Saucer of Jam

When the alien space ship arrived – chock-full of impressive technology, enough to convince even the most paranoid skeptic that this was the Real Deal – humans of all stripes and persuasions were falling over one another to get a gander at the craft, its inhabitants, and whatever else was going on.

Twitter's stock split (again), the web lit up 24/7, and news people never seemed to go to bed. Maybe, as some suggested, the aliens had taught them how to clone themselves, complete with perfect hairdos. The aliens (or rather, the androids they had sent in their places) appeared to be teaching important people a lot of things: new products appeared on the market, at reasonable introductory prices, there were rumours of medical advances, including a cure for the common cold, and the airwaves were full of startling images of the aliens' homeworld, which looked like a realtor's paradise.

Of course, only world leaders got to talk to the androids, who explained patiently (as androids are built for patience) that yes, they (or rather, their flesh-and-blood creators) had been monitoring Earth for a very long time, were big fans, in fact, and knew as much as the next rabid fan about the place's history, habits, and general quirks. Just ask them. In fact, they modestly supposed they might even know more about the running of the planet than the average local inhabitant. Though they didn't like to brag. The androids proved this, right off, by asking for the world leaders and media darlings by name. They even knew all the trivia from the comic books and scifi blockbusters.

Anybody who wasn't a world leader or media star (the androids appeared interested in construction tycoons with bad hairpieces and political ambitions, as well as over-muscled and/or scantily-clad movie folk) just had to be satisfied with the day-and-night coverage of everything from the latest glimpse of the interior of the ship (mauve, surprising choice) to endless discussions of Lady Dada's wardrobe malfunction at the android-attended Oscars. (The androids appeared only mildly interested, leading to speculation that the androids' bosses were similarly equipped.) As usual, hoi polloi sat and gossiped while the major players did whatever major players did.

Finally, after the usual high-level talks, the following facts emerged:


The aliens' homeworld had plenty of room for new settlement, and was issuing invitations.
Only the best, brightest, most gifted – meaning the well-heeled and famous – need apply.

In other words, business as usual. People expressed opinions on Facebook ('Like! Like! Like!') and collected collectibles commemorating the hotly-anticipated day of departure. Ratings had never been higher.

***

When Jim Garrity presented his media pass (www.homeopapenews.com, a modest start- up whose bricks-and-mortar assets consisted of a desktop and an outdated 4-in-1 printer in the corner of his living room), the guard at the gate grunted rudely and pointed vaguely in the direction of the holding area for insignificant press types. Jim clutched his second-hand notebook computer as he shouldered his way into his bleacher seat, but could not suppress a moue of distaste at the shabby treatment.

'The problem with you,' remarked a voice at his elbow, 'is that you still think you count as a person.'

Jim swivelled in annoyance to the speaker, who turned out to be a short man with wiry red hair, who grinned up at him, showing crooked teeth. 'I do count as a person,' Jim protested. 'So do you. So does everybody.'

The little man shook his head vehemently. 'Nope,' he said emphatically. 'That's where you're wrong, my friend. We don't count. We've never counted – not to them.' He pointed in the direction of the tarmac outside the bleacher area, where the gleaming spaceship stood, doors wide open to receive the well-escorted line of beautifully-dressed prominence proceeding up the red carpet – hands empty, of course, as their luggage had been sent ahead. That's what they had People for. Jim snorted as he watched Lady Dada wave to the many fans who'd come to see her off. To their disappointment, her wardrobe failed to malfunction, but she was still gorgeous.

'I don't suppose they could take everybody,' he remarked. 'Of course they'd take the movers and shakers. The people who...' he stopped.

'The people who count?' The little man chuckled. 'See what I mean? You've been indoctrinated since birth, only you don't know it. Somebody told you that you didn't count. And you believed him.' Jim waved the pest away (while involuntarily thinking, 'my father, my mother, my teachers'), and after paying an exorbitant $15 for a Coke (it was a warm day, and the concessionaires knew how much the traffic would bear), he settled in to follow the ceremonies, take pictures, and blog like all the others. Jim could type and watch at the same time, and did so. The boarding took hours – it was meant to, to allow each and every celebrity his or her red-carpet moment – and there were intervals of entertainment, mostly musical, from B-Listers who obviously felt that, although they hadn't been issued a ticket, they could comfort themselves in the knowledge that, the A-Listers away, they might get a few more gigs than usual. Jim listened, watched, noted in the usual style. (The British Royal Family is well-represented today, having flown to the Launch Site here in Baja California early this morning...the Queen is wearing a tasteful ensemble in, need we say, royal blue, as she leans on the arm of her granddaughter-in-law, who lives up to her reputation as one of the world's best-dressed women in a stunning outfit of...)

Jim stopped to stretch while a boy band sang the new charity song, God Bless the Earth, copies of which were on sale at the gate. As he did so, he noticed that the little man beside him had neither laptop nor camera, and appeared to be taking in all the action without paying particular attention to it. He hadn't even bought a programme. This made Jim curious.

'Hey, buddy,' he ventured. 'What outfit are you with? You don't seem to be taking any notes. Don't you blog?'

The little man winked and tapped his forehead, an oddly endearing gesture. 'It's all up here,' he explained. 'The people who sent me just want my impressions, you know. They can get the rest from the web.'

Jim shrugged. 'Nice job,' was all he had to say to that.

The man stuck out his hand. 'I'm Gabe, by the way,' he said, and of course Jim replied with his name. It turned out that Gabe, while unencumbered by the tools of the paparazzo's, reporter's, or indeed any other trade, had brought something better – namely, sandwiches, which he proposed to share with Jim. As the two munched away at surprisingly tasty hoagies (Gabe explained that he'd flown in from Philadelphia), the two chatted about this and that, as the floor show below continued with a 'farewell clip show' of popular scenes from the award-winning stars who were about to be going...well, out into the stars themselves.

Gabe mused. 'Nice thing about these bleachers,' he commented. 'I don't see many wasps or ants.'

Jim thought. 'Probably because the whole set-up was just put here for the launch.' Gabe nodded.

'I imagine you're right,' he said. 'You know, where I come from, we used to have a lot of trouble with wasps at picnics.' He chuckled. 'Doesn't it just get your nanny when you're trying to eat, and those biting insects get between you and your potato salad?'

Jim had to agree. 'I know what you mean. Not much you can do about it, though. If you spray 'em, the poison will get into your own food.'

Gabe laughed. 'That's true. But we knew a better trick than that.' Seeing that Jim looked interested, Gabe went on. 'We just set a saucer of jam about 100 yards or so away. The wasps would always go after the jam, and leave our picnic alone. They drown in the sticky stuff, too.' Jim decided that Gabe was a pretty practical fellow, as well as generous with his hoagies, and they got along well for the rest of the afternoon, all through the launching ceremony, in which the national anthems of 26 nations were performed by mass choirs. Finally, when it was all over, and the ship itself was only a distant point on the twilight horizon, the two new friends adjourned to the least fashionable (and therefore least crowded) bar they could find, and drank to friendship before heading back to their hotels.

***

Somehow, it was Gabe Jim thought of when he saw the news a few weeks later – images from orbital telescopes which had captured the moment when the spaceship from Earth was supposed to be launched into the aliens' captive wormhole.

The moment, not to put too fine a point on it, when the spaceship full of Earth's most important and newsworthy citizens blew up. Brightly and soundlessly and finally, somewhere on the edge of the solar system. Jim stopped to reflect, along with all the other citizens of Earth, on the loss of so many of the planet's political, military, economic, and society elite.

***

The next time Jim thought about Gabe was when he saw him on television the day after the explosion.

