Sky Wheels (or Old Derby Girls Never Die)

[Author’s note: The following story is self-contained, but two primary characters also appear in the earlier “Return of the Judi.” This can be found at http://richardbellush2.blogspot.com/2011/01/second-best.html ]

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I’m Security Chief Byron Lasko at The Worldview Arms, an orbiting hotel owned by Cosmocorp, a Kiribati corporation. If you’re reading this, I’m almost surely “the late Security Chief Byron Lasko.” Multiple electronic and photonic copies of this record are tucked in places no one should find while I’m alive, but which will be examined if I unexpectedly cease to be in that happy condition. I’ll delete the files myself if I survive until retirement: I don’t want to repeat Charlie Peyton’s mistake by leaving them behind. You’ll learn about Charlie shortly.

“Private cop in space” sounds like an exciting job, doesn’t it? It isn’t most of the time. How much crime happens on a space station after all? Not much. Everyone realizes there is nowhere to run. Theft is pointless since the item will turn up on the scans when the thief boards a shuttle for earth. So, no one bothers. My primary function is to give guests a sense of security rather than any greater reality of it; some folks just feel better seeing a blue uniform and a badge. Other guests don’t have any affection for badges, of course, but they also know my interests are strictly limited to the station, so I don’t trouble them much; international criminals are as welcome as any other guests so long as they pay their hotel bill and keep their noses clean while they are here. Oh, I break up an occasional bar fight or intervene in the odd domestic dispute, but otherwise I read a lot and watch old movies in my office. Only once did I investigate an honest-to-goodness homicide, but you won’t find any record of it. It took place in the hotel pool. I solved the case, too, but Cosmocorp ordered me to keep quiet about it. Murder is bad for business. The hotel doctor, who received a nice bonus that year, pleased management by listing the cause of death as a heart attack. She also thereby pleased the widow, “Cadence Trang,” though her name had been Judi Bentley when I knew her years earlier. Yes, Judi (or Cadence, or whatever her real name was) did it.

I’m sure you’re familiar with the classic 20^th century image of a space station: a big, spoked wagon wheel in the sky. Partly out of practical considerations and partly as homage, this was precisely the original design of The Worldview Arms. The design simplified artificial gravity: the spin of the wheel simulated one-fifth g at the outermost level.

Shortly after the shooting death – excuse me, heart attack – of Nguyen Trang, the hotel expanded with the construction of a second wheel. The wheels were connected at the axis, and also by four walkway tubes at the rims; the tubes allow guests to walk between wheels under pseudo-gravity rather than awkwardly detour through weightlessness at the axis.  The original ring was given over almost entirely to bedroom suites, though it retained the spherical swimming pool at the weightless hub. The new wheel, called B-Ring, is where the action is. Running the full circumference is an unobstructed 4-meter wide aisle called The Boulevard. Open to The Boulevard are multi-level restaurants, bars, view decks, dance floors, a casino, a spa, and more. Perhaps inevitably, the casino is named The High Roller. Management offices – and mine – are also located in B-Ring. At the hub of B-Ring is the shuttle terminal.

The hotel is a roaring success with the superrich rocket set. These are the only people who can afford it. For years, I met no one with less than $100,000,000 in assets, other than hotel personnel and a few of the guests’ playmates. So, it was a pleasant surprise to learn that Cosmocorp had booked a sports event on the station:  the Atlantic City Blackjacks and the Dundee Hells Gaels women’s roller derby teams would compete for the newly created Universe Cup, using The Boulevard as their track. How management had come up with this idea was beyond me, but I was looking forward to a change of pace from the usual arrogant self-important snobs who normally occupied our guest rooms.

On the scheduled day of arrival, I ascended D-Spoke of B-Ring to the docking terminal. D-Spoke has a ladder. Guests rarely use it, but it is faster than the elevator, and the low gravity, dropping to zero at the hub, makes the climb a cinch. I emerged from D-Spoke and tucked myself out of the way in a wall nook in the terminal. I always like to see guests arrive in person, and I especially wanted to do so this time. The station is freer of cameras than the typical earthside hotel – our guests value privacy – but cameras are in the terminal, and the security computer watches through them in its own unique way; it pings me on my wristband when it identifies a security interest.

The airlock hissed as it equalized pressure between the terminal and the shuttle. The airlock door slid open. A shuttle flight attendant I had seen many times before emerged. She wore a severe gray uniform and the name tag “Barbara.” She floated out into the terminal and took hold of a guide rail to stabilize herself. Normally, she guides guests one-by-one along the rail to the elevator. The raucous passengers on this flight, however, were having none of it. They tumbled out of the airlock into the zero-g. Most wore team jerseys. Chattering and laughing, they pushed off walls and somersaulted as Barbara called repeatedly for their attention. Not all the shuttle passengers joined them; several waited patiently in the airlock. None of the patient ones were in jerseys. I guessed they were media people assigned to cover the match. An athletic red-headed woman wearing a brown jersey with the number 73 and the moniker “Steel Raina” floated up to me face-to-face. Her tresses flared out in every direction.

“Hello copper,” she said with finger flick to my badge.  The flick was enough to start her drifting slowly backward. “Are you on a stakeout?” she asked.

“I’m station security, not technically police,” I answered.

“I’m feeling more secure already. Technically.”

“I just like to see who comes aboard the hotel,” I added.

“How conscientious.”

Barbara meantime was pleading. “Please get on the elevator. We’re on a schedule.”

Raina kicked the wall and sailed into the elevator as though she had done it a hundred times before. “OK, come on ladies,” she called out.  Others followed.

“The elevator takes only ten at a time,” Barbara said. “Some of you have to wait for it to return.”

Barbara’s instruction was ignored. Blackjacks and Gaels alike crammed into the elevator shoulder to shoulder.

Barbara sighed and said, “You’ll be re-entering gravity, so orient yourselves with feet to the floor. Hotel staff will meet you in the lobby and guide you to your rooms. She pressed the “Close” button next to the elevator doors rather more forcefully than necessary. She turned to the people in the airlock. “Please remain there until the elevator returns.”

The folks in the airlock were compliant. When elevator returned, they permitted Barbara to guide them one at a time. Last out of the airlock was a woman in a very expensive black and lavender jump suit. Her pony-tailed hair matched the black of her suit. My wrist band beeped a security warning. My stomach warned me too.

As soon as the doors shut, I descended D-Spoke, easily outpacing the elevator. I expected a visitor to my office. Back behind my desk, I scarcely had finished posting a quickly composed order on the Hotel InfoCenter than my office door opened without a prior knock.

“Hello Judi,” I said. “Planning on murdering anyone today?”

“No, but the day is young, and you are unpleasant. At least I think the day is young. You go by Kiribati time, don’t you? And, by the way, my name is Cadence Trang.”

“Still? Haven’t you grown tired of that one yet?”

“Not while I still can sign checks with it. Byron, you are being shockingly rude, not that that is any surprise. The tragic death of my husband in the hotel swimming pool was a heart attack. Your own station doctor said so. If you accuse me of murder in front of any witness I will sue you for slander.”

“A slander trial would mean revisiting the circumstances of your husband’s death in front of a judge. Yes, why don’t we do that?” I suggested. “Somehow, I don’t expect it to happen. But far be it from me to be disrespectful to a guest, so I’ll not mention in public the terms by which your marriage ended.  And, though you always will be Judi to me, I’ll call you Madame Trang in public as a courtesy.”

“I shall be sure to recommend you for Employee of the Month.”

“Thank you.”

“My recommendation would carry weight, too – as would a recommendation to fire you if I give one of those. I’ve become a Cosmocorp stockholder since we last met.”

“Have you? So, in a sense I’m working for you. Noted. Why are you here, Judi? I thought today’s flight was derby and media personnel only.”

“I am derby personnel.”

“You are a skater?” I asked skeptically.

“Of course not. I’m sponsoring this event. I became a Cosmocorp stockholder in order to help lock in the deal.”

“OK, you’ve surprised me. Sports events don’t strike me as your kind of investment. Is the profit as big as all that?”

“No. I’ll lose money,” she said. “Quite a lot of money.”

“A second surprise. Judi, you don’t do things on whimsy or just for fun. There must be a payoff of some kind. Are you sure there will be no bodies in the hotel pool?”

“I’m sure.”

“The pool is closed for the next few days anyway. I’ve already logged the order on the hotel InfoCenter. I gave the reason as ‘safety concerns.’”

“Byron, stop harping on the damn pool! This time I want to save a life.”

“How novel. That makes three surprises in a row. Your words ‘this time’ are close to an admission about last time, by the way, but we’ll let it pass. Whose life do you plan to save, Judi?”

“Mine.”

“Is your life in danger?”

“Yes.  So is yours. The years tick by.”

“Well, there’s not much to be done about that,” I said.

“Maybe there is, and I want your help.”

“Somehow I expected you would. I just didn’t know for what. Judi, I already did you a ‘for-old-times-sake’ favor on your last visit.”

“Maybe you have it in your heart for another. If not, consider doing it for yourself.”

Judi withdrew a leather-bound booklet from her bag. She turned open the front cover and slid the book over to me. A grainy, black-and-white photograph of a woman in roller skates was pasted inside. The name “Malice B. Toklas” was penciled beneath.

