Due                                                89
> 
> “Oh...sure.”
> “Well, nice doin’ business with ya, bwana.” He gave a
> mocking salute and turned to go.
> “Hey, wait a minute. Can I ask you something?”
> “Sure.”
> “Why do you have a Brooklyn accent?”
> “Damned research department. I asked for Brookline.” He
> shook his head and moved off into the dark. “Putzes.”
> Herbert skipped Writer’s Group that night. He went home
> and read part of a cyber-shock novel. Then he started to write
> one. He skipped the Group for the next two months, too, busy
> working on the novel.
> He finished the book and sent it off to an agent he knew was
> hot into the genre, then missed the next month with the Writer’s
> Group because he was a little ashamed of what he was doing.
> At the end of the month, the agent sent Bert contracts. The
> novel gave him dry heaves, he said. It was great. Bert started
> writing short stories. He was too busy to go to any Writer’s
> meetings and felt it was better to write than to merely talk about
> writing.
> Within two weeks, the agent called and told Bert his novel,
> Night of Steel Death, was going up for auction between three
> major houses. Bert dropped by the Espress-O just long enough
> to tell his old cronies he had a bid war going for one of his books
> (he neglected to mention the title or genre), then took himself out
> for dinner.
> In the time before the auction, Bert finished four cyber-shock
> stories and mailed them off. The novel sold for a seven-figure
> advance. The stories went for $3,000 apiece. Bert quit his job and
> began his second cyber-shocker, throwing in a twisted version of
> the love story from Of Blood Dark Skies.
> 90                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He didn’t see the Writer’s Group again; by now he
> considered them a bunch of hopelessly self-involved losers. He
> was surprised to find he didn’t even miss them.
> He bought a house in Marblehead, started an investment
> portfolio and got a girlfriend and a dog. He gave a substantial
> amount to charity and wore his “Tune It Or Die” T-shirt
> proudly. He did the workshop circuit, TV talk shows, book
> tours, Horror fiction conventions. After a few tries, he gave up
> attempting to weave his philosophy of life into these endeavors
> and talked shock-shop to the delight of his ardent fans. After a
> while, the philosophy seemed pretty sophomoric. He was visible
> —that was what really mattered.
> His career was long and successful by almost any standards.
> Only his ex-writing buddies spoke of selling out. He didn’t
> know that, of course, he never saw them.
> He was ninety-five when it began to occur to him that his
> time might soon be running out. He began to expect to look up
> one day and see the Devil—in more traditional garb—beckoning
> him through the fiery gates. By his ninety-sixth birthday it had
> become an obsession. It colored his work, showing up as a
> fixation on the mortality of all flesh, but that seemed only to
> increase his popularity. He realized that, at this point in his
> career, he could say anything he wanted, but found, perversely,
> that he had very little to say.
> One crisp winter evening he took a nostalgic stroll by the
> crystal waters of the River Charles and waxed retrospective. He
> had gone through his collection of thick scrapbooks that
> evening, ensconced in the artfully lit recesses of his “trophy
> room.” It occurred to him then that, while his reviewers raved
> about his novels, using words like terse, horrific, paralyzing,
> disturbing, electrifying, not one had ever said his work was
> thought-provoking or illuminating or even passionate.
> The Devil His Due                                                   91
> 
> Still, he was earning millions every year, while the most
> successful member of his old Writer’s Group was pulling down
> a paltry 90k per annum as a college professor of creative writing
> and turning out thick, thoughtful science fiction tomes.
> He watched the lights from the shoreline promenade cavort
> among the ripples of the Charles and wondered what life would
> have been like if he’d kept writing books like Of Blood Dark Skies
> —books with heart and soul and relevance.
> “Hell,” said a voice behind him. “It would’ve been pure hell,
> kid.”
> He spun around as fast as his ninety-six year old body
> would allow and propped his butt against the parapet. “You.”
> It was the Devil, of course—taller, younger, more handsome
> than before and dressed in this year’s latest fashion, but
> undeniably the same. He was smoking one of the red cigarettes
> (it could have been the same one, for all Bert knew), but had
> dropped the Brooklyn accent.
> “So,” said Bert, nodding.
> “So,” said the Devil.
> “So, it’s pay-off time.”
> “Well, accounting time, anyway.”
> “So, this is where I hand over my immortal soul and go to
> Hell.”
> “Nope. I told you, kid, I wouldn’t know what to do with
> your soul if you gave it to me. And I’ll let you in on a secret--
> there is no Hell. He made it up to scare the sinners.”
> “You don’t want my soul?”
> “No.”
> “Really?”
> “Really.”
> “You’re not joking with me?”
> The Devil pointed up at his lean, good-looking face. “Does
> this look like the face of a joker?”
> 92                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “No.”
> “Then, trust me—I’m not joking.”
> “But we had a contract—an agreement.”
> “We did.”
> “Well, when do you collect?”
> “I already did, kid. I did what you expected; you did what I
> expected. Good business, all the way around.”
> Bert shook his head. “But I don’t understand. What the hell
> did I do? I didn’t do anything.”
> The Devil smiled. His teeth were perfect and even and very
> white. “Just what you said, kid. Nothing. You didn’t do a damn
> thing. You wrote uninspired novels that didn’t do anything but
> scare people. You never wrote anything even remotely
> important, never challenged yourself, never challenged anyone
> else. Except for a few handouts—most of which were eaten up
> by the overhead those charity organizations lug around—you
> never did a damn thing to better the world around you. Hell,
> you even turned into a recluse there for a while. That was great.
> You might as well have gone to Tibet.”
> “I did go to Tibet.”
> The Devil shrugged. “Well, see. Even I lost track of you. In
> short, bwana, you never set forth one original, inspiring,
> illumined, or impassioned thought. I couldn’t have asked for
> better than that. I’ll tell you, kid, I wish I had ten billion more
> just like you.” He clapped Bert on the shoulder and smiled into
> his ninety-six year old face. “Nice doing business with you, kid.”
> He turned then, and stepped briskly away down the
> promenade, his patent leather Guccis clicking contentedly
> against the gleaming lightstone of the walk.
> Several yards away, he turned back for a last glance at the
> stoop-shouldered old man perched, like a stranded albatross, on
> the parapet. He chuckled, appreciating the scene. “By the way,
> kid—have a nice forever.”
> Sons of the Fathers                                                93
> 
> Sons of the Fathers
> 
> A story of speculative fiction
> Sons of the Fathers was originally published in the 3rd issue of
> Century magazine in 1995. It is an exploration of the Bahá’í
> principle of the equality of women and men set in a religious
> fable. It is also a commentary on mankind’s tendency toward
> selective deafness.
> 
> The world of humanity has two wings—one is
> women and the other men. Not until both wings are
> equally developed can the bird fly.
> Selections from the
> Writings of `Abdu’l-Bahá,
> p. 302
> 
> �����
> 
> Gilad considered himself the most unfortunate man on the
> face of the earth. He left his tent with the look of doom on his
> face and made certain everyone saw it as he moped his way
> down the sandy swathe to the council tent. The Uncles would be
> there, and he could show them his long face and get some
> sympathy.
> It was cool and dark in the council tent. The Uncles were
> sitting in a circle on a pillowed carpet, drinking cold mint tea.
> They all looked up as he entered, then looked away again when
> they saw the expression on his face.
> 94                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He sat down next to Dovev, the youngest, accepting a cup of
> the tea. He took a sip and nodded. “It’s very good, Abran,” he
> complimented the Father of the Tribe. “Refreshing.”
> “Buried for two days beneath this very tent,” said Mahir.
> “Perfect for coolness and flavor.” Mahir was an expert on the
> preparation of tea.
> There was silence but for the gentle flapping of the tent
> around them. Gilad sighed.
> “We grieve with you, brother,” said Chanoch, the High
> Priest, “and will pray your misfortune not be repeated.”
> Avidor laid a consoling hand on his arm. “I know better
> than anyone how deep is your sorrow at this moment. Have I
> not been visited with the same tragedy seven times?”
> The others nodded and clicked and crooned. All but Dovev,
> who simply stared with thoughtful eyes into his teacup.
> Gilad took another painful swallow of tea and sighed again.
> “Assuredly, God despises me,” he said.
> “Nay, Brother,” Chanoch remonstrated. “He is only testing
> your faith. Pray that you not be found lacking in that.”
> These words did nothing to comfort Gilad. He felt tears
> pressing the back of his eyes. Ashamed, he put down his teacup
> and got wearily to his feet.
> Dovev reached up and touched the sleeve of his jalabba. “Is
> your wife well?” he asked softly.
> “My wife?” asked Gilad, numbly. “My wife is fine.”
> “And your child lives?”
> Gilad nodded, preparing to lose himself in profound misery.
> “Then, you are not so unfortunate.”
> Gilad shook his head again, wondering why Dovev was so
> insensitive. He sighed a third time. “A girl,” he said.
> The others clicked and crooned and shook their heads.
> “Another girl,” he said and went out into the bright sun,
> where he at least had an excuse for the watering of his eyes.
> Sons of the Fathers                                                  95
> 
> “Poor Camel Hump,” sighed Avidor. “I believe his heart is
> broken. Two girls in a row! God favored me with a son the
> second time.”
> “A testimony to your faith, Brother,” Chanoch informed
> him.
> Abran, the Elder, stirred himself. “Dovev, why did you
> torture the poor man so?”
> “I simply thought it might lift his spirit if he looked at the
> positive side of things.”
> “What positive side?” asked Mahir.
> “Why, that his lovely wife, Adiella, and their daughter are
> alive and well.”
> “If they had died,” Mahir told him, “he would have had one
> less daughter and could have taken a new wife that might bear
> him sons. Now, Adiella must give birth to yet another girl before
> poor Gilad may take a second wife.”
> Avidor chuckled. “There is something to be said for having
> more than one wife.” He had three, himself. “Ah, variety!” he
> breathed, raising his cup to Heaven.
> “Avidor brings to our attention an important matter, Brother
> Dovev,” said Abran. “Your wife, Jaffa, has failed these three
> years of your marriage, to give you any issue. You are entitled to
> select another wife.”
> Dovev looked extremely uncomfortable. “Yes, I know.”
> “When do you propose to do this?”
> “I hadn’t really thought about it,” said Dovev to his teacup.
> “Perhaps you should. The sooner you get another wife, the
> sooner you can produce a son.”
> “My daughter, Tirza, is of marriageable age,” offered Avidor
> eagerly. “And she often expresses admiration for you, Dovev.”
> Abran nodded. “Tirza would be a perfect choice, Dovev.”
> “Yes,” agreed Dovev. “She would make a lovely wife, if I
> were in need of one. But I’m not. I have a wife.”
> 96                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> These words did not please Father Abran. “You have a wife
> who has borne you no sons, Dovev. Your duty to the Tribe goes
> unfulfilled.”
> “Your duty to God,” interjected Chanoch.
> Dovev gazed at him. “But surely it is God’s will that Jaffa
> has borne no children. And if I am to have children, then, by His
> will, Jaffa will bear them.” And with that pronouncement, he
> rose and left the tent.
> Chanoch shook his head. “I never realized what a stubborn
> man Dovev is. His soft-spokeness blinds one to the fault.”
> Avidor shrugged. “He will come to see the light of reason.
> When another season passes and Jaffa continues to be worthless,
> he will see that he must choose another wife.” He sniffed. “I
> cannot imagine why he persists in his loyalty to this barren
> creature. She is not particularly desirable—passingly pretty,
> maybe. Certainly not the beauty my Tirza is.”
> “It is not so much loyalty to Jaffa,” explained Mahir, “but
> loyalty to her family. Their fathers were like blood kin. Jaffa’s
> father, Omra, saved Dovev’s family during the Great
> Windstorm. You remember, don’t you Avidor?”
> He nodded. “Indeed. That was the year we moved to the
> Oasis of the Sweet Spring. Twenty years ago, now. You are
> correct. Dovev surely feels a debt of gratitude to the family of
> Omra. He could not, in good conscience, turn Jaffa out.”
> “He doesn’t have to turn her out,” reminded Chanoch. “He
> can keep her. So it is written in the Tablet of Sala. She may be
> barren, but if she pleases him in other ways...” He shrugged
> eloquently. “Young men are, after all, closer to the Earth than to
> Heaven.”
> “You must speak to him, Chanoch,” said Abran, scowling.
> “You must teach him the Law and make him see his duty.” He
> tugged at his beard, the scowl deepening. “Gilad’s tragedy has
> disturbed me deeply, Brothers. Twenty women have given birth
> Sons of the Fathers                                                 97
> 
> so far this spring. Of those, fourteen have given birth to girls,
> and of those, seven have borne girls for the second time.”
> Chanoch clucked sadly. “That a man should be forced to
> endure the indignity of fathering a girl-child twice! Surely it is a
> great test of faith.” Chanoch knew all about tests of faith. His
> own first wife, after giving him one boy, had borne two stillborn
> sons and a daughter before he could marry again.
> “Test of faith or no, it is demoralizing the Tribe and causing
> strife in the families,” said Abran. His white, bird-wing brows
> settled over the bridge of his nose. “Amira has brought
> complaints from among the women of husbands who will no
> longer speak to them or who are threatening to disown them.”
> Mahir snorted. “I suppose she thinks these threats are
> unwarranted?”
> “My wife offered no commentary. Though she did mention
> that several of the younger women are chafing under such
> threats. One referred to them as ‘camel dung.’”
> Mahir snorted again. “Sabra’s the only one who would dare
> to speak so! She should be packed off into the desert! Little
> would she understand a man’s feelings!”
> “The implication was that we didn’t understand a woman’s
> feelings.”
> Mahir shrugged. “What’s to understand? Does a man bother
> himself to understand the feelings of his dog or his camel? He
> feeds them and cares for their needs. What is to understand?”
> All the Uncles clicked and crooned at this wisdom.
> 
> �����
> 
> “Camel dung,” said Sabra. “That is what our men use for
> brains. And as to their hearts—I doubt they have any.”
> 98                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Amira sent her a disapproving glance and returned Adiella’s
> infant daughter to her arms, cleaned and wrapped in soft
> swaddling.
> Adiella sniffled and clutched her baby protectively. “Oh, I
> can understand how they must feel, Amira. How poor Gilad
> must feel. Two daughters in as many years! He must feel
> accursed!”
> “Do you feel accursed?” asked Sabra. “Look into that baby’s
> eyes and tell me you feel accursed. Better yet, tell her.”
> “Oh, I can’t!” sighed Adiella, looking into her daughter’s
> tiny red face. “You know I can’t. I probably should.”
> “According to the men,” retorted Sabra scornfully.
> “According to Emuna, too,” reminded Amira.
> “Emuna is a fly on a heap of camel dung!” opined Sabra.
> “She’ll believe anything they tell her. If Chanoch said, ’Emuna,
> you are a she-camel’, Emuna would tie on bells and a muzzle
> and offer to carry his pack-saddle.”
> Adiella blushed prettily and tried not to giggle at the
> thought of the High Priest’s wife so attired.
> “Well,” said Amira wearily, “if the next three births are
> boys, perhaps they will calm down a bit.”
> “And if they are not boys?” asked Sabra. Her brows bobbed
> exaggeratedly.
> Amira frowned in contemplation, following the movement
> absently. Even in the dim interior of Adiella’s tent Sabra’s
> eyebrows were ridiculously red. Her burnoose had slipped (it had
> always slipped) and bright strands of copper hair were escaping
> it. Amira was saved from having to answer Sabra’s question by
> the return of Dovev’s wife, Jaffa.
> Sabra pounced on her the moment she entered the tent.
> “Well, did you talk to the Uncles?”
> Jaffa shook her head, her huge, dark, soulful eyes looking
> bottomless in the half-light. “They were busy.”
> Sons of the Fathers                                               99
> 
> “Busy?” snorted Sabra. “What were they doing?”
> “Praying.”
> “Praying?”
> “They were praying for sons,” said Jaffa quietly. “And for an
> end to the Curse.”
> “You listened?” breathed Adiella, aghast. “You listened to
> their prayers?”
> “I’m sure she only heard one side of the conversation,” said
> Sabra dryly.
> “Sabra,” warned Amira, “control your tongue. Your heated
> words do nothing but incite contention. Still...” The matriarch
> gazed out through the tent flap, squinting against the blaze of
> sun on sand. “I wish they might understand how we feel. It’s
> hard enough to face their disappointment, but when they behave
> as if we do it on purpose—who’d have a daughter on purpose?”
> “I would,” said Sabra. “And the problem goes deeper than
> understanding our feelings, Amira. They refuse to believe we
> have any feelings worth understanding.”
> “Dovev isn’t that way,” murmured Jaffa.
> “Dovev!” snorted Sabra, tossing her head and losing her
> burnoose altogether. “If all men were Dovev, all women would
> die of bliss!”
> “They are the Uncles,” reminded Amira patiently. “They
> have the entire tribe to consider in all things. The complaints of a
> handful of women...“
> “The tears of all women...“ interrupted Sabra.
> “Are seen and measured by God,” Amira finished. “We
> shall receive our recompense. If,” —and she looked pointedly at
> Sabra— “we are obedient in the Lord’s path.”
> “Dovev is an Uncle,” Jaffa reminded them. “Perhaps he can
> make the others understand that we do have feelings.”
> “Ah. Here comes the Camel Hump,” warned Sabra, peeking
> through the tent flap.
> 100                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” begged Adiella.
> Her eyes got very big. “How does he look?”
> “Miserable, of course.”
> “Angry? Does he still look angry?”
> “Yes.”
> “O-o-oh!” Adiella began to cry, clutching her daughter, who
> also began to cry.
> Gilad pushed his way into the tent, his face longer, if
> anything, than Adiella had last seen it. She cried harder.
> “So what are you crying about?” Gilad asked. “I’m the one
> who’s cursed! I’m the one God hates! I’m-I’m-”
> “I’m-I’m-” echoed Adiella. On the third “I’m", she finally
> managed to continue. “I’m sorry you’re so miserable.”
> “As you should be. Now I have to wait another year to
> either have a son or take a new wife! If you had been stupid
> enough to have twin girls, at least I would have been eligible to
> pick a new wife, but no-o-o! You have to prolong my agony!”
> “I didn’t do it on purpose,” mumbled Adiella.
> “What? What?”
> Sabra came to her feet, dark red hair spilling over her
> shoulders in an angry cloud. “She said she didn’t do it on
> purpose.”
> Gilad looked at her down a nose of patriarchal proportions,
> mentally disparaging her brazen tresses. “It hardly matters
> whether she did it on purpose or not—she did it.”
> “Gilad,” said Jaffa’s fleece-soft voice from the semi-dark at
> his shoulder, “who forms the child in the womb of its mother?”
> Gilad jumped and squinted at the dark spot until he saw
> Jaffa’s darker eyes gazing at him so directly. “God does, of
> course.”
> “And is it possible that God has formed something
> imperfect?”
> Sons of the Fathers                                                 101
> 
> “To think so would be blasphemy! God is the sum of all
> perfections.” He hastily made the sign of the Circle-star with his
> forefinger.
> “Then would God perform an act that was counter to His
> own will?”
> “Absurd!”
> “Well, then,” Jaffa concluded, “your daughter must be a
> perfect creation whose birth is certainly the will of our perfect
> God. Are we not taught to accept the will of God with radiant
> acquiescence?”
> Gilad gaped.
> “A-a-h!” breathed Sabra to the silence. “Elegant!”
> 
> �����
> 
> Hedya had awakened that morning in nervous anticipation.
> She performed her ablutions, said her prayers, started a pot of
> water and some wheat cakes over the fire and put her nose
> outside the tent flap to sniff the air. It was cool this morning and
> there was a sweetness like the coming of rain, but it would not
> rain. She knew that without knowing how she knew it.
> She prepared breakfast for herself and her father. As always,
> he smelled it cooking and came shuffling out of his closet to sit
> by the fire.
> “Near time to set up the cook fire outside,” he said.
> “Warmer these mornings.”
> “It’s too early in the season to count on the weather being
> stable,” Hedya returned. “We’ll have another frost.”
> “Rain, do you think?”
> Hedya frowned. “No, not rain. Something else.”
> Through breakfast Hedya was distracted and her father had
> to repeat himself occasionally. They spoke of their goats and the
> 102                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> number of kids they expected this year; they discussed Scripture
> and the Temple’s new altar with its twin golden angels.
> After breakfast, Father Kedem wandered off to visit with his
> cronies while Hedya followed the call of her uneasiness to the
> Temple. She rarely received guidance there (she never thought
> of it as revelation), but a brief contemplation always put her in
> the right frame of mind to receive it. The only time she’d been
> visited by guidance in the Sanctuary itself was the Year of the
> Flood.
> They’d settled in a river valley that year. Her warning had
> saved most of the Tribe from disaster. Only Chanoch had kept
> his family along the riverbank, insisting that any major
> revelation to the Tribe would come through him. He and Emuna
> had lost half their goats and most of their sheep. Chanoch’s tent
> and personal belongings were washed completely away.
> Chanoch’s wives and children had shown much respect for
> Hedya after that. Chanoch, himself, showed her nothing but
> contempt. He begrudged her visits to the Temple, but there
> wasn’t much he could do to stop them. Instead, he contented
> himself with requesting that she limit their duration, so as not to
> interfere with his priestly duties.
> This particular day Chanoch was not about. His eldest son,
> Leor, was involved in the task of refilling the altar braziers with
> incense when Hedya entered the Sanctuary.
> “Hedya!” He smiled a greeting and bowed deferentially.
> “This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you here today?”
> She smiled shyly in return. “A...a need to be here.”
> His eyebrows rose at the implication of her words. “Are you
> preparing to receive revelation, then?”
> Now Hedya blushed, her dark skin suffusing with color.
> “Please, Leor. I can’t think of it as revelation. Revelation is
> reserved for the Apostles of God—may my life be a sacrifice to
> Sons of the Fathers                                               103
> 
> Them. I receive only guidance. A very small thing compared to
> revelation.”
> “Hedya,” —his voice was kind but stern— “what you
> receive is no small thing. You’ve saved lives and property many
> times.” He was suddenly grinning, his dark eyes glinting
> maliciously in the smoky light of the altar. “You would have
> saved my father a fortune if he hadn’t been so puffed up with
> himself.”
> Hedya’s blush deepened. “Leor, please! I did nothing. I
> merely repeat what I...what I see—what I’m told. And to say
> such a thing of your father—!” She broke off in a giggle at the
> mental image of a puffed-up Chanoch.
> Leor laughed aloud.
> “S-shh!” Hedya put a finger to her lips. “Your father will
> hear you and accuse me of profaning his Temple.”
> “His Temple? This is God’s Temple, Hedya, not Chanoch’s—
> although I suspect he sometimes thinks it is his. And on what
> grounds could he accuse you of profanity? Because you made
> me laugh? God loves laughter!” Leor’s eyes glinted wickedly
> again. “Can you imagine the laugh He must have had when the
> river Nibis overflowed its banks?”
> He glanced furtively about the empty sanctuary, eyes rolling
> like those of an old man with a great secret to tell. “The hour is
> midnight. The rains have ceased and Chanoch lies blissfully
> asleep—safe in his tent. His second wife, Emuna, lies trustingly
> at his side. The sound of thunder rolls across the high mountain
> passes. Lightning twitches through the clouds. While Chanoch
> sleeps, his first wife, Keturah, and her son pack their belongings
> and put them into a cart. As they free their camels, the camels of
> Emuna begin to flee the rising river. And as they free their
> sheep, the sheep of the trusting Emuna begin to swim.”
> He made paddling motions and Hedya stifled a giggle. “As
> they remove their belongings to higher ground, Chanoch’s
> 104                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> belongings begin to swim. And as the faithful Keturah races to
> her husband’s tent to warn him, he begins to swim.” Now Leor’s
> eyes opened as wide as they could and he made a fish face,
> paddling frantically.
> Hedya shook uncontrollably. “S-s-stop!” she giggled.
> “P-please, s-s-stop!”
> Leor stopped paddling and laughed. “I would love to have
> seen the look on my father’s face when he first realized he was
> awash. I know God saw it. I could hear His laughter above the
> mountains...before Emuna’s squealing drowned it out. Father
> should have listened to you, Hedya. He shouldn’t treat you the
> way he does.”
> She shrugged. “I understand how he feels. He is the High
> Priest. Prophecy is his province. It must be very hard for him to
> understand how the Gift can be given to a woman. Especially
> one who is not of the prophetic line. I don’t understand it
> myself.”
> “God speaks to whomever He wills, Hedya, and none may
> ask of His doings—not even His High Priest.” He put a hand on
> her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Now, I think I
> should leave you to your contemplation. I shouldn’t like you to
> keep God waiting.” He withdrew his hand and moved to the
> doors of the sanctuary, pausing there to look back at her. “You
> could be of the prophetic line, if you wished it,” he said. “By
> marriage.” He slipped out through the tent flap.
> Marriage! That could only mean... Her cheeks flamed. Only
> the Priest-class were of the prophetic line, and the only way she
> could join the Priest-class was to marry one of Chanoch’s sons,
> and the only one of Chanoch’s sons who was both unmarried
> and of age was Leor.
> As a result of this train of thought, Hedya found it difficult
> to be contemplative, but finally she got her mind off Leor and
> onto her favorite passage of Scripture.
> Sons of the Fathers                                               105
> 
> She knelt before the altar and sang it softly to herself: “I sing
> praise to Thee, O mighty God. I give thanks for all Thy
> wonderful works. Where is sorrow when Thy Joy fills my heart?
> Where is death when Thy Life fills my soul? I dedicate myself to
> Thee, O God.”
> She opened her eyes and drank in the quiet, scented, warm
> half-light. The two new altar angels gleamed, golden as
> sun-drenched sheaves of harvest wheat, from their niches at
> each side of the Seat of Oration where the Scripture was read.
> Dovev had fashioned them and they seemed almost to breathe.
> These were Dovev’s children—these beautiful, golden twins.
> Hedya smiled, absorbed in admiration. Then she blinked.
> Then she rubbed her eyes. The smoke from the braziers behind
> the angels must have gotten thicker, for there seemed to be a
> golden mist rising about the altar. And the lamps must have
> suddenly flared, because the Sanctuary seemed brighter. And
> the angels...
> She rubbed her eyes again. The angel on the left—a female
> angel in Jaffa’s likeness—seemed to be the source of the light.
> Hedya stared at it. It was. The Jaffa angel was glowing.
> She wasn’t afraid. Not even when the angel’s shimmering
> outline began to waver and change. Not even when it began to
> move. Not even when the radiant thing rose slowly from its
> kneeling position to stand majestically over her.
> She took a deep breath and waited.
> The Angel smiled down at her through silvery eyes and
> said, “Hedya, daughter of Kedem, the Lord is with you. Blessed
> are you, for He has chosen you to be His Prophetess.”
> Hedya only half-heard the words, but the voice she would
> never forget. It was a reed flute played in the river canyon, it
> was water spilling over rocks, it was wind rustling a thousand
> leaves. It was both warm and distant; it came from inside her
> and it came from everywhere around her.
> 106                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “The Lord requires you to give two messages,” the radiant
> Being continued. “To the women of the Tribe, say: Take comfort,
> daughters of the Living God; your forbearance is known. It is
> manifest to the One Who is Himself the Most Manifest. He has
> conferred upon you the stations of servitude and stewardship.
> You have made a glory of the first and have had the second
> stripped from you. Your Lord will no longer wait in silence.
> Your reward is coming.
> “To the men of the Tribe, say: Take heed, sons of
> Disappointment; your arrogance is known. It is not hidden from
> the One Who is, Himself, the Most Hidden. He has conferred
> upon you the stations of servitude and stewardship. You have
> abdicated the first and abused the second. Your Lord will no
> longer wait in silence. Your reward is coming.
> “Say: You boast of your superior strength. Verily, it dies
> with your body and, in My kingdom, counts for nothing. It is
> your spirit I judge, not your wealth or your strength or the
> number of your sons.
> “Say: We gave to you daughters as a gift of joy, yet you
> mourn them. We made woman your equal, yet you count her
> inferior. Treat her as I made her.
> “Say: We hear you cry for sons. If you are superior, bear
> them yourselves.
> “Say: Here is the Law of Marriage, which you have abused:
> Take one wife. If she bears sons, love her and make of your sons
> heirs. If she bears daughters, love her and make of your
> daughters heirs. If she bears neither sons nor daughters, love
> her. Take to yourselves orphans or appoint yourselves heirs
> from among your kin. But appoint no male heirs from among
> kin or orphans if you have daughters.
> “Cease whining to Me and perform what I have commanded
> you. Hedya, My anointed, is My prophetess to you, My
> daughter, and My priestess.”
> Sons of the Fathers                                              107
> 
> The Angel paused, her words ringing like camel bells from
> everywhere and from nowhere. Hedya was awestruck—His
> prophetess, His priestess, His daughter! Had the Angel really
> said those things?
> “The Most High God has spoken,” the Angel said, and
> reached out a blazing finger to touch Hedya’s brow. “I anoint
> you by the power of God. Arise and give the message.”
> Give the message!
> The enormity of that settled on her shoulders, driving the
> breath from her body. This message the Angel so calmly spoke
> of ran counter to everything upon which tribal relationships
> were based. This message seemed to contradict what the Elders
> had taught as Scripture for centuries. Perhaps she had misheard
> it. She dared to speak.
> “Could youahrepeat the message, Angel? I fear I may
> not have heard it right.”
> The Angel did repeat it, but the words were the same, each
> one falling to the sandy floor like a bolt of lightning.
> Hedya quaked. “M-must I tell them...all those things? Must I
> call myself...those things?”
> “Your humility is well-beloved,” said the Angel. “But you
> must deliver the entire message, and the hearers must know
> who speaks to them and by Whose authority.”
> “But these are such hard words. How shall they be heard?”
> “They may not be pleasing,” the Angel acknowledged. “Still,
> they must be heard. The Lord has willed it.”
> Hedya could only nod, feeling the Angel’s touch like a cool,
> tingling flame in her head. “I do my Lord’s will,” she said.
> “But...they won’t believe me. They’ll say that our God would
> never say such things: That daughters are a joy, that women
> should be equal in stewardship, that girls might inherit...”
> The Angel’s smile offered comfort and rebuke at once.
> “These things are in the Lord’s hands.”
> 108                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Hedya bowed her head. “When...when shall I speak and
> where?”
> “Stand and turn around, daughter of the Living God,” the
> Angel instructed.
> Hedya obeyed and found herself facing the empty
> Sanctuary.
> “Sabbath day, after the Scripture has been read, you will
> stand here and speak to the assembled Tribe.”
> “To the-the whole Tribe?”
> “God wills it.”
> “Then I must obey.”
> “His blessings are upon you, Hedya,” said the Angel, and
> was gone, warmth, glow, and incense.
> Hedya turned back to the altar. Dovev’s two angels knelt,
> golden, by the Seat of Oration, each guarding its brazier of
> incense. The Temple was silent but for the tiny sputter of embers
> in their bowls and the hammering of her heart.
> She knelt again, sent a brief, heartfelt prayer for inner calm
> and left the Sanctuary.
> She told only her Father she had received guidance. He
> merely smiled and nodded at her with a look of fatherly pride.
> She knew that by Sabbath the whole Tribe would hear of it—
> Kedem’s daughter had received a revelation from God. The
> prospect of transmitting that revelation filled her with quaking
> dread.
> 
> �����
> 
> Sabbath came at last, and Hedya, though she had fasted and
> prayed and meditated, was still trembling at the prospect of
> delivering her message. She had caught herself wishing she
> might forget the Angel’s words, and thus be saved from having
> to repeat them. But she did not forget; they were burned into her
> Sons of the Fathers                                                109
> 
> memory, and her guilt at having wished them away only made
> them burn brighter. They were God’s words, and as hard as they
> would be to hear, they must be heard.
> That conviction did not keep her heart from pounding, or
> her mouth from going as dry as the sands beneath her feet as her
> father escorted her to Temple. The doors and walls of the huge
> tent had been rolled up so that the entire Tribe might attend.
> Banners waved high up on the massive poles that marked the
> outer court and the fabric roof of the Sanctuary rolled like a
> crimson ocean above the worshippers.
> The very sight of it made Hedya want to run and hide, but
> she could not hide from the Lord and He had given her a task to
> perform.
> Hedya and her father were near the front of the crowd as
> worship began, and she tried futilely to concentrate on it. But her
> mind could be no more still than her galloping heart, and she
> could only whisper prayers to God that He would grant her the
> strength of His will.
> At last, Chanoch was reading the Scripture. He chose a
> passage from the Ninth Chapter of the Book of Musa: “O sons of
> the Living God! Religion is surrender to My guidance. Those
> who formerly received the Scripture argued as to its meaning.
> They have made it a source of conflict. For this reason shall they
> receive guidance.
> “O My Anointed! If they argue with thee, say: ’I have
> surrendered myself to God. Have ye surrendered?’ If they
> surrender, they are rightly guided, and if they turn away, it is
> thy duty to warn them of the God who reads their hearts.
> “O my Anointed! Those who disbelieve My revelations and
> scorn the prophets and slay those who enjoin equity: Promise
> them a painful doom. But to those who surrender, promise a
> sure reward. Say to My people: If you love God and follow His
> 110                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> guidance, He will love you and forgive your sins. God is the
> Forgiver, the Merciful.”
> Hedya shivered. By no coincidence did Chanoch select that
> particular passage.
> Oh, he doubtless believed he had chosen it for its relevance
> to the rash of female babies—his commentary about the sins of
> the fathers (and mothers) being visited upon successive
> generations seemed to confirm that. The birth of girls
> undoubtedly meant that someone was sinning, he expounded.
> His guidance: Stop sinning. No more sin, no more girl babies.
> Suddenly, it seemed, Chanoch’s commentary ended and the
> crowd of worshippers began to jostle with conversation.
> Chanoch stepped down from the altar. Hedya fought down her
> fears and took his place.
> “Wait!” she cried, her voice strong and clear. “Hear me,
> people of Musa!”
> Her voice carried well and silence came swiftly—they had
> been expecting this. She stood for a moment with all eyes on her,
> banners snapping overhead, counterpoint to the rippling of the
> roof.
> Chanoch, scowling, was moving toward her when a sudden,
> sharp gust of wind pulled the bindings on the section of roof
> above the altar and flung it back. The altar was struck with a
> blaze of sunlight—the angels became giant torches and Hedya,
> in her virginal white robes, gleamed like a full moon.
> She glanced at the Jaffa Angel and felt her fear evaporate
> like dew from morning sands. Then she turned her gaze to the
> crowd of gaping people, saw her father’s eager, near toothless
> grin, felt Leor’s intense scrutiny and his father’s fury, and began
> to speak.
> She delivered every word of the Angel’s message, her voice
> like an alarum horn. She looked every inch a prophetess. Wildeyed and pale-faced, her black hair a cluster of flying banners,
> Sons of the Fathers                                          111
> 
> her robes a cloud of glory, she made her announcement. And
> when she was finished, there was a profound silence.
> Predictably, it was Chanoch who broke it. “Blasphemy!” he
> cried. “How dare you blaspheme in the Temple of the Most
> High God?”
> “I speak at His bidding,” Hedya returned.
> Chanoch moved toward the altar, shoving aside those in his
> way. “You dare proclaim this the word of God? How came you
> by it?”
> “I was in the Temple,” said Hedya, “and an Angel of the
> Lord appeared and gave me this message. I have only obeyed.”
> “An Angel?” scoffed Chanoch over the murmuring of his
> flock. “Describe it.”
> Hedya pointed to the kneeling statue beside her. “This
> Angel. The Lord caused it to glow with light and rise and speak
> to me.”
> The noise of the wagging of many tongues swept through
> the congregation.
> “You are a-a madwoman!” proclaimed Chanoch.
> “‘I have surrendered myself to God.’” she quoted. “‘Have ye
> surrendered?’”
> Chanoch’s lips curled. “Who are you to throw scripture in
> the face of your own priest?”
> “I am the Anointed of the Lord and His Priestess,” said
> Hedya. All diffidence had vanished.
> “PRIESTESS?” Chanoch flung himself at her, but it was his
> son, Leor, he faced when he reached the altar.
> “Will you commit violence against her in the Temple,
> Father?” Leor asked.
> Chanoch glared past him at Hedya. “She is a demon!”
> “Demon, Father? Because she delivers a message that
> doesn’t tickle our ears?” Leor’s eyes found Father Abran among
> the people. “Will you listen to her, Father Abran?”
> 112                                           I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Abran shook his head, dazedly. “How shall I listen to such
> words, Leor?”
> “You’ve listened to her before.”
> “These words are hard to hear.”
> “That does not make them blasphemous words, Father
> Abran. Hasn’t Hedya prophesied before?”
> “You know it.”
> “And haven’t her words always been true?”
> Abran nodded. “Yes.”
> “And hasn’t she always been rightly guided?”
> “So it seemed.”
> Chanoch exploded. “This is a matter of more import than
> spring rains or accidents or-or-”
> “Or invasions of enemies or...floods, Father?” asked Leor.
> “You disbelieved Hedya once before...or have you forgotten?”
> The muted laughter that rippled beneath the tent roof
> proved that no one else had forgotten.
> Chanoch flushed. “I am High Priest! God speaks through
> me, not through this—this woman!”
> “If God speaks through you, Chanoch,” called old Kedem,
> “then how is it your goats came to be floating down the Nibis?
> My stock was safe. So was anyone’s who heeded my daughter’s
> warning. Your own son and wife heeded her and saved their
> stock. Only you lost, because you wouldn’t listen.”
> “It’s true!” shouted someone else. “Hedya has always been
> true. She’s the one who warned us the Leamites were encamped
> in the pass to Yathrib, not Chanoch. She has always been true.”
> “Not this time!” roared Chanoch. “Her words are the words
> of the Evil One. They make a lie of our Law.”
> “Our Law, Father?” asked Leor. “What of God’s Law?
> Doesn’t the Book say a man shall have one wife?”
> Sons of the Fathers                                               113
> 
> “Yes, but it says nothing about what a man shall do if that
> wife is barren. It devolved upon the Apostle Sala to give us the
> Law of Remarriage.”
> “That isn’t the point. Doesn’t the Book of Musa say a man
> may put aside his wife only for infidelity?”
> “You say this because of your mother,” Chanoch accused.
> “What does the Book say?”
> “The first wife is not put away. She is kept.”
> “But then, doesn’t she cease to be a wife? In the Book of
> Musa isn’t it written that a man may only have one wife?”
> “Yes, but-”
> “But then, is not the man with multiple wives committing
> adultery?”
> “Now, how can a man commit adultery with his own wives?
> The Tablet of Sala specifically enjoins that a man may not visit
> more than one wife in the same month.”
> “The Book of Musa calls it adultery if he visits more than
> one wife in the same lifetime, unless he divorces one of them first.
> It is clear from Hedya’s message that we are breaking God’s
> Law.”
> Chanoch spluttered. “A man must not die without male
> issue!”
> “Is that written in the Book of Musa? I don’t recall having
> read it.”
> “It is in the Tablet of Sala. And it was the way of the Tribe
> before Musa came to us.”
> Leor nodded. “Yes, before Musa. But Musa made provision
> for heirs. Hedya has reminded us. A childless man may adopt
> sons. He may assign a male heir from among his kin, if he so
> desires. Or a man may allot his portion to a daughter.”
> “Shameful!”
> “Scriptural,” countered Leor. “Does God ask us to do
> shameful things?”
> 114                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Viper!”
> “Because I quote the Scripture to you?”
> “Because you wrest it to your own purposes! You are in
> league with this consort of demons!”
> Leor turned his eyes to Hedya, who was peering watchfully
> around his shoulder. “She is no demon’s consort, Father, but if
> she is willing, she will soon be mine.”
> Hedya’s eyes widened, but she kept them on Chanoch, who
> was now beyond mere rage. He might have physically attacked
> his own son, but Father Abran raised his hands and mounted the
> altar.
> “Peace! Peace!” he cried. “It is unseemly for violence to enter
> our Holy Place. You, Hedya, claim you are a Priestess of the
> Most High God and you, Chanoch, say she is demon-possessed.
> Clearly, we must have a sign. Hedya, if what you say is truth,
> prove it. Give us a sign from God.”
> Hedya paled. The Angel hadn’t discussed this eventuality.
> She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, aware only of Leor
> squeezing her hand. Suddenly, the conviction came—a sign
> would be given; she knew it beyond a doubt.
> Her eyes opened. “Let Chanoch name the sign.”
> Chanoch smiled maliciously. “You say Dovev’s angel came
> to life before your eyes. Let it now do so before ours.”
> “Then will you believe and obey?” asked Hedya.
> “Produce the sign,” snarled Chanoch.
> Hedya stepped away from the Seat of Oration and turned to
> face the congregation. Her hands raised toward the sky, she
> opened her mouth and cried, “Angels of the Lord, I beseech you
> —attend your earthly sister!”
> There was a long moment when it seemed the whole camp
> had been turned to stone. Silence fell. Then a cry came up from
> the crowd. A woman screamed. People stared and pointed.
> Sons of the Fathers                                             115
> 
> Hedya wished she could see what they saw and suddenly,
> in her mind’s eye, she did. Both golden Angels glowed with a
> great light. Both rose from their places and kept rising until they
> hovered nearly twenty feet above the altar. Their eyes were
> silver orbs of flame and they cried out together in the voices of a
> man and a woman: “Glorified is our God, the Most High, and
> blessed is Hedya, His Anointed.”
> They hung above the altar on massive, slow-moving wings
> —hung there long enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind
> that they had witnessed a miracle. Then they floated slowly
> downward, golden feathers rippling. Once in their places, they
> closed their fearsome eyes, folded their great wings and knelt,
> their heads bowed toward Hedya.
> The Prophetess lowered her arms and looked at Chanoch. So
> did everyone else.
> “Well, Chanoch,” said Abran weakly. “Produce a sign for
> Hedya.”
> Hedya declined. “Let him decide his own sign.”
> Chanoch mounted the Seat of Oration. On each side of him
> were the bowls of Holy Fire, their low flames sending trails of
> scented smoke into the air. Hedya knew immediately what he
> was going to do. It was one of his stock “signs", performed
> regularly at the festival celebrating the Revelation of Musa.
> He bowed his head for a moment, holding the pious pose
> until anyone holding their breath would have swooned. Then he
> threw back his head and called in a loud voice: “Vindicate me, O
> my God!” In a swirl of robes, his hands flew up and outward
> and, from the braziers, came a mighty roar and a great flash of
> flame. Two balls of green fire shot skyward and two pillars of
> smoke loomed, glowing with orange light.
> The crowd was only mildly impressed. They waited for
> more. More came, but not at Chanoch’s bidding.
> 116                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> A peal of thunder rocked the Temple and the sky turned
> dark so quickly, some thought they had been blinded. Just as
> Chanoch’s face began to sprout a look of satisfaction, the clouds
> opened and rain fell in a torrent—on the two bowls of incense
> and on Chanoch and nowhere else. The two angelic guardians of
> the streaming braziers were not even splashed.
> It was over in a moment and Chanoch stood, dripping,
> while his congregation roared with laughter.
> It took Abran a long time to gather the Council of Elders to
> his side and draw them away from the Temple for an emergency
> conference. The congregation rushed forward to touch Hedya
> and congratulate her. When it looked as if the flood of
> well-wishers would inundate them, Leor took Hedya and her
> father away to their tent.
> When they had gone, the congregation swarmed about the
> altar, examining every inch of it, touching the dry angels and the
> wet Seat of Oration, collecting sooty water from the slopping
> braziers. Children danced and made up songs about the event.
> Women nodded to each other and murmured about how things
> would change. Men frowned and whispered in huddled groups
> and snuck glances at the women.
> All waited to hear what the Council of Elders would say.
> 
> �����
> 
> Father Abran sat among the pillows in the council tent
> looking very old and withered. “What now? How must we
> respond to Hedya’s message?”
> “Hedya’s message?” asked Dovev. “It’s God’s message.
> Hedya is only the messenger.”
> “Hedya is a demon,” insisted Chanoch. “Or she is possessed
> by one. I say we must destroy her.”
> Sons of the Fathers                                            117
> 
> “And make ourselves guilty of the very thing the Scriptures
> warn against?” asked Dovev. “You read the words yourself,
> Chanoch: ’Those who disbelieve My revelations and scorn the
> prophets and slay those who enjoin equity: Promise them a
> painful doom.’ Do you desire a painful doom?”
> “Painful doom!” spluttered Chanoch.
> “Do you disbelieve God’s warnings?”
> Chanoch dropped to his knees before Dovev and thrust his
> face close. “I disbelieve,” he said, “in Hedya’s demonic ravings.”
> Dovev met his eyes, unblinking. “God gave her a sign,
> Chanoch. She even let you choose what it would be. The angels
> came to life—we all saw it. You saw it.”
> “A demon can produce signs, too, Dovev.”
> “Then what is the point of asking for them?”
> “To prove that she was being directed by the Evil One,” said
> Chanoch. “Only he has that kind of power.”
> The others crooned in agreement.
> Dovev gazed at Chanoch for a moment then said, “When the
> Prophet Musa went before Firon, he was asked to produce a
> sign, was he not?”
> Chanoch nodded, suspiciously.
> “Tell us of it.”
> “You know the story.”
> “Tell it anyway. It bears on our consultation.”
> Chanoch complied. “The priests of Firon threw rods upon
> the ground and the rods became serpents.”
> “How were they able to do this?” interrupted Dovev.
> “Magic. They were aided by demons.”
> “Then what did Musa do?”
> “He threw a branch upon the ground and it became a fiery,
> winged serpent and ate the serpents of the priests of Firon.”
> “And how was he able to do this?”
> “Through the power of God, of course.”
> 118                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Of course. But why did not the priests of Firon produce yet
> a greater sign than the Prophet Musa?”
> “They couldn’t. God is all-powerful. He wouldn’t let the
> priests of a false god best His Prophet.”
> “Ah,” said Dovev. “I see.” He caught a drip from the folds of
> the High Priest’s sleeve.
> Mahir began to chuckle. Avidor guffawed. Even Abran was
> having difficulty keeping a straight face. Gilad just looked glum.
> Chanoch turned his back on them all.
> “Dovev makes a good point,” admitted Abran reluctantly.
> “Chanoch was powerless against Hedya.”
> “But what she requires of us!” exclaimed Avidor.
> “What God requires of us,” corrected Dovev.
> “That has not been proven,” snapped Chanoch.
> “What more proof do you want?”
> “It would be safest to do whatever Hedya says we must,”
> mused Abran.
> “Hah!” snorted Avidor. “That’s easy for you to say! You
> have but one wife. What am I to do with my three, or Chanoch
> with his two? Or Gilad, who now has two daughters?”
> “Why don’t we ask Hedya?” suggested Dovev. “Meanwhile,
> we can start by treating our women with more equity.”
> “Don’t any of you see what’s going on here?” asked
> Chanoch, turning to face them in a dramatic swirl of soggy
> robes. “The women are behind this. No doubt Sabra is their
> ringleader. They have gotten the assistance of a powerful demon
> and are attempting to subvert the Religion to their own gain. It
> was our ancestor, Father Sala, who sanctified multiple
> marriages. He was an Apostle of God. Haven’t we all read how
> he, a pagan, was converted to the Religion of Musa by direct
> revelation? If we believe Hedya, then we make Sala a liar.”
> Sons of the Fathers                                              119
> 
> Gilad was nodding eagerly. “Now that you mention it, I’ve
> caught a group of women meeting in my wife’s tent a number of
> times. And Hedya was among them!”
> “’And even if one were to rise from the dead, they would
> not believe,’” Dovev softly quoted Scripture.
> “What would you suggest we do, Chanoch?” asked Abran.
> Dovev got to his feet, his patience exhausted. “Why will you
> listen to him, Father Abran? He’s all wet!”
> “He’s our High Priest.”
> “Then why didn’t God speak to him?”
> Abran gazed at Dovev for a moment, then turned his eyes to
> Chanoch. “Our High Priest must be heard. What is your counsel,
> Chanoch?”
> Dovev turned away and went to stare from the tent flap. A
> crowd of people was gathering around the council tent.
> “I say we put this message to the test. First of all, we ask
> Hedya to undergo exorcism. If she refuses, we’ll know the
> message is false. If she agrees and the demon leaves her, we’ll
> know it is false. If the demon won’t come out, then we must wait
> and watch to see what happens next. If her message is demoninspired—and it must be to violate our Scripture—”
> “When did the writing of the Apostle Sala become
> Scripture?” asked Dovev, still gazing from the tent flap.
> “You know that as well as I do,” snapped Chanoch, annoyed
> at the interruption. “Our Fathers—blessed be they—agreed it
> should be so in the Year of the Great Questioning.”
> “The question was rhetorical,” murmured Dovev. “I merely
> wondered if God was consulted in the matter.”
> Chanoch ignored him. “If her message is demonic in origin,
> God will deal with her. If it is His message, she’ll be vindicated.
> Simple.”
> “What say you?” asked Abran, looking to Avidor.
> “Test her as Chanoch says. Exorcise the demon.”
> 120                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Mahir?”
> “The Law indicates this is the correct procedure.”
> “Gilad?”
> “As Chanoch says.”
> “Dovev?”
> He turned to look at them. “I believe Hedya’s words are true
> and that they are of God. You are misled by your own selfish
> desires. Your reward is with God. As for me, I will do as Hedya
> says. My wife is my equal, and together we shall find an heir
> among the orphans of the Tribe. Perhaps even a female heir.”
> He disappeared through the tent flap, leaving the Council to
> arrange their exorcism without him.
> 
> �����
> 
> When news of the exorcism reached the female members of
> the Tribe, it provoked complete outrage. A group of women, led
> by Abran’s own usually obedient wife, Amira, descended on the
> Tribal Elder and cornered him in his tent. When the interview
> proved unsatisfactory, the women adjourned to Amira’s tent for
> a strategy meeting. As a result of this meeting the women took
> to their tents and denied their menfolk access—unless, of course,
> their menfolk were willing to see things from their perspective.
> Those women who shared tents with their husbands
> immediately packed up—hoof, horn, and bleat—and moved in
> with a fellow suffragette.
> By the end of one dark day, the only men on speaking terms
> with their wives were those astute enough to register a
> complaint with Abran regarding Hedya’s forthcoming exorcism.
> Those who didn’t went unfed, unmended, and otherwise
> uncomfortable.
> This did not deter Chanoch from going forward with his
> plans to exorcise Hedya’s demon. He was stunned when she
> Sons of the Fathers                                             121
> 
> consented to it, but determined it would be his best exorcism
> ever. This was quite a step up from driving demons out of
> recalcitrant camels or capricious children.
> It took place in the Temple with the Elders looking on and a
> quietly enraged Leor assisting. Hedya, dressed in dazzling
> white, was patient throughout the absurd ordeal. Chanoch
> chanted and capered, intoned and incanted. He shook staves of
> gold at her, swung censers around her, and sprinkled Holy
> Water over her.
> Nothing happened. No demon struggled to free itself or
> threw Hedya to the floor or spoke through her mouth. All that
> came from Hedya’s mouth was a giggle, in response to which
> Chanoch wanted to apply a hot coal to her tongue.
> Abran stopped him. “It is the demon we wish to injure,
> Chanoch, not Hedya,” he said irritably.
> Ego wounded, Chanoch resorted to praying. He burned
> some of Hedya’s hair in the censer, he doused her with Holy
> Water, he whispered the Greatest Name of God in her ear. He
> even made her say the Name aloud. She said It nine times.
> Nothing happened.
> Finally, sweating and exhausted, Chanoch dropped mutely
> to the steps of the altar, and glared at the patient Prophetess.
> After a long silence, Leor asked, “Father Abran, are you now
> convinced that Hedya has no demon? Surely no demon could
> utter the Greatest Name.”
> “I didn’t think so,” said Abran wearily.
> “Well, then?”
> “If a clear sign could be had...” grumbled Gilad.
> Leor’s eyes widened. “Angels hovering over the altar aren’t
> clear enough?” The expression on Gilad’s face said they were
> not.
> “A sign, Lord!” begged Chanoch loudly. He pointed at
> Hedya. “Decide between us!”
> 122                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> A delicate flapping was heard and through the open Temple
> doors flew a dove every bit as white as Hedya’s robes. It
> fluttered directly to her and perched on her right shoulder. With
> it came a fragrance like a garden full of summer roses.
> “Hah!” cried Chanoch, jumping to his feet. “She’s not
> possessed! She’s a witch! See? This must be her familiar!”
> Before anyone could comment, the sound of wings was
> heard again. Through the Temple doors flew a crow so great and
> black, even old Avidor had never seen its like. It flapped its way
> straight to Chanoch and perched on his left shoulder. And with
> it came an odor of indescribable foulness.
> Chanoch shrieked once and sat stone still, transfixed by the
> bird’s beady black eyes. Everyone else leapt back and covered
> their noses. They gathered around Hedya, whose aura of scent
> overpowered the stench of Chanoch’s crow.
> Leor laughed aloud. “And is this your familiar, Father?”
> Chanoch shrieked a second time and ran from the Temple.
> The crow followed at a leisurely pace.
> Word spread quickly that the exorcism had failed to
> produce a demon. A crowd gathered, again, outside the council
> tent, waiting to see what the Elders would do next. What they
> did first was mope. When Dovev prodded them for some sort of
> decision, they grumbled.
> Finally Mahir said, “I say we wait to see what happens.”
> “We could pretend to go along,” suggested Avidor. “Then
> maybe Hedya will be satisfied.”
> “You keep forgetting,” said Dovev, “that Hedya is only the
> messenger. Do you think pretending will satisfy God?”
> “We need more particulars,” said Avidor. “We need to
> know how far this equity business is supposed to go. And what
> are we supposed to do with our extra wives and their children?
> Surely God can’t expect us to disown them. How do we decide
> which wife to keep? And what of our Scripture—do we rewrite
> Sons of the Fathers                                              123
> 
> it or just add to it the Tablet of Hedya?” He looked to Abran,
> who could only shrug helplessly.
> “We’ve already added the Tablet of Sala,” observed Dovev
> quietly. “What’s another tablet more or less?”
> “Brothers,” sighed the Father of the Tribe, ignoring him, “we
> can but wait.”
> While they waited, the Prophetess Hedya received another
> revelation. At its conclusion, she sent Leor to invite the Elders to
> the Temple. They arrived quite promptly to find the Prophetess
> seated on a sack chair before the Seat of Oration, flanked by
> Dovev’s angels, which were now standing. Any pride and fury
> Chanoch had been able to pump up deflated immediately upon
> seeing them. He was sure those horrible silver eyes were looking
> right at him.
> “The Lord has heard your deliberations,” said Hedya in the
> strong, clear voice of a Prophetess. “He has instructed me thus:
> Say, O Hedya, to the Sons of Indecision: Know that in all things
> but the strength of the body, I have made woman your equal.
> This is the balance—that she can bear life. Yet, for that life, man
> and woman must have union. This is My wisdom. As the bird
> must have its two wings to fly, so the Tribe must have the
> strength of both man and woman. Hear Me: The women shall
> have a Council even as the men, that their voices be heard. And
> the men shall listen to their voices.
> “Your duty is to your first wife. If she has borne you
> children, upon them is your inheritance; if not, then your other
> wives’ children may be heirs. Settle on the additional wives a
> portion, but hear this: they are no longer lawful consorts—do
> not trespass on them. It is lawful for them to marry again so that
> the duty may pass from you to their lawful husbands.
> “As to the Scripture: Sala was no Prophet of Mine, nor was
> he an Apostle. He spoke from his own desires and you were
> misled by yours. You call the Tablet of Sala Scripture—I call it
> 124                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Corruption. Strike it from the Book. I, the Lord, know what is in
> every heart.”
> The message was at an end. The stunned Elders removed
> themselves from the Temple and shuffled back to the council
> tent. The waiting crowd followed them. When Dovev left the
> tent some time later, he told them they might as well go home. It
> appeared the Elders had no comment to make.
> The Tribe waited. When two days had passed and the
> council tent produced no response, the women of the Tribe
> elected a Council of Matriarchs. The first action the Matriarchs
> took was to move the tents of all the women who believed in
> Hedya’s Message away from the rest of the camp. They were
> joined by a number of men, including Dovev and Leor, who
> either believed or had no desire to be caught in the retribution of
> an angry God.
> So the camp remained divided for some time—split nearly
> in half by Hedya’s revelation. When no fiery doom followed
> immediately, angry and desperate men from the Patriarchal
> camp began to kidnap their wives and children back from the
> Matriarchal camp. A few women exerted their newfound
> autonomy and returned, but most, who were uncertain the word
> “autonomy” even belonged in their vocabulary, stayed with
> their men.
> By the end of three moons, the Matriarch’s camp was down
> to a small but solid core of fifteen families and about a dozen
> autonomous women. Hedya continued to receive revelation for
> the guidance of the Matriarchs; across the swathe of sand that
> separated them, Abran and the remaining Uncles continued to
> pray for sons.
> By the end of six moons, they knew their prayers had been
> answered. While in Hedya’s camp, babies continued to be born
> in the usual ratio of male to female, the Great Separation brought
> to the Tribe of Abran precious sons.
> Sons of the Fathers                                           125
> 
> “It’s a miracle!”
> “It’s more than a miracle, Mahir,” said Chanoch. “It is my
> vindication. In answering our prayers, God is displaying to all
> eyes the utter falsity of this ’Prophetess’.”
> Mahir nodded, gazing across the valley at the Hedyite
> encampment. “Not a girl-child born to the Tribe since Hedya
> and her followers departed. Obviously, it was Hedya’s presence
> among us that caused God to ignore our pleas. Now that we
> have proved faithful to Him, He blesses us.”
> “Hedya must be a powerful sorceress to have produced such
> signs and wonders,” said Abran almost wistfully. “I nearly
> believed.” He caught Chanoch’s disgruntled expression and
> added, “Now, of course, it’s plain she was a sorceress—a very
> great one to have thwarted you, Chanoch—but obviously false.”
> Chanoch preened his beard and smiled. “Not so great,
> Father Abran. Our faith defeated her. The Curse is past. We are
> receiving sons from God...while the women of her tribe yet give
> birth to girls!”
> And so they did. About two-thirds of the babies born to the
> Tribe of Hedya were female. Hedya, herself, had a daughter a
> year after her first revelation. She and Leor named their
> daughter Matana—meaning “a gift.”
> The summer after Matana’s birth, the Tribe of Abran moved.
> He chose a valley along the broad, slow-moving Nibis. The Tribe
> of Hedya moved also, settling at the far end of the same valley in
> a grove of trees. Only when the trees lost their leaves did Abran
> realize the Hedyites were so near. He sent a messenger to Hedya
> asking for a meeting, and they convened with their respective
> Councils on the banks of the river.
> “Why do you follow us?” Abran asked Hedya nervously.
> The Prophetess demurred. “Please, speak to our Matriarch,
> Father Abran. I am a Priestess, not the tribal elder.”
> 126                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Abran colored and cleared his throat. The “Matriarch” of the
> Hedyite Tribe was his own wife, Amira. He hadn’t anticipated
> having to face Amira. He was a little surprised at how strong his
> feelings for her were still. She was a handsome woman, his
> Amira.
> “Abran,” she said brusquely, and nodded as if to a peer.
> He sighed. His no longer—she was Amira the Matriarch,
> now.
> “To answer your question,” she said, “we are following you,
> because God has so instructed us. He has said there must be no
> more than a valley or a hill between us.”
> Chanoch harumphed. “God does not speak to witches. You
> mean Hedya has commanded you to trail us. There is no answer
> to that but battle.”
> Amira glanced briefly at Hedya, then said, “We won’t fight.”
> “If you won’t fight and you don’t wish to die, then you’d
> best go. We will attack.”
> Abran cleared his throat and glared at Chanoch. “You are
> making our people nervous,” he told Amira. “If you could take
> yourselves out of sight...”
> “Consider it accomplished,” said Amira. “You will see us no
> more unless you desire it.” She departed with her Council.
> The next morning the grove of trees was empty. Abran,
> gazing at it from the door of his tent, sighed deeply. He truly
> missed Amira and the family members that had defected with
> her. Here, he had only his youngest son, Hod, and a family that
> included a growing number of grandsons.
> 
> �����
> 
> Gilad put on a long face and made sure everyone saw it as
> he picked his way over the rocky clearing to the council tent. The
> Uncles would be there and would see the look of doom on his
> Sons of the Fathers                                              127
> 
> face, but there would be little sympathy. Everyone had the look
> of doom these days.
> It was cool and dark in the council tent. The Uncles were
> sitting in a circle of pillows, drinking cold mint tea. They all
> looked up when he entered, then looked away again when they
> saw the expression on his face.
> He sat down next to Hod and accepted a cup of the tea. It
> tasted bitter on his tongue, but he drank it anyway. “A son,” he
> said. “Another son. A-a-a-ah!”
> “A-a-a-ah, yourself,” grumbled Chanoch. “This is only your
> fourth. Emuna has born me six more sons—that’s eight,
> altogether. Eight!”
> “Huh!” exploded Mahir. “My son, Jubal, is of marriageable
> age this year, but there is no one to marry him. No one! Every
> woman in the Tribe is either married, promised, or too old to
> bear children.” He turned a baleful eye on Chanoch. “Well, High
> Priest, this is your doing. What do we do now—share wives?”
> “That is forbidden,” said Abran sternly, and wheezed.
> “Abran is right,” said Chanoch, avoiding Mahir’s pointed
> gaze. “To share wives would be... Well, it is forbidden, isn’t it?
> However, we could possibly negotiate with another tribe for
> some of their daughters—we are near the Elamites this season.”
> A flash of spring lightning flooded the tent with white light,
> making them all jump. It was followed by a nerve-biting crack of
> thunder that rolled in a low growl above the hilltops.
> “Damn,” said Mahir. “More rain. This is bad for the crops.
> The seed will wash clean away.”
> “Other tribes?” repeated Abran. “But, that’s also forbidden.”
> Chanoch shrugged. “Let us say, it is discouraged.”
> “Will God countenance the taking of pagan wives?”
> “Have we a choice?” asked Chanoch. “The alternative is our
> extinction. Will God countenance that? We are His people!”
> 128                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The Uncles all admitted that it was unlikely God would
> countenance their extinction.
> Hod had an idea. He had a lot of ideas—at least, he had
> more than old Avidor, whom he’d replaced on the Council.
> “Let’s pray about this dilemma,” he suggested. “Surely, if we
> pray, God will send us a sign.”
> And so they prayed. First, they asked if marrying to other
> tribes might be permitted. Then, they begged for a sign.
> Chanoch broached the idea of sharing their remaining women.
> When Hod objected, he reasoned that God would certainly
> perceive this as a lesser sin than bringing heathens into the
> camp. Last of all, they pleaded for daughters.
> The answer to their prayers was swift and unexpected. Just
> at sunset, the flap of the council tent flew aside, and in stepped a
> tall, imposing girl of perhaps fifteen with dark, flaming eyes and
> hair to match. The light from the firepot danced on her face and
> scattered sparks in the red cloud that fell wildly from her
> burnoose.
> She let the Elders sit in shocked silence for a moment then
> said, “I am Nirel—the Fire of God. Hear me! The Lord says: You
> cried to Us for sons and We gave you sons. You counted
> yourselves fortunate, but you are of the cursed.”
> “Cursed?” squeaked Gilad. “God has cursed us? Why?”
> “You cursed yourselves by your own perversity. I gave you
> children—male and female—that you might continue upon the
> earth. I made them of equal value, yet you count My daughters
> of little worth. So, We have taken from you the daughters you
> despise and given you sons. Still, you are not pleased. Surely,
> you are contrary creatures.
> “As to your question regarding women of other tribes: Shall
> I allow the Religion of Musa to become dead among you?
> Already you fail to listen when I speak. I show you signs and
> you heed them not. You are deaf. Hear Me now: You shall marry
> Sons of the Fathers                                                129
> 
> within the Tribe, that your faith may not be diluted yet further.
> The daughters of other peoples are unlawful to you.
> “As to your question regarding the sharing of women:
> Truly, Chanoch the High Priest has uttered an abomination. His
> reward is with Me. Do not listen to him.
> “As to your plea for daughters: You have set your own
> course. Sons you begged of Me—sons you receive from Me.”
> Nirel paused dreadfully and swept them with her fiery gaze.
> “This is the message of the Lord God of all Tribes. He who has
> ears, let him hear it.” She disappeared in a swirl of robes,
> fanning the sparks from the firepot. They seemed to follow her
> from the tent.
> At some length Mahir said, “There is but one thing we can
> do.”
> “And what is that?” asked Chanoch irritably.
> “Surely it’s obvious,” said Mahir. “God doesn’t want us to
> marry pagans. But if we bring these women into the Tribe with
> the appropriate ritual—a few animal sacrifices, perhaps—adopt
> them as daughters and, most important of all, convert them to
> the Faith of God...” He shrugged. “They will no longer be pagan,
> will they?”
> Chanoch smiled. “That, Mahir, is an excellent idea! It
> certainly answers any objections of a religious nature.”
> Abran scowled. “I’m not certain-” he began.
> “Well, I am certain!” exclaimed Hod, rising to his feet. “If
> converting or adopting these women was pleasing to God, He
> would have said so. This is a false path, Brothers.”
> Chanoch concealed the irritation he felt at having a young
> pup like Hod address him as “Brother” and spoke soothingly.
> “Now, dear Hod, calm yourself. You know God doesn’t always
> provide a set course for His children. He defines boundaries and
> intends us to find a path within those boundaries. Our
> cleverness will be well-rewarded, I’m certain.”
> 130                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Hod jumped as another crack of thunder slapped at the
> camp. Chanoch’s words did not comfort him.
> 
> �����
> 
> The Elamite girls that were ushered into the Tribe called
> God “Shahbahra.” Among the things they learned from their
> new Elders was that His name was more properly “Jah” and
> that, if the golden effigies in their Tabernacle were any
> indication, their adoptive Tribe worshipped birds. The language
> differences made it difficult for them to discuss any of these
> issues or to disabuse anyone of the idea that their own religion
> (or ex-religion) deified a Fish. They suffered their lot in silence
> and went, one and all, to worthy, desperate husbands.
> Hope was high at first, but as months went by, it became
> apparent that the curse of Hedya was still in effect. The
> ex-Elamites bore no daughters. Neither did they bear sons. None
> of them even became pregnant.
> 
> �����
> 
> Nirel appeared at Abran’s tent flap precisely one year to the
> day and hour of her first visit. The old Patriarch admitted her
> eagerly.
> “Thank God, you have finally come! Tell us! What must we
> do to please the Lord? What does He want?”
> “You have pleased Him simply by asking what He wants
> instead of telling Him what you want,” answered Nirel. “Gather
> the Elders and you shall hear the word of the Lord.”
> With the Council mustered in the Temple, Nirel took a place
> on the steps of the altar—right where Hedya had stood so many
> years before.
> Sons of the Fathers                                            131
> 
> “So, speak to us, Prophetess,” growled Chanoch,
> uncomfortably reminded of that previous confrontation.
> Abran paled and shuffled forward. “Please, Nirel—
> Prophetess of the One True God—Chanoch intended no
> disrespect. Speak to us, we beseech you.”
> Nirel smiled. “He intended every disrespect, Father Abran.
> But because of your attentiveness to His messenger, God will
> forgive him that. You have asked concerning the current curse.”
> “Yes!” cried Abran eagerly. “Tell us how to break it!”
> “You are sincere in your desire?”
> “Oh, yes!”
> “And you are prepared to obey the Lord?”
> “With open ears and humble hearts!”
> “If We give you daughters, how shall you regard them?”
> Abran nearly wept. “As gems! As pearls! As angels!”
> “And their rights and privileges?”
> “Guarded jealously—as those of our sons.”
> “And their education?”
> “Abundant!”
> “And their voice?”
> “Shall be heard in the council tent! Oh, good Nirel, please,
> please, reveal to us the word of the Lord!”
> “In a moment. First, the matter of the Elamite wives. You
> will return those that desire it to their own tribe where they may
> find husbands and bear children.”
> “But they no longer follow the Elamitish ways,” protested
> Chanoch. “They’ve converted to the Religion of God.”
> “Their inner beliefs have not changed, High Priest. Only the
> form of their worship is different. They have kept their faith and
> for this, God is pleased with them.”
> “Pleased? But they’re pagan––heathen! We converted them
> to the Truth.”
> 132                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “You forced them to accept what is true for the Tribe of
> Abran. Their worship was no more displeasing to God than your
> own. In due time, both will change. Now, as to the Elamite
> women...”
> “It shall be as the Lord commands,” said Abran before
> Chanoch could express further outrage. “Please, Prophetess—
> the word of God?”
> “But it’s been revealed to you already. All you lacked was
> obedience.”
> Abran looked confused. “But...good Nirel, what word was it
> in—ah—particular? We’ve had so many words revealed to us.”
> “And listened to so few of them,” murmured Hod.
> Nirel turned her flaming eyes to him. “True, Brother Hod.
> But you seem to have ears—perhaps you remember the word of
> the Lord with regard to marriage.”
> “The Lord said...” Hod knit his brow and puzzled for a
> moment. “...that we must have only one wife and that we must
> marry within the Tribe.”
> “Now, how can we do that?” asked Chanoch. “There are no
> marriageable women left. The Lord must give us daughters
> some other way.”
> “Hear me!” said Nirel, her face like a storm cloud. “Do not
> set limits on the Lord your God! This is His message: You shall
> have daughters only when you marry women of your own
> Tribe. When I hear the prayers of those women from your tents,
> then shall the curse be lifted.” She strode from the altar and out
> the front doors of the Temple.
> “We’re doomed,” said Gilad.
> Hod, the look of revelation on his face, smote his moping
> brother between the shoulder blades. “No, we’re not! Oh, of
> course! Why didn’t we see it?”
> Sons of the Fathers                                             133
> 
> Chanoch turned a bleary, baleful eye upon him. “Oh, please,
> dear Brother Hod, do enlighten us. Wherein have we been
> blind?”
> “Wherein have we not been blind, Brother Chanoch?” He
> turned to Abran. “Father, it’s a riddle. Where may we find
> women who are of the Tribe, yet not of it?”
> Abran smote his brow. “Hedya!”
> “Hedya?” repeated Mahir dazedly.
> “No!” shouted Chanoch. “You can’t! You cannot possibly
> think of taking that vicious, scheming, heretical rabble back into
> the tribe. We really would be doomed!”
> “We’re doomed already,” observed Hod. “And the only way
> to find out if marrying the women of Hedya’s Tribe will break
> the curse is to marry them.”
> “It’s a trick!” ranted Chanoch. “Can’t you see? Don’t you
> recognize this Nirel? She’s the image of that prickly Sabra. She
> must be Sabra’s daughter. She’s a Hedyite!”
> “Well, at least we know their daughters are attractive,” said
> Mahir dryly. “Hod is right. What worse fate could possibly
> befall us than extinction?”
> “Women in the Council!” raved Chanoch. “Aunts as well as
> Uncles at tea! Matriarchs running the Tribe! Women in the
> Priesthood! In the Temple! In-”
> “Chanoch,” said Abran, “shut up.” Then he smiled. Then he
> laughed. That felt good. He decided he’d have to tell Chanoch to
> shut up more often.
> He thought of Amira. Sixteen years was a long time to go
> without a wife. He’d be pleased to see her again—more than
> pleased. If she was still alive. His smile vanished under the
> wrinkled folds of anxiety.
> “We haven’t seen the Hedyites for years,” he fretted as they
> made their way back to the council tent. “Where shall we find
> them?”
> 134                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Hod stopped at the end of the tent city’s rocky main avenue.
> “I believe they’ve found us.”
> Indeed, they had. The entire Council of the Tribe of Hedya
> stood before the council tent, along with the Prophetesses Hedya
> and Nirel and—
> “Amira!” Abran capered down the rough path like a young
> kid.
> The Matriarch turned and smiled. “Greetings, old man,” she
> said. “I believe we have some weddings to plan...beginning with
> our own.”
> 
> �����
> 
> Gilad strolled down the grassy sward to the council tent.
> There was a spring in his step and an absurd grin on his long,
> camelid face.
> The Aunts and Uncles were gathered before the tent
> drinking tea and enjoying the sunset. They all glanced up at him
> when he approached and smiled and nodded at him.
> “So, Gilad,” said Dovev, “what good news today?”
> “Ah, a girl!” he sighed ecstatically, “And a boy! Twins! I am
> blessed.”
> “And how is your wife?”
> “She is well and happy. A wonderful mother, my Adiella.
> Oh, and my eldest son is promised to a daughter of Hedya and
> Leor.” He bowed his head deferentially to that couple. “And my
> eldest daughter has just given birth to a girl. I am blessed,” he
> repeated, and accepted a cup of tea.
> “Speaking of blessings,” said Abran, “how is your father,
> Leor? Settled into his cave all right?”
> “He seems quite content,” mused the new High Priest.
> “Since he lost his sense of smell, he doesn’t even mind the crows
> that share his shade tree. I think he finds their antics amusing.”
> Sons of the Fathers                                           135
> 
> Abran nodded, glad that particular loose end had tied itself
> up by going into religious seclusion. He turned to his beloved
> Amira. “Dear wife, I shall be forever grateful that you returned
> to us and prayed God to lift the Curse from our shoulders.”
> “But, husband, we didn’t pray God to lift any curse,” said
> Amira.
> “Well, prayed for daughters, then.”
> “We didn’t pray for daughters either,” said High Priestess
> Hedya.
> Abran puzzled. “Well, then, what did you pray for?”
> “We prayed that whatever God did, we’d have the sense to
> be content with it.”
> “Elegantly put, Hedya,” said Councilwoman Sabra, and the
> Aunts and Uncles all crooned and clicked in agreement while
> above the hills, God’s laughter rolled like distant thunder.
> 136   I Loved Thy Creation
> Content With the Mysterious                                       137
> 
> Content With the Mysterious
> 
> A story of speculative fiction
> Content With the Mysterious was originally published in
> Analog Science Fiction Magazine in 1998 and placed on the 1998
> Preliminary ballot for the Nebula Award given by the Science
> Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. The story explores
> Bahá’u’lláh’s principle of the harmony of science and religion
> and applies the lens of scientific inquiry to subjects considered
> by many to be supernatural.
> The story poses a simple question: What is the nature of true
> skepticism?
> 
> As to thy question concerning the worlds of God.
> Know thou of a truth that the worlds of God are
> countless in their number, and infinite in their
> range. None can reckon or comprehend them except
> God, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise. Consider thy
> state when asleep. ...Behold how the thing which
> thou hast seen in thy dream is, after a considerable
> lapse of time, fully realized.
> Gleanings from the
> Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,
> p. 152
> 
> �����
> 
> Ken Shaw stared at the manuscript without really seeing it.
> The lines were gray blurs, a pattern of irregular stripes. He knew
> 138                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> what it said, though; he’d read the march of words beneath his
> wife’s byline.
> “You’ll love it,” she said. “It’s brilliant,” she said. And he’d
> had no reason not to believe her. Most of what Lissa wrote, if not
> brilliant, was at least, very good; sharp, cogent, witty. This,
> however—he grimaced—this was arrogant, self-congratulatory
> and sarcastic.
> He imagined telling her that. Not pretty. He’d critiqued her
> before, of course, edited her prose. That was his job. But, at the
> moment, he didn’t feel like editing, he felt like doing a hatchet
> job.
> Sighing, Ken rolled his chair across the anti-static carpet and
> over to the office window. He was people-watching and
> contemplating taking a walk down the Embarcadero when he
> saw her charging through the manicured courtyard four stories
> below.
> She moved like a tornado with a fix on a trailer park. She
> always did. It was one of the things he loved about her. She
> researched her articles the same way, flying in, shredding, and
> reducing the subject to match sticks that could be easily
> vacuumed up—neat, tidy, and looking nothing like the original
> item.
> Ken rolled himself back to his desk and tried to collect his
> thoughts. They refused to coagulate. Fear of the storm, he thought
> wryly, and slipped the article under the October issue cover
> layout. Maybe she’d grant him a reprieve. Let him bring up the
> article.
> A moment later, she was breezing into his office, notebook
> computer over one shoulder, trendy but dilapidated safari jacket
> open over a black silk jump suit.
> “Well?” she said. “Have you read it?”
> So much for a reprieve. Ken pulled the manuscript out from
> under the cover art and nodded.
> Content With the Mysterious                                      139
> 
> “And?” She perched on the corner of his desk.
> “It’s well-written.”
> Pale brows shot up under a thatch of strawberry blonde hair.
> “Well-written? Oh, Mr. Shaw, that’s editorspeak for ‘I hated
> every word of it.’ What’s wrong with it?” She got up, leaving her
> notebook on the desk, and began to pace. “I did good research. I
> conducted searching interviews. I collected solid evidence,
> evaluated it objectively-” She stopped in the middle of ticking
> off her processes and turned to stare at him bemusedly. “What?
> What’s that sour expression for, my puckered pal? You look like
> you just swallowed some Vilex.”
> “You weren’t objective.”
> The stare turned into a glare. “What do you mean, I wasn’t
> objective?”
> He shrugged. “You weren’t objective.”
> “About what?”
> “About anything in here.”
> Her hands were on her hips, he noticed. A bad sign.
> “Give me an example.”
> “Okay. The meditation class.”
> She shrugged. What about it? her eyes asked.
