ANSEN Copyright©2007 by Ed Howdershelt ISBN 1-932693-32-7 9781932693324 Chapter One     After mowing the lawn I soaked up some tea to cool down, then went to clean up a bit. The phone rang just as I stepped out of the shower. Thinking it might be the repair shop calling to tell me my car was ready, I wrapped a towel around myself as I hurried to beat the answering machine.     The phone slipped out of my hand and clattered to the table, then I got a better grip on it and said, "Hello? Sorry about the racket, there. I dropped the phone."     A honey-soft female voice asked, "Uh, is this WiccaWorks?"     "Yes, it is. Sorry again. I've been expecting a call about my car."     The woman's voice solidified a bit. "I see. Should I call back another time?"     "No, I'll call the fixit shop later. Hi, I'm Ed. What can I do for you?"     After a moment's hesitation, she said, "A friend said that you might be able to repair a stoneware bowl."     When she said no more for a couple of moments, I said, "Well, we have several flavors of mud and a couple of kilns here, so maybe we can help. How broken is it?"     She then told me how her new kitten had been exploring and had knocked the bowl off a dresser, describing the kitten's panic and how it had hidden under the bed, her efforts to console the kitten, and then her search for all the bits of bowl.     Interesting. She'd comforted the kitten before worrying about the broken bowl. I liked that, but she hadn't really told me what level of damage to expect.     "Ma'am, how's the kitten?"     "What?"     "The kitten. Is he over the incident yet?"     "Uh, well, yes. I guess so. He seems to be."     "Good. And how's the bowl? How many pieces are there?"     "Oh. Uh, five big ones. And some chips. I think I found them all."     "Also good. Are you here in Spring Hill?"     "No, I'm in Crystal River."     "That's not too far. When can you bring the bowl here?"     "Could you look at it today?"     "Sure. It's only one o'clock..."     "I'll be there in half an hour. Thanks!"     She hung up before I could reply. Odd. No 'how do I get there?' or anything like that, and WiccaWorks hadn't been in the phone book since a bunch of harassment calls in the nineties. I got dressed and opened a can of soup, then worked on adjusting the company website's new product pictures.     A bit more than half an hour passed before I heard a car pull into the drive. Looking out the window, I saw a tallish brunette in jeans and a flannel shirt get out of the car with a paper bag and head toward the house.     She wasn't what I'd expected; she wore no jewelry that I could see, not even a wristwatch. In my experience, Wiccans and witches -- not automatically the same thing -- liked wearing jewelry, sometimes quite a lot of it at once.     Moocher, my black cat, beat me to the front door and hopped up on the three cat carriers I keep by the door in case of emergency. I gave him a chin rub and opened the door just as the woman rang the doorbell.     Opening the screen door, I said, "Hi, I'm Ed."     The woman scanned me from toes to hairline and noted Moocher peering around the door's frame before saying, "I'm Ingrid. Pleased to meet you."     Holding the screen door open and containing Moocher atop the carriers, I invited her to come in. She glanced past me into the house, then stepped in and stood to one side as I closed the door, picked up Moocher, and faced her.     She was about five-ten, maybe one-thirty. Almost forty? Close, one way or the other. Attractive, but not due to makeup; she didn't seem to be wearing much, if any.     Her big draw was in the shape of her face and her eyes. Very nice, indeed. She had the kind of face that would make an excellent art deco mask if she'd let me make a plaster cast to work from.     Extending a hand, I said, "Hope you don't mind cats. Moocher thinks everybody comes here to see him."     She hesitated before taking my hand, I noticed. She let go quickly, too.     "So does my Daphne," she said as she patted Moocher, "Are you alone?"     An odd question.     "Yup, but I have ol' Mooch for protection. His name is actually Mucha, as in Alphonse Mucha, but if he thinks you have food, he's right there instantly."     Nodding slightly, she glanced around the house, then seemed to study me almost critically. It occurred to me that she might be man-shy or even a lesbian. I stepped past her into the kitchen, set Mooch down on the floor, and offered her coffee or tea.     "Sweet tea in a can or instant coffee," I said, "Coffee you assemble yourself to your own liking. The cups and fixings are by the pot."     "Coffee's fine," she said.     She handed me the bag and took the cup I offered, then she approached the coffee pot as I set the bag on the table and opened it. Five big pieces and a plastic baggie of smaller bits. Yup. Very broken.     Sipping my own hour-old coffee as I lifted a piece out of the bag, I studied the chunk for a moment, then said, "Ingrid, this isn't stoneware. It's real stone. Someone carved it."     I couldn't immediately identify the type of stone, which surprised me. Its surface felt almost like alabaster, but not quite, and the broken edges were too coarse for alabaster. Intricate designs covered the piece between my fingers.     Without turning around, Ingrid asked, "Can you fix it?"     Shaking my head, I replied, "Doubtful. I don't think this kind of stone would survive a trip through the kiln at three thousand degrees."     Turning away from her half-completed coffee, she walked over to the table and quietly gazed at the piece I was holding, then took it as she said softly, "Well, it was just a thought. Thanks, anyway."     Ingrid's tone was one of disappointment so deeply felt that it surprised me. I looked at her and saw tears welling in her eyes as she set the fragment on the table.     Raising a hand, I said, "Wait one. All is not lost, milady. We might be able to glue it back together, you know."     She shook her head. "No. It has to be whole."     Whole. Right. I grabbed a paper towel and handed it to her. She stared at it for a moment, then took it. I left her to dabbing her tears and went to see how far along she'd gotten with her coffee. There were two sweetener packets to one side of the cup.     "What else needs to be in here?" I asked, holding up the packets.     Her voice was raspy as she said, "Nothing else. Just coffee and a couple of sweeteners."     "Have a seat, then. Tell me about the bowl."     As she sat down and I put her coffee together, she asked, "What do you want to know?"     Moocher hopped up and into her lap as I said, "What you did with it. Stuff like that. Why some other bowl won't do."     "I... uh, I'd rather not discuss that. Sorry."     I stirred everything together in the cup and turned around.     "Ah, yes'm. Of course. Magical stuff. A secret. Got it."     Her gaze narrowed. "Are you making fun of me?"     Stirring her coffee some more as I delivered it to her, I said, "Maybe just a little, to try to jar some info out of you. Did you burn incense in it? If so, I could make you a bowl that would throw heat a little better and wouldn't crack."     She watched me set her coffee down, then looked up with an expression of barely muted displeasure and said, "No. I didn't burn incense in it."     "Cookie offerings? Ritual drinks? Ceremonial salt and water? The usual stuff?"     Her gaze narrowed at 'usual stuff'. In a cool tone, she said, "No. I really think I should go now."     Grinning slightly, I said, "Okay. But why not finish your coffee first and think about where else you can get that bowl fixed? I was just wondering why another bowl wouldn't do, Ingrid. Couldn't you put your symbols on something else?"     After a moment, she said, "They aren't 'my' symbols. I don't think they'd... belong... on anything else."     "Why not? Somebody decided to put 'em on this bowl."     "I'd rather not say."     "Uh, huh. Okay. What if I could glue that bowl back together and make a good replica of it? A whole bowl, as you put it, but one made of another kind of stone?"     Ingrid seemed to freeze solid as she stared at me. Her gaze narrowed again and she picked up the bowl fragment to study it for a moment.     Very softly, she asked, "You could do that?"     "Oh, yeah. Sure. No biggie, just some time and effort."     "An exact replica?"     I shrugged. "Pretty damned close. I'd mold this one to make a copy. The color might be a tad different, and we'd lose some of the size, but..."     Her tone was still soft, but nonetheless almost sharp. "How much? Size, I mean? How much would you lose?"     "Hm. Seven to ten percent, I'd think. The clay replica would shrink as it dried, then shrink some more in firing..."     She interrupted me with, "Can you do it today?"     Her intensity startled me a bit and my short laugh startled and irritated her when I yelped, "Today?"     Looking in the bag, I examined the pieces, considered the details of remanufacture, and shrugged again.     "Ingrid, I can reassemble the bowl and plaster it, but the final applications of plaster would need time to dry thoroughly before I could use the mold. Two days or so. Then I'd..."     With obvious dismay, she blurted, "Two days?!"     "Sorry 'bout that. Some things take as long as they take, y'know. Then the slip would have to solidify enough to be taken out of the mold, the casting would have to dry completely, and I'd have to clean mold marks off the piece and make sure it matched the original as closely as possible before I fired it."     Raising her hand to stop me, Ingrid said, "Look, this is important or I wouldn't ask. Could a replica bowl be finished by Thursday night?"     It was Tuesday. That was really pushing things a bit, but I could use the oven and a hair dryer to hurry things along in the clay stage...     "Maybe," I said. "If all goes well every single step of the way. It's possible, anyway."     In a firm voice, Ingrid said, "Do it. We should at least try."     Sipping my coffee, I thought, 'We should, huh? Maybe this would be a good time to discuss money? She might not be so eager when she finds out what it'll cost.'     "Ingrid, dropping everything else to take on something like this is worth about a hundred bucks to me. Time, plaster, slip, matching the detail, cleaning, firing, and all that. Dunnit before, ma'am. Replications can be a royal pain with this much detail to get just right."     Ingrid's expression didn't change as she reached in a pants pocket and pulled out a money clip, peeled two fifties from her stash, and slid them across the table to me.     Hm. Well, there it was, said and done. I hadn't really wanted to hurry that kind of project, but she hadn't backed down from the price.     With a small sigh, I pocketed the money and said, "Well, in that case, I'll get the glue."     As I retrieved the glue from my house-tools tackle box in the hall closet, I thought I heard the front door open and close quietly, but when I glanced into the kitchen, Ingrid was sitting at the table, studying a piece of the bowl.     When I returned to the kitchen, something was subtly different about the room. I glanced at the counters and cabinets, then at Ingrid and the stuff on the table.     Except that Moocher was no longer on Ingrid's lap, no changes seemed to jump out at me, so the feeling wasn't coming from anything being particularly out of place.     But I had a sense that Ingrid and I weren't alone. It was that 'being watched' sensation that raises the hairs on your neck; a sense of an extra presence that put me on quiet alert, and I guess it showed.     Ingrid asked, "Is something wrong?"     Shaking my head, I looked toward the archway to the front door alcove with a short laugh. "It just feels as if there's someone else in the house all of a sudden."     She gave me a raised eyebrow. I shrugged and took the glue to the table. While sorting the bowl pieces, I couldn't help a few glances over my shoulder and around the kitchen.     Reconstructing the shallow bowl was easy enough. Setting it upside down on some newspaper, I stuck the last few chips in place, then used a hair dryer to set the glue quickly.     The base of the bowl was perhaps four inches in diameter and the mouth was close to a foot wide. The inside of the bowl was perfectly smooth, but odd spiral and angular patterns carved about a sixteenth of an inch deep covered most of the bowl's exterior surface.     I asked, "Any idea what these patterns are all about?"     Ingrid shook her head and said, "No. No idea."     When the bowl seemed solid enough, I lightly sprayed the exterior surface with clear acrylic, dried it with the hair dryer again, then painted the bowl with green soap and began mixing plaster in a plastic bucket. Ingrid sipped her coffee and watched in silence throughout the procedure.     "Any questions so far?" I asked.     She glanced around and said, "Just one. Where's your bathroom?"     "End of the hall. Can't miss it."     As she went to the bathroom and I let the plaster mix thicken a bit, I used my digital camera to take pictures of the bowl from all sides for reference, then measured the bowl and took notes of the average depth of the designs.     That sense of unseen presence seemed to leave with her; I took a breath and looked around, wondering what might somehow be different about the room with Ingrid gone.     Something caught my eye on the floor by the dishwasher. A few strands of inch-long blonde hair lay half in and half out of a patch of sunlight.     I knelt to retrieve the hairs and studied them for a moment. None of my cats had golden hair. Ingrid was a brunette and I'd had no blondes in my kitchen for weeks.     That meant we had company. Although I'd seen only Ingrid, my personal alarms had rung and I hadn't been able to shake that feeling of an extra presence in the room.     After putting my camera back in the computer room, I checked my plaster mix. Almost ready. I thought I heard Ingrid talking softly and wondered what she was doing in there that was taking so long.     When I heard the bathroom door open, I tucked the hairs I'd found under a paper towel on the table and pretended to be studying the mold as Ingrid returned and sat down.     Moocher promptly entered the kitchen from the living room and reinstalled himself on her lap. He seemed oblivious to Ingrid's patting as he stared rather fixedly at the alcove archway.     Glancing in that direction, I saw nothing unusual, but that sense of an extra presence had returned with Ingrid. I moved around the table so that my back wasn't to the alcove and started applying the plaster to the inverted bowl where it rested on the newspaper.     Working my way up to the three stubby little legs, I noted that even the legs had tiny designs on them. Damned tiny designs, at that. I began to wonder if I'd charged her enough for the replication job ahead.     When the plaster had stiffened a bit, I used a plastic scalpel to incise lines that would allow me to create a three-piece mold, then used the hair dryer again as I twitched up smears of plaster to look like tiny curled waves all over the mold.     As I began slicing two-inch wide strips from a two-liter soft drink bottle, Ingrid spoke again.     "Now I have a question," she said. "How long will the plaster have to dry?"     "Half an hour or so, then I'll put plastic strips in the slits and add another layer. That's why I made those little wavelets on the surface of this layer of plaster. They're something for the new layer to grab onto."     "What I mean is, how long before you can take the bowl out of the mold?"     "Oh. Maybe three hours if I put it in the oven at one-fifty with a fan aimed at the oven. Can't rush things like that too much. There's a lot of detail to screw up on this thing."     Nodding, she sipped her coffee, then softly said, "I hope I haven't wasted a hundred dollars."     I glanced up from what I was doing to see what expression might accompany those doubtful words. Ingrid raised a hand and shook her head as she spoke again.     "I just meant that I wonder if the replica will... never mind."     "Will what?" I asked as I tucked a plastic strip into a groove on the mold.     "Never mind, please. I wasn't questioning your work."     Without an answer for that, I simply nodded and began preparing the next load of plaster, applying it quickly in thin swipes so it would dry rock-hard. Ingrid continued watching me work in silence.     Once the last of the second layer was in place, I turned the mold right side up and added plaster to the bottom of each segment as needed to form a supporting base. When the mold could stand upright and level on its own, I again used the hair dryer on it for some minutes.     Clearing her throat, Ingrid spoke above the dryer's noise to say, "I'm sorry, but I can't leave the bowl with you."     Turning off the hair dryer, I looked at her for a moment, then said, "Well, then, I can set out some sheets and towels and you can fight Moocher for the couch. Or you can take everything home with you and bring it back tomorrow."     Her surprised look turned to a narrow stare as she said, "You said you could take the bowl out in about three hours."     "Yup. So I did. But the mold has to dry thoroughly before I can use it, and I'll need the bowl for reference while I work if you want the replica to be as precise as possible."     "I'll bring it back tomorrow."     Glancing at the mold on the table, I said, "Then I'll take the bowl out of the plaster tomorrow. Stay put while I find a box."     There seemed to be a vague, glimmering smudge of some sort inside the bowl. No, not a smudge. Something else. Condensation? Seepage from the plaster? It covered almost a third of the bowl's bottom. I reached with a finger to see if it would rub away.     Ingrid instantly came halfway out of her chair to ringingly swat my hand away and rather piercingly shout, "No!"     Moocher wound up pinned between her lap and the table briefly before he managed to scrabble free and haul ass into the living room in something of a panic.     Rubbing the welt forming on my wrist and hand, I quietly said, "Lady, maybe it hasn't occurred to you that I'll actually have to handle that bowl while I work on it. I'm going to see if my cat's okay, then you can explain why you did that or you can take your bowl and hit the road."     With a sigh, Ingrid tremblingly lowered herself back into her chair, then covered her face with her hands and shook her head slightly.     "I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't let you... I couldn't let you reach into the bowl."     Heading into the living room to find Mooch, I said, "Oh, hey, I kinda gathered that much on my own, ma'am. Back in a minute." Facing the living room, I called Moocher.     He poked his head out from behind the melodeon, then let himself be coaxed into reach and consoled as I checked him. No damage apparent.     When Ingrid walked up behind me, Mooch gave her a wary stare, but didn't try to jump down. Ingrid asked if she could hold him and spent some minutes baby-talking and petting him before handing him back to me.     Holding Mooch up so we were almost nose to nose, I asked, "How about it? You all better, now? Think you're gonna live?"     Mooch responded, "Yaahhh!"     Patting him again, I set him on the floor and said, "Great. See you later," then turned to Ingrid with, "Now tell me why you smacked me and squashed my cat. What's the big deal about the bowl?"     Ingrid bit her lip and fudged. "Well..."     I waited. She fidgeted, then came up with, "I couldn't let you touch that spot."     "Why?" I shot back quietly.     "I... I just couldn't."     Heading for the flattened boxes behind the couch, I said, "Not good enough. I'll pack it up for you and give you half your money back. Maybe you can find someone else to fix it."     As I opened a box and tucked the flaps together, she sputtered, "B-but..."     "No. No buts. I'll have to handle it just to get it out of the mold and handle it some more while I match up the designs. If I can't do that, there's no point in continuing." As an afterthought, I said, "Tell you what, though; you can pick the bits out of the mold."     Shocked, Ingrid whispered, "The bits?"     "Oh, yeah. Bits. No way will that bowl come out of the plaster in one piece. The glue job was just to get the mold made. I was going to reassemble it while the mold dried."     After taping the box bottom and putting a few layers of newspapers in the box, I took some more newspapers to the kitchen and opened them to begin wrapping the mold. Ingrid followed. As I spread the newspapers over the mold, she stopped me.     "Wait," she said. "Let me see something first."     She tore off a bit of the paper and wadded it tightly into a ball, then let it fall into the bowl. It rolled to the bottom and landed on the glimmering smudge, then the paper began to vibrate wildly.     I chuckled. "Well, damn! How..?"     The paper wad began dancing frenetically around the very bottom of the bowl, never quite leaving the smudged area. I reached for my reading glasses and peered through them at the scene in the bowl, but there was nothing more to see. Just the glimmering patch and a paper wad going crazy.     Looking up at Ingrid, I asked, "That's the big deal? It's interesting, but I wouldn't call it reason enough to mash Moocher, hit me, and cancel the job."     Ingrid said nothing as she poked the bottom of the bowl with a pencil eraser. She then sat down and looked up at me as if intending to plead with me.     "Can I trust you?" she asked. "I mean, really trust you?"     "If you can ask a question like that, you already have most of the answer."     She blinked at me and canted her head slightly.     "What do you mean by that?"     "It means you're feeling predisposed to trust me or not and you'll come to your own decision. I'll get another coffee while you think about it. Want one?"     Discovering her cup was half full, she shook her head. I put together a fresh coffee and returned to the table. The paper wad in the bowl was still dancing like a water drop in a hot skillet. I watched it for another few moments as Ingrid studied me.     "What makes it do that?" I asked.     Shaking her head, Ingrid said, "I don't know." Chapter Two     Taking a penny from my pocket, I let it slide into the bowl. Ingrid hissingly took a breath and almost moved to stop me. The penny hit the glimmering patch and jumped an inch or so, then rapidly flipped a few times and ended up spinning on its edge in the center of the glimmer. The jumping paper wad hit it and was knocked out of the bowl.     Chuckling again, I said, "Cool." Looking at Ingrid, I said, "Not really worth a hundred bucks to me, but kind of neat, huh? What else does it do?"     Her left eyebrow arched high at me, then her gaze returned to the bowl.     "It makes things disappear," she said softly. "Or, it did. Before it was broken."     "Disappear? You mean like drop them in and they vanish?"     Nodding, she said, "Yes. It was as if they just fell through the bottom."     I watched the penny spin for a moment, then asked, "Ever get anything back out of it? Have you tried?"     Looking at me as if I was nuts, she very firmly said, "No."     "Why not?"     She didn't answer, but her startled, 'that wouldn't be proper' demeanor told me the bowl probably had some sort of religious significance to her. Right. Well, each to his or her own, and all that. I set my coffee down, spread some newspapers, and picked up the mold. When I turned it over, the penny fell out. I placed the mold upside down on the paper and began wrapping it.     "Uhm..." said Ingrid, her hand half-raised to stop me.     I stopped wrapping. "Yes'm?"     "You... ah... you don't have to do that. Not if..." her sentence trailed off.     "You want me to finish making the replica?"     Ingrid met my gaze for several moments before apparently coming to a decision and answering, "Yes. But I have to be here while you do it."     I started wrapping again with a slight shrug. "Okay, so bring it back tomorrow and we'll see about getting the bowl out without screwing up the mold. When you get home, unwrap it and set it in front of a fan."     Standing up and walking halfway around the table to place a hand on mine and again stop my wrapping effort, Ingrid softly asked, "Ed, how much more would you want to... to work on this bowl -- and nothing else -- until it's finished? And to let me stay here while you work on it? This is important to me. Very important."     'Ed?' She'd used my name for the first time that I could remember.     Her right hand rested on mine and her left hand rose to touch my shoulder for further emphasis as her breasts brushed my arm. I looked into her beseeching gaze and saw that her eyes didn't seem to match her gestures. There was no softness, no warmth, and her pupils had contracted tightly.     Glancing at her hand on mine, I met her gaze and asked bluntly, "Exactly what are you offering, Ingrid? No offense, but I think this Marilyn Monroe act is just a bit of manipulatory pressure to keep a man from saying no to you. I also think you're very uncomfortable doing it. Your eyes damned near turned to stone."     Ingrid's expression became almost impassive and her hands returned to her sides as she looked at me. After a moment, she said, "The question stands. How much?"     "Add another fifty and order a couple of large, no-anchovy pizzas for tonight's dinner because I'll be using the oven to dry the mold."     Her eyebrows went up, then her gaze narrowed. "That's all? Fifty dollars?"     Pulling the paper off the mold, I shrugged and said, "If you want to pay more, I won't mind."     I put the mold in the oven, set it to one-fifty, and clamped a little fan on the open door to keep the air moving. Ingrid handed me another fifty bucks. After gathering up the newspapers, I pointed to the calendar on the refrigerator door.     With a grin, I said, "Village Pizza's number is on the fridge calendar, milady. You can call for our dinner around six."     She followed me out to the back porch and watched as I set a couple of worn-out altar tile molds on the plastic-topped work table and filled them with scrap slip, then covered them with plastic wrap.     Touching the wrap, Ingrid said, "The details aren't very clear in these molds."     "Nope. They're shot, but I'll have a couple of quarter-inch thick clay tiles to work with later."     "Why are you covering them?"     "To keep the tiles damp and soft. They'll be ready for rolling by the time the bowl mold is dry enough."     "Rolling?"     "Like cookie dough. It'll speed things up a bit if we don't have to wait for liquid slip to solidify in the mold. Won't soak the mold, either. A ten-minute fill to establish a skin, then I'll dump the slip out and press the tiles around the inside."     Shaking her head, Ingrid interrupted me with a firm, "No."     I looked up and grinned at her as I chuckled. "No? Just like that; no?"     "Just like that. Don't ever put your fingers inside the replica bowl. Not even into the bottom of the mold itself, I think. Just don't. Just in case."     Shrugging, I said, "No problem. I was going to use another bowl to press it into place, anyway. That way I'll have a smooth interior from the start."     Ingrid seemed to consider that for a moment, said, "Oh," and then sat down heavily on one of the plastic chairs near the porch table and sighed.     "Ingrid," I said. She looked up and I continued, "I've handled weapons, explosives, wild animals, and other things that would have cheerfully taken my fingers off. This is no different. You let me know there was a risk. I saw the penny and I believe you and now I'll just work around it. Okay?"     She nodded, then sighed again and stood up to walk back to the kitchen, where she assembled another coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. I sat down across from her and sipped my own coffee as I wondered what sort of company she'd be during the mold-making process.     When the silence seemed to become awkward, I excused myself to turn on the computer and check the day's haul of email, which was somewhat more than I'd expected. WiccaWorks had several small retail orders and a wholesale order, as well as several catalog requests.     The Abintra Press email box held nine ebook orders, mostly for Palm format, and orders for two ebook CD's, which I made while I read the other messages and the newsgroups.     As I was bashing out a reply to a message about converting HTML ebooks to LIT format, Winston, my tortoise-shell cat, parked herself on a corner of the computer desk and looked at me intently.     "Yes, ma'am?" I asked.     "Aaahhh," she said. I reached to ruffle her chin and she looked at the kitchen door as she again said, "Aaahhh," this time in a questioning tone.     "Yeah, she seems okay. Hey, you're the security officer around here. Go check her out while I handle this stuff."     From the direction of the kitchen, Ingrid asked, "You have two cats?"     I didn't look around as I continued scuffling Winston and said, "I have three of 'em, but you won't see Charlie until ol' Winston, here, tells him you're okay."     Moocher saw that Winston was getting some attention and instantly decided he wanted some, too. When he hopped up to the desk, Winston gave him a desultory look and then looked at Ingrid before again looking at me.     "Yeah, go ahead," I said. "She probably doesn't bite."     Winston hopped down and headed toward the kitchen as Mooch took her place and leaned into my fingers. In the reflection from my monitor screen I watched Winston amble over to Ingrid and sniff cautiously. Ingrid leaned to pet Winston, then knelt to continue petting her.     "Don't pick her up," I said. "She doesn't seem to like that. She may get on your lap, though, when you happen to have one. That's a hint."     "Ah. Okay. Why don't I use that chair by your desk, then? Unless you'd rather I didn't see what you're doing?"     "Heh. File conversions aren't real personal stuff. I'm just sending an ebook to someone."     As she sat down, Ingrid asked, "What?"     Finishing my reply message, I said, "File conversions. How to make ebooks that'll work in a proprietary reader gadget."     "Like a Rocket eBook? A friend of mine has one of those."     "Yup. Or a Pocket PC, or the Palm gizmos."     "I have a Palm... gizmo. A Visor something. Someone gave it to me for my last birthday. I never use it."     "Reason?"     She grinned and shrugged. "I don't need it. I remember everything well enough."     "Same here for most stuff. Notes for the rest."     I clicked on the next message and found it to be essentially the same question, so I back-paged to the reply I'd sent and copied my answer.     Paging forward to the new message, I hit 'reply' and pasted the contents of the copy buffer into the open space, then adjusted the message somewhat for that individual and attached the ebook to the message.     When I hit the 'send' button, Ingrid said, "Wow. You made all that look so easy."     "It was easy. And it saved me from typing all that again."     "That doesn't look like my browser."     "It probably isn't, if you're still using what came with your computer. This is Mozilla."     "Mozilla?" She didn't seem to recognize the name and said, "I don't know very much about my computer yet. I've only had it for a month."     "Well, sit tight and watch, then. I have to add some stuff to my web pages."     The surprise in her voice bugged me as she asked, "You have a web site?"     "Yes'm. Two main sites and two that I use as backups. WiccaWorks has two and Abintra Press has two."     As I talked, I watched her faint reflection in the monitor screen. Her startlement seemed genuine enough; she'd stopped petting Winston and stared intently at my monitor as I switched programs.     Bringing up my browser, I loaded the WiccaWorks index page from the hard drive and let Ingrid see it for a few moments before clicking the 'stoneware pendants' link. Once the page had loaded with all the pictures, I clicked to view the source file and the page's HTML code popped up as text in an editing window.     After adjusting the italic and bold wordings in a few places, I saved the results and reloaded the page in the browser. It looked right, so I clicked up my FTP program, then sent the changed page to the two WiccaWorks websites. As a last step, I used the browser to go to the website and view the new 'stone pendants' page. All good.     I closed the FTP program, closed the editor and the browser, and turned to face Ingrid, who was still focused on the screen.     "Like I said," she said wryly, "You made that look easy."     "And like I said, it is easy. I could teach you enough to get you well-started with computing and the net before that replication bowl is finished."     She shook her head. "My computer came with a different kind of... main page, I guess."     "That's just the splash screen. Do you mean the 'operating system'? The main program that runs the computer?"     "Yes. This one doesn't look at all like mine."     Clicking up the screen settings, I set the format to mimic the most common operating system's screen and asked, "What about now?"     "Now it looks kind of like mine. What did you do?"     Setting my screen back the way it had been, I said, "They all do the same things the same ways. Icons. Mouse clicks. There's very little difference in that regard."     "Then why are there so many versions of the same thing?"     "Proprietary marketing, mostly. Making the product look fresh and new and forcing people to 'upgrade' their software and hardware fairly frequently to keep up with each others' version changes."     "You don't upgrade?"     "Nope. It's all about making money and it's completely unnecessary for about ninety percent of all computer users; people who putz around with word processors, spreadsheets, graphic programs, and like that, never using more than ten percent of a machine's capabilities."     "But aren't some upgrades about closing security holes?"     "Those are fixes, not upgrades, and don't let anyone tell you differently. If you have to download security patches, they put out a defective or incomplete product."     Ingrid read aloud the word "Xandros" from the screen and asked, "What's 'Xandros'?"     "It's my operating system; the program that runs all the other programs. It's built on Linux. It's never crashed on me and the viruses and worms that periodically plague everybody else can't touch me. They aren't made for Linux."     "Can just anybody use Xandros? I mean, is it hard to learn?"     Shrugging, I answered, "You put the CD in your computer and fire it up. A few clicks and half an hour or so later you're running Xandros. From there, it's just a matter of clicking on what you want to do, just the way you've always done it."     She looked dubious.     I said, "Used to be, Linux was for geeks who could write their own programs. Xandros was designed for everybody else; the non-programmers of the world. Everybody already knows how to mouse-click an icon." Getting out of my chair, I asked, "Want to try it? Click up the file manager."     Settling into my chair, Ingrid swirled the mouse pointer around the screen, then sent it to the files icon. Her double-click opened a window that showed her my music directory. After scanning the list, she clicked on 'Magic Bus', by The Who.     Up popped the player program and music filled the room as Ingrid studied the list and added 'Happy Jack' to the play list.     "I pulled those off my 'Who' CD," I said, "So I could make an expendable backup CD for the car. Later I got an MP3 player and now I only need one CD for a hundred and sixty songs."     When Ingrid looked up at me in surprise, I said, "When I drive up to DragonCon in Atlanta, I only need to carry two disks; one for rock and dance and the other for classical."     She seemed appropriately impressed. I watched her click up my word processor, then open one of my ebook spreadsheets. She closed those and opened Mozilla, which made the autodialer open and dial. She closed those, too, then looked up at me.     "It works just like mine," she said as if she couldn't quite believe it, "Only the program names and the background pictures are different."     Sipping coffee, I said, "Yeah, that's about the size of it."     Ingrid's eyes traveled from me to the computer, from the computer to the kitchen doorway, and then they fell on Winston, who rather questioningly looked back at her as if to ask, 'Why did you stop petting me?'     As her hands again began to move for Winston, Ingrid looked up at me and asked, "You do a little of everything, don't you? Kind of a Jack of all trades?"     Shrugging, I answered, "That's how things have worked out, I guess. I figure you're the same way, though."     "What makes you think that?"     "Just do. You're a witch, for one thing, and witches tend to have more than one talent to draw from."     "How did you come to the conclusion that I'm a witch?"     "Any woman who thinks outside the lines is considered a witch in this society."     Ingrid snickered, then said, "True, but you're evading the question."     "You found me, didn't you? WiccaWorks, that is; right down to this phone number and street address that I didn't have to tell you and that isn't in the phone book. That means you're a 'someone' among local witches or you're with the government, and I really don't believe you're with the government."     She laughed. "No. I'm not with the government, but you really weren't that hard to find."     "Right. You just happened to run into someone who told you to see me about fixing your bowl. Nah. Not the most likely scenario, ma'am. More likely you're something of a local honcho up in Crystal River; one of the quiet ones who show up at the Firebird events and maybe only a dozen VIP-types know them by name, if that many."     I sipped my coffee and added, "You're the reclusive village wisewoman. The one even the most arrogant 'High Priestesses' turn to for advice now and then. Bet you know what there is to know about herbs and natural medicines and such. You know how to test people, too, and you tested me in the kitchen with that Marilyn Monroe act. Tell me, Ingrid, are test results valid if the testee realizes he's being tested?"     With a small smile, she said, "That depends. And I'm not all that reclusive."     "Mind if I ask another question?"     Shrugging, Ingrid said, "Sure. Ask away."     "How long has that bowl been broken and why are you a hundred and fifty bucks' worth of interested in getting a copy of it made by Thursday?"     After a few moments of silence, Ingrid asked, "Do you know much about astrology, Ed?"     "Nope. Astronomy, some. Astrology, not much."     She nodded. "How about demonology?"     "Nope. Never bought into stuff like that."     Her smile became somewhat larger as she asked, "If I could call up a demon -- right here and now -- would you buy into it then?"     Regarding her quietly for a short time, I said, "I don't believe in demons, but I'd prefer that you attempt something like that on the back porch, where there's nothing too breakable."     Ingrid's laugh was melodious for a moment, then she seemed to realize that I wasn't kidding.     She asked, "If you don't believe in such things, why worry about where I call one up?"     I held up an index finger and sagely intoned, "Safety first. I don't know how you intend to try it. And why would you want to call up a demon in the first place?"     Sighing, Ingrid said, "He isn't really a demon. It all comes back to the bowl, Ed. I found it at a public auction in Germany some years ago, back when I collected almost anything unique or unusual, and that bowl certainly qualified. Anyway, it only cost me a bit less than five dollars at an auction, but when I got to the Czech border, the Germans suddenly decided it was an 'antiquity' and demanded twice its value as customs duty. Then the Czechs nailed me the same way for bringing it into their country. I was on a train, so I couldn't do anything but pay up or surrender the bowl. I paid the customs and tax duties on it and continued on to Prague."     Saying nothing about the fact that her story already didn't ring quite right, I waited as she sipped her coffee and continued, "Like everything else I sent back, it sat in storage until my year of study ended. When I returned, I discovered that the bowl's lid had been broken in transit. At the time I was disappointed, but I didn't know about the bowl's... hidden properties, you could say. The reason there had been a lid."     She chuckled. "I put the bowl on a table with the intention of filling it with peppermint candies for a small homecoming party that night. Imagine my surprise when I poured candies into it and they seemed to fall right through the bottom."     Her hand mimed holding a candy and dropping it.     "As soon as they hit that shiny spot, they passed through it and disappeared. I tried dropping other things into the bowl, too; coins, buttons, pebbles... Everything disappeared when it hit that shiny spot. Then my cat, Daphne, started to reach into the bowl. I panicked and yelled and Daphne scrambled off the table. The bowl landed on a chair and broke."     Again sipping her coffee, Ingrid seemed to have finished her story about the bowl. I considered a few things quietly and turned to the computer, then clicked up the net connection.     "Mind if I look something up?" I asked.     "No, but I may already know what you want to know. Why not try asking me?"     I shook my head. "In a minute, maybe. I want to see what's on record."     Click, click, click. Maps. Eastern Europe, pre-1989. Yup, I was right, and from working in Europe as a semi-spook, I knew how tough it could be to cross a Commie border, even to another Commie nation.     Turning back to Ingrid, I said, "Ingrid, people couldn't cross an East German-Czech border without some very special permits -- even since the Iron Curtain came down -- and you likely wouldn't have gotten those permits as nothing more than a college student."     She stiffened and said coolly, "I was an archaeology student. I spent a year gathering on-site experience at several digs throughout Europe."     "Name one in Germany, please."     "Why?"     "I'm curious."     Sighing, she said, "Gera. We found traces of cave dwellers along the river and stack-stone ruins on some hilltops."     Nodding, I entered the name 'Gera' in the search engines. Yup. Several digs around the city and the river, and all of them closed in 1939 due to serious floods and the war effort. None of the sites had been accessible during WW-II because the Nazis had been on a racial root-finding binge and couldn't allow foreigners to confound their ancestral fantasies with facts.     For safety reasons, neither of the sites had been reopened to further excavation since 1939. No way did Ingrid get dig permits, not even after they'd pulled the wall down. Things had been too chaotic and there'd been no money over there for anything but absolute essentials.     Was it worth the aggravation to argue the disparity with her? No. I had her money and she'd get her replica bowl and we'd part company. I hadn't known her the day before and I likely wouldn't see her again.     I nodded without comment and turned off the computer, then went to tap on the mold to check its drying progress. Ingrid followed me into the kitchen a few moments later and stood watching as I rotated the mold on the oven shelf.     "You think I lied to you," she stated. "Don't you?"     "I know damned well you did," I said without looking at her. "Doesn't matter. You'll get your bowl and I'll get my money and that'll be the end of it."     She snapped, "It does matter, damn it!"     "Then you shouldn't have lied." Resetting the fan for best effect, I turned to face her and asked, "Why does it matter, Ingrid? You'll get your new bowl and be gone tomorrow, if all goes well. Zap. Done."     I noted her stance, the set of her jaw, and her sharp gaze. She was a damned good looking woman with an impressive demeanor. And she was getting pissed, as demonstrated by her sharp tone as she snapped, "Why do you think I lied to you?"     "I was a low-end spook in Europe for over a decade, Ingrid. Border crossings were tough enough when we had real papers to show the border guards. Westerners didn't so much as take a leak in the East without an escort, and they damned sure weren't allowed to putz around in closed archaeological sites. A student visa to Gera? Hoo-hah. Not since 1939." Chapter Three     Ingrid met my gaze with a stony glare for some moments, then said crisply, "Ansen. Appear, please."     Absolutely instantly -- with no puff of smoke or flash of light or anything to announce the event -- a being of some sort appeared by the table. It stood about five and a half feet tall, was covered in what looked like fine, inch-thick golden fur, and appeared to be neither male nor female in particular.     An androgynous ape? No. Too slender. It stood straight, too, as straight as any human, and didn't have an apelike face.     My adrenalin surged and I instinctively assumed a defensive stance in the space between the fridge and the table. Ingrid quickly moved to stand between me and the creature and put her hands on my forearms.     "It's all right, Ed. He's not dangerous."     'He?' I didn't see anything to justify a gender assignment. Its face was almost human-like, except for being completely furred, and it had golden, round-pupiled eyes colored a slightly darker shade than its fur. Except for a tail that was somewhat like that of a cat, it appeared generally humanoid.     As I stared, it smiled as if mildly amused and its tail moved to drape rather elegantly over its left arm. Its teeth seemed like ours, more or less; even the canines, I noted. On each of its hands were a thumb and four fingers. Ingrid had summoned it, so it probably understood some English. Or at least her commands. Might as well find out.     I stuck my hand out and tried to smile as I said, "Sorry for staring. I'm Ed."     The creature took my hand and said in a voice as androgynous as its appearance, "No need to apologize. I'm Ansen. It's nice to meet you."     Was I shocked? Oh, hell, yes. To the core, but shock is a useless state of mind. Better to fall back on good manners, stay alert, and see what happens next.     Just before Ansen released my hand, I felt a faint tingling in my head, almost like when you have to strain a bit to focus on something properly.     He asked, "You knew I was here, didn't you?"     "I knew something was here. Couldn't see you, but I found these while everybody was in the bathroom." I lifted the paper towel to uncover the golden hairs I'd found on the floor.     Eyeing the hairs, he simply said, "Ah. Yes."     "Would you like a coffee?" I asked.     Returning his gaze to mine, he noddingly said, "Yes, thanks. With a bit of sugar, please. No cream."     "You got it. Pick a chair and get comfortable. Are you hungry?"     "No, thanks. I ate an orange from the tree next door before I came in."     Turning to reach into the cabinet for a clean cup, I saw Ingrid staring open-mouthed at me. She'd probably expected me to panic or freak out. It was fairly obvious that she hadn't expected me to play the good host and offer him coffee.     "How's your coffee, Ingrid?" I asked, "Need it freshened?"     "Uh..." she looked at her cup, then back at me. "No. I'm, uh, fine."     With my back to them I considered matters as I studied Ansen in the reflection from the toaster. He didn't seem dangerous, but looks can be deceiving and too frequently are. No point in guessing. Watch and wait. I put together Ansen's coffee and presented it at the table.     Ansen sipped it and smiled again. "It's good. Thanks."     "There's more if you want it. What are you, Ansen?"     "I don't know. I can only tell you what the men who... found me... called me."     He said something that sounded like Hebrew, but not quite. I tried to repeat it and didn't succeed. He said it again and smiled as I screwed it up again.     "Oh, hell, never mind," I said, "That's just a label, anyway. You sound kind of British. Maybe Australian. Where are you from? How'd you get here?"     "I learned English from a British woman in Gera. My time with Ingrid has caused me to adopt a somewhat American dialect. I don't know how I got here or where I came from."     "No clue at all? Nothing?"     Ansen said, "A great many years ago, in what is now the city of Damiya on the Israeli-Jordanian border, I awoke inside a circle painted on the floor in a room made of stone. Two men were outside the circle. The younger one was standing by the door with a spear and the older one was kneeling in front of a small pillar, chanting something. The bowl you're working on was between me and the edge of the circle. I was so cold... I couldn't move at all for quite a while; it was as if I'd been frozen. The only light in the room came from a small window far above and the room smelled terrible. Some kind of animal had been killed beside the circle."     "How long ago did you... uh, appear... in the circle? Do you know?" I asked.     Glancing at Ingrid, Ansen said, "Our best guess is about three thousand years."     Sitting back, I grinningly said, "Woo! You're old, dude!"     Ingrid seemed shocked at my statement, but Ansen laughed and agreed.     "Damiya?" I asked, finally placing the name, "That's smack on the Jordan River, just north of the Dead Sea."     Ingrid blinked at me in exaggerated surprise and asked, "You just happen to know where Damiya is?"     "I was over that way some years ago. Trouble at Damiya's water works made the local news a few times."     "When were you there?"     "Late seventy-three and early seventy-four."     "Why?"     I sighed, "I was on an American Express tour that became a tour of duty in Refidim. Let Ansen tell his story, Ingrid. You can hear mine some other time."     Ansen sipped his coffee for a moment, then said, "Yes. It was -- is -- the Jordan River. At any rate, the two men seemed overjoyed as they studied me from outside the circle for a while, then they left. Some time later they returned, painted a new circle on top of the old one, chanted a while, and left again. By then I could feel my extremities, but only barely."     "A question," I said, "Do you think -- or maybe feel would be the word -- that you were brought here from somewhere else? As opposed to having been created here, I mean?"     Making a wiping motion in the air, I said, "No, wait; when you became conscious, were you able to identify things around you in actual terms -- like words -- or have you sort of given your initial impressions descriptions over the years?"     "You're asking if I arrived with a language of my own?"     Nodding, I said, "Yeah."     "Yes, I did, but except for things like air, light, and stone, everything around me was almost completely alien to me. And primitive. I remember thinking that and something along the lines of 'Where the hell am I?' and 'How did I get here?'"     I chuckled. "Yeah, I don't doubt that at all. If I got zapped to somewhere like that, those would be my first thoughts, too. Got any strong hunches about yourself at all? Who, what, where, why, and how?"     Ansen shrugged in a rather humanlike manner and said, "None. I named myself just to have a name. All I really know is that I can't stray too far from that bowl, whatever its condition, even though it burns me to touch it."     "Burns you?"     He nodded. "Yes. It feels that way. I've tried to pick it up at times. It felt hot to me. Very hot, although it had been nowhere near the fire."     Ingrid's eyes widened a bit as I said in German, "Over so many years you must have learned a few languages."     Ansen's immediate reply was phrased in an archaic manner, not the more relaxed form of today's casually-spoken German.     "Yes, I have learned approximately thirty-six languages and many of their dialects. Many of them overlap each other to a considerable degree, of course, being native to Central Europe. Your German sounds... unusual, Ed."     Rapping her coffee spoon on the table, Ingrid said, "Hey! Guys! Speak English, will you?"     We apologized, then I said to Ansen, "My German's just a bit newer than yours, I think. What else happened when you, uh... thawed out in that stone room?"     Shrugging, Ansen said, "Not much, for a while. We couldn't understand each other, so I had no idea what they were saying. After two days or so I was able to move, but the door to the room was locked, so all I could do was explore my prison. There were a lot of scrolls along the interior wall, so I began to try to make sense of them. Without much luck, I might add. At the beginning of each visit, the older man sprinkled something at me and chanted, then renewed the circle around me as the younger one stood guard. It seemed to me that they were very frightened of me and believed that the circle was some sort of protective barrier, so whenever I heard them coming, I'd step back into the circle and wait for them."     I chuckled. "Good thinking."     "When I indicated that I was hungry and thirsty, they seemed startled, but they tried to accommodate me. They left and returned with a jug of water and a large sack, in which was yet another dead animal."     He shook his head and laughed. "It was very unappealing. Repulsive, in fact. They seemed mystified when I didn't tear right into it. But they brought me a freshly-killed animal of some sort every day, and I became so hungry over the next two days that I eventually tried to eat some of one of them."     He groaned softly and said, "Oh, that was such a mistake. I threw it up immediately and I was so frustrated that I walked over to the older man, grabbed the front of his robe, and demanded -- even though they couldn't understand me -- that they bring me something that I could eat or let me leave. The man stiffened, then went limp in my grasp, and the younger one tried to spear me. I dropped the older man to avoid the spear, and that's when I discovered that I could turn invisible. When I took the spear from him, the younger man panicked completely and ran screaming out of the room."     Sighing, Ansen said, "I followed him into a maze of narrow passages, the whole time marveling at the fact that I couldn't see myself and expecting to meet more people with weapons. It wasn't long before I began to ache all over for no apparent reason. The farther I went from my former prison, the more I hurt, but I'd seen enough of that place. I finally found a passageway that led to the river and a small dock. The younger man was on the dock, throwing things into a rowboat. When I called out to him, he stared up the hillside for a moment, then jumped into the boat and shoved away from the dock. That was the last time I saw him."     Sipping the last of his coffee, Ansen continued, "I followed a path along the river, wondering how to become visible again, until I heard voices and went to investigate. By then I was in quite a bit of pain, but when I saw people eating at an outdoor table, I had to go see if there was anything on that table that I might be able to eat. The smell of one item in particular -- a loaf of bread -- almost made me forget about the pain. I very quietly approached the table and pinched some off a loaf to try it, and it was wonderful! When nobody was looking in my direction, I slid the loaf off the table and hunkered under the end of the table to eat it."     Sighing a chuckle, he said, "Some moments later, a woman screamed and I looked up to see her staring down at the bread in my hands. A man joined her and yelled, then he reached for his dagger as everybody else at the table got up and gathered around to see what the ruckus was about. I stood up and looked for a way past them, but there wasn't one, so I jumped onto the big table and hurried to the other end of it, snatched another loaf, jumped down, and ran into the woods with the bread. It was almost gone when the dogs showed up, but they stayed some distance away as they barked at me. I climbed into a tree and threw some of the bread to them. They seemed confused, but they ate it, so I threw them some more and they quieted a bit. Then some of the farmers arrived with knives and tools. They saw the dogs eating something and seemed to assume it was me. After a while they took their dogs and left."     I took our cups and went to make another round of coffee as Ansen said, "Then it began to rain. I looked for shelter, but the animals in the barn got very upset when I approached and a couple of the farmers came out of the house at the noise, so I headed back to the path and the passageway. As I got closer to my former prison, my pain seemed to fade accordingly. By the time I reached the passageway, it was raining hard and I was soaked and cold, so I continued up the passage into the building. The older man was still lying where he'd fallen and I couldn't find any signs of life, but I wasn't sure he was dead, so I left him there. I decided to use one of the lit candles to start a small fire on my prison room's floor. There was nothing in the room to burn except the scrolls, and I didn't want to burn those, so I used the spear to pry the door hinges apart and then to try to separate the boards. That didn't work, but that's when I discovered my strength. I was frustrated enough to try to shake the board out of the iron brace and the brace broke in my hands. I twisted the board out of the bottom brace and -- just for the hell of it, you'd probably say -- decided to try to break up the board as kindling. It wasn't very difficult, surprisingly enough. Some of the scrolls were blank, so I used those and a candle to kindle a fire in a corner of the room and went to sleep."     He and Ingrid took their coffees, then he continued, "I was visible again when I woke. The old man was still on the floor and I saw that he was, indeed, dead. I made another painful visit to the farm for food and a woman saw me. When she screamed, I became invisible again, apparently by some reflexive reaction. The next day soldiers followed my tracks, found their way into my shelter, and took the older man's body out of my room -- I later learned that they'd been looking for the 'sorcerer' to arrest him -- then they returned to remove everything of any value. When my pain began and became steadily worse, I realized that I was somehow connected to something that had been removed from the room."     Sipping his coffee for a moment, he then sat straight and shrugged.     "I'll trim the story down a bit. I followed the men to a temple, where they dumped their loot in a storeroom, then found a secluded place near that room to sleep. For a couple of weeks I foraged the altars for food and tried to learn as much as possible. That ended when an army invaded the city and ransacked the temple. The pain began again when some soldiers left the temple, so I followed them. When they split up to go to different tents, I followed the path of least pain and ended up watching one of the soldiers paw through some things he'd taken from the temple."     After another sip, he said, "Several of the objects he traded to other soldiers that evening had been among the sorcerer's confiscated belongings, but the pain didn't start again until the man who'd traded for the bowl left to return to his own tent. I followed him to his tent and watched as he studied the bowl by lamp light and noticed the shining spot in the bottom. He tried to wipe it away with a rag and the rag pushed through the spot. He called some other men and they all took turns putting things through the bottom of the bowl for a while, but then something seemed to grab one man's dagger as he probed the spot. He yelled and dropped the bowl and dagger and they all backed away from it."     Pausing again, he continued, "That's when I decided to act. I ran to pick up the bowl and lid with the idea of hiding in the nearby woods. When I touched the bowl, it felt as if my hands were burning. I didn't get far before I had to let go of it. Some of the men ran away and a few drew their swords, but none of them approached me, so I ran back to grab the dagger the man had dropped and put it through the shining spot until the bowl stopped against the crossguard, then I ran for the trees."     Ansen took another sip of his coffee, then said, "They didn't follow me. I spent a cold night sneaking back to the temple, then went looking for food among the altars. Someone had left a large old leather bag in one of the rooms, so I took it and cut strips from around the top of it to make carrying straps for the bag and a covering for the dagger; not a sheath, just enough leather to wrap it so it wouldn't put a hole in the bag or bang against the bowl."     I asked, "Did anyone think to look for you where they'd found the bowl?"     Nodding, Ansen said, "Oh, yes. The following afternoon, in fact. I saw them coming into the temple and almost panicked. That caused me to turn invisible again, so I took advantage of it and left by a back entrance. It didn't take long to find other accommodations in a space above a cobbler's workshop. Things were fine for a few days. I was able to slip out to find food and I... ahh... 'borrowed'... a small amphora from a nearby shop." Looking somewhat sheepish, he added, "So I could carry water up to my nest. I paid for it later with some coins I found in the temple fountain. A week or so later, I woke one morning to find a man staring at me from the entrance to the crawlspace. He called for me to come out -- which I did -- and then he fell off his ladder in shock."     Shaking his head with a small smile, Ansen said, "He was unconscious when I got to him. A woman came into the room -- his wife, I discovered later -- and saw me kneeling beside him. She attacked me rather ferociously with a broom and chased me around the room. The man woke up, saw us, and started laughing, which made her stop chasing me. I poured some of my water on a cloth and handed it to him, pointing at his head and arm. His wife saw his injuries, promptly took charge, and tended him while he and I stared at each other."     Sipping his coffee again, Ansen sighed. "He tried to talk to me, but we couldn't understand each other, of course. His wife said something to him and they argued for some time. I was afraid that they'd call the authorities, but he said something rather sharply to her and she subsided. We traded names -- his was Moachim and hers was Alepha -- and studied each other for a time, then he seemed to come to a decision and led the way into their home, which was part of the shop building. He tried to offer me breakfast, but their grain porridge had meat in it, so I opted for some fruit. I couldn't leave during the day, and they seemed to understand that well enough. Moachim said something very firmly to his wife and motioned me to follow him into the shop, then went to work. I found small ways to be useful during the day, cleaning and such. After dinner, I tried to thank them and started to leave as night fell, intending to follow the river path back to my former prison to see what else I might learn about myself. Moachim stopped me at the door and gave me some fruit and showed me how people handclasped to show friendship, then I left. I've been wandering ever since."     I asked, "Why didn't you stay there for a while?"     Canting his head slightly, Ansen gave me a wry smile and said, "The man's wife. When they argued, she'd snatched his purse off his belt and waved it under his nose. I was afraid she'd try to... is 'cash me in' the right term?"     Nodding, I said, "Yeah, it would be."     Ingrid said, "His encounters with people other than the sorcerer and the soldiers could have been so much worse."     I agreed with her, then said, "Speaking of dinner..." and checked the fridge to see if I had any apples left. Just two. I handed them to Ansen and he grinned as he took one.     "Thank you. I really love apples," he said. "Oranges, too, but especially apples."     Hm. Such enthusiasm over an apple. Hm, again... I was thinking of him as a 'he', but was he? I still couldn't tell, not that it mattered greatly.     I handed the other apple to Ingrid, but she shook her head and excused herself to visit the bathroom. Ansen munched his apple and I checked the mold in the oven. Progress; another couple of hours and it would be ready to pry open.     Returning to the table, I asked, "Did you ever find any clue about how you got here?"     "No, not really," said Ansen. He glanced toward Ingrid and confessed in a lower tone, "I don't have a better explanation, but I'm afraid I don't really believe in magic."     Shrugging, I said, "Well, neither do I, but sometimes it's a handy label for the stuff we don't quite understand. Do you know anything about the symbols on the bowl?"     Shaking his head, Ansen said, "Nothing, and I've never seen anything like them on anything else in my travels."     "Well, the bowl is made of plain old stone. Nothing special about it except the symbols. Any idea where it came from?"     Ansen pointed upward. "A meteorite, perhaps? It appears to have a chondrite composition with metallic chondrules and I've seen nothing like it native to Central Europe."     "Maybe the bowl didn't originate in Central Europe. Do you think that it being a meteorite -- or a fragment of one -- would have anything to do with how you came to be here?"     Again shaking his head, Ansen said, "I don't see how. A rock from space is still just a rock, as far as I know. Isn't it?"     "Damned if I know. Seems likely, though. Any idea what makes that shiny spot happen in the bottom of the bowl?"     Around a bite of apple, Ansen said, "No. No idea at all."     From the doorway, Ingrid said, "I do. The symbols are magical, and that's not just a handy label." Chapter Four     Ansen stopped chewing and froze as I asked, "You heard that, huh?"     "I did," she said as she looked at Ansen. "Believing or not believing in magic has nothing to do with whether it exists, and you admitted you don't have a better explanation for how he got here."     Hm. Ingrid rather firmly regarded Ansen as a 'he'. Wonder if she's just assuming, or has she actually seen any evidence?     "Okay," I said, "Magic or whatever; if it was used to bring Ansen here, how was it used? If we don't know that, we're just making a new bowl that'll look like the old bowl."     "I think he came through the shining area," said Ingrid, "I think it's some kind of portal."     Glancing dubiously at the mold, I said, "But you didn't see it happen, and a two-inch diameter makes it a damned small portal, ma'am."     She shrugged. "Maybe when the bowl was whole, the shining area filled it. Or maybe there was something in it."     "Hm. That's still kinda small for a critter his size."     Ingrid stiffened slightly and said, "I'd prefer that you not call him a critter."     "Yeah? What is he, then? Is he even a 'he'?" As a grinning aside to Ansen, I added, "Just curious, y'know. I never discriminate based on gender or fur color."     Ansen returned my grin as he took another bite of his apple and said, "Thank you. To answer your question, I'm male."     Winston peeked around the kitchen doorframe at Ansen. When nothing dire happened to her after some moments, Moocher and Charlie also appeared in the living room -- albeit at safe distances -- and studied the furry visitor.     Some people hold that animals can spot someone's true nature. I don't subscribe to that sort of mythology; I've seen too many neurotic housepets that had no more sense than their owners, especially about people.     