Progressive Dinner



The longest way round is oft
the shortest way home.


A "progressive dinner" is an old American custom in which a group of people have different courses of a meal at different homes. In this story, the venue of the meal doesn't change - but there's a progressive aspect to the dining experience. ;) Cicero's isn't there any more - at least, I couldn't find it on google. Google street view will allow one to take a virtual tour of Forbes Ave, however.
Put your antennae down.

In which our heroes are brave, as usual

RAT-A-TAT-TAT....

The corridor of the battleprobe – typical Serenellian design, old, bulky, exuding a general air of malicious militarism – echoed with the sound of plasma bullets, while the accompanying flashes of tracer turned the ugly gunmetal walls an uglier puke green in spurts. Arpad glanced around as he fired, and spotted Arvid doing his patented one-and-a-half millisecond reload. He shouted – the only way to make himself heard above the din.

"To the airlock! Fifteen seconds to detonation!" Arvid's helmet bobbed in acknowledgement, and they ran.

They made it, just in time. The Galactic Police cruiser was jumping into warp when the rogue probe's career of marauding, murder, and general mayhem ended with a hideous bang – a visual one, at least, on the vidscreen, though space doesn't run to talkies. General A'no"iANS gave the two troopers a thumbs-up.

"Good work, you two. As always. There's a reception laid on in the Deck 3 mess. See you there." He winked. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of citations for you in this day's work."

They changed out of combat gear and into standard uniform. Striding down the corridor, Arpad whispered to Arvid, "Are you looking forward to this dinner?"

Arvid grimaced. "Reconstituted freeze-dried tahacoes and a canned speech about truth, justice, and the Galactic Way? What do you think?"

Arpad grinned. "Then come with me. I know a great little eatery you haven't been to yet."

Arvid flashed his buddy a grateful look. "Swell idea. If I never eat another candied-chili-filled tahaco, it will be too soon."

He would have said more – about the last six months' assignment, about the Serenellians' irritating habit of trying to claim star systems that did not belong to them, about the lousy cuisine in this sector – but Arpad had grabbed his (Arvid's) arm, twisted a dial on his (Arpad's) wrist, and the entire scene had shimmered out of existence...

...to be replaced by something completely different.

In which our heroes drink something interesting

The ground was solid, the street was full of traffic, and the hour was blue. Arvid gazed around in appreciation.

"Where are we?"

Arpad checked his wrist device. "Earth, North America, a city called Pittsburgh. 1970 is their year, never mind ours. You'll like it, promise."

Arvid turned around and looked –up. Way up. "That's not your 'little eatery', is it?"

Arpad followed his gaze. "No, silly, that's the university building. 42 storeys. All they have is a hamburg joint in the subbasement. Come with me – wait!" He hissed. "Drop the antennae! Nobody wears them here. It's a hair-only zone. Lots of hair, though." Arvid dutifully lowered his cerebral appendages, and Arpad steered them both down the street, labelled at its corners "Forbes Ave", while Arvid admired the interesting beings. One of them tried to sell him something called The Fair Witness– a sort of blog made from paper – while another made what seemed to pass for music on a stringed box.

Ignoring the strains of one, two, three, what are we fighting for?, Arvid asked anxiously, "Are we dressed okay? They seem to wear a lot of tribal beads."

Arpad shrugged. "We're okay. The beads are optional. This is one corner of the universe where jeans and t-shirts that say 'Galactic Police Force' are not going to raise eyebrows." They meandered through the evening student crowd, past quaint, small shops peddling books, antique (well, maybe not) sound-producing equipment, and ceramic "gifts" intended, no doubt, as insulting messages to one's bitterest enemies. Arvid gawked. In one window, a man was tossing dough into the air under a sign that boasted, 'Flying pizza. You order 'em, we fly 'em.' He pointed to a set of yellow arches over one building. "Did you want to eat there? It says something about hamburgs."

Arpad waved this away. "No. Definitely not. The man who invented that poison should have been spaced. Here we are, the ne plus ultra of fine dining, my friend." He beamed as he pointed to the sign above the entrance: CICERO'S.

Before they could go in, Arvid had another question. "What about this?" He pointed to the small, discreet-er sign beside the door:

No shirt

No shoes

No service

Arpad explained. "To eat here, it is necessary to cover both the upper body and the feet. It is a law."

Arvid scratched his head, causing his antennae to appear briefly. "But what if..."

After three thousand years, Arpad knew what was coming. "If you only wear a shirt and shoes, you get arrested. This is a prudish planet. Come on, I'm starving." And he opened the door.

The interior was underlit, comfortable, with leather seats in the booths. Arvid could not resist touching the fuzzy red-and-gold wallpaper, so he didn't. Arpad muttered something about "Early Cathouse", and then a gum-chewing waitress in a pale green uniform turned up, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. (Arpad knew what Arvid was thinking, and gave him a dirty look before he asked about antennae.)

"What'll y'uns have to drink?"

Arpad looked around, and thought fast. "Er, two Censored Marys¹, please." The waitress looked blank.

"Sorry. We don't got none of them fancy drinks in here. I can get you whiskey sours, though."

"Sounds good."

"Irish, Scotch, or bourbon?"