> He rubbed the bridge of his nose—a habit dating from when
> he had had to wear glasses. “Lissa, you were rude.”
> “Rude? Ken, the woman was having a room full of people
> meditate on a crystal that didn’t exist. They took turns holding the
> damned thing.”
> “Did that give you the right to humiliate her?”
> “Oh, please.”
> “Admit it, Liss. You didn’t research this article, you went on
> a witch hunt. You didn’t interview people, you played
> Inquisitor.”
> “I simply asked them to produce proof of their outrageous
> claims. I asked a woman who said she could read auras to read
> 140                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> me a few. And that clairvoyant character, Dreyfus—all I asked
> him to do was foretell the outcome of a simple test.”
> “Did you hear yourself? ‘That clairvoyant character?’ He
> was ‘that clairvoyant character’ before you even met him, wasn’t
> he?”
> She glowered, arms folded.
> “Well, wasn’t he?”
> “So?”
> He flipped the first page of the manuscript over and read,
> “‘Your job is not to debunk—leave that to the vice squad. As a
> scientist, you are not out to disprove or reject any claims out of
> hand, but to discover positive evidence in favor of them.’” He
> flipped the page back. “Despite that noble disclaimer, this article
> is prejudiced, Lissa. It’s arrogant. Worst of all, it’s not scientific
> inquiry.”
> Now she was gawping at him. “I don’t believe my ears!
> You’re defending this crap!”
> “No. I am defending objective analysis, which is absent from
> this article, despite your claim to the contrary.”
> “Come on, Kenny. These people are fakes. They may be well
> meaning, or misled, but they are fakes, nonetheless. If I can
> disabuse even one person of their irrational, puerile—”
> “Fine, but don’t try to pass your crusading off as objective,
> scientific inquiry. Above all, don’t try to do it in my magazine.”
> “I don’t believe this!” She turned her back on him and
> stalked across the room to fume in front of an oriental print. “So,
> I suppose you want me to soften it, or some such nonsense.” She
> raised a warning finger. “I don’t believe in that. And I didn’t
> think you did either; call pseudo-science pseudo-science--that
> was the Skeptical Review’s ideal.”
> “This is beyond softening, Lissa. Your methods, the tactics
> you espouse...”
> She spun to face him. “What’s wrong with my tactics?”
> Content With the Mysterious                                       141
> 
> He covered his face, rubbing at a headache that was trying
> to gain a foothold in his brainpan. He groaned.
> “What do you mean, ‘they’re low?’”
> “I didn’t say that, I just...groaned. I’ve got a headache.”
> “Which I’m responsible for, no doubt. And I heard you, clear
> as a bell. You accused me of using low tactics.”
> “You heard what you expected to hear. I groaned. But you’re
> right. They were low.” He pulled his hands away from his face
> and tapped the manuscript. “Infiltrating their ranks, attending
> their meetings, even offering to give seminars or work on the
> newsletter, passing yourself off as a ‘true believer’—all so you
> can debunk them. You advocate lying-”
> “Ken, everything they stand for is a lie.”
> He opened his mouth.
> “And don’t you dare say ‘two wrongs don’t make a right.’”
> “I guess I don’t need to—you just took the words right out
> of my mouth. And you’re right. It’s tantamount to lying on
> behalf of the truth. I find that hypocritical. I certainly can’t
> advocate a debunking agenda in the pages of the Skeptical
> Review.”
> “Debunking is too strong a term. I was investigating.”
> Ken picked up the manuscript, flipped to the last page.
> “‘Once you’ve gained yourself a reputation as a true believer, it
> may be a while before the locals tumble to the fact they’ve
> invited a hat pin onto the Hindenberg.’”
> She smiled. “Clever, isn’t it?”
> He shook his head. “Clever debunking, Lissa. You were
> intentionally setting out to explode myths—having already
> decided they were myths. That’s bias. It’s prejudice. It is not good
> scientific investigation.”
> “You want me to rewrite it.”
> “Are you willing to lose the smug tone? Are you willing to
> ask questions without supplying the answers?”
> 142                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Wait a minute. Are you telling me to re-conduct my
> interviews, my tests?”
> “Not all of them. Several of them would stand up just fine, if
> you reported the results more objectively. Although...”
> “Although, what?” she asked warily.
> “You did seem to go out of your way to make your
> participants...uncomfortable.”
> “I used a scientific facility.”
> “You subjected a woman with a verified formaldehyde
> allergy to the chemicals in a lab. She was, in your words,
> ‘demonstrably uncomfortable.’ You cite fear of failure. Maybe it
> was because her mucous membranes were swelling up and her
> stomach was turning over. She still did better than fifty percent
> on the aura readings.”
> “I will not redo my research. And as for the interviews and
> confrontations—I can’t just throw them out. They’re what gives
> the article punch. I will not rewrite it.”
> “Fine. Then sell it to a cult-basher. I won’t print it.” He
> tossed the manuscript to the edge of his desk.
> “Fine. Someone else will.”
> “I’ve no doubt. As I said, it’s well-written.”
> She snatched up the article and her notebook and tucked
> both under one arm. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re suited to
> editing a skeptical journal. Maybe the National Tattler would be
> more your style. Or maybe the UFO Times.” She turned and
> headed for the door.
> Oh, great, he thought. This ought to be good for about three days
> of silence.
> “I’ll talk to you again in about a week...if you’re lucky,” she
> said, and was gone.
> Content With the Mysterious                                   143
> 
> �����
> 
> (August 20—Interview: Dr. Petra Genoa, Ph.D. conducted
> by Kenneth Shaw of the Skeptical Review, Subject: precognitive
> experiences.)
> 
> SR:   Would you call yourself a true believer?
> 
> PG:   A true believer? In what?
> 
> SR:   In psychic phenomena.
> 
> PG:   That’s an awfully broad area. Could you be more specific?
> 
> SR:   Alright. Extra-sensory perception.
> 
> PG:   If by that you mean do I believe there are more than five
> senses—yes.
> 
> SR:   Would you call yourself a psychic?
> 
> PG:   Would you call yourself a dreamer?
> 
> SR:   Excuse me?
> 
> PG:   Sometimes you dream. Does that mean you define
> yourself as a dreamer?
> 
> SR:   I see your point; but do you believe you have psychic
> powers?
> 
> PG:   Now there’s a loaded term: powers. I believe I have
> experienced extra-sensory awareness. I don’t know if I can
> lay claim to powers.
> 
> SR:   What sort of experiences are we talking about?
> 144                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> PG:   Knowing something was going to happen in advance, for
> example.
> 
> SR:   Precognition?
> 
> PG:   (nodding) Yes, that’s a fairly precise term.
> 
> SR:   And you’ve experienced this often?
> 
> PG:   More often than most people I’ve interviewed, yes. I have
> maybe, oh, one or two episodes per month. (laughing) I
> seem to have them most often when I’m ovulating.
> 
> SR:   Seriously?
> 
> PG:   Seriously.
> 
> SR:   Describe a precognitive episode for me.
> 
> PG:   The first one that really got my attention was the day of
> my high-school graduation. I was sitting there, during the
> ceremony, when I had this sudden conviction that the girl
> sitting next to me—a close friend—was going to lose her
> father that night.
> 
> SR:   It just came out of the blue, then? You weren’t thinking
> about your friend?
> 
> PG:   No, I wasn’t. And I felt horribly guilty. I mean, what a
> thought to have about a friend’s father! I almost said
> something, but—good God—what do you say? ‘Gosh,
> Rose, I just had the weirdest thought...’”
> 
> SR:   What happened?
> 
> PG:   Her father was killed in a car wreck on the way to the
> graduation. I remember the look on her face when she
> Content With the Mysterious                                        145
> 
> realized he was late. She kept glancing out the door, while
> I sat there and just about peed my pants in anguish.
> 
> SR:   And that was the first time you had that awareness?
> 
> PG:   No. That was when I realized...suspected I had some sort
> of...sensitivity. You see, before, it was always positive. I’d
> get the sudden feeling that I’d win a tennis match or an
> essay contest or receive an unexpected present or get a call
> from someone I hadn’t heard from for a long time. That
> was the first time I couldn’t explain it away as wishful
> thinking.
> 
> SR:   The dark side of ESP.
> 
> PG:   You could say that.
> 
> SR:   Doesn’t your belief in ESP conflict with your position as a
> professor of psychology?
> 
> PG:   Now, I happen to know that you’re a philosophical theist.
> Doesn’t your belief in a Deity conflict with your position
> as the editor of the Skeptical Review?
> 
> SR:   I’m not against belief, just ignorant belief.
> 
> PG:   Can’t argue with that.
> 
> SR:   To what do you attribute your precognitive experiences?
> 
> PG:   I don’t know. I tend to think it’s a sense we have, or a
> talent, maybe, that develops or fails to develop just like
> any other.
> 
> SR:   Why don’t I have it?
> 
> PG:   Can you sing?
> 146                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> SR:   What? Not really.
> 
> PG:   Me neither. But I know many people who can. If they can
> sing...
> 
> SR:   Okay. But isn’t it more like sight or smell?
> 
> PG:   I don’t know. Is it? Or is it like the ability to make music
> or write...or conduct interviews? What makes one person
> a brilliant performer and another totally graceless? People
> ask me to explain my awareness. But how do you explain
> that sort of thing? How do you explain Mozart’s
> musicality? The man pulled symphonies right out of his
> head and put them on paper—every note right the first
> time. You suggest it’s like sight. Fine. We can explain
> blindness, even if we can’t always cure it. We’ve yet to
> explain Mozart.
> 
> SR:   Would you be willing to have your abilities tested under
> controlled scientific conditions?
> 
> PG:   Willing, certainly. But you see, I’m a skeptic, too. I’m
> skeptical about the ability to be precognitive on demand—
> mine or anyone else’s. I’ve never been able to sit down
> and meditate my way to precognition. It’s like trying to
> pull in my favorite radio station; sometimes it comes in
> clear as a bell—sometimes it’s pure static. And it’s
> subjective as hell. I don’t believe it when someone walks
> up to me and says, ‘I see auras.’ I’ve personally never seen
> one.
> 
> SR:   But you have foretold the future.
> 
> PG:   Don’t put words in my mouth. I’ve had brief,
> uncontrollable precognitive episodes. Like...like sneezes.
> Can you sneeze on command?
> Content With the Mysterious                                      147
> 
> SR:   If someone waved ragweed under my nose, maybe. So,
> you don’t believe ESP can be scientifically verified?
> 
> PG:   I’m not sure. Maybe someday we’ll be able to set up the
> right conditions or ask the right questions or take the right
> measurements. So far, we haven’t been able to. No psychic
> ragweed, I guess.
> 
> SR:   Some people are of the opinion that if you can’t measure
> something scientifically, it doesn’t exist.
> 
> PG:   But doesn’t that call into question the existence of a lot of
> things we take for granted? Things that are critical to the
> functioning of our society?
> 
> SR:   Such as?
> 
> PG:   Well, at the risk of sounding smarmy—love, truth, trust,
> honor, loyalty—that sort of thing. Even musical or artistic
> talent.
> 
> SR:   Some people might say that’s not the same thing.
> 
> PG:   How do they know? If the thing’s not measurable, if it’s as
> subjective as love or loyalty, how can anyone say what it
> is or isn’t if they haven’t experienced it? I’ve experienced it
> and I don’t know what it is. I only know it is. I can’t
> convince the scientific community it is, because they can’t
> measure it. They can’t convince me it isn’t, because I’ve
> experienced it.
> 
> SR:   What about evidence, though? Mozart provided evidence
> of his talent. He composed symphonies that orchestras
> worldwide are still playing. What evidence can you
> adduce that you really have had these experiences?
> 148                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> PG:   Good question. I’m conducting an ongoing project
> wherein subjects, such as myself, record their precognitive
> impressions. Altogether, I’ve gathered a study sample of
> fifteen other people who share this, um, little affliction.
> We have a co-monitoring system in place. When someone
> in the program has an episode, they call their assigned
> monitor and describe it. The description is recorded and
> logged and we wait and see what happens. If the event
> occurs, the monitor signs an affidavit and we attach any
> corroborating evidence to the file. It’s the best we can do
> for now.
> 
> SR:   Measuring the Mozart factor.
> 
> PG:   Measuring the Mozart factor. I like that. Can I use it?
> 
> Ken flicked the notebook from play mode to record and
> added some voice notes, watching the words march across the
> flat display.
> “Be it noted that I did look over Dr. Genoa’s documentation
> and interviewed two project monitors. Neither of them had ever
> experienced any of the phenomena under study. In fact, they
> viewed themselves as being originally skeptical or, at best,
> neutral to the subject of ESP. One of the ‘sensitives’ had an
> eighty-two percent accuracy rate over thirty-two recorded
> events; however, I must note that some of the predictions are
> vague enough as to be unfalsifiable. And, of course, this still
> amounts to hearsay evidence and necessitates trust in the
> perceptions and scruples of the group monitors.”
> Ken pondered that. Is that what it would always come down
> to—having to trust the word of a go-between? And, reluctant to
> do that, would he only trust what he, himself, perceived or
> observed?
> He had keyed the phone program before he thought about
> what he was going to say and gave the computer Dr. Genoa’s
> Content With the Mysterious                                         149
> 
> number. To his surprise, she answered her own phone, her dark
> face appearing immediately on his display.
> “Doctor! I’m surprised to catch you in your office.”
> She smiled—a flash of brilliantly white teeth. “I suppose I
> should say I had a feeling you’d call.”
> “Did you?”
> “No.”
> He returned the smile. “I have an offer for you. I’d like to
> serve as a monitor for your project.”
> “Really. Are you from Missouri, by any chance?”
> “Close—Alaska. And yes, I do want to be shown. I’d like to
> take on a couple of your most accurate people. Victor Chin, I
> think, and you, if you’d be willing.”
> She nodded. “All right. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
> “Great. Now, I noticed that your episodes tend to be cyclic-”
> She laughed, dreadlock bells jingling against her earrings.
> “Cyclic psychics, huh? I sure hope the media doesn’t get hold of
> that.”
> “I am the media, remember?”
> “No. You are a respectable scientific journal. The Tattler is
> media.”
> “Thanks.” He appreciated her making the distinction. “Now,
> as I was saying, I was wondering if you’d thought of setting up
> some sort of brain activity scan during your most susceptible
> periods.”
> She seemed immediately open to the idea. “Brain Pattern
> Monitoring? I’d thought of that, actually. U.C. Davis has a new
> remote BPM that can be worn away from the hospital while it
> relays brain activity back to the facility. They’ve been using it to
> monitor seizure-prone patients, looking for an early-warning
> signal. Unfortunately, they’re reluctant to let it out of the house.
> Especially for—oh, shall we say—frivolous projects.”
> “But, you’d be willing to wear a scanner?”
> 150                                                    I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “You bet.”
> “Fine. I’ll see if I can call in some favors.”
> The expression on her face changed. “Ken, are you ready to
> start your job as monitor?”
> “Sure...I guess. Why?”
> “Your wife is going to experience some sort of trauma.”
> “What?” The tone of quiet certainty at once chilled him and
> raised his suspicions. “Emotional or physical?”
> “Emotional... Art gallery. I had a sudden impression of an
> art gallery or museum or exhibition maybe.”
> “When?”
> She shook her head with a sibilant clash of bells and
> earrings. “I don’t know. I rarely know, exactly. Usually my
> range tops out at about three months. Can you save this
> conversation to a file?”
> Ken nodded, righting himself emotionally. “Can you be any
> more specific about the nature of the trauma?”
> “Fear. I know she’ll be frightened. I don’t know why.”
> Later, when he viewed the conversation log file, Ken
> couldn’t help but wonder if Petra Genoa’s prediction was
> entirely coincidental. Could she be playing on his emotions?
> He went back to the case histories he’d gotten from her, in
> search of some sort of proximity effect. He found it; the
> precognitive episodes for the three subjects he studied related
> preponderantly to people they were in close contact with either
> physically or emotionally.
> He had to smile at himself. His skeptic’s sensibilities told
> him he should welcome evidence that he was being
> manipulated, but he knew such evidence would only
> disappoint. In some peculiar way he preferred being disturbed
> by Dr. Genoa’s prediction to being disappointed by her
> duplicity.
> “What did you say?”
> Content With the Mysterious                                     151
> 
> Ken peered up at Lissa. She was gazing at him distractedly
> across the width of the coffee table, the display of her own
> notebook casting odd light-shadows across her face.
> “I didn’t say anything...I don’t think. I thought I just cleared
> my throat.”
> “You muttered something about predictions. What are you
> working on?”
> “Oh, I interviewed Professor Genoa Tuesday.”
> “Petra Genoa, the psychic psychologist? They should revoke
> that woman’s Ph.d.”
> “She graduated at the top of her class.”
> “What good is that when she ends up retiring her brain to
> New Age mumbo-jumbo?”
> “How do you know that’s what she’s done? Have you
> talked to her?”
> “I read an article on her in one of those true believer
> magazines.”
> Ken failed to muzzle his laughter. “And you trusted their
> journalism? C’mon, Liss. Normally, you wouldn’t believe a
> word they printed. Why don’t you read my interview?”
> “Maybe I will.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t think
> she’s legit?”
> “I’m reserving judgment until I’ve finished my own study.
> I’m monitoring the project she’s conducting in precognitive
> episodes.”
> “You’re kidding.”
> “Not at all. Who better to monitor alleged psychic activity
> than a skeptic?”
> She smiled. “Right, as always. You were right about my
> article, too.”
> He raised startled brows at that most un-Lissa-like
> admission. “I was?”
> 152                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The smile broadened to a cat-eat-cream grin. “I did sell it
> somewhere else. Elaine Dehaut bought it for Aware.” She bent
> back to her work.
> He didn’t remind her that Aware had a reputation as a forum
> for a fanatical ultra-skeptical fringe. Ken hated to admit the
> existence of that element within the skeptical community, but
> they were there—those who had ceased pursuing the truth in
> favor of pursuing agreement with their own personal
> worldview. Of course, everyone did that to one degree or
> another. Everyone made assumptions, betrayed bias, and
> struggled with prejudice.
> For some reason, that conjured the Biblical story of Jacob
> struggling with the angel. Jacob, he recalled, was Hebrew for
> “deceiver.” Prejudice was certainly that; it could make an
> unwitting fanatic of anyone.
> 
> �����
> 
> She hated dreams like that. She’d had mercifully few of
> them. They disoriented her, made her feel ill-at-ease in the
> waking world. “Night-ponies,” she called them. Dark dreams,
> but not black enough to qualify as nightmares. They were
> usually murky, leaving nothing behind but a smudgy residue
> studded with tiny pockets of lucid detail.
> Lissa could still vividly recall one such moment when she
> hung above her bed, looking down on her own sleeping form,
> Kenny snuggled beside her beneath the covers. She remembered
> thinking there should be hair in her eyes, but there wasn’t. Nor
> was there a hand to wipe it away with.
> She’d had the impression that she was rising; the figures
> below stirred slightly, growing smaller. She had feared a
> collision with the ceiling, but a “glance” upward revealed only
> Content With the Mysterious                                          153
> 
> an endless, star-studded sky. She looked down again and saw
> her own rooftop.
> Funny, she thought, I’ve never seen it from this angle before.
> Bright orange fabric fluttered against the chimney. She
> remembered seeing the next-door neighbor’s boy flying a kite
> that color the weekend before.
> She began to move upward again, the rooftop receding too
> quickly. Terror lanced through her and she fell—no, was sucked
> down an invisible funnel through the rooftop into bed. She woke
> with an electric jolt, sitting, sweating, cold and clammy, heart
> haring.
> She hated dreams like that. Associated them with stress. She
> associated this one with the stress over her most recent article.
> She grimaced, close to admitting to herself that Ken was
> right about more than its salability. She hadn’t meant to assume
> such a cynical tone. She really had set out to be objective, but the
> very thought of anyone granting credibility to that supernatural
> twaddle set up her hackles. The thought of people like Ken and
> Petra Genoa—educated people, bright people--buying into it
> made her want to rage.
> And there was no relief from that rage in her morning
> schedule. She had two interviews lined up—an NDE and a
> Chinese healer.
> The Chinese healer was first; a whimsical diversion.
> Professor Lin Wen was a scholarly gentleman who conversed as
> comfortably about Tantric Buddhism as he did about chemistry
> —a subject in which he held one of his two doctoral degrees. He
> discussed how the spiritual essence, or qi, possessed by an
> individual could be read to predict fortune, and channeled to
> change it.
> Lissa asked how he, a man of science, could accept and even
> promote something of which he had no scientific proof. He
> 154                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> smiled and asked if she had scientific proof for everything she
> believed to be true.
> “No,” she said, “but someone has.”
> “Ah,” Wen responded. “Then you depend upon the science
> of others.”
> “Most of us do, largely because scientific ideas are
> falsifiable. Qi isn’t.”
> “Ah,” he said and looked inscrutably archetypal. He parted
> from her with avuncular concern, prompted, he claimed, by the
> lack of balance in her qi.
> Great, she thought wryly. No more PMS. Now I can just say
> my qi is out of balance.
> Her second interview took her to a pleasant neighborhood of
> neat, older homes where she expected to hear of Julie Pascale’s
> near-death experience. The case was particularly interesting to
> her because of the media coverage it had received eight years
> before. It was still a high profile case—high impact, if she could
> break it. But when Pascale’s husband met her at the door, she
> knew she was going to be disappointed.
> “I’m sorry,” he said, “but my wife has changed her mind.”
> “About the near-death experience?” The sarcasm was born
> of frustration.
> He frowned. “No. About the interview. She’s not feeling
> well.”
> “I can reschedule.”
> “I’ll tell Julie that. I’m sure she has your number.”
> And I’ll bet I have hers, Lissa thought irritably. She ought to
> congratulate herself, really; another true believer ducking the
> hard gaze of rationality. But she didn’t feel congratulatory. Julie
> Pascale had a particularly well-documented set of NDE
> experiences and Lissa had been looking forward to a one-on-one
> confrontation. She drove home accompanied by acute
> disappointment.
> Content With the Mysterious                                       155
> 
> She was pulling into the driveway when a momentary
> recollection of last night’s odd dream drew her eyes to the
> chimney. A splash of orange caught her eye. She hit the brakes
> too hard and the Saab’s tires yelped in protest.
> Nestled against her chimney was the neighbor boy’s orange
> kite.
> She was fascinated. This was exactly the sort of thing that a
> ‘true believer’ would take as a psychic experience, yet she knew
> she had merely dreamed, spinning off stress and the events of
> the previous day. Though she didn’t consciously recall having
> seen the kite on the roof, she certainly could have caught a
> glimpse of it, and she definitely recalled seeing it in flight.
> She was in bed, asleep, before Ken got home. She
> half-dreamed him entering the room in a reptilian slough of
> textile, kissing her cheek, brushing his teeth, slipping into bed
> beside her. She dreamed it from above—spider’s eye view—and
> he was no more than settled in when she was out on the lawn
> watching a peculiar ritual.
> A car pulled up across the street and several young men,
> black-clad, got out. Whispering and laughing, they darted
> among the neighbor’s trees and shrubs, trailing gauzy webs of
> white.
> Amusement bubbled. They were teepee-ing the Rathman’s
> house! Feeling as if she were afloat, Lissa drew nearer to the car
> —a dark green Saturn Electra.
> A light went on inside the house and the boys fled with a
> slamming of car doors. Voices distracted. Not, oddly, the
> shouting of irate neighbors. She had expected that. She did not
> expect the well-modulated tones of conversation.
> A woman’s voice: “Photography has always been a passion
> of mine. Since I was a child, really. Now, it’s my way of
> observing and absorbing the world.”
> 156                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Lissa’s dream faded to black in a wild sensation of sucking
> speed—Alice down the rabbit-hole. The voice in the black
> changed: “Recently, you absorbed the sights of Tannu Tuva and
> showed Westerners what must surely be a lost world—a
> Shambala. What is remarkable about these photos is the
> contradictory senses of alieness and familiarity they evoke. I am
> looking at a photo of a group of standing stones. Near them is a
> circular tent-”
> “That’s called a yurt.”
> (Striped fabric, sheepskin, an odd wooden door.)
> “A yurt. Before the yurt are a couple of young men in loin
> cloths doing a dance that looks like, well, like the funky
> chicken.”
> (Stocky, muscular bodies, arms akimbo, grins the sole
> adornment save for skillfully tied, fringed cloth. Nearby, an
> audience laughs and applauds, dark eyes glinting.)
> “It’s called the Dance of the Eagle and it’s done to honor the
> patron spirit. They’re preparing to wrestle. The quality of their
> dance will determine which opponent they’re paired with.”
> “I’m out of the shower, Liss.”
> She stirred. Black faded to gray.
> “Describe the next one for me.”
> “C’mon, Liss, up-getting time.”
> (Semi-dark gallery. Black and white photo, struggling
> toward color. A man clad in a combination of feathers, fiber, and
> colorful wood clutches a painted drum.)
> “Chakar O is equal parts shaman and Buddhist bhikku. The
> drum is used not only to accompany the dancers, but to please
> the spirits and call down the bounties of the spiritual realm.”
> (Dancers; they are frozen in mid-step, feathered headdresses
> in mid-bob. They could be Cheyenne or Sioux instead of...)
> Where the hell is Tannu Tuva?
> “Lissa!” The radio snicked off.
> Content With the Mysterious                                       157
> 
> She came fully awake.
> Ken smiled at her. “Welcome to the land of the living. Where
> were you?”
> Lissa stretched and yawned. “At a photo exhibit... What?
> What’s that look?”
> He shook his head. “Nothing. Just...nothing.” He scurried
> downstairs.
> He left before she did and so she sat, vagrant, over breakfast,
> nursing a second cup of coffee. She was rinsing her cup and
> regretting the loss of the Pascale interview when the phone rang.
> She was both surprised and smug when the other woman’s newage-gentle voice came over the line.
> “Ms. Shaw, I’ve thought this over and—and I do want to
> talk to you.”
> Lissa made an immediate appointment, hurrying to gather
> her notebook and scramble out the door. She had backed down
> the driveway and turned the car when she caught sight of the
> Rathman’s house. Slung between their mimosa trees, toilet paper
> fluttered festively in the breeze. Several rolls of the stuff littered
> the lawn.
> Her mind did a double take. Oh, God, I’ve started
> sleep- walking!
> She groaned. Which meant she had wandered out into the
> street in nothing but an oversized t-shirt. She hoped she had
> only gone as far as her bedroom window.
> Behind her, someone honked. She unstuck herself and drove
> to Tiburon.
> 
> �����
> 
> The first thing she noticed about Julie Pascale was the
> vulnerable expression in her over-sized brown eyes. The second
> thing she noticed was that, in crisp linen pants and a silk shirt,
> 158                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> she did not look the least bit New Age-y. The third thing she
> noticed was that she walked with a cane. It was the result, Lissa
> learned, of the same experience that had gifted her with the NDE
> —in this case a near drowning.
> The story was typical in its major points: There was a great
> Light which the subject was drawn toward (“I was drawn to It
> on a—a raft of love. It was the Beloved. Just that.”), other souls
> who milled about between heaven and earth (“They were so
> confused...so lost. They didn’t know where they were.”),
> deceased relatives about whom she learned volumes at a touch
> (“I’d never met my grandfather before, but now, I felt I’d always
> known him.”)
> It was, perhaps, atypical in the angel’s-eye view of Earth
> Julie described—a view that encompassed all people, in all ages,
> working their way toward ever-advancing levels of unity. Yet,
> typically, she was nearly touching the Light when she was sent
> back to Earth/Life in the company of what she described as
> “two souls.” (“They had the most amazing sense of humor.”)
> According to Julie, she came upon herself in the Emergency
> Room at U.C. Davis. (“I was on a gurney, and a doctor—a heart
> specialist named Mead—had been giving me injections of
> adrenaline. He pronounced me dead and started to walk away
> when my GP—Dr. Harris—came in and asked what he was
> doing. He said, ‘I’ve done all I can.’ And Dr. Harris said, ‘Like
> hell you have.’”)
> Dr. Harris pounded on her chest and gave her further
> injections. (“I wanted to shout at him to stop. But he couldn’t
> hear me.”)
> Forty-five minutes after she had drowned, twenty minutes
> after the heart specialist had pronounced her dead, Julie Pascale
> came back to conscious life.
> “It was like being sucked down a drain,” she said.
> Content With the Mysterious                                     159
> 
> Lissa shook off the chill of a dream memory and readied her
> questions.
> 
> LS:   I would think, after forty-five minutes of death, you’d
> have sustained some brain damage.
> 
> JP:   I did. I had to learn to write again and speak in coherent
> sentences. The left side of my body is still weak. Poor Dr.
> Harris. When he came into my hospital room later and
> found me crying, I’m sure he expected some thanks or
> praise. Instead, I showered him with incoherent abuse. I
> wondered how he could dare bring me back. I almost
> hated him for it.
> 
> LS:   What you say you saw in the ER—how close is it to what
> other people recall?
> 
> JP:   You mean how close is it to what really happened? Ask
> my psychologist. Ask Dr. Harris. There was a nurse, too—
> a Mrs. Yamaguchi. I have their signed statements, of
> course, but you might want to talk to them directly.
> 
> LS:   Your psychiatrist—do you still see him?
> 
> JP:   Her, and she’s a psychologist. Yes, I still see her from time
> to time. As friend, not as patient. I have copies of her
> statements as well, if you’d like to see them.
> 
> LS:   You were very thorough.
> 
> JP:   No, Dr. Genoa was.
> 
> LS:   Dr. Genoa? Petra Genoa, the parapsychologist?
> 
> JP:   I don’t think she considers herself that. She certainly
> didn’t when I met her in the hospital. I had a terrible time
> convincing her what happened to me really happened. I’ll
> 160                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> never forget her parting volley the day I was released.
> ‘Take my advice,’ she said, ‘don’t mention this NDE stuff
> to anyone else. Don’t talk about it; don’t even think about
> it. People will think you’re crazy, documentation
> notwithstanding.’ She was right, of course.
> 
> LS:     But you didn’t take her advice.
> 
> JP:     No. I couldn’t not think about it. It changed my life. I had
> to talk about it and wonder at it and pray about it. And I
> had to use it to help other people.
> 
> LS:     How so?
> 
> JP:     I work for a Youth Hotline. We deal with drug abuse,
> domestic violence, suicide prevention—any and all selfdestructive behavior. I try to use my experience to keep
> other young people from ending their lives prematurely.
> 
> LS:     I find that contradictory. If you know what it’s going to be
> like in the next world, if you find it so wonderful, why
> would you want to keep others from experiencing it? In
> fact, why didn’t you contrive to return there yourself?
> 
> JP:     I learned many things through my experience, Ms. Shaw.
> One of them was that the next world isn’t wonderful for
> everyone. Those spiritually confused souls were just that.
> They were unprepared for death—for life in that...realm. I
> also learned that life really is sacred. It’s sacred to the
> Beloved, and therefore, it’s sacred to me. The key word is
> ‘prematurely.’ I want to go Home, but I’ll wait till I’m
> called.
> 
> Listening to the playback, Lissa chuckled. What marvelous
> furnishings decorate the houses of the true believer. A “raft of love”—
> she made a note to call it the “love boat;” God in the persona of
> Content With the Mysterious                                          161
> 
> the Cosmic Lover; disembodied spirits who cracked jokes.
> Cosmic comedy.
> As if the homely details could make it real.
> 
> �����
> 
> Ken stared at the invitation in his hand as if he expected it to
> sprout fangs and bite him. In a sense, it had done just that; the
> graceful script contained a quartet of verbal teeth: Photographic
> Exhibition, Amsted Gallery.
> “Think you two can make it?”
> He looked up into the eager face of his editorial assistant,
> Terri Mendez.
> “I hate to be pushy, but, well, Naomi is my cousin and I
> guess I’m proud of her. She does wonderful work.”
> “I’ll, um, I’ll talk to Lissa. I’m not sure what our plans are
> that weekend.”
> Lie. He knew exactly what their plans were--nothing. He’d
> change that, he decided. A romantic weekend up the coast was
> easy enough to arrange. Lissa need never see the invitation.
> Guilt poked him in the forebrain. Lissa was an adult. An
> adult who hated, above all things, to have decisions made for
> her. That, and the realization that he was granting too much
> credence to something he had every reason to be skeptical of,
> kept him from throwing the invitation away, what made him
> lose track of it until he got home, unloaded his briefcase, spread
> his papers out on the sofa and heard Lissa’s voice say, “Oh,
> what’s this?”
> Ken made his face blank and managed to sound nonchalant.
> “Terri Mendez’s cousin, Naomi Whitehorse, is a photographer.
> That’s an invitation to her exhibit.”
> Lissa’s eyes widened slightly. “Really? I’ve heard of her...I
> think. Sounds interesting. Do you want to go?”
> 162                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He tried not to look wary. “If you do.”
> “Sure. I’d hate to disappoint Terri.”
> She sat down on the arm of the sofa and circled his neck
> with her arms. “So, what’s for dinner, O Domestic God?”
> He shoulders sagged. “Oh, yeah, it’s my night, isn’t it?”
> She looked at his face and laughed. “Never mind. I’ll go
> stick a pin in the phonebook.”
> “Bad for the display,” he said and she laughed again.
> Bemusement tickled him. Lissa was going to an art gallery.
> He couldn’t imagine how that could be a traumatic experience.
> The more he thought about it, the more he thought Petra Genoa
> must have over-reacted.
> Still, he had to allow, he was impressed. He supposed Dr.
> Genoa could have discovered the connection between his
> editorial assistant and the photographer, could have assumed he
> would receive an invitation to the exhibition and would include
> his wife, could have made her prediction as a way of
> manipulating a potential detractor. But Occam’s Razor cut
> against such Machiavellian intrigue where simple coincidence
> would suffice.
> 
> �����
> 
> It was the week from hell. The weird dreams continued,
> leaving her tired and listless. Fatigue made her angry with
> herself and, habitually, she transformed her anger into zeal. She
> composed a sharply skeptical, tongue-in-cheek piece about the
> Chinese healer, but the Pascale NDE, though met with equal
> zeal, yielded only frustration. Her interviews with the doctors,
> nurses and medical attendants on duty during the eight-year-old
> episode corroborated Julie’s account of the scene in the ER. All
> agreed that the girl could not have been physically aware of
> what was going on around her.
> Content With the Mysterious                                       163
> 
> “How can you be so certain?” she’d asked Dr. Harris.
> “She was dead, Ms. Shaw.”
> “Evidently not.”
> The old man had raised a mottled eyebrow. “Then perhaps
> we need to redefine death.”
> Julie’s mother was the one to whom she had first described
> her experience. It was there Lissa expected to find her angle; she
> hoped to surprise a confession from Mrs. Joyce Delaney that she
> had relayed facts to her daughter rather than the other way
> around. She was disappointed.
> Arms folded across her chest, looking uncomfortable in her
> own living room, the older woman insisted she recalled, vividly,
> the day of Julie’s return to wakeful consciousness.
> 
> JD:     She told me. The words that were said, the actions that
> were taken, the medications they gave, even the amounts.
> 
> LS:     After eight years, you’re still convinced of this?
> 
> JD:     Ms. Shaw, I realize people like you—people in your line of
> work, I mean—have a vested interest in making people
> like Julie look foolish and weak-minded, but I couldn’t
> have told her some of that stuff. I wasn’t listening to
> dosages and chemical compositions; my daughter was
> dying right before my eyes. She died right before my eyes
> on that boat dock.
> 
> LS:     I have no desire to make Julie look foolish or
> weak-minded, Mrs. Delaney, and the only thing I have a
> vested interest in is the truth. Isn’t it more likely that you
> simply absorbed more of what you were hearing than you
> thought, and that Julie gleaned what she ‘remembered’
> from the ER from you and other visitors?
> 
> JD:     I did not put ideas into my daughter’s head, Ms. Shaw.
> 164                                           I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> LS:   Yet, Julie told me she had some brain damage that
> necessitated her relearning how to write and speak. How
> could she have relayed so much information to you?
> 
> JD:   She had trouble with some words, some sounds—like her
> tongue was uncoordinated—but she obviously knew what
> had happened to her, and she spoke well enough to
> communicate it.
> 
> LS:   Were the two of you alone when she first told you her
> story?
> 
> JD:   Yes. Does that make a difference?
> 
> The artless question made Lissa embarrassed and angry in
> turns—embarrassed because it did make a difference, angry
> because she hated embarrassment.
> 
> �����
> 
> The ER nurse, Evelyn Yamaguchi, was Lissa’s next
> interview. The woman was nearly as quakingly amazed in
> retrospect as she had been at the time of the incident.
> 
> LS:   In your estimation, how accurate was Ms. Pascale’s
> account of what happened in the ER while she
> was...unconscious?
> 
> EY:   She wasn’t unconscious, dear, she was dead. Accurate--oh,
> my, yes—she was accurate! (rubs her arms) It still gives
> me chills, just to think about it. The conversation between
> Dr. Mead and Dr. Harris was practically word for word;
> the instructions to the nurses (shakes her
> head)...unbelievable.
> 
> LS:   Yes. You were one of the trauma nurses, then.
> Content With the Mysterious                                     165
> 
> EY:     (nodding vigorously) I was with Julie from the time she
> came into the ER until she left ICU.
> 
> LS:     Think about this for a moment, Mrs. Yamaguchi. UCD is a
> teaching institution. Isn’t it possible Julie Pascale
> overheard a team of doctors going over her case history as
> she was regaining consciousness in ICU?
> 
> EY:     Her case history—very possibly. But not the conversations
> and arguments that took place in the ER. No, ma’am.
> Doctors don’t hash over arguments on rounds. They
> discuss treatment, progress, prognosis.
> 
> LS:     What about the nurses?
> 
> EY:     I don’t know if you’ve ever been in intensive care, Ms.
> Shaw, but nurses don’t gossip in the patient’s rooms. That
> only happens in soap operas.
> 
> �����
> 
> There was only one other person Lissa could interview who
> might throw some light on the Pascale story—Dr. Petra Genoa.
> She resisted doing that interview for the simple reason that Petra
> Genoa was not a reliable witness. Her credentials as a
> psychologist, however good they might look on paper, were
> contaminated by her work in parapsychology. They would still
> be impressive to the average reader—if someone of that stature
> could believe in life after death, the logic went, then might it not
> be true?
> Human beings were nothing if not enamored of possibilities.
> That nagged Lissa as she attempted to compile her notes late
> on a Thursday evening. She knew the article wouldn’t be
> complete without Genoa’s input, but she couldn’t bring herself
> to face another immersion into the true believer mentality. It
> 166                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> helped not at all when Ken came home puzzling over the results
> of his tenure as Genoa’s project monitor.
> “I have to ask myself if there isn’t something here, Liss,” he
> said, half to himself. “Something more than can be attributed to
> chance and unfalsifiable predictions. With most of the subjects
> it’s six of one, half-dozen of the other. But this Victor Chin—his
> predictions have been remarkably accurate. This is fascinating.
> I’m hoping that when Dr. Genoa’s BPM is installed we’ll get
> some idea of the brain activity involved when she receives
> precognitive impressions.”
> God, if he could only hear himself—’received precognitive
> impressions!’ He was beginning to sound like he believed in this
> stuff.
> “Coming to bed, Lips?”
> “Huh?” She roused out of a tangle of thought and glanced at
> the staircase. “Uh, not just yet.”
> He sat down across from her on the coffee table, scooting her
> papers and notebook aside. “What’s wrong, Lissa?”
> “Why? Why should something be wrong?”
> “Something shouldn’t. But it is. You look so worn out. You
> toss and turn in your sleep... Maybe you should see a doctor.”
> She did not have a poker face. “I’m doing more than tossing
> and turning, I’m afraid. I’m sleepwalking.”
> “What? I haven’t seen any evidence of it.”
> “How could you? You sleep like a hibernating bear.”
> “Okay, but what makes you think you’re sleepwalking?”
> “I’ve evidently wandered into the yard...on a number of
> nights and seen things going on in the neighborhood.”
> “Such as?”
> “I saw the Rathman’s house get tee-peed. I thought I was
> dreaming, but when I woke up the next morning, lo and behold,
> the Rathman’s house was...well, you saw it.”
> “They didn’t see you—the kids who tee-peed the house?”
> Content With the Mysterious                                    167
> 
> Lissa nearly giggled. She must’ve been standing right out in
> the street...wearing only an extra-large t-shirt with the 49’ers
> quarterback on it. “I don’t know.”
> Ken looked down at his hands, folded between his knees.
> “Well, I have to admit, log that I am, even I’ve noticed you’ve
> been had some pretty restless nights. You look exhausted. You
> are exhausted,” he added and she realized he was afraid she
> might be physically ill.
> She hastened to agree with him. “I’m pretty drained. I
> suppose I ought to see a doctor.”
> By morning she was convinced of it. Another night of vivid,
> aerial dreams left her wide awake by four AM, waiting for
> sunrise. But a complete physical revealed that, except for
> suffering sleep deprivation, she was perfectly healthy.
> “What causes sleepwalking, doctor?” she asked. “I’ve never
> done it before. Or, at least, I don’t remember doing it. Although,
> I’ve always had unusually vivid dreams.”
> “Actually, not remembering is a normal function of
> sleepwalking.” Dr. Velasquez leaned back in his chair, looking
> cool, unruffled, and relaxed. “Retaining any memory of the
> events is highly unusual. As to what causes it—we don’t
> precisely know. We do know it’s a timing problem.”
> “Excuse me?”
> “At times during non-REM sleep a dissociation can occur
> between cognition and behavior. What that means in
> neurological terms is that the upper brain is not responding to
> the signals from the lower brain. The lower brain signals for
> REM sleep; the upper brain doesn’t respond. In the resulting
> confusion, the waking and sleeping ‘worlds’ become intertwined
> and the body begins to act out dreams.”
> Lissa shook her head. “But I’m not acting out dreams. I’m
> walking around seeing things that are actually happening.”
> 168                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Dr. Velasquez considered that. “All right. Could you be
> awake but groggy?”
> “No. No, I’m not awake.”
> “Are you sure?”
> “I’m dreaming. I don’t...walk out through the door, doctor. I
> fly out through the roof.”
> “Which could certainly describe what it feels like as you
> pass from dreaming into partial awakening.”
> Lissa felt suddenly foolish. “That sounds reasonable.”
> Dr. Velasquez, consulting his computer screen, didn’t seem
> to hear her. “You mentioned insomnia. Have you been
> depressed lately?”
> Lissa laughed. “Only about my resistance to sleep—or at
> least to dreaming.”
> “Well, Lissa, there’s nothing physically wrong with you, that
> I can see. Your MRI shows no abnormalities. We could try
> monitoring your sleep.”
> “You mean with electrodes and all that? Why bother? I think
> you’re right. I’m sleepwalking and as I begin to wake up, I
> have...interesting dreams.”
> “Lissa, that’s a symptom, not a cause.”
> “All right. What might cause something like this?”
> “Often sleep disorders are caused by stress, which is
> something for which I often prescribe meditation.”
> Lissa, snatched from the verge of relief, ogled. “Meditation?
> You’ve got to be kidding.”
> “Not at all. Concentration on something other than your
> anxieties—whether it be a pretty scene or a pleasant memory or
> an actual spiritual mantra—“
> “Please, doctor—this New Age stuff—“
> “There’s nothing New Age about it. Meditation is as old as
> man’s desire for control and serenity in his life.”
> “I do not believe in meditation.”
> Content With the Mysterious                                      169
> 
> The doctor gave her a look he probably reserved for
> recalcitrant children who refused to take their meds. “Fine. Then
> I’ll prescribe some relaxation exercises. Can you handle that?”
> 
> �����
> 
> Can I handle that? Lissa stared at the prescription. It outlined
> a series of exercises (Toe-clenches, for godsake!), and recommended
> that she see a therapist if her insomnia and anxiety continued.
> She held out against doing the exercises for two hours of
> what promised to be a sleepless night.
> “What are you doing?” Ken asked drowsily.
> “I’m meditating,” she growled and rebelliously clenched
> and unclenched her toes.
> 
> �����
> 
> She held out against the idea of seeing a therapist until the
> following Tuesday. The therapist, a moon-faced, smiling woman
> who put her instantly at ease, probed her stress levels and asked
> about recent traumas.
> Lissa couldn’t cite anything but the argument with Ken over
> the article. It hardly ranked as a trauma, but it still rankled.
> “You’ve never argued with your husband over a piece of
> work before?”
> Lissa shrugged. “Certainly. But he’s never condemned
> anything I’ve done out-of-hand before.”
> “Is that what you feel he’s done—condemned you out-ofhand?”
> “Me? No, he wasn’t condemning me, just the article.”
> “You said he called you a fanatic.”
> “He claims he didn’t. He says he yawned or hiccupped
> something and I heard what I expected to hear.”
> 170                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “What do you think of that?”
> “I think he called me a fanatic and then felt guilty about it.”
> “Do you think he was right?”
> “You mean, am I a fanatic? No. Of course not. No more than
> he is. I’m just committed to the scientific paradigm.”
> The doctor made a few notes, then asked, “What about past
> traumas? Childhood traumas, for example?”
> “Like what?”
> “The death of a loved one. A terrifying personal experience.”
> Lissa shrugged, trying to relax suddenly tense shoulders.
> “No more than anyone else. I...fell out of a tree once and broke
> my arm. My father died when I was twelve.”
> The doctor was reading her face. “You attach no particular
> significance to these events?”
> She did, as it happened, but shook her head. She had fallen
> out of the tree into the swirling waters of a rain-swollen river.
> She had been in the tree because the plane she was riding in
> crashed into the South Platte. Her father had died in that crash.
> She wondered why she was withholding from Dr. Van
> Owen even the fact that the two events were related; but
> wondered only fleetingly. She was being contrary because it was
> her nature to be contrary. She didn’t like people digging around
> inside her—resented the idea that a stranger might know things
> about her she did not know about herself. She was not
> convinced, she realized, that the beads and rattles used by
> modern psychiatrists worked any better than the ones used by
> their more primitive forebears.
> Dr. Van Owen veered from the discussion of PTD onto a
> completely unexpected tack. “Your description of floating or
> soaring through the ceiling of your room, the vividness of the
> detail you remember, none of this is consistent with
> sleepwalking. It is consistent with lucid dreaming or a classic
> out-of-body experience.”
> Content With the Mysterious                                        171
> 
> “A-a what?”
> Van Owen raised her hands. “Not that I’m advancing that as
> a diagnosis, but you might want to see someone who’ll at least
> consider it within the realm of possibility. I have a colleague--a
> Dr. Genoa—”
> “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”
> “You’ve heard of her?”
> “Only too often. I’m sorry, Dr. Van Owen. I can’t take the
> woman seriously.”
> “She’s a brilliant therapist.”
> “And a promoter of pseudo-science.”
> Van Owen gave her a long, steady look. “Well, you may
> have a point. Obviously you’re not comfortable with that
> approach. That’s fine. If you’re willing, we’ll just continue on
> and see what we can do.”
> That wasn’t much. Dr. Van Owen seemed to know Lissa was
> holding back and Lissa, knowing that to be true, was distracted
> to the point of impatience. She was relieved when the session
> was over, and did not make another appointment.
> The weekend found Lissa high on relief. For whatever
> reason, after her visit to Dr. Van Owen, she ceased having the
> vivid dreams. After two nights of uninterrupted sleep, she was
> nearly giddy and ready for a night out on the town.
> Saturday evening they dined at the Equinox and strolled the
> Embarcadero. Oddly, the visit to the Amsted Gallery took some
> urging on Lissa’s part. Normally, Ken was eager to share his
> colleagues’ moments of pride and triumph. This time he was
> noticeably reluctant.
> They arrived at the Amsted and were met just inside by an
> effusive Terri Mendez. While she engaged Ken in conversation,
> Lissa wandered the gallery walls, gazing at her cousin’s
> photographs. Pastorals and portraits, alike, centered on the
> people. The people had engaging eyes and shy smiles. They
> 172                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> were old and young, radiant, callused. Their faces spoke
> volumes about the nature of life in places far from cosmopolitan
> San Francisco—places Lissa had never heard of.
> She entered a cubicle dedicated to the photographer’s
> excursion through the wilds of Mongolia and found herself face
> to face with a culture that was a curious mosaic of native
> American and Asian. Peculiar music accompanied the exhibit—
> drums, voices and eerie flutes.
> Fascinated, Lissa moved from frame to frame, reading about
> the culture of an unknown people; women who worked from
> dawn to dusk at every task imaginable, men who trained their
> throats to whistle dual tones.
> That’s what I’m hearing, she realized, and paused to study a
> photograph of the choir. The only instruments were drums; all
> other music was performed with voice and the strange split
> tones the Tuvali men produced in their throats.
> She shook her head in amazement and turned to view
> another photo. In it, a group of young men danced the funky
> chicken.
> Lissa’s heart clenched, cold, in her chest. She knew this
> picture. She knew each face—the young man with the bashful
> smile whose loin cloth was too small by half; the old woman
> with the gap-grin; the dignified village elder seated before his
> striped, multi-hued yurt. She knew each standing stone, too, and
> every carved design.
> Her memory at once seized on a distant, waking dream, but
> reason denied that tenuous connection.
> Deja vu.
> Why then, the certainty that somewhere in this room was a
> photograph of a shamanist ritual—that amid the pounding of
> drums, feet, and hearts sat a man who was both shaman and
> Buddhist monk, a man whose face she knew to its last chiseled
> line?
> Content With the Mysterious                                     173
> 
> The image conjured, she moved her eyes along the
> linen-covered walls until the picture in her mind’s eyes found a
> match. A perfect match. Down to the last long feather in the
> crown of the shaman’s ornate headdress; down to the gleaming
> gold cap in his upper row of teeth; down to the eagle’s-head
> drum mallet with which he beat his painted drum.
> Horse, said Lissa’s insistent memory. He call it a horse.
> Her heart steadied. “This is ridiculous.”
> “There you are!” Ken’s voice sounded strained.
> No, she just imagined it because she was strained.
> “What’s the matter, honey? You look like you’ve seen a
> non-existent earthbound spirit.”
> She didn’t laugh at the joke. “These photos...I’ve seen them
> before.”
> “How could you? This is Naomi’s first exhibit since she
> came back from the Russias.”
> “Well, I must have seen them on TV, then, or in a
> magazine.”
> Terri Mendez entered the cubicle in the company of a taller,
> dark-haired woman with a tanned face. Lissa all but leapt at her.
> “You’re the photographer?”
> The tall woman smiled, nodding. “I’m Naomi Whitehorse,
> yes.”
> Lissa returned the smile, dry lips sticking to her teeth. “My
> husband and I were just debating what magazine we’ve seen
> these photos in.”
> Naomi glanced at her cousin. “None yet, I hope. I’m due to
> have a spread in Smithsonian next month, but nothing before
> that.”
> “Oh, well, I suppose it must have been on TV then.”
> Naomi shook her head. “I haven’t had any television
> coverage...yet,” she added, crossing her fingers. “I did do a radio
> interview several weeks ago, though.”
> 174                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Ken was nodding, “I remember that. It aired on Fresh Art—
> the morning show.”
> Lissa remembered too, then. Really remembered. The foggy
> dream voices, the vivid dream images. “I’m...positive it had to
> be a visual medium. I’d swear I’ve seen these photos before.”
> Naomi Whitehorse shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s
> impossible. I’ve only done the one radio interview since I came
> home. There were some newspaper stories on the opening, but
> no photos were shown.”
> “She described the photographs though,” Terri offered.
> “Yes. Yes, between the moderator and I, we described these
> two in some detail.” Naomi indicated the wrestlers and the
> shaman.
> Lissa felt a surge of relief. “Oh, of course, I remember now. I
> was just waking up. You described them in such vivid detail—
> the-the images on the standing stones; the shaman with the gold
> tooth, drumming away on his horse.” She was gabbling and she
> knew it, but the passing of that horrible moment of weirdness
> was worth the minor embarrassment.
> Naomi’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you know something about the
> Tannu Tuva culture, then. Most people would have called that a
> tom-tom.”
> Lissa was confused. “I’ve never heard of Tannu Tuva. You
> called it a horse during the interview.”
> Naomi gave her cousin another glance. What’s wrong with
> this woman? it whispered. “No,” she said, “I didn’t. In fact, I
> didn’t describe it at all. I described the dancers in great detail.
> But I know I never used that terminology to describe the
> shaman’s drum.”
> “You did describe the shaman, though; his headdress, his
> gold tooth—”
> Naomi Whitehorse was staring at her now. “Honestly, I
> never described him in that detail.”
> Content With the Mysterious                                      175
> 
> “But I saw—” Lissa swallowed. She sounded so desperate.
> Three pairs of eyes were on her like hot little spotlights. “I
> realize how silly this sounds.”
> Naomi shook her head. “Not at all. I’m a firm believer in the
> mysteries of the human spirit. You must have heard the
> broadcast and somehow visualized what I was seeing as I
> described the photos. Have you had that sort of psychic
> experience before?”
> “Psychic experience?” Lissa tried to laugh and choked
> instead. “That’s absurd.”
> “Is it?” countered Naomi. “Why?”
> “I’m not allowed to have psychic experiences, I’m a skeptic.”
> “A skeptic?” Naomi echoed. “About what, exactly?”
> “About all this: psychic experiences, magic, the mystical.”
> Naomi’s expression went from warm to chill. “My Tuvali
> friends would argue the reasonableness of that skepticism. They
> live their lives surrounded by the mystical—as did my
> ancestors.”
> That observation ended the conversation. Terri Mendez
> swept her cousin away with nervous glances at Ken, while Lissa,
> hot-faced, made her way to the buffet table.
> “You probably think I’m going nuts,” she murmured to Ken
> over hors-d’oevres.
> “No.”
> “It’s just a vivid imagination coupled with exhaustion.”
> “Is that what Dr. Van Owen thought it was? Her office left a
> message for you at home, asking if you wanted to make another
> appointment. What’s this all about, Lissa? Is it the
> sleepwalking?”
> “That and some other stuff.” She told him then, about the
> weird bouts of dejá vu that seemed to occur with increasing
> regularity. “I’m thinking someone is going to say something and
> in the next second, the words pop out of their mouths.”
> 176                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Or not, as the case may be?” He was looking into his punch
> glass, not at her face.
> “What?”
> “You’ve always accused me of saying aloud what I was only
> thinking. But lately, it seems to happen all the time.”
> She stared at him, trying to peek beneath the veil of caution
> that covered his face. “Always? I’ve always done that?”
> He nodded, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “When
> we met, I thought it was cute. Special; like we were on the same
> wavelength. I’ve always liked it. Sometimes I know what you’re
> thinking, too. Proximity effect, I suppose.”
> “Ken, that’s absurd. It’s irrational and it’s unscientific.”
> He shrugged. “So’s human attraction. I’m not going to
> knock it, though. It brought a balding, nerdy guy together with a
> hot, young journalism major. I should argue?”
> He was trying to jolly her. She appreciated and resented it
> simultaneously. “How can you joke about it? How can
> you...court such irrational beliefs?”
> “What beliefs, Lissa? They’re not beliefs, they’re
> observations.”
> Lissa put her glass down before her shaking hands could
> spill its contents. “Maybe I’m going crazy.”
> “Nonsense. What did Dr. Van Owen say?”
> “She was leaning toward post traumatic stress disorder,
> brought on by childhood trauma, I’m pretty sure.”
> “Your father’s death? The plane crash?”
> Bingo. “I...I didn’t tell her about that.”
> “Why ever not?”
> “Just being perverse, I guess. And private. She said my
> dreams sounded to her like a—quote: classic out-of-body
> experience—unquote. She wanted to refer me to—you’re not
> going to believe this—your friend, Dr. Genoa.”
> “You could do worse. Maybe you should see her.”
> Content With the Mysterious                                     177
> 
> “Absolutely not. The woman stands for everything I
> despise--irrationality, pseudo-science, mysticism.”
> “Why do you despise it?”
> She stared at him. “How can you ask that? I thought we
> were involved in the same crusade.”
> He set down his punch. “Do you hear yourself, Lissa?
> ‘Despise,’ ‘crusade.’ Those are words from a zealot’s vocabulary.
> I’m not sure they should be in a skeptic’s.”
> “What words do you recommend I replace them with?”
> “’Doubt,’ maybe. ‘Question.’ And I’ve always felt we were
> involved in more of a quest than a crusade. A search for reality,
> but a search in which we try not to indulge fond, superstitious
> fantasies about the outcome.”
> “I don’t do that,” Lissa denied. “I’m not superstitious and I
> don’t indulge in fantasy.”
> “You don’t? You had no foregone conclusions about what
> your NDE investigation would reveal? You had no prejudice
> about the veracity of Julie Pascale’s experience?”
> She could not swear to that, and knew it, but attempted to
> anyway. “No. I had no preconceptions about Julie Pascale. I
> didn’t label her a fraud. She might have been the victim of
> hallucinations, or delusion; she might have experienced the
> perfectly explainable effects of what happens when a brain shuts
> down for 45 minutes then...reboots. Or she might have been
> dreaming.”
> “Like you’ve been doing?”
> “I...I suppose.”
> “But she couldn’t really have passed into the next world and
> returned.”
> “She was on a gurney in ER.”
> “Don’t be obtuse. ‘Her,’ meaning her soul or spirit or
> whatever you want to call it. You don’t believe a spiritual state
> 178                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> after death is a possibility, hence you conclude, at the outset, that
> her story is false.”
> “Yes.”
> “That’s prejudice, Lissa. You don’t see her story as evidence
> for a possible reality that we simply haven’t plumbed yet. You
> see it as a lie to be debunked. Prejudice.”
> “Rationality.”
> “Bull.”
> 
> �����
> 
> She did not sleep well. The photographs returned to haunt
> her and came to vivid, waking life. At some point, she began to
> have another of the flotation dreams, but rode it only as far as
> the ridgepole before forcing the dream to suck her out of the
> ether and back to bed.
> Sunday night was no better. Monday morning she called
> Petra Genoa’s office.
> “May I ask what this is in regard to?” asked the young man
> who answered her call.
> “I, ah, it has to do with a case Dr. Genoa was involved in
> some years ago. A young woman named Julie Pascale had a
> near-death experience. Dr. Genoa was her therapist. Julie
> recommended I interview Dr. Genoa as part of my
> investigation.”
> Genoa surprised her by seeing her that afternoon. She
> surprised her further by being an attractive young woman in a
> dashiki suit and musically trimmed dreadlocks. The suit was
> topped with an open white lab coat.
> “Are you a medical doctor too?” Lissa asked, shaking the
> other woman’s strong, tapered hand. (Gold fingernails.)
> Content With the Mysterious                                     179
> 
> “Oh, no. They just like their professors to look professorial.
> Since my taste in attire runs to the, ah, individual, they’ve asked
> that I retain the coat.” She tilted her pocket nameplate up and
> glanced at it. “Well, at least I can’t forget my own name.”
> Seated in Professor Genoa’s sunny office, Lissa was caught
> up in the anticipatory tingle of journalistic nerves. She lived for
> that sensation. It peaked as she slipped her notebook into Record
> Audio mode and readied her first question.
> If there was a heaven, Lissa thought, fleetingly, it was this
> moment—perpetual interview.
> 
> LS:   How clear are your memories of the events surrounding
> Julie Pascale’s near-drowning?
> 
> PG:   Crystal clear.
> 
> LS:   This was eight years ago. I have trouble recalling what
> happened eight days ago.
> 
> PG:   This was an event that wrought major changes in my life.
> I’m not likely to forget it.
> 
> LS:   Were you on duty when Julie Pascale was brought in?
> 
> PG:   I was just coming off duty. I got waylaid in the hall and
> asked if I could counsel the family of a drowning victim. I
> was told they were still trying to revive the girl but that
> her chances were slim. I got to the Emergency Room just
> as Dr. Mead pronounced Julie dead.
> 
> LS:   Then you overheard the altercation between Drs. Mead
> and Harris?
> 
> PG:   Yes.
> 
> LS:   And how close was Julie Pascale’s recollection of the
> confrontation?
> 180                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> PG:   Nearly perfect. You said you interviewed Dr. Harris; I’m
> sure he told you as much.
> 
> LS:   Why is it necessary to attribute that to a supernatural
> cause? Couldn’t Julie have overheard, say, a couple of
> nurses or interns discussing the events in ER as she was
> coming around in ICU?
> 
> PG:   Ms. Shaw, we’ve all been party to conversations that
> attempted to describe other conversations. How often is
> the format of such a dialogue ‘he said-she said’
> interspersed with verbatim quotes? One thing Julie
> Pascale demonstrably possesses is an eidetic memory. I
> have to at least entertain the idea that she heard an actual
> conversation, saw facial expressions, observed actions no
> second hand conversation would have detailed, even if it
> had been carried on within her hearing.
> 
> LS:   Then she must have been conscious or semi-conscious in
> the ER.
> 
> PG:   Well, her heart had stopped and her brain waves were nil;
> neither sight nor sound was getting through to her. She
> had, in fact, been declared dead by a highly respected
> cardiac specialist. Even if she had been capable of opening
> her eyes, she accurately described things her physical
> vantage point on the gurney would not have revealed.
> 
> LS:   For example...
> 
> PG:   The fact that the nurse attending Dr. Harris originally
> picked up the wrong IV, noticed it and returned it for the
> appropriate solution. The fact that her Brain Pattern
> Monitor was showing nothing but failing Beta waves.
> Content With the Mysterious                                    181
> 
> LS:   She might have overheard the nurse tell someone she
> almost brought the wrong solution; someone might have
> told her-
> 
> PG:   But they didn’t tell her. I interviewed that nurse—Evelyn
> Yamaguchi. When I told her what Julie claimed to have
> seen, she was shocked and ashamed. She’d never told
> anyone about the mix up. She was just thankful she
> caught her mistake before Julie was harmed. It wasn’t
> something she was proud of.
> 
> LS:   Then someone else must have seen her.
> 
> PG:   Someone did; Julie Pascale.
> 
> LS:   That’s impossible.
> 
> PG:   Is it? You’re obviously convinced it is. A moment ago you
> asked why it was necessary to attribute this to
> supernatural causes. I don’t think they are supernatural. I
> think, because these things happen, they must be
> completely natural. How can any of us—except maybe a
> Julie Pascale—claim to have even an inkling about what
> happens after death, or during sleep, or in any other
> altered state of consciousness? From the perspective of
> twins during the birth process, the firstborn is dead, gone,
> unreachable. Neither could realize, until they reach the
> outside world, that there’s more to life than the womb.
> 
> LS:   So this is a womb-world and we’re all headed for Julie
> Pascale’s raft of love?
> 
> PG:   Let me ask you a question: Why do you so adamantly
> refute Julie’s experience?
> 
> LS:   I’m not refuting it. I’m investigating it.
> 182                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> PG:   No, you’re trying to attribute it to something you can
> comprehend. Maybe it’s incomprehensible...for the time
> being.
> 
> LS:   Oh, I see. It’s what the Catholic Church refers to as a
> ‘mystery.’
> 
> PG:   I’m not Catholic, but it’s what I refer to as a mystery. I’m
> not saying we’ll never understand it, just that we don’t
> now understand it. The child in the womb doesn’t have a
> clue about why she needs eyes. She probably doesn’t
> realize she has them. She certainly couldn’t grasp the
> concept of seeing, let alone the reality of it.
> 
> LS:   So you do believe this is a womb-world and that we’re-—
> what—carrying eyes we don’t know we have, couldn’t
> know if we wanted to, and won’t use until we die?
> 
> PG:   Could be. Could be that rare individuals like Julie get
> their eyes opened a bit. It’s an interesting mystery, don’t
> you think?
> 
> LS:   And you’re content with that?
> 
> PG:   (laughing) Do I have a choice? The science fiction writer,
> Philip K. Dick, said, “We should be content with the
> mysterious, the meaningless, the contradictory, the hostile
> and, most of all, the unexplainably warm and giving...”
> 
> LS:   A lovely quote, but don’t you want the mystery
> explained? Don’t you want to be able to comprehend Julie
> Pascale’s experiences...and your own?
> 
> PG:   Certainly. But I don’t have an agenda that demands it be
> explained in a particular way. I’m content with the
> Content With the Mysterious                                       183
> 
> mysterious, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to clear up
> the mystery. Really, the whole process fascinates me.
> 
> LS:     Hence, your involvement with parapsychology.
> 
> PG:     The term “parapsychology” has a decidedly negative
> connotation. You’ll understand if I avoid using it. I’d like
> to be able to coin a more accurate term, but I’m not much
> good at P.R.
> 
> LS:     But you are good, I’m told, at studying unusual
> phenomena. Just out of curiosity, I’d like to see what you
> make of...some experiences I’ve had over the last couple of
> months.
> 
> PG:     Okay. I’m game.
> 
> Lissa leaned forward to flip her notebook out of record
> mode. She wanted this completely off the record.
> “I’ve been having dreams,” she said. “Dreams wherein I
> seem to be floating out of my bedroom, out of my house,
> sometimes out of my neighborhood. Four or five times I’ve seen
> things happening outside my house that I later find out have
> actually occurred. For example, my across-the-street neighbor’s
> house was tee-peed by a bunch of high-school kids. I saw it in
> my dream—right down to the faces of the kids who did it and
> the car they were driving. The next morning I saw the house had
> actually been tee-peed. What could that have been?”
> Dr. Genoa’s eyebrows raised delicately. “I’d say
> sleepwalking, but somnambulists rarely, if ever, recall their
> wanderings—let alone in that detail.”
> “Rarely. But not ‘never?’”
> Genoa nodded. “The sensation of floating...”
> “Now that sounds similar to what Julie Pascale described,
> doesn’t it?”
> 184                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The dark brows scooted higher. “That was a near-death
> experience. You weren’t dying.”
> “Exactly. I was merely asleep. But you don’t think I’m
> sleepwalking.”
> Genoa shrugged. “It could be lucid dreaming.”
> “Could you define lucid dreaming for me? I want to make
> sure we’re on the same page.”
> “Lucid dreaming takes place in the middle of REM sleep—it
> differs from sleepwalking in that major respect. Lucid dreams
> usually occur in the early morning and are marked by unusual
> lucidity, clarity of thought, the awareness that we are dreaming,
> an ability to direct the action in the dream.”
> Lissa considered that momentarily. “I was directing the
> action somewhat. I was amused that my neighbor’s house was
> under attack by boys armed with toilet paper and I consciously
> moved in for a closer look.”
> “Then what happened?”
> “The neighbors woke up, the boys drove off, I was sucked
> back...um, into another dream.”
> “Sounds like lucid dreaming, except for one important
> detail; what you saw really happened.”
> Lissa toyed with the strap of her notebook. “My...a
> psychiatrist I interviewed said it sounded like a classic out-ofbody experience.”
> “Known in the vernacular as an OBE. Uh-huh. We don’t
> know that OBE’s and lucid dreams aren’t related phenomena. In
> some people, they seem to be practically interchangeable.”
> “Yes, but lucid dreams are in the realm of accepted
> psychology. Out-of-body experiences are psychic supposition.”
> “As recently as 1990 lucid dreaming was lumped in with all
> that New Age jazz by skeptics and true believers alike. The
> ‘give-me-a-break’ fantasy of last week often becomes the
> Content With the Mysterious                                       185
> 
> ‘gee-wow’ science fiction of yesterday on its way to becoming
> established theory.”
> “I could have sleepwalked, gone to the window—or even
> out onto the lawn—then experienced the floating sensation as I
> woke up to see the boys tee-pee the house.”
> “I suppose. But you didn’t wake up in the street, did you?”
> “No. But I could have slipped back into sleep and
> sleepwalked myself back to bed...couldn’t I?”
> “I’ve never heard of that happening...which doesn’t mean it
> couldn’t or didn’t happen to you.”
> “Alright. Let me describe another lucid dream. The morning
> radio show I wake up to was conducting an interview with a
> photographer who’d just come back from Tannu Tuva. She...
> described a couple of photos—generally, not much detail. My
> mind filled in the details; a gold cap on a shaman’s tooth, the
> images on some standing-stones. I’d all but forgotten the dream
> when Ken and I went to her exhibition. The photographs I saw
> fit the details I dreamed right down to the pattern on the head of
> the shaman’s drum. Needless to say, I was a little rattled.”
> “Yes, I know. Ken...told me about it.
> Lissa dropped the notebook strap. Hair stood up on the back
> of her neck. “He what? Would you mind telling me why Ken
> was discussing me with you?”
> “When he spoke to me about becoming a monitor for my
> project, I had a strong impression that you were headed for
> some sort of disturbing experience related to a visit to an art
> gallery.”
> “I don’t believe you.”
> Genoa shrugged. “Your prerogative, certainly, but Ken did
> record my statement.”
> “How long ago?”
> “Three weeks or thereabouts... That was really what you
> came here for, wasn’t it? To try to understand what happened to
> 186                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> you.” She shook her head, dreadlocks singing. “I’m sorry, Lissa.
> But I don’t fully understand, myself. If I did, I wouldn’t feel
> impelled to seek out people like Julie Pascale. I wouldn’t be up
> to my ears in this project. And I’d be able to give you answers.
> Instead, all I can do is invite you to join in asking the questions.
> Maybe we can work toward comprehension together.”
> 
> �����
> 
> She rejected the invitation (out-of-hand, Ken would have
> said). She went for a long drive up through Sausalito and
> Tiburon. She sat on Stinson’s Beach and stared at the
> randomness of waves and thought about her father and plane
> crashes and endings.
> Finally, she went home.
> “I was worried,” Ken said.
> “So was I.”
> He gave her his patented over-the-ghost-glasses look.
> “I saw Petra Genoa this afternoon. We talked about NDE’s
> and lucid dreams and OBE’s...and photo exhibits.”
> “Oh,” he said. Just, “Oh.”
> “Can I hear what she said about the art gallery?”
> “Are you sure?”
> “No. Can I hear it?”
> He got out his notebook and set it up on the coffee table.
> “Are you sure?” he asked again.
> She took a deep breath. “Yes,” this time.
> He opened the file and fast-forwarded to a bookmark he’d
> set at Genoa’s prediction. On the flat screen, Petra Genoa’s
> attractive face wore an expression of bemused concern.
> “Ken,” she said, “are you ready to start your job as
> monitor?”
> “Sure... I guess. Why?
> Content With the Mysterious                                     187
> 
> “Your wife is going to experience some sort of trauma.”
> “What? Emotional or physical?”
> “Emotional... Art gallery. I had a sudden impression of an
> art gallery. Paintings...no, photos.”
> “When?”
> She shook her head, making music. “I don’t know. I rarely
> know, exactly. Usually my range tops out at about three months.
> Can you save this conversation to a file?”
> “Can you be more specific about the nature of the trauma?”
> “Fear. I know she’ll be frightened. I don’t know why.”
> Lissa was nodding. “She does now.”
> “You were frightened because you saw the photographs in a
> dream before you saw them in reality.”
> “Yeah. I dream orange fabric on our roof; there’s a kite stuck
> to the chimney. I dream the neighbor’s house is tee-peed; it
> happens. I see a shaman with a gold tooth; Naomi Whitehorse
> has taken his picture. Dammit, Ken,” she complained, “these
> can’t be psychic experiences. I’m a skeptic.”
> “Fine. Be a skeptic. Look for answers.”
> “I’ve been looking. My psychiatrist doesn’t have a clue. She
> wants me to meditate. Dr. Genoa doesn’t have a clue either, and
> she wants me to help her look for one.” She fidgeted. “She
> quoted some science fiction writer at me: Be content with the
> mysterious, he said.”
> “Philip K. Dick. Yeah.”
> “That’s hard for me, Kenny.” She thought of Julie Pascale.
> “It’s even hard for me to be content with the ‘unexplainably
> warm and giving.’ How do you do it?”
> He shrugged. “I just try to keep an open mind. Look for
> truth wherever it may rear its often peculiar head.”
> “Even in Petra Genoa’s camp?”
> “Yeah, even there.”
> 188                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Okay. I’ll think about it. Right now, I’ve got an article to
> rewrite.”
> “Oh? Which one?”
> “The Pascale NDE. I’m not saying I believe she went beyond
> the Great Divide, but I realize I reported with bias. Okay,
> prejudice. My approach to her interview was skewed because of
> it. I wasn’t looking for truth, I was trying to satisfy myself that
> there are no mysteries I can’t personally unravel.”
> “So what approach, now?”
> Lissa shrugged, trying for a grin. “It’s a mystery.”
> Ken smiled, bending over to kiss her as he rose.
> “Where are you going?”
> “To remove the kite from our roof.” He paused, giving her a
> cock-eyed look. “Is there anything in the rain gutters I should
> know about?”
> “No, but there’s a chubby old guy stuck in our chimney.”
> They both laughed. She felt—not light-hearted—but better.
> ‘Content with the mysterious’...she would try to be that, hard as
> it was.
> She heard Ken’s footsteps overhead. A moment later, a wad
> of orange polyurethane sailed past the living room window.
> Oh, Mr. Dick, you said a mouthful.
> Doctor Dodge                                                      189
> 
> Doctor Dodge
> 
> A story of magical realism
> Doctor Dodge was originally published in Interzone in 1997
> and was on the Locus Magazine Recommended Reading list for
> 1997. Like Content With the Mysterious, it takes on the subject of
> experience beyond this life, but in a rather different way.
> 
> O SON OF THE SUPREME! I have made death a
> messenger of joy to thee. Wherefore dost thou grieve?
> I made the light to shed on thee its splendor. Why
> dost thou veil thyself therefrom?
> -Bahá’u’lláh,
> Hidden Words,
> Arabic #32
> 
> �����
> 
> When Reedy Watson was still a young man, he determined
> he must find a way to avoid Death. He came to this
> determination as a result of the death of his father, a very direct
> and uncomplicated man who, as the cliché goes, died young and
> left a good-looking corpse. He also left a sorrowing wife and
> perplexed child. His father’s death impressed Reedy. Within a
> few years, Death dominated his thoughts.
> Reedy watched Death carefully. He observed the myriad
> ways people met it. They drove into it at high speeds, they
> walked in front of it, they leapt to it, they ate or drank or smoked
> their way to it. They variously took their loved ones with them
> or left them behind to grieve as his father had done. It seemed to
> 190                                           I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Reedy that no one tried particularly hard to avoid it. Mostly,
> they were non-compis mentis, their minds on something else, not
> looking where they were going, not mindful of what or how
> much they were consuming. They were, Reedy thought, just
> asking for Death to pounce upon them in inattentive moments.
> He decided he would not have inattentive moments.
> He did not. He lived every waking moment in the present,
> self-aware and self-possessed. This impressed everyone around
> him—his mother, who thought him an overly serious child; his
> teachers, who thought him incredibly bright; his fellow students,
> who thought him patently strange. He was aware of their
> regard, but it didn’t affect him.
> He was a remarkable student, with tremendous powers of
> observation. He favored the academic disciplines—the sciences
> rather than the arts—for music and prose and poetry tempted
> him to forget where he was and dwell somewhere other than the
> here and now. He excelled in “hard sciences,” won honors and,
> by the time he graduated high school, was being courted by
> prestigious colleges.
> At this point, it occurred to Reedy that, though he was
> attentive, he was also distinctive. If mere mortals marked his
> achievements, what might Death make of them? He turned
> down scholarships from Harvard, Stanford, and MIT to attend a
> tiny college in Maine.
> Away from home, he determined he must do more to keep
> Death from locating him. Death, he theorized, might be
> muddled by misdirection. He changed his name from Reed to
> Richard and from Watson to Willis. He still signed letters to his
> mother “Reedy,” but it worried him to have such a traceable
> point of access. He mailed those letters from a neighboring town.
> He also taught himself to write with his left hand as he thought
> that might confuse Death. His papers and local correspondence
> Doctor Dodge                                                   191
> 
> were written in the stand-up characters of the sinister hand; only
> his surreptitious letters home were written right-handed.
> Reed/Richard was happy in Maine. His ageless little college
> town tempted him to forget that Death existed. The ivy on the
> walls of the town hall was older than the Constitution, and as he
> prepared to accept his Bachelor’s degree, Reedy came to believe
> he might last indefinitely here. Then two impressive things
> happened upon the same day.
> The first of these was a moment of inattentiveness such as he
> had never before allowed himself. He was crossing the
> tree-shaded cobbles before the college’s main auditorium,
> enroute to his graduation ceremony. Late, his arms encumbered
> with a half-open briefcase and his graduation robe, he was
> focused entirely on juggling. Out of the corner of his eye, as he
> approached mid-street, he noticed a female student hurrying in
> the opposite direction, her hair a banner in the cool spring
> breeze.
> He hesitated, clutching the briefcase, and allowed himself a
> single moment to admire her beauty. In that moment, he was
> nearly run down by a car.
> The driver swerved and honked and pulled over while
> Reedy rode a tide of adrenaline to the curb. The driver
> apologized profusely.
> “I’m so sorry!” he said. “You were in such a hurry, I thought
> you’d be across by the time I got to this spot. When you
> stopped...”
> Reedy soothed the driver, knowing the event was his own
> fault. From the safety of the auditorium steps, he looked about
> for the young woman who’d unwittingly distracted him. She
> was nowhere in sun-dappled view. He went inside. It was in this
> seemingly protected place that the second thing occurred: Reedy
> saw Death.
