Flowers For Aldebaran

The trickles of sweat left channels cut through the layer of fine dust on her skin and fell to spot the dry dirt between her hands. She stabbed at the hard surface with her trowel, trying to break the surface enough to plant a biopacket deep enough.

“Having much luck?”

“It’s even harder here.” She looked up, shielding her eyes against the sunlight. Doctor Neves stood over her, hands on hips. She added, “It’s spreading slower.”

It had been a dead world when they landed, not even bacteria. Nothing will grow in dead dirt: one needs soil. “We have to be patient, Morgan.” Neves sighed. “It was always going to be this way, no matter where we put down.”

She didn’t respond; he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know.  She pulled up another clod of dirt hoping to find living earth underneath, but found only more of the same, and kicked more dust up into the air in the process.

“Come on in. Take a break. Andy’s got the big-screen working again.”

She looked back at the few dozen rows of biopacket holes behind her, between her and the habitats; she turned and looked out across the desolate flats stretching towards a slightly too-close horizon. “Yeah, ok.”

--- --- --- ---

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Grandma, Happy Birthday to you!” They made the children sing it, as was tradition, while the adults stood around the periphery and recorded video for the archive.

Morgan smiled, leaned her cane against the table to clap with both hands. “Thank you, thank you.”

There was a cake, but no candles. Morgan let the festivities bubble around her, watching children run around, watching one of her daughters-in-law cut the cake, watching her grandson Earl bring her a piece everyone knew she wouldn’t eat. “Thank you, dear.”

“How does ninety feel?”

“Not bad. Low gravity helps.”

He chuckled. They always did that, the second generation, the ones born here, whenever their parents made any comment about how this — the only home they knew — was different from Earth. “I think Angie’s got a present for you.”

“Oh? Angie?” There were so many of them, by now. “Angie…”

“Hiram’s youngest.”

“Oh, Angie. Why didn’t you say so. Where is she?”

“Let me see if I can find her.”

There was a video loop playing on the big screen, a montage of her life: digging, talking, digging some more, getting married, holding an infant Hiram, digging, talking. She lost herself in it for a bit, remembering, until she felt a little hand tap her on the leg.

“Grandma, happy birthday.” Angie, beaming, stood at her knees with her hands behind her back. She brought her arms around, and yelled, “Ta-da!”

It was a flower in bloom, capping a long cut stem; Morgan reached out with a shaky hand, took it gently between long, bony forefingers.

Earl whispered, “They finally bloomed three days ago. We were afraid they’d be late.”

The View Behind

“I don’t know why you came here. There’s no people. Nothing to do.”

The mark didn’t jump, didn’t panic and run, just shrugged and answered, “That’s why I came here.”

I was grateful not to have to chase him. “So just the quiet? The view? The sound of the waves?”

“All that. But also, the lack of people is a good thing. No yelling, no crying and laughing. None of the stink of humanity.” He snorted. “I suppose you’ll add that to the report. ‘Antisocial statements’.”

“You don’t make me run, I won’t add any more charges. But you’ve got to hand over the Lasso right now.” He fished it out of his pocket, an innocuous little metal disc, and handed it to me. “Thanks.”

He shrugged; he knew it was over. Maybe he’d gotten what he wanted, if only for a little while.

I holstered my stunner, sat down beside him on the exposed limestone. “If you like nature so much, you could have taken one of the approved vacation packages. There’s destinations like this—”

“Ten thousand people sitting around you, taking pictures, calling their children back from the edge. Laying out a picnic.” His voice dripped with disgust. “No thanks. This is how a place like this should be. Quiet, lonely. Just for me.”

I shook my head. “Greedy. Selfish.”

“Sure. But why not? Why not be greedy once and a while? Why not be selfish?”

“We can’t have people using the Lasso for unapproved trips back. No supervision? No fail-safes? It could be disaster. You could change everything.”

“I’m not some terrorist. If you hadn’t come along, I wouldn’t have changed anything. I would have stayed right here. Build a little house out of local stone, wake up to this view every morning? Yes, please.”

“You don’t have to be a terrorist. You could just make a mistake. And then poof, it’s a different world.” I didn’t tell him about the little stone house over the next rise, the one he hadn’t seen because the Lasso had put him down nearer the water this time, this first time. It wouldn’t matter, because when I take him forward there wouldn’t ever be another time, an earlier time, and the house won’t ever have existed.

“I know the party line.”

“It’s not just a line.”

“Can we sit a minute? Not long, just… can we? I won’t make any trouble.”