“I saw you lurking in the terminal, Byron. Did you happen to notice this woman?”

“Yes. She’s number 73 now, not 41. And her name is Steel Raina, not Malice B. Toklas. Why the retro uniform and gear? What team is this?” I asked.

“The team was Atlantic City, but not the Blackjacks. It was the Splinters, which disbanded in 1979. As for the look, it wasn’t retro in 1942.”

“Was she at a 40s theme party or something?”

“No. The picture was taken in 1942.”

“Nonsense. Either the woman was playing dress-up or the photo is faked,” I said.

“Neither. I bought that journal from the great granddaughter of a woman who had been married to the man who wrote it. She’d recently inherited it along with other antiques. The great granddaughter said she went to a Blackjacks bout in AC, saw the curious resemblance of Malice to Raina, and thought I might be interested. She called me up in Singapore.”

“Why you?”

“She said she saw me listed in a Fortune article about wealthy heiresses.”

“And so she offered to relieve you of some of the burden of your wealth. Judi, when did you start falling for this kind of thing? Did she sell you a bridge while she was at it? Is there a treasure map in here, too?”

“Don’t be sarcastic. You’re not good at it.  Byron, the records for the journal’s author check out. Charles Peyton was a real person who skated on the Atlantic City Splinters from 1939 to 1943. Men and women both were on the team back then, and one of the Splinters was a Malice B. Toklas. The local sports pages of the time mention her repeatedly. I’ve had the journal analyzed for age. The paper and ink are over a century old. So is the photo. Another thing: Malice’s real name supposedly was Alice Widmer. I found Alice’s birth certificate dated 1917.”

“So?”

“I dug some more and found Alice’s death certificate, also dated 1917. The real Alice died as an infant. The authorities back then rarely checked one record against the other like they do today, because they’d have had to go physically to the courthouses to do it; so, claiming the birth certificate of someone who died in childhood was a common way for people to fake new identities.”

“I acknowledge your expertise about faking new identities,” I said, “but that just means some skater a century ago might have had a phony name.  It’s also possible you found the birth certificate of the wrong Alice Widmer. Even if you found the right one, odds are Malice changed her name because she was fleeing creditors or a crazy ex or some such mundane thing. As for the age of the materials, a journal like this can be counterfeited using vintage supplies from antique shops.”

“But you yourself said it’s the same woman.”

“Which, once again, means the photo is probably faked. But, even if the photo is genuine, which is not established, people do look alike sometimes. I’m sure if we look through enough 1942 photos, we can find a face like yours, too. And mine. It is easier to believe in this sort of coincidence than in a 150- year-old derby skater. Besides, even if this were true, which it is not, what do you hope to gain by it?”

“Don’t be dense. Youth, Byron, youth. With all our modern methods of analysis and bioengineering, we can find out exactly why she doesn’t age, and we can duplicate it. Byron, we don’t have to grow old. But we can’t reveal it to too many people, or someone will try to take the secret away from us and keep it for himself.”

“I am stunned that you believe a single word of what you are saying. When did you become this gullible? Or this desperate?”

“Read the journal Byron. Please.”

I shook my head, but said, “OK, I’ll do it to indulge you, Judi.”

“I knew you still had a sweet spot for me.”

“Don’t rely on it.”

“I’m going to check into my room. Then I’m going to the bar for a drink. I could use one. Catch up with me there when you are done reading the journal.”

After Judi left, I picked up the leather booklet. It emitted a slight aroma of decay. I felt the paper. The pages were brown with age but were intact. I opened to the first page and began to read.

I’m not sure who will read this or when. I suppose I’m writing this for you, whoever you are. Whenever.

I’m Charles Peyton. Fans of the Atlantic City Splinters, the city’s roller derby team, know me better as Tom Pain, the second best skater on the team. I usually skate pivot. The Splinters are a team with more heart than talent. We lose 8 out of every 10 bouts, but we always put up a fight. The fans love it when we do eke out a come-from-behind victory. Actually, come-from-behind is the only kind of victory we ever have. The best skater on the team is a redheaded tomato who calls herself Malice B. Toklas, and she is the reason I’m writing this message and warning.

The first thing that crossed my mind on the day Malice walked into the rink and tried out for the team was that now maybe we’d start winning more bouts. OK, it was the second thing that crossed my mind. She’s a looker, you see, with long red hair like Rita Hayworth.

Maybe I’d better back up and tell things from the beginning. My parents died when I was young, but I made a comfortable life for myself in Princeton, NJ. I did until the ’29 Crash anyway. I not only lost my money, I lost my wife of only two years. No, she didn’t die. She left me for some bureaucrat in Trenton who at least had a steady job. I can’t say I really blame her.

For the next few years, I worked wherever I could get a job. Starting in 1937 I became a handyman at a roller skating rink in Atlantic City. The place was pretty popular with kids and the dating crowd. The boss let me skate for free when there was no work to do, and I got pretty good at it.

Roller derby was still pretty new. A guy named Leo Seltzer had invented it in ‘35. Teams were popping up everywhere and were drawing crowds. Leo’s stroke of genius was to put men and women on the teams. They trade off during the bouts.

In 1939, my boss decided to cash in on derby. He installed a banked track and bleachers. He and a few other investors got in touch with Leo and set up new derby team called the Splinters. I could have stayed on as handyman, but I figured, “What the hell?’ and tried out for the team. I made it. That’s less impressive than it sounds. The first year, anyone who could stand upright on skates would have qualified. The Splinters joined a league division that covered 6 states. We were skating professional bouts before the end of ‘39. We traveled mostly by bus. The other teams liked to play us because they usually won, so we helped their records.

That’s how it stood for two years. Then the Japs hit Pearl Harbor, and half the team either signed up for the service or got defense jobs. Suddenly, we needed new skaters. I tried to sign up myself, but I failed the physical. I had too many injuries from derby. There’s an irony in there somewhere.

In the last week of December in ’41 a redhead walked into the rink with a pair of skates slung over her shoulder. She called herself Malice B. Toklas. I sneaked a look at her application to see her real name. It was Alice Widmer from Grover’s Mill. Her tryout was something to see. It was like watching the Nicholas brothers dance. Backward or forward, one foot or two were all the same to her. Her crossovers were perfect and she 360ed on a curve while staying rock-steady. The coach sent four Splinters out on the track to block her, but they barely slowed her down. The coach was ecstatic. He asked where she had played before. She said nowhere. He didn’t believe her and neither did I, but he made her a Splinter there and then.

Malice is the team’s biggest asset, but she’s far from perfect. She plays rough, which the fans always like, and sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps her from being fired. I don’t just mean that she gets taken down sometimes. We all get knocked on our cans: you can’t cheat Newton. In the last bout against the Philadelphia Declarers, for example, Snow Spite knocked her over the rail into the front row. The guys there gave Malice more of a hand than she needed to get back on the track. They didn’t realize how dangerous that was. No, that’s not the problem. The problem is inconsistency. She’ll be a powerhouse on the track for a while, and then suddenly it’s as though she forgets how to skate derby. To make it worse, she slacks off always when just a few points would make the difference between a win and a loss. It is weird, and the coach gets apoplectic with her about it.

For a while I suspected she was shaving points for her bookie, especially since she seemed always to have more cash than the rest of us. No one ever saw her place a bet or gamble, though, and, besides, there was another possible explanation for the dough: sometimes after bouts she’d accept dates from guys who came up to her from the audience, and they always were tough-looking mugs who flashed green around. Never the same one twice, either. Well, I’m not one to judge.

The skating name “Malice B. Toklas” made me wonder if she really preferred the dames anyway. If so, it was no one on the team. She got along OK with the lady Splinters, but wasn’t close to any of them. She mostly kept to herself. Just to take a chance, I asked her out once myself. She was none too gentle with the no, so I let it drop.

OK, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t ask again, but I didn’t fully let the idea drop either.

Everything changed in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is a tough team, so we were getting beat, as usual, but we weren’t getting beat by much, and Malice was the main reason it was close. Then, in the second half, the men had a couple good jams. When Knock Holiday did a grand slam we edged ahead a few points. When the dames went on the track, though, Malice started messing up. She let jammers slip by her and let a blocker she should have dodged knock her down. Brooklyn took back the lead. It was as though she was deliberately holding back. But why? Didn’t she realize that if the Splinters had a winning season she’d be a celebrity as our star player? Then it struck me: maybe that was precisely what she wanted to avoid. I could think of a dozen reasons why someone might not want too much attention. She might even be wanted by cops somewhere or something.

At one point, a Brooklyn fan yelled something at Malice in Italian that must not have been very polite. She shouted something back at him that made his buddies laugh. It was the first I knew she could speak Italian. I wondered what kind of name Widmer was. German? They’re allies of the Italians. That’s when an even crazier idea hit me. What if she was a Nazi spy?

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “What are you nuts?” But you know, the more I thought about it the less nuts it seemed. Our team travels all around New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Maryland. We’re always near places like the Brooklyn Navy Yard, the Philadelphia shipyards, Picatinny Arsenal, the Pittsburg steel mills, the Colt factories, Baltimore Harbor and so on. There’s plenty to spy on, like ships leaving the harbors, and there are things to sabotage, too. Then there were those tough men with the cash. Who knew what they really were about?

