DogAndPanda: stuy antares.htm

Antares is a publication of Stuyvesant High School 345 Chambers Street New York, N.Y. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Printed in the United States of America

Joan Ai

George Wong

Robert Park

Phyllis Bialor

Wesley Lui

Matthew Abromowitz

Jason Law

Kim Foo Chow

Eugene Lee

Nanci Villella

Hape Villella

AronWeiss

Patrick Wang

James Bond

Glenn Yiu

David H. Wong

Rocco "The Man" Hynes

Cora Chuong

Faith Villella

Jason Nu

James Tsao

Fenney Kwan

Vigneshwar Rajendram

Lydia Boyd

Krisofter McKee

Alec Burko

Lament

Ying Lu

Christine Leong

Wilson Chang

The Third Annual Official

Dudley Lamming

Herman Lee

Cheapskate Award goes to

Ging Wa Wang

Ying Jun Li

Sujean Mo

Michael Wong

Liang Yin

Daniel Shtos

Saul Blumenthal

Edward Lin

Wai Kwok

Thanks to everyone who contribui

Narvin Singla

Jennifer Chu

Kevin

Carol Leong

FE M?EAI?CH......■.......................................................is

FerryMan...................................................................₂₆

llentown was a quiet, inconspicuous place. The people who lived there were mostly elderly couples whose children had long since outgrown them and fled to other parts of the country. Thirty years ago, the last of the steel industry had moved away and left the town to wither. The people who remained were the tattered remnants of Allen-town's bright past. There was, however, the occasional group of children jauntily playing in the streets, but a glance down a major avenue found most of the buildings rotting and decrepit.

Allentown was the perfect place to wait one's life away, a time trap for many visitors. They would wait their days away doing nothing in particular. What would they be waiting for? Well, they couldn't tell you. There are even stories of people who said they had entered the town in the seventies and didn't leave until fifteen years later. It was rumored that the townspeople would lure you out of your bed at night by sweet music: you'd follow blindly, your fears dissipated, your stress was lifted from your shoulders, your inhibitions melted away, and your extremities gained minds of their own. You'd wake up sometime in the morning under your sheets, recalling most of the harrowing experience, but not remembering how you had returned to bed. When you finally left the town, it would be several days after you had entered.

Luther Anderson, one of the lesser known citizens of the town, was a retired patent attorney. He owned a house somewhere about three miles from The Zion Reformed Church. Not many people know this, but the Liberty Bell was hidden inside this church during the Revolutionary War. Luther did, and he was proud of it. He was proud that his small town played such an important part in the fight for independence.

Luther Anderson also owned a cat named Cathedral. Every Friday and Saturday night he would pet his

cat and drink whiskey until he was barely able to sit up. Then, he would sing Neil Diamond songs until morning. The rest of the week he would paint, mostly pictures of his cat, and wait for the visitors to come to buy his paintings. However, not one person had ever come to his house in the five years that he had been painting. There was a simple reason for this: no one knew about it. However, he still waited faithfully for them. His house was full of the pictures he had painted. It was an art gallery of the wretched. Each painting depicted something that drunkenly resembled a cat in some sort of mangled pose. His favorite was of a cat covered in paws, but having no legs. He was content with his lonely life; actually he was beginning to forget that there was any world outside his own narrow field of vision.

One brisk Friday night in mid-September he met his antithesis: a visitor who would switch lives with him, and together they would change the world (perhaps for the better, or perhaps not). There was a knock on his front door. Luther awkwardly stumbled off his couch, the only warm spot in his house. He left the whiskey next to Cathedral who purred, frightened of being left alone. The world turned upside-down in Luther's head, thoughts were flying in and out of his mind, but one seemed to be the most central: could this be a customer⁹

On the way to the door, he got lost three times and threw-up twice Lucky for him, this was a patient visitor. Luther finally reached the -5 door and opened it. On the other side, there |— was a man. ^

"Hi, I'm fed," the visitor said, with co a smile. In his drunken stupor, Luther thought the man had said, "Hi, I'm dead," and thought it terribly rude to lie like that, so he < decided to slam the door in Jed's face. ^-----------

However, he missed the door and fell, hitting his head, but it wouldn't hurt until the next morning.

"Hi, I'm Jed/' he said again, but the smile was even bigger. This time Luther understood. He slowly turned to look up at Jed's face and attempted to reply, but ail that could come out was: "Hunuuuh."

Jed understood what Luther wanted to say, even if Luther didn't; this was: "I'd love to have you as a guest. Stay as long as you want." Jed picked up his bags, and, ignoring Luther's feeble pleas of protest, crossed into the hallway and ran up the stairs. Jed galloped from room to room, searching for a place to sleep. Whenever he opened a door which enclosed one of the many hideous pictures of cats, he retreated in disgust.

He fell asleep in Luther's bedroom; it was the first time he had slept in a real bed for months. That night, he was sure he heard some music, but decided against investigating it. For now, Jed was one of those few who were immune to the effects of the music. He awoke to Luther's lumbering figure. It teetered over him with a baseball bat in one hand and a lump on its forehead, waiting for Jed to awaken. Luther couldn't bring himself to batter a man in his sleep. Now that his victim was no longer sleeping, he still couldn't hit him. The bat fell, making a loud thud when it hit the floor. Luther waited for Jed to say something.

Wait here." Jed got out of bed and rummaged through his scant belongings, most of which happened to be wires, nuts, and bolts.

to give you a visit," Jed asked. Actually, he wasn't — he was wondering how he could get this person to leave. Well, I'U tell you," Jed said. 'It's to show you this —" He whipped out a machine about the size of a cat from his bag. The machine was covered by hundreds of little switches and buttons. "I call it the Improbability Machine™. It's a pretty

but Luther didn't agree at the time; he was still trying to get this person to leave. He picked up his baseball bat

and prepared to swing. "Since I know you're a patent attorney who deals with this sort off thing, I was wondering iff you can help me get a patent

"Oh," said Jed, demoralized. But after a moment's contemplation he regained his spirit, "You can still help me though. Here, let me show you what

this little guy can do." He ran over to Luther's clump of body lying on the floor, and with nearly inhuman strength picked him up by an arm, throwing him on top of a nearby chair. Downstairs, Cathedral, who was asleep until then, felt the vibrations and hid under the couch.

Jed dangled the machine in front of Luther's face. Luther suddenly sprang to life and instinctively grabbed for it.

No no, my good friend, Jed said as he pulled it back towards his body, "first you must learn

"Oh," said Luther, disappointed. (You must understand that it takes Luther a little longer to realize the greatness of something that most see almost immediately.)

Luther said in a meek whisper, "Can you please leave me and my cat alone? Please?"

No. (pause) Now, to begin." Jed started pacing back and forth in the room. "With the Improbability Machine™, he pulled it out again and pointed to it. Luther stared with blank fascination. "one can control any event off chance.

Take for example this little die," he took out from a pocket a small die with numbers on each side. "I

have prog~~ramm~~ed the Improbability Machine so that this die will always land on ^c4⁹. You don't believe me, do you? (Actually, Luther did believe him.) Here let me show you."