I didn’t look at my watch; I’ve been doing this too long for that sort of mistake. I didn’t mind spending an hour of my biological time looking at a view like this. “Sure.”

Eventually I took him forward. He didn’t make any trouble, but I’m pretty sure that eventually he’ll escape, steal another Lasso: the little stone house is still there, then, waiting for him to return.

My secret worry is that it’s waiting for me, that I will someday go back and build it. I should have looked inside, then, and made sure. Now, I’m scared to.

Fool’s Point

The sorcerer came to a fishing village in the North, trudging slowly, using his staff as a cane, his Shadow behind him, feeling his age. A boy child ran up, asked: “My Lord?”

“An Inn?”

The boy pointed up the street at an old, solid two-story stone building with a third somewhat ramshackle story of wood built atop it. “There, My Lord. Yilley’s.”

“Come visit me there, in the morning. I will have errands.” The sorcerer flipped him a small silver coin. “With your parent’s permission.”

“Yes, My Lord!” The boy ran off, virtually airborne from excitement. The Sorcerer continued up the road towards the water.

I will take him, wizard. I will take the whole village.

The sorcerer chuckled, “Oh, you’ll do no such thing.”

You have come here trying to hide, to escape, but I am at your heel, and I will take them all, and then you.

“That’s not why we’ve come, Shadow,” the sorcerer scoffed. “That’s not it at all.”

At the edge of the village the path split, one branch heading down to the docks and the other winding its way up to a rocky point overlooking the bay. The sorcerer, in spite of the protestations from his knees, chose the latter.

Will you throw yourself from the summit, to appease me? I will not be denied.

“That’s not it either. You’re as foolish dead as you were alive, Shadow.”

Call me whatever names suit you; I will feast on yours.

“Seven hundred years, no one has figured out my true name yet. I doubt you’ll be the first.” It was, however, the only way the non-corporeal Shadow could possibly hurt him. He continued climbing well past the point of exhaustion, propelled only by necessity: he could not have the Shadow wreaking havoc in the village overnight.

Your arrogance will be your undoing.

“You said that when you were alive. Well, here we are.” He had reached the peak, finding there a burial cairn marked with a stake overlooking the sea. “Take a look.”

This is neither my grave nor yours.

“I didn’t even know that was here. We came for the view, Shadow. What do you see?”

I see the grave and the hill and the village and the ocean. I see—

“The ocean. It stretches out like a blank slate as far as the eye can see, a great seeming emptiness. But even the ocean hides great activity: life teems just below the surface. What of the sky?”

What riddle is this, sorcerer? Are you so desperate to delay our reckoning?

“The sky seems even emptier, and it goes on forever. But even the sky holds birds, and clouds and rain. Beyond it are the numberless stars and planets. Yes?”

Sorcerer, you—

“You are dead, Shadow, by my hand. But you are dead in the world. I could have dispelled you into a void so empty it would drive you mad. I still can. Is one last stab at revenge worth the risk?”

It Lasts Longer

I used to stare at my wife. When we were first dating, she found it charming, cute, proof of my burgeoning love for her. After we had been engaged a while, she began to find it irritating, annoying, evidence of my lack of social skills. Once we were married, she made her peace with it. Occasionally she would catch me at it and allow the tiniest, most ephemeral of smiles, just the barest upturn of the corner of her mouth and a twinkle in her eye. It was enough for me.

She gave me a camera for my birthday one year, one of those hipster film cameras; I took to it immediately. I painted over the window of the little spare bedroom downstairs, converted it into a darkroom; I developed my own pictures. There was something zen about it. It took skill and patience and chemicals. It was tactile.

Most of my pictures were of her. She would roll her eyes and mutter that she’d brought it on herself, but she didn’t block her face with her hands or turn away; she’d smile and forebear. There were vacation pictures. There were pictures over nice dinners out and breakfasts in. There were intimate pictures she only let me take because I developed them myself and kept them locked away.

When she got cancer, she didn’t want me taking pictures anymore. She was feeling self-conscious, betrayed by her body. She thought you could tell just by looking at the image that she was sick. Eventually she was right.

I took pictures of other things, to show her. She would send me out to investigate beautiful days when she was too tired to follow, and I would bring back the evidence. She’d end the day with prints surrounding her on the bed, her own personal gallery. When she went into the hospital, we kept it up. Sometimes the nurses would ask to keep a print or two. They let us paper the few bare areas of wall with the best of the others.