Small animals are naturally cautious of larger ones, and Ansen would seem exactly that to a cat. I also never force my cats to meet someone new unless there's good reason, such as the time friend Glenda took care of them when I had to dash up to Georgia on short notice.     Winston eased into the kitchen a few inches at a time, then came to stand behind me, her body leaning against my legs as she peered at Ansen. I reached to pick her up and ruffle her chin, then put her back on the floor. Throughout my handling of her, her eyes remained solidly fixed on Ansen.     Ingrid asked, "Aren't you going to introduce Winston to Ansen?"     "Nope."     "May I ask why not?"     "No need. Win pretty much thinks for herself. Ansen, would you take a very theatrical bite of that apple and then offer it to Winston?"     He nodded and did so even as Ingrid asked, "What?" in a rather confused tone. I put a finger to my lips, then motioned her to watch Winston.     "It won't matter that he's offering her an apple," I said. "It's the offer that counts."     Winston edged forward, stretched even farther forward, and sniffed hard for some moments, then looked up at me briefly before advancing to sniff tentatively at Ansen's left foot.     He wiggled a toe and Winston startled slightly, but didn't retreat until he sat up. She backed up a couple of feet and watched him for a moment, then sat down under the table to study him some more.     "No sweat," I said. "Now the others will ease in here and they'll discuss matters, then Winston and Moocher will volunteer poor ol' Charlie to find out whether Ansen's really harmless." To Ansen I added, "Charlie's the silver-gray."     "How do you know he doesn't volunteer himself for things like this?" asked Ingrid.     "Well, maybe he does. But never before they've had a conference, and only rarely before Winston's had a look at the situation. That's why I think Winston volunteers him. Or maybe they vote on it or Charlie always draws the short straw 'cause Winston always holds the straws. I'd say leave 'em to it and let's get back to Ansen's story."     Ansen looked up from the cats and said, "You have the essentials, Ed. I was in Gera, staying in the attic of a house that was heavily damaged in a flood. It was all I could do to survive and I temporarily lost everything -- my bowl, money, canteen and other utensils, and a few other personal items -- to a torrent of mud that accompanied the water through the city. I later found my possessions by following pain -- or rather the lessening of my pain -- to a spot where mud had settled between buildings near the river. People were searching the area for bodies, so I stayed out of sight and waited. One of them found my bag and the police put it in storage with other unclaimed items, and that's where my things remained for almost ten years, until someone decided it was time to clean out the storage room."     "That's where I came into the picture," said Ingrid. "I was walking through Gera's river district and found a street auction, where I happened to buy an old bowl."     Hm. That story still sounded doubtful to me, but I said nothing about it as I looked at Ansen and said, "Wow. Three thousand years on the road. That's gotta be a new record for living out of your luggage. Good thing you didn't have to do much laundry."     Ansen grinned and nodded, but Ingrid snapped, "Will you please take things just a bit more seriously?"     Laughing, I said, "Don't get so tense, lady. Things are as they are and that's usually serious enough." Rising to stretch, I added, "You haven't said what you hope to accomplish by cloning that bowl, so why don't we discuss that next?"     Ingrid looked at Ansen, then took a deep breath as if intending a great revelation.     "We think Ansen was brought here -- to this world -- through that bowl. We need to find a way to send him home."     Making a circle with my thumb and forefinger, I looked through the circle at Ansen, then at Ingrid, and said, "He must weigh one-fifty or more and that's a little bitty hole, ma'am."     "What has been done can be done again," she said flatly.     "That's faith," I stated equally flatly. "I prefer reason. Even if he did come through it way back when, how do you intend to send him back through it? And how could you be sure you'd be sending him back where he came from? Remember the peppermint candies you mentioned? Where has the stuff gone that you've already put through the bowl?"     Ansen had nibbled his apple and watched without comment as I spoke. He continued to do so as Ingrid's gaze became a narrow glare and she rose to her feet.     "Those," she said in a controlled tone, "Are questions we'll address if your replica bowl..." -- she seemed to search for a word -- "works... the way the broken one did. We have no reason to believe it will. Only faith that it might."     I sighed. "Yeah, faith it is. Hope, too. And reason, I guess. The bowl was one solid piece of stone with symbols on it. I can replicate those conditions pretty well, so unless there's something about the type of stone, I don't see why the replica won't make the shiny spot happen, too."     Turning to Ansen, I asked, "Is this what you want? To try to zap yourself back to wherever through a hole in a bowl?"     He grinned. "It does sound pretty risky, doesn't it?"     Standing up, he went to the sink, ran some water in his cup and sipped it, then turned to face us and spoke quietly.     "Three thousand years, Ed, with no one else like me for company. Most of that time I've been on the run. Twice I was caged and put on display. That was in the early middle ages. What would be my fate if today's authorities discovered me? How long would I be a lab animal? Would I survive their curiosities? I don't mean to offend, Ed, but I'm kind of tired of this particular world. What would you do in my place?"     Meeting his golden gaze for some moments, I said, "Even if the replica works, finding a way to fit you through that little... spot... remains a problem. On the other hand, there'd be no reason to think a larger version wouldn't also work. Something in concrete, maybe."     Ansen grinned and again draped his tail over his left arm, then said, "That occurred to me, too. Quite some time ago, in fact, but my first effort to carve a bowl out of a boulder was interrupted by warring tribes along the Jordan, so I moved north and westward to what is now Turkey. There I found a secluded spot with abundant food and water and a cave for shelter and set about trying again. When the Roman army invaded, my haven was discovered by refugees."     "The Romans..? That would be almost eight hundred years from the time you appeared, I think."     "About that, yes."     Ingrid asked somewhat snidely, "So you've studied Roman history, too?"     "Read a few things here and there. Why so long, Ansen?"     "Are you asking why it took me so long to start carving another bowl, or why I moved so far from my first efforts?"     "Yeah. Both, I guess."     "To the first question; caution. I realized the connection between the sorcerer's efforts and my appearance in the circle. I might have been imprisoned, tortured, and killed. To the second question; people had been wandering the region for centuries. Rock suitable for constructing my bowl was also very suitable for constructing temples and cities, so I had to find a place where there weren't any people."     I reached into the oven to rotate the mold again as he continued, "I was forced to move again, of course. The area became a city almost overnight when the Romans opened several mines in the region."     "Damned Romans," I tossed over my shoulder, "Always underfoot or barging in, huh?"     Ingrid's lips compressed to a thin line at my comment.     "Indeed," said Ansen. "There seemed to be no escaping them. Considerably further westward I found a place perfect for my needs along the eastern side of a river and again began carving. Within the year, the Romans again appeared and fought a massive, pitched battle against the Huns -- in my valley, of course, and all around me. It was sometimes all I could do to avoid detection. Things settled down, the Romans established a colony and called it Lugdunum, my cave became quarters for quarry slaves, and my unfinished bowl became crushed rock for road-building in the region."     "Lugdunum," I said. "The big battle was in 41 A.D. or so? Now it's called Lyons?"     He sipped his water, nodded, and said, "That's the place. I relocated and tried again, of course. A lot of the known world of that time was sparsely inhabited woodland. My next effort was interrupted by people, too. Close to fifty of them showed up in the fall; men, women, children. It looked as if a village had been driven into the forest."     "Jesus," I said. "You really had a lousy run of luck, dude. Was it the Romans again?"     "No, this time it was the remains of an army that the Romans had defeated to the north. Hundreds of soldiers and their camp followers were looting their way south along the Garonne River toward the Mediterranean."     He sighed and added, "But, of course, the displaced villagers decided to settle in my immediate vicinity, partly due to my unfinished bowl. They found it and decided that the south end of the valley was sacred in some manner."     Shrugging, he said, "The Romans disagreed, of course, when they arrived the following spring. They took the refugees as slaves and turned the area into yet another quarry for road rock. I purloined some of their tools and moved northwest into the Pyrenees Mountains to begin work on another bowl."     "Pyrenees?" asked Ingrid. "They're in Spain, aren't they?"     Ansen said, "They're on the Spanish-French border. As I understand it, people still argue heatedly over precise borderlines in the mountains. After several months of studying the region, I settled on a small cave near a spring and undermined a large boulder to make it roll into my sheltered area. I then caused a landslide to block the entrance to my habitat and set to work. May I have that other apple, Ed?"     As I moved to get it I said, "Sure," and tossed it to him. He fielded it and nodded as he said, "Thank you," and took a bite of it, then he sighed again and hunkered to pet Moocher, who seemed to have lost his caution.     "One day two hunters had a bad fall near enough for me to hear cries for help. One man lay on a rock outcrop with a broken leg. His friend was dead. When the hunter saw me, he shot an arrow at me, so I stayed a safe distance away and tried to communicate with him. He couldn't understand me and threatened me repeatedly, so I tried to carry his friend's food to him. He shot at me again, so I threw the food bag where he could crawl to it and went back to my cave."     Ingrid seemed shocked. "You just left him there with a broken leg?"     I said, "That beats the hell out of stopping an arrow for trying to help."     "Indeed so," said Ansen. "I went back late that afternoon to see if he'd changed his mind about my help. He was unconscious, so I used his pack lacings to bind him and straightened his leg, then used his bow and another stick to make a rudimentary splint. He woke up in my cave and screamed so that I had to cover my ears and go outside."     With a chuckle, I said, "I hope you took all the water with you."     Ansen's grin matched mine. "Yes, I did. I stood just outside the entrance and let him see me drinking it, too."     Our shared humor seemed to confuse and infuriate Ingrid.     She rather sharply asked, "May I ask why you teased him like that?"     "He wasn't teasing," I said. "He was communicating. High altitude, injury, and exposure will make a man thirsty as hell, and unless that man's a total fool, he'll realize sooner or later that cooperation is the only way to get a drink."     "He did," said Ansen. "Once I was a safe distance away, his screaming stopped. Then he saw me drinking and I saw his reaction. When I held up the bag and pointed at him, he didn't hesitate long. After I gave him a long drink and showed him what I'd done about his broken leg, I set the food bag near him and untied him. He stayed with me almost two months and I showed him where I'd buried his friend's body. He promised not to tell anyone about me when he left."     Looking up from stroking Moocher, Ansen said, "But he did tell someone, if not right away. People came for his friend's body, then I saw no one on the mountain for a few months, but one afternoon I heard someone calling my name and found a young girl climbing my mountain. Her name was Aslea and she was an orphan who'd been taken in by a farmer who'd... abused her. He'd been caught and punished for his crimes, but Aslea was -- what's the term? 'Damaged goods'? -- in more ways than one. As a child, a fire had slightly disfigured one side of her face. Women couldn't own property and she had no dowry, so she had little chance of acquiring a local husband of any quality. Her future would have been one of bonded servitude or prostitution."     Straightening up and refilling his cup with water, Ansen said, "So I taught her what I'd learned of herbs and plants and she helped me carve my bowl. I'd started by hollowing the interior of the stone. We finished that and began marking the exterior surface, but a particularly harsh winter drove us into the cave and generally kept us there. Spring came and we resumed work, but one day as we were about to join two sections of the designwork, the stone of the bowl began to warm as if there were a fire under it. Soon it was glowing with heat, and we retreated to the cave for safety. The next day, there was a sound like a double clap of thunder and the bowl exploded with a force that collapsed a nearby cliffside."     I set my coffee down and glanced up at the oven before saying, "Well, hell, Ansen, thanks for telling me that before I started screwing around with the designs." Turning to Ingrid, I asked, "Did you know the damned thing might blow up?"     She looked genuinely concerned as she shook her head, then softly said, "No, I didn't, Ed. I honestly didn't."     For a minute there was some tension in the kitchen, then it occurred to me that she'd been sitting right next to me as I'd reassembled the bowl, and that the bowl hadn't seemed inclined to explode when I'd glued it together.     "Wait one," I said. "It didn't heat up when I glued it together. Why? The designs were broken until I stuck the pieces in place. Wouldn't that be about the same as the gap between designs that you said you were trying to complete?"     Ansen shrugged. "Apparently not. If I'd seen or felt any signs of excess heat, I'd have prevented you from continuing."     "Well, that's good to know, even at this late date. Got any thoughts about why the big bowl heated up?"     He shook his head. "None. From years of study I could probably draw those symbols and patterns from memory, but I understand no more about them than you."     "Huh. Wonder how they carved the symbols on the bowl in the first place?" I reached into the cabinet beside the sink for a plastic bowl and asked, "Ansen, what would happen if you just drew the symbols on a bowl? Have you ever done that?"     "Yes, with charcoal on a wooden bowl. Nothing happened, except that the woman who owned the bowl became nervous about it and threw it in the fireplace."     Grinning, I said, "Gee. Some people, huh?" then set on the table a dark green bowl of a size that would contain a small cantaloupe. "Maybe the angles were wrong. What do you think would happen if you drew the symbols on this bowl?"     "It isn't the same shape," said Ingrid, holding her hands to mimic the shape of the stone bowl. "The stone bowl has shallower sides, more like a satellite dish..." Her voice softened to almost a whisper. "Oh, my."     "Yup, that's kind of what I was thinking, too," I said. "But I'd expect the focal point to be elongated, rather than a dot in the center. Maybe in a zone about four inches from the bottom. The question is, what the hell would that bowl focus to make a spot where things disappear?"     "Energy," said Ingrid needlessly. "Some kind of energy." Chapter Five     Although tempted, I didn't say anything like, "Well, duh, ma'am." Ingrid seemed thoughtful as she stared at the mold.     Turning to me, she asked, "But how could Ansen squeeze through that small an area?"     I also didn't point out how often I'd already mentioned that question. I simply pointed at the computer in the living room and said, "Compression. A crude analogy, maybe; but one of my ebooks can fill a floppy disk. Zipping it compresses it to about ten percent of its original size inside a protective code-shell. I can then send it to someone."     Ingrid shrugged and said, "If you say so. Ansen's the computer geek in the family, so he probably knows what you're talking about."     When she looked at him, Ansen said, "Yes, I do."     Turning back to me, Ingrid asked, "So you think he was sent here?"     "Possibly not 'sent', exactly. Could be he was simply... well, downloaded... from somewhere else in the universe. Teleported or whatever. No way to know that unless Ansen can remember something about an existence before he arrived here."     Sitting down at the table, Ansen swallowed some apple and muttered, "Which I haven't in three thousand years. I've never even dreamed about anywhere but Earth."     "Well," I said, "Since we're talking about building what may be a transporter, maybe it's time to force that issue a bit. Can you be hypnotized? Has that been tried?"     The slightly denser golden fur above his left eye, apparently equivalent to eyebrows, arched noticeably as he said, "No."     "If we can find a hypnotist who won't freak out, would you give it a shot?"     Ansen shrugged. "Yes."     "Do you actually know a hypnotist?" asked Ingrid.     "No, but I'll betcha bucks a hypnotist would give it a shot after he or she got over meeting Ansen. Do we have time to find one? What was the big deal about Thursday night?"     "Oh," said Ingrid. "That."     "Yeah, that."     "Nothing, really. I just wanted to... limit our chances of exposure. To no avail, obviously."     "Exposure to me in particular, you're saying."     "Well," sighed Ingrid, "Yes."     Laughing, I said, "I'm hurt, ma'am. Crushed, disappointed, and like that." Turning to Ansen, I asked, "Ansen, how many people have met you or seen you over the centuries?"     He shrugged and said, "Oh, hundreds."     "And did all of them think you were a demon?"     "No, some thought I was an angel. Some have lately thought I was an alien," He grinned and plucked up some of the golden fur along his arm, "And a few thought I was from the mountains of Tibet."     "Nah. Wrong color for a snowman. Hey, what happened to that woman in Spain? And how'd you wind up in Gera?"     Ansen looked wistful for a moment as he stared into his water, then said, "I'd had enough by then. I decided not to try to carve another bowl unless I could learn more about how it functioned, and that seemed to mean returning to the Middle East. Aslea went down to her village to see whether she could find a way to carve herself a niche there. A few days later she returned with clothing for me and wouldn't speak of her visit. She said she wanted to come with me. She also wanted to develop a magic show and use it to make money on the trip. A week or so later we started our journey, and after stops in a dozen or so villages we were able to buy a donkey and cart. Aslea began assembling a collection of herbs and added herbal remedies to our show."     With a laugh, I asked, "You became a traveling snake oil salesman?"     Giving me a look that could only be called wry, he said, "Hardly. Well, yes, sort of. But our concoctions were really very effective, particularly the topical painkillers. We followed the southern coastal route and did quite well financially until we reached Marseilles, where one of the nobles objected to a woman owning any sort of property. His men stopped us on the road. When they appeared, I quickly disappeared with our money and hid it in the forest. They confiscated our donkey and wagon and took Aslea into custody. I followed them into town to free Aslea and get our possessions back."     His determined expression and tone as he spoke of going into town made me grin at Ingrid as I said, "Woo! This guy's John Wayne in a fur coat! Not 'see if he could free Aslea' or 'try to free Aslea'. Huh-uh. No, no. He went 'to free her'. I like that." Doing a poor John Wayne imitation, I said, "'It's time ta saddle up an' go git mah lady back, Pilgrim."     Ingrid rolled her eyes and snickered softly.     Ansen chuckled and said, "Well, I'm afraid it wasn't quite as dramatic as that."     "Ha. It was if you got her out of there. Back then the only negotiating tools were fear and money, and you already told us you buried the money. So, what did you do? Sneak in and do a spook number?"     "Something like that. I slipped into the castle and found Aslea in the dungeon. We agreed upon a few tricks and a general plan to impress her captors, then I ran through the castle destroying things, shoving people, and shouting 'Free my lady! Free my lady!'"     Ingrid snickered and I laughed.     Ansen smiled and said, "It didn't take them long to bring Aslea upstairs. She told them that her 'demon' would haunt the castle forever if they didn't let her go. I was on a rampage the entire time, of course, waiting for Aslea to 'command' me to stop, which she eventually did. Our wagon and donkey were returned to Aslea along with ten silver coins as reparation. They were most happy to see her leave."     "No doubt," I said. "Where did you go from there?"     "Toulon, still following the coast. Somewhere between Toulon and Nice we met a young man named Georges. He and his father had been with a group returning to Nice from a business trip -- they were cloth merchants -- and had camped on a hillside up from the road. His father had died during the night and Georges -- ill, himself -- had used a bolt of cloth to wrap his father for travel. The others of the group had feared disease and left them behind. We found Georges struggling to lift his father's body into their wagon."     Sipping his coffee, Ansen said, "At first Georges was very leery of a disfigured woman traveling alone. I suggested to Aslea that she mutter something in her native tongue and wave her arms a bit, then I lifted Georges' father into their wagon. To Georges, of course, it seemed like magic. Aslea then took command of matters, ordering Georges to rekindle the campfire so that she could make him some broth and herbal tea. By the next day he felt a little better and we got underway."     I made us another round of coffees as Ansen continued, "Around midafternoon, Georges passed out and nearly fell out of his wagon. Aslea and I put him in her wagon, tied his horse and wagon to ours, and we continued on. Georges roused a couple of hours later, so weak he could barely sit up to look around. He asked what Aslea had done to him, then he saw me and became somewhat hysterical. When he produced a small knife, I reached into the back of the wagon to disarm him and that, of course, only made matters worse. He panicked and started to clamber out of the wagon. Aslea stepped down and waited until he faced her, then slapped him soundly and said, 'Quiet, you stupid boy! We are trying to save your life and help you return home! What would your father think of you acting like this?'"     He took his fresh coffee, thanked me, and said, "Georges subsided and we helped him back into the wagon. By the next day, his father's body had become intolerable and we talked Georges into letting us bury him a distance from the road. By the time we reached Nice the three of us had become fair friends to a degree and Georges was feeling much better. I disappeared as we neared Nice and for the next two weeks stayed invisible when anyone was around, appearing only to Aslea and Georges in private. Aslea and Georges became lovers, and Aslea wanted to remain with him, but Georges' mother -- Yvette -- was convinced that Aslea was a witch of some sort. She called Georges and Aslea to her room one evening and demanded that Aslea leave. I whispered a suggestion to Aslea that she 'summon' me, then appeared when she did so. Yvette fainted instantly. When she finally woke up we explained me as a repentant demon, adding that although I had other places to attend, I could be summoned again as needed."     I asked, "A 'repentant' demon, huh?"     Nodding gravely even as he grinned, Ansen said, "Oh, indeed so. One that regrets being a demon, but can do nothing about it and so consigns himself to the control and purposes of a person of pure heart."     With a skeptical look, I said, "Uh, huh. People believed just about any damned thing back then, didn't they?"     Chuckling and patting Moocher, Ansen said, "Many people still do. I stayed another two months and visited with Yvette nearly as much as with Aslea. She'd taken her husband's death very hard and we often talked long into the night, sometimes about things I think she'd never have told anyone else. Georges' and Aslea's wedding was planned for a few months later, but I wanted to be beyond the Apennine mountains before winter. They saw me off one morning with gifts and tears."     Sipping his coffee, Ansen sat back from patting Moocher and sighed. "I'd already crossed the Apennines once. It wasn't a pleasant journey. In Venice, I thought of trying to stow away aboard a merchant ship, but it seemed unlikely that I'd remain undetected on such small vessels, so I camped in a shipyard loft while considering matters. One evening a man was robbed as he left the docks. I intervened by appearing and tossing one of the robbers into the harbor. The others fled and I returned the victim's purse to him. He looked as if he wanted to run, too, but he thanked me profusely and asked if there was anything he could do for me. I asked if he knew how I might successfully hide aboard an eastbound ship. He laughed. 'Hide?' he asked, 'I own three ships, and you'll have no need to hide aboard any of them.' He then took me to his house and I had dinner with his family. He amended himself concerning my need to hide aboard ship -- allowing that the common sailors might not be quite as understanding of my differences -- but spoke to one of his captains and introduced me to the man. A few days later we set sail and I next stepped ashore in Haifa."     Sighing again, Ansen said, "When I arrived in Damiya, I found that the sorcerer's tiny castle had been turned into guard billets and political offices. I searched the building and the surrounding area for almost a decade, but found no traces of the sorcerer's works. When an earthquake collapsed the building, people scavenged the stones for other uses."     He shrugged and said, "And that, as they say, was it. There was simply nothing left to do. I wandered around Europe and Britain until -- in April of 1929 -- I saw pictures in a British journal of recently-discovered pottery that seemed to bear symbols very like the ones on my bowl. After learning what I could about the discoveries through postal correspondence with the British Museum, I headed for Gera and searched for answers. Fruitlessly, I must add."     I sipped my coffee for a moment, then said to Ingrid, "And ten years later they closed the digs and there was an impoundment auction for stuff none of the government types wanted. But you aren't quite old enough to have been the woman who bought his bowl, ma'am."     Ingrid shrugged and said, "My grandmother attended the auction and bought Ansen's bowl." With a little grin at Ansen, She said, "He's been in the family ever since."     Turning to Ansen, I asked, "How come you didn't just grab your stuff and run in 1939?"     "Until it was taken from the impoundment room I had no access to it. During the auction the street was too crowded, then Gabrielle -- Ingrid's grandmother -- bought my bowl and took it to a florist shop nearby to be wrapped for transport. I was afraid she intended to mail it somewhere, but she took it with her to dinner with others from her group, then to her hotel room, where she put it with her luggage in a corner of the room. I'd followed her into her room and stayed very quietly out of her way until she went to the bathroom."     He grinned and sighed, "But when I picked up the box containing my bowl, I heard a metallic 'click' behind me just before something small and hard dug into my back. An arm wrapped tightly around my neck and Ingrid's grandmother quietly told me that I should instantly become visible. I quickly described myself and asked her not to shoot me on sight. She calmly informed me that she might shoot me due to my actions, but not my appearance."     Pausing to sip his coffee, Ansen then continued, "When I became visible, I heard her gasp and felt her stiffen, but she didn't shoot. She continued holding my neck as she guided me to the bathroom, then she blocked the doorway, released me, and told me to have a seat, which I did, and I saw that she held a Luger pistol. Have you ever looked into the barrel of a gun that was pointed at you, Ed?"     "Yup. Several times. They look like tunnels, don't they? Ingrid's granny sounds like a pro. Who did she work for?"     "Gabrielle was an American employed by British Intelligence. Her travel among archaeological sites was an ideal vehicle for gathering and retrieving information about Nazi activities and intentions. Gabrielle told me to put on a hotel bathrobe. I did so. Only then did she seem to relax at all, but the muzzle of that Luger never wavered. I briefly explained myself and my interest in the bowl. She then had me open the box and slide it to her. After looking the bowl over carefully, she asked me if I had any opinions about Germany's leadership or politics. I told her that such things didn't interest me. She then asked me questions about what I am and where I came from and didn't like the answers. After a few moments she told me to stand up and turn around, then she twisted a towel around my neck and kept a grip on it as she told me to lead the way to the front door. I did so. As soon as I stood beyond the doorway she whispered 'take off the robe'. I did so and she kicked it into her room, then yanked the towel away and closed the door."     I laughed. "Just like that? Interview over?"     He noddingly grinned, "Yes. Just like that."     "Tough lady. You weren't part of her op, so she tossed you."     Nodding again, he said, "Exactly so."     "What did you do then?"     "I turned around and knocked on her door. We hadn't discussed the bowl, and I very much wanted to know what Gabrielle might know about the symbols. She cracked the door enough to let me see the pistol muzzle as she asked, 'What do you want now?' I told her. She seemed to consider matters. Someone came up the stairs and I turned invisible. Once the man had gone into another room, Gabrielle held up the robe, opened the door a bit farther, and waved me inside as she said, 'put it back on first'. I did so. She grabbed my arm as I entered and closed the door and told me to become visible and stay visible at all times. Gabrielle then told me to take a seat on the bed as she sat in the chair by the desk. I learned nothing about the Gera symbols that I hadn't already known and nothing new about the symbols on my bowl, and sometime near midnight she told me to leave and let her get some sleep. As she escorted me to the door, she said that she'd keep the bowl for the moment and that she'd be going to the dig site in the morning to take some pictures, and that I should find a way to meet her there."     He shrugged and sipped coffee. "She had my bowl and I hadn't met anyone truly interesting and knowledgeable for quite a while. The next morning I sneaked aboard the truck that came to take Gabrielle to the site. We talked quietly for hours as she excavated a section of the cave floor. We eventually became friends and sometimes played practical jokes on the other members of her group and the guards at the site, but one day orders came to close the site. A few of the German students were invited to continue working within Germany, but only at sites of interest to the Nazis, who were interested only in proving that their national lineage was pure according to propaganda standards. Foreign archaeologists were expelled, including Gabrielle. I returned to Britain with her, then to the US in 1942. The bowl was broken when our plane from New York to Chicago landed poorly."     Ingrid quietly said, "It didn't 'land poorly', damn it. It crashed." She turned to me. "I saw Gramma's newspaper clippings. Twenty dead and the plane was scrap metal. There were people, plane parts, and luggage all over the runway. Gramma's steamer trunk looked as if someone huge had sat on it, then kicked it around the airport, but it never opened."     Ansen said, "Gabrielle liked to say that things were built to last back then."     "They were," I said. "Everything became disposable during the last half of the twentieth century. I take it your bowl was in her trunk. Where were you on the plane? Didn't they try to fill all the seats back then?"     He nodded. "Most eastbound flights were full of military people, but flights westbound tended to have quite a few empty seats, so Gabrielle and I chose seats in the rear of the plane, where the fuselage narrowed and the seat rows were only two seats wide. A small plane collided with our plane as we landed. The entire tail section of our plane broke off upon impact and slid well clear of the burning wreckage. Gabrielle and I were bruised, but essentially unharmed, so we set about trying to help others who were less fortunate."     Ingrid snickered and said, "One woman with a broken leg said she was carried out of the wreckage by a ghost."     Grinning with her, Ansen said, "An airline employee later managed to pry open Gabrielle's trunk with a crowbar and Gabrielle immediately checked my bowl, which was completely undamaged. She was in the process of rewrapping it when a small child who had been on our plane saw her father in the crowd across the corridor and ran to him without regard for her surroundings. She was hit by a baggage cart and fell hard against Gabrielle, knocking my bowl out of her hands. It shattered when it hit the floor, but at least the wrapping kept all the pieces together."     "Jesus," I muttered, "To survive being hauled around for three thousand years, a flood, and a plane crash, and then to get smashed by some stupid kid in an airport lobby. That truly sucks. How come you waited so long to try to fix it?"     For a moment nobody spoke, then Ingrid said, "We thought it might be dangerous, of course."     Her words had a hollow tone, as if they were meant to excuse the preceding conversational gap, and they didn't ring quite right to me. I met her gaze and let her see my slight skepticism. A slight blush crept up Ingrid's neck.     Uh, huh. Danger, indeed. Danger that she might lose her fuzzy golden friend, perhaps?     I looked at Ansen. He'd busied himself with rubbing Moocher's chin and introducing his other hand to Winston, who -- after letting Moocher discover whether Ansen ate cats -- had finally begun to closely investigate the furry stranger.     "Go ahead, Win," I said. Winston looked up at me and I added, "He's okay, Win."     Without looking up from Winston, Ansen said, "Dogs tend not to like me very much, but cats very often seem to think I'm a place to sleep."     As Winston jumped into Ansen's lap, I said, "Same here. Cats seem to like me." Chapter Six     I suddenly felt someone outside the house and quietly snapped, "Disappear, please," as I rose to go to the door. The doorbell rang just as I reached for the knob and I opened the door to find Christie, my next-door neighbor's daughter, who was home on leave from the Army.     "Hi, Ed!" she said brightly, sweeping her blonde hair out of her face against an insistent breeze. Then she saw Ingrid in the kitchen and said, "Oh. You have company."     With a small grin, I asked, "You didn't notice the strange car in the driveway when you walked around it? I thought our troops were a little more alert than that, Private Carver."     Her little one-sided grimace that morphed into a weak smile told me that she hadn't missed spotting Ingrid's car. She probably hadn't missed spotting Ingrid, either.     Christie's eyes narrowed sharply and her gaze shifted from Ingrid to the table area. As she stooped slightly for a better look at whatever it was, I glanced around to see what had caused her change of expression.     Oh, damn. Under the table, I could see Winston lying across Ansen's lap, which meant that she appeared to be suspended in mid-air about five inches above the chair. Winston complacently gazed back at us as Christie gasped softly and peered even harder at her.     Ingrid realized the situation and quickly stepped between us and Winston as she gave Christie a little wave, but it was too late, of course. Christie's stare met Ingrid's for a moment, then her eyes switched to mine.     "Ed..." she began, then seemed to ponder how to phrase a question about a floating cat. I heard a light thump as Winston jumped down and peripherally saw Winston looking back at Ansen with a disgruntled expression.     "I'm... ah, working on something," I said. "It's a kind of magic trick." Opening the door, I said, "Come on in and I'll see if I can make it happen again."     Christie seemed hesitant as she asked, "You do magic?"     Shrugging, I said, "Well, it isn't real magic, of course."     Peering at me again briefly, she accepted my invitation to come in and stood in the kitchen doorway as I introduced her.     "Christie," I said, "This is Ingrid. She brought me a piece of artwork to fix. A bowl. So far I've glued it back together and made a plaster mold of it. That's what's baking in the oven."     As I pointed at the above-counter oven, Christie's eyes tracked to the white blob of plaster on the second shelf.     "You're going to make a replica?"     "Yup. The original was in pretty bad shape."     Nodding, she glanced at Ingrid again, then softly asked me, "Are you going to be free this evening?"     Holding up the money Ingrid had given me, I said, "She's paying me to get this done by Thursday night. We wouldn't have time to go anywhere between stages, so I'm kind of stuck here."     I could almost feel Ingrid stiffen up behind me. Christie's eyes narrowed a bit as they peered past me at Ingrid.     "Ed, she doesn't seem too happy that I'm here."     "The bowl was a personal item, Christie. Ingrid didn't really even want me to see it."     Christie's eyes flicked back to mine. Her suspicion was fairly obvious. "Look, I'm not intruding on anything, am I?"     Slightly shaking my head, I leaned to kiss her lightly and said, "No, milady. You're not intruding. How about a tea?"     After another moment of regarding me, she said, "A beer would sound better."     "Coming right up." I pointed at Ansen's chair and said, "Don't sit there, though. I may need that chair while I work."     Moving to the fridge, I retrieved an Ice House for Christie and set it in front of the chair at the end of the table as she approached, then went to touch the mold to check dryness.     Moocher hopped up on the table and greeted Christie with enthusiasm that made her smile. She reached to pat him and continued to do so as she studied Ingrid and me. As I leaned to pick up my coffee, I let my arm brush Ansen's shoulder. Yup. Couldn't see him at all, but he was still there.     "So how's the Army these days?" I asked. "You haven't called in quite a while, ma'am. I figured you'd dumped me for some paratrooper."     Ingrid glanced at me oddly, but said nothing.     "Sorry," said Christie, "I've just been so damned busy with training lately. They put us on alert twice this month, too. Nobody comes or goes or makes phone calls or anything else until some brass hat lifts the alert."     "Yeah, I remember those. Drills suck. Did you check out that glider school near Ft. Devens that I told you about?"     Nodding, she said, "Yes. The guy who runs it is an asshole. No way am I flying tandem with him."     "They don't have anybody else on staff?"     Shaking her head, she said, "No. Well, I think they do, but I think this guy Lennie told everybody that I'll fly with him or not at all."     "The curse of beauty, ma'am. Does he own the place?"     "No."     "Then find the owner and show him a credit card. Tell him that if Lennie bugs you again, there's another kite school."     "It's halfway across the state, Ed."     "Massachusetts is a small state, Christie. And glider pilots are the kind who'd make the trip. He'll believe you. It's damned hard to sell those kites, ma'am. They're expensive and he can't sell you one if you haven't had the whole course, so if Lennie is a problem, he won't be a problem for long. Think the Army'd let you fly one on post?"     "I don't know. I don't think so."     "Check it out. You may be surprised and there's a big-assed hill on that post. You're still on the road to becoming a dental tech, right?"     Her look let me know she thought that was an odd question as she said, "Yeah. Still a dental tech. That's why they sent me to Ft. Devens."     "Just wondered," I said. "Devens is also a spook school. Or it was until they moved most of the spy school to Ft. Huachuca. Devens probably still has the basic facilities, though. Have they tried to recruit you as a spook?"     Christie grinned. "Yes. Well, sort of. I said no. How do you know so much about Ft. Devens, Ed?"     "Been places, done stuff," I said. "I wasn't always just a semi-retired hang-gliding writer-ceramist, y'know."     Moocher apparently decided it was someone else's turn to pet the kitty. He looked around the table and padded over to Ansen, where he stood looking hopefully at the space just above the chair. I reached to pet him to change his point of view and distract him from our invisible guest.     Ingrid had again stiffened noticeably and Christie had definitely noticed.     "Are you all right?" she asked Ingrid.     With a quick nod, Ingrid somewhat vigorously took over petting Mooch and said, "Yes. I'm fine, I think. Just a twinge. I, uh, seem to get them sometimes."     Petting cats can send bits of hair into the air. A few strands of Moocher-hair wafted up, then settled back downward. Those landing on Ansen simply disappeared.     Christie's eyes narrowed, then her hand flashed out and made contact with Ansen.     "Oh, my God!" she shrieked hissingly, standing and shoving her chair backward. "There's something there!"     Ingrid simply sat bolt upright and still, horrified to the core.     "Aw, hell," I sighed, "Ansen, in your experience, what's worse? Not being seen or being seen?"     He replied, "Not being seen by someone who knows I'm there," as he seemingly popped into existence. Looking at Christie, he added, "Hello. I'm Ansen. Pleased to meet you."     Christie backed away from his extended hand as she stared blankly at him.     "Christie," I said. I had to say her name twice more before she looked at me. "Christie, this is Ansen. He's my guest. Be polite, okay?"     Her gaze met mine and she sharply asked, "What?!"     "I said, be polite." Putting a hand on Ansen's shoulder, I said, "He's gold and fuzzy, that's all. No biggie."     Ansen grinned at me, then looked back at Christie. Ingrid still looked a bit horrified. Oh, well. Moocher had been startled by the sudden movements, but now he was again approaching Ansen for some attention. Ansen picked Mooch up and held him on his lap as he petted him.     "There," I said. "See? Do you need a better reference than that? The small furry thing isn't afraid of the big furry thing. C'mon, Christie, sit down and drink your beer."     She stared at Moocher, who was upside down in Ansen's lap, getting his tummy tickled and his feet diddled. His purring was audible enough for all to hear.     I went to the oven to rotate the mold again and returned to my seat. Christie was still standing. She looked at the three of us in turn for another moment, then pulled her chair into place and sat down.     "Cool," I said. "Now, Ansen, where were we in your story?"     "Here," he said. "The present."     Christie almost whisperingly asked, "What are you?"     Looking up from Mooch, Ansen said, "I don't know."     Her gaze turned somewhat skeptical, then she asked, "Well, where did you come from?"     "I don't know that, either, but I've always suspected I'm not from Earth."     She seemed to be trying to decide whether he was teasing her as she asked, "Well, what do you know?"     Matter-of-factly, Ansen said, "About myself, very little."     "Too bad you didn't get here earlier, ma'am," I said. "We already went through all this once today."     Ansen turned to me and asked, "Do you fly often, Ed?"     "Yup. Weekends. Got a hang glider in the garage."     "I wish..." he shrugged slightly, "I wish I could do things like that, but..."     Seeing the horror on Ingrid's face at his comment, I said, "Gliders can be rented. Want to give it a shot sometime?"     Both Ingrid and Christie seemed to think I'd gone insane.     "Well, hell," I said. "People have met him before, right? It's just a matter of finding the right instructor. Someone who won't freak out."     Ingrid said, "You don't seem to understand something, Ed. His survival in our world hinges on remaining undiscovered."     "Um-hm." Turning to Ansen, I said, "Hey, mister, lemme tell ya about the gold, fuzzy, invisible alien who rented a Wills Wing the other day. Damnedest thing you never saw."     Ansen chuckled. Neither woman seemed very amused.     "Okay," said Ansen. "I'll try it if you can find an instructor who won't -- as you say -- freak out when he sees me."     Ingrid nearly screeched, "What?! Ansen!!"     Looking at her calmly, Ansen asked, "Ingrid, what will happen to me if I try to use the bowl? We don't know. We have no idea at all. I might be returned to wherever I came from. Or not. I might live through whatever happens to me. Or not."     Glancing at Christie, Ingrid said nothing.     Reaching across the table for her hand, Ansen said, "I'm tired of hiding, Ingrid. I've hidden from humanity for three thousand years. If I can't bring myself to try to use the bowl, I don't think I'll hide anymore. It's very lonely, you know."     Christie breathed, "Three-thousand-years?"     Nodding, Ansen said, "Almost exactly."     After a moment of staring around the table, Christie whisperingly asked, "Do any of you truly realize what he is?"     Ansen looked at Christie as if waiting for her to answer her own question. Ingrid fixed her with a suspicious glower. When her eyes again found me, I shrugged and said, "Tell us."     "E.T.!" she said, as if we were all retarded, "He's an E-fucking-T! The first-ever walking, talking, real live alien!"     "Prove it," I said. "Even he doesn't know where he's from."     "They can test him! His DNA!" Peering at Ansen, she added, "That's if he has any DNA."     "Why wouldn't he? And who's 'they', ma'am? Which agency would you trust not to use him like a lab rat until there's nothing left of him?"     Her blank look was accompanied by, "Huh?"     "Think, Christie. If only a few people meet him, he can be like some kind of bigfoot; just a dubious legend. If he goes public, the first thing 'they'd' likely do is quarantine him, even though he's been wandering the world all this time."     Ansen said, "I think I could probably survive a reasonable amount of time in quarantine if it would allay fears and eventually gain me a level of general acceptance."     He handed Moocher to me and stood up, then said, "If you don't mind, I think I'll revisit the orange tree next door."     "I have some potatoes and other veggies in the fridge."     Shaking his head, he replied, "Perhaps later, thank you. I've found that I particularly appreciate citrus fruits."     With a grin, I said, "Okay, then. Don't bother ringing the doorbell, just come on in."     Excusing himself to the ladies, Ansen vanished. Seconds later, the front door opened and closed, but it didn't seem to me that Ansen had gone outside.     I set Mooch on the table in front of Ingrid, who immediately used a fingertip on Moocher's nose to lead his wide-eyed attention to her face, then she talked some 'itty-bitty-kitty' baby-talk as she petted him. He purred back at her as I rotated the mold again, then sat down.     "Well?" I asked Christie, "The question at the moment is whether you'll say anything about him or not."     Christie glanced at Ingrid, then at me, then said, "I think I'd sooner report a UFO sighting. If I said anything, he'd just go into hiding, right?"     "Oh, no doubt about it," I said, gesturing at Ingrid, "And she and I'd make sure he had a safe, comfortable time of it."     Ingrid's eyes flicked to me. She seemed slightly startled at my expression of support.     I met her gaze and said, "There were times when I had to lay low for a while on hostile turf, and I damned sure appreciated any help I could trust back then."     Christie asked, "Lay low? Hostile turf?"     "Spook stuff in Europe," I said, picking the plastic cleaning tool I'd used on the plaster. "Being able to turn invisible like Ansen would have been a big help now and then."     Tossing the blunt cleaning tool at the doorway, I watched it stop in mid-air and partially disappear as Ansen caught it.     "On the other hand," I said, "That talent could be a lot more effective with some real surveillance training."     "Apparently so," said Ansen, reappearing and handing me the cleaning tool. "How did you know I hadn't gone outside?"     "Because Ingrid immediately went out of her way to get Moocher's attention away from the front door and I couldn't feel that you'd gone. You changed the way sounds travel in the room, too. I would have stood beyond and behind the kitchen doorway and I definitely wouldn't have leaned on it."     Ingrid snorted, "Oh, come on!"     Ansen shook his head. "No, Ingrid. Your mother was like that, too. She always seemed very aware of her surroundings."     "The refrigerator hum," I said. "Listen to it while I go stand in the doorway." I stood beside the doorway and asked, "Does it sound any different to you?"     "No," said Ingrid, as Christie shook her head. Ansen simply watched as I stepped into the doorway, faced them, leaned on the doorframe, and asked, "How about now?"     Christie glanced at Ingrid as if to see if she also heard a difference, then said, "It almost sounds as if there's another fridge over by the sink."     "The sound's bouncing off me and the dishwasher. Before, there was nothing to keep it inside the room."     I went to check the mold. It seemed dry enough to be difficult to scribe with a fingernail, so I put some newspaper on the table, then took the mold out of the oven and placed it right-side up on the papers.     With the sharp end of a cleaning tool, I gently pried bits of the original bowl out of the mold and set all the bits on the newspaper, then touched up the plaster impression of the bowl to remove as many of the obvious crack lines as possible.     For whatever reason, no shimmer appeared at the bottom of the bowl's impression in the plaster. I noted a slight distortion of light in the area, but that's all.     Using a plastic bowl as a press, I mashed a tile of damp clay into the mold and worked it, adding clay as required, until there was a uniform layer of clay a bit less than a quarter-inch thick around all but about a two inch strip of the bowl's bottom.     Spraying some water on the edges of the clay at the open region to keep it from drying too quickly, I used a peanut butter jar to roll a wad of clay into a strip to cover and fill the gap, then pressed it into place starting at the bowl's bottom and working upward to blend it with the other clay.     No sooner than I'd pressed the strip into place, the glimmering spot formed in the center of the bowl. I used the plastic tool to clean and block the top edge of the clay just inside the edge of the mold, then reached for the hair dryer.     Christie was mesmerized by the glimmering spot. She raised half out of her seat and leaned to get a closer look as Ingrid tensely said, "Don't touch it, please."     Flicking on the dryer and aiming it into the clay bowl, I said, "Well, we seem to be on the right track, anyway."     Moving the dryer to heat and dry the clay uniformly caused the top edge to start to pull away from the mold. I carefully pressed it back in place and worked the dampest regions of the bowl for a time until the darkness of the clay lightened considerably, then put a thin plastic cutting board over it.     "Ingrid," I said, "I'll turn the mold over. You'll make sure the board stays where it is. Okay?"     She nodded and put her hands on the board. I turned the mold over and we heard a soft 'clunk' as the clay bowl fell the slight distance to the board.     "Straight down with the board," I said, bracing my elbows on the table to steady the mold. "Don't let the bowl touch the inside of the mold or the detail could get messed up. Put it off to one side of the table."     Ingrid carefully lowered the board and bowl and set them on the table near Ansen. I took the mold away from the table and set it on the sink counter, then came back to the table to study the results of my work.     I studied the design on the bowl, rotating it to change the way the light hit it. The designwork seemed to have come out pretty well, but there were tiny raised lines where there'd been cracks in the old bowl. No problem, they'd come off with a damp sponge or a scraper.     Firing up the dryer again, I aimed it at the clay bowl and turned the bowl every so often to dry it uniformly.     Speaking above the noise, Ingrid asked, "What now?"     "Now we dry it thoroughly, then I clean it and touch it up as necessary, then we fire it in the kiln once to turn it to stone."     "What about the mold?"     "What about it?"     "Look at me."     I stopped blasting the bowl and did so. Her firm gaze met mine as she said, "I want it destroyed. Completely."     "Fine, once this bowl is finished. I don't want to have to make another mold to try again."     "The pictures, too. Ansen said you took pictures."     "Like the mold. Not 'till we're done."     "He said you used a digital camera. That you downloaded them into your computer."     Flicking off the dryer, I said with exaggerated patience, "That's what you do with digital pix, ma'am. You put them in a computer so you can look at them. Would you like them on a CD? No extra charge."     Giving me a droll look in return, Ingrid said, "No. I want them erased. Completely."     "I'd rather give you a CD. What if you get clumsy on the way home? Have a car accident? Trip over something?"     Ansen put a hand on her arm and said, "He has a point, Ingrid. If we take the pictures and the mold with us, you can destroy them later."     "Give it some thought," I said, flicking the dryer back on.     Some fifteen minutes later I put the dryer down and picked up a double-ended cleaning tool. Using the flat end, I buffed off the most easily reached sections of crack-lines, then flipped the tool and used the narrow blade to lightly scrape off the rest.     There were a few small places where some tiny bit had been missing, but only two of them coincided with the designwork. I filled the gaps with bits of damp clay and smoothed them to match the surface, then used the hair dryer again.     The fills that intersected the design didn't look quite right to me, taken in context with the rest of the designs on the bowl. It was about a quarter-inch-wide patch of raised area that just didn't seem to fit the rest of the pattern.     I studied the bowl for another juncture in the design that might match the general shape and found four such places, each slightly different from the others. Damn.     "Ansen," I said, "See this spot? What's not right about it?" Chapter Seven     Ansen asked, "Not right? Do you mean dissimilar?"     "Okay, 'dissimilar'. There are four places on this thing that have what seem to be small, unrelated designs tucked inside the larger loops. They all look alike except this one."     Studying the spot for a moment, Ansen gently rotated the bowl as he looked at the other spots.     "You're right," he replied, "There's supposed to be..." Shaking his head, he said, "Maybe I can still draw it."     I went to the printer for some paper and returned. Ansen used a pencil to sketch out a design, then modified it a few times as we watched. After a few minutes, he stopped sketching and looked at his work for a moment, then handed it to me.     It looked as if it would fit the space well enough. All I had to do was reduce it proportionately on the clay. I made a pencil rubbing of one of the other spots for size comparison and went to the computer.     Ansen scooted his chair back and stood up to follow me as I placed the paper on the scanner. Ingrid and Christie stayed at the table, but watched intently as the scanner's bar of light swept the images.     After cleaning up Ansen's sketch with lines that matched the other designs and superimposing the rubbing to compare image sizes, I carefully measured the original rubbing and printed my results.     As all eyes watched the printer, I quickly bulk-selected the entire folder containing images of the bowl and sent a complete copy of the folder to my word processing folder, then printed a second page as I reached for the first one.     Something about the patterns of dots within the design struck me and I put all four in an image block by themselves, then printed that, as well.     "Oh, you've gotta be kidding..." I muttered. Handing the printout to Ansen, I said, "Have a look at this," then I went back to the table for a plastic-tipped cleaning tool.     "What is it?" asked Ingrid.     I said, "We've been staring right at it, but not seeing it."     Picking through the original bowl parts, I found the piece I was looking for and scraped gently at it. Bits of stuff almost exactly the same color as the bowl fell away from a round indentation and Ingrid screeched and stood up quickly.     "What the hell are you doing?!"     Pressing the end of the tool against a piece of the debris on the newspaper made the stuff crumble to powder.     "Checking a hunch," I said, "This tool couldn't do that to stone. Lemme guess, here; before it was broken, this thing was cleaned like a delicate antique, right? No brushes or solvents, just a wipe with a soft, damp cloth? Maybe some Pledge?"     Glaring at me, Ingrid snapped, "It is a delicate antique, damn it!"     She snatched the shard of bowl from my hand and touched the stuff on the table with a finger, studying the powdery residue as Ansen brought the printouts to the kitchen.     I said, "Not anymore, it isn't. Let's scrub the pieces," and went to dig a toothbrush out of my toolbox.     Putting the strainer in the sink drain on general principles, I set all the fragments in a small bowl of hot, soapy water in the sink and set about scrubbing the designwork gently.     Within minutes the larger pieces of the bowl were lighter in color as centuries of unrealized grime and staining turned the water in the bowl brown. I changed the water and kept at it until all the pieces were the same lighter shade of brown.     Sometime during the cleaning process, Ingrid and Christie had come to stand on either side of me. When several minutes had passed and Ansen hadn't joined us, I turned to see him sitting at the table, staring rather glumly at nothing as he stroked Moocher in an absent-minded manner.     "Hey, Ansen," I said. When he looked up from the table, I asked, "Are you maybe thinking that you should have thought of scrubbing the bowl?"     Almost inaudibly, he answered, "Yes," with a slight nod.     Shrugging, I said, "Well, maybe so, but the same would go for anyone else who's ever tried to figure it out."     Ingrid instantly went to him and put her hands on his shoulders as she agreed, "Oh, absolutely, Ansen. How many times did my mother study the designs on that damned bowl?"     "That 'damned' bowl?" I asked.     She stood straight and gave me a challenging look, said, "Yes, that 'damned' bowl," then she strode back to the kitchen counter to pick up one of the pieces.     Holding it aloft, Ingrid said, "If these had been just bits of ancient pottery from a dig... But no, they were Ansen's only link to his past. And possibly his future."     "So you did what..? Stash them somewhere out of sight and out of mind?"     "What?!"     "Why has it taken so long to get around to trying to fix the bowl, Ingrid?" Turning to Ansen, I asked, "How about you, guy? I figure you just about have to know something about making pottery. Why haven't you given this a shot?"     Ingrid looked almost enraged. She opened her mouth to say something, but Ansen put a hand on hers and quietly said, "Yes, I know something about pottery, but what I learned of it, I learned almost two thousand years ago. I couldn't have done what you've done today."     Taking the bit of bowl from Ingrid, I laid it back on the counter and said, "Someone else could have done exactly what I've done today back in the thirties or forties. As soon as this stuff's dry enough, I'll glue it back together again and we'll compare it with the replica."     Dumping the washbowl through a tea strainer, I put the smaller bits on the paper towel and spread them to dry, then went back to the table and sat down.     Winston immediately jumped into my lap and Charlie waited only until Ingrid had sat down to jump into hers. Christie stayed by the sink, leaning on the counter as she sipped her beer.     Long moments of silence passed as I studied the printouts and sipped my coffee. Using a yellow marker, I highlighted small places on the designs that I thought deserved close inspection and handed the printouts to Ansen.     After a moment of meeting my gaze, he looked at the printouts and nodded, then handed them to Ingrid. As she studied them, I sipped my coffee again, then got up and retrieved the second scrap tile.     I began pressing the clay into place inside the mold as I said, "First efforts are usually learning experiences. If we do it wrong, we have a backup. If we do it right, I can drop this copy in the slip bucket for recycling."     Just as before, the shimmer in the bottom of the mold appeared in the bottom of the new bowl once enough clay was in place. Again using the hair dryer, I rotated the mold to dry the clay uniformly and let Ingrid know when it was time to take the second replica out of the mold.     Using a second board across the mold, we dumped the new replica out of the mold and this time I set the new piece on a shelf in the open oven.     Retrieving the first replica and a patterned shard, I debated how to make the indentations properly. The bottoms were dished out, not beveled. While I could start a hole with a drill bit, I'd have to find something else to finish it. The difference seemed a small thing, but my job was to make a replica, not a half-assed approximation.     Rooting through the junk drawer, I found some plastic toothpicks nobody'd ever used. The middle of one was a good match for the diameter of the indentations, so I cut it there and used fine sandpaper to round it properly.     Once everything was ready, I used a leather punch that could make tiny holes to perforate the dots in the printouts and matched the patterns of holes on the clay bowl.     About halfway through the process of adding a complete set of indentations to the fourth tiny design, I noticed that the plastic toothpick began to be less effective.     I made two more tiny dents according to the printout and started to make one of the last two, but the tip of the plastic stick became so soft it no longer had any effect on the clay.     The bowl felt warmer. Huh? How the hell can still-damp clay get warmer? It always felt cold and clammy. Always. I stopped what I was doing and remembered what Ansen had said about the bowl that had exploded.     "Ansen," I said quietly, "Feel the clay. Something's happening to it. Or in it. Or something."     He reached to touch it and a look of alarm formed on his face that made Ingrid also reach to touch the bowl. She pulled her hand back and looked at him.     I said, "I think we'd better take this project outside."     Christie had come to the table. She touched the clay bowl, pulled her hand back, and said, "It's getting hot, Ed."     She was right. I could see heat rising from the bowl and when I touched it, it was easily as hot as a coffee pot.     Enough speculation. I stood up and grabbed a spatula and salad tongs from the rack above the stove and slid the spatula under the bowl as I used the wide-open tongs to steady the bowl for transport.     "Ansen," I snapped, "You get the back doors for me. Ladies, stay put and keep the cats in the house."     Truth; my cats didn't try to get out. They'd been out as far as the screen porch and hadn't been at all thrilled about either the Florida heat or the neighbor's barking dogs. I just wanted a clear path to get to and through the doors.     Ansen disappeared and I lifted the bowl and started for the sliding glass doors. They opened ahead of me and the screen porch door opened as I neared it. As soon as I was ten feet from the door, I set the bowl on the concrete patio.     "What now?" Ansen asked quietly.     Heading for the porch, I said, "Now we stand back and watch for a while. If it gets any hotter, the moisture in the clay could turn to steam and blow it apart."     Christie and Ingrid joined us on the open patio and I gave them a situation report as we all stared at the bowl.     Ingrid said, "You still had two holes to go, Ed. If it does this now, how did anyone carve the original bowl?"     Shrugging, I said, "Very carefully." She gave me a narrow look and I added, "What I mean is; it hasn't exploded. So far, all they'd have had to worry about is burned fingers. Ansen went by the design he could see on the small bowl when he made the big bowl in Spain, and that may be what made it blow up. He missed some of the holes in the other three patterns. Could be this is what's supposed to happen when the design's coming together right."     "I think you're being too hopeful," said Ingrid, "It heated up pretty fast."     "Guess we'll find out."     Christie asked, "Would someone please tell me what the hell's going on? What big bowl in Spain?"     Ingrid looked at me and sighed, then said, "Ansen tried to make a new bowl in Spain some time ago. It blew up."     "It blew up?! What was in it?"     "Nothing," Ansen said from a space near the porch door, "I think it exploded because the patterns were wrong."     Turning to face the sound of his voice, Christie exclaimed, "Oh, you gotta be kidding! Do you really think a bunch of dots on a bowl can make it blow up?"     I asked, "Well, what's so strange about that? You're talking to an invisible fuzzy alien, aren't you? Christie, the same kinds of dots just made this new bowl get damned hot damned fast. We're waiting to see if it'll blow up, too."     She looked at me for a moment, then at the empty space beside the screen porch door. As if to reassure herself, Christie reached out and her fingers partly disappeared where they touched Ansen.     "Oh," she said, "Yeah."     Shaking my head slightly, I said, "I'm going in for my coffee. I'll give that thing a few minutes to blow up or not, then I'll see if it's still hot."     