Gabe was getting out of the other spaceship, you see, the one that had people in it rather than androids.

Somebody was calling Gabe 'Commander Gabriel', and the little redhead was explaining what the new offer was. They'd brought a lot of nice things, you see, and were looking forward to getting to know folk...

Somehow, Jim was sure the new offer involved good food.

And that in this scheme, everyone counted.

Space and the Single Ouija Board (a report from the vicinity of Betelgeuse)

Note: For more science fiction, visit http://therealgheorgheni.blogspot.com/.

It has come to the attention of Researchers for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy that the advent of the Sub-Etha net has led to a number of puzzling communications anomalies, some of which can be taken advantage of by enterprising hitchhikers. Or, at least, help pass the time pleasantly while waiting for a lift from Barnard's Star.

One of the more perplexing anomalies has been the appearance on navicom screens across the galaxy of random messages asking for Nati-Gitchi-Bumppo or Princess Ticklefeather, and inquiring in the most fervent terms after the well-being of Uncle Henry, and how is he enjoying life in the Summerland?
After consultation with experts at the Centre for Higher-Dimension Mathematical Jiggery-Pokery at the Rigellian Institute for the Study of Practically Everything, the following explanation was mooted:

There is some connection between the physics of n-space hypercommunications and the operation of the planchette, or Ouija board.

Dr. Alu Minium Zeiding, holder of the Georgelucasian Chair of Hyperdimensional Mathematics, explained it thus:

'The collusion of the vectors of intentionality vis-a-vis the sitters, the planchette, and the alphabet/numbers board corresponds periodically to the frequency patterns of higher-dimensional warp-time communications signals. In short, there's a cross in the line somewhere.'

Professor Zeiding went on to explain the correlativity of table-turning with the oscillation of dilithium crystals, the relationship of terrestrial poltergeists to pan-galactic spam Sub-Etha mail, and was well into the development of his thesis regarding the general connectivity of humanoid gullibility with seemingly random hyperspace flux phenomena, when the rest of his department mercifully subdued him and gave him his overdue medication.

When he had recovered, he added: 'And there's nothing we can do about it. So there.'

Meanwhile, interplanetary hitchhikers have been known to pass many pleasant hours aboard ship conversing with mediums and their friends, on the well-known theory that even an idiotic chat-room conversation is better than actually reading that improving new book you've been saving up for a long trip.

Of course, in many of the less relaxed sectors of the galaxy, this increase in Sub-Etha traffic has led to headaches for the local thought police, whose attitude toward Free Speech is that they want nothing to do with that sort of thing, and it should be stopped before it spreads.

We have recently obtained, by methods best left to the diseased imaginations of our editors, a transcript of one such conversation, as monitored by the local mind-law enforcement agency, the Betelgeusian Brainwave Control. We offer a sampling here.

Sub-Etha Messager 1: Is anybody there? Oh, Great Spirit from the Other World, we are waiting.

Sub-Etha Messager 2: Hiya, froods and froodettes!

SEM 1: Oh, Great Spirit, we have cleared our minds....

SEM 2: Uh, yeah, lady, that's kinda obvious.

SEM 1: And we would fain hear news of our loved ones who have crossed the Bridge into the Great Beyond...

SEM 2: Oh, that one! Yeah, I think it's on Altair 7. Oh, okay (clears throat), here goes: Uncle Joe is well, and sends his love; Aunt Mary is having a great time, she's learning to play the xylophone in the angelic orchestra, Granddad wants to know if he remembered to turn the stove off, although he guesses you've figured that one out by now, and...uh...yeah, Sister Carrie wants to say that love is all you need.

SEM 1: (Accusatory silence). There's no Sister Carrie here.

SEM 2: Oops! Sorry! That was the Theodore Dreiser thread. Got my lines crossed there. Look, I've got to be going. We spirits are very busy, you know. It's not all sitting around on a cloud and harping on old Beatles tunes, oh no oh no. There's halo-polishing, and music-of-the-spheres practice, and Hallelujah 101 class, and, well, you know...signing off now.

SEM 1: Oh spirit, do you have any parting advice for us?

SEM 2: Oh, sure. Uh...keep your lasers dry, and always know where your towel is. (Giggling.)

Well, you see how this sort of thing is likely to go.

The best advice we can offer, is to demand password authentication when dealing with unknown communications on the Sub-Etha net. That, or demand your poscreds back, if you actually paid for the trip.

Happy navigating!

Hamlet Redux, or the Benchmark of Revolt

One of the highlights of any tourist's stopover on the planet Betamax Delta must surely be a visit to the Archives of Parallel Space-Time. The APST houses an enormous collection of alternate versions of history, mythology and fiction culled from the researches of various intrepid space-time travellers who have chanced upon them by falling into pockets of parallel time on their way to somewhere else.

The collection process, while enlightening, is often a painful one, such as the experience of Leodogrance 'Ace' Cholmondeley-Smythe, the galaxy-famous astrogator, who, while investigating a possible white hole in the vicinity of the Belt of Orion, fell into a wormhole, and spent the ensuing eight years trapped on a colony world of obsessive disciples of a domestic goddess. The Marthaites, as they were called, held the firm belief that anything worth doing was worth decorating, and filled all available spaces in their environment with beautified but useless objects created out of ordinary household detritus. Eight years of forced re-education in the use of the glitter gun had reduced the once-fearless explorer to a jibbering wreck. Fortunately, long and patient counselling at the Galactic Home for the Terminally Bewildered on Rigel V has restored Captain Cholmondeley-Smythe to the point where he can contemplate a white-sale catalogue without shuddering,

The texts which Cholmondeley-Smythe brought back with him (such as the Book of the House of Stewart, a priceless volume bound in stamped Naugahyde with imbedded sequins) have been stored for public safety in a special 'need-to-know-only' collection, and can only be viewed by those with top-security clearance.

While touring the Archives recently, I came across a fascinating volume from the parallel universe designated U1590784. Entitled The Furste Foeley-oh of Weelyam Sheakespeere, it contains alternate story-lines for some well-known material in our own galaxy, and incidentally calls into question the precept held by some that this is the best of all possible worlds.

One of the stories in this volume, in the form of a play, offers an interesting insight into the possibiities of parallel space-time, as you will see.

The story, with the title Piglet, Formerly Known as Prince of Benchmark, begins as follows: Piglet, a Benchish prince, returns from his college studies in Schwatzenburg to find that his father has died, and his uncle Clothilde has become king and married Piglet's mother, all in an unsettlingly short space of time. Piglet is unhappy about this, and refuses to buy the couple a wedding present.

Piglet's best friend and only confidant, Oratorio, informs Piglet that the ghost of the late king has been seen on the battlements of Elsewhere Castle at midnight. Piglet goes out to investigate, and has a disturbing conversation with the spectre of his deceased father. The former King Piglet claims to have been murdered by his own brother, who had his beady eye on the throne and Piglet, Sr's wife Brunhilda.

Piglet is quite alarmed by this revelation of familial perfidy, but even more alarmed by the ghost's insistence that he, Piglet, must avenge his father's death on his uncle, without, incidentally, annoying his mother in any way. Piglet thinks hard about this, delivering himself of several long soliloquies in the process. The following night, he returns to the castle battlements, and informs the spectre of his decision:

No way, Jose!

Piglet explains to the astonished ghost that he, Piglet, is not a policeman, and that if he, the ghost, wants revenge, he can jolly well go haunt Clothilde, the party responsible. And, incidentally, has it occurred to him that Brunhilda is not entirely blameless in the whole matter? The ghost vanishes in a puff of logic, as someone once said

Piglet now turns his attention to the rest of the motley crew at Elsewhere Castle. Clothilde's closest advisor, Phelonius, is watching Piglet closely, trying to find out what his plans are in regard to the throne of Benchmark. To this end, he spies upon Piglet in conversation with Phelonius' daughter, Phred, with whom Piglet has been having a hot and heavy affair.