"Irish, please. Rocks." While the waitress was off getting the drinks, they studied the menu. Arvid wanted to know how the currency converted – and then wanted to know why these people were giving food away. Arpad explained about the current lack of inflation, then what inflation was, and had just about got to the Orionian Platinum Panic of '03 when the whiskey sours arrived, cold, tart, and inviting. They accepted the invitation, ordered Number Three on the menu – salad, steak, well-done (no starship trooper ever eats rare meat, he's seen too much), baked potato (after explanation of tubers to Arvid), green beans, and ice cream for dessert. The waitress went off to process this. Arvid sipped his iced drink, surprised at the flavours. Arpad was about to tell a Pittsburgh joke – he'd just remembered one – when a persistent beeping began in Arvid's left rear pocket. "Oh, fnark."

Arpad reached across and grabbed Arvid by the arm before he could complete the fatal move of bringing out his mobile. "Not here," he hissed. "The only person on this planet who has one of those right now is the star of a cheap scifi vid. In there." He jerked his head in the direction of a door marked "Men".

Arvid looked at it curiously. "What do they do in there?"

"You don't want to know. Just go in there and answer it." Arvid obeyed, scooting into the room with his pocket still beeping softly. Within thirty seconds, a middle-aged man with a shirt that said "Len" emerged and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the bar.

"You wouldn't believe what that guy's doin' in there. He's talkin' on a little-bitty phone." The bartender rolled his eyes and set another beer in front of him. Arvid slid back into the booth.

"Bad news, I'm afraid. They need us in Sector 9. And before you ask, no, they need us now. Something about a mad professor, and temporospatial simultaneity."

Arpad sighed, they took last sips of drinks, clasped arms, and vanished.

In which our heroes return for salad

The incident in the Farradisic Asteroid Belt, involving (as it did) a galaxy-renowned scientist gone off the deep end, a time-scoop device in urgent need of repair, and the possible end of civilisation as everybody knew it, took longer than Arvid and Arpad liked. So it was a few months later when they rematerialised in the booth at Cicero's.

Nobody noticed this except Len, who was amazingly perceptive for someone with his bibulous habits. The bartender waved away his protests, and wiped up spilled Iron City².

Since no time had passed, their drinks were still cold, and since Arvid and Arpad were bored with manganochutney and fermented pulpa, they went down a treat. More were ordered, and the salad course arrived.

Arvid looked at it dubiously. "Er, Arpad, I don't like to complain, but we've just travelled quite a lot of light-years for what appears to be a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with some sort of thick, pink sauce with tiny bits in."

"Arvid, my lad, this is true. Those bits are the reason it is called Thousand Island Dressing – or, at least, I think so. This is a simple Terran dish. But when you consider that this iceberg lettuce is the best iceberg lettuce in the known universe..."

Arvid nodded. Arvid tasted. Arvid's eyes lit up. "You're right! This is amazing iceberg lettuce." They enjoyed this treat in silence, and anticipated steaks...

Unfortunately, at this point, the mobile (silenced by a wary Arvid) began vibrating violently, and the troopers had to link arms before the next round of drinks arrived.

In which it is shown that one man's meat is another's invitation to join a support group

The Horsehead Nebula Uprising is, of course, infamous, and since the details are in all the standard interactive history courses, we will omit them here. Suffice it to say that Arvid and Arpad were heartily tired of alkali deserts, multi-dimensional warfare, and the acrid taste of dried megamarsupial. They slipped into their seats at Cicero's, salivating at the idea of charred bovine.

"Hey!" yelled Len. "They did it again. Those two blonds back there. They shimmered."

"Oh, yeah? Shimmered?" groused the bartender. "You are flagged, buddy. Don't be so nebby. Leave those guys alone." And Len's Iron City tab was closed for the evening.

The steaks were everything the two travellers had hoped for – succulent, well-marbled, robust. The baked potato, complete with sour cream, butter, and chives, startled Arvid with the subtlety of its flavour. The green beans were, well, tasty. They chewed in silence, enjoying the ambience and the novelty of good dining.

The mobile had the good sense not to go off until they'd eaten the last bite. Otherwise, they might have damaged government property.

In which it is shown that some things are worth waiting for

Long and arduous was the trek of the Galluminids. Many, many years of police escort were required until this spacefaring race – its migration of paramount importance to stellar peace – had at last reached its new haven in Geminid City. The Galluminids are a hospitable species. They gladly share their daily ration of halli halli rice, sometimes enlivened with a dollop of seya sauce. The sacrifices of the Galactic Police were appreciated. They gave them medals and a parade.

Thus it was that Arpad and Arvid arrived again at Cicero's, weary, weary of the galaxy and all its problems, to enjoy their (just) desserts.

Len stared at them, opened his mouth, closed it again, and headed in a zig-zag for the door.

The waitress appeared. "Y'uns decide what ice cream you wanted?"

Arpad looked at her hopefully. "Butter pecan?" She nodded and left.

They sipped the last of their drinks in peace (because, contrary to orders, they had turned the mobile off). The ice cream arrived – two small, shallow bowls, each containing a single round scoop of frozen deliciousness with real pecans in. They picked up spoons, tasted.

And smiled.