Jed flicked a switch and the machine whirred to life. As the machine whirred to life, there was a whirlwind of flashes and beeps. Jed pushed a few buttons and

Jed threw the die against the wall as hard as he could. It bounced off and landed on '4.' He picked it up and did

the same thing, it landed on '4' once more. He repeated this three more times, '4,' '4/ '4/ "it's really a very

complicated thing to fully understand, but the basic Idea behind it is simple. The machine relies on probability (this can be slightly confusing, maybe because it's called the Improbability Machine™ Perhaps I should rename it). Anyway, for any event programmed into the machine, for example, rolling the ^c4,' the machine first allows the event to occur naturally. If the '4' is rolled, then everything's fine, and life goes on as normal. If anything else is rolled the machine gets to work, and It reverses time until before the event's occurrence. The machine does some strange stuff on a sub-atomic level so that events occur slightly differently from the previous try. Perhaps only a flick of the wrist is different, or the wind blows slightly differently. Whatever it is, hopefully it's enough to change the outcome to the desired one. If not, the entire process Is redone. For a relatively simple process, like the die, the process occurs about three billion times before a change of events occurs which could alter the outcome to a ^c4.' In actuality, however, it doesn't matter how many times the process had to be redone, because not a moment of time, from our perspective, is lost. You don't really care how the machine works exactly, and I don't know, so let's not bore each other with such trivialities. Tou know, actually, the machine can be used to make virtually anything occur. For example, we could take the probability of that cat of

yours turning purple and largo, (I never said this next part would be easy) program It into the machine, and it will happen.'

Jed stopped pacing and collapsed on the bed, but Luther, who hadn't blinked once since Jed started talking, was suddenly struck with an idea. It was the first time he had one in months.

"Yon got any breakfast?" Jed asked. Luther nodded his head and went downstairs to get some food for both of them. He was now convinced that his visitor was out of his mind. However, Jed held in his possession the one thing that could make him a famous artist. Luther would persuade him to stay until it could be re-programmed. A plan slowly formulated in his alcohol ridden mind.

Cathedral was the only one, however, who had noticed a few changes since the Improbability Machine™ was first used. Nothing major, in fact nothing most humans would notice at all, unless it was pointed out to them. In order for Jed's die to land on a '4' for the third time, it was necessary for three whiskers to spontaneously fall off Cathedral's face. Don't ask what the relationship between the whiskers and the die is, 1 really don't think anyone could tell you.

Cathedral remained under the couch. Luther returned with some breakfast for both Jed and him. Luther now had a vicious smile on his face because he believed that his incredibly brilliant scheme could work. This was his first smile in almost a year. That day was quite memorable for him: he both smiled and thought. (The last time he smiled was when his neighbor's dog, Claudius, caught on fire. One Chanukah night, Claudius was playing fetch near the table that held the lit candles in his owner's house. It happened to be that the floor had been waxed just the day before. One slip was all that was needed. Claudius went hurtling into the table; searing wax and fire was his demise. Luther found this comical.)

They ate their breakfast in silence. After the meal, the two came to the conclusion that Jed could stay in the house if he reprogrammed the machine for the probability that Luther would become a famous artist overnight. After all, Jed had no other place to stay; he wandered the backroads of Pennsylvania looking for buyers of his ideas. Luther, Jed, and Cathedral shared the same house for five months. The programming job should only have taken a month, but Jed decided that he would rather join Luther in several choruses of Neil Diamond's September Morn than work every night. Also, Jed could never work on the machine for more than hour without some sort of interruption from the cat. Jed never missed a chance to pet him. An outsider might even think that for some reason Cathedral was trying to delay the completion of Jed's project.

Finally, it was finished, and Luther uncorked a fresh bottle of whiskey to celebrate. He offered some to Jed, who accepted the offer with glee (this was strange because he always refrained from drinking before this). After finishing half the bottle together, Luther felt ready

"I don't feel much different," Luther said. Actually, he didn't feel much of anything because the alcohol dulled much of his senses.

Jed was wrong, Luther was not a famous artist, or at least not yet. In order for Luther Anderson to become the world renowned artist he had always dreamed of, Allentown first had to be dominated by purple felines each the size of a house (while the rest of the world would be dominated by cats of different colors). These cats enslaved all humans to do various chores; most of them related to cleaning litterboxes, though.

So, Allentown was now teeming with these cats and Luther was on his way to fame. Exactly three minutes after Jed used the machine, a purple cat stomped down a wall of Luther's beloved house. She was about

to stomp on the humans too because they were not doing their job. Lucky for Luther and Jed, Cathedral was nearby He persuaded the purple cat not to stomp on the substandard insipid human beings and to have a look at some of Luther's paintings that were utterly disgraceful to the human race.

She acquiesced and poked her head into the guest room that served as a makeshift art gallery. She was overjoyed with what she saw and wanted immediately to tell all her purple friends about the human who could paint. The next day, Luther was taken away to go on tour, showing off his paintings to the top cats of Pennsylvania; and Jed was forced to remain prisoner in Luther's old house to take care of Cathedral.

That was how it happened; the two had switched lives: Jed was stuck in the house lamenting this as his final resting place, while Luther roamed the countryside fearing that his next meal could be his last, dependent on good graces of multi-colored cats to keep him alive.

25 WARREN STREET NEW YORK, N.Y. 10007 (Just West of City Hall) Phone 212-385-1616 Fax 212-385-8193

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Look at him. Pompous. Noxious. Obnoxious. The arrogant way he strides onto the raft irritates me like nothing else has ever done. How I would dearly love to . . . no. He is not right. He does not fill my requirements. I must let him pass.

I hold out my hand for payment. He disappoints me for the second time. I watch as he strolls away, unaware of what might have been. How I hate him. Oh, to have ended him . . . But it is too late now. I must wait for another soul to come.

And another soul does. Ah, this one will do! This soul has enough of it to bring me near the threshold. It nears.

"Good day, Ferryman. I wish to cross. May I?" I nod, and the speaker steps onto the raft. This one shows kindness and goodwill. Alas, it will not help him.

I stop the boat in the middle of the river. "What are you doing?" the man asks. Ignoble last words. I face him, then change. Transform. Become . . . myself. I take him by the throat and raise him up high.

The bones clutter the boat. I kick them into the river and watch the settle to the bottom. I return to the uncomfortable, hated form of the ferryman. Soon. Soon I will be able to return home. Only one more good soul. It will not be long.

It has been long. There has be no one to cross the river for a month. I am beginning to weaken. If someone does not come soon I will have to abandon this disguise and hunt in my true form.

Another week has passed. I fear (hope?) I will have to hunt. I do not know if I will be able to control myself once I come near a soul. There is a town nearby. It will not survive.

I revert to myself again and take flight. I can smell the souls in the town and aim for them. I feel the blood lust well up inside. They will not know what hit them. I cannot — will not — control myself.

The town lies below. The town square is crowded. It is market day. Lucky them. I scream in anticipation.

I ignore their cries and descend upon them. Their flesh gives way easily under the manic fury of my onslaught. The carnage does not end with the people. In the frenzy I destroy buildings and some of the surrounding forest. The town is a scar in the middle of the surrounding beauty and tranquility.

The souls of the dead hover uncertainly above their bodies. I quickly devour them, feel their strength course through me. I will not need the damned ferryman form again.

I roar in victory and take wing. I fly towards the burning lands of my home plane of Therion, towards redemption, towards | £3

Sleep is killing me, sucking my soul through my intermeshed eyelashes, leaving the surrounding skin purple and sagging. Recently I noticed that the blood vessels on my eyelids are shot, creating red blotches between sections which are too white. No one else's eyelids are so mottled. What does Sleep want with my soul?

This morning my body would not move — not a lack of desire, but a physical inability — and I knew, as you know things in dreams, that I could die simply by reclosing my eyes, like old people do. Maybe I would have kept breathing; the brain stenivis hard to conquer, it's as fundamental as arithmetic. But I would've been dead, wouid've sunk within myself, wouid've been gone.

The wind is getting more desperate outside; I can hear it seeking entrance through the holes between the bricks of the exterior wall as I fold towels and read the mail. Maybe one day I will let it in, and it will see that the outside is really a much better place for wind to be.