But Piglet is on to his game. Vous ne pouvez pas pull that dodge on me, he says in the elegant French so in fashion at the court of Benchmark. I am ready for you, mon cher cochon

Having previously tipped Phred the wink, Piglet proceeds to act, and act, and act, convincing Phelonius that Piglet has either a) flipped his wig, or b) been secretly enrolled at RADA instead of attending theology classes in Schwatzenburg as he was supposed to.

Phred pretends to go along with this, and does some C- acting of her own. The whole State of Benchmark is possessed by the demon of Laurence Olivier, exclaims Phelonius, only at greater length, while sawing his hand in the air, thus (there are illustrated stage directions, which I cannot reproduce here).

Piglet has a serious conversation with his mother, in which he tries to convince her to go into therapy. During their talk in her bedroom, a scuffling noise is heard behind the arras. Thinking that Brunhilda's room is infested with rats, Piglet dashes out and returns, armed with mousetraps, which he lays out around the wainscotting.

Shortly afterwards, a loud snap is heard, followed by groaning. Aha!, exclaims Piglet, then pulls back the arras to reveal the suffering Phelonius, with a sprung mousetrap on his big toe.

Oh, pompous idiot, says Piglet, I took thee for thy better, a Norwegian white. Medical help is summoned.

Enraged at this breach of Benchmark court etiquette, Clothilde determines to send Piglet away to his allies in Eltonjohnland. To this end, he enlists the help of Rosary and Fallingstar, his old schoolmates, who are tired of the dole queue and looking for employment in their chosen profession of Toady.

Hey, Big Fella, say Rosary and Fallingstar, let's hit the big time in London, see the sights.

What, says Piglet, Would you play upon me as upon this xylophone?

Hey, says Fallingstar, That's a great idea! Let's start a rock band!

A hoopy idea!, says Piglet, only not in so many words (many more, in fact), and so they pack up their instruments for the trip, taking Phred along as girl singer and Oratorio as roady.

But the cunning Clothilde has prepared a letter of recommendation to the Greater Longtown Arts Council, in which he recommends that, instead of hiring these musicians out for gigs, they nail their carcases to the town gates, pour encourager les autres, lest they be overrun with freeloading Mick Jagger-wannabes. (Curiously, the name 'Mick Jagger' appears unchanged in all known documents in parallel space-time.)

Piglet, however, has acquired good reading skills from his education at Schwatzenburg, and a healthy suspicion of his uncle from the first three acts of this play. So, aboard the Benchmark-Eltonjohnland ferry, while everyone else is taking advantage of the onboard gambling and duty-free shopping, he steams open the letter, while reciting the famous soliloquy, 'Oh, that this too, too solid glue would melt'.

Having read with horror this further evidence of his uncle's villainy and bad spelling, Piglet alters the letter, making it an obnoxious rant to the Times about the general decline in the quality of musical exports from Eltonjohnland, thoroughly maligning the whole pop genre, which will be guaranteed to set off a trade war come the next session of the Yuropean Parliament.

Disembarking at Do-Over, the Fab Five launch a successful career as rock idols, touring Eltonjohnland and the surrounding territories, and finally settling down to write their bestselling memoirs.

Clothilde, Brunhilda, and Phelonius, meanwhile, are faced with an angry mob demanding peace, freedom, and reasonably-priced love, or else they will burn Benchmark Castle to the ground and set up an autonomous free-trade zone. Faced with an impossible situation, Clothilde abdicates in favour of Phelonius' son, Layabout, who rules so incompetently that the kingdom is subsequently invaded by Fourteenbras, the prince of Amway.

The play ends with a speech by Fourteenbras, in which he outlaws Walkmans and MP3 players, exclaiming: We rest in silence!

As you can see, the library at APST can provide the literate visitor with hours of reading pleasure and philosophical speculation, or, as one PST author has it:

Of all weird words of tongue or pen, the weirdest are these: it might have been.

Horace and the Profanity Filter

Horace usually liked web writing. But not today.

He sat back in his new ergonomic chair – even more backbreaking than the last one, his clandestine sabotage had not been successful – and took a thoughtful sip of the Clarion's tea. And swallowed, painfully. That salesman ought to have been shot, he mused, the new 'comprehensive tea delivery system' was producing swill that was worse than the stuff from the old urn, now retired (and used by his editor for an umbrella stand). Horace reached for the usual remedy – Glenfiddich from the bottom drawer – and applied it liberally, then returned to the Problem At Hand, which was Arabi Tchernovsky, the new Supervisor for Online Decency. Arabi Tchernovsky was skinny, sharp-nosed, and wore her glasses on a leash, and although she'd only been on the job for about a week, Horace hated her. He had already planned 42 different deaths for Arabi, each one nastier than the last.

At first, Horace had paid little attention to Ms Tchernovsky's efforts to keep the newspaper's online presence – a fancy new powder-blue-and-white site which Horace privately compared (unfavourably) to the one produced, for free, by his ISP back in the late 90s – pure, pristine, and free of smut, trash talk, and libel. Editor-in-Chief John Farnsworth, initially skeptical, had taken a look at the statistical figures for libel suits directed at media outlets and become enamoured of Arabi's no-nonsense guidelines.

'Our aim is to have a cavil-free Clarion, ' Tchernovsky announced at one of her training seminars. Farnsworth beamed at her, while Horace privately wondered if Arabi realised what people posted on newspaper websites for, namely to see themselves complaining in print and pixels.

Horace hadn't paid much attention to all this at first – after all, he was not in the business of editing the Clarion's fanmail, and the S.O.D.'s job was to supervise reader feedback, surely? Then the bombshell exploded: A.T., as John was now calling her, unveiled her pièce de resistance. The Fallacy Filter. For writers.

Horace gritted his teeth as he worked on his latest blog, stopping only to refresh his tea mug and search for metaphors. As literary editor and all-purpose blogger, it was his job to enlighten, entrance, and enthuse. To stir the smouldering embers of interest in the written word and its power of imagery, rather than to cheer newsmakers from the sidelines. His brief was to employ the mot juste, the telling phrase, the piquant parable...

How was he supposed to do this with Mrs Grundy on his back? The idea of Arabi Tchernovsky jumping on his back like a demented, bespectacled monkey made him chuckle over his tea. Horace finished his essay for the week, pushed 'Send' to pass it on to what he privately referred to as the 'Word Police', and sat back to wait. He filled in the interval by imagining himself as an operative for S.O.,E. (he'd always loved the comma in that acronym), on a desperate mission to save Humanity, searching for the perfect secret code to escape the prying eyes of the Gestapo...

His reverie on the subject of the imagery in The Life That I Have was rudely interrupted by the 'you've got in-house email' ping. Opened, the missive almost scorched the screen. Horace was unsure whether to call the office geek, as he at first suspected malware.

NOTICE OF NON-COMPLIANT TEXT!!!!!

My Dear Mr Wallingford,
This prose is UNACCEPTABLE. In fact, it is the most blatant violation of the rules of decency in writing it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. The Filter macro has flagged no fewer than EIGHT offensive words in this paragraph.
Please rewrite and resend. Your supervisor will be advised of this waste of company time.
Yours,
Arabi Tchernovsky

Horace was stunned. He perused the (to him) innocent text. He thought about asking Ms Tchernovsky what, exactly, the offensive words were. But he knew better. She would never tell him. It was 'against policy'.