> 192                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He was on-stage when he saw it. He had just finished his
> valedictorian speech and gathered up his notes when he looked
> up toward the back of the auditorium and saw Death sitting by
> the front doors against the wall. It looked much as he had
> imagined—dark clothing not unlike the habit worn by an
> Orthodox priest, a long saturnine face of which he could see only
> the half lit by the sunlight flooding through the front doors.
> Reedy thought the thin mouth smiled. He froze for a
> moment--another moment of gross inattention—and wondered
> about the mechanics of Death. Had the near accident brought
> Death here? Had that been Death’s way of announcing himself?
> Or had Reedy dodged Death’s earnest attempt to take him?
> “Mister Willis!” An urgent whisper from the assistant dean
> brought him back to where he was.
> The audience watched him, expectant, hushed. He slipped
> from the podium drenched in sweat and applause and carefully
> retook his seat. He could still see Death sitting by the doors. His
> heart tripped over itself and began to race. He calmed it by
> reasoning that Death was no threat to him as long as he could
> see it and keep it at a distance.
> He only took his eyes from it once during the remainder of
> the ceremony—when he returned to the podium for his diploma.
> When he glanced again to the back of the hall, Death had gone.
> Words are inadequate to describe the extreme care with
> which Reedy left the auditorium and crossed the campus to his
> fraternity house. He didn’t hurry—hurrying was what had
> driven him to inattention in the first place—he was careful,
> methodical. He packed, he arranged to get his transcripts, he left
> Maine, praying that Death might be diverted by digression.
> He took a serpentine course across the country, heading
> westward. In Pennsylvania, he bleached his hair. When he
> reached the Ozarks, he had grown a beard, which he also
> bleached. In Nebraska, he changed his name to John Smits,
> Doctor Dodge                                                   193
> 
> reasoning that while “John Smith” was distinctive by virtue of
> its very blandness, he would be stupid to continue to use names
> with the initials RW. Perhaps that had been his mistake earlier.
> As John Smits, Reedy enrolled at the University of Nebraska
> at Lincoln, shifting his major subtly to one side—Cultural
> Anthropology rather than History.
> He spent two years in Nebraska, his gray eyes made blue by
> contact lenses, his hair kept carefully blond. Here, too, he was
> content. But here, too, he distinguished himself as a student, and
> at the end of his second year, he saw Death again.
> A brilliant essay on the culture of Tannu Tuva had won him
> honors, attention and an awards banquet. He stood at the buffet,
> basking in congratulatory chatter and flirting with a striking
> young lady who had caught his eye, when he glanced up and
> across the food-laden table.
> At first, he wasn’t sure it was Death looking back at him, for
> the clothing was different and the face was almost featureless,
> but when Reedy looked into the eyes, he had no doubt. They
> were frigid, colorless eyes and they filled him with such terror,
> he forgot about the girl. He forgot about anything but how close
> he was to Death. He put down his plate, fled the banquet and
> received his award by mail the day he left Nebraska.
> He understood now that digression was not enough. He
> must also avoid distinguishing himself.
> When he arrived in Berkeley, California, his eyes were
> brown, his hair and mustache were black, his skin was deeply
> tanned from days beneath ultraviolet lamps (tanning in real
> sunlight, he reasoned, was an open invitation to Death). His
> name was Vishnu Bhaktidas and he had cultivated a very slight,
> but very precise East Indian accent.
> Though she lived less than one hundred miles away, he did
> not visit Reedy Watson’s mother. He did not go to her wedding
> when she remarried in the winter of his second year at Berkeley.
> 194                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He earned a master’s degree in Archaeology and did not wait for
> Death to put in an appearance before relocating again, this time
> in New Mexico.
> Paulo Martinez took his Master’s degree into the field,
> working as a corporate archaeologist. During his sojourn there,
> he saw Death only in art—in paintings, on the walls of tombs, as
> tiny figurines in native shrines. He was not a superstitious man,
> so unearthing and handling these things didn’t bother him in the
> least.
> He had seen Death; these were harmless effigies.
> Three years later, when he returned to school in Arizona as
> Steve Nederman, he applied his time in the corporate
> environment toward a doctorate in History. He pursued
> postdoctoral studies at UCLA, reasoning that the sheer mass of
> the student body would grant him anonymity.
> He was content during that time, if not happy. He had few
> friends, for he must keep people at arm’s length, but he had
> History, which had become a passion with him. He called
> himself Dr. Douglas Dodge and there was more than a hint of
> pride in that name; he hadn’t seen Death for nearly a decade.
> He taught several classes in his second year at UCLA—
> classes that were always full. It didn’t occur to him that his
> popularity was putting him in jeopardy until he looked up from
> a lecture one morning to see Death sitting in the front row. It
> wore a black leather jacket, which struck Reedy as somewhat
> cliché, but the expression in its colorless eyes vacuum-froze
> Reedy’s heart.
> His surprise was only momentary, then he continued his
> lecture, keeping his eyes on Death. At the end of the hour, Death
> rose and left, giving him a wintry backwards glance. Reedy’s
> heart skidded, then picked up speed again, thudding so loudly,
> he barely heard the students clustered around him imploring his
> attention.
> Doctor Dodge                                                     195
> 
> “Excuse me, professor?” A soft-voiced young woman
> tugged at his thoughts. “Are you all right?”
> Already planning his next digression, he begged off,
> pleading a headache. He tried not to meet the girl’s eyes, but
> they caught him, reminding him achingly of things that could
> not be thrown into a suitcase and moved, dyed a new color, or
> changed through the DMV. He experienced, for the first time, a
> soul-deep twinge of longing for something he had just realized
> he could never have.
> He doubled back to Maine, enrolling as a student in the
> Master’s program of the very school from which he had earned
> his Bachelor’s degree. Let Death try to follow this, he thought, and
> thanked Providence for a youthful and easily disguised face.
> This time he made real efforts not to be distinctive. His
> appearance was average, his grades were average, his name was
> average, his life was average...except in one respect; he kept
> himself aloof from members of the opposite sex, knowing full
> well that involvement could bring untold difficulties.
> This gave rise to the assumption that he was gay, which in
> turn gave rise to several embarrassing situations that ended in
> hurt feelings on both sides. His small circle of friends dwindled
> even further. He was earning a reputation as an odd duck, and
> could only pray this did not draw Death’s attention to him
> again.
> In the third year of his new Master’s program, Reedy’s
> mother fell ill. He packed up his life and returned to California
> as Dr. Reed Watson, finding his mother in a Sacramento
> hospital. She had AIDS, she told him, having evidently
> contracted it from a second husband disinclined to fidelity.
> Though he had protested he would stand by her, she had started
> divorce proceedings the day she was diagnosed.
> Reedy was not comforted by that justice. In his own quest to
> elude Death, he had abandoned her. He could have been there
> 196                                           I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> when she remarried—should have been there. He could have
> taken one look at her husband-to-be and seen Death perched on
> his shoulder, he was certain of it.
> The hospital made him nervous, and at first he watched for
> Death almost obsessively. When he didn’t see it, he reasoned
> that Death might simply be too busy here to bother with him.
> He mentioned none of this to his mother, of course; she
> wanted only to hear about his life and accomplishments. So he
> sat in her sunny, depressing hospital room and shared these
> things with her, omitting the fact that his name had changed half
> a dozen times since she had given birth to him.
> Her nurse came and went, smiling at him when he made his
> mother smile. He was warmed by her approval, but she
> reminded him of all the smiling young women who had strolled
> in and out of his revolving-door life. Her presence depressed
> and uplifted at once, making Reedy suppose he knew what
> riding a roller coaster was like though, of course, he’d never
> been on one.
> He spent two weeks in Sacramento, visiting his mother
> daily, keeping his eyes open for Death. Every time the door of
> her room swung open, he expected to see it standing there in the
> hall, but it never appeared. There would only be his mother’s
> doctor with his kind detachment, or his mother’s nurse with her
> sweet smile and cheerful words, and Reedy began to wonder if
> Death was only visible to those it was about to take.
> He asked his mother, “Do you see anyone else in the room,
> Mom? Besides me?”
> She looked at him oddly. “I see my doctors when they’re
> here. I see my nurse.”
> He glanced at the nurse, who was sorting medications into a
> little cup. Her nametag said “Layli.” An unusual name. A pang
> of something like grief struck Reedy’s heart and he almost
> blurted aloud that she should change her name to something
> Doctor Dodge                                                     197
> 
> bland, something ordinary like Mary or Ellen or Ann, so that
> Death wouldn’t be so quick to notice her.
> She smiled at him. “It’s Persian,” she said, then when he
> couldn’t reply, “My name. I saw you looking at my badge.”
> “It’s...lovely. Unusual.” He took a deep breath. Held it...and
> said nothing more.
> His mother fell asleep as they chatted, and even Reedy
> dozed in his chair. He woke to find the nurse, Layli, standing
> over him. “It’s time,” she said.
> “I’m sorry? I...” Reedy tried to rouse himself, but all that
> became aroused was his awareness of the girl. He could feel the
> warmth of her body, the warmth of her smile, the warmth of
> compassion in her eyes. She smelled sweet, like cinnamon. He’d
> expected antiseptic.
> Once, he’d perched on a stool in a sunny kitchen while his
> mother pulled cinnamon cookies from the oven. She would hold
> them up for his bright inspection and he would applaud.
> “Visiting hours are over, Dr. Watson.”
> He rose and left, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly
> lonely. His father was gone. Now he would leave his mother
> behind...and Layli, or anyone like her.
> In the lobby of the hospital, he made his way to the sliding
> glass doors, standing aside as a new mother was wheeled out
> hugging her baby to her breast. She smiled at him and, from
> behind her wheelchair, her husband smiled at him. They crossed
> the threshold and went out into the darkening parking lot.
> The doors slid closed with a hushed sound and Reedy stared
> at his own reflection in the glass. He expected to see someone
> old and tired-looking, but the man who gazed back was young.
> Too young, most people would probably say, to have a Ph.D. at
> the end of his name.
> Does your mommy know you’re wearing that beard? he thought.
> 198                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He was stepping into the beam that would part the doors
> when he saw another reflection behind his in the glass. He
> recognized it at once, despite the white doctor’s coat. The doors
> parted, flinging the reflection to one side. Reedy turned, but it
> had gone.
> His first thought was for his mother. He hurried back to the
> nurses’ station and tried to get someone’s attention. It seemed to
> take forever.
> “Mrs. Watson,” he said when he was finally face to face with
> a nurse. “No, no. I mean Mrs. Hammermill. Could you check her
> status for me?”
> The woman seemed happy enough to help him; he watched
> her phone the nurses’ station in his mother’s ward. She spoke,
> she glanced at him, she turned away.
> He knew. He knew before she faced him at last and he saw
> the expression on her face—eyes kind but sad, mouth uncertain.
> “I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Hammermill passed on about five
> minutes ago. Were you close?”
> Yes? No? How did he answer that? Afterward, he vaguely
> remembered saying he was her son. Remembered receiving
> condolences. He hoped Layli had been with her. He hoped that
> if death ever did catch up with him, there would be a Layli for
> him, as well.
> He finished his second Master’s degree in Canada, then
> went to Florida where he taught at the University of Miami.
> Then he returned to school as a student, earning a doctorate in
> Language. He taught college level French in Indiana. He
> returned to Berkeley for his Anthropology doctorate; he went
> back into the field and from there into teaching again.
> By the time he was sixty-five, digression had earned him
> five doctorates and two additional Master’s degrees. He was in
> excellent physical condition, for he was careful about exercise,
> diet, and lifestyle.
> Doctor Dodge                                                          199
> 
> He was also compulsive and lonely and discontent, and
> envious of people who were none of those things. He wondered
> if he might have struck a balance in his life. He wondered if it
> was too late to find one now. He wondered if there might be
> someone, somewhere who could understand how he lived, who
> would be willing to share his somewhat bizarre lifestyle with
> him.
> He’d become very good at the Dodge. He hadn’t seen Death
> since that evening in the lobby of a Sacramento hospital, and
> Death had not been there for him, then. It was clear that Death
> had either lost interest, or did not know where he was.
> Sometimes, he didn’t know where he was either—was this
> Maine or Canada? Florida or California? Arizona or Mexico?
> Boston, Massachusetts. That was where he was this
> particular evening. He was Dr. Joseph Parry, professor of
> History at Boston College. He was in his favorite restaurant,
> alone, staring at the lights of the city laid out beyond and below
> the windows. There was also reflected light in the windows,
> thrown from the myriad tabletop candles. It was hard to
> distinguish one from the other.
> He was making a game of that when he saw Death reflected
> in the glass.
> It was sitting in a booth across the room. It was watching
> him. Its black suit and shirt made the featureless face seem
> unnervingly pasty as if all the color had drained away into the
> kaleidoscopic tie.
> Reedy sat, lump in his throat, wondering what to do and
> feeling suddenly and excruciatingly weary.
> Perhaps, he thought, I should just go over and introduce myself.
> Perhaps, I should just get this over with. And perhaps, he thought,
> not for the first time, I’m completely mad and that is just a curious
> stranger.
> 200                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Survival instinct clamored for him to leave, but he could
> only sit there and stare at Death and wait for his dinner to arrive.
> Fight or flight. Adrenaline surged, making his heart race. Get up
> and leave, the rhythm said. Get up and leave.
> He was at the point of doing just that, when movement close
> at hand startled him. He looked up to see a young woman
> sliding into the booth across from him. She was a stranger,
> young, lovely. She smiled at him, and her face took on a strange
> familiarity.
> “Hello, doctor,” she said.
> His heart pounded with a new awareness—Death had risen
> and was moving toward him. He saw it peripherally, for he
> couldn’t take his eyes from the woman sitting across from him.
> In that moment, she was every woman he had ever gazed at
> longingly and left behind on his mad zigzag through life. If
> loneliness were his personal disease, she was the cure. He forgot
> about Death and focused his attention on her.
> “Do I know you?” he asked.
> “Yes and no. We’ve met before, but you don’t remember
> me.”
> He returned her smile. “I’d like to rectify that.” He held out
> his hand. “I’m Dr. Joseph Parry.”
> She took the hand. “You’re Dr. Reed Watson.”
> No. It simply could not be. That was so many years ago.
> “Are you...Layli? You can’t be Layli.”
> “It’s a name I’ve used.” She held his hand between her own,
> eyes soft, wistful.
> It was an odd thing to say, and it struck him with forcible
> certainty that she, like him, was a fugitive from Death. He felt so
> strange. Light-headed, transfixed. Her eyes, direct, all-knowing,
> pulled words from him.
> “You’re like me, aren’t you? You know what this life is like. I
> sensed that in the hospital.” So long ago, now.
> Doctor Dodge                                                    201
> 
> “I do know. I know that you’ve been wretched and lonely.
> That you’ve made yourself wretched and lonely.”
> “What else could I do? I’ve had to...” He peered at her,
> suddenly perplexed. “But you...you worked in a hospital,
> surrounded by Death’s doings. How could you do that?” And
> then it him—the simple logic of it. She had been keeping Death
> in plain sight rather than offering it the opportunity to sneak up
> on her.
> This reminded him that Death was yet trying to sneak up on
> him. He cursed his inattentiveness and jerked his eyes from the
> woman’s. The table across the room was empty and Death was
> nowhere in sight.
> He relaxed, feeling leaden with relief. “It’s gone. Thank God,
> it’s gone.” He looked at his companion anew. “No. Thank you. I
> believe you frightened it away.”
> “What?”
> “Death,” he said, daring to be thought mad. “It was sitting
> right over there.”
> She laughed and he wished his life had been full of that
> sound. Perhaps it could be yet. He felt hopeful for the first time
> in decades. He smiled.
> “You think I’m crazy. I don’t blame you. But it’s true. Death
> came here for me.”
> She nodded. “Yes. Death did come here for you.” She leaned
> toward him, her scent like the remembered fragrance of
> cinnamon cookies baking in his mother’s kitchen. “I’m Death,
> Reedy.”
> He shook his head, and the room turned slightly on its axis.
> “But you’re...you’re beautiful, warm. Death is stark and faceless.
> It has glaciers for eyes.”
> “That wasn’t Death.”
> “Then what?”
> 202                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Loneliness. I am Death. Where I go, Loneliness flees. You
> never knew me, Reedy. Know me, and you will never meet
> Loneliness again.”
> His heart trip-hammered. The restaurant melted into an
> overly warm blur of shadow and light and muted sound. Reedy
> saw only her eyes, the eyes of Layli—twin lights that beckoned.
> He breathed a last breath and inhaled the sweet fragrance of
> cinnamon cookies.
> Heroes                                                             203
> 
> Heroes
> 
> A story of science fiction
> Heroes originally appeared in Analog Science Fiction in 1990. It
> is the first in a series of stories I wrote that involved a time travel
> technology called the Temporal Shift. The story explores the
> beating of swords into ploughshares and the concept of scientific
> neutrality. This was published on the eve of the end of the Cold
> War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the dissolution of the Soviet
> Union, but it was written well before that. One reader asked
> where I purchased my crystal ball.
> 
> When soldiers of the world draw their swords to kill,
> soldiers of God clasp each other’s hands! So may all
> the savagery of man disappear by the Mercy of God,
> working through the pure in heart and the sincere of
> soul. Do not think the peace of the world an ideal
> impossible to attain! Nothing is impossible to the
> Divine Benevolence of God.
> -`Abdu’l-Bahá,
> Paris Talks,
> p. 29
> 
> �����
> 
> There was silence in the Operating Room except for Shiro
> Tsubaki’s soft voice counting elapsed time. Behind the broad
> expanse of duo-glass that looked down on the Theatre the
> technicians’ faces flickered with reflected data from their
> computer displays. The video monitors each showed the scene
> 204                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> from the Theatre below—a static scene in which a small
> cylindrical robot sat in a shimmering field of dancing motes.
> Trevor Haley watched the same scene through the window,
> waiting tensely for something to happen.
> “Shifting,” said Shiro’s voice.
> Trevor blinked, his eyes straining to see any change in the
> bot. There was a change, all right. The little machine’s solid lines
> began to waver and bleed into the shimmer around it. Before he
> could blink again, it was gone. He pulled his attention back to
> his console.
> “Shifting to Green minus one,” said Shiro. The counter on
> her monitor ticked off a series of numbers that looked like
> seconds, but were not. “Shifting Aqua minus one...” Another
> silence followed. “Shifting Blue minus one...minus two. Stop
> Shift at...Blue minus six. That’s negative 36.”
> Someone said, “Wow,” and the entire Operating Room
> breathed a sigh of relief.
> “Halfway there,” murmured Magda Oslovski. “Five
> minutes, Shiro.”
> “Counting.”
> Oslovski shifted in her seat. “Video status?”
> “Fully functional.” George Wu shook his head, trying to
> clear the sense of unreality. “The video carousel is at 30 degrees.
> We ought to have some great footage.”
> “Let’s hear Toto’s stats, Trev.”
> Trevor stirred. “Temperature: 18 degrees Celsius; humidity:
> 60 percent—a little higher than normal for the time of year;
> attitude: five degrees from upright and adjusting.”
> Oslovski nodded. “It’d be nice if we could maintain video
> contact.”
> George Wu snorted. “Right. Maintain an optic link across a
> temporal spectrum. Piece of cake.”
> Heroes                                                            205
> 
> “There was a time,” said Oslovski in her when-I-was-aneager-young-scientist voice, “when an optic link between cities
> was science fiction. Now it’s just science—old science. Mark my
> words, George, given enough time-”
> “Movement,” said Trevor. “Thirty degrees, three meters
> distance. Object reads...less than a meter in height, about a meter
> long. Damn, I wish we could see...” He peered at the shifting
> readings on his display. “This is weird. The object is moving and
> part of the object is moving independently. Closing to two
> meters. Independent movement is rhythmic, uh... It’s like, uh-”
> He waved his hand back and forth.
> “Someone waving?” suggested Shiro.
> “One meter tall?”
> “Not waving, wagging,” suggested George. “It’s a-it’s a
> dog!” He shrugged when everybody turned to look at him.
> “Well, it sounds like a dog.”
> “Object at one meter.”
> “You know if that is a dog,” said George, “it just might
> mistake Toto for a fire hydrant.”
> Oslovski grimaced. “Great. We may get to see how well he
> withstands precipitation.”
> “I don’t think that’s what the Techs had in mind,” George
> murmured.
> “Two minutes,” announced Shiro.
> They continued to spout data intermittently for another
> three minutes, watching the progress of the “dog-like object”
> carefully. At the end of a full five minutes, Oslovski gave the
> order to reverse the field.
> “Reversing field,” announced Shiro.
> Trevor laughed. “Object radiating percussive audio
> vibration and receding rapidly at 30 degrees.”
> “Ah,” said George. “What is the sound of one dog barking?”
> 206                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Shifting to Blue minus one,” said Shiro. “Aqua minus ten...
> And Green minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three,
> two, one and zero.”
> Every eye in the room went to the monitor that displayed
> the contents of the Theatre. In the shimmering field, the bot
> appeared, looking no different than it had when it left.
> “Welcome back to Oz, Toto,” someone murmured.
> The O.R. exploded in a spontaneous cheer. Hugs and
> laughter and silly dances followed in a ritual celebration of
> accomplishment so ancient it had probably marked the creation
> of the first successful Folsom point.
> It lasted for all of thirty seconds. Then the backslaps
> dwindled to pats, the laughter died to throat clearing coughs, the
> flushed faces drained of color and hilarity. Six pairs of eyes
> swung to Magda Oslovski.
> She read the questions in them and sighed, feeling suddenly
> and incongruously depressed. “Okay,” she said. “We did it.
> Presumably we did it successfully. Now we gather up our data
> and study it. We write our lab reports and...and move on to
> Phase Five.”
> People looked at their shoes. People looked at their
> handcomps. People frowned.
> “Magda,” said Trevor Haley tentatively, “when are we
> going to report to the Chiefs? You’ve been holding them off for
> the better part of a year with ’steady progress is being made.’
> We’ve shown them disappearing orange tricks and talked about
> it being years before we dare Shift human subjects. At some
> point they’ve got to be brought up to date.”
> “I have not been holding them off. I’ve been...cautious. Do
> you think we should let them in on all Phases of the Project?”
> “I didn’t say that. I just...wondered...”
> “When the axe was going to fall?” asked Shiro.
> Heroes                                                          207
> 
> “Falling axes have to do with being fired,” George reminded
> her. “I don’t think for a moment the Chiefs are going to let us get
> off that easy.”
> “No, they’re not.” Oslovski scratched at the edge of her
> handcomp with a well-manicured thumbnail. “In fact, General
> Caldwell and company are due here next Monday to check in on
> us. I didn’t tell you before,” she added over a chorus of protests,
> “because I knew it would affect your work...and your health.”
> She looked up. Her eyes had that steely look she was famous
> for. “I haven’t decided how much we’re going to tell them yet.
> Gather up your goodies, people. Staff meeting in half an hour.”
> Thirty-five minutes later, a subdued group congregated in
> the Level 3 Conference Room and took their places around its
> large oval table. Magda Oslovski was the last to arrive. She
> seated herself at the head of the table and called the group to
> order.
> “All right, folks. I’m going to turn this over to George and
> company for show and tell. George?”
> George Wu popped a videodisc into the console set into the
> tabletop before him. He glanced at his assistant, Louis
> Manyfeather, then threw the rest of the group a nervous grin.
> “I’ve got to admit, we peeked,” he said. “This is great!”
> He started the playback. Around the table, video displays
> came to life. The title screen showed first: Project Hourglass—
> Phase Four—4/21/24. Then they saw a dewy sward of closecropped grass from roughly the vantage point of a four-year-old
> child. About four meters distant, a border of evergreen
> shrubbery blocked their view of the trunks of a variety of trees.
> The video image panned slowly, showing more of the same.
> Through the trees a building came into view—low and squat
> and square and composed predominantly of greenish tinted
> glass and strips of pink granite. The image panned along the
> 208                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> building further. Then something else came into view. A chuckle
> rolled around the table.
> “There’s your ’dog-like object,’ Trev,” said Shiro. “I think it’s
> an Airedale.”
> “Told you so,” said George.
> The Airedale disappeared as the video unit continued its
> sweep. They saw more grass, a metal sprinkler head, the roof of
> another building.
> “Wait! Pause that!” said Oslovski. “That’s the roof of the
> Library building, isn’t it? You can’t even see that from here,
> now.”
> Heads nodded absently. The slow pan continued and
> concluded, and the screens went dark. Toto’s audio recorder let
> out a wild yelp and a short series of barks. There were a few
> chuckles.
> “Now,” said George, “Louis hit the archives and came up
> with this.” He slid a second disc into the unit. The displays lit up
> again with a still shot of a very similar scene. “This is the
> Campus thirty-five years ago. The photo was taken from the
> steps of what was then the Psychology building. That lawn is
> now covered by this facility. The white ’x’ in the grass marks the
> spot in the O.R. where Toto was Shifting.” He paused, ran a
> hand through his thick, black hair. “Ladies and gentlemen, we
> just sent Toto back thirty-six years in time. Chances are we can
> just as easily send him into the future.”
> There was a moment of hushed appreciation while seven
> people tentatively explored the wonder of what they’d just done.
> Trevor Haley put a damper on the wonder.
> “Our masters aren’t interested in the future,” he said dryly.
> “They’re interested in the here and now.”
> Magda Oslovski sighed and took off her glasses, laying them
> on the table with a solid click. Most people considered her
> glasses a scientist’s professional affectation. The state of
> Heroes                                                         209
> 
> medicine being what it was, there was no reason for anyone to
> ever have to suffer glasses again. They were, in fact, more
> expensive than the corrective surgeries available. Oslovski was
> hard put to make anyone with 20/20 vision understand the
> mental benefits of being able to make the “real world” go out of
> focus at will.
> The faces of her team were just fuzzy enough that she
> couldn’t read their expressions. That was good, considering
> what she was going to say.
> “As I mentioned previously, General Caldwell and the Joint
> Chiefs will be here next Monday. What that means, folks, is that
> he’s expecting a full report on our accomplishments to date and
> probably some sort of whiz-bang demonstration. He will, no
> doubt, be very pleased with today’s progress. And, if the
> milestones continue to be met, we may have positive reports to
> offer on Phase Five as well.”
> “Oh, joy,” said Shiro, with nothing like joy.
> “Do I need to remind you that we are under contract to the
> Department of Defense and are bound, by that contract, to
> deliver the fruits of our research?” Oslovski eyed the fuzzy faces.
> A combination of mumbles and groans circled the table.
> “All right. We’ve penetrated Negative 36. We’re going to
> march back into our Operating Room, recalibrate our equipment
> and repeat Phase 4. This time we’ll turn the clock back a little
> further—see if we can’t extend Toto’s leash into the Violet range.
> And I want scrapings from his casing to go to analysis for any
> signs of fatigue.” She glanced down at her wristwatch, grimaced,
> put on her glasses and glanced at it again. “Let’s take a lunch
> break. Meet in O.R. in an hour and a half.”
> 210                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> �����
> 
> Shiro dug her fork viciously into the lettuce on her plate, got
> too much and worried the excess off the tines. “This whole
> situation stinks like yesterday’s garbage,” she said. “How can
> we just go merrily along with our research when we suspect it’s
> going to be used to change history?”
> “We’re under contract.” Trevor mimicked Oslovski.
> “Huh! A contract with the Devil.” Shiro bit into a radish.
> “It’s not that bad...is it?” asked George. “I mean, we don’t
> know that they intend to use it for anything heinous. They said
> they wanted to go back to strategic points in time to-to-”
> “Meddle,” said Trevor. “Oh, I know, I know—that wasn’t
> the official language. What was the wording they used? Oh, yes
> —’rectify and enhance.’ As if there was a whole lot to enhance.
> There hasn’t been a war anywhere on the globe for close to
> fifteen years. No Communists have slunk up the continent from
> South America, no petty dictators have reared their ugly heads
> —successfully, at any rate—and the so-called Super Powers are
> behaving like kissin’ cousins. How the hell do you enhance
> that?”
> “Ah,” said Shiro, waggling her fork at him. “That’s the
> whole point! One man’s poison is another man’s dessert. What is
> good for the world does not necessarily seem good to all the
> officers and gentlemen being put out of work by what is good
> for the world. Nor vice versa. For years there has been talk about
> combining the military branches and putting them under the
> control of the National Guard and the United Nations. More
> military bases are closed every year. You know they feel the
> squeeze.”
> “And you think,” asked George, “that that’s what they want
> to rectify? The shortage of wars?”
> Heroes                                                            211
> 
> “They’re soldiers, George,” said Trevor. “Soldiers are
> trained to fight enemy soldiers. With enemies in such short
> supply, there’s not a whole lot for them to do these days. And
> the money that used to buy them technological gadgets is now
> involved elsewhere.”
> “So, then the question arises: Why are they spending the last
> measly mega-bucks of their dwindling budgets on time travel?”
> Shiro asked.
> “Maybe,” suggested George, “they want to go back to a
> simpler time when being soldiering was considered glorious and
> patriotic—if underpaid.”
> “I wish that was it,” said Trevor. “But I’m sure it isn’t. If we
> hand them the past, we’re handing them the future right along
> with it. Our future—everybody’s future. It scares the hell out of
> me.”
> Shiro nodded, her mouth full of salad.
> “Okay, me too,” admitted George. “But what can we do
> about it? We’re just the hired hands. And, as Magda pointed out,
> we’re under contract. The reputation and survival of QuestLabs
> is riding on our fulfilling our obligation to the Defense
> Department.”
> Shiro grimaced and pushed her plate aside. “There’s a heck
> of a lot more riding on it than that.”
> 
> �����
> 
> The sequel to the Phase Four experiment was as successful
> as the original. Oslovski’s team sent Toto (Totable Temporal
> Oculus) back over four decades. With the exception of smaller
> trees and the presence of a gardener and a few dorm-dwelling
> students (which shortened Toto’s planned stay of ten minutes),
> the scene was much the same as it would be nine years later.
> 212                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> There were no cheers this time upon Toto’s successful
> return, although the team’s junior members, Manyfeather,
> Khadivian and Walsh, did exchange a “high five.”
> Afterward, Magda Oslovski barricaded herself in her office,
> ostensibly to draft a report for the Joint Chiefs. What she did
> instead was sit in the glow of her computer terminal, staring at
> the data through unfocused eyes. She took her glasses off,
> finally, and rubbed her eyes, then swore when she realized she’d
> just turned her eye makeup into brown and black smudges.
> She was almost relieved when her three senior researchers
> violated the “do not disturb” message she’d left on her hall
> monitor. They collected before her desk like recalcitrant
> kindergartners, managing to look defiant and apologetic all at
> once. George Wu sat, Shiro Tsubaki perched on the arm of his
> chair, and Trevor Haley stood behind them, hands buried deep
> in the pockets of his blue lab coat.
> “Have you been crying?” asked Shiro.
> Oslovski shook her head and put on her glasses. “No, not
> yet. Are you going to make me?”
> They smiled with all the sincerity of the second runner-up at
> a beauty pageant.
> “Come on people, let’s hear it.”
> Now they exchanged nervous glances. Trevor cleared his
> throat. “Madga, we... We’re in a real dilemma over this project.
> Or rather, over the use we’re afraid the results of this project will
> be put to.”
> “Frankly, the language of the contract bothers us,” said
> Shiro. “We’re very concerned about the morality of our
> position.”
> Oslovski was nodding. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this. I
> can’t say I wasn’t dreading it, either.”
> Heroes                                                          213
> 
> “Don’t you have any feelings about it?” asked Trevor.
> “Doesn’t it scare you to think what a group of men facing the
> extinction of their way of life might do with time travel?”
> Oslovski made a peaked roof with her fingers and studied
> the long, natural fingernails. “Before I say anything about my
> feelings, I have a duty to deliver the party line.”
> They groaned almost in harmony and she held up her hand.
> “Hear me out, please. I’ve got to say this. We are not the first
> scientists to be confronted with this dilemma. Psychologists even
> have a name for it—the Openheimer Syndrome. Science is
> neutral—neither good nor evil. Only the end uses of science can
> be viewed through a filter of moral principles or ethics. You
> know all this; I’m not telling you anything new.”
> She got up and began a deliberate stroll around her office.
> “Party line, folks, is: We are not culpable for the actions of the
> people who purchase our expertise or the fruits of our research.
> We make time travel possible and our responsibility ends there.
> We aren’t accountable for what’s done with it once it leaves this
> facility.”
> “But, dammit Maggie, it doesn’t leave this facility!” Trevor
> moved to follow her. “Don’t we have anything to say about that?
> Do we have to be associated with their...historic enhancements?”
> She stopped to look at him. “Are you suggesting we cast
> them out into the world with our research notes and wash our
> hands of the technology? Give them the recipe and make them
> find their own cooks?”
> “We could do that, couldn’t we?” asked George hopefully.
> Shiro shook her head. “We were talking about morality,
> George. Is that any more moral than doing the work ourselves?
> Given our research, they could find other people to do the work.
> The world would still be up the tree without a paddle.”
> “Creek,” corrected George.
> 214                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Creek, then.... I feel we should keep the technology
> in-house and exert some control over how it’s used. Can’t we do
> that?”
> Oslovski shook her head. “I don’t see how.”
> “Okay, Magda,” said Trevor. “You recited the party line.
> Duty is done. Now, tell us how you feel about this.”
> “Very uneasy. Close to crappy, in fact.” She circled back
> toward her desk. “General Caldwell has been extremely
> closed-mouthed about the reasons the military community has
> targeted Temporal Research for support. I’m not terribly
> comfortable with phrases like ’enhancing history’ or ’rectifying
> cultural aberrations.’” She was back at her desk now, and seated
> herself behind it. “Fact is, folks, we are bound by contract to
> deliver the ’fruits of our research,’ as the papers say, to our
> clients. Fact is, our administration will hold us to that contract
> regardless of our moral inclinations. Let’s say we default—refuse
> to continue. Best case, they take the body of our research and use
> it without our cooperation, maybe even ban us from further
> work on time travel.”
> Shiro gasped. “Could they do something like that?”
> “Read the contract, Shiro. It gives them the right to the
> disposition of Temporal Shift technology.”
> “So what’s worst case?” asked Trevor.
> “Worst case is, they do all that and bury this whole institute
> to the bargain.”
> “So we’re powerless over our own creation, then. That’s
> what you’re saying. We can’t do a damned thing.” Trevor’s fists
> threatened to rip through his pockets. “Jesus, Magda, can’t we
> do something?”
> Oslovski took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her
> nose. “You ever read Saint Francis of Assisi?”
> Shiro nodded. George and Trevor shook their heads.
> Heroes                                                            215
> 
> “Saint Francis wrote a prayer that went something like this:
> ’God grant me the courage to change the things I can, the
> serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the wisdom to
> know the difference.’”
> “That’s an answer?”
> She shook her head. “It’s a...a yard stick. If we start with
> wisdom, maybe we’ll be able to determine whether the situation
> calls for courage or serenity. Right now, my best advice is accept
> the situation as it stands and pray for a sign from God.”
> They weren’t happy with the advice, she could tell that by
> their glum faces as they filed out of her office. She felt sorry for
> them. Hell, she felt sorry for herself. She couldn’t even go holler
> on their administrator. She and Peter had already been around
> the proverbial rocket silo with her ethical objections to letting the
> military lead her research team around a blind curve. He’d
> reminded her about the sacred neutrality of science.
> “Screw the sacred neutrality of science,” she’d said. “Neutral
> is not a synonym for amoral.”
> “You’re a professional,” he’d said. “I know you understand
> that there are also business ethics involved. Make your people
> understand. And make them understand that their temporal
> research would have died on the vine if the Defense Department
> hadn’t gotten interested in it.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Screw business ethics,” she snarled, as she threw herself
> onto her living room sofa that evening. “Since when are business
> ethics more important than human lives? Since when are they
> supposed to count for more with scientists than-than moral
> integrity?”
> “Since businessmen started managing scientists?” Her
> husband poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her.
> 216                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She grimaced. “God, yes. Bottom line... Party line.
> Contractual obligations and scientific neutrality. And I, dutiful
> parrot that I am, read it right off the cue cards to my Team. You
> should have heard me, Vance. I actually quoted Saint Francis of
> Assisi to them.” She sighed and sipped her coffee. “The poor
> man is probably spinning in his grave.”
> Vance smiled. “I would have quoted Galata.”
> “Galata?”
> “One of my ilk—a psychologist. He said that human beings
> who fail to adjust their situation will be forced to adjust their
> attitude toward that situation.”
> “Meaning?”
> “Well, in the case of your crew, it may mean that they’ll
> adapt by developing a thicker skin. Maybe focus on the
> technology itself, on the scientific esthetic as opposed to the
> moral ethic.”
> “I smell an ’or’ in there somewhere. Faced with an
> unchangeable something they either adjust their attitude or what
> —go crazy?”
> He shrugged. “That has been the reaction of some minds to
> unbendable obstacles.”
> Magda shook her head. “No! Dammit, Vance, my Team
> should not be the ones to have to adjust their attitude! It’s
> precisely because the military won’t accept and adapt to its
> dwindling sphere of influence that we’re working on this
> project.”
> “Mm-hm. Precisely. Because of their inability to adapt,
> they’re funding your life’s dream.”
> She glared at him, thinking that there was a definite dark
> side to being married to the Team shrink. “That’s it,
> Mr. Psychologist. Make me feel like a self-centered, spiritually
> bankrupt toad.”
> Heroes                                                          217
> 
> “Everyone’s self-centered, Mags. It’s a perception we learn
> to adjust as we realize the universe does not revolve around us.”
> “Only some of us don’t adjust very well.”
> “Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you realize there’s a
> dilemma.”
> 
> �����
> 
> That was not enough consolation to give Magda Oslovski a
> good night’s sleep. She arrived at work feeling limp and run
> down. A glance at the faces of her senior staff revealed matching
> sets of dark circles under their eyes. Louis Manyfeather and
> Vahid Khadivian looked better rested, but they were unusually
> quiet as they went about readying Toto for his morning outing.
> Judy Walsh was almost surly.
> Oslovski gathered Haley, Tsubaki and Wu for a review of
> the previous day’s data. They were business-like (she was
> beginning to hate that word) and muted, answering questions in
> monosyllables and sharing sullen glances. They were on their
> way down to O.R. when she was paged to take a phone call from
> Washington. Three pairs of eyes assaulted her.
> She held them off with a shake of her head. “I’ll handle
> this,” she said.
> “Handle it, how?” asked Trevor.
> She grimaced and crossed her fingers. “With wisdom, I
> hope.”
> It was Caldwell, of course, wanting an unofficial report in
> anticipation of the official one he’d receive along with the other
> Chiefs the next week.
> Oslovski licked suddenly dry lips. “We’re...we’re doing very
> well here, General. In fact, we...we’ve successfully completed
> Phase Three of the project.” She was glad she had the video link
> off and he couldn’t see her face.
> 218                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Phase Three? Ah, yes! That would be the short jumps into
> the past.”
> “Yes. We sent Toto—the Temporal unit—back in time in
> increments from one hour to one year and successfully retrieved
> it, of course. After a thorough study of the data we included a
> compartmented cage containing several varieties of insects. They
> survived and we were then able to send mice.”
> “Which also survived?”
> “Yes, General. Although we’re still monitoring them for side
> effects. There did seem to be some disorientation. You can never
> be too careful with live animals.”
> “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Then you haven’t sent a
> human being anywhere yet.”
> “Of course not. That would be premature... Of course, it’s
> only a matter of time.”
> “If you need a volunteer-”
> “No, General. We do not. It’s too early.”
> “Hmmm. So the next Phase, then—Phase Four—that’s
> where you’ll shoot for longer backward jumps?”
> “Yes. We’ll lengthen both our stay and our range. It should
> be...exciting.” (It would have been if you hadn’t been footing the bill,
> she thought.)
> “How far back?”
> “Uh, we, um, had plans to attempt a jump of several
> decades.”
> “That’s excellent, Dr. Oslovski. That is precisely the time
> period we’re interested in for our first experiment. We need to
> know as soon as you can send a man back thirty-two years and
> put him wherever we want him.”
> “Well, spatial displacement is part of the n- um, of Phase
> Five.”
> “Excellent. Is there any chance you’ll be at that level by next
> Monday?”
> Heroes                                                             219
> 
> “Uh, there is a slim possibility.”
> “Outstanding. Then I’m going to give you a target, Doctor.
> A time and a place to shoot for: April 21, 1992, New York City,
> World Convention Center, Main Hall, Upper Deck.”
> Oslovski frowned. “Is there a particular reason for that
> target? Or is that something I’m not permitted to know?”
> “I can only reveal the general nature of the mission, Doctor.
> There was a major snafu in New York in ’92. We want to...set it
> right.”
> “Sounds...earthshaking.”
> “Oh, it will be.” There was more than a little pride in that
> statement.
> Oslovski was online to the Data Library within seconds of
> breaking the connection with Caldwell. She instituted a search
> for significant events connected with the date he’d given,
> knowing full well what she was going to find.
> “First World Congress,” returned the computer in wellmodulated tones.
> “Location.”
> “World Convention Center, New York.”
> Oslovski rolled her eyes. “Just this once, I couldn’t be
> wrong?”
> The computer didn’t respond.
> “Um, detail, please. Significant occurrences connected with
> the World Congress.”
> “Admittance to Euro-Commonwealth of the Soviet
> Democratic Republic of the Russias, Poland, Hungary,
> Czechoslovakia and Rumania. Euro-American Alliance formed,
> including broad-based arms agreement and Demilitarization
> Pact. Continue?”
> “Demilitarization Pact—didn’t that have a huge impact on
> the military establishment?”
> 220                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Affirmative. The Pact formalized the removal of American
> forces from Northern Europe and was the beginning of the
> ongoing dismantling and consolidating of the super-powers’
> armed forces. The Pact was signed on the second day of the
> World Congress by the Presidents George Bush and Mikhail
> Gorbachev.”
> Was that the snafu? The signing of the Pact? “Library, were
> there any negative occurrences at the conference? Any...
> scandals, things of that nature?”
> “Affirmative. On the first day of the Congress, an attempt
> was made to assassinate President Gorbachev. It was foiled by
> the United Nations Guard.”
> Oslovski felt a chilly fist grasp her stomach. “Detail,” she
> ordered.
> “The attempt was made during a televised speech. The
> assassin was discovered as he was preparing to fire. The shot
> went wild. No one was injured. The President was escorted to
> safety. However, the assassin was shot while trying to escape.
> Members of the U.N. Guard denied responsibility for the
> shooting and a cursory examination revealed that the bullet
> came from a variety of long-range weapon not used by the U.N.
> forces. The assassin’s body was destroyed in a fire before a
> complete autopsy could be performed. Arson was suspected.
> Destruction was complete.”
> “No teeth?”
> “Specify.”
> “Weren’t the assassin’s teeth found? Couldn’t they check
> dental records?”
> “Negative. The assassin was apparently wearing a dental
> plate made of plastic. Analysis of the residue yielded no
> information. Identification was never made.”
> Oslovski sat quietly, stunned. Was that it? Was that the
> General’s “snafu?” Two possibilities occurred to her
> Heroes                                                         221
> 
> simultaneously. One was that the military meant to keep the
> assassin from being killed so the conspirators could be
> discovered. That was laudable. But since President Gorbachev
> had survived, what was the point at this stage in history?
> The other possibility...
> “Library. Ramifications of attempt on Gorbachev’s life—
> analyze.”
> “The success of the U.N. Guard in protecting the President
> forestalled a major socio-political disaster. The United Nation’s
> position in the Congress and subsequent conferences was
> strengthened and Soviet-American relations cemented. Both the
> U.S. and S.D.R.R. expressed outrage at the destruction of the
> assassin’s body, which was in the custody of a Naval hospital.
> The investigation that followed was a joint Russo-American
> effort.”
> “Further analysis: Impact of these events on the role of the
> U.S. military in the world sphere.”
> “The handling of the assassination attempt by the U.N.
> forces and the subsequent charges of negligence brought against
> certain Naval personnel was a factor in diminishing regard for
> the military establishment. The ineffectiveness of the military to
> handle the situation with Gorbachev made the accords signed by
> U.S. and Soviet leaders regarding military decommissions much
> more tolerable to the American people. Political figures who had
> stood behind a strong military abdicated that position faced with
> what was perceived as a scandal.”
> Oslovski frowned. “Question: At the time the assassination
> attempt was made, had either Gorbachev or Bush signed any
> agreements significantly affecting the military?”
> “Negative. As previously stated, the attempt took place on
> the first day of the conference at precisely 11:00 a.m.”
> Oslovski had one last question—one she was more than a
> little afraid to ask. “Was...was the military in any
> 222                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> way...implicated in the assassination attempt, or was it just a
> question of negligence?”
> “There were no formal charges made, although there was
> some speculation that the situation involved more than
> negligence. The assignments for security were handled directly
> by a committee made up of high-ranking military officers.”
> Oslovski sank back into her chair. This has to be wrong, she
> thought. I have to be wrong. This can’t be what it looks like. It was
> inconceivable that intelligent human beings could be capable of
> something so impossibly evil as attempting to kill, not just a
> man, not just a country’s leader, but World Peace.
> She got up and went down to O.R., her brain ticking like a
> jelly-filled time bomb. The Team was waiting—not very
> patiently—and nearly mugged her when she came through the
> door. She waved them down.
> “Yes, it was Caldwell. We...we have things to discuss—after
> we start Phase Five.”
> Trevor made an exasperated sound. “Why? Why can’t we
> talk now?”
> “Because...because I need to launder my brain. I need to be a
> scientist for a while.” (And because I’m half hoping Phase Five will
> flat out fail and buy us some more time, she thought.) “Places,
> everyone.”
> They went without argument, slid into their duties and
> performed them flawlessly. Toto was sent backward in time to
> several sets of spatial coordinates that had verifiable landmarks.
> The experiment was a complete success. That generated some
> excitement, but not nearly what it should have.
> At 1:00 p.m., Magda Oslovski looked over the body of data,
> gritted her teeth and called a staff meeting.
> “As some of you know, I talked with General Caldwell this
> morning,” she told the assembled Team. He and the Joint Chiefs
> Heroes                                                            223
> 
> of Staff will be here in six days to see what progress we’ve made
> on Project Hourglass.”
> “We’ve made wonderful progress!” enthused Vahid
> Khadivian. “Did you tell him that?”
> Everyone else glanced at Khadivian, glanced at Oslovsky,
> then studied their blank video displays.
> Oslovski started to take off her glasses, then changed her
> mind. She had to be able to read them accurately now.
> “First, I’ll tell you what he told me. Then I’ll tell you what I
> told him. He gave me a target time and location. New York City,
> 1992, April 21, World Conference Center.”
> “Oh! First World Congress,” said Shiro. Everyone else
> nodded.
> “Correct. The General informed me that a...snafu—a major
> mistake—had occurred at this time and location. One the Joint
> Chiefs wanted to rectify.” She engaged the computer. “Library.
> Display headlines pertinent to the incident on the first day of
> World Congress.”
> The computer produced the front page of a New York
> newspaper with a banner headline: ASSASSINATION
> ATTEMPT AT WORLD CONGRESS— GORBACHEV
> UNHARMED.
> “The assassin was shot and killed,” said Oslovski. “His body
> was destroyed by a suspected arson fire while in the keeping of
> a Naval hospital and under a U.S. military guard.”
> “Was that the mistake?” asked George. “The assassin’s death
> and the destruction of his body?”
> Oslovski shook her head. “I don’t know. Let’s see what you
> think.” She filled in the details then—slowly, carefully, using the
> computer as part of her presentation. When she was finished,
> there was a heavy, disbelieving silence.
> Trevor Haley broke it. “Do you think they intend to make
> sure the assassination attempt is successful?”
> 224                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Oslovski shrugged and spread her hands. “I hate to think it,
> but it looks that way to me. The other possibility doesn’t make
> sense. Frankly, it sounds as if the assassin surviving his capture
> would really throw a spanner in the military machine.”
> “What did you tell Caldwell?” asked Shiro.
> “I told him we’d successfully completed Phase Three.”
> Khadivian and Walsh both blanched.
> “Phase Three?” repeated Vahid. “But that’s not true. We’ve
> completed Phase Four.”
> Oslovski shook her head. “I did not lie to the man, Vahid. I
> merely under-xaggerated. We have completed Phase Three.”
> “But when they check our reports-” said Walsh.
> Oslovski held up both hands. “Forgive me, Judy, Vahid, but
> that is simply not important right now. We have a major moral
> dilemma on our hands. I trust I’m not the only one who feels
> that way.”
> A chorus of negatives indicated she was not. “I know I read
> some of you the party line yesterday—all that about the
> neutrality of science. Well, folks, science may be neutral, but
> scientists can’t afford to be. Mankind can’t afford for us to be.”
> She stood up and put both hands flat on the table. “All right,
> situation is this: I suspect that the Joint Chiefs intend to use our
> technology to go back to the First World Congress and attempt
> to create a situation that will also make it the last World
> Congress. Does anyone else share that suspicion?” She raised her
> left hand.
> Haley, Tsubaki and Manyfeather followed suit immediately
> —George Wu with reluctance. Vahid kept both hands in his lap
> and looked miserable. Judy Walsh just stared at the tabletop, a
> fierce scowl on her face.
> “Do you two disagree?” asked Trevor. “Do you think we’re
> being paranoid? It seems to me we at least have reason to tread
> cautiously here.”
> Heroes                                                             225
> 
> Vahid shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. They...
> they’ve paid so much for this research. Without them, we
> wouldn’t even have gotten to this stage.”
> “We’ll all be paying for this research with our lives if they
> use it the way it looks like they mean to.”
> Vahid just shook his head again.
> Judy said, “I just can’t believe it. My father’s an Air Force
> non-com. I can’t believe they’d-”
> “We’re not talking about the whole military here, Judy,”
> said Oslovski. “Just a group of very powerful men who...who
> may be having difficulty facing reality. Unfortunately, this
> group is at the top of the chain of command. I can arrange for a
> transfer,” she added gently. “If you want to opt out now, you
> can.”
> Judy took a deep breath. “No. No, this project has been my
> life for four years. I can’t just get up and leave. And I don’t want
> to see it used to kill. Besides, my father would be ashamed of me
> if I ran out in the middle of it all.”
> Oslovski nodded. “Vahid?”
> “I’m scared,” he said.
> “We’re all scared,” said Oslovski. “The question is, do we
> stand around and shake and shiver, or do we do something
> about it?”
> “I’d like to do something,” admitted Vahid.
> “Right.” Oslovski let out a pent up breath. “Now, given the
> situation, what do we do?” She looked at the group around the
> table.
> “We could send the General and his people back to the
> Cretaceous and leave them there,” suggested Trevor.
> “Be real,” said Shiro. “We don’t even know if can penetrate
> the Cretaceous.”
> “Seriously. Can’t we strand them someplace—I mean, some
> time?”
> 226                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Shiro shook her head. “That would be as immoral in its own
> way as what they might be planning. Besides, they might
> manage to change the course of evolution or something.”
> Louis Manyfeather sat forward in his seat. “What if we go
> back in time and make sure the assassin is captured?”
> Oslovski grimaced. “Tempting, but none of us is exactly
> James Bond. Besides, that might change history just as effectively
> as a successful assassination. We need to make as little impact as
> possible on what’s already happened. We need to-to change the
> present to protect the past. Keep them from going back at all, if
> possible.”
> “We could lock up our data,” suggested George. “Tell them
> what they’re asking is impossible.”
> Oslovski nodded. “I thought of that. But remember, we’ve
> already shifted back past their target. The computers know that. I
> know you’re a talented programmer, George, but you’d have to
> be the king of hackers to destroy all that data without leaving a
> trail. Every activity log on every piece of equipment in O.R. will
> call us liars if anyone develops a sense of curiosity. Besides that,
> whose to say they won’t just go elsewhere for the expertise?”
> “But that would take years,” said Louis.
> “The net result would be the same, don’t you see?” asked
> Oslovski. “Time is no object. No matter how long they wait, if
> they achieve their goal...”
> He saw, and nodded glumly.
> “If we can’t get rid of them and we can’t fool them,” said
> Trevor, “then what can we do? Hypnotize them so they give up
> and go away? They’re not going to change their minds just
> because we think they need an attitude adjustment.”
> Oslovski stared at him. “An attitude adjustment,” she
> murmured.
> “What?”
> Heroes                                                             227
> 
> “Something Vance said last night about human nature. That
> presented with an unchangeable circumstance, the human mind
> adjusts its attitude to accept it...or goes mad, I suppose.”
> Shiro nodded. “In other words, it grows the serenity
> necessary to accept the inevitable. But how can we make the
> irresistible force believe that is has met an immovable object?”
> Oslovski raised her eyebrows. “Maybe Trev has something
> there—hypnotism.”
> Trevor snorted. “I was being facetious, Magda. There’s no
> way we can hypnotize the entire Defense Department.”
> “We wouldn’t have to. The entire Defense Department isn’t
> going to be time traveling. They’ll send one or two men back—
> hell, we can control that much. We’ll tell them the field won’t
> allow more than that.” She started pacing, thinking. “I want to
> change the script for the next Phase Five experiment. We’re
> going to send Toto downstairs.”
> 
> �����
> 
> While the others ate lunch, Magda Oslovski went up to her
> husband’s second floor office. He was munching on a tuna
> sandwich when she came in clutching her coffee cup in both
> hands.
> “Hi,” he said. “Have you had lunch?”
> She shook her head and he handed her half of his sandwich.
> “You have ’that look.’”
> “That ’lean and hungry look?’” she asked around a bite of
> tuna.
> “No. The patented Magda Oslovski ’I’ve come to a definite
> decision and God help you if you try to change my mind’ look.
> So, what’s it going to be, Saint Mag of QuestLabs: Courage or
> Serenity?”
> 228                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Our courage, their serenity. Before I tell you what that
> means, answer a question: Can you hypnotize someone to make
> them think they’ve done something they haven’t done?”
> “Can I, personally?”
> She nodded.
> “Ye-es,” he said slowly. “Given the right environment. It
> depends a lot on the magnitude of the suggestion and the
> natural resistance of the subject. Some individuals require a little
> help—sodium pentathol or Ephkal-A.”
> “Ephkal-A—that was developed here, wasn’t it?”
> “Yes.”
> “You’ve worked with it, then.”
> “Yes, I have. It’s been very helpful in handling the
> endorphin imbalances that contribute to nasty conditions like
> schizophrenia.”
> “In other words, it helps you adjust someone’s attitude.”
> Vance shook his head. “Not quite. It helps the body adjust
> its own attitude. There’s a difference.”
> “Okay, distinction noted. But it makes this hypnosis thing
> do-able?”
> “Oh, it’s do-able. But it’s also undo-able. The effects have
> been known to fade.”
> “Fade? Over how long a period?”
> “Years, months. But real memories tend to do the same
> thing. Even things I did—oh, last night, say—tend to take on an
> aura of...fantasy.” He gave her a provocative look.
> “I love you too,” she said. “But couldn’t this fading be
> counteracted with a regular regimen of Ephkal-A?”
> He sighed. “We put schizophrenics on Ephkal-A boosters. It
> keeps their moods balanced and helps them to retain positive
> memory associations. It can be taken orally... Where’s all this
> leading, Mags?”
> Heroes                                                            229
> 
> “I’ll tell you. But I want you to be quiet until I’ve finished.
> Take notes if you have to. Then I want to hear what you think.
> Then I want to know if you’ll help.”
> 
> �����
> 
> She was back in O.R. an hour and a half later, her face
> flushed and a mad gleam in her dark eyes. She called her Team
> away from their calibration routines into a pow-wow.
> “Okay, here’s the new Phase Five game plan. The object of
> the experiment is to send Toto back one day to another location
> here in the Emerald City. Specifically...” She tapped out
> something on her handcomp and handed the unit to Shiro.
> “These coordinates.”
> The younger woman glanced at them, then looked up
> puzzled. “These are right downstairs, aren’t they?”
> Oslovski nodded. “They are indeed. Directly below us, as a
> matter of fact.”
> “That facility is identical to this one, isn’t it?”
> “Right again. I just notified Admin that we’re going to be
> making use of it for some very delicate and oh-so-top-secret
> work. Peter was ecstatic. It’s one more thing he can add to the
> DOD tab. Phase Five now goes something like this. We send
> Toto down and back to ascertain we can hit the precise
> coordinates. Then, we’re going to incorporate a little bit of Phase
> Six into the plan: We’re going to bring in our animal friends.
> First, the mice, then, if they survive, we’ll send Q-Bert with a full
> medical array. And if he makes it through all right, it’s onward
> and upward.”
> “You mean we’re going to go to a human subject?” asked
> Trevor.
> 230                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She nodded. “Except that for the first round human Shift,
> we’ll just send someone downstairs in the same temporal range,
> just to make sure they’re okay.”
> “Teleportation?” George looked both eager and concerned.
> “What about Temporal Spectrum Shift? We’ve never tried
> moving an object along the same wave band. Theoretically, I’m
> not sure it would work. We can’t put someone through solid
> walls.”
> “But we can use the Temporal Spectrum to move them from
> one place to another,” said Shiro. “We can shift back, change the
> location on the Spectrum, then shift forward again.”
> “Ah!” George nodded. “Ah, yes! Sort of like a knight in
> chess.”
> Shiro looked doubtful. “I guess so.”
> “And to what purpose to we do this?” asked Trevor.
> The devil was back in Oslovski’s eyes. “To the purpose of
> making the irresistible force think it’s met an immovable object.
> Think, Trev. What might make our clients adjust their attitude?”
> “Is this a quiz?”
> “Think.”
> “Okay. Well, you said it. An immovable object.”
> “Yes!” Shiro nodded eagerly. “I see. Something they can’t
> change. A-a future they can’t change, perhaps.”
> “That’s what I hope to show them, people,” said Oslovski.
> “A future that their monkeying around didn’t change to their
> liking.”
> “And what about the other thing?” asked Trevor. “What are
> we going to do about that?”
> “We’re going to stop them. Stations, people. Let’s complete
> our calibrations.”
> Heroes                                                               231
> 
> �����
> 
> Q-Bert weathered his flight with all the aplomb of a veteran
> time traveler. He complained only when his sensors were
> attached via a small cap that fitted tightly over his head and
> fastened under his jaw. Louis had added insult to injury by
> laughing at him, something the genteel terrier couldn’t abide.
> “You’re the first person he’s bitten since he was a puppy,”
> said Trevor, as they reviewed Q-Bert’s data.
> Louis stared glumly at the bandage on his finger. “Should I
> take that as a compliment?”
> “I think you should take it as a warning not to laugh at
> Q-Bert. He’s a scientist, after all, just like the rest of us. Except, of
> course, that he has a wet nose.”
> “Yeah, and sharp teeth.” Louis shook his finger. “How did
> he do?”
> “Just great. Respiration fine. Brain activity, relaxed—except
> when he bit you. Heart rate, normal. Blood panels look good.
> He’s a healthy, happy canine.”
> Louis bit his lip and tried not to look desperately excited.
> “That means the next step is sending one of us.”
> Trevor nodded. “Once Magda’s seen this data, I think she’ll
> agree to that.” He gave Louis a sideways look. “Are you
> volunteering?”
> “You bet, Kimosabe. Wild horses couldn’t stop me. I can
> just see the headlines: Descendant of Sitting Bull First Man to
> Time Travel.” He grinned. “My folks will be so proud.”
> Trevor looked skeptical. “Are you really a descendant of
> Chief Sitting Bull?”
> “Bona fide, guaranteed.” He twiddled the eagle feather that
> hung, solitary, from the braid at the back of his head.
> “That’s ironic.”
> Louis raised his eyebrows.
> 232                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Little Big Horn,” said Trevor. “The Sequel.”
> 
> �����
> 
> Operation Little Big Horn proceeded the next morning with
> a careful, full-staff study of Q-Bert’s data. Q-Bert himself was
> subjected to a thorough examination by Drs. Trevor Haley and
> Judy Walsh. When that was over, Magda Oslovski okayed the
> next phase.
> Louis took Q-Bert’s place on the Spectral Grid, watching
> nervously as Trevor set up his sensors for the trip. Downstairs in
> the other O.R., Vahid Khadivian waited for the materialization.
> Psychologically, Louis didn’t take the Shift as well as Q-Bert
> had. His heart raced as the Field was activated and he was
> unable to slow it down. The Field danced like a swirling patina
> of stars before his eyes. A tingling sensation cascaded down his
> back, then spiraled upward again to spin crazily, but not
> unpleasantly, in his head. He blinked rapidly several times--saw
> colors flash vividly.
> My God, he thought, it really is a spectrum.
> Then the trembling stars returned and melted and he was
> watching Vahid Khadivian blink back at him. They stared at
> each other for a moment, then Vahid grinned and said,
> “Welcome to the Underworld, my son.”
> Louis let out a whoop.
> 
> �����
> 
> “Your heart rate got a little crazy there, Louis,” said
> Oslovski. “All through the Shift.”
> “I just got a little excited, that’s all. Really.” He shrugged.
> “Adrenalin is a powerful drug, doctor.”
> “No discomfort?”
> Heroes                                                          233
> 
> “No. No, it was...tingly. Exhilarating. And there really are
> visible color bands. I saw them flashing when the Field effect
> faded.”
> “Mmm.” Oslovski looked at the computer display again.
> “And most important of all, you made it. You ended up right
> where you were supposed to.” She gazed off into space for a
> moment.
> “Okay. All right. Next phase.”
> 
> �����
> 
> In the week that followed, they sent Toto back to the target
> date. He recorded the entire assassination attempt, tucked neatly
> away behind a pillar on the upper deck of the Conference
> Center. Oslovski’s Team reviewed the footage painstakingly.
> They studied official accounts. They met far into the night,
> discussing, consulting, arguing, mentally rehearsing routines for
> Phase One of Operation Little Big Horn; running over a long list
> of “what-ifs.” They also started laying the groundwork for Phase
> Two.
> When the big Monday arrived, the Chiefs appeared in full
> military regalia. With them were two “special operatives"—
> Ferris and Hilyard by name. Oslovski adopted the immediate
> suspicion that these were the would-be assassins. They
> contributed nothing to the briefing, but merely sat in silence,
> watching and listening.
> Magda Oslovski conducted the briefing flanked by Vance
> Keller and Trevor Haley. The other members of the LBH
> conspiracy were busily readying themselves for the inevitable
> demonstration.
> “Since I talked to you last, General Caldwell,” said Oslovski,
> “we’ve had several important break-throughs. But rather than
> tell you, we’ll show you. Dr. Haley, the video please.”
> 234                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Around the oval table, video displays showed footage taken
> by Toto during his sortie in New York. The aborted assassination
> played out, followed by mass confusion, an explosion of golden
> motes and a sudden shift to aqua. The screens went black.
> Oslovski’s eyes were still on Caldwell as he turned to stare
> at her.
> “That...that was the assassination attempt on-”
> “Yes. The date you gave me was the opening day of the First
> World Congress. But, of course, you knew that. We just
> happened to get this rather spectacular footage of the attempt on
> President Gorbachev’s life. That was the event you were
> targeting, was it not?”
> Caldwell glanced at his clam-faced peers and nodded once.
> The corner of his mouth twitched.
> “Forgive my curiosity, General,” said Oslovski, “but what
> do you intend to accomplish?”
> “The righting of a wrong, doctor,” he said. “That’s all you
> need to know. And that our work, our very lives, are dedicated
> to the best interests and the honor of this great nation.”
> “And the well-being of its people?”
> He smiled. “Of course, doctor. The two things are
> inseparable.”
> “And what about the welfare of the world as a whole
> society?”
> “The world is not a whole society, doctor. It’s a mish-mosh
> of societies and cultures. My concern—our concern is with the
> strength of the American nation. The other nations only concern
> us insofar as they are either beneficial or dangerous to U.S.
> interests.”
> “I see.” Oslovski nodded. “And may I guess what you hope
> to accomplish?”
> “You may guess all you want. We will neither confirm nor
> deny.”
> Heroes                                                          235
> 
> She nodded again. “Naturally. Two possibilities present
> themselves. One is that you wish to make sure the assassin isn’t,
> himself, assassinated so you can find out who hired him.”
> General Caldwell’s smile didn’t falter. “A reasonable
> assumption, I suppose,” he said.
> “The other possibility is that you intend to make certain he
> succeeds.”
> None of the faces at the nether end of the table altered
> expression, but there was an eloquent flurry of exchanged
> glances.
> Caldwell merely quirked an eyebrow. “What an interesting
> mind you have, Dr. Oslovski. I’m glad you’re not working for
> the other side.”
> Oslovski smiled as if accepting that as a compliment. “What
> other side, General?”
> “You do realize, of course,” Caldwell said, ignoring the
> question, “that you are contractually and ethically bound to
> bring this Project to a successful conclusion regardless of what
> we intend to do. So, you see, our intent is really irrelevant.”
> “Of course.”
> “And, of course, as scientists, you must observe a sort of
> code of non-intervention.”
> That was more order than commentary and Oslovski
> bristled. If one more person cited the “Scientific Code of
> Non-Intervention,” or preached objectivity at her, she vowed
> she’d send them back to the eruption of Krakatoa.
> “So, we’ve seen that you can send a robot back to the target
> time and place. What else have you got for us?”
> She showed them the bio-data on Q-Bert and Louis, which
> included Louis’ recorded account of his experience. She took
> them to O.R. next, explaining the function of each station.
> 236                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “How soon?” asked Caldwell when they’d concluded the
> short tour and examined Toto and the Field Generator. “How
> soon can our operatives begin making time jumps?”
> “We can make them part of a demonstration right now, if
> you’d like.”
> The Chiefs were more than eager to see a Temporal Shift in
> action. They watched as each operative was sent to places and
> times that were easily verifiable. Both men handled the
> experience as if they were veteran time travelers and consumed
> healthy amounts of lunch immediately after.
> 
> �����
> 
> “They’re ice men,” said Shiro.
> Oslovski’s Team was reconnoitering in the O.R. after their
> own hasty lunch, while their clients privately debriefed.
> “You’d think they were just taking a drive around the
> block.”
> “Conditioning,” said Trevor. “Mental conditioning.”
> “Mm-hm. And we have to get around it somehow.”
> Oslovski blew steam from her coffee cup and grimaced.
> “This is where we try a little psychology. They’ve been
> wondering all morning why the Team shrink’s been included in.
> They’re about to find out.”
> 
> �����
> 
> They rejoined the Joint Chiefs in the Level 3 conference room
> for a final meeting to discuss any questions generated during the
> day and to set a timetable for the next Phase of the Project.
> Could delicate equipment go through the Spectrum, the Chiefs
> wanted to know. Could weapons?
> Heroes                                                          237
> 
> Toto was delicate equipment, Trevor told them, the video rig
> and medical array, likewise. “For that matter,” he added, “a
> human being is delicate equipment. And as for weapons...” He
> wanted to claim some magical Omniscient Guardian of the Time
> Spectrum caused all weapons to disintegrate on transit, but
> couldn’t. “There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be fine.”
> “I’m satisfied,” said General Caldwell when the questionand-answer session had wound down into nodding and note
> taking.
> Oslovski raised her eyebrows. “General, you’re overlooking
> a very important factor in all of this.”
> “Oh? And what might that be, doctor?”
> “I think Dr. Keller is more qualified than I am to speak to
> that subject. Doctor, would you answer the General’s question?”
> Vance nodded, tapping a pen lightly on the tabletop. “The
> psychological ramifications of time travel are quite complex.”
> “For example?”
> “Well, General, you’re undertaking to change history. Have
> you considered how many events might hinge on the one you
> propose to change?”
> “It has been considered.”
> “Then you are all prepared to face the changes in your
> personal lives that may result from your...” He’d been going to
> say “meddling,” but smiled and finished, “editing of history?”
> “We’re counting on it,” said Caldwell, and the others
> nodded.
> Dr. Keller spread his hands, palms up, on the table. “I just
> wanted to be sure you were properly prepared. It could be quite
> a shock for your operatives to return and discover they’ve edited
> a loved one out of existence.”
> “What?”
> They were all staring at him as if he’d just said: “There’s a
> bomb under this table.” Oslovski fought the urge to grin.
> 238                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Gentlemen,” she said, “you must be prepared for any
> eventuality. You yourselves could be ’edited’ out of existence by a
> change in history.”
> “My God, how can anyone be prepared for that?” The
> reserved, soft-spoken Naval Admiral Krenshaw was visibly
> stunned.
> Vance Keller nodded sympathetically. “I know it’s a
> terrifying prospect—to suddenly find your entire life rewritten--
> wives married to someone else, children never born. And, of
> course, the guilt factor could be immense—the realization that
> you did it to yourselves.”
> Caldwell looked like he’d just swallowed a sour pill.
> “And then,” added Oslovski, “there is the possibility that
> your operatives could be stranded in the past.”
> “I thought you said the technology was reliable,” said
> Caldwell sharply.
> “Oh, it is. But it’s entirely possible that with a change in
> history, the technology might never be developed.”
> “That’s damn pretzel logic! If the technology is never
> developed then how could anyone go back in time to-to get
> trapped?”
> “The technology is reliable,” said Oslovski. “But the
> concepts behind it are sometimes dimly understood.”
> Caldwell’s jaw was ticking. “And how do you propose we
> prepare for these eventualities?”
> Oslovski met his chilly gaze with an equal amount of frost.
> “That’s what we have a psychologist on staff for, General. I
> would recommend that your operatives spend some time with
> him during their orientation.”
> “Orientation?”
> “We’ll need to do a complete medical work up on anyone
> who’s going to be sent that far back through the Spectrum and
> Heroes                                                             239
> 
> stay for any length of time,” said Trevor. “We have to know the
> normal physiology so any abnormalities can be spotted.”
> Caldwell nodded, once. “When do you want them?”
> “Right now. Barring unforeseen difficulties,” said Oslovski,
> “we can be ready to send one of your men back to the target in a
> week, maybe two.”
> Caldwell frowned, puckering his mouth. “You’re sure the
> field can’t be expanded to take both men through at once?”
> “That could lead to a dangerous instability in the Field. We
> might attempt to send two subjects through in single file, as it
> were. But until we’ve successfully retrieved two non-human
> subjects, we can’t try a double passage with your men.”
> Caldwell looked like he wanted to say something else, but
> didn’t. He took his Joint Chiefs and departed for Washington
> D.C., leaving Ferris and Hilyard in the capable hands of
> Oslovski and Keller.
> 
> �����
> 
> Vance began “preventative therapy” sessions with his two
> subjects almost immediately. They discussed the ramifications of
> editing history in great detail. He encouraged them to talk about
> their fears. Then he worked hard at exploiting them—something
> that rubbed completely against his grain.
> “Dammit, Mags, I can’t help but feel like a traitor to my
> calling. I’m supposed to help people overcome their fears and
> anxieties, not feed them.” Vance ran a hand roughly through his
> curly, black hair and grimaced.
> “Sometimes fear is healthy, Vance. You know that. It keeps
> us from doing stupid, dangerous things like screw with history.
> People should be afraid to do that shouldn’t they? Shouldn’t they
> be afraid or ashamed to commit murder?”
> 240                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye. “Okay,
> when you put it like that, it sounds almost noble. I guess I just
> need to be sure that it really is. That we’re not just rationalizing.
> Because using psychology that way rubs me raw.”
> Magda folded her arms across her chest and studied his face.
> “Is it that bad? Do you want to opt out?”
> He threw up his hands in exasperation. “No, it’s not that
> bad, dammit, but this little voice in my head keeps telling me it
> should be. Frankly, knowing what I know, it’s hard to be
> objective. Hell, it’s impossible to be objective. Ferris has the most
> advanced case of tunnel vision I’ve ever seen when it comes to
> the activities of the military. To hear him talk, you’d think the
> Joint Chiefs should be canonized—or at least knighted. And
> Hilyard-” He shook his head. “Hilyard gives me the creeps. I got
> him talking about war and how he felt about it. He said he
> thought dropping the bomb on Hiroshima was beneficial.”
> Magda shrugged. “A lot of people feel we wouldn’t have
> achieved peace without having stood face to face with that
> horror first. You have to admit, it made the whole world stop in
> its tracks and realize war was a no-op.”
> “I think he meant it was beneficial because it let the other
> nations know who was boss. It established the U.S. as a Super
> Power—’separated the men from the boys,’ as he put it.”
> “Oh... So, how are they doing with the program?”
> Vance’s dark face brightened a little. “Pretty well, actually.
> Hilyard is just oozing with half-healed post adolescent wounds
> and a lot of resentment against his superiors. He doesn’t like
> feeling expendable and he fears that’s just what he is. Ferris is
> just a conscientious G.I. trying to do what he feels is his patriotic
> duty.”
> “Assassination?”
> Vance shrugged. “I’ve had them both under hypnosis. Ferris
> seems to take to post-hypnotic suggestion just fine, but Hilyard’s
> Heroes                                                           241
> 
> a little resistant. Oh, there’s one thing I might be able to use
> against him, though.” He made a face. “Dear God, did I just say
> that?”
> Magda threw a paper clip at him. “Snap out of it, Doc.”
> “Anyway, he expressed belief in reincarnation and past life
> regression. I think there are some possibilities in that direction.”
> Magda nodded, looking thoughtful. “Vance, what’s your
> assessment of the mental and emotional health of these two
> men?”
> “That’s a tough one. Judging from what they’re planning to
> do...” He shook his head. “I’d have to say we were looking at
> two pretty sick little puppies. Oh, mentally, I’d have to give
> them a clean bill of health—based solely on the standard issue
> tests. But faced with this...mission of theirs, they’ve got to be
> buying their day-to-day sanity at the expense of their emotional
> stability.”
> Magda got up and moved to face him, locking her fingers at
> the back of his neck. “While you’re busy feeling guilty about
> brainwashing them so they don’t have to go through with their
> mission, ask yourself what would happen to them, mentally and
> emotionally, if they did go through with it. Hilyard is right,
> Vance. As far as Caldwell is concerned, they are expendable.”
> 
> �����
> 
> During the week and a half prior to their Time Shift, Hilyard
> and Ferris each established their own unique behavior patterns.
> Colonel Ferris spent most of his free time alone or, almost
> perversely, it seemed, in Vance Keller’s company. He rarely
> interacted with any of the other team members. Hilyard, on the
> other hand, elected to shadow different members of Oslovki’s
> Team insatiably asking questions about the Temporal Spectrum
> and its attendant technology.
> 242                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “It’s almost as if he doesn’t believe it,” said Trevor, “and
> he’s asking all these questions trying to catch us out.”
> Shiro nodded. “I know just what you mean. And you know,
> he actually seems to understand what we tell him. It’s eerie. I
> feel like he’s watching us all the time. Listening to everything we
> say and taking notes.”
> “He is taking notes,” averred Louis. “Every time I turn
> around, he’s talking to that handcomp. I’d love to get my hands
> on that thing to hear what he’s been saying about us behind our
> backs.”
> “Let’s get serious, folks,” said Oslovski from the head of the
> table. “He’s very likely keeping reports for Caldwell. Let’s just
> make sure he doesn’t see or hear anything compromising. Now,
> tomorrow’s the big day. We’ll have one more procedural drill
> tonight. Are their any issues we need to discuss...Judy?”
> “I’m a little concerned about the combined effects of
> Ephkal-A and the tranq they’ll receive. The tranquillizer will
> inevitably create a condition that the Ephkal-A will counter-act.
> I’m wondering if we shouldn’t delay the infusion of Ephkal-A
> until after the Shift. That way they won’t be subjected to an
> endorphin double-whammy.”
> Oslovski nodded. “A valid concern. Trev? What’s your
> opinion?”
> “I can see a potential for metabolic confusion. There’ll be a
> natural tendency toward rapid pulse and increased adrenal
> activity. The tranq will damp that and it will depress some
> neural functions, which Ephkal-A will then try to elevate. But,
> frankly, that could be to our advantage.”
> Judy Walsh flushed angrily. “What about their advantage?
> Or don’t we care if we drive them into a seizure?”
> “Of course we care, Judy,” said Trevor. “I just don’t see a
> clear danger. Q-Bert didn’t have any problem with the
> compounds.”
> Heroes                                                             243
> 
> “Q-Bert’s a dog, not a man. His heart didn’t pound the way
> theirs did. His nervous system didn’t go into overdrive. They
> may seem like icemen, but they’re not. I’m afraid of what the
> combination of drugs and adrenalin might do.”
> “I think Judy has a valid concern,” said Oslovski. “Vance, is
> there any way they can receive the Ephkal-A at your end?”
> “I don’t see why not. We’ll have to get the timing right—
> wait until their attention is engaged elsewhere—but sure.”
> “All right. Trev, will you oversee that?”
> He nodded, making a note on his handcomp. “Got it.”
> Oslovski glanced around the table again. “More issues?”
> Vance raised a hand. “I’ve got a couple. Which do you want
> first, the good issue or the bad issue?”
> “Oh, please. Let’s hear the good one first.”
> “Well, as you no doubt noticed, Bert Ferris has been stuck to
> me all week. He’s a nice guy, but sort of a bundle of
> contradictions. He’s a very...religious man, I guess you’d say.
> Very active in his church. The doctrines of his particular sect
> include the idea that world peace is something that won’t or
> can’t or shouldn’t come until the literal and physical return of
> Christ. The current peace is, ipso facto, false and evil. He more or
> less told me that he considers it his Christian duty to ’undo the
> Devil’s work,’ as he put it, in any way he could.”