"This is fantastic," said Arvid. "It's just...just...fantastic." Arpad nodded.



The siren call of Iron City beer


"Like I said, the food on Earth is the best in all the 7,000 worlds." Arvid agreed.

The bill came to a modest $8.80. Arpad left a good tip.

And slowly, oh so slowly, savouring the moment, the two troopers walked out into the deepening city night.

"Arvid? Have you ever seen a celluloid movie? I think there's one playing down the street..."

Pantographers

It had gone dark outside when Jim switched on the light in the T-Square Gospel Church's basement. It was chilly, too, although the old boiler in the room next door was making noises indicative of working. Jim shrugged, hitched up the sleeves of his jumper, and started unpacking folding chairs. Soon, four rows of battered metal seats announced Property of MacSweeney's Funeral Home to anyone coming through the street entrance.

There were a few early arrivals: Pamela started the coffee urn, while Giselle unpacked her home-made goodies – oatmeal raisin cookies and some rich-looking brownies (Jim joked with her about the brownies' ingredients). Stu Argyle laid the hymnbooks on the chairs, while Jack Dalrymple set up the speaker's stand and hooked up the laptop projector, in case anybody brought visual material. Setting up went pretty quickly, and the volunteers were soon sipping java from Styrofoam cups while they chatted to the membership, a collection of men and women of pretty much all sizes and ages, dressed mostly in jeans and jumpers, since it was an informal meeting and the fall air was pretty nippy. When everybody had got a coffee, Jim rapped his knuckles on the wooden lectern and called them all to order.

He smiled as he looked around at largely familiar faces. "Welcome. Before we begin, does anybody have anything special to report?" A man Jim didn't know stood up, glancing around nervously, and cleared his throat.

"Er, my name is Alexander...and I'm an alcoholic." He looked down.

There was a brief, embarrassed silence. One of the women patted Alexander's arm gently in empathy. Jim stepped in. "I'm sorry, sir, the AA meeting is next door, at St Eusebius. Dave, there, will help you find it. Give them our best. You folks do fine work."

Alexander, beet-red, nodded as a burly man in construction overalls gestured to him, but stopped to ask, "What do you people have trouble with, then?"

Jim scratched his head. "I guess you might say we all have epistemological problems." Alexander nodded solemnly. "Good luck with that." There were murmurs of thanks as the puzzled visitor was guided out the door to find Bill's other friends. The others laughed, and Jim shrugged as he said, "I declare this meeting of the Pantographic Society to be open for business." He pulled a couple of index cards from his back pocket and consulted his notes.

"Last week, we had three really good recordings, and I got some positive feedback from HQ." Jim coughed. "There were a daisy and an old diaper pin left on my doorstep." The members made approving noises. "Before we get to the reports, have we got any new members?" Jim knew they had, but waited until two shy-looking teenagers, a boy and a girl, raised their hands. He nodded at them. "We'll get to know you later, but if everybody's okay with it, I'll go through the introductory now." Sensing general assent, Jim launched into his spiel.

"We're all here because somebody gave us one of these." Jim indicated the pin on his jumper, the one they were all wearing.

"And, of course, a card with the meeting time and location on it. You were recruited, or whatever, because something you said, or did, struck the person who gave you that pin as indicating that you had a talent for the project we're working on." He grinned.

"Now, don't get worried, and don't run off yet. It doesn't hurt, it's not illegal in any of the 50 states, and it doesn't cost a penny. Really. Just a little of your time. Now, you newcomers hang around and watch us, see what we do. If it's boring, or makes you uncomfortable, don't come back, and nobody will come calling. That's why we don't ask your names, addresses, or phone numbers. If you don't want to know us, we don't want to bother you. And if sitting in a damp church basement seems a waste of your time – or if what we're doing looks, well, dorky – so be it. We can live with that." Jim rubbed clammy hands on his jeans (he wasn't kidding about the damp basement), and nodded to Dave, who had returned from next door. "Dave's got a report for us, then we'll break, and then Emily will lead us in the Exercise." As Dave walked up to the lectern, a few of the more methodical members got out pads and pencils.

Dave turned on the laptop projector, and somebody dimmed the lights, and the group were treated to a video of Dave's kitchen. For the next half hour, Dave (on the video) demonstrated how to make scratch biscuits. The camera was set up so that the viewer could see inside the oven. 23 people sat in concentration as the dough rose and the biscuits turned brown.

Afterwards, there was applause. There were a few questions, such as, "What do your fingers feel like when you have Crisco and buttermilk stuck on them?" and "What does the kitchen smell like when the biscuits are baking?" Dave closed his eyes while answering thoughtfully.

After the presentation, Jim got up again. "Thanks, Dave, that one spoke to my condition. Which is hungry." Laughter. "I suggest we break for snacks. Be sure to get one of Giselle's brownies, everybody. We'll be doing the Exercise in about 20 minutes." Shuffling of metal on concrete, as members headed for the refreshment table or out into the hall for smokes and visits to the john.
The two teenagers buttonholed Jim by the coffee urn. The girl, a petite brunette, spoke without looking at Jim directly. "Hey, mister..."

"Jim."