I have to develop a dirtier mind to solve this problem, he muttered.

Forty-five minutes of wasted company time later, Horace gave an excited yell – one which sent the administrative assistant scurrying for cover (he was afraid of Horace, anyway, ever since the Paper Clip Incident). Horace, laughing hysterically (a not unknown phenomenon at the Clarion), penned – no, typed – the following:

My VERY Dear Ms Tchernovsky,
Is your macro, by any chance, vetting these articles without benefit of clergy? That is to say, without spacing or punctuation?
If so, I can see where the problem lies. I can only suggest you subject your own name to the same process. I also suggest you read less science fiction. That stuff has been clinically proven to damage the prefrontal cortex, leading to personality disorders.
Hugs and kisses,
Horace Wallingford

Horace surveyed his email with satisfaction. That's telling her, he thought, and went in search of fresh floor scrapings from Assam, muttering something about bolshy gloopy chellovecks (Horace was a major fan of Anthony Burgess, and often quoted his hero, Enderby), leaving this on the computer to be seen by the Prophet Zarquon and everybody:

The history of PETA quite astounds us. Convincing one's fellow humans to show compassion is a daunting task, perhaps everywhere in Europe save noble Belgium. Animal cruelty must be opposed: to stem the flood, bait shops must be closed. Zark Ingramsmeg, head of the Gordon Bennett Society, excused his behaviour thus: 'This topic? Not fun. Print able to defend us, won't...We deny having used live prawns in our annual fishing contest. We employ only foul-smelling – but dead – Korean gim. Boid Rimmer will back me up on this. '

A Good Day's Work

The ghost of Philip K Dick haunts me in my sleep.

A Good Day's Work

Synchrorealities, Inc

The hovercab descended to the curb just long enough for Jereth to step out, then dashed away, the driver proud of his speed and accuracy. Jereth adjusted his pink mohair sweater – he'd been told to dress 'business formal', and this was his best outfit – and looked up at the building that housed today's appointment.

He looked up…and up. Synchrorealities, Inc, covered a lot of celestial territory – the Air Corps considered the campus a no-fly zone. Jereth craned his neck to appreciate the headquarters in all its retrogothic glory. He'd passed it many a time, but today, he was invited in. All the way to the 42nd floor. He shouldered his conservative tartan rucksack – he'd bought it especially for the occasion, to seem more businesslike – and headed for the entrance. The brass-bound revolving door moved with satisfying slowness and a slight whoosh of its rubber gaskets. Take your time, it said. Enjoy the experience. It won't last long enough. Jereth entered the vaulted mezzanine, paused for a moment to gawk (he couldn't help it, he was a sucker for stone arches), then hurried through the wrought-iron gates with their quote about the stars being new, and presented his invitation to the uniformed chauffeur at the special lift that went all the way up. The chauffeur studied the gilt-edged pasteboard, favoured Jereth with a superior smile, and took a large brass key from his kangaroo pocket. He turned it in the panel, pulled the gated door shut, and away it sped, upwards, towards the sky, a metal merkabah containing a hopeful newcomer and his dreams.

When the lift opened again, Jereth was greeted by the man himself: Ottokar Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum, looking dignified in his khaki shorts and safari vest bearing the logo of Synchrorealities – two hands drawing one another. He smiled broadly as he shook Jereth's unresisting hand.

'Jereth Cheloweth, I presume? So glad you could come. Step this way. I imagine you would like to have a look at our view before you begin work?' Jereth gulped – not only because a look out these windows was exactly what he'd been wanting ever since, say, he was old enough to want anything besides a bottle of milk, but also because he was overwhelmed by being in the presence of true greatness. Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum was a household name. Graciously acknowledging Jereth's awkward nod, the director took him on a tour of the office, which was surprisingly quiet, with only a few workers, and led him from window to window, allowing Jereth to gaze his fill at the skyscraper view of the city in which he had pent most of his life, now made small and unfamiliar beneath the mist. When an eagle soared past at eye level, Jereth started, and then blushed, but the director laughed. 'I never get used to that, either,' he admitted in a friendly way. When the tour was over, and Jereth had recovered his breath, Dr Weisheit vom Frelichtmuseum led him into an inner office, where a bright-eyed young man in company uniform offered him a cup of excellent Jav-o-Moque. He accepted with an inner thrill of unwonted privilege.

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made himself comfortable in the e-z-chair opposite Jereth. When they had both sipped and appreciated their Jav-o-Moques, pouring the obligatory libations into the enameled saucer that was placed on the floor beside the kafftable for the purpose, the director eased himself back into his chair, gesturing for Jereth to do the same. Jereth, however, sat upright at first, rummaging hastily through his rucksack.

'I've brought some sketches for you,' he stammered. 'They may not be up to the high-type standard you're used to, but…'

Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made a demurring gesture. That gesture alone is worth millions, thought Jereth. He must practice before a mirror. The director smiled. 'Rough sketches are our favourites,' he explained. 'They are so much closer to the original thought than a more polished version – closer to the original yitzirach, don't you know. Thank you for bringing them.' With another priceless gesture of graciousness, he took Jereth's sketches, the product of many sleepless nights, and, barely glancing at them, handed them to his assistant, who promptly vanished through a side door. He leaned back again, clasping folded hands over crossed knees. 'Now, Jereth,' he smiled encouragingly. 'I am ready to listen. Begin at the beginning, please.'

Thus emboldened, Jereth finally allowed himself to sink back into the really very beautiful e-z-chair, and gave himself just a few seconds to appreciate the softness of its angora damask cushions. The secret to weaving these cushions was a closely-guarded treasure of the Catawba Tribe of Sawdie Daisy, Tennetucky, he knew. Obviously, Synchrorealities, Inc, supported only the best of native craftsmanship. But the director must be waiting. Jereth took a deep breath, and began his recital.

I was born on the North Side of the city, in Gheniville. It wasn't like it is now, all gentrified. It was sort of a slum, full of Walesians, like me, and Germanoslavs. Most of our dads worked in the mills, rolling synthosteel, and our moms stayed at home. The first memory I have was when the little boy next door – about two years old, like me – set fire to the grass with a sparkler on the 4th of Juneteenth. You know, I don't remember thinking in words back then. I just had this picture in my head, you know, of what might happen, and I ran and told my mother...in my memory, the grass looked brown, and the trees, not really brown, maybe sort of sepia, but the fire…the fire was bright yellow, you know, I think that's when I first noticed colour…
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded intently as Jereth went on, from his early childhood memories, the train that used to come by the house at 3 a.m., and how he got out of bed and opened the door to watch and listen better, and how it scared his dad…on to first grade, the pretty little girl who sat next to him the first day, how her name was Barbara and he thought that was a cool name to spell, b-a-r-b-a-r-a, a pleasing pattern…on through sports and movies and stray thoughts and first loves and firsts of all kinds…and lasts…last kisses, last times to see loved ones before they died, last glimpse of the vintage airplane he'd flown in before the hurricane broke it in half, last view of the skyscraper in Nueva Amsterdami before it pancaked flat in an apocalyptic cloud…on and on, memory upon memory, big and small…the director nodding and the intercom open on the kafftable…

Somewhere during the recital, there was lunch. Jereth was almost too excited to eat, but the delicate flavor of the sandwich – the best ham-and-cheese sandwich he had ever tasted – distracted him for a few minutes. The pickle, even in a city known for its fine pickles, was a revelation. After this meal and a few swallows of Cohola, Jereth plunged in again – describing work, play, love, loss…his listener seemed rapt, although Jereth thought, he must have something more important to do.