Ansen said, "I'll check it first."     "No," said Ingrid, "I'll go."     As I opened the porch door, "Relax, you heroes. It's just clay and the issue is trapped moisture. If it hasn't popped in fifteen minutes or so, it probably won't."     We all stood watching the bowl for a while, but all it did was become a bit hotter. I decided to go back inside to watch from the comfort of my air-conditioned living room and the others followed.     As we neared the kitchen, I turned left to go to the garage and said, "C'mon, Ansen, I'll show you my kite."     From somewhere behind me came, "Thanks, I'd like that," and when I turned to look, Ansen reappeared in the hallway.     Ingrid and Christie came too, and Ingrid seemed a little disappointed when she saw the long fabric case with hard plastic end caps hanging from the rafters.     "That's it?"     "Yup," I said, opening an end so Ansen could look inside, "It's a Falcon 195. I may sell it, though, 'cuz a couple of places rent gliders. Only fifteen bucks a flight and fifteen for a tow up to three thousand feet."     "Ed," said Christie, "I think she meant that she expected to see something more than an oversized duffle bag."     With a glance and a shrug, I said, "Knew that. But setting it up is a pain in the ass." Turning to Ansen, I asked, "Wanna go to the air park on Saturday?"     Curtailing his examination of the glider, Ansen instantly responded with a grinning, "Yes!" as Ingrid yelped, "No!"     The two of them eyed each other as a contest of wills took place for some moments.     "Why not?" asked Ansen, "Carol isn't coming this weekend and you said yourself that..."     "Ansen..." Ingrid sighed exasperatedly, "It's dangerous!"     Tapping her shoulder, I said, "Nobody's going to put him in a kite without some training, Ingrid. All he can do is watch. What's dangerous about that?"     Hesitating as if about to part with a state secret, she said, "That's not what I mean. He can only stay invisible for about an hour at a time. It's too risky."     Looking at Ansen, I asked, "How long do you have to rest up or recharge or whatever?"     "It varies, just as the amount of time required to recover from running or working hard will vary. If I use that talent for a full hour, I'll need at least fifteen minutes of rest before I can use it again for ten minutes or so."     Shrugging, I said, "Not a problem, then. There are plenty of places you can stash yourself for a while."     "Damn it!" Ingrid almost yelled, "Will you please stop encouraging him?!"     I met her gaze for a moment, then said quietly, "I know you care about him, Ingrid, but Ansen's considerably over eighteen. He's obviously not retarded, or he wouldn't have survived three-thousand-effing-years before you showed up. How about giving him a break, lady? Are you his friend or his warden?"     Ingrid looked absolutely shocked for a moment before I said to Ansen, "Close it back up when you come out," and headed back into the house.     Before I made it across the living room, I heard quick, firm footsteps behind me and turned to stop Ingrid with an open hand as I asked, "Why don't you take a few minutes to cool off before you say whatever's on your mind in a civilized fashion?"     Oh, she was pissed. No damned doubt about it. Her hand came up fast and I ducked away from her open-handed slap as I stepped away.     Just behind and to one side of her, faint puffs of dust and cat hair drifted up from the carpet between the coffee table and couch.     Pointing directly at Ansen, I snapped, "Freeze!" and the dust-puffs stopped by the end of the coffee table.     Keeping Ingrid in sight, I said, "Get visible and sit down, Ansen. Don't make me guess why you're there. I might guess wrong and hurt you."     He reappeared looking slightly astonished and sat down on the couch. I half-turned to Ingrid and said, "No hitting, lady, 'cuz I'll damned well hit back. Now, what's on your mind? Something about the way I talked to you?"     Between clenched teeth, she hissed, "Oh, good guess!"     "Aw, shucks, ma'am, I figgered it was somethin' like that. Was I wrong? Is he underage or retarded? Does he need a keeper, or are you just more than a tad overprotective?"     Ingrid glared at me, then pointed at Ansen and snapped, "I told you this would happen, didn't I? He doesn't care if you're discovered! He'd probably sell tickets!"     Christie had hovered near the kitchen doorway, but Ingrid's words made her step forward and say, "That's not true and you know it! You're just pissed because he stood up to you!"     Looking at Ansen, she added, "And why the hell don't you? Why do you let her boss you around, Ansen? She acts like you're a fifteen-year-old and she's your mother."     I thought Ingrid might go ballistic. She trembled with rage and almost screeched, "What the hell do you know about anything?! You're how old?! Twenty, maybe?!"     Raising her own voice piercingly, Christie responded, "I'm twenty-two, but that doesn't mean I can't see you're trying to run Ansen's life for him! Hell, you sound like my mother! Hang gliding?! Oh, that's too dangerous for a girl! The Army?! Oh, no, what's wrong with you?!"     She swilled the last of her beer, tossed the bottle in the trash, and took a breath before she said, "And you should have heard her when she found out that Ed took me hang gliding for a whole weekend. I think that week alone is half the reason I joined the Army. I love my mom, but I just had to get the hell away from her and live my own life for a change."     Moving closer to Ingrid, Christie asked rather intently, "Do you understand what I'm telling you, mom?"     Looking first at Christie, then at Ingrid, I sighed, "Aw, hell. Everybody take a damned break. Let's go see how the bowl's doing," and opened the sliding door to the porch.     In the reflection from the door's glass, I saw Ansen disappear and Ingrid and Christie follow me. Beyond the patio, Ansen's feet left indentations in the grass just ahead of me. When I reached to touch the bowl, I bumped his arm.     The bowl was no longer hot and I was able to pick it up and look it over. I set it back down and went to get a cinderblock and a chunk of scrap kiln-brick from behind the shed, set the cinderblock down well away from the house, put the firebrick on top of it, and then put the bowl on the firebrick.     From my shirt pocket I took the remaining paper pattern and my drill bit, then quickly and gently made the two holes that completed the pattern as the bowl again began to heat up.     This time it didn't just get coffeepot hot; it began to radiate heat like a blacksmith's forge. I stood up and backed away from it quickly as I watched heat warp the air around the bowl.     Ansen's retreat was displayed by dented grass, so I saw no need to say anything until we arrived at the patio and Ingrid asked, "What's happening?!"     "It's getting hot again," said Ansen, "Very hot."     No shit. The paper pattern I'd left on the design flared into flames as the bowl began to glow dull red and worked its way up to cherry, then orange.     Moisture from within the chunk of firebrick started steaming out of it as the bowl began to glow yellow and I went to get the fire extinguisher and set it on the patio, then suggested that we all go inside and watch through the safety-glass doors.     Once we were all back inside the house, I pulled the door shut and watched with the others as the bowl turned almost white with heat.     Pings and pops and a few loud 'crack!' sounds came from the area, then a corner of the cinderblock popped off and landed a couple of feet away from the block.     "If it stays that hot for long," I said, "I won't have to fire it in the kiln to turn it to stone. Hope it doesn't crack."     Ingrid glanced at me, but said nothing. Looking around, I spotted my coffee mug on the coffee table and went to pick it up and take it to the kitchen.     Nobody joined me at the sink while I made a fresh coffee, but when I pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down where I could see the back door, Christie came to stand in the doorway for a moment, then took a seat beside me. Chapter Eight     Christie glanced at Ingrid and Ansen and asked, "Aren't you going to keep an eye on the bowl?"     Shrugging, I replied, "They're watching it and it'll do whatever it's gonna do whether I stand there and watch it or not. I'd rather sit here and try to figure out what's making all that heat happen."     Her left eyebrow went up. "Magic?"     With a chuckle, I said, "Well, gee, milady, at this very moment, I'd call it that, too. Damned if I have any idea at all why putting lines and dots on a bowl made it heat up."     Glancing toward the doors, Christie said softly, "I'm kind of worried about radiation. For all we know, we may all have gotten a big dose of it."     "Too late to worry. I wonder if there's any way to harness that kind of energy for less esoteric uses?"     "Esoteric?"     Sipping coffee, I grinned and said, "It means odd or strange. That bowl definitely qualifies."     Giving me a wry chuckle, she said, "So does Ansen."     When I made no reply, Christie asked, "You don't think he's just as odd as his bowl?"     "It isn't that so much as... well, yes, it is, I guess. No, I don't think he's as odd as that bowl. I've met hairy people before. No big deal."     Christie's mouth fell open. "Ed, he says he's three thousand years old and he doesn't know where he came from! How is that not just as weird as the damned bowl?"     Shrugging, I said, "Maybe it is, but it doesn't seem to matter much." Raising my voice a bit, I called, "Ingrid! Any change out there? Is it still glowing?"     "Yes," she answered, "It's still glowing. No change."     I got up and walked to the porch doors as I said, "Then one of us needs to run an errand, milady." Christie followed me and stood looking through the doors at the glowing bowl.     Ingrid looked at me narrowly and asked, "An errand?"     "Yup. It'll be dark in an hour or so. We need a lampshade for that bowl. One of us needs to run to the hardware store for a trash can. A metal one."     Ingrid and Ansen looked at each other for a moment, then her gaze locked on me as if there was something to be decided. I chuckled and earned myself a sharp look from Ingrid.     Christie asked, "What's so funny?"     "Ingrid doesn't want to let the bowl stuff out of her sight, but she doesn't want to let me out of her sight, either."     "So? Ansen can stay here while she goes."     With another chuckle, I said, "Oh, but that would mean delegating, and Ingrid's not very good at delegating stuff."     That earned me a nasty look from Ingrid as Christie asked, "Delegating what? It's just a trash can, right?"     "No, it's a control issue, Christie. She also doesn't want to leave both of us here with only one watcher."     Ingrid simmered at me as Christie asked, "Well, isn't there anything else we could cover it with?"     Shaking my head, I said, "No. The kind of heat that makes stoneware glow like that could melt light steel if it was in contact with the bowl. I can punch holes in a trash can to let the heat out and poke a few holes in one side so we can see what's happening to the bowl."     Sighing, Christie stood up and said, "I'll go. Somebody give me some money. How much is a trash can?"     Ingrid shook her head and quickly stepped forward as she said firmly, "No. Thanks anyway, but I'll go." She looked at me and added, "And you'll go with me."     "Nope. If that cinderblock collapses from the heat, there could be a grass fire. Might be a fire, anyway. I'm staying."     "Christie and Ansen will be here."     "No. It's my house. If I'm here and I screw up, it's only my fault. Ansen can stay. Take Christie with you."     When she didn't respond immediately, I prompted her, "Can't move bowl. Dark soon. Need trash can soon. Ingrid, I know you feel as if this whole thing has gotten way out of hand, but..."     She snapped, "That's an understatement."     I shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that. Things are as they are." Gesturing at the bowl in the yard, I said, "In case you're wondering whether I share your security concerns... We seem to be making some kind of progress, even if we don't know what kind of progress we're making, but if the authorities got wind of Ansen or what's going on in my back yard, we'd be taken into custody instantly. All of us."     Ingrid met my gaze for a couple of moments, then I said, "Now go get us a big metal trash can so we can all relax."     After giving me an almost tangible glare, Ingrid looked rather meaningfully at Ansen and in her usual firm tone said, "I'll be back as soon as possible." Looking at Christie, she said, "Let's go."     Christie snickered and headed for the front door. Ingrid followed her without a word. Once they were out of the house, Ansen turned to watch the bowl and sighed.     "She's so afraid," he said quietly. "Last year I told her that I'd considered contacting a group of scientists. She became almost hysterical."     "No doubt. How were you going to get in touch with them?"     He grinned. "Very carefully and quietly."     Sipping my coffee, I opined, "Probably wouldn't have been a good idea, y'know."     With a slight shake of his head, he said, "No, probably not."     "Other than Christie and me, how many other people know about you, Ansen?"     "Two of Ingrid's childhood friends."     "Does Ingrid have any kids?"     Shaking his head again, he said, "No."     "What about Ingrid's father? Doesn't he know about you?"     "He died in 1978."     "That pretty much makes you her only immediate family. No wonder she's so tense about all this. We may have a problem later, Ansen."     "A problem?"     Nodding, I said, "Yeah. Sleeping arrangements. Ingrid isn't going to want to leave that bowl here and it may not cool down enough to move tonight. And Christie may not be able to stay over." Giving Ansen a grin, I added, "Although she's stayed over before and I do have my hopes up, of course."     He chuckled and said, "Understandable. She's very pretty. Have you known her long?"     "A few years. Not long after her mother bought the house next door, her brother graduated college and went into the Army. She came over to ask me about Army life and we wound up going out to dinner. That weekend I introduced her to hang gliding. A few weeks later, she went into the Army."     Glancing around the living room, I added, "Fact is, it might be better if you watched from the den. There are drapes on all the windows and Christie's mom will be getting home from work soon. Christie's car is in her driveway, so she'll probably come over to see if Christie's here."     Ansen chose one of the reclining chairs, tilted it back, and checked his view of the yard.     "This is a nice chair," he said.     I took the other chair and said, "If it's good enough to sleep in, Ingrid can have the couch. Now, what do we do if Christie can't sleep over?"     Shrugging, Ansen said, "I think she knows how badly things could go for all of us. Do you think she's a risk?"     Sipping my coffee, I said, "No, but that won't be good enough for Ingrid. Is it good enough for you?"     He looked at the glowing bowl and said, "I think it has to be good enough. What do you think is happening to the bowl?"     "No idea. If it's still like this tomorrow, we may have to break it and start over."     Looking startled, he asked, "Break it?"     "Yup. To shut it down. Can't move it like that. Can't leave it like that. The thing to do would be to take the project to some secluded spot and start over. You guys have a secluded spot?"     Ansen nodded. "Yes. Ingrid's father had a cabin by a lake. The nearest other cabin is over a mile away."     "Sounds good. Think you can talk Ingrid into going to the air park Saturday?"     He laughed, "I probably won't try too hard. She has a lot on her mind right now."     "Well, give it some more thought. There are plenty of places to hide for a while around the hangars."     After a few moments of silence as I sipped coffee and Ansen gazed outside, he said, "There's a lot I'd have done if I could have chanced being seen."     Turning to face me, he said, "I did get to try surfing. When Ingrid was eight, her parents rented a house on the beach just north of Fort Pierce. Do you know where that is?"     "Yup. Other side of Florida. How'd you do at surfing?"     Grinning, he said, "Pretty well, actually. Ingrid's dad taught me the basics and I managed to spend about half the day on the topside of the surfboard. By the end of the week, I was able to ride most waves all the way in."     "So it was a vacation?"     Nodding, he said, "Yes. The long drive to and from Atlanta was interesting, too. I hadn't been out in the world much for a number of years. A lot of things had changed since the war."     "Prob'ly so. But sometimes it seems to me that the only things that have changed over the last thirty years are cars, the number of channels on TV, and the real value of a dollar. Six-ounce Cokes in bottles were a nickel when I was a kid. Now a twelve-ounce can'll cost you a buck or more."     Kicking my chair back, I said, "I guess that's nothing compared to what you've seen, though; whole civilizations rising and falling around you and all. Must have been a real hoot when you weren't in too much immediate danger."     Ansen laughed, "You have a rather special way of putting things, but you're right. It has been interesting at times."     We chatted another ten minutes or so before the doorbell rang. I heard a chair creak softly as I went to answer it. Christie's mother stood on my porch dressed in shorts, sneaks, and a white blouse. At forty-six, she still looked damned good. Her figure was the product of exercise, not crappy fad diets.     My gaze lingered on her legs for a moment, then I said, "Hi, Claire. Christie went to the hardware store with a friend of mine. She should be back shortly."     Claire gave me her usual narrow, disapproving gaze for a moment, then nodded and said, "Thank you. Please remind her that she should try to spend at least a little time with her mother during her leave," then she turned to go.     Her long, lovely legs flashed in the remnants of daylight as I watched her stride down the walkway. She glanced back at me once as she neared the driveway, then cut between my car and the garage and disappeared around the corner.     Interesting. She professed to dislike me intensely for having had a brief affair with Christie, yet she'd showed up in shorts and looked back to see if I was watching her leave.     It seemed likely to me that Ansen would be standing where he could see and hear best, so as I closed the front door, I glanced toward the kitchen doorway and thumbed at the front door as I said, "She's kinda cute, isn't she?"     Ansen materialized in the doorway with a somewhat dismayed expression and said, "Yes, she is. Ed, you pointed directly at me by the couch earlier and just now you looked directly at me. How did you know where I was?"     "Just did. Didn't you say Ingrid's mom could do that, too?"     His gaze narrowed as he replied, "No, and you couldn't do it, either, just a little while ago. Being able to point at me when I'm supposed to be invisible goes a bit beyond simply being aware that I'm in the area."     Shrugging, I headed for the den as I said, "Guess I'm tuning in. We all seem to have our own little talents."     "That doesn't begin to qualify as an explanation, Ed."     "Heh. Guess not. Oh, well, just add it to the pile with the mystic symbols on the bowl, the shimmering effect at the bottom of it, and all the other little unanswered questions that seem to have gathered under my roof today."     After glancing out to see that the bowl was still perched atop the firebrick, I went to the garage and located my hatchet for use in perforating the garbage can.     When Ingrid and Christie returned, I told Christie that her mother had dropped over as I brought the garbage can into the kitchen. Christie said she'd see her mother after she'd seen what I'd do with the garbage can.     Once I'd hacked a few lines into the bottom of it to create flaps, then folded the metal tabs inward and back against the floor of the can, I made a line of chops up one side and enlarged the slits to a series of inch-wide holes, then I took the can out the back door to place it over the bowl so that the can's openings would face the porch doors.     As I'd expected, it was like approaching a blowtorch. The firebrick below the bowl was glowing almost as brightly as the bowl itself and I wondered whether the cinderblock would survive the heat.     Hurrying forward, I guesstimated an angle of attack that would neatly center the garbage can over everything and set it in place, risking a quick peek through the square opening in the bottom of the can to check clearances.     Intense heat radiating upward drove me back, but I had time to see that things were centered well enough. Walking around the can, I checked the lineup of the holes in the side. Good enough; they were directly facing the doors.     As I stepped away from the can, I saw the curtains move in a window next door. Claire had been watching. Oh, well, that hadn't been totally unexpected. She'd walked to and from my house, so she'd undoubtedly seen the oddity in my back yard.     Light smoke escaped from the top of the can as the contained heat burned grass around the cinderblock. After a time, the smoke stopped and I noted that the top and rim of the can glowed dull red. Hm. Not much to do about that.     Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a clump of the uncut fringe of grass ringing the air-conditioning unit at the corner of the house swayed and stopped moving, then more grass about a yard away from it moved.     The side door of Claire's house opened and Claire came out to ask, "Ed, what are you doing over there?"     Thumbing at the trash can, I said, "Trying something new. I want to see if that clay bowl will cool without cracking. I tossed a trash can over it for safety."     "What's wrong with letting it cool in the kiln like the other stuff you make?"     I went to lean on the fence and said, "It's not a poured piece. It was made from strips of clay stuck together. If it decides to explode, I don't want it to turn to shrapnel inside my thousand-dollar kiln. Mind if I thank you for wearing shorts, Claire? You have great legs."     Claire sighed and gave me one of those eye-rolling 'you're such an asshole' looks and shook her head disgustedly, then turned to go back into her house, but in the reflection from the door's little window, I saw her self-satisfied grin.     Returning to the trash can and pretending to study it in order to give myself a moment to surreptitiously scan the yard, I saw tiny motions of sand and grass near the edge of the patio     I looked directly at a space about six feet above the spot of motion and softly asked, "Well? You think she bought it?"     Grass dented as he walked toward me and said quietly, "I think so. Especially the part about her legs. Your explanation was also quite convincing."     Turning away from Claire's house, I answered, "It should be; it's true. A non-poured item may have tiny air pockets trapped in the clay. You'll hear a loud 'ping!' or even a 'bang!' and wonder how big a chunk of the pot or whatever has embedded itself in the wall of your kiln."     "I see. The top of the can is glowing, Ed. Do you think it will be easily discernible after dark?"     Shrugging, I started back to the house as I said, "I was wondering the same thing. I guess we'll find out in about half an hour. When we get back inside, take a minute with Ingrid and discuss sleeping arrangements with the idea that Christie may not be staying over. Did that chair fit you well enough?"     As I opened the screen porch door, he said, "Yes. I was quite comfortable. Ed, I don't believe Ingrid will want Christie to leave until this situation has been resolved."     Stopping by the workbench, I said, "Keeping Christie here against her will isn't an option, Ansen. That could create more problems than letting her go."     Shoving the sliding door back, I said, "If things go to hell on us, you can disappear. The only thing we really have to worry about is in the back yard."     Ansen reappeared as Ingrid locked her gaze on me and asked, "What are you talking about that has Ansen leaving without me?"     "Christie," I said. "Sooner or later, she'll have to go home, at least for a while." Turning to Christie, I said, "I know we haven't discussed it, but would it be too much to hope that you'll stay over tonight?"     Laughing shortly, Christie grinningly asked, "Are you kidding? Remember how it was when I got back from Basic Training, Ed? If there'd been another woman here, I'd have kicked her ass out. You're mine for the next two weeks."     Saluting, I said, "Excellent, milady! Air-borne, ma'am!"     Christie mock-snapped like a drill sergeant, "Don't salute me, troop! I'm not a goddamned fancy-pants officer!"     Leaning to kiss her, I said, "No, but you've been issued an off-duty promotion, milady. You're now a blonde goddess."     She laughed, "Oh, kewl! Well, okay, then, I guess you can salute me!"     "Yes'm. Will do. Your mom thinks the thing in the back yard is a stoneware project."     "Huh? Oh. You told her that?"     "Why not? It's stoneware and it's a project. No problem."     She shrugged and grinned. "Okay. Good enough. What are you going to tell her if it hasn't cooled off by morning?"     "Damned if I know. I may have to break the bowl tonight to avoid that situation."     "NO!" yelped Ingrid.     "Yes," I said, "We can always make another one and mess with it someplace where it can't cause a scene."     Her shocked gaze became a glower and she stepped forward as if to argue. Ansen touched her arm and she stopped.     "Ingrid," he said quietly, "He's right."     Shaking off his hand, she went to the sofa chair and sat down, then slammed the flat of her hand on the chair's arm.     A moment passed, then she smacked the chair arm again and muttered, "Damn! Damn, damn, damn! I knew this was a mistake! I knew it from the start!"     Enough. It was time to shatter her ongoing nasty mood. I clapped my hands together sharply and snapped, "Hey!"     Everyone startled hard and I went to stand on the other side of the coffee table from Ingrid.     "Enough!" I said, "Things are as they are! How is being bitchy going to make things any better? Do you think maybe you could just chill-the-fuck-out and lose some of that attitude? We can work things out without all the drama, okay? You have the couch tonight. Ansen has the big chair in the den. Order some pizza and whatever Ansen wants from their salad bar and let's get settled in."     Christie leaned to kiss me and said, "I'll go put in an appearance next door for a little while. Save me some pizza."     Ingrid looked as if she wanted to jump out of the chair and tackle Christie to keep her from leaving, but Ansen put his hand on her shoulder and shook his head slightly as Christie headed for the front door and gave me a little wave.     I noticed it was almost dark out and turned to look at the garbage can. The faint reddish glow around the top was a little more apparent, but not much.     From within the can came the same white glow we'd been seeing since I put the last two dots into the pattern. It seemed a bit brighter, but that was only because daylight was fading.     It had been an hour or so since I'd added those dots. In a regular kiln firing, clay condensed to stone in about two hours at maximum heat.     Assuming -- although there was no particular reason to assume anything -- that something along the lines of a similar condensing of matter was occurring, the material of the bowl would be as tightly-knit as possible in another hour or so.     "Ed," said Ansen, "You've been staring out there for close to a minute. What are you thinking?"     After I told him, Ingrid asked, "What's to keep it from getting so hot the stone melts?"     "If it would do that, how would the old bowl have been created? I'd still like to know what kind of stone it was made from. It didn't look like igneous rock, but most aggregates or sedimentary stones would crumble in that kind of heat." Chapter Nine     I looked around until I spotted my coffee mug on the corner of the kitchen table and went to get it and take a sip. After a moment, Ingrid got up and stood looking out the porch doors with Ansen.     They held a whispered conversation; I knew this because I saw their lips moving in their reflections from the doors. Ansen shrugged and said something in apparent response to something she said, then both of them fell silent for a time.     With a sigh that sounded like capitulation, Ingrid turned from the doorway and asked, "Where's that pizza number?"     "On the fridge. Village Pizza. Or we could make a trip to the store. Might even be a good idea, in fact; I don't keep much on hand for company."     She glanced into the fridge and said, "So I see. Beer, mustard, canned tea, dr pepper, and half a quart of milk. Are you on some kind of a liquid diet?"     "Ha, ha. So I'm out of a few things. Check the veggie bin. There should be some cukes and potatoes."     Pulling the drawer out, she said, "There are," and closed it, then shut the fridge and read the pizza number on the door.     As she placed an order for two large 'everything-but-anchovies' pizzas and a big salad, she had to ask my address and phone number for the pizza guy.     When she was finished, she said, "Half an hour, twenty bucks. Not bad if the pizzas are any good."     Sipping coffee, I said, "They will be."     There was an awkward silence for some moments; I broke it by saying, "Sorry I snapped at you."     Shaking her head slightly, she said, "No problem. I was on edge all day about what's going on. Your 'things are as they are' comment was a kind of reality check."     I laughed softly and shrugged. "Things are always as they are. Wanna know my other favorite saying?"     Her left eyebrow went up and she grinned as she rather sardonically said, "Oh, sure! Why not? What's your other favorite saying?"     Leaning forward, I stage-whispered, "Don't panic 'til I do."     Half-turning to grin at us from his position by the glass door, Ansen said, "That sounds like good advice, Ingrid. He doesn't seem to panic very easily."     With a wry, somewhat sour look, Ingrid turned back to me and asked, "Can we really trust your friend Christie?"     "Trust? You mean trust her not to try to tell the cops there's a big fuzzy gold invisible alien in my living room?"     Ansen chuckled again. Ingrid's gaze at me became narrow for a moment, then relaxed a bit and again became wry.     "Let's talk about tomorrow," I said, "Suppose the bowl cools and doesn't crack and all goes well. Your next step has to be to try to figure out how to use it. Got any ideas about that?"     "No, not really. Do you?"     Shrugging, I said, "You were gonna take the stuff and split, so I hadn't really given it much extra thought."     Looking rather startled, she stood staring at me for a time, then said, "You sound as if you don't intend to, either."     "Should I? Even if we're successful tonight, we'll wind up with a magic bowl and no operating manual. It'll be a fine hobby for you and Ansen, but I already have a few hobbies."     Her startled look became one of shock. "But... but you've already been such a great help to us, Ed! You recreated the bowl and discovered the missing indentations and..."     "Just hold the congratulations for now, ma'am. We don't know how all that's going to play out yet. Might be we didn't get 'em all or didn't get 'em quite right or something."     Sipping my coffee, I turned to go to my computer and bumped the mouse to bring the system out of 'sleep' mode. The pictures I'd printed were still on the screen, so I printed out another few pages and closed the art program.     Pulling up my CD writer, I put a blank CD in the tray and closed it, then copied all the files having to do with the bowl to the CD. When the copies were finished, I checked the CD using a CRC tool instead of a simple directory list, then put the finished CD in a paper sleeve and set it aside.     As Ingrid watched, I highlighted the bowl's file folder and hit the 'delete' key, then opened the 'recycle' bin and dumped its contents as I took another sip of coffee. Once the bin was empty, I hit the 'disk cleanup' icon and let it clear all temporary files, then turned off the computer.     "From now on," I said, tapping the CD in the sleeve, "We'll work from this CD. It leaves when you do and we'll do the delete and cleanup again before you go. Good enough?"     Ingrid answered, "I've heard you can restore deleted files with special programs."     "Do you have such a program?"     "No," she said, "More importantly, do you?"     She held my gaze as I replied, "Nope. Don't need one. I back up my new books on floppy disks as they're created and on CD's once they've been released. If you're really paranoid, cough up another fifteen hundred. I'll low-level-format the hard drive and you can take the computer, too."     Ansen said quietly, "I don't think that will be necessary. Even if you kept a copy of the files, you'd face the same puzzle concerning the bowl's use."     He stepped away from the porch door and asked, "Would someone else keep an eye on the bowl for a while? I'd like to visit the bathroom."     Ingrid and I went to the porch door as Ansen headed down the hallway to the bathroom. We stood in silence for a time before Ingrid sighed and went to pull a chair over by the door.     Sitting down, she asked, "Can you understand why I'm a bit paranoid, Ed?"     Well, there was a dumb question from someone I'd taken to be fairly smart. I gave her a fisheye look as Charlie and Mooch debated who'd get in her lap. Winston simply jumped up there and sat grinning smugly at Mooch and Charlie.     "Ingrid, in early March of 1972, I was assigned to deliver some instructions and money to an operative in what was East Germany. All I had to do was make contact in a street market at the busiest time of day. Guess what? I couldn't do it. I picked up a tail before the train crossed the border. One became two, then three. I tried all the usual, explainable tricks to get clean, but nothing worked. It was as if they knew every stop before I got there."     I took a sip of coffee. "I found out later it was because they did know every stop. Another branch of my agency needed four decoys and didn't want to risk their own people, so they pulled an end run around my boss and used our people. It was a case of intra-office rivalry plus plain damned nastiness. When I spotted a fourth tail less than two hours along the route, I knew there was absolutely no way of making contact that wouldn't put my client in jeopardy. I said 'screw this' and aborted my chunk of the mission as ordered."     "As ordered?" asked Ansen.     Nodding, I said, "Standing orders. Client safety always comes first, even above your own. Besides, the Commies weren't interested in picking me up until I disappeared."     Returning my fisheye look, Ingrid asked, "You disappeared? How did you manage that?"     "I became a native. It wasn't difficult; I just took off my coat in an open flea market. In a used clothing booth, I bought an overcoat by picking one off the vendor's table and tossing him too much money as I walked non-stop through his booth. In another booth I bought a hat the same way, then I bought a pair of oversized pants. My coat covered everything until I reached a small public restroom, where I put the pants on over mine, then put the overcoat on over my own coat. Two men came in while I was in there, but they weren't any of the guys I'd spotted following me. I left immediately and went to a meat market booth, where I bought a pound of something they said was ground beef. At the next stall I bought some veggies, a bottle of wine, a green plastic tablecloth, a small roll of duct tape, and then I just sort of listened to the people around me for a while."     "Okay," said Ingrid, "I can understand the clothes and trying to blend in by buying food, but why the tablecloth and duct tape? And why didn't you just get the hell out of there?"     "I'll get to the tablecloth in a minute. It was too soon to try the exits. I eventually heard what I was looking for; a couple of young women discussing how best to spend their food money. I stopped at their table and put a foot on a chair to retie my left shoe, then I sat down at their table and offered to supply the materials for several good dinners if they'd cook at least one of them for me that evening."     Ingrid gave me that fisheye look again. "They probably thought you were trying to pick them up."     "I certainly tried hard enough to give them that impression. They were poor students in a country with a crappy economy. One was up for it, the other wasn't. I bought a round of beers and we discussed matters for a time, then the bold one agreed and the other one kind of agreed -- after making sure I knew she was only talking about a dinner. After we finished our beers, we left together. They lived in an apartment with four other students, so sleeping there really wasn't an option. Around eight that evening, I said goodnight and headed back toward town, but the bad guys were watching the train station and bus stops. It didn't seem likely my fake papers would still work, so I headed for an alternate exit a hundred and eighty kilometers away. I got lucky twice with a couple of rides in trucks -- without notifying the drivers, of course -- but by three in the morning there wasn't much traffic and I still had ninety kilometers to go. In farm country, no less."     Hearing my tone, she asked, "Farm country? How was that important?"     "Think, ma'am. In March, there are only empty fields. Not much cover for someone walking. At least I only had a quarter-moon overhead and it didn't rain or snow. I used the tablecloth as a half-assed sleeping bag and napped until dawn in some hedges, then dragged a five-foot tree branch down to the road. A couple of cars went around it before a canvas-back truck stopped and the driver put the branch in the truck, likely as future firewood. I sneaked into the back of the truck and rode another fifty klicks before I had to bail out in a town. Two hours later I was on the other side of the town, but there was a police checkpoint at the river bridge."     Sipping my coffee, I continued, "I looked for a way around it and came up dry, so to speak, so I sat down with a coffee at a sidewalk cafe to consider matters. After a few minutes, a guy in his fifties put down his paper and came to sit across from me. He didn't say anything right away, then he asked me which village I was from. I named one well beyond my exit point. He seemed skeptical and asked my name. I gave him my cover name. Then he looked at the police on the bridge and spat toward them. He didn't say anything else until his coffee was gone and he made it clear with little 'drink up' motions that I should finish mine. When mine was gone, he got up and indicated I should go with him. He introduced me to his wife and they talked a bit, then she took me to their basement and showed me an old couch near the coal furnace."     Pausing to sip again, I said, "I almost didn't go for it. They could have been good little Commies and it could have been a trap, but a few minutes later, she brought me a big plate of food and some newspaper clippings. Their son had been arrested in 1967 when he'd tried to sneak out of the country. He was sentenced to twenty years. I ate and slept and woke to the noise of a coal shovel just before dark. The guy tossed some coal in the furnace, then took me upstairs to wash up and see what was under an old blanket in a bedroom. It was his son's bicycle, sitting upside down on its seat and handlebars. I cleaned out the tires and taped the insides, then pumped up the spare tubes to see if they'd hold air. They did. We moved the bike out of the basement to a spot near the front door and his wife plunked another one of those big meals in front of me. I left about an hour after dark."     With a shrug, I said, "And that was it. They didn't ask a lot of questions and they helped me along my way. Before I left, I peeled off a fat wad of my East German money and put it in his coat pocket. He tried to hand it back, but I backed away with the bike and waved goodbye."     Ansen asked, "How did you get past the police?"     "It wasn't too difficult. I stopped at the pub half a block from the bridge and faked drinking four big beers, then I made a rather ungracious pass at the owner's daughter."     Chuckling, I said, "He threw me out, of course. We argued in the street briefly, then I got on the bike and pretended to be fucked-up drunk as I pedaled toward the bridge."     "How the hell did you 'fake' drinking that much beer?" asked Ingrid.     "I'd drink a little, then dump beer in the restroom. I'd also pick up someone else's half-empty mug by mistake and dump beer into the bar's ashcan while looking out the nearby window. There was a spill by the bar, too, and about half of one of my beers became part of it. And there were a couple of guys who'd swap glasses while my back was turned or sneak some of my beer into their glasses or pitcher while I was playing cards. It wasn't very difficult to lose a beer."     I took another sip of coffee and continued, "Anyway, I 'lost control' of the bike on the cobblestones and tumbled off the road, then lay there and listened to the cops laughing at the stupid drunk. They bought it, so after a while I got up, faked throwing up, and eventually staggered my wobbly way across the bridge with the bike while the cops searched a couple of cars and yelled ridicule at me. Nine very cautious hours later, I was on the other side of the border."     After sipping my coffee again, I said, "To sum it all up, the answer is yes, I do understand why you're a little paranoid."     Ansen chuckled and turned back to watching the yard, then he turned invisible and said, "Your neighbor just came out."     I got up and went to the glass doors. Yup. Tim Lewis, from the house behind mine, was standing in his carport, looking at the trash can. I went out to chat and told him what I'd told Claire about air pockets and hot stoneware.     His twelve-year-old daughter had also come out and she told us that her art teacher had told her the same thing after someone's clay ashtray had popped in her school's kiln.     "But that was because of the glaze," she added, "I think."     "Probably was," I said, "Glazes are just glass dust in a water-based carrier. If a piece isn't dry enough, the moisture will turn to steam. If that happens fast enough, boom."     Sighing, I said, "Too much moisture, boom. If it heats too fast, boom. If it cools too fast, boom. Or maybe it'll just crack in a few places and be a piece of junk instead of a piece of art. But when things go right, you can turn out some neat stuff."     After a bit more chat, they went back inside and I went to kneel by the can to check the bowl. It was still glowing, of course. But did it maybe not seem quite as bright as before? I couldn't really tell now that it was dark outside.     Sensing that I had company, I quietly asked, "Well? Does it look any cooler to you?"     From just to my left, Ansen replied, "No, it doesn't."     Standing up, I said, "Oh, well," and headed back to the screen porch as a car door slammed out front.     Inside the house, Ingrid was on her way to the kitchen window. She looked out, then went to the front door and paid the pizza delivery guy as Ansen and I came in through the glass porch doors.     Christie arrived with her little travel bag as I rooted up paper plates and napkins. We sat around the den eating and talking and sharing bits of pizza with the cats as Ansen munched his salad and retold a rather brief version of his history for Christie.     Ingrid was unusually quiet through almost two pieces of pizza, but she suddenly became almost chatty when Christie turned the topic to the Iraq war.     "I'm just a dental tech," she said, "But a lot of my friends are being sent to Iraq, and sooner or later they'll need dental techs there, too."     "All because of Bush," said Ingrid.     A good ten minutes of reasonably polite debate raged gently between the ladies, then Christie asked, "What do you think, Ed? Would we be in Iraq if Bush wasn't President?"     Downing the pizza I'd been chewing, I said, "Hey, you two were doing just fine without me."     "Come on," urged Ingrid, "Surely you have an opinion."     Shrugging, I said, "Yup. It doesn't matter a rat's ass who's in the big chair; the Prez doesn't do or say anything without consulting two dozen polls and twice as many advisors. Everybody in Washington covers his or her ass all the time."     Goggling at me, Ingrid asked incredulously, "So you think someone like Clinton would have invaded Iraq? During his first term in office, no less?"     Nodding, I said, "Oh, hell, yes. The WMD's were just a public excuse. You can bet there were other reasons that were enough to quietly convince the Pentagon and other high-level hogs that invading Iraq was necessary at the time."     "What kinds of reasons? And why haven't we been told about them?"     I swallowed pizza and considered my answer.     "The kinds of reasons that outweigh internal US political repercussions and can't be publicized without proof, but it would be the kind of proof that would get some prime info sources killed and raise all kinds of international political stink. Saying the wrong thing on the international scene can cost a country billions more than a war. Who brokered the funding for two attempts to build an Iranian nuke plant that could turn out weapons-grade materials? Our current 'allies' the Saudis, that's who. Things almost came to blows all over the Middle East in the early eighties, when the Israelis bombed the first Iraqi nuke plant just before it was ready to go into operation."     As Ingrid raised an eyebrow at me, I said, "The beggars and whiners of the UN made a little noise because it was expected of them, but they were quietly thrilled that the Israelis had taken the initiative. The only reason there wasn't another Arab-Israeli war was because the Russians were up to their butts in bad news in Afghanistan and they couldn't afford to front free hardware again. Most of the Arab states the Russians supplied in the '67 and '73 Arab-Israeli wars never paid for the weapons and other gear they lost."     Sipping coffee, I continued, "And now the Iranians have built a new nuke fuel plant that's almost ready to go on-line. They won't listen to US or UN appeals to drop the program, so I have no doubt the Israelis will bomb again -- if we don't. On another note, international terrorism has become the Muslim nations' weapon of choice. They don't need missiles to reach anyone; all they need is willing martyrs, and they grow their own. The World Trade Center was more than simply a strike at America; it was a warning to the world."     Pausing, I said, "It was time to establish a permanent US military presence in the middle of the Middle East. Deposing the Taliban in Afghanistan was necessary, but Afghanistan isn't the best strategic location for quick strikes. Saddam's threats to use chemical and biological weapons made him a convenient target in the perfect place, so the hogs in Washington charged on in. Now it's 'Oops. We were wrongly informed about the WMD's, but since we're here, we'll help the poor, downtrodden Iraqis recover from Saddam and become a democracy'."     I chuckled, "A Muslim democracy in the Middle East. Jesus, what a contradiction of concepts that is. A democratic Iraq might survive while we're there to enforce things, but they'd have a bloody coup and devolve back into theocratic tyranny about ten minutes after we left."     Sipping my coffee again, I said, "So we can't leave. If we're lucky, Afghanistan and Iraq won't become another Vietnam and we'll be there the way we've been in Germany for the last sixty years; with bases and hardware poised to smack the crap out of the bad guys on a moment's notice."     Ingrid added rather dourly, "Or to back up the Israelis."     "Yup. We have to. That's the only other place over there with generally western culture and a decent intelligence operation that'll share info with us. The Muslims don't just want to eliminate Israel. They want to wipe out all the Jews in the world, and they want to operate the entire world according to old-school Islamic law called 'Sharia'."     Sitting back and giving me the fisheye again, Ingrid said, "You can't seriously believe that."     I grinned. "Don't take my word for it, ma'am. Read their holy book. It's also in the news. They already run the Middle East, much of Southeast Asia and Africa, and the western nations are suddenly realizing how many Muslims have taken root in the US, Britain, Germany, France, and other culturally temperate areas. Spain's already capitulated to them once and I expect France will be next. Muslim terrorists can hide among Muslim communities all around the world, and I'd say that when they finally realize that bombings and taking hostages won't make the western powers leave the Middle East, they'll start selectively assassinating government officials."     Both ladies seemed skeptical of my assessment. There were a long few moments of silence, then Ansen spoke as he parted the curtains for a look at the garbage can.     "In the old days, when the Muslims couldn't conquer or occupy a region by force of arms, they sent small teams of assassins. Bordering kings and princes who wouldn't cooperate with an emir or a shah would be stabbed to death or strangled -- sometimes in their own beds -- as examples to others. This sort of thing went on for hundreds of years. It would seem to me that they've simply expanded their horizons."     Turning to look at me, he added, "The light from the bowl is now a dull yellow." Chapter Ten     After a startled moment, Ingrid exclaimed, "Yellow?! That means it's cooling!"     Cats scattered away from her as she quickly stood up and looked for a place to put her plate.     As she gave us all a 'why the hell aren't you all on your feet?!' look, I said, "No point in going out there yet. It's still way too hot. Might as well sit back down and eat your pizza."     Christie had also stood up, but she glanced around once, shrugged, and sat back down to sip her drink. Ingrid looked at Ansen, who'd let the curtain close and forked up some salad.     Ingrid looked around at all of us again, then sighed and sat down. After a moment, she sipped her drink and sighed again, but she seemed altogether uninterested in her pizza and said, "Sometimes I'm not very good at waiting."     Looking surprised, I replied, "Why, I never woulda guessed it, ma'am," and Ansen snorted a soft chuckle.     "How long will it take, do you think?"     "If it were a regular piece of stoneware, I'd say a few more hours to get down to a safe, touchable temperature."     Glancing out at the trash can, Ingrid asked, "Regular? It's made of the same clay as all your other stuff, isn't it?"     "Yeah, but if I'd put a plain ol' stoneware bowl outside while it was that hot, it would have cracked instantly in the cooler air. I've been listening for odd snaps and pops. There haven't been any since the corner of the cinderblock popped off."     "Which means what..?"     Shrugging, I replied, "Don't know. Could be the same thing that made it heat up is making it cool gradually. Or it may only cool down to a certain point 'cuz we missed a dot or a line of something. Or it may still shatter. No idea."     Now she looked somewhat alarmed. "Missed a dot?! Are you saying you think you may have missed a dot?!"     "Did I say that? No, I don't think I missed a dot, but how the hell would I know for sure? Relax, lady. If it goes bad on us, we have a mold and another thousand pounds of clay."     Ansen's eyebrow went up as he said, "Excuse me, Ed, but that seems like quite a lot of clay for such a small enterprise."     I looked at him as I said, "A gallon of slip weighs fifteen pounds. There are twenty-eight two-gallon boxes of slip in the garage and six scrap buckets are all about half full."     "Slip?" asked Christie. "Boxes?"     "Liquid mud," I said, "It comes in baggies inside boxes, premixed and ready to pour. All I have to do is stir it up and add a couple of cups of water to thin it for the tiny molds."     "Why do you keep so much of it on hand?"     Shrugging again, I said, "Because I can. The stuff's half price at ceramic shows and there are two shows in Orlando every year. Half a pallet lasts me six months or more and that little trailer in the side yard saves me a bundle on shipping."     Finishing my pizza, I tossed the paper plate in the trash and went to part the curtain for a look at the can. The yellowish glow from within was still pretty bright.     "No change," I said, "I'm going to check my email."     When I turned on the computer and sat down, Ingrid came to stand behind me, then pulled up a chair.     I gave her a fisheye look and asked, "Were you planning to help me with my email, ma'am, or just monitor my activities?"     She didn't answer, but her eyes widened a bit as my boot-up screen appeared. Ingrid's gaze fastened on the pulsing red and silver graphic in the center of the black screen.     "Are you really happy with this Xandros thing?" she asked.     As the desktop screen came up, I said, "Yup. I was tired of having to deal with security patches and virus warnings all the time. My computer hasn't crashed or locked up since I installed Xandros, and -- a real plus as I see it -- the usual worms and viruses that make the news and screw up everybody else's computers can't affect this system."     Sighing, I said, "That'll probably change, though, as Linux becomes more popular. Hopefully, it'll take a few more years."     Pulling up the browser activated the dialer and made an internet connection. I aimed the browser at my email account and hunched over the keyboard as I typed in my password.     "Wow," Ingrid said drolly, "Don't you find it rather hard to type that way? Are you so worried that I'll see your password?"     "Not at all. I covered the keyboard so you couldn't."     In a droll tone, she said, "I was kidding, you know."     Grinning at her, I replied, "Yes'm, but I wasn't."     There were a few small orders, a couple of spams, and thirteen messages from friends. I bashed out replies as required, then opened a new window to visit a major search engine's newsgroup facility and checked the main groups on my usual list of stops.     Ingrid watched for a minute or so, then asked, "You don't use the email program that came with your browser?"     "Nope. I don't use the email address that came with my internet account, either. Everything that goes to that address is forwarded to a web-based email service and discarded. Every time you visit a site, that site's given your username and your service provider's dot-com address. Those are all a spammer needs. If there's a graphic in an email message and the picture's called up from another site, that site gets a copy of your username and your ISP's address, too."     Answering a group message about locating ebook sources, I stopped to point at my return address on the screen.     Ingrid read it and said, "That's not your email address."     "It's one of them. When you register for newsgroups or at message board sites, you have to provide an email address, but posting a message to a newsgroup makes whatever you use as your email address available to others. I opened that email account specifically to use with the newsgroups and discussion boards. It's set to refuse messages from anyone not listed in my address book."     Grinning, Ingrid replied, "Well, that's brilliant of you, of course, but doesn't it make it hard for people to contact you?"     "Stand by one, milady."     I finished my reply and added my signature block -- three lines that read, 'Ed Howdershelt - Abintra Press, Science Fiction & Semi-Fiction, http://www.AbintraPress.com' -- then said, "If anyone from a newsgroup or a message board really has a good reason to contact me, they'll visit my website." I grinned at her and added, "My email address is on my purchase page."     Sitting straight and giving me her usual fisheye look, Ingrid grinned back at me as she rather drolly repeated, "On your purchase page, huh? Is that a hint?"     "Yup. They should at least be exposed to the opportunity."     "Indeed. How about telling me a little more about this worm-proof, virus-proof software? My computer's caught something twice this year."     Reaching for the Xandros Deluxe box above the monitor, I held it toward Ingrid and said, "The manual's in here. If it makes sense to you, you may want to give it a try."     She took the box and set it on the desk as I finished closing my browser so I could shut down the computer. I don't usually shut it down unless there's a thunderstorm or I'm going out, but I didn't want to leave it on with three other people in the house.     "Ed," Ingrid said in a quiet, ominous tone, "Exactly what did you mean by 'if it makes sense to you'? Are you under the impression that I may be unable to understand what I read?"     Ah. She was pissed, or getting that way. She'd thought I was being condescending.     I hit the 'off' button on the power strip and turned to face her as I asked, "How much do most people know about their computers? They know how to work a few programs, right? How many have ever spent any time reading their manuals? What's their usual excuse for not reading their manuals, especially if there's an 800 number to call? Why the hell are there so many computer shops in a town this small? Would there be so many if people read their manuals? And didn't you tell me that Ansen is the computer guru in the family? Want some more? Or would you be happier just assuming that I think you're a halfwit because you're female?"     Picking up the Xandros box, I placed it in her lap and said, "So I didn't choose the most sensitive way to say something. Big deal. It may even happen again someday."     Taking my coffee off the desk, I went to have another look outside. The bowl's glow seemed a bit dimmer, almost down to a bright orange. I decided to let everything about the bowl slide until morning.     Turning to Christie, I grinningly asked, "So, Sarge, how's the Army these days? Wanna tell me all about it while I dig out some bedding and towels?"     Christie just sat there for a moment, then asked, "Don't you think you may have overreacted a little? All she asked was what you meant by what you said."     "Did you hear it the same way she did? As a potential insult or some kind of belittlement?"     Christie murmured, "Well... sort of..."     "Then you took it wrong, too, and you know me well enough to know better."     I set my coffee down and went to the hall closet for towels and bedding, then put a set of sheets on the couch -- under Ingrid's purse to keep cats from parking on her fresh linens -- and handed another set to Ansen.     Retrieving my coffee, I headed for the porch and let myself out to the yard, then approached the dotted line of light emanating from the trash can.     Yup. Definitely more orange than yellow now. Good. Maybe we'd be able to set about trying to find out how it worked in the morning. I walked up to the trash can and peeked through the hole I'd carved into the bottom.     The top of the bowl looked like a foot-wide mirror until I leaned a bit to see it better. Apparently the change of angle made a difference; as I looked more directly down at the top of the bowl, the mirror's surface darkened until it was jet black.     Interesting. That was an effect Ansen hadn't mentioned, but he hadn't seemed to be trying to be devious. I wondered if, in fact, he'd ever actually seen this aspect of his bowl.     Heat was rising around the bowl and out the top of the can as expected, so the black spot apparently wasn't having much -- if any -- effect on anything. It was just there.     The glass porch door opened. I saw Christie and Ingrid let themselves out and head for the screen door as I went to some low-hanging tree branches by the fence, tore off one of the thinner ones -- about five feet long -- and headed back toward the trash can just as the others cautiously approached it.     Stopping a few yards away, I said, "Don't need to make a fire hazard," and began picking leaves off the yard-long bit of branch as I waited for Ansen to say or do something and give away his position near the can.     Christie stayed a few feet away from the can and craned a bit to see through the hole in the top. Ingrid looked quizzical as she spoke.     "It's gone." She looked up and glanced around as she added, "The shiny spot. I saw it, but now it's gone."     From her immediate left, Ansen said, "Step back and look again. It's still there."     I picked off the last few leaves and approached the can as Ingrid stepped back and peered at the hole.     "Yeah," she said, "I see it. But why's it so big? And why's it at the top of the bowl now?"     Dropping one of the leaves into the hole in the top of the can, I watched it flutteringly pass through the inky black spot and disappear without so much as a ripple. Grass dented directly across the trash can from me.     Looking up as I held another leaf over the black spot, I asked, "Ansen, have you ever seen this effect before?"     In a flat tone, he quietly said, "No. Never."     I let the leaf fall as I chuckled, "Huh. Kinda puts a whole new slant on things, doesn't it?"     Ingrid's eyes left the bowl to lock angrily onto me and she rather sharply asked, "You think this is funny?!"     Equally sharply, I said, "Can the unnecessary attitude, ma'am. Ansen, have you ever seen anything but a small shiny spot at the bottom of the bowl?"     Apparently he hadn't moved. His soft, "No," came from the same general space by the trash can.     Without further comment, I aimed the end of the now-leafless stick at the foot-wide black spot and tried to touch it. The end of the stick encountered no resistance at all as it disappeared. I might as well have been dipping it into ink.     Retracting the stick, I examined the six inches or so that had descended into the black spot. It looked and felt no different from the rest of the stick. I remembered that Ansen had said he'd experienced a deep coldness. From a longer exposure, maybe? Prob'ly not. Any exposure to that sort of cold would have frozen the stick.     Aiming the end of the stick into the spot again, I let it descend as close to straight down as possible. When there was only an inch of stick left for my fingertips to cling to and the heat rising from the can made the hair on my arm curl, I pulled the stick back out and stood it next to the can.     With a disbelieving stare, Christie muttered, "That's not possible. The stick is a foot taller than the garbage can."     "I didn't bend it," I said, "Didn't push it. Just let it hang."     "I know, but..." she shook her head and didn't finish. I handed her the stick.     She eyed it for a moment, then did as I had, carefully lowering the stick into the black spot. When she held the last inch or so of the stick by her fingertips, Christie looked around at the rest of us and asked, "Should I let go of it or not?"     "No," I said.     "We already know what will happen," said Ingrid, "It'll just drop out of sight."     "And maybe it'll land on someone," I suggested, "Or fall all the way to some other planet and spear a native."     When everybody looked at me, I asked, "Well? Is someone standing under that hole? Another Ansen, somewhere? A whole city of Ansens? Ever heard the poem? 'I shot an arrow into the air, It came to earth I know not where.'"     Ingrid and Christie looked at each other and Christie pulled the stick out of the black spot to examine it.     Peeking through the openings in the can, I said, "At this rate, it'll probably be cool enough to handle by morning. I think we'd better put a lid on it. Back in a minute."     I went into the house and retrieved the trash can's lid, then put it over the bottom of the can and set a couple of bricks on top of it. For no better reason than a sense of unease, I added four more bricks.     "Why so many bricks?" asked Ingrid. "Are you expecting something to try to climb out of there?"     "General principles," I said, "Something already came out of one once." Looking up at the overcast, starless sky, I added, "Besides -- this being central Florida -- it may rain during the night. Cold water on hot stoneware could crack it."     As I headed back to the house, Ingrid asked, "How would rain get to it? That black spot looks wider than the bowl."     Glancing back at her as I opened the porch door, I asked, "How does it hurt to take precautions?"     I felt Ansen go past me onto the porch as Christie and Ingrid followed.     Once we were back inside the house, I closed the glass door and gave Ingrid a little salute as I said, "Well, you and Ansen have sheets and towels and you know where the kitchen is. I'm devoting myself to Christie for what's left of the evening, so make yourselves at home. Who's first in the shower?"     Ingrid raised a hand and said quickly, "Me."     Raising an eyebrow at her, I nodded and said, "You got it."     Gallantly offering an arm to Christie, I asked, "May I show you to your room, milady?"     She grinningly bit her lip somewhat self-consciously, but she slipped her arm through mine and said goodnight to Ingrid. Ansen hadn't reappeared, so Christie added, "And goodnight to you, too, Ansen, wherever you are."     From the den doorway came a chuckled, "Goodnight, Christie," and Ansen materialized by the reclining chair.     As we turned to head down the hallway, Christie muttered with a shake of her head, "Wish I could do that."     "Why? So you could spy in the men's barracks?"     Christie smacked my arm.     "No. I just think it would be cool." Looking up at me, she added, "Especially in a place like Iraq."     "Bear in mind that he's running around naked under all that hair, ma'am. Would your uniform disappear with you?"     Grinning, Christie chuckled, "If not, that could be a problem, couldn't it?"     "Not for me. If you suddenly appeared naked in front of me, I'm pretty sure I'd feel blessed."     Glancing back along the hall as if to see if the others had heard us, she bit her lip and almost whisperingly, asked, "You'd feel 'blessed', huh?"     Nodding firmly, I opened the bedroom door as I replied, "Oh, yeah. Definitely, ma'am. There's no other word for it."     Half an hour later the shower became available again and I went to make a fresh coffee before joining Christie in the bedroom.     Ingrid was nowhere in sight. I noticed that the Xandros Deluxe box was missing from the computer table and peeked into the den. Ingrid was leafing through the manual as Ansen watched a Discovery show about volcanic activity beneath Yellowstone Park. Chapter Eleven     A soft, squeaking, continuous rumble that I recognized as someone slowly opening the glass porch door woke me a little before six in the morning.     I slipped out of bed without waking Christie and padded barefoot to the bedroom door to crack it open and peek out. Not surprisingly, I saw nobody in the hallway or the region of the living room visible to me.     