After the bout, which we lost by 7 points, she didn’t take the bus back to Atlantic City. I overheard her say to one of the women that she wanted to spend the weekend in New York. She’d get back on her own. I told the driver the same thing, and so did a couple other guys. I didn’t run off to grab the next subway to Manhattan like they did. Instead, I hung back at the arena and stayed out of sight to see what Malice would do. Was I was using the Nazi spy idea just as an excuse to follow her? Maybe. But whatever her game was, even if it was just another one of her dates, I wanted to know.

She waited until the bus pulled away from the arena, and then walked in the direction of Coney Island. I followed as far back as I could without losing her, which I nearly did a couple times. She didn’t walk a straight route but wandered this way and that. She went on streets and through parks and neighborhoods where a woman shouldn’t be walking alone at midnight, if you understand me. The darker, more deserted, and scarier the stretch of pavement, the more she was likely to turn onto it. Hey, I felt uncomfortable walking there. What kind of Dumb Dora was this?

What I was afraid would happen happened. On an otherwise deserted street, I saw a man jump out of an alley, grab Malice, and pull her in. I ran to help. When I got to the alleyway I halted at the corner and peered into it to see how many of them there were; I’m not a coward, but I’m not stupid. I saw the silhouette of just the one attacker, and Malice didn’t need any help with him. He was flat on his back, and Malice stood over him with a brick in her hand. She dropped the brick, bent down, flipped him over and lifted his wallet. She must have sensed something, because she turned her head toward the alleyway entrance. I quickly pulled back and then ran between two parked cars where I crouched and hid. I heard her footsteps. She stood by the alleyway for a while, looking for me I suppose, and then walked off. I don’t know if she collected any more wallets that night. I waited until she’d turned the corner at the end of the street, and left. I rode the subway to the bus station and bought a ticket back to AC.

I suppose I should have called the cops, but I didn’t. What I’d seen nagged at me, but I didn’t work up the nerve to follow her again until after a bout in Pittsburg. Once again, Malice had kept the score close, but held back in second half, provoking a tirade from the coach who pulled her out of the game. We won this time, maybe thanks to that decision. I noticed Malice didn’t get on the bus after the bout, so I told the driver that I’d find my own way home and got off. Two of the women laughed. They knew Malice had stayed behind and I suppose they made the connection.

At first it was a repeat of Brooklyn. I don’t know Pittsburg like I know New York, but again she chose to take her midnight stroll on some rough-looking streets. I kept as far back as I could. She sauntered right past a gang of five drunken boys old enough to be drafted before the end of the year. They gave Malice some cat calls, but she ignored them and kept walking. They let her pass. Real gentlemen. I wasn’t so lucky. With me they got all quiet until I was right in front of them. Suddenly, my face was on the concrete and toes were kicking me in the ribs. I felt my wallet leave my back pocket. A toe connected with my head and I passed out.

I groggily came to as a toe tapped my face. I expected another full kick to follow. Instead, the toe tapped again. I opened my eyes, turned my head up, and saw Malice. Three of the young men lay on the sidewalk. I guess the others got away.

“This is yours, I believe,” she said, holding my wallet out to me.

“Thanks.” I pushed up onto my hands and knees and took back the wallet. I hurt all over.

“You’re following me,” she said.

“Yeah.” There was no point denying it.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” I said.

“We passed a tavern a couple blocks back. It should still be open. Let’s go get a beer.”

It was a working man’s bar with a musty odor that overwhelmed even the cheap beer. One middle-aged man with gray hair and half his teeth whistled at Malice as we passed the bar. She ignored him. We sat in a booth.

“I’m not walking over there,” the scowling bartender called to us. He was at least 250 pounds and a scar extended above and below his eye patch. His appearance gave him some credibility.

I walked over to the bar. “Whatever is on tap.” The bartender poured two of something. He smelled as though he’d been sampling the wares.

“So, why were you following me?” Malice asked when I sat down again.

“Flag and country.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought maybe you were … um… a spy.”

“A spy? You think I’m selling secret derby information to the enemy?” she asked.

“Well, no. But our bouts take place near a lot of war industry.”

“There’s a war on. Everywhere is near war industry. There’s no way to avoid it.”

“Maybe,” I conceded.

“Have you followed me before?”

“Yes. Once. In Brooklyn.”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw you beat up a thug. You stole his wallet. Actually, you baited him.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I figured he sort of deserved it.”

“Do you still think I’m a spy?”

“No.”

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think you’re a vigilante. It’s a pretty dangerous sport.”

“More dangerous than derby?” she asked with a smile. When I didn’t answer, she added, “It’s more fun because I don’t have to hold back.”

“I knew you were holding back on purpose. Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Damn, I just had a screwy thought.”

“Another one? What?” she asked.

“When you signed with the team you said you were from Grover’s Mill.”

“You’re quite the busybody, aren’t you?”

“I suppose. But were you joking when you wrote that?”

“Why would it be a joke?”

“Because Grover’s Mill is where Orson Welles said the Martians landed in that radio broadcast of his a few years ago.”

“So first I’m a spy and now I’m a Martian?”

“I only asked if you were joking,” I said.

“Yes, actually I was. I’m surprised you picked up on it.”

“I’m a science fiction fan.”

“I can tell. But I’m not a Martian. I only feel like one sometimes. You know, like an outsider. I was born here on planet earth though – to human parents.”

“Do they live in Jersey?”

“They died a long time ago.”

“Mine, too. I have an ex I’m still on speaking terms with, but her new husband doesn’t like me much. That’s natural enough, I suppose,” I said. “Look, Malice, I don’t believe you are a spy or a Martian.”

“How open-minded.”

“But you’re not like anyone else I ever met either.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“You are hiding something. You’ve all but admitted it. I’m not your enemy, Malice. Besides, I owe you because of tonight, so I won’t turn you in even if you are wanted by the cops. So, tell me, what’s the deal?”

“Maybe you should mind your own business. It would be a lot healthier for you.”

“You’re pretty when you threaten.”

“Cut the baloney. OK, Charlie, I’ll clue you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if something bad comes of it. Let’s see how open-minded you really are. Why do you think I’m good on skates?”

“I reckon you’ve been skating since you were a kid.”

“No, I was full-grown before I started. I got my first skates in 1886.”

“1886? You can’t be more than 25 years old.”

“I was born in 1682.”

It was the craziest thing I ever heard. It sounded like something out of Edgar Rice Burroughs, but she said it so matter-of-factly that I found myself half-believing it.

“I never get sick,” she continued. “My bones are almost impossible to break. My teeth grow back; I’m on my fourth set now. And I’m strong. I’m twice as strong as you are. I’m not invulnerable, mind you. I’ve come close to dying lots of times, but so far I’ve survived all the scrapes.”

“But how is this possible?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I wish I had a better answer, but I don’t. I think it’s just some chance phenomenon – something that wouldn’t happen again in a million years. My parents got old and died at normal ages. My brothers and sisters did, too. I didn’t. I don’t have an explanation.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“No one currently alive, except you. I learned very early to keep it to myself. The neighbors in my little Alpine village got suspicious when I was only 40 and there was still the occasional witch hanging back then, so I left. Ever since, I’ve moved and changed my name whenever I started looking too young for my supposed age. It’s getting harder to start over these days with all the ID papers, fingerprints, social security numbers, and the like, but it can be done.”

“No one would hang you today for being a witch.”

“Maybe not. But they’d put me in some hospital while they poke and prod me to find the secret of youth. I can’t give them the secret. I don’t know any secret. I’m just a freak. So, now that I’ve told you, what am I going to do with you?”

“You could try bribery to keep me quiet,” I said.

“Are you asking me for money?”

“No.”

“Oh, I see. You prefer older women, do you? And if I say no?”

“You’re taking me seriously. Don’t. Sorry if I was out of line, Malice. Your secret is safe regardless. I was just making a pass by making a bad joke. Hey, I’m a guy. Besides, I think you’d break my neck if I tried to blackmail you.”

“So I would. OK, Charlie. So long as we understand each other: no threats, no bribes, no blackmail. You say you owe me. Well, then, there is one way you can pay me back. Keep your trap shut about this.” Then she said something that threw me more than all the wild stuff she’d said so far. “We can find a place for the night and take a greyhound to AC tomorrow,” she said.

“Uh, when you say ‘we’…”

“I mean we.”

It turned out I do prefer older women. Who knew?

So, why risk Malice finding this journal and putting an end to our cozy set-up? The trouble is this. Malice hasn’t survived two and a half centuries by trusting people, or by letting them grow into threats. I can see in her eyes that she is wary of me. What does she feel for me? Not love. Maybe an amused tolerance. Well, mistrust breeds mistrust, and I’m worried about what will happen when I stop amusing her.

I don’t want to be a double-crosser. I still owe her for Pittsburg, so I won’t reveal her secret while I’m alive. But just in case Malice arranges for something to happen to me, someone should know the truth, so I’ve written this. A few minutes from now I’ll wrap up the journal in brown paper and drive it over to my ex’s place with instructions not to open it unless I have an accident. I’m sure she’ll think I mean a derby accident.