Sleep is still a battle. People at work have started asking me if I'm feeling all right. How does one explain that one's retinas are the vanguards in defending one's soul? Not so easy, right? So I tell them I am tired, and they nod, thinking they understand.

Lately I find myself just staring at things: the wall, the floor, the curved glass of the television behind which meaningless colors flash. Staring for hours, hands and feet gradually losing warmth, until I enter some sort of trance. If I try to break through it too quickly my head vibrates and my jaw chatters until my skin thickens with goosebumps. 1 do not understand what is

happening — I do not know what to do. When did life become so complicated? Whatever happened to the era of mommy kissing booboos to make them better? Now we must deal with doctors and druggists and health insurance plans. Oh, to be small again, so small that with concentrated effort I could disappear at will.

My editor keeps rushing me onwards, always onwards. Research takes time, I tell her. But she only slants her eyes and pulls in the comers of her mouth. She does not believe me.

Walking outside I see the weary, the hungry, the overworked, the underpaid. From inside my bruised eyes they are all covers, blankets upon lives which are stories that no one dares to write down. Passions forbidden by the church, behavior forbidden by the law, thoughts repressed by those who think them, all burrow down beneath the folds, hiding from me, hoping I will not continue to probe after them. Each desire has its own smell, each need, its own markings, and I spot them, judge them from within the shadows of my mask. They look at me uneasily, and then something snaps, and I turn my eyes to other things, not willing to face this power. I don't know if I can make it to the end of this book.

Last night I tried relishing the sanctuary of sitting in a movie theater, body pushed down into threadbare plush. While lights of different hues played upon my face, the chair broke me in like a pair of new sneakers

until my senses could not discern between flesh and aged fabric. Crushed popcorn discards, overly saturated with butter, adhered themselves to the treads of my shoes. They hoped I would carry them away before they were swept up and dumped into trash receptacles. But I am not a savior — I walk away too fast, too easily, to take responsibility for their lives. Seeming to finally sense this they bounced away from me onto the dingy carpet when I stood, trying frantically to stowaway on someone else's feet before the room emptied.

Stepping into the ladies' room, I washed my hands without looking in the mirror. Tendrils of the relentless night slipped past the ticket-collector, beneath the swinging doors, sliding along the floor until it was beside me. Cold hands with cold fingers slipped into my pantlegs, creeping above the socks, grasping my calves, shoving ice into the muscles until they cramped. Suddenly I was fourteen again, thrashing through water too cold and deep, legs in useless agony, body pulled along by arms which couldn't move quickly enough. Now the river was gone, and I was fighting against the night. Why does she hurt me now? Long ago she'd christened me, acting both as mother and anointer, tickling me with fingers whose prints can never be removed from my skin. She'd watched over me, given me energy, propelled me faster across my domain, streets flying past like childhood memories. Beyond the pickle man on Essex, the pool hall on Fourth Avenue; beyond the mothers and drug dealers in Washington Square Park; perpetually diffusing me farther away — away from the hypnotic household routines, away from the days of being afraid of the dark.

But under that array of grimy pink tiles and harsh fluorescents she punished me, struck me with her frosty fists, left me clutching the porcelain sink, tortured and convulsing, legs anguished and as immobile as oak trees. Barely recovered I traveled home, finally collapsing into the bed where Sleep tried to grab a little more of my soul.

I have to go buy a quart of milk, I will write again soon. If d be nice if you did the same (write, not buy milk).

In a rain as soft as fur between the pads of a cat's paw, 1 walked through streets whose streaks of dirt melted away in rhythmic patterns. The faces change at dusk, emotions too raw for daylight are exposed while the breaths of strangers waltz together towards invisible stars. Air pollution — light pollution — noise pollution — all vectored towards my subconscious until I succumbed, until I needed the cold air for more than oxygen. My eyes melted away into shadows, my tongue slumbered in its cave, and I became a specter, an object of campfire stories which send young children into broken dreams. No one asked me for directions, rattling change cups stopped as 1 passed by; 1 was a danger which did not yield in its enactments. The darkness surveyed me weaving through hunched figures, alive with something more animal than adrenaline, but left me alone. By the time I reached the funeral parlor on Bleeker Street, it was already closed for the night; the windows were black, reflecting a cloudy image of my silhouette. My mother once told me that funeral parlors are the only businesses which never go bankrupt. All 1 know is that this particular one has been around longer than I have, and does not seem to be suffering from monetary difficulties.

Something had drawn me there — a curiosity? — perhaps — but something else more malignant, more powerful. It almost seemed as if some . . . creature . . . had leapt past me as 1 walked by, a creature which had been aiming for my jugular and missed, instead slamming its tender nose into the stone wall of a building behind me. 1 don't know, I just don't know anymore.

The book still sits unfinished, the publishmg company getting stiffer with anger each day. I am lost, caught in a comer. They do not understand.

Office work goes on unmercifully. 1 never though! that mail order music would be such a trying occupation. Considering that 1 have written nothing new in the past month 1 just thank whatever reigning deity that I have any income at all.

1 don't have much to say today. But I found a poem that 1 would like you to read; it's by E. E. Cummings:

sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes the hours descend, putting on stars ....

Lately 1 spend my time reading children's stories. It wraps the quilt of innocence more tightly around my shoulders, holding off Sleep, holding in my soul. When

I was little I used to think the full moon was following me, swerving around buildings, jumping over trees . . . following. I'd watch it from the back window of a cab, mentally pleading with the driver to go faster, to get away from the hugeness of it, the roundness which could pierce its way into my forehead, possessing me, making me into a smaller glowing sphere. I did not know then that it was just looking for a friend. And when 1 did, it chose to look elsewhere.

Rain hits my windows at angles, leaving prints which look like the long middle toe of a bird's foot. The wind is constant, trying to deceive me by sounding like a police siren, pressing a forged warrant against my window, thinking I will open it out of some fear of the law. But I have greater troubles than the wind.

— the creature — it's still there, Mendel. I could smell the blood on its breath as it circled me, seeking a vulnerability. It's more careful this time, it's waiting for something — or someone. I was trying to cross the street, trying to get away, noise was everywhere, and this beast, it slipped into the heart of a little girl standing near. She wanted to kill me, I saw it, she didn't care who was watching, she started pulling away from her mother's hand, approaching me on the curb — 1 couldn't move! This girl had nails longer than I've ever seen on a child, with pink luminescent nail polish chipped away at the edges — hatred whipped from her eyes like a fireman's hose out of control — suddenly a homeless man with a shopping cart of empty bottles and cans clanking and banging shoved his way into our path of vision, and I ran the four blocks home — four blocks!

— its lair is only four blocks from where 1 live! What have I done that this creature stalks me, using little girls as weapons⁹ You probably don't understand. I don't understand' It's insane, it's madness, this isn't normal. and you hidden in Russia, you don't care because it doesn't concern you. does it?! What do you care that I'm going to die while you spend time in foreign countries, not bothering to write because it's not important enough to fit into your schedule? Fuck you, Mendel!

I don't remember what I wrote in the last letter, I wrote it so quickly. If it was something offensive, I apologize ... I wasn't feeling very well. Anyway, I don't have time. I'm on lunch right now, and I expect to be busy for the next few nights. So, just ignore the last letter, okay? I'll write more another time. Bye.

I promised myself I wouldn't write to you again when I was in this state of mind, but I don't know who else to tell. 1 know you're sitting there judging me, not comprehending, maybe even wishing I would stop writing. But it's all connected to you somehow, you're the juxtaposition of everything — of course it's not something I expect that you're aware of, but you are — the juxtaposition, not aware.