It seemed likely that Ingrid or Ansen -- or both -- had slipped out for a look at the bowl. I recalled Ingrid's moderate paranoia of the night before and decided to attend whatever proceedings might be underway.     Slipping on my clothes and my rubber-soled golf shoes, I grabbed my coffee mug and headed for the kitchen, looking out at the back yard as I walked.     Ingrid stood by the trash can with her back to the house. The bricks had been moved back to the pile and the can's lid was on the ground beside it. She seemed to be simply staring into the hole in the garbage can.     With a mental shrug, I decided that -- unless she screamed or something, of course -- whatever she was staring at could wait until I'd made and guzzled some coffee.     Moocher and Winston followed me into the kitchen. Mooch hovered near the food dish and Winston hopped up to the window sill. I reached into the cat food canister and gave each of them several bits of kibble.     It was the same stuff that was in their food dish, but cats are big believers in tradition and ritual. Charlie -- the grey Maine Coon -- came skidding around the doorway to get his bits and slid backwards all the way to the far cabinets.     "Poor little Chuckie," I sympathized, "Having fuzzy feet is a real tribulation on a slick floor, isn't it?"     Another presence in the kitchen made the hair on my neck and arms stand up and made me glance at the side of the toaster and scan the room behind me. Nothing visible.     I said, "Hi, Ansen. Want some coffee?"     The chair nearest the fridge pulled away from the kitchen table as Ansen replied, "Yes, please. I'm remaining invisible in rooms with uncovered windows."     As I stirred up another cup for him, he asked, "How did you know I was in the kitchen?"     "Jungle jitters."     He chucklingly echoed, "Jungle jitters?"     Placing his coffee and a spoon on the table, I said, "Yup. The 'someone or something is nearby or watching' sensation."     His spoon seemed to lift itself to give his coffee another few stirs, then the cup lifted a foot or so above the table.     Sitting down at the table, I asked, "What's Ingrid doing?"     Shrugging, Ansen sipped his coffee and said, "I hope she's thinking hard about what I said last night. She was talking about taking everything to the lakeside cabin immediately."     "That's a problem?"     Sipping again, he said, "I'd prefer not to be that far from assistance if anything goes wrong."     I nodded as I might to any sensible statement. There was a pause, then Ansen sipped again and sighed.     "Damn it," he said, "I'm sick to death of hiding from the world. I can't make her understand that."     "She loves you, Ansen. You're her family. She's afraid."     The bathroom door closed. Christie was up. I got up to make another cup of coffee.     Ansen said softly, "And now I'm scared to death of that damned bowl. I've never seen that black hole before. Never once in all these centuries. Can I really have been transported there through something like that?"     "Seems as likely as appearing out of thin air. I had another question for you, though. A test, even."     "A test?"     "Yup. We created a new bowl last night, theoretically the same as the old bowl. Do you feel anything around it?"     After a pause, he answered, "I... I don't think so."     "When the original bowl was broken, did you feel any discomfort or pain?"     "No, but as always, if I got too far from the pieces, I would."     "How far would pieces of the original bowl have to be moved before you felt discomfort or pain?"     I saw Ingrid open the porch screen door and walk to the glass door as Ansen said, "About fifty paces produces noticeable discomfort. Another fifty will create the beginnings of pain."     As the bathroom door opened, I said, "Then I think Ingrid and I should take a ride with the pieces of your old bowl. You and Christie can wait here in the house. We'll keep in touch with Ingrid's cell phone and you'll tell us if you feel anything by the time we're at the end of the block. If the new bowl is really that good a match..."     Ansen hurriedly finished in a hushed, excited tone, "If it's a good match, I won't feel anything when the old bowl is..! Yes! Good idea!"     Ingrid came hurrying into the kitchen, staring first at Ansen, then at me in an agitated fashion.     In a tight tone, she asked, "What's going on? What's a good idea?"     "Hold one," I said, "Let Christie join us so we only have to explain it once. Ready for a coffee?"     She waved off the coffee and sat down by Ansen as Christie appeared in the kitchen doorway. I directed Christie's gaze to her coffee and she sat down beside me.     Ansen outlined what we had in mind. Ingrid eyed me for a moment, then nodded.     "Okay. I can't see any harm in that."     I almost laughed. Only almost. Ingrid saw my grin, though.     "What's so funny, Ed?"     "You. You're so protective. We're just talking about a simple little test to see if the new bowl can replace the old one in at least one respect. You're acting as if..."     "You just never mind how I'm acting," she snapped, "I have every good reason to be worried."     Meeting her hard gaze, I said, "Well, no, actually, you don't, and I've been trying to get that across to you since you arrived yesterday. I was kind of hoping you'd relax a little today."     Christie waved a hand and said, "Everybody cool it. This is more of a personality disorder between you two than anything else, and it's altogether unnecessary. Let me wake up some more before you start poking at each other."     Turning to me, she asked, "What's up with the bowl?"     Shrugging, I said, "I haven't been out yet. Ask Ingrid."     She turned to Ingrid, who said, "It's cool enough to touch."     "You touched it?" yelped Christie.     With a 'what the hell do you think I did?' look, Ingrid rolled her eyes and said, "Yes. I touched it. So what?"     Ansen snickered and sipped his coffee.     Christie watched the cup rise, tilt, and descend back to the table with a grin, then laughed, "God, I wish I could disappear like that! I'd even become gold and furry if I had to."     "Hm," I said, "That might limit your dating pool."     "Do you really think so? You wouldn't mind, would you?"     "Hell, yes, I would. I'd miss all that wonderful bare skin, ma'am. You'd probably clog up my bathtub drain, too."     Snorting a laugh, Ansen agreed, "That has been a problem over the years. I had to make special drain screens."     With a snort of her own that sounded a lot like impatience, Ingrid stood up and said, "I'll bring the bowl into the house. Where do you want me to put it?"     Gesturing at the table, I stood up and said, "Not in the house. On the porch."     "Why not in the house?"     Taking a parting sip of coffee, I said, "My cats, that's why."     Rolling her eyes in an 'oh, I should have realized' manner, Ingrid said, "Sorry, Ed. Wasn't thinking."     I stopped by the kitchen door and looked at her as I said, "Daphne was your mother's cat, wasn't she?"     She peered at me for a moment, then replied, "Yes, she was, but how did you come to that conclusion?"     "There was no glue residue on any of the bowl pieces. It just didn't make sense to me that nobody'd tried to stick it back together somehow. That's when it occurred to me that you'd probably never actually seen the shiny spot until I reassembled the bowl. That's why you freaked when I almost touched it." I thumbed back toward the kitchen and Ansen. "He didn't freak, though, and once I knew about him, I knew Daphne had to have been your mom's cat."     Ingrid stared at me for a moment, then looked at Christie and Ansen for another moment. Christie rose to come join us.     "Was there a point to all that?" asked Ingrid.     Nodding as I opened the glass door, I said, "Yup," and headed for the screen door.     Ingrid followed me and Christie closed the glass door and quick-stepped to follow us as we approached the garbage can.     Eyeing the black spot through the hole in the can, I said, "I'd like to donate a suitcase for carrying this thing. There's some foam and an old Samsonite hardshell out in the garage."     I lifted the can and set it aside as Ingrid replied, "Thank you. That sounds like a good idea."     "Fact is," I said, "I'd also like to suggest that you don't try to handle whatever happens next on your own, Ingrid. Have you considered what might have happened if your mom's plane had gone down over the Atlantic Ocean?"     Giving me a sharp look, Ingrid said, "Yeah. I wouldn't be here. What are you getting at, Ed?"     Grabbing a few blades of grass and tossing them into the black zone, I asked, "Where did the grass go? How deep is that hole? How much water would it take to fill it?"     Ingrid stared at the spot for a moment, then said, "It wasn't like this back then. Ansen said he'd never seen anything but the shimmering place in the bottom."     "All I had to do was scrub the dots a little to find them. Sand and water could have done the same thing if the bowl had survived a crash in the ocean."     Christie raised a hand to her mouth and whispered, "Oh, my God! Yes, but... But... wouldn't something have blocked it sooner or later?"     I shrugged. "Sure, sooner or later. For a while, anyway. Maybe a dead fish or something might block it for a while, but for how long? Even the wreck of the Titanic is dissolving into rusty sludge."     There was almost no wind. Taking out one of my paper-towel hankies, I tore a thin strip the length of the towel and held it near the edge of the black zone.     The lower end of the strip very gently leaned toward the black spot. I moved the strip around the bowl to be sure wind had nothing to do with the angle of the strip. No matter where I held the strip around the bowl, the strip's lower end leaned toward the black zone.     Looking at the ladies, I said, "This thing's been sucking air all night. We need to put some kind of a lid on it."     From somewhere to Ingrid's right, Ansen said softly, "This changes everything, Ingrid. It was just my personal memento before. Now it's potentially dangerous. Very dangerous."     Shaking her head, Ingrid said, "It was never just 'your personal memento', Ansen. If anything had happened to unclog those dots, this black... hole... could have appeared long ago."     "Back in a minute," I said, and went into the house.     We needed something airtight to contain the bowl. I couldn't think of a damned thing in the house that would qualify for that job. On the other hand, the paper bit had barely moved, so the pressure difference between here and wherever else couldn't be very much.     On my bookshelf there was a sheet of pressed foam that had protected the bottom of a big motherboard during shipping. I grabbed the foam sheet and a roll of sandwich wrap from the kitchen drawer, then looked for something flat and heavy.     The world atlas would be big enough. I grabbed that, too, then saw the plaster mold on the kitchen counter. A bit of clay still clung to the top of the mold. Because the mold was still somewhat damp, the clay was pliable.     Dirt had clogged the bowl's systems once; maybe it would do it again. I swiped a finger along the rim of the mold and stuck the wad of soft clay to the side of the plastic wrap box.     When I got back out to the bowl, I handed the atlas, plastic wrap, and foam to Christie and said, "Just in case," then found the spot on the bowl that had been obscured on the original.     Kneeling to hold the far side of the bowl to steady it, I pressed some of the damp clay into the holes I'd made the evening before. I was pleasantly surprised when the black spot across the mouth of the bowl winked out of existence.     Standing up, I tossed a few bits of grass at the shiny spot in the bottom of the bowl. The grass blades flipped and danced, but they didn't disappear or fall through the glimmer.     I said, "That worked pretty well," then took the atlas, foam, and plastic wrap back from Christie, and headed for the porch.     Ansen abruptly said, "Wait. I feel something. It started when you put the clay on the bowl."     Ingrid had walked around to study my clay application. She looked toward the sound of Ansen's voice and asked, "You mean like you felt with the old bowl?"     "Yes. It's..." he sighed, "It's unexplainable, really. I didn't notice a difference when you washed the broken bowl piece to clean the design, but I was standing near the sink and we never tested your idea to take the pieces some distance away."     Shrugging, I said, "It isn't too late. We'll rig a lid for the new bowl and clean the mud off, then make that distance test with the old stuff."     Lifting the bowl like some sort of religious icon, Ingrid very carefully crossed the yard to the patio. I opened the screen door for her and held it for the others, then pulled it shut behind me.     Ingrid set the bowl on my workbench and I set the stuff I was carrying beside it. After I stretched four layers of plastic wrap over the mouth of the bowl, I set the foam sheet on top of that, then anchored everything down with the atlas.     As a further precaution, I set tile molds around the bowl to keep it from tipping before I used a damp sponge and a soft toothbrush to remove the smear of clay from the design.     The moment I cleaned out the last dot, there was a soft hissing and a solid-sounding 'thwap!' noise. The atlas seemed to drop almost imperceptibly and the corners of the foam sheet curled downward around the bowl.     I said, "The seal may not be laboratory-grade, but it'll do for now. Ansen, how do you feel when the design's clean?"     From beside Ingrid came, "It was as if you somehow... disconnected me... from the bowl. The... draw, for lack of a better word... ceased immediately."     Nodding, I said, "So far, so good, then. Now let's go inside and scrub all the broken pieces, then take 'em for a ride."     Through the glass door I could see all three of my cats watching us. Charlie seemed to be the most interested in the bowl and atlas, of course.     That's Charlie's nature; if it's something he shouldn't be messing with, that's usually where you'll find him. I tucked the tile molds around the bowl again and set a hefty mold atop the atlas on general principles.     Glancing around once, I let them hear the promise of retribution in my voice as I said, "Remember people; no cats on the porch, even if it means being unpleasant to them. No excuses will be accepted."     We trooped into the house and into the kitchen and I set up a bowl of soapy water in the sink. Ingrid and I scrubbed every piece of the broken bowl and checked each other's work, then we set the pieces on paper towels to pat them dry.     "Well, Ansen?" I asked, "Any change?"     From the chair by the fridge came, "It's almost as if I no longer have any connection to the bowl. I've been sitting here feeling as if... well, as if a weight has been lifted off me, so to speak. It's as if a tiny, enduring pain has been stopped, Ed."     "Like you were so used to having a headache, it seemed normal? Now it's gone? You're sure?"     In a tone of amazement, he said, "Exactly like that, I think. Yes. It seems to be gone."     "Kewl. Let's see if it'll stay gone when we run this bunch of bits down the street a ways."     I put all the bowl parts in a lidded plastic food container and grabbed my keys as I said, "Christie and Ansen here. Ingrid in the car with me 'cuz she has a cell phone. Ingrid, call the number on the kitchen phone and keep the connection open."     Ansen flickered, then materialized at the table. He looked a little worried.     "Don't sweat it," I said, "If you report any pain, we'll turn around immediately."     He nodded and said nervously, "Okay. Good."     The kitchen phone rang and Christie picked it up and asked, "Hello?"     Ingrid said, "Okay, we're ready."     Christie handed the phone to Ansen and Ingrid and I went out to the car. I backed us out and headed west on Chase Street, driving relatively slowly as Ingrid maintained a running dialogue with Ansen.     "We're at the end of the block," she said, "Are you sure you feel okay?"     She glanced at me and nodded as she waved for me to continue driving. Before the end of the second block, she again asked if he was sure. In this block-by-block manner we eventually reached Kirkland, five blocks from the house.     I turned onto Northcliffe and continued west at a reasonable speed. Ingrid seemed nervous as hell about moving away from Ansen so quickly, but said nothing. When we reached US-19, I pulled into a convenience store parking lot.     "One mile exactly," I said, "Ask him if he wants us to head north or south."     She did so and said, "He says it shouldn't matter."     I chose north and we cruised along at the posted speed limit until we reached the stoplight at route fifty.     "Almost four miles," I said, "Anything yet?"     Ingrid shook her head. "No."     "Have we gone far enough, or do we keep going?"     She asked Ansen. He asked us to continue for a while, so when the light changed, I aimed us west again on five-fifty. We reached Bayport's laughable little bit of beach about ten minutes later and I parked the car as I looked out across the Gulf of Mexico. As usual, the water looked rather flat and had about the same wave activity as a bathtub.     "Well?" I asked, "Ten miles and some change now."     Ingrid shook her head as she chatted with Ansen, then signed off and put her phone away. She gazed out across the water for a time, then sighed.     I waited for her to say whatever was on her mind, but she didn't speak. She opened the car door, got out, and stood leaning on the car door for a time.     Stretching to reach a pack of tissues in the glove box, I tapped her hip with them through the window. Ingrid glanced down and seemed surprised, but she took them.     Opening my own door, I took the keys and got out, then went to the front of the car and parked my butt on the very front of the hood and frame, putting my feet on the bumper.     After a time, Ingrid came to lean against the front of the car and pulled herself up to sit on it as I had. Perhaps a minute passed before she sighed and blew her nose on a tissue.     Without looking away from the water, I said, "I think we need to talk, lady."     Clearing her throat, she asked, "About what?"     "How things got to this point. What happens next."     She tried to give me a wry grin. "I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific."     "You don't want him to try to use that bowl. I don't think he really wants to try to use it, either. That black hole scared the hell out of him. We need to make an effort to find out where it goes and how it works."     I turned to look at her and asked, "Whose idea was this, anyway? Yours? His? Or did you both manage to talk yourselves into a corner about the whole thing? Is three thousand some kind of magic number to somebody? Why -- all of a sudden, that is -- is it so damned important to fix the bowl?"     She wouldn't look at me.     I poked her shoulder with an index finger and said, "And something else to worry about, ma'am; nothing's exactly where it was three thousand years ago. Not planets, not stars, nothing. Back then, if he'd been able to figure things out quickly enough, he might have been able to hop back into the bowl and wind up more or less where he'd come from. Where would he end up today? Somewhere in the general vicinity of his home star system, freeze-dried in space? Or way the hell and gone on the other side of his galaxy in the same condition? He said he was cold to the bone when he arrived -- or when he regained consciousness, anyway. Was it because of a really hard winter in Damiya, or was it from traveling through space?"     Ingrid simply stared at me for a time, then her gaze returned to the water and she dabbed her eyes and nose before she said softly, "I don't know what to do, Ed."     "First, some mediation. Something's escalated matters to this point. Somebody has to find the guts to change course. If Ansen's just bored shitless, we'll find him stuff to do so he won't be bored. If you two are discovering that 'you two' aren't quite enough company for each other, that can be fixed."     Shrugging, I added, "If Ansen's wishing for a gold, furry femme or pining for a homeworld he can't even remember, I don't know what the hell to do about that, but most everything else is curable." Chapter Twelve     Ingrid's head had snapped around at the mention of a 'gold furry femme'. Her eyes hardened and her mouth became a thin line for a few moments.     "Want a suggestion?" I asked. "You won't like it at first."     "At first?"     "Yup. But think about it some. NASA and a fat double-dozen other agencies would wet their pants with excitement at a chance to meet Ansen. The trick would be to make sure none of them got an exclusive and that the whole world knew about him before any of those agencies so much as shook his hand. Safety in numbers by way of publicity."     In an ominous tone, she asked, "And just how the hell would you suggest we achieve that kind of publicity before one of those agencies made him disappear into a lab?"     Shrugging, I said, "The Internet. First, we write a series of books from his memoirs and publish them on the net. Get his name and story out there. People as hairy as Ansen are rare, but they happen. He'd masquerade as a plain ol' hairy person pretending to be an alien for a while. Hit the science fiction conventions. Meet people. Autograph books and like that. Make so many friends it would be impossible to shut them all up. Then one day he'd do his invisibility trick for a prominent news magazine editor and announce that he's an ancient alien. Let them pluck a few hairs and pay for the DNA tests. Or rent a lawyer to send hair samples to prominent scientists and university labs. Ansen would become a worldwide sensation overnight and others in the legitimate media would get their hands on his DNA info, guaranteed. The hounds of the press would be fighting each other tooth and nail for pictures and interviews. Prob'ly oughta let the lawyer handle that, too."     I could see how poorly she regarded my idea.     "And," I added, "We could make your presence mandatory at all times. No you, no Ansen. No interviews. No lab studies. No nothing."     Taking a breath and studying her reaction -- unchanged, of course -- I said, "And only after all of that would we spring the bowl on them. We'd only be able to afford to put a video camera on a few yards of cable, drop it into the hole, and hope to get it back in working order. An outfit like NASA could afford much fancier fishing gear. They'd also be better able to keep the bowl-hole from gobbling up the Earth's atmosphere during tests, and if anything went dangerously wrong -- as with the bowl in Spain that exploded or some kind of radiation -- it would happen somewhere other than in the middle of a residential community."     No apparent change; Ingrid's expression was still one of deep distaste for the idea of involving government agencies. Well, I couldn't really blame her, but facts are facts. They had more to work with and I really didn't want to see Ansen -- or Ingrid, for that matter -- try to do anything with the bowl without knowing a helluva lot more about it.     "Besides," I said, "You'll have the original bowl, the scanned pix, and the mold. Give 'em a replica bowl. Let them do all the work, spend all the money, and take all the risks. Let your tax dollars work for you for a change, right?"     Snorting a laugh, Ingrid asked, "How long would it take them to figure out that it wasn't an antique?"     "Good point. Not very and no problem. Have Ansen trace the designs by hand onto a sheet of paper and tell them a degree of truth; that the original bowl was destroyed. But don't give the pieces to them under any circumstances."     Ingrid was about to say something when her cell phone chimed. She answered it and said in an aside to me, "It's Ansen. They're wondering where we are."     Pointing at a nearby sign, I said, "Bayport Beach."     She sighed and told Ansen that we'd head back, then looked at me meaningfully as she slid her ass off my car. When we were back inside, I aimed the car back the way we'd come and got us moving.     When Ingrid turned off her phone, she said, "Promise me you won't mention what you just said to Ansen until I've had time to think about it."     "Nope. You could 'think about it' for the next twenty years. Ansen's a big boy. He can think for himself."     For a long moment, Ingrid simply glared at me, then she asked, "What's in it for you? A book? Money? Status?"     I shrugged. "You and Ansen would rake in big bucks from show 'n tell. People would find out I just made a replica and cleaned some crud out of the design work. The research types with tenure and titles would dive in and everybody'd forget about me pretty much instantly. Which is fine with me."     "Oh, really?" she asked in an icy tone, "Why's that?"     Taking us through the light at US-19 and heading north to Northcliffe, I said, "Because at my end of things, it would be a fat lot of hassle and bother for damned little reward."     Heading north instead of back toward the house made Ingrid sit up straight and yelp, "Where the hell are you going?!"     "Take it easy. There's a fast-food joint in the shopping center. I'll pick up breakfast for us. You duck into the grocery store and get whatever Ansen likes. Need some money?"     She shook her head. "No. I have money."     Glancing at her, I asked, "How many times has Ansen said something like 'I wish I could do that' or 'I wish I could go there'? He's been in hiding a long damned time, Ingrid. Could be it's time for the world to meet him at long last. Maybe human science has evolved to the point where it might be able to help him."     "You're assuming that it would want to help him."     "Yeah. I am. We'd make it an immutable part of the deal."     "The deal," she echoed flatly.     "Yup. A very big, very public, international deal. A trade, if you will. Info about Ansen and the bowl in exchange for help in figuring out that damned black spot and maybe even finding a way to eventually send him home."     Shaking her head, Ingrid said, "They'd never go for that. The NSA or FBI or somebody would send people to pick Ansen up. He'd disappear into some lab."     "Think about it. By then, he'd be a celebrity. There'd be no point in isolating him, and trying to do anything secretly would be laughable. The media lawyers would make sure that all he'd have to do is talk to some agencies and supply them some blood and fuzz samples, then decide which parties to attend and how to spend the money."     I pulled up at the curb to let her out by the grocery store's doors. She sat looking at me for a time before she pulled the handle and let herself out, then she closed the door rather too firmly and turned on her heel to march into the store.     At the restaurant, I scanned the menus above the counter and settled on three of the "Big Breakfasts" -- which didn't look all that big to me -- and added a fourth one on general principles. Nobody'd leave the table hungry.     When I drove back to the grocery store, Ingrid was on her phone again, yakking animatedly until she turned and saw me coming. She snapped the phone shut as I stopped, put her bags in the back seat, and got in.     "That was Ansen," she said, "I told him what you said."     Uh, huh. Her version of it, most likely. People tend to modify things a bit when they repeat them, particularly when they disapprove of what was said. I gave her a fisheye look and headed us toward the parking lot exit.     "You don't believe me?" asked Ingrid.     "I believe you told him your version of it. I'll tell him my version of it later and see if they match up."     She glowered at me for a moment, then faced front all the way back to the house. When she got out, she slammed the door and marched up to the house while I was still gathering the other breakfast stuff.     Oh, well. The only thing that would really make her happy at the moment would be a complete return to things as they were before she and Ansen had rung my doorbell.     Christie's mother stepped out from her front door with a garbage bag and started toward the street with it, then spotted me. I waved the food bags and said hello. She put the bag by the street and headed toward me.     "When may I expect to see my daughter?" she asked.     "After breakfast, I guess." I gave her shorts and blouse outfit a quick scan and added, "You look pretty good first thing in the morning, Claire."     Her gaze narrowed and she stiffened a bit.     "Has it occurred to you that Christie might be less than thrilled to hear that you compliment me like that while you're sleeping with her?"     Grinning at her, I replied, "Nope. She knows you hate me. She also knows I only compliment you to bug you."     Her gaze narrowed even further as she said, "I don't hate you, Ed. I just wish you'd leave my daughter alone."     I shrugged. "Give her time, Claire. Sooner or later she'll meet some guy closer to her own age and I'll become a fond memory. If we meet again after that, the conversation will be about hang gliding and I'll be expected to behave myself."     "And will you?"     "Oh, hell, yes. I'll shake ol' what's-his-face's hand and talk about the latest gliders and bitch about the weather keeping me on the ground too often. He won't suspect a thing."     "I wish I could believe that."     Chuckling, I said, "Try harder, Claire. When one person's ready to call things off, there's no damn point at all in the other person pushing the issue. When it's over, it's over."     "Words, Ed. Just words."     Setting the bags on the hood of the car, I said, "Look, lady, I introduced Christie to hang gliding and showed her a good time, that's all. When she wants more than that, she'll have to look elsewhere, and don't think for even a moment that she doesn't know that. Did you know I can't have kids?"     Blinking in startlement, she asked, "What?!"     "No kids," I said. "Not ever. I got fixed some years ago. And you know how Christie feels about having her own kids someday, don't you? Can you really see her sticking with me?"     "I... I suppose not. Is it true, though? Did you really..?"     Picking up the food bags, I said, "Yup. Really did. Care to come in and have some breakfast?"     Backing away a pace, she shook her head.     "No, I don't think so, Ed. I have some things to do."     "Okay, then. Later, Claire." I left her standing by my car and headed for the front door.     After going to the porch to put another dab of clay on the bowl's design, I set the food on the kitchen counter and table and we rooted through the bags.     Christie asked, "What did my mother have to say?"     "She asked -- and I quote -- 'When may I expect to see my daughter?'"     "And you said..?"     "After breakfast, of course."     "What else? You were out there quite a while."     I pulled the kitchen window curtains closed and said, "Ansen, you won't have to stay invisible during breakfast."     Setting some bacon bits down for the cats as Ansen appeared by the coffee pot, I said, "Christie, I told her she could relax because you'd dump me sooner or later for a younger model who could have kids. I also said she looked pretty good first thing in the morning."     Ingrid blurted, "You what?! You really said that?"     "Sure. Why not? It's true." Leaning across the table, I thumbed at Christie and stage whispered to Ansen, "She's just playing with me, you know. Using me like a toy. As soon as some younger guy comes along who hang glides and treats her like a goddess, she'll jump ship."     Taking her selections to the table, Christie commented, "I'm in the Army, remember? We don't have ships." She sat down and said, "And, anyway, if I got tied up with some guy in the Army, he'd probably get transferred to the other side of the world a few months later. I've seen it happen."     Ansen had assembled a hefty salad in a serving bowl and doused it with vinegar and olive oil dressing. He sat down by Ingrid and eyed what the rest of us were eating briefly, then picked up his fork and dug into his own breakfast.     "Well?" I asked, "Did you feel anything at all when we were ten miles out?"     Shaking his head, he said, "No. Nothing."     "Ready to try some distance with the new bowl?"     He didn't look up from his salad. "Sure, I guess so."     Hm. A definite lack of enthusiasm, there.     "What's on your mind, Ansen?"     For a couple of moments, he continued fishing around in his salad as if looking for something, then his head came up.     "Ingrid told me that you think I ought to go public."     Nodding, I said, "Gradually. In stages. Very carefully."     He glanced at Ingrid and said, "Perhaps I'm having some trouble envisioning how that might happen."     Looking at Ingrid, I asked, "You told him all of what I said?"     Sitting straight with a narrow gaze, she said, "I told him the salient parts."     "Uh, huh. Salient by your definition?"     Turning to Ansen, I said, "I'll summarize, just in case she missed some little something. How about a series of ebooks set in different times and circumstances as experienced by you, with the kinds of details that will trigger bright little flashes in the minds of historians and archaeologists? Odd little things you know about but they may not. Things that can be discovered and verified. Get the ebooks irreversibly established on the net, and as soon as some of the odd little items mentioned in the books have made the news, the media will start looking for you. That's when you'd pop into the head offices of each of the major news magazines and do a quick show 'n tell. Let them bid against each other for an exclusive. Let the winner set you up with a big publisher and several top lawyers to take you public in style and safety."     Munching some sausage and egg biscuit, I said, "Once you're a public figure, the various federal and international agencies will be frantic to... well, to meet you, at the very least. You'll probably end up donating some blood and hair samples to some labs, as well as a copy of the bowl. Let the guys with the fat budgets and multiple PhD's do all the research and take all the risks. They can wear radiation suits, send robot cameras and samplers through the black spot, and possibly even discover where it leads and how to get there and back safely."     Giving me a fisheye look, Ingrid asked, "But weren't you the guy who had reservations about letting humanity get its hands on the bowl?"     Shrugging, I replied, "Yeah, and I still am to a degree, but I'm also a guy who doesn't mind at all if someone else is all hot and bothered to walk point in a possibly hostile environment."     "Walk point?"     "The lead position," said Christie. "If there are dangers, the point man will find them well ahead of the main group."     Grinning, I said, "Yup. We used to call the ones who survived 'pathfinders'."     Ingrid asked, "What did you call the ones who didn't?"     "'Casualties', of course. If you have to work with a group, always let the wannabe-heroes and hotshots take the point."     Sipping coffee, I said, "Figure it might take six months or a year to get some books out there and for someone to track down one or more of your archaeological clues and make some noise about them. With a little luck, it would be someone working for or with one of the major archaeological outfits; the ones who sponsor big digs and dives. That could radically shortcut the process of lining up lawyers to face the authorities on your behalf. You might even be able to score DP status."     "Aw, hell," sighed Ingrid, "What does 'DP' mean?"     "'Displaced Person'. Kind of a refugee status. Come to think of it, we could feed the clues to such an outfit and meet their lawyers by offering to mention them in one of the books."     With a chuckle, I added, "And if they don't readily agree to being mentioned, we could do it anyway; release the ebook and rat on ourselves when we're ready to meet with them. A court case would bring their lawyers into play and bring the clues to light immediately."     It was readily apparent that both Ingrid and Ansen took a dim view of that alternative.     I shrugged and chuckled, "Just a thought. Call it 'Plan B'. It's always good to have a backup plan, y'know."     Christie snickered and agreed. Ansen chewed thoughtfully for some moments, then glanced at Ingrid before fixing me with a solid gaze.     "Are we to understand that you'd write the books?"     "Yes and no. I was thinking of shared copyrights and credits through a limited corporation and having all three of us working on different books at about the same time."     "Three of us?" asked Christie, "I can type, too."     "You're in dental school way up in Mass and the Army may want some of your time, ma'am."     She grinned. "I have a laptop and an email account. I can work from Ansen's notes. What'll the job pay?"     "A cut of sales. No money up front."     "Wait," said Ingrid, "Just hang on a minute. Nobody's agreed to anything yet. This whole thing sounds dangerous as hell to me."     I asked, "Does it sound more dangerous than experimenting with one of those black spots? Things changed when the bowl became functional. One odd occurrence or accident could bring cops or government types snooping around. One neighbor who didn't buy an explanation or took a picture of Ansen could do it, too. At least my idea wouldn't have him locked in a lab. The lawyers and press coverage would make that impossible."     After a long look at me, Ingrid said, "We'll need some time to think about it, Ed."     Nodding, I took a bite of my biscuit and studied her face for a time as she sat unmoving, looking back at me.     "Uh, huh," I said, "What you're saying is you'll take the bowl to the woods and mess with it for a while, and I won't hear from you again until you can't think of anything else to do except try stepping into the hole."     Ansen snorted salad and laughed, "It's as if you've known her all her life, Ed."     "Nah. I've just met her type before a few times. They're fiercely loyal, but sometimes you have to work around them."     Munching some salad, Ansen nodded. "So true, so true."     Ingrid snapped, "I'm glad you two find me so amusing." Facing Ansen directly, she asked, "Are you seriously considering going along with his... his insane scheme?"     "It isn't insane. It could very well work."     Staring at him as if he were out of his mind, Ingrid slouched back in her chair for a few moments, then got up and marched quickly toward the bathroom.     Sighing, Ansen said, "Now I'm supposed to go talk with her in private, of course."     Christie snickered and grinned at him.     I held up my biscuit in a parody of a toast and said, "Come back with your shield or on it. Good luck. All that stuff."     Giving me a tight little smile as he stood up, Ansen said, "Oh, never fear; there'll be plenty to go around when she comes back to the table. I'm only her warm-up."     With that, he disappeared long enough to cross the living room, then reappeared in the hall on his way to the bathroom.     Once she'd let him in, I stood up and grabbed the ball of unused clay in plastic wrap, opened it on the kitchen counter, rolled the clay flat, and plopped it into the mold, all the while listening for motion in the hallway.     Again using the plastic bowl, I mashed the clay into the design work and left the clay to set as I retrieved the second replica I'd made and put it in one of the high cabinets.     Returning to the mold, I quickly trimmed the edges of the new replica and ticked an edge away from the mold, then used bursts of canned air ordinarily used for cleaning my computer to separate the semi-soft clay bowl from the mold.     Once I'd placed the new replica on the newspaper where the second replica had been, I shoved the mold back where it had been, gave the countertop a wipe with a damp paper towel, wadded the towel around the plastic wrap, and tossed it in the trash. Zap and done in three and a half minutes or so.     After washing my hands, I sat back down and picked up my sausage and egg biscuit as Christie stared at me.     "That," she whispered, "Was flatly amazing."     Also whispering, I replied, "You're too kind, milady."     Maybe two minutes later, the bathroom door opened. I saw Ansen come out and disappear again to cross the living room, then Ingrid came out of the bathroom as Ansen reappeared in the kitchen and sat down to continue eating.     Ingrid came into the kitchen without a word and stood by her chair for a moment, looking around the table without a word, then she sat down and also continued eating. Chapter Thirteen     A long silence prevailed at the table -- close to five minutes or so -- before Ingrid said, "We've discussed your suggestions, Ed." She paused and added, "I'm not at all convinced."     "And I'm not at all surprised. No problem."     "'No problem?' What's that supposed to mean?"     "It means you're wasting Ansen's time, not mine. I've been paid for my work and I already have the makings of a fantasy book, possibly a series. Don't worry; I'll change your names."     As Ingrid glared narrowly at me, I finished my second biscuit and added, "If you decide to give lawyers and publicity a shot, gimme a call. If it starts getting hard to breathe someday, I'll know you're both gone and the bowl's sitting wide open. Call me just before you step through so I can come turn it off. I'd rather not have to try to find it before the Earth runs out of air."     Ingrid took a deep breath and seemed on the verge of anger as she rather coolly said, "If we decide to go with lawyers and publicity, we could also arrange to have someone else write Ansen's books."     "Big shrug, lady. It's imaginary money until you have it in your hand, and I was writing science fiction and selling it on Fictionwise and Amazon long before you showed up."     "Amazon? Save your bravado. I've seen their website. Just getting noticed among thousands of other authors must be an ordeal. The competition must be fairly fierce."     I laughed, "You bet it is, but having your stuff there is a reference of sorts, even if you don't bother trying to sell it there. Seeing my books ranked on the Fictionwise Bestseller webpage means a helluva lot more in terms of sales, and all of my SF titles -- and my one western -- have appeared on that page."     Ingrid's eyebrow went up as she gave me a highly skeptical look. I sighed and got up to go turn on my computer again and click up my 'FW' folder, where I double-tapped four files to open them with my browser as Ingrid, Christie, and Ansen came to stand behind me.     Pointing at the left side of the screen, I clicked the first page and said, "This is a captured third quarter Fictionwise Bestseller page. Look under 'Best Selling eBooks: Recent'."     After pointing out my two titles, I said, "Now here's the page from the fourth quarter. All but one of my current SF titles appear on these two pages. '3rd World Products, Book 6' wasn't released until August 3rd."     I pulled up the Bestseller page from August 6th and said, "3WP Book 6 debuted at number twenty out of twenty-five based on immediate sales." Clicking up August 12th, I said, "Six days later it was thirteen on a list of twenty-five. Four days after that it was at number three."     "My God!" muttered Christie, "I thought your writing was just some kind of a... a hobby, Ed!"     Grinning, I said, "That's 'cuz you haven't had to buy my books, ma'am. Have you ever been to the Fictionwise site?"     She shook her head. "No. I haven't had time to finish all the books on the CD you gave me."     "There've been six new titles since I gave it to you. I'll make you a new CD before you leave."     Ansen reached to pat my shoulder and said, "Very good! I'm most impressed, Ed."     Ingrid laughed, shook her head and said, "Well, I hate to admit it, but so am I. What about your other books?"     Shrugging, I said, "Only one of my non-SF made the list."     "Just one?" asked Christie, "Are you sure?"     Giving her a fisheye look, I chuckled, "Yes'm. I'm very sure."     "Which one?"     "Cade's Quest. It's a Civil-War era western."     Laughing again, Ingrid said, "Your real talent appears to be science fiction, Ed."     "It's more likely that the primary audience for ebooks buys mostly SF, romance, and erotica. Look at the titles on the Fictionwise lists and you'll see what I mean."     As she studied the lists, I clicked up my 'AbintraPress' folder and highlighted a complete set of my ebooks, then dragged that list of titles to the CD burner and put a blank CD in the drive's tray.     Once the operation was underway, I went to the kitchen counter for the newest bowl replica. Holding it toward Ingrid, I asked, "What do you want to do with this? It's still too damp to travel, so we can either use the hair dryer on it or dump it in a remix bucket."     For a long couple of moments, Ingrid simply stood staring at the bowl and me, then she looked at Ansen.     "The hair dryer," he said, "Something could happen to the new bowl."     Ingrid turned to me and nodded. "Yes. The hair dryer."     I set the bowl on the table and plugged in the dryer, then said to Christie, "If your Mum doesn't have big plans for the day, we might be able to get in some glider time."     She shook her head. "We're expecting family this afternoon. They'll probably get here around noon or one."     Apparently taken aback a bit, Ingrid asked, "Are you hinting that you want Ansen and me to leave, Ed?"     Nodding, I said, "Yup. Christie's home on leave and she'll only be here for a couple of weeks. You live half an hour's drive up the street and you're undecided about what to do. Take the mold and bowls with you and make up your minds about how you want to proceed. While you do that, I'm gonna spend the next two weeks making Christie feel very appreciated."     Christie snorted a chuckle and blushed gently.     Ansen grinned at me and nodded, then said, "That's quite understandable," with a slight bow to Christie.     Handing the hair dryer to Ingrid, I said, "Keep it moving. Don't let it sit too long on one spot. I'm going to locate boxes for it and the mold and find that suitcase for the other bowl."     Because the mold was still damp, I packed the box around it with wadded newspaper before adding foam shipping peanuts. Shredded paper in a shallow box was good enough for the clay replica Ingrid was drying; the idea was to let it continue drying instead of gathering mold and mildew.     It took some digging to find the old red Samsonite suitcase and a couple of slabs of two-inch-thick foam. I quickly cut three pieces of foam to fit into the suitcase, then cut a foot-wide hole in the center of the middle piece of foam.     In the lower kitchen cabinets I found a mismatched frying pan lid that looked big enough and tried it over the bowl Ingrid was drying.     It completely covered the mouth of the bowl, so I grabbed the box-strapping tape and headed to the back porch with the foam-filled suitcase. Ansen turned invisible and followed me.     Sliding the atlas aside -- with a bit of effort -- I grabbed a corner of the foam to keep from losing it and quickly slid the pan lid in place, seating it firmly until I could no longer hear a faint hiss around the edges, then I added another dab of clay on the design work.     "I'm tempted," I said quietly, "To put some Super-Glue around that pan lid and mount a padlock hasp on the case."     Ansen chuckled, "I share your sentiment."     As I spot-taped two sides of the bowl and lid, then ran the tape completely over the top and bottom twice, I said, "I wasn't kidding at all, Ansen. If you decide to step into that hole, I'd say chances are better than fifty-fifty that Ingrid will either hold your hand and climb in with you or try to follow you. Call me before you do it. I won't try to stop you, but I definitely want to be there to turn off the bowl after you're gone."     From my left came, "I will, Ed. You have my word."     Putting the bowl into the suitcase, I said, "Thanks," and closed the lid to check the fit. The shallow handle of the pan lid left an inch or so of foam between it and the side of the case.     I latched it shut, carried it into the house, and set it down by the kitchen table as I checked Ingrid's progress with the hair dryer. The clay had become somewhat paler as the moisture left it. I told her to keep at it and brought the mold box into the kitchen to set it on the other end of the table.     Shaking it from side to side, I listened for excess motion and jammed some more wadded paper around the mold, then washed my hands and made a fresh mug of coffee.     While I watched Ingrid dry the bowl, I noticed a slight motion behind her, beyond the kitchen doorway. A piece of paper lifted itself from my printer's stack and settled to the desktop and a pen lifted itself to begin writing.     I sipped coffee and watched until Ingrid changed her position at the table to sit down, then I eased past her and went to stand where I could block her view of the desk as I watched her continue to dry the bowl.     She propped her chin on her left palm with an exaggeratedly bored expression and sighed, "Why does this seem to take longer when I do it?"     Laughing, I said, "You're getting there. Just keep at it."     The CD drawer on my computer slid open and I went to take the finished CD out and label it, then put it in a sleeve. I wasn't too surprised when the keyboard shifted to reveal a folded sheet of printer paper that moved back and forth slightly.     Putting the felt pen I'd used back in the holder, I whispered, "Okay," as I moved the keyboard back to its usual position, then straightened to take the CD into the kitchen.     Ansen appeared in the den by the reclining chair. He sat down and Moocher immediately hopped up to the chair's arm as Charlie jumped into Ansen's lap. Winston seemed to think that was too much company all at once. She ambled toward me.     "What's the matter, Win?" I asked, as I reached to ruffle her chin, "Too crowded in there?"     She allowed me some attention time, but the noise from the hair dryer made her wince and flatten her left ear against the sound. She headed back into the den and hopped onto the other arm of Ansen's chair.     Dropping the CD on the kitchen table, I took the hair dryer from Ingrid and spent another few minutes blasting the base of the bowl, then I turned it off and set the bowl upside down on the shredded paper in the shallow box.     Setting the suitcase flat on the floor, I opened it to show Ingrid how I'd packed the functional bowl and -- as something of an afterthought -- I placed a wet, golf ball-sized wad of clay in a baggie and put it between the foam layers.     "Just in case," I said. "We already know this clay works. If you unwrap the bowl, save the tape to reuse it or stuff another roll of tape in there. It's the kind with fibers in it."     Ingrid nodded and said, "Okay." I closed the suitcase and stood it upright beside the table.     "Now to find out one more thing," I said, "There's clay in place to keep the black spot from happening. Let's take this stuff out to your car and take another slow ride to see if this bowl will affect Ansen the way the old one did. We'll leave the piece you just dried here. No point in risking breakage."     Once we had the mold box and the suitcase in Ingrid's green Chevy, she handed me her cell phone and backed us out of the drive and we headed slowly toward US-19 as we had before.     Ansen called just as we turned onto Northcliffe and said, "I can feel a difference of some sort, but it isn't the same as what I felt with the old bowl. So far, there's no pain."     "I get senses about other people," I said, "Directions and sometimes even distances. Is it anything like that?"     "Perhaps. I can sense your direction, certainly, but I have no idea how far away you may be."     "Well hang on a sec... Okay. We just passed a corner that's exactly half a mile from the house."     Ansen seemed rather tense as he replied, "With the old bowl, I'd be feeling considerable pain by now, Ed. There must be some sort of difference between them."     "It's a tad smaller and it's made of different stuff. Maybe it isn't quite on your wavelength."     Echoing the word 'wavelength', Ansen paused, then said, "I guess that's as good a word as any for it."     At the corner of Northcliffe and US-19, I said, "One mile. Anything happening?"     With moderate amazement, Ansen answered, "Nothing more than before, I think. No pain, in any case."     "Good 'nuff. We'll head back now unless you want to try for more distance."     Ingrid said, "Let's go at least halfway to the beach, Ed. Just to be sure. It's only five miles."     Shrugging, I said, "Okay. Five more miles, Ansen. Just to be sure, she says."     "Okay."     We drove on in silence, except for my announcements of each mile. Ansen reported no changes, so I turned off the cell phone as Ingrid turned the car around at SR-550.     As we headed back to the house, she said, "I'm not ready to involve the authorities, Ed. If your plan went wrong in the least little way, Ansen could end up in a laboratory."     "Just give it some thought. Look for any weak spots and figure out how to patch them. Lawyers and publicity are the only way to keep Ansen safe from the government -- ours or anyone else's government -- if he goes public."     Sipping my coffee, I said, "Something else to consider, Ingrid. The old days are gone and his freedom of movement in the world is shrinking fast. Is he also invisible to infrared? It's used a lot these days, from police helicopters to department store security. Infrared is what opens grocery store doors for you, for instance, and it's what they use to detect motion along national borders. If anything bigger than a jackrabbit moves in some places, a bell goes off in someone's office."     She glanced across at me as we rolled through the tiny town of Weeki Wachee. I think the 2003 census pegged the place as having about nine official citizens.     "These days," I went on, "All kinds of detectors are being installed in odd places. One shopping mall in Tampa installed I-R cameras in dressing booths and restrooms. I-R imaging obviously can't be used or sold as porn, but it lets someone keep an eye on the stuff taken into a booth and watch for druggies and muggers in bathrooms. I'm pretty sure you and Ansen have gone shopping or traveled together now and then. You might want to make yourselves experts in current security practices and devices before you spend much more time in public places."     Ingrid gave me a long, sharp look, but said nothing. The light changed and we headed south on 19, then turned onto Northcliffe. She still hadn't spoken by the time we reached the house, and she remained silent as we walked to the front door.     Christie and Ansen were chatting over coffee when Ingrid and I entered the kitchen. Both of them immediately noticed Ingrid's mood. Christie looked at me as if for an explanation, but Ansen continued petting Winston and simply met Ingrid's gaze as she stood stiffly beside the table.     It could have been one of those really awkward moments, but I really don't put up with those very well, so I excused myself and headed for the bathroom to lose some used coffee.     When I came out of the bathroom, I heard the front door open and close. Ansen still sat at the table with Winston. I looked out the window and saw Ingrid carrying the shallow box to her car.     Looking at Ansen, I asked, "What's the situation?"     He chuckled, "It could be better, I suppose. Ingrid wants to leave more or less immediately. We'd like a few words with you in private before we go."     "No problem."     Glancing at Christie, he said, "I'm sorry, but I mean truly private, Christie. We need to ask Ed a very important question concerning his past employment."     "You want to know if he still has ties to the agency, right?"     Smiling, Ansen replied, "That, too."     When he said nothing else for a time, Christie looked at me and said, "I guess I'll go see what Mom's up to."     She came over and kissed me, shook Ansen's hand and petted Winston, then stopped by the door to pet Moocher and Charlie before she let herself out. I saw her stop by the car, chat briefly with Ingrid, then set off across my side lawn.     Ingrid watched her go for a moment, then returned to the house and came into the kitchen.     Without preamble, she asked, "Are you still in any way affiliated with any intelligence or police agency?"     "Nobody is ever completely out of an intelligence agency, Ingrid. I get a small check every month and go to training twice a year. Some of the training has to do with cleaning up after nuclear accidents because I'm on an emergency response list for west central Florida. What you really want to know is whether I'll call them the minute you're gone."     Ansen grinned at Ingrid as she glowered at me.     "Yes," she said, "That's what I really want to know."     Sitting down, I said, "Then tell me why I should."     "What?"     "You heard me. Tell me why I should."     She looked at me rather blankly for a moment, then her blank look turned to suspicion, as I'd expected. I sighed and looked at Ansen, who continued smiling as he rubbed Winston's chin.     "Go ahead," I said to Ingrid, "Quote God and country at me. I'm an agnostic and I've seen no indications during my lifetime that the government serves anyone's interests but its own unless forced to do so."     Ingrid said stiffly, "I agree, but you'll have to explain how that relates to any employment obligations you may have."     Shrugging, I said, "A few quick examples, then; do we have a national health care system? No. One illness can bankrupt a family. Do we have free education through college or trade schools? No, even though it makes perfect sense to make sure the brightest ones get educations. They say there's no money for such things, but there was money for decades to buy big piles of nuke weapons and funding for half a dozen wars. If I turned you and the bowl over to the government now, you'd simply disappear. Fact is, so would I."     Sipping my coffee, I said, "Sure, I might get a pat on the back in private before they started interrogating me, but no matter how very little I actually know about the bowl at this point, I'm absolutely sure they'd decide that I might know too much to be permitted to run loose."     Sipping again, I said, "No, Ingrid; with or without you and Ansen, there's no way in hell I'd present something like that bowl to the government without lots of press coverage and half a dozen lawyers present."     "You could pretend you found it."     "Ha. Where? At the beach? Did one of my cats dig it up in my back yard? Trying to get it out of the country in order to find it somewhere else would be a ridiculous idea these days."     With a dismissive gesture, Ingrid said, "You could say you found it in the woods. How the hell would they know different?"     I stood up and asked, "You just don't get it, do you? The agencies are run by sociopathic people who won't believe you told the truth until you've been given and re-given batteries of tests, then subjected to drugs and hypnosis, and then been through the whole mess again a few times. Remember that Arab college professor from Tampa who was held in a high security facility for over three years without any official charges? Do you know what a 'Bill of Attainder' is?"     Ansen said, "I do. The British used to be very fond of them." He looked at Ingrid and said, "A Bill of Attainder quite simply gave the government license to arrest you and do with you what they would, without recourse or trial."     "You got it," I said, "We don't officially have those anymore, but once the government grabbed that professor, they ignored public outcry, lawyers, and everything else that was thrown at them until they'd finally convinced themselves that he couldn't be formally charged with anything. The only thing that could have prevented them from grabbing him might have been publicity of his situation beforehand. They'd have had to get a warrant and explain themselves. But once they had him, they were able to stonewall the system from the inside."     Sipping coffee again, I said, "I'd rather start the show with a handful of lawyers and lots of media support. Hell, I'd make replica bowls and send them to a dozen physics labs the day before I showed one of the bowls to the news media. No way in hell I'd let myself disappear alone." Chapter Fourteen     Ingrid just stared at me for a time, then looked at Ansen, who shrugged and continued petting Winston. I sipped coffee before I spoke.     "Ingrid, before I did anything strictly on my own, you and Ansen would have disappeared. Like I was telling him earlier, I think you'd try to go with him if he stepped into the black spot. I also told him I'd appreciate a call before you do so that I can turn off the bowl before Earth's atmosphere gets too thin. And to take it someplace not linked to you."     "You wouldn't try to stop us?"     Shaking my head, I replied, "Nope. That's your business."     "Then why would it matter whether it was linked to us?"     "Because sooner or later the authorities would trace DNA or clay mix or phone logs or some-damned-thing else and drop by to talk to me about a missing person named Ingrid while they search for your body."     She nodded slightly. "Yes, they probably would."     "Yup. Ansen seems to have made some kind of journey once. Could he do it again? Would you survive the trip? Or would you wind up floating frozen in space where some planet used to be? Wouldn't it be better to make a very public cause out of helping poor, stranded Ansen find his way home and let a few dozen glory-hungry science whiz kids grab some glory for being brave pioneers?"     "The same thing could happen to them."     I shrugged. "Not our problem. I reiterate; they have space suits and tons of fancy hardware and fat salaries. Let them go first. Ansen can crank out a few books in the meantime. Ever been to Europe? Ever been out of the US?"     "No."     "Better get a passport. After the initial fuss dies down a bit, he'll likely get a lot of offers to travel and talk."     Glancing at Ansen, I said, "And you can't let him go alone, milady. They've added a few streets since he was last over there. He might get lost or something."     Ansen chuckled and looked at Ingrid, who peered at him for a moment, then said, "We need to talk, Ansen."     Pretending to feel ill, I cringed in my chair and said, "Uh, oh. They almost always say that at a kitchen table, don't they? We ought to ban the damned things. No, wait, that wouldn't work. They'd just use some other table."     Ingrid snapped, "Will you shut up for a while?" as Ansen laughed and said, "You're right, of course. Banning kitchen tables wouldn't work. Women are far too adaptable."     "You shut up, too!" snapped Ingrid. "This isn't funny! We're talking about your future, Ansen!"     "Yours, too," I said. "And mine. And even Christie's, since she knows me and knows about Ansen and his bowl."     Looking extremely frustrated, Ingrid stormed to the sink and ran some water. She rinsed her face and rather viciously ripped a couple of paper towels from the roll on the wall.     Turning to face us, she almost said something, then her mouth snapped shut and she seemed to gather herself for some moments before she asked in a flat tone, "So, what now?"     I stood up and put some words together in my head to see if they were what I wanted to say. They were.     "Well, Ingrid, because you know I regard the bowl as extremely dangerous, you probably can't bring yourself to trust me not to call someone the minute you leave this house. I wouldn't, but you probably can't believe that at this point. So... when do you want to become celebrities?"     Before she could speak, Ansen said, "I think I'd like to be a celebrity for a change." He looked at me and said, "I'd be able to go hang gliding, among other things, and as much as I'd like to know where I came from, I'm not too keen on stepping into that black spot when there may be a safer way to proceed."     He looked at Ingrid and said, "Your mother's illness left you deeply in debt, Ingrid. The royalties from a book or two could..."     Ingrid turned almost livid and yelled, "I'll be damned if I'll sell you out for money, Ansen!"     Ansen showed the first signs of real anger I'd seen. He glared at her as he stood up, set Winston on his chair, then he turned to her and said in a quiet, flat tone, "I know you mean well, but do you have any idea at all how very much I've missed in my extremely long goddamned life, Ingrid? Simply because I couldn't risk being seen? Anybody else -- anybody else, damn it! -- can take a walk in a park or mall or go to the beach for a day. Or get a damned driver's license. Hasn't it occurred to you that I might actually enjoy being able to do something as simple as going to a restaurant or a concert?"     "But..." she began.     "No!" he cut her off, "I'm sick to death of hiding like a fugitive, Ingrid! For the first time in all these centuries, mankind may finally be mature enough not to try to lynch or burn me on sight!" He turned to me and added as an aside, "The late middle ages were a real bitch, you know."     I laughed and he turned back to Ingrid to say, "Ingrid, I think it's time. Let's do it. As carefully as possible, certainly, but let's go public and see if we can enlist some scientific help."     As usual, Ingrid took her time about responding, staring for several moments at Ansen, then at me. When she finally spoke, her words didn't surprise me in the least.     Quietly, ominously, she said to me, "This is all your fault."     "Really? You came to me to get the bowl fixed. Whose idea was that? Yours or his?"     "Mine," said Ansen.     Nodding, I said, "And I'll bet you had to threaten to walk here from Crystal River before she'd agree to bring you."     Ingrid stiffened and glared even harder at me. Ansen said nothing as he picked up Winston and sat down with her.     "Fact is," I continued, "When the spot in the bowl was just a glimmer at the bottom, you didn't really think there was a chance in hell anyone would figure out how it worked, did you?"     Shaking his head slightly, Ansen quietly admitted, "No."     "So for you this has really been about going public all along, and having the spot in the bowl turn black and get a lot bigger really hasn't made a damned bit of difference, has it?"     Ansen grinned and shrugged. "No, it hasn't, except that the black spot scares the hell out of me. I may be tired of living like a fugitive, but I'm not quite tired of living yet."     I looked at Ingrid and said, "You're no dummy, Ingrid. You had to realize what he was up to pretty much from the start. Right now you'd just like to be able to blame somebody else for all the impending fuss and bother."     Her mouth fell open as she blinked at me.     "'Fuss and bother'?! You're calling the uproar that will come from this 'fuss and bother'?!"     Shrugging, I replied, "That's what I called the Clinton sex scandal and the Madonna-Britney kiss, too. The term 'fuss and bother' covers all kinds of stuff."     Laughing softly, Ansen agreed, "Yes, it does."     "Ingrid," I said, "There are only a few ways to handle odd situations. You can get all fuzzed up -- no offense, there, Ansen -- and go ballistic and accomplish nothing but more trouble, or you can drop all the bullshit histrionics and sit down to cobble up a course of action that'll work for all concerned. You and Ansen are about to become fairly famous. You'll get offers, possibly even product endorsement offers."     Glancing at Ansen, I said, "Maybe we'll see you on TV a year from now, pitching somebody's fancy shampoo."     Ansen chuckled, "I use store-brands. It costs too much to use the fancy stuff."     "That could change when the money starts coming in."     Turning to Ingrid, I said, "I won't give you that old 'Honey, soon you'll be farting through silk! We're gonna make you a star!' routine. Fame comes with lots of hassles, too. But think of it, Ingrid; Ansen won't have to hide from the world anymore. What're you gonna do? Stand in his way or walk with him?"     There was a loud 'bang' and a rattling noise outside that seemed to come from behind the house. I got up to have a look out the den window and saw Christie and Claire struggling to maneuver Claire's PVC couch -- made of tubes and straps, like an oversized lawn chair -- through their back porch door.     The screen door banged shut again before the latch caught. They set the couch down in the yard and Christie went back into the screen porch for something as her mother uncoiled a garden hose at the wall.     She suddenly began screeching and doing a rather sprightly avoidance dance as she slapped at the air around her. Black dots swarmed around her as she stepped back and fell over the couch, tipping it back and landing hard, half on the concrete and half on the grass.     Claire's head hit the concrete and she lay silent and still as several of the dots landed on her. I hurried to grab the liquid Benadryl from the fridge and dash across the living room. The sliding glass door opened ahead of me and I said, "Thanks," as I continued to the screen door beyond.     Christie had come back outside with a broom and was flailing it around to keep the wasps away from her mother as I put a hand on the chain link fence and vaulted over it.     "Help me get your mom onto the porch," I said, "You're just keeping them stirred up. Grab her arm."     Swinging the broom again, she yelped, "But she's allergic!"     I took the broom from her and tossed it aside.     "She's already been stung, Christie. Grab her other arm. Let's get her inside and you can deal with any in there."     We were stung a few times as we more or less dragged Claire inside the screen porch. Christie swatted at wasps as I checked the back of Claire's head for damage. There was an inch-long gash and what seemed to be quite a lot of blood was puddling on the concrete.     Christie slammed the broom down on a hapless wasp and wailed, "Ed, she's allergic to bee stings! She won't be able to breathe!"     "Yeah, you mentioned that. Panic won't help."     Claire's eyes fluttered and opened slightly, then she coughed and moaningly tried to sit up. I pushed her back down and told her to lie still. Glancing at the side of the Benadryl bottle to be sure about dosage, I used the eyedropper-style lid to squirt a few drops under Claire's tongue.     She made a face and recoiled slightly in confusion, a motion that caused her to realize the injury to the back of her head. Her hand rose toward the spot and I saw that she was already beginning to puff up; her whole arm was swelling fast.     Claire saw that, too; she began to get a bit frantic and made a more forceful effort to sit up, so we helped her to her feet and into the kitchen, where we sat her in a chair.     That's when Christie noticed a couple of wasps in her mother's hair. She batted at them to try to knock them loose, but to no avail; they were thoroughly entangled.     There was a can of spray disinfectant under the sink. I sprayed some on each wasp and watched them curl up, then used my comb to get them out of Claire's hair and squashed them on the floor.     Returning to Claire, I checked her over for other stray wasps and told Christie to make sure none of the others came in with us. She hurried to the screen porch. A moment later I heard a loud 'smack' and looked to see her holding a rolled-up newspaper above the porch table.     Using damp paper towels, I blotted around Claire's head injury to see how bad the damage might really be, but there wasn't much to see. The flow of blood was still fairly prolific and she'd likely have a nasty bruise to go with the gash.     I folded a couple of paper towels, put them over the gash, and said, "Hold this there. You'll need stitches, Claire."     Her face was puffing up fast; I saw where she'd been stung on her cheek and throat. She looked frightened and confused as she tried to speak past a tongue and lips that didn't seem to work right.     "Lath time... lath time... uhh, dammit! Can't talk!"     "Ready to go to the emergency room?"     Nodding slightly, she managed, "Yeth!"     "Christie!" I yelled at the back porch, "Close the porch doors and saddle up! She's going to the emergency room!"     Christie yelled back, "Okay!"     The doorbell rang, then rang again. I opened the front door to find Ingrid on the porch.     "Is she okay?" she asked, "Can I help?"     "Actually, yes," I said, holding the door for her, "Claire's in the kitchen. Check her clothes for more wasps. I found a couple in her hair. We'll wait until you've buttoned her back up to take her to the emergency room."     Ingrid nodded as she said, "Okay," and hurried into the kitchen as Christie hurried toward the kitchen table. I waved at her to come to me.     "Let her work," I said, "The last time she was stung, what happened? How bad was it?"     "Oh, God, it was bad," she answered, "Mom swelled up all over and passed out and couldn't breathe and they had to put a tube down her throat, and..."     "It may not get that bad this time. I got some liquid Benadryl into her. Grab her purse and let's get her to the hospital."     "Ed!" yelled Ingrid, "Christie! Get in here!"     Christie and I entered the kitchen to find Claire puffed up like a balloon and struggling to breathe.     "Aw, hell," I muttered, "Call an ambulance, Christie. She'll be swollen shut before we can get her across town."     A few minutes later, a red and white ambulance pulled up out front. I told the medics about the Benadryl and they went to work on Claire. A couple of sheriff's deputies showed up and I showed them the scene of the event, the Benadryl bottle, and then went out to spray the wasp nest with some ant and roach killer I'd found under Claire's kitchen sink.     By the time we all went back inside, the medics had taken Claire to the hospital. Christie came out of the bathroom and had a few words with the deputies, then they left.     Ingrid had taken it upon herself to clean the blood off the kitchen floor and Claire's chair. She'd finished in the kitchen and was working on a few spots on the carpet.     A shaken, trembling Christie went to her and said, "Thanks, Ingrid, but I can do that later. We need to get to the hospital."     Looking up, Ingrid said, "I want to get this out before it sets. Go pick out some clothes for your mom so she won't have to wear that bloodstained blouse later."     Christie bit her lip and nodded, then headed for the bedroom.     Ingrid looked at me and said, "You went over that fence like it was nothing. I think I'm impressed again. What now?"     "Now? Now I'm gonna go clean off the porch while you ladies hang out at the emergency room."     I put my Benadryl in my pocket and left to find a mop and some pine cleaner, then set the mop outside and hosed off the spot on the concrete where Claire had hit her head.     As I was rinsing the mop, Christie asked from the back porch, "Are you coming with us?"     Letting myself into the porch, I said, "I'll stay here and have a look around for more wasp nests. Let me get the bug spray and you can lock up when you leave."     "Lock up?!" she yelped as we headed for the kitchen, "Ed, we've slept together, for God's sake! I'm not worried about leaving you in the house."     I grinned. "Well, gee, thanks, ma'am, but your mum hasn't slept with me. Fact is, she never really seemed to share your high opinion of me, y'know. It'll probably be best if you can say you were the last one out the door."     A few minutes later, Christie and Ingrid headed for the hospital in Claire's car and I started checking the outside of Claire's house for more wasp nests. I found another nest with a dozen or so wasps under the eaves on the north side and there was the beginning of a nest under the hose-holder on the west side.     When I couldn't find any more nests, I hopped the fence into my own yard and started toward my house, but something made me stop a couple of paces into the yard.     Looking around, I saw nothing, but I felt something to my right, between the house and the shed. All I saw over there was the garbage can and the cinderblock that had held the bowl.     Facing that direction, I said, "Hi, there."     The cinderblock rocked very slightly and the grass dented near it as Ansen asked, "How did you know?"     Shrugging, I said, "Just did," and headed for the screen porch, holding the door as if for a last look at Claire's house in order to let Ansen slip past me.     Once we were in the house and beyond range of the open windows, Ansen appeared and sat down at the kitchen table. He sipped his coffee and made room for Winston on his lap as I put my Benadryl away and sat down with my own coffee.     "How's Claire?" he asked.     Shaking my head, I replied, "Don't really know. She was swelling up fast by the time we got her to the kitchen. Three or four stings, I think."     "How's Christie?"     "Okay, I guess. She didn't freak out and she let Ingrid take her to the hospital." I sipped coffee and asked, "How do you think Ingrid will handle your public debut?"     Ansen laughed softly. "Not well. Not at first, anyway. But I think she'll adjust. She's been trying to find a publisher for a couple of manuscripts about herbal medicines, but there already seem to be a few thousand books on that subject. A bit of fame would help her efforts, I think."     "Yeah, seems likely. I could help her epublish them if she wants to get a head start. A lot of publishers say they won't touch anything that's been on the net, but if they smell money..." I let the sentence trail off.     "Indeed so."     He spent some time ruffling Winston's chin and petting her, then let his hand dangle to reach Moocher and Charlie as he sipped coffee again.     After a time, he asked, "What will you do with your copies of the files, Ed?"     Was he fishing to see if I'd admit to having made copies?     "Copies?" I asked.     "Copies," he stated flatly, "You were quick, but I noted that you created new panels for each activity."     "Ah. Ansen, Xandros uses a true multiprocessing system. It doesn't just slice up a second and dole out the parts in sequential order to various programs. I use separate windows for just about everything. That way, if a file converter, for instance, bogs down on code errors, it won't block any other processes that may be running. I can minimize that panel and let it grind on in the background."     Ansen grinned. "You're quick with a glib answer, Ed, but I don't buy it." He sipped his coffee, then said, "I know a bit about Linux, and yes, it is a multiprocessing environment, but it isn't necessary to open new panels for each activity."     "Old habits die hard. With the old operating system, separate panels were the only way to keep the damned machine from locking up, and even that didn't always work. I saw plenty of blue-death screens over the years."     He looked at me for a moment, then said, "Never mind. I'd have done the same, if only on general principles. Whatever powers the bowl might possess may somehow be useful in other ways."     The phone rang, interrupting whatever else he'd been about to say. Thinking it might be Ingrid or Christie calling, I answered it rather than let my machine get it.     A woman told me with great exuberance that my neighborhood had been selected for free water testing, and that I, in particular, had been selected... I hung up on her and vowed yet again to let the damned answering machine do its job the next time the phone rang.     "I'm on the federal no-call list," I told Ansen, "And there are fewer sales calls than there used to be, but I'm still thinking of investing in one of those small air horns."     Laughing, Ansen replied, "Ingrid uses a bead whistle."     "Also good and won't run out of gas. And if you don't mind tying up the phone for a while, you can always say 'hang on a minute', then put the phone down and leave it until they get the hint and hang up."     Laughing again, he replied, "I've done that." Chapter Fifteen     About fifteen minutes passed until the phone rang again. This time I let my answering machine take the call with, 'Hi, there! If you're someone I'd call back, leave a message.'     Ansen chuckled and grinned at me as Ingrid's voice said, "Uh... right. Ed, this is Ingrid. Pick up the phone. Please."     I reached to poke the 'room talk' button and said, "Hi, Ingrid. How's Claire?"     "Um... We don't know yet. Is Ansen nearby?"     "I'm at the kitchen table," said Ansen, still grinning, "Why are you calling, Ingrid? Is there a problem with the car?"     "Ah... No, the car's fine. I just wanted to check in. Oh, here comes the doctor now! I'll call you back."     The connection ended. I looked at Ansen.     "Does she check up on you like that when you're home?"     Shaking his head, he answered, "No."     "This whole thing has her a little spooked."     "A lot spooked," he amended, reaching down by his chair to pet Charlie. "She'll get over it sooner or later. Thanks for helping, Ed."     "No problem. Do you really understand how complicated your life's going to become, Ansen?"     He looked up and nodded. "I think so."     "Is that really what you want?"     "I think so," he repeated with another nod. "It's time."     "Why is it 'time', Ansen?"     "It just is, Ed. I've hidden long enough." He sighed and added, "A few weeks ago, I climbed to the top of the old forest ranger lookout tower near the river and watched everyone at the park and marina for hours."     Looking up from Charlie again, he said, "Until recently, I've been content as an observer. Solitude didn't bother me much."     "But now it does?"     "Yes. I think that feeling began to surface when I realized that my days of being able to hide successfully among people were numbered." He gestured around vaguely and grinningly added, "Besides, now there's air-conditioning and television. I don't really want to go back to enduring fleas and ticks and sleeping in caves or trees."     Charlie jumped in his lap. Ansen pointed at him and said, "That's me; a house pet for the last sixty years. Everything I needed came to me, and except for love and a bit of repair work or housecleaning, I had nothing much to give in return."     Shrugging, I said, "I think you may be understating your contributions, but Ingrid seems happy enough with what you've had to offer. I'll bet her mother was, too."     Ansen studied me briefly as if looking for hidden meanings.     Shaking my head, I said, "That wasn't innuendo, Ansen. I meant exactly -- and only -- what I said."     He remained silent for some moments, then said, "My presence has been one of the reasons Ingrid never married, Ed. She's been afraid to let anyone know about me. She's dated now and then, but she's been afraid to try to make a life with anyone else because of me."     "She sees herself as your guardian, Ansen. That's not likely to change. Seems to me she's afraid going public is just going to give her a helluva lot more guarding to do."     Nodding, he said, "Probably, but she'll be doing it among others, Ed. She'll meet people and I'll no longer be a secret."     Hm. I wondered if secrecy had been the only reason her dates hadn't worked out. I also decided to keep my mouth shut about my thoughts on the matter. Nodding slightly, I sipped coffee before I spoke.     "Ansen, I'm only going to concern myself with making sure you don't end up as a lab rat. You and Ingrid can handle any personal stuff. How's your first book coming along?"     He gave me a blank look and I asked, "Got a title yet? Have any thoughts about writing it in first person or third?"     "In what?"     "First person would be: 'Surrounded by Roman soldiers, I couldn't so much as breathe without attracting undue attention.' Third person would be: 'Surrounded by Roman soldiers, Ansen couldn't so much as breathe without attracting undue attention.' A lot of fairly popular books -- detective novels, for instance -- have been written in first person, so it's a viable choice. Only people who fancy themselves to be literati of some sort will object."     With a grinning shrug, Ansen asked, "Which... 'person'... is easier to use?"     Shaking my head, I replied, "Neither. I've found the amount of scribbling and editing is about the same either way. Is Ingrid fairly literate? I mean; could she help you with writing or editing the book? For that matter, can either of you type?"     "She can. I can't." He chuckled, "I suppose I could learn, but that might slow things down."     Waving off that issue, I said, "No sweat. Time isn't all that important, really. Get a touch-typing book or a program for the computer. Learn the home keys and how to reach the other keys. That'll take a week or so. After that, instead of practicing with example sentences, just start typing your book."     Ansen eyed me for a moment, then said, "Ed, you gave us the distinct impression that time is an issue when you spoke of producing books within six months or a year."     I shrugged. "That was just a guesstimate; something to test the waters and plant the thought of getting things underway. Writing a book takes as long as it takes."     Sipping coffee, I added, "Besides, it'll give both of you time to think. To plan. To cobble up a public story about your years together that'll shut down any tabloid's obscene speculations. To make contacts you'll need in order to pull this off without being picked up like an illegal alien."     He barked a sharp laugh, startling the hell out of Charlie.     "Excuse me, but I am an illegal alien. Very literally."     "So? People are no more native fauna in North and South America than modern horses. They walked across the Bering Strait during the last Ice Age and those who got here first were damned near wiped out by those who came later in boats. There's no moral high ground with immigration, Ansen; there are only people who can govern admittance, and we can find ways around them."     Ansen was about to say something when the phone rang again. I let the machine answer again, and again Ingrid asked me to pick up. I pushed the 'room talk' button as before.     "Hi, Ingrid."     "Hi, Ed. May I speak to Ansen?"     "Sure. Holler up. The speakerphone's on."     "Oh. Uh, well..."     "Ingrid," said Ansen, "Your concern is touching, but everything's fine. I'm still here, Ed's still here, the cats are still here, and we've all been sitting around the kitchen table talking about you since the last time you called."     There was a moment of silence before Ingrid said, "That was cute, Ansen. Real cute. You know how I worry when I have to leave you alone."     With a soft sigh and a look of mild sufferance, he replied, "Yes, Ingrid, I know how you worry."     Another moment of silence passed, then Ingrid said rather crisply, "Well, at any rate, I just called to say that although Claire seems out of danger, they'll keep her overnight. And that we'll be back shortly. We stopped at a grocery store. Bye."     She disconnected before either of us could reply.     Sipping coffee, I said, "I think you pissed her off a little."     "A little," he agreed with a shrug. "She seems to forget that I spent quite a few centuries on my own before she met me."     Grinning, I asked, "And maybe that pisses you off a little?"     Nodding as he patted Charlie, he admitted, "Maybe a little." Looking up, he added, "There was a time when it didn't, of course; a time when I found her... excessive... concern amusing and touching. Now it sometimes irritates me."     "I could tell. Maybe it's time to tell her."     "I have told her, Ed. She listened and nodded and agreed at all the right times, just as if I was getting through to her. Then she continued acting as if I can't be left to my own devices for more than half an hour at a time."     I snickered and asked, "You thinking about a divorce?"     Ansen gave me a peering sidelong glance, then shook his head. "Simply loosening her grip a bit would be enough, and I believe going public could accomplish that."     Laughing, I agreed, "Oh, yeah. That it could. But you may only be trading one kind of confinement for another, and we may all have to share it for a while."     Sitting up and sipping his coffee, Ansen said, "Yes, we may, and I've been wondering why you've cast your lot with us."     "No choice. When I realized you intended to go public, I also realized my part in all this would come out sooner or later. It won't amount to much in the long run, but things will likely be kind of hectic for me for a while. There's no way around that, so I'll just capitalize on the situation and ride it out."     "Capitalize how? Beyond a book, I mean?"     Shrugging, I said, "Whatever I can charge while I'm in demand for interviews, I guess. Doesn't matter, really; like I said, the publicity will just be a way to keep the government from getting too obnoxious and troublesome."     Winston jumped into my lap and I petted her for a time before I said, "I won't kid you, Ansen. At this moment, helping you is just another sort of adventure to me. I don't know you or Ingrid well enough to treat it as anything else. You told me a story and I've accepted it because I have no reason not to, but if it turns out that you're something other than what you've said, I'll be out nothing for having been involved."     With a quiet chuckle, I sipped coffee and added, "I could even scribble a book later about having been conned by an alien and his girlfriend. It just doesn't matter, Ansen. The only real issue at hand is making sure we all stay safe and free and make enough to survive while getting you more or less legal."     He regarded me thoughtfully for a time, then nodded. A car pulled into my drive and two car doors thumped shut, then I saw Christie and Ingrid move past the kitchen window to the front door.     As the ladies entered the kitchen, Christie put a couple of shopping bags on the kitchen counter as Ingrid set hers on the table. She fished in one bag and came up with a kiwi fruit, which she handed to Ansen.     He smilingly accepted it as if it were something very special and thanked her, then took a nibble of it, murmuring, "Mmm. Thanks. We need a kiwi grove in the yard, Ingrid."     "You say that every time, but you never save the seeds."     She offered me one. I politely refused it and stated a strong preference for pomegranates, adding, "They're usually the best thing about the holidays. Christie, how's your mom?"     Christie took a kiwi fruit and studied it as she replied, "They're keeping her overnight, but she'll be okay. It isn't as bad as the last time. They think the Benadryl helped."     Pausing as she held the kiwi fruit up to the light and turned it from side to side, she asked, "So... Where do we go from here?" She punctuated her question with a look at me.     "I'll let Ingrid answer that," I said, getting up from the table and moving to the sink with my coffee mug.     Ingrid froze in the midst of setting another kiwi fruit in front of Ansen. Her eyes found and locked onto mine. I met her gaze, but said nothing further. It was time to see which way she was going to jump.     Her gaze moved to Ansen. They stared at each other for what seemed quite a while in silence, then she sat down. To me, chances seemed about even right then that she'd go along with the publicity idea, but when she didn't speak for a time, I wondered if she'd pull the rug out from under us.     Taking a breath, she sighed, "Ansen wants this. He has for years. That's reason enough to try it," Glancing sharply at Ansen, then at me, she added, "But we'll try it damned carefully."     Ansen had set his kiwi fruit on the table as he'd waited for her response. He leaned to hug Ingrid, who continued a hard, accusing gaze at me throughout the hug.     Oh, well. Ansen wanted his freedom desperately enough to involve other people by pushing to get the bowl repaired, a move that could have gone much worse than it had. Ingrid could glare at me all she wanted; I'd prob'ly survive.     Once we were all seated at the table, a discussion of how best to proceed began that lasted into the afternoon. I suggested creating a website around the bowl's designs and emailing pictures to all parties known to study antiquities.     "Just the designs," amended Ingrid, "Not the bowl itself. And I think we ought to leave the dots out of the pattern whorls, just for safety's sake."     Christie chimed in with, "I think the patterns that contain the dots shouldn't be publicized at all. They're too dangerous."     Nodding, Ingrid looked at me.     Shrugging, I said, "Someone might doodle a bit and get lucky." Maybe it was the way I'd said it; Ingrid gave me a sharp look and I added, "Hey, people tinker with things, y'know."     Turning to Ansen, Christie asked, "Do those designs work on anything that isn't shaped like your bowl?"     Looking up from petting Charlie with a thoughtful expression, Ansen replied, "I don't know. Bowls are all I've ever tried to create... well, re-create, that is... and my designs were always incomplete..." he shrugged. "I'm afraid I really wouldn't know, Christie."     After a glance around the table, Christie quietly said, "I think we should find out before we put pictures on the net." She shuddered. "What if computer monitors here and there around the world turned into black holes?"     I shrugged. "Doubtful. The pictures would disappear in radio interference before the holes could form."     Ingrid asked, "But would that necessarily cancel the effect?"     "Yeah, probably. A little mud killed it with the bowl."     "Only 'probably'," she sighed. "Do we really want to screw around with the designs at all, Ed? And do we really want to put any of them where others can play with them?"     Sipping coffee while I considered my answer, I said, "The first rule about crossing minefields: 'Let someone else go first whenever possible.' Anybody capable of figuring out and completing the patterns may also be bright enough to contend with the results."     Christie asked, "What if they aren't?"     "Then they'll likely panic and call 911."     Looking somewhat frustrated, Ingrid asked, "And that's supposed to be a good thing how, exactly..?"     "It means that someone else will have the honor of presenting the details of the matter to the authorities, who'll undoubtedly feel obliged to determine for themselves that there's actually a matter to be considered."     "In other words," said Christie, "You're talking about letting them convince themselves." She paused and added, "Before they come looking for us."     Nodding, I answered, "Yup. It'll save a few steps and guarantee some immediate, easy credibility to go along with the publicity. The way I figure it..."     Ingrid cut in with, "The way you figure what?"     "If you'll let me, I'll tell you, milady. Step one, write and publish the book. Or books. Develop a fan base, stack up money, and make contacts. Step two; public appearances and an open admission that Ansen's an alien. Some will believe, but most will think it's a publicity stunt. Step three; quietly post the designs not used on book covers on a few SF and fan websites about a month before sending them to select individuals and groups."     Christie asked, "Why a month?"     Pausing, I grinningly added, "To make sure nobody can confiscate or remove all copies everywhere. Also to make sure they'll know there'd be no point in even trying. And step three would happen only after we've installed a solid wall of lawyers and cameras between us, the government, and the world."     Several moments of silence passed, then Ingrid sighed, "Damn it, I hate the whole idea. But it's what he wants and I can't think of a better way to do it. Have we covered all the... um, negative... possibilities?"     I snorted a laugh. "Doubtful. Just the biggest ones, I think. Keeping him out of government hands is number one. Keeping him safe from his own fans and various religious nuts could be number two. Organized religions may not react well."     Ansen laughed softly and said, "They never have before." He sipped his coffee and continued, "Some Italian monks saw me in the woods near Milano in 1491 or thereabouts. They seemed rather upset, so I followed them back to their monastery to see what might come of the matter. The abbot considered their report for all of five minutes before he sent a runner to fetch the authorities. Within a few hours, the woods were full of armed men hunting 'the golden demon'. One of the nobles offered a purse of gold coins for my head."     He laughed again and said, "I was very flattered, of course, but I chose to wait in the monastery until the hunt ended."     "Good thinking," I chuckled, "How big do you think that purse would be today?"     Ingrid's gaze narrowed sharply at me.     "Relax," I said, "We'll all make out better in the long run as 'the golden demon's friend'."     "That's not particularly reassuring."     Shrugging, I replied, "Huh. I thought it was. At any rate, I don't intend to take anybody's thirty pieces of silver."     Her gaze still rather piercing, Ingrid said, "Because you think you can get more another way?"     I shrugged again. "Ansen's public debut and preparation for it will put us all through the wringer in a number of ways for quite a while. This may sound cold and heartless, but I intend to be paid for the time and effort I spend promoting and protecting him, and I'm not going to bullshit you or anyone else in the least about my motives at this point."     Looking first at Ingrid, then at Ansen, I said, "Someday we may all be good friends. That would be nice. But at this very moment, I only know what I've been told over the last few hours, and I'm being asked to believe what I've been told without absolute proof."     Christie gave me an incredulous look and yelped, "But... But you've practically taken charge of... of everything!"     "Yup. Here's the thing, Christie; whether everything is as they've said or not, Ansen won't end up as a lab rat after all the publicity, but you can bet we'll all be interrogated along the line, likely at great length. People far better qualified and equipped than me will do their best to prove or disprove Ansen's alien pedigree and his story."     I sipped coffee and added, "And that's all it is at the moment; a story. The truth of it doesn't matter a damn except as how it may affect the details of known history. What really matters is how things go from here, and I want them to go as painlessly as possible. For all of us."     The sound of a car's engine out front isn't unusual -- my house is on a corner with a stop sign -- but the sound of a car's engine shutting off isn't all that usual. I rose to look out the window and saw a sheriff's car parked in Christie's mother's driveway and a deputy getting out of the car.     "Great," I muttered, then turned to the others and said, "Everybody try to look innocent. There's a cop next door. He may come over here next."     News of the cop seemed to upset Christie more than the others. Ingrid got up to look out the window and Ansen disappeared. Christie, however, developed a case of the trembles and muttered, "Oh, damn, damn, damn!"     "Why 'damn', ma'am? He may have come back for something he left in the house."     She looked hopeful as hell as she asked, "You think so?"     I shrugged. "If not, doesn't matter. Take it easy, lady. It's something routine or there'd be more than one."     Sure enough, after a while the deputy came to my door. He was one of the guys who'd been there before and he wanted to look for something a paramedic had lost on that run.     Christie and I took him next door and let him have a look around. He spotted some plastic tubing halfway under the sofa chair and we moved the chair. Someone had stepped on the uncapped plastic gizmo and it had leaked clear fluid.     "No problem," said Christie, "There doesn't seem to be a stain. I'll get some paper towels."     The cop stopped her with a hand on her arm. "We don't know what it was, ma'am."     Giving him a fisheye look of amazement, Christie replied, "I'm not too worried. Whatever it was, it either came out of or went into my mother."     She continued to the kitchen as the deputy glanced at me. I just shrugged and looked around for more bits of plastic. Once the deputy had bagged the stuff he'd found, he left. The door closed behind him and Christie began to tremble again as she leaned against the door and took a deep, shuddering breath.     "Ed," she said in a tense whisper, "I don't know if I can be part of your plans."     Hm. "Think, Christie. Once our fuzzy gold alien goes public, anyone who ever so much as met Ingrid or me in passing will be questioned and investigated. Might as well get some of the fame as well as the hassle."     Christie looked as if she might have something else to say, then her mouth closed and she looked thoughtful as she levered herself off the door and took another deep breath.     "Damn it, you're right," she said, "They'll check out everybody. Then they'll check them out again. Every agency there is will be..." Looking up at me, she said, "It was too late to worry the minute Ingrid rang your bell, wasn't it?"     Nodding, I replied, "Yup. Too late for both of us. That's why I'm pushing for a grand exhibition. Lots of press and fuss and no way some government agency can sneak us away to some secret lab for years of study. Makes it kind of difficult for the Army to give you any shit about not reporting him, too."     Her eyebrow went up. "They'd only take Ansen, wouldn't they? Why would they take all of us? How could they hold us?"     "The key word was 'sneak'. We'd simply disappear."     After a moment, she asked, "You really believe that? That the US government does that sort of thing?"     I considered what I might be able to tell her of the last thirty years. Not much that wouldn't send me to jail for talking. I settled for, "What I truly believe is that we should eliminate such possibilities."     "You know something for certain, or are you just paranoid?"     Opening the door, I replied, "In this case, both. Let's go." Holding the door open, I gestured toward the hallway and said, "You, too. No real point in pretending, is there?"     Ansen's disembodied voice replied, "No. No point at all," and I felt the breeze of his passing as he walked through the doorway to the porch.     Christie had frozen and stood staring at me as she hissed, "He was in here with us?! With a deputy in the room?!"     I locked the front door as I replied, "He wasn't in the room. He was in the hallway."     She seemed to take a dim view of my reply. Oh, well. Back in my kitchen, Ansen reappeared at the table and sipped his coffee as Ingrid wordlessly gave him an intent look. We told her what the deputy had found and she looked at Ansen, who nodded very slightly in verification. Chapter Sixteen     For a time, nobody spoke, then Ingrid sighingly asked, "So how do we go about this? I mean, exactly? When and how do we start?"     "When," I said, "Is today. Take the bowls and the mold to your place and lock them away for now, then help Ansen remember every little thing he can about his time on Earth and take lots of notes. Do research. Verify his memories whenever possible and footnote them with solid references to historical data. Once you have a decent pile of notes, decide how you want to divide them into books. In the meantime, Ansen can learn to type. A few months from now, you'll have compiled a workable beginning and we'll publish the first few books on the net. In the meantime, I'll write a book about meeting a furry gold alien and toss it out there as science fiction."     Ingrid instantly responded with, "I'll want to see it first."     Shrugging, I said, "Thought you might. No problem."     "I may want some changes."     "If so, we'll discuss them."     In a somewhat suspicious tone, she asked, "We'll only 'discuss' them?"     "Yup. I plan to stick to the facts, ma'am. Any details in my book will have to match what you write later and it's always easier to write history than fiction. Now I have a question."     "A question? What?"     "Do you have a video camera we can put through a bowl?"     She shook her head. "No. I don't."     "Would you consider getting one?"     Again she shook her head. "Maybe next month. Money's going to be tight this month. What about you getting one?"     Interesting. Money had been no object in getting the bowl fixed, but suddenly it was 'tight this month'.     I answered, "I'll get something cheap in case we lose it or break it. With a place to attach a ring and a line. Digital. If we don't lose it or break it, I can swap it up for a better one later. Spare batteries, too."     Getting up, I said, "Back in a bit," but Ingrid instantly stood up, as well.     "Not without me."     Shrugging, I grabbed my keys and gestured to usher her out the door. An hour and much less than two hundred bucks later we returned with a digital video camera.     When I put the camera into a zip-lock baggie taped to an eight-foot piece of electrical conduit pipe, Christie asked why I wasn't using a fishing line.     "The camera would spin. If we have to do that, we will, but I want to try this first."     Turning the camera on, I checked the display as I turned the pipe. All good. The plastic baggie was clear enough. I turned off the camera and we unpacked the bowl on the floor of the back porch.     After I made sure I had comfortable angular clearance for moving the pipe, I nodded to the others and Ingrid cut one side of the tape on the bowl and Ansen lifted the lid, then Ingrid picked and sponged the clay seal out of the design.     The black spot appeared almost as soon as the first big wad of clay fell away. When Ingrid said, "Done," I angled the pipe to let the camera descend through the black spot.     As first a foot, then two feet of pipe disappeared into the black spot, Christie softly muttered, "Oh, my God..."     When four feet had disappeared and I was holding the pipe directly upright, I slowly turned the pipe to let the camera pan three-sixty degrees, then I tried to angle the pipe for a look above and below the camera and turned it again.     Ansen asked quietly, "Is the pipe cold?"     "Nope. Not this end of it, anyway."     "Maybe heat doesn't transfer through the hole."     "Then why did you arrive chilled to the bone?"     He didn't have an answer for that. I began retrieving the pipe carefully, so as not to bash the camera on the way out. No frost formed on the pipe as I withdrew it. No sign of exposure to cold or heat manifested itself; the pipe felt about the same all the way down to the camera.     Opening the baggie, I turned off the camera and took it out of the baggie as Ingrid put a dab of clay on the bowl to turn off the black spot. It winked out of existence and Ansen put the lid on the bowl as Ingrid put fresh tape at the cut points.     I hooked the camera to a USB port on the computer, put the camera's installation CD in the CD drawer and closed it, and we waited as Xandros detected the new hardware and installed drivers for it. A graphics program appeared shortly and inquired whether I wanted to access images in the camera. I clicked the 'OK' and saved the video clip as 'Vid0001'.     When the software began playing the video, we saw a somewhat unsteady view of the back porch as the camera descended past peoples' legs, then the view split in an odd way for half a second as the camera passed through the black spot.     What looked a bit like the Rocky Mountains appeared in the distance and we heard the sound of wind blowing past the camera and flapping the edges of the baggie. Something odd, though; the wind almost seemed to be... pulsing?     As the camera panned left, a wall of rock about twenty feet away came into view that gave us some perspective. The camera appeared to be about six feet above the ground. When the camera turned further, we saw the rock wall end some fifty feet distant, beyond which was blue sky with a few clouds.     The camera then showed us a steep downward slope covered in green that I took to be grass or its local equivalent. There was some kind of structure a good distance down the slope, but we could only make out that it appeared to be some kind of cabin constructed of rocks and timbers.     Timbers? Didn't see any trees or whatever passed for trees. Oh, well. It looked like one of the cabins I'd seen in the Alps. Sort of. Stone and wood, anyway, but different, somehow.     The camera completed its lateral turning and the view lurched sickeningly as the camera found the sky, then began spinning slowly as the pipe turned.     A light brown, furry face suddenly appeared just before the view fogged and blurred. I think everybody but me recoiled from the computer's monitor with a gasp. The only reason I didn't was because I was sitting down and couldn't.     The face looked almost like that of a dog or a bear; it had a longish muzzle, ears like a chow dog, and curiosity enough to be standing on its hind legs to sniff at the camera, which at least explained why the wind had been pulsing.     Christie softly asked, "What the hell's that thing?"     "A bear, maybe?" asked Ingrid, glancing at Ansen as if she thought he might actually know the answer.     Ansen simply shook his head in silence.     The animal abruptly dropped to all fours and looked more like a bear, with heavy hindquarters and big, highly visible claws on its paws.     As the camera began to retract, the creature apparently decided it was trying to escape. It lunged upward with a grunt of effort, toothy mouth open wide, trying to catch the camera.     That mouth slammed shut only inches from the lens, again startling the hell out of us, then the animal fell back to all fours and watched the camera get away.     The camera again showed a split screen for half a second, then we were back on the porch. I sat back in my chair and looked up at Ansen to ask, "Did that ugly critter ring any bells, dude?"     Raising an eyebrow, he replied, "Alarm bells, yes. But I have no idea what it was."     Ingrid commented, "It didn't seem too friendly."     "Hard to say," I said, "Poke a camera on a stick into a collie's yard and you might get the same kind of response. The camera was about six feet off the ground, so that thing was about five feet tall, plus face length. It didn't seem too insecure about a flying camera. Did anybody see any birds? I didn't."     Ingrid looked at me oddly and said, "That doesn't mean there aren't any; it just means that we didn't see them."     "Agreed. Ready to watch again?"     Everybody stared at the screen as I started the video clip again and slowed it to half-speed, which didn't make much difference. We didn't spot anything flying nearby and the scenery didn't cough up any extra details.     We did get a much better look at the bear-dog-thing's teeth and gullet, but they didn't look different from Earthly teeth and gullets to me. With a mental shrug, I slowed the video to one quarter and we watched it again.     I got up and disconnected the camera, cleared its memory, and generally readied it for another trip through the black spot. Ingrid took over my computer chair as she and the others watched the video again at normal speed.     When it ended, I said, "Ansen, that thing was a carnivore."     "It would seem so."     "But you're a vegetarian. Why's that? You have canine teeth about like ours. That should seem to mean that you evolved similarly, which should also seem to mean that you'd be an omnivore."     With a shrug, he replied, "I only know that eating meat has always made me ill."     "Did anything about that place look at all familiar to you?"     Ansen shook his head. "No."     "Then maybe you're from some other part of it. Has anywhere on Earth ever seemed familiar at all, maybe due to something about the terrain?"     "Not familiar in the sense of reminding me of anywhere, but some places have had a comfortable essence about them."     Ingrid quickly asked, "What places? And why haven't you mentioned them before?"     Holding up a hand, I said, "You can debate the 'why' of it later. What places, Ansen? Cool climates?"     Ansen nodded. "I was most comfortable in northern France and central Europe. Over here, the northern states seemed to suit me best. I've never been to Canada." He looked at Ingrid and said, "But Florida hasn't been terribly uncomfortable. I never seem to get too hot or cold, despite my fur."     As he spoke to her, I headed back to the porch with the camera. Christie hurried to catch up and as I reached for the sliding door's handle, she asked, "Shouldn't we be taking notes or something?"     Heh. Right. Notes. I stopped, turned, and looked at her.     "Christie. The camera dates and times the videos, then the computer dates and times the files when they're downloaded from the camera. The only notes to make might be our opinions about what we see."     She grinned. "Okay, so I'll start taking those notes!"     "Well, in that case, are you ready for my opinion?"     Christie chuckled, "Sure! What's your opinion?"     "That we haven't seen enough to form good opinions."     Ingrid chuckled and Ansen agreed, "Indeed so," then he knelt to be prepared to remove the wad of clay covering the bowl's design and said, "Ready when you are."     I positioned the camera, Ansen removed the clay, and the black spot popped into being. This time I didn't let the camera descend more than a couple of feet and rotated it much more slowly to try to maximize the view. A sharp bump as I pulled the camera pole out of the bowl made me check the camera for damage as Ansen covered the design, then we again hooked the camera up to the computer and waited for a display.     Moments later, a view similar to the one before appeared, but it seemed different somehow. The ground was much closer and the bear-dog-thing was maybe fifty feet away, looking almost directly away from us at the rock wall beyond it.     Its stubby little ears moved and its head moved back and forth as it studied the rock wall, then it turned toward us and froze as it spotted the camera.     "It couldn't have heard the camera," said Ingrid, "It doesn't have any moving parts, does it?"     "No idea," I said, "Maybe it sensed it some other way."     "What other way?"     "Okay, then, maybe it just happened to turn around."     The bear-dog-thing bolted toward us a few yards, then slammed on the brakes and scrambled to reverse course. It managed a few yards in the opposite direction before everything went as dark as twilight and the camera shook.     A large dark shape descended quickly and a lower jaw that looked bigger than a backhoe's scoop engulfed the bear-dog-thing.     Two wide-spread clawed feet the size of a small aircraft's landing gear quickly dropped into view and a flat, bifurcated, leathery-looking tail dropped to the ground behind the feet.     Seen from behind, the flying thing looked as if it matched its feet pretty well; that is, that it looked to be about the size of a small plane. Its back and wings were a drab reddish-amber color with darker jagged streaks and spots.     The camera started to rotate away from the scene.     "Aw, dammit!" I yelped.     "That's a pterodactyl!" hissed Ingrid.     "Not quite," Ansen said coolly, "The head's wrong."     In a somewhat distracted manner, Christie added, "And it's furry. Dinosaurs didn't have fur."     As the camera spun back around, the flying thing tilted its head back to gulp down the bear-dog-thing, and I saw that Ansen was right; the head was wider and flatter.     Ingrid flatly muttered, "Like that matters a damn. Well, by God, now I have an opinion about that place."     The camera continued through its motions, lastly turning to look upward, as before... and suddenly we were staring up the nostrils of something that looked like a featherless bird.     As if the thing could somehow hear us, Christie whispered, "It's after the camera!"     But apparently it hadn't been after the camera; in fact, it hadn't seemed to have noticed the camera. It was just so damned big that when it turned around, the camera was smack under its beak.     The camera began rising past the flying thing's massive face as it looked to its right, then to its left, a motion that brought the camera into contact with the top of its beak.     That impact made the flying thing recoil, then snap at the camera with blinding speed, but it missed and we were suddenly looking at the back wall of the porch. I hit the replay and sat back in my chair as the video ran again.     As it began a third showing, I sipped coffee and quietly opined, "Ansen, that thing had to be twenty feet tall and it ate that bear-dog-thing like a pelican eats a fish. Gulp and gone. You might be better off here on Earth, dude."     Christie snickered, "No shit!"     Ingrid seemed thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Those mountains in the distance had white caps and there were patches of some kind of grass or weed. We're only seeing a very tiny part of that world."     She'd been leaning on the edge of the computer desk. Standing straight, she ambled into the kitchen to open the fridge and retrieved a can of tea.     After sipping it, she asked, "How can we see more? Wait a while and hope the location changes for some reason?"     Ansen said, "Planetary rotation might do it. The second view was from a slightly different location."     Nodding, Ingrid returned to gaze at the last frame of the video display for a moment, then went to the couch and sat down in a thoughtful manner.     Nobody seemed interested in making another visit to the bowl's black hole right away, so I put a CD in the computer and saved the files of our first two visits in separate folders.     Christie came to stand beside me and said, "I don't think we're going about this right. Who knows what kinds of germs and bacteria we could bring into this world from that one?"     "I was just thinking the same thing, ma'am." Thumbing at Ansen, who had returned to watching the videos, I said, "On the other hand, he seems to have come from there and he's had plenty of time to share his personal germs with this world in one way or another."     She looked thoughtfully dubious as Ansen looked up at us and said flatly, "Her point is valid, Ed. We don't know what we might be risking."     Ingrid rose from the couch and walked to the computer desk, then said, "We should have thought of this before we put the camera through the first time."     I dried the baggie and pole with a paper towel and waited for someone else to voice the inevitable, which wasn't long in coming.     With a sigh, Ingrid said, "I think we should take that camera back to the store and forget about trying this again. It's a job for some agency with proper facilities and equipment. We might bring a plague through that hole."     She parked her butt against the edge of the desk and sighed again, then asked, "So where do we start?"     "The books," I said, "Ebooks first 'cuz we can get them finished and out there more or less immediately. Paper versions will happen when Ansen's ready to go public."     After a moment, Ingrid nodded.     Because one never knows how things will go, the next day I put my replica of the clay bowl in the kiln and fired it to stone as I made copies of all the pictures and videos. After packing everything in plastic bags, I located a gallon pickle jar and put the bags with disks inside it, then I wrapped the bowl in plastic and buried everything in the back yard, a few feet beneath the TV cable box.     A truly thorough search of the property would find it, but that wasn't likely to happen before Ansen became a public figure. I just wanted to have a contingency plan. Chapter Seventeen     During the following six months, we managed to pick Ansen's brain for enough material to write one complete book and make good headway into a second book. The first book was an account of an amnesiac alien's survival on Earth, his decision to come out of hiding, and the discovery that the symbols on his bowl could be used to open a portal to another world. We decided to end the book at that point and let the next book handle whatever came next.     After my edits group had nitpicked the files, I epublished the first book as 'Ansen', sent it to Fictionwise for sale on their web site, and received excited calls from Ingrid and Christie when announcement of the new title appeared in the Fictionwise newsletter.     'Ansen' appeared on the Fictionwise bestseller page within two weeks, which generated more than a little excitement for all involved. Ingrid and Ansen came down to Spring Hill on a Thursday afternoon and we worked on a second book until about six, then Ingrid excused herself for an hour or so and returned with a couple of steak dinners for us and a huge salad for Ansen.     After dinner she asked me to fire up the computer and we checked the bestseller page. 'Ansen' had moved up the list again. Ingrid's eyes got big and her mouth fell open.     She almost whispered, "I never expected..." Looking at me, she cleared her throat and said, "Show us the sales page."     I did so. Ingrid saw the number of copies sold and her eyes got big again. I printed the page and gave her the printout, which she took to the couch and seemed to study for a time.     Looking up at Ansen and me, she said, "Until now, I never really believed this was possible." She tapped the paper and said, "I don't just mean this; I mean the whole idea of taking Ansen public safely. It just didn't seem real, even when we were writing the book."     She put the printout on the coffee table and rubbed her face for a moment, then looked at us again and said, "I guess I can certainly believe it now. Is there any chance that success here will make a paper publisher want the book?"     Shaking my head, I replied, "Extremely unlikely for now. The paper pubbers haven't yet adapted to the electronic age very well, so it's still a matter of knowing someone with a hotline into the paper pubbing industry. Without that, your chances of even being read and considered are pretty dismal. We probably won't hear anything from the paper book guys until Ansen's gone public. Once he's famous, they'll all come clamoring with offers. And speaking of paper publishers, have you picked out a few good law firms yet?"     Ansen asked, "A few?"     "Yup. We'll let them bid, too. Rates go down and good deals can happen when there's solid competition. I'd say choose three; one to handle the media, one to face off against the government, and one for any other concerns that may surface."     Giving me a sidelong look, Ingrid asked, "Such as..?"     "Damned if I know, but I'm fairly sure something will turn up."     I didn't mention the need for security once Ansen went public; we'd already been over that a few times. Every religious zealot and a hundred other sorts of nutcases would go berserk when they found out he wasn't a figment. We'd decided to let the lawyers recommend a security agency and roll the cost into their fees. They wouldn't want anything to happen to such a 'golden' opportunity as Ansen.     When the first ebook had risen into the top twenty bestselling titles at Fictionwise, we set up a website devoted to Ansen's history on Earth and announced it through the various news and discussion groups concerning science fiction and fantasy. On the website were pictures of some of the original bowl's fragments, pictures of portions of the new stoneware bowls I'd made, and an incomplete set of symbols from those bowls.     The entire site was based around the idea of Ansen wanting to go public after all these years and doing so in the least dangerous manner possible. Feedback from visitors was encouraged through a Yahoo discussion group and -- of course -- both the site and the group were liberally sprinkled with ebook purchase links.     A publicly posted suggestion by one of the ebook's most devoted fans provided a reason to upload some photos of Ansen, all carefully posed outside various tourist traps in places such as Silver Springs, Orlando, Cocoa Beach, and Sarasota. The photos had been taken from suitable distances and slightly blurred, of course.     Our first complaint call came from one of the tourist traps less than a week later while Ansen and Ingrid were visiting on a Friday morning. The tourist trap was unhappy about being used to publicize a fictional character not their own.     Putting the call on speakerphone, I asked which specific copyright or trespass laws had been violated by taking pictures on a public street. The woman argued the pictures had been taken on private property.     I asked, "What's he leaning on in the pictures?"     "A road sign. So?"     "A county road sign, ma'am. Orange County and the State of Florida don't plant those signs on private properties."     The woman became a bit tense. "Sir, I'm afraid we'll have to insist that you remove those pictures from your website."     "Then you'll have to insist in court, ma'am. Rather than discuss this matter by phone, I'll give you an email address for your lawyers and caution you that none of our communications will be considered confidential at this end. Any or all such correspondences will probably end up on the net immediately."     She hung up less than gracefully and I poked the phone's 'off' button. Ingrid looked a bit worried. Ansen looked as if he was waiting for her to say something, which she did after a moment.     "We were very careful about where we were standing when we took all of our pix. That place was just part of the background. Ed, those people don't mess around. They've sued day care centers for using their characters."     I shrugged. "If they come after us, that's called publicity, ma'am. We'll be poor little David. They can be big, bad Goliath. It'll be good for sales and we can shop the case around some law firms."     "But what if they win?"     "What if? We'll take the pix down and put up others."     "No, damn it! I mean 'what if they win a big settlement'?"     Shrugging again, I replied, "If that happened, we'd use the case as a springboard to take Ansen public in a courtroom. Doesn't matter a damn to me if I lose my '91 Mercury or even this house to them 'cuz I'll win big at the other end. What would you lose in a bad settlement, ma'am? That old house in Crystal River? Your car?"     She growled, "That house has been in my family for three generations, Ed!"     "So buy it back later with royalties from the paper books or picture and interview fees from the tabloids. And stop thinking we'd lose a lawsuit or that a lawsuit will even happen. They're bullies, but their lawyers know their limits better than anyone. We were on the far side of a numbered county highway when we shot those pix. They can bluster and bitch, but we were on public turf."     Ingrid looked ready to say more, but Ansen quietly said, "He's right, Ingrid. We'd be lucky if they were silly enough to sue us."     I chuckled, "We could always go back, y'know. Sneak you in and take some pix of you standing with..."     "No!" Ingrid yelped, "We will not invite catastrophe, damn it!"     "Hey, Ansen," I said with a grin, "Can you ride a motorcycle? Wouldn't it be cool to follow you around town with a video camera?"     As Ingrid moved closer to a blowup, Ansen sighed, "Don't tease her, Ed. I'll never hear the end of it."     "Yeah, yeah. Just a thought. She gets so fuzzed up, y'know? It's hard not to poke her a little now and then."     The phone rang as Ingrid glared at me, startling her enough to draw a gasp out of her. I let the machine answer the call and Christie said, "Ed, call me back when you get..." I poked the speaker button and said, "Hi, there, Army girl. Ingrid and her friend are here, too."     "Good. Uh, is it safe to talk?"     "No more so than usual, I guess. When are you coming down?"     "The end of next week. Uh, Ed, I'll have a... a friend with me. I hope that's all right. We'll just have to be extra careful for a while."     Hm. A friend, huh?     "No problem, Christie. Is he gonna be staying at your mum's?"     For a long few moments the phone was silent, then Christie said, "Yes. Why did you assume my friend is male?"     "Just did."     "Really, Ed... why?"     "Because you're a gorgeous young woman on an Army base and it had to happen sooner or later." She gave me an exasperated sigh and I added, "And because you were hesitant when you called him a friend, not about whether to bring someone here at all, so he must be fairly important to you." I chuckled, "No sweat, ma'am; I won't mention a single word of our tawdry history together."     Ingrid leaned toward the phone and said, "And I'll make damned sure he doesn't, Christie. What's his name? What does he do and where's he from?"     Upshot; his name was Stephen Carter, he was a brand-new dentist from Tennessee, and Christie'd told her mom he was coming with her about fifteen minutes before she'd told us. I thought 'oh, wow' and went to the kitchen for another coffee as Ingrid chatted with Christie.     As I rinsed the cup and assembled a fresh coffee, I felt a presence a few feet behind me and said, "I picked up some kiwi fruit yesterday. Check the veggie bin."     Ansen replied, "Thanks," and I saw the fridge door open in the reflection from the toaster. A kiwi fruit floated out of the veggie bin and the door closed as I heard Ansen bite into the fruit. I finished making my coffee and turned around to lean on the sink as he said, "I'd still like to know how you always know when I'm around."     Sipping coffee, I replied, "Don't really know. Just do."     More kiwi fruit disappeared before he asked, "Are you really okay with Christie's new boyfriend?"     "Yup. If he doesn't work out, she may want to come back. If he does work out, I'd rather we stay friends."     The last of the kiwi fruit vanished and I stepped aside as I felt Ansen approaching the sink. He said, "That's almost annoying at times, Ed. It's as if I'm not really invisible around you."     With a shrug, I said, "I can't see you, so you're invisible enough."     "Yet you knew I was... never mind. Are you truly not at all concerned about the possibility of a lawsuit, Ed?"     "Not at all, Ansen. Win or lose now, we'll win big later."     A paper towel detached from the roll and went through the motions of drying hands and wiping a face, then wadded up and sailed the short distance to the trash can. I began my journey back to the den and Ingrid looked up as I came into the room.     Giving me a rather piercing look, she asked, "Are you really okay with Christie's new boyfriend?" and I laughed. Her face turned to one of irritation as I answered, "Ansen just asked me the same question in exactly those same words, ma'am."     Ansen appeared to her left and nodded. "That I did."     I sat down as she snapped, "Well? Are you?"     "Yup. It had to happen sooner or later." With a grin, I asked, "Did she say anything about how her mother took the news?"     Turning somewhat wary, Ingrid replied, "No. Should she have?"     "Doesn't matter. I'm kind of expecting to have Claire come over here after you leave. Possibly even very soon after you leave."     Glancing at her watch, Ingrid looked startled and grabbed her purse as she said, "Oh, damn. Speaking of leaving, I have an appointment this afternoon. Should I wish you good luck?"     "With Claire? Nah. We'll be fine."     That got me an odd look, but didn't slow her down on her way to the door. Ansen mimed running to keep up as he followed her, waved goodbye, and disappeared near the kitchen door. I took my coffee to the garage and looked at my hang glider for a few moments, wondering why I kept the thing. It represented almost two thousand bucks and it hadn't been used in close to a year because I found renting at air parks easier than hauling it around.     Opening the outer garage door, I considered loading my glider onto the car and making a trip to Wallaby Ranch to see what they'd give me for it. I backed my motorcycle out of its barely-enough space in the garage and studied the way things had sort of stacked up during the last year of glider inactivity. Hm. I'd have to move a bunch of stuff out and back in, but only once. Might as well do it.     Moving the bike a bit farther aside, I backed the car up to the garage door and began moving stuff to the porch. Maybe halfway through the operation, I felt someone coming and glanced outside as I stuffed a few things in a box and picked it up. Claire appeared at the garage door in jeans and sneaks, looking rather tense.     "Hi, there, you gorgeous neighbor lady."     As usual, my sort of greeting made her gaze narrow, but she responded with, "Hi, yourself. Christie called today."     I set the box to one side of the car and went back for another box as I said, "She called here, too. Said she'd be down with her new dentist the end of next week."     Watching me move stuff, Claire nodded slightly. "Yes. End of next week. What are you doing, Ed?"     Pointing up at the glider bag, I said, "I'm gonna put this on the car and haul it over to Wallaby Ranch to sell it. If you've got a minute, stick around. Handling it alone is kind of awkward."     "You're getting rid of your glider? Are you feeling okay?"     I laughed, "Feeling fine, ma'am. Have you seen me take it out of the garage since 2005? Way too inconvenient. I've been renting kites at the air park."     There was now room on the floor. I untied the ropes holding the glider to the rafters and lowered it gently to the floor, then checked the bag. Dirty, but good condition. A broom took care of dust and cobwebs and the rest would blow off during an hour's drive.     Claire helped me ease the bag onto the car. As I tied it down, I asked, "Wanna come along? I'll feed you for helping."     "How long would we be gone?"     "An hour each way. Maybe half an hour or an hour at Wallaby. And however long it takes to feed you, of course." With a grin, I added, "Prob'ly almost time enough for you to make yourself believe I won't say or do anything to screw things up between Christie and her new squeeze. Besides, we need to talk about a few things."     Her gaze narrowed again as I set about putting things back in the garage. She asked, "What things?"     Glancing at the sky, I said, "Come along and find out, ma'am."     "What if they don't buy your glider?"     Rolling my motorcycle back into the garage, I said, "Then I'll consign it with them. Either way, I won't haul it home. Saddle up if you're coming along, milady. You'll get to pick a restaurant."     Rather obvious indecision played across Claire's face before she stood straight and said, "Wait for me. I'll be right back."     I made sure everything was back in the garage and checked the load on the car as I waited. When Claire reappeared, she wore a different blouse, but still wore jeans and sneaks. She quick-marched across our lawns and eyed the end of the glider bag as she walked around the front of the car.     