> There was a moment of complete silence at the table. Judy
> Walsh’s face was a deep red and Vahid’s lips moved in a silent
> invocation.
> “The good news is, that this predisposition to-um-”
> “Crusader mentality?” offered Trevor acerbically.
> “Trevor, please,” Oslovski cautioned him.
> “Sorry. I just don’t understand that mind set. If God hadn’t
> wanted peace on earth, how the hell could we have achieved it?
> Look at all the obstacles that had to be overcome. If the history of
> the last thirty-five years wasn’t some sort of Divine miracle-”
> 244                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Oslovski raised a hand to stop him. “No one here is arguing
> with you, Trev. But our understanding of Ferris’ mind set isn’t
> germane. What is germane is that that mind set might be an
> advantage to our crusade.”
> Trevor mumbled something under his breath.
> “As I was saying,” Vance continued, “Colonel Ferris has a
> predisposition, even a deep-seated drive, to correct what he sees
> as a cosmic evil. He’s a man with a mission—to see this false
> peace brought to an end. Now, I grant you that on some level, he
> is very likely aware of the contradictions in that ideology. And
> on another level, there’s every indication that because of that
> ideology, these many years of peace we’ve enjoyed pose an
> extreme test to his faith. The bottom line (if I may be so crass) is
> that he’ll want to believe he’s accomplished that mission. He’s
> already proved to take post-hypnotic suggestion very readily.”
> “Good,” said Oslovski. “So, what’s the bad issue?”
> “The bad issue is that both of these guys are thoroughly
> terrified by the idea that they might ’erase’ someone as a
> by-product of their mission. I think Ferris’ sectarian
> indoctrination will override that fear, but I’m not so sure about
> Hilyard. He’s a cold-blooded S.O.B., but he’s got a mom, a dad,
> two younger brothers and a younger sister in Omaha, Nebraska.
> Even if he doesn’t erase them, in any nuclear engagement that
> would be one of the first places to go—it’s within spittin’
> distance of SAC Headquarters. He has what I’d call a very
> strong subconscious imperative not to believe that his mission
> was a success.”
> Oslovski’s brow knit. “Has be been resistant to hypnosis?”
> “Moreso than Ferris. It’s not insurmountable. I just wanted
> to warn you.”
> “Consider us warned. Anyone else?” When no one
> answered, Oslovski started to dismiss the meeting. “In that case
> we’ll-”
> Heroes                                                           245
> 
> “Excuse me.” Judy Walsh’s voice was barely audible.
> Oslovski motioned for her to speak.
> “I just...I just wanted you all to know we’re not all like that.
> Christians, I mean. Some of us—maybe even most of us—believe
> peace is God’s will.”
> “And I must be honest in admitting,” said Vahid, “that there
> are some very devout Muslims who feel much as Colonel Ferris
> does. I trust their beliefs will not reflect on me.” He glanced at
> Trevor who shook his head.
> “Of course not. I’m sorry if I was out of line. I hate bigotry.
> Especially my own.”
> 
> �����
> 
> At 0900 hours they were calibrated and ready. On strict
> orders from Caldwell, Ferris would be the first to go, Hilyard
> following as immediately as possible.
> Magda Oslovski found that significant. It implied that Ferris
> was the primary operative and that Hilyard was his backup.
> She, Trevor and Vance briefed them just prior to the Shift,
> reminding them not to stray too far from the Temporal Field
> Grid lest they lose track of it and become stranded.
> “Of course, one of you could heft it and carry it with you,”
> said Oslovski. “It’s portable enough, but the potential for
> damaging it is increased if you move it. The nearer to the
> materialization point you can accomplish your...mission, the
> better. We’ve positioned you behind a support column, well out
> of sight so you should be able to just leave the Grid in place.”
> She glanced at her handcomp, checking her notes. “Oh, yes.
> You’ll be invisible as long as you’re within about two meters of
> the Grid. That’s part of the Field effect. Again, if you stay close
> to the Grid, you can use that for cover.”
> 246                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Trevor Haley bit the inside of his lip and peered studiously
> at his own handcomp.
> “If there are any questions?” Oslovski glanced from one
> operative to the other. Both shook their heads. “All right, then.
> Colonel Ferris, if you’ll follow Dr. Haley, he’ll set you up on the
> Grid. Major Hilyard, you’ll watch from the observation deck
> with General Caldwell.”
> Judy Walsh was nervous. Her hands shook slightly as she
> prepared an infusion of tranquillizer for Colonel Ferris. She
> breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t the type that liked to
> watch shots being administered.
> She was just preparing to infuse him when he sighed and
> said, “I don’t suppose you could give me a pill to adjust my
> electrolytes?”
> She blinked. There was a smile on his lips and it unnerved
> her. She glanced at George Wu, who was performing the last
> minute adjustments on Ferris’ bio-monitor.
> “Sorry, Colonel,” said George, “but we’ve got to get this
> stuff into your blood stream pronto. Besides, Dr. Walsh likes to
> watch people squirm.” He grinned conspiratorially. “We have to
> let our M.D.s have some fun or they get cranky.”
> Judy smiled nervously and pressed the infuser against
> Ferris’ neck. He winced, then sighed again and looked at her.
> “Pretty women are so often cruel. I’ve never understood
> that.”
> “Yeah,” said George, his eyes on Judy’s blanched face. “Uh,
> Dr. Walsh, we’d better hurry.” He jerked his head toward the
> O.R.
> She nodded, picked up her tray and let him steer her out of
> the Theatre. Once in the O.R., she set the tray down with a clatter
> and wrapped her arms around herself.
> “Thanks, George,” she mumbled, her teeth chattering. “I’m
> sorry, but this whole thing is just-”
> Heroes                                                         247
> 
> “Shifting,” said Shiro.
> Judy glanced at her, then at the monitors. The Spectral Field
> glistened like a shower of diamonds. Within it, Colonel Ferris
> faded from sight.
> “Station, Dr. Walsh!” ordered Oslovski.
> Judy exhaled sharply and slid into her seat. The data on the
> Colonel’s vital signs rippled across her screen. “Heart rate
> spiked briefly to 150. It’s falling off now.... One twenty... one
> hundred. Stabilizing at...95. Respiration seems normal.”
> Oslovski leaned toward Shiro Tsubaki. “Where is he? Or
> should I say, when is he?”
> “Green minus seven and Shifting towards Aqua.”
> “On the timer, Shiro. Give the tranq a few more seconds to
> work, then make the spatial shift and pull him in.”
> Shiro nodded and glanced at her timer. “Okay, I’m going to
> reset coordinates in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0. Resetting
> coordinates.” She punched up the new location on her keyboard.
> “Cue Trevor. Reversing Field...now.”
> Oslovski activated her headset and hailed Trevor, who was
> standing by in the lower level Theatre. “Shiro’s reversing now.
> You’ll have him in about twenty seconds.”
> “We’re ready.” Trevor hefted the infuser-full of Ephkal-A
> and waited, his eyes on the spot where Ferris and the Temporal
> Field Grid were slated to appear. Beside him, Vance Keller took
> a deep breath and counted.
> Ferris re-materialized right on schedule, head lolling
> slightly, hands still clutching his compact weapon. He
> materialized face into a curving screen that all but engulfed him.
> His unfocused eyes saw the sweeping upper gallery of the Word
> Conference Center. He wobbled his head to the right. A pillar
> blocked his view.
> Trevor moved quickly with his infuser, then nodded to
> Vance.
> 248                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “He’s all yours,” he mouthed.
> 
> �����
> 
> Ferris was troubled. The Time Shift had disoriented him and
> he felt slow and muzzy. He was glad the chosen location offered
> so much protection. He knew he was supposedly invisible, but
> he found that a little hard to believe. He chucked inwardly at his
> own skepticism. Here he’d just traveled through time and he
> was balking at the idea of invisibility.
> He scanned the immediate area. It was completely clear.
> According to their information, this part of the auditorium
> had been totally sealed off and was guarded at either end. There
> was no way in and no way out...except their way.
> He could hear the sound of a myriad voices rising from
> below and checked his watch. It was 1045. He settled his
> shoulder against the pillar and waited for Hilyard, the “Battle
> Hymn of the Republic” playing softly in his head.
> 
> �����
> 
> Dr. Judy Walsh was ready this time, or so she thought. She
> had a smile all ready for Major Hilyard as she prepared his
> infusion of tranquillizer. Then, he turned out to be a watcher.
> She gritted her teeth and smiled more broadly.
> “What’s in that shot?” he asked unexpectedly.
> The infuser wavered an inch from his neck. Judy’s face paled
> then flamed. “Just...uh...vitamins and...uh...a compound to-to
> balance your electrolytes.”
> “Why is that necessary?”
> She tried hard not to meet his eyes, but hers kept colliding
> with them. “The effects of the Field cause certain...uh... stresses
> on the-on the nervous system. This will counteract them.”
> Heroes                                                            249
> 
> He studied her intently for a moment, eyes narrowed, then
> asked, “Is there anything harmful in it?”
> She stared at him, half relieved, half terrified. “Oh, no!”
> He nodded. “Get on with it, then.”
> Judy blinked at George—who stared back, owl-eyed—then
> administered the tranquillizer.
> 
> �����
> 
> Bert Ferris swiveled as Hilyard materialized behind him. He
> checked his watch. It was 1050. They checked their weapons—
> matte black rifles with scopes that were as long as the barrels—
> then moved stealthily to the steel and cement railing at the edge
> of the gallery.
> Ferris looked back toward the Grid. He couldn’t see it
> because of the pillar, but he gauged they were within the two
> meter invisibility range. He raised himself up slowly and peered
> over the edge of the gallery. He checked his watch again—less
> than a minute to go. He readied the rifle.
> Below, Gorbachev was introduced in several languages. The
> audience cheered and applauded at length. Ferris’ lip curled—a
> standing ovation for the Devil. He rose to his knees and lifted
> the rifle. He sighted.
> A shot reverberated through the hall and the figure in the
> center of the stage froze. In that second, Ferris fired twice.
> The figure crumpled beneath a spray of scarlet.
> In the pandemonium after, Ferris sank back and gave
> Hilyard the thumbs up, then he crawled back to the Grid. After a
> swift peek over the railing, Hilyard followed. Ferris mounted
> first and waited for the Field to engage. A mere twenty seconds
> later, he was back in his own time.
> Hilyard followed, coming out of the Field to see Ferris
> wobbling away toward the door. His own legs felt weak and he
> 250                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> staggered against someone. He turned his head groggily to see
> Dr. Walsh blinking at him. She tried to smile.
> “You made it,” she said. “Welcome back.” She gave him
> another infusion. “Something for the disorientation.”
> He nodded and let her lead him from the room.
> 
> �����
> 
> “I don’t understand it,” fumed General Caldwell, “You said
> expect changes. And believe you me, we did. But nothing’s
> changed—not a damn thing. Killing- Fulfilling our mission seems
> to have accomplished nothing. I called our contacts in
> Washington, Berlin, Moscow—everything is the same.”
> At the mention of his contacts, Magda Oslovski glanced
> across the table at her husband, her heart suddenly feeling like
> an ice cube in soda water. Did the contacts check their history
> books?
> If they did... She berated herself mentally for such a glaring
> oversight. They’d been so wrapped up in the technological
> aspects of the situation, they’d ignored the most obvious logical
> ones.
> “General,” said Vance, “we never said things would change
> radically. Just that they could.”
> Out of the corner of her eye, Oslovski saw George Wu trying
> to attract her attention. He gestured, first, at his video unit, then
> at himself. She responded with a slight nod.
> “Are you sure you killed him?” Caldwell was asking Ferris.
> “Killed or vegetized,” responded the Colonel emphatically.
> “No one survives two direct hits to the head with an AK-70.”
> “Hilyard, you corroborate?”
> Hilyard nodded.
> “How can we know for certain?” was Caldwell’s next
> question.
> Heroes                                                            251
> 
> Oslovski glanced at George Wu.
> “History books,” he said quickly. “Newspapers. We can
> have the Library Computer get a sampling.”
> “Do it.”
> George keyed in his request. Within seconds, they were
> looking at a front page spread: GORBACHEV VICTIM OF
> ASSASSINATION PLOT.
> “Continue,” George prompted. The page changed. WORLD
> STUNNED BY VICIOUS ATTACK ON GORBACHEV:
> DOCTORS HAVE LITTLE HOPE FOR SOVIET LEADER’S
> SURVIVAL.
> “Hold that!” said Caldwell. “Let me read the copy.”
> “Amplify,” said George.
> The page enlarged, rendering the text beneath the caption
> readable.
> “He wasn’t killed,” murmured Caldwell. Then frowned.
> “But it amounts to the same thing—severe brain damage, kept
> on life support in a Moscow hospital. He’s a vegetable.” He
> shook his head. “I don’t get it. How come nothing’s changed?”
> “What were you expecting?” asked Oslovski as
> dispassionately as she could.
> He ignored her, his eyes devouring the story on the monitor.
> “I could find some history books,” offered George.
> Caldwell waved a hand at him. “No, don’t bother. I caught
> the drift from this-” He flicked his fingers at the newspaper
> spread. “A lot of wimpy speeches about ’our brother’s sacrifice
> not being in vain,’ a lot of fancy political rationalization about
> the impossibility of going back. Weak willed-” He clenched his
> jaw.
> “Maybe the effects are further in the future,” suggested
> Ferris.
> “That’s a distinct possibility,” said Oslovski thoughtfully.
> “Time travel is a frontier. What we know of the Temporal
> 252                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Spectrum suggests that changing history—altering the pattern of
> the Spectrum—might cause an actual branching effect. This close
> to the bifurcation, we might not see its full effects. Although,
> heaven knows, we could even have created an anomaly—a
> parallel history, or a bubble in history.”
> “And we could be in the middle of this...bubble?” asked
> Caldwell.
> Oslovski adjusted her glasses on her nose. “As I said—a
> distinct possibility. Then again, maybe Someone or Something
> just won’t let us change history...retroactively.”
> Caldwell just stared at her blankly. Ferris gritted his teeth.
> Hilyard smiled.
> “How far in the future—these effects?” demanded Caldwell.
> Oslovski shrugged, enjoying his frustration. “Years,
> decades...”
> “I want to see it,” he said. “I want to see the future.”
> “All right, but it will take several days to recalibrate our
> equipment for a forward Shift. We could be ready to send your
> operatives into the future in as little as...say...four days.”
> “Not them, me! I want to see it! Hilyard, you’ll come with
> me. In the mean time, I’ll be having my contacts check their own
> Library computers.” He jabbed the table with his forefinger, then
> pivoted on his heel and left the room with Ferris right behind.
> Hilyard watched them leave, then rose slowly and followed, still
> smiling.
> Oslovski shivered. “I see what you mean about him,” she
> told Vance. “He is creepy.” She turned to George. “I could just
> kiss you! Where did you get that stuff you showed us?”
> George shrugged. “Over the last couple of days I got to
> thinking about how Caldwell and his bunch would react to this,
> and it occurred to me that they’d want to see solid proof that
> what their operatives said happened actually did happen. There
> wasn’t any time to discuss it with everyone, so I had the Library
> Heroes                                                        253
> 
> Computer play ’what-if’ with the assassination and come up
> with some hypothetical headlines and political analyses. Then I
> just got a little creative with the output and had the computer
> assign well-known authors to the commentary. There’s a front
> page, lead story and follow-ups for every major U.S. and
> European publication. Oh, and I had the computer draft some
> hypothetical history texts, too.”
> “What made you decide Gorbachev didn’t die?” asked
> Vance.
> “Well, it also occurred to me that Caldwell might very likely
> do his verification somewhere that fell through my cracks, as it
> were. If he did, he’d see that Gorbachev died of natural causes in
> a private hospital outside Moscow about eight years ago. I had
> to adjust my ’history’ to that. I was able to get to his private
> computer through the Library of Congress system. If he connects
> through that system, he’ll find that Gorbachev was taken to a
> private facility where he eventually died—this is history
> according to George, now. I also planted the idea that there was
> an attempted cover-up. That a group of Soviet higher-ups tried
> to make light of the President’s injuries and claimed that he had
> only been superficially wounded—so that people wouldn’t lapse
> into despair or renewed animosity.”
> “Why that?” asked Vance.
> “Covering our tracks, Doc. There’s still every chance that
> Caldwell or his contacts could look in the wrong places and
> come up with a Gorbachev who was not only alive, but lively.
> Even with my noodling, that could still unravel our whole
> fabric. Now, if I knew who Caldwell’s contacts were, what data
> bank they’d be likely to access and what nodes they’d be using, I
> could make sure they all got matching information.
> Unfortunately, I’m not a mind reader.”
> “You might not have to be,” said Oslovski. She held up a
> small, dark gray box. “Hilyard dropped his handcomp.”
> 254                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> George ogled. “And it’s displaying a list of contacts?”
> “No, it’s displaying an index.” She held it out to him.
> “You’re the hacker—have at it.”
> It was at once logical and beyond all possible miracles to
> suppose that the names and system addresses of Caldwell’s
> contacts for Project Hourglass were amongst the data stored in
> Hilyard’s handcomp, but they were. George and Louis went into
> high gear. They downloaded the information to their own
> handcomps and immediately set about using it to shunt any
> requests for information originating from the contact’s terminals
> through to the QuestLabs’ Library server. Hilyard’s unit was
> returned to him post haste.
> “But what if somebody just goes to a library terminal and
> requests information about Gorbachev’s assassination?” asked
> Shiro.
> George allowed himself a self-congratulatory grin. “I
> planted something in the nature of a glorified IF-THEN
> statement in the Library of Congress system. IF anyone requests
> information on the assassination attempt, THEN they get routed
> to our ersatz fact file. Since all libraries network to that system-”
> He shrugged.
> “George, you’re a marvel,” Oslovski told him.
> He blushed faintly at the praise. “Well, I couldn’t cover all
> our tracks, but I did what I could. It’s just...” He made a wry
> face.
> “What?”
> “Well, it seems too much of a fluke, I guess. Here we find
> ourselves in a position where we could use certain information
> and—bingo!—it falls onto our conference room floor.”
> “Miracles do happen,” observed Vance.
> George tilted his head. “I don’t doubt it. But there’s
> something a little odd about this miracle. For two weeks,
> Heroes                                                          255
> 
> Hilyard’s been taking notes on that handcomp. I didn’t find a
> trace of them.”
> “Maybe it was encrypted,” suggested Shiro.
> “Even encrypted information takes up room in memory, my
> dear. The only data left in that unit, with the exception of the
> information we needed, was general stuff. There wasn’t even a
> letter to mom.”
> Oslovski stiffened. “You’re suggesting we’ve been set up.”
> George shrugged. “The nodes I accessed were operative and
> the addresses and passwords were real. Maybe I’m just being
> paranoid.”
> “And maybe not.” Oslovski frowned thoughtfully. “Let’s
> keep a close eye on Major Hilyard.”
> “What do we do if he does anything suspicious?” asked
> Louis.
> Oslovski grimaced. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. But we don’t
> have any time to worry about it. We’ve got to get ready for
> Phase Two of Operation Little Big Horn. First order of business
> is helping General Caldwell decide where to go.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “It has to be someplace where I can ascertain military
> activity,” said Caldwell. “In other words, a military installation.”
> “A...War Room, perhaps?” suggested Oslovski.
> “You mean a Tactical Center,” corrected Ferris. “We haven’t
> called them War Rooms for years.”
> A rose by any other name, thought Oslovski. Aloud, she said,
> “Tactical Center, then. Would that be appropriate?”
> Hilyard looked up from fiddling with his handcomp.
> “Begging your pardon, sir, but if a Tactical Center was in
> operation in the future, wouldn’t that indicate something about
> the health of the military establishment?”
> 256                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Caldwell nodded slowly. “Makes sense. All right. Send us to
> Offutt. If there’s any activity at all, it’ll be there.”
> 
> �����
> 
> Four days later they were ready for the Shift, their target, the
> year 2075, Offutt Air Force Base, Bellevue, Nebraska. Caldwell
> didn’t ask what was in his shot, but accepted the electrolyte
> story at face value. This time it was closer to the truth. Instead of
> a powerful tranquillizer, the infusions contained only a mild
> neural damper and a dose of Ephkal-A.
> Hilyard went onto the Grid first—a precautionary measure,
> Cladwell insisted. Caldwell himself was plainly nervous as he
> followed; only Hilyard’s extreme calm persuaded him he was
> not going to merely evaporate into the shimmering void.
> He re-materialized in semi-darkness and stiffened in
> apprehension. The wave of anxiety passed at the pressure of
> Hilyard’s fingers on his arm.
> They were standing on a narrow catwalk. What light there
> was in the vaulted room seemed to be coming from below.
> Figures moving about the room cast eerie, elongated shadows
> onto the curving ceiling. Caldwell and Hilyard moved in unison
> to the steel railing at the edge of the carpeted walk, Caldwell
> looking back to make certain the move left them inside the
> invisibility range.
> Below and beneath was a large horseshoe-shaped chamber
> bathed in mellow gold light and populated by uniformed
> soldiers.
> Computer generated maps alternated with video screens
> along the curving walls, while in the heart of the room were
> several computer stations. Directly at center was an odd piece of
> equipment that looked like a rectangular stalactite/stalagmite
> formation rendered in some sort of anodized, black metal.
> Heroes                                                          257
> 
> Between the top and bottom of the unit, hung a shimmering
> curtain of colored light. Next to that mystery stood a figure with
> what appeared to be an admiral’s insignia on its shoulders.
> Caldwell frowned. The uniform was an unfamiliar silveryblue unrecognizable as being from any branch of the military.
> The rank suggested Navy, but... He scanned the other figures.
> Several, apparently officers, also wore the silver-blue; others
> wore a vivid shade between royal blue and midnight. From his
> high vantage point, he saw nothing of their faces; only the tops
> of heads covered with unfamiliar caps.
> Before he could solve the puzzle, one of the blue-suited
> soldiers seated at a computer terminal turned and said,
> “Commander, we’re receiving new data on the Northern Front.
> It looks like a much bigger push than we anticipated.”
> “On screen, Tech Newman.”
> Caldwell stiffened. It was a woman’s voice. He’d never
> objected to women entering the service—but in a War Room?
> Still, that the War Room was here at all was- One of the wall
> maps came suddenly to life. Caldwell’s eyes flew to it and ogled.
> Across a green representation of the United States and
> Canada, swept a coruscating swathe of gold, orange and red, its
> southern edge pressing as far south as Montana. On the east, it
> reached greedy fingers of glowing hues toward the Great Lakes.
> “My God,” Caldwell breathed awfully.
> Hilyard glanced at him and tapped his ear.
> The General barely noticed him. What nation could field
> such a massive front, let alone push it all the way into the
> northern states? He licked his lips, wondering what they were
> fighting it with.
> “Have all the warnings gone out?” the Admiral asked.
> “Yes, sir. Forty-eight hours before the leading edge. Status
> reports are already coming in; everybody’s battening down for
> the duration.”
> 258                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The Admiral nodded. “When will the leading edge reach
> Yosemite?”
> The technician plied his keyboard for an instant, then
> consulted his monitor. “Approximately twenty-four hours, sir.
> They’ve been advised.”
> Twenty-four hours? Caldwell thought. What army could move
> that fast? Maybe it was a weapon of some sort. Nuclear? No, too
> widespread. Chemical? Biological? How could they remain so
> calm in the face of such vast destruction—as if it was everyday
> fare. This looked like...Armaggedon.
> “Thank you, Newman,” the Admiral was saying. “Mr.
> Mendez?”
> “Yes, sir.” Another technician glanced up from her console.
> “Are you in communication with Yosemite Base?”
> “Yes, sir.”
> “What is their status?”
> “Heavily embattled, sir,” answered the slightly accented
> voice. “Commander Li says the situation is barely under
> control.”
> “Visual reference,” ordered the Admiral.
> Next to the huge map, a video panel pulsed on. Nothing
> showed upon it but billowing smoke and flames. So faintly he
> wasn’t certain he’d really seen them, Caldwell’s eyes caught the
> movement of bodies plummeting through the fog-thick smoke.
> The observing camera eye panned. He saw uniformed soldiers
> scrambling through the blazing brush, flames patting at their
> passing legs like playful but deadly kittens.
> Below, the Admiral made a clicking noise and said, “Visual
> off. Advise Commander Li that we will send reinforcements
> immediately. Then contact Colonel Darnell and have her
> dispatch a company of men and aerial support units. I believe
> the closest air squadrons are aboard the UNS Crazy Horse. Have
> the air support sent in from there.”
> Heroes                                                        259
> 
> “Yes, sir.”
> “When you’ve completed that, put me in touch with General
> Dreyfus in Juneau.”
> The Admiral turned as a second officer approached her
> carrying what appeared to be a handcomp. He made what
> Caldwell felt was a half-ass salute.
> “So, Mr. Krasnik,” said the Admiral, not bothering to return
> the gesture. “What new hot spots do you have for me today?”
> “Actually, sir, it looks very much as if we’re going to have
> an unusual situation in Florida. Cuba Station has already begun
> tracking.”
> The Admiral jerked a thumb at the odd machine to her right.
> “Show and tell, Mr. Krasnik,” she said.
> “I have General Dreyfus, Admiral,” announced Technician
> Mendez.
> The Admiral signaled Krasnik to go ahead. “On audio.”
> “Admiral Halleck, sir. Good to hear from you,” said a
> disembodied voice.
> “I noticed you were out from under. What’s your status,
> Vinnie?”
> “Pretty bad. We’ve been hemmed in for the better part of
> four days. Everything was grounded. Today...it’s terrible. The
> sheer number of corpses, sir—it’s devastating. The bio-med team
> has been doing its best, but we-we’ve had to put so many of
> them down.”
> Caldwell’s mind froze and threatened to recoil. What in the
> name of all things holy had they come to in the last fifty years—
> putting the injured down? His lip curled in disgust. He
> supposed they called it euthanasia or some such nonsense.
> Murder—that’s what he called it. Sheer brutal laziness. He
> glanced again at the map. Or had the enemy weaponry become
> so hideous-?
> 260                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Beside Caldwell, Hilyard frowned thoughtfully, almost
> unconsciously resting his elbows on the catwalk’s padded
> guardrail.
> General Dreyfus finished his report, noting that he could use
> something larger than his present complement of destroyer,
> cruiser and corvette to help “mop up.”
> “More men would be appreciated too, Admiral. We’ve got
> our hands more than full disposing of the bodies. It’s gonna take
> one helluva pit to bury all of them.”
> Caldwell almost puked. He gripped the guardrail, oblivious
> to Hilyard’s bemused observation. It couldn’t be that bad. It
> could never be so bad that you had to-
> Officer Krasnik turned from his machine and whispered
> something in Admiral Halleck’s ear.
> “My tactical officer informs me that you have about 5 days
> to get your situation in hand. You’re evidently going to be hit
> fairly hard from the northwest again.”
> Dreyfus swore.
> “Sorry, Vin. We’ll get your reinforcements to you on the
> double. The battleship Walesa is in Anadyr. I’ll have her
> deployed to your waters. How many men do you need?”
> “I could use a battalion,” said Dreyfus.
> Halleck snorted. “Take two, they’re small.”
> “I wasn’t joking.”
> “I didn’t think you were... Casualties were that bad?”
> “Thousands upon thousands, Admiral. Worst I’ve seen in a
> situation like this. The Apah Param couldn’t have struck at a
> worse time of year. Hell, it’s hard to believe one damn boat
> could do so much damage!”
> One boat! One! Caldwell swallowed and found his throat too
> dry for the activity. And what the hell was an Apah Param? He
> had the sudden horrible thought that perhaps the Enemy wasn’t
> even human.
> Heroes                                                         261
> 
> “They will insist on year-round activity,” said Halleck.
> “We’ve certainly advised them against their bad weather
> jaunts, but who can reason with them? It’d take another Gorbi,
> God bless him.”
> Caldwell’s mouth popped open. Gorbi?
> “Well, do your best, Vinnie,” urged the Admiral. “Of course,
> you always do. Then, when this is all over, why don’t you take a
> nice vacation somewhere sunny and warm?”
> “Oh, sure. So I can come back and do it all over again next
> year!”
> “Well, you could transfer to Yosemite in the spring. We’ll be
> sending in a couple of battalions to rebuild.”
> “Yeah,” sighed Dreyfus. “I like trees.”
> Caldwell shook his head. The conversation was getting hard
> to follow. His assumptions about the situation shifted beneath
> him like dune sand as he tried to make sense out of it.
> Admiral Halleck signed off, then and turned her attention to
> Krasnik and his machine. “Show and tell time, Mr. Krasnik,” she
> said.
> In response, the officer touched an instrument panel on one
> side of the machine’s black base. The column of muted light
> became a colorful multi-leveled sea of three-dimensional images,
> flowing in stately waves—advancing, retreating.
> They reminded Hilyard of the “plasma clouds” he used to
> generate as a kid, using fractal equations on the family
> computer.
> Krasnik tapped and keyed and adjusted and the images
> settled into patterns that almost made sense. Vibrant green
> formed hills and vales below wisps and billows of subtly
> changing hues.
> Hilyard frowned, bemused, then felt the patterns click into
> sudden clarity. His mouth twitched as he turned his eyes to the
> ogling Caldwell.
> 262                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “And who have we here?” asked the Admiral, nodding at
> the 3D display.
> “This is Mariella.” Krasnik indicated a violently eddying
> orange area high in one corner. “And this,"—he indicated the
> rolling greens— “is the coastal area we’re afraid will be hardest
> hit when she rolls ashore.”
> Halleck frowned. “Poor Cuba. That’s twice in three years.
> What’s the prognosis for Florida?”
> “Not so good, if this continues to gain velocity. This mass
> here,"—he gestured with a sweeping, circular motion—"is
> strengthening rapidly. We may be looking at a full-fledged blow
> before tomorrow morning.”
> Caldwell’s ogle changed to a stunned scowl.
> “What’re the chances of seeding her to force the
> precipitation?”
> Krasnik shrugged. “Cuba’s on it. Along with a wing of
> storm bombers from Mexico. We can but pray and send troops
> to help Florida batten down.”
> Admiral Halleck nodded. “Too bad we can’t get Mariella to
> dump her load on Yosemite. Coax Nature to put out her own
> fires. Wouldn’t that be poetic justice?”
> “We’re working on it,” said Krasnik soberly.
> Caldwell’s fists tightened on the catwalk rail. Confusion and
> anger swept up from his gut in a hot spray, warring with
> something blasphemously like relief.
> “I’ve seen enough,” he whispered and went to the Grid.
> 
> �����
> 
> “What the hell was that place? Where the hell did they send
> us?” Caldwell turned on Hilyard the moment he stepped off the
> Grid. “It sure as hell wasn’t a War Room!”
> Heroes                                                            263
> 
> Hilyard blinked at him, feeling only slightly disoriented.
> “No sir, of course not. It was a Tactical Center.”
> “That was no Tactical Center like I’ve ever seen, Major.”
> “No sir. I don’t imagine anyone else has ever seen one like it
> either.”
> “And that-and that machine—some sort of-of-”
> “It was an atmospheric model, sir.”
> “A what?”
> “An atmospheric model. A three dimensional projection of-”
> “Yeah, yeah- Doctor!” Caldwell launched himself at
> Oslovski as she stepped into the room. “Where did you send
> me? What was that place?”
> Oslovski glanced from Caldwell to Hilyard. “We sent you to
> a Tactical Center, just as you requested.” She spread her hands
> in a gesture of bemusement. “I can’t tell you more than that. You
> were there just now, I wasn’t.”
> Caldwell swung back to Hilyard. “Major, what do you make
> of it? What was that all about?”
> “I’d say sir,” said Hilyard, his voice soft and almost patient,
> “that we were sent to a military Tactical Center. I’d also say that
> they seemed to be fighting battles on several fronts.”
> “Battles? What battles? They weren’t fighting-”
> “They were fighting all right, sir,” said Hilyard
> imperturbably. “The enemy just wasn’t...people.”
> “What did you see?” asked Oslovski.
> “A farce!” erupted Caldwell.
> Hilyard ignored him. “Evidently in the future, we’ll be
> battling forest fires and hurricanes and oil spills...or so it seems.”
> He shrugged. “Maybe reforestation will replace demolition as a
> specialty—an environmental defense specialty.”
> “That’s absurd!” snarled Caldwell. “Fighting men fight,
> dammit. They don’t damn garden!”
> 264                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “And what’s wrong with killing forest fires instead of
> people?” asked Oslovski. “Or planting trees instead of land
> mines? Wouldn’t you rather be the heroes of a constructive
> process instead of the villains of a destructive one?”
> “Villains?”
> Oslovski looked him in the eye. “Most of us don’t like war,
> General. We hate it. We’re not likely to thank anyone who
> perpetuates it when peace is within reach. I know you don’t
> understand that. Nor will you likely understand that most of us
> look forward to a day when the military is obsolete. Well, it
> looks like that day isn’t going to come. It looks like the future
> needs the military, after all—needs it for construction instead of
> destruction. I’d think you’d be happy about that.”
> Caldwell stood glaring darkly at the floor.
> “Looks like our interference in history didn’t accomplish
> anything after all,” observed Hilyard. “Maybe even made
> Gorbachev more of a hero than he already seemed to be.”
> “Hell,” muttered Caldwell. “What’m I supposed to tell the
> Chiefs?” He started toward the door. It scooted obediently out of
> his way.
> Oslovski shrugged and watched him pass. “You could find
> another historical crux and try again.”
> “We don’t have the funds. Dammit, we were so sure that
> was the right time and place—the right enemy.”
> “Sometimes it’s hard to know who the enemy really is,”
> observed Oslovski. “Or if there’s even an enemy at all.”
> He threw her a scathing glance and passed through into the
> hall. She found herself eye to eye with Major Hilyard.
> “We have met the Enemy and he is us?” he murmured,
> quirking an eyebrow.
> She smothered her reaction and followed the two men into
> the corridor, steering them toward the Conference Room. The
> rest of the Team was already there, along with Colonel Ferris,
> Heroes                                                           265
> 
> but Caldwell ignored them, dropping into a chair at the far end
> of the table.
> Hilyard seated himself next door and sat back in his chair,
> watching Oslovski make her way to the head of the room.
> “We have evidently failed in our mission,” said Caldwell.
> He glanced at Ferris’ suddenly pale, tense face. “The military of
> the future,"—he said the word as if it was odious—"is apparently
> more of an environmental defense mechanism than a national
> security force.”
> “Those people were defending more than the environment,
> sir,” said Hilyard quietly. “They were helping the people of this
> country defend themselves against natural disaster. They were
> helping devastated areas rebuild.” He smiled. “I’ll bet they see a
> lot more ticker-tape parades than we do.”
> Caldwell gritted his teeth. There was that unholy feeling of
> relief again, of something stronger. “What do we do, then? Slink
> on home with our tails between our legs and admit all the
> money we’ve spent went down the rat hole?”
> “We could get a head start on the future,” suggested
> Hilyard. “It looked pretty interesting to me, sir.”
> Caldwell glanced at him, pinning his lower lip between
> thumb and forefinger. “I suppose we could float some ideas
> around the Hill...before they sack all of us.”
> “May I make a suggestion?” asked Oslovski.
> Caldwell nodded.
> “First, let us put history back the way it was.”
> “How can you do that?” asked Ferris.
> “By sending you back to the time of the incident and having
> you not shoot Gorbachev.”
> Ferris shook his head. “But then, we’d be there twice.”
> “Not possible,” said Shiro. “If we got you there a
> millisecond before your initial materialization, the pattern of the
> first event will adjust itself to the second. Think of time as light
> 266                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> waves. The first temporal event—your first visit—set up a
> waveform, if you will. If the second temporal event—the second
> visit—sets up its waveform just prior to the first one, it will
> cancel it out, engulf it, re-form it.”
> “Then what?” asked Caldwell.
> “Well, to paraphrase Saint Francis of Assisi,” said Oslovski.
> “Have the courage to change what you can, the serenity to
> accept what you cannot change and the wisdom to know the
> difference. Accept peace. Get used to it, and to the idea that you
> do have a peacetime role that’s more than just training for the
> next war—the war that won’t come. We can help you do that.
> Dr. Keller could help you set up a program to ease you into that
> peacetime role. The future doesn’t have to be miserable just
> because you have no enemies.” She nearly crossed her eyes at
> the sheer absurdity of the thought. “Judging from Major
> Hilyard’s description of the future, I’d say you’ll have lots to
> do...and lots of support in doing it.”
> Caldwell chewed his lip and thought. Then he glanced at
> Hilyard. “What do you think, Major?”
> “I think it’s worth a shot...sir.”
> “Ferris?”
> “I-I can’t say, sir. I...I don’t know. This peace...it isn’t real. It
> can’t be.”
> “Only time will tell,” observed Oslovski. “You know, back
> in the early 20th century a gentleman named Abbas Effendi said,
> ’Why not try peace for a while? If we find war is better, it will
> not be difficult to fight again.’” She spread her hands toward
> Caldwell, pushing the ball into his court.
> “You’d be willing to set up counseling clinics, uh,
> reorientation, or whatever?” he asked.
> “Whatever it takes,” said Oslovski.
> “Damn!” Caldwell slapped the table with the flat of his
> hand, making everyone jump. He pointed a finger at Oslovski.
> Heroes                                                         267
> 
> “You’ve got my back to the wall, doctor. I’ve got no choice and
> you know it. It’s either put up, or shut up and go back empty
> handed. I’ll get the Chiefs up here. You can start your
> psycho-stuff on them while I package a few ideas and try to sell
> them on the Hill. Shouldn’t have too much trouble with the
> environmental lobby, I suppose. Right now, I’ve got to lie down.
> I’ve got a hell of a headache.”
> He pushed himself away from the table, rose and left, Ferris
> trailing behind him like a woebegone pet.
> Hilyard sat where he was and smiled at the tabletop. The
> tension in the room mounted by the second. Finally, he got up
> and glanced down the table at Oslovski. “I don’t know how you
> did it,” he said. “And I’m not sure I want to know. There’s a part
> of me that wants to blow the whistle on you, even though I
> couldn’t prove a damn thing...at least, not without implicating
> myself in certain matters. But there’s another part of me that
> knows what you did was right...for everybody concerned.”
> He gave the circle of stunned faces a long, lingering look,
> then nodded and moved to the door, stopping just short of the
> pressure pad. He turned back. “One thing I’ve got to know:
> When did you play out that little scene Caldwell and I just saw?”
> Oslovski cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Two days ago in
> the theatre downstairs.”
> He nodded, smiling. “Thank you,” he said. The door slipped
> open to let him out, then closed silently behind him.
> 
> �����
> 
> Less than a month later, the Joint Chiefs of Staff made a
> ground breaking proposal to Congress that instead of
> mothballing fleets, bases and men, the government embark on a
> military overhaul, converting whatever was convertible to peace
> time use.
> 268                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Battleships could fight oil slicks; tanks could fight fires;
> troops could learn to build shelters for hurricane victims, shore
> up leaking levees and plant forests.
> The EPA loved it, GreenPeace was ecstatic, the Red Cross
> was more than grateful for the offer of troops and equipment to
> aid in their relief efforts. The Chiefs spoke of global applications
> and the United Nations applauded and handed them a list of
> ideas as long as the Great Wall of China.
> “I would love to take credit for all this,” said Vance Keller,
> scanning the latest edition of a national news magazine, “but to
> tell you the truth, the counseling program hasn’t been as much
> of a factor in the conversion process as we expected. Oh, there
> are the inevitable individuals who are having trouble accepting
> the sudden shift in orientation-”
> “Ferris?” Magda glanced over the top of her coffee cup.
> Vance puckered. “Actually he’s doing okay. He’s finding a
> great deal of comfort in playing Gamaliel.”
> Magda raised her eyebrows questioningly.
> “’If this work be of men, it will come to naught,’” he quoted.
> “He’s been studying his scriptures a lot. He’s come up with
> some interesting alternatives to the party line interpretations of
> prophecy.” He grinned. “Vahid is overjoyed—Ferris has been
> asking all sorts of questions about Muhammad and Islamic
> prophecy... Anyway, most of the G.I.s we’ve interviewed seem
> to be happy to be beating their swords into ploughshares.
> Practicing for war takes a lot out of a person. If you want my
> honest opinion, I’d say General Caldwell and his bunch were a
> lot less keen on being heroes than they imagined they were.”
> “Oh, but they are heroes.” Magda fielded a folded page of
> flimsy newspaper nylon. A half-page color picture of a glowing
> General Caldwell with his young aide, Lieutenant Colonel John
> Hilyard, smiled up from the glossy sheet under a banner
> Heroes                                                       269
> 
> headline announcing Project Ploughshare. “At least, I’m pretty
> sure Saint Francis would have said so.”
> 270   I Loved Thy Creation
> Any Mother’s Son                                                   271
> 
> Any Mother’s Son
> 
> A story of science fiction
> Any Mother’s Son was originally published in the May 2000
> issue of Analog Science Fiction and is another in my time travel
> series. Chronologically, it takes place some years after HEROES
> and continues the dialogue about the effects of present actions
> on future events. As one character notes, “You can only edit the
> present.” The story also delves into the question of how much
> responsibility one soul has for another.
> 
> Lay not on any soul a load which ye would not wish
> to be laid upon you, and desire not for any one the
> things ye would not desire for yourselves. This is My
> best counsel unto you, did ye but observe it.
> Gleanings from the
> Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,
> p. 128
> 
> �����
> 
> Dr. Sharon Glen could set her watch to her moods. From the
> time she woke until noon she was eager; from lunch to dinner
> she was determined; from dinner to bedtime she was
> ambivalent. But once she had poked her head into Alec’s room
> one last time, turned off the lights and gotten into bed herself,
> the ambivalence gave way to anxiety and guilt.
> The anxiety was for the technology in which her career lived
> and moved and had being. The guilt was for Alec. If the
> technology failed, Alec would be alone in the world except for
> 272                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> his grandmother, whose condition at times made her unaware
> she even had a grandson.
> It was the shock of losing Robert that had derailed Helen
> Glen’s fragile mental train. Her son had been the center of her
> universe, and when he had one day walked into the future and
> failed to return, Helen Glen had suffered a sudden and swift
> descent into Alzheimer’s.
> Sharon could understand that. Her own universe these days
> revolved very much around Alec. He was their legacy—hers and
> Robert’s—the light of her life, the reason she put one foot in
> front of the other every day.
> Sharon knew a certain guilty relief that her mother-in-law
> could have no idea what her work entailed. The Helen that had
> been would have told Sharon in no uncertain terms what she
> thought of a mother who, having lost her husband to his work in
> a very literal sense, was preparing to put herself at the same risk.
> But in those long moments of introspection between lying down
> and sleeping, Sharon recited Helen’s lines for her: You know
> what could happen to you. What are you thinking of if not Alec?
> She did know what could happen. Only too well. Ten years
> —he had only Shifted forward ten years—a simple mission
> financed by the National Weather Service. He would assess the
> effects on climate of several large-scale Midwestern reforestation
> projects. He would search electronic archives, sample NWS data.
> Simple. But something had gone wrong—a power drop off, the
> technicians called it. It had caused the Temporal Grid to pull her
> husband into the future where it collapsed, killing him.
> That had been two years ago. Now there were more
> safeguards, double and triple and quadruple checks and
> redundancies and backup systems. Spectral Shift technology was
> perceived as essentially stable and would continue to be so until
> another anomaly surfaced and another tripper was lost.
> Any Mother’s Son                                               273
> 
> Sharon Glen was on countdown to her first future-trip. As a
> QuestLabs historian, she’d gone into the past a number of times.
> It had been fascinating, exhilarating, sometimes unexpected. But
> the future—that was different. Where the past was at least
> forensically known, the future was terra incognita. It was also
> where Robert had died.
> Now, two days before her shift, she found herself fighting
> the sense that she was tying up loose ends. She spent as much
> time as possible with Alec. They had launched model rockets,
> played endless board and card games, solved computer
> mysteries, looked at family albums. And now, she thought of
> Helen.
> “I’d like to visit Gramma today,” she told Alec at breakfast.
> It was Saturday and they had tentatively planned a trip to the
> beach with a friend. “We can drop by on our way to pick up
> Trevor.”
> “Do I have to go in?” Alec’s eyes were eloquent with
> reluctance.
> “No, you don’t have to go in, honey, but it would be nice for
> Gramma if you would.”
> “She doesn’t know who I am half the time, mom. How can it
> be nice for her to get visited by people she doesn’t even know?
> Besides, I hate that place. It’s creepy.”
> “Alec, you’ve never been inside. How do you know it’s
> creepy?”
> It was true that in the two years Helen Glen had been in the
> high-tech high-care home, Sharon had never gotten Alec further
> than the manicured lawn. It was also true that Gramma hadn’t
> known him; worse, she had taken him for Robert. It had been a
> painful visit for everyone but Helen, who, for a brief span of
> hours, had been transported to her own quarter of heaven.
> Before the elder-care facility, she had had her own home—a
> 274                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> place from which holidays seemed to originate and which Alec
> had begged to visit.
> Sharon was doing the begging now. “Come on, hon. She
> might have a good day.”
> Alec shook his head emphatically, poking at his yogurt with
> the tip of his spoon.
> “Please?”
> Alec sighed as only a severely put-upon eleven-year-old can.
> “Mom, please don’t make me go there.”
> She relented, of course. She visited Helen alone. It had not
> been a good day, after all. Helen had not known her, and when
> she had tried to engage her mother-in-law in news of Alec’s
> exploits on the baseball diamond, Helen had vanished into a
> reality in which Robert—her precious only son—was a
> championship pitcher in the Bear River Little League. Sharon
> had salvaged what she could, absorbing facts about Robert she
> hadn’t known, wondering how veiled they were by time and
> neural degradation.
> Sunday, she and Alec went to their local Bahá’í Center for
> devotions, had pizza for lunch, played miniature golf. Sharon
> tried again to get Alec to visit his grandmother. He would not.
> “Old people are creepy when they’re like that,” he said and
> she barely resisted the impulse to slap him.
> “They can’t help the way they are,” she told him and did not
> try to keep the anger out of her voice.
> He was instantly ashamed. “I know. It’s just... scary.” He
> was silent for a few minutes, then asked, “Will you get like
> that?”
> “I’m not that old.”
> “I mean, like, when I’m grown up.”
> “Folks on my side of the family have always been sharp as a
> tack till the day they die,” she reassured him. “My mom told me
> once that her great uncle Joseph died in the middle of a sentence
> Any Mother’s Son                                                 275
> 
> in which he was expounding a theory of molecular biology.” She
> smiled, but Alec merely nodded and stared out the car window.
> All in all, he made it harder by the day for her to be a field
> historian—to accept missions like the one she was prepping for.
> She was torn. Maybe it was something she needed to take to one
> of the QuestLabs counselors. She knew Alec was her first
> responsibility; she merely had to find that elusive balance
> between self and selfishness.
> In the end, she left it with Alec. “Do you want me to cancel
> my mission?” she asked him.
> His brow furrowed. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
> “I might.” Especially since QuestLabs was sponsoring the
> Shift on its own dime for a study in culture and ethnology in
> future America. It would be more than an inconvenience to have
> to replace the senior historian on the project. And how many
> times had she assured them that she really wanted this type of
> assignment? She realized, belatedly, that this question should
> have been asked some time ago.
> “You don’t have to do that,” Alec said, still looking a bit
> bemused. “I’ll be okay at Aunt Kathi’s house. It’s not like I’ll be
> there for a long time.”
> True enough. A successful Temporal Shift literally took no
> time at all; if the retrieval was successful. Any time-lag was
> purely for the benefit of the staff and machinery. You seemed to
> return only minutes after you left, regardless of whether you had
> spent hours or days at your post. Preparation and debriefings
> usually took longer than the Shift itself. Altogether, Alec would
> be with Kathi only a day and a half. In subjective time, Sharon
> would be gone for several hours.
> Sharon found wry irony in that. Human beings had been
> looking for ways to make extra time for centuries. This was as
> close as they had come.
> 276                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> There were unsuccessful Shifts, of course. Like Robert’s.
> That was the way it was with Temporal Shift Technology. Either
> you came back on schedule, or you didn’t come back at all.
> 
> �����
> 
> “Huh?” Sharon glanced up into her partner’s face.
> “I said, ‘Are you ready for this?’” Trevor Haley repeated.
> “But I think you may have just answered the question. What’s
> getting to you?”
> “Who says anything is getting to me? I was looking at our
> itinerary.”
> “Sharon, you’ve been reading the same page for the past ten
> minutes. Either coordinates and time stamps have become a
> consuming passion for you or you’re zoning. Are you nervous?”
> “Now that you mention it, yes, I am nervous. This is my first
> future-trip, after all.”
> “I know.” Trevor sat down on the edge of the table where he
> and Sharon were assembling their gear, and leaned toward her.
> “Is it...is it because of Robert?”
> Sharon wanted to deny it outright, but couldn’t. She
> murmured something about feeling more at home in the late 20th
> Century, then caught the expression on his face. She put her
> hand over his. “It’s okay, Trev. You can talk about it without
> throwing me into a deep pit of despair. And no, it’s not because
> of Robert—not directly, anyway.”
> “So, there is something.”
> He knew her too well. “It’s just...Alec. I wonder sometimes if
> I ought to give up field work—well, at least temporal field work
> —until he’s an adult.”
> “It’s never easy to lose a parent,” said Trevor. He’d lost his
> seventy-year-old mother the year before to a new strain of
> Any Mother’s Son                                               277
> 
> influenza. “Besides, I doubt you could give up field work. You
> thrive on it.”
> “I could if I had to.”
> Was she whistling in the dark or did she really mean that?
> Temporal field work was heady stuff. Hands-on history. It made
> you feel like Indiana Jones and James Burke all rolled into one
> and blurred the distinction between the historian, the
> anthropologist and the archaeologist. It made you feel alive,
> aware, vital. All things, Sharon realized in a sudden epiphany,
> that had been all but snuffed out when Robert failed to return
> from a ‘routine mission.’ Was she replacing that relationship
> with temporal euphoria? More importantly, was she showering
> attention on her work at Alec’s expense or drawing emotional
> sustenance from it that mothering him should provide?
> She didn’t think she was doing that; she made it a point,
> when she was with Alec to really be with Alec.
> “You’re a great mom, Sharon,” Trevor said. “The best. And I
> happen to know Alec thinks so, too.”
> “Mind reading, Trev?” she chuckled. “You’re just full of
> unexpected talents.”
> “I’ve just known you a long time.”
> True, she admitted as she gathered her goods into a
> shoulder bag, the design of which had been ‘sniffed’ from the
> window of a sporting goods store 50 years in the future. She had
> known Dr. Trevor Haley since her first days on staff at
> QuestLabs in ’78 as a junior associate. She was fresh from
> obtaining her Masters in History and her doctoral thesis was a
> biography of Magda Oslovski, the primary mind and driving
> force behind Spectral Shift Technology.
> Sharon and Trevor had become instant pals. Robert joined
> QuestLabs a year later and her reaction to him instantaneous
> and profound. Fortunately, her feelings were reciprocated; they
> had married and Alec had been born a year later.
> 278                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She had most often partnered with Trevor on her Shifts.
> Dr. Oslovski, still QuestLabs grand-dame, had a standing rule
> about allowing married couples with children Shift as a team. It
> was simply not done. Sharon had thought the rule a nuisance at
> first; now she could only applaud its wisdom.
> At 1300 hours, she and Trevor were Shift-ready. Their
> electrolytes and hydration levels were checked, their seratonin
> levels elevated against post-shift depression. They were dressed
> in casual clothes carefully selected from fashions sniffed at their
> Shift point. Jeans and shirts—styles that had altered little for the
> better part of two centuries. Their target was Washington, D.C.
> 50 years in the future, their purposes mixed.
> This was a “peek” as opposed to a “poke”—both terms
> borrowed from computer technology to indicate the scope of a
> mission. A peek was the minimal mission—no planned contact
> with future residents, no touching. It was little more than a
> manned sniff, which was done by a Totem, or Totable
> Environmental Monitor—an instrument package designed to
> gather images, sounds and environmental data on the Shift
> target. Sniffs, peeks, and pokes usually were run in that order,
> and future-pokes—which involved interacting with people in
> the future—were relatively rare. There had been only a handful
> that Sharon knew of in the 25-year history of QuestLabs.
> Any Shift was, brief or no, an expensive proposition, so
> Sharon and Trevor would be performing a number of tasks for
> QuestLabs, for Stanford University and for the North American
> Parliament. It was a lot, Sharon mused, standing in place on the
> Temporal Grid, like being a member of one of the early space
> shuttle missions—performing a plethora of experiments in order
> to maximize the cost-effectiveness of the trip. Now scientists
> traveled in time and college students used the stock HTO/L
> shuttles regularly.
> Any Mother’s Son                                                 279
> 
> “Ready?” The question came from Shiro Tsubaki-
> Manyfeather, seated at the console from which she would
> monitor their journey. Beside her, fellow Lab Rat George Wu got
> baselines on their vital signs.
> They nodded, gave a thumbs-up and waited while the
> Temporal Grid powered up. A dancing veil of light motes
> shimmered in an aura around the time travelers. The last thing
> Sharon Glen heard in 2091 was the sound of Shiro’s soft voice
> counting down.
> “Shifting...yellow plus one...orange...plus one... red...”
> The delicious tingle of the Shift cascaded down Sharon’s
> back, colors chased vividly before her eyes—yellow, orange, red.
> Her heart rate climbed. All delightfully normal. Only the colors
> were different; the past was cool, its spectrum contained blues
> and violets; the future was ablaze.
> They shifted in the space of perceived minutes, forward 50
> years to a set of coordinates ascertained by Totem to be clear of
> obstacles or traffic and close to their goal—the Library of
> Congress. The arrival coordinates were in the basement of a
> parking structure one block from the Library.
> It could not have been more perfect. A cloak generated by
> the Grid afforded them invisibility over and area of four square
> yards. In practical terms, it allowed Sharon and Trevor to stroll
> into sight of any bystanders as if they’d just come up on a nearby
> elevator. Blending in completely with the contemporaries, they
> were just another pair of students with backpacks and laundry
> lists of look-ups.
> Sharon quickly found that the hardest piece of Shift policy to
> obey completely was the injunction to study the contemporaries
> without appearing to study them. It was hard not to gawk at
> things that had changed subtly or not so subtly: clothing,
> environment, architecture, people. Language was expectedly
> 280                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> and subtlety different, and snatches of conversation contained
> colloquialisms that were familiar, but in unfamiliar contexts.
> “That’s so tab,” said a middle-aged businessman to his
> female cohort as they moved purposefully down the sidewalk.
> To which she replied, “Well, Erin is such a straight-jacket
> anyway, what other kind of investment could he make?”
> “He could take a chance once in a while.”
> “Erin? Take a chance? Like you said, he’s too tab.”
> All of which showed the wisdom of Rule #14 in what the
> Lab Rats affectionately called Time Travel for Dummies: Don’t use
> slang.
> Once inside the Library’s main sanctuary, Sharon and
> Trevor checked their wrist units for time and instructions.
> Sharon’s “specialty,” such as it was, was the gathering of health
> and welfare data. She wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened,
> but somehow a report on personal hygiene and health she’d
> generated from a poke into Regency London had earned her a
> solid reputation as a keen sorter of pertinent health data.
> “Okay,” she said, “I think you’ve got the lion’s share of
> work to do. Let me know if you need a hand.”
> “You bet. Nobody ever accused me of taking on more work
> than I have to. I’m sure you’ll be done long before I am.”
> They parted, Sharon wafting on a wave of incredulity. No
> matter how many times she shifted, she was always overcome at
> moments such as these, by the sheer paradox of it all. This was
> work, this traveling through the waves of time, and she was
> struck by the sheer banality of the conversation she and Trevor
> had just had. Like a couple of students setting out to prepare for
> oral exams. In that anomalous context, the Library of Congress
> was a perfect symbol of Sharon’s calling. Aged stone and
> antique appointments contrasted with the latest in information
> retrieval technology.
> Any Mother’s Son                                                281
> 
> Sharon was gratified that the technology was still
> recognizable. She located a VR bay, seated herself in its wraparound seat and looked for a helm and gloves. There were
> neither. There were only a pair of flat screens about one foot on a
> side, that lay at approximately a 120 degree angle to each other.
> It took ten minutes, but with the help of some written
> instructions and careful surveillance of her nearest neighbors,
> she discovered that the canted screen displayed twodimensional data and the horizontal screen displayed 3D
> holograms and served as a control panel.
> She proceeded carefully through her checklist, delving into
> health and census records, checking birth rates, noting how
> natural disasters had affected the general health of the continent.
> That collection effort completed, she moved on to the brave new
> world of medicine. It was bemusing, she realized, as her task
> became more yawn-inducing, that a future-trip, for all its
> novelty and the terrifying sense of awareness it provoked, was
> not nearly as exciting as a trip to a less obscure past.
> Alec would be in his early sixties now, she realized, and
> wondered what kind of man he had become. Moved by
> something that was more than curiosity, she toyed with the idea
> of entering his name into the search engine, but her conscience
> bleated. She stuck to her agenda.
> She was in a Who’s-Who of medicine, when she found
> herself staring at the name Alec Glen. She hesitated
> momentarily, for the link was not strictly within her parameters,
> but in the end she followed the thread. What came up was
> beyond a proud mother’s dreams, for the name Alec Glen had
> both medical and political connections. Following her own
> inclination, Sharon pointed to the medical connection.
> He would become a doctor and a researcher in the field of
> genetics. He would contribute to a cure for Hodgkin’s disease,
> 282                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> would invent a supplement to stave off osteoporosis, would
> write a seminal paper on age-related dementia.
> She was reveling in the glow of these discoveries when her
> watch reminded her that time was wasting. She returned swiftly
> to her legitimate research, downloading a sampling of medical
> research, trends, breakthroughs and new problems. She added
> to the general mix her own son’s contributions, wishing that
> Robert could be there to share her pride.
> Sharon was still downloading when Trevor came to let her
> know he had finished his own research. She stifled a twinge of
> guilt that her digression might have cost her more legitimate
> research some time and tried not to look at Trev’s face, lest it
> prompt him to ask her what was taking so long.
> It was as she completed a final download of information to
> her recorder that she dared to glance up and caught the flicker of
> something like worry in Trevor’s eyes. He wasn’t looking at her,
> though, just staring up through the tall front windows where a
> single wisp of cloud could be seen flung across the visible
> patches of sky—an abstract painting on three tall canvases.
> She poked her head out of the pod-chair. “What’s wrong,”
> she asked, forgetting Rule #14, “the pol-scene got you jinky?”
> “Ah...yeah. Yeah, you could say that. Hey, it’s politics.” He
> checked the time. “You about ready?”
> “Just.” She logged off, slipped her computer back into her
> bag and could not resist the motherly temptation to glow. “I
> came across something really interesting while I was searching.
> Alec’s name.”
> Trevor’s surprise was evident. “Really? You did? In what
> context?”
> “As a noted researcher in genetics. He contributed to a cure
> for Hodgkin’s and I gather, to a greater understanding of aging.”
> “Wow,” Trevor said. “That’s quite a coincidence.” He took
> her elbow and steered her toward the door. “Time’s a wasting.”
> Any Mother’s Son                                                  283
> 
> “Not considering where I was peeking.”
> “I just mean... I didn’t mean to imply you were doing a
> personal peek. I just meant...Alec going into medicine.”
> “Science. He’s been around science all his life. Some of our
> best friends are doctors and researchers. Besides, lately it seems
> as if medical research of one sort or another is all I do. It’s just
> kind of good to know... I guess I’ve been a little worried.”
> “I could tell.”
> She stopped just outside the library’s main doors and smiled
> up at him. “Well, aren’t you impressed?”
> “Of course. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me all that much.
> Alec’s a bright child—the child of bright parents.”
> “I don’t suppose you came across him in your virtual
> travels,” Sharon asked.
> “What?” Trevor checked the time again and started down
> the steps. “Why do you ask? I was pursuing a completely
> different line of research.”
> Sharon shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “I found a
> couple of links that suggested he had some political aspirations
> as well, that’s all. I didn’t follow it—thought maybe you’d seen
> something. I just wondered...”
> Trevor was silent long enough to make Sharon think he
> hadn’t heard her or had gone off on one of his internal hikes. She
> glanced at him, her mouth open, but he was not gazing into the
> distant hills of his mental outback. There was an expression on
> his face she had seen only once before.
> Zero at the core, she stopped walking, stopping Trevor as
> well.
> “What’s the matter with you, Trevor? What did you find?”
> “We need to get back to the Grid, Shar.” He took her arm.
> She pulled it away. A woman passerby gave them a sharp
> glance. Sharon lowered her voice and moved a step closer to
> 284                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Trevor. “Not until you tell me what you’ve found. Something
> about Alec? What happens to him?”
> Trevor lowered his head till their foreheads were touching
> and the woman smiled and continued on her way.
> “Nothing happens to him,” he murmured. “Except that he
> goes into politics. I thought you might be disappointed. He
> apparently gave up his research to become a pol. Not exactly a
> progression his dear mother would be happy about, am I right?”
> “Good Lord, don’t tell me he had a party affiliation or
> something like that?”
> “No. No affiliation, but he was—or rather, will be—some
> sort of lobbyist for the medical PAC.”
> Sharon shrugged. “Okay. I’m not wild about lobbyists as a
> rule, but at least it’s a good cause.”
> Trev shook his head, straightened and smiled. “You’re no
> fun, Shar. You’ve mellowed too much with age.”
> “Jerk,” she called him. “Let’s go.”
> #
> Sharon could not have said what made her open Trevor’s
> files. It was more than idle curiosity, less than suspicion. But she
> had known Trevor Haley too long not to know when he was
> embarrassed or uncomfortable and today, during the Shift, he
> had been both. The last time she’d seen that expression on his
> face—that sudden skittering away of the eyes—was at a dinner
> party when one of their colleagues had cracked a mean-spirited,
> misogynistic joke about Magda Oslovski and her husband,
> Vance.
> Sharon’s own data drop was complete by the time she had
> changed her clothes and poured a cup of tea. She began riffling
> through her collection, preparing an index and overview for a
> morning briefing. She allowed herself a moment to linger
> lovingly over the information on Alec, then moved on
> reluctantly.
> Any Mother’s Son                                                  285
> 
> She’d spent perhaps a half-hour at this when some perverse
> demon drove her into Trevor’s domain. Anticipation building,
> she made a guilty search for the name Alec Glen. The search
> came up dry.
> Puzzled, Sharon bent to her own work, but there is nothing
> so insidious and pervasive as fear, and Sharon had begun to
> fear, because she could think of no reason Trevor would fail to
> download the information on Alec, unless...
> And that was her imagination’s stopping point. Was Alec
> destined to die a horrible death? Perhaps by assassination? What
> else could be so terrible that Trev wouldn’t let anyone see it?
> The thought gnawed. She countered with stern logic. When
> she’d brought the matter up, his tone had been light and teasing.
> (Yes, even as his eyes crawled away to hide and his ears
> reddened.) He’d said Alec was a lobbyist—maybe his political
> career would be too unspectacular to warrant downloading. (But
> he might have at least done it for her, even though it meant
> bending the rules a bit.)
> Stern logic was powerless. Not fifteen minutes had passed
> before she got up from her console and headed down the hall
> toward Trevor’s office. She would simply ask. Straight up. What
> did you find out about Alec? Just a mother’s fond and proud
> curiosity. No hint of inner panic. No what aren’t you telling me?
> But Trevor wasn’t in his office. His console was on, his chair
> pulled back as if he had just left it. The palm unit was still in the
> docking slot. Sharon stood on the doorsill, indecisively, aware of
> the familiar buzz and wash of sound from the offices and labs—
> the murmur of conversations in the hall.
> She came into the room, the door swinging closed behind
> her. It took only a moment to slip into his chair, access the palm
> unit and check its contents. She found what she had been hoping
> not to find in a folder separated from the main index and named
> simply “AG.” She contemplated downloading it to her own
> 286                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> console, but realized that in any case, Trevor would know she’d
> seen the data if for no other reason than that she would confront
> him with it.
> She prepared herself for the worst; she could not have
> prepared herself for the reality. Dr. Alec Glen, Ph.D., noted
> research scientist, had indeed given up medicine to take up a
> political career and crusade. He was the father of the Euthanasia
> Act of 2137, a piece of legislation that put into the hands of
> doctors and judges and review boards the decision as to when
> an individual should die. He was the first doctor to be certified
> for euthanasia; the first to practice it.
> Sharon stared at the monitor for an eternity before she was
> able to will her hands to move, to dig further, to try to
> comprehend how her son—her son!—could make himself the
> proponent of such a heinous law.
> No, not a law, an atrocity by which elderly people
> unfortunate enough to require institutionalization had their
> cases placed before a review board made up of medical doctors,
> judges, psychologists, clergy and ethicists. Based on a complex
> set of criteria, rules, conditions and formulas, a decision was
> made whether or not to euthanize. There was even a list of
> terminal illnesses for which euthanasia was the de facto
> “treatment” unless mitigating circumstances could be proven.
> Sharon’s tears blurred the names on the list—cold, scientific
> names that said nothing of the suffering they inflicted:
> Myasthenia gravis, multiple sclerosis, Huntington’s disease,
> Alzheimer’s. Some were conditions on which Alec would
> expend much time and effort during his medical career. It was as
> if he were trying to literally bury his failure.
> Numbly, Sharon followed another link. She found numbers,
> statistics, a death roll. It numbered in the thousands.
> Why?
> Any Mother’s Son                                                  287
> 
> “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that.” Trevor watched from
> the doorway, face grave. Gravity was something he didn’t do
> well under normal circumstances, but there was no hidden
> levity in his gaze now. “I guess I should have destroyed it. But,
> um, it’s a development the analysts will want to know about.
> Should know about.”
> “You offlined it.”
> He reddened. “Like I said, I considered destroying it.”
> “For me.”
> He shrugged.
> “How?” She shook her head.
> “How does it happen or how does it happen to be Alec?”
> “Both. Either.”
> “People live longer, but in the end they still deteriorate.
> People continue to have children. Population demographics
> indicate a glut of elderly people, inflicted with certain diseases
> and too few facilities to care for them. It apparently reached a
> crisis—will reach a crisis—in the mid ’30’s.”
> “Fine—a crisis. But how does a humane society justify this?
> How does a man with Alec’s background justify it? Here, it says
> he was supported by the religious right. Back at the turn of this
> century, that same lobby fought abortion, the death penalty and
> the right to die.”
> “Ah, interesting, that.” He came into the room. “The new
> sensibility will hold that since death is reunion with God, and
> therefore not to be feared, it’s something to anticipate, not
> avoid.”
> “’I have made Death a messenger of joy,’” Sharon quoted.
> “Yes, but a forced reunion? Decided by-by committee? This...this
> is shades of Logan’s Run. Fiction. My God, Trev, you can’t justify
> that by scripture.”
> “No.”
> 288                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Sharon glanced at the screen where an image of Alec-to-be
> gazed back at her, soberly. There was, in the handsome, but
> severe middle-aged man, a great deal of the boy.
> “What do I do, Trev?” she asked.
> He moved to lay a hand on her shoulder. ”What can you
> do?”
> “Go back—forward—again and try to-“
> “Sharon, come on. You know that’s not possible. It takes a
> team of Lab Rats to run the Grid, and Magda would never send
> you. Besides, what could you do there as you now that you
> couldn’t as you then besides create an anomaly?”
> “Where will I be then, Trev, that I can’t convince him that
> what he’s doing is wrong?”
> He shook his head. “I don’t know the answer to that one.”
> “Then I have to do something here. Maybe I need to spend
> more time with him. Maybe—God, maybe it’s my fault.”
> Trevor grasped her by both shoulders and swung her
> around to face him. “Shar, that’s ridiculous. You’re a great mom.
> And Alec knows you love him.”
> “Maybe that’s not enough. Obviously that’s not enough.”
> “Sharon...”
> She glanced up directly into his eyes, capturing them. “Are
> you going to share this data with the Board?”
> “I have to.”
> She knew that. Of course, she knew that. “Trevor, what do I
> do,” she asked again. “My son is going to grow up to commit an
> atrocity that-” She lost her words, her thoughts, her direction
> and hiccuped on the horrid tightness in her throat.
> “Let’s look at it carefully. Let’s let other analysts look at it.”
> “He’s my son, Trevor.”
> “What do you think you should do? Go home and tell him
> his future? What would you say? Sweetheart, I hate to tell you
> this, but you’re going to turn into a monster?”
> Any Mother’s Son                                                     289
> 
> She could only shake her head. He reached out to her again,
> laying a firm hand on her shoulder. “Go home, Sharon. Let me—
> let us get a handle on this. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Go
> home.”
> The thought terrified her. “How can I go home? How can I
> see him knowing what I know?”
> “You said it yourself: he’s your son.”
> Her son. The son she couldn’t face. The son she no longer
> knew how to relate to. In the end, she called her sister and asked
> if she would mind keeping Alec overnight. A migraine, she said.
> She was desperate to see him—to hold him—but she couldn’t.
> Not yet.
> She went home—thought about going for a swim. She
> always worked things out swimming—the soft, cool touch of
> water gliding over skin, the rhythm of arms, legs, and breath.
> But on her way out the door to the gym, she got sucked into
> Alec’s room and spent an hour sitting on his bed, holding a
> stuffed Tigger in her arms, staring at shelves covered with
> models of space shuttles, starships, the space station, the first
> commercial Delta Clipper. A child’s room; a simple boyhood
> jumble.
> He had never shown the slightest sign of cruelty toward
> animals or people. He was kind, gentle, thoughtful of others.
> How did someone like Alec grow up to believe a committee of
> experts should determine the end of a person’s life?
> Don’t grow up to be a monster. If it were only that simple, she
> would tell him that. But if she did and it was discovered, her
> career would be forfeit. Worth it, she told herself fiercely. Yes,
> but there would be no way to know if the words would alter
> anything short of future-tripping, and QuestLabs would never
> allow a follow-up visit.
> What if he didn’t grow up?
> 290                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The thought came stealthily, leaving a slimy trail of disgust.
> She recoiled from it, a torrent of icy horror pouring through her.
> Dear God, what kind of mother could conjure such an idea?
> She experienced, for only the second time in her life, a
> complete cessation of thought and feeling. The first time was
> when she knew, without hope, that Robert was not coming back.
> When her brain began to process thoughts again, it occurred
> to her to wonder if she would be sitting here now, having these
> thoughts if Robert were alive. Her heart came back online then,
> and she wept until she had no tears left. Then she slept, draped
> across Alec’s bed.
> She did not sleep well. Her mind refused to shut down,
> now, when she so desperately wanted it to. Trevor’s call woke
> her, derailing the runaway train. He asked if he should come
> over; she told him “no.” He repeated the things he had told her
> earlier in his office. She listened and tried to believe.
> 
> �����
> 
> She was not surprised to be summoned to Magda Oslovski’s
> office the next morning. She was exhausted, a prisoner of guilt,
> dread and confusion. Some of the dread evaporated when she
> saw that Dr. Oslovski was not alone. Her husband, staff
> psychologist Vance Keller, was there as well. Both wore
> expressions of compassion. Tears swam in Sharon’s eyes.
> Magda rose and rounded her desk to enfold Sharon in a
> motherly embrace. She seated the younger woman almost gently
> at a table by her office window and took a seat opposite her,
> their knees nearly touching. She reached across and took
> Sharon’s hands.
> “Trev gave us a full account of the situation,” she said. “I’m
> sorry, Sharon. I realize this must be hellish for you. There’s no
> Any Mother’s Son                                                  291
> 
> way to prepare for something like this. The important thing now
> is that you not let this affect your relationship with your son.”
> “How?” It was the mew of a lost kitten. “How can I not let it
> affect our relationship? I failed him, Magda. I will fail him.”
> “No.” Vance Keller came to stand by his wife’s chair. His
> eyes were kind, his expression firm. “A human life is far too
> complex, both in nature and nurture, to assign cause to one
> factor—even one as critical as a mother.”
> “Or the loss of a father?” Sharon asked. She couldn’t look at
> Vance. A surge of mixed guilt and resentment made her gaze too
> heavy to lift. “He knows how his father died. He knows I’m
> continuing in the same work. Maybe, deep down inside, he
> thinks that means I don’t care.”
> “There’s no way to know what factors could contribute
> to...Alec’s future actions,” said Vance.
> Sharon tried to smile. “I don’t suppose you could just send
> Alec and me back a few years. I’m sure I could talk Rob out of
> that last future-trip.”
> Magda squeezed her hand. “Sharon, there’s no way to know
> what to adjust or edit in the past to change the present and
> future. That’s why we don’t do it. You can only edit the
> present.”
> “What you need to understand,” Vance added, “is that there
> is only one thing you can do for Alec that we know will have
> positive effects—love him. And raise him the best way you can.”
> They spoke some more, let her cry, comforted her, then let
> her go home to get Alec—to spend the rest of the day with him.
> She drove slowly to her sister’s house, trying to fathom what she
> had done—or would do—that her son would grow up so lacking
> in compassion and empathy.
> As hard as it was for her to face, she could not deny that she
> saw the seed of that deficit already, saw it in his avoidance of his
> grandmother, his inability to comprehend her loneliness and
> 292                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> alienation from the life she had known. He had never even been
> to see her in the place she was kept, safe from her own faltering
> faculties. He saw her only when she came out, and then, he was
> usually shy and aloof.
> Vance had told her to do her best. So far she had failed to do
> that, afraid of stressing Alec too much in the wake of Robert’s
> loss. That would change.
> She pulled into her sister’s car park and sat for several
> minutes gathering herself, afraid she’d be unable to respond to
> Alec. She needn’t have worried. At the sight of him, smiling at
> her from beneath a milk mustache, the strain of uncertainty fled.
> She hugged him extravagantly—a thing he seemed to relish—
> and drank him in, her son, the light of her life.
> “Is your head okay, Mom?” he asked her when she finally
> released him. His concern seemed sincere.
> She could only nod.
> They had lunch at his favorite restaurant, a place crowded
> with baseball memorabilia, and which served dishes named for
> major league greats. She bought him a Russ Ortiz Mocha Freeze;
> they talked about the Giant’s season; they named their favorite
> players and tried to match them with their numbers.
> They were walking back out to the car when she said, “Let’s
> go visit Gramma.”
> He just looked at her.
> “Okay?” she prodded.
> “Can you take me home first? I got homework.”
> “On a Friday?”
> “I got behind this week—it’s make up.”
> “You got behind.”
> “My game last night went long.”
> Oh, God, she’d forgotten he had a Little League game. “Oh,”
> she said weakly. “How’d you do?”
> Any Mother’s Son                                                293
> 
> He shrugged as if it were of no importance. “We won... I
> pitched,” he added, damning her further.
> She nearly groaned. “You can do your homework when we
> get home. I thought I’d invite Trev over for dinner. Would you
> like that?”
> His face lit up. “Sure!”
> “Good. Then we’ll go see Gramma, then go home so you can
> do your homework and I’ll call Trev-“
> “Mom, please.”
> “She’s lonely, Alec. She loves it when we visit her.”
> “She doesn’t even know who I am. She asked if I was her
> neighbor’s grandson last time.”
> “She’s sick, Alec. She can’t help what’s happened to her. She
> needs us.”
> He subsided, but she recognized the mutinous set of his jaw.
> It was one of Helen Glen’s better days. She remembered
> who Alec was. She even remembered that Robert was gone. She
> didn’t ask where he was. She asked about baseball and Alec
> thawed. He talked about baseball, school, his beloved lizard,
> Skinky. He thawed, warmed to her, smiled, laughed and
> promised to come again, soon.
> Sharon felt a glow of warmth and accomplishment rise up to
> envelope her. For the first time since she had moved her motherin-law here, she was not affected by the atmosphere of the place,
> which had always seemed to her almost a silent, ambient moan
> of loss and pain. It was hard to be here, but Alec had done it.
> He had grown quiet again by the time they reached the car,
> and gazed around at his surroundings, seeming to notice the sun
> on the grass, the leaves glittering in the trees, the birds singing,
> the quiet walkways along which strolled or glided inmates with
> their visiting loved ones.
> He was silent as they negotiated the wooded streets and
> headed home.
> 294                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Gramma had a really good day today, didn’t she?” Sharon
> asked rhetorically. “You could see she really loved visiting with
> us.”
> “But we can’t be there every day. We can only go there
> sometimes, and in between, she doesn’t have anybody.”
> Encouraging. He was empathizing. Feeling for his
> grandmother. “Well, she has friends there, honey, and her
> nurses and doctors.”
> “That’s not the same thing. They get paid to be there. And
> sometimes I’ll bet her friends don’t even remember her--don’t
> even know she’s there.”
> Sharon smiled. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to visit more
> often, huh?”
> “Yeah.” While she congratulated herself, he turned his face
> up to her, his eyes troubled. “But it’s not fair, mom. Gramma
> shouldn’t have to live like that.” He blinked as if tears were
> threatening to come and turned his head away so she wouldn’t
> see them. Sunlight spattered his face, making him squint. “No
> one should ever have to live like that.”
> Home Is Where...                                                295
> 
> Home Is Where...