When she took a turn for the worse, I stopped going out. She didn’t have the energy to look through the pictures and I didn’t want to be away long enough to take them, much less develop them. The camera stayed in the bag, next to my cot, next to her bed.

I remember being told that she was getting ready to go, that it was only a matter of time, that I should prepare myself. I remember wondering how on Earth to do that.

I took out the camera, loaded some film into it. I opened the blinds so that the morning light spilled in across her bed. She had a paper-thin, ethereal quality to her, like she was already halfway out of the world. I took the picture.

It was weeks before I got out of bed, remembered the camera, developed the film. It’s not my favorite picture of her, not even close; it’s just the last one.

Zeno And His Arrow

“It’s just after midnight.”

“Mmph.” Jean turned over, pulled a pillow over her head. After a minute, she sat up, reached for the bottle of pills and the near-empty glass of water waiting on the nightstand.

“You’ve already taken three. They’re not working. Anyway, it’s too late.”

She looked at him for a long, weighty moment; she put the pill bottle down, but finished the water anyway. “What time is it exactly?”

“Twelve ten. Twenty more minutes.”

“They said yesterday that the time might change as it got closer, that—”

“I’ve been looking at my phone. They’ve redone the math every half hour for the last two days. It’s still twenty more minutes. Want something to drink?”

“On top of the pills?”

“Never mind.” Frank got up, went to the window, stuck his fingers between venetian blind slats, pushed them apart. Down the street, in one of the few houses still occupied, there was a party going on. “They’re still at it.”

She shrugged. “They’re young.”

“I just don’t get it. Why spend your last hours drunk and listening to bad music? It just—”

“We spent most of yesterday fucking.” She grinned. “To each his own.”

The clock said twelve thirteen. He pulled the chord to raise the blinds, unlatched and opened the window, stuck his head out to look skyward. There was no moon. He felt a pang of fear, then remembered that he had no idea where the moon should be tonight.

“What does it look like?”

“Like stars circling a drain.”

“The stars? But they’re not close enough to—”

“It’s called ‘gravitational lensing’. Some guy was talking about it on CNN last night. The anchor was uncomfortable because the guy seemed… I don’t know, excited about seeing it. They shut him down and went to a pre-taped story about the Pope.”

Jean was at his elbow, and he moved out of the way so she could look. “Pretty.”

She was still naked. He kissed her shoulder, the side of her neck. He looked at the clock: twelve eighteen. “Want to go again?”

“Seriously? All right.”

They made love. Frank tried to lose himself in her, or in the act itself, but never quite managed. In the end they conspired to finish for it’s own sake. She was sweet about it. They looked at the clock: twelve twenty-one.

“Was that really only three minutes? It seemed like…” He didn’t say ‘forever’.

“No way.” But her phone, his phone, the clock on the DVD player, all agreed: twelve twenty-one.

They turned on the TV. The guy who had been excited about gravitation lensing was talking about time seeming to slow. It wasn’t just them. The guy wasn’t sure whether it was some black hole time dilation effect nobody had predicted, or whether it was eight billion people wishing the universe to stop before twelve thirty.

They ate something, then made love again. An half hour later, the clock turned to twelve twenty-two and stayed there. Eventually Frank unplugged it.

The Past Is A Foreign Country

He was sitting, staring into space, not outwardly troubled, seeming like any other man in the middle of a day of cares. But it was him, certainly, the spitting image of the picture, the very same. Thirty years old, the oldest he would ever get. She approached quietly, ignoring the unfamiliar surroundings, the strange clothing styles, the sounds from passing automobiles — actual petroleum-powered automobiles — until her fingers came to rest on the cast iron end of the bench.

“Don’t do it,” She blurted, artlessly, and then winced before the man could even turn and react.

“What?” He asked, as if he hadn’t quite heard, before continuing after it had registered, “Don’t do what?” He looked at his sandwich as if wondering if she’d seen something wrong with it.

She sat on the bench next to him, careful not to disturb the detritus of his almost-complete sack lunch. “Sorry. I’m Etheline.”

“Etheline was my mother’s name. We almost named our daughter that. Funny.”

“I know. She won’t shut up about it, in fact.” She forgot herself for a moment, caught up in a memory. “I used to complain about my name all the time and she would go on about how it was almost hers but her mother wouldn’t let…”

He was looking at her with confused eyes. He hadn’t started glancing around for a security guard yet, which was a good sign; or maybe it was a side-effect of the problem at hand.

“Sorry again.”