Before she opened her door, she snapped, "That thing's well-secured up there, right?"     Saluting briskly, I replied, "Yes, ma'am, ma'am! Done checked it twice, ma'am!" and opened my door.     I kind of expected her to say something pretty much right away, but we were five minutes along SR-50 toward Orlando before she looked at me and asked, "How do you really feel about losing Christie to another man, Ed?"     Glancing at her, I replied, "Same as I'd feel if I'd lost her to a woman, I guess." Claire's gaze became a glare and I added, "Doesn't matter a damn how it happens, Claire. Gone is gone. I'm not twenty-five and I'm not a member of the reproductive pool and sooner or later she'd have had to jump back into it to get what she wants."     Giving me a fisheye look, Claire archly asked, "You think you know what she wants?"     "You think what she wants is likely to be all that unusual? What did you want at that age? Want to tell me or want me to tell you?"     She snapped softly, "Why don't you tell me?"     Nodding, I said, "Love. Companionship beyond love. Stability. A viable income and a special kind of future." Glancing at her again, I added, "Kids someday. All I can offer her is friendship, even love. Safe sex. But no marriage, no kids. In other words; not enough."     A considerable amount of scenery went by before she spoke again.     "Words, Ed. All just words. I've been through breakups and I've never yet seen a man take one well."     I shrugged. "Keep watching and you will. And since you won't believe it until you do see it, why don't we talk about other things?"     "Such as?"     "Pick a topic, ma'am."     "I wasn't through talking about the one we were on."     "Might as well be. You need proof."     Some guy in a late-model silver pickup truck honked his horn as we waited for the light at US-301. He honked again a few times and pointed at us. I nodded and waved as the light changed and we drove through. He did a U-turn in the empty intersection to follow us and I pulled over maybe a hundred yards past the intersection to see what he'd do.     The guy pulled in behind us, hopped out of his truck, and approached as I reached into the glove box for my .38 on general principles. Claire saw the gun and her eyes got huge before I tucked it under my right thigh and tossed my shirt tail over it.     I said quietly, "Better safe than sorry. Try not to look so tense."     Pointing at the glider bag as he ambled the last few paces, the guy said, "I used to have one of these back in Georgia! Haven't even seen one up close in over ten years! You been flying today?"     "Nope. I'm taking it to Wallaby Ranch to sell it."     "Where's that?"     I told him about Wallaby Air Park and he looked at his watch, then opened his cell phone and made a call. Muttering, "Got the damned box," he left a message saying he'd be late getting home, then said, "I'll follow you. I really wanna see this thing. Okay?"     "Yeah, sure. See you there."     We got underway again and I asked Claire to open the glove box, then put the gun away. She sat staring at me in silence for a time, then said, "Stopping back there was stupid, Ed."     "Disagree. He knew what it was and I had a gun just in case."     "That's something else; I thoroughly disapprove of guns."     I shrugged. "Then don't buy one, ma'am."     "Very funny. Ed, I'd like you to put that gun in the trunk."     Giving her a droll glance, I said, "That won't happen and you don't have to like it. You seem pretty opinionated on the subject of guns. Can I trust you not to touch that one?"     "What?!"     "You know; not to try to hide it or unload it or do something equally self-righteous and childish."     Apparently truly angry, Claire simply glared at me for a time, then faced forward and muttered, "Arrogant bastard."     "Nope. Claire, you sound just like a woman I used to know. She didn't like guns, either, and she took it upon herself to unload my gun while I was paying for gas. A few nights later I took her home from work in Pasco and a guy tried to break into the car at a stop light. Traffic all around, couldn't move the car. He smashed the back passenger window with a tire tool and reached in to open the door. When he swung at me, I pulled the trigger before I ducked. Would have nailed him right in the face, but all I got was a fucking 'click'. I yanked the keys out, got out and ran around the car, and by that time he'd broken her wrist, laid her head open twice, and hauled ass with her purse. He got away with her paycheck, credit cards, ID, about forty in cash, and..." Turning to look at her, I said, "I called her brother at the hospital. When the cops finished taking prints off the car and left, so did I. Bye, bye, Debbie."     Claire yelped, "You left her there?!"     "Oh, hell, yes. She ceased to exist that night. If you want be an easy mark, that's fine. If you want to do something sneaky that'll make me an easy mark too, that's very much not fine. As I see it, she earned what happened to her that night." Chapter Eighteen     In a flat, shocked tone, Claire said, "You can't be serious." I didn't bother to answer that. After a moment, she asked, "So you really just left her at the hospital?"     "Yup. Called her brother. They kept her overnight and gave her to him the next day. He came over on Sunday to ask why I hadn't returned her calls and to give me the five bullets he'd found in her jacket pocket. When he asked if I'd really been trying to hit the guy or just scare him off, I reached out and put my fingertip between his eyes and told him that's where my first round would have hit. I've never heard from either of them since."     With a shudder, Claire muttered, "Small wonder!"     Turning south on US-27, I checked my mirror to see if the pickup had followed and agreed, "Yup." Then I sighed, "But I've always wondered why the hell a brush with reality didn't change their views. She had two big gashes, a mild concussion, a broken wrist, and hefty hospital bills. She'd have had to cancel all her credit cards and get new ones and do the same with her bank accounts. To the best of my knowledge, they never caught the guy, so he may still be out there doing the same thing or worse to other people. I could have stopped him cold that night."     In a horrified tone, Claire firmly returned, "Cold indeed. You would have killed him."     "Yup. Problem solved." Looking at her, I said, "Claire, a lot of people just don't seem to understand that jail doesn't scare some people. It may inconvenience them, but it's just a place to hang out and socialize between crimes and they're the kinds of hardheaded people who only learn from gory examples if they ever learn at all. If you want to get rid of violent crimes, you'll have to get rid of the criminals, not just give them a timeout with their friends."     In my rearview mirror, I saw the pickup turn into a gas station and considered turning around. Nah. I'd given him directions and we didn't have time to spare. We weren't hard to spot and he'd catch up or find the place if he was serious about it.     Claire asked, "What's wrong?"     "The truck turned in at a gas station."     "You aren't going to wait for him?"     "Nope. We have a godzilla duffle bag on the roof. He'll either find us en route or find Wallaby Ranch on his own if he cares enough."     Sure enough, not long after we turned onto Dean Still Road, the truck reappeared in my mirror and we heard a honk. I tapped the horn and waved in reply. A few miles later I spotted the numbered mailbox at the sparsely-marked air park entrance. As we parked near the office, the truck pulled up and the guy grinningly yelled, "I was running on fumes back there! Had to get gas!"     I thought, 'Gee, kinda figured that,' but just nodded and got out of the car. He introduced himself as Phil Green and almost immediately began asking questions about my glider. I gave him its four-year history since I'd bought it.     "Phil," I said, "I already know what a Falcon 195 will sell for and what I can expect from a kite dealer. They'll offer about $1100 so they can make $800 on it." I shrugged, "That's how the biz end of things works, and I can't fault them for needing to make a profit, but I can prob'ly talk them into tossing in $300 or more in future towing fees. Are you willing to beat $1600 for a mint-condition kite?"     He eyed me as he asked, "The safety 'chute is in good shape too?"     "Bought it new. Never had to use it."     He seemed to mull things for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I can do that."     "Can you put a deposit on it now?"     "What?"     "A deposit. Say a hundred bucks. If I go through all the show 'n tell motions here and turn him down, then have to haul the kite all the way back to the house and you end up changing your mind, you won't get the deposit back."     Phil waffled, but decided to go for it. Taking two fifties out of his wallet, he said, "If I change my mind here, I get it back, right?"     "Yup. As long as I don't have to haul it home."     Things went about as I'd expected; we set up the kite and the shop's offer was $1200 plus some free towing. As Claire and the air park owner studied the assembled glider, I looked at Phil and quietly asked, "Well?"     He nodded and whispered, "Yeah. Good. I'll take it."     With proper expressions of regret, I turned down the air park offer and began packing the kite back into its carry bag. The air park offer went up a hundred and I glanced at Phil, but turned the second offer down, as well.     "Nope. Sorry, but I'll have to sell it privately. It's a money thing."     "You could consign it with us."     "If it comes to that, I will."     Nodding, the park owner said he had to get back to work and left us to rebag the kite. Claire tried to help, but didn't really understand the procedure, so she stepped back to watch.     Phil said, "I saw a branch of my bank over on twenty-seven, up by those new condos. We can stop there and I'll get your money, then we'll go to the hardware store across the street for some boards."     Claire asked, "Why boards?"     Thumbing at his truck, Phil answered, "Got nothing for support between the tailgate and the cab. I'll tack some boards together and make a quickie travel rack for it."     Some fifteen minutes of packing and loading later we were back on the road. At the bank I borrowed a yellow legal pad to write a receipt for the glider while Phil withdrew the money and gave it to me, then we went to the hardware store. Phil quickly hammered together a pretty decent rack and padded spots where it would touch the truck, then we transferred the glider and tied it down.     After handshakes and goodbyes, he headed north on US-27 as I looked around and spotted an Outback Steakhouse in the mall near the bank and asked, "Will that do for lunch?"     Getting into the car, Claire replied, "Sure. It'll do fine."     She seemed to have a brusque attitude. As I got in the car, I asked, "What's on your mind, ma'am?"     Giving me a raised eyebrow, she shook her head slightly. "Just thinking about something."     She said nothing more until we'd been seated at the restaurant. As we studied our menus, she said, "You just sold your glider as if it didn't matter to you at all, Ed. Is that how it is with Christie too, now that she's no longer useful to you? Is that why you think you can let her go so easily?"     After taking a moment to think behind the menu, I laid it flat and said, "That was only half a question, Claire. The rest of it was a plain damned hostile assumption. Why? I thought you'd be glad I was out of her bed."     Laying her menu firmly atop mine, Claire replied, "Yes. I am. I'm just not sure I like the reason."     "Which reason is that? The one I gave you, or the one you've apparently invented for the occasion?"     "You're letting her go too easily, Ed. You aren't the type for that."     "Well, excuse me, milady, but exactly what 'type' is that?"     "You know what I mean."     Shaking my head, I said, "No, no. Huh-uh. When you say shit like that, you'll damned well explain it, ma'am. After living next door to me for years, you still barely know me."     Giving me a hard stare for some moments, Claire replied, "Okay. Sure. I'll tell you what I think, but first we'll order lunch. Here comes the waitress."     Once the waitress had gone, I looked expectantly at Claire. She sighed and sat back in her seat, then said, "Christie said she's listed as a co-author of a book. If that's true, why can't I get a copy of it?"     "Damned if I know. It's for sale online."     "But it isn't in any bookstores."     Giving her a droll expression, I replied, "I'm pretty sure she'd have mentioned it's an ebook. I'll show you how to order a copy when we get home. Then I'll just give you a copy."     "I don't like reading on a computer."     Shrugging, I said, "Okay, then I won't give you a copy."     "Why isn't it a paper book?"     "It could be. Order a POD copy. It'll only cost you about two or three times as much as any current mass-market paperback novel."     "POD? What's that?"     "Print On Demand. They print a book from a computer file."     Looking as if she thought she had me, Claire grinningly remarked, "So it isn't really published at all, is it?"     "People buy it and read it on computers and those handheld gizmos, ma'am. There will be royalty checks. But what the hell does all this have to do with what we were talking about before?"     "What about that woman Ingrid? Will she get royalty checks?"     "Yup. There's even an escrow account for Ansen."     With a peering gaze, she asked, "The character is on the payroll? Is that some kind of tax gimmick?"     "Nope. The real Ansen's one of the book's authors, so he'll get a cut, too."     Sipping her tea for a moment, Claire asked, "So it's a four-way split? How much money are we talking about?"     "Hard to say. The book has only been out a couple of weeks and Fictionwise pays quarterly."     Her gaze hardening, Claire softly snapped, "Guess."     "Can't. I've seen some titles do well for quite a while and some fall off after just a few months. I can tell you what the total was on the sales page this morning, though." When I told her, Claire looked highly skeptical and I was getting damned tired of the conversation. I said, "I'll show you the listings when we get home," and got up to visit the bathroom before the food arrived.     When I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I stopped to look at some of the miscellaneous junk on the wall and placed myself near a small, glass-fronted picture at an angle that would let me see a reflection of our table. Claire spoke into her cell phone as she kept her eyes on me, then nodded tersely as she said something else, took the phone away from her face, and put it in her purse.     I ambled around wall-gazing for a few minutes to see what else she might do, but our food arrived and I headed back to the table. As I sat down, Claire said, "Everything on the walls is some kind of reproduction, of course."     "A lot of it is, yeah. Back to what 'type' I am, if you don't mind. You never quite got around to explaining that remark."     She looked up from seasoning her food. "Why don't I just say I'm sorry and let it drop?"     I pretended to consider that idea, then shook my head. "Nope. You aren't really sorry and you had a reason for saying it. I'd like to know what that reason is."     Setting the salt shaker down and meeting my gaze for a moment, she said, "I'd rather not discuss it now. Maybe another time."     She started eating. Okay. Not everyone you meet is going to end up a friend. With a shrug, I used the salt and pepper liberally, then dug into my own food.     Claire glanced at me now and then, but we'd half finished before she set her fork down and snapped softly, "Damn it, that's exactly what I mean. When I refused to talk, you just shrugged it off and started eating. You don't really give a damn at all, do you?"     Shrugging again just to needle her, I replied, "Not enough to have an argument. You used to be the mother of the lady in my bed. I had to consider how your opinions might affect her. Now I don't." With a grin, I added, "Besides, I think you're just a bit pissed and insulted that any man could let your darling daughter go without suffering greatly and maybe even making a scene about it."     Her gaze narrowed to a glare, but her lips formed a tiny grin as she admitted, "I suppose that might be part of it."     "Uh, huh. How would that sort of reaction help matters?"     Claire's gaze continued for a time, then she continued eating in silence. I did the same. We'd nearly finished when she nodded as if confirming something to herself and said, "Okay. When we get back, I'd like to see her sales page."     "Our sales page, ma'am. All my other stuff's on it, too."     "Yes. Right. Anyway, I'd like to see it."     "No problem."     She didn't say much the rest of the way back to Spring Hill, but as we walked up to my front door, she asked, "Who's this fourth party? The one pretending to be Ansen?"     Letting us into the house past the cats, I replied, "He isn't pretending, Claire; he supplied the basic ideas for the stories."     With a sigh, she snapped, "You know what I mean, damn it. Who is he really? What's his name?"     I fired up the computer as I said, "We used his real name."     Moocher hopped onto the computer desk and Claire ruffled his chin as she asked, "What's the rest of it?"     Giving her a sidelong 'you-ought-to-know-better' glance, I replied, "His first name is all you get, ma'am. It's all anyone gets."     When I reached the Fictionwise sales page and pointed at the lower right numbers, I watched Claire's reflection in the monitor screen. She gasped and peered hard for a moment, then took over the mouse. I got up to give her the chair as well and she scrolled the page up and down a few times as if looking for mistakes.     "Dear Lord..." she muttered, then she looked up at me and said, "I want a copy, Ed. To read on my own computer."     Trying to look confused, I asked, "As opposed to reading it on someone else's computer, you mean?"     Her gaze narrowed. "Don't be a smartass, okay?"     "You're just no fun anymore, ma'am. Okay. Stand by one."     After I put a copy of 'Ansen' and my own freebie ebooks on a CD, I made a paper sleeve for the disk and handed it to her. Claire thanked me and gave Moocher a few last pats, then said she'd let me know what she thought of the story as she headed for the door and let herself out. Chapter Nineteen     The government works in mysterious ways far more often than anybody's deity. No cats waited in the kitchen window when I came home from a trip to the grocery store on Wednesday. I opened the front door and there were no cats clamoring to see what I'd brought home. Setting the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, I went back to my car for my gun and had a cautious look around the house.     All the doors and windows were closed and locked. Moocher and Winston came hurrying out from under the recliner when I entered the den. Charlie showed up a few moments later from some other room, yammering incessantly for a few minutes as I sat on the floor with them and tried to let them know everything was all right.     Once the herd was more or less back to normal, I put the groceries away and had another look around. As I'd expected by that point, nothing in the house seemed out of place or missing. Part of an agent's training is learning how to search a room without disturbing the contents, very carefully putting things back exactly as they were and so on. In my day we'd used Instamatic cameras to take pix of things for reference. Nowadays they probably used digital cameras or even cell phone pictures.     Grousing aloud about the computer being a dust magnet, I used a filament-style duster on and around it while I checked for any unusual additions to my hardware. A bug would have to be placed where vibrations and noise from the computer wouldn't reach it through the desk. It didn't take long to find one stuck to the underside of one of the CD shelves; the damned thing wasn't even as big as a dime.     All I'd really wanted was confirmation that I was right about someone having been there. I left the bug where it was and continued to dust, which turned up another bug under the sofa chair and one in the kitchen. All three were audio bugs, which made me wonder where the hell they'd put their video bugs. No point in that. Without sweeping the house with a detector, I'd likely miss a few.     Turning on the computer and logging onto the net, I noticed a tiny, almost imperceptible slowness as the local weather site gradually appeared. There was probably a reporting program at work, recording every website I visited and every keystroke I made. No problem.     I Googled "Kawasaki motorcycle" and let the search engine kick up info links, then switched it to show images. Moocher hopped onto the desk and fished for attention as I studied the pix.     Pointing at a Vulcan 2000, I maundered aloud, "Would one of those even fit in the garage the way things are out there?"     Thinking he'd been addressed, Mooch answered, "Yahhh."     "With a little work, maybe. Move stuff around and like that."     Shoving his head under my hand, Mooch said, "Yahhh."     "Good 'nuff, then. I'm gonna take a ride, Mooch. Hold the fort."     In truth, I don't harbor any particular interest in the VN2000. I don't see any need for that much power, that little gas mileage, or that big a bike, but I wanted a reason to leave the house for a while.     As I backed my Vulcan 1500 Classic out of the garage, the phone rang. Rather than possibly have Ingrid or Christie leave a message, I dashed to answer the call before my machine did.     "You got me, whoever you are. Did I win anything?"     Ingrid replied, "Sorry, but no. I..."     I cut her off with, "Whatever it is, save it, ma'am. I'm taking the bike out for a while and I'll just make a little detour by your place."     "It's not a 'little detour', Ed. It's almost thirty miles."     "Yeah, well, any excuse to ride, y'know. Be there in a few."     "Wait," she said, "A better idea; let's meet at Sandra's. I haven't had lunch yet."     "You got it. See you there."     "Okay." We hung up and I closed the garage door, then filled the cat food and water dishes, put my backpack-jumpkit aboard the bike, and got underway running ten above the speed limit on US19. A few minutes later, I saw Ingrid's car in the restaurant lot near the front doors. I parked the bike in the nearest open slot and went inside to find her loading a plate at the salad bar.     I paid for a plate and joined her there, picking through the offerings as I greeted Ingrid. I waited for a couple of people to move on before I said softly, "The cats were scared spitless when I got back from the store, so I had a look around. Found three bugs in the house and I've no damned doubt at all there are more. Cameras, too."     Ingrid's face took on a somewhat horrified expression and her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Oh, my God... Who..? I mean..."     Shrugging, I said, "Nowadays there are half a dozen agencies that might do it, legally or not. No problem; we'll just talk about any important stuff outside the house. Have you and Ansen been out of your house together lately?"     Her eyes got even bigger for a moment, then she shook her head tightly and said, "Not since our last visit with you. Tuesday." She suddenly set her plate down and hissed, "Oh, damn, Ed! What if they've already been to our house, too?"     "Then it's too late to worry, but I don't think they have if they're just now getting around to mine."     Ingrid's cell phone chirped. She checked the number and looked puzzled. I reached to turn the phone so I could see the number.     "It's a pay phone," I said, "Prob'ly Ansen, and he may be waiting for you to call him back. Don't."     "Why not?"     "Listeners, that's why. Cell phones aren't even a little bit secure. He's prob'ly calling to tell you about sneaky visitors. When you don't call back, he'll go home. Let's eat. It'll look funny if we don't and someone may be watching us."     Looking uncertain as hell, Ingrid went through the motions of finishing her selections and we headed for a table.     "Ed, what the hell are we going to do?"     "Eat our salads. Be cool. Go to your house, grab that jumpkit I told you to put together two months ago and sit by the fishpond for a while. The fountain's noisy enough, I think."     A waitress brought us glasses of iced tea and Coke according to our receipts and left. Rapping a knuckle on the window by our table, I started noisily stirring my tea as I softly asked, "Did you know they now have laser gadgets that can read vibrations on windows?"     "What?"     Still stirring, I said, "They turn the vibration patterns back into sound. Don't know what kind of range they have, though. Best to talk outside, well away from any structures or furniture."     "Furniture?"     "Yup. To you it's a place to sit in the shade. To them it's a place to put bugs." I ate a few bites of my salad, then said, "If they've reached the point of bugging us, they've likely been watching us from a distance for a while. No telling how long or what they've seen, but it's prob'ly better to err on the side of caution and figure our houses are now cameras."     Ingrid swore softly, then asked, "You're sure you found bugs? Not some kind of leftover computer parts or something?"     Giving her a flat look, I said firmly, "They were definitely bugs," and stopped stirring my tea to take a sip.     A white Crown Victoria sedan pulled into the lot and parked. The woman driver and a man got out of it and came toward the diner's doors. As they walked near Ingrid's car, the woman dropped her keys. The man stooped to pick them up, placing a hand on Ingrid's car's bumper to brace himself.     Ingrid snickered, "You like her type? Isn't she a little too conservatively dressed for you?"     "Nah. She'd do fine. Great looking woman, there." As the couple entered the diner, I stirred my tea again as I said, "And now your car's got a tag, too, ma'am. Betcha."     In a flat tone, she muttered, "Oh, hell," glanced at her car, and tried to seem hopeful as she asked, "Maybe she really did just drop her keys?"     Grinning, I watched the couple enter the diner and choose a table near the salad bar as I chuckled, "Sure, lady. We even saw her do it. Enough talk about bugs. My stirring fingers are getting tired." I stopped stirring again, sipped, and said, "Claire came over yesterday. We talked a bit and took my glider over to Wallaby to sell it."     Sounding mildly amazed, Ingrid blurted, "You sold your glider?!"     "Yup. Did okay on the deal, too. Claire wanted to see our sales figures, so I showed her the Fictionwise sales page and gave her a copy of the book on a CD. I think she'll feel a little better about Christie's involvement now, but I think we ought to have a lawyer on tap, just in case. Who do you recommend?"     Ingrid just sat looking at me for a time as she nibbled her salad and sipped her drink, then she said, "Kevin Borey here in Crystal River. He's what you could call a general practitioner. He handles a little of everything and he's gone up against state and federal agencies nineteen times in land and zoning disputes."     "Kewl. He's got some nerve, then. Did he win?"     Giving me a wry look, Ingrid replied, "Yes, in all but one case."     I shrugged. "Close enough for us, I guess. Want to go see him after lunch? We can stop by your place and get some printouts. Maybe talk with him about incorporation."     Appearing to give the matter some thought, Ingrid nodded. We ate our salads and chatted about various trivia, then I led the way to her house. Stopping the bike at the end of the driveway to block it, I got off the bike and pretended to fuss with the engine. Ingrid parked behind me and got out of her car to come ask me what was wrong.     "Nothing," I said, "This is a way to make Ansen come out here before he says anything that might be heard by bugs in the garage."     Flipping the engine cutoff switch up, I pretended to try to start the bike and fussed with it some more until I felt a presence approaching.     "He's here," I said, and stood up to look at Ingrid as I said, "Ansen, I stopped out here so we could talk outside the house."     From apparently empty space to Ingrid's right, Ansen said, "I thought as much. Two men entered the house not long after you left, Ingrid. They placed several surveillance devices as they searched. As soon as they finished and departed, I left the house."     "Same at my place," I said, kneeling by the bike again for more pretend-fiddling, "I came home and found all my cats hiding. Did some dusting and found a few bugs. Did your guys take anything out of the house?"     "I don't think so, but I couldn't watch both of them at once."     Standing up and turning on the bike, I revved it slightly as I said, "Okay, then. Ansen, you had to jog up to the little store and back to use the pay phone. Take a break outside while Ingrid and I print some stuff and have a quick look around, then we'll go see a lawyer. Does that sound good to everybody?"     Ingrid nodded and Ansen replied, "Yes," so I got on the bike and moved it into the driveway. Ingrid parked beside me and we went into the house to print some sales info and such, then she grabbed the backpack that served as her jumpkit and we went back out to the vehicles. She opened her car door, then turned to look at the sky and ask me if I wanted to ride with her or take the bike.     The car rocked very slightly as Ansen eased himself into the car and scooted over to the passenger seat. I also looked at the sky and shook my head. "Nah. They're just patchy clouds. If I get wet at all, I'll get dry again shortly."     Ingrid took the lead and we got moving. At the corner of US19, I glanced around and spotted the Crown Vic from the diner at the gas station. Hm. It was one thing to install bugs, but if we also had watchers, someone was getting serious. I wondered whether the cause had been the book's contents or pictures of the patterns.     We'd reached the point of needing a lawyer a bit sooner than I'd expected, but I couldn't see how that would negatively affect matters. If ol' Kevin was as good as Ingrid thought, he should be able to set up legal and media coverage pretty much instantly.     It never occurred to me that he might refuse this case, nor did he surprise me by doing so. We were met by his receptionist -- a fairly gorgeous thirtyish brunette with a silken voice -- who seated us, collected our names, and asked the nature of our visit. Ingrid said we were just shopping for a good lawyer and offered no other information.     We were ushered into Borey's inner office after a fifteen-minute wait. Borey shook our hands and offered us seats, then went back around his desk and sat down as he said, "Congratulations, by the way. I took the liberty of Googling your names and found your book on a bestseller list. What brings you to my office today?"     I asked, "Are we already under attorney-client privilege?"     Borey shrugged. "Might as well be. Nobody'll get anything out of me without a warrant."     "Not the same thing. Our houses have been bugged and someone put a tracker on her car today. Seems likely they can get warrants. We're looking for someone who can provide immediate legal protections and arrange media coverage."     Lifting an eyebrow, Borey studied me, then Ingrid. She nodded as if to agree with me and his gaze returned to me.     "What kind of trouble is it?"     "We think it's about a friend. An illegal alien."     "What's he done?"     "Nothing. Not a damned thing. He's just a little different."     Borey again studied each of us in turn, then said, "Give me a dollar before we go any farther."     I fished up a buck and he made out a receipt, then Borey said, "Now you're covered under attorney-client privilege, even if I refuse the case. Tell me more."     Ingrid gave me a glance, then said, "Ansen." He appeared standing by her chair. Borey's face fell open and he stared at Ansen for a long few moments before he stood up and came around his desk for a closer look.     In a tone of awe, he said, "I scanned the sample chapters of your book. Thought it was fiction, of course. I also thought you were here to set up some kind of financial arrangement."     "We are," I said, "A four-way partnership or incorporation."     Shifting his gaze to me, he asked, "Four? The other co-author?"     "Yup. She couldn't be here today. You'll meet her later."     Borey again looked at Ansen and asked, "You speak English?"     Ansen grinned and replied, "Of course. Very well, actually," then stuck out his hand as he said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Borey."     After staring at Ansen's hand for another moment, Borey shook it and seemed to shake himself a bit as well. He was suddenly 'all business' as he took a breath and nodded slightly.     Clearing his throat, he said, "I can be shocked and amazed later. This visit obviously isn't just about financial arrangements. Somebody tell me what else you think I might be able to do for you."     Ingrid instantly replied, "Help us keep Ansen from disappearing into some government lab."     Glancing at Ansen, Borey said, "No offense, Ansen, but before I place myself between you and the authorities, I'm going to need to know why that would be a reasonable course of action." Looking around at all of us, he added, "I hope you didn't have anywhere else to go this afternoon." Chapter Twenty     About an hour later, Borey looked up from his yellow pad and put his pencil down, then picked up the printouts of the bowl patterns and studied them for a moment. "You'll understand if I find some of this a little hard to believe... where's the bowl now?"     Ingrid instantly -- and rather defensively -- replied, "In a safe place. Covered, sealed, and locked."     Shuffling through the pictures, Borey said, "There seem to be some pattern sections missing in these pictures."     "We told you," Ingrid snapped, "Nobody gets complete pictures."     Raising a quieting hand, I said, "Yet. Just not yet. Like we've said, not until Ansen's safe from the bureaucracy and the right people have signed on to check things out as safely as possible."     After another pause, Borey said, "I'd like to see the bowl. It's the only thing about all this that could possibly justify what you're asking me to do." Looking at Ansen, he said, "Again, no offense, Ansen, but with a little pre-publicity, getting you legal and famous shouldn't be all that difficult. The properties of your bowl, however, represent what our government would -- and should, given their mandate to protect the public -- consider 'a clear and present danger'. That gives them carte blanche to handle the matter however they feel necessary."     Looking at me, Borey said, "And you, sir... posting pictures of the bowl on the Internet..."     I interrupted, "Incomplete pix, don't forget. No way in hell I'm gonna give the general public something like Ansen's bowl."     "Glad to hear it, but what you've already done could very likely be prosecutable."     Shrugging, I said, "Write amnesty into the deal, then. Seems likely to me there'll be some money in the patents. Maybe even in access or trade agreements if there's anybody on that other world to trade with. And if there isn't, you just know there's going to be another big pile of money in transportation. As far as anyone on this world is concerned, we discovered the other one. Does that mean we can claim it? Sell mineral rights? Stuff like that?"     'Stuff like that'; it was a catch-all, cover-all phrase I often used in conversation to downplay my understanding of things. As expected, Borey gave me a roll of his eyes and a wry look as he replied, "Right. Stuff like that. How soon can I see the bowl?"     I thumbed at Ingrid and she answered, "Today." She looked at Ansen and added, "In fact, I've been thinking it might be best if you didn't come back to the house until things have been taken care of. If they catch you before we have a deal..." She let the sentence hang unfinished. Ansen nodded and said, "I think so, too."     Borey held up an index finger and opened a drawer. He produced a cell phone and a key ring from which he removed one key, then rooted in another drawer to produce a cell phone charger as he spoke.     "There's a local property that'll be in contention for at least the next six months. It's almost a mile from US19 on a lime rock road. I have to keep the utilities on because the barn is still in use. The property owner died without a will, so it goes to court."     I asked, "Who's using the barn?"     "The owner had a deal with the next-door ranch for feed and equipment storage. They may wind up buying the property from the family. At any rate, there's water and power and you can get a few bars on a cell phone." He wrote on the back of one of his business cards and passed the card, the phone and charger, and the key across his desk. "The address and this phone's number are on the card."     Ingrid gathered the things together and said, "There's bound to be a grocery bag somewhere in my car," then she took two more cards from the holder on the desk and copied the address and phone info to both of them before handing me a card.     Looking at the address, I said, "This place is about two miles south of here. And a mile into the woods, of course." Looking at Ingrid, I asked, "Which way will we go when we leave?"     She grinned wryly. "North. Of course."     Ansen chuckled, "I don't mind walking, you know. I've done quite a lot of walking over the years. But I would like to accompany you to show Mr. Borey my bowl. I have a feeling he isn't... completely aboard... with us yet." Looking at Borey, he asked, "Would that be a fair assessment, Mr. Borey?"     At least Borey didn't bullshit us. He met Ansen's gaze and replied, "Yes, it would. I'm sorry, but for all I know about special effects and makeup, you could be an actor in a fur coat. Seeing the bowl operate would definitely help me make up my mind."     Ingrid asked, "In that case, how soon can we leave?"     And that was that. I refilled my coffee mug from Borey's pot while he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and told his receptionist he'd be out for a while and didn't know how long he'd be gone. He also told her that he'd check in every hour or so about the Hendricks matter. I took that to mean that if she didn't hear from him on schedule, she'd call the cops.     On the way out, Borey suggested we all go in his car, but Ingrid leaned on her open car door as she said she preferred to drive. Her car rocked slightly as I declined in favor of my bike and pointed at the reflection in the rear side window of Borey's Lexus.     "See the white Crown Victoria across the street? Watch for it on the road. I'm going to follow you. After you and Ingrid take a certain turnoff from nineteen, I'm going to have a little engine trouble in the middle of that road. If they're just taggers, they'll roll by the turnoff and come back to wait or show up later. If they aren't, they'll have to get around me, which'll buy you some time."     Obviously thinking I might be just a bit paranoid, he asked, "Time for Ansen to get away?"     "Yup. With the bowl. If that's necessary, we can meet up later."     He gave the Crown Vic another dubious glance, but nodded and got in his car. Ingrid took the lead out of the parking lot. Borey followed her and I took a few moments to sip coffee, polish my sunglasses, adjust my backrest, and carefully install my MP3 earbuds before turning on the player.     The Crown Vic would have to either cross US19 in traffic or use the light at the intersection just south of Borey's office. I, of course, waited for that light to go yellow before I got underway. Heh. The taggers had to know I was stalling. Checking my left mirror a hundred yards up the road, I saw the Crown Vic back out of its space and head for the intersection rather than deal with traffic. If I'd had any doubts left at all by then, they'd have blown them away when they ran the red light in a left turn onto US19.     But... the taggers still had a choice to make; go after Ingrid or stick with me. Ingrid had headed north at the speed limit or better. I toddled along at a mere forty-five and made a production of thumbing through the MP3 player's menu to find my 'RoadNoiz' album, then kept time by thumping the handlebars as Robert Mitchum sang the title track to the movie 'Thunder Road'. A few minutes later, I sipped coffee as 'Hot Rod Lincoln' cranked up.     As I came out of the long curve just north of Crystal River, I decided to change the plan a little and rode past the turnoff road. The Crown Vic stayed with me, which raised a question; did they already know where Ingrid was going? Property records could have given them the cabin's location.     Turning right at the light by the little local airport, I turned right again about a mile farther on a dirt road leading into the woods. A little past a spot where assholes had dumped construction trash, I looked back and saw the Crown Vic entering the woods. Heh. A hundred yards farther, the trail turned mushy as hell and I rode the grassy ridge in the middle to get through and past the deep sand.     Following the trail through a loop that led back to US19, I waited for a break in traffic and scooted across the road, then headed south at about sixty and took the turnoff road to follow Ingrid. When the half-hidden entrance to her cabin property came into view, I considered pulling up the mailbox and stashing it in the woods, then decided against it. Like I said, they could use property records to find the place.     On the other hand, I saw no need to have my bike trapped on the property if the taggers blocked the driveway, so I continued on a hundred feet or so to the trail that led to a nearby pond and parked my bike where it couldn't be seen from the road. After putting my portable hard spot under the kickstand, I grabbed my coffee mug and hiked back up the road to Ingrid's driveway.     Just as I reached it, I saw a white car approaching in the distance and used checking the mailbox to explain my bikeless presence by the road. The car turned out to be a Kia sedan that whizzed past me. I sipped coffee and waited a few minutes, but no more cars appeared, so I headed for the cabin.     Maybe a hundred paces along, I heard another car behind me and turned to see the white Crown Vic rolling slowly past the end of the driveway. When I turned back to the cabin, I saw faces peeking through the blinds at the front windows.     The front door opened as I approached and Ingrid appeared. I grinningly yelled, "Quick, woman! Hide the still! We got revenoors!"     She yelled back, "What if I slap that phony red right off your neck for being so slow getting here? What kept you?"     Yelling was no longer necessary by then. I said, "I led them up by the airport. Took the trash trail around the pond. Kinda hoped they'd get stuck, y'know."     "Huh. I'm damned surprised you didn't get stuck."     We went into the house. Ingrid went to the fridge to put the stuff Borey had given Ansen into a sealable plastic freezer bag. Into another such bag she put some fruit, then she put the two bags into a plastic grocery bag and set it on the kitchen table.     Borey also stood by the table, eyeing the suitcase in which we'd stored the bowl. I walked over and picked up the case to take it out the back door to the small pond and fountain.     A few minutes later the bowl was unsealed and Borey stood staring as I poked a six-foot stick through the black zone above the bowl. He stooped to look carefully under the table, then reached for the stick and lowered it into the hole as I had. When he was holding the stick by the last inch or so, he pulled it out of the black spot and handed it back to me.     Taking out a pack of cigarettes, Borey lit one and blew smoke across the top of the bowl. The smoke roiled at the edges of the bowl and was sucked quickly into the blackness across the top. A few puffs later, Borey stood straight and silently stared at the bowl for a time.     Looking around at each of us, he quietly said, "Well, by God, I can now say you've very definitely got yourselves a lawyer. May I see the videos now?"     I started resealing the bowl as Ingrid led him back into the house. Sensing Ansen a few feet to my left, I asked, "She doesn't have any of the pix on her computer, does she?"     "No," he replied, "They're on CDs in her purse."     "The bowl probably shouldn't continue to stay in the house."     "I have a place for it. Carry it into the woods to our left."     Nodding, I finished sealing the bowl and closed the suitcase, then picked it up to carry it into the dense vegetation at the edge of the cabin's yard. When I set it down, it seemed to pick itself up and float deeper into the undergrowth.     I returned to the house. When Ingrid and Borey looked up from the computer screen, I said, "Hi, there," and took a sip of my coffee as I joined them at the computer.     Once Borey had seen the videos a few times, he asked for something to drink and Ingrid offered him a choice of teas as I removed the CD and wiped temporary files from the computer. Borey took a can of sweet tea, led the way to the fountain in the yard, and sipped a few times before he spoke.     "People, I'm now a believer and we have a lot to do in a hurry." Looking at me, he said, "I also now believe in bugs and Crown Vics that follow you. Someone took either the book or the pictures you posted -- or perhaps both -- fairly seriously. Although I think you've already reached this conclusion, I feel I should caution you to assume you're being listened to or watched at all times. All times."     Sipping again, he asked, "Is that video CD your only copy?"     Ingrid and I answered almost in unison, "No."     "Good. I'll need a copy to show some people. I can make my own from that one while we draw up some paperwork at my office." He lit another cigarette and seemed thoughtful for a time before he said, "I think this will expand well beyond anything we've thought of. The only way to be sure Ansen won't be picked up is to arrange lots of media coverage as soon as possible. I may have to bring in some legal specialists, but don't worry about money." Looking momentarily alarmed, he snapped, "Speaking of money; are you two... uh, three, I mean... in good shape for money? Will you need some to get by for the next week or so?"     "I'm good," I said, "Ingrid?"     "Me, too, if three thousand will handle things."     Borey held up a hand. "If it can't, call me." Dismissing that topic, he started maundering aloud about ways to take Ansen and the bowl public in a manner that would preclude arrests. Some moments later, he shook his head as some detail seemed to elude him.     "Damn. Have to look that one up." Flipping his cigarette butt at the pond, he said, "Let's go back to my office. Where's the bowl?"     From his left, Ansen's disembodied voice said, "In a safe place."     Almost jumping out of his skin, Borey spun to face that direction and stared around, then straightened and took a breath. "Good. Good. Are we ready to go, then?"     Ingrid said she just had to lock up the house and headed up the path to the back door. Borey and I followed the path around the garage and waited by his car. When Ingrid came out of the house, I sat on the hood of her car rather than walk the hundred yards to the road, then walked down to my bike as they drove away.     As I walked to the far corner of the dirt road intersection, I saw the tagger's Crown Vic parked well into the surrounding brush along the neighbor's fence. The two people in the car didn't bother trying to pretend they weren't watching me.     I was kind of surprised to find a good-sized rattlesnake parked in the shade under my bike, then I remembered that developers were flattening the woods for new homes less than a mile to the south. Cutting a long branch with a fork at the end off a nearby tree, I trimmed off the leaves and stirred the dirt in the road behind the bike to get the poor little refugee's attention.     The snake unwound and slithered around the bike to check out the disturbance and I pinned the rattler's head with the stick's fork. When I was sure the snake couldn't bite me, I got a grip behind its head and near its tail and picked it up to move it well away from my bike.     The Crown Vic had moved out of cover and rolled up the road fifty yards or so. When the driver saw me walk across the road, he applied the brakes hard enough to make the car slide several feet to a stop. He and the woman sat staring rather starkly at me -- or perhaps at the writhing rattlesnake I carried, I suppose.     I studied them in return for a moment, then I nodded to them and heaved the snake well into the brush. Going back to my bike, I saddled up thinking there was really no point in leading them astray again; they knew our vehicles and knew where to find us. Rolling out of the side road to follow Ingrid and Borey, I noted the Crown Vic's occupants still staring at me. Heh. Chapter Twenty-one     When I walked into Borey's office, I found he'd gone into some kind of overdrive. He was in the middle of a hurried conference with his receptionist -- during which I learned her name was Evelyn -- and the two of them quickly assembled and organized a stack of forms and notes. Evelyn left with some of them and specific instructions from Borey, then he turned to us.     "There are four of you," he said, "We'll go with a partnership for tax reasons. Can you reach the fourth partner? Now? By phone?"     Fishing a paper out of my wallet, I looked for Christie's Army office number and found it. "Yup. I think so."     Borey pushed his desk phone across to me and said, "Dial nine for an outside line. I need her info for forms I'll be filing tomorrow." He glanced at his watch and said, "Or today if we finish soon enough. It's only a little after two."     He left to talk to Evelyn as I called Christie. She answered and I told her what was going on as Borey came back in. I turned her over to him so he could ask questions and take notes. After an introduction, he told her he was recording the call for clerical reference and to only answer the questions Evelyn asked, then he listened as Evelyn gathered her info.     Some minutes later, he said, "That's it," and thanked Christie, then handed the phone to me as he excused himself to confer with Evelyn again. I handed the phone to Ingrid and went to stand by the office door to eavesdrop on what was going on at Evelyn's desk. Most of it seemed pretty routine and some of it wasn't, but it didn't take Evelyn long to produce things for us to sign.     I hate paperwork, particularly when it contains tons of legalese. I turned to Ingrid and said, "I'll want your thoughts before we sign," then I scanned the documents as I refilled my coffee mug. When I went back to the desk, Ingrid was very quietly discussing something with Ansen, who remained invisible by her chair.     Evelyn peeked in and waved a Post-It note before she strode over to place it on Borey's desk. She gave Ingrid a studious sort of look, glanced at the space beside her chair almost as if she could see Ansen standing there, then turned to me and said, "You looked familiar when you walked in, then you gave me your name and I knew who you were. I've read some of your books. I've been to your website."     Glancing at Ingrid again, she said, "You were talking to someone just now. This isn't just some kind of publicity stunt, is it?"     Her question was more a statement. Ingrid and I looked at Borey and he grinningly shrugged. "What the hell; she'll be handling most of the paperwork and we'll need a witness for signatures."     Ansen appeared by Ingrid's chair and Evelyn's breath caught sharply. For long, frozen moments she simply stared, then she slowly walked over to reach out and touch his shoulder as she whisperingly muttered, "Oh, my God... You're really...uh... real!"     "Very much so," Ansen replied, "And I'm pleased to meet you."     Borey'd been just as shocked, but he recovered fairly quickly and let Eve's moment go on for a time before he tapped his desk with his pen. "Eve, if you wouldn't mind, could you be astounded a little later? We need to finish his paperwork."     Straightening and appearing to shake off her amazement, Evelyn took a deep breath and managed to say, "I, uh, I'm pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Ansen."     Grinning as he extended a hand, Ansen replied, "Just Ansen. I've never acquired a second name."     Eve took his hand and had another brief bout of amazement before she took her hand back and turned to Borey.     "What's left to do, Kevin?"     'Kevin?' I thought, 'Pretty informal way to address the boss.'     They went over details briefly, then Eve took some of the papers to her desk after another long, grinning look at Ansen. Turning to me, Ansen stepped forward until he was only a pace away, sniffed, and asked, "Ed, what happened after we left?"     I noticed his fur was standing a little on his arms and neck as I said, "I found a snake under my bike. Had to move it."     Sniffing again, Ansen asked, "A rattlesnake?"     Grinning, I replied, "Yup. Want me to go wash my hands?"     Rubbing his arm fur down, he returned my grin as he asked, "If you wouldn't mind, please?"     "No problem." Glancing at the others, I chuckled, "Geez, some people are so sensitive," and headed for the restroom.     Borey eyed me oddly as I left. Ingrid looked somewhat alarmed and followed me to the restroom door to ask, "Ed, are you okay?"     "Yup."     Peering at me, she asked, "You're sure?"     "Thanks for caring, ma'am, but if I'd been bitten, I damned sure wouldn't have headed for a lawyer's office. Now let me wash up before Ansen starts looking like a bottle brush."     When I returned, Borey was on the phone with someone as he used his computer. Ansen and the ladies hovered near his desk and Ingrid beckoned me to join her there. I saw that Borey was attaching files from Ingrid's CD to an email.     Ingrid quietly said, "He's sending the videos to a TV news producer in Orlando."     As Borey attached the last file and hit 'Send', he said, "They're on the way, Murray. Yeah. No problem. Okay. Bye." He hung up and sat back in his chair as he gave something some thought, then said, "He said he can swing cheap studio time if we need it, but once he gets a look at Ansen, I don't think we'll be the ones looking for studio time. We're set up for a 9PM interview, people. Go home and change, then meet me back here at..."     "No," I said, "I don't think going home's a good idea right now."     "Why not?"     "The taggers know something's up. By now their handlers will know about your visit to the cabin. I think preliminaries are over."     Borey said, "I think you may be overreacting a little, Ed. Those people..."     "Think what you want, but I used to be one of 'those people'. When the clients started running around, we grabbed them rather than risk losing them. They planted bugs today. Suddenly we're both moving at once and having a rendezvous with a lawyer at a cabin. The taggers know they've been made, guys. I think they'll get orders to pick us up soon if they haven't already."     Heading for the outer office, I said, "Let's have a look out front. See if you can spot our tags across the street. Kevin, do you have an old briefcase you can spare?"     "Uh... I think so. What do you have in mind?"     "So far we've only had one pair of taggers in one car. If they see me leave with a briefcase I didn't bring and head north, they'll know I'm not going home with it. I'll head up to SR44 and take the back roads to Orlando. You and the ladies take County 476 over to US301, then go down to SR50."     Eve had an arched eyebrow as she asked, "What if they don't follow you?"     I met her gaze and said, "They'll follow me."     "Wait," said Borey, "Just wait a minute. There may be a better way. What if we just held a press conference right here? Give me a minute to call some of the people who've hounded me in the past."     Borey picked up the phone and at the end of thirty minutes had called the four locally big TV stations to chat with people whose names I recognized from news broadcasts. All he told them was that there'd be big news happening at four and that if they wanted in on it, they'd have someone at his office for the event. When pushed, he quoted confidentiality rules and said his client would have to be the one to make the announcement, but gave them his word that nobody would be disappointed if they sent a team.     Yeah, I was a little impressed that he could rustle up media coverage on the spur of the moment. So was Ingrid; she actually said something about not realizing he was so well connected. Borey pretended modesty, of course, as he admitted having dealt with some of the area's more important issues and people.     Looking at me, he said, "After meeting Ansen and seeing the videos, they'll also want to see the bowl, you know. And the Feds'll want it and they won't take 'no' for an answer."     I thumbed at Ingrid and Ansen. "Talk to them. I'd rather not see it go to anyone but NASA, and I'd want the delivery of the bowl to happen on camera." With a grin, I added, "Preferably with our lawyer present, of course."     He grinned back, said, "Oh, of course," and picked up the phone again. A few moments later, he said, "Murray, there's been a change of plans. The news got wind of things and they're sending people up here this afternoon. Can you have someone here before four?" Pause, then, "Good. No problem, Murray, the airport's a couple of miles north of my office. Okay. Sorry about this turn of events. Yeah. Bye."     As he hung up the phone, Ingrid grinned. "Mr. Fixit at work."     Borey looked appropriately smug as Eve entered the office.     She chuckled, "Mr. Fixit, the forms are ready except for the fourth signatures. May I take it they're no longer a rush order?"     "You take it right," said Borey, "FedX copies to her with the usual instructions and let her know to send them back on our nickel. Are you going to want to be involved when the media arrives?"     Eve shrugged as she entered the office.     "Sure. I'll take a few minutes to freshen up before they get here. Ingrid, will you need anything?"     The question caught Ingrid off-guard; she replied, "Uh, I don't think so, but thanks."     Nodding, Eve turned to Borey and asked, "So now all we do is wait until the newsies get here?"     "That's about it."     Eve's attention turned to Ansen. "In that case, I'd like to spend some time talking with Ansen." Speaking directly to Ansen, she added, "If you don't mind, that is?"     Ingrid's gaze narrowed slightly, but she said nothing. Ansen and Eve settled on the office's couch as I popped the lid off my coffee mug and went to rinse and refill it. On the way I took a look outside and saw the Crown Vic parked about where it had been before across the street. I was about to pour some coffee when I saw another car enter the lot and park a few slots down from our taggers. Within seconds, all three occupants of both cars were yapping on cell phones.     Pouring the coffee and capping the mug, I turned to watch them for another few moments. Nobody got out of their cars. The new guy produced binoculars briefly and used a camera, but nobody seemed interested in leaving their air conditioned comfort just yet.     Leaning into Borey's inner office, I said, "There's another car with another tagger, but they're all just sitting out there watching us."     Borey handed Eve a set of keys, holding one in particular above the rest. Eve nodded and took them, then walked past me to lock the glass front door. Giving it a testing shake, she went to lock the back door and returned the keys to Borey.     I returned to watching the watchers and noted that the new car was dripping wet on the right front side. No, not just wet; he'd splashed through a fairly deep puddle. Whitish residue -- lime rock -- had actually splattered the hood. And if it was still dripping wet, it didn't happen on Ingrid's high and dry cabin road.     Maybe at a parking lot nearby? Moving to a south-facing window, I studied our side of US19 and saw a few big puddles in parking lots at some of the older storefront businesses. None looked as if they'd been splashed recently. I looked a bit farther and saw a faint whitish blotch on the grass of an overgrown driveway at an empty lot about a hundred yards distant.     Returning to the doorway of Borey's office, I caught Ansen's eye and motioned for him to join me. He excused himself to Eve and rose from the couch. Just before he reached the doorway, he disappeared to avoid being seen through the outer-office windows and I heard Eve gasp softly.     "Yes, Ed?" came from the space beside me.     I said, "I think the new tagger over there let someone out about a hundred yards south of us. The car's still dribbling water, so I don't think whomever has had time to get here if he's trying to be at all careful about it."     Borey had come to join us. He asked, "It's dribbling water?"     "It looks as if it splashed through a big mud puddle." Pointing out the south window, I said, "The only puddle that looks as if it's been abused recently is down there. We can probably expect to see someone out back shortly."     Nodding, Borey went to pull the blinds shut on the four back windows. I followed and sipped coffee as I poked a finger through the blind to watch the woods behind the office. Even if I didn't see the guy in the woods, he'd have to cross a patch of mowed lawn that encircled the building.     Eve and Ingrid used pencils to part the blinds at other windows and spoke in low tones as they also watched. I chuckled, "You ladies afraid he'll hear you? More likely he'll notice all the oddball gaps in the window blinds," and they both gave me narrow looks.     Their looks became even more narrow as Borey chuckled, "Doesn't matter as long as your tails don't see Ansen and panic before the news people get here."     We all went back to watching and sure enough, about ten minutes later we saw a guy moving toward the office through the woods. He wore a white shirt and dark pants and a jacket matching the pants was slung over his left arm. As he reached the edge of the undergrowth, he seemed to pause behind some vegetation and Eve wondered aloud what he was doing.     I said, "If you don't see binoculars or a camera, he's prob'ly taking a leak and trying to catch his breath. Office types aren't used to trailblazing through jungles."     Ansen laughed softly and I saw a butt-sized dent form in the left side of the couch. Borey came to the window and peeked out, then said, "Everybody; if that guy sees us watching him, he may take it as a reason to knock on the door. We'd rather not have that."     Moving his mouse brought his computer out of 'sleep' mode and he clicked an icon. The screen became a view of the rear of the office and he said, "Besides, we can watch him on this."     The ladies and I joined Borey at his desk as he moused the camera around to face the patch of woods half-concealing our visitor. I noted that the event was being recorded with a time stamp. When the visitor didn't move for a while, Borey zoomed in and we saw the guy talking angrily on a cell phone and wiping his face and neck between swats at flying bugs.     "Damn," muttered Borey, "Hasn't this guy ever been to sneaky school? He's waving that hanky around like he was at a concert."     The ladies snickered and laughed. I took another look out the front windows and saw that nobody'd left their cars, but that the newest arrival was on the phone. Glancing at the wall clock, I saw that barely twenty minutes had passed; we still had a bit more than an hour to kill before the media vultures arrived.     I said, "If he was overly worried about being seen, he'd be hunkered down. We're being contained, I think. They know we know about the Crown Vic out front. This guy's just out there to keep an eye on the back door."     Ingrid said, "That probably means they're sending more people to pick us up, doesn't it?"     "Seems likely at this point."     "What if they get here first?"     I thumbed at Borey. Her gaze turned to him.     Borey said, "I'll stall them."     Lifting an eyebrow, Ingrid asked, "Do you realize how feeble that sounds? What if they have warrants? Stall them how?"     His gaze narrow, Borey replied firmly, "I'll manage. Warrants for what, exactly? What have any of us actually done -- that they'd know about -- that would justify issuing arrest warrants?"     Snorting a chuckle, I said, "Justification doesn't matter during an arrest. Only afterward, when the people who ordered the arrest have to manufacture something to cover their asses. Are the smoke alarms hooked up with the fire department?"     Evelyn got big-eyed and yelped, "What?! Yes, they are, but there's no way in hell you're starting a fire in here!"     Looking at her, I said, "Relax, milady. It'll be a cigarette near a smoke detector, that's all. That'll have the cops and the fire department here in minutes, right?"     Borey nodded. "Yeah. It should."     "Where would someone try to sneak a smoke?"     He grinned. "The bathroom has a smoke detector."     "Good 'nuff. It can't be you or Eve, though, so give me a cigarette and a lighter. If our taggers get out of their cars, I'll fire it up and play dumb for the cops later."     Reaching into his desk drawer, Borey located an open pack of smokes and a Bic lighter. He handed them to me and I checked the pack; good, there were about half a dozen cigs left. I memorized the brand name and style because someone might ask later, then put the cigs and lighter in my shirt pocket and looked out front.     The taggers in the white Crown Vic seemed to be getting restless, apparently arguing about something. That's not usually a good sign. It may indicate contention, and contention may stem from a lack of orders or orders that don't seem to make sense.     Times change. Back in my day, we were pretty much on our own once we left the office. Today, with cell phones and such, Stateside field agents tend to rely on orders from above, but the really good field agents develop a knack for knowing when their 'clients' are up to something. They may take action on their own in the absence of meaningful communication with their bosses.     I checked the wall clock again. Even if the media vultures arrived smack on time, we still had over half an hour to go. The guy in the car said something obviously rather loudly, accompanying the words with a broad gesture of exasperation as he tried to hand her something, likely the phone. The woman seemed to face forward and stiffen up.     Evelyn suddenly gasped, "Oh, holy shit! Look at him!" and Ingrid dropped her pencil to use her fingers to part the blinds. I hurried over there and through the parted blinds saw the guy in the woods do a frenetic dance and flail at something on the ground with his coat. He burst out of the woods, fell into the yard, and lay clutching his lower left leg as he aimed a Glock pistol at the woods.     "Prob'ly a snake," I said, grabbing Borey's cell phone off the desk and heading for the back door. "They're all over the place lately. Evelyn, let me out."     