> 
> A story of science fiction
> 
> Home Is Where ... was originally published in Analog Science
> Fiction in 1991 and was the second story in my time travel series,
> though in the chronology of my fictional world, the action
> occurs many years after the time of the original story. The
> technology is mature and the ethical issues perhaps more
> mundane. This tale involves a family of time-traveling Bahá’ís,
> the Joneses, who find that even in their line of work, a family is a
> family.
> 
> �����
> 
> Anastasia Jones viewed her new town with little interest
> from the crest of a maple-shaded hill. It was a fresh-washed
> picture postcard of a town; all green and white and brick red
> under a rain-dark sky. An equally fresh-washed breeze rolled up
> the hill, carrying with it the smell of...popcorn.
> Anastasia smiled. Now that was interesting. She scanned the
> buildings along the cobbled main street. Ah, yes, there it was—a
> theater. She could see the ornate marquee peeking up at her
> between elm sentinels.
> “Looks like they’ve picked another homespun backwater,”
> said a voice over her shoulder.
> She turned, noting that her brother’s face looked just as dour
> as it had the last time she’d seen it. “What’d you expect?” she
> asked. “They do this every time we start whining.”
> “I don’t whine, Stasi.”
> “No, you pout. The twins whine. I sulk.”
> 296                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She swept moist strands of deep burgundy hair from her
> forehead with one hand and brushed her wind-climbing skirts
> down with the other. Her eyes searched the trees.
> “There’s the school,” she said finally and pointed.
> “Oh, royal. Another one-roomer?”
> “No... It looks kind of nice. All brick and white-washed and
> a green roof.”
> “Don’t get too attached to that green roof, sis. We won’t be
> here that long.”
> “I wish-”
> “If wishes were wheels, gramma would’ve been a trolley
> car.”
> Anastasia giggled. “Where’d you dig that up?”
> He shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere about three stops ago.”
> “What does it mean?”
> “Who knows. Does it matter?”
> “Anastasia! Tamujin! Dinner!”
> Tamujin Jones made a goofy face. “Sounds real down home,
> don’t she?”
> His sister giggled again. “Well, at least she didn’t ring that
> stupid triangle she got in Armadillo or wherever that was.”
> “Amarillo.” Tamujin snorted. “Armadillo! Geezumminy,
> Stasi, no wonder you’re having so much trouble with
> geography. You’ve gotten it mixed up with zoology!”
> 
> �����
> 
> The new school was okay, Anastasia decided. It was old and
> neat and smelled of ancient wood varnish, fresh wood oil and
> cedar. Their parents had done the obligatory first-day-in-a-new
> school thing and delivered them to the Admin office all smiles
> and pride. They’d filled out the paperwork, kissed their children
> and gone off for a day of getting-to-know-Papillion.
> Home Is Where...                                                 297
> 
> “Have fun,” they’d said, but their parting message, as ever
> was, “Do try to fit in.” So much for fun.
> Now they sat on a wooden bench in the Admin office
> waiting for the vice-principal, Mrs. Thorpe, to escort them to
> their classes. She arrived in due process, wreathed in smiles,
> flourishing four fresh, new file folders. A pair of spectacles
> dangled from a cord around her neck.
> The twins stared at her, making Anastasia wish she could
> reach across Tam’s lap and pinch them.
> “Well!” The apple-cheeked face beamed its freshness at
> them. She even smelled like apples. “What a lovely family! Your
> parents are such lucky people. So...” She set the spectacles on her
> nose and flipped open the top file folder. “Your names are...very
> unusual. Anastasia?” Her eyes bounced kinetically back and
> forth between the two girls.
> “That’s me,” said Stasi. “Please, call me Stasi.”
> “Oh.” She pulled a pencil from behind one ear (the twins
> fairly ogled) and made a note, then went on to the next folder.
> “Tamu-?”
> “Tamujin,” he said. “I go by Tam.”
> “That is unusual. What nationality is that?”
> “Mongolian.”
> “It’s Genghis Kahn’s first name,” offered the staring, blonde
> gamine next to him.
> “Oh, my! How did they ever settle on that?”
> Tam turned beet red and threw his little sister a get-even
> glance. “Dad’s a...a historian. He’s fascinated with that period.”
> “I see...well....” She made a note, then glanced at the twins.
> “Now, you’d be Constantine, I’ll bet.”
> “Connie,” said Tam.
> “Con,” said Constantine. “Connie is a girl’s name, here.”
> “And Tahireh...my, that’s pretty.”
> 298                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “It’s Persian,” explained Tahireh proudly, then announced,
> “Tahireh was a martyr in the cause of women’s suffrage.”
> Mrs. Thorpe’s face froze, whether because the vocabulary
> was bit precocious for an eight year old or because either
> martyrdom or suffrage was an unusual topic of conversation for
> a child that age Stasi couldn’t guess. Mrs. Thorpe wriggled her
> lips back into a smile.
> “Really? How interesting.”
> “They strangled her with her wedding scarf and threw her
> body down a well. Just before she died she said, ’You can kill me
> as soon as you like, but you cannot stop the emancipation of
> women.’”
> Mrs. Thorpe let out a nervous giggle. “How precocious!” she
> burbled, then whisked them away to their classes.
> Stasi thought she’d like her teacher. Her name was Mildred
> Tindall and she was young, pretty and quick to praise. She
> exclaimed over what a pretty name Anastasia was and said she
> thought Stasi’s dress was strikingly beautiful and that she liked
> the unusual color of her hair.
> Stasi was not so sure she was going to like her classmates.
> She overheard one of them say her dress was “antique” and
> her hair was “weird” and her name was “foreign.”
> This is a learning experience, she told herself and ignored
> the whispers and the fact that she really did look dreadfully out
> of place among these wearers of plaid and poodle skirts, saddle
> shoes and natural-colored pony tails.
> By lunchtime she had acquired a reputation as a Brain and
> heard the words “teacher’s pet” whiffle softly through the air
> over her head. She thought briefly about playing dumb, but Dad
> said never to stifle your natural abilities to suit anyone else’s
> expectations and besides, it rubbed her the wrong way.
> She was on her way to the cafeteria when she felt someone
> lift her ankle-length skirt from behind. She skittered sideways,
> Home Is Where...                                                    299
> 
> nearly colliding with a group of loitering boys and turned to
> find herself confronting three of her female classmates. They
> peered at her archly, their notebooks clasped to their chests like
> battle shields.
> “Why do you wear such weird clothes?” asked one of them.
> “Beth says it’s because you’re a Quaker or something. Are you a
> Qu-a-a-a-ker?”
> Her voice wavered and cracked on the last word and the
> two girls flanking her giggled.
> “No. I’m a Bahá’í,” Stasi told them.
> “What’s that?”
> “It’s a religion. Excuse me. I’m going to be late for lunch.”
> She started to turn away, but the tallest of the three moved
> to cut off her path of retreat.
> “So why do you wear such weird clothes?”
> Stasi muzzled her considerable temper and said, “I just
> haven’t had a chance to get any new clothes since we got here.
> This was the height of fashion the last place we lived.”
> “Oh, yeah? And where was that, Mars?”
> Stasi drew herself to her full height. “Paris, actually.
> France.”
> The girls exchanged glances. “Prove it,” said the first one,
> truculently. “Speak some French, if you can.”
> “Mais, bien sur. Je pense que vous parlez tres follement.
> Maitenant, exusez-moi. J’ai faim.” And she slipped quickly away.
> “What’d she say? What did you say?” They were on her
> heels.
> “I said, ’I’m hungry.’”
> “All that, just to say you’re hungry?”
> She kept moving.
> “You didn’t really speak French! You just made that up!”
> “I’ll bet you got in trouble for doing that to your hair!”
> She escaped into the cafeteria.
> 300                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She was standing in the chow line craning her neck to see
> where Tam and the twins might be when she felt someone jiggle
> her elbow. Oh, God, please! she thought. Not again. She turned to
> find a pair of pale, spectacled eyes peering owlishly at her from
> beneath a fringe of overly curly dishwater blonde hair.
> “Hi, I’m Elaine. I sat behind you in class today.”
> “Oh, yeah. Hi.”
> “You just have to ignore them, you know.” She tilted her
> head toward where Stasi’s tormenters flirted with some male
> students. “They really do say the silliest things. I like your hair,”
> she added, eyeing the deep red bob. “It’s different.”
> “Thanks.” Anastasia managed to turn her ogle into a shy
> smile. “Would you like to eat lunch with us? My brothers and
> little sister should be around somewhere.”
> The smile bounced back from Elaine’s silver-clad teeth with
> increased amplitude and Stasi felt a sharp twinge of precognitive
> agony. For any member of the Jones family, a friend gained was
> a friend lost.
> 
> �����
> 
> After suffering Tam’s disapproving glances, Constantine’s
> moping and Tahireh’s constant chatter on the shuffle home,
> Anastasia was ready to explode. Her mother’s half-cheery, halfanxious, “Well, how was the first day?” was like a match to a
> short fuse.
> “Oh, Mom, it was awful! They teased me about my name,
> my clothes, my hair...everything! Mom, when can I get some
> new clothes?”
> Helen Jones went for the obvious out like a hunted vixen
> through a privet hedge. “Why, sweetie, all you had to do was
> ask. How’s tomorrow after school?”
> Stasi rolled her eyes. “I may swoon!”
> Home Is Where...                                                301
> 
> “It’s a date. Maybe you should wear something a little
> less...conspicuous tomorrow. Okay?”
> “No problem. I’ll go see what I can dig out.” Stasi
> disappeared up the stairs.
> Helen Jones scanned her remaining children’s faces warily.
> “So, how about the rest of you?”
> “It was terrible,” grumbled Constantine. “Everybody called
> me ’Smarty-pants.’ Nobody would play with me at recess
> because they thought I was showing off for the teacher.”
> “Were you showing off for the teacher?”
> “Mo-om! All I did was add a column of figures.”
> “Six digit figures,” inserted Tahireh. “In his head.”
> “Well, what’m I s’posed to do—play dumb?”
> Helen grimaced slightly. “Of course, you shouldn’t play
> dumb, but you could pretend to be working it out on the black
> board.”
> Con glowered and stuffed small fists into his pockets.
> “I s’pose.”
> Unprompted, Tahireh announced, “I had fun. I told the
> whole class about my namesake. They thought it was so
> dramatic. I’m going to like it here.” And she took herself off to
> the backyard. Con followed like a glowering shadow.
> “Well?” Helen swung away from her roll-top desk and
> regarded her remaining child with some trepidation. He still
> hung back in the archway between the entry hall and the parlor,
> looking sullen and rebellious.
> “What happened to you?”
> “Nothing,” he said dully, and turned to head for the stairs.
> He paused in mid-turn and looked back over his shoulder. “Stasi
> made a friend today.” His eyes accused her.
> She smiled weakly. “That’s nice.”
> “No, Mom, it’s not nice. She does this every time. I’ve
> learned not to, but she just keeps doing it.”
> 302                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Then, she obviously needs to do it. She’s fifteen. That’s a
> critical time for friends.”
> “Oh? Well, how long are we going to be here then, Mom? Is
> Stasi going to graduate from this school with her friends? Am
> I?”
> His mother’s smile strained at the eyes and slipped at the
> corners of her mouth. “I don’t know, dear. It depends.”
> “On what, Mom? On what, this time?”
> “The book your father is researching-”
> “The Book. The Project. The Grand Theory. The Curiosity.
> Jesus, Mom, are we ever going to have a real home with real
> friends that we can invite into the house?”
> Helen’s expression changed radically from Mom-on-the-run
> to Mom reproachful. “We do not use that Name as an expletive,
> Tamujin Jones. And this is a real home. Home isn’t a place, you
> know. It’s people. Family.”
> “Yeah, I know. But sometimes family’s not enough.
> Sometimes we need friends, too. You and Dad get so caught up
> in your work sometimes.”
> “I know. I know. But why can’t you make real friends here?”
> “C’mon, Mom. You know why.”
> “Lots of people move around—military personnel, field
> scientists like your father and I-”
> “But they can at least write to the friends they leave behind.
> Call them. Visit them. We can’t do any of those things, Mom. We
> just keep leaving little bits of ourselves all over the place while
> we get smaller and smaller.”
> He turned away from her then, and bounded up the stairs.
> She sat for a moment, thinking, then dropped her notes into the
> drawer of her desk, shutting and locking it. Then, she went to
> call her husband.
> Home Is Where...                                                303
> 
> �����
> 
> They were halfway through a semi-glum dinner, when the
> elder Joneses started glancing at each other the way parents do
> when they’ve been plotting behind their children’s backs. After
> several minutes of this, Troy Jones made an announcement.
> “Mom and I have been talking,” he said, and Anastasia tried
> not to recall the last announcement that had been so prefaced.
> “Congratulations,” returned Tam, and asked for the mashed
> potatoes.
> His father ignored him. “We realize our existence is
> rather ...Bohemian.”
> “Is that what it is?” mumbled Tam.
> “We know you get a little lonely and sometimes feel a bit
> out of place.”
> “Try all the time,” said Tam.
> His mother interceded. “Tamujin, quit behaving like a verbal
> sniper and let your father finish what he’s trying to say.”
> “Yeah,” agreed Tahireh. “This could be good.”
> Troy Jones bowed his head to his youngest daughter.
> “Thank you, Tar. Now. what I’m trying to get to is this: We
> know how hard it is on you to have to keep your friends at arm’s
> length, so we’ve decided you don’t have to do that anymore.”
> “Excuse me?” said Stasi, not sure she’d heard him right.
> Helen smiled at her children brightly. “We’ve decided you can
> bring your friends over. Isn’t that great?”
> Four pairs of young eyes stared at her.
> “Seriously, Mom?” asked Stasi.
> “Seriously.”
> “Magnifique!” exclaimed Tahireh.
> “Of course,” her father cautioned, “there will have to be
> some new house rules to accommodate this. We can’t have
> people wandering into restricted areas, and we can’t mark them
> 304                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> as restricted areas without arousing too much curiosity. So, we’ll
> have to disguise those areas. You’ll also have to be careful with
> your personal belongings. Okay? You won’t be able to leave
> stuff out where your friends can stumble over it.”
> Constantine’s nose wrinkled in consternation. “You mean
> we have to put all our stuff away?”
> “That would be best.”
> “But if we don’t have toys or anything our friends will think
> we’re fanatics. You know what the Book says about fanaticism.”
> Troy Jones spent a solid five seconds looking completely
> confounded. He knew very well what the Book said about
> fanaticism and was trying to work out how he could not have it
> apply to this situation.
> “It’s okay, Dad,” Tam interjected. “Stasi and I will go
> through their stuff and pick out what’s okay for public
> consumption.”
> Troy smiled. “Thanks. Now, you can’t all bring friends
> home at once, so we’ll have to set up a system.”
> “How about first ask, first come?” asked Tahireh.
> Her father considered that. “Sounds reasonable.”
> She immediately raised her hand, waving it energetically in
> the air over the casserole. “Me! Me! I’m first! Can I bring my new
> friend Frog home for dinner tomorrow?”
> “Frog?” echoed Tam. “Is that a friend or a pet?”
> “His eyes are kind of buggy,” Tahireh explained, “so the
> other kids call him ’Frog.’ Can he come?”
> Helen glanced at her husband. “How about Friday? We’ll
> need some time to police the household.”
> Tahireh nodded. “Friday’s good.”
> Dinner was a little more companionable after that, but Stasi
> couldn’t help wondering if they’d just opened themselves up to
> a whole new order of agony.
> Home Is Where...                                                305
> 
> �����
> 
> “It’s just going to make things worse,” said Tam stonily. He
> kicked at a puffball toadstool and was satisfied when it burst,
> scattering its powder of spores everywhere.
> “Must you abuse the local flora?” asked Tahireh, then
> charged away from him down the path into town.
> “I know,” said Stasi.
> She admired the way the grass along the path lay over in the
> wind like soft, green seaweed in a lazy current. She leaned over
> and ran her fingers across the undulating tendrils.
> Tam stopped beside her on the trail and watched her.
> “You’re going to make friends with that Elaine, aren’t you?”
> Stasi straightened. “I suppose so.”
> “Why? You know what’ll happen. It’s just going to hurt.”
> “I know. But I can’t shut everybody out the way you can.”
> “You could learn. I did.” He turned and walked on down
> the path, leaving her alone under the maples.
> She felt suddenly morose, and followed him lethargically to
> school where everybody she saw stared at her. Really stared, as
> if she was still wearing her pajamas. It was even worse than the
> day before. She glanced down at herself. Her jeans were zipped;
> her shoes were tied. She tilted a glance over her shoulder and
> down her back. There were no rips, no stains, no signs that said,
> “Kick me!”
> It must be my earrings, she thought and settled at a desk
> next to Elaine in the second row.
> Everything seemed normal after that until Miss Tindall
> asked a question and Stasi rose to answer it. She’d barely gotten
> two words out of her mouth before she became aware of a
> sudden shift in the level of tension in the room. She heard a
> gasp, a murmured “uh-oh,” and glanced down at Elaine, who
> was staring at her incredulously.
> 306                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Miss Tindall, hearing the sudden silence behind her, turned
> from the blackboard.
> “Now, I know-”
> The class was never to hear what she knew. Her eyes
> widened. Her next utterance was, “Anastasia-!”
> Anastasia blinked and stared back into her teacher’s face.
> Had the world chosen this morning to go completely mad? She
> suddenly felt like Alice facing a pack of ogling playing cards and
> the Red Queen.
> Miss Tindall set her chalk in the tray and dusted her fingers
> on the neat piece of gingham flannel she kept on a hook by the
> board.
> “Anastasia,” she said, “please go out into the hall and wait
> for me.”
> “Why? What’s wrong?” She heard “What’s wrong?” echoed
> derisively by several muffled voices.
> “In the hall, please. Class, you may start your reading
> assignment on page five in the history text while I’m gone.”
> Stasi let the door fall shut and waited, miserably, in the
> silent hallway. What was wrong with her? Had she suddenly
> sprouted a moustache and glasses? She explored her face
> gingerly. Did she have spots? She was supposed to be inoculated
> against just about every known disease. Had one of her siblings
> played a joke on her?
> The classroom door swung open and Miss Tindall appeared,
> looking very serious.
> “Anastasia, can you explain yourself?”
> No, Miss Tindall, I can’t, she thought. Aloud, she said,
> “Explain what? What’ve I done? Why is everyone staring at
> me?”
> “Are you serious? Young lady, what do you expect, when
> you come to school dressed in such completely inappropriate
> attire?”
> Home Is Where...                                                   307
> 
> Stasi did a quick mental inventory of her person. The simple
> white shirt, canvas shoes. Her hand flew to the huge black and
> white zebra earrings that dangled from her ears.
> “I’m sorry. Is there some rule about earrings?”
> “Earrings? Young lady, you are stretching both my credulity
> and my patience. What ever possessed you to think you could
> get away with wearing pants to school? Blue jeans, no less!”
> Completely taken aback, Stasi answered honestly. “They
> made fun of my good clothes. Mom told me to wear these until
> we could go shopping for something that would...fit in better.”
> “Your mother told you to wear blue jeans? I find that
> difficult to believe. Anastasia, are you sure you’re telling me the
> truth? I don’t know of a single school in this country that will
> tolerate girls wearing pants to class.”
> “Oh. I’m sure Mom didn’t realize that. The last place we
> lived, you could wear just about anything you wanted.”
> Miss Tindall looked entirely skeptical. “Oh? And where was
> this—Mars?”
> Stasi blinked and licked her lips, feeling a giggle forming in
> her throat. “Paris,” she said. “Paris, France.”
> Miss Tindall sighed. “I see. Well, I’m sorry, Stasi, but I really
> have no choice but to send you home for the rest of the day.
> When you come in tomorrow, make sure you’re wearing a dress.
> I’ll send your assignments home with your brother. And I’m
> afraid I’m going to have to have a word with your mother about
> this. It’s school policy.”
> “Good,” Stasi murmured.
> “What?”
> “I said, ’Good,’” she repeated, her eyes feeling tight with
> tears. “Maybe then they’ll see that we don’t belong here.”
> She darted away, then, down the corridor, out the back door
> of the Secondary wing and home.
> 308                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> �����
> 
> Helen Jones heard the slam of the front door and the rapid
> pounding of feet up the stairs to the second floor. She left her
> husband, who was oblivious to both the pounding and his wife’s
> departure from their shared laboratory/office, and went upstairs
> to find her daughter flung across her bed glaring at the ceiling.
> “Well, young lady, can you tell me what you’re doing home
> at 0900 hours?”
> “I was inappropriately attired. And if one more person calls
> me ’young lady’ in that tone of voice, I’ll scream bloody
> murder.”
> Frowning, Helen moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “You
> were what?”
> Stasi sat up and looked her mother in the eye, a mutinous
> expression on her face. “Girls are not allowed to wear pants to
> school here, Mom. They think it’s immoral or something.”
> Helen blinked. “Oh. Oh, dear. Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t
> check. It didn’t even occur to me that-”
> “I know, I know.... She wants to talk to you and Dad.”
> “Who?”
> Stasi grimaced. “Miss Tindall. My teacher.”
> “I’ll go in tomorrow morning and talk to her,” Helen
> decided.
> “And say what, Mom? What can you tell her that will make
> her understand why I don’t fit in?”
> “Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll make her understand.” She
> patted her daughter’s knee and left.
> Already writing the speech, Stasi thought, and flopped back
> onto the bed with a groan.
> They went clothes shopping after lunch, and Stasi spent the
> remainder of the afternoon wrinkling her nose at her new skirts
> and dresses as she hung them up and shortening the hemlines of
> Home Is Where...                                                 309
> 
> a few of her old ones. That task also required a modicum of
> facial contortions.
> Tam brought her homework in as soon as he got home. She
> was reading and he dropped the schoolbooks on the foot of her
> bed.
> “What happened?”
> Stasi put down her book. “Girls don’t wear blue jeans to
> school in the United States.”
> Tam whistled. “And Mom and Dad didn’t know that? Jeez,
> they must be slipping. They used to have all that stuff iced.”
> “Why should they care? They’re too busy researching books
> and digging up artifacts to care about what’s acceptable fashion
> in some little pie-dink town in Nebraska.”
> “Podunk,” he corrected. “If we were home-”
> “Home? What’s that?”
> Tam stared at the book lying between them, ran his fingers
> over the smooth plastic covering. That was from Home.
> “Do you remember Danice Patten?”
> Stasi shot him a dark glance. “Of course, I remember Danice.
> She was my best friend.”
> “Do you wish we could go back?”
> “Stupid question, Tam. What good does it do to wish? What
> was it you said—if wishes were wheels-”
> “What if we did more than wish?”
> Stasi looked at her younger brother doubtfully. “Like what?
> Talking to them doesn’t help. They don’t listen. You should have
> heard Mom this morning—all hot-fizz to explain to Miss Tindall
> why her daughter is such a social misfit. ’I’ll make her
> understand, honey,’” she mimicked.
> Tam snorted. “That means they’re going to do their Richard
> and Mary Leakey routine.”
> “Right, and trot out that tired old ’Helen of Troy’ line. They
> love this, Tam. They’re home for each other. They didn’t have
> 310                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> that many friends when we were home. Just books and artifacts
> and colleagues in the field.”
> “And us. C’mon, Sis, let’s not dive off the pier,” he added
> when she pulled a sour face.
> “Okay. All right. And us. But they never hear us, Tam. Then
> we say we’re miserable or lonely or homesick, they just tune it
> out, or pretend we’re going through a phase or having a bad
> day.”
> “Then maybe we can do something to make them tune us in.
> You know—actions that speak louder than words, et cetera.”
> Stasi picked up the book again, fingering it almost
> reverently—a memento from another life. Home. Suddenly, she
> was angry at Tam for even making her think about it.
> “What actions, Tam?” she asked, bitter. “What actions could
> we possibly take that would show them what they can’t see?
> You know what we can do? Nothing. We could all commit
> suicide tomorrow and they’d think it came out of nowhere.”
> Tam glanced at her sharply. “You wouldn’t-”
> “No, of course not. But sometimes I do think about mutiny.
> About tying them up and making them take us Home.”
> “Anastasia!” Their mother’s voice floated up the stairs.
> “Stasi?”
> Stasi got up and went out onto the landing. “Yeah, Mom?”
> “There’s someone down here to see you. Elaine?”
> Stasi froze for a moment, suddenly loathe to carry on what
> she had started.
> “Um, okay,” she said finally. “I’ll be right down.” She
> padded downstairs with Tam on her heels and met her Mom
> and Elaine in the front hall. “Hi, Elaine. What’s-what’s up?” The
> last word came out a little too brightly.
> “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
> “Yeah. I’m all right.” She looked at her Mom. “Can Elaine
> come up to my room?”
> Home Is Where...                                                  311
> 
> Helen smiled, her eyes anxious. “As long as it’s clean, dear.”
> Stasi remembered the book. “Oh, I-”
> “It’s clean,” Tam averred. “Of course, all the embarrassing
> stuff is under the pillows.” He favored his sister with a secret
> glance.
> “Thanks,” she told him, and led her new friend upstairs.
> 
> �����
> 
> Troy and Helen Jones appeared in the offices of the Papillion
> Community School just before classes were to start the morning
> after Stasi’s run-in with school regulations.
> Miss Tindall was obviously surprised to see them—
> surprised and a little nervous. That they were both dressed in
> the khaki uniform of field anthropologists might have
> contributed to that unease. She was determined not to let it
> show.
> “Hello, Miss Tindall, isn’t it?” Troy Jones shook her hand.
> “I’m Troy Jones and this is my wife, Helen.”
> Helen smiled. “That’s me—Helen of Troy.”
> Miss Tindall smiled in return. “Yes, of course. How
> amusing.” She seated them in a conference cubicle and moved to
> barricade herself behind a wooden desk. “Frankly, I’m surprised
> to see you. I didn’t expect Anastasia to tell you much about our
> little misunderstanding.”
> “Our children tell us everything, Miss Tindall,” Troy
> assured her. “We have a very open relationship.”
> Miss Tindall looked doubtful. “Did she tell you why I sent
> her home?”
> “Yes, inappropriate dress, wasn’t it? You know, I really
> don’t understand that. With the weather being so nippy these
> days, I’d think blue jeans would be just what the meteorologist
> ordered.”
> 312                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Miss Tindall blinked. “I... There are rules, Mr. Jones.”
> “Doctor Jones.”
> “Excuse me. Doctor Jones. There are rules that govern how
> our young ladies dress. We expect them to be obeyed.”
> “Why? Good God, surely you don’t want your young ladies
> freezing to death at their bus stops in the winter?”
> “Of course not. They’re free to wear nice pants to school as
> long as they remove them and put them in their lockers during
> class.”
> Dr. Jones ogled. “They run around in their underwear?”
> Helen giggled into her hand.
> Miss Tindall did not giggle. She didn’t even smile. She fixed
> him with a cool gaze and said, “They wear the pants under their
> skirts, Dr. Jones.”
> “But that’s redundant.”
> “It’s the rule, Doctor. I didn’t make the rule. I only enforce it.
> Do you honestly want your daughter parading around dressed
> like a boy?”
> “Miss Tindall, who defines which clothes are male and
> which are female? Medieval gentlemen (such as they were) wore
> leggings and skirts. Scotsmen wear kilts to this day. And in
> Egypt, at this very moment, men stroll the avenues wearing
> what you would call dresses while their wives do the shopping
> in what you would call pants.”
> “This is America, Dr. Jones, not Egypt. And it’s 1950, not the
> Middle Ages.”
> “Miss Tindall,” said Helen quietly, “our children have led a
> much less sheltered life than their classmates. They’ve
> accumulated a vast library of diverse experiences. Anastasia’s
> spent most of her life in jeans and khaki field trousers, digging
> up history your students here have only read about. It’s going to
> take while for her to make the adjustment to this more restrictive
> Home Is Where...                                                  313
> 
> lifestyle. All we’re asking is that you try to understand that what
> seems bizarre or out of place to you is normal to Stasi.”
> “Normal,” repeated Miss Tindall. “Maroon hair, dresses that
> look like ankle-length sacks and earrings made from giant
> fishing lures?”
> “Her hair is burgundy, Miss Tindall,” said Helen, “and all of
> those things you just mentioned were quite normal the last place
> we lived.”
> Miss Tindall pursed her lips. “Paris, she said.”
> “Paris,” agreed Helen.
> “Mrs. Jones-”
> “Doctor Jones.”
> “Doctor Jones, I’m aware that Paris is the birth place of
> modern fashion, but I find it hard to believe that young ladies
> there wear such outlandish styles.”
> “Well, they wore them while we were there.”
> “I see.”
> “Do you?” asked Helen. “You see that Stasi is different, but
> do you see that there’s nothing wrong with that?”
> Miss Tindall sighed. “Dr. Jones-”
> “There is nothing wrong with that, Miss Tindall. Stasi is an
> excellent student. A model teenager—honest, caring, mature
> beyond her years. Stasi is an individual. That individuality, that
> diversity, is very precious to her and to us. If you try to make her
> over in the image of some narrow ideal, if you try to squelch that
> individuality, we will have no choice but to withdraw our
> children from this school.”
> Miss Tindall’s face went crimson. “That’s illegal, Mrs.
> Jones.”
> “Doctor Jones,” Helen corrected her. “And we’ll worry about
> the legality of it. This is not a threat; please don’t take it that
> way. We simply want you to understand that we are willing to
> go to great lengths to protect our children’s individual rights.
> 314                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Stasi’s qualities, Miss Tindall, are on the inside; they are not
> woven into her clothing.” She looked at her husband, who was
> nodding thoughtfully. “I think we’ve done all we can here, dear.
> Shall we go?”
> “Certainly.” He rose and reached across the desk/barricade
> for Miss Tindall’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Miss
> Tindall.”
> They left the cubicle, drawing the gazes of the office staff
> after them.
> Royalty in khaki, thought Mildred Tindall, and wondered
> where they’d come from.
> 
> �����
> 
> Constantine Jones had a problem. He had come to school
> without his book bag. He had no pencils, no pens, no paper and,
> worst of all, no textbooks. When the teacher asked the class to
> take out paper and a pencil, he sat, frozen inside, glancing
> nervously around the room.
> Two rows to the right, Tahireh caught his eye.
> “What?” she mouthed.
> He shrugged and signed that he had forgotten the sacred
> bag.
> She looked thoughtful for a second, then pointedly lifted her
> desktop and put her own pencil in. Then she withdrew it.
> Constantine knew what she was suggesting. He tried to
> swallow the lump of panic in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge.
> “Here?” he mouthed.
> “Constantine, paper and pencil, please,” said Mr. Matthews.
> “Yes, sir.”
> Constantine lifted the top of his desk, reached inside and,
> after a moment of eye clenched hesitation, pulled out a pencil
> and a piece of lined paper.
> Home Is Where...                                                  315
> 
> Mr. Matthews smiled pleasantly and proceeded to hand out
> in-class assignments.
> Everything was fine until he asked them to take out their
> history readers. Constantine panicked again. He could just say
> he’d forgotten his books, but that would mean a mandatory after
> school session, an extra assignment and utter humiliation before
> a council of his peers. His eyes cast about, clutching the boy next
> to him who had withdrawn the little textbook from his desk. It
> was covered in a crisp, brown paper bag.
> Constantine echoed the movement, pulling out his own
> smartly attired book. His neighbor opened his book. He opened
> his, frowned in consternation, and quickly curved his arms
> around it.
> “Page fifteen, please,” said Mr. Matthews. “I want you all to
> take a moment to read page fifteen, then we’ll talk about the
> New World.”
> Constantine put his head down and sweated. He could feel
> his sister’s concern wash around and over him, felt it intensify to
> matching panic when Mr. Matthews took a bad turn and strolled
> up the aisle behind him.
> Seeing a child hunkered so low over a textbook raises
> immediate suspicions in the mind of a teacher, and Mr.
> Matthews teacherly instincts were about as fully developed as
> they could be. He stopped right over Constantine and looked
> down. Then, he tapped Constantine on the shoulder.
> “How are we doing, Mr. Jones?”
> “Fine.”
> “And what are we reading about?”
> “The New World.”
> “Isn’t it a little difficult to read about the New World all
> hunched over like that?”
> “No, sir.”
> 316                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Well, straighten up, please. We don’t want you to ruin your
> eyes.”
> Constantine stared at him for a moment, a wrinkle of pure
> anguish between his brows. Then he straightened up.
> Mr. Matthews reached over his shoulder and nudged the
> book out of his protective embrace. After a moment of silence,
> during which Constantine was certain the entire Cosmos had
> collapsed, Mr. Matthews drew in a long breath and said, “Mr.
> Jones, can you explain to me why the pages of this book are
> empty?”
> 
> �����
> 
> Constantine, clutching his older brother’s hand, cowered
> tearfully in the principal’s office. The offending volume was in
> the hands of the enemy and all was lost. He had no true
> conception of the magnitude of his crime, but he was certain it
> would mean the end of the world as he knew it.
> Beside him, Tamujin breathed confidence and comfort into
> the ether.
> “It’s really very simple, sir,” Tam said. “Connie just picked
> up the wrong book.”
> “The wrong book?”
> “Yes, sir. That’s mine.”
> “Yours? But it has blank pages.”
> “Yes, sir. It’s a writer’s journal. You know, a thought book. I
> got it just before we left Paris. Connie must have mistaken it for
> his history book. He’d wrapped that in a paper bag too, and
> they’re about the same size.” He smiled engagingly. “I guess I
> should’ve put my name on it. Sorry, sir. I feel real bad about
> putting Constantine through this.”
> He squeezed his little brother’s trembling shoulder and
> turned the smile down into his tear-streaked face.
> Home Is Where...                                                317
> 
> Mr. Benoit looked at Tam for a moment, then turned his
> spectacled gaze to Constantine. “Well, no harm done, I suppose.
> Be more careful next time, young man. Check the contents of a
> book before you carry it to school.”
> Outside in the corridor, Constantine’s gratitude was
> effusive.
> “Whatever possessed you to do that?” Tam asked,
> completely ignoring his worshipful elegy.
> “Tahireh.”
> Tam looked down and shook Con’s shoulder. “Try again.”
> “I forgot my book bag and the rule says if you forget your
> books, you have to do detention.”
> “Oh, yeah,” Tam conceded. “I do recall that, now that you
> mention it. So, you just thought you’d go for a lesser penalty?”
> Constantine glowered. “I didn’t mean to get caught.”
> “Who does?”
> “Do you think they’ll tell Mom and Dad?”
> Tam shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’d better hope
> not. You know the rules about ’importing technologies across
> cultural boundaries.’ Dad would have a fit.”
> Constantine stared down the empty corridor toward the
> distant classroom. “Yeah, he sure would.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Miss Tindall hates me,” said Stasi. “What did you say to
> her?”
> Helen blinked. Next to her, her husband echoed the
> movement, staring at his eldest child as if she was an
> anthropological specimen that had suddenly risen up to protest
> being dug out of the ground.
> “We just spoke to her about how important your
> individuality is,” said Helen. “That’s all.”
> 318                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Well, now she’s treating me like—like a pariah. She won’t
> call on me unless I’m the only one with my hand raised, and
> even then she won’t look at me or smile at me or anything.”
> Helen glanced at Troy, who was glancing at his notes as if he
> was preparing to dive back into them. She caught his eye pre--
> dive and he shrugged.
> “If it gets too bad, we’ll talk to her again,” he promised.
> “Oh, great!”
> “Now, Anastasia, your father and I were only trying to
> help.”
> Stasi had the grace to look contrite. “I know, but I’m afraid
> she’ll flunk me or something.”
> Her mother laughed. “Good heavens! Why worry about
> something as trivial as that? It’s not like she’s actually teaching
> you anything. A local educator’s arbitrary marks aren’t going to
> affect your degree, honey.”
> “I know, but you can get black marks for failure to
> acculturate. She might make Professor Amadiyeh think I have a
> bad attitude.”
> “We’ll tell him otherwise.”
> Stasi was silent for a moment, feeling incredibly freighted
> down and lonely. Thinking about Professor Amadiyeh made her
> think of Home and Danice Patten and all the other friends that
> now seemed light years away. Friends she couldn’t reach by
> land or by sea.
> “Can’t we please go home?”
> Her mother looked sympathetic (she always looked
> sympathetic) and said, “Stasi, honey, your father and I are in the
> middle of a Project.”
> “Can’t you finish it at home?”
> “How can we study the culture in and around military
> installations in Post World War Two America without having
> access to those installations?”
> Home Is Where...                                                     319
> 
> “Couldn’t you use QuestLabs as a home base and just pop
> into a military base when you need to look at one?”
> Her father laughed. “Stasi, you crack my mind! Do you have
> any idea how prohibitively expensive that would be? We blow
> over a hundred grand every time we power up the Grid, hon.
> Just settle down and enjoy Papillion, okay? It’s not such a bad
> little town. When we’re done here at Offutt, I’ll see if we can’t
> cut straight to the Pentagon. You kids’ll love Washington D.C.
> Now, why don’t you go study before dinner?”
> She stared at him, at her mother, already bending over the
> thin plate display in her hands, scanning faux-3D pictures of
> military personnel in their monotone uniforms.
> They’re so happy, she thought. Like two kids in a sand box.
> She went upstairs. On the second floor landing, Tam met
> her.
> “Secret meeting of the Jones Gang,” he said out of the side of
> his mouth. “My room. Five minutes.”
> “Thank you, Bugsy Malone,” she said.
> Tam deflated. “That was my best John Wayne.”
> “John who?”
> “God, a cultural illiterate. You’d better bone up on your
> Twentieth Century films.”
> “Yeah, yeah. What’s the meeting?”
> Tam pointed at her nose. “It’s a secret. Be there or be a
> rhombus.” He turned and headed downstairs.
> Five minutes later, they shared soda pop and greasy potato
> chips on the floor of Tam’s room. Of the four, only Tahireh
> seemed disinclined to glower.
> “I guess you’re wondering why I’ve called you here,” said
> Tam, munching.
> “Get on with it,” growled Stasi.
> “I have an idea about how we might just possibly get Home
> before Mom and Dad retire.”
> 320                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Stasi snorted. “Oh, this should be good. We’re gonna mutiny
> and take over the Grid Controller, right? Tie up Mom and Dad
> and slam this baby into reverse.”
> “Close.” Tam took a swig of soda, looking arch.
> “Well?” prompted Constantine. “C’mon, Tam. I could be out
> catching bugs, y’know.”
> “Mutiny,” said Tam deliciously, dangerously.
> “Mutiny,” repeated Stasi. “Where’d you get a fuzz-brained
> idea like that?”
> “Actually, I got it from you and Connie.”
> “Con.”
> Tam toyed with a chip crumb on the hardwood floor,
> scooting it around and around with his finger. “Have you ever
> wondered what would happen if we didn’t try so hard to fit in
> wherever we go—if we sort of, oh, had trouble blending into the
> landscape?”
> Stasi looked at him—hard. “Go on.”
> “What would Mom and Dad do if these little settling-in
> problems kept happening—maybe even got worse?”
> “Ignore them?” suggested Constantine.
> “They might try.” Tam shrugged. “But if it got really bad
> and the teachers all got in an uproar and the Education Council
> got wind of it-”
> Stasi’s face finally lit up. “Professor Amadiyeh! If we all
> flunked out of school or started upsetting the local golf cart-”
> “Apple cart.”
> “I can have any kind of cart I want, thank you. He’d have to
> get involved, wouldn’t he? I mean, after all, it’s his responsibility
> to see that our educational environment is sound.”
> “Yeah.” Tam agreed pleasantly.
> Constantine just folded his arms and smiled.
> Between them, Tahireh, clutching a favored doll, stared at
> her siblings in horror. “Oh, you can’t! You can’t do something
> Home Is Where...                                                 321
> 
> like that. Why, Mom and Dad would be... Well, they’d think
> there was something wrong with us.”
> “There is something wrong with us, Tahireh,” said Stasi.
> “We’re from another century, another world, almost. We don’t
> belong here. We’re...an anachronism.”
> “But Mom and Dad are so happy here!”
> “Mom and Dad are happy anywhere they can dig up
> something or write papers,” said Tam.
> “But, it’s not fair for us to ask them to give up their work.”
> “We’re not asking them to give up their work, Tar. We’re
> just asking them to reorganize it a little.”
> “Reorganize?” repeated Tahireh dubiously.
> “Yeah,” said Tam and munched another handful of chips.
> 
> �����
> 
> No one in Papillion, Nebraska had ever seen an outfit like
> the one Anastasia Jones wore on a particular Monday. The ankle
> length jumper was a deep shade of burgundy that rivaled its
> wearer’s hair. That hair was caught up in a fluorescing green clip
> on one side of her head, forming a stiffened fan. From her ears
> dangled the most amazing set of orange and green “giant fishing
> lures” imaginable, and the shirt she wore was of a shade of
> orange almost never found in nature.
> Heads turned the moment she took off her jacket and stuffed
> it into her locker. They kept turning as she paraded the halls on
> her way to class. She smiled at Miss Tindall’s ogling first glance
> and ignored the whispered wisecracks of her classmates. When,
> during a morning study break, Miss Tindall called her into the
> hall again, she was calm, smiling, amiable.
> “Yes, Miss Tindall?” she said sweetly.
> “I thought your mother bought some new clothes for you.”
> “She did.”
> 322                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The teacher made an uncertain gesture. “Well, then-”
> “I like these clothes, Miss Tindall. They...suit me.” Her smile
> widened. “Don’t you think?”
> “I’m not sure they’re suitable for school.” Miss Tindall was
> making a gallant attempt to sound kind and wise.
> Stasi looked bemused. “Why not? Is there a rule against
> them?”
> “Well...no, but they are distracting to the other students.”
> “That’s not my fault, is it? Besides, I think they’ll get used to
> it.”
> Miss Tindall frowned. “That’s a poor attitude, young lady.”
> “Why? I’m not breaking any rules and I’m not hurting
> anybody. I’m just being myself. What’s wrong with that?”
> Miss Tindall sucked in her lips and fixed Stasi with a look
> that might have frozen a lesser fifteen-year-old on the spot.
> Stasi smiled.
> Miss Tindall tried another tack. “Stasi, dear, can’t you hear
> them laughing at you? Don’t you care if you become a laughing
> stock?”
> Stasi thought about that. “No,” she said.
> “No,” repeated Miss Tindall.
> Stasi shook her head. “I’d rather be a laughing stock and be
> different than look just like everyone else.”
> “I see.”
> “May I go study now, please?”
> Speechless, Miss Tindall opened the door and ushered her
> in.
> 
> �����
> 
> Tahireh stood before her class with total aplomb, dressed in
> an azure linen sari that, with the lime green shirt she’d elected to
> Home Is Where...                                                 323
> 
> wear under it, made her look like an elongated peacock. Her
> blonde hair cascaded in a fountain from a tiny topless blue fez.
> “When I Grow Up—an essay by Tahireh Jones. Ahem. When I
> grow up I plan to be a scientist like my mother. And, like my
> mother, I would like to have my first Master’s degree by the time
> I’m fifteen and my first Ph.D. at twenty—in Physics, I think,
> Quantum Physics...or maybe Particle Physics. I think I’d like to
> get my degree at Stanford—that’s in California. Then, I would
> like to go to Juliard and study drama and voice. It is my dream
> to someday portray the fearless saint, Tahireh, for whom I am
> named, in the play about her commissioned by the immortal
> Sarah Bernhardt. I also plan to write several novels, books of
> inspirational poetry and academic volumes on travel in space
> and time.”
> She paused and thought for a moment, ignoring the titters of
> her classmates, then added, “I would also like to be one of the
> first full time field scientists on Mars.”
> Now the class cackled in unabashed glee. Mr. Matthews
> stood and clapped his hands.
> “Class! Class! Please! I think we should applaud Tahireh for
> a very interesting and imaginative presentation. Now, seriously,
> young lady, tell us what you really want to do when you grown
> up.”
> “Everything I just said, although, I might like to study acting
> first.”
> Mr. Matthews smiled tolerantly. “But, Miss Jones, half those
> things are...just make-believe—going to Mars, time travel. And
> the other are not very realistic goals for a young lady. Don’t you
> want a family? Children?”
> “Oh, sure. If I fall in love with somebody, then I’ll have that
> too.”
> The indulgent smile deepened. “Young lady, you can’t do
> both.”
> 324                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Why not? My Mom did. She says you can be whatever you
> want. She’s got three Ph.D.s and her teaching credentials. She’s
> written three books, too. One of them won the Nobel Peace
> Prize. I think I’d like to be the first author to win a Nobel prize
> for a science fiction novel.”
> “Science fiction,” Mr. Matthews repeated. “I see.” He looked
> around the room. “Who would like to go next?”
> Pamela Harris wanted to go next. Pamela had been going to
> talk about being a beautician like her big sister, she said, and
> marrying someone who looked like Clarke Gable and moving to
> Omaha, but she was having second thoughts. She decided she
> really wanted to be a cruise ship captain like her Uncle Jerry, or
> maybe even an Air Force pilot like her father. She wasn’t really
> sure she wanted a family at all. At least, not until she was very
> old. She thought she’d rather travel all over the world and
> decide about a family later.
> Out of Mr. Matthew’s eleven female students, seven
> suddenly opted to grow up differently than they’d previously
> planned. The word “homemaker” came up only twice as a
> lifetime goal. Tahireh Jones suddenly had the young ladies in
> Mr. Matthew’s third grade class talking about careers, degrees
> and the equality of the sexes.
> 
> �����
> 
> “About this paper, Mr. Jones.” Mr. Schiflin pushed the threepage essay across his desk.
> “Yes, sir?”
> “I didn’t grade it, because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I
> asked for an essay on the future of relations between the U.S.
> and Europe and you gave me science fiction.”
> “Excuse me, sir?”
> Home Is Where...                                                   325
> 
> “You can’t honestly believe what you wrote here. Why did
> you write it?”
> “Of course I believe it, sir.”
> Mr. Schiflin rustled the top page. “A unified Germany? The
> U.S. and the Soviet Union the closest of allies? A world
> government? English as a universal language?”
> “Yes, sir.”
> “What makes you think the U.S. will lose its super-power
> status?”
> Tam shrugged. “It’s inevitable, isn’t it? If we’re to achieve
> world unity, there really can’t be any so-called super-powers—at
> least, not the way we’re used to thinking of them. We have to
> give up some sense of sovereignty to become a working member
> of a community made up of equal nations.”
> “There are those who would find that view unpatriotic or
> un-American. I just find it absurd. I’d like you to rewrite this
> essay, Mr. Jones, from a more realistic point of view.”
> “I can’t, sir.”
> Mr. Schiflin fixed him with a positively deadly over-thebifocals stare.
> “This is the way it’s going to be...I believe. If I wrote
> something else, I’d be lying. You don’t want me to lie, do you,
> sir?”
> The stare waxed more deadly. “Perhaps I need to have a
> word with your parents about this, young man.”
> “Perhaps you do, sir,” returned Tam agreeably.
> 
> �����
> 
> Tuesday, Constantine forgot his pencil bag. He stared at the
> empty paper before him on the desk, arms folded, stoic.
> He could ask the teacher for a pencil, but that would lay him
> open to ridicule and perhaps even discipline. He could signal
> 326                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Tahireh to toss him one of hers, but she’d probably get caught
> doing it and made to stand against the wall for throwing things
> in class. He could ask Bobby Truman to lend him one, but then
> he’d get caught whispering. That drew a stiff oral presentation
> on a randomly selected subject.
> Then, again, he could always manifest a pencil—they were
> easy and non-descript—but he’d promised Mom and Dad he
> wouldn’t. When he and Tam had told their parents about the
> blank book incident, a definite rule was established: no
> manifesting of books, pencils, or paper. Period.
> Constantine had mumbled something about stifling the
> development of his God-given talents, but the rule stood—
> Constantine was not to manifest so much as a paper clip.
> But I don’t need a paper clip, he thought, I need-
> “Constantine, begin working on the problems, please.”
> He glanced up toward the front of the class. Mr. Matthews
> gazed back, pointedly tapping his wristwatch. Constantine
> dropped his eyes and glanced quickly around the room, taking
> in the hunched figures of the other children—scribbling madly,
> eraser chewing, pencil tapping.
> A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He glanced
> at his open math book, then set his gaze purposefully on the
> empty paper beside it, the first set of figures indelibly impressed
> on his mind.
> Mr. Matthews started wandering several minutes later,
> weaving his way along and through the rows of struggling
> students, checking their progress or lack thereof. One of them sat
> unnaturally straight, eyes on his paper, smiling, hands folded
> inactively in his lap.
> Matthews worked his way quietly toward the immobile
> child, snuck up behind him and peered expectantly over his
> shoulder, mouth open to utter a terrifying, “And what are we
> doing, Mr. Jones?” But the words did not form. Mr. Matthews
> Home Is Where...                                                 327
> 
> ogled in silent disbelief as a series of mathematical problems
> scrawled themselves across the sheet of paper as if by an
> invisible pencil.
> He gasped.
> Constantine felt a chill of mixed terror and elation as he
> heard Mr. Matthews breath catch in his throat, sensed his blood
> cool suddenly in his veins.
> The child-smile deepened.
> 
> �����
> 
> “He hasn’t told anybody,” said Constantine. “I know he
> hasn’t. And it’s been three days.”
> Tam wrinkled his forehead. “Well, Mr. Schiflin talked to
> Dad about my essay. Dad said I should be less direct in my
> revelation of future events. He assured Mr. Schiflin that I wasn’t
> un-American, just unusually perceptive and cosmopolitan. I’m
> not sure Schiflin even knows what cosmopolitan means. How’re
> you girls doing?”
> Tahireh drew herself up and smiled, tossing a thick blonde
> braid over her shoulder. “I’ve got almost every girl in our class
> thinking about what college they want to go to and what degrees
> they want to get.” She exchanged the smile for a puzzled frown.
> “But I don’t really understand how that’s supposed to upset
> anybody.”
> “Oh, it will, Tar,” Tam told her. “You’ll see.”
> “I’m not so sure,” said Stasi dourly. “I think maybe Mom
> and Dad awed the administration so much, they’re just gonna
> grin and bear it. Miss Tindall hasn’t batted more than an eyelash
> since our last talk. Elaine and a couple of the other girls have
> even started to dress like me and Beth Silverberg did something
> weird to her hair and Tindall just said, ’My, that’s unique.’”
> “Yeah, but Schiflin-”
> 328                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “You handed in an essay that offended the man’s
> sensitivities. That’s not enough to get you in trouble.”
> “Then we need to bolster our offense.”
> Stasi shook her head. “We can’t do anything really bad,
> Tam. At least, I won’t.”
> “Me neither,” vowed Tahireh.
> “I wasn’t even going to suggest it. I just think we need to
> give them something they can’t ignore.”
> 
> �����
> 
> Tamujin Jones handled his fluorescent orange and blue
> gravi-pack with cheerful confidence, showing everyone who
> cocked an eye at the bright satchel that it was light as a feather
> despite the fact that it obviously contained every textbook he
> owned. He stopped to let this one touch the sleek, shiny
> material; grinned as that one hefted it, finding it to be much
> lighter than it appeared to be; laughed outright when one
> especially curious young citizen removed a book to find that the
> single volume weighed more than the entire pack full he had just
> taken it from.
> “It’s what they make parachutes out of,” Tam told anyone
> who asked. “And astronaut’s uniforms.”
> “Astro-what?” asked one freckled peer.
> “Space suits,” Tam said and grinned.
> “So what else do you carry around in that ’space bag’
> besides books?” asked the boy who sat behind him in class.
> He tried to look coy, secretive. Stasi was better at that than
> he was.
> “Oh, not much,” he said, and floated the pack into his lap.
> His classmates’ curiosity was suitably whetted. They
> watched the pack as if it might hold a football autographed by
> the Cornhusker’s starting quarterback. They were forced to take
> Home Is Where...                                                329
> 
> their eyes from it as class progressed, but Tam brought their
> attention back from time to time by rummaging in it, extracting a
> pencil, a notebook, his English text.
> When Mr. Schiflin began to lecture on their English
> assignment, Tam set his pencil down in the midst of note-taking
> and glanced furtively around. Then he opened the pack and
> extracted, with the air of a veteran safecracker, something small
> and black and mechanical; something that drew the eyes of his
> circle of watchers like a magnet.
> He played it like a tiny piano—one handed—then scribbled,
> then listened, then played, then scribbled again. A whisper of
> curiosity rippled out from Tam’s cast pebble, cresting within
> earshot of the lecturer. Schiflin, interest engaged, took his show
> on the road, wandering the depth and breadth of the classroom.
> Tam let him come within two rows before he slipped the
> enticing object back into his pack. The teacher covered the
> distance between them in two strides, every eye in the class
> following him.
> “What was that, Mr. Jones?”
> Tam looked up, wide-eyed, and smiled affably. “What was
> what, sir?”
> Schiflin pointed. “You just hid something in that bag.”
> “I didn’t hide anything.”
> “I saw him, Mr. Schiflin,” volunteered Greg Rollins from
> across the aisle. “He was playing with something. A puzzle, I
> think.”
> “What was it, Mr. Jones?”
> Tam shook his head. “The only thing I put away just now
> was my pocket dictionary.”
> Mr. Schiflin’s pointing hand turned palm up. “Give it to me,
> please.”
> “I was just taking notes and needed to look up a word-”
> “Hand it over. Now.”
> 330                                                 I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Tam hesitated just long enough to make Schiflin’s face turn
> red, then he withdrew the curiosity from the satchel and laid it
> across the teacher’s outstretched palm.
> Schiflin turned the thing over, frowning at it. “What is this,
> Mr. Jones?”
> “I told you, sir. It’s a dictionary. I was looking up words
> from your lecture.”
> Schiflin stared at him. “A dictionary... If you don’t mind, Mr.
> Jones, I think I’ll just hold onto this ’dictionary.’ And I’ll expect
> you to deliver a note from me to your parents.”
> “Yes, sir.”
> Mr. Schiflin started to turn away, then glanced back. “How
> does this work?”
> “You just turn it on—the little red switch at the top. Press it;
> it turns green to show the unit is on. You press it again to turn it
> off. To look up a word, you can either enter it from the keypad
> or just tell it.”
> “Tell it?”
> Tam nodded, enjoying himself much more than he knew he
> should. He’d always wondered what it would be like to take
> Jules Verne for a ride in a hover-lite or show Edgar Alan Poe a
> computer. This had to be almost as good.
> “Just say the word,” he said.
> Schiflin frowned, then reddened. He glanced around the
> room as if he’d only just realized how big an audience they had.
> “C’mon, Mr. Schiflin!” urged Greg. “Try it. I’ll bet he’s full of
> it!”
> Schiflin didn’t even censure the outburst. “It would serve
> you right, young man, to be caught with your pants down.”
> “I’m not lying, sir. I promise. Give it a word.”
> Scowling, Schiflin pressed the red button. It turned green
> and a tiny, flat, black screen the size of a business card displayed
> the words: “Dictionary Mode.” Below that was: “Input Word?”
> Home Is Where...                                                   331
> 
> He held the thing close to his mouth and said,
> “Outrageous.”
> The screen filled with text. “Outrageous,” echoed his own
> voice. “Grossly offensive, disgraceful, shameful, extravagant,
> immoderate. Shall I spell it?”
> Face white with small patches of intense red at the cheeks,
> Schiflin stared at the tiny machine. “Shall I spell it?” asked the
> pleasantly aqua text.
> “No, thank you,” he answered, and felt immediately stupid.
> Tam sensed his anger warring with wonder, with
> curiosity...with fear.
> The bell rang, jolting everyone out of the shared stupor.
> Still, no one moved. Mr. Schiflin cleared his throat. “Class
> dismissed for lunch. Mr. Jones, you may go home.”
> “Why, sir? I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all right to
> look up words—you said so.”
> “In a book not-”
> “It’s just a dictionary, sir.”
> “It’s more than a dictionary, Mr. Jones. Even I can see that.
> What you’ve done is lied boldly and outrageously. You have
> disrupted my classroom. And I can only assume, you’ve stolen
> this obviously valuable piece of equipment. Now, go home. I’ll
> speak to your parents at their earliest convenience.”
> “I didn’t steal it.”
> “We’ll see about that.”
> Tam nodded. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” He gathered
> his books into the mysterious pack and left the campus.
> He managed to get into the house without being seen by
> either parent. That wasn’t difficult. Troy Jones was at the Air
> Base posing as a scientist of some sort and his wife was
> cheerfully working on the text of their research somewhere in
> the Lab/Office.
> 332                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> When the others came in at 1630 hours, Stasi had her friend
> Elaine and two other giggling girls in tow. Tam came out to the
> landing, giving his sister the thumbs up sign as she entered the
> front hall. She returned it, looking purposefully intense and
> sporting a twisted, half-manic grin.
> “Hi, Mom! I’m home!” she called through the front parlor.
> “I’ve got some friends with me. We’re going up to my room to
> do some homework, okay?”
> There was a moment of silence, then Helen Jones’s voice
> came back to them from the “restricted area.” “Is your room
> clean?”
> Stasi’s grin widened. “Yes, Ma’am.”
> “Well...okay, then, I guess.”
> “Thanks, Mom!”
> The girls loped up the stairs, school books in arms, looking,
> Tam realized, like Anastasia Jones Clones. Their hair was tugged
> off to one side in fans or sprays; their Mary Jane shoes mimicked
> her astrolon flats. They wore what looked like their big sister’s
> hand-me-down skirts and from every earlobe dangled earrings
> made of gaudy goo-gaws home-mounted on scavenged clips
> and wires.
> All in all, a most up-to-date group of young ladies—if the
> date was 2112.
> Tam said, “Hi,” and returned to his room.
> “Your little brother’s awful cute,” observed Trudy Wessa,
> “for a kid,” she added.
> “I heard he got in trouble today,” said Elaine. “Do you know
> why?”
> Stasi dumped her books on her desk and flopped into her
> study chair, a fulsome papasan they’d picked up in Japan.
> “Gosh, no,” she said, wide-eyed. “I didn’t see him at lunch,
> though.”
> Home Is Where...                                                 333
> 
> “I heard he got caught with some kind of Air Force secret
> weapon,” offered Beth.
> Elaine glared at her. “I heard it was just a toy.”
> Stasi laughed. “Sure. What’s my little brother doing with an
> Air Force secret weapon?”
> “Well, your dad works at Offutt, doesn’t he?” asked Beth.
> “Maybe he brought something home and Tam just...borrowed
> it.”
> “Tam wouldn’t do that.”
> “Well, Mr. Schiflin was real mad,” Trudy interjected. “I saw
> him talking to Mr. Benoit about it while I was in the
> Administration Office this afternoon.”
> “Sounds like you heard him, too. Eavesdropping, were we?”
> Trudy figured Elaine’s smirk warranted retaliation. She
> grabbed a pillow from under Elaine’s elbow and smacked her
> with it, sending her on a giggling roll against the headboard.
> “Ow!”
> Elaine sat up again, rubbing her elbow and glowering at the
> two very hard objects it had connected with. Her expression
> changed immediately.
> “Oooh, wow! What are these?” She abandoned the wounded
> elbow in favor of checking out her find. “Dune, by Frank
> Herbert,” she read. “Winner of the Nebula Award.” She looked
> at the other one. “Studies in Physics and Metaphysics by Dr. Jamal
> Am-a-di-yeh.” She glanced over at Stasi. “Those sound like book
> titles.”
> Stasi pretended embarrassment and leapt (belatedly) to
> collect her property. “Uh, they are.”
> Elaine swept them out of her way only to have Trudy grab
> one. “What are these? Some kind of ritzy slip covers?”
> “Slip covers!” snorted Elaine. She tapped the one she held
> with her fingernail. “They feel like metal or plastic or something.
> What’s this red button do?”
> 334                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Of course, she pushed it, and the book opened and
> presented her with a full-page menu that enquired politely if she
> wished to go to the last bookmark and, if so, would she like a
> summary of what had happened in the story so far, or would she
> rather start at the beginning? Would she like the book in black
> on white or white on black or would she rather select colors
> from a palette? Did she want pictures as well as text? Did she
> want audio output in addition to visual? Would she like to print
> hard copy?
> “Wow!” she said. “Wow! What is this? Did you get this in
> Paris?”
> Stasi scratched her nose, hiding a grin. “San Francisco.”
> Trudy gaped at her.
> “Who are these guys?” asked Beth. “Herbert and Ama-
> Ama-”
> “Amadiyeh. Herbert’s a science fiction writer. Dr. Amadiyeh
> is my educational counselor.”
> “Your what?”
> “I thought Mrs. Hester was your Counselor,” said Elaine,
> “same as me.”
> “Well, this is different. This is for my, uh, home study
> program. You know, supplemental education.”
> Beth nodded. “’Cause you’re a brain, right?”
> “Something like that.”
> Stasi reached for the books again.
> “2100 edition,” Elaine read. “Another Cyber-Book from-”
> Stasi snatched the volume from her hands. “We’d better
> start on our skit.” She tossed the books into a drawer of her
> dresser. Three pairs of eyes locked on the drawer.
> Elaine giggled. “Are you from Mars?”
> Home Is Where...                                                 335
> 
> �����
> 
> “Any idea what this parent-teacher conference is all about?”
> Troy Jones asked the general assembly, since there was nothing
> in the usual “to discuss (your child’s name and infraction here)”
> blank.
> Four innocent stares met him over the edge of the paper. He
> waved it in the air over his dinner plate.
> “Anyone care to claim this?”
> The four innocent stares converged over the tofu loaf in a
> hasty, silent conference. Then, Stasi spoke, which was, in itself,
> was enough to give both Doctors Jones pause. A speech by the
> eldest child generally meant she had been elected ringleader,
> which, of course, meant there was a ring to lead, which could
> only lead to parental aggravation.
> The Doctors Jones simultaneously recalled the last such
> occurrence, which had centered around the appearance of an
> unauthorized mongoose on the house manifest after a Shift to
> colonial India. The resulting furor in their quiet, well-modulated
> environment had gotten them and the mongoose evicted from
> their inner city condominium to a rambling house in the
> Berkeley hills.
> “It’s probably just further repercussions from Tam’s
> disagreement with Mr. Schiflin,” Stasi said sagely, then added,
> “although, Miss Tindall did talk to me the other day about my
> clothes.”
> “What’s wrong with them?” asked Helen warily.
> Stasi shrugged. “She thought they were a little, um,
> bright ...different—you know, too individualistic.”
> “But, I bought you some new skirts and blouses.”
> “I like my old clothes better sometimes. They remind of who
> I am. Where I’m from...really.”
> 336                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Are there some problems here we’re not aware of?” asked
> their father.
> Stasi and Tam shrugged in unison and glanced at each other.
> “I got reprimanded for looking up some words during one
> of Mr. Schiflin’s lectures the other day,” offered Tam.
> “Mr. Matthews didn’t like the way I did my math
> problems,” added Constantine.
> Both Joneses Senior moved their eyes to Tahireh.
> “I’m fine!” she said and smiled.
> 
> �����
> 
> Tahireh Jones was not fine. Not according to Mr. Matthews
> and a sampling of mothers. She was a fomenter of discord, a
> libertine, a Bad Influence. Parents had complained that the
> daughters they’d assumed would work at the library until they
> married and settled nearby, now showed a sudden interest in
> brother’s college fund. Some even showed an interest in his toys
> and books. Others played at being Sarah Bernhardt or Katherine
> Hepburn; their dolls gathered in audiences so entranced as to be
> left unblinkingly wide-eyed and speechless.
> While Helen and Troy Jones, seated in the principal’s office
> with that gentleman and a delegation of three teachers,
> pondered their response to those charges, Miss Tindall fired her
> volley. Their eldest daughter was an equally negative influence,
> encouraging the most ridiculous extremes in dress and
> hairstyles. Distressed mothers wondered why their daughters
> had suddenly taken to ripping the hems out of their dresses and
> twisting their hair into shapes reminiscent of ornamental
> shrubbery.
> Mr. Schiflin observed darkly that excesses in clothing were
> nothing compared to the sort of un-American, irreligious
> Home Is Where...                                                     337
> 
> philosophy expounded by Tamujin Jones in his treatise on the
> future role of America in the free world.
> “And then,” he said, pausing dramatically, “there’s this.”
> He reached into his pocket and withdrew-
> “My God!” Troy Jones gasped. “Where did you-?”
> “You recognize it, I see,” said Schiflin mildly.
> “Ah...that is, well...yes. It belongs to- That is, it’s ...a piece of
> my lab equipment.”
> “Really? Your son said it was his dictionary. May I ask how
> this obviously sophisticated piece of equipment came to be in
> the hands of a fourteen-year-old boy?”
> “And how your daughter, Anastasia, came to be in
> possession of equally sophisticated readers written by unknown
> authors with no record in the Library of Congress?” added Miss
> Tindall.
> “And how Constantine appears to be able to write without a
> pencil?”
> “What?” said Mr. Benoit, and the other teachers stared at
> him.
> “I saw him,” Matthews said, his voice low. “I did not
> imagine it."
> Helen tried to dart in before a panic ensued. “The children
> weren’t supposed to-” she began and stopped. Weren’t
> supposed to what—unleash future developments on this poor,
> unprepared, narrow environment? She glanced at her husband,
> who cleared his throat.
> “In our line of work, Helen and I are...privileged to make
> use of many rather startling new technologies.”
> “Your line of work?” repeated Mr. Benoit. “And what would
> that be? Espionage?”
> “Good Lord, no. We’re research scientists—archaeologists,
> anthropologists, sociologists, historians.”
> 338                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Come now, Dr. Jones. We’ve seen enough to know that you
> and your family are digging up more than bones. This
> equipment, what Beth Silverberg and the others saw in your
> daughter’s room, the things your children have said and done,
> all lead to the obvious suspicion. You are Communist spies,
> Doctor Jones.” Benoit sat back in his principalian throne, looking
> quite pleased.
> “Absurd!” said Troy irritably. His eyes followed on Tam’s
> dictionary to the principal’s desk, wondering how to get it back.
> “Ridiculous,” added Helen, and wondered the same thing.
> “Is it? Even your children’s names are foreign. Tamujin-that
> was Genghis Kahn, if I’m not mistaken; Anastasia—a member of
> the Russian aristocracy; Tahireh—the name of a Mohammedan
> suffragette-”
> “That’s Muslim,” Troy corrected absently. “And she wasn’t.
> She was a Báb’í.”
> “You beg the issue, Doctor. I suspect that what Mr. Schiflin
> has confiscated from your son is a top-secret invention. The
> question is: Whose top secret is it? Ours or theirs? Did you steal
> it from SAC Headquarters or did you bring it with you as a tool
> of the trade?”
> “If we’d stolen it,” reasoned Helen, “we’d hardly let our son
> take it to school.”
> Benoit looked unconvinced. “Oh, but boys will be boys.
> Your son can’t be expected to ignore such a curiosity. Or
> maybe...” He rose dramatically and paced around his desk to
> perch against the front of it, looming over them like a clumsy,
> cliché movie cop. “Maybe Tamujin wanted to get caught. Maybe
> he wanted you to get caught—to end the years of subterfuge and
> pretence, the years of lonely, trackless wandering.”
> He gazed down at them soulfully, and was rewarded by
> their sudden, startled exchange of glances.
> “Do you think-?” asked Troy.
> Home Is Where...                                               339
> 
> “I didn’t realize-” murmured Helen.
> “They must be more miserable-”
> “Than we had any conception.”
> “I feel like such an ignoramus.”
> “And selfish.”
> “And sorry?” asked Benoit eagerly.
> “Well, of course,” said Troy. “Those kids must be
> desperate.”
> “We’ve got to do something, Troy,” said Helen.
> “Sign a confession,” urged Benoit, leaning over them.
> Troy waved at him as if he were a buzzing insect. “Helen,
> have we been that-”
> “Self-absorbed?” She nodded emphatically. “We owe those
> poor kids an apology.”
> “You owe this country an apology!”
> “Maybe, but what they did was completely out of tune—
> underhanded. They could have said something.”
> “They did. They blew your cover!”
> “They did, honey. They said a lot of somethings. We didn’t
> listen. We were too busy being....”
> “Spies?”
> “Academicians. That’s what that mongoose was all about.
> They wanted a real home, not an antiseptic holding pen. They
> were happy at the Farm.”
> “Mongoose? Farm? What’s that—code?”
> Helen nodded, grimacing. “The Farm.” She put her hand on
> his khaki covered knee. “We need to talk this out with them.
> Listen to them. Compromise.”
> “You’re already compromised,” said Benoit.
> “There’s only one problem, Helen. We haven’t finished our
> research in this time zone.”
> “Oh, you’re finished in this time zone, all right, Doctor. And
> when Colonel Powers gets here-”
> 340                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Who?” Both Joneses turned their heads, speaking in
> perfect, two-part harmony.
> “Colonel Powers from Strategic Air Command, the Little
> Pentagon, the place you’ve been spying on.” Benoit was
> obviously pleased to have finally gotten their attention. “I called
> when this all began to come together. He’ll be here any minute
> to question you and to see this.” He patted the dictionary.
> “And do you suppose we’ll actually stay around to meet
> him?” asked Troy.
> Benoit looked as if he’d believed it up until that very
> moment.
> “You’re right about this,” Troy continued, nodding at the
> dictionary. “It is, as you suspected, a highly sophisticated piece
> of equipment. It’s not only a Russian-English translator; it’s a
> communications device, which you have activated, signaling our
> operatives as to our exact location. And-” He snatched up the
> little machine, activated it, and turned the glowing green button
> atop it on the gaping principal. “-it’s also a weapon—a laser
> beam gun, to be exact.”
> He rose, taking his wife’s hand. “Come, my dear. The
> submarine is waiting.”
> They backed toward the door of the office, keeping the
> startled teachers covered with the dictionary.
> Troy opened the door and ushered Helen through. “Za mir,”
> he said. “Oh, and pazhaloosta.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Here they come,” said Tam urgently.
> He let the curtain fall back across the front window and
> headed for the kitchen.
> “Wow, they’re really trekkin’!” said Constantine, impressed
> with his parent’s speed.
> Home Is Where...                                                 341
> 
> “They keep looking behind them,” observed Tahireh. “I
> wonder if there’s a mob after them like that time in Salem.”
> Stasi shook her head. “I don’t see anybody. I think I hear
> sirens, though.”
> “Hey, you guys!” shouted Tam from the direction of the
> kitchen. “Stations!”
> Children flew in all directions, assuming nonchalant, relaxed
> poses; looking studious, looking bored, looking in the
> refrigerator for leftovers.
> The front door slammed open, then shut again, admitting
> two gasping, giggling adults.
> “Stations, everybody!” Helen wheezed. “We’re powering
> up!”
> Galvanized, the kids followed their parents’ trail as far as the
> dining room. There, they stopped to exchange bug-eyed glances,
> clicking invisible glasses over success beyond their wildest
> dreams. They heard the soft hum of the Grid coming on line and
> bolted as a unit for the Lab.
> Their parents stood at the console; Father checking settings,
> Mother clearing an emergency Shift through the QuestLabs
> Controller. The hum grew to a flute-tone—a warm wave of pure
> sound. The walls of the two story brick house began to glow
> softly violet, to tremble, to run and change and remold
> themselves to vapor.
> “We’re on our way,” murmured Helen.
> “On our way?” asked Stasi. “On our way where, Mama?”
> “Home,” Helen said and turned to give her children a fierce
> grin. “Home, where you four will do some stiff penance.”
> “Penance?” asked Tam warily. “What penance?”
> “Your father and I gave it some serious thought while we
> were galloping up that hill tonight.”
> “Serious,” agreed Troy, eyes on his monitor.
> “And?” Four children held their breath.
> 342                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “When we get back to the Farm....”
> Their mother keyed a last sequence, depressed a final
> button. The walls melted into a glorious violet spray, ran to red,
> to sunset, to Sun itself. Colors exploded in the walls; splashed
> and crested, then imploded, becoming solid, opaque, mundane.
> Helen Jones turned back to her children with a terrifying
> glare.
> “You’re all grounded.”
> The four pairs of eyes got wider.
> “Grounded?”
> “Grounded. No Temporal Shifting, no terrorizing small midwestern towns, no anachronistic dabblings.”
> “Never, ever again?” asked Tahireh, her brow furrowing.
> “Well,” the Doctors Jones traded glances.
> “Maybe....” began Helen.
> “...during vacation,” finished Troy.
> Tam was troubled. Now that he had what he wanted, he
> wasn’t sure he should have gotten it. “But Dad, what about your
> work?”
> “We’ll just have to adapt, compromise. But we will not
> compromise on your...discipline. You heard your mother. You’re
> grounded. Right here, in Twenty-one—um,” he checked his
> chronometer, “twelve.”
> The four pairs of eyes blinked. The taciturn Constantine let
> out a jubilant whoop. Tahireh giggled. Stasi hugged both her
> parents.
> “Thanks, Dad! Thanks, Mom!” said Tam. “C’mon, you guys,
> let’s go check out the old neighborhood.”
> The noisy rabble rolled out of the Lab, through the house
> and out the front door. The elder Joneses followed their progress
> with the delicate sonar of parenthood.
> “Extraordinary,” said Troy. “We’ve spent our lives studying
> history, but today was the first time we’ve actually made history.
> Home Is Where...                                                343
> 
> Do you realize that for the first time since the birth of the
> Universe, children were grounded and liked it?”
> Helen looked thoughtful. “An interesting phenomenon.
> We’d be delinquent not to record it for posterity.”
> “A research paper?”
> “Why not a book? ’The Effects of Temporal Shift on
> Adolescent and Pre-Adolescent Development.’”
> Troy Jones nodded, experiencing that peculiar, warm, fuzzy
> feeling he always associated with love and new projects. “I like
> the sound of that,” he said.
> 
> �����
> 
> Out under the autumn trees, Stasi and Tam surveyed the
> familiar and found it wonderful. Not far off, Tahireh and
> Constantine rolled in the grass of Home, giggling.
> Tam took a deep breath. “Dad got the dictionary back,” he
> said. “I saw it on the Console. It’s kinda weird, thinking how
> close we came to making an indelible mark on history. It’ll be a
> relief when QuestLabs perfects that Anachron Object Recall
> System.”
> Stasi’s mouth did funny things at the corners. “I hope they
> perfect it soon.”
> “Huh? Why? I just said Dad got the dictionary back.”
> “Yeah. Well, I did something sort of...dumb.” She glanced at
> him out of the tail of one eye. “I lent Elaine a book.”
> 344   I Loved Thy Creation
> Marsh Mallow                                                    345
> 
> Marsh Mallow
> 
> A story of science fiction by
> Marsh Mallow originally appeared in Analog Science Fiction in
> 1996. I link it here with the time travel stories simply because the
> technology that allows my universe-trotting archaeologist, Rhys
> Llewellyn, to move freely through space is the same technology
> developed by QuestLabs to allow its operatives to move through
> time.
> Marsh Mallow poses the question: “What makes a human
> human?” This is one of a series of stories about a team of xenoarchaeologists whose activities give me a forum for exploring
> other worlds of God.
> 
> Know thou that every fixed star hath its own planets,
> and every planet its own creatures, whose number no
> man can compute.
> Gleanings from the
> Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,
> p. 163
> 
> �����
> 
> They called the planet Bog for lack of anything nicer to say
> about it. The name was certainly appropriate if not one hundred
> percent accurate. The entire planet was not a bog, but anyone set
> down in its narrow “temperate zone,” would find that hard to
> believe. The planet’s abundant supply of surface water brought
> to mind words like “tarn” and “bracken”—even “bilge.” Not a
> drop of the stuff was drinkable. It contained salts and minerals
> 346                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> in such concentration that, in some of the smaller bodies of
> water, you could float objects that would have sunk to the
> bottom on Earth or Pa-Loana or just about any other habitable
> planet Rhys Llewellyn could name.
> Take that gently bobbing field lamp, for example. Rhys
> gazed at it in consternation as it was carried away on the sludgy
> currents of Brown Salt Lake, gliding serenely just out of his
> reach.
> “See what I mean?” Roderick Halfax lobbed a flat rock at the
> lamp. It struck the metal casing with a muffled ping! and
> plopped into the water where it began the tedious and
> protracted process of sinking. A tiny cloud of native “fireflies,”
> already visible in the twilight, eddied above the flotsam,
> apparently attracted by the gleam of alien metal.
> “I’d rather not have demonstrated it at the expense of our
> field supplies,” Rhys admitted, “but yes, I do see.”
> Rick peered at the sludgy liquid. “You could probably walk
> out and get it...but I wouldn’t recommend it.” He turned back
> from the water to make his way up the newly constructed pier
> laid just last week by Tanaka Corp’s advance team of engineers.
> After a last glance at the lost field lamp, Rhys fell into step
> beside his assistant. “I’ll bet you can build a boat out of just
> about anything here—wood, metal, stone...”
> “Ah, but sir,” Rick countered, a frown puckering his brow,
> “the natives here don’t build boats, nor do they work wood,
> make metal or carve stone...sir.”
> Rhys laughed; the younger man’s impersonation of his very
> earnest female assistant, Yoshi Umeki, was humorously
> accurate. And, of course, what he said was also true. The
> “natives” of Bog did none of those things, which posed the
> question of whether they were “natives” at all in the
> anthropological sense. There was nothing like alien/human
> contact to blur the lines between man and intelligent animal.
> Marsh Mallow                                                       347
> 
> Rhys could recall particular Humans whose behavior blurred
> the lines even further. It was that sticky question of sentience
> that Rhys Llewellyn had been brought to Bog to answer.