Anyway, 1 was walking around last night again, I think it was because I had to buy a notebook. In the gutters the cracked concrete sifted steam from the overheated ground below. The splash of my feet in shallow puddles was unrivaled by any other sound, but I could feel them, so many more of them now, smell the blood on their breath again — except this time it was stronger . . . fresher. Roaches did intricate dances along the walls until scattered by our shadows, and the darkness stood aside, refusing to take favorites among her children.

Jaw twitching, nostrils splayed like smoking caves I slid past stragglers whom the night had not yet accepted with her caress, and they cringed away, not noticing my pursuers. Behind me these monsters salivated for my flesh, ahead of me Sleep hungered for my soul — I could not move quickly for my heels were couched with blisters, but it felt as if 1 were running anyway, my eyes rolling like those of a horse caught in a burning barn, I was trapped between extremes, panicked to the point of screaming —

— and then there was nothing. Not darkness, not light, but nothing at all Not even a dream 1 was elsewhere, a time warp, if you will, from which I did-not exit until 6:43 this morning. My eyes were tar pits. makeup only worsened the effect. 1 had to call in sick today. My boss did not doubt that 1 was ailing, but 1 think he wants me fired anyway.

There are wolves in the pantry, there are wolves in the belfry. "The world goes forth to murder dreams . . ." what a line! Do you remember it from before? But it is my dreams which go forth to murder me. Even Freud would not be able to analyze them into harmless symbolism. It has been wolves all along which follow me; wanting to lick me, bite me, eat me. They are wolves, yes, but ones which do not have the decency to chill your bones with a warning, only stalk silently until morning, knowing you eventually will fall. After that, there will be nothing, nothing but naked bones which slip unseen between the anonymous bars of a sewer grate. Except I have joined them. Sleep sucked in the last wisp of my soul between wet lips, leaving infinitely black holes in my sockets where there is only room for darkness. Even the wind is afraid to whistle through them now. But the night has reembraced me — watching her children play together has always made mother happy.

So now I follow the moon instead of having the moon follow me. We are not friends yet, she can be so distrustful with her waxings and wanings, but I dance for her across fire and water, and she smiles. We are dangerous women; mother, moon, and I, but only on earth when a candle is lighted and it is dark. Russia has saved you from me so far Mendel, but there are wolves in Russia too. I will be there, Mendel, chewing on your carcass while Sleep gnaws on your soul.

Hey there! Just got your letter, you won't believe how long it takes for mail to get from the U.S. to Russia! I saw Lenin's tomb today — looks pretty good for a dead guy — but the wait is interminable. I'm sorry you're having trouble sleeping, maybe you should have your doctor prescribe Valium or something. It sounds like you might also have the flu. By now you've probably recovered though.

Anyhow, 1 just wanted to drop you a quick note letting you know everything is going well (despite having to get used to this whole time zone thing). Feel better!

i^^ t is often said that dog is man's best friend; but "T £ never was it so true as in the case of Cockerspa-^J niel Jones. You see, Cocker had been a dog-lover all his life. When people asked him what his favorite color is, he said "dog." Dogs were to him what chocolate or crossword puzzles might be to other people. Cocker liked cats too, but not as much. Cocker had heard once that dog was god spelled backwards. He didn't believe in God, but he believed in dogs. Around his eighteenth birthday, in a fleeting moment of insecurity, he changed his name to Dromedary Jones, but he soon changed it back.

Our story involves a certain experiment conducted on Cockerspaniel by the local mad scientist. This scientist needed someone who would not mind being temporarily transformed into a moose. It just so happened that Cocker loved dogs, and was dumb enough to think that moose were dogs. He finally realized the fault in his logic when the offspring's infertility became apparent. So the scientist took out Cocker's brain and put it in one of those little wiener dogs (incidentally, he meant dog, not moose). It may be difficult to imagine a human brain in a wiener dog's head — it didn't exactly fit, but the scientist wrapped the skin up nicely so no bare brain was exposed. Cocker had most of his human emotions, including love and envy, and dog characteristics like colorful gums and unbelievably complex nose geometry. But the operation gave him telepathy and x-ray vision as well.

Cocker's friends and family were somewhat unnerved by this unexpected event, but they soon accepted it as a good thing. Cocker attempted to continue living life as normal, but soon found it difficult to communicate. Whenever he raised his paw in class, he was knocked off balance and propelled out of his seat. He got a job, but was quickly fired when his boss found him using the "just for copies"' liquid paper* on regular type-

written memos. Soon afterwards he was evicted from his kennel for mentally communicating with the basset-hounds. In conclusion, a week after his operation, Cocker was out on the street.

Freedom. There was nothing to restrain Cocker from doing whatever he wanted. He hitchhiked around the country with a big styrofoam thumb he found in the trash. After realizing that nobody could stay mad at him, he wandered into a pet store and stuck his head in the bone bin. After scarfing down six or seven of the glazed bones, a man (or perhaps a woman) screamed out "Whose dog is this?" At this point, the beauty of dog life first hit Cocker. Nobody could blame him for doing whatever they let him get away with! After all, he was just a dumb moose. Before he could be scolded for the theft, he undid the manacles and swam to the surface, just in time to catch the sunset and credits. The glazed bones left a bad taste in his muzzle, like dirt mixed with cauliflower.

Cocker began to consider his situation from various perspectives. On one paw, he was incredibly disadvantaged — a dog in a human world would always be looked down upon. On the other paw, as a creature with the intelligence of a human being, he would be exalted by his canine peers as a super-genius. This idea pleased him very much, although not as much as eternal sunlight. Living so far North, he knew light was precious. He began to wonder if he could be happy with his new life, and with his new fur. He thought about why he had loved dogs so much as an anti-dog. He recalled the love, the envy, and the odor. Returning from prison, he would observe his pets' perennial excitement, day after day the same grinning faces and wagging-tails-of-bliss. He would wonder why they could be elated over again for the same reason, and how. It seemed that the standard human procedure was to get less enjoyment out of each repetition of the same event. A procedure that only

disadvantaged his old species and made them feel productive. Machines are productive.

What were the benefits of being human? There were three. This pleased Cocker. He walked outside, naked as open or love, yet unabashed. How easy life would be! He saw an adorable French Poodle, crossed the street, smelled her indiscreetly, and proceeded to mount her. He soon felt a sharp pain in his side. He removed his keys and continued. The dog's owner gave him another one, harder, and in the same sensitive spot.

"€xcuse me," he said, "you just kicked me!" GET AWAY TOr GRHGT MITT/ shouted the

'Til hove you know that although I am but a grungy mutt, and a grungy mutt tuiener dog ot that, I am not condemned to a life of needless suffering. No, my deor, I uuill never be embarrassed. I uuill never worry. I will yawn and sigh. I will never work. I will never consider the future. I will never record the past. Vou may have won this battle, but you cannot win a bagel.'¹

She walked away with her dog. Cocker limped, pulsing with sexual paroxysms, to a fire hydrant and sat down. "Wait a minute," he told himself, "I will worry. I am worrying now. find I am worrying now." He was confused . . . until he remembered having a human brain. This surprised him as it presented an interesting paradox — a quote from a great but underappreciated story: "if he is to be truly happy as a dog, he must lose the ability to appreciate that happiness."

He went to the local mad scientist who, by the way, had moved and thereby invalidated his title, at least from Cocker's point of view. He said, "Local scientist, can you remove my human affections?"

"But that would make me just another dog and this would no longer be an experiment. ULIhat effects would the operation have? The world's population would be slightly altered But with the myriad births and deaths of both species every minute, what gifted demographer could note the difference?"