“That’s okay. I’m just not sure I follow you…”

She’d rehearsed it. There was no reason to abandon a plan of words carefully chosen, but now, sitting here next to him, it all escaped her. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Fine today, I guess.”

Fine today. “But you haven’t been fine?”

He paused. “Did someone from HR send you to find me? Are you a counselor?”

“Nothing like that. But I did come to talk to you.”

“You said ‘don’t do it.’ What is it you think I’m going to do?”

“You tell me.”

Now he was glancing around, shifting his weight, arranging his feet so that he could get up at any time. “Listen—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to freak out.” She leaned in, not close enough to make him more uncomfortable, but enough so that she could lower her voice. “People have noticed you’re having a hard time. Jeannie has noticed. She didn’t… she hasn’t said anything because she didn’t want to embarrass you. She regrets that now. So much. You should talk to her.”

A security guard passed, an honest-to-gosh firearm in his belt, but Gramps didn’t flag him down. After a minute, he said, “She’ll think I’m weak.”

“She won’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“I could prove it to you. How I know, I mean. But then you’d never be able to convince yourself I was just some socially awkward lady from HR.”

He nodded, slowly, and then gathered up his trash and walked away.

Drop

Jorge stood at the edge, looking down into the mist. Kree seemed oblivious to the view, and concentrated on cleaning her feathers while the other humans fitted the carry harness across her back: a sort of pre-flight check. He shook his head. "How far down?"

"Long way."

Disappeared into the mist for reasons unknown: Perry, his wife-to-be; Cole, her apprentice; one Fri, Kree's aerie-brother Hraff.  Somewhere down there, in the midst of a primordial alien jungle soupy with the planet's thick atmosphere, were three of his friends in need of help.

"What do you think happened?"

She didn't answer, just gave the Fri equivalent of a shrug.

"Are they alive, do you think?"

"Not sure. If they landed right, could still be alive. Hard to breathe that low. Heavy air. Wet air." She shook her massive head, crouched so that her eyes were level with his. "They could live a while. Maybe longer than Hraff."

The air was heavy enough here, atop the Mesa: much thicker than Earth sea-level. He reached out and placed a hand flat on the  bony bridge of her nose. "It hasn't been that long. And Hraff is a good flyer."

Kree snorted and said, "Hraff is the best flyer. But if a wing is broken, he will go to the cliff-side and climb."

"Climb?" He couldn't fathom a climb like that, not while injured; but it was their planet.

"If he cannot fly, he must climb, or die."

The transponder signal was stationary, had been since the three had been found to be overdue. "Can we carry Hraff out if we need to?"

She shook her head. "Too heavy. We take humans out then I go back with more air-bottles and medicines. You send three strong Fri with a sling. It's been done."

Jorge glanced over to where Morgan was standing: the man nodded and ran to the crawler to use the radio. "We'll make sure they're ready."

In a few minutes, the harness was tightened, the saddleweb centered on her back and opened. He climbed up as the technicians climbed down. By the time he was secure in the web, Morgan had returned and was giving the thumbs up.

Jorge leaned over and to one side, and said, "I'm ready. Anytime."

Kree stepped to the very edge, and his stomach danced. She lowered her head, and was very still.

"What is it?"

"Afraid."

"You've done this dive before plenty of times, I've seen you."

"Not all the way. Always level before the mist."

"Do you want to wait for someone who—"

"Too far away, take too much time. We should have brought more Fri."

It had been a last-minute expedition: the humans had wanted to do some testing, take some air-samples below the edge. It'd been his idea. Now Perry, Cole and great, noble Hraff were down there and Kree was hesitant to dive.

"What's down there, Kree? What could bring down Hraff?"

She didn't answer, but she finally stepped off the edge, nose-first.

Look Up

"Mister, can I ask you a question?"

Chuck opened his eyes. The boy couldn't have been more than eight. "Sure."

"Why are you lying in the grass staring up at the sky? Ain't nothing up there."

Chuck laughed. "Sure there is. Stars, lots of stars, clouds of gas and dust, all sorts of other things. You can even see the plane of the galaxy, where the stars are thicker."

The boy threw back his head, mouth open. "Where?"

"There, see? It's called the 'Milky Way', at least around here."

"Aw, I can't see nothing."

The boy must have crossed the field from the well-lit farmhouse, squeezed through a gap in the fence too small for a cow. "You just came from inside, just now? Let your eyes adjust; sit down for a minute." The boy looked at him, sizing him up. He wasn't surprised: people from rural areas were shy of strangers. If only the boy knew how strange Chuck really was. "It's all right. I don't eat little boys. Anyway, even if I did, I'm not really all that hungry."