> “Ah, Yoshi!” He looked up and saw the girl making her way
> toward them through the stacks of tarp-covered trading goods
> and camp supplies that sat upon what passed for terra firma in
> this neck of the swamp. She was pecking at a notepad with one
> finger and frowning earnestly over the results of her work.
> Seeing Rhys and Rick, she paused and waved, oblivious to the
> admiring glances of a handful of Tanaka engineers who’d
> gathered around the mobile cantina.
> Rhys lengthened his stride and covered the distance
> between them to give the girl a hearty hug. “So, Yoshi—any
> candidates for sentience among our Bogies?”
> “Well, there appear to be several at this location.” She
> consulted her notepad. “The top candidates are a bipedal,
> brachiating mammalian reminiscent of a lemur, a burrowing
> reptilian form not unlike an iguana, and an amphibian that
> builds mud lodges in the swamp.”
> “Ah, now that sounds promising.”
> “I’m glad you think so, Professor. Personally, I find it all
> rather depressing.”
> The voice, sporting a decidedly British accent, came from
> over Rhys’s shoulder, making him turn. He found himself face
> to face with an inappropriately well-dressed man of perhaps
> middle age. He was average in height, bland in coloring, and
> wore an expression of annoyed boredom. “And you are?” Rhys
> asked.
> Yoshi jumped into the conversation. “I’m sorry, sir—I mean,
> Rhys. This is Raymond Godwin. From, um, Acquisitions.”
> Godwin extended his hand in Rhys’s direction, his eyes
> sweeping the younger man with urbane horror before lingering
> 348                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> pointedly on his McCrae tartan kilt. “Director of Acquisitions,
> this sector.” His upper lip twitched minutely.
> Rhys, suddenly conscious of how itchy the woolen kilt was
> in the marsh’s thick sauna of an atmosphere, tried to make his
> smile sincere. “Rhys Llewellyn, acting Director of Trade and
> Cultural Directions. Exactly what is it you hope to acquire, Mr.
> Godwin?”
> “Mineral rights to this entire planet. And first shot at its
> other resources.”
> Rhys frowned, trying not to twitch under the combined
> attack of wool, perspiration, and sudden unreasoning dislike. “I
> don’t understand...”
> “The advance reports on Bog came into Corporate
> Acquisitions just over a week ago. I was immediately dispatched
> to make known to the powers that be that Tanaka Corporation
> wishes to possess mineral rights on Bog.”
> “Did Acquisitions also receive the advance reports on the
> native lifeforms?”
> Godwin nodded. “No signs of civilization.” The idea
> obviously delighted him.
> “No sign of civilization as we know it,” Rhys cautioned.
> “Any of the creatures on Bog might be sentient.”
> Godwin shrugged. “Fine. You find the sentients, I’ll
> negotiate for mineral rights.”
> Oh, so simple. “Have you ever done anything like this
> before?” Rhys asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
> “Dr. Llewellyn, Acquisitions is my career. Of course, I’ve
> done this before.”
> “What I meant, Mr. Godwin, is have you ever pursued an
> acquisition this early on—before a trade partner’s even been
> identified? Before a language has even been determined in
> which the parties can negotiate?”
> Marsh Mallow                                                   349
> 
> “No. But you’re the expert in that department, Dr. Llewellyn.
> I’m counting on you to find the trade partners and their
> language.” He smiled. “After all, that’s what Tanaka pays you
> for, is it not?”
> Rhys glanced sideways at Yoshi, whose expression, for once
> in her life, was blank. “It is. I’m merely surprised that the
> company is acting so precipitously.”
> Godwin shrugged. “Bog is a mineralogically wealthy, if
> miserable, planet. We surely don’t want that wealth falling into
> someone else’s pockets...Bristol-Benz, for example.” He favored
> Rhys with a lopsided smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised Vladimir
> Zarber isn’t here already, breathing down your neck.”
> At the mention of his archrival, Rhys grimaced. “Like you,
> Vladimir Zarber is used to working more...established
> prospects.”
> “Well, Professor, I’m told that establishing prospects is your
> forté. I’m looking forward to seeing you in action.” He glanced
> about at the pallets of goods. “Now, I see you have a variety of
> merchandise. How do you plan to determine to whom it should
> be offered?”
> “Shotgun, Mr. Godwin. We open up our little marketplace
> and see who shows up to shop.”
> “And how long do you expect this process to take?”
> Rhys smiled. “Why there’s no telling about that. Could take
> days...months....”
> “Years,” murmured Yoshi.
> Godwin threw her a subtly horrified glance. “You’d
> willingly spend that much time to determine sentience? Months
> in this godforsaken cow wallow?”
> Yoshi’s mouth twitched. “Or years,” she repeated.
> “That’s ridiculous. Tanaka doesn’t have that kind of time to
> invest in such a pursuit.”
> 350                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “You’re always free to leave,” Rhys told him. “We’d gladly
> contact you when and if we had something positive to report.”
> “What, and allow Bristol-Benz to sneak in and snap up
> resources? I assure you, what their advance teams lack in
> scientific method, they make up for in expediency.”
> “I’d hardly allow that to happen,” Rhys assured him. “I’ve a
> few negotiations to my credit as well.”
> “Commodities. You negotiate commodities. I’m talking about
> planetary rights, Professor, not trinkets.” He shook his head
> emphatically. “No, sir. You will simply have to determine the
> existence or non-existence of sentient beings in a reasonable
> length of time. Whether I deal with those sentients or deal with
> the Collective, I have a charter from Tanaka to acquire the
> mineral rights to Bog. As depressing as this ball of mud is, that
> sickening stew of elements” —he gestured toward the lake— “is
> worth its weight in platinum. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
> “What an obnoxious character!” Rick Halfax exclaimed to
> Godwin’s receding back.
> Rhys followed his gaze. “Hmm. And impatient. Well, let’s
> see if we can’t get Mr. Godwin his stew.”
> “Do we have to?” Yoshi was watching the Acquisitions
> director with undisguised distaste.
> Rhys glanced at her in surprise. In their several years
> together, he had rarely known her to express personal dislike for
> anyone. Yoshi reacted to causes rather than personalities and she
> had obviously decided that Mr. Raymond Godwin was inimical
> to the cause of Bog.
> 
> �����
> 
> The next several weeks Rhys and his colleagues spent
> ferrying their wares to different parts of the local marsh. Within
> the habitat of each of their candidates they created what they
> Marsh Mallow                                                    351
> 
> hoped were attractive displays of goods. The arboreal simians
> hid from them, the reptilians ignored them and the amphibians
> wrecked the “marketplace” and incorporated the wreckage into
> their gloppy constructions.
> “Interesting,” Rhys enthused, studying a particularly
> elaborate mound that now sported strips of bright, Humanmade fabric and squares of therma-plast and metal.
> “You’re not actually encouraged by this random destruction
> are you?” Wearing a crisp, new camouflage coverall and a small
> helmet, Raymond Godwin gaped at him from the midst of their
> decimated cache.
> “There’s nothing random about it. They needed material for
> their constructs—they took it.” Rhys returned to where Yoshi
> waited at the cache with his field kit and began to rummage in it.
> Godwin pursued him, stepping over the litter of left-behind
> objects. “Yes, indeed they did. They took fabric, food, tools,
> baubles—anything and everything—and used it
> indiscriminately. Surely you can’t argue sentience based on that?
> Beavers do that, Pekulan treemunks do that, yet I doubt even you
> would attempt to open trade relations with them... What are you
> doing?”
> Rhys ignored him, continuing to describe a circle on the
> soggy forest floor with a fluorescing powder. Within the circle,
> he placed a group of objects taken from the rear deck of their
> enclosed swamp buggy.
> “Oh, I get it,” Godwin said. “You’re attempting to
> communicate, aren’t you? You’re trying to tell our amphibian
> friends that this stuff didn’t get here by accident.”
> “Something like that,” Rhys admitted. “I’m also trying to
> determine if they’ve a preference for certain materials.”
> Godwin glanced back across the glade to where the Bogies’
> mud lodges poked in misshapen domes from the water. “Shiny
> or bright stuff. They seem to like...ornamentation.”
> 352                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Rhys acknowledged the observation with some surprise.
> “Yes. The question is, is it a cultural affinity for ornamentation,
> as you call it, or is it merely an animal’s attraction to shiny
> objects?”
> Godwin seemed to show a little more interest in their
> mission after that and even helped set up their surveillance net.
> With vidicams focused on the cache and on the arm of ooze (a
> lagoon, technically) that poked into the glade from the marshy
> lake, they took their swamp buggy and withdrew to watch and
> wait.
> Before they’d gone even a handful of meters from the spot,
> the amphibians came ashore to explore the cache. They were
> bashful at first, skirting the display of goods and sipping
> condensation from the broad, glossy fronds of a low-growing
> plant—for all the world like a band of burglars trying to look
> nonchalant as they case a prospective target. When they finally
> moved, they ignored the bright chalk circle—except to spread it
> about with their flat, webbed feet—and went straight for the
> shiniest or most brightly colored objects they could find,
> carrying them back to the water in their wide mouths.
> Other creatures appeared as well—some large, colorful
> avians the size of small Macaws fluttered down to pick at
> anything fibrous; a small mammal of some sort shuffled among
> the food stuffs; a shapeless, lumpy thing like a headless, legless
> armadillo scuttled here and there, its only remarkable feature the
> irregular patches of bright color that decorated its otherwise
> drab hide. It trailed a cloud of the gnat-sized fireflies,
> recognizable in daylight only by their iridescent green wings.
> Everything got thoroughly pawed over, but except for the bright
> building materials and the food, nothing was taken. All in all, a
> disappointing episode.
> They moved their ‘trade center’ north after that, determined
> to give the bashful simians more study. The lemuresque
> Marsh Mallow                                                   353
> 
> creatures seemed to have some promising social habits. They
> built tree houses—or at least elaborate nests—they lived in
> family groups, and formed communities made up of a number
> of families.
> “I’m actually quite hopeful,” Rhys said when they’d
> completed setting up shop in the fringes of one of the arboreal
> ‘villages.’ “They exhibit a number of distinguishing social
> characteristics that could indicate sentience.”
> “Doesn’t the mere fact that they build those little tree-houses
> mean they’re sentient?” asked Godwin. “That makes them toolusers, doesn’t it?”
> “There are any number of animals that weave nests at least
> that elaborate,” said Rhys. “That doesn’t mean they’re people.”
> “What would make you consider them...people?”
> “Observing trade would incline me to hopefulness. As
> would the use of a discernible language—or some other
> observable system of communication.”
> “Ah...the operative term being ’system.’”
> Rhys nodded. “Another bit of evidence might be the
> cultivation of food or the domestication of animals.”
> Yoshi, peering at the monitor, glanced up. “You mean like
> the birds? They seem to be all over the village here. And what
> about those big arthropods?”
> Rhys, Rick and Godwin all moved to look over her shoulder
> at the large flat display. In the clearing central to the simians’
> tree houses, several of the lumpy, waddling creatures milled like
> legless, armored sheep. The simians sat peacefully among them,
> feeding on the seed-cones of the lacy coniferous trees, tossing the
> used-up cores at the native ‘armadillos’ which snuffled up
> whatever the swift avians didn’t nab, occasionally using some
> well-concealed body part to fling one back toward its point of
> origin.
> Yoshi chewed her lip. “Pets? Livestock?”
> 354                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Rhys nodded. “Could be. Could also be simple scavenging.
> Only time will tell.”
> They watched their cache of goods with great anticipation,
> but the simians’ interaction, when it came, had more in common
> with pillaging than with shopping. Accordingly, Rhys took the
> next step. Over a period of days, they moved their observation
> station closer to the village perimeter, insinuating themselves
> into the landscape. When the simians no longer ran squealing for
> the trees the moment the Humans twitched a toe, they staged
> what Raymond Godwin snidely referred to as their “inane little
> skits.” Rhys and Rick went through the motions of trade, playing
> merchant and customer, making a performance of the exchange
> of goods. Their performances drew a furry crowd of onlookers;
> the lemur-like creatures became bolder, even going so far as to
> touch some of the wares displayed behind each actor.
> During the third or fourth skit came the break-through that
> Rhys had been hoping for; one of the simians picked up a piece
> of off-world fruit and made an attempt to interest one of his
> comrades in it. In a matter of minutes the creatures were picking
> up food and playing at exchange. Eventually, the trade
> broadened to include sticks, rocks, seedpods from the trees,
> anything they could find. Some courageous individuals even
> offered pilfered foodstuffs to the Humans.
> But Rhys Llewellyn watched with increasing
> disappointment; there was no method to the madness, no
> pattern. The simians weren’t trading; they were merely
> mimicking observed behavior. Even as he looked on, still
> searching for signs that the Bogies comprehended their actions,
> they began flinging stuff about and the ‘trading’ degenerated
> into a food fight. The Humans withdrew.
> “I don’t think they get it,” Godwin said. “Pet armadillos or
> no, I think they’re animals, not people.”
> Marsh Mallow                                                    355
> 
> “Give it some time, Godwin,” Rhys told him, trying to be
> optimistic.
> But the next day’s trade went no better. Upon seeing the
> Humans, the simians began to caper and playfully exchange
> random items, which were forgotten as soon as they left the
> traders’ hand-like paws. As before, the episode ended in a hail
> of badly aimed projectiles, which pelted Humans, simians and
> their ‘pets’ indiscriminately.
> Rhys’s only reason for hopefulness was that the simians
> were observed to sip water from the same broad-leaf fronds he’d
> seen growing in the lake environs. Since the fronds didn’t grow
> near the tree village, he could only suppose that meant the
> simians had transported them. But observing that more
> advanced behavior was denied the Humans. The simians were
> never seen retrieving the fronds; they simply seemed to appear
> during the night. How, even Yoshi’s nocturnal video records
> failed to show.
> Rhys was disappointed. “I suppose,” he told Rick and Yoshi,
> “that we ought to pick a new target and start again.” He shook
> his head. “I would have bet credits that the presence of both
> birds and arthropods indicated nascent domestication.
> Evidently, it only indicated a symbiosis.”
> Yoshi nodded. “The lemurs leave refuse and the—the
> bogdillos and birds scavenge it.”
> “Bogdillos?” Rick repeated.
> Yoshi shrugged and glanced at her notes. “I get tired of
> saying ‘arthropods.’ There are some reptiles at a sight about
> fifteen klicks from here that have been observed in a bipedal
> stance. It seems they also use sticks to pry food out of crevasses
> between rocks and have been observed carrying articles about
> what the advance team described as a village.”
> “We’ll visit them tomorrow then,” Rhys said absently.
> 356                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “You seem unhappy, professor,” Raymond Godwin
> observed.
> “Unhappy?” Rhys shook his head. “No. A bit disappointed,
> perhaps.”
> “Whatever for? Surely if you find no sentient beings on Bog
> it makes your job just that much easier...and your departure that
> much sooner.” He glanced around at the explosion of damp
> foliage that surrounded them, every leaf and stalk glistening
> with Bog’s dank perspiration. “I’ve never in my life been in a
> place that sweats like this. My hair clings to my head, my
> clothing clings to my body. It makes Florida seem positively
> arid. I don’t know how you can stand it.” He gave Rhys’s kilt a
> disparaging glance. “I’ll certainly be glad to leave.”
> “I will admit,” Rhys told him, “that Bog’s temperate zone
> seems to be poorly named, but...I would like to have found some
> new neighbors to talk to.”
> “Well, speaking on behalf of Tanaka, whose interests you
> also claim to serve, new neighbors are a pain. They require the
> expenditure of time and energy that would be more profitably
> spent in negotiating with the Collective for planetary resources.
> There are probably hundreds or even thousands of candidates
> for sentience planet-wide. While your people interview every
> one of them, the mineral resources of Bog lie here untapped. If
> you find no one, you’ve spent months or even years doing it,
> only to find that Bog has no masters and the minerals might
> have been at our disposal all along. If you do find someone, then
> time and energy must be put into learning their language,
> studying their culture, understanding their point of view—and
> still the resources of Bog lie there untapped. I’m sure you can see
> that the best case scenario as far as our employer is concerned is
> for Bog to be completely without sentient life.”
> He had stopped just short of suggesting that Rhys come to
> that conclusion regardless of the circumstances. Rhys wondered
> Marsh Mallow                                                    357
> 
> if the thought had been in mind. He glanced forward to where
> Yoshi sat beside Rick in the front passenger seat of the buggy.
> Even in profile, he could see that her brow was knit and her jaw
> clenched mutinously. In the four years or so he had known her,
> Rhys had seen a thousand expressions cross Yoshi Umeki’s face.
> He had never seen this one.
> “Have you an alternative to suggest that will not contravene
> Collective law?” he asked carefully.
> “It seems to me we might simply set up our mining
> operations —in a way calculated to make a minimum impact on
> the ecosystem, of course—and then if, in later years, a sentient
> species makes itself known, we can deal with it as necessary.”
> Yoshi snorted. “That’s what they said about the Aborigines.”
> Godwin glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
> She spoke without turning to face him. “That’s what every
> conqueror has said about every conquered people since the
> dawn of Human civilization—’we’ll deal with them as
> necessary.’ Usually, the native peoples end up with their culture
> destroyed and their numbers seriously depleted.”
> “My dear girl,” said Godwin dryly, “we are not barbarians
> who have failed to learn from our own history. Rest assured,
> should any intelligence rear its unlikely head on this sodden ball
> of earth, Tanaka Corp will honor both its culture and its physical
> well-being. You know Danetta Price better than I do, but
> whatever her merits or demerits as a CEO, she is not known for
> a conquistadorial attitude. But there are resources here—” He
> broke off, turning to address his argument to Rhys. “There are,
> for example, significant quantities of a natural organometallic in
> the water at this latitude that has tremendous potential. A natural
> organometallic. And then there are the ores—did you know that
> there are caves about 200 klicks south of here that contain
> incredibly pure deposits of copper? And the surface water—all
> of it—contains an alchemist’s laboratory stew of minerals.”
> 358                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> His eyes gleamed. A zealot. Rhys smiled. He recognized the
> look. He’d seen it often enough on Yoshi’s face, on Rick’s...in the
> mirror. Godwin might have been him describing an assemblage
> of objects dug out of someone’s two thousand year old refuse
> bin or burial mound. And, little as he liked to admit it, there was
> controversy over the ethics of making use of those resources too.
> 
> �����
> 
> The reptiles lived in an area that was as close to a desert as
> was likely to be found on Bog. The soil was sandy, merely damp,
> and sparsely foliated (at least more sparsely than 75 percent of
> Bog). In cleared areas the reptilians had built structures not
> unlike the giant termite mounds of Earthen Africa, pasting them
> together with clay from the bottom of small, stagnant red pools
> that dotted the landscape. Taken together with the jewel-bright
> green of the mounds’ inhabitants, the whole area looked as if
> Santa’s interstellar sleigh had jettisoned a cargo of Christmas
> ornaments.
> From the cover afforded them by a tufted dune, the Humans
> watched the activity around the mounds. Rhys was just puzzling
> over a group of empty and collapsed “huts” to the north of the
> inhabited group when Yoshi jiggled his elbow.
> “Look, sir. Tool-use.”
> He nodded, watching a pair of the iguana-like creatures
> poking about a rotting tree stump with a stick. Another teetered
> across the clearing on his hind legs, his arms full of watersmoothed rocks. These he deposited next to one of the mounds
> in a heap, shoving away one of the ubiquitous ‘bogdillos’, which
> had come along to snuffle at the collection. When the creature
> failed to move away, the reptile chittered at it, finally picking up
> one of the rocks and dealing the arthropod a sharp thwack. A
> Marsh Mallow                                                     359
> 
> second reptile scurried over to snag the rock and skitter away
> with it, eventually pressing it into the wall of a mound.
> “Now there’s Human behavior,” said Rick.
> “That too.” Yoshi pointed to where a clutch of immature
> reptiles was attempting to feed one of the bogdillos a large,
> decimated leaf. The animal seemed completely uninterested
> which, in turn, caused the ‘children’ to lose interest in it. They
> next offered their wizened frond to a flock of avians with more
> success.
> Godwin, checking the soles of his boots for unmentionables,
> said, “Well, doctor. I’ll bet you’re just in seventh heaven. There’s
> more Humanoid behavior going on out there than I’ve seen in
> most spaceport cantinas. Shall we make an appearance and ask
> to be taken to their leader?”
> “Perhaps,” Rhys told him, “if we can determine who that
> leader is.”
> They watched the reptiles for three days without making a
> single move. In that time, they collected a plethora of data on
> community life and interaction, noted the hierarchy among the
> ‘lizards,’ and chased away nosy arthropods and avians. On day
> three, Godwin, whose patience was apparently not a virtue that
> got much exercise, returned to the base camp complaining of
> sand fleas and insomnia. The sands around their mobile cabin
> made a peculiar sucking noise at night, which Godwin found
> unbearable. Rhys silently (and guiltily) thanked the sands.
> Their observations did indeed yield the identification of a
> dominant member of the reptile community. It was a female,
> judging from physiological and behavioral cues, who ruled the
> reptile roost. It was to this noble creature that Rhys at last
> decided to make himself known.
> At first he merely let them see him at the edge of the village
> laying out his merchandise and making observations to his
> notepad. After a while he moved in closer. The reptiles watched
> 360                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> him with their golden, saucer-round eyes, occasionally opening
> and closing their wide mouths; Rhys expected to hear the clack
> of castanets. The elder female watched him most carefully as she
> went about her business, which consisted largely of scolding the
> younger members of her group who brought her food and
> occasionally rocks for her mound.
> By the time he was face to face with the matriarch, she
> accepted him without tremor or outrage, merely observing his
> every move through her extraordinary eyes. He proffered her a
> piece of glazed azure tile. She looked at it, reached out a scaly
> digit and touched it, then scratched her neck. He rose and
> pressed the tile into the earthen wall of the mound she basked
> beside; she watched him with vague interest. Carefully, he took
> a rock from the pile her young cohorts had brought her and
> placed it among his wares; she blinked and scratched her neck
> again.
> He repeated the exercise a few more times, drawing a small
> crowd of the reptilian Bogies. Finally, one of the creatures came
> forward and gingerly poked at another piece of tile. Rhys held
> his breath, affording a quick glance over his shoulder to where
> Yoshi and Rick observed and recorded the goings on. The reptile
> handled the tile, turning it this way and that so the bright,
> glazed surface caught the sun, then he picked it up in one longfingered hand and scuttled away with it to place it in his own
> pile of building materials some yards away. He did not return
> with an offering.
> Rhys let out a long breath and tried not to let his hope go
> with it. But twenty or so pilfered tiles later, he admitted
> momentary defeat and retired to the camp.
> “It seems,” he sighed some days later with no further
> progress to show, “that all we’ve accomplished is to leave our
> reptilian friends with gaudier houses.”
> Marsh Mallow                                                       361
> 
> “Houses they may not even live in that much longer,” Yoshi
> added. “I explored the other side of that little knoll.” She
> indicated a nearby hillock covered with sand and some wispy
> bushes. “It seems that what these fellows do is build up their
> little mud igloos until the inner passages are all clogged with
> rocks and bits of wood or the roofs cave in. From what I can tell,
> they just abandon the villages little by little and start new
> mounds right next door.”
> Rhys nodded. “Which explains the trail of mud huts we
> followed to get here.”
> “Professor...” Rick was watching a playback of Rhys’s
> interaction with the reptiles. “This is probably irrelevant, but
> does it seem to anyone else that those mud huts bear a more
> than passing resemblance to Yoshi’s bogdillos?”
> Both Yoshi and Rhys brought their attention to the video.
> “Roddy’s right,” Rhys murmured thoughtfully. “Although that
> could just as easily be by accident as by design.”
> Rick selected another time index, presenting them with a
> view of their encounter with the lake dwellers. It escaped no one
> that the water-bound lodges of the amphibians, with their
> anarchic polka-dots of bright stuff, looked much like submerged
> bogdillos.
> Rhys exhaled explosively. “Worship? Art? Coincidence?”
> “Do we stick around or move on?” Rick asked.
> “I guess we’d best move on,” Rhys decided. “But we’ll be
> back. Maybe I just need some fresh ideas.”
> Raymond Godwin greeted their return to base camp with
> ill-concealed relief. “No luck, eh? Will you be giving up then?”
> “Yes,” Rhys said mildly, “we’re going to move the base
> camp to the next location.”
> Godwin grimaced. “And may I ask how many ’locations’
> there are?”
> 362                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “About a dozen, all told. The habitable zone on Bog is rather
> small, after all.”
> “A dozen.” Godwin glanced from Rhys to his two assistants.
> “And I suppose you’re going to check out every one of them,
> aren’t you?”
> Rhys smiled. “Until we find sentience or determine it’s not
> to be found. That’s our job this time out.”
> “Professor Llewellyn, you obviously have very little
> business acumen. I don’t know how you managed to impress
> Ms. Price as a negotiator.” Godwin turned on his heel, narrowly
> avoiding doing the splits on the ever-soggy turf, and made a
> most dignified exit.
> Putting Godwin’s ill temper out of his mind, Rhys visited
> the logistics chief next to arrange for the camp move. Unlike
> Raymond Godwin, Chief Pinski was thrilled with the prospect of
> some action. “My people have been going stir crazy,” he told
> Rhys. “While you folks’re out doing the jungle, all they’ve got to
> do is read and play VR games. You want to see how bored
> people can get?” He beckoned Rhys to the door of his portable
> office and nodded toward the cargo area where a quartet of
> bright blue, tarp-covered pallets stood awaiting dispersal. At the
> edge of the area, a handful of men and women in vari-colored
> coveralls lobbed the local version of pinecones into the forest.
> “What are they aiming at?” Rhys asked.
> “Oh, anything and everything. Leaves, seed cones on
> stumps, the blossoms on those big, droopy trees, the critters that
> skulk around the edge of camp.”
> Rhys smiled wanly. “I see. Well, do you think you could ask
> them not to target anything that moves? I’d hate to annoy the
> neighbors.”
> Pinski chuckled. “I see your point. Sure, Doc. Now, when
> would you like to bug out?”
> Marsh Mallow                                                  363
> 
> “Tomorrow morning will do fine. I’ll have the coordinates
> for you by supper time.”
> Leaving Pinski’s office he heard a rousing cheer go up along
> the edge of the cargo dump. He sighed, praying the site crew
> hadn’t hit anyone who would hold a grudge.
> 
> �����
> 
> They were up by Bog’s green early light. Forest denizens
> strove to outdo each other in song and a legitimately cool breeze
> rustled the rampant foliage. Rhys took his morning shower—
> essential to starting a day on Bog—and realized he couldn’t face
> putting on his kilt. The humid atmosphere made the wool itch
> and cling, and he was damn tired of smelling like a wet sheep.
> Nattily attired in a jump suit of jungle green, he was walking
> cross camp when Yoshi fell into step with him.
> “Good morning, sir,” she said.
> “Yoshi, how long have we been working together?”
> “Four years, three and one half months,” she said as if she’d
> been calculating that very thing the moment he’d asked.
> “And during those four years, three and one half months,
> how many times do you suppose you’ve agreed to stop calling
> me ’sir?’”
> She gave him a sheepish look from beneath the black silk
> that fell across her forehead. “Oops. Sorry, Rhys. Sometimes it
> just slips out. Blame it on my family—small town, Shinto-
> Buddhist-Bahá’í values. Every time I forget to use a term of
> respect for an elder or a teacher, I see my aunt Mineko shaking
> her finger at me and saying, ’Yoshiko, honor those to whom
> honor is due.’”
> “Godwin’s an elder; you never call him ’sir.’”
> She glanced at him out of the tail of eyes that somehow
> blended contrition and impishness. “Your point being?”
> 364                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “My point being that after four years—”
> “And three and one half months,” she added, and smiled.
> “I’m trying, but old habits die hard, and sometimes you’re such
> a curmudgeon...”
> Rhys snorted. “Curmudgeon, your Aunt Mineko!” They’d
> come to the mess tent and he’d pulled back the waterproof
> cowling over the door when he heard someone shouting for him.
> He turned. Rick Halfax was hurrying toward them from the
> direction they’d just come, waving his arms.
> “You aren’t going to believe this!” he panted when he
> reached them. “Something...I mean someone left us a pile of
> goodies during the night.”
> It was indeed a pile of goodies. The jumble of rocks, flowers
> and conifer seed-cones had been left between a pair of tarpcovered pallets at the eastern fringe of their supply yard. The
> rocks formed the bottom-most layer; the Bogish pinecones
> tumbled atop those; the flowers were sprinkled over all like
> brown sugar on oatmeal. Some of the Tanaka site crew were
> standing nearby looking on with mild interest.
> A young woman pointed at the heap of stuff and said, “This
> is just the way we found it, professor. We haven’t touched a
> thing.”
> Rhys knelt by the knee-high mound and picked up one of
> the large, purplish blossoms. “Interesting,” he murmured. “All
> of the same variety.”
> “The botany team was really interested in those,” the young
> woman told him and smiled. “I think the fragrance was a hit.”
> Rhys nodded. “There’s a lot of money in perfume on just
> about any world.”
> “Mimicry?” The one word question came from Rick, who
> was sampling one of the rocks with a field scanner. “They’ve
> seen us pile stuff up like this. Maybe they’re just aping us.”
> Marsh Mallow                                                     365
> 
> Rhys shook his head. “Possibly, but the young lady is right
> —these flowers are ones the botany team was particularly
> interested in.” He sniffed at the bloom. “Tantalizing. They
> collected scores of them.”
> “And you think one of the native species noticed that?”
> In answer, Rhys nodded at the rock in Rick’s hand.
> “What’ve you got there?”
> “Ore-bearing. Barium....” He gestured at another,
> lighter-colored specimen on the ground at his feet. “Gold. Also
> heavily sampled by the advance team.”
> Yoshi nudged a seed-cone with her toe. “Dr. Gallioni says
> these are a storehouse of natural antibiotics... I guess we’ve been
> noticed.”
> “Hmmm.” Rhys was examining the spongy ground around
> the cache, looking for tracks. “But by whom?”
> “Oh, dear God, it’s true.” Raymond Godwin stood at the
> corner of the nearest pallet, looking aghast at the collection of
> native wares. “Someone or something has actually made an
> overture. And I thought this was going to be a simple matter of a
> corporate claim. Well, which one of our lovely natives left this
> little offering?”
> Rhys turned one of the native plants in his hands, feeling a
> heady wash of exhilaration. “I don’t know, Mr. Godwin, but I
> intend to find out.”
> “I take it this means our move is canceled.”
> Rhys nodded absently, already pondering his next step.
> It was easy enough to talk about finding the would-be
> traders, harder to do. After a long night of sleepless reflection,
> Rhys still hadn’t decided where to begin or what he could do
> that he hadn’t already done to flush Bog’s sentients out of the
> swamp. He reviewed behaviors—leaf sipping, rock carrying,
> tree-house building...icon making? Any and all could be
> significant.
> 366                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He rose the next morning, showered, dressed and literally
> flipped a coin. The ancient British ha’penny came up heads, and
> Rhys took his crew off to the reptile village. Three days later, he
> was ready to give up. Aside from building houses that possibly
> paid tribute to the bogdillo, the reptiles showed no sign of
> abstract thought.
> “Perhaps,” Yoshi said the morning they moved their remote
> camp to the arboreal village, “we’re not going about this the
> right way.”
> Rick Halfax snorted. “Obviously not.”
> Yoshi ignored him. “I mean, maybe there’s some sort of
> protocol we’re missing.”
> Rhys raised his tired eyes to her face. “I’m all ears.”
> “Well, they brought their goods to our camp and left them
> where we’d be sure to find them.”
> “Which is precisely what we’ve been doing. For all we know
> this could just be a case of mimicry.”
> “Or,” Yoshi continued, “it could be a step in some sort of
> trading ritual. Like the Pa-Kai dances or the Garulin
> processionals.”
> She had his attention now and he waved her on.
> “We left our goods at their doors—”
> “Whose doors?” Rick asked. “We left our goods at several
> doors.”
> Yoshi nudged him aside with a preemptory flick of her
> fingers. “I don’t know yet, but what if they took that as the first
> step in the protocol? A bid to establish the trading ground, let’s
> say. To them, what we’re saying is, ’We elect your village to be
> the trading ground.’ So they take the next step; they elect our
> ’village.’ Now we’ve put the ball back in their bailiwick. But
> maybe that’s not the polite thing to do, maybe we’re supposed to
> accept their offer to let us host the trading.”
> Marsh Mallow                                                    367
> 
> “So you’re suggesting we lay our goods out where we
> picked theirs up—in the middle of the supply dump?”
> Yoshi nodded. “We make a gesture of accepting the goods
> they brought and place our own on the exact spot where they
> were delivered.”
> Rhys glanced at Rick, whose nose was buried in his coffee
> mug. “What do you think, Roddy?”
> The other man shrugged. “I say anything’s worth a try. If
> we can’t prove any of the Bogies are sentient, this planet is going
> to become a big, soupy rock quarry.” He leaned closer to Rhys
> across the table and lowered his voice. “I’ve seen the geological
> reports Godwin’s been salivating over. There are so many rareelsewhere minerals in the so-called crust of this mud ball that
> there’s virtually no place you can dig that you won’t unearth
> something marketable. And if you don’t think Godwin would
> cheerfully tear up every tree, siphon off every drop of standing
> water and dispossess every native lifeform to get it...”
> “Danetta would never allow that,” Rhys protested. “And
> she’s in the driver’s seat at Tanaka.”
> Rick gave him a wry glance. “Come on, professor. You know
> big business better than that. Even Danetta Price has to listen to
> the Board of Directors. And the Board of Directors listens to the
> shareholders and a lot of shareholders listen to the siren song of
> the almighty credit.”
> “You’re right,” Rhys admitted, guiltily recalling that they,
> too, worked for Tanaka. “And Godwin’s been singing that song
> since we met him. He has a vested interest in our failure because
> our success would mean a substantial investment of time. And
> Tanaka Corp has traditionally favored investing financial
> resources over investing time. Whatever we determine about the
> lifeforms on Bog, we’ve got to be damn certain.”
> They pursued Yoshi’s idea, making a studied ritual out of
> accepting the native collection of goods and replacing the stash
> 368                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> with one of their own. Then they settled down to watch. When
> no one and nothing put in an appearance by nightfall, they
> turned in for the evening and turned on the brace of monitoring
> vidicams around the site.
> The pile of goodies was still there in the weak morning light.
> But something else was missing. All four of the stockpiles near
> the cache had been relieved of their bright blue coverings.
> While Pinski had his crew replaced the tarps with extras
> from their shuttle’s supplies, Rhys and company checked the
> recordings. It had been a foggy night, which is to say a normal
> one, and shapeless wings of mist trailed across the camera eye or
> rolled along the ground. Rhys began to realize that virtually
> anything could be concealed in that.
> “What’s that?” Rick asked, pointing a finger to what looked
> like a field of tiny stars in a slowly swirling nebula. “Fireflies?”
> Rhys squinted at them. “Or the local equivalent. We’ve seen
> them before.”
> “Sure. Over the bog. Never in camp.”
> “They may travel at night. They’re certainly not our
> traders.”
> Rick grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if a whole bunch of
> them teamed up...”
> Rhys gave him a mock severe glare. “I suppose you’d like
> your signature to be on the report that identifies a local insect as
> the species Tanaka has to do business with?”
> Rick turned his attention back to the monitor screen. “Not a
> chance.”
> ‘Not a chance’ pretty much described their attempt to ferret
> any new visual evidence out of the video. There was darkness,
> fog, more darkness and a flotilla of brightly lit insects. Rick hit
> on the idea of turning off the picture and focusing on the sound.
> That yielded little more—only the sound of plastic clips being
> Marsh Mallow                                                     369
> 
> sprung and tarpaulins being tugged from their mounts and
> dragged away through the primordial ooze.
> There was nothing for it but to attempt tracking the missing
> tarps. Under normal circumstances, following a drag trail would
> have been a simple task, but Bog’s springy soil and general
> sogginess made it a hit or miss game. There was nothing like a
> discernible spore, but only broken fern fronds and irregularly
> depressed patches of earth. They found the trail; they lost it; they
> found it again. Then they found a place where it appeared to
> fork.
> “It looks like they split up,” Rick observed. “One tarp was
> dragged off that way,”—he pointed northeast—“another toward
> the lake. And from the look of that...” He broke off to examine a
> third swathe of disturbed ground and foliage. “Two toward the
> eastern plateau.”
> Rhys straightened from his own perusal of the trails.
> “Roughly, one deeper into the forest, one toward the amphibian
> population and two toward the reptile village.”
> “Coincidence?” asked Yoshi.
> “Let’s find out. The simian tree houses are closest. Let’s try
> that direction first.” Rhys led on, following the on-again, offagain trail until they came within sight of the nearest tree village.
> He was scanning the foliage above and before when Rick gave a
> shout.
> “Pay dirt!”
> Rhys, Yoshi, and the several members of the site crew who
> had joined them, hurried in the direction of his voice. He had
> found one of the missing tarpaulins snagged over a small
> sapling and a couple of ferns. A handful of small avians bathed
> themselves in the water that had pooled in its draped folds.
> One of the site crew made a move to reclaim the tarp; the
> birds fled, chittering. Rhys put a hand up to stop the man.
> “Leave it. They paid for it, after all.”
> 370                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “But it’s just sitting here, gathering water.”
> Rhys dabbled a finger in the pool vacated by the birds, then
> glanced toward the village where a group of the simian
> inhabitants watched with mild interest. “Indeed. Yoshi...set up a
> monitor pack to take in the tarp and its immediate area. Then
> we’ll be on to the next site.”
> “Why bother, Doc?” Rick asked. “Doesn’t this pretty much
> prove that the simians are our sentients?”
> “There are two other trails to follow, Roddy. Trails that may
> lead to other conclusions entirely.”
> They took a couple of swamp buggies to the reptile colony
> next. Both of the missing tarps were located with ease sheerly by
> contrast to the earth-toned surroundings. Like the first one, these
> had been draped in deceptive abandon over protruding objects
> so that fresh water from the humid atmosphere pooled in the
> low points. They found the first of the two roughly two-thirds of
> the way between their base camp and the reptile colony. The
> other was just outside the village at which Rhys had attempted
> to barter some time before. And this one was in use—a group of
> the reptilians were gathered about it sipping in turns from the
> vivid puddles while one or two avian friends showered beneath
> drops of spillage. Rhys took notes, Yoshi made a video record,
> then they continued to the third site.
> It took longer to find the fourth tarp. Blazing blue not-withstanding, the lusher colors and foliage around the lake made
> spotting difficult. But spot it they did, near sunset. Once again it
> appeared to have been set up to collect fresh water. The fiveperson team from the site crew took their buggy and returned to
> camp immediately, having no particular desire to bivouac in a
> true swamp overnight. Rhys hardly noticed their absence. Nor
> did he particularly notice the presence of Raymond Godwin,
> who, realizing the importance of recent events, thought it in his
> best interests to stay close by.
> Marsh Mallow                                                       371
> 
> By the time Rhys and his cohorts had set up camp, the rude
> water collection system had been in use several times by both
> amphibians and avians. Review of the monitor packs Yoshi had
> set up at the other tarpaulin sites showed similar use by both
> simians and reptiles.
> “Are they all sentient?” asked Godwin irritably as they sat in
> the twilight and watched the activity over the lake. “Have we
> stumbled onto some sort of...of alien co-op?”
> Rhys, watching the movements of aquatic life in and around
> of one of the waterlogged lodges, shook his head absently. “So it
> would seem. Damn! They communicate with each other—how
> do we get them to communicate with us?” Rhys fell silent,
> gazing out over the lake as the alien sun pulled in its greentinted skirts, plunging the swampy glade into sudden dim
> twilight. He reached for a camp-light. Yoshi’s hand fell on his
> arm, sending an inexplicable army of goose bumps marching up
> and down its length.
> “Rhys, look at this.”
> “This” proved to be billows of the tiny Boggian fireflies that,
> though nearly invisible by day were anything but at dusk. It was
> as if someone had released a cloud of willful sparks; the fireflies
> danced over the face of the thick water and the water’s surface
> gleamed in reply. It was a rare and remarkable sight. The mass
> of insects was so bright the camp-light seemed superfluous.
> Rhys, unable to withdraw his arm, glanced at Yoshi’s face in
> the spectral glow. Her eyes were bright mirrors of wonder. His,
> suddenly captive, watched the glow of alien fire in them.
> “Bioluminescents,” she murmured, “never cease to amaze
> me. I’ve never seen so many all in one place.”
> “Oh, and here come a few more,” said Godwin dryly.
> A few more was a gross understatement. A small, compact
> fleet of the fireflies was flitting through the tall grasses and ferns
> that bordered the lake. They moved at a leisurely pace, taking
> 372                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> time to spiral skyward now and again before coalescing into a
> puff of green-gold brightness.
> “That’s odd...”
> Yoshi’s sudden tension broke the odd spell that had
> momentarily held Rhys in thrall. As the hand that had lain
> across his forearm went to her field scanner, he blinked and
> followed her gaze. Below the cloud of approaching fireflies, the
> grasses waved and bobbed as if the beating of those tiny wings
> was creating a massive down draft. At the water’s edge, no more
> than thirty feet from where the Humans sat, the reeds parted.
> “Huh!” snorted Rick. “Mystery solved. I didn’t think those
> little sprites could create that much commotion.”
> Yoshi nodded, watching as two bogdillos slid into the water,
> their escort of fireflies commingling with the brilliant mist that
> hovered over the lake. “I forgot they were parasites.”
> Rhys stared at the bright water. “Parasites? Or pets?”
> “What?”
> Rhys was on his feet, keeping his voice low with an effort.
> “What was the one thing we did see on the security monitor the
> night the tarps were taken?”
> Yoshi had risen too. “Fireflies.”
> “And what do fireflies have in common with every one of
> our potentially sentient species?”
> Yoshi’s brow knit. “Bogdillos?”
> “Bogdillos?” Rick repeated. “But they’re scavengers. They
> sponge off everybody. They even horn in on the houses the
> amphibians build.”
> “They’ve got symbiotic relationships with not just one other
> species,” argued Rhys, making emphatic gestures with both
> hands, “but with three or more. They get fed, petted, and
> scratched—”
> “And in return” said Godwin, “they provide house plans?”
> “No. They provide water!”
> Marsh Mallow                                                     373
> 
> “Water?” echoed Rick. “I don’t“
> “Remember the broad-leaf plants we couldn’t account for
> near the simian village? Good God, they were all over the
> ground in the reptile colony too, I only just realized. What if
> those are the bogdillo’s attempts to provide water to the other
> species? We came into town with a better system of trapping
> water, and the bogdillos—having observed what we found
> interesting—traded some of it for what they found interesting.
> Namely, big, blue ‘leaves’ that could be used to trap precious
> water in larger quantities.”
> “They’re a diurnal species,” added Yoshi, “yet they have
> adapted to nocturnal activity by—possibly—harnessing another
> lifeform to provide light.”
> “And just how do you propose to prove this marvelous
> construct?” Godwin asked, blinking up at them through the
> eerie faux-twilight. “We’ve heard not murmur one from those
> bug-dillos of yours.”
> “That doesn’t mean anything,” Rick objected. “They could
> communicate via species-specific telepathy for all we know.”
> “We’ll offer further trade,” said Rhys decisively.
> Bearing another tarpaulin along with plant and mineral
> samples Tanaka had found most interesting, Rhys and Rick
> approached the shore of Brown Salt Lake. Yoshi monitored
> while Godwin stood by like bored royalty. With Rick behind
> him holding a tarp, Rhys hunkered at the water’s edge and
> smacked the surface lightly with the flat of his hand. He
> repeated this several times, then paused and glanced back over
> his shoulder to where he could see Yoshi with her vidicam. She
> was nodding.
> “They’re there. Just out beyond that near lodge.”
> Glancing to where Yoshi had directed, Rhys could see them
> too, looking like nothing so much as a clump of giant chocolate
> marshmallows bobbing in a cup of hot cocoa.
> 374                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> And there, for all of Rhys’s ministrations, they stayed. He
> had Rick wave the tarp. He laid out the samples of the goods the
> bogdillos (presumably) had brought them, trying to demonstrate
> that he would trade one thing for the other. He even left the
> tarpaulin on the shore and retreated. The marshmallows stayed
> right where they were, bobbing beneath their radiant canopy.
> “I think,” said Godwin, “that I am going to run, screaming,
> into the jungle. How do you manage to have so bloody much
> patience? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were all brainaddled.” He snorted. “Hell, I’m not sure I do know better. Are
> you all brain-addled?”
> “I was beginning to wonder, myself,” yawned Rick, gazing
> at the motionless dumplings.
> “They’re waiting for something,” murmured Yoshi. “I can
> feel it.”
> “Oh, now that’s scientific!” Godwin got up and went out to
> the shore to stare at the flotilla of bogdillos. “I say,” he
> addressed them. “Are you in the mood for a spot of tea? Eh?
> How about some anchovy wine or something equally tasty?” He
> bent over then, and before Rhys could guess his intention, he
> had tossed a rock out into the water. It landed with a squishy
> smack! right in front of his alien audience. They dispersed
> immediately.
> Rhys was on his feet in an instant. “Godwin! What the hell
> do you think you’re doing?”
> The other man turned on him, face red with frustration.
> “Trying to communicate.”
> “Communicate? You frightened them away!”
> “At least, my way got some result.”
> Rhys took a step toward the other man forcing him to
> withdraw to the other side of the swamp buggy.
> Twilight lingered for perhaps an hour. True darkness fell.
> Now no fireflies brightened the lake’s murky surface, no
> Marsh Mallow                                                    375
> 
> bogdillos plowed through the waist-high reeds. Rhys was
> thoroughly depressed and disgusted, convinced Godwin had
> ruined their chances of communicating with the Bogian
> denizens.
> He was sitting in the stygian darkness between an equally
> glum Yoshi and a dozing Rick when something thudded to the
> ground just out of reach. Startled, he leapt to his feet and
> reached for a palm torch, flipping on the diffuse beam. Yoshi
> echoed both movements, adding her light to his. Barely an arm’s
> length from where they had sat was a rock.
> “Are they attacking?” Yoshi whispered.
> “I don’t know. Kill your beam.” He matched action to word,
> flicking off his own torch and plunging them into darkness.
> When nothing else happened, he stepped to where the rock had
> fallen and knelt to examine it, switching on his torch again to do
> so. Almost immediately, a second object plopped to earth
> another three feet or so ahead of him. As he rose to find it with
> his eyes, the entire lagoon was lit up like the Christmas trees of
> yore.
> Rhys extinguished his torch. The alien insects went dark a
> heartbeat later. He felt Yoshi at his side and gave her a quick
> glance before stepping to the second projectile. It proved to be a
> large, soggy seedpod of some sort.
> “Your torch,” Yoshi whispered.
> He turned it on. The fireflies blazed in reply. Another missile
> fell midway between Rhys and the shoreline. He heard a soft
> exclamation from behind him, and realized Rick was awake. A
> fraction of his mind wondered what Godwin was doing just
> about now. He stepped to the next marker without turning off
> his torch.
> Yoshi flicked hers on as well. “I’ll get the goods.” She was
> gone for a moment, during which time Rhys responded to
> another invitation to come closer. He was now a mere foot from
> 376                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> the waterline and could see the lumpy shapes of the bogdillos
> out in the water. He waited, but they came no closer. When a full
> minute had elapsed, he bent, picked up the rock at his feet and
> tossed it out into the little lagoon, so that it fell midway between
> shore and watchers. After a moment of hesitation the bogdillos
> drew closer, moving as one.
> Rhys felt a chill sail up his spine. There was a moment in
> every first contact Rhys had known when he wondered if the
> other party would suddenly prove to be fanatically carnivorous
> xenophobes. In this case, the possibility presented itself that the
> bogdillos viewed the visiting Humans as a potential addition to
> their petting zoo.
> He cursed the forefathers of science fiction, chased the
> ridiculous thought away, and tossed out another rock, this time
> bringing the arthropods to just over a yard from where he stood.
> Signaling Yoshi to attend him, he squatted on the shore and
> began playing charades. He showed the bogdillos the tarpaulin,
> describing it (“tarp”) in case they could hear him, and
> demonstrating with a flask of water that he understood what
> they used it for. Then he displayed the several most valuable of
> the items they had left in the base camp cargo dump, and lastly,
> laid the tarpaulin on the shore and stepped back.
> During the brief wait, he was witness to what he could only
> call a conversation between the various members of the
> bogdillian group. There were dolphin-like squeaks, watery
> gargling sounds, a gamut of muted tones, and tiny, rhythmic
> slapping patterns executed with a foot or tentacle (he couldn’t
> see which) upon the stiff surface of the water. Most incredibly of
> all, the fireflies dancing above each bogdillo—for he could now
> see that each entity had its separate tribe—winked on and off
> and subtly altered color and direction during the exchange.
> Marsh Mallow                                                       377
> 
> “My God.” The exclamation was in starchily accented
> English. Raymond Godwin had come down to the shore to
> watch.
> “Don’t you dare,” growled Rhys, “throw anything.”
> “Wouldn’t think of it.”
> The bogdillos had obviously come to some sort of decision,
> for some of their number dispersed, some withdrawing to the
> shore and into the tall grasses, others disappearing into the
> amphibian lodges, still others seeming to dive beneath the water
> —an amazing feat considering its native buoyancy. Two of the
> remaining individuals glided right to Rhys’s feet and emerged to
> face him.
> After each had appraised him via a trio of eye stalks, they
> proceeded to handle the tarpaulin with what appeared to be
> fins...or tentacles...or flabby pincers, depending on the use to
> which they were put—lifting, poking or pulling.
> Rhys sucked in a long awful breath. Now, that was
> adaptability. Even so, he noticed that one of the bogdillos was
> having a little trouble folding back a corner of the thin but
> durable fabric. Noticed, too, how it kept changing the shape of
> its pseudo-hand to gain a better purchase. On a whim, Rhys
> lowered his own hand to where the bogdillo could see it and
> slowly, carefully peeled the corner back. He left his hand in plain
> view—the eye stalks took note. After a few permutations, the
> bogdillo had approximated a hand (albeit, without digits it
> looked like a hand in a sleek, shiny mitten) and had satisfactorily
> manipulated the thin folds. Rhys sat back in amazement.
> In short order, the missing bogdillos returned and, after a
> very brief and bright consultation with their confreres, deposited
> an array of goods on the silty squelch of beach. Rhys heard a
> scanner’s metallic purr to his right.
> “Lord,” said Godwin. “What a treasure trove.”
> 378                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> The two arthropods in possession of the tarp made a show
> of removing it from the beach, then returned to gesture very
> pointedly at their own pile of offerings, now at Godwin’s feet.
> Rhys glanced at the Acquisitions director. “Fair trade?” he
> asked.
> “Oh, I’d say so.”
> “Then make a show of picking it up.”
> “Me? You want me to take part in this...negotiation?”
> “It seems you may have started it. What could be more
> appropriate than for you to close it?”
> Godwin bent and picked up an armful of ores and
> plant-stuffs. He stepped back a stride for good measure. The
> bogdillos seemed satisfied. They took their tarpaulin and
> departed, fireflies blazing. The lagoon returned to a deep green
> sort of twilight as the alien light receded further into the lake.
> “Well,” breathed Godwin. “That was something, wasn’t it?
> Did I really start all that, do you think?”
> “I’m pretty sure of it.” Rhys chuckled. “When I think of all
> the clues we got—lakeside foliage turning up in relatively
> faraway places, bogdillo-shaped constructs, the simians tossing
> food at them....” He trailed off, a strange expression flitting
> across his face.
> “They were aping the bogdillo trading methods, you
> mean?”
> Rhys nodded, his eyes apparently on some fourth dimension
> only he could see. “So it would seem. And while we were being
> pleased with ourselves for all our neat efforts toward trade in
> the villages, what probably convinced the bogdillos to give us
> that first cache of goods was the cargo crew lobbing seed cones
> at them.”
> Yoshi waggled her palm torch. “Now they know we can
> harness light...just like they do.” She grinned. “I guess that
> makes us bogdillos too.”
> Marsh Mallow                                                     379
> 
> “I’m willing to bet they’ll suspend coming to any firm
> decision until they’ve known us longer, but this,” said Rhys, “is
> where we step out, Mr. Godwin.”
> The Englishman did a double take. “I beg pardon?”
> “We have found you a sentient lifeform. I will even
> recommend the experts necessary to continue working with
> them. But they will have to determine if the bogdillos can lay
> claim to the mineral resources of this planet on a scale necessary
> to cede them wholesale to Tanaka.”
> “Now wait just a moment. You’ve found a sentient, now
> you’re supposed to recommend that I negotiate with them for
> Bog’s resources.”
> “A sentient, yes, but I’ve not proven them to be the
> representatives of a civilization. All I’ve shown you is a race of
> clever natives, which you wish to deal with as necessary, or so
> you said. The Collective takes a dim view of people—or even
> major corporations—dealing with native populations according
> to expediency. This is a culture, Godwin. There is potential for
> trade, potential for communication. But are these people in a
> position to barter away the mineral rights for their entire world?
> Would they even understand what they were bartering away?
> Until we know those things, we can do more than deal with
> them on a purely local basis.”
> “Like this, you mean?” asked Godwin incredulously. “Beads
> and trinkets for ores and botanicals?”
> “Not trinkets. An exchange of useful commodities. But yes,
> just like what we did here. A little at a time—while we establish
> communications...and search for other possible contacts.”
> “Ah. Other contacts which could negotiate mineral rights for
> Bog.”
> Rhys shook his head. “You’re forgetting a fine point of
> Collective law, Mr. Godwin. If the bogdillos are not the only race
> of men on Bog, neither party would be allowed to barter away
> 380                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> planetary resources. I believe you have jumped the gun. There is
> nothing here for you to acquire...yet. Only trinkets, as you call
> them.”
> Godwin, crushing his armful of ores to his chest, brought
> himself stiffly upright. “You sir, have forgotten who pays your
> salary. I intend to tender a full report to Corporate as soon as I
> return to headquarters. I’ll call in the requisite experts—”
> “I’ll give you my recommendations.”
> Godwin opened his mouth to retort, but Rhys cut him off.
> “They’ll get the quickest results, Godwin. Don’t sabotage
> yourself out of dislike for me.”
> “Take me back to the base camp.”
> “With pleasure.”
> “He’ll try to find a work-around, you know,” said Yoshi, her
> eyes following the stiff column of Godwin’s back. “He’ll try to
> find a way to get more sooner.”
> “Of course he will,” Rhys acknowledged. “But fortunately
> there are saner heads at Tanaka. And there are the laws of the
> Collective. Until he can prove the bogdillos have the knowledge
> and authority to negotiate for such vast resources, those laws
> will force Tanaka to be content with limited commodities—still
> worth having, if our advance surveys are any indication.”
> “Until?” Yoshi turned off her palm-torch, plunging them
> into moist darkness. “What if he never can prove it? What if the
> bogdillos are not world-aware enough to negotiate and no other
> sentients turn up?”
> She could feel his smile even in the darkness. “Oh, I think
> there may be other sentients here, all right. And I’m not the only
> one who thinks so.”
> “I don’t get you.”
> “The bogdillos provide water to at lest three other species--
> species capable of community existence and lodge building.
> Species also capable of a high degree of mimicry. After all, we
> Marsh Mallow                                                    381
> 
> saw them throw things at the bogdillos, and we saw the
> bogdillos throw them back.”
> Yoshi sucked in a deep breath. “You think the bogdillos are
> trying to get the other species to barter?”
> “Maybe its that simple. Maybe it’s not. Consider this: What
> if the bogdillos are trying to teach the other species barter? What
> if they’re trying to help them take an evolutionary step?”
> “Is that possible?” Her voice came out in an awed whisper.
> “I don’t know. I wasn’t around when our ancestors learned
> these things. But I do know this—Mr. Godwin will have to
> acquire someone else’s resources.”
> “Rhys, do you hear yourself? It’s not just Godwin. It’s
> Tanaka Corp. Most employers take a very dim view of an
> employee who feels he’d scored a moral victory in keeping them
> out of a multi-billion credit deal.”
> Rhys grimaced. “You’re right. And one of these days I
> expect my scruples will catch up with me. Unless my conscience
> gets there first.”
> “Your conscience?” She shifted closer to him in the dark to
> peer up into his face. “What would you have to feel guilty
> about? You’ve always conducted yourself ethically. I should
> know. I’ve always been there.”
> He turned to look at her, realizing that she had, indeed,
> always been there. He could just see the pale moon of her face,
> the glitter of her eyes. “Have you ever wondered what it would
> be like,” he asked, “not to serve a corporate master? To be a
> scientist, pure and simple?”
> “I know what it’s like. So do you. When we were on
> sabbatical—”
> “Not just when we’re on sabbatical, Yoshi. But every day.
> You saw what happened on this assignment. The same thing
> that always happens. We serve two masters—Tanaka and
> science, in that order. And sometimes, like this time, their aims
> 382                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> are mutually opposed. Science doesn’t care if it takes a century
> to establish meaningful contact with the denizens of Bog. Tanaka
> most certainly does. And that puts us in an untenable position.”
> “You’ve thought about resigning before.” It was a bald
> statement of fact.
> “Aye, but I don’t recall discussing it with you.”
> He could see the flash of white as she smiled. “I know
> things.”
> “Ah, now don’t go all inscrutable on me, Yosh. In this frame
> of mind, I don’t think I can take it.” He put his arm around her
> shoulders. “Come on. We’d best get Godwin back to his tidy
> corporate shuttle before he starts throwing things again. I’d be
> dreadfully embarrassed if he accidentally started another round
> of negotiations and us with nothing to trade.”
> “You do have to give him credit for that,” Yoshi
> acknowledged as they picked their way back to the swamp
> buggy, leaving their torches dark in silent mutual consent.
> “I do? Well, I suppose you’re right. After all, he’s leaving. I
> can afford to be charitable.”
> “Aren’t we leaving too? I thought you were going to
> recommend some experts to take the post.”
> Rhys scratched his cheek. “Yes, well. Actually, I thought I’d
> recommend us. After all, we’re already here, aren’t we? Godwin
> wants expediency—how much more expedient can you get?
> Besides, if what I think’s going on here is going on here, I surely
> don’t want to miss it.”
> “And your resignation?”
> “Can wait. A wee bit longer.”
> They had reached the swamp buggy by now and could hear
> Godwin, already within, haranguing Rick Halfax about his
> superior’s complete lack of company loyalty. Rhys sighed. Well,
> perhaps a very wee bit.
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                          383
> 
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye
> 
> A story of science fiction
> 
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye was originally published in Analog
> Science Fiction in 1993 and is a psychological study dealing with
> the relationship between body, mind, and spirit as it is strained
> by mood disorders such as manic depression. It was inspired by
> the brave souls I have known who are coping with this disease,
> and by these words of Bahá’u’lláh, Who likened such
> impediments to a cloud:
> 
> Neither the presence of the cloud nor its absence can,
> in any way, affect the inherent splendor of the sun.
> The soul of man is the sun by which his body is
> illumined, and from which it draweth its sustenance,
> and should be so regarded.
> Gleanings from the
> Writings of Bahá’u’lláh,
> p. 155
> 
> �����
> 
> They had cured his diabetes. They could do that these days
> with their clever balancing-act drugs. And they had corrected
> his vision with their intelligent nano-surgeons and their organic
> plastics. But they had not cured his desire to die.
> 384                                           I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He held it at bay uneasily. Always had. Not without the help
> of his therapists—a veritable battalion, he sometimes imagined,
> of psychologists and psychiatrists and neurologists.
> In his near-sleeping moments, he could see them marching,
> rank upon rank, a blur of multi-colored faces above white lab
> coats and smart suits. So many people, he thought. All to keep
> one insignificant soul from surrendering to depression.
> His life recently had centered around the battle to keep from
> being institutionalized. That, more than anything, had come
> between him and the urge to overdose on something. Adversity
> was good for him. The psychologists fancied they kept him
> limping along with their archaeologist’s curiosity about the
> buried.
> They dug and they dusted and they put everything they
> found in boxes with neat labels and they bit back their
> frustration and uttered mild, milky words about “making
> progress.” They had been “making progress” for nearly a decade
> but were no closer to understanding what made Brooke
> Burchard sink into increasingly viscous bogs of depression.
> It must be frustrating for them, he often thought, and
> wondered how many of them succumbed to their own
> depression or to ulcers. He wondered how many of them had
> therapists of their own.
> He wondered that anew as he watched his current healer,
> Dr. Annette Geller, patter away at her notebook, her usually
> attractive mouth twisted into a peculiar grimace. Computers,
> Brooke decided, were a bad idea. At least in the past
> psychiatrists had had their pencil caps or erasers to chew on in
> moments of professional angst. Now they could only smack at
> the compact keyboards with staccato strokes. Heaven help them
> when the new sub-vocal triggering technology became widely
> available.
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                        385
> 
> They’d not even have the keypads to abuse. He thought of
> Dr. Geller chewing on the plastic cover of her notebook and
> smiled.
> “What?” she asked. “What strikes you as funny?” Her hand
> poised over the notebook, ready to note it.
> Brooke blushed slightly. “Oh, nothing, really,
> just...wondering about the effects of technology on psychology.”
> Her dark brows rippled. “How so?”
> He gestured at her computerized tablet. “My first shrink
> was a pencil chewer,” he said. “I was just wondering how you
> exorcised your frustrations.”
> “Exorcised,” she repeated, fingers jigging tunelessly over the
> keypad. “What an interesting way of putting it. What makes you
> think I have frustrations to exorcise?”
> “You’re human, aren’t you?”
> She smiled and nodded. “Very. I swim. I go to a spa every
> night when I leave here and swim myself into a nice, tired blob
> of protoplasm.”
> “Beats gnawing on your machinery, I’ll bet.”
> She looked down at the notebook. “Yes, that it does.”
> He took a deep breath, exhaled it. “How’m I doing?”
> “I think we’re making progress,” she said.
> He smiled again. “Are we really? And where are we
> headed?”
> “Excuse me?”
> “Progress implies motion. It also implies a goal. My goal is
> not to be at war with myself just about every waking moment.
> How much closer to that goal am I today?”
> She crossed her legs and leaned forward in her seat. “What
> do you think, Mr. Burchard?”
> “Brooke—and please don’t do that. I’ve already told you
> what I think. I told all of your predecessors what I think. I have
> nothing to gain and everything to lose by not being absolutely
> 386                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> honest with you. I think I am a sick man. I hear voices that aren’t
> there. I see things that don’t exist. I want to kill myself. My
> father killed himself. My mother never recovered from the loss.
> My grandfather killed himself. I don’t want to do that to what’s
> left of my family. I want to be... unified. Completely and
> irrevocably unified. I want control of my own thoughts and
> feelings.”
> “Meaning that right now, you think someone else has
> control of them?” Her fingers were at work again.
> Stop that. Please stop that. While you’re doing that, you can’t be
> listening to me. “No, not someone else. That’s not what I meant,
> just...that they’re out of control.”
> “You spoke of exorcism a moment ago. Do you think you
> might be possessed?”
> He sat back in the too-comfortable chair and gave her a long
> look. “Did I say that?”
> “Not in so many words, but-”
> “I didn’t say that.” He kept his voice gentle, firm,
> reasonable. Heaven forbid she should decide he was hiding
> some cock-eyed belief in ghosts or something.
> She tapped at her keypad and eyed the results on the tiny
> screen. “Do you have hallucinations, Mr. Burchard...Brooke?”
> “You know I do. You’ve got my whole file right in front of
> you. And no, I don’t think they’re the result of any outside
> agency. I know I...occasionally see the world through a warped
> window, but I don’t think I’m possessed or anything like that.”
> “Does the idea of possession frighten you very much?”
> “No, because I don’t believe in it.” Calm. That sounded very
> calm. Maybe she’d respect that. Come on, doc. Don’t go off on some
> idiotic tangent.
> “What do you believe in, Brooke?” she asked him. “Do you
> believe in God?”
> “Yes.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                         387
> 
> Her eyes came up from the little computer. “That was a very
> ready answer.”
> “I suppose because it’s a very ready belief.”
> She sat back in her chair, uncrossed and recrossed her legs
> the other way. “Do you ever feel that God is punishing you for
> something?”
> He almost chuckled. “I used to wonder. I used to think,
> when I had these terrible black moods, blue moods—whatever
> you want to call them—that I must have unconsciously done
> something wrong and God was trying to alert me to it.”
> “Used to?”
> “I’ve grown up. That was twenty years ago.”
> “Dr. Furillo said you mentioned something to him about a
> family curse.”
> Brooke threw his head back and rolled his eyes. “Lordy,
> Lordy, Lordy! That’s the biggest problem with being a mental
> case, you know? You can’t just say things like ’normal’ people.
> You don’t dare be sarcastic or flip or ironic or just...make a joke
> of something.”
> “Is that what you were doing? Making a joke of your family
> curse?”
> “My family isn’t cursed, Dr. Geller, but we do seem to have
> more than our share of troubles. I suppose that might seem like a
> curse to some...superstitious individuals. Do you think it’s a
> curse, Doctor?” He gazed at her expressionlessly, letting his gray
> eyes go blank and opaque.
> She gazed back, intently. “What might your ancestors have
> done to deserve such a curse?” she asked in return.
> Damn. He knew that look. The “I think we may have
> something here” look. He shouldn’t have joked about a curse, of
> course, but sometimes he just got so damned tired of the endless,
> groping questions.
> 388                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “My grandfather was an ordinary man. He was a diabetic
> and, in those days, that was a pretty damned tragic thing to be. I
> suppose he drank too much. I suppose that exacerbated the
> situation. But he was just an ordinary guy. My father was an
> ordinary guy, too. Nice. A nice man. A nice man who hated
> himself for no apparent reason and decided he wasn’t worthy of
> living. But he was just an ordinary man. Like me. Ordinary.”
> “And self-destructive.” She was leaning forward again,
> intent, like a cat, like an eagle. That was it—she reminded him of
> an eagle. “Let’s talk about the feelings, Brooke. Why do you feel
> unworthy?”
> “I don’t know, Dr. Geller. If I knew that, I wouldn’t be
> sitting here now reeling out my insides for your personal
> inspection.”
> “My professional inspection,” she amended. “You sound
> resentful.”
> “That’s even worse,” he mumbled, then pulled himself to his
> feet. “I’m just frustrated, doctor. I want, more than anything in
> the world, just to be ordinary. Plain. Unremarkable in every
> way. I want to be able to say something—anything—and not
> have you or someone just like you worry each word ragged.”
> With your sharp little beak. “I’ve been in therapy now for ten
> years. I’ve seen four different mental health specialists in that
> time. And they have all asked me the same set of questions.
> None of them have presented me with any answers. I have a
> mental disorder that seems to be hereditary. Unfortunately,
> neither my grandfather nor my father lived to be studied
> sufficiently. I realize I make a dandy guinea pig-”
> Geller came to her feet. “Mr. Burchard, please. You are not a
> guinea pig. And as to your condition being hereditary—I really
> don’t think that’s verifiable. Given that your grandfather
> committed suicide when your father was fourteen, it isn’t really
> surprising that your father was affected.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                          389
> 
> “Ah, I see. The old death-wish theory. My father came
> unpegged because his father killed himself at a critical juncture
> in his young life. He developed a keen sense of guilt; guilt made
> him begin to obsess; he developed his own sense of
> unworthiness and failure and killed himself, in turn, when I was
> twenty-two. Now I’m a candidate because I didn’t make it into
> Stanford like daddy wanted me to.”
> “The suicide of a loved one is a traumatic event,
> Mr. Burchard. The survivors often wonder if something they did
> or didn’t do may have...contributed.”
> “Of course they do. And of course I did and my mother did.
> But in the final analysis, we had no effect one way or another.
> Dad was too far sunk in his own misery to care about us. That’s
> one of the most frightening things about this...disorder,
> Dr. Geller—it’s stronger than love or loyalty.”
> She was looking at the little notebook screen again. “Your
> grandfather’s business folded just before he died; your father
> had just been denied a loan that would have put you through
> college-”
> “Excuses. Those so-called ’contributing events’ are just
> excuses. Don’t you understand that? I came close to taking my
> own life three times over the years. Once after my father’s
> funeral, once when my wife lost our first child, the last time
> when I was passed over for promotion due to my erratic
> performance at work. And in between those attempts, I
> contemplated death incessantly. Those weren’t reasons; they
> were excuses. Excuses to act on feelings I carry with me
> constantly. They weren’t causes. Hell, you know that! Why’m I
> telling you?”
> Why, indeed, she wondered when he had gone. Why did he
> even bother to visit her when he so obviously felt he knew more
> about his problem than she did? Unfair, Annette chided herself.
> 390                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He wants help. He needs help. It isn’t his fault he’s put four
> good psychologists on the ropes.
> Annette rubbed her eyes in frustration, then swore as she
> remembered her eye make up. She’d wanted this case. Wanted it
> because she thought she could handle it. Wanted it because she
> thought it would be a matter of applying her unique intuition to
> Brooke Burchard’s problem and spotting something that no one
> else had seen, drawing from him a revelation no one else had
> been able to call out of hiding. She hadn’t expected him to be
> so... self-aware. It was disconcerting.
> She went over her notes again, pixel by pixel, line by line.
> Jesus-Buddha! That question about exorcism! Where the hell did
> I think I was going with that?
> A moment later, she checked herself. No, that was a valid
> question. After all, he might have been starting to think it was
> inevitable. Fate, doom or destiny—God’s will—any or all of the
> above. She could not let him fall into that trap. He had to believe
> he could control it. Had to. She thought, absurdly, of a
> childhood cartoon she’d seen about mentally superior rats—a
> cartoon that had subtly influenced her choice of careers. There
> had been a magic amulet with an epigrammatic inscription: You
> can open any door, it said, if you only have the key.
> The adult woman believed in that epigram with the same
> faith the little girl had vested in the amulet it was inscribed
> upon.
> 
> �����
> 
> “You look tired.”
> Annette grinned ruefully and smote her companion on the
> nose with her menu. It was card-stock parchment, not a
> DataSlate, so it left no lasting marks there. “Is that anything to
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                           391
> 
> say to your beloved when she’s gone out of her way to look
> gorgeous for you?”
> “If you care about your beloved, it is.”
> She watched him seat himself across from her in the intimate
> booth and contemplated the pale blond lock of hair that nodded
> over his forehead. It stood out from its darker fellows like the
> crest of a wave.
> “Well? Care to talk about it?”
> “What? Oh—I’m sorry, Elliot. It’s just a little melting at both
> ends of my candle. Nothing serious. No—I don’t mean that. It is
> serious, it’s just not...my problem.”
> He nodded. “A case. Patient-doctor privilege, then. I’ll stand
> down and merely lecture about emotional distance and
> attachment, et cetera.”
> “Please don’t. I’ve heard it all—in my own voice, as it
> happens. I don’t need to hear it in yours, too. I needed to hear
> that I was beautiful.”
> “You are beautiful,” he said dutifully. “And tired-looking.
> Maybe we should cut our evening short. The film will still be
> there on Saturday.”
> “No, I want to see it tonight. Why do you insist on calling it
> a film? Movies haven’t been on film for years.”
> “I was trying to differentiate. We access CD’s, we listen to
> CD’s, we watch CD’s at home...film is a nice, venerable term.”
> “So’s ’movie.’”
> “Oh, all right, then. The movie will still be there on
> Saturday. Or we could just wait for it to come out on CD.”
> She smiled, but lacked the energy to push the expression all
> the way up to her eyes. “Elly, what’s your professional opinion
> of hereditary mental disease?”
> It might have been her imagination that he was suddenly
> wary, but she didn’t think so.
> “Why do you ask?”
> 392                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Because I’m interested in the answer.”
> He paused long enough to allow the waiter to get to them.
> He placed his order, she placed hers, and the waiter hovered a
> moment before leaving them alone. There was silence in the
> booth.
> “Hereditary mental disorders, Elliot. What do you think?”
> She put a little steel into her voice. Don’t play secretive scientist
> with me, boy.
> He shrugged. “I think they’re a real possibility.”
> “But what’s the mechanism? How the hell does it get passed
> on? Is there a gene for insanity?”
> His lips compressed. “Would this have anything to do with
> that case we weren’t discussing a minute ago?”
> “It might.”
> “There could be a gene that...affects the mental processes.
> Other diseases are genetic—why not mental ones?”
> She shook her head. “No. I don’t buy it. If that were the case,
> the drugs we’ve been prescribing lo, these many years would be
> having more of an effect and psychology and psychiatry less of
> one.”
> “I didn’t say all mental disfunction was caused by...genetic
> predisposition. Just some. Maybe the kind we see when entire
> families are dysfunctional.”
> “That could just as easily be environmental.”
> He shrugged. “Could be. Doesn’t have to be. Imagine,
> Annette. Imagine being able to treat schizophrenia or manic
> depression the way we treat MS or Alzheimer’s. Repair the cells,
> ’teach’ them to replicate healthy replacements, unkink the DNA
> —quite a feat. Quite a future.”
> “If it were that easy,” she murmured.
> “Not easy,” he said. “But simple. Plain. Straightforward. The
> human mind is a maze—so’s the human body, but it’s a
> clinically observable maze. What would you say to that,
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                        393
> 
> Annette? What would you say to a physical treatment for mental
> disorders?”
> “We tried that—lithium, anti-depressants. Works in some
> cases, has devastating results in others.”
> “Not drugs. Actual repair of aberrant physiological
> processes.”
> She laughed. It fell short of her eyes. “Trying to put me out
> of a job, Dr. Hamlin?”
> “Isn’t that the point of what we do? Aren’t we all trying to
> put ourselves out of a job?”
> This time the rueful smile was complete. “I suppose it is, at
> the core. You just said a mouthful, Mister Genetics.” She raised
> her water glass and toasted him.
> 
> �����
> 
> Brooke Burchard called in to cancel their next appointment
> —voice mode, only. Annette didn’t know whether to be
> encouraged or worried. She tried to gauge the sound of his voice
> and found it did not encourage her. He sounded evasive, wary,
> in a hurry to get off the phone. Trying to draw him out, she
> asked when he’d like to reschedule. He said he’d call her back.
> She used the free hour to go over his case files again and
> noticed they’d been accessed in the last four hours by another
> Med-Net node. She was immediately suspicious that he’d
> jumped to another therapist. The thought was wounding.
> Burchard was male, older than she was by some fifteen years,
> and while Hollywood still made bad movies about sex-starved
> men who developed mental and emotional disorders just to
> obtain a young, good-looking female “shrink,” life did not
> imitate art. In her brief but successful career, Annette had had
> more than one male patient quit on her because she did not fit
> 394                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> the image of a lady psychologist. She’d even tried wearing a lab
> coat. It hadn’t helped.
> Burchard, though...no, she couldn’t accept that of him. He
> was intelligent, rational. Oh, yes—and suicidal. He was a victim
> of his own mind—how had he described it? Disunified.
> Inwardly divided. How rational could he be, under those
> circumstances?
> She was still poring over his files when the phone peeped,
> calling her to her desk terminal. “Dr. Geller,” she said, distracted
> still, and only just realized that the caller was Elliot Hamlin
> when he started to speak.
> “Hello, Annette, I, um, need to ask a favor of you. A
> professional favor.”
> She smiled, relief flowing through her. “Sure. Ask away.
> Need to borrow a tongue depressor? I’m fresh out.”
> “This is serious, ’Nette. It’s about a patient. I’d like to have
> you in as a consultant.”
> She was pleased and let herself glow a little with the
> pleasure his professional approval brought. “I’d be honored,
> Dr. Hamlin. If you could just link me to the files, I’ll be happy to
> have a look at them.”
> He glanced to one side, cleared his throat before looking
> back at her. “You seem to have them open already. The patient is
> Brooke Burchard.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “You knew last week, didn’t you?” she asked, struggling to
> keep her voice calm. “You knew when we were pointedly not
> discussing his case that he was going to come in to see you.”
> “Yes, of course I knew. What was I supposed to do? I
> couldn’t tell you that any more than you could tell me who you
> were thinking of when you asked me about hereditary mental
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                       395
> 
> disorders. He hadn’t agreed to have you consult, then. That
> happened this morning.”
> “Your idea, I suppose.”
> “No, actually, it was his. He says you’re fresh. Might bring
> some insights to the battle. I agree whole-heartedly, of course.
> We need some gauge of his improvement, if he makes any.
> You’re the individual best qualified to do that.”
> “Improvement? Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You
> don’t even have a clue what to look for, do you?”
> He nodded. “The Wolfram gene.”
> “What? Wolfram causes physical disorders-”
> “Diabetes and severe vision problems, both of which our
> Mr. Burchard had as a child.” He was excited, the skin over his
> cheeks flushing rose with pioneer pride. “The research team at
> Chapel Hill has developed an RNA ’enzyme’ to isolate the gene.
> A beautiful, shiny, new, patented enzyme. They’ve identified
> Wolfram’s physiological effects—it plays havoc with insulin
> production and blood sugar assimilation, among other things—
> and it has a similarly negative effect on the brain’s endorphin
> balance. We don’t know how, yet, but we can now test for
> Wolfram’s. I’ve already done a panel on Brooke Burchard.”
> “All right, so you can isolate the gene. Then what? You can’t
> cure a genetic defect, can you?”