"Yes," said Doc, "But would you be th-h-happy? You would never worry and never regret You would

never think, but never need to think. It would, indeed, be so much easier to be content B-fi-Progress and porpoises would be pointless. Perhaps I too desire to be a dog. But not a wiener dog. They get made fun of too often. And ch-x-kicked."

"Then we'll do it together. We' II have the operation together. Rfterwards, you do realize, we will have no memory of it, so we must say good-bye now. So long, O trusted and faithful local mad scientist Farewell —"

"Wait! Dogs can r-m-remember. Why shouldn® we remember, when we are old and lonely?"

"Our memories won't be as strong, or as flexible. UUe won't remember how to speak or how to love."

So they set the machine on automatic and completed the operation. The scientist (now a cockerspaniel) and Cocker walked out onto the street. They spoke with their big puppy-dog eyes. Cocker turned his head slightly, to get a better appreciation of the perspective. The other dog scratched his head, stopped, and sat down. Actually, he had a bit of difficulty sitting, so he squatted in a very awkward position. The aura set up between the animals seemed warm and powerful. In the few minutes of their adjustment, all the uncertainties of life were dispelled. Cocker urinated. He then folded his ears back and put down his tail. He growled. The other dog got up and slowly backed away. Cocker yapped. Soon they were apart.

They lived out their lives, dogs' lives, and died dogs' deaths. As leaves swirl with wind, uncurl with time, so they fell to freedom. Soon people forgot about Cocker and Cocker. People never really cared. The monsoons still came on schedule. The roses still felt as sweet. What was blank once is yet undone. If this seems sad then 1 can see and say 1 see that there is nothing more for me to say.

£^W^ bolt of lightning rippled across the distant ^^B sky, heralding the coming of the rain. The crowd of Ishmal barely noticed; their attention was fixed upon the wooden wall erected on the hill's summit, as well as on the figure being led to the wall. Most of them were crowded in a mass, creating a sea of black feathers and yellow beaks and talons. A few stood far apart, behind the heads of their clans, the wind picking at their tunics. The long, rust red grass beneath the four toed talons rustled expectantly, whispering in the same nervous tones as did that small group.

A great cheer went up from the large group as five men came forth, each holding a slender sword, the hilts of which were encrusted with rubies. After them came a single Ishmal, striding with dignity even though his hands were bound with chord that bit and cut when he moved. His wings, which extended from the odd, double jointed elbow, were set back in a regal looking sweep.

In a similar place a man, head surmounted with a crown of thorns, dark hair mottled with blood, was led towards a cross. The cross was set a little forwards from those of the two thieves suffering already from their sentences, thrust forward enough for eleven rather penitent men to cluster near its base. Two Roman soldiers strode behind him, one of these carrying a short spear, the other a mallet and three iron nails. The sand swept about in the wind, biting at the arms, faces, and sandaled feet of the onlookers. Curiously, the convicted man was the only one who did not flinch.

The Ishmal was held up to the wall and tied, legs shoulder width apart and arms outstretched, with thin wiry chord. His head flicked momentarily towards the small group of onlookers, who could not face the clever and knowledgeable glance that they had known for so long. He turned back, apparently satisfied, as the five sword bearers advanced.

The sounds of the mallet came clear and ringing through the night as the last of the nails were pounded into the man's ankles. The Pharisees standing a respectful distance off seemed pleased, but the look that the convicted man gave them, wise and lucidly clear, removed the slight smirks that had begun to manifest themselves on the Pharisees' faces. They turned their well fed shapes away from him and began to walk back toward the nearby city, joking and laughing tentatively as they left the man's scrutiny. A few minutes later the eleven, some dour, some weeping openly, wandered into the night.

The swords plunged in, elbow, elbow, ankle, ankle, each one provoking a cheer from the crowd. The cheers died away quickly in the absence of the expected cries of anguish from the prisoner. A cry did come, however, from the small group that stood to the side. One of the clan leaders drew his sword and charged at the executioners with that cry that was later to become famous "Fe k>ea**ch." He was beaten down to the

And plunged into his naked side . . . slid into his neck, just cutting the jugular ... no cry of anguish came . . . just the liquid sound of the blade piercing ... the intestine as his head bowed . . . the executioners stood back as the crowd dispersed . . . under the watchful eye of the soldier he languished . . . blood dripping down his sleek feathers ... to the white loincloth ... for a long, quiet time ... as the slow death continued ....

The Ishmal raised his head, weak and dizzy from blood loss, and looked at the one sword bearer left to watch over his death. His gaze was met with curiosity, perhaps he would die and the executioner could go

told himself to remember those words in his report, he turned and strode away as Krearch sagged into death.

Sam Oldson woke up drenched in a cold sweat. His chestnut hair, just starting to turn to gray, sagged down his brow. He looked around his berth, taking stock of the suit laid out for tomorrow, the half packed luggage cases, the picture at his bedside, the theology tomes lying on the bedside table, and the diminutive pocket computer set on top of them. The wall clock read seven thirty, earth standard.

"Suroulecc!" he shouted in an irritated tone, then more puzzled, "Kenesda soricantz Isnizchda?" Then, remembering himself, he pounded the off switch of the hypnoteacher by his bed side. As the red light on the machine's side faded, his mind fazed back into English.

Sam Oldson investigated religions. He was a Union police officer assigned to Theological Investigations, a department whose charter it was to inspect new sects, cults, offshoots, schisms, and pill popping gurus for fraud or illegal activities. In practice this meant he walked in, took a few notes, and left everything alone.

That was not his intent when he had started out. He had entered after quitting divinity school, where he had quarreled with and broken several ribs of a very secular professor. He had gone into investigations in the hope of uncovering fraud after fraud. After years of service he had aided in exactly two convictions. Eventually he settled into the normal routine: enter, take some notes, and either recommend the cult or sect for further scrutiny or suggest that the case be dropped.

He jumped out of bed, his slightly paunchy body moving much more agilely in the lower gravity, and threw the hypnoteacher, books, picture of his wife and kid, and computer into the suitcase. He pulled on the tan suit and khaki pants, simple white shirt, and small police badge of a Union officer and, hoisting his suitcase, walked out through the cabin door.

The freighter that surrounded him was dominated by two menacing looking gunnery pods. Trade and passenger liners that ran along the border lived in constant fear of attack from the Empire of Ulath, the Union's

unfriendly neighbors. The Ulath, beings somewhat like octopuses with armor (disregarding the torso and extra leg), are driven by an urge for conquest, and their object is the Union. Only heavily armed worlds like Watchman held them back.

On his way out of the docked ship he tossed his bag into a slot, giving instructions that it be forwarded to his next ship. The slot accepted it with a beep of acknowledgment and the soft hum of servomotors. He stepped out of the main lock and onto the crowded streets of Ishin, homeworld of the Ishmal. Hopping a ground effect cab he sped off through the maze of tall, rectangular buildings towards the Krearchinas, where he was to receive his next assignment.

The Krearchinas, chief temple to Krearch, the bringer of honor, was a huge building surrounded by a graveyard for nobles. In that yard the burial of a clan leader was in progress; the lifeless form was being lowered into its final resting place as onlookers watched silently. Three chanters were singing the traditional death hymn, the mid range repeating the cry of Ketch te Saien while the low and high range singers alternated with the melody line. All onlookers were clothed in the traditional tunic and pants and each carried a sword at his side. The priest heading the ceremony was clothed all in black, with a leather choker fastened tightly around his neck.

Sam entered the Krearchinas as the bass burst out into the anthem of Fe Krearch te Saientur. His voice was lost, however, as the heavy brass doors closed behind him. It was replaced by the clack of his own shoes, as well as by the clicking of Ishmal talons and the swishing of Akkal robes and tails. He approached three figures, two Ishmal and an Akkal, who came towards him from the other side of the vaulted, marble atrium.