Eventually the boy sat on the grass, then lay on the grass, just out of reach, staring up. After a short while he said, "I think I see it… lots of stars in a line, like a row of seeds in a furrow."

"Every one of those stars is a sun just like yours. Some of them are bigger, smaller, brighter, hotter. A lot of them, most of them have planets around them, just like yours. Some of their planets have people on them, people like you, but different."

"How'd they get there?"

"They're from there. That's where they were born, where they live. They evolved there."

"How do you know that?"

Chuck laughed. "I just know. It's like I've seen them, all of them, though I've never been. Like somebody else's memories of walking around, exploring, visiting, talking. It's a lot to hold in your head all at once."

"Does it hurt?"

"No, no. My head can hold a lot more. Years and years more."

There came a call from the farmhouse: a boy's name in a mother's voice, time to come in, time to wash up, to get changed, to go to bed.

"Coming, Ma!" The boy shouted at the top of his lungs. To Chuck he asked, "You gonna lie out here all night? Town's not that far…" He pointed up the dirt road.

"I'll get there in a while. There's no hurry. Do you think anyone will mind if I lie here a bit longer?"

The boy shrugged. "I won't tell."

"That's very kind. It was nice to meet you." Chuck held out his hand.

The boy regarded Chuck's hand as a risk, sized it up, then shook it resolutely, like a man, before running off to squeeze back through the fence. Once through, he turned, and asked, "Hey, Mister, where you from?"

Chuck smiled, raised his hand to the sky, and pointed. "That one."

43 Minutes Each Way

[Ganymede 12751-J to L4/624H] I'm so bored and I'm missing you. What are you thinking about? [/end]

[L4/624H to Ganymede 12751-J] I was thinking about the first time we met. When you came to the table I expected you to go for Chip or Big Snake, but we really had a connection right from the beginning. I've never really had that with a girl before. It's just so frustrating to be so far away, and not even be able to talk 'live'. [/end]

[Ganymede 12751-J to L4/624H] I know it's hard baby but that only makes it so much sweeter when we can be together. Do you think you'll be able to get away from Hektor soon? [/end]

[L4/624H to Ganymede 12751-J] I've got a few weeks of leave accrued. I wish I could take you away somewhere and we could be together always. I don't know what your situation is but in a couple years at this rate I'll have enough to live on Earth. Or at least Luna. What do you think? [/end]

[Ganymede 12751-J to L4/624H] Looking forward to seeing you in the flesh! If you can get here during August the House is running a special 10% off promotion for all 'menu' items. [/end]

[L4/624H to Ganymede 12751-J] August might be do-able. If you'll excuse the pun, hah! It'll depend on how busy we are and whether the Company will let me pick leave time or assign it automatically. Since I'm pretty senior here I should get to choose my dates but you never really know. We've been really busy lately. Hang on. OK, we have an X12-level solar flare warning, so I've got to sign off in a couple minutes here. So annoying because I'm scheduled for a double shift fixing broken-down loaders and since we earn trip— [/message interrupted: low balance.]

[Ganymede 12751-A to L4/624H] Regarding your Private Message account: you have reached a balance of ¤0.00. Please add funds to ensure that your messages are received by: Janie. [/end]

[L4/624H to Ganymede 12751-J] Sorry for the interrupted message and the delay in getting back to you, I let my PM account go dry. Embarrassing! It's loaded up now. Anyway, we had a hell of a time the past three days keeping the loaders running what with the flare. We still get paid for shelter time, but only at 1:1. Fortunately those of us who had to go out in suits when something broke down get hazard pay, which is 3:1 for every hour exposed. [/end]

[L4/624H to Ganymede 12751-J] Oh, and: this month we've been so busy, I've earned eighty hours' worth of  overtime pay. Can't wait to spend some of it with you! [/end]

[Ganymede 12751b to L4/624H] That's great to hear. I can't wait to see you sweetie I always have a better time with you than with the others. In the meantime check out my House Store wish list and pick out something you'd like to see me in! [/end]

Arcology

He was a mouse, quiet and small, hurrying from shadow to shadow. She followed behind with her hand in his, his grip as sure as his timing.

A whisper: "There'll be a service robot coming through, one minute, maybe two. I can already hear it. After that we go."

"Where?"

"Across to the catwalk. Down the ladder."

"Lower? Even lower?"

"Shh!"

The robot's whirr was growing louder, and she watched its shadow spread and distort along the wall before it came into view, sliding past them unawares. She covered her own mouth with her hand.