She shrugged slightly, with one shoulder. "Jim. We get the video, really cool, and we kinda-sorta think we know what it's about, but could you fill us in a little on the cleartext?"

Giselle sailed by, deposited brownies-onna-napkin in unwary hands, sailed on, while Jim mustered thoughts. "Okay, sure. You know what a pantograph is, and what it does?"

The boy, tall, lanky, shaven head and at least two visible tattoos, nodded as he washed down a brownie with a gulp of coffee – if he hadn't seen it, Jim wouldn't have believed it. "Yep. It's just an analogue copier. Invented in 1603. Cool. What's it got to do with making biscuits?"

Jim grinned. "Well, a pantograph can copy a picture from one flat surface – say a piece of paper – to another. It's analogue, as you say, and low-tech, and involves tracing. Right?"

They nodded, mouths full. Jim noted that Giselle's cooking was a hit. "A drawing itself is a way of recording a kind of experience. The visual kind. But what about other kinds of experience?"

The boy wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I get you. Records for sound – wax cylinders. Discs. That's what they used to have. Movie camera, light, movement." He looked at Jim directly for the first time, to see if he understood. Jim did.

"Quite right. But what if there are aspects to an event, an experience, if you will, that go beyond sound and light? Maybe even beyond the ordinary senses people are used to?"

The girl blinked. Then she got it. "Oh! Like the direct apperception of space-time?"

Jim stared at her for a minute, and then burst out laughing, startling elderly Joe Buchbinder, who was just passing. "Direct appercep-...yes, ma'am, you've got the idea." Before he could say any more, the boy chimed in. "Awesome. Yeah. Like the stuff-in-the-cracks you can't explain to your kid brother about why Chirping Angels is a lame group, when everybody says they're the next hot thing, because the space in their songs is, like, dead, man, totally brain-dead..." He stopped, embarrassed, but Jim was smiling encouragement.

"You guys get it. We're doing it, you see? Making our own pantographic recordings. Using this..." Jim pointed to his head..."and this..." pointing to his heart, "...and probably a few other chakras we haven't discovered yet. You see, we think that most people have gone digital about reality. They expect it to be there without their thinking about it. And we suspect..."

The girl's eyes were shining. "...that there might be holes in the paradigm." She fingered her pin. "I think you're right."

The boy looked thoughtful. "But who's reading the recordings?"

Jim shrugged. "You know, I could say something wise, like 'That would be telling', but I wouldn't kid you. I don't have a clue. I don't think the old guy knew, either – the tramp who handed me the box of pins in the diner. I'd bought him some breakfast, you see, and he ate his bacon and eggs and then just sat there, watching me watch the raindrops run down the window outside. Then he gave me the box of pins and a beat-up paperback by Carlos Castaneda, thanked me for the grub, and took off." He laughed. "Ever since then, all I get are cryptic messages on my doorstep."

The boy grinned, showing crooked teeth. "Like a daisy and a diaper pin. Cool." He looked like he wanted to say more, but Pam came around and shooed them back to their seats, and Jim went to play moderator again.

"I hope everybody enjoyed the refreshments. Were there any other reports?" A tall, gaunt woman in her fifties raised her hand. "Marilyn?"

Marilyn spoke with a clipped accent. "I have found the perfect spot for squirrel-watching. In Clark Park. It's not always quiet, but you can sometimes get an entire 10 minutes' worth of reality over there if you're patient." She flashed large, white teeth. "See me, and I'll show you." She sat down.

There were a few more reports of that type, and then Jim said, "Thanks, everybody. Now I'll hand the meeting over to Emily." Emily, a white-haired woman with glasses, walked to the front carrying a box.

She looked around. "Are you all where you can see? Today's Exercise will involve an object." From the box, she took a largish brass vessel, which rang as she set it on the table.

Joe Buchbinder laughed. "Em, that's a spittoon." Emily shot him a sharp look.

"I know what it is, Joe. You are invited to think any thoughts you like about it. Just don't giggle."

Joe snorted. "I don't giggle."

There was laughter at this, and Pam went to sit by Joe, claiming she could see better from there. Emily took her seat, and for the next half hour, the silence was broken only by the grumbling of the boiler as 23 observers took in the is-ness of a brass cuspidor from a second-hand shop...the old, dull, unpolished surface, the crevices in the decorative pattern...the heft and weight of it to the eye...much was read, but nothing was spoken...

After Emily called time, the meeting broke up, and people helped put up chairs and wash the coffee urn before leaving. The boy and girl – who said their names were Brian and Tiffany – thanked Jim. Tiffany was curious.

"I saw that brass turn a thousand colours. Tell me the truth – what was in those brownies?"

Giselle overheard this, and laughed. "Genuine nut and gluten–free product, that was," she insisted. "Several members have allergies."

And with that, the weekly meeting of the Pantographic Society broke up.

The Rose of Mars

Thanks and a tip of the tinfoil hat to Cactuscafe, who – like Triandafyla – has a way with words.

The Rose of Mars was about to bloom, and I was not about to miss it.

Mind you, it had been a rough slog getting there. My dune buggy broke down three times. The old junk heap was held together with bubblegum and bobwire (literally), as I'd been out of work so long there weren't enough creds in the account to pay for extensive repairs. Lots of people were hard up, due to the system-wide recession, so I wasn't out of place in the scruffy crowd that gathered in patched jeans and worn t-shirts to pay homage to one of the universe's natural wonders.