Hours later, Jereth was finished. When he came up for air, it was as if he were seeing the room – and Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum – for the first time. The light had shifted. It was afternoon. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum clapped his hands in satisfaction, and the assistant came from the other room, carrying the most unusual book Jereth had ever seen. The director smiled.

'Jereth, that was splendid,' he said warmly. 'Let's see what we have, shall we?' He held out the book. Jereth took it.

It was made of heavy black cloth, stiff and ridged, with a red sort of oilcloth sewn around the edges – to protect the pages, Jereth thought. The book, about the size of his laptop screen, bulged. On the cover was the title, Jereth Cheloweth, Memories. Inside, each page was a collage of photos, sketches from Jereth's sketchbook, realia such as train tickets and ID cards (Where did they get them? Jereth wondered), all stapled to the ridged cloth. The images on each page were arranged intuitively rather than consecutively. One page, for example, held pictures of girls and women from Jereth's recital. Barbara was there, a six-year-old with a gap- toothed grin and a pageboy cut, alongside a glamorous vamp Jereth barely remembered from his road trip in Romania…Jereth turned over the pages, amazed, and rediscovered his own story.

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum pointed out pages that particularly pleased him. 'I love this one,' he said of the double travel page with its stamped passport, tickets, and photo collage. 'It speaks to the need in all of us to find common ground amid new experiences. You've done well here.' They sat for an hour, going over the book. Jereth felt a glow of satisfaction. These people chose me, he thought. And they're experts. They knew what they were doing.

At last they were done. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum walked Jereth to the lift and shook his hand. 'I want to thank you,' he said simply and sincerely. 'Your work has been vital to our enterprise. Here at Synchrorealities, Inc, we appreciate good quality.' He chuckled at a private joke. 'The cheque is not in the mail. The million postcreds have already been credited to your account. You may withdraw any funds you need immediately.'

The chauffeur was holding the lift door, but Jereth hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to leave. 'Er, Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum? I really enjoyed this.'

Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded genially. 'I know. And you wish you could work with us some more.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry. You really have helped us a lot. But it's one day to a contractor, I'm afraid.' He smiled gently. 'Look at it this way,' he suggested. 'You never have to work again.' He clasped Jereth's hand one last time. 'You have done a good day's work. Good- bye.'

Standing outside the towering building, Jereth looked up at it once again, nostalgic already for his one great experience with it. I have to remember it all, he thought. I have to tell Marika all about it. She'll be thrilled.

The man with the million-dollar memory turned on his heel and went to hail a hovercab back to Gheniville.

I said the ghost of Philip K Dick haunted my dreams. I didn't say he had the last word.

That man never let his heroes have a good time. Or get paid.

I may not be PK Dick. But I'm nicer than that.

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.

The Goth War with the Romulans - An Ongoing Conflict

Not everyone is thrilled by the
Galactovision Song Contest.

A minor fracas erupted recently at the Galactovision Song Contest, usually a hotbed of barely suppressed tedium, concerning the Romulan entry.
Our militaristic friends had done it again, entered the latest hit from the Homeworld, Tomorrow the Galaxy.

Neighbouring planets were not amused, and this revived rumours concerning the state of war between Gotha and Romulus, now in its fifth decade, with no sign of weakening on either side.

Well, it depends on who you talk to. According to a Goth spokesperson, the enemy 'is all but annihilated on all fronts, especially in the area of psy-ops'. According to a Romulan spokesdrone, 'those bl****d Goths are trying to pull the wool over your eyes again. They haven't even got an army! There is no war!', followed by incoherent spluttering.

Like I said...

The first problem is basically one of definition. According to the Goths, who have, with typical verve and considerable elan, taken it upon themselves to relieve the rest of us of the chore of dealing with the quadrant's biggest blowhards ("WE invented the wheel! AND we decided what colour it should be!), the Goth-Romulan War is a relentless and all-consuming conflict fraught with perils, deep strategy, and deeds of incredible daring (on the part of the Goths).

According to the Romulans, it is pure bunkum.

The second problem is one of stellar cartography. You see, it is hard, some would say impossible, for the Romulans to launch an attack against an enemy whose home territory lies at right angles to reality. If you can't find it, you can't bomb it. Or invade it.

Which, wiser heads opine, is why the Goths started the whole thing.

Of course, the Goths could easily find Romulus - the Empire is hard to miss, even if you discount their disputed territorial claims, the settlement of which takes up so much of the Galactic Council's time. It's just that the Goths don't actually bother invading the Romulans.

It's much more fun to pretend to invade them. Drives 'em nuts.

And that brings us to the third problem, from the Romulan point of view, that of credibility. And press control.

What the Goths save in ordnance, they spend on propaganda. And they are winning the propaganda war, with a combination of pertinacity, inventiveness, and sheer bloodymindedness that would boggle the mind of a litigious Venusian.

The Pan-Galactic Herald Centurion, a wholly Goth-owned and operated homeopape, regularly announces, in thrilling detail, complete with photos and sidebar interviews, accounts of truly amazing, daredevil raids into Romulan territory that did not take place.

Of course, they will deny this. They have an entire department whose only job it is to deny this. They say that Romulan denials are mere war propaganda from the other side, that lack of evidence simply proves how determined the enemy is to cover up his losses, and that, besides, everybody knows the Romulans are a bunch of joyless spoilsports, so there.

The Romulans, of course, are furious. They are beside themselves. They are frequently rendered speechless by this effrontery.

Speechlessness in a Romulan is a good thing.

In response to the recent Galactovision dustup, the Goths have launched a new assault. This time, they have published an entire book of anti-Romulan war songs, with titles such as We'll Hang Out Our Washing on the Horsehead Line, Praise Odin, and Pass the Ammunition, and, particularly galling, I'm a Frothy Old Goth, in a Sloppy Old Moth, on the Streets of Old Ra'tleifi, with My Auntie and My Nephie, Doing Those Blear-o Blear-o Can't See Too Clear-oh, Zero Gravity Blues.

Which immediately went into the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster Book of Useless Records as the most ridiculous song title in sidereal history.

Of course, the Goths do attack from time to time, at a spacetime locus of their own choosing. But even this affords their bellicose opponents no comfort, no release. Their latest foray was into the capital itself, where they used strategically placed, and well-cloaked, transporters to simultaneously beam 499,999 teddy bears, all in Goth native costumes, and all terminally cute, to every public building in the city.

The diabolically cunning part was the number of bears. The obsessive-compulsive (and ursophobic) Romulans went crazy trying to find that last bear.

The Romulans continue to gnash their teeth, faced with the horror of an enemy who refuses to take war seriously. In the meantime, a grateful galaxy has now voted the entire Goth nation the Supernobel Prize, in a special category: Peace Through Perpetual Warfare.

May all your conflicts be humorous ones.

Jakobsson's Ark

The journey by icebreaker was pretty hair-raising, but the last 100 miles over the icy tundra took the last nerve I had. By the time we pulled up in front of Frøhvelv I, all I could think of was hot chocolate.

I suppose that was why I wasn't in the mood to register the barbaric beauty of the gigantic metal wedge protruding from the mountain, its forbidding grey contrasting starkly with the snow-covered granite – if I had, I would have made that note in my blog earlier, the one about how it looked like an ancient hard drive out of the Archaeological Museum. As I climbed slowly out of the heated jeppi, expecting my reluctant breath to turn to icicles the moment it left the safety of my nostrils, I just had time to notice the orange klieg lights that provided the only colour in this black-and-white twilight snowscape, when Jósef Jakobsson himself came bounding out the entrance, mittened hand outstretched in greeting, perfect white teeth recklessly exposed to the elements in that world-famous grin.

"Bródir Caoinan," he greeted me – getting my name right first try, a surprise. Most people don't realise how much that means to a minority. "You made good time from the ship. I am so glad to be able to show you around our little facility."