"Greetings Mr. Oldson/^ said Masrala, the Akkal, her slender fur-downed hands moving into a gesture of respect. She was dressed in the garb of a Priest of the High Mind. Her immaculate white robe led up into an odd hood which ran in a strip between her fox-like ears and ended in a water filled glass ball resting on her brow above her ruddy snout. Attached to the robe at her shoulder was a white cape that ran down her back, over the rhythmically swishing tail, and onto the floor behind

her. Suspended in the air beside her floated a set of mission orders, held there by her powerful telekinetic powers. "I trust your journey has been satisfactory." "Indeed it has, madam."

"And I trust also that you wili be able to settle your assignment in a way that is satisfactory to all." The speaker was an Ishmal priest, wearing a heavy choker with a brass buckle. He seemed hurried and irritated. "You are assigned to investigate a neo-Krearchist sect known as Herevsism that has sprung up on the borderworld of Watchman. Unlike Krearchism, which states that we are in debt to God and must pay that debt through continued honor and work, Herevsism (Herev is a word meaning release) states that God has freed us and we are now allowed to do whatever we wish, even let non-lshmal into the faith. The cult is championed by Dr. Seranias, a human immigrant to that world, and Captain Kiniath, a Captain of the Artillery Guard who apparently received a set of revelations from God himself."

"Eh? Well, as I was saying, this cult has taken in most of the Artillery Guard as well as many of the richest residents of Watchman. We want you to make an inspection, nothing too deep, as we do not wish to inflame tensions on the border." Here he paused, nervously, as if he had just said something distasteful. "You will have agent Manoral as backup, this is his first case, so let him learn the ropes." He indicated the young Ishmal standing next to him, garbed in a lose tunic and pants, as well as the customary rapier. Sam noticed that this Ishmal did not wear a choker around his neck.

Manoral spoke up for the first time "Well, Mr. Old-ton, I guess you ought to knotf that I'm unhappy with this whole arrangement. I wanted to enter the P.R.M.D, but my Father here," he indicated the priest standing beside him, "insisted that 1 take up religious duties. This was the only compromise I could reach." And with that he strode for the door.

"Be easy with Manoral, Sam," said Masrala in her sibilant voice, "he has much to learn and can be a little bit too credulous at times/' Her hands set in a sign of chagrin, then moved to a farewell gesture. "Till we meet aqa'm, Sam Oldson."

"Ketch te saien, Masrala, your Honor." Bowing to priest and priestess, he walked out the door after Manoral.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Old-son. I trust that you will find our little mission conforms to all government regulations." The speaker was Dr. Seranias, a middle sized man, leaning towards overweight, with heavily greased hair and an incessant smile. He wore a white cassock with a black collar and gold fringe at the hem and the sleeves, fine leather shoes, and a clerical shawl with a broken chain at each end and an insignia depicting five swords. He reached out and took Sam's hand; his grip was uncalloused. The priest gestured to the approaching figure of an Ishmal, clothed in exquisite tunic and pants, with tooled leather boots. A gilded sword was at his side and around his neck was a gold choker studded with rubies. His figure was heavier than that of the normal Ishmal, and he moved with a self-assured, arrogant walk.

He joined the little group and Dr. Seranias made the introductions. "Mr. Oldson, Manoral, this is our esteemed leader, Captain Kiniath. It was Kiniath who received the new doctrine from Krearch himself."

Manoral's eyes were awestruck and credulous. He extended his hand. Kiniath received it gruffly, shook it like you might shake spilled water off your hand, and let it fall.

The four of them walked into the main building of Watchman city. The building housed all government offices, as well as most of the industry and residences. It was over one hundred and fifty stories tall and ringed by small buildings and immense planetary defense cannons. The manufacture of these splendid weapons was the city's main industry. The small group entered through a hall filled with delicate crystal sculptures, formed in the likeness of a grove of delicate trees, and from there proceeded to the drop shaft

They fell, one by one, up the drop shaft, in which gravitational waves could be channeled and distorted to counter the forces' normal effects. Sam, unaccustomed to this odd mode of transportation, accidentally missed the destination on floor fifty three. Instead he

at fifty four, and found himself staring at a massive sub-space transmitter, capable of beaming signals across the galaxy. The behemoth was apparently under repair, as a mess of wires and panels was hanging from its brob-dingnagian side. As the workmen looked up, Sam sheepishly launched himself down a floor to rejoin the impatient group waiting for him.

They walked along an ornate corridor lined with oil paintings of the life of Krearch; Krearch preaching honor, Krearch at (or rather on) the lake of fire, Krearch at his own execution, Krearch addressing the clans, and Krearch teaching mercy dueling. All the major points of his life were there. And then, by the door that led to the inner cult complex, hung a picture of Kiniath, sleeping peacefully, with the serene countenance of Krearch looking benevolently down at him. As they walked through this odd gallery they passed Ishmal and human beings, most overweight, all wearing ornate chokers. These jeweled collars were much like the one on the neck of Kiniath, who stood, dourly inspecting the reproduction of his face that hung on the wall.

Dr. Seranias placed his hand on the door that stood in front of them and, with the swish of concealed machinery, the door dropped back into the wall. Sam peered in to a room strewn with pillows. Its only other furniture was a long center table heaped with rich food and intoxicating drinks. A huge candelabra held smoldering pillars of stessima incense. On the pillows lay addicts stoned on Nirvana, Nadrigul powder, and CC 69. In one corner sat a wirehead, current pouring into the pleasure center of his lethargic brain. Beings lay sprawled in alcoholic stupor, the flasks of brandy, ale, and wine still in their outstretched hands. Many of the occupants were engaged in physical acts that made even Sam blush.

A woman lay in front of him, obviously drunk. She looked up at him, or maybe at Dr. Seranias or Kiniath, and proposed something thoroughly indecent. In response, Kiniath raised a booted talon and kicked her out of the way, sending her sprawling in a mass of white cassock and blood red wine. She hissed at them, her eyes unfocused with drink, and made a feeble attempt to get up. Then she fell back, cursing and muttering, and drifted into unconsciousness.

An extensive tour of the premises followed, but Sam's thoughts kept returning to what he had seen in that abominable room. When Dr. Seranias finally deposited the visitors at Sam's interim offices, Sam was ready to bust the whole operation. But Manoral would have none of it. He insisted on going back to the complex to "do a little wore poking around." Sam reluctantly agreed and settled down at the small computer terminal to spend his day searching the city's record files, while Manoral continued the physical investigation.

Seven or eight bleary eyed hours later Sam took a much needed rest, assured that he had what he needed to crack the Herevists wide open. An hour later he awoke from nightmare-filled sleep to assemble his facts.

Fact: gunnery efficiency and salable goods production have dropped sixty-seven percent since the arrival of the Herevists.

Fact: the Herevists do not follow the rules of Saien (Ishmal honor). He had Seen enough to

ways of Krearch. This had been proven during the long Union war with the Ulath. Even though the Ulath had placed captives in total isolation and subjected them to physical torture no Ishmal ever abandoned honor. Sam knew that the same claim could not be made for every captured human ally.

Conclusions: 1) The Ishmal and many of the human beings were being controlled. 2) They were being controlled for somebody's gain.

What they were being controlled for was easy. It could not be economic conquest, production had declined universally, and it could not be political conquest, the Herevists were too "busy" for politics. Thus it had to be actual physical conquest, probably by the Empire of Ulath. The whole Hokum religion was founded to lure the Ishmal and humans from their gunnery posts. The problem was, why were the Ishmal going along with it?