The Rose bloomed once every 500 years, so it was no wonder the early telescopes didn't pick it up. Anybody from the early days of exploration who saw the phenomenon would have rubbed his eyes and sworn off that hot toddy before hitting the observatory. Now that the periodicity was recognised, the usual suspects – scientists, newshounds looking for filler on a slow day, and space hippies like me – gathered around, hoping for an insight, a story to tell, or the inspiration to keep going. We hoped the Rose would speak to us, tell us something, or lead us in the right direction.

The Martians had a legend about it, some long, sad story about a Martian hero and his lady love. Old Earth legends usually ended with the heroes becoming stars. Martian legends ended with the heroes becoming part of the landscape. Somehow, on the Red Planet, this seemed less odd than it would have elsewhere.

The scientists said the circles in the sand, made by rapidly forming grooves, were due to some sort of shifts in the weak Martian magnetic field affecting the minerals. The reason for it was still not adequately explained. Now, at Camp Schiaparelli, the folks with the oscilloscopes were out there measuring. I cared not. I parked my buggy with the other space trash, and went in search of the beer tent.

Venusian mead was being peddled by a fellow in long braids, while his sound system played Magic Carpet Ride. His prices were reasonable, so I snagged a bottle, grinning at him. "Nice music."

He grinned back. "I like the classics."

I took my mead over to the shade of a paragum tree, enjoying the sensation of still soil beneath my rear rather than a vibrating buggy-seat, and surveyed the crowd. My kind of people: Long-haired, unkempt, dirty. Most of them with smiles on their faces. Some of them with paint on their faces. All with a live-and-let-live philosophy. Over at the edge of the encampment, past the do-it-yourself habitats and the port-a-johns, some Wiccans were making a sandpainting, a model of the Rose as it unfolded. They were chanting something to themselves. I don't speak Wiccan, but I caught the word "Evoe". That's about all the Wiccan I know.

I dozed the afternoon away, not too worried about shelter come nightfall. I knew somebody would take me in. As the day got later, everybody trekked up the hill that provided a view of the growing Rose. The sun, low on the horizon, would highlight the Rose pattern in the red sand. I went to worship with the rest of them, stepping carefully on the path to avoid sandworms, It was bad luck to crush one. The gingery soil crunched beneath my boots.

The sight was worth it. Miles and miles of overlapping circles made the Rose, dark red in the shadows, bright red in the afternoon sun. We held our breaths, and then even the scientists applauded. Ain't Mother Nature grand? The Wiccans started singing, something Egyptian, I think.

It was then that I saw her. Her bronze skin shone in the late sunlight. Her eyes twinkled – literally. She smiled at me and said something in Martian greeting, and I was hooked.

I should point out that I'm human. But unlike a lot of my species, I'm not much of a Lookist. An extra pair of arms just means more to love with, and I've seen green or purple skin that will outshine alabaster or ebony, any day. Triandafyla was 100% Martian, but as I saw her, backlit against the Rose, I could see her aura – red and gold, with a band of electric blue – and I had never seen anyone so beautiful in my life.

I stammered a reply. My Martian accent is horrible. She laughed a musical laugh, asked my name. I thought I must look unappetising – dirty, anyway – but something in the flash of those faceted eyes gave me more hope than I'd had in a month of First Days. We found a couple of rocks to sit on, she offered me a toast from her flask of Martian brew, and we watched together as the moons came up over the Rose.

Triandafyla's people are welcoming. They don't need much cash, being pretty self-sufficient. What they can use is a mechanic, and I'll do in a pinch. I'm still learning the language, but I'm pretty sure my lady and I jumped the broom a couple of weeks back – at least, if I understood the priest correctly. Either that, or I was elected dog-catcher, but since the dogs are telepathic, I don't think I'd be any good at it.

The Rose will be here for a few more weeks, then it will begin to dissipate. Triandafyla and I go out every evening to sit and watch it, holding hands, me wishing I had a couple more to offer. When the Rose goes, so will the tribe. We'll move on to other hunting grounds.

Last night, though, Triandafyla whispered the best secret to me, just as Deimos rose in the sky. My vocabulary's still weak, but I think I understood her.

I think I'm going to become a father.

Come On In - It's Air-Conditioned Inside

Yet another story in the ongoing saga of life in Acme, North Carolina, a fictional place that is based on real events. Yes, somebody did shoot his ex-girlfriend in the Superbullseye, and we still don't know why. There really are people named Thigpen. And North Carolinians really do drive like this in the heat. The stuff in this story all happened – to somebody.

And y'all think Yorkshire's a funny place...

"Gosh DARN it!"

Robert Thigpen looked up from his desk, startled at the mild epithet – and even more startled at the accompanying sob of bafflement. Roused from his nap, Obadiah gave a sharp bark at the near-profanity. Robert reached down and patted the Cairn terrier's head, so that he lay back down with a mild grunt, while Robert went out into the corridor.