To my relief, he hustled me inside, remarking that the evening was "a bit crisp", and while we stripped off our thermal onesies in the first airlock, and I presented my credentials to the more suspicious-looking security guard (I supposed it was his job, after all), the globally-respected Chairman of NarthGen proceeded to hold forth on his pet project, just as if I were a Really Important Person, and not merely the stringer who drew that short straw when the boss of Twittweet – the planet Narthex's cheapest newstream agency – wanted filler. I didn't care. I might have been too ethnic for the podcasts (and, yes, I admit I've got the stereotypic speech defect), but hey, I had admired Jakobsson for years, ever since he'd turned down the vice presidency of world power Synthion to accept a post with the Federated Nations. That was before he won the Humanity Prize, of course. The fact that most of the planet thought he was a nutty genius with a bee in his bonnet didn't alter the fact that I – biologist manqué– was in awe of him. Meeting him was a dream come true.

"You see, Bródir Caoinan," the genial giant was saying while the security guard gave me a subdermal hand stamp, "We take our security precautions very seriously. What is down in our mountain is precious cargo, indeed." I murmured agreement, covertly studying the man. Even out of his onesie, Jakobsson was huge – six-foot-four at least, with nothing of the reclusive scientist about him. Heavily muscled and tanned (tanned? Oh, well, these alpha Synthians probably had a tanning bed tucked in behind the sauna), wild strawberry hair, the picture of rude health. I felt even more insignificant than usual as I trotted beside him to the next airlock, trying to keep up with the conversation, physically and metaphorically.

I cleared my throat and tried to make journalist noises. "The collection is how far inside the mountain, exactly?"

"Half a mile inside the mountain itself," he replied, glancing around professionally at the titanium walls as we headed for the next airlock. Noticing that I was out of breath, he shortened his stride. "Here in the permafrost, we are free from contamination. And we can withstand a 100 megaton nuclear blast." The guards at the next set of doors stepped aside, and Jakobsson grinned as he pushed the doors open with a flourish.

I should not have been surprised at the subway car, but I was. As we rode the rest of the way to the central Frøhvelv, I tried to get the preliminary yadda-yadda of the interview out of the way.

"This impressive facility is the FN's response to the climate-change problem?" I ventured. Jakobsson waved a broad hand dismissively.

"Climate change, yes, but we can deal with that. I am more interested in the problem of GenCorp." My ears pricked up at that – there might be a scoop here, after all.

I cleared my throat. "You don't agree with Chairman Olafsson's assessment that the new maize strains are pure and pose no threat to world crops?" At this, Jakobsson looked as if he were about to expostulate about "blue food" – I remembered his speech on the subject – but the subway ride came to an abrupt end, and he took me by the arm, merely remarking that we would "get to that" soon enough. In the meantime, he had something to show me.

It was something, all right. You've all seen it now – at least on your podscreens – but it was the first time for me, and I was impressed.

We stood on a catwalk, high in a cavernous space. Below us, walkways stretched like spokes in a wheel, lined with glass-covered cells whose side panels glowed with digital information. I caught my breath. "It's a panopticon," I blurted, then blushed.

Jakobsson chuckled. "A panopticon, yes. One in which our "prisoners" are quite safe." He gestured below. "Even if the refrigeration were to go out, it would take three days before the temperature in the units rose to -3°. That would be enough time, I think. Here inside the mountain, we are safe from water – even should the polar ice caps melt – from war, and from idiots who make genetic mistakes." A worker in a crisp white jumpsuit wheeled a trolley past us on the way to the lift. Jakobsson stopped her and took something from the trolley. "Would you like to see?" he asked. I nodded.

He held out the packet almost reverently. I hesitated, but took it. There, in clear plastic, vacuum-sealed, was a piece of the future of Narthex: perhaps a quarter pound of seeds. I read the label. "Malus domesticus, Sample #RD4201." I smiled. "So the apples are safe."

Jakobsson grinned as he replaced the seed packet. "Not only the apples, Bródir Caoinan. There are 1.5 million varieties down there. All safe." He took me by the elbow. "Come, let us go to my office. I can answer your questions about the blue corn there. And I will tell you why I wanted you to come."

I don't know what troubled me more at that moment – the fact that Jakobsson was hinting that he, and not my editor, had originated this interview (me? I'm nobody, a shanty kid from Equatorial Arran), or that the lift we were heading for went up for a very long way into the mountain. I thanked my miner ancestors that I was not prone to claustrophobia, and kept my questions to myself until we had landed safely in Jakobsson's suitably plush office.

While Jakobsson, the attentive host, made us drinks, I looked around at the array of vidscreens on the wall – the usual newsfeeds from around the globe, what looked to be closed-circuit images from inside Frøhvelv I itself, a variety of other facilities including safari parks, and the auditorium of the FN Assembly (surprise). Even more surprising, I noticed a screen devoted to Twittweet. Alongside the current podcast – an interview with Bjørk Tinnjedóttir, the latest rad singer – there was a sidebar containing, of all things, my blog.

My blog. The one I had written feverishly for the last year, all through the Synthian winter and spring, collating newsbit after newsbit from the tech-poor northern hemisphere, desperately trying to get twitters and tweeters to listen, trying from my poky little office in Rasmussen City to reach out to the pod audience and tell them what I suspected was behind the alarming agricultural news trickling down across the equator. The stupid blog that got relegated to the bottom corner of the front page as "not sexy, a downer", while the editors concentrated on fashionistas who sent a few creds northward for famine relief, or adopted stray Arrani babies. I shrugged. Maybe the great man had too much free time.

Jakobsson handed me a tall glass with some expensive nectar in it (I had forgotten about hot chocolate by now), and folded his tall frame into a leather swivel chair, motioning me to do the same. "I asked for you," he said simply.
I must have gawked – I distinctly remember gawking – as he went on: "I could tell you were trying to get the word out about the disaster last spring." He scowled. "The harvest figures were even worse than the ones the local governments released. The famine is widespread. But I could not act. Not yet."

The drink was better than anything I'd ever tasted, but I almost choked on it. I tried for an even tone. "You were waiting for what, sir?"

As if he had not heard the reproach in my voice, Jakobsson pointed his remote at a screen and went into brisk lecture mode. The screen showed a green plant, rather common. "A. Syriaca," he intoned. "When in contact with Bacillus thuringiensis, causes significant death among Danaus plexippus L., or the monarch butterfly. Ever hear of the butterfly effect, Bródir Caoinan?" He did not wait for an answer. "That is not all the pollen can do. It kills insects, yes, that is bad enough. But..." he turned in his chair to glare at me, "It has mutated on this planet."

I flinched, almost expecting a personal attack, but his anger was not directed at me. "GenCorp," he hissed between those perfect teeth, "GenCorp has been covering up the catastrophe, shipping all the food it can buy to the northern hemisphere for six months, buying out the media chains, waiting for the southern harvest. They swore they had contained the evil. They swore they had fixed the problem. But I can read weather patterns, Bródir Caoinan, and so can they." He clicked the remote again, and the image changed.

I saw the Narthex map, with prevailing wind patterns. I saw the animation that indicated how climate change had shifted them. I saw how the winds had shifted south, carrying the pollen, carrying it toward the breadbaskets of Synthion and Arkady. I gulped alcohol and fruit juice.

Jakobsson pointed to another screen. "Today is the first day of autumn. It is traditionally the day when the harvest figures are announced by the major food-producing nations. It is time," he glanced at his watch, "to see what GenCorp has wrought." We turned to ZBF, the most reliable news source in Rasmussen City.