After the robot passed, he stuck out his head just far enough to glance back in the direction from which it had come, before turning back to her with a nod and a wink. They were moving again. Her bare feet lifted off rubber tile and landed on metal grate.

"There." He pointed: a service ladder, surrounded by safety rings, led down and away from the catwalk into darkness. There were no windows, not down this low.

She looked down nervously into the blackness. "Aren't we near the ground yet?"

"We're still twenty stories up."

"What's a 'story'?"

"Level. Come on."

"How many levels… how many 'stories' is Olympia?"

"You don't know, do you? You're not supposed to. The Governing Council keeps it secret. It's at least two hundred, maybe more, and I'm pretty sure they're still adding to it. The upper levels, the rich people levels, they're taller than the ones for people like us. Higher ceilings."

"That doesn't seem fair. My sister and her husband had to wait two years for an apartment. They're in an efficiency on eighty-three—"

"Come on. Just don't look down."

The ladder rungs were cold against the soles of her feet. She couldn't help looking down to keep from stepping on his hands; she didn't stop shaking until she could see the concrete floor below them.

He was already examining a door control panel when she stepped off the ladder and exhaled in relief. There was a level placard on the wall beside the door, inscribed with a neat, bold '1'; she had never seen one in single digits before. "What now?"

"Almost." He tapped three buttons, and then three more, but nothing happened.

"You have done this before?"

"Twice." He tapped in a slightly different sequence.

"Who'd you bring?"

He laughed, turned to look at her. "Nobody. Only you. Now let me concentrate, they change these codes once a week." He tapped another series of buttons. The door buzzed, slid open.

They were bathed in a brilliant light. He was through the door immediately, and she lost him in the glare. "Wait! I can't see!"

"You're used to windows, they're filtered. Your eyes will adjust. Just don't look directly at the sun."

With eyes squinting under a shielding hand, she stepped out onto gravel, wincing at the discomfort. "I should have brought shoes." Ahead of her, he grinned, beckoned her to follow. She stepped onto the grass.

Event Zero

John knocks like only John knocks: as if there's a monster stalking him through the apartment building halls, and he's run up the stairs while it was in the elevator, and he's looking over his shoulder while knocking and dreading the ding of the elevator arriving. That's how John knocks. When he's stoned and half-asleep, he knocks the same.

He also, apparently, sometimes yells, "Let me the fuck in!" At least he did this time.

I opened the door and John brushed past me and pushed the door out of my hand and closed. He locked all three locks and then leaned in to listen at the door.

"John, what the—"

"Shh!"

After a moment, he seemed to relax somewhat. Somewhat for John, everything being relative. He flopped onto the couch and started rooting through his bag. "Do you remember Rigoni's Second Theorem?"

"John, I didn't go to MIT with you, remember? I went to art school. What are you doing in New York?"

"Ugh. Okay. So, Rigoni." John squared his shoulders and took a breath and started the lecture. "He says you can exist in more than one place at a time, so long as those places are adjacent in the fourth dimension. So—"

"Sounds reasonable."

"Don't mock this." He stared at me, shook his finger. He seemed almost schoolmasterish, if that's a word. "It might be important later. I need you to do something for me. If I can find it."

"It's not drugs, is it?" I asked, half-hoping it was drugs. John hooked me up with a brick of hash once that had lasted all summer. "Is it drugs?"

"It's not." He pulled a small box from his bag. It was taped shut, and he held it like it was a ticking bomb. "It's the prototype."

"Of what?"

"Rigoni, Freddy, Rigoni. The prototype makes any two points adjacent, fourth-dimensionally speaking. You just tell it what two points. Right now it's set for my lab in California and Mom's place over in Park Slope."

"So you used this thing to come here from California?"

"No, no, I'm still in California, I'm just also here." He got up, listened at the door. "But they're coming, so I have to get rid of it."

"What do you mean, who's coming?"

"They're not coming here, they're coming to the lab. Freddy, if they get their hands on this, it'll be bad. They won't know how to handle it. Do you still work with metal? Do you have the smelter?"

"Sure. At the studio."

"Take it, drop it in. Do it now, today."

"What happens to you?"

"I don't know. Either there'll be one of me, in California, or two of me, one there and one here, or I'll get ripped apart, quantum-wise. Or the universe will. It'll be one of those." He sighed. "Probably the first one. Or the second."

"…Okay, I guess."

"And Freddy…" He put his hands on my shoulders, "Don't open the box. Really don't open the box."