The corridor in front of his office was a gallery that overlooked the print-shop floor. As usual, the floor itself was pervaded by the quiet hum of well-run machinery, quite different from the clatter of the industry's stop-the-presses past. The corridor itself, however, was loud. The copier leased from the Xanthrax Company(TM) was once again emitting beeps indicative of indigestion, while Calomina, the summer intern, was ineffectually snatching at a bit of crooked paper that protruded forlornly from one corner of the document feeder like a victim in the maws of an electronic shark. The pretty young African American woman blinked away tears as she saw Robert, and shrugged in frustration.

"I'm sorry, Mr Thigpen. This ol' machine's got stuck again, and it's eaten the only copy of the review schedule." Calomina was a go-getter, and like so many of Robert's acquaintances, had a mild case of OCD, so an accident of this nature embarrassed her in front of her boss. Heedless of possible harassment lawsuits, Robert reached up and patted his (taller) employee gently on the shoulder, much as he had previously done with Obadiah.

"Don't worry about it, Calomina," he said. "That schedule's in the computer somewhere. You can ask Towanda to find it for you." He poked at the offending copy monster, and seeing that it would not give up its prey willingly, made an executive decision to which he, as print-shop owner, was fully entitled: he pulled the plug from the wall socket. He and Calomina observed a moment of silence as the faulty appliance shut itself down with a musically resigned sigh, and Robert – though not Calomina, who was too young – thought of renaming the device HAL.

"I'll call the copier people this afternoon," Robert said, and glanced at the clock. "Why don't you go to lunch?" Calomina was only too glad to do this, and Robert, after consulting his inner clock, decided to do the same.
As he and Obadiah exited the air-conditioned building, the wave of heat hit them both like a muffled blow. I do think it's this weather making us all slow and clumsy, Robert thought, wiping instant sweat (just add humidity) from his forehead with his forearm, as his hands were busy with a cardboard carton. He and Obadiah went to the nearby space marked with the sign:

Buckling Obadiah into the passenger seat and setting the carton on the floor, Robert climbed into his Kia and tooled off in the direction of the nearest strip mall. "We'll take Mr Kumar his flyers and get us some tandoori chicken," he told Obadiah, who wagged his tail in agreement. "I have a hankering for some poppadoms."

When he pulled into the parking lot and saw the rear end of a large, black SUV sticking out from what used to be the front window of the Star of India, Robert's first thought was

Oh, no, not again.

Parking his own, smaller SUV a safe distance away from the gawkers and emergency crew, and promising Obadiah he'd "only be a minute", Robert took his carton and picked his way carefully around broken glass and displaced brick. As he passed the policeman and the tearful young Indian woman in the spike-heeled sandals, he overheard:

"I don't know how it happened, my foot must have slipped off the brake pedal..."

Robert sighed, and entered the restaurant, not through the gaping hole – since the emergency people were trying to attach a tow-rope to the mechanical intruder, which stood curry-covered in the dining room, surrounded by overturned tables and dirty tablecloths – but through the open (and now otiose) front door. He left the carton of flyers at the reception desk and found Mr Kumar standing disconsolately in the middle of a culinary war zone. The customers had fled.

"I'm sorry for your trouble," Robert offered. "That's the second time this year, isn't it?"

Mr Kumar, a normally dapper man about Robert's size, now rumpled (the invading car had crashed into the table where he was eating), nodded sadly. "It is the first time for Mrs Gandhi, however. The insurance company is not going to believe this."

Robert could well imagine this, although he couldn't imagine this much damage being caused by someone named Gandhi. "I don't suppose I could get a to-go order under the circumstances?" Kumar shook his head.

"The health board forbids this. If a piece of glass got into the food..." They both glanced at the sturdy kitchen door, 20 feet away, wondering how even the health board could think broken glass would penetrate that. Robert shrugged, expressed further condolences, and gingerly made his way back to his car.

"Oh, well, Obadiah," he said as they headed up Cripple Creek to the next strip mall, "At least no people were injured in the making of that little news flash. I'll bet somebody had the phone pictures to WRAL before that hubcap hit the back wall."

As Robert pulled into the Forlorn Hope Plaza – he'd decided on Tennessee Fried Chicken – he almost had an accident himself, so startled was he. Instead, he pulled the car over to a space under a shade tree so that he could leave Obadiah for a minute and walk over to the ruins of Lightly Row, the place that sold home lighting fixtures. Or usually did. Instead of being open for business, the business appeared to be....well, just open.

Since Robert knew the owner from Rotary, he went over to pay his respects.
Jim Claiborne scratched his head. "Yep, it was yestiddy," he said. "Some kid with a rare – (ironically) though not life-threatenin' – faintin' disorder. Ploughed raht into the show winder."

As the two men surveyed the monstrous damage, Jim added drily, "There was fallin' glass for about three ahrs." Robert chewed the fat with Jim for a minute, then had to get back to Obadiah, who might not be getting enough breeze even with all the windows open.

A tub of Davy Crockett Extra Crispy now on the floor in place of the flyers, Robert and Obadiah pulled back into the Chief Devil's parking space, and Obadiah hopped out happily. His smeller smelled chicken, and he didn't have any insurance bills to pay. Robert locked up and followed his dog, chicken in hand and lost in his own thoughts.