> “We’ve got an enzyme that can isolate the Wolfram gene.
> We’ve got enzymes that help the body break down sucrose.
> Maybe we can create enzymes to restore the mental balance.”
> “Are you serious? Enzymes to cure depression?”
> “If Brooke Burchard’s depression and dementia is a
> consequence of having the Wolfram gene—and his profile is
> certainly consistent with its presence—then I don’t see any
> reason why we couldn’t use enzymes to effect a cure.” He
> grinned suddenly and unabashedly. “What do you think of that,
> Dr. Geller?”
> 396                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “I...I think it’s a fascinating theory. I hope you can prove it,”
> she added and realized she only half meant it. Her emotional
> reserve shocked her wordless, draining the blood out of her face.
> “You don’t look happy at the prospect.”
> Dear God. She felt his eyes on her, probing. Could he see
> that horrid, selfish thought, doing a slow neon-fade from the
> darkness inside her head. Dear God, what kind of doctor am I?
> “Of course, I’m happy!” she retorted belatedly. “If you can take
> this from the realm of theory into reality, Brooke Burchard will
> be a free man.”
> “This is not just about Brooke Burchard, Annette. It’s about
> his children and his children’s children. It’s about an estimated
> eight percent of the people in this country who’ve seriously
> contemplated taking their own lives.”
> “Yes. Yes, of course. But what about Brooke? When will you
> know if he has the Wolfram gene?”
> “He’s already been sampled for genetic material. The report,
> I’m expecting literally any moment.”
> “But they’ve already cured the diabetes, the loss of visual
> acuity. Burchard had both taken care of years ago. If the mental
> disorder has a physiological cause, wouldn’t the treatment he
> underwent for those problems have cured that, as well?”
> “Why should it have? He wasn’t being treated for the results
> of a genetic disorder—specifically, he wasn’t being treated for
> Wolfram’s Syndrome. Bad genes can cause alteration or even
> absence of critical enzymes. The doctors who treated Brooke
> weren’t looking for bad enzymes; their patient had diabetes.
> They didn’t think they needed to look any further. They treated
> the symptoms, Annette, not the disease. This was—what—ten,
> fifteen years ago, remember.”
> “Treated the symptoms,” she murmured. “And that’s what
> you think I’ve been doing, too—just treating the symptoms?”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                         397
> 
> He looked suddenly uncomfortable, caught between his
> colleague, Dr. Geller, and fiancée, Annette. After a moment of
> juggling the two, he nodded. “A distinct possibility.”
> “And just how do you propose to treat the disease?”
> “There are several procedures being reviewed right now.
> First, we want to try to balance the endorphins—to affect some
> measure of mental stability. There are several methods of doing
> that. Some hold out more hope of permanence and reliability
> than others. You’ve heard of chromaffin grafts?” He didn’t wait
> for her to answer. “One method of treatment involves a similar
> transplant of pineal gland cells-”
> “Wait. Wait. That’s a treatment for mutliple-sclerosis.”
> “Ah! A successful treatment for multiple-sclerosis. Pineal
> transplants involve a different set of endorphins. But that’s just
> the beginning.” He was glowing again. “I believe the answer is
> in the enzymes. Follow me, okay? If the Wolfram gene can cause
> an aberration of sucrase enzymes—enzymes that work at
> metabolizing sucrose—then why not any other enzyme in the
> body? If we can only determine which enzymes are being
> effected, Annette-”
> “But these aren’t proven procedures.”
> He blinked at her as if she had mumbled to him in an alien
> tongue. “The procedures are new, but not untried. The pineal
> transplant has been used successfully in other cases of
> depression and the Chapel Hill enzyme does isolate the Wolfram
> gene. What more do you want? None of your procedures have
> ever been tested in a laboratory—you went directly to human
> subjects.”
> She ignored that. “You’re relegating Brooke Burchard to the
> status of guinea pig! You can’t hold out any real hope of
> improvement to him. You’re just going to get his hopes up, get
> him believing in a simple solution to a complex problem, then
> leave him high and dry.”
> 398                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “The problem is chemical, Annette. And we could be this
> close-” He made a pinching gesture.
> “This close? Elliot, this man has tried to commit suicide
> three times! He sees things that aren’t there. He hears voices in
> his head. He goes from being as rational as you and I—and, I’d
> swear, more self-aware—to being a raving basket case. He and
> his wife calmly discuss institutionalizing him. If he comes to
> believe this sickness of his is written in his genes it could literally
> kill him!”
> “I don’t follow.”
> “Fatalism, Elliot. As long as he can look at his disorder in
> terms of-of finding the key, he may keep looking for the key. If
> you tell him there is no key, that there’s nothing he can do for
> himself, that he’s helpless, he’ll also be hopeless.”
> He seemed to consider that for a moment. “Hopeless? To be
> told you’re not crazy, that you’ve just got something wrong with
> your chemicals?”
> “But you’re saying that crazy, as you call it, is chemicals!
> Just sort out the chemicals and, voila!—you’ve effected a cure.”
> “There’s something wrong with that?”
> “What if it’s not true?”
> “What if it is, Annette? What then?”
> She waved her hands fiercely, fending off the idea. “Veracity
> is not the point, Elliot. The point is what effect this is going to
> have on my patient?”
> “My patient. He put himself in my hands. You’re consulting,
> yes, and I will hear your opinions, yes, but you’re not running
> the show.”
> “The show, Elliot? Is that what this is? A circus act where the
> handsome, young doctor in his shining, white lab coat, waves
> his magic amulet and saves the day?”
> “That is not what I meant. Brooke Burchard is a human
> being. I care about him. I want to see him and the millions of
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                        399
> 
> others like him free of this debilitating disease. I’m offering a
> medical solution, Annette. A solution I know is there. That’s
> hardly a magic amulet. And I think it’s ironic that a member of
> your profession should accuse anyone else of mumbo-jumbo.”
> He might just as easily have slapped her. She almost wished
> he had. “That was low.”
> He had the good graces to look ashamed. “Yes, it was—but
> then so was that crack about my shining white lab coat.” He
> pawed at the clean black and white tiles underfoot with the toe
> of his shoe. “Was it Clarke who said that any sufficiently
> advanced technology looks like magic?”
> Annette grimaced. “I’m not sure technology is the answer to
> Brooke Burchard’s problem. If you determine the presence of
> Wolfram’s gene, then what? Doesn’t that basically manacle him
> to his sickness?”
> “Or does it free him from guilt and self-loathing? If we find
> Wolfram’s, at least he’ll know there’s nothing wrong with his
> head.”
> 
> �����
> 
> Don’t think of a white horse. Brooke grimaced and pulled
> his mind back to his computer screen. Hard to wait. Hard not to
> imagine that right this moment (every single moment) the report
> was downloading to Dr. Hamlin’s computer. That all his genetic
> code was scrolling across another monitor, miles away. He
> looked at his own screen and wondered if genetic code looked
> anything like Delta-RPL.
> Coffee. He wanted coffee. Badly. Couldn’t have any though.
> It would only make an anxiety attack more likely and that could
> roll over into something else.
> It had been relatively easy not to think of hospital reports
> when the office had been full of chatter and purposeful activity.
> 400                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> It was after hours now—just—and the Development Room was
> quiet as a church.
> I should go home, he thought. But he didn’t want to go.
> Neither Debbie nor Valerie would be there and somehow an
> empty house was worse than an empty office. He checked the
> time again. Twenty minutes. They’d be home in twenty minutes.
> If he left now and drove very slowly, maybe went around the
> park, he might only beat them by a minute or two.
> He glanced at the phone. It was a simple act—a mere
> shifting of the eyes and attention—but it brought a stab of
> unease. Why hadn’t Elliot called? He’d said there was progress,
> that he expected a report from the lab at any time. What if they
> had the data and it was negative? What if he didn’t carry the
> Wolfram gene? What if he was just another manic-depressive?
> Would Elliot put off telling him that?
> Brooke realized he was worrying his stylus—wrapping its
> light, slender cord around and around one finger. He dropped
> the thing and rubbed suddenly sweaty palms on his pants.
> Ridiculous. Even if Elliot had the data, he’d still have to interpret
> it, consider the implications—decide on a course of action. It
> could be a whole day before he called...either way.
> Brooke shut down his computer and got up. Senseless.
> Senseless to sit here and fume. He left, carefully laying out his
> homeward course and shifting his thoughts to wife and child.
> Better. That was better.
> The car garage was dark and eerily quiet and Brooke felt a
> creeping unease. The smell of oil rose in eddies from the cool
> concrete. The sharp sound of his heels slapped back from wall
> and roof. A frisson shivered up his spine, then down again and
> he jumped as a hum-click! rolled at him from all sides.
> The core-lift opened and three women stepped out, arguing
> about which of two football teams really deserved to win the
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                            401
> 
> divisional playoffs. Their high-heels punctuated the dialogue
> with arrhythmic staccato.
> “The Forty-clackity-Niners-clack are def-clack-initely clackclack superior this-clackity-season.”
> “But Sac-clack-ramento’s-clackity defense-clack has clackityclack dismantled-clack-”
> “Sacramento clack-clack-clack is playing above itself.”
> Clack-click-thunk-thud! The conversation moved into the
> silver Lexus and became too muted to hear.
> Brooke sighed and settled into the front seat of his car. He’d
> loved football, but it got him so wound up he had nowhere to go
> but down.
> He was surprised at how dark it was outside. Dark and cold.
> The streets were shiny-wet and reflective, spitting the glare of
> headlights and street lamps back into the darkness. He felt
> suddenly and completely separate from the rest of the universe
> —gliding through a corridor of grey cotton and black nothing in
> a silent capsule. The tires hissed delicately on the wet asphalt
> and sealed his isolation.
> Stop it, he told himself, and did for a moment. He peered up
> through the windshield—misting now—into a creeping 3-D
> night.
> I hate this weather. ...No, not hate. Hate’s too strong a word.
> Too strong a feeling... Dread? He turned on the windshield
> wipers.
> Headlights sped by—vanguards of other silent, hissing
> capsules, each bearing its separate occupants. But no, some
> would hold families, chattering happily on their way to dinner, a
> show, death.
> He shook himself. Dad died on a day like this.
> His mind skittered sideways and he thought of Debbie and
> Valerie coming home together from across town. Hurrying to
> meet him.
> 402                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> A car in the westbound lanes skidded suddenly and shot
> toward him in a long scream of brakes. He reacted quickly,
> expertly, automatically, pulling his own car to the right,
> bumping his front tire up over the curbing. The other car swept
> by with a wriggle of taillights, dragged itself straight in a few
> yards, and passed anonymously on—as did he.
> Lucky. That could have been-
> Yes. It could have been fatal and it could just as easily have
> been Deb and Valerie. They have further to drive.
> The adrenaline really hit him, then, forcing its icy fist up
> through his solar plexus, driving the terrified blood up into his
> head. His hands shook on the wheel. Rain began to batter the
> windshield, pitting its chaos against the staid rhythm of the
> wipers.
> I should pull over for a moment.
> Oh, but not in this. He could make it home. He could.
> The shaking was not subsiding. The hissing lights and rush
> of outside slid too quickly past his windows. And neon. Neon
> with its cold glare. Even red neon was cold.
> What if Deb and Valerie were killed on their way home?
> What then? It could be happening now—right now. Now. He
> had to get home. He had to know.
> Bad. It was a bad, heavy, horrid feeling. Like a premonition.
> Oh, right now—right this very moment, their car skidding out of
> control into the dark, sudden impact, metal bending, tearing.
> Sudden. Death was sudden. Home.
> Sweating, he put his foot down harder on the accelerator.
> The car surged forward—it had good acceleration for an electri--
> and picked up speed, fishtailing only a little on the curve of road
> that cut, now, through tailored lawns.
> The radio. There must be news on, a voice to talk to him, to
> keep him from talking to himself. He reached for the dash unit.
> They’re dead.
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                      403
> 
> The voice was audible only inside Brooke’s head. It seemed
> to exit his ears rather than enter into them—a waking-froma-dream voice. The kind that makes you jump and shiver. He
> did both. His skin crept.
> “Brooke.” It was a man’s voice, dark as the roadway beyond
> his headlights. His father’s voice. “Brooke, can’t you feel it?
> They’re gone. They aren’t here anymore.”
> He reached out frantically with straining senses, not even
> questioning the voice. Not questioning his credulity. Were they
> still there? Surely if they’d died he would know it—would feel
> the loss. Hadn’t he felt something when his father died? Hadn’t
> something made him call home and say, “Is everything all
> right?”
> Nothing was all right, but his mother didn’t know that.
> “Yes,” she said. “Everything’s fine, honey. Just fine.”
> “Let me talk to dad,” he’d said. Dad was in the garage, she’d
> said and went to get him. But he could no longer be reached.
> Anger spitted him. How does a man do that? How does he
> kill himself and leave his wife alone to find the body? How does
> a man get that selfish?
> “Selfish, selfish bastard,” he muttered. And I’m your son,
> you know. So obsessed with my own dark thoughts and my
> black moods, you’d think I was the only person in the universe.
> Guilt mounted his anger and spurred it. Stupid, he called
> himself. Stupid, selfish bastard. You and all your problems. How
> does Deb put up with it, year after year? Why does she put up
> with it?
> “She loves me,” he said aloud. “She loves me.”
> Laughter. He heard it, rolling up from the darkened back
> seat. He went hot and cold simultaneously; the skin of his face
> twitched. Someone was there! Someone had hidden in the back
> of his car and had heard him muttering non-sequiturs to himself
> and had now given themselves away.
> 404                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> He could feel it now, a Presence, like a field of static
> electricity rising from the carpeted floorboards behind him. Like
> a tingling ball of malevolence. He thought of peeking. He
> thought of reaching a hand back to feel it. To prove himself
> wrong, he thought. To prove just how crazy he really was.
> He heard the whisper of movement as he rounded a corner,
> as his unseen passenger coiled to spring. Game over. Serious
> stuff now. Deadly stuff.
> He cranked the wheel over violently, banked against a curb,
> and rode the brakes to a loud stop. He shoved out of the car,
> tumbling in wet grass and was soaked by rain and an
> unseasonable sprinkler system. He lay there for long seconds,
> waiting.
> Waiting for God-knows-what. When it didn’t happen, he got
> up and peeked into the back seat. In the pinkish glow of street
> lamps, he saw nothing. No one.
> Mind grinding, pulse still shrieking, he shivered his way
> back into the car, abashed, ashamed, embarrassed. He felt blank,
> but for that. He was blank. Black hole man. He tried to laugh
> and couldn’t, though his teeth chattered. He started the car. It
> whined and hummed along with his adrenaline. Far from being
> spent, it was building up a fresh charge, swept along on a
> current peculiar to Brooke Burchard.
> His sixth sense stage-whispered that there was danger. That
> perhaps the malevolence had been in the back of Deborah’s car.
> Was in the back of her car. Now. Right this moment.
> His foot came down on the accelerator. He wove like a
> drunk--like a madman. He wound his way home, powered by
> frantic fantasy. The house came in sight (Dear God, no car!), its
> porch light automatically on in welcome. (They aren’t home-) He
> glanced for a second at the clock in the console (-and they should
> be home by now!) before he dragged the car, screeching, into the
> driveway, hydro-planing, shooting water skyward.
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                             405
> 
> He took the long drive much too fast and when a small
> white blur danced into his headlights, he wasn’t ready for it—
> had forgotten about it. He slammed on the brakes, skidded, and
> overshot the place he always stopped. Always. He hit it, the
> small white blur, caught it in mid-scamper and flung it against
> the garage door.
> The car came to a stop. Brooke sat, still, but not silent. His
> brain and body shrieked at him in strident voices.
> What’ve you done-what’ve you done-what’ve you done?
> He stared at the great arcs of light on the garage door,
> watched the wipers shake long, accusing fingers at him,
> whispering hatefully. He got out of the car and moved forward
> into the light to see what he had done.
> The kitten was dead. Living things did not twist this way
> and that like wire dolls. Rain pattered gently on the tiny heap of
> white fur and bone and red, red blood. It fell into the open blue
> eyes and gave them tears.
> Brooke Burchard sat down in the rain beside the little body,
> caught in the public glare of his headlights, and wept.
> 
> �����
> 
> “You have the Wolfram gene.” Elliot Hamlin gripped the
> high-impact plastic of the guardrail and watched for some sign
> he’d been heard.
> Brooke Burchard lay silently, his head and shoulders
> elevated, staring at a blank TV screen. He twitched, grimaced,
> squeezed his eyes shut, shuddered. But that was not a reaction,
> Elliot knew. That was what he’d been doing for nearly twentyfour hours straight—awake or asleep—reliving the moment,
> flagellating himself, rubbing his conscience in the memory. That
> was what Brooke Burchard and people like him did. It was the
> 406                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> snowball effect—guilt upon guilt, shame upon shame, misery
> upon misery, until there was only one Exit.
> And through no fault of his own, Elliot thought. No karma aws
> at work here, but only a tweaked gene and its obedient flotilla of
> enzymes, doing what it programmed them to do. But which
> enzymes?
> Elliot took a deep breath, exhaled it. His voice would be
> warm, calm, cheerful. “Brooke, did you hear me? You have the
> Wolfram gene. We can begin now. We can...” He wanted to say,
> ’We can lick this thing. Control it. We can cure you. We can give
> you normal guilt, average shame, reasonable misery.’ He
> couldn’t say that, or promise to do it. “We can procede now.”
> Safe words. “We’ll start with the pineal graft...” He stalled. And
> then, what? Take months, years maybe, to determine what
> enzymes were being affected by the gene?
> He glanced sideways at Annette. Her eyes were on
> Burchard, professional dispassion overcome by compassion,
> anxiety. She clutched her DataSlate to her chest and met his eyes.
> Now what?
> “She loved that kitten.”
> Both doctors swiveled their attention back to the hospital
> bed. Brooke Burchard’s eyes were focused now, on them.
> “She loves you more,” said Annette.
> “I don’t know what I can say to her.”
> “Whatever it is, she’ll be happy just to hear you say it.”
> He shook his head. “I put them through so much. So much
> suffering...”
> “They’re waiting in the lounge,” said Elliot. “You can put an
> end to their suffering right now. Talk to them.”
> Brooke licked his lips. They were pale, bluish. He nodded.
> “Yeah. Okay... Have you told them about the gene?”
> “I told your wife.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                           407
> 
> “Doctor...” His eyes squinted as if at sudden pain. “My
> daughter...couldn’t she carry the gene too?”
> Elliot sucked in air. It wasn’t an unexpected question, but
> somehow he was unprepared, nonetheless. “It’s a possibility,
> Brooke. Although, she’s shown no indications of it so far. Her
> blood sugars are normal, her eyesight, likewise. She seems like a
> happy child.”
> Burchard grimaced. “No thanks to me. But she could still
> develop Type II, couldn’t she? She could still become diabetic.”
> Elliot nodded. “She could. But that’s not what you’re really
> worried about is it?”
> He didn’t answer. “You can isolate the gene now, right? If
> she’s carrying it...”
> “Yes.”
> Burchard nodded, looking miserable. “I’d like to see them
> now, please.”
> Elliot nodded and escorted Annette from the room.
> 
> �����
> 
> “His daughter.” Annette smacked the wall of Elliot’s office
> with the flat of her hand. “I was so busy concentrating on how
> this would affect Brooke, I forgot about how it would affect his
> daughter.”
> “Could affect her,” corrected Elliot, sliding into his chair.
> “She may not have inherited the gene.”
> “And if she has?” Annette felt heat building behind her
> cheeks, pressure behind her eyes. “What if she has?”
> Elliot blinked at her. “Then she has.”
> “Jesus Christ, you can be cold-blooded!”
> Elliot leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Too damn
> long without sleep, he thought. He was on the verge of saying
> something regrettable. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Annette. I
> 408                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> didn’t give Valerie Burchard that bum gene—if she’s even got it.
> I just diagnosed her father. I think you’re losing your
> objectivity.”
> “To hell with my objectivity!” she snapped. “You’re so
> intent on coming up with a medical coup, you’ve lost sight of the
> human reality here.”
> “Oh? And what is that, Dr. Geller?”
> Annette came to sit opposite him, across the desk. “You saw
> what Brooke went through just to find out he had the gene. The
> tests, the procedures, the waiting. Now you’re saying you want
> to put Valerie through it, too. She’s twelve years old, Elliot.
> Twelve!”
> “But she’s not a manic depressive. And she may never be
> one.”
> “May not. You can’t guarantee that. All you can do is raise
> the specter. Look, little girl, you might be just like your daddy
> someday. Someday you may hear voices and jump at your own
> shadow and scare the people you love half to death.”
> Elliot threw up his hands. “What was I supposed to do,
> Annette, lie? No, Brooke, your daughter couldn’t possibly have
> that gene; let’s not even bother to look. Or maybe you think I
> should have refused him treatment when he first came to me.”
> “He came to you?”
> “I didn’t recruit him. He said he’d been doing some reading
> about mental disorders and had come across the Wolfram’s
> connection. He came to me and asked if there was any way we
> could find out if he had the gene.”
> “And you said, you could, of course.”
> “It is my field, Annette. What would you have told him?”
> “That the connection between Wolfram’s and mental
> disorder is not universally accepted. That even if he had the
> gene, there was no conclusive proof that it was responsible for
> his depression.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                              409
> 
> “And that his best option was still talk-therapy?”
> “I’m not just trying to save my job, dammit!”
> “No? Then what? Why are you resisting the idea that
> Brooke’s problems could be physiological?”
> “That’s not it at all. That’s not what I’m resisting.”
> He leaned toward her, eyes open, now. “Then what,
> Annette? What are you resisting?”
> 
> �����
> 
> “Nothing,” she’d said. “I’m not resisting anything. I’m just
> cautious.”
> She fooled no one with that dodge, least of all Elliot. No,
> least of all herself. And so the question, like Brooke’s eyes, like
> Valerie’s stricken face, like Deborah’s fraying determination,
> came back to haunt her.
> What am I resisiting? Change?
> She mouthed a tuna salad sandwich and pondered that. It
> wasn’t impossible, she supposed. There were those, she knew,
> who treated the theories of behavioral psychology as if they
> were a body of religious law. Law that somehow was at variance
> with technology. She wasn’t one of them. Or at least she hadn’t
> thought she was.
> She sipped coffee and meditated on the steam, imagining
> herself a sylph buoyed upward in its draft. Was she a secret
> devotee of the status quo? Or was she just afraid of being put out
> of work by a rapidly expanding technology?
> She grimaced. Stupid. The whole point of psychiatry was to
> help people control their impulses—control their Selves.
> Graduation day, for Annette Geller, was any day any patient
> stood up and looked her straight in the eye and said, “I don’t
> need you anymore.”
> 410                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She tossed the coffee cup into the WASH bin and wandered
> out into a dazzling, dew-spackled day. She stood in front of the
> cafeteria on a herringbone tweed of sunny, red brick, and stared
> up between immense cedars.
> I am afraid, she admitted. There. Now. She took a deep
> breath. Afraid of what? The cedars declined to respond. She
> looked past them. “You,” she said to a fleeting patch of azure
> framed by silver billows, “You, he believes in. Me? Why should
> he believe in me?”
> There, but for the grace of God/Goddess go I.
> Patient/doctor trust. Was that at issue? Did she feel
> distrusted? Yes. Yes, she did. And she reacted. Humanly. And
> protested out of hurt?
> No. But I protest without conviction.
> She began a slow walk back toward her office across
> campus. She had no real conviction, she realized. Nothing but a
> strong desire to prove that Brooke Burchard’s disease was
> psychogenic, not physiological. She dug for the root of the
> desire, but it eluded her.
> Probably, she thought, because I want it to.
> “Physician, heal thyself,” she muttered and scurried for
> cover as rain began to fall.
> 
> �����
> 
> “Your husband has explained the situation to you?” Annette
> watched Deborah Burchard’s face carefully, for what, she wasn’t
> quite certain. It was a composed face. Yes, that was what
> Deborah Burchard had—composure. Annette supposed one
> developed composure after fifteen years with a man like Brooke.
> One did that or one left.
> Deborah Burchard was nodding. “And I talked to Dr.
> Hamlin at some length. I...I wanted to try to understand the full
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                         411
> 
> implications of this. I wanted to understand what they’re going
> to try to do.”
> “And do you understand?”
> “No. Do you?”
> “In part. They’re going to try to control the depression first,
> using a type of cell grafting. It works very well in the treatment
> of Ms. Elliot—Dr. Hamlin—thinks it can be applied to your
> husband’s condition as well.”
> “I don’t see how, but then, I have no medical background
> whatsoever.” The woman’s gaze sharpened and dug into
> Annette’s composure. “You’re a doctor, Ms. Geller. More to the
> point, you’re his doctor. What do you think of this?”
> Don’t ask me that. “I’m...neutral, I suppose.” Liar. “My first
> duty is to your husband’s welfare. He voluntarily applied to Dr.
> Hamlin to take part in his research-”
> “In the hope that it meant a cure.” Deborah slid forward in
> her chair. “You have don’t know what it means to him to believe
> this is genetic and not...emotional.” She looked suddenly
> embarrassed. “That was stupid thing to say. Of course, you
> know—you’re his psychiatrist.”
> Annette raised her hand. “No, please. You’re right. I don’t
> know what it means to him, because he’s never discussed it with
> me. I had no idea he was following developments in
> neurobiology. My degree in psychology doesn’t make me
> omniscient, Deborah. You...you think this an important
> development, then. That his expectations are high?”
> “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, of course. He can handle the idea that
> there’s something wrong with his body. But to think there’s
> something wrong with his mind—that’s terrifying.”
> Annette glanced down at her hands. Her fingers were
> knotted together like a bundle of jointed snakes, strangling each
> other in a white-knuckled death grip. She made them slip apart
> and lie benignly in her lap. “Deborah, Brooke needs to be aware
> 412                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> that this could be a false trail. That he could find himself right
> back where he started—fighting depression from the inside. In
> fact, I want him to remain in counseling during the treatments.”
> “Oh, of course. Dr. Hamlin said it was essential that he have
> counseling during the treatment process. For patience. He’ll
> have to have so much patience.”
> Patience. More than she seemed to have. Annette wanted to
> storm Elliot’s office and demand results. Miracles, Dr. Hamlin.
> Give us miracles. And give them now.
> She swam that evening until she was exhausted, sat in the
> hot tub until she was limp, and went home too tired to
> contemplate resistance or patience or anything else. Elliot called
> to see if she wanted to go out to a movie. No, she said, she’d just
> read the book. She didn’t want to see someone else’s conceptions
> of The Land Between Two Rivers. That would ruin it for her.
> She went to bed early instead, and dreamed of driving a car
> too fast on a rain-slick road. Of not being able to find the brake
> pedal. All night long she swerved drunkenly through her own
> backcountry. By morning she was exhausted.
> 
> �����
> 
> “How do you feel?”
> Brooke sat back in the overstuffed chair and smiled. “Good.
> Tired. Good.”
> Annette nodded encouragingly. “Good?”
> “Yeah. I feel...” Brooke rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and
> laughed. “This is going to sound silly, but I asked Deb that just
> after she had Valerie. ’How do you feel?’ She came up with tired,
> cozy, spent, fuzzy and radiantly exhausted. That’s how I feel, I
> guess. Like I’ve just had a baby. Radiantly exhausted.”
> “It’s too early to feel any effects from the graft,” Annette
> observed, cautious.
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                          413
> 
> “Oh, I know. It’s just knowing. You know—knowing that it’s
> just a cocked-up gene not a-a ghost.”
> “A-”
> He raised his hand. “Not literally. You know what I mean.
> Something...supernatural in the sense that you can’t make it go
> away. There’s no medicine for it, no remedy. You can’t even pin
> it down, put a name on it. These enzyme’s of Dr. Hamlin’s—they
> have names. And they have jobs. Now, we just have to find out
> who’s loafing.”
> Oh, how easy that sounds. “It’s not that simple, Brooke. I
> think you know that...don’t you?” She turned the statement
> quickly into a question.
> “It’s simpler,” he said, “than sifting through complexes and
> compulsions and...” He grimaced. “Ghosts. Chimeras.”
> And what does that make me—a witch doctor? “What if they
> never isolate the enzyme?”
> “Oh, they will. I might not be alive to benefit from it, but Dr.
> Hamlin or someone like him will isolate it.”
> Annette spread her hands. “So you’re willing to resign
> yourself to it, then?”
> “Resign myself?” He read the ceiling for a moment. “I
> hadn’t really looked at it that way. I guess I feel like I have a
> point of reference now. When I feel that...pumping start in the
> back of my head—the Nightmare Generator, I call it—I can at
> least say I know what’s going on. I can...isolate it. Deal with it.”
> “And that helps?”
> “Yes. God, of course it helps! Doesn’t it always help to know
> what you’re fighting?”
> “But it’s out of your control, doesn’t that bother you?”
> “Doctor, it’s always been out of my control. I just didn’t
> know it. Didn’t want to admit it.” He leaned forward in the
> chair, hands clasped between his knees. “Do you have any idea
> what it feels like to fail yourself over and over again? That’s
> 414                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> what it was like all those years I spent in therapy, knowing I had
> this disease, not knowing where the hell it came from or why.
> All my doctors led me to believe I could control it. You led me to
> believe it. And every time I lost control and the Nightmare
> Generator went off on one of its maniac jaunts, I felt like a total
> and complete failure. A traitor...to myself and to the people who
> depend on me. I started wondering if deep down inside I wasn’t
> just like one of those little nested dolls. The kind you open up
> and find another, smaller doll inside? Selves within selves,
> complexes within complexes. Maybe, I thought, I want to fail. I
> want pity. I like guilt. I’m punishing myself for... not being able
> to save my father’s life.”
> She started to leap on that and caught herself. “Do you think
> that’s a possibility?” she asked neutrally.
> He chuckled. “Sure. I did feel guilty about my father’s death.
> If I’d been a better son, he wouldn’t have killed himself. I don’t
> believe that, of course, especially not now. But the thought does
> occur. But don’t you see? Anyone would feel like that under the
> circumstances. Anyone. But because of the gene, what might
> have been just an occasional, nagging doubt became...a
> nightmare. All my doubts, all my fears, all my unhappinesses
> ran away with me.” He paused and looked down at his
> interlaced fingers. “Run away with me.”
> “But you think you can control it—the Nightmare
> Generator?”
> He shook his head. “No. But now I know where it lives.”
> 
> �����
> 
> “I can’t help him, anymore, Elliot.”
> She might have been a bit of data that had refused to behave
> itself, the way he looked at her. “That’s absurd. Of course, you
> can help him.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                           415
> 
> “This isn’t my field. This is your field. I don’t know what I’m
> doing here.”
> “This isn’t a competition, Annette. Brooke needs both of us.
> He needs me to isolate the problem and you to help him deal
> with waiting. He’s still a manic-depressive. He still hallucinates.
> His brain is still overwhelmed by the impulses that cause both
> disorders. It doesn’t matter that the cause is physiological rather
> than psychogenic. The effects are psychological.”
> “I might as well resort to beads and rattles.”
> “Don’t knock beads and rattles. If that helps Brooke stay in
> control-”
> “He can’t stay in control, dammit! There’s nothing for him to
> do but wait.”
> “Then, for God’s sake, help him wait. You’re a psychiatrist,
> Annette. You have a degree in behavioral psych. Use it.”
> “How? How, use it?” What was that look? Was that pity?
> Frustration? She couldn’t tell, but it unraveled the last of her
> objectivity and she felt like hitting him. Or crying.
> Too close. We’re too close for this to work. She opened her
> mouth to say that, but he was talking.
> “You’ve counseled terminal patients, haven’t you?”
> The question disoriented her. She spent a dazed moment
> trying to see the connection. She shook her head. “No. No I
> haven’t.”
> Elliot pulled his eyes away and began toying with a
> paperweight on his desk. “Out of choice or never been called
> upon?”
> “I...I have been approached, but...” She felt in her pockets for
> lint. “I’ve usually referred them to other doctors. Specialists.”
> “Why?”
> “I’m...not...a specialist in that area.”
> “Don’t you mean you don’t want to be a specialist in that
> area?”
> 416                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> She stared at the blond forelock that shielded his eyes from
> hers. “Switching fields, Elliot?”
> “What is it about terminals you don’t like?”
> “I didn’t say-”
> “I know what you didn’t say. What is it about terminals
> that...disturbs you?”
> “I’m not disturbed by-”
> “Why don’t you want to deal with them, Annette? Why do
> you avoid dealing with them?”
> She crossed her arms tight over her chest. “All right,
> Dr. Hamlin. Since you seem to know me better than I know
> myself, you tell me why I avoid dealing with terminal patients.”
> “Because you can’t control what happens to them.”
> Outrage flooded her ears with hot, stinging blood. “I can’t- I
> can’t control what happens to them? God Almighty, Elliot, you
> make me sound like some kind of control freak! Annette, who
> would be God!”
> He was shaking his head.
> “Is that really what you think of me? As a professional? As a
> person?”
> “Well, you are just the tiniest bit of a control freak. But that’s
> not really what this is about, I don’t think.” He smiled, which
> only poured fuel on her fire.
> “You don’t believe in what I do, do you? You don’t believe
> in psychiatry as a valid science.”
> He waggled his head. “Belief? It’s not a religion, ’Nette. It is
> a science and an art, but like any other methodology, it has its
> domain. I think in this case psychiatry has to share a kingdom
> with neurobiology. I can deal with the concrete business of
> irregular molecular ferries and genetic disorder. Slowly, surely,
> we’re learning more and more about what makes the human
> animal tick. But, I need someone like you to handle the human
> consequences. Brooke needs someone like you.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                        417
> 
> “Someone like me, maybe, but not me. I can’t do anything
> for him but sit and listen. I don’t even know what questions to
> ask him anymore.”
> “Ask him how he feels.”
> Annette took a deep breath and felt her face cool. “I’m going
> to turn Brooke’s case over to another therapist.”
> Elliot hung his head and she believed for a moment it was in
> contrition. But when he looked at her again what she saw in his
> eyes was disappointment. “I never thought you were a quitter,
> ’Nette,” he said.
> 
> �����
> 
> She turned Brooke over to a resident psychologist who dealt,
> largely, with terminal cancer patients and AIDS victims. She saw
> him only rarely and in passing, and saw Elliot less. She heard
> about both of them, though. She had a girlfriend on Elliot’s staff
> who kept her abreast of developments, and she spent her lunch
> hours in the cafeteria where she would be sure to hear any talk
> among the residents.
> “Were you listening?”
> Annette pulled her eyes away from the row of French doors
> that opened onto the patio. Suzanne Murphy gazed up at her
> over a turkey sandwich dripping with alfalfa sprouts.
> “I’m sorry, Suz. I guess I wasn’t. You were, um, saying
> something about dopamine?”
> Suzanne nodded. “That’s what they thought it was at first,
> dopamine flooding the neural network. Elly was proceeding on
> that idea, but...” She shrugged. “False track. Dopamine levels
> were normal even during critical episodes.”
> She’d captured Annette’s full attention. “He’s had... critical
> episodes? Bad ones?”
> 418                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “There’s such a thing as a good one?” Suzanne shrugged
> again. “It’s been difficult for him. Difficult for his family.”
> “How is he responding to Dr. Faizi?”
> “He likes her, well enough, but I think he feels more
> comfortable with you. You’ve been with him longer.” She
> glanced at the rising pile of sprouts on her plate. “It was hard for
> him to have to switch therapists at such a critical juncture.”
> Damn. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel like I was doing him any
> good.”
> “I think you underestimate yourself.”
> Annette ignored that. “So what’s the current line of attack? If
> it’s not dopamine, then what is it?”
> “Well, we’re all pretty sure Elliot’s right about the flooding.
> The indications are all there. Brooke gets a shot of adrenaline, a
> charge of emotion and, where the charge should normally shut
> off and dilute, it keeps snowballing until he’s completely
> overwhelmed. That points to at least one enzyme that’s not
> doing its job. It’s getting the emotional messages out into the
> neural junction, but its not picking up after itself... Reminds me
> of my eldest son.”
> Annette glanced up at her. She was grinning lopsidedly,
> turkey dangling from the half-eaten sandwich. Annette had to
> smile. “That simple, huh? An adolescent enzyme?”
> “Well, more or less. Transporter proteins, to be more
> specific. Well, we’ve eliminated dopamine as the offender. It
> could be...any number of other neurotransmitters. GABA,
> nrepinephrine, serotonin. It’s a matter of trial and error at this
> point.”
> “So let’s say you find the guilty party. Then what?”
> “You ought to have Elliot explain this to you. He’d do a
> much better job of it.”
> “Yes, well. I haven’t spoken to Elliot for a while.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                        419
> 
> “I thought as much. You ought to, you know...speak to him.
> It’s been hard on him, too. The stress, having you...disappear on
> him.”
> “I haven’t disappeared.”
> “Might as well have.”
> “Besides, he’s got to be loving this. This is his passion—
> neurobiology, genetics. This is what he lives for.”
> “Huh. Man does not live by neurobiology alone.” Suzanne
> studied her for a moment, making her feel naked and
> transparent.
> “Look, I don’t know what’s gone haywire between the two
> of you, but I really think you ought to talk about it.”
> Annette started to issue a defense, but Suzanne waved the
> sandwich to forestall her. “Ignore me. I’m just a nosy, backseatdriving yenta. It’s your life, hon. You’re drivin’ the car.”
> Driving the car. Funny she should say that. It reminded
> Annette forcibly of her nightmares. Of cars without brakes. Cars
> with steering wheels that broke off in her hands. She was
> driving the car. Brooke couldn’t drive his.
> Something had made of his waking moments what she only
> encountered in nightmares—forced him to live what “normal”
> people like Annette Geller only dreamed. A Nightmare
> Generator.
> And Elliot might—just might—be able to pull the plug.
> When Elliot paged her that afternoon, she was already on
> her way to his office. She surprised him by appearing within ten
> seconds of his page.
> “That was fast.”
> “I was already on my way,” she admitted. “I wanted to
> apologize for my behavior and to say...that if you still need my
> help, I’ll gladly offer it.”
> He swept a hand through his hair, making the pale forelock
> stand almost on end. “Not a moment too soon. Brooke...is
> 420                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> having a very difficult time just now. We’ve been tracking
> transporter molecules for eons of weeks and it’s getting harder
> and harder for him to wait it out.”
> “The pineal grafts-?”
> He made a dismissive gesture. “Limited effectiveness. It
> takes more to kick him into a manic episode, but when he goes,
> he goes just as deep.”
> “Suzanne tried to explain to me about the neurotransmitters
> and the flooding.”
> His expression changed. “Yeah. Yeah.” He stood up and
> came around his desk, hands gesturing. “We’re on the right
> track here, I just know it. I can feel it. It’s just a matter of
> isolating the neurotransmitters that are flooding, then
> backtracking to the transporter molecules responsible for
> cleaning them up.”
> Annette sat down in his patient chair and folded her hands
> in her lap. “Enlighten me, doctor. What’s the mechanism?”
> Elliot perched on the edge of his desk. Lecture pose, thought
> Annette, and realized how much she’d missed him.
> “Okay, look. In response to stimulus, neurotransmitters
> deliver a chemical message from one nerve cell to another. Be
> sad. Be happy. Get your hand off the stove. That sort of thing. So
> far so good?”
> She nodded.
> “When the stimulus ends, the transporter proteins or
> molecules, which are enzymes by the way, are supposed to ferry
> the neurotransmitters back to the cell of origin.”
> “Clean up committee.”
> “Exactly. Only in Brooke’s case, there is no clean up
> committee. The synapses stay flooded with the neurotransmitter
> and the system is overwhelmed.”
> “Assuming you isolate the lazy transporter, then what?”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                          421
> 
> “Then, the serious work starts. We isolate, from Brooke’s
> brain, the DNA sequences that create the transporter proteins,
> which, in turn, target the problem neurotransmitter or
> transmitters. We should be able to insert those sequences into
> lab grown cells and cause them to produce the needed
> transporters. Then, we’ll re-introduce the healthy, productive
> cells back into Brooke’s body.”
> “That probably means more grafting, then. And what, bone
> marrow transplants?”
> “Possibly. But we’re close, Annette. Really close.”
> Annette nodded. “So, suddenly Brooke is having trouble
> waiting? Now, when you’re so close to a solution?”
> “Not exactly, doc. Don’t fly off looking for self-immolation
> complexes. He’s running true to form. It’s guilt.”
> “Guilt? Oh, Valerie-”
> Elliot shook his head. “No. Valerie doesn’t have the gene.
> Brooke feels guilty that so many people are putting so much
> time and money and effort into solving his little, insignificant, if-
> I-die-it-will-go-away problem. He doesn’t think he’s worth it.”
> “Doesn’t think he’s worth it? Does he realize what’s riding
> on this research for other depressives?”
> Elliot gestured at the door. “Go give him hell, doc.”
> “What about Dr. Faizi? Hasn’t she been able to help? She’s
> so good with the terminal patients-”
> He was shaking his head. “Annette, Brooke isn’t terminal.
> He’s a relatively young man, with a young family and a lot of
> living to do. A totally different scenario. Brooke isn’t dealing
> with a biological fact that will affect the way he dies—unless
> commits suicide. He’s dealing with a biological fact that will
> affect the way he lives. He’s not surrendering control. He’s
> fighting to achieve it for the first time in his life.”
> “A faceless enemy,” murmured Annette. “That’s what he’s
> been fighting. Only your work could give the enemy a face.”
> 422                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “It’s easier to fight what you can see.”
> “And understand,” she added. “And control.” She got up
> and smoothed her jacket. “Where’s Brooke now? I’d like to see
> him.”
> “In Observation.”
> She nodded and moved to the door. “You were right, you
> know. About the control issue. I was terrified of not being able to
> stay in control of Brooke’s progress. I was terrified for him and
> for me.”
> “Because you care,” said Elliot. “That’s what you didn’t wait
> around to hear that day two months and seven days ago when
> you stormed out of here in a high dudgeon. You wanted to
> control Brooke’s progress because you care about him. I knew
> that.”
> Annette grimaced and waggled her head. “So much for my
> professional objectivity.”
> “Oh, to hell with your objectivity. I like you this way.”
> “Enough to marry me?”
> “I never took the wedding off my calendar.” The tone of his
> voice caused much dancing among her own neurotransmitters.
> She didn’t care if the clean-up crew took the rest of eternity off.
> “Dinner tonight?” she asked.
> He nodded. “And a movie?” His eyes glinted.
> “What’s playing?”
> “The Land Between Two Rivers.”
> “But I just read the book and-” She made a wry face. “Ah.
> The control freak strikes again. The movie sounds great. Right
> now, I’m going to go do my job. I’m going to tell Brooke
> Burchard just what I think he’s worth.”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                        423
> 
> �����
> 
> Brooke Burchard sat at a window table, a book open in front
> of him, his eyes on something outside. He was haggard,
> lost-looking. It was enough to make Annette want to cry out,
> “Unfair!” Unfair to booby trap someone’s body. Unfair to fill it
> with miniature terrorists that could hold an entire life hostage.
> Especially unfair to such a remarkable man as Brooke Burchard.
> Who might not be so remarkable, Annette realized, without
> his particular torment to shape him. Is there really no such thing
> as complete darkness?
> She stirred slightly in the doorway of his room, folding her
> arms over her chest in a reproving pose. “Elliot tells me you’ve
> been causing trouble.”
> He glanced up at her—a quick parry of the eyes, followed by
> a downward feint. He dog-eared the page of his book, worrying
> it.
> She entered the room, allowing the door to close behind her,
> and took the seat opposite him at the little table. “I owe you an
> apology,” she said. “A heartfelt apology. I’m sorry, Brooke. I’m
> sorry I let you down.”
> His eyes swung upward again, gauging, reading. He shook
> his head. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m the one who should
> apologize. I’ve been so much trouble.”
> “No. I’m the problem, here, not you. I want to try to explain
> to you why I quit on you.”
> “I understand-”
> “No. I don’t think so. Brooke, you could do me a big favor, if
> you would.”
> “What could I do for you?”
> “Listen to me. You’ve told me about your nightmares. I’d
> like to tell you about mine.”
> He nodded, wariness covering his eyes like a shield.
> 424                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Just before I...abandoned you to Dr. Faizi-” He started to
> protest, and she raised her hand. “No. I did abandon you. No
> excuse for that, but I want you to understand why. Just before
> that, I started having nightmares. Nightmares about driving a
> car with no brakes over an icy road. About losing control of the
> car and crashing. I failed, Brooke. I failed to control the car. And
> it scared me.
> “I quit because I couldn’t control what was happening to
> you. I wanted to cure you, I guess, with my bare hands. I
> thought, somehow, that when Elliot found a biological
> determinant in your case, it took you out of my control. And that
> if I wasn’t in control, I couldn’t help. But you never were in my
> control to begin with.”
> She glanced down at her hands, folded on the table. “The
> truth is, we’re more complex creatures than I realized and
> more...integrated, I guess. Somehow, I saw Elliot’s province as
> the body and mine as the mind, and I couldn’t see that those
> provinces are not as separate as I would have them be. I can’t do
> anything about that gene. Elliot can. But I can help you through
> the process of dealing with it...if you’ll have me back.”
> He looked doubtful. “You’re sure you want to do that? I’ve
> been so much trouble. You people are trying so hard to cure me
> and I’m hardly worth-”
> She grasped both his hands, curtailing their torture of the
> book. “That’s our job, Brooke. It’s what we do. But before you
> write yourself off as a waste of time, let me admit something to
> you. I told your wife once that a Ph.D. in psychology doesn’t
> make someone omniscient. Truth is, it doesn’t necessarily give
> them clear insights into their own workings. You’ve done that,
> though. You’ve given me insights I’ve never had.”
> He almost smiled, his mouth tugging tentatively upward at
> the corners. “I’ve helped you?”
> A Tear in the Mind’s Eye                                          425
> 
> She nodded. “Everybody has a Nightmare Generator,
> Brooke. You’re not alone in that. You helped me recognize
> mine...and control it. I owe you one. And a lot of other people
> are going to owe you, too, once Elliot comes through with his
> part in this.”
> “How do you figure that? I won’t have done anything.”
> “You’ll have stayed alive. You’ll have shown other people
> with this disorder that the search for a cure is worth wading
> through the nightmares and exorcising the ghosts. Maybe that
> will give them the courage to do what you’ve done. You can
> be...a role model.”
> He laughed outright at that. “Me? A role model?”
> “You’ve been that for me. You know yourself well, Brooke,
> because you’ve had to. That’s more than a lot of us so-called
> ’normal’ people can claim. We who do not have to fight for
> sanity may take it a bit too lightly.”
> He ducked his head—an odd, bashful gesture. “That
> thought had occurred to me.” He looked up at her, smile
> complete and roguish.
> She laughed. “Somehow, Brooke, that doesn’t surprise me....
> So, do I have my old job back?”
> He nodded.
> “Thank you,” she said.
> “Thank you.” He extended his hand to her over the table.
> She took it, shook it, and rose to leave. “I’d better check in at
> my office. See what other lessons I can learn today.”
> “Dr. Geller...”
> “Annette.”
> He nodded diffidently. “Annette. Thank you for sharing
> your nightmares with me. Somehow a nightmare shared is...just
> a bad dream.”
> Warmth. She looked at him sitting there in his hospital
> blues, weary and vulnerable and hopeful, and felt it flood from
> 426                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> core to extremities. So much for my objectivity. “We’ll share some
> good ones, too,” she told him, “I can feel it in my synapses.”
> Pipe Dreams                                                       427
> 
> Pipe Dreams
> 
> A story of science fiction
> Pipe Dreams was originally published in Analog Science
> Fiction in 1997 and is the result of a challenge between myself
> and two other writers: the first one of us to use the phrase
> “Ambush two tangerines” in a published story would be treated
> to dinner by the other two. The source of that phrase is alluded
> to in the story itself. That the main character, a defense
> programmer, is a Bahá’í is revealed only subtly, largely through
> the contents of his subconscious, which conditions even the
> symbols he embeds in his computer code.
> 
> �����
> 
> It was a normal day for Beckett Hodge. Which is to say an
> extraordinary day, for Beckett Hodge attracted extraordinary
> situations, things, and people the way black pants attract white
> cat hair.
> Beckett—‘Beck’ to wife and friends—was, to outward
> appearances, an archetype—the mild-mannered and somewhat
> nerdish professor of Computer Science, habitually forgetful and
> distracted, his mind engaged in a never-ending background
> computation. He did not drink; he did not swear; he forgot his
> own birthday and resorted to electronic wizardry to remember
> his wife’s. He was a renowned lecturer and an author, too, of
> thick, arcane tomes about AI, nano-tech and enviroprogramming, every one written in what his wife, Marian, called
> ‘technese.’
> In Beckett’s head, he was a fictioneer—a storyteller—though
> no one had ever read a word of his fiction. The clutter of
> 428                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> scientific and academic accomplishments was merely a source of
> income, something he just did, the same way that he breathed,
> ate, slept, and performed other necessary functions.
> Beckett Hodge wanted people to be as impressed with his
> fiction as they were with the rest of the things he did, but as he
> approached his thirty-sixth birthday, that goal seemed no closer
> than it had the day he first opened a word processor file to write
> about something other than neural nets, bio-computing, and
> self-policing AI security systems.
> He was bemused by his academic publisher’s lack of interest
> in seeing a work of fiction with his name on it. “You write like a
> programmer,” Terrence Lance had said, upon reading Beck’s
> synopsis for a novel. When Beckett failed to see the problem
> with that, he’d added, “Write what you know, Beck.”
> Beck disregarded the commentary. After all, the fellow
> edited and published textbooks, not novels. He had downloaded
> the synopsis to three publishers anyway, using his academic
> credits to get a foot in the electronic door. Nearly six months
> later, he was still waiting for the door to budge.
> He put that out of mind now and assembled his lecture
> notes, penned neatly on yellow legal paper. He loved the feel of
> paper between his fingers, the smell of it when he flipped a
> page. It was a soothing touch of realism for a mind that
> habitually courted the abstract. He loved the smell of magazines
> and books, too. In his vivid imagination, the pages that held his
> own fiction were especially savory.
> He brought his mind firmly back to the here and now—not
> usually so difficult a thing for a man who lived for the
> nano-second—and began his lecture on the dynamics of
> programming the mood-sensitive entertainment system.
> The hall was packed; students stood along the walls and in
> every nook and cranny that would hold a body. Beck knew his
> peers speculated about his popularity—was it the subject matter
> Pipe Dreams                                                   429
> 
> or the fact that he reminded his students of a Disney character
> who might any moment begin lecturing on “flubber” instead of
> silicon?
> When the lecture was over, Beck had a series of
> appointments: One with the head of the Life-Science
> department, one with the board of directors of a major financial
> institution, the third with his government liaison, Colonel
> Traynor. The department head wanted him to consider teaching
> another class in nano-programming, the bankers wanted to
> commission him to design one of his patented security systems
> for their customers’ valuables, Traynor was negotiating
> enhancements to a security and defense system Beck had put in
> place the year before for the Department of Defense.
> He didn’t want to teach another class in nano-tech, and said
> as much. He found it difficult to concentrate during the meeting
> with the contingent from First Continental Finance. He accepted
> the job with his mind on how he might punch up the opening of
> his latest attempt at a novel, saw the bankers out of his office,
> and settled in to grab half an hour of writing time before his
> military escort arrived to take him to his next meeting.
> He wasn’t certain he really wanted the First Continental job
> —it would distract him just that much more from his writing--
> but he supposed Marian would think him foolish to turn it
> down. And as to the military contract, he disliked working with
> the government in a vague, abstract way. They were an
> incredibly paranoid group of people. He had difficulty thinking
> the way they did, but Marian said that was because he was
> naive.
> The thought brought a smile to his wide lips. Marian could
> say things like that and mean them as compliments.
> To Beck, the DOD was a paradox: Having determined never
> to use their deadly arsenal of nuclear weaponry, they must now
> make certain no one else could use it either. It was as if a man
> 430                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> had purchased a gun to protect his home and family, only to
> decide he couldn’t bring himself to point it at anyone and pull
> the trigger. It was therefore necessary to go to great lengths to
> hide the gun, to lock it away in a series of increasingly
> forbidding vaults, complete with booby traps. The whole idea
> seemed absurd, and despite the fact that the contract would
> bring him several million dollars by completion, he would have
> still cheerfully advised the government to simply get rid of the
> gun—or at the very least to unload it and throw the bullets
> away. Instead they had opted for a vault. Now, they wanted it
> strengthened and enlarged.
> The meeting with Traynor was cordial and orderly and Beck
> could hardly wait to get away. Specs in hand, he had the driver
> take him straight home. He was in a hurry to get into his office
> to get to work. The notes on the first chapter of his novel were
> burning a hole in his briefcase.
> Marian was already home. “Took off early,” she said,
> handing him a glass of orange juice. “Had a lunch meeting with
> Liz Harris. Lord, that woman gives me a headache. Acts like
> she’s our only account. You have e-mail from a publisher.”
> It took him a full five seconds to catch that, even though
> he’d had ten years of practice sorting through the diverse
> information his wife could layer into her dialogue.
> “I what?”
> “I checked the mail.” He was already on his way into the
> office, orange juice sloshing; she raised her voice. “Some guy
> named Bourbon—Seton House, I think.”
> The name was Laurence Bourbon. The publisher was Sefton
> House. The message made a sharp, shrill tingle of anticipation
> vibrate up Beck’s spine: I’m going to be in Boston next week and I’d
> like to meet you and discuss your manuscript. You have some very
> interesting ideas and I think we can work together. Lunch Tuesday at
> the Sheraton? Please let me know if this is agreeable. His Internet
> Pipe Dreams                                                          431
> 
> address followed. There was a 3-D scan with the message,
> showing a smiling man, probably above middle age, with
> sparkling dark eyes and distinguished streaks of gray in his dark
> hair and beard.
> Shaking, Beck dropped into his chair and logged onto the
> Net. I find it very agreeable, he sent back. Around one? I have classes
> until noon. He sent back a canned scan of himself so Bourbon
> would be able to recognize him.
> The reply came while he was sitting there staring at the
> original e-mail, sipping but not tasting his orange juice. “You
> have mail,” the computer informed him.
> One is fine. Meet you in the main lobby. I look forward to it.
> Beck felt a hand on his shoulder, followed almost
> immediately by warm lips at his ear. “You’re shaking,” Marian
> murmured. “I used to do that to you, once.”
> Beck was not so much the absent-minded professor as to
> miss that cue. “Why don’t we go into town tonight? We’ll have
> dinner and go for a long walk in the Commons.”
> She was watching his hand where it lay atop the keyboard,
> fingers just caressing the keys. “We’ll grab a quick bite at
> Giovanni’s and come home. That’ll give you about three hours
> to work on chapter one. Be in bed by eleven.” She left him alone
> to save his precious messages and read the rest of his mail then,
> swaggering out of the room swirling her orange juice in the
> rounded glass as if it were expensive brandy in a snifter. He
> noticed—he always did notice—how lithe she was, how long
> and catlike. She walked like a gunslinger. He, nerd, wondered
> how he had ever managed to snare a Marian.
> The rest of the week was a blur of lectures and
> programming and anticipation. He got a lot of work done on the
> Pentagon Piece, as he called it, adding subtle and not so subtle
> nuances to his existing system. And he actually made a decent
> 432                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> start on the Bank Vault program as well. Surprising, considering
> that in every spare moment he was noodling with the novel.
> Marian’s business partner, Ruby, thought that was silly,
> “Considering,” she said, “that someone’s shown interest in the
> book as is.”
> “He may want changes,” Beck told her.
> “Mm-hmm, but will he want the ones you’re making?”
> That disconcerted him so much he spent Saturday and
> Sunday fully engaged in his programming with only half an
> afternoon out to go bike riding with Marian (his concession to
> her insistence on regular exercise) and start work on a short
> story which would no doubt end up in the same electronic file
> folder all his other unpublished short stories ended up in. He’d
> never had the temerity to publish even one of them on the Net. It
> wasn’t anonymous enough.
> 
> �����
> 
> The Sheraton was corporately bland in its ostentatiousness;
> it’s foyer gleamed with brass that reflected only muted beiges
> and peaches. The potted foliage that decorated the place wasn’t
> real, nor was it intended to look real. It was intended to look
> alien. It didn’t. It looked like naked, airbrushed manzanita and
> cinchona spangled with tiny faux seed pearls or draped with
> locks of gold and peach silk that gave the impression of
> poodle-dyed Spanish Moss.
> Beck eyed it with vague queasiness as he waited for the
> concierge to check him through to the elevator to the Tower
> suites. He was impressed in the extreme. He’d thought that the
> wealth in the publishing industry was invested in those who
> wrote, published, or owned the movie rights to the latest
> multi-generational saga, horror classic, or mucus-making
> romance. That Laurence Bourbon could afford such
> Pipe Dreams                                                       433
> 
> accommodation set him to musing about the differences
> between academic and commercial publishing. No textbook
> editor he knew could afford such luxury.
> Bourbon was a tall man, Beck’s height or better, dapperly
> dressed in a suit with gleaming white shirt and red silk tie—an
> Ascot, not a Windsor. He was polished, urbane, even suave, yet
> his face seemed open, friendly. Humor sparkled in his dark eyes.
> Beck liked him immediately and allowed his hopes to rise. More
> so, when he saw a printed copy of his manuscript sitting in the
> middle of the round, glass-topped table at which Bourbon bid
> him seat himself.
> “Dr. Hodge,” the publisher said expansively, sitting
> opposite him.
> “Uh, Beckett, please...or Beck...whichever.”
> There was a carafe of coffee on the table; Bourbon spoke as
> he poured. “Beckett, then. I’m very glad we could meet like this.
> And on such short notice.” He put down the carafe and laid both
> hands flat on the manuscript. “I don’t mind telling you, this is
> quite a book.”
> Beck could feel his skin flushing. “I don’t mind hearing it.
> I’m surprised you actually wasted the paper to print it. Surely, a
> cyber-reader...”
> “False modesty, Beckett, seldom impresses an editor. This is
> a good book. Very solid. Exciting plot. Interesting characters.
> Especially Martin, your programmer/mage. Your knowledge of
> programming certainly comes through.”
> Beck chuckled. “My textbook editor says I write like a
> programmer. He’s suggested to me that I should stick to
> academics and leave fiction to people with imagination.”
> Bourbon shook his head. “I can only think he’s afraid of
> losing you to fiction. This novel shows a vivid imagination. At
> the same time, you apply your science extremely well. I’m
> 434                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> impressed...obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. I hope you don’t
> mind my idle chatter, but I like to get to know my writers.”
> His writers. Beck had the absurd desire to grin. He gave in to
> it and hid the grin in his coffee.
> “Now, as to possible contracts,” Bourbon continued, then
> shot a glance at his watch. “I’ve an appointment shortly—could
> you drop by this evening...oh, around seven-ish? We could
> discuss terms..?” He spread his hands, leaving the ball in Beck’s
> court.
> Beck was ready to jump at that but remembered before he’d
> opened his mouth to accept, that Marian had no idea what was
> going on. “Can we do it tomorrow? My wife and I have a rule.
> We never make last minute, solo plans without consulting each
> other—especially after hours.”
> Bourbon’s brows twitched. “There’s the phone.”
> “She’s on a buying expedition today. It...it wouldn’t be fair
> to her to spring this on her. She might have—er—plans for us
> this evening.” He flushed, hoping Bourbon wouldn’t inquire as
> to what kind of plans.
> “A possessive woman, your wife?”
> Beck had the impression the questioning tone was tacked on
> as an after thought. “No, she’s not really. Well, I mean, she is—
> but we both are. It’s hard to explain, but we both have such
> hectic schedules and put in such long days; our time together is
> very precious to both of us. Tomorrow, maybe...” He trailed off,
> feeling vaguely idiotic—like a man who’s won the lottery only to
> balk at having to go down to the bank to pick up the check.
> Bourbon’s smile was quick and bright. “Tomorrow’s fine.
> Some more coffee?”
> Beck relaxed into the depths of his chair as they discussed
> some changes to the manuscript—all of which seemed
> impossibly minor. He left the Sheraton riding the crest of an
> adrenaline wave, eager to bring Bourbon a slightly reworked
> Pipe Dreams                                                        435
> 
> first chapter. He got home, had the house play an entire library
> of Vivaldi and Blue Oyster Cult, and worked on the book for
> what only seemed like minutes before Marian’s appearance at
> his office door interrupted him.
> “What’re you doing home?” she asked, brow wrinkling.
> “Don’t you have classes this afternoon?”
> He stared at her for a full two seconds before he realized she
> was right. He did have classes this afternoon—or rather, he
> would have, if he’d remembered to go to them. Swift heat
> suffused his skin. “I...”
> “Lost all track of time,” Marian finished for him. She
> laughed, leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Beck, honey, I
> think you’re halfway to discovering the secret of time travel.”
> “What’s up?” The female voice came over Marian’s shoulder
> from the doorway.
> Beck mumbled, “Hi, Ruby,” and tried to decide whether he
> should get up and race down to the campus in an attempt to
> retrieve his last class of the day, or to just call in and plead that
> he’d felt ill (cough, cough), taken a nap and...lost all track of
> time.
> Marian’s partner, Ruby Wilson sauntered into his office,
> arms folded across her substantial chest and said, “You’re not
> supposed to be here.”
> “Save file,” he told the computer. He looked up at her. “Are
> you having a secret meeting?”
> The two women glanced at each other. “Yes,” said Ruby,
> “we’re part of a coven of cyber-witches and we’re having a ritual
> sacrifice this afternoon in your backyard.”
> “No, no.” Marian shook her head. “That’s Tuesday. Today is
> the secret swearing-in ceremony for the new members...and, of
> course—”
> “The orgy,” finished Ruby, nodding. “How could I forget?”
> 436                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “So are you just going to sit there?” Marian had folded her
> arms across her chest, too, and was glancing between him and
> the antique walnut wall clock that hung over the mantelpiece.
> “Shouldn’t you go over and catch the fallout?”
> “I could call...”
> “You could,” agreed Marian, “but then again, you could still
> catch your last class.”
> Beck glanced at his computer screen—longingly. His sense
> of responsibility kicked in hard. He saved the file a second time,
> idled the machine, popped out the memory core, pocketed it and
> headed for his car.
> The two women watched him from the lanai at the front of
> the house, side by side, waving at him. Like conspirators, he
> thought, then wondered where the hell that had come from. It
> came to him as a surprise that he hadn’t told Marian about his
> book deal. It came to him as an even greater surprise that he was
> reluctant to tell her. He was a man who often dealt in secrets,
> and, because of this, he shared everything he could with Marian.
> It was odd, he thought, that this secret was one he rather
> relished keeping.
> He was just able to salvage his last class, then logged onto
> the school Net to apologize to the students he had stranded,
> promising not to let it happen again. Then he went home. Ruby
> was gone when he got there, and Marian, fresh from a shower,
> was sipping orange juice on the lanai while the house audio
> system gave forth the sylvan sounds of a Northwest Coast rain
> forest.
> “So, talk to me,” she said, when he’d kissed her forehead
> and folded himself into the seat across from her at the bistro
> table. “How was the appointment this morning?”
> He hesitated, but the secret refused to remain a secret. He
> grinned. “It was terrific, Marian. Absolutely terrific. This guy
> Pipe Dreams                                                     437
> 
> really likes my book. Really likes it. He had some suggestions for
> improving the first couple of chapters-”
> “Did you sign a contract?”
> “Not yet, but-”
> “You shouldn’t really make changes until you see the whites
> of President Grant’s eyes.”
> He stared at her, bemused. “He wants the book, Marian. He
> just wants to see if I can correct a few things.”
> She nodded. “What was the name of the publisher again? I
> told Ruby it was Seton. She said I must’ve meant Sefton. It isn’t
> Sefton, is it?”
> “It’s...” He broke off and looked at her. That question had an
> agenda behind it; he could tell by the tone of her voice and the
> fact that she was gazing into the bottom of her OJ glass, not into
> his eyes. “It’s Sefton. Why?”
> “Do you know what their last big publication was?”
> “Not right off hand.”
> “Voice from a Burning Bush by Ibrahim X.”
> Beck shook his head.
> Marian leaned forward and grasped a handful of the hair at
> the back of his head. “Sometimes, my beloved husband, you are
> too much of a nerd to live. Ibrahim X was the self-proclaimed
> ringleader of the Shalom/Salaam terrorist group. You might
> have heard of them if you read the news we subscribe to. Sefton
> made a killing on his book, which is basically a ‘how-to’ manual
> for wannabe terrorists and a self-serving justification for mass
> murder. It generated a heated first amendment debate in
> Congress and all sorts of bad press for Sefton, the net effect of
> which was record book sales and handsome royalties for one
> and all.” She stopped talking and just looked at him.
> He waited a beat. “And?”
> 438                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Her grip on his hair tightened. “You’re going to deal with
> these people? People who’ve figured out a legal way to make a
> buck from terrorism?”
> Beck did not swear. Marian did occasionally, and he had no
> doubt she would be doing it shortly if he did not answer her
> questions in the appropriate manner. Beck, mounted on the
> horns of a dilemma that was at once clear and impenetrable,
> wished he did swear. A good solid, ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ would feel
> somehow purging. Instead he asked, “Are you sure?”
> “I’m sure about the book and the author. Ruby’s sure about
> the publisher.” She let go of his hair. “Seriously, Beck. How can
> you do business with people like that?”
> “Sefton is a big company. I’m sure their fiction department-”
> “Cop out.” She got up from the table, chair sliding back with
> a metallic groan.
> “Marian...”
> “Cop out, cop out, cop out.” She disappeared into the house,
> the door sliding behind her with a slight popping sound. The
> rain forest fell silent. Some of Marian’s exits, Beck thought, really
> ought to be followed by the sound of a door slamming.
> They argued about it further over dinner. He refused to
> make commitments of either feeling or intellect and she refused
> to see what a rejection of Bourbon’s offer (or potential offer)
> meant to him.
> He was not good at verbalizing emotion, but in the eleventh
> hour, he gave it a good shot. “Look, Marian. Try to understand. I
> see the bigger moral issues, really I do. But they’re not my
> issues. I just want to publish some science fiction. It has nothing
> to do with Mr. X or his book. I may be a hot shot when it comes
> to AI systems, but I’m nobody when it comes to fiction. Bourbon
> could change that. This is something I’ve dreamed about for
> years. For decades. My fiction in print, Marian. My name on a
> book.”
> Pipe Dreams                                                     439
> 
> “And what about principles, Beckett? Your principles.”
> He shook his head.
> She went to see Ruby. He removed himself to his office and
> pecked at his manuscript, all the while imagining the two of
> them, hunched in a booth in their favorite latté bar, dissecting
> his character as if he were a piece of bad fiction. In the backwash
> of angst, his POV character took on a decidedly cynical bent.
> Marian didn’t get home until after eleven, making a
> mockery, Beck thought, of everything he’d said to Laurence
> Bourbon about their “rules.” He was lying in bed, feeling a little
> betrayed, when she lowered herself into bed next to him. They
> drifted into sleep without touching.
> 
> �����
> 
> By morning, Marian was curled in Beck’s arms and he had a
> hazy memory of hot sex during which he had played a
> decidedly non-aggressive role. He thought he’d dreamed of
> Marian riding through a stormy sea dolphin-back. It was a
> strangely erotic image. He wondered if he might make use of it
> fictionally.
> She fixed breakfast for him. That was an unspoken apology,
> but she was still nettled by the whole terrorist thing. “You know,
> it’s possible that your publisher friend even knows who Ibrahim
> X is—and where he is.”
> “I doubt it.”
> “Well, think of it, Beck. Money has to change hands,
> manuscripts have to be delivered. Even if it’s all done through
> an agent of some sort, somebody must know something.”
> He glanced up at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “And?”
> “He’s wanted by the World Tribunal, for godsake. He’s a
> criminal. If somebody knows where he is, they should turn him
> in.”
> 440                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Look, Marian. ‘Somebody’ knew where Salman Rushdie
> was for years, but his enemies were kept in the dark until their
> regime fell. These people are obviously clever.”
> “So are you.”
> Hair stood up on the back of his neck. “You want me to spy?
> What—vigilante espionage? I’m not a spy, Marian. I’m a
> programmer.”
> “A programmer whose business is to thwart spies.”
> “Not even in the same county, Marian.” He got up and
> collected his briefcase. “I’m a nerd. A nerd who writes science
> fiction. If I wrote spy novels, I could see how you might get the
> idea that I could do counter-espionage. But I don’t write spy
> novels, and I’m not even going to be working with the editor
> who handled the Burning Bush manuscript.”
> “Are you sure?” she asked.
> He wasn’t sure, but he pretended to be. What would a
> science fiction editor be doing with a controversial non-fiction
> manuscript? “Here’s another thought for you and Ruby to toss
> around,” Beck said as he headed for the door. “What if the
> whole thing’s a hoax? What if they got some ghost writer to
> make all this up based on news files and just promoted it as the
> real terrorist?”
> “That’s dishonest. You’re telling me you’d work with a
> publisher you knew was dishonest?”
> He left without answering the question.
> 
> �����
> 
> He had only morning classes today and spent the afternoon
> until nearly 3:00 working on his commercial programming
> contract. The bank routines were proving problematic.
> Continental wanted some of the same safeguards he had
> incorporated into the DOD software, but national security
> Pipe Dreams                                                    441
> 
> dictated against his using the same code or anything remotely
> like it. As a result, he had to come up with new approaches to
> old problems—a nice enough challenge, but Beck was soon
> frustrated with the number of times he had to pull himself up
> short, realizing he was on too familiar ground.
> At 3:15, he kept an appointment with Bourbon in his
> Sheraton suite, bringing along his edited pages to show.
> Bourbon read them in complete silence—not so much as a ‘hmm’
> or a nod or a throat clearing to mark his progress. Beck sipped a
> virgin daiquiri and wriggled like a middle-school kid at his first
> dance.
> In the end, the editor raised his head and smiled. “Good
> edits, Beckett. I especially like the rougher edges you’ve put on
> Martin James.” He paused, nodded. “I think we can work
> together.” He rubbed his palms together in some sort of
> symbolic gesture, then reached out to shake Beck’s hand. “Now,
> about contracts. I’ll have them downloaded from Sefton so you
> can go over them tonight, review the terms and sign them at
> your leisure. I’m going to be in town a few more days, as it
> happens.”
> Beck nodded. “Uh. Terms?”
> “Well, in view of your other work—your scientific
> publications, et al, I’ve been authorized to offer you an advance
> of twenty thousand against royalties.”
> Beck was still nodding. “Twenty that’s...that’s great.” Damn
> Marian, anyway, he swore silently. He should have been savoring
> this but wasn’t because she and Ruby had raised the shade of
> Conscience. “Um, I was curious. Sefton published Voice from a
> Burning Bush didn’t they?”
> Bourbon’s eyebrows rose delicately. “Yes, we did.”
> “You wouldn’t have been the editor to handle that property,
> would you?”
> “Why do you ask?”
> 442                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “My wife was...curious about how that sort of thing is
> handled. I mean with the author being...who he is and all.” He
> offered up a half-hearted smile. “I think she fancies I might get
> into writing spy novels or something.”
> Bourbon’s mouth tilted wryly. “I’m afraid I’m just a science
> fiction editor. Mr. X did not enter Sefton through the servant’s
> quarters, I assure you. He had an editor from the non-fiction side
> of the aisle.”
> Beck shook his head. “Servant’s quarters? I don’t get it.”
> “Inside joke of the genre ghetto, Beckett. Finish your drink.
> I’ll get those contracts going.”
> Beck glanced at his watch. “How long will it take to
> download them? My wife...” He broke off, clearing his throat.
> He was relieved when Bourbon didn’t react.
> “I understand. It will take but a moment.”
> During that moment, Bourbon came back to the table and
> seated himself, pouring Beck a fresh, cold refill of creamy, pink
> crushed ice. “You know, Beckett, I really hoped we’d have an
> opportunity to talk programming. I’ve got this little AI project
> I’m working on for Sefton—” He broke off with a
> self-deprecatory smile. “Well, I’m only coordinating it, actually.
> I’ll probably hire a real programmer to do it, but I’d like to at
> least help design it.”
> Beck was immediately interested. “Oh? A maintenance
> system, security—which?”
> “A little of both, actually. You’d be surprised at the type of
> security problems we have in the publishing industry. Especially
> a house like Sefton that has a number of celebrity clients.”
> Beck sipped at the daiquiri, trying to hide behind it. “Like
> Ibrahim X?”
> “Yes, like that. Like J. R. Koenig. I can’t tell you the number
> of times our system has been hacked into and his manuscripts
> downloaded and distributed over the Net before we can get
> Pipe Dreams                                                        443
> 
> them to press. There’s a lot of money lost there for our cyberpress division, as you can imagine. Koenig even tried
> downloading a manuscript to us under his wife’s name and email account. The hackers still got to it before we could publish
> it.”
> “Sounds like it could be an inside job,” Beck said. “Are you
> sure you can trust everyone who’s working for you?”
> Bourbon grimaced. “You may be right. And no, I’m not
> certain of everyone in our employ. But I thought, perhaps with
> your advice... I’m, em, not above taking advantage of this
> situation. I hope you don’t mind.” His smile betrayed
> embarrassment.
> Beck flushed, smiling. “Of course not. I’d be happy to talk
> shop with you.”
> “Tomorrow night, perhaps? A late dinner here?”
> “Ah...how late?”
> “Ninish?”
> “I don’t know if I can, on such short notice, but I’ll try.” For
> the first time, Beck felt a spark of resentment for Marian’s
> possessiveness. It was embarrassing to seem so...well,
> hen-pecked. He had the absurd desire to puff out his chest and
> proclaim adamantly that he most certainly would be there for
> dinner the next evening. He opened his mouth, but nothing
> came out.
> “I’d appreciate it,” said Bourbon. “I’m really quite stumped
> by our hacker/thief.”
> 
> �����
> 
> When Beckett left the Sheraton, he was surprised to find
> himself standing on a lamp lit street. Somehow it had grown
> dark while he chatted with Laurence Bourbon. Puzzling, but not
> distractingly so. He drove home in a haze of buoyant cheer,
> 444                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> ready to reconcile with Marian. But, though her car was parked
> in the curving drive when he arrived home, the house was dark.
> Out with Ruby, no doubt, who would commiserate with her
> about having a husband who stood her up for dinner without
> notice. The aroma of Kung Pao still hung in the kitchen, making
> Beck salivate. Guilt warred with irritation and hunger. He
> grabbed a white carton from the refrigerator and headed for his
> office, deciding he’d work on the First Continental program
> while he waited Marian out. He would save the contracts for
> later, when he could savor them.
> He slipped the memory core into the computer, put on VR
> half-helm and gloves, and let himself into the program. It was a
> bigger mess than he remembered—a crazy quilt of mismatched
> security failsafes. He was deep into it, working on a lock for one
> of the bank’s massive data vaults when a blinding flash of light
> all but knocked him from his chair. His head felt suddenly cool
> and light, as if—
> “Beckett Hodge, what the hell are you doing?” Marian
> emerged from the haze of light wearing a rumpled, over-large
> Red Sox t-shirt, her short hair an auburn riot. She held his
> half-helm in one white knuckled hand.
> “I...was waiting for you.”
> “To do what? Take up sleepwalking? Do you have any idea
> how worried I’ve been? First I thought you’d mutated into a
> jerk, and then I thought maybe you’d been kidnapped by
> corporate spies or aliens or something, and then I started having
> these visions of you lying in a ditch somewhere. Where were
> you?”
> “I had a meeting with Laurence Bourbon—you knew that.
> He’s given me a contract to sign.”
> “And that took until one a.m.?”
> Beck felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of the room.
> “One..? That’s impossible.”
> Pipe Dreams                                                       445
> 
> “You wear a watch. Use it.”
> He did wear a watch, when he remembered to put it on. He
> pulled up his sleeve. Evidently this morning he had not
> remembered. He tilted the naked wrist so Marian could see it.
> “The world is full of clocks, Beckett. Your car has a clock.
> Your computer has a clock. Your pager has a clock. This office
> has a clock, although it’s damned hard to see in the dark. Are
> you telling me you didn’t glance at any of them?”
> “No. I didn’t.” How had time slipped away from him like
> that? How could he possibly have gone into the Sheraton at 3:15
> in the afternoon and come out at—he hastily back-tracked,
> trying to calculate how long he’d been working on the First
> Continental project—10:30 p.m.?
> Marian threw his half-helm into his lap. “I’m going back to
> bed. Now that I know you’re not dead or kidnapped, I don’t
> particularly care what you do.” She turned and made a patented
> Marian exit.
> “Marian...”
> “You could have called,” she slung over her shoulder.
> “I’m sorry.”
> “You could have left a message on my pager.” She was
> heading up the stairs into the loft. The trapdoor door slammed.
> The house was silent. Beck sat in the semi-darkness of his
> office, half-helm in his gloved hands, feeling singularly
> confused.
> By morning he had a plan of action. He would make it up to
> Marian. He would woo her. He would win her back. It was
> Saturday and Beck took full advantage of it. He had the bakery
> deliver scones. He made strong Arabicus coffee. He cut roses
> from a convenient bush that hung over the wall from their
> neighbor’s prize-winning garden.