I suppose it’s possible that the package will be forgotten even if I croak, and no one will open it for years and years. That’s OK, too, because Malice will still be there. There is time enough for justice.

How Judi had taken this for truth? Just as a precaution, in case Judi started any trouble over this, I scanned the journal into my computer. I slipped the original into a drawer and left my office in search of Judi. I found her at The Black Sky Lounge. I sat at her table.

 “OK, I’ve read it, J… Madame Trang.”

“What’s your opinion?” she asked.

“The author’s syntax could be better.”

Judi didn’t deign to respond.

“OK,” I continued. “It’s a science fiction story. You say the paper and ink are 1940s. Well, the 1940s were the Golden Age of scifi: Asimov, Campbell, Heinlein, Clarke, and many many more. Charles Peyton – Tom Pain – probably wanted to join them. Charlie didn’t get published, that’s all. Most writers don’t. Maybe he and this Malice woman wrote it together as a lark. HG Wells and Edgar Rice Burroughs both used first person narration sometimes. That doesn’t make any of their stories true.”

“What about the photo?”

“If you are asking why Steel Raina looks something like Malice B. Toklas, it’s just a coincidence – or the great granddaughter who sold you the booklet faked it.”

As if on cue, Raina and several of her teammates, trying to get the feel of one-fifth gravity, rolled past us on the Avenue.

“So, you’re not going to help me.”

“Help you do what? Detain Raina? I have no authority to do it even if I wanted to.”

“But this is the one place we can be absolutely sure she can't get away. I have influence with Kiribati officials. I can get you authority.”

“You mean you can bribe them. Maybe. It doesn’t matter. My answer is no. All I’ll do for you is refrain from warning Raina that you are stalking her. That’s a bigger favor than you might think, and I’m doing it only because we have a history.”

“You’re a fool, Byron.”

“Very likely, but not about this.”

“Where’s the book?” Judi asked.

“My office.”

“OK. It’s probably safer there. I’ll pick it up before I leave the station.”

“As you wish.”

The rest of the day prior to the bout was uneventful. I broke up an argument between two cameramen before it came to blows. That was all. Soon, the teams were assembling.

I was standing by the rail in The Black Sky overlooking the Avenue as the Kiribati national anthem filled the station. The announcer introduced the skaters. I could see the oversize monitor in the High Roller across the way. It would display the action that was out of my direct sight, which was, of course, the majority of it. The announcer explained the modified rules on this one-of-a-kind track. The whistle blew and the first jam began.

The images on the monitor were misleading. The cameras made it look like there was a crowd, though of course there was no crowd. The small clots of people here and there along the Avenue were kept in the shots whenever possible. Of the skaters, only Raina was entirely sure-footed, as though the peculiar artificial gravity didn’t bother her at all.  Her ducks, weaves, and crossovers were flawless, and she was fast. She caught on quickly that the faster she went the better centrifugal force worked for her by grounding her. The low gravity meant the hits had exaggerated effect. A Dundee blocker sent AC jammer Jane Ire sailing into the “crowd” in the High Roller. The monitors replayed the hit over and over. For all her skill on wheels, Raina didn’t dominate the track or rack up points as she should have. I wondered if she was shaving points for a bookie. I remembered that this was Peyton’s thought about Malice B. Toklas.

The bout was close. With five minutes remaining, Raina took a hit that sent her into the tables at the Food Court. She limped off the track at the end of the jam and didn’t reappear during the bout. She was replaced by Girl-illa. Dundee Hell’s Gaels nudged out a 2-point victory in the final jam when the AC jammer was in the penalty box. I wondered how hurt Raina really was. Did she deliberately take herself out of the final minutes in order to avoid excessive celebrity?

The after-party was in the Black Sky. I stayed nearby the lounge until the party was well underway just in case there was any ill will, but the two teams were pretty convivial. Judi was nowhere in sight. Neither was Raina. This coincidence should have alarmed me sooner. I’m losing my instincts on this chronically law-abiding station.  With a bad feeling, I returned to my office and rang Judi’s room. Nothing.

I ran a search for her name in the hotel databank for dining reservations or room service. A reservation popped up for “Cadence Trang” in the swimming pool.

I called the front desk. “Did you OK a reservation at the pool?”

“Yes.”

“I put the pool off limits.”

“Your authority is not absolute,” the 22-year-old night manager stated with hauteur. “You are a glorified hotel detective, nothing more. Madame Trang is an important client and I overruled you.”

“Don’t you know about her husband?” I asked.

“What husband?”

The self-important pipsqueak had no clue what I was talking about. He had been on the station only a month and knew nothing of “Madame Trang’s” previous visit.

I hurried to the A-Ring and ascended B-Spoke to the pool. In the middle of the sphere of water floated Judi, her eyes wide open. Her worries about aging were over. I already knew how management would insist on playing this. Suicide: lonely widow drowns herself in same the pool where her husband died of heart failure. Sensational, yes, but not scandalous.

After making the necessary calls to the station doctor and the nearly hysterical manager, I descended B-Spoke and looked in on Judi’s suite. “Suite” was a generous description. On earth, Judi probably had walk-in closets that were larger. The room had been ransacked. I proceeded to Steel Raina’s room. There was no one there. I returned to the Black Sky. Raina had joined the after-party. She looked refreshed. I approached her.

“Miss Raina?”

“Hello again copper. Just call me Steel or Raina. No ‘Miss’”

“Could you accompany me to my office?”

“I could.”

“Let me rephrase. Please accompany me to my office.”

“Sure.”

We descended steps to the Avenue.

 “I see your ankle is better,” I said.

“I usually recover quickly.”

In my office, I sat behind my desk, and Raina settled into the same chair in which Judi had sat.

“So, what’s up?” she asked.

“Do you know who Cadence Trang is?”

“I saw her on the shuttle. I understand she sponsored the bout.”

“That’s correct. Do you know where she is?”

“How would I know that? She can’t be too hard for you to find. This is a space station.”

“Madame Trang is floating in the hotel pool. The doctor will pronounce her death a suicide.”

“Well that’s too bad. So why did you ask me where she was?”

“To see what you would say. You know, Judi and I had a thing once.”

“Judi?”

“That was Cadence Trang’s real name. You know about aliases, don’t you Malice?”

“Malice?”

I withdrew the journal from my desk drawer. I faced it toward Raina and opened it to the photo.

“I believe you were looking for this in Madame Trang’s room.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Charlie,” she said.

“His mistake was trusting you.”

“You know nothing about it! I didn’t kill him. We were out hunting for thugs one night. We did that for sport.”

“I know. He mentions how you saved him from a gang in Pittsburg.”

“Does he? Well, one time in Baltimore he was acting as bait, counting cash as he walked down the sidewalk. He made the mistake of getting out of my sight. I never saw him again. I figure a gang jumped him and dragged him into a cellar somewhere. So Charlie didn’t make it, that’s all. He knew the risks. If you don’t believe me, check the crime records for 1943. You’ll see him listed as a missing person in Baltimore.”

“Baltimore is out of my jurisdiction, but if I fingerprint Madame Trang’s room, what will I find?”

“I’m admitting nothing, Mr. Lasko.”

“Byron.”

“OK. Byron. But I think you should know that Madame Trang – Judi – was going to kill you and plant evidence on me. She was a little annoyed with you for some reason. She was going to control me by threats of criminal charges and with Charlie’s journal. Her death saved your life and prevented the ruination of mine.”

“I believe you. In fact, I even believe you about Charlie.”

She looked at me curiously. “May I have the book?” she asked.

I slid over the journal.

“I don’t understand.”

“I told you, Raina. The station doctor will declare Judi’s death a suicide.  There is no crime as far as any authorities are concerned. As for the journal, I have nothing to gain from showing it to anybody.”

“You could get revenge for Trang – for Judi.”

“Wasn’t she planning to kill me?”

“Yes. I can see how that might dampen your thirst for payback. I’m sorry about Judi anyway,” she said.

“Yes, well you know how complicated it can be with exes.”

“Is that it? Can I go?””

“Yes. I just wanted to know the truth.”

“You know, you kind-of remind me of Charlie.”

“How so?”

“It’s not just looks. Besides, it has been over a century and my memory for faces isn’t perfect. It’s more that both of you have a similar I-could-have-been-much-more-than-this-but-I’m-just-not pathos about you. I find it appealing,” she said.

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Well, you know where I skate. Maybe you should come down and see me sometime,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll do that. For old times sake.”

The Long Wait

Mandy was exhausted after her climb up the cliffs. Her physiology made this a rare condition for her. She felt free of the claustrophobia that had overtaken her on the canyon floor. She knew it was silly to have felt hemmed in. Valles Marineris, a tectonic tear in the Martian crust, made the Grand Canyon look like some homeowner’s backyard drainage ditch.  Even in her extended lifetime, whatever it might prove to be, she never would explore it all. Yet, walls were walls, even if one was over the horizon.

The view was spectacular. Even at this altitude, the farthest rim of the canyon was out of sight, but the canyon was decorated in between with towering mesas and vast chasms. The dust storm that had obscured so much for weeks had subsided, though dust devils still arose with unusual frequency. One suddenly appeared and raced past Mandy, pelting her with sand granules. It traveled another 100 meters and then ceased as quickly as it had begun. Mandy looked up at the sky.  Cassiopeia poised like a butterfly net ready to scoop the planet earth, a blue evening star close enough for the disk to be visible with the naked eye.