She looked at Borey for confirmation. He nodded. There was an umbrella in a stand near the door. I grabbed that, too, and jogged across the rear yard. Chapter Twenty-two     As I neared the guy, a three-foot rattlesnake emerged from the woods. Hm. Snakes usually don't do follow up attacks on things bigger than they are without good reason. The guy may have stepped on it or messed up its nest.     "Don't fire that goddamned thing out here," I said, "There are houses just behind those woods."     The guy's head turned to face me so fast I heard his neck pop. Opening the umbrella, I stepped between the guy and the snake and prodded at it to drive it away. After a few strikes at the umbrella, the snake began backing its way into the brush. I followed it a few yards, and once it had turned away from me to leave, I returned to the guy on the ground.     "Just stay down," I said, "Try to stay calm and don't move."     Flicking the cell phone open, I poked the autodial for Borey's office and Evelyn answered.     "Call 911, ma'am," I said, "Tell them a guy's been bitten by a rattlesnake. Also tell them the snake's gone back in the woods."     She agreed and I closed the phone, then turned to the guy on the ground and moved around him to see the bite. The guy was also trying to see the bite, but it was on the backside of his leg and he was having some difficulty.     "Woo. He got you good, dude. Lie still 'till the medics get here."     He looked up from his leg and met my gaze in silence for a moment, then said, "Next time... ooowww... Next time I'm in the woods, I'll wear boots and bring my own damned umbrella." He hissed with pain, then said, "Thanks for getting rid of that snake."     "Hey, no biggie. Try not to move too much."     With that, I headed back to the office, closing the umbrella on the way. Evelyn opened the back door and locked it behind me as I swapped the umbrella for my coffee mug and headed for the front office. Sure enough, both cars were in the process of dodging traffic to get to our side of the street.     The white Crown Vic parked in front of the office door and the woman got out to follow the other car as it continued through the narrow side-space between the building and the woods.     "Damn it!" said Borey, "I wonder how many sprinkler heads he just flattened?"     I shrugged and sipped my coffee as I headed back to the rear of the office. "He just hit 'em before the ambulance did. Now you're gonna have to find out which agency they're with so you'll know where to send the bill."     Parting the side-window blinds, I saw that the woman seemed to be having difficulty in the thick Bermuda grass; she paused a moment to take off her shoes, then hurried on. Moving to a rear window, I watched her reach the other taggers and wave her arms as the driver opened the car's back door. She slammed it shut and said something to him that seemed to annoy him, but he didn't argue.     He also didn't argue when she indicated rather forcefully that he should move the car around front. After a word with the snakebite victim, he plunked himself into the driver's seat and drove the car back out the way he'd come in.     The woman stood talking with the bite victim for a time, then she nodded and took a long, studious look in our direction. Eve squeaked and let the blinds snap shut. Ingrid snickered at her and continued watching, as did the rest of us.     I heard sirens in the distance and I was about to check the wall clock yet again when Borey said, "Fifteen minutes to go if they get here on time. Nice of our watchers to provide their own distraction, wasn't it?"     "Damned sure was. Now I won't have to go to prison for lighting up in a no smoking zone."     He chuckled, earning a sour look from the ladies.     Ingrid snapped, "A man was bitten by a rattlesnake. Exactly what do you find humorous about that?"     Borey replied just as snappishly, "The fact that he earned it well by trying to sneak around on my property and the fact that he saved us from having to manufacture a delaying tactic." With that, Borey turned away and headed for the bathroom.     We heard the ambulance arrive and watched it go around the building to the bite victim. A Sheriff's car followed the ambulance and another one pulled up out front. Borey said, "Eve, if a deputy knocks on the back door, let me know. I'll handle the front door."     She nodded and he and I watched the scene out front. The deputy chatted on his radio for a time, then got back in his car and just sat there doing stuff I couldn't identify.     I said, "Prob'ly won't be this guy doing the knocking. By now they've checked ID's and that woman's likely in charge out there. If they don't go back to maintaining a perimeter around us, she'll likely be the one at the door." After a pause, I added, "Could be worse, though. She's kinda cute."     Borey chuckled. Eve gave me a roll of her eyes and a 'how typical' expression with her short sigh. Ingrid glanced at me, then continued watching the show out back.     I sighed, "They just have no sense of humor today," and Borey chuckled again. Feeling Ansen somewhere to my left, I looked in that direction and asked, "Are you sure you're okay with all this?"     His disembodied voice said, "Yes. Mr. Borey seems quite capable. May I ask when we'll discuss fees?"     "Later," said Borey, "I'm not sure a fee will be necessary. I might rather take a piece of the overall action, if nobody objects."     Ingrid asked, "How big -- and what kind -- of a piece of the action would that be, Mr. Borey?"     "I'd be your representative to the world as long as necessary. Help arrange interviews, security, and media events, manage payments and royalties, etcetera. Handle any legal issues, as well, of course. You can be sure there'll be some of those. I'd simply take a percentage."     Ingrid started to say something else when Ansen said, "For the time being, that arrangement would be useful. Would you be happy with ten percent of net profits?"     "I was thinking more like twenty. Being your intermediary is likely to occupy most of my time for quite a while."     Ingrid said, "That seems somewhat excessive, Mr. Borey."     Ansen said, "It doesn't seem at all excessive to me. Famous people need intermediaries to handle virtually everything. Almost nothing remains simple after one achieves fame and fortune."     Shrugging, I said, "Suits me. We knew we'd need a good lawyer, and people work harder when they own a piece of the operation." With a glance at Borey, I added, "As well as the responsibilities."     Eve said, "They're loading the guy into the ambulance now."     Ingrid went to the back windows. Borey and I -- and Ansen, though he couldn't be seen -- remained in the front office.     I said, "We need to move that deputy, guys. He can keep the media people from getting in here."     Borey replied, "Doubtful. This isn't a crime scene. If it were, we'd already be under arrest. Nor is it an accident scene; we aren't being officially detained or questioned. Any attempt to block requested media attendance at my office will encounter my questions." He grinned and added, "And I can assure you that his superiors won't want that."     As the ambulance rolled into the parking lot on its way to the street, I said, "Y'might want to give them a call, then. Clarify matters, just to be sure. We're running short of time."     Nodding, Borey went to his desk and got on the phone. He spoke to someone for a few minutes and referred to a case from 2002. A few minutes later he hung up and came back to the front office with a small smile as he said, "The deputy will receive a call shortly."     And so he did. The deputy answered his radio, looked rather puzzled, chatted with someone for a few moments, and then he moved his car to the end of the building. The other deputy's car appeared some moments later and parked by him. They then rolled down their windows and appeared to discuss matters privately.     Our tagger in the Crown Vic looked confused and irritated. He used his phone and seemed pretty agitated for a time, then stared at it as he closed it. The other two taggers came around the building and got into their respective cars. I couldn't see the other guy, but the woman was fluffing her coat and blouse in front of the car's air conditioner vent as she spoke to her partner.     Borey said, "This could still go sour. They could prevent access and we don't know how to reach their bosses."     "Yup. Ansen, at some point we'll have to open the door. If it's to let media types in, that's fine, but if they aren't allowed in, we'll let you out so you can sneak aboard one of the news vehicles. Might be good if you waited outside anyway just to see how things go. Put one of the CDs in your goodie bag for show 'n tell wherever you end up."     From somewhere by Borey's desk came, "Will do, Ed."     Just as the CD seemingly levitated itself into an envelope, three vans and two cars arrived and lined up in front of the building. All the newly arrived vehicles wore TV news markings and all of them disgorged men and women who either began unloading equipment or headed for the office door.     Our taggers hurriedly got out of their cars and two of them were nearly hit by yet another van as it slid to a stop. Borey unlocked the office door and held it open as he gestured at the media people, most of whom either dodged around or ignored the deputies and our taggers as they hurried into the building. Before the first media vulture got to the door, I felt Ansen brush past me on his way out.     Borey took charge of the horde and led them into his office, where he turned them over to Eve and Ingrid and returned to the door. The last media arrivals came rushing to the door, but our taggers were already there. The woman stood tall, showed her ID as she introduced herself as FBI Special Agent Theresa Lance, and almost politely demanded that all media personnel leave the building immediately.     Easing past me, Borey handed her his card, introduced himself as our attorney, and asked her why they should do so.     Lance snapped, "It's standard procedure, sir."     Meeting her gaze implacably, he asked, "Got a warrant? What probable cause are you offering for search, seizure, or even merely interrupting our press conference, ma'am?"     When she glowered at him and said a warrant had been issued and would arrive shortly, he grinningly apologized for not being able to simply take her word for that and invited the remaining media people to enter the building.     Excusing myself to get past her caused Lance to move aside a bit, which created an opening. After the media vultures had gone through the door, I felt Ansen reenter the building past me and closed the door as Borey continued to discuss the matter of a warrant.     The two leftover newsies were upset, of course, and after a bit of verbal push and shove had occurred between Lance and Borey, she very grudgingly stepped aside to allow them to pass. I opened the door for them and Borey and I followed them inside.     As he locked the door, Borey said, "Whatever we're going to do; let's make it quick. I don't think she was lying about the warrant."     We joined the crowd in his office by moving to the inner doorway, where we could keep an eye on the people outside. Eve was at the computer, removing a CD from the lower tray and putting in a new one. Copying the pictures? Or just the videos? Whatever, she'd already done half a dozen or so and Ingrid wasn't objecting. Good 'nuff for me, I guess. I nodded to Ingrid and she rapped on the desk to get everyone's attention, then spoke.     "Ladies and gentlemen, you were called here today to be witnesses to a revelation. Is everyone ready?" She looked around and waited while someone fussed with a battery, then said, "Ansen, you're on."     The bathroom door opened and Ansen stepped into the room. He walked over to stand between and somewhat in front of Eve and Ingrid and said, "Hello, all. My name is Ansen and I'm not from this planet. Each of you will receive a video CD and clippings of my fur that you may have analyzed at your convenience."     There were a few moments of stunned silence, then a skinny blonde woman angrily yelped, "You brought us all here for a publicity stunt? Some guy in a damned gorilla suit?! My station's lawyers...!"     Ansen interrupted her tirade by quickly stepping close to her. Very close. Her mouth was opened to rant further, but nothing came out as she studied his face from only a few inches.     "Madame," he said, "I assure you; this is not a rented costume."     As people started throwing questions at him, Ansen raised his hands -- a gesture that made some of the nearer media vultures flinch back -- and said, "Let me continue, please. If we have time, I'll answer your questions afterward."     I said, "Better make it quick, Ansen. Agent Lance said a warrant is on its way."     He nodded and began giving his audience a synopsis of his arrival and time on Earth as Ingrid trimmed bits of fur from his arms and dropped the bits in CD sleeves. Eve put the finished CDs in the sleeves and continued making them.     To Borey, I said, "You handle front door traffic. Give me a key to the back door. Ansen may need to scamper out of here soon."     Borey nodded and removed a key from the ring. I took it and had a look out the side and back windows before I put the key in the door's lock and stationed myself at the nearest window to keep an eye on the back yard.     After a few minutes, Ansen ended his presentation with, "...and my biggest fear at this moment is disappearing into a government laboratory. You, the media, are my best hope of preventing that from happening by letting the world know there's no point in isolating me after all my years of wandering the Earth."     He stopped talking and sipped from a water glass on the desk as half the people in the room tried to ask him questions at once. I saw Borey go on alert and he turned to hold up nine fingers.     Unlocking the back door, I opened it and checked the window again as Ansen politely excused himself, then hurried out the door and across the back yard.     Eve and Ingrid hurried to hand out the CDs, then Eve said, "That's it. Meeting's adjourned. Don't let them take your disks."     The blonde who'd ranted almost yelled, "Is there Wifi here?"     "Yes," Eve replied, and the woman opened a laptop case and hooked her camera into the laptop while it was booting up. Two others began doing the same.     "Close that door!" she snapped at me, then she snapped at Borey, "Keep them out for another few minutes!" Looking around at the others, she said, "Anybody who can't hook up, get going NOW."     Grabbing a CD from the desk, she put it into the laptop, then she took the memory card out of the camera as she said, "Jimmy, you were in the Marines. Take this and a CD and go! Try to get to the station any way you can. Do you need money?"     The tall guy who'd been handling their camera said, "I'm good, Sue," and grabbed a CD off the desk on his way to the door. I opened it and locked it behind him as he ran for the woods.     As if she'd taken charge of the group, the woman stood tall and said, "They'll try to grab everything and they may search us. Stuff the disks into your underwear." Looking at the four people who weren't trying to use laptops, she ranted, "Why the hell are you people still here?! Get moving!"     A guy looked up from his laptop and said, "Sue's right. Those who can go should go." Looking at his cameraman, he added, "You too, Dave. Grab a disk and go."     Dave nodded and did as he was told following the other three outside. As I closed the door behind him, Sue's laptop finally finished booting enough to look for and find Borey's Wifi system. It chimed and she instantly moused up a web browser as she set up a camera dump, then signed onto a web site and soon had stuff from the CD going somewhere.     I saw people in suits taking up positions in the back yard as Borey said, "Ed, they've stopped talking out there. Four of them are coming to the door."     "They're out back, too. At least three."     Sue snapped, "We need another few minutes, damn it. If we can get this stuff out, there's no way they can put a lid on it."     Taking another key off the ring, Borey tossed it to me, then he headed for the front door yelling, "I'm coming! Hold your horses!"     I watched him pretend to try several keys in the door's lock with apparent frustration, then study the key ring. He tried a few more times with different keys, then held up a hand and yelled, "Just a minute! I need the other ring!"     With obvious irritation bordering outright anger, those outside watched him walk back into his office past me. He grinned and muttered, "How am I doing?"     "Well, they aren't kicking in the door. Yet."     Rooting through desk drawers took a minute or so. Checking his jacket pockets and the bathroom took another minute. He went back to the outer office and started rummaging through Eve's desk as Sue said softly, "Almost done. Just another few seconds."     A guy on another laptop said, "Same here. Maybe a minute, I think. Damn! This setup is a lot faster than the one at my office!"     The woman at the other laptop said, "I'm done. I couldn't hook up the camera, so I just sent the CD files." She pulled the chip out of her own camera and peeled back some duct tape that covered a spot on the bottom of her camera's hard case. A slot appeared and she slipped the chip into it, then pressed the tape back in place.     I chuckled, "Not your first time, huh?" and she grinned.     "Not even close to the first. It's hell getting them out from behind the aluminum shell, but they'll have to X-ray the case to find it."     The others were finished. I said, "Go ahead and find those keys now. We're done in here."     Without looking up, Borey quietly replied, "Okay," and pulled some stuff out of the middle drawer to 'find' the keys, then went to unlock the door. Chapter Twenty-three     Four men and Agent Lance came in and moved past us into the inner office as another guy presented Borey with the warrant and introduced himself as Jeff Carlon, a middle-rank FBI agent.     Gesturing for us to follow the others, he said to the congregation as a whole, "My people aren't stormtroopers, but any lack of cooperation will be construed as obstruction, in which case you'll be arrested." He glanced at someone who said, "Six missing," then he turned back to us to ask, "Where are they?"     Sue asked, "Where's your warrant?"     Carlon pointed at Borey, who held it up for all to see and added with a grin, "It says they're looking for illegal aliens."     That brought a few snickers and a stifled laugh from the media crowd, but it seemed to startle Carlon. He quickly put a lid on his surprise as Sue asked, "Isn't that a job for the INS?"     "They were busy today," said Carlon, "How about answering my question, ma'am?"     She shrugged. "No idea. Hopefully my cameraman's halfway back to Tampa by now."     Borey cleared his throat and said, "Agent Carlon, there's a slight problem with this warrant."     Turning slightly to face him, Carlon retorted, "What problem?"     Stepping forward, Borey said, "It's based on a suspected violation of Title 14, Section 1211. That law was removed from the Code of Federal Regulations in 1991, so this warrant is absolutely worthless other than the manner in which it may very possibly constitute the basis for my next lawsuit."     Carlon gave Borey a narrow, studious look for several long moments before he said to Lance, "Agent Lance. Containment only for now. Mr. Borey, come with me, please."     He led Borey into the front office and closed the door. Ingrid looked at me and said, "I think I'm impressed. How many other lawyers would know that?"     I chuckled, "Oh, probably quite a few, ma'am."     Giving me a narrow look of her own, Ingrid snapped, "Excuse the living hell out of me, but we seem to be under arrest here, so what's so damned funny?"     "At a science fiction convention a few years ago, I heard a debate about a law that said making contact with space aliens was illegal. I looked it up at Snopes.com later. In fact, socializing with space aliens wasn't illegal, even when the law was in effect. The law only said that anyone who had contact with 'extraterrestrial organisms' would have to submit to a NASA quarantine or face a fine of up to $5000 and a year in prison. It also specifically applied only to people involved in NASA's manned and unmanned space missions, not to civilians."     "That's the law they're talking about? You're sure?"     "Yup."     "Then how the hell did they get a warrant issued based on a law that's been rescinded?"     I shrugged. "Maybe somebody thought he was being cute by using that law as a premise. Some Federal judges are political whores, y'know; he may have owed somebody a favor."     For a moment, Lance looked as if she wanted to ask a question, but she held her tongue and went back to looking stern. Some guy in the media group echoed, "Are you sure about that law, mister? I mean, really, really sure?"     "Yup." I sipped coffee and considered how things might go. If Carlon was calling someone for confirmation about the law, this clambake might be over soon, but law or no law, the Feds couldn't simply ignore the fact that a real, live alien might be among us. I wondered what their next move might be.     About fifteen minutes passed as I leaned on the wall just inside the door. Some of the others visited the coffee pot and two used the restroom. Most of them found some place to sit and Eve parked her butt on the edge of Borey's desk. I studied her long, graceful legs and -- when my gaze rose high enough -- found her looking back at me with amusement. She enjoyed being admired.     The door opened and in walked Borey and Carlon. Borey led Carlon to the desk and handed him a CD. With a nod, Carlon turned to the group and said, "All FBI personnel wait outside. Everybody else is free to go, but remain available for later interviews."     I shared everyone's sense of amazement. That was it? Really? The FBI was just going to hike out the door and let us all go?     Borey said, "Wait, please. People, Agent Carlon was kind enough to verify what I told him instead of blindly following erroneous instructions that would have resulted in legal actions, but it was -- and is -- my considered opinion that sharing our information is necessary to prevent similar situations once that info has been broadcast."     Some guy on the couch asked, "But we're really free to go?"     Carlon replied, "Yes. We have all your names; if we have further questions, we'll contact you."     People began packing their gear and I noticed that a few of them were turning off devices that had undoubtedly also recorded what had occurred after Ansen's speech. Maybe that was one of the reasons Carlon was being so cooperative? Nah. Well, not really. If he'd had a legal leg to stand on, he could have gathered us up and hauled us away for interrogation, cameras be damned.     Once the obviously rather confused agents and media people had left the office, Borey went to a cabinet at the wall and opened it to reveal a TV above an entertainment center. He poked a few buttons and a replay of Ansen's speech appeared. I spotted the security camera he'd used in a corner of the room near the ceiling. Some minutes later, the recording ended and he put a blank CD in a tray.     When the copy was done, he put it in a sleeve and handed it to Carlon. Gesturing around the media people, he said, "Now you have everything, Agent Carlon. That was our deal."     Nodding, Carlon said, "I'll need the actor's name, as well."     Borey said, "I just know him as Ansen." Looking at Ingrid and me, he asked, "Do you know his last name?"     Actor? What had Borey told Carlon? Whatever; play along.     Shaking my head, I replied, "We just know him as 'Ansen'."     "How did you pay him?"     "We haven't paid him. He volunteered."     Looking somewhat tired and irritated, Carlon said, "You know, I'd expect a prank like this from students or kids with too much time on their hands, but not from adults." Looking at Borey, he added, "And especially not from a well-known local lawyer. I hope you're ready for the backlash when those TV people realize they've been the butt of your joke. If we have any questions, we'll be in touch. Good day."     Stopping in the middle of turning to leave, Carlon looked at me and said, "All else aside, Agent Lance told me you faced the snake with nothing but an umbrella and chased it away from Agent Heston. That was a damned brave thing to do, sir."     He stuck out his hand and we shook as I replied, "Oh, not really. Snakes don't know what the hell to think when you wave something like an umbrella at them."     Carlon snorted a chuckle and said, "No, I guess they wouldn't. Well, our thanks anyway. Mine and the FBI's. Good day."     We watched him go outside and speak to the people in front of the office. A few moments later, the parking lot was empty except for our own cars.     I handed Borey his front door key as Ingrid turned to Borey to ask, "What did you tell him?"     Shrugging, he said, "Not much. He spent a few minutes verifying that the law had been removed and called for instructions regarding an invalid warrant. They basically told him to find out what was going on, so I asked him how a lawyer would handle an illegal alien case wherein the illegal alien was from another planet. Carlon somehow got the idea we were laying the groundwork for an ad campaign."     "You told him that?"     "No. I didn't have to. He just assumed."     Hm. That just didn't sound very FBI-ish to me. Whether a matter was trivial or vitally important, a competent field agent would wait until enough evidence made assuming things unnecessary.     Ingrid said, "I'll tell you what we can assume. After they watch that CD, they'll be back. All of them; the media and the FBI. What are we going to do then?"     Borey looked at his watch and said, "Closing time. How about we all go to dinner and discuss that? My treat. Eve, let's shut the place down, shall we?"     I felt something in the direction of the back of the building and looked out a window, then went to open the door and look over the back yard again. Grass was depressed just to the right of the small porch and I said quietly, "Hi, there."     Ansen replied, "Hi. I thought I might be needed here."     "Nope. Borey handled everything. The FBI and the media are gone, but we can figure there are now bugs in the office. Meet us around front. We're all going to a restaurant."     "Okay."     A trail of depressed grass formed, heading toward the end of the building. I closed and locked the door and found everyone looking at me, so I asked, "Are we ready to go?"     Eve asked, "Was he out there?"     I replied, "Didn't see him," and ignored Ingrid's rather droll expression as I grabbed my coffee mug on my way to the front door. She followed and I held it open for her. Once the door closed completely, I said, "Seems likely they bugged the office. Find a reason to take your own car wherever we go."     Glancing around, she asked, "He's here?"     With a chuckle, I replied, "I'd say he's probably standing where he could reach out and touch you, ma'am." Looking just to her right, I asked, "Care to confirm that, Ansen?"     From the space beside her came, "You were guessing that time," and Ingrid visibly stifled an urge to flinch.     "Oh, not really. That's where I'd be if I were you. Have you noticed anyone who seems to be watching this place?"     "No."     "Well, unless the FBI's changed a helluva lot since the last time I worked with them, that prob'ly just means they put a different team in a vehicle we haven't seen yet."     Borey and Eve came out of the office and Borey told us where we were going, then we got underway in and on our respective vehicles. I followed the others and watched for new taggers, but didn't see any. No surprise, really; given today's technology, they were probably tracking us on a computer screen.     Some distance up US19, Borey pulled in and parked in front of a Chinese restaurant and waited for us by the front doors. As we joined him there, he said, "If nobody objects, we'll get some stuff to go and head over to my place."     Nobody objected. We chose what we wanted from the buffets and left a few minutes later. I again left last and continued to watch for taggers, but saw none. Borey turned west and led us through some woods and farmland on a country road until we reached a small bridge over a dry stream, where he began to slow down to turn into a gravel driveway leading up and around a slight hill.     The house hadn't been visible from the road, nor was it visible from the driveway until I rounded the hill and suddenly found myself in what looked like a fifty-foot square parking area. Ahead of me was a west-facing mobile home and to my right was what looked like a concrete foundation for another house. I was too busy keeping the bike upright in the loose gravel to care what it was as I looked for a solid place to put my kickstand down.     A foot-square paving block lay to one side of a walkway leading to the house and I stopped the bike where the kickstand could rest in the dead center of the block. Convenient as hell, that block. I noted there were scuff marks on it other than mine.     Borey grinningly said, "This is my girlfriend's parking spot sometimes. She rides a Harley of some kind."     Handing him bags of food, Eve said, "She has an 883, Kevin," and went to ask Ingrid if there was anything she could carry.     Taking the bags, Borey said, "Right. An 883. Maybe you'll see it this evening," and headed for the house.     Hm. I didn't see another paving block around, so I tilted my bike up and moved it enough to center the kickstand diagonally on the block, using only half the surface. His girlfriend could use the other half if she showed up.     Ingrid stood by until I was finished, then handed me my food bag and walked with me to the house.     In a low tone, she asked, "Why did the FBI leave, Ed?"     "They needed more to work with. Why are we whispering?"     "We aren't whispering, we just aren't being loud. Do you think they'll come out here, too?"     "Hard to say. They had time to look at the CDs while we were at the restaurant, but I didn't see any taggers on the road. Could be they're waiting to see if we brought the bowl with us."     As we climbed the steps to the front door of the mobile home, Borey opened the door for us and said, "Welcome aboard. Sorry if it seems small and inelegant, but this is where I'll be living while I have a house built on that concrete pad."     Pointing beyond the pad, he added, "And across that creek about another mile is the farm I told you about. I may try to buy that property, too, once everything's settled in court."     I said, "Luck with that. Any sign that anyone's been here?"     "Nothing on the surveillance system." He pointed at a camera in the northwest corner of the room and said, "There's an eye in every room and four outside. Overlapping fields."     Ingrid looked surprised and asked, "Are you maybe just a little bit paranoid, Mr. Borey?"     He gave her a fisheye look and said, "Hardly. This place is empty all day and it's on a county road. I wasn't here a week before someone stole my riding lawn mower and there's going to be all kinds of construction stuff lying around here for the next several months."     Closing the door, he led the way to a dining table where Eve and Ansen were setting out our food. Eve couldn't seem to help stealing glances at Ansen's fur as she worked. Ansen chuckled and stood still beside the table.     "Eve, take a moment, please. Go ahead and touch me. I promise I won't bite."     Looking somewhat abashed, Eve responded, "Oh, I didn't... I mean..." With a sigh, she gave him a little grin and reached to run her hand down his arm, fingering his fur for a moment. As if at a loss for anything else to say, she said, "Uh... It's very nice. Thank you."     Borey snorted a laugh and pulled out a chair for Eve as I seated Ingrid. Once everyone had the right dinners and had started eating, Ingrid asked, "What now?"     "Now," said Borey, "We'll wait for calls from the media."     "What if they don't call?"     Giving her a fisheye, he replied firmly, "They'll call."     "But what if they don't?"     "Then we'll put on another show." Turning to Ansen, he said, "If you have to leave abruptly, follow the stream bed south about a mile. The other place will be on your right."     Ansen nodded. "Thanks."     Looking a bit unsettled, Ingrid's gaze fell to me. "Ed, make me believe we're doing the right thing, dammit."     Swallowing a bite of pepper steak, I replied, "Can't do it, ma'am. You aren't in the mood to believe that. What we're doing is reacting by acting. We found bugs and went public sooner than we'd intended, that's all. With a little less preparation and only one lawyer, but he seems to know what he's doing."     Nodding, Ansen said, "Agreed. There was little else we could have done, Ingrid. My centuries of hiding have come to an end."     Ingrid said, "The topic right now is what to do next."     Startling slightly, Borey reached into his pocket as he said, "The answer may be calling as we speak." He flipped his cell phone open, glanced at the screen, and answered it with, "Hi, Margaret."     After listening a few moments, he said, "Probably so. Yes, I am. Why else, Margaret? Media coverage is the only thing that will keep him from becoming a guinea pig in a government lab."     He listened for another few moments, then said, "Tell you what, Margaret; all four channels were up here. That's how serious I am. No, I'm not the least bit worried about Ansen being a fake."     Sipping his iced tea, he listened for another few moments, then said, "Sounds good. Seven it is. Okay, bye."     Flipping his phone shut, Borey said, "She's having a tech look at the videos and she sent the hair samples to a lab for a quick test."     Ingrid asked, "Who's Margaret? What was the 'seven' about?"     Sipping again, Borey replied, "Margaret Adner is the CEO of one of the biggest independent TV studios in Florida. As soon as she hears from her lab friend, she'll get a chopper up to us."     Looking at her watch, Ingrid said, "Seven is two hours away. What if the FBI comes before then?"     I looked at Ansen. "You know how to get to the airport, right?"     He nodded. "It's two miles almost due north."     "No," said Borey, "She's sending it here. It shouldn't matter if the FBI are near by. They won't have time to react. Besides, Ansen can sneak aboard if necessary, and if he can't, he can hide and we'll set up another way to get him there."     Setting her fork down rather firmly, Ingrid stated, "Oh, sure! That's if we happen to be available to set anything up at all! If the FBI comes back, they'll..."     Holding up a hand, Borey scribbled on the back of one of his business cards. "There you go. If we get separated, call Margaret and set up another pickup."     Nodding, Ansen put the card by his plate.     I said, "His outfit doesn't have any pockets. Got some kind of small waterproof bag with a shoulder strap?"     Borey seemed thoughtful as he looked at Ansen, then he said, "No problem," and went to a closet in the hallway. Opening it, he took a brown fabric bag down from a shelf and removed a pair of binoculars from it, then went into a bedroom. When he returned to the table, he presented the bag to Ansen.     Putting his cell phone, charger, and the card in the bag, Ansen said, "Thank you. I hope these items won't be necessary."     "Where's the card I gave you at my office?"     "It's still at your office." Ansen tapped a finger to his temple and recited the info from the card.     Borey grinned and sat down. Ingrid said archly, "Well, I'm glad you two are enjoying yourselves so much. I'm still worried."     I said, "No point in that, Ingrid. The feds are likely parked at the end of the drive. If they decide to come in, here we are. Even if we could leave, our cars are tagged, and if we take their tags off, they might decide to end the game."     She sat staring at me for a moment, then asked, "So we're trapped here? All we can do is wait?"     "Nope. We can finish dinner before we catch our flight at seven."     Looking very unsatisfied with my answer, Ingrid started to say something else, then closed her eyes, apparently counted to ten, and angrily picked up her fork. I finished my dinner and excused myself.     Ingrid -- still angry -- asked, "Where are you going?"     Sipping the last of my tea, I replied, "I'm going to go do something that'll very likely keep the FBI at bay, ma'am."     With a glance at the others, she asked, "And what would that be?"     "I'm going to get our jumpkits and cover my bike for the night."     Eve asked, "Jumpkits?"     "Backpacks with clothes and toilet stuff and like that. I want to give anybody watching the impression we're staying here tonight."     She grinned and reached into a hall closet to remove a backpack and a small suitcase. "We have them, too. Sometimes we have to travel on a moment's notice."     Instead of just tossing the cover over the bike, I moved the block so the kickstand was centered on it, then tied a piece of rope at the handlebars and pulled it tight as I anchored the other end at the base of the nearby fence post. Once the cover was on the bike, I gave things a shove and the bike barely budged. It would take a helluva wind to topple it. Chapter Twenty-four     A little before seven, we heard a helicopter approaching. The sound of its blades labeled it in my mind as one of the Bell UH-1 series. Ansen disappeared and we headed outside with our bags to stand near the cars as we looked south into the evening sky to try to spot the bird, but it surprised us.     When I'd first heard it, the chopper had been at some normal cruising altitude, likely between 3000 and 5000 feet. Now I couldn't hear it as well as before and couldn't see it in the fading light. I knew what had happened and shifted my gaze to the tree tops in the shallow valley between the hills to the south.     Sure enough, a white chopper with TV station markings came charging up the valley, following the creek bed and flying low enough to froth the water a bit and send loose brush and leaves into the air. The bird seemed to slide through the air to a stop, hovered briefly over the gravel, and set down fifty feet from the cars. The copilot waved at us to get aboard.     As we all headed for the bird, Borey said, "That's Margaret in the right seat."     Ingrid asked, "She's flying that thing?"     "I don't know, but she could. She's got a couple of thousand hours in half a dozen aircraft."     I grinned. "Woo! Likes to fly, huh?"     Borey grinned back. "Oh, definitely."     He slid the chopper's side door back and we piled in and found seats, then he slid the door shut and thumped twice on the wall behind the copilot. The bird's engine roared as we lifted and turned to head back down the creek bed.     Borey put on a helmet and adjusted the boom mike to say, "Hi, Margaret!"     We couldn't hear her reply, but Borey laughed, "Yeah, he's really aboard," then, "Okay. I'll tell them."     Pinch-covering the tiny microphone, he said to us, "There are barf bags under your seats. If anyone gets sick, use them."     Ingrid already looked a little green as we swayed with slight changes of direction to follow the valley. Eve seemed okay, but I noticed her grip on the grab bars was white-knuckled. I'd taken a seat, but I've never been comfortable strapped down in a chopper, so I'd ignored my seat belt. Fact is, I'd have preferred open doors, too. Watching the scenery flash by outside brought back memories.     A little south of US98, the pilot took us up to a cruising altitude and turned north, which confused the hell out of Ingrid. She reached toward me to get my attention and yelled, "Where the hell is he taking us?!"     Leaning close, Borey replied, "The airport north of my office."     "Why?!"     "So we can make an appearance according to a flight plan. This trip is probably logged as flight time for Margaret."     Ingrid subsided and Borey spread a blanket on the deck as he said, "We'll be there in a minute or so. Everybody stay below the windows until we're back in the air."     We all got flat on the blanket and the bird soon touched down. A few minutes later, the bird took off again and Borey told us to stay down just a little longer as he looked at his watch. A few moments later he sat up, then he and I helped the ladies back into their seats.     When we reached Tampa, the bird landed on a rooftop helipad and Borey ushered us out and across the roof to the operations office, then into an elevator. At the tenth floor, the doors opened to a carpeted corridor, which we followed past yet another elevator to a glass fronted office with double doors.     Into that office we went, then he led us into what looked like a conference room and closed the door. Turning to face us by a rolling cart that carried a pump thermos on each end and a tray of cookies, he said, "Margaret will be along shortly. Coffee or tea?"     An attractive brunette about five-seven or so entered a few minutes later in a flight suit and stopped just inside the doors. Her green eyes swept our little group and settled on Ansen as she said in a soft, yet strong voice, "Hello, all. I'm Margaret Adner, in case Kevin forgot to mention me. Some people will be here in a few minutes, so I'd like you all to be ready for some questions."     Looking at Ansen, she said, "One of those people will be a doctor and one is the genetic researcher who ran the lab work on your fur. She wants to meet the source of her sample."     Plucking at the front of her flight suit to get some air inside it, Margaret grinningly said, "Now it's time for me to change. Bill Morton will be here shortly with the others. Make yourselves comfortable."     She turned and left, unzipping the front of her flight suit and fluffing more air under it as she walked past the glass windows. I caught a glimpse of her unrevealing OD green undershirt and let my appreciative gaze follow her long, firm stride. For a woman in her forties, Margaret seemed to take very good care of herself. She nodded at others approaching and they flowed around her on their way to our glass-fronted den.     Borey stepped up behind me and quietly said, "Don't even think about it, Ed. She doesn't simply use people; she expends them."     As the new group entered the room and greeted us, I gave Borey a glance, but said nothing. I'd have been surprised as hell if Margaret hadn't been a user of people, and she was just the sort of person we needed at the moment. I hadn't failed to notice the rather military manner in which she'd greeted us at a slight distance and hadn't offered to shake hands. Did that represent an actual aversion to personal contact, or did it simply reflect her intention to keep subjects of investigation at arm's length?     Whatever. The two medical people soon led Ansen behind a portable screen for some tests and the others began interviewing the rest of us. After an hour of answering essentially the same questions about Ansen, the bowl, and myself several times, I reached for the camera recording my fourth interview with one of Margaret's people and said, "Break time," as I pressed the 'off' button.     The woman -- Neera Davidson, by her name tag -- objected with, "But I have a few more questions."     Thumbing at one of the others as I stood up, I replied, "Yeah, no doubt you do, ma'am, but so far they've been the same ones he asked, so check his notes before you go any farther."     While refilling my coffee mug, I felt someone watching me and glanced around. The others all seemed busy with each other. Looking in the direction the sensation seemed strongest, I eventually found a tiny shining spot high in one corner of the room. There was another, more standard camera in the other corner, but that one didn't seem to be the source of the sensation.     To my left, the research woman seemed to be having trouble with a wrapper on something. I flicked open my belt knife and handed it to her butt-first. She took it rather gingerly and slit open the heavy plastic wrapper, then handed it back just as gingerly with a word of thanks. I'd flicked the knife shut and slid it back into its holster before she took her eyes off it.     As I munched a macaroon from the coffee tray, Bill Morton received a call on his cell phone and stepped into the corridor to talk to someone. A few moments later, he motioned at me to come outside and when I did, he handed me the phone and went back inside.     I answered, "You got me. Would this be Margaret Adner?"     There was a pause, then she replied, "Yes. May I ask what led you to believe that?"     "You did, ma'am. I really can't explain it better than that."     "Try."     Finishing my third cookie, I said, "Okay. You walked in like Patton, made your announcement, and left. No close contact and no questions either way. Although you run the show, the group coming up the hallway split around you with barely a nod as you passed. They knew where to go and what to do and they knew you weren't interested in chatting. You have what's called 'command presence', milady."     She laughed softly, "That's mildly flattering, but how did it lead you to think I'd want to talk to you?"     "You've been watching and listening. You know where everyone else stands and what they hope to get out of all this, but you aren't quite clear about me."     "So what's the answer to that question?"     Sipping my coffee, I gave some thought to my answer and ended up with, "All I can get without hurting anyone else. There'll be a few tons of money in big bills. A fair chunk of that would do."     "Who decides how much is a fair chunk?"     "Probably someone who can see the whole picture objectively. Our lawyers ought to be able to help us figure things out."     There was another pause, then she said, "I see."     "You probably do if you took the part about not hurting anyone else seriously. Ingrid and Ansen are good people."     With a soft laugh in her voice, Margaret asked, "What about Kevin and Eve? Do you think they're good people?"     "Barely know 'em, but I've seen nothing to indicate they aren't. In fact, I could say the same about you, milady. Contrary to what the soaps and movies would have us believe, I know for a fact that being beautiful and having a strong, dynamic presence doesn't automatically make a woman a monster. And you seem to fly a UH-1N pretty well. Flying any helicopter takes a special talent."     I could almost hear her blink in surprise. She laughed again and I suddenly remembered the name of the woman she sounded like; Peta Wilson. I hadn't watched her 'Nikita' TV series more than twice -- it was too damned phony and she was too skinny -- but I'd liked her fine as a vampire in a Sean Connery movie.     Margaret chuckled as she thanked me for my largesse and asked me to give the phone back to Morton. I tapped on the door to get his attention and pointed at the phone. He nodded and excused himself from talking to Borey.     As he neared the door, I said, "It was nice talking with you, milady. It was nice listening to you, too. You have a really special voice. Here's Morton." I covered the phone's mic hole very loosely as I handed it to him and said, "Damn! Her voice is some kind of magic!"     He grinned and took the phone as I went back inside. Borey immediately met me near the door and asked, "What did she want?"     "A better understanding of me, I think. She wanted to know what I really wanted out of all this. I told her 'All I can get without hurting anyone else'."     His left eyebrow arched. "In just those words? Think back. Things like this can be important at odd times."     I nodded. "Exactly those words."     "What else?"     "That beauty, money, and power don't automatically make a woman a monster. And that she had a really fine voice."     "Oh, lord," he muttered, "How'd she take that?"     "She laughed."     Rolling his eyes, Borey asked, "Laughed like a woman pleased or laughed like an evil overlord bent on taking over the world?"     Giving him a droll expression, I replied, "Like a woman, as far as I could tell. I think I may actually have amused her a little."     Returning a 'God, let's hope so' sort of look, Borey sighed and went to the other end of the table to sip his coffee.     Watching Borey go back to discussing something with one of Margaret's people and instantly shift mental gears, I realized I'd just seen him perform like an actor on a stage. Perhaps he didn't know about the second smaller camera, but he was well aware we were being monitored.     Neera Davidson concluded a chat with Ingrid and headed my direction. I tried not to let my thoughts -- which were essentially 'Oh, shit, more damned questions' -- show as I turned to focus on her. She opened a laptop computer and showed me a screen that listed filenames with iconized pictures and short notes for each.     She said, "Maybe you can help me with something. There seems to be a section of the bowl's pattern that doesn't appear in any of the pictures or videos you've supplied us."     Tapping a button made all the iconized pictures became line drawings in which the bowl itself was grey and the lines were black. The pictures then assembled themselves into a rendition of the bowl that rotated, displaying a blank grey spot with every turn.     I agreed, "Yup. Looks as if we missed a spot, all right."     Davidson gave me a narrow look and asked if I could fill in that blank. I shook my head.     "Nope. We decided to hold that back until we had a solid deal with someone who could protect us. The deal is freedom for Ansen, a fat pile of money, and a piece of any future action."     "Sir, we can't verify the bowl's abilities or potential without it."     "Sure you can. Dissect the videos. They weren't parlor tricks."     Looking well on her way to being pissed, Davidson retorted, "You know we can't accept someone else's digital images as absolute proof. We need to test the real bowl."     "Then you'd better see our lawyer, ma'am."     She turned to look at Borey, who'd heard our discussion. He met her angry gaze impassively as she closed her laptop somewhat too firmly and went to talk to one of her team. Perhaps ten minutes later, Morton announced that tests and questions were over for the time being as his team packed up to leave.     Ingrid, Eve, Ansen, and Borey sort of drifted to cluster around me as Morton said, "Now, about accommodations. We're preparing a small guest suite for each of you on the eighth floor. You'll have room service and the rooms are interconnected." He went on to ask if we had any specific needs.     "Just privacy," I said, "If I find any bugs or cameras in our rooms, I'll smash them. Fair enough?"     Morton's eyebrows arched before his gaze grew narrow, but he didn't deny the possibility of cameras in rooms as he cleared his throat and faced Borey.     To his credit, Borey said, "And I'll help him," before Morton could say anything else.     Looking even more insulted, Morton left us and went to talk to his people as they packed their gear to leave. It suddenly seemed to me that they began moving a bit slower as they apparently took another look around and discussed their notes and efforts. Morton excused himself to head down the hallway and out of sight.     Borey quietly asked, "Think he's having the bugs removed?"     "Just as likely he's adding a few backups."     About ten minutes passed before Morton returned. His team suddenly seemed finished and headed out the door. Morton told us to be ready to move downstairs in a few minutes, so I refilled my mug. A few minutes later, Morton led us to the elevators.     Our rooms were apparently converted offices. Each had a bed, a small desk with a coffee pot, a chair, a small fridge, a night table, lamps as well as overhead lights, an entertainment center, a phone, and a small bathroom shared with the adjoining room. Morton gave us key cards, told us how to dial room service, and left us after we'd each chosen a room.     Interesting. Being a hotel concierge probably wasn't part of Morton's usual job description, but he'd seemed in a particular hurry to get free of us. I watched the others use their key cards and enter their rooms, noting their order.     Borey and Eve had adjoining rooms, as did Ingrid and I. Only Ansen's room didn't share a bathroom with one of ours. He glanced in for a moment, then pulled the door shut and walked past me to Ingrid's room. I went into mine, tossed my bag on the bed, went to the window, and stood looking down at the river winding through downtown Tampa as I waited for someone to knock on one of my doors.     It didn't take long. When the knock came on my bathroom door, I said, "Yeah, come on in."     Ingrid opened the door and came to join me at the window. "Do you think it's safe to talk in here?"     I chuckled, "Oh, hell no. Same for the hallway, probably. But what's on your mind, ma'am? Something like 'what's next'?"     Giving me a wry look, she replied, "Yeah. That's close enough."     Returning my gaze to the window, I said, "No idea, but I'd say not to unpack for a while."     "What? Why not?"     "We may not be through moving. Margaret and her friends may have to give us up to the FBI."     Ansen appeared directly behind Ingrid and stepped beside her to ask, "Why would it matter? She has recordings and testimony. If the FBI took us now, she'd still have enough for a story."     "Yeah, but that's all she'd have. The Davidson woman noticed a blank spot on the bowl pix, Ansen. She showed me a collage of pictures on her laptop and asked why the spot was missing. I told her we were holding it back pending a satisfactory outcome. By the way, that was a good trick, coming in right behind her."     He smiled slightly. "It was a test. You may not be the only especially observant person we encounter."     Ingrid had acquired a studious expression again. She asked, "Ansen, could a thorough search locate the bowl?"     Grinning, he replied, "Without proper equipment, very doubtful."     There was a knock at the front door and I went to open it. Eve and Borey came in and we all clustered in the middle of the room as Borey said, "I think they may move us again."     He looked somewhat offended when Ingrid snorted a laugh, so she explained, "That's what he said a few minutes ago."     "Oh. Well, we're ready. Anybody want to try room service?"     Giving him a fisheye look, Ingrid asked, "For what? We just ate."     I said, "Four of us brought our laptops. I suggest we check email, watch TV, or do just about anything else that'll keep us from talking too much in any of these rooms."     A phone rang in the room beyond Ingrid's. I looked at Borey and asked, "Your room?"     He nodded. "Eve has the last one in line."     In fact, Eve turned to go answer Borey's phone, but I said, "Wait, ma'am. Let it ring."     She turned back to face me as the phone rang for the fourth time, then a fifth. It clearly disturbed her that we were letting a phone go unanswered, but she stood fast as she asked, "Why are we doing this?"     I grinned. "We're waiting for it to stop ringing, of course." Her gaze simmered with irritation, so I added, "We're also waiting for a ring in Ingrid's room."     The phone rang again as she said rather exasperatedly, "I'm afraid I don't understand, Ed."     Sipping my coffee, I replied, "Someone's either trying to separate one of us briefly or determine who's the nucleus of the group; the one to work on. It won't be Ansen; he's the subject of the operation. It won't be you, milady, 'cuz you work for Kevin. We'll let Ingrid's phone ring, too. When they have to call my room to find us, that'll make 'em think I'm the one to watch in the group."     Borey's phone stopped ringing. I thought Eve might relax a bit, but she turned to stare at Ingrid's phone, visible through the bathroom doors. It was silent for several seconds before it rang. Eve actually startled a bit and glanced at Borey, then Ingrid, then me.     Borey eyed me for a moment, then stated, "They'll be right, won't they? You're the one they don't quite understand, aren't you?"     Grinning again, I admitted, "Yeah, seems likely. But I'm pretty sure they have my jacket by now."     Eve asked, "Your what?"     "Employment records, among other things. That ought to really confuse matters for them."     "Why?"     Ingrid said, "He used to be a spy of some kind."     Trying to look hurt, I clutched my chest, yelped, "What?!" and corrected her with, "Excuse me, ma'am, but we were only couriers. Of a sort. Kind of, anyway. We helped people sneak out of Iron Curtain countries. We were the good guys, y'know?"     Giving me a droll look, she turned to Eve and said flatly, "Like I said, some kind of spy." Chapter Twenty-five     Ingrid's phone rang ten times, then stopped. About ten seconds later, my phone rang. I grinned and said to Eve, "Now you can answer it, ma'am."     She gave me a dim glower. "It's your room. You answer it."     Sitting on the corner of the bed, I replied, "Nah. Let 'em keep guessing what's going on."     "Ed, what if it's someone calling to tell us to get ready to go?"     The phone rang a fourth time as I looked at Borey and asked, "Care to field that one?"     He said, "Eve, they wouldn't use phones for that. They'd send someone to collect us."     Looking very exasperated, she shook her head tersely and snapped, "But if somebody doesn't answer a phone, they'll think something's wrong, dammit!"     I shrugged. "Good. That'll confuse 'em. We can use that."     Eve blurted, "Use-what-goddammit?! How?!"     Borey put a hand on Eve's shoulder and turned her to face him. "Eve, when people aren't sure, they get cautious. We want them cautious. We want them to work hard to cover us, if only because they'll want first crack at things later."     The phone stopped ringing. Everybody stared at it in silence for a few moments, then Eve gave an exasperated sigh and almost yanked the chair away from the desk. Turning it around, she sat down with a rather sour expression and said, "Okay, Mr. Spy, what's next?"     Sipping my coffee, I replied, "Damned if I know. They'll either move us or they won't." Looking at Borey, I asked, "What are the chances they'll make a deal with the feds?"     He shook his head. "Depends on how much pressure the..."     Ingrid yelped, "A deal?! What are you talking about?"     Borey answered, "Something that would give everybody more or less what they want before push could come to shove. Margaret won't want to lose a shot at the bowl."     "I thought she was a friend of yours."     "An acquaintance. At the moment, we have no friends, Ingrid. All we have are an alien and his magic bowl, and all I could do was pit one force against the other to make them hammer out an agreement that could accomplish our goals. Margaret won't give up the story of a lifetime, so the matter of publicity is already reasonably secure. Now she has to keep Ansen from becoming an ongoing lab experiment."     "But if she already has her story, why shouldn't she turn us over to the FBI?"     "She only has half the prize. The other half is the bowl. She has holdings in a number of companies that would kill for a chance to study it." He grinningly shrugged and said, "That's why I called her. We need a top-notch corporate predator on our team."     The phone rang again. I got up to walk over to it, which made Eve ask, "Now you're going to answer it?"     Sipping my coffee, I replied, "Yup."     "Why?"     "Because this time it's prob'ly for me."     When I picked up the phone and said, "Hello," Margaret Adner said, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."     Parking my butt against the desk, I replied, "Nope. We're just sitting around talking about you, milady."     "Oh, good. I must have made an impression. If you can spare a few minutes, I'd like you to come to my office."     "Just to chat, or is it 'divide and conquer' time?"     Margaret laughed, "Nothing quite so dire. It may interest you to know I just finished reading a few things about you. I'd like to discuss one of your experiences in Germany. The one in Schweskau."     Hm. Most of my doings of that era had been declassified ten years ago, but a few items weren't in that pile. Schweskau was one of them, officially because some of the details were still considered sensitive. In fact, it was more likely because too many of the top participants from both sides were still alive and prosecutable.     I said, "I'm not curious enough to risk prison for talking about old times. Or places."     After a brief pause, she said, "Then maybe we could talk about John Kittrell. He was my uncle."     Yeah, that reached me. He'd been my boss for three years and one of the very few agency people I'd trusted to any degree. When I didn't answer immediately, she added, "I've always wanted to know about how he died. The real story, not the car accident crap."     Interesting. She could dig up Schweskau, but not John's info? What the hell; maybe a chat would put her more firmly in our corner.     "Okay, we'll talk. How do I get there?"     "Morton will come get you. See you then." With that, she hung up. Everyone was looking at me as I walked over to the bed to pick up my backpack and sling it on my left shoulder.     Ingrid asked, "You think you'll need that?"     "Never know."     Eve said, "You didn't want to go, but now you do. Why?"     "She says my boss in Germany was her uncle. He died there and she's not satisfied with the official report."     "Do you know what really happened?"     "Yup. I was there when he had the accident."     A knock at the door stilled her next question. I opened it to find Morton, as expected, and turned to the others to say, "Later," then accompanied Morton to an elevator. He stepped in long enough to poke a button and enter a code, then stepped out. The doors closed and the elevator started upward.     When the doors opened, a woman in a business outfit greeted me and led me to an unmarked door that had no knob or handle. She pressed something in her pocket and the door slid back into the wall to reveal living quarters rather than an office.     In passing through the doorway, I noticed the framing wasn't simply trimmed with stainless steel; it was constructed of it. The edge of the inch-thick door also glistened where the paint had worn a bit. Was she maybe just a little paranoid?     I heard techno dance music pounding as the woman led me through the apartment to a garden balcony; Safri Duo's 'Samba Adagio'. Doing a few quick little dance steps made the woman aim an arched eyebrow at me, but she said nothing and continued walking.     We found Margaret Adner sitting at a Bowflex machine. She wore a pair of close-fitting jeans cutoffs, a t-shirt maybe two sizes too large for her, smudged white deck shoes, and a pair of leather work gloves.     I grinned and drummed time to the music on the backside of her machine and again said, "Good stuff!" as the other woman turned it down a bit. Margaret nodded when the volume suited her.     The solid muscles in her arms and thighs stood out a bit as she pulled against the machine. Not much strain, though. Light weight? Looking at the settings, I saw she was working with about forty pounds of resistance and realized she was probably good for twice that or more. She was just keeping things toned.     Between pulls, she said, "I hope you don't mind, but you didn't seem like the real formal type. You really like this music?"     I chuckled, "Oh, hell, yes! I have 'Samba Adagio' on my MP3 player. And don't stop your workout. Watching a goddess like you sweat is an honor and a privilege, y'know." Patting the machine, I said, "You could do their commercials, ma'am."     She shot me a grin and told me to find somewhere to sit. I found a plastic lawn chair and Margaret asked if I'd like a drink. I took my coffee mug off my pants pocket and shook my head. "I'm good."     Looking at the woman who'd brought me in, she said, "Thanks, Lynn," and the woman nodded before she left us. Turning back to me, she asked, "Does it bother you that I could get your records?"     Pulling the chair a bit to the right for the best view of her legs and face, I replied, "Nah. It's all old news."     "Some of it's classified old news."     I shrugged. "Their problem. I'm long gone from all that."     Laughing softly, Margaret said, "Call me Marge, Ed."     "As you command, milady. 'Marge' it is."     She worked against the machine for a time, then asked, "How did my uncle John really die, Ed?"     Sipping my coffee, I said, "He used a Peugeot 504 sedan to stop a truck at a roadblock. Didn't get out in time. There was a fire and everybody in both vehicles died."     "That's what the reports said, too." More as a statement than a question, she asked, "But when I requested information, people got defensive. Evasive, actually. It wasn't really an accident, was it?"     "What would you do with that knowledge, Marge?"     "At this late date? Not much. Ed, I just want to know what really happened to my uncle. Was it an accident or not?"     "I guess that would depend on whether you think getting cancer is an accident. John's cancer was so bad he was having seizures and turning into a stick figure. The docs couldn't do much but ease the pain some and they didn't think he had very long to live. He was about to step down when we found out when, where, and how a pair of GRU hitters were going to cross the border. I always figured he saw an opportunity and took it."     Marge stopped pulling. "Hitters? You mean assassins?"     "Yup. They were going after a noisy expat Russian dissident in Koln. We set up a roadblock with local cops and MP's about five klicks west of the East German border. When the hitters realized they were trapped, they tried to ram the line and break through. Everybody was shooting and the truck got through the line of cop cars, but it didn't get any farther. The records say John moved his car to try to reinforce the line, but I figure he was doing about sixty when he hit the front of that truck. Bam. Quick, clean, line of duty. No long goodbyes, no withering away in agony in a hospital bed."     I sighed and added, "And if you say anything about it -- even at 'this late date' -- someone's head may have to roll for writing the cover report that got his family better death benefits. I'd also hate to see his wife have to give the money back after all this time."     For a long few moments, Marge simply met my gaze, then she asked, "Did... Did he have many friends?"     I grinned. "Yup. At least six that I know of. On the job, I mean. Prob'ly off the clock, too, but wouldn't know about those. I didn't socialize within the agency. Didn't like most of the people I met. Didn't enjoy football, baseball, or office politics, either. Only worked with the others when I absolutely had to."     She let go of the handles and stood up to walk around a table that matched my chair, shaking her arms and stretching a bit. Reaching for a bottle of some kind of sports drink I'd never heard of, she took a long sip, then turned to face me.     "Did you ever meet his family?"     "His wife, a few times in passing. Never met his kids. Sorry if I'm not being much help, Marge, but I was never into family stuff."     