It was then that Manoral walked in, wearing black pants and tunic, and around his neck a gold choker with a blood red ruby in its center. "Well, how do I look?" UUhat in the name of . . . ?"

screamed as he leaped from his chair onto the surprised Manoral. He tore at the choker, ripping it off before Manoral slammed him to the wall and drew his sword. Sam brought the choker down, ruby first, onto the hard floor.

There was a small explosion as the hypno-receiver smashed, cutting off the input to Manoral's brain. He screamed and dropped the sword, which went skittering to the base of the desk, its guard cracking across the floor with a sound like bones breaking. The darkly feathered figure fell backwards, his head smacking into the ground with the same sound as his sword. His pupils contracted and expanded wildly, then calmed. "Kasach sanaah krel? Korenach tetth?"

"Vou were receiving hypnotic suggestions from the subspQce transceiver in the cult compound."

The situation was explained to Manoral as the two raced towards the main building. When they reached the gates a huge shadow fell across the sun. Shaped like a giant crystal, the titanic Ulath ship flew in low, maneuvering its bulk with surprising agility. It would take a few minutes for the ship to reach Watchman city, but when it did, none would be at the guns to stop it.

The two burst into the lobby, only to find Dr. Seranias and Kiniath waiting for them. The Ishmal held his long, ornamented sword in a ready position. He moved forward, his weapon swinging gently from side to side, to engage Manoral. Seranias reached into the folds of his cloak and whipped out. . . the hilt of a knife?

"knife" held out in front of him. The blade of the "knife" was made from Sinclair wire, ultrathin chord that could easily slice through most substances. A faint red dot that seemed to hover in the air in front of the Doctor indicated the blade's length. Sam moved backwards. and came up against one of the crystal trees.

"You should have left me alone, Oldson. Now I'll have ro rake care ol you. You re roo much of a thorn in our side for the Ulath to tolerate."

"TRfilTOR!" screamed Sam as he rolled away from the knife, which sent the sculpture tumbling to a shattered death on the floor below. Across the room he could see the two dueling birds, their blades moving in blurs of speed. Manoral, however, clearly had the upper hand against his out-of-shape opponent.

Sam stood as Seranias came at him again, but this time he held a shard of crystal in his hand. As Seranias lunged Sam brought the sharp splinter downwards, cutting the betrayer's hand and sending the Sinclair blade flying into the ground. Seranias spat an un-priestly obscenity as he grabbed his hand.

The two combatants threw themselves at the knife, grappling with each other in a desperate attempt to grab the hilt. Seranias, in a last ditch effort, kicked the knife with his boot, sending it through the pavement like a knife through butter. Seranias got in a lucky blow to Sam's kidneys, freeing himself momentarily.

Seranias ran for the knife, but Sam slammed into him, sending him careening into one of the sculptures. One of the delicate branches went in through his temple, killing Seranias instantly. His limp body hung like a marionette on the red coated limb.

Sam vaulted over Manoral, who was saying prayers over the fallen body of his opponent, and fell up the drop shaft to the fifty fourth floor. Disembarking, he ran to the subspace transmitter's main control board and, grabbing a nearby wrench that had been used for opening access panels, smashed it to sparking decimated fragments. With a final crunch, the subconscious signals ended their cries for loyalty. The lights of the titanic machine dimmed as Sam vaulted over the safety railing and back down into the drop shaft.

He sprinted through the cult corridor, pausing only to tear the painting of Kiniath's rapture to shreds, and into the main hall of the complex. People were sprawled everywhere, all either coming out of hypnosis or still under the effects of some drug. He clambered up onto the table and addressed the rabble, telling them not to be afraid, that they had been suckered, and that if they did not get to their guns they would be reduced to a gelatinous muck by the weapons on the Ulath ship.

"What the hell?" Said one of the human gunners. Rather blunt, but still dead accurate for the situation.

Sam was saved the trouble of further explanation when the first barrage of blaster charges hit the city's shields. The scramble for the guns that followed was incredible. The room was deserted of all but the drugged and unconscious sleepers. Sam, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, went off in search of a vantage point from which to monitor the battle.

The huge form of the Ulath ship could be seen through the red shield haze that covered the city, raining bolts of energy down from the heavens like some vindictive thunder god. Stress marks, like so many ripples in a pond, were beginning to appear in the dome of the shield. Bluish energy crackled around its edges, where generators were straining to hold the barrier.

As the first of the city guns began to return fire the shield collapsed. With a brittle snap the field pulled back revealing the glinting metal hull hovering in front of the parted sea of energy. But, even as it stood in triumph, the first green bolts of the city's cannons were beginning to find their target.

A cloud of small dots exited from the belly of the behemoth and shot down towards the city bellow. Sam

threw himself to the balcony deck as the concussion missiles hit, shaking the city with their force. He carefully poked his head above the ornate duraplastic railing to tabulate the damage.

Four streams of green light had been silenced, blown into oblivion by the missiles. The field generators were a tangled mass of twisted metal girders in concrete rubble. A chunk had been blown out of the building in which Sam sat. Floors one hundred and twelve and up rested on a blasted rib cage of metal iced with glass and duraplastic. Missiles had also thudded into the settlement below, causing blast holes of ruinous devastation.

The ship's gun ports again opened up on the town, but by then it was too late. Lance after lance of green death from the city played across the gleaming metal hull, causing it to heat up in white hot strips. Finally, the main engine exploded, vaporizing the Ulath ship with a final ear splitting crack of thunder.

As the gunnery lights winked out, one by one, Sam lay exhausted against the balcony wall. For the first time in months, he slept dreamlessly and well.

May 20, 6pm - James Morrouj, Nebula Award winner May 26, 6:30pm - Crik Gravesen Cynthia Soroka May 28, 4pm - Barbara Comfort, mystery writer

Talea waited patiently in the dark. From her seat by the bedroom window, she could see the entire neighborhood unobserved, except nobody was awake to observe her anyway. She had been waiting there since the sun had set several hours ago. In the distance, she could see the street lights lining both sides of her neighborhood, bathing the way to her house in a dull yellowish light made strange by the cold night mists. Tonight the moon was new — the stranger would come again.

She looked down at the worn coin she held firmly between her fingers. In the dim light, she could barely make out the odd inscriptions that marked the coin, but it was valuable — that she knew. Her father had only told her that the coin had been minted in Europe in the fourteenth century. Her father did not tell her that it was made of pure gold; she had found out herself when she brought it to a museum to be examined. When she asked him where he got the coins, he looked at her fiercely and told her never to ask such stupid questions again.

This was the type of coin the stranger left outside their door every new moon in a dusty, leather pouch. It was not that she wasn't grateful. This mysterious supply of medieval coins paid for their bills since — since she couldn't remember when. Her mother had died years ago, and her father was an invalid confined to a wheel-

She glanced at the window just as the automatic night lights of the house across the street flickered on. She froze — the coin slipped from her finger tips and thudded softly on her bed. There was a figure outside, and he was standing out in the middle of the street, out of the range of street lights. He had come.

From the street, he began to walk toward her house so silently that it was almost eerie. She felt herself becoming entranced by his movement. She had never seen anyone walk with such grace. To her disappointment, he was hooded. She would have loved a chance to see his face. His cloak fluttered in the wind behind him, dancing just above the dried leaves. In a moment, he was at the front of her house and out of view from her window. This was the stranger that had visited them every new moon and he was here once again. This time she was awake.

No sooner had she crept off her bed to put on some sneakers, the figure had already begun to make his away across the yard to the street. She dashed down the stairs, and grabbed an old sweatshirt for warmth, being extra careful not to awaken her father. When she opened the front door, she glanced at the porch and saw the familiar brown leather pouch. She placed it on the table and shut the door tightly. The figure was quickly disappearing in the distance. Without hesitation, she followed him.