            In Mandy’s case, “naked eye” needed qualification. Her eyes were covered by tough transparent keratin forming protective goggles. She hadn’t been born with the feature, but they were biological, not mechanical. She had been reborn with them. Any scratches could be abraded out and the keratin would re-grow like fingernails.

            Mandy smiled, though an unmodified human might have trouble recognizing the expression. She remembered that in War of the Worlds, Martians looked longingly at earth. Here she was doing just that. Appropriately, Mandy’s skin was green. There were no Little Green Men, so humans had to invent them. The color was not cosmetic. Dermal chloroplasts were a major part of her energy equation. Photosynthesis also allowed her to breathe the air of Mars, producing on the spot the oxygen much of her body still needed. At mean ground the atmospheric pressure of Mars was 1% of the pressure at sea level on earth, but carbon dioxide made up 95% of the Martian air, as opposed to the earthly .04%. In consequence, Mars actually was richer in the gas.

In 1965 Mariner 4 demonstrated what nearly all planetary scientists already had suspected: Mars was inhospitable to earthly life. Science fiction writers reluctantly abandoned dreams of Barsoom. Instead they contemplated terraforming Mars to make it hospitable. The idea intrigued serious scientists and engineers as well. The problem was the scale of the project. Any effort able to make a dent would be titanic, and yet the likely results still would be limited. There was a more modest alternative:  areforming life to suit Mars.

As bio-engineers grew more capable, restrictions on what they could do grew more onerous. Old-fashioned class warfare was at the bottom of the fuss. Only the wealthy could afford to enhance their children; this was one advantage too many. Genetic modification of rich children still happened, of course, but it was done in secret.

 Some of the secret labs were operated by The Martian Society in Namibia. The handsome fees funded the development of life forms designed to live on Mars. This project also was kept secret. Only The Martian Society’s robotic explorations of the planet were public knowledge. A Chinese company won the contract to launch robotic payloads from a Namibian spaceport built and owned by the Society.

Mandy never learned how she had come to the attention of the Society. She was not a member. She knew next to nothing about it. Yet, whoever had chosen her had chosen well. She jumped at the offer to become the first sentient Martian. It was her only chance to do an extraordinary thing, and, more than anything else, to do an extraordinary thing was what she wanted.

Nanomachines did most of the work of restructuring Mandy’s DNA. Engineering an embryo from scratch would have been far simpler, but too much could go wrong to sabotage the project in the 20 years it would take for a Martian child to grow up. Mandy reformation took a little more than one year.  During the process, she felt as though she were being eaten from the inside out, and this wasn’t very far from the truth. There was more pain than the biologists had promised there would be, but it was bearable. It was worth it. At the end of it she would be able to walk and breathe in the open on Mars without and environment suit.

Mandy was the first, but a second volunteer already had begun transformation when Mandy’s flight to Mars was scheduled. He would launch at the next window in 18 months and would join her on the surface. There would be others to follow. The plan was to make the Martian colony a fait accompli before revealing it to the world. Opponents of genetic modification of humans wouldn’t be able to undo it.

Mandy slept through the trip to Mars. Suspended animation never had been made to work properly with unmodified humans, but Mandy’s new body was custom-designed for it.  The Chinese had no idea they had launched a manned craft, and one packed a variety of nonsentient engineered lifeforms.

The floor of Valles Marineris was chosen as the landing site in part because the exposed cliffs offered easier access to mineral resources. More importantly, there were spectrographic indications of frozen water ice.

Mandy woke up on schedule in Melas Chasma, the deepest part of the canyon. She sent back a brief coded message to let the Society know she was alive and well, and then shut off communication as planned.

Her initial misgivings lifted as Mandy grew sure that she could in fact breathe the air and withstand the temperatures of Mars. Her explorations proved that water ice was indeed accessible in the shadows and in clumps buried only centimeters beneath the surface. She also found caves in the cliff faces that could be adapted for shelters. She wasn’t sure of their origins, but, whether formed by ancient water flows, frozen carbon dioxide melts, or geological processes, they were useful.  Most of the tools at her disposal were low tech. She had solar reflector furnaces to melt tiny amounts of metals and to form glasses, but mostly, she relied on pick, shovel, and her own muscles.

She set to work as a Martian Janie Appleseed along the canyon floor. Modified lichen grabbed hold quickly wherever she placed it. She also planted eight larger species intended as crops. Genetically they were very diverse, but they were similar in appearance. All had thick leathery outer skin forming a tough insulation. The plants employed a photoelectric effect as well as photosynthesis. Mandy found the taste bland and chewy, but tolerable.

The time for the next landing came and went. Something had gone wrong. Mandy broke radio silence. She called Namibia. No answer came back – from anyone.

Not knowing what else to do, she continued to plant and to build. Years passed. She constructed cliff dwellings more than a little reminiscent of Chaco Canyon, and just as empty. On a regular basis she sent messages back to earth. In time, the radio failed. All the while, the adapted life forms self-propagated throughout the canyon.

Immortality had not been an intended feature of her Martian body, but it appeared to be an accidental one. As far as she could tell, she didn’t age at all in the two centuries following her arrival on the planet.

As Mandy stood atop the cliff, motion caught her attention overhead. One of the lights in the sky was not a star. It moved. It was in orbit. With all her speed and agility she descended the cliffs. She assumed her original landing site was where someone would look for her.  Mandy was ecstatic. Whatever the craft was, it was sure to spot the green in the canyon. People would investigate. Maybe not this year. Maybe not in ten. But they would come and they would see how well she had prepared for them. Her loneliness would end. She could wait.

In Ulan Bator the terminal operators gasped at the green flora in Valles Marineris. None was aware of The Martian Society’s secret labs, which had been an early casualty of The Long Night, the euphemism for the catastrophe humans had brought on themselves.  The Re-Emergence was still a fragile thing, in which the role of space exploration played a minor PR role.

“How could the old missions have missed it?” asked assistant mission director Chuluun.

“They couldn’t have,” answered Narantsetseg, one of the planetary scientists. “It wasn’t there before,” she said.

“The growth is just in the canyon. The old probes didn’t land in there,” Chuluun suggested.

“But Marineris was photographed from orbit, just like we’re doing now. There was no sign of any of this.”

“How do you explain it, then?”

“Perhaps the life was dormant for thousands of years or longer, and some subtle climate shift caused it to bloom,” she speculated.

“Regardless, this settles it,” stated a CN observer, masking her relief. “We can’t authorize any landings. We can’t interfere with established life. The Confederated Nations will never allow it. After what we’ve been through, they’ll never risk contamination of a fragile ecosystem we don’t understand. We’ll just have to leave Mars to the Martians.”

The CN politician knew her bosses would be pleased. The space program was far too expensive. Any reason to scale it back was a good reason.

Temporary Lodgings

            How could it all have gone so wrong? Lenny finally hit the big score he dreamed about all his life, and before he spends a penny he lands in a hospital bed on life support and about to check out permanently. If Lenny could have moved the muscles in his face he would have smiled sourly at the injustice. The doctors, either unaware or unconcerned that he was conscious, talked openly in front of him about his negligible chances. Lenny couldn’t object. He couldn’t even twitch his nose much less speak. He tried. But he could see and hear everything.

            Lenny had been betrayed, and betrayed by an idiot. The jerk hadn’t even gotten the loot.

The whole thing happened only because he had sneaked a peek at the will of his great aunt, Hildegard Brenthausen. She was rolling in money. She had married into it decades earlier. She was still cheap, though. Aunt Hildy used a cut-rate lawyer who underpaid his secretary, so in return for a modest tip, the secretary had let Lenny look at the will. There was no good news in it. Lenny was her soul surviving blood relative, but apparently he just couldn’t compete with her pet poodle. After all his years of cozying up to her and of doing odd jobs for free around her house in Beverly Hills and her weekend home in the mountains that she never used, she planned to leave everything to her poodle and the ASPCA.

In a total funk after reading the will, he had gone to a once trendy but now seedy bar called Sawdust Memories to knock back a few. He spotted Wayne, one of the regulars, and sat down next to him. They weren’t exactly friends, but they got along and sometimes sprang for each other’s drinks. Wayne was small and not very bright, but he had none of the little man bravado that can be so annoying. Wayne was three or four drinks ahead of Lenny, so he immediately started complaining about his job, as he always did after a few. Lenny had paid little attention to his rants in the past, but, due to his funk, this time he did.

Wayne worked at a gold exchange – one that Wayne said did a lot of business with drug dealers and other shady characters. The amount of gold traded in the modest family-owned shop was impossible to explain any other way. The shop wasn’t even open to the general public. There was no sign. There was just a steel front door with an electronic lock.

“Why do they need you? What’s your job exactly?” Lenny asked.

“Just to be there in the morning. Answer the phone. If an important customer comes, I let him in, call the boss, and wait for him to show up. I don’t do any trades myself. The boss, Tony, and Jake – those are his sons – they come in usually in the afternoon. I guess they keep late nights. I don’t ask doing what.”

“Let me get this straight. They leave you alone with gold every morning?”