The figures were grim. I wasn't surprised, after what Jakobsson had told me. What most of the audience would not have appreciated was what I already knew – the planet was two months from starvation, even without the added burden of the humanitarian relief that had already been sent northward. Winter coming on, and soon we would be eating – what? Emergency rations from the FN? Each other? I looked at Jakobsson in dumb horror.

To my surprise, Jakobsson seemed almost cheerful. "That is why I sent for you, Bródir Caoinan. We have work to do, and I will need someone to help me tell the story. You see those screens? Those are the nature preserves of the FN. We have stockpiled food, enough for the animals, enough – within reason – to get us through the next harvest. We have a plan for combating the mutated, and inedible, vegetation. We have the seed bank for the future." He rubbed his hands together, as if eager to get to work. "But there will need to be...changes. I think you understand."

I nodded, slowly. In the last few minutes, my mental world had been turned upside down. But I understood. My mouth was dry. I sipped my drink, and then said, "Nothing will be the same." Privately, I hoped that GenCorp's executive would be tried for crimes against humanity, that maybe Equatorial Arran would get independence, that maybe my fourteen cousins would get jobs for the first time in their lives... But there were more pressing issues. "I will draft the statement immediately," I said.

Jakobsson's eyes twinkled. "What will you tell them?" he asked.

I thought about that old book on my dresser at home – the one my granny had pressed into my hand the day I got on the plane for Rasmussen City, saying, "Never forget where you come from". I thought about everything she'd read to me from that book.

"I think Genesis 47:20 will do for a start," I said.

And Jósef Jakobsson smiled. To someone like me, it was a reassuring smile.

Gheorghenis Chez Eux

It might be amusing to try to answer the question 'What strange event is this story explaining with a stranger event?'

The last rays of the setting sun fell upon the mountain, lighting up the white sandstone at its summit, setting it in stark relief against the already twilight-darkened conifers below. In the high valley, a peasant, dressed in his usual garb of white loose trousers and tunic with broad black leather belt, set down the scythe with which he had been cutting hay, and, looking to the mountain, crossed himself hastily, right to left, before picking up his scythe again and striding on bare feet towards his home, the steep, thatched roof of which could be seen over the next ridge. He did not glance up again, whistling to himself an old doina, a sad, lonely song.

The year could have been 1455, but it wasn't. Or 1815, but it wasn't that, either.

In the town in the valley below, electric lights, not many, were coming on, and a single black automobile was making its way slowly through cobbled streets crowded with pedestrians and bicyclists with string bags hanging from their often rusty handlebars. A variety of clothing styles could be seen, from the traditional costume of the mountain peasant to bright gypsy clothing that stood out in the artificial light among the more usual dress of grey or brown gabardine suits, shabby and patched. The car turned a corner, and moved on past the construction site where an ungainly concrete building was coming into existence, the sign in front promising a new era of prosperity under the profiled photo of King Michael. The driver of the car snorted to himself, and moved on to park near the tiny railway station, humming a bit of jazz.

The year could have been 1945, but it wasn't. It couldn't have been 1948, because then the king's picture would have been gone forever. Let's say it was 1947.

Up on the mountainside, lights appeared in the windows of a curious-looking castle. Unlike King Ludwig's dream house, it could not have been designed by Mr Disney, nor was it one of those towering hulks that loomed over the landscape with menacing reminders of past horrors, like the one in Brasov. This 'castle' looked more like a Mediterranean villa gone mad, with a long, white, rectangular wall surrounding buildings with pagoda-like red-tiled roofs. The effect, though slightly comical in the brooding surroundings, was of reasonable comfort under conditions meant to ensure privacy.

In the window of a downstairs sitting room, a light appeared. Let us follow that light inside, and see what it illuminates...\

If anything.

****************

Dmitri Gheorgheni flexed long, thin fingers and stretched out his hand for the balloon glass. He inhaled the brandy appreciatively.

'Why won't you drink wine like the rest of us?' demanded Elektra, shaking her tawny locks, which gleamed in the lamplight like coiled copper snakes. Her green eyes flashed with amusement.

Dmitri turned his mild gaze on his cousin, his round, brown eyes opened a bit wider than usual, the pupils still darting back and forth in the alien habit he could never lose – he always had the look of an innocent predator. 'Because...I don't...drink...blood, my dear.' He laughed. 'You're perfectly capable of putting an eyedropperful in that Tokay, just to see what effect it would have on me.' He leaned back in the overstuffed chair, and stretched his booted feet toward the fire.

Dmitri looked at home in his own century – the early 19th – in loose white shirt, tight trousers, and riding boots. Elektra, her tastes more eclectic, was having a Chinese evening, and had chosen a silk cheongsam, gold and silver embroidery over Gheorgheni blue. Dmitri hadn't the heart to tell her that cheongsams were designed for less voluptuous figures than her own.

Elektra laughed, and stretched, catlike, before the fire – thus completely spoiling the effect of the cheongsam. 'You are a fool. Moralising about a teaspoonful of blood. Demitasse spoon, more like it. They don't miss what we take. And we pay them richly for it, ' she grinned, 'in shared experience.'

Dmitri shook his head. 'You spoil them for life. You give them a perfect evening – romance, excitement, a soupçon of danger, perfect sensual pleasure – and, at the height of ecstasy, you take the distilled etheric essence of that experience into yourselves.' He frowned into his glass. 'They spend the rest of their lives trying to recapture the knowledge of that moment. That is cruel.'

Elektra sighed, and crossed to the table to pour herself a glass of wine from the carafe in which it had been breathing. 'You may be right, but what else are we to do, Dmitri? We have...a task. And it's been a long time. This helps get it done.' She turned on him, demanding, 'What would you have us do?'

Dmitri had opened his mouth to answer when another member of the family strode into the room. Alexei, tall, broad-shouldered, with white-blond hair, dressed in the current fashion, though more elegantly than most, took Elektra in his arms and kissed her briefly on the neck, before looking down at Dmitri, a humorous quirk to his mouth. 'What is that in the bedroom upstairs? Your latest conquest? Really, Dmitri, you have no more morals than an alley cat. Must you bring your doxies home with you? Why can't you leave them in their brothels, like I do?'

Before Dmitri could answer this, Elektra broke out in peals of laughter. 'Oh, Dmitri, up to your old tricks again? Who is she this time? And why bring her here?' Pouring a glass of wine for Alexei, she joined him on the couch, where she leaned against her brother, resting her head on his shoulder, running her painted nails through his thick, ashen hair.

Dmitri took a deep breath, and finally managed to get a word in edgewise – something that was hard to do with his relatives. 'I will introduce the lady later. And Alexei, the word 'doxy' is out of place in this time setting. I believe the word you were looking for was 'chippy'.' More laughter from Elektra.

Alexei frowned as he sipped his wine. 'Another child, I suppose? The stars in conjunction for yet another avatar, or some such?' For answer, Dmitri abruptly rose from his chair and, crossing to the large bay windows, pulled away the heavy drapes that protected some of the inhabitants of the castle from too much direct sunlight.

The vista was breathtaking, and almost as bright as day, as the gibbous moon, nearly full, cast a golden light over the mountainside and valley below. Dmitri stood, feet planted apart, studying it thoughtfully. 'Rose moon tomorrow. And by then, we'll be ready.'

Elektra sniggered inelegantly, and kicked off her high heels to snuggle better against Alexei. 'Aha. Another decade, another attempt at 'him, of whom the writings have writ...'

Dmitri turned to face her, leaning against the broad windowsill, and made a gesture as if to ward off flies. 'Mock. I don't care. At least I'm not a mosquito.'
Elektra, unsurprisingly, stuck her tongue out at him. Surprisingly, the tongue was green – she'd been sucking on a mint.