> Marian was surprised, pleased, and appeased. So much that
> when Ruby called to see if she wanted to go antique store
> 446                                                I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> hopping, Marian turned her down in favor of a weekend with
> Beck at a resort north of Marblehead. He effectively forgot about
> First Continental, Laurence Bourbon and his contracts until late
> Sunday evening.
> 
> �����
> 
> There were three messages for him from Bourbon when he
> finally got back to his computer again. They all said the same
> thing: Hope everything is all right. Have to return to New York
> Tuesday. Tied up all day Monday. Must meet Monday evening if
> you’re interested in a book deal. Around eight, my hotel. Bring
> contracts; hope you’ll stay late to talk revisions and programming. My
> apologies to your wife.
> Beck pondered his options, which were exactly one—he had
> to meet with Bourbon and complete the deal. Marian would just
> have to understand.
> She did not understand. “His apologies? Why didn’t he just
> include me in? Doesn’t he want to meet your fabulous wife?
> What’ve you been telling him about me?”
> “I haven’t told him anything about you. I mean, nothing
> negative. He wants to pick my brain a little about programming.
> Something I know you find incredibly boring.”
> “Not boring, just mystifying. Programming is like...invoking
> ancient gods. You know—mumbo-jumbo, hoodoo-voodoo, open
> sesame, and a partridge in a pear tree.”
> “Fine, mystifying then. At any rate it’s not something
> you’d-”
> “And why do you let people take advantage of you that
> way?”
> “Take advantage of me? Marian, the man wants to publish
> my book. He even wants to pay me for it. How in heaven’s name
> could he take advantage of me? He has a little security problem,
> Pipe Dreams                                                     447
> 
> that’s all. Some hacker’s been into his e-mail, seems to know
> whenever J. R. Koenig turns in a novel; he snags it and publishes
> in on the Internet before it can get to press.”
> She whistled. She could do that. It was something he vastly
> admired, but just now he found it annoying. “And you’re so
> fascinated, you’re going to give this guy free advice.”
> “We hardly need the money.”
> She shrugged and he read into the shrug all sorts of censure.
> “Did you ask about Ibrahim X?”
> “He had nothing to do with that, personally.”
> “His house still published the book.”
> Beck got up from the sofa they shared and headed for his
> office. “I have some work to do.”
> “Avoidance tactic,” she called after him. “That’s cheap,
> Beckett. Really cheap. Ruby says-”
> “I’m getting damn tired of what Ruby says,” he muttered.
> “I heard that.” She got up and followed him from the room,
> something she never did during their rare arguments. But then,
> he never swore. “You never swear,” she accused him. “What’s
> gotten into you? And why this sudden antipathy toward Ruby?”
> Beck flopped down in the chair behind his desk and rubbed
> the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m
> tired. I’m keyed up. I’m on the verge of maybe publishing
> something...”
> “Well, hell, if publishing something’s going to make you
> behave like a witch with sore tits, I’m not sure I want you to get
> published.”
> He looked at her, balefully, he hoped. He’d never looked at
> anyone balefully before, so his face wasn’t quite sure what it felt
> like. “Maybe that’s the problem, Marian. Maybe you don’t want
> me to get published...for reasons known only to yourself.”
> She turned and left the room, leaving him free to make
> whatever late night dinner plans he desired. He dropped
> 448                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Bourbon an e-mail at the Sheraton confirming the engagement,
> and dove into his government project files.
> It was very late when he finally crawled into bed—or very
> early, depending on how one looked at it. He was frustrated. He
> wanted to be writing fiction, not noodling computer code, and
> the effort to keep his mind on his work left him irritable and
> sapped. Yet, when he’d switched to a piece of short fiction
> around one a.m., he’d quickly discovered that guilt was just as
> debilitating a disease as frustration.
> He gave up at about 1:30 and rolled onto his side of the bed,
> perching there horizontally as if he were sleeping on the edge of
> a cliff. Marian did not, as was her habit, trespass onto his dream
> turf and he did not trespass onto hers. They slept the entire night
> on either side of an imaginary line that bisected their mattress
> with perfect parity.
> She was gone when he awoke in the morning, having
> evidently risen before the alarm went off and disabled the
> system. It was a cheap and childish thing to do and made Beck
> ten minutes late for his first class. He was determined to get
> even, which was strange. Halfway through the afternoon, he
> realized he’d left his computer’s memory core at home. That was
> also strange. He swore he’d put it into his briefcase just as he’d
> done every morning for the last five years, but it wasn’t there
> when he opened the case, and in its place was a copy of Voice
> from a Burning Bush. Obviously Marian’s work. Fuming further,
> he went home to get the core.
> Ruby’s car was in front of the house when he got there. His
> lip curled in distaste. He had always liked Marian’s business
> partner, but lately he’d come to realize how much she reminded
> him of a pit bull in a Christian Dior suit. The image was funny.
> He was almost laughing by the time he entered the house
> through the kitchen door. The women were nowhere in sight,
> but he could hear their voices. Probably haggling over some
> Pipe Dreams                                                     449
> 
> piece of wallpaper—should the Feinmans have a nice rose
> pattern or Navajo white with a holographic life-scene?
> He slipped into his office and got the core from where
> Marian had left it in a potted plant; he caught the obvious
> symbology. God, but she was unsubtle.
> Core in hand, he headed back out into the kitchen, reaching
> it just as Marian and Ruby did. The two women were lounging
> along side-by-side, arms about each other, eyes locked in an
> intimate smile. He stopped and stared at them staring back at
> him. Marian started to pull away from Ruby, but the other
> woman held her fast. Beck’s blood felt like liquid nitrogen. This
> could not possibly be happening. Marian was completely and
> unrepentantly heterosexual. He’d have bet his life on it.
> “Hi, Beck,” said Ruby, her brown eyes amused. “Fancy
> meeting you here.”
> “Oh, dear,” said Marian, and put her hands to her mouth.
> Marian never said, ‘Oh, dear.’ ‘Oh, damn,’ maybe. But never
> ‘Oh, dear.’ What had this woman done to his wife?
> “Wh-wh-what..?” he stammered.
> Ruby shrugged, glanced at Marian, then smiled—no,
> grinned—at Beck. “Caught in the act,” she said. “Or nearly so.”
> Marian giggled and shrugged. “Sorry, Beck.”
> The tableau froze just like that—hung, like a bad piece of
> spaghetti code. Reality.sys corrupted, read a tiny monitor in Beck’s
> head. Reboot universe, Y/N? Somewhere in the room, a persistent,
> rhythmic beeping started. The microwave, he thought. Who turned
> on the microwave?
> Marian opened her mouth. “The time is seven a.m.,” she
> said. “The time is seven a.m. Coffee has been brewed.
> Instructions?”
> The scene dissolved in a foggy special effect and Beck found
> himself staring at sunlight filtering in through the sliding glass
> 450                                               I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> door that gave onto the loft’s balcony. “The time is seven a.m.,”
> the house repeated. “Coffee has been brewed. Instructions?”
> Beck sat up, the dream clinging to the inside of his head like
> mildew. He shook it. A futile gesture. “Where’s Marian?” he
> asked.
> “Marian has left the house,” said the house.
> Which meant she was still mad at him. He thought about
> calling her, but did not. He got up, showered, dressed, ate a
> meager breakfast and went to school. After his second lecture,
> when he realized he had forgotten to bring his computer core,
> his stomach tied itself in a double granny. He would not go
> home. Instead, he called the house from a terminal in his office
> at the school and asked it to turn on his desktop and download
> the files he needed. On the verge of breaking the connection, he
> hesitated. Skin clammy, stomach protesting, he asked, “House,
> where is Marian?”
> “Marian is home,” said the house.
> He hesitated long enough to have the house computer
> prompt him. “Instructions?”
> “Is she alone?”
> “No. Ruby Marsalis is also in the house.”
> He cut the connection, checked the time and left the campus.
> Obviously his dream was, if not prophetic, at least a subliminal
> message from himself to himself about the state of Marian’s
> relationship with Ruby. He, who confronted nothing that could
> be avoided, would confront them.
> Marian’s minivan sat in the driveway, its nether regions full
> of carpet and drapery samples. He rounded the house and cut
> through the garden, gliding up the back steps and noiselessly
> opening the kitchen door.
> “I don’t believe it,” he said.
> Pipe Dreams                                                     451
> 
> The two women were seated at the kitchen table, coffee in
> hand, poring over the flat display of an electronic drafting pad.
> Their heads came up in unison.
> Marian frowned. “What’s wrong, Beck?”
> “How can you ask me that?” He gestured with both hands.
> “The two of you...together...here.”
> They exchanged a look. “And?” prompted Ruby. “What’s
> unusual about that?”
> “Nothing, now that I think of it. Dear God, you’re always
> together like this. Why didn’t I see it?”
> “See what?” asked Marian.
> “You two are lovers.”
> The two of them gaped at him, then Ruby threw back her
> head and laughed. When Marian joined her, Beckett turned and
> let himself out the way he’d come.
> 
> �����
> 
> Beck very pointedly did not answer any communication
> from Marian for the rest of the day. He went downtown well in
> advance of his dinner appointment with Bourbon. To while
> away the hours, he availed himself of the hotel bar, got out a
> borrowed notebook computer and tried to write.
> He began drinking lattés around six and had had four of
> them by the time Laurence Bourbon spotted him and came over
> to say hello. There was another man with him, a tall, thin fellow
> with an amazing tan and gleaming black hair, who he
> introduced as Zev Darren—an art director at Sefton.
> They dined in Bourbon’s suite, and Darren captivated
> Beckett with talk of book covers. After dinner, the art director
> was called to his computer to answer some urgent e-mail. Beck
> turned over his signed contracts to Laurence Bourbon.
> “No questions?” Bourbon asked.
> 452                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Beck, lounging in a futurist’s idea of a recliner with a cup of
> cappuccino in hand, wagged his head, feeling remarkably
> relaxed considering the stress of the day and the sheer amount
> of caffeine he had consumed. “But I believe you had something
> to ask me.”
> Bourbon smiled. “Indeed.” He leaned forward on his sofa.
> “This cyber-crook really has me baffled. Are there any traps I
> could lay for him—any lockouts I could devise—that would
> keep him from breaking and entering?”
> Beck nodded and yawned. “I don’t know if I can explain
> them to you, though.”
> Bourbon frowned. “Well, I am somewhat of a hacker, myself
> —an amateur, certainly, but I think I might understand.
> Still...could I record our conversation? What I don’t understand,
> I’m sure one of our programmers could.”
> Beck agreed, and Bourbon got his recorder and popped in a
> tiny optical disk. He grinned in a way that belied his
> sophistication, a telltale hacker-gleam in his eye and said, “I
> really appreciate this, Beckett.”
> In that moment they achieved rapport. Laurence Bourbon
> asked questions, and Beck answered them enthusiastically. It
> was easy stuff, but it got Larry (Beck found it easy to think of
> him as “Larry” suddenly) sitting on the edge of his seat. Beck felt
> like doing the same, but no matter how much internal
> enthusiasm he generated for the subject matter, he couldn’t seem
> to get his body to reflect it.
> Zev Darren, he noticed, had no interest in hacker-babble. He
> had evidently finished with his e-mail and was immersed in a
> computer game, his face half hidden by a VR helm. Not unlike
> Marian, Beck thought, Darren obviously saw the computer as an
> entertainer. He leaned back in his chair and chattered on.
> Pipe Dreams                                                      453
> 
> �����
> 
> When he left the Sheraton sometime after midnight, Beck
> was tired but exhilarated. He had a contract in his pocket; his
> novel would be published within the next year. In the elevator,
> he paused to savor the signing, but found the memory imprecise
> and hazy. Despite the virgin daiquiris and cappuccinos, he’d
> come close to dozing several times during the evening;
> exhaustion had robbed him of his moment of glory. He blamed
> Marian, who, after all, had caused him to lose sleep.
> Well, he’d sleep tonight—or rather, this morning. He
> checked his watch as he crossed the lobby: 12:22. Small wonder
> the place was subdued. He glanced toward the concierge. There
> was no one in attendance. There was no one in the lobby at all,
> in fact.
> He shrugged as the brass and glass doors slid open before
> him, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. It clacked back at him
> as if he wore taps on the heels of his shoes. He glanced down at
> his feet; the concrete gleamed a grooved black, like obsidian
> scored with a fine-toothed comb. He looked up. Gone was the
> city street, the cars, the buildings, the street lamps, the painted
> curbing, the traffic signals. There were, in fact, no intersections
> for traffic signals to preside over. The glossy surface beneath him
> curved away to the right and left in a flat arc and, while the
> Sheraton’s bulk still loomed comfortingly behind him, the rest of
> Boston had vanished.
> Beck could have fled back into the hotel, but he didn’t;
> curiosity had gotten the better of more sensible fear. He moved
> forward, toward the center of the curving track and a circular
> red patch with a tall steel pole in the middle of it. As he crossed
> the odd tarmac toward the shaft, it occurred to him to wonder
> what light source allowed him to see either color or form. He
> could see none. The sky was an unrelieved, light-sucking black
> 454                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> with not so much as a star to brighten it. Despite that, the shiny
> spindle gleamed softly in its field of bright, unambiguous red.
> Heels in the black, toes in the red, Beck put hands on his
> knees and peered down. Letters stared back at him. The letters
> formed words and the words formed a recognizable phrase:
> THE PLANETS—Holst. The score, directionless, ambient, now
> oozed out at him from some unseen source.
> Beckett Hodge straightened and gazed right and left. He
> was standing, he realized, on an immense record album. Not a
> CD or an OD, but a titanic, archaic, vinyl platter. He turned and
> made his way toward the outer edge of the record, discovering
> the source of the light. At the turntable’s rim, softly glowing
> walls rose into a haze of ambient light. As Beck tried to decide
> whether he should have noticed this feature of the place before,
> the turntable began to move.
> He allowed it to carry him along away from the familiarity
> of the hotel. He had come to the inevitable conclusion than he
> was asleep and dreaming, and that, dreaming, he was exploring
> his own subconscious. He knew a moment of intense
> embarrassment at the realization that wherever his mind was,
> his body was still in Larry Bourbon’s suite in a shameful state of
> repose.
> He was hearing “Mars,” now and hummed along tunelessly,
> watching the glowing, featureless walls move imperceptibly by.
> Curious. How can one know one is in motion if one cannot observe the
> evidence of motion?
> As “Mars” continued to play, Beck noticed changes in his
> environment. The album beneath his feet was now carrying him
> toward a golden hoop that protruded from the glowing wall
> some yards ahead at a height of about twenty feet. The hoop,
> like the walls, seemed to gleam with its own light. It was turned
> on edge, its open circle facing him. He thought of brass rings and
> carousels, which were not unlike turntables in their basic design.
> Pipe Dreams                                                     455
> 
> It was a consistency that both delighted and comforted him.
> Approaching the hoop, he wondered if he could manipulate the
> dream plane.
> That train of thought derailed when he noticed a mist
> gathering around the golden circle. It seemed to issue from
> nowhere, surrounding the ring, flowing through it, then
> lowering itself toward the turntable. Obvious symbology. His
> particular brass ring was the book contract he had just signed;
> the mist was something that attempted to obscure it from him.
> As he was pondering the mist, the turntable slowed
> perceptibly and a wire basket filled with soccer balls appeared to
> his right along the wall. Beck started to analyze exactly how the
> basket had appeared and what it might mean, then decided,
> instead, to accept the playful nature of the dream. He reached
> into the basket as he passed by it, fished out one of the balls, and
> lobbed it through the hoop, expecting to miss.
> As this was a dream, he did not miss; the shot was perfect,
> soaring through the ring without touching any part of its
> gleaming rim. If only he might have done that in high school.
> Beck laughed and turned to get another ball. The basket was
> gone. A tone sounded—like a crystal goblet struck with a mallet.
> Overhead, the mist sucked away into the noplace it had come
> from and the hoop went dark. The turntable picked up speed.
> Beck knew this without knowing how he knew it. There was no
> breeze, the walls gave up nothing but diffuse light; he simply
> knew.
> Another ring appeared high on the curving wall ahead. A
> basket of balls awaited his approach. This time, the turntable
> didn’t slow, but continued on at a leisurely pace. Beck snagged a
> soccer ball and put it through the hoop with pinpoint accuracy.
> Perhaps it was the sixth hoop or the seventh at which Beck
> decided he no longer wanted to play. He was bored and the
> turntable was moving more briskly; he wasn’t convinced he
> 456                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> could make the shot. He wasn’t convinced he cared enough to
> try.
> He approached the hoop, lazily dribbling the soccer ball off
> the grooved surface beneath his feet. When he had by-passed the
> point at which he usually threw, the turntable slowed. He
> continued to dribble the ball, glancing toward the center of the
> record. The cut was “Uranus.” He could no longer see the
> spindle.
> Movement above him drew his eyes back to the great golden
> ring. The vapor that had surrounded it seconds before was
> sinking toward him.
> An icy cold prickled over his skin. The vapor was
> malevolent; he was absolutely certain of it. Not poisonous, not
> toxic, but malevolent. In the instant it touched his face, he loosed
> the soccer ball, hurling it in a soaring arc through the golden
> hoop. The vapor was gone in a breath, leaving behind the
> irrational conviction that it had almost sucked his soul out of his
> body.
> He did not tempt the vapor at the next hoop or the next. He
> sent the soccer ball through unerringly, still uncertain how a
> man for whom sport was torture was able to do such sporty
> things. As the bright ball cleared the ninth hoop accompanied by
> the strains of “Pluto,” the world around Beck changed. The
> turntable glided to a halt and to his right, in the curving wall, a
> doorway spilled light out onto the grooved, black plane.
> Beck glanced around. Pluto. Unlike the others, this cut was
> oddly disturbing. Beck had little time to decide why. As he
> hovered in the open door, all light disappeared from the
> turntable as if sucked up by a vacuum. He stepped through the
> door.
> He stood in a corridor, at the end of which he could vaguely
> make out a staircase. If he recalled his Freud correctly, climbing
> that would be symbolic of having sex. He wondered if the nights
> Pipe Dreams                                                          457
> 
> without a willing Marian were beginning to take its toll. He
> chuckled. The hoops and balls would no doubt also count as
> expressions of sexual desire in Freud’s book. How wonderful
> and complex was the language of dreams.
> Before him the floor of the corridor lit up. It was a simple
> pattern of blue and white tiles that seemed to be pulsing in a
> random sequence. He stared at the checkerboard momentarily. It
> brought to mind his grandmother’s kitchen floor. A floor on
> which he used to play his own peculiar version of hopscotch. As
> he recalled, grandma’s kitchen floor hadn’t blinked on and off.
> Another memory was invoked, oddly, of an episode of Dr.
> Who in which the good Doctor(s) (five of them, as he recalled)
> was confronted by such a puzzle. It had been booby-trapped
> with a laser beam that would zap anyone unwary enough as to
> wander onto the wrong square.
> Beck crouched to watch the play of light across the tiles. The
> Doctor’s solution to the puzzle had lain in computing the value
> of pi. He rose. Pi. There were nine rows of tiles. 3.14159... The
> digits couldn’t stand for rows of tiles, but they might stand for
> columns.
> In the first row of tiles, a white lit up, three tiles from the left
> edge of the checkerboard. Beck moved to stand in front of the
> tile and waited. When it lit up again, he stepped on it. A tone
> sounded, the tile blinked several times in rapid succession and
> then stayed on. He looked down at his feet. There was just
> enough room for both of them on the tile.
> “Okay,” he said aloud. “I’ll play your silly game.”
> He watched the first tile in the next row for a flash of light.
> When it came, he missed it, because the tile was a deep blue. He
> waited nearly a full minute (or so he thought) until the square lit
> up again. He stepped on it this time and was rewarded as before
> with the tone. As the first, the tile stayed lit.
> 458                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> It was easy after that—merely a game of waiting and
> leaping. In due time, he found himself in the very center of the
> corridor. There the pattern made an abrupt change. Both feet on
> a tile of blazing white, Beck stared in consternation at the floor
> ahead of him. From where he stood to the suddenly distant
> staircase, the tiles formed an expanse of strangely patterned
> brown and muted gold. Here was a group of three gold tiles,
> here a group of two, here a single tile. The squares themselves
> were smaller, too, leaving room for only one foot at a time to
> occupy them.
> Recognition made Beck chuckle. He’d viewed similar
> patterns of tiles in myriad public men’s rooms. He waited, but
> none of the tiles before him lit up. After a moment of study, it
> seemed to him that the gold tiles did form an irregular, but
> navigable path from here to there, if one had a reasonably long
> stride and was willing to play hopscotch. The only problem was
> the size of the squares. Dreamer’s instinct told him that stepping
> over the edge of one was a Bad Thing.
> He was contemplating his first move when he noticed a
> slight dimming in the corridor. A glance over his shoulder
> revealed the reason—behind him, the lighted tiles were winking
> out, darkness marching toward him. He had the creeping feeling
> that it would not be very pleasant to find out what happened
> when the square he was standing on went dark. He glanced
> ahead. About three feet away was a set of two gold tiles set
> about two feet apart. Not a bad split. He leapt.
> When he landed, the ‘reward’ tone sounded and the gold
> squares beneath his feet blazed with brilliance. At that moment,
> he realized he was wearing sneakers instead of the black leather
> ankle boots he’d started out with. His dream was nothing if not
> accommodating.
> Pleased with himself, he made another selection and hopped
> again. The third leap was harder, leaving him teetering on one
> Pipe Dreams                                                    459
> 
> foot. In searching for his next landing pad, he lost his balance
> and toppled forward, only barely managing to land with his left
> foot on one square and his right hand on another, his opposite
> arm and leg flailing for balance. Gingerly, he moved his free foot
> to the square where his hand rested. He came close to falling
> again, but somehow managed to keep his balance and work his
> way upright.
> He now saw the wisdom of plotting his moves in advance.
> He negotiated the remainder of the corridor in carefully planned
> hops, skips, and jumps. The pattern took an interminable
> amount of time to complete. Beck was glad he was dreaming; in
> real life, he’d be close to collapse.
> From the bottom of the staircase, he took a look back at the
> field of tiles he’d traversed. The golden tiles, now ablaze, seemed
> to form a stylized question mark. As he watched, the tiles began
> to dim, just as the previous set had done. He turned his attention
> to the next obstacle—the staircase.
> It was of aged-looking wood—mahogany, Beck guessed. It
> even smelled of age, the incense of mildew and ancient varnish.
> It was a pleasant odor and it reminded him forcefully of his
> childhood. A wash of reminiscence came, giving the staircase a
> time and place in Beck’s existence. Like the checkered kitchen
> floor, this came from his grandparents’ house in Swampscott.
> Finding his grandparents’ staircase in a dream tickled him.
> He’d loved that staircase. It had given him hours of pleasure as
> he practiced climbing it without making a sound. This was
> difficult at best, for the stair was full of the creaks and moans
> and complaints of advancing age. He paused a moment to savor
> the memory, trying to recall the formula that would take him
> safely to the second floor landing, for to call forth sound from
> the venerable beast was to loose gremlins in the house that
> would swarm the stair and carry little boys off to “bedlam.”
> 460                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Grinning, Beck began the climb. Center tread, far left, far
> right, step on the knot hole, skip two by climbing the banister,
> right of center, center, leap to the landing.
> “Ha!” Beck exulted and turned back to give the staircase a
> triumphant glance. It had been replaced by a slick expanse of
> oily-looking metal. A slide. A means of escape? A pitfall?
> Bemused, Beck checked his forward trail, which opened up, not
> into the second floor of his grandparents’ house, but into a
> sunny meadow of waving ultra-green grass, teeming flowers,
> and chirping, Disney-esque bluebirds. The sky was at once pink
> and blue, the sun literally smiled down at him, and clouds
> looked very much like cotton candy. Such scenes populated
> uncounted refrigerator doors.
> A circle of woodlands surrounded the place, tiny, bright
> orange fruit fairly glowing amid the dark foliage of hip-high
> bushes. Clown noses, Beck thought, and was struck with the
> absurd image of clowns skipping through the woods picking
> baskets full of noses. Picking their noses. The pun doubled him
> over with laughter.
> And Marian said he had no sense of the absurd.
> He wondered if he could bring her here, tried, and was
> rewarded with a “moo.” He straightened. Aside from the overly
> cheerful birds, the meadow was populated by exactly one black
> and white cow that munched the terrifyingly green grass
> ruminatively as it gazed at him through immense, chocolaty
> bovine eyes. A bright golden cowbell hung from a blue cord
> around its neck. This was not Marian. There was nothing
> remotely bovine about Marian.
> Okay, Beck thought. I’ll bite.
> He walked over to the cow, scaring up a score of the
> bluebirds. They circled and chirped like something out of an old
> Warner Brothers cartoon.
> Pipe Dreams                                                      461
> 
> “Hello,” he said to the cow, because after all, dreaming is no
> excuse for discourtesy.
> The cow gazed back, opened her mouth and said, “Watch
> this.” She proceeded to rise up on her hind legs, produce three of
> the outrageously orange fruit and juggle them. She was actually
> quite good, Beck thought.
> After about thirty seconds of juggling, the cow caught one
> orange globe between her front hooves, then snapped the other
> two out of mid-air and gulped them down whole. She came back
> to all fours, belched and shook her head, ringing the golden bell.
> “What did I just do?” she asked. “You have thirty seconds or
> four guesses, whichever comes first.”
> “Isn’t that supposed to be three guesses?”
> “That’s wishes. Three wishes. Do I look like a genie?” She
> didn’t give him time to answer. “First guess.”
> “You...juggled clown noses?”
> “Wrong. Three more guesses. Fifteen seconds.”
> “Oh, sorry. Tangerines. You juggled tangerines.”
> “Is that your answer? Juggle tangerines?” She rolled her eyes.
> “Wrong again. But you’re getting warmer.” In the cotton-candy
> clouds over the cow’s piebald head, a slot machine face
> appeared, its rollers spinning like crazy. The one furthest to the
> right stopped, showing the word “tangerines.” He assumed that
> he’d score a jackpot if he got the right answer. It occurred to him
> to wonder what he’d score if he didn’t.
> “What happens if I don’t guess the riddle?”
> “You lose.”
> “And then what?”
> “You’re out.”
> “Out. Out of the dream, you mean? I wake up?”
> “What makes you think you’re asleep?”
> 462                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “The fact that I don’t usually hold conversations with
> spotted cows in Technicolor meadows or watch them juggle
> clown noses.”
> The cow sighed. It was a deep sound and seemed to issue
> from her voluminous belly. “Do you need a clue? I’m allowed to
> give one more clue.”
> Beck nodded.
> “Watch.” The cow turned her brown eyes on the fringe of
> woodlands where a man in a pith helmet and bush outfit
> carefully stalked something among the foliage with a large,
> cartoon butterfly net. Beck couldn’t see what he was pursuing so
> raptly. He started to ask the cow, but she shushed him.
> The hunter tiptoed up to one of the bushes, then leapt
> forward with a cry and took a swipe at it with his net. Two of the
> orange globes fell into the webbing. He swiftly scampered away
> with them.
> The cow turned her increasingly mournful eyes back to
> Beck. “Well?”
> “He, um. Shoot. Ah, capture...net...um...” Beck opted for the
> literal approach. “Bush-whack two tangerines?”
> In the slot machine another window braked to display the
> number ‘2.’
> “Ooh,” said the cow. “Close, but no cigar.”
> “What’s close?” Beck asked, but the cow merely looked
> away across the meadow, toward the bushes. “Bush-whacked
> was close?”
> She sighed again, jiggling her udder.
> The answer came to Beck with the sudden recollection of a
> story a colleague had told him about the strange combinations of
> words her students would produce during classroom exercises
> in a Vietnamese language class she had taught. He knew it was
> the answer—it was his dream, and his own memory had
> provided it.
> Pipe Dreams                                                    463
> 
> “Ambush two tangerines,” he said. Overhead, the final bar
> rolled into place and a loud bell sounded.
> “Foqit ai qwit.” The cow repeated the phrase in flawless
> Vietnamese, and disappeared along with the pink/blue sky,
> cotton candy clouds and clown-nose bushes. In their place the
> violently green sward sprouted a graveyard complete with
> ravens, crows, ornate, listing headstones, and a gleaming white
> mortuary.
> Beck was momentarily taken aback. Why a graveyard? He’d
> answered the riddle correctly; why this presentiment of doom?
> The place was eerie, but familiar, and he felt more memories
> pressing for release. He made his way to the mortuary.
> The foyer was empty. He moved into a display room where
> a fleet of new caskets was arrayed, tops open like convertibles in
> a car lot. On the opposite side of the display room, he could see
> the steel and glass doors that led to the nether realms. He
> certainly hoped his dream journey wouldn’t take him there.
> He turned and peered across the foyer. A chapel—the
> carved wooden doors bore a representation of the solar system—
> nine planets arranged around the central Orb. Each planet was
> engraved with a religious symbol: a Star of David, a bowl of fire,
> a lotus, a cross, an Evam, a yin-yang, a five-pointed star, a star
> and crescent, a nine-pointed star.
> He moved to the door, put his hand on the handle and
> pulled. It was locked. He glanced at the solar system again. The
> planets, with their religious symbols, were out of order. Another
> puzzle.
> After a moment of thought, Beck rearranged the planets in
> their engraved orbits—beginning with Mercury and its
> nine-pointed star, and ending with Pluto, bearing the Evam.
> Pluto. The ninth planet was Pluto. But it hadn’t been discovered
> when Holst wrote The Planets—the music he had heard on the
> turntable, he suddenly realized, was a symphonic rendition of
> 464                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> the Mickey Mouse Club theme, music Beck had always
> associated with the immortal rodent and his dog. Nine planets,
> nine religious symbols, nine hoops, nine everything.
> Teetering on the verge of recognition, Beck entered the now
> unlocked chapel. At the altar in front of a closed and locked
> casket, stood a clown in a black suit. He had blue hair, a
> tangerine nose, and a pair of red, floppy shoes that looked
> incongruous with the natty attire. His face bore a half-mournful,
> half-manic expression. When he saw Beck, his bright red lips
> stretched into something that bore a closer resemblance to rigor
> mortis than a smile. He produced a clipboard out of the ether.
> A manic depressive clown, Beck thought. Oh great.
> Clowns had never amused him as a child. They had given
> him the willies. He now realized they still gave him the willies.
> He’d often thought they’d make ideal scarecrows—or rather
> ‘scarekids’—for people who had flower beds or pools they
> wanted to keep the neighbors progeny out of.
> He steeled himself and went to the altar to confront the
> clown-mortician.
> “You are...?” the clown asked lugubriously.
> “Beckett Hodge.”
> “Beckett Hodge, you must answer four questions for me,
> before you may proceed.”
> Beck nodded, not at all sure he wanted to proceed. Right
> now what he really wanted was to wake up, even if it meant
> having to go through the embarrassment of explaining to
> Laurence Bourbon and Zev Darren why he’d fallen asleep in the
> middle of a conversation.
> “Listen carefully,” said the clown, “and finish this sentence.”
> He glanced down at the clipboard and read: “Touch not the
> cat...”
> “But with a glove,” said Beck automatically.
> Pipe Dreams                                                       465
> 
> The clown smiled and checked off something on his
> clipboard. At the foot of the casket, a latch popped open. Beck
> jumped.
> “Now,” said the clown, “complete this: He was like a giant
> on dry land...”
> “And...and like a selkie in the sea.” Another check mark was
> drawn, another latch popped open, and an icy shaft of
> recognition speared Beck’s brain. He knew these sequences. And
> he knew them for reasons other than their association with
> childhood games or television shows he had watched.
> “By the prickling of my thumbs,” the clown read.
> Beck backed away from him. Memories had been converted
> to binary expressions and coded into a targeting series and eight
> pattern-matching sequences.
> “By the prickling of my thumbs,” the clown repeated.
> Memories had built a nine level security system for the
> DOD. Beck turned and fled.
> Behind him the clown said tonelessly: “Abort. Restart
> sequence. Touch not the cat...”
> The graveyard metamorphosed as Beck crossed it, back into
> a meadow full of bluebirds, butterflies, and tangerine bushes.
> The cow did not look up as he flew past her, but he thought he
> heard her say, “Abort. Reset.”
> The meadow had faded by the time he reached the top of the
> staircase/slide. It was still a slide. He threw himself down it,
> landing at the bottom on his behind. Scrambling to his feet, he
> confronted the corridor of tiles. Both sections of the course were
> now just ordinary-looking floors. He took them without so much
> as a hop, skip, or jump and came out onto the giant turntable. It
> rolled away and to his right, inexorably.
> If he was where he thought he was, the situation demanded
> that he exit this scene just as he had entered it. While the eight
> pattern-matching segments of the program were reset upon
> 466                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> completion or exit, the initial nine layer “hacker trap” was not. It
> could be tripped as easily by a clumsy exit as it was by a clumsy
> entrance. Beck had no desire to find out what it meant to be
> caught by his own failsafes.
> He stepped out onto the turntable. Not content to let it
> simply carry him along, he trotted along with the rotation, eyes
> open for the hoops. His mind churned. How the hell could he be
> here? Was this a drug-induced dream, or was it more real than
> that? Was it being monitored?
> The image of Zev Darren playing a VR game in the corner of
> Bourbon’s suite came to him with the force of a blow. Could that
> be it? Could he literally be inside the DOD program? He had
> constructed the DOD scenes with specialized programming Gear
> —had seen them as programming objects. But interpreted by a
> VR system—provided one could be made compatible—with his
> own imagination in control...
> He shook his head as if that might rattle some answers loose
> from the inside of his virtual skull. The Who and the Why were
> obvious, the How conceivable. The question was what would
> prompt a fiction editor and an art director from a major
> publishing house to get involved in terrorism and espionage?
> He hurried to the first basket of soccer balls and hurled one
> through a hoop before the Ghost routine could intercept him.
> Timing. This part of the program was all timing. He worried
> that he might do better if he didn’t know what those bright
> hoops and balls represented: clever traps and one-way viruses
> that would backwash into the inept hacker’s system—in this
> case, his mind.
> Beck chafed as he negotiated the nine hoop stations,
> returning at last to where he had entered the program.
> The “Sheraton” stood alone on a barren corner, symbol of
> Beck’s connection with the real world—a world where Laurence
> Pipe Dreams                                                     467
> 
> Bourbon and Zev Darren waited for him to unlock the gates to
> hell.
> He stood inside his own creation—a place where virtual
> cows juggled tangerines and where manic clowns presided over
> coffins full of death—and pondered explosive things. What he
> needed was a break program that would shatter the external
> connection—a virtual bomb.
> He floundered for a moment, trying to decide how to create
> a bomb in this impossible universe. Then he laughed at himself.
> Impossible it might be, but it was his universe and ultimately
> obeyed his divine decree.
> He patted the breast pocket of his suit. His wallet, a pen, his
> pager. He took out the pager and examined it. It was as much a
> computer input/output device as his keyboard or Gear. He
> thumbed it on and started to speak into it. But wait—what if his
> words were audible to those who had put him here? He had to
> take the chance, he supposed.
> He held the pager to his lips and whispered. “Break
> routine...uh, ‘Sheraton.’ Delay fifteen seconds from activation.
> Activate on command ‘destruct.’ Routine: Induce general
> protection fault at address...” He glanced up at the corner of the
> hotel and almost grinned—a bronze plaque gleamed dully on
> the virtual wall. “Address 008D:0015.”
> Fine, but that might not be enough. The system had three
> overt inputs, two covert ones. Five in all. Two of these were set
> up for Gear protocols. His vicarious hackers could be using
> either, but if he shut down both, the system alarm would
> engage, which could cause...well, panic for one thing. A military
> panic was not a pretty thing.
> He’d have to make a choice. The covert link made the most
> sense. It would be accessed at the installation only in an
> emergency, so the hacker/spies could expect little chance of
> interruption. Beck completed the routine with a fatal interrupt to
> 468                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> the covert Gear device, wondering how long he’d been here and
> if Marian had tried to reach him.
> He entered the virtual hotel lobby cautiously, as if Bourbon
> or Darren could be expected to pop out of nowhere to intercept
> him. He didn’t think they had the technology to do that—to
> enter this dream world completely—and doubted they could
> even monitor him precisely.
> He wondered which of them was the programmer. Maybe
> they both were. He doubted either of them had anything to do
> with publishing. But then how they had intercepted his
> manuscript? He remembered what Bourbon had said about
> novels being lifted electronically off editor’s desks. Had that
> happened to his?
> He moved directly to the elevator core, chose the center
> shaft and punched the ‘up’ button. The doors slid apart.
> “Destruct,” he told the pager, lobbed it into the elevator car
> and ran, thinking of Marian. He was still thinking of her when a
> flash of blinding light enveloped him and lifted him into the
> non-existent sky.
> 
> �����
> 
> “I thought you weren’t speaking to him,” Ruby said.
> Sometimes, Marian thought, Ruby could be impossibly
> dense. “Not speaking isn’t a synonym for not caring, Rube. It’s
> two a.m. He hasn’t answered his pager and Mr. Bourbon hasn’t
> answered his phone.”
> “So, they’re out celebrating the book deal.”
> “Until two a.m.?”
> Ruby shrugged. “Why not? We’re commiserating over his
> thick-headedness until two a.m.”
> Pipe Dreams                                                     469
> 
> “You don’t know Beck the way I do. He would never stay
> out so late without calling me. Even when I know his schedule
> and he knows I know his schedule, he calls.”
> “Uh-huh.” Ruby sipped coffee, steam coating her glasses.
> “Even if he’s not speaking to you?”
> “Especially if he’s not speaking to me. Then guilt takes over.
> He has to call.” She got up and headed for the kitchen, leaving
> Ruby camped in front of the fireplace.
> Ruby sighed volubly. “Shall I lock up?”
> “Whatever.” Mentally, Marian was already on the road,
> already pulling up to the Sheraton, already leaving her car in the
> hands of a bleary-eyed valet. Already on her way through the
> lobby to the elevators.
> Fifteen minutes later, when she actually entered the
> Sheraton’s spacious lobby, she had to take a detour to the
> concierge—she had absolutely no idea which room Laurence
> Bourbon was in. As it turned out, he was in one of the Tower
> suites and would have to issue an invitation to her if she was to
> go up. Marian decided a good lie was in order.
> “My husband had an appointment with Mr. Bourbon this
> evening and he forgot his heart medicine.” She scrabbled in her
> fanny pack and produced her own pill case, full of stress tabs,
> vitamin C, and Midol™. “He didn’t expect to be this late. He
> should have had one of these hours ago.” She knit her brow and
> let her voice sound very slightly frantic.
> The concierge called a rather muscular bellman to escort her
> up (as if she might possibly need to be overpowered). The
> elevator ride was silent. Marian looked at the ceiling of the car’s
> stained-glass ceiling, it clashed with the once-upon-a-time
> moderne decor of the lobby. The broad corridor that gave onto
> the Tower suites was Queen Anne.
> What could they have been thinking?
> 470                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> �����
> 
> “He’s stuck.”
> “He’s what? What do you mean, he’s stuck?”
> Zev Darren turned away from his monitor and pointed at
> the flashing cursor, which had sat for the past forty-five seconds
> in the same place in a crude but colorful maze. “Check his pulse
> rate.”
> Bourbon glanced at the tiny screen that displayed Beckett
> Hodge’s vitals. “It’s up.”
> “He’s stressed over something. He may be having trouble
> with the last stage. Sometimes programmers put randomizers
> into their routines—sort of a code du jour thing. He may not
> remember all the different sequences. Damn.” He watched the
> cursor a moment longer. Watched it until it abruptly blinked
> out. “Oh, hell.”
> 
> �����
> 
> It was like something out of a James Bond movie. As Marian
> knocked repeatedly on the door of Bourbon’s suite with no
> result, someone within the suite howled.
> Having no pass card, the beefy bellman opened the locked
> door with his foot. Marian flung herself through the door. She
> was hardly prepared for what she saw—Beckett, strapped to a
> chair, VR Gear on head and hands, with two men hovering over
> him. One had hands on his shoulders and was shaking him hard
> enough to make his teeth rattle.
> Marian’s female instincts kicked in. “You sonofabitch! Get
> your hands off my husband!”
> Lawrence Bourbon obeyed without hesitation, while his
> partner reached for a gun lying holstered on the sofa. The
> bellman was having none of it.
> Pipe Dreams                                                     471
> 
> �����
> 
> When he woke, Beck was surprised to be alive and in a
> hospital room. The room was under military guard and, besides
> Beck, held two occupants. Marian and Colonel Traynor chatted
> quietly in one corner. He cleared his throat, drawing their
> immediate attention.
> “Bourbon?” he croaked.
> Marian, her eyes still showing concern, afforded him a
> lopsided grin. “A little early for the hard stuff, isn’t it?”
> He shook his head; his brain wobbled. “I mean...”
> “I know what you mean. He’s in military custody, courtesy
> of your ferocious and quick-thinking wife and a burly bellman
> named Frank. And he’ll stay there for awhile too, thanks to
> Colonel Traynor and his buddies in the CIA.”
> Beck’s eyes shifted automatically to Traynor’s face. The
> movement hurt. “They-they—” He choked, prompting Marian
> to give him a sip of water. Throat wetted, he ploughed on. “They
> linked me to the ICBM security system using some kind of
> specialized VR rig. They wanted me to crack it for them—my
> own code...”
> The colonel was nodding. “Yes, we suspected as much when
> we saw the system. It was...tremendously sophisticated. We had
> no idea a high-end ‘off-the-rack’ system could be modified to
> that extent.”
> “But why? An editor and an art director? Why?”
> “Money. But people aren’t always what they seem. Oh,
> Mr. Bourbon is an editor, all right. A minor, poorly paid line
> editor. But Zev Darren is no art director. He’s a computer expert
> lately in the employ of Shalom/Salaam and Ibrahim X. In simple
> terms, a terrorist.”
> Beck glanced at Marian. She was looking away, her face
> wearing the patented Marian Whaley-Hodge ‘I-told-you-so’
> 472                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> look. The blood drained out of his head. If he hadn’t been lying
> down, he would have swooned. “Ibrahim X?”
> “Bourbon line edited his best-selling manuscript,” said
> Traynor. “Mr. X evidently felt his position in the publishing
> industry could be advantageous. Unfortunately, he was wrong;
> Bourbon was a poor choice of accomplices. Zev Darren is a
> professional mercenary, at least in the realm of hacking, but
> Larry Bourbon is only a greedy amateur. The threat of a treason
> charge rattled just about everything loose. Your editor friend got
> swept up in the romance and intrigue of it all. He simply wasn’t
> prepared to be caught.” He gave Beck a sideways glance.
> “Honestly, professor, how close did they come to breaking it?”
> Beck wetted his lips. “Too close. I was deep inside the
> program, at the last security protocols, when I realized...sort
> of...what was going on—that someone had set me up to breach
> my own program.”
> The colonel’s alarm showed as tiny white brackets on each
> side of his mouth. “But you stopped them. I assume you
> recognized your code.”
> Beck closed his eyes. “No. I recognized my childhood.”
> “Excuse me?”
> Beck smiled wanly. “You would’ve had to be there.”
> Later, with Traynor gone, Marian sat next to him on the bed
> and held his hand. Her scent struck him softly. He opened one
> eye.
> “You were right all along. Bourbon was connected to
> Ibrahim. In ways I couldn’t have imagined. I seem to have an
> imagination deficiency. Not a good thing for a guy who wants to
> write science fiction.”
> “What was it like in there?”
> “Weird. Like being in a dream. Or down a rabbit hole. But it
> was my rabbit hole—which is why I finally recognized the...the
> programming. It was all from my childhood. Games I played,
> Pipe Dreams                                                      473
> 
> shows I watched, pictures I drew, riddles I made up. Patterns in
> floor tiles, staircases, cow pastures. But it was the clown. The
> clown in the funeral chapel. That was what did it.”
> Marian grimaced. “Imagination deficiency, huh? Hell, I’m
> not even going to ask.”
> “Aren’t you at least going to say, ‘I told you so’?”
> “Do I need to?”
> He shook his head. A sigh, deep and silent, broke over him
> as a realization struck.
> Somehow Marian heard it and squeezed his hand. “What?”
> “The book. Sefton never really wanted the book.”
> “Maybe they did, and it gave Bourbon a legitimate excuse to
> contact you.”
> “Maybe. But it’s more likely I got duped. I let my naiveté
> compromise the secrets I hold for my government.” He closed
> his eyes again. “But the worst thing is what they led me to
> believe about you and Ruby. I think they must have drugged
> me, planted suggestions in my head that I couldn’t trust
> you...and other things. They wanted you out of the way, I
> guess.”
> Marian’s mouth curled. “So, that’s what that was about. And
> that was worse than almost giving away the deed to Uncle Sam’s
> farm? Sweet, but silly, Beck. There was a hell of a lot at stake in
> those silos. On the bright side, I think this little episode has
> given Colonel Traynor and his fellows reason to consider an
> alternative to hiding loaded guns.”
> Beck looked out the window where the sun had risen on a
> brilliant day. “Funny. I guess I turned out to be a secret agent
> after all. So secret, even I didn’t know it. Secret agent double-ohone, binary spy.”
> “You could write a book about it.”
> “Yeah, I could. But, who’d buy it?”
> 474                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> �����
> 
> There were, in fact, several publishers standing in the
> electronic queue in Beck’s e-mail box when news of the virtual
> break-in surfaced and Ibrahim X was run to ground and arrested
> on charges of master-minding it. Beck had his pick of offers, his
> shiny, new agent finally accepting the high bid from a large
> publisher most widely known for its techno-thrillers.
> Beck was pleased, without being ecstatic. He had a book
> contract, but it was non-fiction—just one more real-world title
> on cutting-edge programming by Beckett Hodge, destined one
> day to reside on the shelves of universities and computer
> super-stores everywhere. Still, given the sensational nature of
> the subject matter, it would almost certainly arrive there by way
> of the NYT bestseller list.
> At least that was the picture until the Pentagon intervened
> in the form of an apologetic Colonel Traynor, who appeared in
> the Hodge living room one evening and parked himself in
> Beck’s favorite chair.
> “I’m sorry, Professor Hodge, but we simply can’t allow you
> to publish this book. It would reveal too much about our
> security system and its...”
> “Vulnerability?” Marian suggested.
> “I was going to say, its nature.”
> Beck didn’t care what he had been going to say. All that
> registered was that the brass ring had dodged him once again.
> “But if you prevent it from being published-” Marian
> objected.
> “The public would suspect a cover-up,” Traynor finished for
> her. “And they’d be right. That’s why we’re willing to allow the
> book to be published provided two conditions are met.”
> Beck raised his head. “Which are?”
> Pipe Dreams                                                       475
> 
> “First, that it be published in a vastly altered form. You
> would have to fictionalize the account. Change names and
> circumstances, alter the order of events, make up different
> riddles.”
> Amazement settled on Beck like a woolly cloud. “But
> anyone who followed the news would know-”
> “Ah, no. You see that’s the second condition: you have to
> wait.”
> “Wait? How long?”
> “Three years...or the length of time it takes for you to
> completely redesign your security system.”
> Beck sagged back into his chair. “Completely?”
> “You’ll have to design two new systems, actually—one for
> the warheads and one for the delivery system...which we’ve
> decided should be separated by...some distance.”
> “But in three years, there may not be a publisher still
> interested in the story.”
> Traynor shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s the only recourse you
> have, Professor Hodge. We simply can’t allow the story to be
> published now—not even as fiction.”
> Beck nodded. He was still nodding when Traynor was gone.
> “You should be happy,” Marian told him. “They’re
> unloading the ‘gun.’”
> “I suppose I should be, but I just feel...exhausted...and silly. I
> was so taken in by Bourbon and his flattery. What made me
> think I could write fiction? Terry Lance was right; I should stick
> to what I know.”
> Marian made a rude noise. “Terry Lance is a textbook
> jockey. He wouldn’t know good science fiction if he had a close
> encounter with it. Besides, you did write fiction. You just wrote it
> into the national defense system.”
> Beck had to laugh, and Marian, who didn’t need to be told
> why he was laughing, laughed with him. The irony was
> 476                                          I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> delicious: He wrote fiction like a programmer and programmed
> like a science fiction writer.
> Mentally, he was still laughing when his head touched the
> pillow that night. He didn’t know if he could convince a
> publisher to wait three years for the story—especially a
> fictionalized version of it—but he did know he would continue
> to write both programs and fiction. Eventually, he would get
> them straight.
> The White Dog                                                       477
> 
> The White Dog
> 
> A story of magic realism
> The White Dog was originally published in Interzone issue
> #142 in 1999. It is my favorite story in the collection and was a
> Best Short Fiction finalist for the 1999 British Science Fiction
> Association Award. Woven into the narrative is a brief episode
> from Abdu’l-Bahá’s visit to New York from which the story gets
> its title and one of its themes.
> 
> “Just as physical science has shown that every
> particle of matter in the universe attracts and
> influences every other particle, no matter how
> minute or how distant, so psychical science is finding
> that every soul in the universe affects and influences
> every other soul.”
> Esslemont,
> Bahá’u’lláh and the New Era,
> p. 209
> 
> �����
> 
> Beauty and the Beast was the first story Mother ever read to
> me. I have read it myself a myriad times in a variety of forms
> and seen countless dramatic renditions of it. At each telling or
> showing or reading, I have felt, for a moment, a sense of
> contentment. That is, until I realize that this is a fairy tale and it
> has nothing whatever to do with me.
> 478                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> Oh, it’s not just that it’s a fairy tale—everything is a fairy tale
> from my vantage point—it’s that the Beast is a man and I am a
> woman.
> What difference? Merely this: an ugly man can be said to
> have character; even the most hideous of men, as the fairy tale
> illustrates, can be loved for his kindness and ‘inner loveliness.’
> But an ugly woman...well, I quickly learned that by no
> combination of graces or talents or virtues can she be considered
> lovely.
> Humorists make a tired point of it:
> “I’ve fixed you up with a date,” says the sitcomedian.
> “Oh?” responds the object of his largesse. “What’s she like?”
> “She has a great personality,” he is assured.
> Whereupon the charm-challenged moron moans tragically,
> “Oh, God! She’s a bow-wow!”
> The media assure us that the corollary is also true—a man
> will put up with any amount of inanity and selfishness to adorn
> himself with Beauty; all stupidity can be forgiven it. Beauty can
> redeem a lack of character, but no amount of character can
> redeem a lack of good looks.
> This is not to say that Gorgons cannot have friends, for there
> is a certain type of male who will befriend the charmless female
> for no other reason that, early in life, she seems almost ‘guy-like’
> in her gracelessness. Later, of course, he will abandon her, lest
> someone get the idea that they are an ‘item,’ but by this time, she
> will be much sought after by other, more attractive young
> women merely because they look so good by comparison.
> I’ve always thought the jealous Aphrodite was a fool not to
> have made Medusa her bosom buddy. How much simpler to
> have given the feckless Paris the choice between herself and the
> Gorgon—she’d have had the apple and the guy. Anyone stupid
> enough to even notice Medusa would have ended up as an
> ornamental coat rack in the goddess’s front hall.
> The White Dog                                                    479
> 
> Am I comparing myself to Medusa, you ask? Yes, though I
> flatter myself that the comparison is favorable. After all, she
> turned men to stone for all eternity. My personal best is only five
> seconds.
> Let me make it clear that I am not homely. (Now, there’s a
> word! So old-world, so comfortable-sounding—as if the woman
> in question were a favored but dilapidated love seat.) Nor am I
> unattractive, or ugly. I am nothing short of grotesque. Hideous. I
> enter a room and conversations cease, heads turn and quickly
> return. Men turn to stone.
> I was four, I think, when I became truly aware of this. My
> mother’s and father’s eyes had that myopia that is peculiar to
> parents. But in the eyes of strangers, teachers and family friends,
> I saw distress, veiled revulsion, and pity. In the eyes of other
> little girls lurked something like horror, while boys peeked at me
> with speculative amusement.
> I was slow to understand this, until I came to realize how
> different my mirror image was from theirs. They had glossy,
> colorful hair, and eyes of brown or blue or gray. Their cheeks
> were rosy, their lips pink, their faces a balance of normal human
> features.
> I am shrunken, and colorless, as if water runs in my veins
> instead of blood. My flesh is like rice paper—its fine mesh of
> veins clearly visible. And my hair—if that really is the word for
> such an anarchistic mop—has all the vibrancy of cellophane.
> One of my young faux-friends referred to me once as the ‘visible
> girl.’ It stuck.
> Oh, and my eyes—how can I possibly describe them? They
> are not gray or hazel or even albino white, but are as devoid of
> color as a glass of water.
> “Jesus Lord!” exclaimed my friend of the ‘visible girl’
> epithet, “you’ve got puries!”
> 480                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> “Oooo-ee-ee-ooh,” school mates would intone when they
> passed me in the hall.
> “Spooky,” the girls called me, and, “Ghost.”
> The boys were worse: “Pasty-face” and “Slug” were two of
> their less innovative offerings.
> When I was about nine I realized that I looked, more or less,
> like the archetypal Whitley Streiber alien.
> Fortunately, parents’ eyes are calibrated differently than the
> rest of mankind’s. I was my mother and father’s Little
> Moonbeam. Mother could gaze at my alien features and tell me I
> was beautiful. I swear to this day, she meant it.
> I believe that’s where I first got the idea that I could affect
> the way people saw me. Yes, my parents perceived me through a
> filter of love and pity, but I also provided a filter--the
> desperation with which I needed and desired their love and
> approval. Desperation demanded that I perform for them, that I
> be their happy Little Moonbeam, an ethereal will-o-the-wisp.
> Not quite understanding the nature of parental love, I
> believed that I won it by being as engaging as I was grotesque.
> That belief instilled in me the confidence I needed to win the
> regard of others who were not so impossibly blinded. Pity,
> sympathy—call it what you will—I learned, over the years, to
> milk human kindness for all it was worth.
> I’m not bitter about that. Far from it. While I undoubtedly
> brought out the worst in those disposed toward cruelty, I
> brought out the best in anyone with even an ounce of
> compassion. I suppose in an abstract way, you could say I
> helped make them better human beings.
> Of course, there are always those disinclined to kindness.
> They were harder to deal with. Their regard could wound; their
> words could draw blood.
> Such a one was Bobby Bane (an ironic and appropriate
> name, if ever there was one). If there was one bona fide bully in
> The White Dog                                                  481
> 
> our tiny neighborhood, it was Bobby, and he established himself
> as such from the moment his family moved in.
> I heard rumor of him before we met. He had beaten up my
> friend Robin—who was twice my size—and taken away her bike
> and the Popsicle her mother had given her as an afternoon
> snack.
> I was impressed. Robin was my own personal bully. So often
> did she terrorize me—leveling me with a push and taking
> whatever toy I happened to be playing with—that I now lay
> down on the sidewalk the moment I saw her coming. I
> considered Robin my friend solely by virtue of the fact that she
> did not call me names.
> Robin was not the only child Bobby Bane flattened. Soon,
> neighborhood Moms were in turmoil. They confronted Bobby’s
> mother without satisfaction.
> “Why,” I asked my own mother, “is Bobby so mean?”
> “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I suspect he’s very lonely.
> His family’s moved twice in the last year. He doesn’t have any
> friends.”
> That, I thought, was perfectly understandable and unlikely
> to change any time soon.
> I met Bobby for the first time at the bottom of my driveway
> where I, in the floppy hat my mother tied to my head to shield
> my translucent skin from the Sun, was taking a group of Teddy
> Bears and dolls for a drive in my Radio Flyer. One moment I was
> alone, the next, I was facing a brush-cut, glaring terror at least
> twice my bulk and three years my senior.
> His eyes widened when I looked into them, but the words
> he had prepared for me came out steady and strong. “Gimme
> the wagon, Spook,” he said, and I was delighted that he had
> chosen such a gentle epithet. Still, his fists clenched and
> unclenched as if it were all he could do to refrain from tearing
> me limb from bloodless limb.
> 482                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> I did not lie down. Nor did I attempt to flee. Instead, I drew
> very close to Bobby Bane—close enough that he could count the
> tiny blue veins beneath my skin. Close enough that he could
> imagine that my transparent eyes afforded him a view of the
> inside of my alien skull.
> I tilted my head, looked up into his face and said, “I know
> you don’t really want to hurt me. You’re a nice little boy. You
> just need a friend. Can I be your friend?”
> Bobby Bane turned and left without uttering another word.
> The next time I saw him, he invaded a small group of
> neighborhood children just as Robin’s mom was passing out
> homemade cherry popsicles speared on little plastic forks. From
> that moment, he was just another neighborhood kid. The Moms
> figured his parents must have ‘had a little talk’ with him, but I
> knew, as our eyes met over our bright cherry ice cubes, that his
> transformation had not arisen from anything his parents had
> said.
> Mother also knew this, having witnessed my confrontation
> with him from our kitchen window.
> “Meg,” she said when I told her how Bobby had joined our
> play group, “you have a way about you.”
> A way about me. In my young mind, Way translated to
> ‘power’ or ‘magic.’ The fairy tales I read were full of such things,
> and they inspired hope. An ugly princess might possess such
> goodness as would grant her the gift of Beauty. I was certain my
> powers, such as they were, did not run to literally making
> myself beautiful, but I now knew that they would allow me to
> wring compassion out of the kind, and tolerance out of the surly.
> Perhaps, in some sense, my Way was a veil behind which I
> could hide my repulsiveness, and if I could not transform myself,
> perhaps I could transform the way others saw me.
> The White Dog                                                   483
> 
> As I grew older, I discarded the idea of magical powers, of
> course, but I still recognized that what Mother had said was true
> —I did have a way about me.
> By the time I was in junior high school, I had concocted the
> theory that what I had exercised on Bobby Bane and countless
> others since, was a shrewd understanding of the human psyche.
> Everyone needed acceptance, even the seemingly needless.
> The history of my religion provided me with a totem for my
> ability to parry the mindless, visceral hostility toward the alien:
> The White Dog.
> It is recorded of the Son of the Founder of my faith that
> when He, in His twilight years, journeyed through the United
> States, He would travel the neighborhoods of New York in a
> carriage accompanied by a handful of believers. In one of the
> affluent neighborhoods on His accustomed route lived an
> elderly woman who had shown such hostility for the Master (as
> He was called), that the believers avoided her at all costs, finding
> other paths for Him to take to His appointments.
> The Master, on the other hand, would seek her out, making
> certain that His carriage passed her house every morning where
> she could be seen taking the Sun on her front porch.
> While the believers cringed and probably prayed, the Master
> would smile and wave at the dowager, who would only glare at
> this Persian ‘mystic,’ then avert her gaze, her hands stroking and
> smoothing the silky fur of the small, white dog in her lap.
> One morning, after He had been rebuffed repeatedly by the
> hostile old woman, the Master bid the driver stop before her
> home. Over the protests of His companions, He debarked and
> strolled up the path to the front porch. Seating himself across
> from His enemy, He noted how very beautiful was the little
> white dog and inquired as to what kind of dog it was.
> Well, the woman loved that dog above all things, as the
> Master obviously knew. His praise of the animal unleashed such
> 484                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> a flood of delight from her that she regaled her unwelcome guest
> with tales of the little animal’s cleverness.
> The Master was late for His appointments that day, but He
> had made a great friend. When the believers begged to know
> how He had transformed the forbidding harpy into a welcoming
> angel, He told them about her beloved pet.
> “Everyone,” He said, and I imagined a twinkle in the deep
> azure eyes, “has a White Dog.”
> They did. And I learned to find those favored pets
> unerringly and parlay them into, if not friendship, at least
> acceptance. When a first meeting threatened to be hurtful to me,
> I invoked the White Dog and diffused the potential for injury.
> Sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a word, sometimes
> with (I swear) a mere thought. ‘Spook’ became an endearment
> or, at least, a good-natured tease on the tongues of my agreeable
> conquests. I fit safely in.
> When I reached high school, things changed. Fitting safely
> in was no longer enough. My male ‘buddies’ had become
> single-minded automatons powered by testosterone and failure
> fear, and my girlfriends were beginning to disappear into the
> nether realm of dating and hushed, giggle-punctuated
> conversations about the relative merits of this or that
> hormone-flushed, peach-faced ‘stud.’
> For a while it seemed as if my only role in all of this would
> be as a shill when my merely plain companions toured the local
> mall. (As I said, Doraverage, it pays to take Dorugly with you
> when shopping for potential princes.)
> I was alone so often, so suddenly, cloistered with my books,
> my parents were alarmed.
> “What’s the matter, Moonbeam?” Daddy asked me one
> solitary Saturday night. “Did you and Cora have a falling out?
> You’re usually inseparable.”
> “Cora,” I said, pretending not to care, “has a date.”
> The White Dog                                                   485
> 
> “Cora?” Daddy repeated, and the corner of his mouth
> curled.
> Cora, it should be noted, was overly plump, horribly myopic
> and tended to bray like a mule when surprised into laughter.
> Her round face was shiny with adolescence and her eyes behind
> her thick lenses had the naked, strained look of a perpetual
> squinter. She was my best friend and I adored her. Until now,
> we had done everything together.
> “Cora,” I affirmed, and felt a swift stab of betrayal. I had as
> good as gotten her that date. I’d been with her when she met him
> in the yogurt shop at the mall. I got Frozen Raspberry Truffle all
> over my best sweater and she got the klutz who put it there.
> Maybe, I thought, I could rent myself to other dateless high
> school girls. I could just see my billboard ad: Getting late—no
> prom date? Call 1-800-OGRE. We guarantee speedy results. I could
> call the business Rent-a-Wretch.
> Daddy patted one knobby knee, then ruffled my lately
> close-cropped thatch of cellophane, which Mother (bless her
> heart) had attempted to dye strawberry blonde. I so resembled a
> peach-colored dandelion that I expected to see the fuzz float and
> scatter to the four corners of my room.
> “Don’t let it get you down, Megan,” Daddy told me. “I
> expect you’ll be dating any day now—and way too soon for
> your old man. You have a way about you,” he reminded me
> with a smile, and left me alone with Charlotte Brontë.
> I did have a way about me, and up till now, I had employed
> it only in the interest of survival. But might it do more? Just how
> powerful, I wondered, as my mind returned to the gothic, was
> the White Dog?
> While I no longer believed in magic, I had also discarded the
> idea that I was a natural psychologist. I now was leaning toward
> the belief that I had psychic powers for which the White Dog
> was a focus. Then too, I had read much of tribal cultures, totems
> 486                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> and animal guides. There was certainly a healthy dose of that in
> my adolescent philosophy.
> I lay awake that night in a moral stew. I had invoked my
> totem purely in self-defense, never for self-aggrandizement. I
> had used it to dissuade attack, to promote tolerance and never to
> inveigle or seduce. I had never used it selfishly—had I?
> When I went to sleep the situation was black and white—
> self-defense was acceptable, coercion was not. When I awoke,
> black and white had merged into a pleasant shade of gray.
> Self-defense and coercion were all but indistinguishable. And
> equally innocent, I assured myself. After all, I intended no harm
> to anyone. I only wanted a date. My manipulation would be
> guiltless because my motive was pure—salvation through right
> motivation.
> I set to my task shyly at first—prodding, probing, the way I
> have seen chimps poke at a log full of ants. There was no one
> boy I doted on—quite frankly, I had considered forming such
> attachments ridiculous and futile. So, I issued a general appeal,
> replacing my habitual mental suggestion (I’m average, just
> average, ignore me) with a new one (I’m pretty, I’m charming, please
> notice me.)
> You expect to hear that it didn’t work, don’t you? That I
> discovered it was mere winsomeness and warm-heartedness
> that made people befriend me. You’re wrong. It did work. I got,
> not just one offer of a date, but two.
> By the time my senior prom rolled around, I was dating
> even more steadily than Cora, who had lost weight and gotten
> contact lenses. But after the senior prom, I put this more
> powerful manifestation of my totem aside. I no longer suggested
> to all and sundry that I was anything more than someone they
> should feel amiably disposed toward.
> Why?—you’re no doubt asking. Hadn’t I virtually assured
> myself a normal life?
> The White Dog                                                     487
> 
> No. That was a chimera. Certainly, I could suggest to
> someone that I was a princess, win their regard, perhaps even
> enter into a relationship with them. But the thought of creating
> such a fairy tale and then having to live in it terrified me utterly.
> What if I should attract someone so much he should ask me
> to marry him? And what if I were to fall in love with him and
> that love were to make me so stupid as to say ‘yes?’ Would there
> not come a time when I would let the veil fall in the desperate
> hope that my husband would play Roxanne to my Cyrano and
> love me for me and not because of the White Dog? How would
> he feel when he realized that his princess was really a frog? How
> would you feel?
> That prospect numbed me so much that I spent my entire
> post high school summer sequestered with the first fruits of the
> Sarpy County library system.
> I left home in the fall to attend a college in upstate New
> York, where a fine arts program allowed me to surround myself
> with beauty both natural and man made. I had a few friends,
> mostly female. To men I was more than transparent; I was
> invisible.
> This was fine for most of my first semester. For another half
> semester I hung on in diligent self-denial, feeling noble and selfsacrificing, the real power of the White Dog lying untapped.
> It was a lonely existence, the life of a perpetual witness—
> observer of everything, participant in nothing.
> Finally, I succumbed. I gave in to the lure of being at least a
> fringe participant. I’d be fine, I reasoned, as long as I understood
> that this was a fairy tale and that at intervals I would be obliged
> to awaken myself, whisk a wrist across my brow and exclaim, “It
> was only a dream! Only a dream!”
> I was content to haunt the fringes, at first, but of course that
> didn’t last. Life is addictive. I could not resist the temptation to
> imbibe.
> 488                                              I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> I started my fall by merely suggesting that I was not only
> vivacious and winsome, but cute. That garnered me friends of
> both sexes and a role in one of those lighthearted groupings of
> young people that are the perpetual stuff of sitcoms.
> It was a happy association, a cozy rabble of art students who
> did nearly everything together, who saw each other through
> thick and thin, and who did not begin to pair off in earnest until
> the middle of their senior year.
> The first pairing was within the group and hardly changed
> the dynamic at all, but the second brought a new face into the
> crowd, left only three singles and sounded the death knell of our
> carefree band.
> I was saddened by it all, but also profoundly and painfully
> relieved. It meant I would never face the post-graduation
> good-byes, the empty promises to write, to call, to reunite once a
> year at that special place.
> When I graduated, I shared tearful good-byes with no one.
> My parents were all smiles as they watched me accept my
> diploma and helped me move my belongings to an apartment in
> Queens. I had already gotten a job at a respected art gallery in
> Manhattan, which was where I met Simon Bruce and fell
> irretrievably in love.
> He was one of the gallery’s clients, a talented, prolific artist
> with a broad range that somehow still managed to embody
> unique style. You could not see one of Simon’s paintings and
> mistake it for anyone else’s work. He used primaries as well as
> pastels, he rendered the dark and atmospheric as convincingly
> as he did the light and airy. His paintings were sharply realistic
> or they were whimsically surreal. He painted landscapes with as
> much conviction as he did portraits, but he did not consider
> them landscapes.
> All his work, he pointed out to me, was about people. And it
> was, I realized. Even in the most overwhelming work of natural
> The White Dog                                                    489
> 
> or sur-natural beauty, there was a person. And that person, in
> Simon’s eyes, was the focus of the painting.
> He was as vivid as his work, with hair the color of old gold
> and sea green eyes that could melt me at thirty paces. I was
> smitten, both with Simon and with his art. And, in that fragile
> and exalted state, I considered the unthinkable—pursuing the
> chimera. Then, I did more than consider it; I did it.
> I no longer had any beliefs about my ‘powers,’ other than
> that they existed. I exploited the White Dog shamelessly—no,
> untrue, there was shame and I felt every morsel of it. But not
> enough—not nearly enough—to make me hesitate or halt. As we
> spoke of painting, I impressed upon him that I was, myself, a
> work of art—not merely pretty, but ravishingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. I knew I could attract him, of course, but
> could I make him fall in love with me?
> Mornings: He dropped by the gallery with coffee and
> muffins. Afternoons: He happened by more and more often just
> in time for my lunch break.
> Finally, one night, he came by and asked me out to dinner.
> Three months after our first official date, he took me on a
> carriage ride through Central Park. It was a crisp autumn
> evening and the moon hung over the Chrysler building like an
> errant balloon whose string had tangled with the spire.
> It occurred to me as we drove through the silky night that I
> must be nearly invisible beneath the moon—colorless light on
> colorless hair and skin. If he painted it, the work would be called
> The Courting of the Ghost Maiden. The thought nearly made me
> giggle and then it made me pause and wonder how he saw me
> this night—how he saw me any night. I had no idea, you see,
> how I looked to the people I used my Way with. I never held in
> my mind an exact image when I ‘broadcast’ my suggestions.
> They were amorphous, never specific.
> 490                                            I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> As we drew to the end of our ride, to a place near the
> restaurant where he had made dinner reservations, I suddenly
> felt the evening groan under the weight of moment.
> “Megan,” he said, and took my hand and turned his face to
> me.
> My heart stopped in my breast. Oh, dear God. Here it was—
> the moment of truth. I was suddenly terrified and practiced the
> word ‘no’ mentally over and over.
> “Megan, marry me?”
> I opened my mouth and the word ‘yes’ fell out into his
> hands. I tried to make myself take it back, but I could not, so I
> cried what he took for tears of joy and cursed my own weakness.
> I lived out the night in a state of siege, held hostage by my
> love for him and horror at what I had allowed to happen. It was
> no use saying that only I would be hurt by my deception. If he
> ever discovered the truth about me, he would be hurt.
> I considered dropping my façade. Several times that evening
> and all the evenings that followed, I came close to doing it, but I
> couldn’t bear the thought of how he might react.
> Finally, one morning, I awoke with a suitable plan. I would
> let the veils drop gradually. That way there would be, for Simon,
> no sudden shock of revulsion, but merely a gradual cooling of
> ardor and the puzzled sensation of having just arrived
> someplace without knowing how he had gotten there. It would
> be no less painful for me, perhaps, and would only prolong the
> inevitable, but he would be spared me breaking off the
> engagement while he yet thought himself in love with me.
> Having made this sensible decision, I did not pursue it as
> sanguinely as I might have daydreamed. Did you imagine I
> would? Any number of things stood between me and the
> detachment I aspired to.
> First and foremost, I loved Simon. And I wanted to believe
> that he loved me—me, not the phantasm. Sometimes, I would tell
> The White Dog                                                    491
> 
> myself that, of course he really loved me because he was, after all,
> a man of great spiritual insight and maturity. And then I would
> find myself raging at him, for naturally, being a man, his
> physical attraction to me was the cornerstone of the relationship
> and the originating impulse for anything else he might feel. And
> that being the case, the removal of that cornerstone would cause
> the immediate collapse of everything.
> That was the war waged daily in my heart: Simon, Good and
> True versus Simon, Frail and Male. That was the $64,000
> question which, thanks to inflation, had increased tenfold in
> value: Confronted with my grotesque reality, Roxanne, will you yet
> love me?
> Really, after being so betrayed, would he even like me?
> In the weeks leading up to our wedding—a legendary thing
> I believed in with the same certainty that I believed in Avalon—I
> began to wish I had never called upon the White Dog to win
> Simon. And I waffled. Oh, how I waffled. Every time we met, I
> was going to begin dropping the veils. And every time we met I
> thought of a reason I should wait until the next time we met.
> Ultimately, it was Simon who provided what was at once
> the most perfect and painful reason to put off the inevitable. He
> asked to paint my portrait.
> Well, you can imagine (or perhaps you can’t) the gamut of
> emotions that stampeded through me then. Terror—of what, I
> have no idea. Pleasure—it was, after all, a loving gesture.
> Curiosity—my ultimate undoing.
> As I said, I had no idea how others saw me. I knew only that
> I could make myself attractive to them. I’d heard my hair
> compared to moonlight, my skin to milk, my eyes to a misty
> pool. (Yes, even I had the occasional male friend who considered
> himself a poet. I have the hastily scribbled napkin-verse to prove
> it.) I knew my physical self only from mirrors and rare
> 492                                                  I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> photographs. Both of these are unrelentingly cruel in their
> honesty.
> I wanted to see the portrait and I did not want to see it. Want
> won. I would not withdraw my veils until after it was complete,
> I told myself, so I could know just how strong were my powers
> of suggestion.
> I sat for him in the evenings in his studio where he could
> manage the waning light so that it did not cover me with
> carnival colors. The light was gold and it was silver and it lasted
> for perhaps twenty minutes in the state he required. He would
> not let me see the painting, I knew, until it was finished. Simon
> never showed unfinished work to anyone.
> After about two weeks of nightly sitting, my patience began
> to wane as my curiosity waxed.
> “Isn’t it nearly done?” I asked.
> “Nearly,” he said. “Just a few more evenings.”
> But a few more evenings stretched into a week of evenings,
> then a week and a half. I have some self-control. In this case, it
> was abetted by my knowledge that my unveiling must begin the
> very moment the portrait’s did. As much as I thirsted to see
> myself through Simon’s eyes, I dreaded it. Not only would it end
> us (unless Simon were, indeed, the saintly Simon of my fairy
> tale), but it would, once and for all, establish the exact width of
> the gulf between Megan the Real and Megan the Imagined.
> I have some self-control, I say, but not nearly enough to
> counterbalance either my curiosity or my penchant for flirting
> with pain. I still had not decided, as I surreptitiously entered
> Simon’s darkened studio one night after a sitting, whether I
> would drop my veils one by one or all at once.
> Do it gently, bid one voice. Let it fade naturally.
> Get it over with, prodded another. Cut the cord and get on with
> life and don’t ever do anything this idiotic again. (There’s a promise I
> could never make in good conscience.)
> The White Dog                                                      493
> 
> I slipped into the studio as silently as a shaft of moonlight
> and took care to close the door behind me before touching the
> dimmer on the wall. The lights rose, revealing the easel with its
> draped canvas.
> I was resolute, and made my steps to it certain. I stood
> facing it for only a moment before reaching up and flipping
> aside the linen drape.
> I have no words to describe the sight or the feelings it
> evoked. Thunderstruck. Overwhelmed. Numbed. None of these
> things come close to that paralyzed, chaotic, silent shriek of
> emotion. Cold and heat struck me in turns—my cheeks burned
> and were bloodlessly icy. I raised my hands to them, but my
> numb fingers felt nothing.
> Caught on the canvas in a wash of silver-gold, was the same
> pathetic creature that inhabited my mirror. And yes, I reminded
> myself, the real world. Simon had painted me as I was—a
> Spielbergian alien with stick arms, huge bottomless eyes,
> fright-pale shock wig and see-through flesh.
> In my struggle for meaning, I didn’t hear the studio door
> open.
> “Do you like it?” he asked from behind me.
> I half turned, then stopped myself. “I’m...overwhelmed,” I
> said, honestly. My voice shook.
> “You didn’t answer my question.” He moved to stand
> beside me. “I think it’s a very good likeness. Do you?”
> “Too good,” I quipped, then, “Is that really the way you see
> me?”
> “I suppose it must be.”
> I let go of the White Dog, let it escape—lick, bark, and howl.
> “It’s the way my eyes see you, at any rate. But it has to be
> filtered through the heart, doesn’t it? That,” he added, stepping
> around to face me, “was what I wanted to get on canvas. I tried,
> but I think I failed.”
> 494                                             I Loved Thy Creation
> 
> I have never wanted to cover my face so badly in my entire
> life. I started to raise my hands to do it, but he stopped me.
> “What’s wrong, Meg?”
> Did I try to explain the White Dog? Did I try to make him
> believe I had these powers that had worked on everyone but
> him?
> “I had no idea,” I finally managed to say, “that I was so
> grotesque to you.”
> “Grotesque?” His eyes went past me to the painting. “No,
> Megan. Unusual. Exotic. Other-worldly. Never grotesque. Look
> again.”
> I did. And I saw that I—the painted I—was part of a
> landscape that was not, Simon would have reminded me, really
> a landscape at all. The eyes were not just eyes, they were
> mirrors, and the image that repeated in them was a clouddraped moon. The pale hair faded into snow-covered hills. The
> mouth had a Mona Lisa tilt to it and lips that seemed poised to
> speak or laugh.
> The only real color in the picture, which was almost stark in
> its Sun, Moon, and midnight palette, was in a rose held breast
> high, cradled in the bloodless hands as if being offered to the
> viewer. It was a red rose and at its center was a tiny, semicircular hearth in which a fire blazed welcome.
> I realized something about Simon in that moment. Simon
> did not paint people into landscapes, he painted the landscapes
> within people—landscapes in which they moved and lived as
> surely as they moved and lived in the world outside.
> I realized something about my own internal landscape too,
> of course, but such things are best left unsaid. What I will say is
> that I was forced to abandon my cynicism. What the Prophets
> have said is true after all, that what is in a person’s heart—their
> inner landscape�is more important in life and love and loyalty
> The White Dog                                                  495
> 
> than the outer one, at least among those who are aware of such
> things.
> With Simon’s arms around me I leaned to look more closely
> at the hearthside scene. At the foot of the chair...
> “Is that a white dog?”
> He chuckled. “I don’t know why I put that there. Pure
> whimsy, I guess. It just seemed...homey. Welcoming. Is it silly?”
> “No, not silly. Not silly at all,” I said, and began to wonder
> about the existence of Avalon.
>
> — *I Loved Thy Creation: A collection of short fiction (Used by permission of the curator)*