The two passed from baking heat into sudden, soothing coolness. As he walked by the front desk, Robert had an idea, and stopped to act on it. He grabbed an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet and scrawled something across the page.
"Hey, Charlie," he called to his print foreman. "Make me up a sign, laminate it on a board, and put it by the front door, will you, please?"

Charlie studied it and scratched his head. "Okay, sure, Robert." Robert and Obadiah went into the office and chowed down on some chicken.

Come five-thirty, when Robert and Obadiah were ready to lock up and go home, the sign was in place:

Robert nodded. "Let's hope that works, Obadiah." Obadiah looked at the sign and barked in approval.

Contact

Four thousand, two hundred and 17 steps from his house to the river. Zarah knew - he had counted them many times. He knew exactly how to make those steps come out even while chanting the hymn, up the long, gradual slope, ignoring the calls of his camels who, rising early, would soon be looking for food and water. His deep-blue turban wound with exactly fourteen twists of the cloth, his robe folded in the manner prescribed by the seers.

He would reach the river exactly at dawn.

When he entered the water, the rising sun would strike his purified body. He hoped, he prayed, that this would be the day he had spent his thirty years of life preparing for.

He hoped, he prayed, that on this day Enlightenment would come.

---

'Ouch!' Jake Vohman jerked irritably at the helmet, readjusting the headset. 'Do I have to wear all this gear? The poor guy will run screaming down the hill. I am a walking cliché.' He rolled his eyes as he lurched around the ship's control room, arms stretched out in parody of some forgotten scifi horror. 'Take. Me. To. Your. Leader,' he intoned.

Technical Chief Uri Ma'az slapped Vohman on the rear with a cleaning rag, and spun the tall, blond man around. 'Hold still,' he sighed, tugging at the helmet until it came off. He took the device to the bench to adjust the padding, calling over his shoulder, 'We have been through all that. This,' He held up the helmet, 'is the only way you can talk to him. We have to use mind-to-mind transmission. And he has to be in the water for it to work.'

Shaking shaggy locks, Vohman collapsed into a swivel chair, which he proceeded to destructively test. 'I know the drill. I show up, do my We-Come-in-Peace routine, and give him the message, using the Universal Translator over there.' He grinned toothily, knowing what was coming.

Ma'az rounded on him in exasperation. 'How many times do I gotta tell you? There is no such meshugenah thing as a universal translator, goyische kop. You can't translate ideas from one language to another when the other guy don't have words for what you've got to say...' He rubbed his chin as he studied the state-of-the-art device, and then nodded as he found the precise words. 'It's a DIT machine, is what it is. Direct Information Transfer, mind to mind.'

He turned to Vohman, who was already getting into the rest of his gear - antigravity belt over a white Fleet-issue jumpsuit, packet of mints in the pocket in case the early-morning air hit his sinuses the wrong way. (It wouldn't do to have a coughing fit in the middle of a Pronouncement.) The short, stocky Ma'az pointed a finger at Vohman, at six-foot-four an imposing specimen, one they hoped would meet the expectations of a worshipper of the Divine and Perfect.

'Remember. Keep your mind clear and on-task. Any and every little stray thought - say, what's for dinner in the mess tonight, what that girl on Reda thinks of you, whatever - will get magnified.' He ran his hands through wiry hair. 'Etymologies are treacherous. Sound associations leak through. If you don't want 'em starting a frog cult, don't think about Rana, get it?'

Vohman patted his tech chief on the shoulder, then gave it a squeeze. 'Don't worry. I'll keep it simple. Just let them know, we're on their side, what we want them to do.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'My thoughts will be pyoo-ah, free from concupiscence...' He reached for the helmet.

Ma'az strapped him into his harness for the journey planetside, wondering privately where this amoretz got his vocabulary from. 'And don't forget - they need to know that the guy from SOSHIA will contact them. To trust him.'

Vohman rolled his eyes one more time as he pulled on his helmet, talking into it to test the mike. 'Okay, yeah. In a few thousand years, somebody from the Special Office for Spatial Harmonics and Intertemporal Affairs will be along. Tell him Uri sent you.' He held up a confirmatory thumb to match Uri's as he stepped into the landing craft.

---

Vohman floated above the water, his hands held out wide, both in what he hoped was a sign of harmlessness and to keep his equipment out of the water. It was necessary for his contactee to be partially immersed - the liquid aided the transmission of thought waves - but it would not be a good idea to get Uri's components wet.

The dark little man below him didn't seem fazed by all the gear. He stretched out his hands in imitation of the gesture, grinning from ear to ear as he stood in the flowing river, the rising sun glinting off the water droplets in his curly beard. Vohman cleared his throat, cursed himself for a fool, then cleared his mind before turning on the transmitter.

'Er, hello, Friend. I come in peace.' Wider grin from local, obviously having the time of his life. Encouraged, Jake went on. 'I bring a message from...' Oh, smeg, who should he say he was from? What would Uri say? He gulped, fearing a cerebral faux pas, but the little man just nodded eagerly.

'Oh, yes, Blessed One, I love you, too, and like you I worship the Creator. May I ask your name, please?'