Shaking her head, she said, "No, no... no problem. You've answered a question I've wanted to ask ever since my dad came home in tears one night. He was so pissed. He said John should never have been out there in the first place."     "Marge, your dad was wrong about that. John gave a big finger to a long, painful, helpless death. He died on his terms and managed a Viking sendoff, complete with a big funeral pyre and a couple of bad guys to polish his boots and brass on the other side."     Her left eyebrow went up. "Boots and brass?"     "Well, there's no real point in having conquered bad guy slaves if there's nothing for them to do, is there?"     She snorted a chuckle. "No, I guess not. Thanks."     Hoisting my mug to her, I nodded. Marge started to say something else, then stopped. Glancing into the apartment, she seemed to think about something for a moment, then looked at me in a speculative manner. I sipped coffee and studied her in return, waiting to see what would come next.     Pulling up the other lawn chair, she said, "Tell me about the bowl, Ed. How does it do what I saw in the videos?"     Shrugging, I replied, "No idea, Marge. It'll probably take a quantum mechanic to figure that out. I don't believe in magic, but it might as well be."     "Do you really believe Ansen's three thousand years old?"     "Yeah, but I don't have to if proof to the contrary turns up."     She sat back and crossed her delicious legs, grinning slightly as my eyes followed them. After sipping her drink again, Marge asked, "Did you have any... social... plans for the evening?"     "Not really. May I hope you're about to offer me one?"     Still wearing her little grin, Margaret said, "I'm thinking about it."     "I didn't bring a tux, ma'am. Are we just talking about renting a movie? Or more than that?"     "Possibly considerably more than that."     Gesturing at her from toes to nose, I said, "Sounds wonderful to me. You're brilliant, bold, beautiful, buff, and your voice gives me warm, fuzzy tingles. But you could have any man in town. Why me?"     Grinning at me for a moment, she canted her head and said, "I like what I've seen of you and I think you gave me a straight answer about my uncle John. Nobody else has. I also think you'd keep your mouth shut. Am I wrong?"     Shaking my head slightly, I answered, "Nope. Pleasing you would be my own pleasure and nobody needs to know a damned thing you aren't willing to tell them. But I was eighteen when you were born. You could do a lot better." Correcting myself, I added, "Well, maybe not better, but younger. Richer. Like that."     Marge laughed softly, "My last dinner date made the tabloid headlines. Paparazzi are everywhere."     'Right. Sure. Paparazzi. Not.' I had no doubt she'd evolved a dozen methods of getting where she wanted to go without being noticed. Apparently she noticed my poorly concealed skepticism.     Pursing her lips and looking as if she might be searching for the right words, she said, "Okay, Ed. Like it is, then; I don't have time or inclination to add anyone into my life on a serious basis. Dating is time-consuming and I've never been sure if a guy was with me for me or for... my empire, I guess you'd call it."     Nodding, I said, "Thank you. And now... You do accept -- fully, that is -- that I really can't tell you how the bowl works, right? And Ansen hid it, so I don't even know where it is at the moment."     Margaret's grin faded and her gaze narrowed as she eyed me for a moment, then said, "I suppose you had to ask that."     "Yup." Clearing my throat softly, I added a hyper-respectful, "My most profound apologies, milady, but I'm still having trouble believing a gorgeous tycoon like you thinks I'm worth a tumble."     She barked a laugh. "Where'd you pick up that 'milady' stuff?"     "SCA. Medieval re-creation events."     "I've heard of those. Are they any fun?"     "Usually. The first few times, anyway."     "Will you take me to one sometime?"     "Oh, of course, milady. At your earliest convenience, milady."     Marge laughed again. "You're going to be fun, I think."     Her cell phone chirped and she answered it, then her face turned solemn. "I see. Make them comfortable in the conference room and tell them I'll be down shortly. Yes, I was. Their timing sucks. Okay. Thanks, Morton."     Looking at me, she pressed another button on her phone and said, "We have visitors. The same people who dropped by Borey's office. They think you may be here, but they didn't bring a warrant."     "That's odd. Are we here?"     "That'll depend on what Morton finds out while I shower."     Apparently from nowhere, the woman who'd led me through the apartment -- Lynn -- appeared. Marge said, "Ed, I'll see you later. Have everybody prepare to be moved to another building. It may not have to happen, but better to be ready."     Tossing her a two fingered salute, I replied, "Aye, aye, ma'am."     She grinned and nodded to Lynn, who turned to lead me out of the apartment. A few minutes later I entered my room found nobody there, and went through the bathroom to Ingrid's room. Everybody looked at me expectantly.     "Get ready to saddle up," I said, "The feds are here. No warrant this time, but Marge says..."     Ingrid interrupted with an arched eyebrow and, "Marge?"     Meeting her gaze, I replied, "The queen bee in this hive. That Marge." Looking at the others, I said, "Anyway, be ready to jump."     Eve echoed Ingrid with, "Marge?"     "We talked. I knew her uncle John some years ago."     "Oh."     "She'll be meeting the feds in a few minutes. Any ideas about why they're here without a warrant?"     "Sure," said Borey, "They may not be certain we're here and don't want to spook Margaret into taking us deeper into hiding. This visit also tells us they saw us leave on the chopper. I'm speculating, here, but I think they don't expect to be able to put a lid on things, so they're going to try to arrange a joint venture of sorts to control release of the news and confirm the samples."     The FBI, proposing a joint venture? Hm. Well, maybe. This wasn't a plain old bust. No drugs, weapons, gangsters, or the usual stuff. They'd probably be worried about not looking too silly at the other end of what they very likely thought was a hoax.     Or... they were just letting us run a bit to see if there was more involved and where it might lead. They might not have a warrant with them, but that didn't mean they couldn't or wouldn't bust people and let courts decide the rights and wrongs of things. Chapter Twenty-six     Half an hour passed with no word, then there was a knock at the door to my room. Everybody followed me as I went to answer it and we found Morton, Marge, agents Lance and Carlon, and two others. I gestured them in, but Morton shook his head slightly as he and the others eyed Ansen rather studiously.     Morton said, "Miss Adner invites you all to join her downstairs. You won't need your luggage."     Standing somewhat behind the others, Marge flicked her eyebrows at me and gave me a little smile. I smiled slightly in return, though I remained on guard. Her smile not withstanding, for all I knew there was a paddy wagon waiting for us downstairs.     Everyone stared as I walked to the bed to grab my backpack. Carlon said, "He said you won't need your luggage, sir."     Hanging my coffee mug on a pants pocket, I replied, "Yeah, but I prefer to keep my stuff with me when I'm on the road. Comes from riding a bike, I think. Nowhere to leave stuff."     He gave me a 'whatever' sort of look as Ingrid wordlessly went to her own room and returned with her bag. Eve and Borey seemed to give the matter some thought, then headed for their rooms. They returned with their backpacks and Borey said, "Ready."     Marge eyed me for a moment, then led the herd to the elevator. Morton stepped ahead of her and pushed the button, then kept a hand in front of the door's electric eye as we boarded. Ansen was the last to enter the elevator after a brief staring match with Lance and Carlon, who'd apparently wanted him to board before them.     Leaning toward me, Marge said softly, "You really could have left the bags in your rooms."     I replied, "I know."     "Then why didn't you?"     "Got my book, my laptop, and my coffee with me."     "We could find you something to read and we have coffee."     "It's brewed. I prefer instant."     "You're kidding."     "Nope. Got used to it a long time ago. Now brewed coffee smells great, but doesn't taste as good to me."     She gave me an odd look, but said no more about it. The elevator opened at the tenth floor and Morton led us a few doors down to the same glass-fronted offices we'd visited before. Three men and two women Marge introduced as 'our lawyers' attached themselves to Eve, Borey, Ingrid, Ansen, and me, then two people in FBI lab coats quickly took another round of blood and urine samples from us.     After the lab rats left, there was a replay of the first questioning session in front of two video cameras set up at opposite ends of the room. At the end of an hour, I'd had enough for a while.     Standing and stretching, I said, "Somebody ask me something new or let me go until you can come up with new questions."     Lance came over and said, "Cooperation was part of our deal. Sir."     "We cooperated. Ma'am. Get copies of the earlier session. I'm tired of hearing the same questions phrased four damned different ways. It's late and this is beginning to feel like an interrogation."     Rolling her eyes, she sighed, "It is an interrogation. What the hell else did you expect from the FBI?"     "But we aren't going anywhere, Lance. Warrant or no warrant, could we really even get out of the building? Tomorrow's soon enough for more, isn't it? Ansen's been wandering the Earth for ages. If anyone was gonna catch anything from contact with him, it prob'ly would have happened a few decades back, I think."     Carlon came to stand by Lance and said, "Just a few more questions tonight. As you said, tomorrow's soon enough."     Lance eyed him briefly, then nodded and turned to other tasks.     Marge came over and said, "In that case, Morton will show you all to your rooms when you're finished here. Good night, everyone."     She waved to the others as she left. Morton got the door for her and followed her out and some distance down the hall, but returned shortly and took up his position by the door again. As Carlon had said, there were a few more questions, but the session ended fairly quickly and we were escorted back to our rooms.     We sat around discussing matters for a while in Ingrid's room, but we generally decided there really wasn't much to do but ride things out, so I headed for my room. I kind of expected to get a call from Marge, but that didn't happen by the time I'd taken a shower and watched the TV news. I thought it more than a little odd that there'd been no mention of gold fuzzy aliens on the news and sacked out wondering if the feds had somehow put a lid on things after all.     Thursday began with a phone call at seven a.m. sharp. The woman said we'd be taken to breakfast at about eight, then excused herself to call the others. We were escorted by both Marge's people and the FBI to the employee cafeteria on the third floor, where we were presented with breakfast menus. I handed my menu back to the woman and asked if they could come up with a chopped steak dinner.     The waitress gave me an odd look, then asked how I'd like it cooked and what veggies to include. I said I wanted it well done with green beans, corn, and french fries or mashed potatoes. She nodded and left. As I sipped my coffee, Ingrid quietly asked if I was just being difficult.     I looked at her and replied, "Nope. Felt like a steak, that's all."     Some guy in a dark blue suit arrived while we ate and conferred with Carlon and Lance for a few moments, then Carlon told us we'd be going to the FBI offices a few blocks away before we were taken to Cape Canaveral for further study and discussion.     I asked, "Why not head straight to the Cape?"     Lance replied, "Our superiors may have further questions."     "So have them ask them at the Cape and save us all from a trip across town in rush hour traffic. Or is it just that a wide-eyed gaggle of high-ranking suits want to meet a real, live alien this morning?"     Marge grinned and said, "That's a very good question, Ed."     "Thank you, ma'am. I do try now and then."     Carlon said, "Those are my orders," and sat back down to finish his breakfast. After a moment, Lance did the same.     Yeah, that's how it was over there; a bunch of suits wasted an hour of our lives repeating questions that had already been asked far too often to suit me. Someone put a hold on our trip to the Cape and Carlon, Marge, Ansen, Ingrid, and Borey took a chopper back to Crystal River to pick up Ansen's bowls.     Eve and I were installed in someone's office on the seventh floor to wait, but I'd run out of coffee and got up to visit the coffee pot I'd seen in the break area. The windowed office door was locked and had only a bare knob; no inside release button or latch.     I turned to Eve and asked, "Has anyone said we're under arrest or anything like that?"     She shook her head. "No."     "Good 'nuff." I knocked on the door and held up my coffee mug. A woman nearby looked up, then looked at someone a few desks away. The guy gave a small shake of his head and they went back to whatever they were doing. I found that response unacceptable.     The door latch wasn't unusual; a tongue bar, but not a dead bolt. I used my driver's license to work the bar backward, then pulled the door open and walked over to the woman's desk.     At least five people had gotten to their feet when the door opened. I heard Eve follow me out of the office as I said, "I want some coffee. I know where it is," then I headed for the coffee pot.     A guy stepped in front of me and said, "Sir, we'd like you to return to the waiting room."     "That's what you're calling it? I call it a detention room. Are we under arrest?"     His gaze narrowed. "Not yet. Would you like to be?"     "Would you have a valid reason for arresting us?"     "I'm sure we could come up with something that would work."     "Uh, huh. Then you can also explain to your boss why I stopped cooperating. How far do you really want to go to keep me from a cup of coffee?"     The woman came to stand beside me and said, "If you'll return to the waiting room, someone will bring you a cup of coffee, sir."     Lifting my mug, I said, "I have a cup. Just need the coffee. It's only ten feet away and we aren't being called prisoners, so why the hell won't you people just let me get some?"     The woman waved slightly at the guy and took my arm to lead me toward the pot as she said, "Sure. No problem." The guy gave ground and stood to one side as we passed, but didn't sit back down.     As I poured a stream of coffee through the drinking hole in the top of my mug, I said, "I wasn't just making noise, ma'am. We're either under arrest or we aren't. If we aren't, don't treat us as if we are. If we are, my cooperation in all matters just ended and my lawyer's name is Kevin Borey." Nodding at Eve, I added, "Her boss."     The woman met my gaze when I looked up from pouring, but she said nothing and simply gave me a standard-issue cop stare. I sipped the cup down a little and added some more coffee, then filled a foam cup for Eve and headed back to her. The FBI people stood by as I handed it to her, then the woman gestured at the 'waiting' room.     Instead of going right in, I asked, "Have you seen the videos and pictures involving the bowl?"     With a glance at the other guy, she replied, "Yes, sir, we have."     "Good. I made that bowl. I also figured out how it worked. Treat us like prisoners and I'll catch an instantaneous case of amnesia. You're busy out here and you'd like us to sit somewhere out of the way, but this time leave the door unlocked. Okay?"     Without a word, she reached to flick a lever under the door knob. Eve and I entered the room and took seats as the woman pulled the door shut. After sipping her coffee, Eve asked, "Aren't you going to try the door, just to be sure?"     "Nah. Well, maybe when we see the others coming back in, I guess. I either made my point or I didn't, Eve, and it isn't as if we could just get up and walk out of the building. I just want them to show us all a little more courtesy."     Digging out my book, I tilted my chair back and started reading. Eve asked, "Got another book in there?"     "Nope. Want to send out for some magazines?"     She regarded the door and nodded. "Actually, yes." She got up and went outside to talk to the woman near the room. The woman got up and led her to the left and out of sight, and a few minutes later Eve returned with a small stack of magazines and a newspaper.     Almost two hours passed before the others returned empty handed. All FBI eyes were on Ansen as he walked through the room, of course. I asked where the bowls were and learned they were being 'processed'. Borey explained, "Pictures, mostly. Measurements. Anything they can do without altering them."     The guy who'd stopped me on the way to the coffee pot got Carlon's attention and met him a little distance from the rest of us, where they held a quiet chat. Carlon seemed to stiffen slightly and gave the guy a look that was almost a glare, then said something and the guy looked as if he might salute before he went back to his desk.     Carlon stopped at the woman's desk for another quiet chat that ended with his quick nod and a small smile, then he came to join us and offered us a tour of the facilities. The tour ended in the fifth floor cafeteria and we were treated to lunch, then taken back to the seventh floor to wait for the lab to release the bowls.     They did so a little after one and we were taken to the roof to board a helicopter for a trip to the Cape. Upon arrival there, a group of scientists and bureaucrats descended on us and we experienced yet another round of questions and tests before we were treated to dinner in yet another cafeteria and installed in motel-like rooms somewhere in the middle of the space center's complex.     After breakfast Friday morning, I was separated from the others and taken to a lab where the bowl I'd made was sitting on a small stainless steel table in the middle of what appeared to be a pressure chamber. The head lab rat asked me more of the same old questions about how I'd made the bowl, then he asked me to demonstrate precisely how I'd gone about making it work.     Looking through the port hole at the bowl, I said, "I don't think so. Not unless that guard in front of the lab will let me borrow his Beretta. You saw the videos, right? I figure we just got lucky."     "Lucky?"     "Oh, hell, yeah. One critter couldn't fly and the other was too big to fit through the hole. Might be there's some other kind of bad-assed critter over there that can fit through the hole and there we'd be, trapped in a friggin' steel box with it. No, thanks."     Sipping my coffee, I added, "Besides, unless you've done something to it, that bowl ought to already be working."     Fixing me with a quizzical gaze, the guy said, "It isn't. There's only a shimmer at the bottom."     "So clean the clay out of the dots."     "Clay? What clay?!"     Sipping again, I chuckled, "You didn't actually read any of the reports, did you? You just plopped the bowl on that table and expected to see a black hole, right?"     Stiffening, the lab rat responded, "Sir, I was led to believe..."     "RTFM, damn it. You don't need me to crank it up."     With that, I headed for the door. The whole mess was starting to wear on my patience. Endless damned questions. Batteries of tests repeated a few times already by people who didn't trust anyone else's results. Researchers who didn't bother to read the fucking manuals.     The guard stopped me, of course, and I considered briefly the idea of disarming him, but that became unnecessary as Carlon and Lance came around the corner in the corridor.     Carlon asked, "What's going on here?"     The guard said, "Sir, this man was trying to leave the lab."     I said, "Nobody told me I couldn't. Carlon, those lab rats couldn't make the bowl work. They didn't bother to read the reports we've all apparently wasted hours putting together."     "They didn't remove the clay you put over the dots?"     "No, but I told them about it, and that's all they need to get started, so I think I'm ready to get the hell out of here now."     "Uh... that could be a problem for the moment."     "Then I'll go back to my room and read a book or something. Better yet, where's Borey? Maybe he can get someone to realize there's nothing for me to do here."     Lance said, "You might want to wait until he's out of conference. I think they're negotiating patents and rights at the moment. You may have to sign something."     "They can mail it to me or I can sign at his office."     Carlon asked, "Don't you want to watch the tests?"     "Watch 'em fish through a hole like I did? Not particularly. I wouldn't mind seeing the results, though. What are the chances of that happening?"     "Not very good if you leave."     "And if I stay? I'm only here now 'cuz they couldn't make the damned thing work." Turning to the lab guy behind me, I asked, "What about it? Will I get to see whatever pictures you take?"     The lab rat waffled a bit, then said, "Uh... well, sir, we'd really prefer to completely review any data before we release it to the general public, of course."     My irritation flared to actual anger. Turning back to Carlon, I said, "Well, there you have it, Carlon. Now I'm the goddamned 'general public', even though I practically invented the gadget they're essentially just fucking around with." Thumbing at the guard, I said, "Tell him not to shoot, 'cuz I'm leaving now."     As I walked away, Carlon said, "See him back to his room. I'll have a word with these people," and Lance hurried to catch up with me.     A few steps later, she said, "You're being unnecessarily difficult."     "Crap. You all know what I know, except, of course, the lab bozos who didn't read the reports. Unless someone can barf up a truly superb reason to stick around this sideshow, I'm ready to go home and find something worthwhile to do."     "That could cut you out of things. Whatever Borey's trying to negotiate, for instance."     "Very doubtful."     "Well, what if they discover something really important in that other world? The world you found?"     I shrugged. "It'll be on the news sooner or later." Stopping in the corridor, I said, "Lance, none of that matters a damn 'til it happens. If it happens, I'll just be another Christopher Columbus; a guy who found a place, then left it for someone else to exploit. Big damned deal that is. Ansen wants to go home someday -- and we don't know that place is his home -- but I just want to make a pile of money. Books and shared revenues will take care of that."     There was a shout from the lab, then a fairly blood-curdling scream. Lance ran back down the corridor, drawing her gun as she neared the door. Having no gun of my own, I followed her at a walk; it's never smart to hurry toward unknown trouble in any case.     The guard looked through the glass in the door, then opened it and rushed into the lab. Five quick gunshots sounded as Lance scooted through the closing door, then there was silence except for a keening noise and someone's yelp, "Holy shit! Look at that!"     When I reached the windowed door, I did look. The thing in the middle of the lab floor looked like a baby version of the flying thing in the videos. This one had a three-foot wingspan, a wide-open bloody beak, and bloody claws. The guard was drawing a careful bead on it and one of the lab rats nearly got himself shot in the process of blocking the guard's aim while screaming, "No! No! Don't shoot!"     Someone with a bloody face eased around a table as he took off his lab coat, then started easing toward the creature on the floor. When he was a few feet away, he dove forward, covering the thing's head and wings and bearing it down with his weight. There was some screeching and clacking of claws on the floor while someone else rushed over with a roll of tape. They bound the creature's beak, then they worked together to bind its feet.     Noting that one of the other lab guys was using a desk phone, I realized that there might still be a chance to leave the complex. I headed up the corridor at a fast trot, watching for people as I passed the next corridor intersection and tried to put as much space as possible between me and what I knew would happen next.     Sure enough, as I neared the main corridor intersection, I saw shadows ahead, heard pounding feet, and ducked into a washroom in time to hear a herd of people thunder past the door. After waiting a few minutes for any stragglers to go by, I cracked the door and saw nobody between me and the main corridor.     Opening the door further, I glanced back toward the lab and saw the far hallway clogged with people. More people arrived with portable equipment as I watched. There were footsteps behind me, toward the main corridor. I moved away from the door and started slowly walking back toward the lab and -- as expected -- I was challenged.     "Stop, sir! I need to see your badge!"     Turning to face the guy, I saw he was a guard. He asked, "Where are you going?" and I thumbed back down the hallway as I asked, "What's going on down there?"     "I wouldn't know. Where are you supposed to be, sir?"     I pretended some attitude and replied, "Nobody told me I couldn't look around some."     Giving me a tight look, he took my arm to lead me toward the main corridor and said, "I find that very hard to believe, sir. Come with me and I'll find someone to escort you back to your group."     At the security kiosk, he left me with a uniformed woman and stepped a few paces away to make a radio call. The lady eyed me briefly as I studied her in return, then she became the ice queen.     In a frosty, cop-turned-school-teacher tone, she asked, "May I ask why you were wandering our halls, sir?"     "Sure. I lost my shower toy. She's about five-ten, has brown hair, and absolutely gorgeous green eyes. Seen her lately?"     Realizing instantly that I was describing her, the woman's gaze narrowed. "That wasn't even slightly funny."     With a shrug, I replied, "I disagree, of course. What's going on down the hall?"     "Nothing that concerns you or you'd be there, wouldn't you?"     Peering at her as if only then realizing something, I yelped, "Oh, damn! Looks and brains! That may be more than I can handle!"     For some reason that made a small, fleeting smile happen, but she composed her face instantly and I gave her another few moments by looking toward the guard on the radio. He was still yapping with someone, so I turned back to the woman just as she let out a soft snort of laughter and shook her head as she snickered.     The other guard abruptly came back to the kiosk and said, "We're going to the dining room," and again got a grip on my arm to move me in that direction. I slipped his hold and when he countered my evasion, I countered his grab and ended up with his wrist in a lock hold just above his shoulder. After a few beats, I let him go.     "No more grabbing at me, okay?"     The woman had come around the counter, but she stopped when I dropped the lock hold and spoke. He looked at her and she shrugged slightly, then looked at me. It was one of those evaluating, slightly challenging looks that let you know the other guy is hoping you'll try something else.     When she said, "Frank," in a quiet, warning tone, I asked, "Frank, do you have a brown belt in anything?"     He retorted, "Are you saying you do?"     "Yup. Military Tai Kwon Do."     "'Military?' What's the difference?"     "Military training isn't about scoring points or winning big shiny trophies. We trained in boots and field gear. No padding. I just want you to stop grabbing me. Good enough?"     "Yes," said the woman, "Frank, just take him where he needs to go and come back. We're on... we still have things to do."     I asked, "On alert, maybe? I could have been in that lab when... whatever... happened. What's the situation?"     "It isn't our place to talk about it, sir. Someone in your group may know or be able to find out. Now go, please."     Giving her a little two-fingered salute, I replied, "Well, yes, ma'am, ma'am. By your command, milady. But I still think you're cute, even when you're kinda bossy."     Frank was still watching her eye-roll reaction as I stepped off toward the dining hall and he had to trot to catch up. He said nothing as we walked and his silence continued until I entered the dining hall and he turned to go back to the kiosk. Chapter Twenty-seven     In the dining hall were Ingrid, Eve, and Ansen. Eve said Marge and Borey were still in some kind of conference and asked where I'd been. I held up a hand, put a finger across my lips, went to refill my coffee mug, and returned to take a seat at their table.     Looking around the little group, I asked in a low tone, "Think we can talk in here?"     After they'd glanced at each other, Ingrid ventured, "Hell, I don't know. I guess this place could be bugged as easy as any other."     "Second question; at this point, do we care?"     Eve nodded. "Yes. Well... it depends on what you want to say."     "Uh, huh. You've seen guards and other people rushing around?"     "Yes."     "Well, I think something rather dire happened in the lab. I was in the corridor with Lance and we heard a man scream. Lance and the guard ran into the lab and there were five shots."     Ingrid breathed, "Oh, my God..."     "Indeed," said Ansen, "What else, Ed?"     I shrugged. "Then a hallway guard grabbed me and brought me here, but it's pretty easy to figure out what must have happened. I think something came through the bowl."     Eve studied me for a moment, then nodded slightly. She understood that I was purposely avoiding something. Ingrid, however, asked, "Didn't you go look to see what was going on?" Eve bumped her arm, then shook her head very slightly.     I said, "When I was in there, I told one of the lab guys something might come through that damned hole, but nobody listened to me 'cuz I'm just a dumb civilian, y'know." The others peered at me, apparently understanding that they were being told what had happened. I continued, "Both of our test holes appeared well off the ground in the other world. If the latest one was, too, whatever came through was prob'ly some kind of flying animal, like a smaller version of that thing that ate the pig-dog-bear thing. Remember the beak and claws on that monster?"     Sipping my coffee, I said, "But no matter what came through, they ought to run a DNA check to see if Ansen's related to it. Then at least we'd know if he came from that world."     Ingrid bridled and snapped, "What? How the hell could Ansen be related to something like... like that?!"     "The same way every living thing on Earth shares certain basic DNA characteristics. People, fish, birds, mammals, even plants. If it evolved here, it shares some of the main DNA info."     She looked at Ansen and he nodded. "Yes. If that's where I'm from, there should be basic similarities in DNA."     Two uniformed guards and a lab-coated woman rushing into the dining hall made us suspend our conversation. The newcomers headed for our table with a large laptop and the woman set it up at our table as the guards stood nearby.     She said, "This is a video link to Agent Carlon in the lab. He wants to speak with you."     On the screen I saw Carlon, Lance, and the others, as well as three people in bright yellow biosuits who were doing things behind them. One of the lab guys had bandages on his face and neck, but he seemed functional. Heh. He was the one who hadn't listened to me.     I waved and said, "Hi, guys! What's up?"     Carlon replied, "Oh, not much. A small flying thing like the one in your videos came through the hole and grabbed Dr. Sawyer."     Peering at Sawyer, I recycled what I'd said to Eve with, "Oh, yeah! I remember him! I told him something might come through the hole, but he didn't listen 'cuz I'm just a dumb damned civilian."     Lance closed her eyes and sighed in exasperation as Carlon said, "Be that as it may, we're stuck here for a while until they check the place over for biohazards."     I chuckled, "Uh, well... It sorta seems to me that Sawyer already found their biohazard for them. Hey, Doc, check its DNA against Ansen's and see if they're related."     Sawyer grunted through clenched teeth, "We intend to as soon as we can go to the other lab."     "Great. Nice to know someone's on top of things." Looking at Carlon, I asked, "So why the computer call? You don't think I'm gonna come down there and join your quarantine party, do you? By the way, my world atlas was covering the bowl. I'd like it back someday."     Lance snapped, "Forget the damned atlas for a minute! Did you know something would come though? Has anything else come through? Should we be looking for more of those... those things?!"     Meeting her gaze, I replied, "That's the only one I know about, and I figure it got here by following its nose. Half the reason I sealed the bowl was the way the hole sucked in air."     Her eyes widening, Lance rather shrilly echoed, "Sucked-in-air?! What the hell does that mean?!"     "Well, duh, ma'am. It means our air flows into it. Calm down, okay? You're sounding kinda shrill."     Lance looked as if she'd hit me through the screen. Carlon softly snapped, "Lance!" and she transferred her glare to him briefly before she got up and stalked away from the desk.     I looked at Carlon and speculated, "Guess she didn't read the reports either, huh?"     Glancing around, he said, "She had no reason to. Things seem under control now, but you'll probably have to stick around while they clear the rest of the complex for biological hazards."     "Yeah, I kinda figured that."     "I have to ask; are you absolutely sure nothing else has come through from that other world?"     "Not while I was messing with the bowl."     "Do you think the others have... uh, experimented with it?"     "I doubt it. I really do." With a small grin, I said, "But they're right here, so maybe you oughta ask 'em anyway."     He grinned back and said, "Yeah, maybe so. You're taking all this exceptionally well. Mind if I ask why?"     I shrugged. "I've seen an alien before, and your nasty one's locked down now. I've seen bandaged people and labs before, too, but I guess the main reason is that I'm not in that particular lab."     He nodded again. "Well, in case you didn't know, the base is sealed and it could be a quite while before anyone can leave. They'll want to check everyone for exposure and watch us for a few days."     "Yeah, that seems likely. I've already let my business slide for two days, so I'm gonna need access to the net. On my own laptop."     Carlon's left eyebrow went up. "In view of what's just happened, that might be difficult to arrange."     "Have someone look over my shoulder. I just want to take care of any book orders and check email."     "Can't someone else do it?"     "Nope. Nobody else has the keys."     As people in the corridor behind Carlon sprayed the entrance and draped plastic over it, four more people in biosuits entered the lab. The first team packed up and left. I sipped coffee and watched them being sprayed in the corridor.     Lance came back to the desk. She watched me sip coffee for a moment, then said, "Ed, you don't seem to understand the importance of what's happening here."     "Crap. I wrote a book on the subject of alien contact."     "That was just an attempt to cash in on Ansen."     "Yup. So what? He's in on it."     She hitched in her seat and asked rather tightly, "What about the potential advances in technology? The discovery of new life in the universe? The possibility of new resources?"     Sipping my coffee, I replied, "Mentioned all those in the book, ma'am." Pointing past her at their surroundings, I added, "Even covered the idea of the government taking over to handle things in a proper lab environment. What else ya got?"     Her gaze narrowed. "I'm sure your coverage was cursory at best. I don't think you realize the depth of what's occurred."     "Could be. Doubt it. Advances in tech? Not immediately. It'll prob'ly take 'em a decade to figure out how to do much other than make more bowl holes. Discovery of new life? Yeah, that'll be wonderful for scientists and SciFi fans, but it'll be religious blasphemy to more than half the other people in the world. New resources? They always generate a lot of strife before things settle down, and it may well be that any resources discovered will already belong to other people." Thumbing at Ansen, I added, "People like Ansen."     Pretending a thoughtful pause, I grinningly shook my head. "Nope. I think I covered most everything of importance, ma'am."     After a moment of eyeing me, Lance silently got up and walked away again. Looking at one of the lab guys who stood near the desk, I asked, "Did you guys find a bunch of new alien germs while you were patching up Doc Sawyer?"     He replied, "Several, actually, but so far they seem unable to survive in his bloodstream."     "Yeah, I kinda figured that."     The guy actually blinked and stared at me in surprise. He blurted out, "You figured that? Well, pardon me, of course, but I'm afraid I'd have to know exactly how you figured that, sir."     His condescending tone pissed me off.     I said, "Pardon you? Hell, I'll do better than that, Mr. Lab Rat; I'll keep it extremely simple so you'll have some chance of following me. Germs have to eat. All that's readily available to them is Doc Sawyer, who's a form of meat from the wrong world. Ansen can't eat meat either, and I think it might be because the meat's from Earth, but for some reason he's able to get by on our veggies. If their DNAs match, why not let Ansen try a down-home drumstick from that alien superchicken you caught?"     That remark got me a few glowers, but it set the lab rats to buzzing among themselves. Carlon grinned and shook his head slightly. "Ed, you have a special talent for tweaking people. Are you a member of Sigma?"     "You mean that Homeland Defense think tank that's supposed to fish ideas out of science fiction writers?"     "Yeah."     "Hell, no. It's just an elitist vanity club that was born ossified. Back in 1992, a Homeland Defense honcho said, 'We'll solicit ideas from every possible source' and then set ridiculously high entrance and participation standards. The group is still owned and operated by its original six members, and we haven't heard anything about them coughing up anything truly new and useful. When asked about that, they quote 'National Security'. Fact is, they don't have to produce a damned thing to get paid."     "But don't you think they're imminently qualified to belong to such a group? And don't you think they're at least trying to do the job they were given?"     "Qualified? Sure. Trying? Very likely, at least at first. But history shows that most unique innovations and useful ideas come from the ranks, usually to solve an immediate problem or satisfy a need. The brass and gas crowd just approves the stuff they happen to like, which usually involves politics and favoritisms. Sigma has no 'ranks'. They don't even have a web presence for soliciting ideas and suggestions from people who can't get into the group for lack of an advanced technical degree."     Across the lab, Lance laughed, "Gee, mister, why not tell us what you really think of Sigma? Are you sure all that wasn't just sour grapes because you couldn't get into Sigma?"     "Believe what you want, lady, but think about this; one of my SciFi books is on the Fictionwise 'All-Time Top Fifty' list. All of my SciFi titles have appeared on their Bestseller list for at least a few weeks. That makes me living proof that you don't need a Piled Higher and Deeper degree in math or science to get the kinds of ideas that can be turned into marketable science fiction."     Lance glanced at Carlon as if to see how he took that. Carlon grinned at her and said, "I think you ought to make him prove that."     When she looked back at me, I chuckled, "As it happens, ma'am, we both have laptops." I opened a new browser window, typed the main Fictionwise URL, clicked to their 'Top 50' page, then copied and pasted that URL in the text block Lance could see at her end.     With another raised-eyebrow glance at Carlon, she copied the URL and apparently used a separate window to bring up the page. Her other eyebrow went up and she sat a little straighter in her chair.     One of the lab guys behind her became somewhat excited and pointed at the screen as he said, "Wow! He's on the same page with some really famous writers!"     "Authors," I corrected him, "Writers write. Authors publish."     Carlon chuckled, which probably meant he'd found their reactions funny as I did. Switching to my 'all titles' page at Fictionwise, I copy-pasted that URL into the text box and watched Lance retrieve it.     Two of the other lab techs came to see what excited Wilton and one of them seemed just as excited. He located a piece of paper in a desk drawer and wrote down my last name and 'Fictionwise', then declared he was going to try my books. I told him to grab the freebies first and spelled 'AbintraPress.com' for him.     Lance also scribbled the URL and I asked her if she wanted me to spell it again for her.     She replied, "No, I got it," and I heard Carlon chuckle again as I saw Lance look at the screen again and stiffen. She almost whispered, "Oh, I don't believe this! You've already published the damned book?"     Turning to look at Carlon, I asked, "Why the big surprise? How come she didn't know that?"     He looked at Lance with a flat expression as he replied, "Good question. You can be sure I'll ask her, but later."     Lance asked, "How long has the "Ansen" book been out?!"     "Several months. I could look it up in my Bestseller pages."     "Oh, Lord! It was on that list?!"     I couldn't hide my grin. "I told you, ma'am; all of my science fiction has appeared on that list. Is that a problem?"     Lance got up and gestured for Carlon to join her. They held a muted conversation a few paces away for some moments, then Lance shot a glare at me and came back to the desk. Standing behind her, Carlon just shook his head slightly as if in disbelief and returned to talking with the lab guys.     Loud screeching startled everybody and I saw three lab techs placing the bird-thing on one of the stainless tables. The screeching suddenly ended and the creature lay still. Dead? Or just sedated?     They used hypodermics to draw liquid samples from the creature, then they clipped its claws and bagged the trimmings. The wings twitched, which made two of the lab techs jump back from the table. Their reaction made me laugh softly. Lance shot me one of her usual sharp looks and Carlon gave me a small grin.     Another lab tech had the unenviable task of retrieving a solid sample from within the creature. This was first attempted with a clear plastic tube and a squeeze-bulb, but apparently that method failed. In the end -- pardon the pun -- they resorted to using a long-handled teaspoon to collect stool samples.     Eve made a face and said, "Eww! I really didn't need to see that."     Though it stirred a bit, the creature didn't wake up during that procedure and I realized I was somewhat surprised that they'd found something to sedate it that hadn't killed it. I rapped a fingernail on the laptop to get Carlon's attention and asked if there'd be anything else. He looked momentarily confused -- in a muted, FBI manner, of course -- and shook his head. Turning the laptop over to the others, I got up and moved to the other end of the table, where I dug my book out of my backpack and got comfortable.     The others watched me settle in, then Ingrid got up to stand beside my chair and ask, "Don't you have any interest in what they'll do with the creature?"     Looking up at her, I said, "Nope. Whatever they do won't be pleasant and watching lab work is boring."     "Really? You watch 'CSI:Miami' fairly regularly."     "Yup. Aside from having believable scripts, Emily Proctor is in it."     She gave me one of those 'I should have known' eye-rolls and a small dramatic sigh, then sat down and asked, "Do you have some kind of problem with Agent Lance?"     "Nope. I think she's brave and beautiful and it takes more than a little intelligence to become an FBI agent."     Sitting back a bit, she asked, "Then why do you take every opportunity to... to poke at her?"     I sat back too, and studied her for a moment. "That's really how you see it? Didn't you hear her 'sour grapes' comment? Didn't you hear her say I didn't seem to recognize the importance of what's going on?"     Shaking her head slightly, Ingrid said, "She just doesn't understand you, that's all. The rest of us know you. She doesn't."     With a grin, I replied, "So she's getting to know me. But she's right about one thing that just bugs the hell out of her."     Giving me a narrow look, Ingrid asked, "And what's that?"     "To her, this is a truly momentous occasion. A true first contact. She was probably expecting the whole thing to be a hoax, but here we are at NASA with a real, live alien. Oops. Two aliens now. And a means of reaching that other world that doesn't involve expending vast amounts of money, technology, and travel time. Her training is screaming at her that we should be in full containment, a secret of the first magnitude, yet we're sitting in an open dining hall and the media was involved before the FBI could slap a lid on things."     "Carlon doesn't appear to feel that way about things."     "Oh, I'm pretty sure he does, but he's older and more experienced. He knows that sometimes circumstances make you toss the book out and play things by ear, and in this case, he passed the responsibility buck upstairs as quickly as he possibly could."     After a moment, Ingrid asked, "So why isn't this a momentous occasion to you?" She gestured around at the people watching the laptop and the world in general. "Everybody else thinks it is. Hell, everybody in the world will think it is when the news gets out."     I shrugged. "Great. That oughta help sell some books. Ingrid, nobody's in any danger 'cept maybe some careless lab rats, so I just can't see any reason to get all fuzzed up about things."     Lance said, "Turn that thing around to face him, please," and once someone had done so, she said, "Ed, I heard what you said. We won't know there's no danger until biological studies are complete. Germs and viruses from that world may have changed considerably since Ansen came here and there may be new ones."     Shrugging again, I replied, "Still not worried, ma'am."     A bit stridently, she asked, "Well, you should be! Why in God's name aren't you worried?!"     "First, because the germs that tried to eat Doc Sawyer died almost instantly. Lance, if there was anything nasty to catch from Ansen, we'd all have it by now and it would be too damned late for all of us."     Turning to Ansen, I asked, "Did you ever get sick during the plague years in Europe?"     He shook his head. "No."     "Were you around sick people at all?"     "Quite often. I tended to them and buried most of them."     "And I'll bet any fleas, ticks, or other such parasites die soon after they bite you, right?"     Ansen nodded. "Yes, they do, but that's a rather small comfort while I'm scratching an itch."     Turning back to Lance, I said, "There you have it. Their stuff can't eat us and our stuff can't eat them."     Lance sarcastically replied, "Well, I do hope you won't be too offended if we have some real scientists try to verify your opinion."     I chuckled, "Nah. Go for it, ma'am. Maybe you can get one of those lab rats to try some alien superchicken." Glancing at Ansen, I added, "And have them save a drumstick for Ansen." Chapter Twenty-eight     When I asked about laundry facilities, they issued me a blue jumpsuit and offered to have my laundry done by Monday. I said I'd think about it and washed my clothes in the shower rather than wear that jumpsuit all weekend. Apparently the others felt the same way, 'cuz none of them showed up for dinner in a blue jumpsuit, either.     They reopened the sealed lab Sunday afternoon and we didn't see Carlon and Lance until dinner. My germ theories had been proven and DNA matches did, indeed, link Ansen to the flying thing's world, but Ansen didn't get a drumstick. The flying thing had been placed on display in a large cage and a steady stream of high ranking bureaucrats, certain members of the media, and selected others began visiting the Cape on Monday.     Ingrid, Ansen, Borey, Eve, and I had almost no time to ourselves until Thursday, when the flow of visitors slacked off a bit. I located Carlon after lunch and told him I was ready to go get my bike. He made an excuse or two and said he'd check with his brass.     Uh, huh. I know a stall when I see one. Liberating a couple of trash bags from a roll under a dining hall sink, I stashed them in my backpack and stopped by Ingrid's room. The others were there, so I let them know I was going to 'make a break for it' and head home.     After listening to their reservations about the idea, I asked Borey if we'd ever truly been arrested. He said no. I asked if -- as far as he knew -- I could be charged with anything by leaving. He again said no, but with the caveat that he might not have been informed of all the facts in the matter.     I said, "Oh, well. Gonna try it anyway," and stopped on my way to the west parking lot exit to listen to a couple of research women who were talking about a sick car.     The blonde -- Ellen, by her name tag -- said, "I don't know, Lisa. It just sat there and made a clicking noise when I turned the key."     The redhead said, "Alan said it was a common Ford problem. Something about a solenoid. Bill said it might be a low battery."     I asked, "Where are those guys now? If it's a low battery, you can jump start it. If it's a solenoid, you can cross the poles to start it. Either way, we can get you a new one at the nearest Autozone, and they lend installation tools."     Giving me an arch look, Ellen replied, "Like I'd know how to do any of that. I'm a biotech, not a mechanic."     With a smug little smile, I said, "You don't have to know. I do."     Lisa asked, "Are you even allowed out of the building, Ed?"     "Yup. The badge says 'visitor', not 'prisoner', and I'm bored spitless at the moment." Turning to Ellen, I asked, "How about it? Want your car fixed?"     "You're sure you can do it?"     "Hell, yes. Two bolts hold the solenoid to the car's frame. Three smaller bolts hold the wires in place. Ford hasn't changed that design for decades. Which car is it?"     That was the truth unless she had a later model car with the solenoid built into the starter. Ellen pointed at a row of cars and said, "The blue one third from the end."     Hm. It looked like a late-nineties sedan. Saying, "Let's have a look," I shoved the exit door open and held it for the ladies.     After opening the hood, I listened above the solenoid as she tried to start the car. Yup. Click, click. That sucker was dead. We rooted in her trunk and found only some garden hand tools, but they were made of steel. Good enough. I put the shovel tip on one pole and a rake tine on the other and crossed the tools.     To the delight of the ladies, the car started instantly. Lisa went back into the building as Ellen and I headed out to find an Autozone. Before we got beyond the complex main road on our way to the gate, Ellen's cell phone rang and I thought, "Oh, shit," but it was just Lisa telling Ellen where the nearest Autozone was located according to a phone book.     At the guard shack we showed our laminated badges. I turned in my visitor's badge and signed out and the guard nodded as he waved us through. We turned west and found the Autozone and soon had a new solenoid and some borrowed wrenches. I swapped the part, she started the car without garden tools, and I returned the tools to the store clerk.     Ellen followed me into the store and stood fanning herself with the installation brochure. When I finished at the counter, she asked, "Can I give you a little something for helping me today?"     "Sure, ma'am. How about dinner and drinks?"     She grinned. "My boyfriend wouldn't approve. How about twenty dollars? I know it would have cost me much more at a shop."     "Yeah, prob'ly so at fifty bucks an hour. Plus a towing fee. I have a better idea, Ellen. Drop me off along five-twenty in Cocoa."     For a long moment she just stared at me, then she said, "I should have known. You used me to escape."     "Escape? Did the guard sound an alarm when he scanned my badge? No, he didn't. I wasn't on his 'stop' list. If anyone asks about me, just show them the old solenoid and the receipt."     Looking a bit upset, Ellen said, "Ed, I really, really don't need this kind of trouble."     Well, damn. I was running out of daylight.     "Then thanks for the ride, ma'am. See ya."     I headed for the door and went to the convenience store on the corner, where I bought a six-pack of Ice House beer and refused a plastic bag for it. When I came out, Ellen was standing by her car, talking on her cell phone. I waved, then started walking west with my thumb out.     Not half a block from the store, a guy in a pickup truck pulled over and asked how far I was going. I told him and he said he could get me as far as US-1, where he'd have to turn to go to Titusville. I said Titusville would be fine and offered him a beer.     Yeah, drinking and driving is illegal and there's an open container law and all that, but I wanted to get home before dark if possible. Hitching at night is no fun at all. The guy -- Dave, he told me -- had gone through two beers and I'd finished one before he let me off on the west side of Titusville along SR50.     Letting the remaining three beers dangle as I stuck out my thumb got me another ride within minutes; a guy in a Chevy sedan this time who said he could get me as far as Oakland.     I asked, "Where's that?"     "Just the other side of Orlando."     "Sounds good, thanks."     By the time we got there I was out of beer, so I bought another six-pack. My next ride was offered by a couple of redneck ladies in a battered old pickup truck. When they pulled over, the blonde asked, "How far you goin'?"     "Crystal River."     "We can get you to Brooksville, howzat?"     "Sounds fine."     "You gonna share that beer?"     "Wouldn't have it any other way, ma'am."     She snorted a laugh and looked at the brunette to say, "He called me 'ma'am'," as she opened the door. As I got in, she said, "Just so you know; you try anythin' funny and you'll wish you hadn't."     "No sweat. I'm just hitching, not hunting for trouble."     That made her give me an odd look, but we had some laughs on the road and when we got to Brooksville, we were out of beer. Becky -- the brunette -- had seemed somewhat pensive during the last few miles into town, and when the turn sign for US-98 appeared, she pulled over and stopped the truck at a BP convenience store.     "Tell you what," she said, "You get us another six-pack and give me ten bucks for gas and I'll run you up to Crystal River, too."     I gave that some thought. I'd had another beer, but those ladies had killed the other five. On the other hand, I was still seventeen miles from my bike and they appeared to have rather high tolerances for beer. Just to see how they'd handle it, I pretended reluctance.     "I dunno. I'll need at least five to put in the bike."     She chewed her lip for a moment, then said, "Okay, then, the beer and five for gas. You can do that, right?"     I nodded. "Yeah, I can do that. Okay. Be right back."     As I got out, she hollered, "This time get Miller Lite, okay?"     "Yes, ma'am! You got it!"     The ladies laughed and I watched them gather all the squashed empty beer cans out of the truck and put them in the trash while I stood in line. I asked for a couple of extra shopping bags and presented them as future trash bags as I handed Mary -- the blonde -- the beer and got back in the truck.     Interesting. When I'd first hitched the ride with them, they'd been chatty and Becky had driven somewhat loosely, ten miles over the limit, occasionally crossing a line, and once even putting a wheel off the road as she'd laughed at something. Now she was driving at or below the limit and rock-steady between the lines, even when she took a quick look around and sipped her beer.     They polished off a beer each by the time we reached CR-476, about a third of the way to Crystal River. Becky tapped her bottle and pointed ahead at some trash cans by the road and she and Mary quickly guzzled the last couple of swallows as Becky pulled over. Mary pitched the empties into someone's open trash can, then we got underway again as Mary opened two more beers.     Looking across at me, Becky asked, "You ain't got a beer?"     "Nah. Already had three on the way over and I'll be on a bike."     Mary misconstrued my answer and nodded sagely as she sipped, then said, "Yeah, th' cops 'round here don't like no bikers."     Whatever. I disagreed, having never been stopped in the area by a cop with a hostile attitude, but Mary started telling a tale of woe involving some biker guy she'd known and his many tribulations with various local police agencies. It seemed likely that any discussion might turn into an argument, so I just sat there and watched the scenery go by as I grunted appropriately now and then.     There was maybe an hour of daylight left when the ladies let me off at a mailbox and driveway entrance half a mile from Borey's place. I'd chosen the spot partly because there might be cops around who'd notice the smell of beer and partly to avoid letting the ladies know where I was really going because of some of the things I'd heard during Mary's rambling rant. It had sounded to me as if she had crappy taste in men, most of whom had spent time behind bars. No need to let the ladies drive me all the way in and maybe have them get ideas about coming back some evening to see what was available.     They turned around and left as I walked a few yards into the wooded lane and watched them go. Once they were out of sight, I walked back to the road and headed for Borey's place. I saw no cops of any sort all the way to my bike, nor did anyone challenge me as I uncovered and untied the bike, started it, and rode carefully away on the gravel.     On the way home I stopped at Ramble Inn for a burger basket and made my last beer of the day last an hour as I played pool. I figured I might as well, just in case I'd pissed somebody off by leaving the base. If that was the case, it might be a while before I saw another pool table, but at least my bike would be in my garage.     When I got home, I put the bike away and checked my message machine. No flashing light, no messages. Moocher and Charlie were ecstatic to see me, rubbing and yowling and generally being attention hogs as I refilled their food canister and put down fresh water. Winston, however, gave me the cold shoulder, watching me as I messed with the others and apparently simply enduring any of my attention that came her way.     After a while Mooch and Charlie settled down and I used my laptop to check email and message boards rather than use the desktop computer. A couple of hours later I showered and hit the sack and that's when, of course, Winston decided to let me back into her little furry world after all. She soaked up some attention, then settled on a corner of the bed, and I was finally able to get to sleep.     Friday came early with three cats tromping around on the bed and trying to tell me something. I got up saying, "Yeah, yeah. Take it easy, guys," as I headed for the bathroom. Sunshine slanting through the window shades told me it was probably around seven.     The doorbell rang while I was taking a leak. It rang again while I washed up. I combed my hair and tossed on some clothes, then went to answer it as it rang again. When I opened the door, I discovered Lance and Carlon on my porch.     "Hi, guys. Am I under arrest?"     Lance's expression told me she thought I should be, but Carlon shook his head and showed me a brown folder.     He said, "No, but we have some things for you to sign."     "At this hour? Have you even had breakfast yet?"     "We have to get back to the Cape as soon as possible."     "Huh. Don't know why. They aren't going to move it today and Ansen's not going anywhere for quite a while. I read things before I sign them. Can either of you cook? We can have breakfast here or I can shave and we can head over to Dad's Diner."     Carlon glanced at Lance, then said, "Let's go to the diner."     They waited while I prepped and rolled out the bike -- I declined their offer to ride with them in a car with no rear door handles -- and after we'd ordered breakfast, I had a look in the folder. A few pages into the small pile, I shook my head.     "I won't sign a nondisclosure. Everything's already disclosed."     "Not everything."     "Crap. I saw the reports that were given to the bureaucrats and the media and politicians leak like newborn babies. If there was anything left to be shown or told, what was it?"     Lance snapped, "If you don't know, you don't need to know."     I grinned. "Oh, of course, milady, but if I don't know, I also have no reason whatsoever to sign anything saying I won't tell, right?"     She seethed and glared as I scanned the rest of the documents. I pulled out two and set them on top of the folder. One was an acknowledgment of amiable treatment by all concerned and the other was a statement of services rendered while visiting NASA's facilities. It said in bold letters that it wasn't a bill of charges, but was only a statement for accounting purposes.     "Guess it couldn't hurt to sign these. After all, you guys didn't beat me too often and NASA did provide room and board. My lawyer can look over the other stuff."     Carlon chuckled, "I thought you might say that. Your lawyer is still at the Cape. We can leave after breakfast."     I shrugged and thumbed at my bike through the window. "Sure. Think you can keep up?"     Lance said, "You may have trouble getting that thing on base."     Shaking my head, I said, "Nope. Had the MSF course. Got a little card to show 'em. Got a helmet in the garage. No sweat."     She let out a dramatic sigh of exasperation and asked, "Is there any good reason you can't just ride over with us, sir?"     Faking the same kind of sigh back at her, I replied, "Yes, milady, there is. I don't plan to stay and I don't want to hitch hike again. In fact, if you can't come up with something better than these forms I don't plan to sign in any case, I'd just as soon not go at all until Monday."     She peered at me. "Monday? Why Monday?"     "There's a hang glider meet at Wallaby Ranch this weekend. I'll be in a cottage there, so if you need me, just call the main number. Now, maybe you can tell me something; is tonight the night the media will break the news about Ansen?"     Lance blinked at me. "How the hell did you know that?"     "It just makes sense, milady. Who's Joe Public gonna call 'til Monday? After a weekend of media yap, spot polls, web blogs, and so on, the 'crats would think they'd know which way to jump regarding how to handle the public. The Prez did the same trick back in '72. He went on TV after the stock market closed on a Friday afternoon and announced that gold and silver would no longer back the dollar. The world sort of went apeshit for two days."     Carlon laughed, "God, yes, it certainly did."     Lance asked, "You remember that?"     "Oh, yeah. I was in junior high school in Germany. My dad was military. The dollar dropped from almost four marks to something like two and a half marks and stayed there for a couple of weeks before it started back up. It never got back up to three marks, though, and that put a helluva crimp in my spending money."     We discussed those times and current events involving aliens through breakfast, then I signed the two forms I'd placed on the folder and again declined to sign the others until Borey had seen them. I expected to have to saddle up for a trip to the Cape, but Carlon surprised me -- and, apparently, Lance.     "Okay," he said as he got to his feet and paid for breakfast, "We'll see you later, Ed." Lance wore a rather stark 'we will?!' expression and Carlon explained, "We can't force him to sign and we have no orders to pick him up." Turning to me, he said, "I will, however, warn you against talking too freely for the time being."     "No problem. I'll take the phone off the hook and I've already made arrangements to be somewhere other than home."     Lance sputtered, "But... he's..." and Carlon shook his head.     "No," he said, "Ed has a handle on things and if he wanted to be the center of attention we'd have noticed by now. Without a valid charge to arrest or detain him, we'd just be risking a lawsuit."     After a handshake, he led Lance outside. I sat sipping a coffee refill and thinking things had been entirely too easy. No doubt there'd be surveillance for a while and... And I watched as Agent Lance seemed to stumble over the concrete wheel-stopper curb in front of my bike. Carlon showed an appropriate level of concern as she caught her fall by grabbing the cooler on my bike.     I couldn't see her hands, but I knew the game. If my bike hadn't been tagged before, it certainly was now. Did I care? Nope. I finished my coffee and headed home to repack my backpack with fresh gear and visited with my cats for a time, then hit the road for Wallaby.     A little after four in the afternoon, I was towed up to three thousand feet for my second flight of the day. As I soared and circled the area hunting for a thermal to ride up to five thousand feet or so, I saw people below hurrying toward the tiki bar and grill near the flight park's pool.     There'd been earlier mentions of some kind of an announcement later in the day, but most everyone figured it would be one of those typical Presidential addresses that drone on seemingly endlessly on all channels while people eat dinner.     Heh. Not this one. The world was about to go apeshit again. - End "Ansen" - * Abintra Press titles: * SCIENCE FICTION "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 1" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 2" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 3" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 4" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 5" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 6" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 7" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 8" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 9" "3rd World Products, Inc., Book 10" "An Encounter in Atlanta" "Ansen" "Assignment: ATLANTA" (A Sandy Shield Novel!) "Bitten and Smitten" (Vampires!) "HUNT CLUB" (Vampires!) "In Service to a Goddess, Book 1" "In Service to a Goddess, Book 2" "In Service to a Goddess, Book 3" "In Service to a Goddess, Book 4" "In Service to a Goddess, Book 5" "STARDANCER" * FICTION-EROTICA-ROMANCE "Anne" "Crystal River Witch" "Dragonfly Run" "Field Decision" "Kim" "Mindy" * An index to articles and ebooks may be found on our website: http://www.AbintraPress.com Abintra Press!