"T*&*?" he cried out in the darkness of his room. Slowly, he picked himself from his bed and positioned himself in his wheelchair.

"1*jU*)" he said nervously. He knew tonight was a new moon. In the next room, he heard the kitchen door shut. Immediately, he wheeled himself into the kitchen and turned on the lights.

"Id**. . ." the old man gasped. His eyes widened at the sight of a leather pouch sitting on the table,

bulging with coins. He pushed himself to the table and grabbed the small pouch. There was a note inside:

"... it o*>'t U... ♦*«* yU... $* %*>* *m>+> ..." he muttered. He slowly wheeled himself to the door and out onto the porch. In the distance, he could already hear the roar of a river. He shook in fear — there was never a river near this town, except once, he remembered, many years ago. His fingers tightened on the wheels. Moments later, he was furiously wheeling towards the ghost river.

He remembered how he had saved the young priest several centuries ago. The river was rapid, and pulled at the soaked frock of the young man, threatening to drag him under. He remembered how he floundered in the water as he brought his boat near him, laughing. He remembered when he saved him, how he told him that his God would not save him, watching the man's face pale at the words. And he remembered how he promised his soul to him if he would just save him. He smiled at that.

And he remembered another: the young woman who promised him her first daughter if he would just ferry her across the river, anywhere, just away from the men that were chasing her for what she had stolen. They were gone now. of course. Then he remembered the young lady that was following him. He paused for a moment to pull his cloak around himself, glanced at the distant figure behind him, and then continued to the river.

Talea picked up the silver locket she had uncovered accidentally among the tall grass. Making sure she had not lost sight of the man, she quickly opened the locket to glance inside. There was a portrait of a young woman, strikingly beautiful, and at the bottom was the inscription:

She stared at the tiny portrait in shock. It was a picture of her. She felt, her blood suddenly drain away and fainted.

And awakened. The river began where it wanted to and ended where it began. It flowed continuously, endlessly — its waters hiding the secrets that she would never be able to delve into, because the waters ran too fast. A little boat rocked in tempo to the waves that crashed along its side; only a rope tied to its bow kept it in place.

Startled, she turned in the direction of the voice — except she couldn't see who had spoken.

This time she glanced in the direction of the boat and saw a thin man standing at the bow, steadying the boat with a long pole. He looked at her through eerie dark eyes, perfectly matched with the same color hair, but with a face so pale, like death. She stared at him and tried to speak, but found that her voice was gone.

Slowly, the man raised his arm and pointed across the river, to the mists that slirouded the other side. She could not make out what was there.

Without remembering how she had gotten into the boat, in a moment she found herself in the middle of the fast running river.

"Do you know my name?" he whispered, as he pushed the boat across the turbulent waters with the pole. She stared blankly at him, desperately searching for the words that she could not speak.

"Then it is too bad . . ." his face became grim. "You should not have trusted me . . ." With that, the boat glided into the mists, and she finally screamed.

And stopped when she found herself lying among the reeds. Her hand was still clutching to the locket by her side. She got up on her knees to try to locate the man. The figure was still there, as if he was just standing there, watching her, even waiting for her. She shivered at the thought. She scrambled back onto her feet to catch up to him when he suddenly turned around, and continued on the path.

His palms burned but he kept on pumping at the wheels. He cursed the day when he had bargained with the devil.

n other news tonight, the mysterious Corporation has announced that they have found an effective cure for Betazoan fever, which reached epidemic proportions three years ago. The Corporations previous accomplishments include cures for all types of cancer, AIDS, and even the common cold. No spokesman could be reached for comment."

That, John Tucker remembered, was six says ago. He had had some suspicions about the Corporation's motives and he had done a little investigating. He found something interesting — days before, the CEO of a leading biotechnical company had died. Checking the dates of previous announcements of cures by the Corporation, he noticed that important figures at rival companies had also died. A coincidence? Doubtful! The Corporation had no reason to worry about the police, who had no time to go after big companies. He realized that he couldn't confirm his suspicions and he couldn't simply barge into the Corporation Tower and demand answers; but when Dr. Victor Jameson, head of the Corporation, tried to grease the palms of the entire police department, under the pretense of a charitable contribution, he had enough to go on.

Back in the present, John stepped out of the gul-lwing doors of his personal cruiser wearing full cybernetic armor that he had 'borrowed' from the police stationhouse. The armor not only enhanced his strength, but gave him the firepower of a battalion.

He walked through the mirrocote doors of the Corporation Tower and was greeted by an emotionless, metallic voice. As he proceeded to the second set of doors, he noticed the palm-print and retina scanners that blocked his entrance. He remembered his training: "Always be stealthy and subtle:'

"To liell witk subtlety," he muttered, blowing a five foot hole in the door. Bending down, he walked through and boarded the waiting elevator.

'Top floor." He had seen enough movies to know that the big man was always on the top floor.

"insufficient security clearance," said the same metallic voice that greeted him at the door.

Omega 3-2." All buildings were required to give security override codes to the police upon their request, which sometimes comes in handy.

"Lite hell 1 will," he growled. From the inside of his right wrist emerged a datajack: a long, thin, sharp piece of metal. He inserted it into the main control panel's access port, allowing his armor's cybernetic circuitry to effect a manual override. As the elevator began to ascend, he thought to himself, "I can t nelieve tnat SOB.

eliminated the override! if I let lain live, tn at s something else I can cliarge nim with.

He didn't even bother to destroy the floor's defense systems, since they had no effect on his armor. Finding a huge steel-titanium door, he blasted it with his arm cannon.

Standing behind his desk was Dr. Victor Jameson, not looking the least bit worried.

"Mr. Tucker, I've been expecting you. UUhat is the meaning of this little visit? Vou barge into my

building, destroy my property, and forcefully enter my office. I ouin the police, you knouj. I con hove you arrested!"

"You can skip tke tkreau, pal," John replied, ignoring the fact that Jameson knew his name. An infrared scan of the office revealed no heat sources other than himself, confirming his suspicions — Jameson was a late-model android. He activated his suits disc-recorder. "I

know all about your cures, where you £et them, ana who you to kill to £et them.

"Very resourceful, my friend, but ultimately futile. Since you uuont be leaving this building alive, I'll give you the satisfaction of knowing that you are correct. ftnd I am impressed. Sure, I killed my rivals, but who'll ever know?" He lifted a finger and fired a laser bolt at John, missing him by millimeters.

He watched, astonished, as Jameson leisurely approached his own head, picked it up, and screwed it back on. "Fool. I was going to give you a chance to join me. Now I'll have to kill you."

John emptied his suit's weapons reserves on Jameson. All of Jameson's synthetic skin had been vaporized, but he was still standing.

Tucker jumped out the window in a shower of glass. "I n ope tnis works ," he said quietly, and pressed a button on his chestplate.

With an incredible boom, the Corporation Tower exploded, collapsing in on itself. Traces of C-80 nucleo-thermite hung in the air

Five hundred feet away, John Tucker slowly descended to the ground, cutting off his boot rockets. Breathing a sigh of relief, he was glad that he had thought of perusing Jameson's secret files from the computer terminal in the lobby. It contained the blueprints for his creation, and the android figured that the files were so heavily safeguarded, he even included the fact that he was nearly impervious to everything except a contained nuclear blast, which John had managed to engineer.

John flew back to his cruiser and hovered away from the scene. He would have a lot of explaining to do, but he was safe in the knowledge that Jameson had been destroyed.

DogAndPanda: stuy antares.htm

stuy antares.htm

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