“Yeah. Millions are in the vault sometimes – and I barely can afford my drinks,” Wayne said.

“Millions?” Lenny asked.

“I know what you’re thinking, Lenny. Forget it. Not a single gram is out where I can touch it. Fort Knox has nothing on that vault, and alarms go off if you so much as sneeze its way. I set it off by accident once. The boss was pissed. He doesn’t like attention. Whenever there is a delivery or a pickup, he and his sons are always there. Armed. The gold goes directly into or out of the vault under their supervision. No exceptions.”

“How do they know when a delivery is coming in?” Lenny asked.

“Someone calls in advance, naturally. If it’s in the morning I take the call. They never give me any details of course. They just tell me a time and I let the boss know. Someone called just before I left today. All he said was ‘First thing Monday morning.’ An answering machine could do my job, but the boss doesn’t want one.”

“Is it a delivery or a pickup Monday?” Lenny asked.

“I don’t know. Delivery probably. Those are usually in the morning.”

“What usually gets delivered?”

“Sometimes bars and sometimes coins. Usually a few hundred when it’s coins.”

“A few hundred one-ounce gold coins?” Lenny asked.

“Yes,” Wayne answered.

Lenny whistled. “At today’s prices that’s hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“I suppose. Doesn’t do us any good.” Wayne asked.

“Maybe it does us a lot of good. Did you tell your boss about the delivery on Monday?”

“Not yet. I will tomorrow. He doesn’t like getting up that early so he’ll be grumpy, but, like I said, he’s always there when anything goes in or out.”

“Suppose he isn’t?”

“Excuse me?”

“Suppose you don’t mention it to him,” Lenny suggested. “Will whoever delivers the gold leave it with you if you are there alone?”

“I don’t know. I guess.  No one ever says a word when bags go in or out. But Lenny, I’d never get away with it. You don’t know these people. They’re very scary and they’re in with the cops. A couple hours are not enough time to get away and that’s all I’d have. Mobsters and cops all would be after me. I’d never live to spend it.”

“So, give yourself more time. Look, when the gold arrives, you accept the delivery. Then I’ll pull around front. We put it in my car. You finish the day like nothing unusual happened. We’ll have all night to get far enough away. I’ve even got a place to hole up. We’ll meet at some motel up by Lake Isabella. Except for you being a lousy employee without the courtesy to give notice, your boss may not know something is wrong for days. If the gold is really from organized crime, he may not even report it stolen. Not to the legit police anyway.”

“Why should I trust you not to run off with all of it as soon as I pack it in your car?” Wayne asked.

“Because you’ll tip them off about me if I do. Right now they have no reason to know who I am. I don’t want anyone gunning for me. Better to share with you,” Lenny said.

“But they’ll be gunning for me.”

“I can’t deny that. You have to decide for yourself if it’s worth it for that much dough.”

“Why Lake Isabella of all places?” Wayne asked suspiciously. “Why can’t we meet here in town right after work?”

“It would be better to get the gold out of LA as quickly as possible.”

“Better for me or better for you?”

“Just better.”

Wayne was silent for several moments, but then said, “OK, let’s do it.”

The plan went off easy as pie. It wasn’t just a few hundred coins either. It was five bags of them. Lenny guessed they were 50 pounds each. Lenny left town at once. He drove first to his aunt’s vacation home in the mountains. He figured he and Wayne could hole up there for a while until the heat died down. Then Lenny drove to a Best Western motel outside Lake Isabella to meet Wayne. Wayne was waiting in the parking lot when he got there.

“Where the hell were you?” Wayne asked.

“I told you I’d meet you. Come on. Time to split the loot.”

Lenny started to walk back to his car. That was when the bullet entered his brain.

“Idiot,” Lenny thought to himself as he dropped to the asphalt, “the bags aren’t in my car.”

Lenny woke up in the hospital on life support.

Lenny needed to let someone know he was conscious. In his peripheral vision he saw a nurse with her back to him. He never believed in anything paranormal – certainly not in ESP – but at this point he had nothing to lose by trying. He willed her to turn. To his surprise she did. He wondered if the bullet, besides paralyzing him, had unleashed some latent power. If so, the trade wasn’t worth it. The nurse walked over to him and looked into his eyes. She looked puzzled. He focused on her eyes in a desperate attempt to get into her head somehow. He felt dizzy. Then he saw something that made no sense: he saw himself. He was staring at himself out of the nurse’s eyes. The beeping machines by his bed started to blare. He watched himself die.

Lenny was flabbergasted. He was dead, yet somehow here he was alive inside the nurse. He didn’t pretend to understand how it happened and at this point he didn’t care. It beat the alternative. He tried to hear the nurse’s thoughts. He couldn’t, but he could see and hear everything she did. He tried to move one of her fingers. Nothing happened. He tried to speak, again without avail. It looked as though he was along just for the ride. Somehow he had impressed his personality into her brain circuits, but he remained distinct and he wasn’t in control.

Nurse Rachel Blair rubbed her face as other members of the staff rushed to the bedside and made perfunctory efforts to revive Lenny’s body before quickly giving up. She felt as though someone had slapped her.

            After a long day, Nurse Rachel walked out a rear exit of the hospital. She was eager to get home. She hadn’t felt right ever since that spell in IC. Her car was in a parking lot across from an access road. The parking spaces close to the hospital were prioritized for visitors – and of course for doctors. As she reached the road, she again felt strangely dizzy.

Lenny made a mighty effort to seize control of Nurse Rachel’s body. He felt elation as he succeeded in moving one foot, but Rachel was fighting back.

Rachel panicked at her sudden and inexplicable loss of control. She struggled to command her own limbs. As she did, she staggered into the road in front of an oncoming car driven by a nervous young man named Wilbur Agar.

Wilbur slammed on the brakes as the woman lurched in front of him. She appeared drunk. The woman disappeared from sight. Wilbur’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t felt a bump, but it looked as though he had plowed her down, Wilbur shifted the Honda into Park and jumped out. His heart racing, he ran around to the front of the car. The woman lay on the pavement a few feet in front of his bumper. Her eyes fluttered.

“Are you all right? Were you hit?” he asked.

“No, you missed me,” she said. “I think I just fainted.”

She looked directly into Wilbur’s eyes. Wilbur felt a jolt followed by numbness. It reminded him of being smacked in the face with a soccer ball.

Other people started to gather. Two helped Rachel to her feet.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said. Leaning on one of the men who had helped her up, she walked back toward the hospital.

Once it was clear that Wilbur hadn’t struck the nurse, the bystanders lost interest in him. He got back in his car and rubbed his face.

Wilbur marveled that a day could be as lousy as this one. He had been sent all the way here to Bakersfield to check on a malfunctioning and very expensive piece of computerized medical equipment manufactured by his employer. Strictly speaking, field work wasn’t his job, but his job often became whatever his supervisor said it was. The actual technician for the area was busy for the next two days, so Wilbur had been sent to see what he could do. As he had feared, he couldn’t do much. He didn’t have the parts or the technical expertise to fix whatever was wrong, so, after demonstrating his lack of competence, he wrote a full description of the problem and scheduled the real field tech for later in the week. Awful as his job was, though, he feared losing it. There were rumors going around the office that in his section most of the white collar jobs, including his own, would be outsourced.

Back in LA, his supervisor Ms. Milescu called him into her office. This surprised Wilbur. She usually liked to berate employees in front of one another. She believed it helped motivate them to do better. She was one of those women who somehow failed to be attractive even though there was no specific flaw at which you could point. He wondered if her severe personality was either a cause or a consequence of this. He understood why she had favored him with an office visit as soon as she started to speak. She was loud enough for everyone to hear anyway. She yelled at him for being late and for failing. A hospital administrator had called, she told him.

“Ms. Milescu, I never claimed to have any training at hands-on repair work.”

“The point is that you were given a job and you failed at it!”

Ms. Milescu for several more minutes listed the ways in which Wilbur was unsatisfactory as an employee. Finally, she said, “Get back to work, and don’t leave tonight until I tell you. While you were wasting the company’s time, a lot of paperwork backlogged.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ms. Milescu looked startled. She rubbed her face.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Stress from dealing with hopeless subordinates like you, no doubt,” she said. “Remember, don’t leave until I tell you can. I have to work late, too. Someone has to be on the ball.”

Wilbur went back to his desk and activated his computer. It was past sundown before Ms. Milescu approached his desk. Wilbur looked up. He again felt something like a soccer ball hit him in the face.

“Go home,” she said. “And be on time tomorrow.”

            Wilbur was not normally a drinker, but when he got home, he opened a bottle of Seagram’s 7 that had been in the cabinet for months. It was a present from someone, but he had forgotten whom. He poured himself a shot. He poured a second. He watched TV until the alcohol made him feel sleepy. He went to bed.

            “Wilbur,” a voice sounded.”

            “Wha… Who’s there?”

            He sat up. The room was brightly lit even though no lamps were turned on. On the edge of his bed sat a naked man.

            “Hey! Get out of here!”

            “That would be a little difficult just at the moment.”

            “Who are you? What do you want?”

            “Do I remind you of anyone?”

            Wilbur paused and looked at the man carefully.

“You look a little like me, but uglier and fatter. And naked.”