Alexei shrugged. 'To each his own in this game.' He sat up straight suddenly, and one might have sworn that his ears pricked. 'Has anyone seen Ilya?'

Dmitri, still by the window, shook his head. 'The last time I saw your son was in Berlin, about '43, it was...come to think of it, the moon was full then, too...' Elektra frowned. 'Why are you thinking of Ilya?'

As if in answer, there was a loud banging on the heavy outside door. No one moved, knowing there were servants, but a short while later, there were slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the door to the sitting room opened, and Ilya Gheorgheni stumbled in. Elektra looked him over without moving. 'Oh, that was why. Speak of the devil, and he will appear.'

Dmitri sprang from the window to embrace Ilya, who looked over his taller uncle's encircling arm with haunted eyes. He was always thin, but now looked positively gaunt, his hair, white-blond like his father's, falling lankly over his forehead. He was dirty and dishevelled, in a Russian officer's uniform, filthy, its epaulettes torn.

Alexei barked, 'What are you doing in that uniform? I told you to join the Germans.'

Dmitri mumured, 'Welcome home.'

Ilya shrugged, as Dmitri helped him to an armchair and brought him bread, cheese, and wine, which he accepted gratefully. 'Thanks, I haven't eaten in two or three days.' To Alexei: 'I wanted to get back here, Tata. This uniform seemed easier.'

Elektra sniffed. 'At least you could've gotten a clean one. You smell of death.'

Ilya stopped eating for a moment to give Elektra a vulpine grin. 'All uniforms smell of death.' He shrugged. 'But I got this one off a dead Russian...been walking a long time.' Dmitri was about to ask more, but the door opened again, and a plump, matronly woman in a black dress rushed in and threw herself on Ilya, ignoring the dirt and the smell, covering his face with kisses and making him spill his wine.

'Oh, Ilya, Iubitile meu, where have you been? I have missed you so much, you naughty boy, you have not come home for so long, what kept you?' Ilya returned the affection shown, with interest. 'Mama Marya, I'm sorry, but I'm back now.' The lady thus addressed glared at Alexei. 'It is your fault, Excelenta, see what you have done. He is all bones.' Alexei stared at his housekeeper haughtily, but, out-stared, turned to look out the window, feigning indifference.

Dmitri decided to give his nephew over to the care of his doting Mama Marya. 'Here, take him and clean him up. We can talk more over dinner.' Marya eagerly complied, saying as she led him away, 'What do you want for dinner, eh? I know, your favourite, blini. We make blini...' When they were gone, Elektra, embarrassed, unfolded herself from the couch and poured more wine, tossing her head and staring at the moon outside as if it had offended her in some obscure way. When Dmitri took a breath to speak, Elektra held up her splayed hand, imperiously.

'Not now, Dmitri. We aren't in the mood to listen to you now.'

So Dmitri remained silent.

****************

Dinner in the castle was mostly a quiet affair. The shy, freckle-faced young woman with the red hair – less fiery and somehow more natural-looking than Elektra's – was introduced as Lady Isobel Douglass, and promptly ignored by everyone except Dmitri. Elektra might have paid more attention, but as the young woman said little, and was dressed in an unexceptional black evening dress rather than a Regency peignoir, Elektra became bored with what she regarded as utterly mundane beauty, and kept up a conversation with Alexei on the subject of postwar politics, of which she knew quite a lot.

Brief excitement was provided when Ilya shouted that there was a cockroach in his salad. This alarming fact could not be proven, as Ilya had suddenly swallowed the evidence, citing a proverb, 'In Russia, even a bug is meat.' Lady Douglass appeared unhappy (not as unhappy as she would have been had she known Russian), but Dmitri took her hand and whispered something in her ear, and the charm or spell he had cast upon her restored itself, so she finished her meal in quiet decorum.

After supper, Alexei announced pointedly that he thought it was time for the ladies to withdraw, so Elektra, with a moue of annoyance, escorted the bedazzled Isobel off to the drawing room, where she gave her coffee and cake and tried to find out what on earth she thought she was doing in Romania.

At the table, Dmitri proposed a toast. 'To Ilya's return!' Ilya, smiling wanly, nodded thanks. Alexei drank the toast, but then said briskly, 'To business. Dmitri, why is there an antigravity saucer on my back lawn?'

Dmitri looked at Ilya and winked. 'I, er, thought I'd go for a ride, Alexei. The moon will be full tomorrow.'

Alexei snorted and spoke with mock patience. 'What difference does it make what phase the moon is in, you idiot child, if you're on the moon?"

Ilya chuckled. 'I know the answer to that one, Tata. And so does Dmitri. The phase of the moon depends on the relative positions of the bodies. As, I suspect, does what Dmitri's planning.' It was his turn to wink.

Alexei leaned back in his chair, turning his wineglass in his hand and thinking. 'Do you really believe that these children of yours will do the trick?'

Dmitri nodded soberly. 'I do. The engineering requires sentience. We know that. And the method you and Elektra are employing...takes too long. By the time you've collected enough for a pattern, the pattern has changed again. This could go on forever.' He stood suddenly, running his hands through his straight black hair.

Ilya poured himself more wine. 'It's not as if we don't have forever, but...'

Dmitri replied softly, in an absent voice. 'But they do not.'

There was nothing to say to that, so they asked the ladies to join them on the rear terrace. The moon had climbed higher in the sky. No longer huge and yellow, it now cast a silver light across the grass...

And on the ridiculous object there. Largish, about the size of a barn, the silver disc sat there, an affront to common sense, with not even a door, window, or glittering array of lights to justify its ludicrous existence. Elektra sighed melodramatically. 'Take your girlfriend, and that stupid spaceship, and go. Couldn't it at least be purple?'

Ilya turned to his uncle. 'May I go along? Feed the dolphins?' He smiled wrily. 'I'm rather tired of this planet.'

Dmitri put his hands on Ilya's shoulders, and looked down into his eyes. 'Not just yet. Stay here.' He smiled. 'Let Marya baby you. You owe her that much.' Ilya's eyes widened, and he nodded agreement.

With a courtly gesture, Dmitri offered Isobel his arm, which she took, looking around her at the night as if she were in a fairy tale. She seemed to think the bizarre ship was only a reasonable substitute for a pumpkin coach and white mice horsemen. Dmitri reached into his pocket, and, taking out a small black object, pointed it at the giant disc and pressed its sides. A light beeping noise was heard, and then a door opened on the upper level of the disc, and a ramp descended in one smooth motion. Dmitri and Isobel mounted the ramp, turned, waved goodbye, then entered the craft, whose doors closed behind them.

Shortly after, the edge of the disc did begin to glow, with coloured lights running around it. The outer edge began to rotate, moving up to a speed in which the colours blended together again to white. Then, slowly, the disc began to rise, hovering a moment, and then shot sharply upwards, stopped, then flew with amazing speed at a tangent.

Alexei, Elektra, and Ilya stood watching until the flying saucer was out of sight, even to a Gheorgheni. Then, sighing, Alexei and Elektra headed back inside, Elektra hanging on Alexei's arm, whispering something that made him laugh.

Ilya stayed behind, gazing up at the moon and what stars could be seen on so bright a night. His thoughts would be hard to describe, for Gheorghenis do not think in words. Images, some bright, some dim, flitted across the inside of his eyes, while the outside saw the moon.

Awhile later, he went into the kitchen to ask for hot cocoa, even though it was midsummer. He had missed hot cocoa in Siberia.

Outside, the moon shone down on the castle, the mountain, the farm, and the town.

It could have been any year, but it was 1947.