Blink. Oh, well, no harm in that. Now for the message. Jake went on to reassure the contactee that they were not in the religion business. Nobody wanted sacrifice, especially not of people or animals. Desperately not thinking of a frog at this point.

'We're just like you, really, only we have this trick with time. Don't worry about it, but we want you folks to get the full experience when you finally join us. Which means learning good citizenship. You'd help us a lot if you'd pass that message on, because we can only come back in a hop, skip, and a jump, you see. Hyperspace is kind of imprecise...er, don't worry about it...but there's something we need you to do for a sign to the rest of the team, that we've talked to you...'

He was losing the signal, he could tell in spite of the man's continued smiling and nodding, as the sun rose higher, attenuating the frequency. He had better be fast.

'Towards the target date, somebody from SOSHIA will contact you. Trust him, pass it along, please...' Lamely, 'Tell him, er, Uri Ma'az said hi.' Leaning over - a tricky manoeuvre, Vohman touched his contactee briefly on the neck with the device he held in his palm, hoping this gesture would be interpreted as a benediction, as apparently it was.

Vohman waved goodbye, and wished the other fellow luck as he turned off the transmitter and activated his cloaking device so that he could get to his shuttle without being seen.

'I hope we get better at this, ' he thought as he pulled off his helmet and strapped himself into the pilot's seat. 'I hope that guy doesn't get in too much trouble. Oh, well - we'll find out next hyperjump, now, won't we?'

Lt Vohman of the Confederation Space/Time Corps punched in the coordinates that would take him home aboard the CSS Merkavah. As he sat back, letting the autopilot do its job, he wiped nervous sweat from his face and studied the vial in his hand.

Ha, got you in the resurrection databank, my friend, you're a keeper...now, won't you be surprised?

---

Thus spoke Zarathusht, Zarah-of-the-Camels, to his followers:

'Ahura Mazda has spoken: We are starseed, we are his children.

'Abandon the old religion. Offer no sacrifice to stock and stone. Worship in the heart. Worship by right thought and action alone.

'This have I heard from Ahura Mazda's servant, Vohu Mana, which means Good Thought:

'At the end of days, we will join him in the wonderful new world. Only right action will prepare us to live fully in that world.

'Do justice, love mercy, heed the words of Vohu Mana.

'At the end of time, one will come, the Soshiant. He is from Ahura Mazda. He will reorder things so that we may leave this world behind and go to the next.

'Here is our sign...'

Zarathustra met with quite a lot of opposition to his teachings. He won only 22 converts in his lifetime. Approximately three and a half millennia later his followers still numbered only 200,000 on a planet of billions.

These followers kept faith, however, tried to live good lives, and did what their founder had asked in the name of his friend Vohu Mana:

To light a fire in a dark place.

Finnegan's Lunch Break - With Apologies to James Joyce

...riverdance, past Mistress Murphy's chowder emporium, down to where a diller a dollar the five-o'clock shadow dancer skips small sound stones across the kidney pool, trinken a trunken. Sic transit Gloria of a solemn Grundy, and why the divil would you want to, anyway, seein' as how you've never the ready for the rough of the keltie klippie's tongue-bashing when you've albut lost your last John Groat for the fair? Rumpty dumped the sump pump down i' the cellar wi' the praties, oh, but didnae she tell ye that cawbennabbage wouldna bile?

Thaur is no whaur in the hausfrauschloss of mirth, nor occident in the primological soap of the spaniard, gracious. Me. Whyever not begone betimes, when awl the augur has to ask your painful pinhead is, how many is forty-twa? The pipes, the papes, the pope is the awning, sir: whyever not, wan a' the werelt gnaws its ane tepid simony? I ask you, nu: showed you growl with your haid in the grund, ower take up the sau's souse sauce cry, babby? Six mower weaks is six lawn beg. Whyinnit?

The pikes, the pikes will go there in the lowering of the mound, albeit mony's the moth here's son would rawther view the veil the keep of kept animalcules in the zoosystical systemic guard, eins. Zwei. Drei. Fore and all. Wha' spirits be ye a-playin' at when ye beekeep, or naught? Bea thunk it prevision of the preversion, but it was aversity in the midst o forty-two dudes. At last, so eye thocht.

The reign it rheineth awe the day we burnt the bread the cleave the clef the kleptobismuth of the illegoallergicogorical. Wash it dun and whisht your key. Two privates? Oui. Combing in dutcher quarter, leasing the kopjes hang in, the geyser, the gazer has lost his nappy hat, and didn't ken but he shone up in the 'puter...alackraday, walt is it you? Political faith is the hardest to sustinocontinence. As I believe.

Lil did we inspect (in our knead-to-gnaw bases) that the worst of the curse was git to come: the unannounceried proactive arruvial of the tree vice men (mostly xy, some zs) with the Logohejiminy faun on hey. Ann didn't that set the pidgin amaung the cattle? Lang did they waive, and lang was the scree the scrim the screed o' it, but curt and kurzery and breve the breadth of the brose (the hurrar, the hollow). We need a gnu yonker. Or me be a bronks. Cheer.
Nawtheless and uber awe less moiety Fawkes gimped awer the lay she dirge, and keys board in the springes, the moist a rainyday singer calm do wear to darn a don apparel breeks and hardspun brogues to jine the...