            “I look exactly like you. I tried recreating my own old image for you but that took too much effort. I find it easier to project your own features back to you. Clothes take too much effort, too.”

            “Some things are worth the effort. Am I dreaming?”

“Yes. Your conscious mind blocks me out, but I see I can talk to you when you are asleep.”

“I’m hallucinating. I must have caught a bug.”

            “I’m not a bug,” the man said. “And you’re not hallucinating. Hallucinations are false images you see when you’re awake.”

            “So now I’m arguing with myself. What do you want?” Wilbur asked.

            “I want you to have a better life, because if you have a better life, so do I. You are my host, after all.”

            “Host?”

            “Yes. You’re young and healthy, so you’ll do, but I’d rather you had more money.”

            “You and me both.”

Wilbur really wanted to wake up.

            “Well, I can help. Let’s start with Gertrude.”

            “Who is Gertrude?” Wilbur asked.

            “Your supervisor. Ms. Milescu.”

            “Her first name is Gertrude?”

            “Yes. She is going to announce in a couple days that your section will be outsourced. I saw the memo.”

“Where?”

“On her desk. I was curious, so I hitched a ride in her brain for a while.”

            “You did, huh? Know what I think?” asked Wilbur.

“No, actually I don’t unless you formulate it verbally. And then only when you’re unconscious like this. We seem to occupy different circuits.”

“Yes, well, I’ve heard rumors of an outsource. So I think I’m here expressing my own worries to myself.”

            “Did you suspect a small public company called Intraxform is getting the contract? Insiders have been buying stock for a month, but not enough to push the price up. Buy as much as you can. When the contract is announced it will jump 40%. Gertrude knows. She discussed it with Eugene Marx, the CFO. She bought more Intraxform stock online just today.”

            “I can’t buy anything. Do you know what is in my checking account?”

            “No, but I can guess. Wilbur, it doesn’t matter. You are about to come into a fortune.”

            “Yeah right. Why did she talk to Eugene Marx?”

            “They have a thing. I’d have figured the CFO could do better, but there’s no accounting for taste. That’s why Gertrude stayed late and that’s why she sent you home when she did. They were meeting up. Eugene’s wife Emma is at some charity banquet tonight.”

            “Is she?”

            “So quit your job tomorrow, Wilbur. I have other plans for you.

            “I don’t think so. Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I don’t believe any of it. I need the job.”

            “No you don’t,” said Lenny, “but maybe I should let you discover for yourself that I’m telling the truth. We’ll talk later.”

            The man vanished.

            Wilbur sat up in bed. The room was dark. There was no one else on the bed. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

            “No more booze before sleep,” he said to himself. He doubted he could get back to sleep, but no sooner had his head hit the pillow than he dozed off.

            The next morning at work Ms. Milescu again ordered him to her office.

            She stormed at him, calling into question everything from his intelligence to his manhood. Wilbur realized she was trying to goad him into quitting without severance, just so the company could save a few dollars. Wilbur decided he had nothing to lose by listening to the man in his dream.

            “Did I ever tell you, Gertrude, that I’m acquainted with Emma Marx? I was thinking of meeting her for tea this evening. We have so much to discuss,” he said.

            Ms. Milescu blanched. With unmitigated hate in her eyes, she offered Wilbur severance to quit. Wilbur agreed.

            Wilbur whistled as he packed up his desk.

            “Were you fired?” asked Laurie, a co-worker.

            “Yes.”

            “You seem pretty happy about it,” she said.

            “Ecstatic. Laurie, I’d like to ask you out to dinner.”

            “I don’t usually date unemployed men. I end up paying the check.”

            “I promise that won’t happen,” he said.

            “Well, not tonight, but here’s my cell.” She jotted a number on a post-it. “Call me after work hours sometime.”

            “Will do.”

            Before he left, Wilbur checked the stock market on his computer. Intraxform was up 20% since opening.

            On the drive home, Wilbur considered what must have happened. Subliminally, he must have picked up clues about the outsource, about Intraxform, and even about Ms. Milescu and Eugene Marx. His subconscious had put it all together for him and revealed it in a dream. Despite the accuracy of his dreamtime analysis, he thought it best to stay away from Seagram’s 7 in the future.

That night, he left the Seagram’s in the cabinet.

“I told you so.”

Wilbur once again saw the unpleasant replica of himself again on the edge of the bed.

“I’m talking to myself again.”

“Not quite. Call me Lenny.”

“Great, now I’m Lenny.”

“No, I am. Listen, tomorrow we’re going to the mountains. There is a house up there owned by a Hildegard Brenthausen. We’re going get something from it.”

“Burglary?”

“No. Hildy’s my aunt, and what’s in there belongs to me. Believe me, I paid for it. Did I steer you wrong last night?”

“No,” Wilbur admitted.

“I’m not steering you wrong tonight either. Listen carefully. This is what you are going to do.”

If only to prove to himself that his nightly visits were no more than dreams, Wilbur drove out 178 as he had been instructed. He turned onto unfamiliar back roads.

Ahead was a white rock next to a dirt road, just as Lenny had described it. Wilbur drove onto the dirt road which grew narrower with each mile. It wound around steep hillsides. The lack of guard rails in places made the road treacherous. Wilbur turned onto a driveway that barely deserved the name. The Honda’s wheels spun as much as they gripped on the steep grade. The driveway leveled off at a ledge where a small vacation house perched. Just as Lenny had told him, it was in the ersatz Frank Lloyd Wright style popular in the 1950s and early 60s. The grounds and house looked poorly maintained. If anyone named Hildegard owned this place, Wilbur guessed she didn’t come here often.

Wilbur killed the motor and walked to the front door. A bulky older-style burglar alarm box above the doorbell blinked red. He punched in Lenny’s 5-digit code. The odds of this being correct were 1 in 100,000. Yet, the box stopped blinking red. It blinked green. Wilbur lifted a slate from the walkway, and found the key. He entered the house.

He walked through the combination living room and dining room, admiring the view out the large fixed-glass windows in front as he did so. There were only two bedrooms and a single basic bathroom. In the master bedroom, Wilbur slid open the closet door. Wilbur saw five heavy-duty cotton bags on the floor. Wilbur lifted a bag. It was 50 pounds or more. He put it down and untied the top. He reached inside and pulled out a handful of 1-ounce krugerrands.  He didn’t know what gold was selling for these days, but he was sure it was over $1000 per ounce.

Wilbur hurriedly packed the bags into his car. He reset the alarm by the front door and left.

Back in his own small rented home, Wilbur pondered what to do with the bags. In the end, he stuffed them in the laundry hamper under dirty underwear. In a cheerful mood, he dialed up Laurie.

“How are things. Laurie?”

“Oh, hi Wilbur. Not good. You didn’t beat us out the door by much. They’ve outsourced our section.”

“Sorry. I wondered if you’d like to have dinner tomorrow.”

“Wilbur, you’ve been out of work 24 hours and you’ve already forgotten what day of the week it is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday! You can’t call last minute.”

“Next week then?”

“Yeah, sure. Call me. I’ve got to go.”

Wilbur’s mood wasn’t spoiled by the phone call. He wondered if he should talk to Lenny, just to thank him. Lenny didn’t show up that night. He showed up the next day.

“OK, I’m losing control and you’re about to wake up. Don’t flip out,” Lenny said.

“Flip out?” Wilbur asked.

“Yes. Everything is alright, so whatever you see, just be calm. You’re in no danger.”

“Why should I flip out? What am I going to see?”

“You’re going to see that I’ve learned to control your body when you are unconscious – and I can keep you unconscious for quite a while. But don’t worry. I can’t take over completely. I get tired and need sleep too, and then you are back in the saddle. Hey, it’s only fair. You’re not using your body when you are asleep and I deserve some fun, too. When Laurie blew you off, that got me thinking.”

“Thinking about what? And Laurie didn’t blow me off. She put me off. It’s not the same thing,” Wilbur said.

“Right. She’ll be coming out of the bathroom in a moment, so be nice.”

“She? She who?”

Wilbur sat up and blinked his eyes. He looked around. He wasn’t in his own bed. This looked like a hotel room. A cheap and dirty hotel room. He realized he wasn’t wearing clothes. They were in a heap next to the bed.

“Did you fall asleep honey?” asked the skinny young woman in Daisy Dukes who exited a tiny bathroom. Her hair was shocking pink.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so,” Wilbur said.

“Just like a man. They have their way and then just turn over and snore. No one wants to cuddle anymore.”

“You want to cuddle?”

“Certainly not! I’m going to the coin shop. This had better be real,” she said while flashing a krugerrand between her fingers.

Wilber was astonished. He not only had picked up a prostitute but given her an ounce of solid gold? He didn’t even remember any of it!

“If it’s real, look me up,” she continued. “If it’s not, you’d be wise not to.”

“It’s real.”

“Good. Then we don’t have a problem. Ciao.”

The pink-haired woman left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Wilbur hurried dressed. He rushed down the single flight of stairs and past the scowling man at the desk who didn’t ask for a key back.

Out on the street, he looked around. He was in Hollywood – and not in a particularly upscale quarter. With relief, he spotted his car parked on the street. Had he driven in his sleep? And successfully parallel parked?

Wilbur removed his cell phone from his pocket and checked the internet for psychologists. He found a listing in the neighborhood. It was within walking distance.

Wilbur burst into the waiting room of Dr. Francine Zoller.

“I need to see the doctor right now!” he said loudly to the receptionist.

“Not possible,” she answered with a little alarm.

“It’s an emergency!”

“You need to make an appointment.”

“I don’t have time! Who knows where he’ll take me next!”

“Who?”

“It’s alright,” said Dr Zoller. Having heard the commotion, Zoller had peeked out of her office. I have 15 minutes before the next patient. I’ll at least discuss with the gentleman what the problem is. If I think I can help we’ll set up an appointment. Come on in.”

Inside the office, Wilbur paced as he tried to frame what he had to say.

“Is it alcohol?” Zoller asked.

“No. Why do you say that?”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Have I?” Now that she mentioned it, he did smell a little whisky on his own breath. Lenny had been busy during Wilbur’s extended nap.

“I have multiple personality disorder,” Wilbur said at last.

“Really? MPD is not as fashionable a diagnosis as it once was.”

“So I’m not fashionable then! Or maybe I’m schizophrenic.”

“Do you hear voices?”

“Yes, when I’m dreaming.”

“We all dream.”

“Not like this.”

 Wilbur gave a highly edited recap of the events. He left out the part about the gold. He mentioned the prostitute, but not her tip.

“I can see why you’re upset, but maybe things are not as bleak as you think. Your memory lapse is troubling, of course, but you aren’t the first to have one of those. We sometimes deal with unpleasant facts that way. We need to rule out a medical issue first. I don’t have time to pursue this further today. A patient is due any minute. I urge to get a full medical exam. Make an appointment with my secretary on your way out to see me next week.”

Wilbur strode to his car. He felt for his keys. They were there in his pocket. As he slid behind the wheel he saw a bag under the dash in front of the passenger seat. His alter ego had brought a 50 pound bag of gold and left it in the car! How could his life go so right and wrong at the same time?

Traffic was backing up at an intersection straight ahead, so Wilbur turned onto a side street to avoid it. He noticed a sign:

Lady Sharona

Psychic

Tarot

Wicca

He shrugged. What did he have to lose?

The sign was in front of one of the old small ranch houses still found on some side streets. He pulled to the curb. He debated what to do about the bag. There was no safe option, but ultimately he decided it was safer to carry it with him than leave it in the car.

With the bag cradled in an arm, he walked to the door. After some hesitation, he raised his hand to knock. The door opened before his knuckles struck.

“Come in,” said the blonde woman in a black sweater and jeans.

He noted that her attire wasn’t very witchy. She carried a broom, but it was a push broom.

Sharona hadn’t needed any psychic powers to see Wilbur’s arrival. There was a hidden security camera. It was a small trick that usually helped set the mood for customers. This wasn’t the only mechanical aid on the premises. Electromagnets were fitted into the table legs and in the floor beneath the legs. By depressing a button on the floor beneath a carpet by her chair she could make the table hop. She couldn’t resist using the toy sometimes even though she felt guilty about it. It was not that she didn’t take her craft seriously, but some people liked the tricks, so why disappoint them?

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m possessed,” Wilbur told her.

“Uh-huh. I’m Wiccan. We don’t really do exorcism.”

“It’s not a demon. I don’t think.”

“A ghost?”

“Maybe. I see him only when I’m asleep, and then only when he wants. If I fell asleep right now you probably could meet him.”

“I see. Well, if you’re being haunted by a ghost I might be able to help. Sit down and let’s discuss it.”

They both sat at the rigged table. Wilbur plunked his bag down on the floor. Sharon heard the clink of coins.

“Do you own vending machines?”

“Why?”

“You are carrying a lot of coins.” She almost had said quarters, but stopped herself. It would hurt his confidence in her if she got the denomination wrong.

“Yeah. It’s hard to explain.”

“You don’t have to. You see the ghost only when you’re asleep, did you say?”

“Yeah. Sometimes not asleep exactly. I apparently sleepwalk. He takes me places and does things.”

Sharona was having trouble following this, but she decided to follow the clue about sleep. Perhaps hypnosis was close enough.

“Can I get you some tea?” she asked “I could use some.”

“Sure. OK.”

 Sharona went to the kitchen. She prepared Earl Grey for herself and a special blend of valerian, kava, hops, passion flower, chamomile, and other natural sedatives for her very peculiar customer.

“We should discuss my fee,” she said as she returned to the table. It was best to get business out of the way.

“Oh. I didn’t bring any money.”

“You have a bag of it. Suppose you leave the bag with me if I can contact your ghost.”

“The whole bag?” Wilbur thought about the four others at home. “Well, if you can get rid of the ghost maybe it would be worth it. For contacting the ghost I’ll give you $1000. I think that’s more than generous.” Wilbur sipped his tea.

“A thousand?” This was an unexpected offer. How many dollars would be in a bag of quarters? “Very well,” she said.

“Are you going to try now?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“In that case, could you tie me to the chair?” Wilbur requested.

“Tie you? Once again I’m thinking that maybe you came to the wrong door.”

“No, no. I don’t mean anything weird.”

“You don’t?”

“No. It’s just that if you contact the ghost he might walk off with me. He’s done it before.”

“I see.” She didn’t, but she figured tying him up certainly made collecting her fee easier. “OK, we’ll tie you. Finish your tea.”

Sharona went to the kitchen and retrieved a clothes line she never had got around to hanging. She tied him to the chair, returned to her seat, and tapped gently on the tabletop.

A calico cat jumped up on the table.

“This is Dropcloth,” she said.

The cat liked to stare into the eyes of customers in the unblinking way cats do. Along with her blend of tea, the effect was hypnotic. Sharona hadn’t taught her that. It was just something the animal did.

“Your cat is staring at me,” Wilbur said.

“Yes, she does that. Stare back. Seriously.”

Wilbur stared. His eyes seemed to glaze. Then his demeanor suddenly changed.

“Thank you. I’ll be going now. Please untie me.”

“Not just yet,” Sharona said.

“Suppose I start screaming and bring the police?”

“Suppose you do? What are you going to tell them? That I overpowered you and tied you to a chair? Are you Wilbur’s ghost by any chance?”

“I’m not a ghost.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m not a ‘what’ either. I’m Lenny. I died a couple days ago, so I hitched a ride on Wilbur.

“You died? So how are you not a ghost?”

“OK, I see your point, but I don’t float around by myself or rattle chains in attics. I hitchhike in people.”

Sharona wasn’t sure how seriously to take all of this, but she decided to play along as if it were real.

“Can Wilbur hear us?” she asked.

“No. He is unconscious. I see, feel, and hear everything he does when he is awake though.”

“Sounds a little one-sided.”

“Those are the rules as I found them. Untie me.”

“No. Not until I talk to Wilbur.”

“He offered you $1000. I’ll give you $2000.”

“The problem with that, you see, is that I trust him but somehow I don’t trust you.”

“I can leave on my own.”

“How?”

He stared into Sharona’s eyes. Sharona felt as though she were smacked in the face by a soccer ball. She shook her head. Her neck burned where the steel pentagram pendant touched her skin.

“Ow! Don’t do that!” she ordered.

She saw a look of consternation in his eyes.

“Why couldn’t I get in?”

“You tried to jump into me? And then what?  You would have waited for me to untie Wilbur?”

“Yes. How did you stop it?”

“I have my ways.”

Sharona didn’t know how she had stopped it. She wondered if it had something to do with the electromagnets in the table. Perhaps those and whatever Lenny projected had energized her pendant – painfully – and the field kept him out.

“Let me out of here.”

“No.”

Lenny wondered if Sharona would kill him for the loot. It had happened to him once already.  Lenny looked desperately about the room. He stared at the calico cat which now was on the floor. The cat stared back. Dropcloth shrieked and fell over. It sat up with a dazed expression.

Wilbur slumped forward. Sharona reached across the table and patted his cheek. His eyes fluttered open.

“I got rid of your ghost,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Hey, if I didn’t, you know where to find me.”

Wilbur’s attention strayed to the cat, which was walking in circles. Dropcloth sat and looked at him.

“No, no. I wouldn’t look at kitty if I were you. Did you know your ghost was named Lenny?”

“Yes.”

“He transferred into Dropcloth.”

“Then he can jump out again!”

“Maybe,” Sharona said, “but I think maybe not. He wasn’t thinking what he was doing. He jumped into the cat in order to escape, but that meant jumping into a cat-size brain. Probably he can’t think about anything more complex than chasing mice.

“Could you untie me now?”

“Sure.”

As she untied him, Wilbur looked at the bag on the floor.

“Well, I guess a deal’s a deal.”

“Come back anytime for a tarot reading.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep some distance between me and your cat. But I’ll recommend your services to anyone who asks.”

“I understand. Good luck, Wilbur.”

Wilbur shakily got to his feet. He glanced quickly one more time at Dropcloth. The cat was licking its paw.

“Goodbye then,” said Wilbur as he let himself out.

Sharona picked up the bag and placed it on the table. She untied the top so she could spill the bag and count the coins. She really needed the money. Lenny seemed to think there was $2000 in there. She hoped he was right.